AUTHOR'S NOTES: So i've been saying I was going to write a whouffaldi titanic au for a while now and here it is.
Assuming this isn't total crap and people want more, I plan on making it a long fic.
Sorry for the lack of dialogue in this first chapter- will pick up in the following chapters after i've set up the characters.
Anyway, I hope this is ok!
The Wednesday afternoon of April 10th 1912 on the docks of Southamptom is unusually busy. So busy in fact, that the picturesque beauty of the surrounding landscape goes unnoticed by all.
The sun hangs lazily at its highest point in the sky, its harsh rays reflecting off the calm sea surface, causing wonderful flashes of light, temporarily blinding those who catch a sea breeze is soft, and carries the unique scent of freshness, that only the English sea side can lay claim to, tinged with the faintest trace of sea salt. Overhead, seagulls croon there somewhat harsh melodies a one another, flocking together, flying off in the direction of the horizon. The epitome of a seaside cliché, but still beautiful nonetheless.
The sight is wasted on the thousands of bodies crammed together on the docks. All eyes are keenly focused on a ship so grand that newspapers up and down the county (other countries even), have poured over its every minute detail from, its exact shade of black paint to the splendour of the first class facilities.
But nothing has captured the attention of the people more so than its size. Crowds stand in awe of the behemoth of a ship, unable to comprehend how something so large floats on the water as if it weighed no more than a duck. It casts a shade so large that all those who stand near are engulfed by its darkness, offering a welcome relief from the glare of the sun.
From one end of the dock to the other, people smile and wave at passengers already aboard. Excited chatter fills the air, emitting a constant buzz, discussions of the ship's size, speed, beauty, mechanics and every topic in between can be overheard if one is interested enough to stop and listen.
It is April 10th, 1912 and the people of England have come out in droves to witness the launching of the RMS Titanic.
All but one appear to be entranced by the grandeur of the ship. From the backseat of her parents Rolls Royce, Clara Oswald looks upon the ship, not with anticipation but with unease, her eyes wide with apprehension. She cannot bring herself to match the smiles of the crowds around her- why should she when this ship is to become her own personal hell for the foreseeable future? Months of travel, trapped on a boat in the company of the upper echelons of society, those of whom she had no desire to be associated with let alone be in close proximity to.
She held nothing but contempt for the ship. She hated its obstinate size, she hated the sulphur tinged smoke billowing from its chimneys, she loathed her peers aboard it, but above everything else, she despised what the ship represented.
Looking up at the ship, her large brown eyes glazed over, all Clara sees is her prison, masquerading as the lap of luxury. The Titanic is to be where she signs over her freedom, to marry a well to do suitor and leave the family home indefinitely. She couldn't recall his name, it was unimportant to her anyway. To her, he would be nothing more than the man to clip her wings and keep her locked away in a gilded cage.
The car finally comes to a halt in less clustered area of the dock, though Clara cannot bring herself to move from her seat, her gaze now fixed on the floor and the walls of the car, anywhere but the ship, her expression stony and bitter.
Her step-mother had begged her the entire journey to put on the outward appearance of excitement for their upcoming journey to America, if not for her then she certainly must to uphold the respectability of her family- "I will not have my daughter sullen in the presence of the finest families in all of England". But now, she had given up with her pleading, seeing the little effect it had on her, and had moved on ordering- Clara Oswald was to maintain an elegant smile from the moment her feet touched the docks, right up until the moment she went to sleep in the privacy of her own room, lest she wished to find herself in the uncomfortable lodgings of third class.
The relationship between Clara and her step-mother had always been a rocky one.
Her real mother had died when she was young. Like a lot of people during that time she had not been able to survive the effects of tuberculosis. The last images of her mother still gave her nightmares and countless restless nights. She could still here the hacking cough, could picture the deep crimson blood that resulted from it, could feel every sharp inhale and ragged exhale of breath across her face. She had looked so frail, lying in her bed, tightly swaddled in her blankets. She had complained of constantly being cold despite the roaring fire permanently lit in the grate. Clara cold feel the evidence of this herself, as her 12 year old self sat by her mothers bedside, clasping her freezing hand, squeezing them every now and then as if she could squeeze some life back into her. But her mother never squeezed back.
Clara didn't cry for weeks. She barely left the house. Her nights were spent sleeping in her mothers old room. Her days spent locked away in her fathers library, seeking what small comfort and escape she could in books.
She doesn't recall seeing her father much the months following her mothers passing. She often heard him during the small hours of the morning, crying softly, the sound muffled, presumably by the pillow he would cling to. On the rare occasions she did see him, she barely even recognised him. His eyes were constantly blood shot from the harsh salty tears and lack of sleep. His normally clean shaven face was now covered in unkempt stubble and his once soft brown hair showed evidence of premature greying from stress and thinning from the fitful grabbing and yanking at his hair in frustration.
