Part 10
Comfortable as she is now, she hasn't forgotten about the casual remark he made just a few minutes ago. The way her hair apparently used to be styled seems almost trivial now that he has already arranged it, but she enjoys this freedom to talk and ask questions far too much to stop.
"You said 'in this world'. Was it different, where we were before? My hair, I mean?"
Much as the mere notion of other worlds would have confused and possibly terrified her before, their existence - although not actually proven so far - is quickly becoming as normal to her as all the other things he is talking about.
"It was," he says after a few seconds, as if lost to this world as he studies her as much as she scrutinizes him. "I could show you, if you'd like?"
He sounds as if he doesn't expect her to agree to it, as if he can't imagine her wanting him to touch her yet more to recreate the way she wore her hair, once upon a time.
She nods eagerly though, by now so fond of this man's touches that there is no way that she's going to let such a chance go by. Her own enthusiasm might have shocked her before as well, would have sent heat rushing to her cheeks at the very least, but by now there is nothing but unconcealed anticipation and eagerness at his proposal.
There is tenderness, too, in the way he looks at her while awaiting her reaction, both so timid and very, very hopeful.
"There are different ways you used to wear your hair," he says, slightly hesitant as if still not certain that she really wants to hear this, at least from him. "But at night, it was always the same."
"Show me," she breathes, hardly aware that she's all but commanding the man she was so very afraid of just a few hours ago - and that he obeys her as if there's nothing else he wants from life.
"I'm going to need something else to do that," he says, looking meaningfully at the mirror she's still holding.
She nods, realizing that his remark is more of a question. She finds more satisfaction than she supposes she ought to in the fact that he's informing her of his intend to use magic in advance, as if to warn her - or to ask her permission.
There's another cloud of purple smoke in the air. Although she's somewhat prepared for it this time, if only because she has seen such an incredible sight once before, watching an item appear out of thin air in the palm of his hand is still just as magical as it was the first time. It's something she supposes she'll never get used to, but she doesn't take the time to ask herself - or him - whether the woman she's supposed to be ever grew used to the fact that he has such powers.
When the purple mist has cleared again, he reveals a brush to her. It's from the same set as the mirror which she is holding herself, the color and decorations of the wood of both items matching perfectly.
She reaches for the wooden brush in his hand, only aware that she's doing so when their fingers brush. There's warmth in the accidental touch, a connection between two human beings. It's not of the kind she may have hoped for, the type which might spark something to help her remember, but the physical reminder that she isn't alone anymore is at least as meaningful.
Taking the brush from him, she holds it tentatively and studies it from all sides, more to admire the gorgeous item than to find anything to remind her of her past.
If he hopes to bring back at least some of her memories by providing her with a brush that she once must have used very much, there is no indication of this on his face.
This pleases her, despite the craving to have her memories back, to remember all the beautiful things he is telling about instead of only hearing about them. She has grown tired of trying to manage something which she can't achieve. Being told isn't as good as remembering the experiences, but just sitting here and enjoying his attention is wonderful in its own right.
She hands the brush back to him, cherishing the brief moment in which their fingers touch again, the solidness of him proving that he is so much more than just another hallucination of friendship, of anything, the ones which were both a curse and a blessing when she was still locked up.
"Turn around?" he says, these two words too more a question than a request.
The shiver of delight that goes through her at the prospect of having her hair brushed by him is probably as noticeable to him as it is to her, but she hesitates. By now he is the only person who she trusts not to do anything harmful to her while her back is turned towards him and she thus can't see him. She has also reached the point where she isn't terrified any longer that he'll then disappear like the imaginary escapes and companions behind her closed eyelids were wont to do in the basement.
The reason that she doesn't want to look away from him is simply because she so very much enjoys letting her gaze wander over him. She just can't get enough of his eyes, from the warm color of them to the way they visibly soften whenever they look at her.
"This might help," he says, gesturing at the mirror, his expression so very tender and understanding.
It's only more difficult to turn away from him then, because he manages to know how she feels without her needing to explain it. It's a novelty to have someone who is willing to listen to her in the first place, but to give her what she wants and needs without requiring any words whatsoever is a miracle of sorts indeed.
But then he looks meaningfully at the reflective glass in her hands and she beams in understanding. All her reluctance gone, she turns around on the chair, raising the mirror as soon as she is comfortable. Adjusting it until she has found the right angle, her smile only widens when she can still see him in the mirror, even though her back is facing him now.
"I need to..."
He reaches for her hair but doesn't touch it, all hesitant again, shy almost. It's confusing in a lovely way because he ought to be the one to guide the two of them now that her memories are gone. She is the one who is unaccustomed to any touch, let alone ones as special as these... unless he has been as lonely as she has been all these years; unless they have touched as little as he implied even when they were together.
She isn't going to consider it now, the lingering pain of her own loneliness barely bearable even without the knowledge that he may have suffered a somewhat similar fate.
"It's all right," she says, smiling at him. He returns her smile when their gazes briefly lock in the glass in front of her.
No longer painfully aware of her not entirely clean hair, she gathers all the locks she can reach and pushes them over her shoulder, towards him. She has the presence of mind to adjust the mirror again right after she has done so, being just in time to witness his look of complete awe when he is presented with her long curls.
"I'm going to..."
His gaze briefly flickers back to hers as he speaks, looking for confirmation once more. She marvels at his ability to express himself to her without having to use much words. It's probably a good thing that they barely need any words like this, for he seems to be less and less capable of finding them.
