Author's Note 1:Warning: there are mentions of cancer and a loved one's death.

Also!
The last chapter title: A Kind of Moving On, was from the broadway, BATB song. In the song, Belle is both feeling bittersweet about her childhood daydreams being behind her and also hope for the future that she is discovering with the prince. Belle in the last chapter, I think sees the little shop and her life with her father through different eyes, even after being at Mr. Gold's for a week. She sees that the year ahead isn't quite so bad and perhaps the 'monster' isn't one at all...

Chapter 7 Deluge of Memories

Rain crashed against Belle's window, lighting illuminating it momentarily, giving an eerie shadowed outline to the tree that was closest to it, while thunder rolled behind the flashes as an unwelcome companion. Belle was awake, of course. She had never been a lover of storms-of rain, she had always loved. Cool, rainy days always made her yearn for hidden nooks to pour over books and huddle under covers and let the rhythm lull you into a sense of peace. She even had some appreciation for its beauty, no matter the deluge, but as someone who startled easily storms caused her heart to clinch and her body to jump with every single pounding of thunder. Not only that, there were the memories.

Her mother had died on a stormy night, not unlike the one raging over her head, tonight. Cancer. Her mother had asked that she not die in a hospital, but rather surrounded by those she loved in her own home. Homecare had been called, the tubes had been taken away, and they watched her die in slow motion. At the end she was all but unconscious to their presence, but Belle was there, her mother's frail, thin hand encased in her healthy, teenaged one. She took her last breath as a roll of thunder shook their little shop, and it was as if the whole earth was mourning with them.

Belle rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, sweeping away the tears that always appeared with any reflection of her mother's last days. The aftermath of her mother's death-the mourning, the stack of bills, the increased responsibilities Belle faced and having to grow up before she reached adulthood, all came crashing down upon them and threatened to drown them. For a while, she thought they had survived. While the ache in her chest would never quite go away, she and her father had found their own rhythm, and she thought that they had come out of it closer and if not successful, at least making ends meet. Even that had shattered the day Mr. Gold had walked into the shop.

She draped her legs over the bed, the floors wooden here, but still icy cold to the touch. Shivering, she draped over a hoodie and stole herself down to Mr. Gold's study. The whole house, being so old, seemed to creak and groan with every shuddering bit of thunder and the rain was relentless as it hit the windows. If she couldn't sleep, she would read. Mr. Gold's big burgundy wingback chair was surprisingly comfortable for she believed that it was an authentic piece of furniture, just redone with new upholstery. Choosing a book, one that she had already read and dearly loved, she hoped that the words would be familiar enough to lull her to sleepiness so she could go back upstairs in an hour and so and actually sleep. She curled up in the chair, her tiny frame lending itself well to do so, and first attempted to read, but sitting in the chair-his chair had the words forgotten in her hand as she contemplated the confusion that came with working for Mr. Gold. One moment he was all sarcastic, stinging quips, the next he would look genuinely pleased, or even at moments even concerned for her. It had been a month since she had come to work for him and every weekend, as she came back with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion, his eyes watched her, almost worried, if she hadn't imagined itl. At first she thought that he was watching to see if she messed up, to bark or quip over her lack of enthusiasm for chores on Sunday. Instead, he would throw confusing comments like 'You are much too loud when you clean, perhaps you ought to wait until tomorrow to continue' when she knew, in fact, that her chores were silent. Or, there was the time when he had told her that he didn't want the lower house disturbed while he worked and she should just grab a book and go upstairs or do 'whatever it was she liked to do' , as if the suggestions were him barking orders and not, in fact, providing her a means for her to rest. It was baffling. She knew he was the taxing landlord and moneylender that her father disliked so much (she could not forget, as her father reminded her of it every single time she saw him), and yet she started to pride herself, that perhaps she was getting to see a side to the man that no one else saw. That sent warmth to her soul that made her chastise herself for her romantic notions. She needed to be lost in an actual romance, she told herself, and not trying to make her Mr. Gold (what a silly girl she was-he was not her Mr. Gold at all-she could kick herself for the thought!) into something he was not. So, she began to read how pride met prejudice for the tenth time in her life. However, the words blurred before her soon enough, in fact, so soon that it caught her off guard and the next thing she knew it was morning. She became aware of her surroundings, and realized with a start that she was not in her room, but in the study, and what was more, something heavy was on top of her-a blanket. She had not taken the blanket with her when she came down, however, she had seen this blanket somewhere. In Mr. Gold's room.

