Ok, so this is a twoshot Sam/Amelie AU fic, where they're both human, and it's set on RMS Titanic, circa 1912. This section is the first half of it.

This twoshot is not owned by me, and it's not exactly the film Titanic, either...it's more original. I think they may go OOC slightly, due to their being human and the such, but I've strived to keep the Sam/Amelie we saw in the books as realistic as possible...just nowhere near perfect.

And it's dedicated to my friends on RoseScorpius Fans.


The size of the Titanic startles Amelie.

Never before in her life has she seen a ship of such grandeur; the immensity of it, with its level after level of windows, its dozens of funnels emitting billows of pure white smoke, is more than she can comprehend, because the biggest boat she's been on before was the one to cross the Channel from France. She knew that this would be the chance for her to change her life, that gaining a ticket to board the RMS Titanic to America would be the silver lining to disguise the painful life she's led for twenty years.

Technically, she comes from royalty; her blood is that of the last king of France's bloodline, however diluted that is, and her father still likes to pretend that he's going to overthrow the democracy that rules their country, in order to take his place as its 'rightful ruler', no matter how ludicrous it is. She's lived a life of luxury for her entire life, and it's only been these past months, since she ran away from her father and his ironclad fist, that she's understood what it's like to truly live.

She's barely made ends meet, and only her good looks prevented her from being turned out of one of the women's refuges because they were so overcrowded—it turns out that even refuge owners are partial to a pretty face and a smile—before those same good looks afforded her the luck to win a ticket to America. She won it on the eight of April nineteen hundred and twelve, and it's been a race to get from London to Southampton in time for the boat's setting sail, but she's here.

"Sorry, miss," someone calls as they bump into her, almost causing her to drop the bag which contains all of her worldly possessions—a locket of her mother's that she's been unable to sell, even in her hardest hours, letters to remind her about how her life used to be, and the one silk evening gown that's survived the tumultuous times since her departure from Calais.

She flashes the man a smile, tossing her golden locks over her shoulder as she does so, before turning off and onto the gangway that leads to second class; it was the only ticket class the gamblers had on offer—teaching poker had been the one thing her father had taught her well—and Amelie considers it to be better than third, if not quite as good as first.

(Amelie's sure that she can flash a smile and get herself into first, anyway; she's overly reliant on her looks now that she's become independent, but that'll end when she gets to America.)

When she gets there, Amelie's plan is simple: find a party, slip in and return to her socialite roots, ensuring that she leaves with the richest man in the room—then, she marries him and they live happily ever after, in a world where her father doesn't exist. The only bone for contention is finding a party, but she knows she has the journey's length to discover the finer points of her plan. Never does she doubt that she'll find happiness; America's where you go to achieve your dreams, so why should it be any different for her?

But for now, she's going to board the ship and dress for dinner, hopefully finding her way to the first class restaurant and not being turned away along the way.

~x~

"Darling, are you going to dress for dinner?" Sam's mother calls across their living area, her voice projecting out onto the balcony where he stands, smoking a cigar, his hand running through his ginger-coloured hair.

"I am dressed for dinner, mother," he replies, his tone exasperated. All he wants to do is to admire the view, to memorise the sunset on his departure from England back to America, where the headquarters of his late father's company are; he's the new boss of one of the largest markets on Wall Street, but the trade off is to leave England, his homeland—forever.

His mother doesn't press the point any further—he's a grown man, after all, with three-and-twenty years to his name, and if he can't dress himself by now, he has no hope—so Sam makes the decision to head down to the dining hall early; he's never liked to be late to anything, and if that means being too early, so be it.

On his way down the corridors, he catches the odd snippet of conversation from the other first class compartments whenever the maidservants open the door to scurry across to their employer's other rooms, and he can't help but smile to himself about the absurdity of how much stuff people need.

There's a French man that he vaguely recognises as Monsieur Bishop, leading advocate for France's monarchy to be restored, along with one of the most famous landowners in Europe's history, and Sam nods to him as he passes, accidentally hearing part of the elder man's conversation with his manservant—

"Amelie's meant to be on this ship; my informant was quite clear when he specified she had gained a ticket for the maiden voyage of the Titanic," he says, Sam catching the man's relatively thick French accent. "You need to find her, and you need to bring her back to me. She needs to learn what happens when she crosses her papa and loses him three million francs," he continues, and Sam's suddenly glad that he's not related to this man.

