Chapter Text
She should tell him.
Rose's fingers idly grazed the small, hard bump, praying it would be safe in the frayed silken lining of the greatcoat that up till this morning had been the property of Bridie Dougherty of County Armagh, god bless her. And tucked under an equally frayed hat, plaid shawl, and crooked wool hat from Helga Dahl of Trondheim, god bless her.
But enough praying. The point was that when it came to that bump, the young man holding her other hand — given what he'd just gone through on its behalf — really deserved to know about it. And that was her one thought as she followed the teeming crowds down the third-class gangplank toward inspection. Well, that, and three days.
Because that was how long that particular young man had spent cuffed to that pipe below decks being brutalized by her ex-fiance's valet. And though, after the rescue, they'd had just enough time to clean him up, feed him some gruel and water from the third-class dining room, and disguise him in Tommy Ryan's tweed coat and dented bowler hat, his face and neck — a riot of purple bruises, dried blood, and swollen tissue — showed every second of it. Under the jacket, what she'd seen of his body wasn't much better.
It was her fault, of course. For someone with no practical skills, in the past week, she'd proven extraordinarily good at at least one thing: getting Jack Dawson handcuffed, manhandled, punished, and beaten for the "crime" of touching Cal Hockley's fiancee. And now, as they approached the immigration officer, she knew if she didn't get this right, all of that would only be for starters.
"They're looking at me, Jack — uh, William," she corrected, using the pseudonym they'd come up for him on the fly. "I can feel it." She clung to him — not for the first time — for dear life, trying not to glance around in fear of being spotted. First class had debarked already, she knew. Cal and Lovejoy and her mother had to be gone. Rose was almost free. In a few minutes, if their luck held out, she'd be able to truly breathe for the first time since Cal had jammed that rock onto her finger. That rock — along with almost everything else — she'd left behind.
So why was she melting down now?
"Hey. Listen," Jack murmured into her ear. "You'll do fine. After all, it's my face that looks like the gardens at Giverny."
Well. If there was one thing Jack was good at, it was how to talk her down from a ledge.
But still. Three days.
She'd told everyone who would listen that he was innocent, of course, but that didn't matter, because no one would listen. If Cal wanted someone punished for stealing his possessions — whether or not those possessions had actually been stolen or left on their own —he'd find a way. And if he wanted to lock up those possessions in his stateroom with two burly stewards guarding the door, he could do that, too. But that was no excuse for waiting three days to get Jack —the man who'd saved her — out of one hell, mere hours before he'd be thrown in the back of a police wagon and hauled off to another one.
And all that time, he must have thought she'd forgotten about him. As if she could ever forget about him.
And that was why he deserved to know.
"Rise and shine, love."
Rose raised her head from the bed, pushing sticky, matted strands of hair out of her face, just as Bridie threw back a sheet, revealing a hollow in the bottom of her housekeeping cart where she'd stashed the spare clothing that would be Rose's ticket to Jack, and out.
Even Trudy had been deemed potentially too loyal, so Bridie, the chambermaid who cleaned their stateroom, was the only person besides Cal and her mother she'd been allowed to see for three days. Seeing the wry laugh lines around her mouth and the locket around her neck, it had taken Rose only a few minutes to decide to win her over and only a day to do it. Inside the locket was a miniature of her New York policeman husband, a Protestant from East Belfast whose impish smile and beautiful tenor voice had charmed his good Catholic wife, much to her family's grief.
"They said he stole me away, but it seems I forgot to lock my door," she laughed.
Well, when Rose heard that, a few words about Jack was all it took.
In no time, they were marshaling a true team effort. One message to Fabrizio and Tommy absolutely forbidding them from sneaking into a nearby corridor to stage a fight to distract the stewards, one to discourage Molly Brown from luring Cal and Lovejoy to a discreet location in the bow to discuss a top-secret business proposition involving her husband's gold mines, and a third to Thomas Andrews, who sent back a note directing Rose anywhere but the master-at-arms' office and a hint as to within which cabinet she surely would not find a tiny silver key.