A month after the death, Clara noticed the disappearance of some things around the house- nothing large and noticeable at first, some china here and there, a collection of her fathers finest whiskey. It wasn't until she noticed that her mothers blue diamond necklace had gone missing did she begin to worry.
She remembers finding her father hunched over the kitchen table, his forehead pressed against the cool marble. There was no sign of movement, except for the small rise and fall of his back as he breathed. After a while the movement became more pronounced and jagged, and she had realised he was crying. She'd never seen him cry before and for a moment was too shocked to move from her position in the doorway. When he began choking on his breath, she shot forward, wrapping her small arms around her fathers neck, resting her head on his shoulders.
She cant remember how long they had stayed like that, her standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying to console her grieving father the best way a young child could- trying to stave off the darkness enshrouding them with the warmth of her hug. She had never felt more useless than she did at this point, confronted with the inability to fix him.
"I'm so sorry", his voice a whisper, eyes blank and avoiding her own.
She looks at him in puzzlement, not able to work out what he's apologising for. She doesn't have time to ask before he speaks again.
"I sold your mothers jewellery. Her beautiful treasures. I sold them all. I'm sorry, I'm sorry", the words tumble from his mouth, so desperate to get his confession out that he seems incoherent.
He replaces his head on the table, his sobs louder than before and his shaking even more uncontrollable. Clara only tightens her hold on him, waiting for his tears to subside. So unsure of what to do, she just stands with him.
Its dark outside by the time Clara finally learns the truth. They sit at opposite ends of the kitchen table, the hot chocolate she had made them being used solely for warmth rather than actual nutrition as neither of them feel they could stomach its sweetness when they feel so bitter.
He explains to her how he had spent their entire fortune on doctors bill and treatments for her mother, how he couldn't afford the upkeep of the house so had resorted to selling a few of their possessions. How he'd had to sell her mother's jewellery in order to keep food on the table and how it seemed likely they would have to sell the house unless he could find another source of income.
It was this that finally broke Clara, now unable to hold back the tears she had so long fought to control. She cried for her lost mother, taken from her at an age she needed her most. She hunched over the table, the mirror image of her father earlier, trembling at the thought of all the future experiences they would not get to share and memories they wouldn't make. She cried for her father, the broken man and his inconsolable grief. And she cried for their uncertain future. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving her home behind, she couldn't lose this last connection to her mother.
And so, a few months later, she watched her father marry another woman. It was a rushed affair- she'd only met her a few times but those few encounters were enough to ignite a mutual dislike. Clara could tell this woman did not truly care for her father, rather his name and prestige that came with it. Likewise, she knew the only reason he married her was to garner financial stability, to be able to continue to provide for his little girl.
For the first few weeks following the move in of her step-mother, Clara hated her father. She hated him for allowing this other woman into their home, for replacing her mother so quickly. What was once a warm home, occupied by a loving an affectionate family was replaced by a frosty house, shared by a collection of people who could well be strangers to each other.
It would stay that way for years to come- between Clara and her step mother at least. Clara found she couldn't stay angry at her dad. She knew he was just doing what was necessary to give Clara the best start in life. After months of moping, she finally forgave him. No words were said between them. Instead, she just hugged him and they continued their lives as if they had never fallen out. She continued to avoid her step mother wherever possible, but at least she now had her father back.
The family dynamic stayed this way for the next 18 years. Clara versus the step-mother with her father stuck in between. The day their tug of war stasis was broken came on Clara's 28th birthday, with the announcement that she would be forced out of the family home, to marry a man her step mother had picked out. Apparently her spinster status was bringing shame to the family- arrangements were made and tickets were brought for a ship to take her and her future husband to America, to start her new life.
-
And that is how Clara came to be on the docks of Southampton, preparing to meet this unknown man who she was to give her life up for.
As her mother and father step out of the car, Clara takes a moment and sinks back into the comfortable leather seats, praying to every known deity for them to swallow her whole, but Geoffrey, the driver, is opening her door and helping her out of the car before she can even finish her prayer.
Away from the confines of the oppressive car and her suffocating mother, she can finally breathe again. With her face turned upward, basking in the warmth of the sun, she takes in a large lungful of air and for the first time that day she, she smiles. A genuine smile, dimples and all.
She registers her mother tutting behind her and vaguely recognises the words "unladylike " and "shameful" but she can't find an ounce of care to give. This could be her last moments of freedom and she plans to seize every second of it.
She glances over her shoulders, spying her step-mother, who is now adjusting her father's tie, and straightening the lapels of his suit jacket, scolding him for his slovenly appearance.