He approaches the dining hall and sees that it's lit with diamond chandeliers, their jewels refracting rainbows in all directions, and the floor and walls are made from polished marble; it's certainly impressive, everything polished up to perfection, even down to the server's brass buttons on his coat.

"Do you have your card for entry, sir?" the man on the door asks Sam, who realises that he's left it in his room.

Hastily, he rushes back to his bedroom, narrowly avoiding his mother, and passes the Bishop man again—this time, without his manservant. They exchange nods once again, neither of them wanting to chat, and Sam's just about to speak to the man on the door when—

—a young woman steps out of the doorway just to his right, her silver dress catching his eye as it glimmers in the candlelight, and Sam's breath is taken from him as he looks into her face. The first thing he thinks of is an angel, and that this is how an angel would look in human form, with her perfectly angled face, her blonde hair pulled into a bun with strands framing her face, and the dress designed to make her look as though she is floating.

"Hello," Sam says with a smile, automatically bending at the waist to bow to the most beautiful woman he thinks he's ever met.

"Good evening, sir," she replies, and his smile widens when he realises her accent is French; it makes her seem even more appealing somehow, even though he knows he shouldn't base his opinion solely on her physical appearance. "How are you this evening?" she continues, lifting her skirts as she makes a small curtsey to him.

They make small talk for a few minutes, both of them discussing their reason for taking the trip to America—though her answer is much more vague than his, he notices—and it's only when the bell rings for dinner that Sam realises he doesn't know the name of his new acquaintance.

"I am Amelie," she tells him, her voice almost laughing as she speaks, "and you are?"

For a moment, Sam's shocked; this woman doesn't know who he is, doesn't know that he's one of the richest bachelors on the planet and so isn't after him for his money. He could put that down to her being French—but no; he knows who Mr Bishop is, after all.

"I'm Samuel, Samuel Glass, but everyone calls me Sam," he replies, his eyes crinkling as he grins. "And would you like to accompany me to dinner, Miss…?"

She doesn't fill in her surname, merely takes his arm, and Sam can't help but feel slightly disappointed that she doesn't tell him her name, before the realisation that she's willing to come with him to the premier dining room hits him; she wants to carry on their conversation.

They may have a chance.

~x~

She's entranced, and she didn't mean to be; she had expected to merely sneak into the dining room and make herself comfortable—it was never in her thoughts that she would meet a man on the boat, especially so quickly.

Amelie can already tell that he's the sort of man she wants to find in America: he's funny, charming and already, she knows he has a good heart; she's not quite she how she knows this, given they met merely five minutes ago, but the first impression he's given her is that he's the right sort of man.

His name is familiar to her, and it takes her until Sam's pulling the chair out for her to sit at the dinner table to remember where she's heard it before; it was in one of the newspapers she read on her way to Southampton, saying that he's taking the place of his father as the chief executive of one of New York's largest stock markets.

(He's everything she wanted to find and more, because she can tell he's got more than just money and good looks, but something deeper.)

"You know my name already," she tells him when he asks about her and what she's like, deigning not to pass on her surname because it reminds her of her father. He's the reason she left her homeland, of course, hence why she's been merely Amelie since she crossed the Channel. "I am French, d'accord, and I am moving to New York in order to pursue a new life," she continues, stopping herself from mentioning her father, because that's a story she doesn't want to discuss. Her problems were left in France, she hopes, and she doesn't ever want to relive them—yet, at least. She knows that whenever she marries, she shall have to share her story and explain why her family cannot attend, but for now, she can keep it under wraps; she can be an Amelie cast in mystery, and be whoever she wants to be.

To her surprise, Sam doesn't push her further to try and discover more about her life, something she thought he would; she revealed as little information as possible, and she knows it's probably slightly suspicious. Yet he doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, I'm Sam, obviously, and I'm twenty three years old now, and I'm moving to the US with my mother, in order to run my late father's business," Sam tells Amelie without her needing to request the information of him. "I'm not betrothed, I've never been to France and, really, I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this," he laughs at himself when he finishes speaking, yet Amelie doesn't. In all honesty, she's enamoured by this man already, and she could imagine herself talking to him forever.