In the meantime, Rose transformed. It was one of Bridie's few frocks, and he shouldn't take from people who could least afford to give. But she'd already shed her skin on this voyage, in so many ways. And to slip out of her cabin, down the stairwell to E deck, left down the crewman passage, then right, then left again at the stairs where she came to a long corridor that led to the master-at-arms' office, clutching that tiny silver key, she shed it again for the last time.
Well, not quite all of it. Her fingers brushed her coat again as the third-class inspection line snaked forward.
She should tell him. After all, she trusted him. He needed to be able to trust her.
"Rose." He could barely turn his head, resting it helplessly against the pipe that was both his restraint and his support.
"Shh. Don't speak." She peeled herself away from him long enough to release the cuffs. Bonelessly, Jack slumped away from the pipe and onto the floor. And she, too, dropped to her knees instantly, traced parted lips, smoothed back hair once shiny and golden, now matted and sticky with fresh and scabbed-over wounds, streaks of tears that made her own heart twist. His arms were stiff and numb, his hand, raked to hell by the metal it had worn, so weak it could barely close around hers.
Sorry. She was so sorry. The diamond wasn't worth this, and neither was she.
But: How did you find out? was all he asked her. And she told him she already knew. Which was true, and until she could find a way to make him see why, it would have to be enough.
She cradled him, letting him nuzzle, and placed his arm over his shoulder, prepared to carry his weight as far as he needed her to. After all, from the second she'd met him, he'd happily carried hers.
"I'd say 'let's go home,'" she whispered, "but I have no idea where that is anymore."
He actually managed a laugh, and for a second, Rose dared to think things might turn out okay. That being together again was all it would take.
"Yeah, we should probably start figuring that out, huh?"
However, only hours out from the port of New York, there hadn't been enough time to reach a consensus, let alone properly rehearse the caper they were about to pull. And worse, the atmosphere choked off her ability to think, heavy with the scent of musty clothes, saltwater, and day-old fish, and ringing with the sounds of dockworkers shouting as they swung out massive crates of Royal Mail from Titanic's hold. If this was freedom, was it too much to ask to start with a smaller dose?
Jack, though, smiled weakly as he guided her forward, though his shoulders rose and fell visibly. She knew what that meant — let's face it, they both knew — that he only had a vague idea of where he was going. That for her sake, he was bravely making most of this up as he went along.
So was she, of course. The only difference was that she didn't know this world, and he did. He didn't know how to be in it with her, but she could teach him that. It was about time she taught him something, instead of the other way around.
"Rose Dawson," she told the immigration officer, just as they'd rehearsed in their brief time hiding down in Bridie's cabin with their friends, without her voice squeaking and I'm lying written all over her face. She'd already lost sight of Jack — no, William Dawson — who'd felt her shaking when he'd dropped her hand after being directed into a different line. His face, though, save for his wounds, revealed nothing. The upshot of many lucky hands at poker. Maybe even a few faked identities, too, over the years. Knowing him, it wouldn't surprise her.
The frowning young officer in the pince-nez checked his clipboard, then glanced up again at Rose. Down again.
That's too many times. The woman ahead of her had only got one look. One up, one down, and through. Wonderful. So this is where it would all end. Jack would be let in the country, while she'd be deemed an undocumented immigrant, loaded back on Titanic, and sent back to England. Dear god, she was lucky to have escaped with her life from this trip. Next time, the ship would probably hit that iceberg dead on and sink to the bottom of the goddamn Atlantic. Or maybe —
We found her, Mr. Hockley. And we've arrested the boy.
Did you actually think that ridiculous plan would work? It's even stupider than I thought. You'll never see him again, of course, since I wouldn't think he'd be too keen on a visit from the girl who put him there. Now take off those filthy rags and clean yourself up, for god's sake. Maybe I can still create a phoenix from the ashes of this tawdry scandal you've created for me.