The realization had her jumping up in a flash and scurrying to go and fix his breakfast.

'Is your bed still not to your liking?'

Mr. Gold stood bent over his bread, adding jam and setting his spoon to the side. She imagined that it was just in case she needed to use it (those were the sort of things that had her so confused! Well, that and bringing down a blanket so she wouldn't get cold-her cheeks reddened at the thought). She tried focusing on his words. The words were sarcastic (but when were they not?) his face was hidden from her, and his tone was almost amused. Add to the fact that he had made his own breakfast-she only hoped that the Mr. Gold that put the blanket on her was the same one standing in front of her. He turned around as he finished his face holding a similar amused expression as his tone suggested. He wasn't smiling-he was doing nothing quite so sinister, really, but his eyes seemed to hold some mischief in them. She wasn't used to them being quite so expressive, that it took her a moment to answer.

'No-I that is.' His eyebrows went up at her stuttering. She cleared her throat and stood a little straighter, trying not to be overwhelmed by him. 'I don't like storms.' Her hand went out in a lame gesture, attempting to put weight to her words. She felt like a five year old explaining to their parents some irrational fear they had. She knew why storms bothered her so much, but she didn't feel comfortable telling him that.

'I'm sorry I overslept.' she added. How many things was he going to let slide with her, before he decided that it was one too many?

'You didn't.'

Belle looked at him curiously but glanced down at her watch. It had just turned seven, a good half hour before he normally took his breakfast. She looked questioningly back at him, knowing that if there was one thing that was not confusing about Mr. Gold, it was that he did everything by schedule.

His eyes met her, though the expression in his eyes told her nothing this time.

'I didn't sleep very well and decided to go ahead and get started on the day. I, um, am not so fond of storms myself.'

This startled Belle for some reason. Mr. Gold was strong as steel, he was resilient, never shakable. To think that he might curl up on a blustery night, or that his heart lurched with every bout of thunder like she did, somehow was a layer to this mystical man that she would have never expected.

'You are scared of storms?!' She blurted out, half wishing she could take it back when she saw the visible cringe he made.

'I said no such thing. I said that I am not fond of them, as Maine seems to attract the loudest tempests. Rain, and other weather changes also affect my…' His words stopped short. Mr. Gold never spoke of his injury. The fact that he came that close softened the smirk that Belle had taken when he seemed to dislike her use of the word 'scared' and caused her to now look at him with concern. His eyes darted to his leg and then back again to her, as if to see if she noticed the almost blunder. As if that would change her opinion of the man! His mouth went into a tight line, and despite his toast being only half eaten, he stood up and disposed of it, setting his plate in the sink with a 'I am going to work in my study until time for me to go-don't disturb me.'

Immediately sorry she had said anything about storms, or rain, or insinuated he might be scared, and sorry that whatever issues he had with his leg should be cause for him to turn back to his gruff, Mr. Scrooge, humbug like manner, she blurted.

'T-thank you for the blanket, Mr. Gold.'

He snapped his face back to face her, his eyes betraying that perhaps this too was something he wanted no reminder of. He shrugged instead. 'No matter' and he walked off.

…

The girl was making him soft. That was the only explanation for his near confessions, and emotionally charged actions.