To stop herself saying something she could later regret—for a lady would never be so forward with her feelings, at least in public—Amelie takes a sip of her wine, and turns her head to look around the dining room with all its grandeur. It has been lavishly decorated, with mahogany dining tables and crystal glass forming the base for most of the crockery, and it's so overwhelmingly familiar to Amelie; her home's dining room is similar, all dark wood and expensive finery, and the realisation causes an overwhelming rush of emotion to rush through her.

"Are you quite alright?" Sam asks her, alarmed when she turns around; Amelie presumes that her face is drawn, so bone white that not even her make-up can disguise it.

It's with a well-practised smile and slight shrug of her shoulders does Amelie nod and reply, "yes, certainly. I merely…I mistook the setting for somewhere I once frequented three times per day." She tries to make her response as honest as possible, and before Sam can question her, someone enters the dining room who makes their way directly to Amelie's companion.

"Hello, Samuel, I see you are making acquaintances already," the woman says, taking a seat next to Sam, and something about her features suggests to Amelie that this is Sam's mother. This belief is confirmed when the woman turns to Amelie and says, "good evening, dear. I am Samuel's mother. May I beg your name?"

Amelie smiles slightly and nods, the movement causing the crystals in the chandelier to refract a rainbow across her face; it irritates her vision for a moment before she has the vision to sit back in her chair slightly, in order to reply to the new guest.

"My name is Amelie, and I have had the pleasure of meeting your son, that is correct," she says in response.

She knows that she's stunned Sam's mother; if the situation had been different, if Amelie had been sitting as the intruder on the situation, she would expect to be given much more information than she had given out, and as the silence between the three of them increases in length, Amelie knows that the older woman has no idea how to respond.

"Well…Miss…Amelie, is that a French accent I can hear?" the woman – Mrs Glass, Amelie presumes – says, this evidently being the only thing she can find to comment on.

"Oui, I am French." Amelie's response is short and to the point, curt almost, and it's easily inferred that she doesn't want to talk to the mother; the look she shares with Sam is one of an almost desperation for the two of them to be alone—even in a room bustling with others—and it's what causes Sam to intervene before his mother speaks again.

"Mother, I believe that Sir Geoffrey expressed a hope that you would sit alongside him so that you could discus the possibility of you organising his Christmas ball," Sam comments. "I will remain later to escort you back to your cabin, if you do not want to move alone."

His mother's eyes narrow at these words, and Amelie can tell that she presumes that they're going to leave the dining room, which is something Amelie most certainly doesn't want to do. She's missed this level of luxury, and with the food about to be served, she doesn't think that she could even leave; hunger has been her friend these past months, her diet nothing compared to her previous intake, and the delicious aroma of thick soup is divine.

"Certainly, Samuel, I will see you then." Thankfully, his mother spies Sir Geoffrey in the corner and stands up. "Good evening…Amelie. I shall see you again, I'm sure." As the woman walks away, Amelie's certain that she doesn't like her, not only because of her lack of desire to chat, but because of the most important rule of the upper social circles: well-to-do, respectable ladies always have a companion…and she doesn't. She's alone on this ship.

"Thank you," she finds herself whispering in Sam's ear when they shift in their seats to face the table once more. "I have nothing against your mother, having only just met her—"

"—but it's too early to meet the parents, I do agree," Sam finishes for her, surprising Amelie; she never thought that any two people could be in-sync so quickly, that their thoughts could already be along the same wavelength with so little time elapsing between their first meeting and now. "Speaking of parents, I beg your pardon if this question is too forward, but where are your own?" it's the question Amelie hasn't wanted to hear, because now she has to give a hapdash explanation as to how it's came about, her travelling to England and then to America without a companion.

To try and give herself enough time to think, Amelie places the forkful of salad in her mouth and slowly chews, her mind moving swiftly through all the scenarios she could possibly relay to him, the various ones she's been sharing with the people she's met along her journey, before she realises something: she doesn't want to lie to him. She wants to tell him the truth, even in this room filled with strangers far richer than her current pauper self.

"My mother died when I was a child—she drowned in the lake near our home, though nobody can understand why she was out there in the middle of the night in December," she sighs, her finger tracing the rim of the wine glass before her. Amelie keeps her eyes averted from Sam's face; she doesn't want to see the sympathetic eyes she's gotten since her mother's death whenever she mentions how it happened, not from someone like this, someone she could imagine herself with forever. "My father…he's not a man you want to be around—un homme de contrôle, a controlling man; there are many, many nicknames for him in my hometown, most of them unpleasant—and life in the same home as him was unbearable. I tried to leave many times, but he always found me…and he wanted to marry me off to someone else who believes that the monarchy ought to be restored. I couldn't allow that to happen to myself, so I ran away." She smiles slightly, turning to look at Sam, her expression half amused, half broken. "He's given up now, I hope…and that is the entire story, mon ami, please do not judge me too harshly."

