Author's Note: First attempt at OUAT and the first time I've taken a stab at writing anything in a while, so forgive me if I'm rusty. Just getting this out of my head, hopefully it will make doing my homework a little easier. The title is from the super good song "The Cold, the Dark, & the Silence" by Sea Wolf.

A Sudden Rush of Water Through Your Heart & Lungs

She doesn't remember him. He knows how this curse works better than anyone, how even the deepest wounds and fiercest loves became dim, distant, and even disappeared. But he is different. He has thought of her every day since he lost her, keeping his pain fresh and vivid, his longing for her almost palpable. And quietly, for the smallest moment, he had hoped she would remember too.

When he heard of the latest scandal—of the Sheriff Swan swooping in to rescue a wrongfully incarcerated young girl called Isabelle French—he knew it was her before he even saw her. And before his rage at the queen's lies had a chance to swell in a rush of blood to his head, he felt a lurch, a twinge behind his ribcage. Suddenly that feeble organ that had pumped so leadenly and mechanically, for so many years that he nearly forgot it existed, beat with a thrilling pulse. He locked up his shop immediately and walked, automatically, to Emma's apartment, where he knew he would find her. He, the schemer and plotter, moved with no plan, not even an excuse to offer when he pounded his fist on Emma's door. When she flung it open and demanded in her characteristically unfeminine manner just what exactly he was doing here, Mr. Gold could not answer her.

"I—heard of," he waved his hand, stalling, "the events; I thought I could be of help."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Help?"

"How is she?" he asked, stepping around the puzzled sheriff and finding her sitting at the table, thin and pale and unkempt, but beautifully whole.

"Belle."

She doesn't know him. Her eyes search his face, but there is no spark of recognition. His racing heart halts, as though tripping over the hard line of her closed mouth.

He turns away.

"Forgive me," he mumbles to Emma. "I must be in the way."

"What are you doing here?" Emma asks again.

"Just—If Madame Mayor gives you any trouble, you call me, and I will deal with her personally."

Emma's mouth falls open, a dozen questions ready to spill out, but he is already out the door.

—

Mr. Gold sits in his shop, working on his books. It is slow going. For weeks he has been unable to concentrate, with his relief and his pain gnawing constantly at his stomach. He keeps away from her, afraid to face those cold eyes again, but at the same time he aches to see them. He cradles the tea cup in one hand, rubbing the coarse edge of the chip with his thumb. The bell chimes softly as someone slips through his door. He sighs, irritated by both his inability to focus on his work and this fresh distraction.

"Can I help you?" he calls through a clenched jaw.

"I hope I'm not bothering you, Mr. Gold."

He knows that voice. Slowly, he looks up. There she is, backlit by the afternoon sun filtering in through the door. She is as beautiful as he remembers, that mass of brown curls tumbling around her face and those blue eyes shining so clear and so strong.

"Certainly not, Miss French," he murmurs, his voice softer by degrees at the sight of her.

"I only wanted to thank you," she says, stepping closer tentatively.

"Thank me?" What on earth for? He searches that bright little face and still she seems so distant; he is a stranger to her.

"Emma told me what you did—well," she shrugs, "not exactly. I don't think she even knows herself. But whatever you said to the mayor, to make her leave me alone—"

"Ah," he cuts her off with a nod of comprehension. "It was nothing. I've found one can do wonders with a simple six-letter word."

She cocks her head at him in bemusement.

"Please."

She smiles at him. The warmth of it rushes through him, sending a thrill through his bones.

"Well, I'm very grateful. I hope I can repay your kindness."

"There is no need," he assures her. It is enough to see her standing there, to see her chest rise and fall with the expansion and exhalation of her lungs, to know that her veins pulse with hot blood pumped by a strong heart.

He realizes she is watching him as he stares at her and he smiles slightly, the gesture stiff and unnatural to him.

"Why did you help me?" she asks. "We're strangers."

"I wouldn't say strangers." He tries to repress a wince, but she must see it flit across his face, because she steps closer still, placing a hand gently on his arm.

"I am sorry. I can't remember my life before that cell." Her face is tilted up towards his, her brow contracted in the effort of searching her brain for his face. He holds his breath. She lowers her head. "Sometimes I feel like I never will. But I hope I haven't upset you," she adds quickly, glancing up again with genuine concern in her wide eye, but still that formality where he hoped to find familiarity. That distance.

"Don't trouble yourself over me, dearie."

He watches her face closely. He sees so much of the old Belle in her; surely something must be stirring in the back of her head, the tiniest glimmer of a memory. But even that old endearment doesn't trigger anything. She simply smiles at him kindly.

"Well, I should let you get on with your work."

She steps back and he straightens in his chair, nodding, fighting the disappointment that settles heavily on his chest.

"But I hope we can be friends, Mr. Gold."

"I would like that," he smiles again, finding it easier this time. "Please come back soon."

"I will."