Part 11
Instead of taking the brush to move it through her tresses again, he lets go of the wooden item and reaches for her hair with his hands instead. She doesn't know what he's doing, but that doesn't prevent her from thoroughly enjoying his touch once more as he tenderly runs his fingers through her curls.
She makes a soft noise of appreciation when he begins to rearrange her curls again, this time more so than he did before. He divides her hair into three thick tresses, her eyes fluttering closed when she begins to understand what he is doing.
"If we are going to be together, I want you to tell me whenever you want to do anything like this," she says quietly, tilting her head back to give him more access. "I want us to share everything. It's... it goes both ways, Rumple. I don't think we can have what we want if we keep things from one another and don't tell each other everything, even if those are things that we are afraid of, or ashamed."
His hands falter and he goes very still behind her. She can still see him in her mirror, but his face has become a mask. For a moment, she wishes that she could see him, right past his unreadable expression. Similarly, she so very much wants to remember something, anything, from their past. All she has now is based on intuition and a lingering sense of inequality regarding the relationship he described.
But then there's movement behind her and he leans his head against her neck, her hair between them. They don't act like a shield of sorts whenever, not at all, not when he rests his hands lightly on her waist and breathes in deeply, all but whimpering when he rubs his nose against her neck.
"Yes," he mutters against her skin, the words heavy with despair even now. "I... I'd live for that, Belle. I wouldn't have dared imagine that you would want that as well, and..."
He's doubting himself again, questioning just about everything about their relationship, and for now she just can't bear it.
"You still got work to do," she interrupts him, her tone both playful and stern, having no idea whatsoever where she finds the courage to talk to him like this in an attempt to distract him from his pessimistic thoughts.
"Of course," he mutters, relieved and amused, delighting her by doing exactly what she asked. It may be only temporarily, but he lets go of his anxiety nonetheless.
He continues his task, combing his fingers through her hair until he has neatly separated all of it into three tresses. Lovely as that is, he soon shows that it can get even better. When he begins to braid her hair, she sighs deeply in enjoyment.
He talks to her while he is focused on the task, his words quiet as he tells her how much he loves doing this, that he has always liked her hair so very much, and that he is honored that she wants him to touch her like this.
She smiles, reaching behind her to rest her hand on his knee, knowing by now that such a gesture can inform him just how much she appreciates his words and his efforts.
Ever since she joined him, she has thought various time that she has never been more at ease, the comfort she has experienced thanks to this man such a sharp contrast to the conditions she lived in for as long as she can remember. But now she learns that she wasn't entirely right to think so, that she can feel so much better than she already did.
With his coat still around her and his hands in her hair, his words only adding to the warmth inside her, she lets down barriers of which she didn't know that she was still maintaining them. She gradually leans back against him, smiling a little as he gasps with delight and immediately rearranges his position to accommodate her increased nearness.
Her eyes close on their own accord and there is no reason whatsoever to open them again, to do anything but focus fully on the pleasantness and safety of the moment. She may have thought before that she was protected and cherished, but it turns out that things can get even better than that.
For now – no, from now on - she belongs. Whether she can remember or not, this man is hers as much as she is his. Out of all the things she longed for when she was still locked up, out of all the fantasies she never expected to come true anyway, this is far better than anything she could have imagined when she was still locked away in the cell in the basement.
He is humming under his breath, so softly that she wonders whether he's aware that he's doing it. She smiles at the implicit confirmation that he is as comfortable as she is, that he enjoys this as much as she does.
He interrupts the sound to mutter a few quiet words to alert her that he is going to tilt her head a little. She nods to indicate that she understands, careful not to pull the braid out of his hands when he moves.
Much as she has grown distrustful of people who touch her, who force her to undergo things she doesn't want, she supposes that she probably wouldn't have been caught off guard by his increased touch even if he wouldn't have warned her in advance.
The braid is reaching her shoulders now and she can see his progress from the corners of her eyes. She is almost tempted to pull her hair free after all, if only so he might start over again. That way she could have more of this quiet perfection, of reverent hands touching her so very lovingly.
She doesn't, though. Not because she is afraid that he wouldn't want to braid her hair again, but because she looks even more forward to just being in his arms, without having him paying most of his attention to her hair.
As he completes the task, she focuses on his hands. How she marvels at them, despite mostly feeling instead of seeing them now. His fingers are long and elegant, strong and gentle alike. But there's a deftness to them she didn't notice before, a smoothness in the way he works. He indeed must have done this many, many times before. She can only hope that there'll be at least just as many to follow.
He has reached the end of her curls just a moment later, holding the edge of the braid in front of her as if to offer it for inspection.
"It's lovely," she says, properly taking in the neat braid for the first time. It's difficult to believe that this is the same hair that used to hang limply down her face and back, tangled and oily, almost her only protection in the night - that those tamed and relatively clean curls are actually hers. "Thank you."
"You're most welcome," he says, his tone leaving no doubt whatsoever that he indeed wouldn't mind at all to braid her hair over and over again, that he would only enjoy it. It strengthens her determination to ask him to do this for her every night to come. "How do you want me to tie it?"