Regardless of the fact that they're sitting in a dining room crowded with some of Europe's most elite, Sam's fingers move to take Amelie's hand, and she realises that it's the first intimate contact she has had since her mother's death—wanted contact, at least. He's not judging her, not telling a steward to throw her out of the dining room for she isn't first class…he's just there.

And it makes Amelie feel wanted.

Before either of them can speak, Amelie's eye catches the light once more, and she briefly looks away from Sam. It's only then does she see someone in the corner of the room, someone she thought she would never see again.

Her face turns bone white once again and the hand holding the wine glass shakes so greatly that she has to set it down; she cannot stay in this room, not with her father here.

"Where are you going?" Sam whispers to her as she pulls her hand from his grasp and makes to stand up, setting her napkin on the table.

"That man in the corner, no, the other corner, he's my father," she murmurs as she moves slowly, trying to surreptitiously move in order to not attract Bishop's gaze in her direction. The dress was a stupid idea, she realises now, because its jewels glisten in the light—and there's plenty of light in this room. "I cannot stay here, Sam, I can't. I feel—" she can't describe how she feels, and she doesn't have the time (he could notice her right now!) so she moves.

The door's held open for her as she leaves, and as soon as she's out of view of the windows, she breaks into the fastest run she can manage; she needs to put as much space between herself and her father now, otherwise she doesn't know what she'll do.

Amelie's thoughts are all over the place as she runs through the twisting corridors, following the signs to the viewing deck; it's a beautifully starlit night, she recalls randomly from the windows in the dining room, and it's the only setting she can think of that could potentially calm her down.

She races past people who look startled to see her moving with such speed and such determination, almost crashes into half a dozen walls, and is thoroughly out of breath by the time she reaches the sea-deck. She has to brace herself on the railings to attempt to stop the shaking feeling, when—

"It's ok, Amelie." Sam's there, his hands on her shoulders to stop her jumping and falling forwards from the shock of him being there; then again, she thinks rashly, she half expected him to come. She wanted him to turn up and comfort her, to breathe deeply into her hair as he is now, attempting to regain his breath, because she doesn't want to be alone.

(Being alone scares her; it makes her realise that she's riddled with faults that she can't heal—it's why she wants to find someone to be with, also. So that she doesn't have to be alone.)

"It's not, Sam!" she cries, turning around to face him; their bodies are mere centimetres apart now, and she should be pushing away from this man she's just met, but she's not. "He's here, and he's in first class; he's rich! He's found out I'm running away to America, and…I…it's impossible to be anything other than disastrous!" she breaks out into mutterings in rapid French, unable to control her fear and releasing it in her mother tongue; she's cursing her father, wanting to scream out what he's done so that they understand why she can't go home, and she wants to do anything in order to avoid him.

She knows Sam doesn't understand what she's saying—he can't speak French, she's certain—but she understands what he's saying when he pulls her into his arms.

"I can't do anything about him being here; we're in the middle of the ocean," he whispers into her ear, and the tickle of his hot breath on her cool skin causes Amelie to shiver. "But I can protect you. I can keep you away from him and if he comes to find you, we can avoid him. I don't know what he's done, but you're scared and that's all I need to know." he sounds so confident, Amelie begins to believe that things will be ok, that she can disembark with Sam—he's already worming his way into her future plans, and that's scaring her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks as she pulls away slightly, feeling one of his hands take hers. She's feeling things she doesn't know how to explain, for a man she's only just really met, and it's scaring her. "You don't know me, Sam, so why do you want to protect me?"

His sapphire blue eyes meet her grey ones, and it's in that moment that she thinks she understands; she thinks, because he's so unreadable, and yet so utterly open at the same time. "Because I want to know you," he tells her forcefully, pulling her from the edge of the boat. "I want to get to know you, Amelie, and nothing will stop me…unless you don't want me to." He stops suddenly, and she realises that he's scared she doesn't want to know him.