No. Not after they were so close, and come this far. Her heart began to hammer, a layer of sweat forming between her skin and the rough cotton and wool of her clothing, too thin for the high seas but too thick for a New York April. Panic stole her breath, pressing tighter than any corset.
"You're American." The young officer blinked at her.
"Y — yes."
"You shouldn't be in this line," he sighed, eyeing the hundreds of anxious immigrants huddled behind her, waiting to be loaded onto barges and taken to Ellis Island. "You should have gone right through."
That was his only problem, she realized, her shoulders collapsing in relief as she hoisted her valise and its scanty contents and hurried out to the arrivals hall. That she was a poor, silly, stupid girl wasting his time.
And then she scanned the throngs of rumpled, exhausted men for her rumpled, exhausted man. For the beautiful blue eyes that even the filthiest rags and cruelest bruises couldn't bring low. And as Jack raised his gaze from under the bowler and moved to meet her, hand held out, all she hoped was that he didn't feel the same as the officer. That he wouldn't suddenly glance over at her silly disguise, impractical dreams, and complete lack of all common sense, rub his eyes, and ask what the hell have I done?
And that he never would. Especially once he found out that the lining of Bridie Dougherty's coat was, almost certainly for its first time, playing host to a 56-carat blue diamond.
He should tell her.
He'd spotted Cal almost the second he'd stepped off the ship. Because of course the bastard was sniffing around the wharf like the diseased rat he was, on the hunt for the second of the two possessions he'd lost during the voyage. Thanks to the hired goon he called a valet, he'd already recovered the first.
As for the second? He'd never get near her ever again if Jack could help it. But Cal had already demonstrated the price he was prepared to make Jack pay for something that he hadn't stolen. God only knew what he'd demand in return for something that he had — even if that "something" had left on her own.
But worst of all, he hadn't just seen Cal. Cal had seen him. Seen them.
"I suppose you still think she's coming to save you, boy," Lovejoy chuckled, leaning back at the desk, loaded gun beside him, his latest gift "courtesy of Mr. Hockley" still ringing in Jack's ruptured eardrums. Worse, the valet was eating creamed tuna on toast, smacking his lips obnoxiously as if he knew the only protein that had touched Jack's lips for days was his own blood.
Jack's entire cranium throbbed as he rested his head on his arms, his hands trembling, as always, scrambling to try to make the pipe to provide the balance he could never achieve no matter how hard he tried.
"However, when we dock tomorrow, I have it on good authority that she'll be on a train car to Philadelphia and gone. But, I suppose we can't judge the young lady too harshly. After all, it's only human to want to go slumming; to have a few laughs on the lower decks and get it out of her system. She looked lovely as ever on Mr. Hockley's arm at dinner tonight, by the way. That silver gown suits her. And," he continued, "as for you? Care to venture a guess?"
Jack gritted his teeth. "First-class accommodations, no doubt."
"Oh, no doubt. But I feel obligated to inform you that first class in the Tombs isn't exactly a match for what it is on this ship." The valet's teeth crunched loudly into the toast, chewing slowly and deliberately. "And you do know why they call it the Tombs, right, boy?" He paused to take another bite. "Because you rot there until nobody remembers your name, least of all her."
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He shouldn't have believed it. He didn't believe it. She trusted him enough to let him save her, and he wanted to trust that she would save him — that against all logic, there was someone in this world now who thought Jack Dawson, the boy with no home, no money, and no ties, was worth saving. But when you were restrained, dehydrated, starving, sleepless, and your head had just been clanged into a steel pipe for the third time that day, your outlook was liable to turn a little bleak.
Not to mention, when you were left with the idea that Rose must be trapped in her stateroom with her vengeful fiance and you were useless to do anything about it.
"Tell me, now," said Lovejoy, approaching the pipe again, "I'm curious. Do you still think it was worth it?"