"I suppose you have an idea about that as well," she replies, smiling again because she is a lot more certain than her playful words might imply – and she is equally sure that he is well aware of that. That doesn't mean that she isn't delighted that he asks her opinion, despite knowing her preferences - or at least those of her old self - better than she herself does now.
"I do, yes. There's a ribbon, still lying in your bedroom in our house. I could retrieve it for you, if you'd like?"
"I'd love that," she replies, already knowing that he isn't talking about physically returning to his – their – house to take the ribbon. She thus isn't surprised in the slightest, yet still ever so much amazed, when there's another cloud of purple mist and he is holding a lovely blue ribbon when it clears.
"Do you like it?"
He already knows that answer too, she has no doubt about that. Or at least, he knows the answer that the woman who she is supposed to be would give - the woman who she in a way still is, but who she can't remember being. And yet, he asks her.
She beams at him in response, nodding enthusiastically. At least her fondness of this particular ribbon doesn't seem to have changed now that her memories are gone.
"Let me?"
She almost giggles with giddiness at the sight of him, gentle and ever so careful, ensuring himself of her complete agreement and willingness for the smallest of things, even now.
"Of course," she says, just in case her smile isn't enough of an answer to him.
He smiles back in response, maybe just a bit broader than the previous times. He is transformed in that sense, looking so much unlike the forlorn and lost man who she began talking to a few hours ago. Realizing that she wants him to smile like this so much more often, she tells herself that she'll make sure to try to give him plenty of reason to look so happy.
Then his hands are in her hair again and she sighs with contentment at the feeling of it, at being taken care of like this. The ribbon is deftly tied into her hair soon enough, keeping the end of the braid together and making sure that the curls won't escape.
When he is done, he tenderly places the braid between them, down her back. He lets go off her then. Although it disappoints her, since she hoped he would continue to be so pleasantly close to him, she doesn't have to go without his touch for long.
"Does this suffice?"
Only when his thumb brushes against her right hand, she realizes that she's still holding the mirror which he conjured earlier, the one which she forsook when she could directly see his progress from the corners of her eyes. Delighted at the prospect of seeing the full result of his work, she eagerly lifts the mirror again and takes a good look at the image that greets her.
She may have been afraid to look at her reflection before, to see the emptiness and despair in her own eyes, or even the sad state of her appearance, but that isn't the case any longer.
She gasps with delight as she admires his work. Her hair is braided neatly along the shape of her head, neither too tightly or too loosely. It's probably just her imagination, but her face already seems less gaunt, her eyes less sunken and her skin less pale because of the care he bestowed upon her.
No matter how joyed she is that she doesn't look like she is half dead any longer, her gaze is quickly drawn to the man behind her. It's not the first time that the mirror gives her an vantage view of him, allowing her to study him while he is oblivious to her scrutiny, but her breath is still quite literally taken away by the reflection of the glass.
He's looking at her as if there's nothing else in the world... nothing more beautiful than her. Even if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, she is convinced that she'll never get enough of the admiration and love in his expression. Especially not now that it's combined with the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder as he rubs her there ever so lightly.
She can tell that he would be more than happy to remain like this for the time being, a conclusion which is as incredible as the fact that she is learning to understand him like this. But as much as she enjoys his nearness, she has thought of something much better to do.
Lowering the mirror, she moves to give it back to him, so he can put it wherever exactly he conjured it from, along with the brush which he's still holding.
"Keep it," he murmurs, closing her hand around the handle of the mirror when she intends to return it, handing her the brush as well. "They're yours."
She hasn't owned anything for as long as she can remember, especially not anything so beautiful and meaningful. But she only glances at both items quickly when she delicately places them on the table at her side, next to the shards of his cup and the rose he gave her earlier. She'll most certainly admire these items to a large extent later on, but for now she'd much rather focus on the man who gave them to her.
She turns around to face him again, finding his for once idle hands on his knees. She covers them with her own, squeezing them in gratitude and encouragement, delighted when that previously so very rare smile returns quite easily to his lips.
"Thank you," she says, hoping that he'll know that she isn't only referring to the lovely braid. "I'd never be able to do that on my own."
"Feel free to ask for my... assistance whenever you want," he mutters. He meets her gaze, but the slight reddening of his cheeks belies his confidence.
Seeing him like this does nothing to reduce her giddiness. She didn't even know that she could feel like this, but she definitely feels like behaving very silly and enthusiastically indeed upon finding him so very eager to help her, to support her in whatever way he can. And to see him so awkwardly eager while he's at it, like she isn't the only one who wants all of this so much but doesn't really have a clue how to go about it...
"I shall keep that in mind." She most definitely will, but it doesn't feel like enough of an answer, not in this case. She might have no idea about her life, about what each new day might bring, but she's slowly beginning to see that she can influence it, that she can make an actual impact on her own fate now. "I would like my hair to be done like this tomorrow night as well."
It's truly mesmerizing how she has learned to talk like this. It's just as miraculous as having found someone who doesn't only like her to make such requests, but who also aims to fulfill them.
"Just ask, and I'll be there," he breathes.
She understands perfectly now why he sounds like there's nothing he'd rather have happening, for she has exactly the same feeling.
"Thank you," she says, repeating her words from just a minute ago. She can't thank him enough for everything that he is doing for her, but that doesn't mean that she won't try.