She surprises herself by lifting her other hand to his face and tracing the outline of his cheeks; he has dimples when he smiles, she's noticed, and there's an innocence about him that she thinks is adorable. "Where can we go?" is all she says before he's pulling her along with him, moving to another door than the one they emerged on deck through.

"My suite has a spare bedroom," he tells her. "I also have a library of the books I couldn't bear to leave in England; we can go there, if you want. It's safe; nobody besides myself has access, not even my mother."

Amelie lets herself smile for the first time since she saw her father again, and replies, "that sounds beautiful."

~x~

She's more than he ever thought he would find in a woman.

They talk for hours that first night, about what their favourite things are—something that displays their culture rift—, their favourite books and the things that they're going to miss about Europe when they land in America. And with each word she says, Sam finds himself more and more entranced by the French beauty, someone with as much brains as beauty, a woman who can challenge him in a debate—something that he has only ever found in his mother before. She's charming and vivacious, and already, Sam can imagine watching her walk down the aisle, placing a ring on her finger and telling her "until death us do part," because she's that kind of girl.

(He doesn't dare even show that he feels like this yet, though, because that would just jeopardise everything, and probably put her in danger.)

It's only when the clock strikes one in the morning and they're finally finished arguing over the worth of Great Expectations, do they decide that it's time to call it a night.

"The spare room is this way," Sam points out as he leads the way from the library across his temporary home. "If you dislike the wave movement, you should be fine in here; this is apparently the part of the ship that's most stable even within the most vicious of storms." As they stand outside the open door, he hesitates, not sure what to say, or what to do—or even if to do anything.

She doesn't have anything other than the dress she's wearing, he realises, and he'll have to go and take the other things she's brought from her room—or he can find her new items. All he wants to do is to protect her, to look after her in this world that's so different to anything she's evidently been used to, and yet he doesn't want to sound patronising or as though he's trying to control her.

Whilst he thinks this through, Amelie moves; one minute she's standing before him, the next she's pressing her lips to his, and Sam truly can't recall a kiss that's made him feel like this before. It's as though he's flying off the edge of the world, about to emerge in territories as yet unseen, because nothing has ever felt like this before. She's something special, something he's already aware he can't live without, and if this transpires to merely be a voyage-romance, then he's aware his heart will be broken by the time they dock in New York.

"Goodnight, Sam," she whispers against his lips before walking into the bedroom and closing the door, her fingers waving bye right until the wooden door meets its frame.

It takes him three stiff whiskeys and an hour to get to sleep in his own room, the flickering of the candle his focus as he attempts to sleep. But as he looks at it, all he sees is Amelie's face.

(He's fallen for her in so few hours…and he hopes that she's in the same predicament.)

.

She's there the next morning, and it's all Sam can do not to jump for joy and tell her that he thinks he's falling in love with her, for fear of scaring her.

Before she awakens, he's already been down to the dining hall and secured himself a double breakfast, which he takes back to his room, along with a trip to the clothing shop on board the Titanic in order to choose two dresses he thinks will fit Amelie.

"You don't need to erupt that you don't want my charity, or anything along those lines; you're receiving it, no matter what, if only for the kiss you gave me last night," he tells Amelie as he presses the box into her hand at her door. His grin is nervous; he half expects her to throw the dresses back in his face and to tell him not to bother her again.

But she doesn't.

"Thank you," is all she says, a smile on her lips and a redness in her cheeks that Sam realises isn't normally there. "I shall be right out…thank you, Sam."

"Not a problem," is his response, and it's true; it's not a problem.

He already knows he's give this girl the world if he could manage it.

~x~

"Do you want to go on the deck?" Sam asks Amelie, and she finds herself nodding enthusiastically. After almost three days in Sam's cabin, some of which was spent alone for he had business deals to arrange, she's dying for some fresh air—and her need is so great that she's willing to run the risk of happening across her father.

He's apparently been asking questions in the restaurant at mealtime, looking for the girl with the blonde hair and beauty so exquisite that she ought to be easily recognised; yet Sam informs her that her father forgot to bring a photograph of her more recent than on her tenth birthday, so nobody thus far has linked together the mystery woman with Sam Glass and Amelie Bishop.

(It won't be long before someone does, Amelie knows, so she's got to come up with a contingency plan, yet how to tell Sam this, she doesn't know.)

