A/N: This is my first (possibly only, we'll have to see) foray into the world of Once Upon A Time. I do enjoy it, but I've only seen about two seasons' worth of non-consecutive episodes, so I'm not exactly up to date. I have, however, seen all the episodes with Sebastian Stan, and, oh, sweet Jefferson and Grace, that story tugged at my heart strings. So here's a little tag, because that beautiful reunion was over awfully abruptly, wasn't it?

Grace woke up because she wanted a drink of water. She shuffled down the dark hallway, sure of her steps now that she'd been in this new house for a month. Hand on the bathroom door, her eye was drawn farther down the hallway by a sliver of light in the darkness. It was coming from her father's work room. Curious, she drifted towards it. She didn't know what time it was, but she did know it was late. He shouldn't still be awake.

She heard soft, flustered noises from inside and eased the door open gently. The first thing she saw was the telescope by the window. Her father had told her how he used to watch her, back before the curse was lifted. He'd shown her the hats on the wall that he could never make work. After showing her the room, he'd never gone back inside—he said it reminded him only of bad things. She wondered why he was in here tonight.

Pushing the door open farther, she stuck her head inside. Her father was in his pajamas, sitting at a work table covered in scraps of fabric. His hands were flying, cutting, stitching and pinning, and Grace's eyes widened in dismay at the sight of his fingers, bloody from needles and scissors working too fast. His back was to the door, but she could see him rocking back and forth slightly in his chair, and he was talking quietly to himself as he worked, saying the same thing over and over. It sounded like, "Get it to work. Get it to work. Get it to work."

"Papa?" she asked worriedly.

He stopped abruptly at the sound of her voice, scissors clattering onto the table. For a second, he didn't move, still as a statue, before spinning slowly around to face her. She gasped. His hair was wild, stuck out on end like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes were red from crying, frenzied and far away and ringed with dark, tired circles that looked even darker against pale skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Was he sick?

"Papa, are you alright?"

He was staring at her with wide, frightened eyes. She saw him looking at her sometimes, like he couldn't believe she was there. Sometimes when he sat alone, he looked far away and sad, then surprised when he saw her. He hugged her often, and tightly, and hated to let her go very far, and she didn't mind, because she knew why. She knew that he remembered what it was like when she was gone. She only remembered a short time without him—when he'd been lost before the curse—but that was more than enough. She'd lost him for a few months, but he'd lost her for twenty-eight years, and it made sense to her why he sometimes looked at her the way he did. But tonight was different. Tonight he was staring at her like she was a ghost.

"Papa?" she said softly. Something was wrong and she was starting to feel scared.

"Grace?" he breathed. His mouth moved to say more but found no words, and quicker than she could blink, he was surging out of his chair and enveloping her in a crushing hug. "Grace," he whispered. "My Grace."

He pulled back and knelt in front of her, running his hands through her hair, down her shoulders. "You're here," he rasped. "You're really here?"

"I'm really here, Papa," she said, flinging her arms around him.

He hugged her again, cradling her head close to his chest and burying his face in her hair. He choked on a sob and she felt warm tears soaking through her hair onto her shoulder.

"Papa, what's wrong?" she pleaded. He said nothing, just pulled her tighter. She kissed the side of his face. "Please tell me, Papa. What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter, baby," he said, pulling back again so he could look in her eyes. "I'm just so happy to see you." He reached up and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "I've missed you so much." He was smiling, but it trembled as tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry for leaving you, Grace, I'm so sorry!"

"I know, Papa," she said, reaching up to wipe his tears away. "I'm not mad at you." She never had been.

His smile widened when she called him 'Papa', and he reached up to his face and took her hand in his, holding it against his cheek. "You remember me?"

"Of course I do, Papa," she said. She was starting to understand what was going on. He was having a bad night—maybe he'd had a nightmare, and when he woke up, he forgot the curse had been lifted. Sometimes when she woke up in the morning, it still took a minute to remember where she was. He was so used to things not being okay, he forgot that they were now.

"The curse is over now, remember?" she asked. His eyebrows furrowed together, confused, and it hurt her heart to see her Papa so sad. "A month ago." She reached up to tame his flyaway hair. "You came and found me at the school bus. Then you hugged me tight and carried me for a whole block 'til we got to your car." His eyes narrowed as she could see him trying to remember. "You brought me home," she continued, her voice starting to crack. "And we finally had our tea party." A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. "Remember?"

"Don't cry, Gracie. Don't cry." He pulled her into another hug, gentle and not so desperate this time. She felt warm air rush by her ear as he sighed. "I remember." He planted a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm sorry."

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. They were still sad, but calm again. The frantic fear from earlier had vanished. "It's okay, Papa," she assured him. "You don't need to be embarrassed about it," she added, seeing the red coloring his cheeks.

He let out a surprised laugh. "You really do know me well, don't you?"

"I really do." She smiled. Her eyes went to the half-finished hat on the table, and her smile faded as she looked back at him and traced a finger down from the side of his face to the angry scar that ringed his neck. He wore a scarf over it when they went outside—he didn't like people looking at it.

"It's okay if you forget sometimes," she told him, hovering a finger over the scar. "You have a lot to try to remember, and I know a lot of it's not good." She met his eyes again and they were watering. "But it's good now, Papa. You found me, and if you forget again, I can find you."

He smiled at her through watery eyes, pulled her face to his and kissed her forehead. "My darling, Grace," he said softly. He hugged her closely and she hugged him back, her small hands doing their best to trace soothing circles on his back like he would do for her. "How I survived twenty-eight years without you, I'll never know."

She didn't know what to say, so she just said, "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Grace."

They stayed there for a while on the floor, just holding each other.

"Alright, Papa," Grace said at last. "I think it's time for you to go to sleep."

He laughed. "Are you putting me to bed, young lady?"

"It is past your bedtime," she replied primly.

"Yours too, I think."

"Come on." She took his hand and led him to his room, and he followed with a smile. She grabbed a blanket off his bed and directed him to the plush armchair in the corner before crawling into his lap. She pulled the blanket up over them, and he looped an arm gently around her waist. "There," she said, looking up at him and wrapping her arm around his chest. "I don't think you'll forget again tonight."

"I don't think I will either." He kissed her forehead and reached an arm out to turn off the lamp.

"I'm glad you found me," she told him, nuzzling her head sleepily into his chest.

"I'm glad you found me too, Grace." He yawned and shut his eyes, cinching his arm a little more snugly around her. "I'm glad you found me too."