All Jack had wanted to do, from the second he laid eyes on Rose, was to break her free from Cal. And yes, if he could somehow still do that, it would be worth it. It would be worth doing a thousand times, even if it landed him right back here. Or wherever he was headed next.
He'd failed of course. Her, and himself. But Lovejoy didn't need to know that.
So "fuck you," was all Jack said, which earned him the exact response he'd expected. Also worth it.
He sagged against the restraints, blinking back tears for his aching organs, as Lovejoy crinkled up his sandwich wrapper and slammed shut the heavy steel door, leaving Jack with only the darkness, lit by the moon quivering weakly through the porthole. And his imagination, of course. His own personal photoplay of horror.
But it all melted away at first light, when she burst through the door decked out like an Irish washerwoman and wielding a stolen key, declaring she'd known all along that he was innocent. And he was forced to confront the fact that despite it all, maybe he'd done enough to deserve that.
And just like that, it was she who freed him, taking each of his hands in hers as she undid the cuffs and let them fall away, clattering to the floor, and he only watched in stunned disbelief. And then it was he who collapsed in a heap in front of her, blinking up through a film, melting under the cool sensation of her hands and lips that he could do nothing but feebly nuzzle. His hands were too numb to even reach up and touch her face, or tell her that he never doubted she would come, because he hadn't.
"Are you all right?" was all he asked, though, and then he couldn't understand why she laughed as she nodded and pressed her forehead to his.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she whispered. "I'm so sorry." But why was she apologizing, when the horror show was gone? All that remained was wonder at just how he kept getting this lucky.
A wonder that had lasted right up until the docks where he'd spotted Cal, whose glare of pure hatred spoke louder than any words.
Remember, a real man makes his own luck. And I'll make yours, too, Jack, whenever I feel like it.
But he hadn't, yet. They were through. And Jack, despite all odds, still had Rose. So for the time being, if all life was indeed a game of luck, he sure had a hell of a solid lead.
"Well, let's see what opportunity this land really offers," he said, trying to sound nonchalant as he paused near the door.
Rose raised her chin, set her jaw, and nodded. And then they pushed it open together. But that didn't mean he didn't squeeze her hand as tight as he could squeeze it — or that she didn't seem to mind when he did — as he navigated them out through the Chelsea Piers, through streets he knew scarcely better than she did but for her sake was pretending he'd been born on.
And he squeezed it tighter still as they clutched their meager luggage and walked away from all of it, heading south and east, into the golden glow of the setting sun hitting the skyscrapers just so, toward some faint music — pipes and drums and lilting voices — that seemed to radiate from somewhere deep in the core of the city, enticing them on. And every time a toothless, drunken hooligan staggered by screaming obscenities, or a scantily dressed woman leered in the shadow of a saloon, or a container of something unspeakable came flying out a tenement window. And every time he stole a glance behind them to see if their past was catching up with them yet.
It hurt just to lift his arms and put one foot in front of the other, but, dammit, despite all logic, she'd chosen him again, and he needed to be the man she chose. Jack — uh, William Dawson — he of a million lives, a million worlds, and who called them all home. Who was as good at sleeping under bridges as he was at drinking champagne with railroad tycoons.
Right.
A week ago, standing at the foot of that first-class staircase pretending to be a gentleman, he'd prayed only that she couldn't hear just how fast his heart was pounding.
He was praying ten times harder now.
Praying she wouldn't suddenly look over at his battered body, rootless life, and empty pockets, rub her eyes, and ask, what the hell have I done?
"Taxi!"
Well, that was unexpected. The tiny motorized vehicle pulled to a stop, just an open-air cab with barely enough room for two people, and the driver sitting up high in front.
"Rose, we can't — " He bit his lip. He was in no shape yet to work, and if her pockets went empty too, they were really screwed. And then what little he could give her wouldn't be enough to repay her for saving him.