She's falling in love with him, and even if she wanted to, she can't stop. It's the sort of love she's read about in books since she was a small child, the gripping kind, the one that everyone endeavours to find. It's not just because he's helped her; he's charming and passionate about most things she is, too, and their arguments when their opinions differ are some of the most illuminating she's ever experienced. He's handsome, both on the inside and the outside, and he sparks something inside of her that was previously dormant. She can already imagine being married to him, and that scares her slightly, because if her life can change so dramatically on a ship, who knows what it could be like in New York, with its hustle and bustle and situations she's never been in before?

"Come this way," he says, taking her hand automatically as they walk swiftly out of the suite. Dusk is approaching rapidly, turning the sky a strange colour and distinguishing the horizon from the sea, and the low height of the sun causes Amelie to shield her eyes when they get out on deck. "Don't you think it's beautiful?" Sam murmurs to Amelie, his hand on her waist as they lean over the edge; it's exhilarating and dangerous—if they slip, they're lost to the depths of the icy ocean forever—and the emotions it stirs up has Amelie struggling to keep her composure.

"Je t'aime," she whispers in her mother tongue, her mouth by his ear as she leans back into him; the feeling of his body against hers startles her slightly, but it's a pleasant sort of shock: she didn't think that it would feel like this to be in love.

(Of course, she may not be in love and this could be a phantom romance that's spanned from the tenth of April until the thirteenth thus far, and she could actually be going insane.)

Amelie knows he doesn't know what she's said, but she hopes that he can infer its meaning from the way she's holding onto him—and he does. "I love you, Amelie, and I don't know if that's what you said, or even if it's too soon to be saying this, but I do. Already, my life is bound by you, its goals changed because of you." He's whispering into her ear now, until she turns around, her back to the railings so that she can press her lips to his.

Thankfully, they're on the upper deck, the one rarely visited by anyone of any importance, so their reputations aren't at stake with such a public display of affection between two unmarried persons.

Amelie doesn't think that she can recall a better moment in her life, even aboard RMS Titanic, and as they break apart, she murmurs soft words in French, unable to process her thoughts into English. "What are you saying?" Sam asks her as he puts his arm around her, their bodies moving slowly along the deck, towards the stern of the boat.

"Nothing, really," she tells him, deciding not to tell him that she's telling herself that she's lucky, that his beauty is refined and incomparable and that she would rather be nothing and be with him than become someone rich and famous. Love is already worth more to her than riches and everything she's previously held valuable, even a love that could be fleeting—but she doubts that very much. It feels eternal, and when something feels eternal, Amelie's certain that it will, indeed, be this way.

"Truly?" he levels her off with a stare that has Amelie bursting out in laughter, shaking her head. "I don't believe you, Amelie."

"Fine," she sighs, rolling her eyes as she talks. "I was muttering that I think you look better in black because it makes your hair stand out more," she lies, her cheeks colouring as she lies; she's never been a good liar, and that's something she's simultaneously considered helpful and irritating, but more irritating at the minute.

Before he can respond, Amelie's gaze focuses on someone standing at the stern of the boat, someone who she's been running from, someone who, with a tip of his hat in her direction, knows where she has.

She's been found.

"Sam!" she cries, her voice broken, "he's over there!" With one hand, she points towards their intended location, the grey-haired man with the evil smile right in the spot they were headed for.

"Come on," he says, pulling her sharply in the direction they've just walked before ducking into one of the smaller, less prominent doors along the wall. "We can't go back to my suite yet, not now he's recognised me with you. I know where there's a utility cupboard where we can hide until it's safe to go back to the library. Is that ok?"

Amelie nods, breathless with fear about the fact he's here! He's here and he's found her, and the sound of footsteps on the deck outside suggests that he's after her—he is, or one of the many henchmen he has, she reminds herself. She's no longer fearless; her safe haven has been destroyed with one glimpse of the wrong man, and she could lose everything, because is her father going to let her go without a fight? No, he isn't, and she knows it'll be a fight to the death—someone will die if she allows them to meet, and that's something she refuses to accept.

And so they run. Sam takes the lead, pulling Amelie alongside him as they burst through doors after doors, seeking refuge and a place to allow her fears to disappear; it doesn't have to be elegant, it merely has to be somewhere she's safe with Sam.

Their random turns must throw off anyone who's following them, particularly when they go through an area which must contain one hundred and fifty people, and it's with their last reserves of energy that they slam the door of the cupboard shut, locking it behind them.