He had been adamant that his reaction to the storms had nothing to do with his fears, but he had almost outright lied to the girl, and for some reason, that too made him feel a sense of guilt. What else was he supposed to say? That the storms lashing against the house, threatening to strike it, felt like some sort of judgment that was coming for him? That all his sins had somehow been found out and this was just a foreboding sign? It was irrational but unfortunately true. The sound always woke him, his leg throbbing as it told him what he already knew was happening overhead. The sound kept him awake, and the ferocity of it had him recollecting every wrong he had ever done, and as that list was quite long, he normally did not go back to sleep.

His leg sending waves of pain had him finally getting out of bed to get some pain medication. That done, he noticed that it was already morning, though still a couple of hours before he normally woke up. He had readied himself and crept down the hall, not wanting to disturb Miss French, who was no doubt sleeping peaceably within-she had no dark past or list of sins that kept her awake. Miss French, Belle, for one had not lived a life long enough to accumulate such things, and yet, he imagined that though she lived to be a hundred she would never gain a fraction of his number. There was something so pure, so innocent about her-her with her pleasant smiles and willingness to do whatever it took to help those she loved.

Not that he would ever be a part of that number. He mentally groaned as he took one step at a time, the pain meds having not kicked in yet.

He was served and she was pleasant because she had no choice.

Her father, on the other hand…

Not only had she sacrificed a year of her life to help her failure of a father, but he knew she must be working herself to the bone when she went to visit him every weekend. Exhaustion was always so obvious when she came back, though she tried to hide it behind smiles and bravery. He was in the business of observation, which meant she needn't have bothered trying to hide it. She even seemed to sense that he knew what she was doing, but said nothing. He could hardly stand it, and had gone soft with her once again and insisted that she not work on Sundays. Of course, he had tried to deflect his actions, but though she might be young and inexperienced with town monsters, she was not stupid. He took the hit to his pride, and attempted to play it off the best he could.

He limped towards the kitchen, thinking he might make himself some tea, but not before noticing the light in the study. His little maid had curled herself up in his chair, a book laying haphazardly on the floor, evidence of her attempts at reading, and was asleep. Deep in sleep, apparently, as little sounds were escaping making a strand of hair move with the bit of air that she let out. He chuckled silently before noticing her shiver, something almost like a snore following it. It made his heart hurt, just like it did anytime he thought that maybe she was uncomfortable, so foo that he was, he limped back up the stairs. He went up cursing his crippled form, while all the other aches from not sleeping well reminding him how he was now firmly in the middle aged category, and how he gained nothing from wanting little maids to not be cold, or how it was useless to think of how endearingly adorable she looked when she slept-especially all curled up in his chair. Cursing himself once more for good measure, he grabbed the extra blanket lying on his bed and limped again down the stairs towards the sleeping Belle.

He had mastered the art of stealth with his cane, but was extra careful not to wake her-the only thing worse than what he was actually doing, was her waking up to find him doing said soft thing.

He made himself tea with shaking hands, trying not to think about the girl in the other room too much. She got to him too much as it was and it had only been a month-how was he supposed to survive another eleven months of her chipping away at all the stony layers of his heart. There was much he never wanted her to know, and some things she couldn't know because if she did, she would hate him, more than she probably did already, he supposed, and for some reason his heart hurt again at the possibility.

Her disheveled, startled state when she finally entered the kitchen had him grasping for any sort of sarcastic excuse he could give for giving her that blanket. When she did not immediately go to that, her face speaking vulnerability when she told him that she didn't like storms, had him forgetting himself and confessing the same.

He was going soft. That was the only conclusion he could make for his blunders, and that scared him. He had gone soft once before and it had turned out disastrous. He could not afford to make the same mistake twice.

Author's Note 2: I had set out for this chapter to contain a snipet of the storm, with it setting the stage for 2 major things that I also planned to include in this chapter...Things took an unexpected turn and I spent the whole chapter talking about the storm! lol

Needless to say, this is more of a transition chapter and exciting things are on the horizon!