"What?" she asked as if he were the crazy one, setting her valise at her feet on the sidewalk. "I don't know if you've noticed this, but in the last ten minutes, we've traveled two blocks. You can barely stand. You'll collapse in a heap before the next crosswalk. Besides, I have enough money, and — "
"Yeah, I get that, but just because you have the money doesn't mean you should spend it. We have to be — "
"I know. I know I'm not rich anymore. But I'm not a child, or an idiot. You don't have to teach me how to be — " She flushed and bit her lip.
"Oh, I don't believe this." He turned away in disbelief. "You still can't say that word."
"What word?" She stubbornly crossed her arms. "I don't know what you mean."
"You know what word. Just say it. You'll feel better. I promise."
"I'm not saying anything," she bristled, "and do not try to tell me what to do. I didn't fight to get away from Cal just to — "
"A thousand pardons for interrupting your romantic evening stroll," shouted the driver sarcastically, "but do youse want a ride or not?!" Then, catching a glimpse of Jack: "Holy hell, kid. For your sake, I hope you went at least four rounds."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir, we'll only just be a minute, please," Rose said in her politest, most ladylike tone, a tone she did not offer to Jack. "Get. In."
She threw open the door and pointed to the seat of the taxi with the same delicate, snow-white finger that had once tried to order him off the first-class promenade deck.
And unlike then, he obeyed, tossing in both their bags and slumping into a seat redolent of week-old piss and spilled ale. And Rose could get in and out of cars without help after all, it seemed, though she quickly straightened up, smoothing her skirts as if she'd been riding to the opera.
To be honest, he didn't have the strength to fight her. Even if he hadn't spent the last three days being beaten to a pulp, he wouldn't have. When she wanted it to be, Rose's will was stronger than an ocean tide. If it hadn't been, he wouldn't be here. So he figured he must have had his head screwed back on wrong as he directed his gaze out the window petulantly.
"Oh no," she fretted. "Jack — uh, William — uh, shit, who cares? Look at me, please. Are we fighting? Is this our first fight? Please don't be angry. I'm sorry for what I said."
If he'd felt any anger at all, it melted away in an instant at the honest concern in her voice. He glanced back sheepishly. "I'm sorry, too. And no, we're not fighting," he added, then lowered his voice. "Like I could ever be angry at you in the backseat of a car."
Her blush and smile told him he'd said exactly the right thing. And then her hand found his again, much to his relief, while he gave the driver vague directions to a cheap lodging house on the Lower East Side he'd stayed for a week two years ago, just before he'd sailed for Europe. And then prayed again that city officials were bad enough at their jobs not to have condemned the place, because a Plan B was hard to come up with when your brain had been pounded into a thin mush.
But on Orchard Street between Broome and Delancey, there it was, the Paradise Inn, a shabby brick tenement like all the rest, sinking slowly into ignominious decrepitude. The street outside was nearly empty and quiet, save for a drunken vagrant vomiting into an overflowing trash can and the scraps of an Irish drinking song drifting out of the sawdust-covered doorway of the corner tavern. A painted clapboard sign — no neon yet on this side of town — announced rentals by the day, week, and month. It did not say "no questions asked," but the clerk didn't even demand their names, let alone try to ascertain whether they were a respectable married couple. As if any respectable married couple would stay here, anyway. Posing as a pimp and his prostitute probably would have aroused less suspicion.
Rose, meanwhile, was treating the whole thing like a nature walk, wandering wide-eyed around the corner of the lobby. A rat skittered to get out of her way, and from upstairs, Jack could swear he heard a woman screaming in what he hoped was ecstasy.
"Where are you going?"
No, Rose wasn't his possession. She wasn't anyone's, and he would never, ever treat her like her one. But that still didn't mean that — in a place like this, anyway — he planned to let her out of his sight for a second.