Looking round, Amelie realises that it's not as bad as she had thought; it's small, naturally given what its use is, but there are chairs and it's cosy enough to spend a few hours.

As she does this, Sam lights the oil lamp, increasing the dull light streaming in from the porthole on the wall above their heads, and the glow illuminates planes of his face that normally, Amelie would overlook. He sets the lamp down on one of the piles of cleaning equipment, securing it with various pieces of cloth when the boat's lurching almost upsets it.

"You know I've never been like this before," she comments as Sam pulls her into his arms without a moment's hesitation, burying his face in her hair. "I used to be proper and a lady, but you're turning me into something passionate, someone completely different. And I'm not sure if I know who I am, or anything other than you…and that scares me, Sam."

He laughs slightly into her hair, and Amelie can't help but be confused as to why he's doing this. "It's the same for me; I never fell in love before, not properly, and I've known work for so many years…I've never let my emotions guide me—or at least not like this. You're something special, Amelie, and I don't want to let you go; I don't think I can, even if I want to.

"Your father is something we can overcome, most definitely, and we can do it together, if you want to stay with me. I know I love you already, something which doesn't seem possible given how short a timeframe we've known one another, but I do. And I don't think I could go back to a world which doesn't have you in it, Amelie." His voice is quiet as he finishes, and Amelie can barely hear him.

She lifts her head up and their lips meet, hands on each other's skin, and they forget their worries about Bishop and the future in these hours of hiding, because it's their solace from the dangers which could overcome them. This little cupboard, with its aroma of bleach and the view of the crashing waves…it's the place that can keep them safe.

For tonight, at least.

~x~

Sam doesn't know whether or not they'll be safe in his suite; he can lock the door, and double lock it, and even lock them in his library, but if there are Bishop's cronies around, it could end nastily. Nobody would come to his aid, he thinks bitterly—but they're going now, so they'd better be safe.

It's three o'clock in the morning, and the ship is silent, save for the whirring of the engines; they're so far down that they're merely a floor or two above the coal-powered engines, and it's louder than the first class travellers ever considered it could be.

He holds Amelie close to him as they walk through the silent corridors, all the while looking over his shoulder for anyone suspiciously out of place, yet there's nobody. He can feel Amelie leaning into him, tired beyond belief because of the lateness of the hour, and he sweeps her into his arms with ease, her slight weight causing no issue for him as he moves through the ship—it's actually easier, carrying her rather than having to pull her alongside him.

"Sam?" she whispers, her voice barely more than a mumble. "Je t'aime."

She taught him that earlier; it means I love you, apparently, and so it's with a smile that he replies, "Je t'aime, aussi, Amelie," because that means I love you, too, according to the blonde in his arms.

They move up through the levels slowly, winding their way through the sleeping cabins and up increasingly grand staircases, until they reach their suite. And amazingly, there's nobody there to attack; Bishop's men either don't know where he lives, or they don't dare risk attacking him on board the ship.

They'll wait until I'm next on deck and throw me overboard into the icy waters of the Arctic, he thinks to himself grimly, hoisting Amelie further into his arms as he walks through his living area and into the library. It's their room now, and as he sets her down on the sofa in there, he notices that she's fallen asleep; she's even more beautiful when she sleeps, he thinks, because there's none of the pain that haunts her features when she's awake, nothing but her pure and complete beauty.

Slipping out of the room for a second, Sam picks up blankets and pillows from the bedrooms, finds the decanter of whiskey and the plates of food and locks the door to the library, aiming to have a complete day locked away from the world in their other secret hiding place.

(It's not so secret, but it's the room where he realised he loves her, so it's the room where they can hide for a day.)

.

They sleep through most of the morning, and by the time Amelie wakes up, it's after two in the afternoon.

"Good afternoon, dear," Sam says with a smile, lifting his hand to trace the outline of her face, just like she did to him yesterday.

"Have you been watching me sleep?" she asks curiously, and Sam has to laugh before responding.

"Yes, you're even more perfect when you're asleep," he tells her honestly, his hand moving from her face to her neck, and then down her arm to hold her left hand close to him. "I love you," he murmurs, moving closer to press his lips to her cheek, before she abruptly moves, causing their lips to smash together.

