Part 9
Not quite knowing what to do or say now that their faces are equally flushed and they don't seem to be capable to look away from one another, she runs a hand through her hair. It's a reflex which she doesn't understand, but there's a vague notion that the gesture is supposed to bring a resemblance of control.
It turns out to do anything but. She winces in dissatisfaction at the feeling of her far from cleanly washed strands of hair between her fingers.
"What is it?" he asks, somehow immediately aware of her discomfort once more. The color drains quickly from his face, any sign of uneasiness from her apparently enough to shock him like this.
"It's nothing, really."
Indeed, compared to anything else, the state of her hair hardly matters.
"It's not nothing if it bothers you, dear."
There is an invitation in his words, but nothing more than that.
"I haven't really had the chance yet to..."
She gestures helplessly at her hair, feeling silly as she does so. It's not as if she actually cares about her own neatness one way or another. Then again, that's not strictly speaking true any longer, not now that there is someone who might actually appreciate the way she looks.
"I don't even know how I usually wear it," she mutters, frustration coming back to her as quickly as he banished it.
"I do," he mutters, making the almost angry bitterness disappear once more.
"You do, don't you?"
The notion that he knows this about her - and so much more - might have scared her before, but now there's nothing but gratefulness from her side.
"Yes. I... I could show you, if you'd like?"
"I would like that, yes."
He gives her another one of those hopeful smiles when he scoots slightly closer to her, bringing his hands towards her face. He only actually reaches for her hair when she gives him a nod of encouragement.
She wonders if there'll ever come an end to his thoughtfulness, his tenderness, but that thought vanishes for the time being when he purposefully moves his fingers through her hair.
It's still so very new to her, being touched, especially when the person doing so has no intention of harming her.
He rearranges her locks a little, but not all that much, his touches as careful and reverent as they have been all night.
"In this world, you usually wear your hair like this," he says after a very pleasant minute or so, to her regret already withdrawing his hands. "Would you like to see?"
She nods again. He raises one eyebrow suggestively in response.
"How would you show me?" she asks, sensing that his answer is going to include magic, but having no idea how.
"There's a mirror in my house. It was yours, in the world where we are from. It made its way to this one. I kept it for you and gave it back to you once I had the chance. I'd like to do so again."
She nods once more, aware of the unspoken question. The purple smoke which appears out of nowhere is just as fascinating as the first time she witnessed it, but not nearly as intimidating and simply strange.
He hands her the mirror which has appeared in his palm and she gasps in delight when she takes the reflective glass from him.
"It's gorgeous," she gushes, admiring the exquisite woodwork surrounding the bright glass with eager eyes and curious fingers.
"It delights me that you still like it."
Again, there isn't the slightest spark of a memory that ignites when she caresses an object which once must have been very dear to her, but it doesn't matter all that much in that moment.
"How did I get it?"
She already knows the answer when she looks back at him in anticipation of his reply.
"It was a gift for you from me, when you were the caretaker of my castle. You... beyond exceeded at that task. You kept doing things I did not expect. Kind things, wonderful things. I didn't think there was anything that I could do for you in order to return the favor of the deliciously cookies you made me or your truly excellent baked potatoes, but I tried."
"It's beautiful."
"Only as beautiful as the person whose image it reflects," he murmurs, looking expectantly at her.
Reminded then that there is a reason that he conjured the mirror for her in the first place, she lifts it up in front of her and studies the reflection in the glass.
She doesn't look at her face, the large and practical mirror in the bathroom already having shown her that her skin is too pale, her cheeks gaunt and that there are dark marks beneath her eyes.
It's undeniable that her hair is no longer a riot of untamed locks. It's also indisputable that this too doesn't bring back a single memory... and that her hair is greasier than she feared it would be.
"What's wrong?"
It's uncanny, really, how he is aware of her distress immediately each and every single time. Uncanny, and admittedly comforting.
"It's my hair," she says, knowing from experience by now that she won't get away without revealing the whole truth to him. "It's... it's quite disgusting, I'm afraid."
For the first time, he looks at her as if she has gone actually mad.
"I took a shower this morning and I planned to wash it," she says, the words flowing from her mouth like the water had done from the nuzzle in her attempt to explain herself under his heavy gaze. "But the water was warm and..."
She shrugs with helplessness, wishing that she could explain to him how miraculous it had been just to stand under the warm spray. She lost track of time because of the novelty and the delight of being so warm and comfortable. Consequently, she had rushed out of the shower when she regained full awareness of the situation, afraid that a nurse would drag her out like they always did when her five minutes were up.
"Are you saying that there was no warm water in the basement?"
She frowns, confused by his question - or rather, the obvious answer to it. From what she has learned of him so far, he is far too clever to ask redundant questions.
"Of course there wasn't."
He doesn't ask for explicit permission this time, but it feels only natural when he pulls her into his arms. Still, she wants to get him away from her, because she has just determined that her hair is a mess and really shouldn't be so close to this still almost entirely impeccable man.
But instead of being disgusted by it, for as far as he wasn't already after just touching it, he buries his nose right into her neglected strands of hair. It even seems like he breathes in deeply, as if purposefully taking in her scent, but surely that's only in her own imagination.
"My darling Belle," he whispers into her hair. "It doesn't matter whether your hair is entirely clean or not. You are lovely no matter what. But from now on, you'll never be cold again. You'll have as many showers and baths as you like, I'll make sure of it. I'll get you a pool - ten of them, if that's what you want."