She whirled around. "To find the bellboy, of course, silly," she said. "Oh, and where's the elevator? We'll need a few coins to tip the operator — "
Shit. "Uh, Rose, I don't think — "
To her credit, she kept a straight face for a second before dissolving in laughter and grabbing his hand. "Is this what you remembered?" she asked, not unkindly, after he gritted his teeth, struggled with the lock, and threw open the door to their new — well, temporary, with any luck — home.
It was enough to make him instantly nostalgic for steerage. Plaster flaked from the walls, revealing aged brick and the scent of old mold, grease, and sorrow. The bed, barely big enough for both of them, sagged on a creaky iron frame, and the single window offered only a view of a narrow breezeway where someone's laundry had been strung.
"A little bit nicer, actually." He sounded kidding, but he wasn't. He struggled to prop the window open with a plank of wood so he could give her some fresh air, at least.
"Jack, leave it," she ordered, and he did, sheepishly. "Bed. Now." He obeyed, his depleted body sinking into the bare, lumpy mattress — shit, they would have to buy some sheets tomorrow — and out of the corner of his eye, though his head was spinning, he watched her take off her coat. She draped it on the wooden chair and circled around it, in a way much more critical than an old, threadbare coat seemed to deserve.
But in a second, he'd forgotten that. Because instead of running away screaming from this nightmare like he was afraid she would, she'd sat down on the bed, reached up, and pulled out — wait, she kept that? — her butterfly comb. And suddenly her hair was there, filling his entire field of vision, a massive fiery splash of curls against the tenement gray. Under the coat she had on a dark blue dress with a white lace collar, slightly faded but carefully mended. Borrowed, obviously, but god, if there was anything this girl couldn't wear — or not wear — he'd yet to see it. If he'd been at all confident in his ability to hold a pencil, he would have sketched her again right then and there. She made this fleabag tenement look like the palace she belonged in, and she was probably a dream. Because jumping aboard Titanic on a goddamn lark had sure felt like one, and the freewheeling homeless boy who'd done that sure hadn't intended to wake up here.
Except he kept closing his eyes, and she kept still being there every time he opened them. So he might as well go with it.
She came back with a glass of water and a cool, wet cloth, which was all she had to place on his wounds. For some reason, the coolness on his skin and down his throat made him swallow tears. Because the rest of the world may not have thought Jack Dawson was worth saving, but Rose DeWitt Bukater did.
"Thank you," he murmured, because he owed her more than a few of those by now.
But she just shook her head, took his hand, and raised it to her lips. She watched his lashes flutter. "Did I get it right? Is that the way he did it?"
"Who?"
"The gentleman. In your nickelodeon."
"Pretty damn close. But you know," he trailed off, closing his puffy, swollen eyes and opening them again, "I was on my best behavior that night, so I never told you what he did after that."
"And why not?" she asked. "I wish you would have, preferably at the same moment Mother took a large sip of wine."
That made him laugh for real, as much as it hurt his throat.
From the tavern below, the slurring voices had suddenly been joined by uilleann pipes and bodhráns, lilting to them on the spring breeze. An Irish reel. Not that one, of course. A different one. But he could see in the way her body went rapt as she clung to his hand that it thrilled her anyway.
Because they were here. They'd chosen this. They'd chosen each other, they'd saved each other. Yes, they'd both done a lot of fucking up, too, but for a few seconds, they felt, as they had that night, amid smoke and heat and rhythm and ale, like the luckiest two people alive.
Gather up the pots and the old tin cans
The mash and the corn and the barley and the bran
Run like the devil from the excise man
Keep the smoke from rising, Barney.
"I — " he began. What he was about to tell her had nothing to do with nickelodeons, of course. But he couldn't mention Cal now. He couldn't.
Fuck Cal.
And anyway, she wasn't having it.
"Don't tell me. Sleep. When you're healed, you'll show me." She bent her head to kiss him, her hair swinging forward, as if drawing the drapes closed at last on this endless day. "You'll show me everything."