His hands wrap in her hair, and his eyes open briefly for a moment to see the grandfather clock informing him that it's already two forty five pm, on the fourteenth of April; they're only almost a third of the way through their voyage to New York, and he's already found the girl of his dreams…

Sam's stunned when her hands move to the front of his shirt and begin to undo them slowly, one by one, until the front of his shirt is hanging open, revealing his chest underneath. "Amelie, I…" he begins, until she presses one finger to his lips to silence him. As she does, he notices that for the first time, her hair is down, framing her face, and it makes her look even more youthful, more innocent, and even more desirable.

(He should stop thinking like this; it's not right, not so soon, not with her.)

"I want to," she tells him, pulling him closer to her, and he can't resist her; he can't resist what she wants.

Sam knows that he'll always give Amelie whatever she wants, whenever she wants; this is just another reminder of this fact.

~x~

She wraps herself in as close as she can to his body as the clock chimes eleven thirty at night, their bodies swathed in the blankets Sam brought through last night, their backs lying on the floor.

Besides for the constant knocking on the door for an hour from Sam's mother, informing them they had to come out, she wanted to speak to Sam and they had a visitor called Mr Bishop—Mrs Glass knew that Amelie was in there, of course, but doing what she could only presume—they've been alone, free to their own devices, and it's been the most perfect time that Amelie thinks she's ever had.

"I love you," she whispers to Sam for the fifteen hundredth time, it seems, but for one of the first times in English. Her French side comes out again with Sam, something that amuses them both since he has no idea what she's saying, and his only comment is that 'she sounds pretty'.

"I love you, too," he tells her, his hand running through her locks gently, removing one of the knots that's been created since their time began. "But let me take you to a bed now, so that you don't hurt your back. I don't want you to be hurt, Amelie, never."

She agrees, albeit needing persuasion to do so, and so they hastily dress, for fear that his mother may be outside waiting for them, before Sam unlocks the door—

—and they're faced with Mr Bishop.

"F…father," Amelie stutters, Sam's arm automatically wrapping around her protectively. Out of the window, her eye notices a white piece of ice, an iceberg, but she doesn't think it's an issue; they've seen dozens of them over the course of the past twenty four hours. "Why…what…wh…"

"I'm here to take you back to France—or at least whenever we arrive in New York," he tells her harshly, a sneer in his expression as he looks at her with Sam. "I won't get half as much as I would have done for you before, though, ma fille, given that you've lost the only thing that's pure about you," he continues, and Amelie feels the embarrassment sliding onto her face; he knows.

He knows what she's been doing, and that's possibly the most humiliating thing about this—besides for maybe the fact that he's only interested in her to sell onto a family to further his own interests.

Sam, however, surprises her—though if she'd been paying attention, perhaps she wouldn't have been so shocked. "You should get out of my suite, now," he snaps at her father, ignoring the laughter from the older man. "She's with me, and she doesn't want your family connection. We're together. Get. Out."

Before anyone can say anything, or even move, there's a crash…and Amelie knows it's bad. There's a shuddering throughout the entire boat, sending items crashing to the floor, and before it stops, her father has moved.

He grabs Sam from her and throws him to the floor in such a way that Sam doesn't move; he's unconscious, and Amelie finds herself screaming louder than she's ever screamed before.

(He could have killed her future husband. She had no plans to go with him, but she has to stay further away from him now than ever before.)

"Get away from me," she hisses, reaching back for a candlestick as a weapon; it's heavy brass, but it scares Bishop enough to cause him to take a step back. "I want you out of here—now!"

Her father merely laughs, but inclines his head, looking as though he's going to give her the request she's made. "Very well, Amelie, but I expect I shall see you shortly, on the lifeboats," he tells her, and she's momentarily confused. "Oh, you are stupid, are you not? That iceberg hit us; we're going to go down, I am certain." He flashes her a smile, one tainted with the sadistic glee only her father could get from the situation. "And you had better get to the boats quickly, or you'll be trapped on this boat to die."

And with that, her father leaves the suite.

Her heart beating faster than ever before, Amelie checks the clock: eleven forty four pm. She doesn't believe her father that the boat will go down—it's unsinkable, after all—so she sets her focus on awakening the man she loves. As she does, her face manages to move into a smile of sorts; her father left her alone! He did what she wanted…

…Amelie just can't accept that it may be because he's right…and that the RMS Titanic may be no more by morning dawn.


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I'll be writing the next section to this soon.