"Thank you."
There's nothing more that she can say, not with yet more tears prickling behind her eyelids at his seemingly never ending generosity and loyalty.
"It's the least I can do, really. Just..."
"Just what?"
"Nothing," he says, too quickly, withdrawing from her with obvious reluctance. "I can't ask that of you. I won't ask it."
"Rumple..."
She might have lost her memories and be not remotely as powerful as this man, but he apparently isn't the only one who can draw answers and whole truths from the other with little more than a glance.
"Let me take care of you." It may be an offer, a generous one at that, but it comes out more like a plea than anything else. "You don't have to stay with me, or anywhere near me, if that's not what you want. But please let me know what you want and what you need, and let me arrange it for you."
"I know very little of the world," she says slowly, choosing her words carefully. "And probably less about myself. But I know that you are very, very kind to me. I've become... fond of you and I do believe that you only want the best for me."
It's incredible to witness his entire expression brighting, even when there's still something holding him back. He guards himself and his emotions as if he is terrified to get his hopes crumpled - again.
"I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself on my account. I'm... I'm not her, not really. But I would like to keep seeing you. And if you'd really want to help me right now..."
"Anything," he says, in a way that leaves no doubt whatsoever that he literally would do anything for her. It's almost scary perhaps, but she can't help but savor this proof of that she is being protected and cherished.
"I'd like you to hold me again."
At first it's like he thinks that hasn't heard her correctly, as if he can't imagine that an embrace is all she would want from him. But then he smiles in that way she is already growing to love so very much, as if she has given him all he ever needed just by wanting to be near him.
Just an hour ago she would have been terrified by the notion of being held, restricted, by anyone. By now she has learned that there's nothing more liberating than being held tightly in someone's loving arms.
As awkward as it was at first to find a way into his embrace that's comfortable for both of them, they don't have such trouble any longer. He simply watches her with a tender smile when she moves closer to him again. When her chest is pressed lightly against his and her head is resting snugly on his shoulder once more, he tenderly wraps his arms around her.
She breathes in deeply, sensing that she'll never get used to this, no matter how easy it has become to trust him and relax around him, more than she ever did in the confines of her cell. She couldn't feel freer than she does when he places his face against the crown of her head, surrounding yet more of her.
She suppresses the urge to close her eyes in contentment. She focuses on the little she can see of him from this close distance instead. Finding his neck mere inches from her face, she settles herself slightly closer to him, rubbing her nose playfully against his skin, giving in to another urge which she can't quite explain.
The noise he makes in response is far from playful, but she couldn't be less afraid of his low, surprised growl. But as lovely and exciting as it is to hear it, she is rather distracted by the scent that envelops her now that she gets so close to him.
"You smell nice," she mutters, finally saying out loud what she has been thinking at various points throughout the evening.
He stills immediately and she inwardly curses herself for having spoken without thought, for upsetting him and, worse, not having any idea why.
"I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."
"No, it's all right. It's just that..."
She goes to move away from him, but hesitates when she finds his embrace loose enough for her to break free from, but still very much there.
"What?"
"It's been a few long days," he mutters, his harshness melding into something very much like the self-consciousness she experienced herself just a moment ago.
Considering his words and finally understanding that he's as afraid of her reaction to his current physical state as she just was herself, she can't help but smile against him, shaking her head a little in amused disbelief.
"Belle, I..."
Now he is the one trying to get her away from him, but she won't let him. A part of her is flattered that he goes to this extent to not displease her. But mostly she's shocked that this bothers him so much, whereas he earlier convinced her of his indifference regarding her own physical appearance.
"Like I said, you smell nice."
He ceases his attempt to remove himself from her, much to her delight. He makes a noise of reluctant objection, as if imagining that that will dissuade her, but then gradually relaxes when she remains close to him, breathing him in.
Really, 'nice' is an understatement, although she admittedly can't think of how else she might describe the scent of him. It's appears to be a mixture of different things, many which she has never experienced before.
Despite having barely any memories beyond living in complete isolation, she can intuitively tell that it's quite strange to be with someone like this, basically smelling one another. But he is more than happy to let her do just that, his own face close to her strands even now, and she can tell that he isn't simply indulging her.
Indeed, he is quite clearly delighted to have her so close to him, enjoying her nearness in much the same way as she is relishing in his. All but breathing one another in, she focuses on what is purely him. She breathes in deeply once more, a subconscious little noise of appreciation escaping her.
He makes a similar sound and the warmth which rushes to her cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. It's more than being flattered by his apparent lack of disapproval of her current state; it's the discovery that he likes experiencing her like this.
Slowly getting to know him in this particular way as well, she finds that he smells like a combination of things which she can't quite place, but which make her think of wool, books and fire... of home.
Before, she couldn't envisage anything remotely like a spot where she could feel comfortable and safe, perhaps even loved. With him however it isn't difficult at all to think of warmth and color, of pleasant furniture and large windows, doors without locks and the means to entertain herself. Not to mention at having people in her life, kind and real, and a man who loves her as she might love him.
Her mind is filled with images of a happy life and she is not deterred at all by the awareness that it's another fantasy, and not a memory of the kind she craves. If anything, she's glad for it. At this point, she'd much rather have a good if unknown future than a good and known past... just as long as this man will be part of that future life.