It's miraculous, really, how they can communicate just with a glance here and a gesture there, perfectly understanding one another despite the circumstances which are so much against them.
She nods, far from oblivious to the way his gaze is all but glued to the locks falling down her back as she does so. He isn't the only one who is enchanted though when he takes a few curls in his hand and begins to brush them with utter care.
Any worries and grieves she still carries with her at that point are forgotten, for the time being at least, when he begins to move the brush through her hair in ever so tentative and tender strokes.
She'd love to close her eyes, to simply focus on enjoying the delightful sensations he causes, but she forces her eyelids not to close themselves. She wants to experience as much of this as she can. Tightening her hold on the mirror, she keeps her gaze on him.
He brushes her hair methodically, going from the left to the right, not once even slightly hurting her despite the tangles in her hair. In spite of his systematic approach, there's something in every stroke which completely belies his efficiency, a slight tremble in his gestures.
She tilts her head towards him and remains like that even when he is done. His hands are strong and certain and yet so very gentle, and she is convinced that she'll never get enough of this, no matter if he were to do this for the rest of their lifetimes.
She wants this, forever, but any other time she longed for something - the ones she can remember, at least - that never happened. This time she isn't so sure of that however and her smile only broadens at the knowledge that this isn't going to end tonight... that the relationship between them is in all likelihood going to become only better and more enjoyable in the future.
Just watching him in the mirror is a delight. He is yet more relaxed than before, contentment and joy written on his features. Probably unaware that she's watching his expression so closely, even the way he basically caresses her hair is not as wonderful as seeing him like this, completely unguarded.
"You've often done this before, haven't you?" she asks quietly.
She watches him particularly closely when his eyes flutter shut even as he continues the brushing, further confirming to her that the task is both a very familiar and particularly enjoyable one to him. She'd almost think that the work is boring him, but she understands him well enough by now to understand that this easily made assumption couldn't differ more from the truth.
Still, his quiet but certainly audible sounds of appreciation is a most pleasant confirmation of her suspicion either way.
"I have," he murmurs, his voice low and soft and yet more intriguing, addicting, than before. "I remember every single time."
The latter is added very quietly, as if in afterthought. It's a relief and yet so very frustrating to hear him talk of their past; their shared history is so beautiful yet so far away that it almost might as well not have happened to her at all.
This isn't the moment to dwell on it though. The time of their initial happiness might be behind them, but so are the days of emptiness and despair.
"I started doing this a few months after you came to work for me." Although she has no real reason to do so, she senses that it's unusual for him to talk like this, to say more than what is strictly speaking necessary. "You asked me to do it. I was grateful for that, because I longed to touch your hair like this but would never have dared to ask. I acted as if I was doing you a favor, that I didn't really want to touch you like this. I suppose that you must have known just how glad I was that you asked me. I'm certain you caught me... well, staring whenever you brushed your hair in my company."
"Did you brush my hair in this world as well?"
Given the way he is expertly treating her hair now, as if hardly a day has passed since he has done so for the last time, she supposes that he would have brushed her hair like this very often. Yet he hesitates once more before replying, immediately reminding her of how he told her that he was afraid to use his favorite terms of endearment with her in fear of driving her away again.
Sensing the answer before it comes, she turns around again, not caring that her tresses fall from his suddenly limp fingers. She places her hand on his knee, patting it a few times for a lack of a better idea of how to reassure him once more.
"Just a few times," he says at length, looking at her but bowing his head slightly, his hair shielding most of his expression from her view. "In the beginning. When I still hoped that we could continue where we left off in our own world."
He doesn't need to tell her more to give her additional insight into his fears and his worries. She wishes that she could reassure him, that she could say to him just how very much she appreciates this particular kind of attention from him. The problem is that she can't talk for the woman who she can't remember.
"I would like it if you did this every day."
The way he lifts his head abruptly, strands of graying hair falling aside to reveal a pair of widening honey-brown eyes, leaves no doubt that he knows exactly that she distinguishes herself from the woman he remembers - and that there is a part of him that is relieved by it.
"Anything you want," he mutters under his breath, sounding both amused and bewildered.
"What?" she asks, his tone confusing her much more than the actual words.
"I offer you anything I can give you. You know to at least some extent how much that is. Yet, all you've asked of me so far... is to brush your hair."
She shrugs, as if the answer is obvious.
"I very much enjoy it when you do that. It makes me feel..."
She frowns, trying to find the words to describe just what he causes within her when he brushes her hair, making her feel safe and yet so very excited at the same time.
"Like what?"
"Alive," she breathes in response to his inquiry, nodding to herself as she fully realizes just how much that is true, how stark the contrast is between his loving touches and the bleakness of her previous existence.
"Sweetheart..."
She hushes him, not wanting to see any more pain and regret in his gaze.
"It's all right, Rumple. Really."
"No, not at all. How can it be? After what Regina did to you... after what I did to you..."
She hushes him again, more insistingly this time.
"I may not be able to remember it, but I know that what happened in the past isn't all right. But that has changed. Now, it is right."
He nods weakly, much to her relief. The grief she experiences at seeing him filled with sorrow is yet another indicator that everything he has told her is true, that he is really so much more than a man who she seemingly barely knows.
"Continue?" she urges him gently, gesturing at the brush he is still holding, his knuckles white.
"Of course," he replies, doing just that.