He catches Clara's eye, and rolls his own, mocking her step-mother's fussing. Clara is thankful to have such a father. He was her step-mother's complete opposite in every sense, their polarity becoming more pronounced everyday. While she was overbearing and cold, he was warm and supportive. Her father gave off the air of a free spirit, not one to be chained down, while her mother very much seem to fit the old adage of "ball and chain". She didn't think she could settle down and marry the way her father had seemed to.
It was clear then, that she had inherited her father's lust for life, to her step-mother's great displeasure. Throughout Clara's childhood, her desperate attempts to quash this unattractive quality had been for nought, and here Clara stood today, 28 years of age, standing 5 foot 1 (admittedly not much taller than she was during her formative years) but still very much, if not more so an untameable force of nature, constantly looking for the next big adventure.
"I'm going for a walk before we board" she blurts over her shoulder, and hastens away before she can be stopped.
"Don't talk to anyone unseemly! And be sure to return here before 12, we don't want to be caught among the rabble during boarding. I shan't be disgraced before we've even set sail".
She can hear her mother's frantic voice getting quieter with every step she takes. For a moment, she was sure she was going to tell her to keep safe. Of course not, she thought. Family name before everything all else. Business as usual.
She navigates her way through the throngs of people and heads towards the water, in the hope of finding a quiet spot on the edge of the pier.
To the outside observer, Clara cannot help but go unnoticed. Her full length purple dress kisses the ground as she moves through bodies clad in cheaper browns and beiges. Her silky brown hair pinned to her head in a stylish yet sophisticated bun, the look completed with a small black lacy fascinator. In contrast to those around whose hair looks matted and knotted, having just had their pre-boarding inspection for lice. Her skin is smooth and sun kissed where others are appear grimy, from a hard days labour.
She doesn't realise how out of place she looks, actually feels more comfortable here than she did in the presence of her parents and so called peers. It's here, away from scrutinising eyes, she can finally drop the "refined" act. She breaks out into a run, loses the tight lipped smile in favour of a grin, and charges towards an empty spot she has noticed by the water's edge. Her hair comes loose from the exertion, now flowing behind her, matching the waves of the water she runs alongside. Her hat long forgotten in the dust.
She drops down onto the boards, kicks off her uncomfortably tight black heels and swings her legs over the edge, her short legs barely managing to reach the water, though with some effort she's finally able to dip her toes into its cool relief.
Sighing in relief, she allows herself to close her eyes and contemplate her imminent closeted future. She recalls her mother telling her she is to be married to a soldier, a general she thinks, though his name still escapes her. Robert? Rupert, maybe?
The thought of being married to a military man irks her- is there any other profession on earth where control of your inferiors is crucial? She already cringes at the thought of this soldier trying to control her. Snorting to herself, already planning to make his attempts as difficult as possible. If she must be married, she'll not give up control of her life without a fight.
She stares out across the water, towards the horizon, not really looking at anything in particular, just the vast open space that she is soon to lose to claustrophobic cabins (as claustrophobic as first class cabins can be anyway). She knows she needs to come up with a plan, come up with something to do to keep her sane for the months-long journey ahead.
Perhaps she could tutor the children on board? She'd brought a large collection of books with her, she thought she might be able to teach the youngest to read and write, and could even use her vast knowledge of English literature to teach the elder more advanced skills of analysing and evaluating texts.
She yearns for someone to debate and discuss the classics with, her step-mother never indulging her in such academic pursuits, claiming that knowledge in a woman to be an unattractive quality- "men have no need for a woman that can think".
Maybe now she'll finally get that chance, a whole class of people to share in her enthusiasm, hopeful to find some positives in this situation.
She doubted her mother would approve of such a plan, but she'd gone 18 years without once seeking her approval and she had no intention of starting now. She'd just have to find a way to keep the secret. Perhaps there'd be a vacant room on the second class deck. She felt sure her mother would never venture into such a dangerous place.
Lowering herself to lie back across the dock, she closes her eyes and considers what books she'd include in her "curriculum." Pride and Prejudice would certainly get top billing and she definitely would cover Sense and Sensibility. She had a thing for the dashing heroes of such stories- the silently longing nature of Colnolel Brandon and the confident, prideful and slightly cold attitude of Mr Darcy, an odd yet attractive combination.
Lost in her haze of Austen adoration, she concludes to go all out and cover her entire works. If anyone deserved Clara's unswerving admiration it was Jane Austen.
Her comfortable position and the warmth of the sun begin to make Clara drowsy. It's not long before pictures of herself and Jane Austen form behind her eyes. In her dreams, she can finally indulge her "best friends" fantasy- they take tea together, watch plays, discuss Jane's latest ideas for a novel. Clara even glimmers a few details of the inspiration for Colonel Brandon- "an older man, one of my dearest friends, luxurious hair, wonderfully expressive eyebrows and a penchant for splendid black clothes".
The sound of ringing bells startles her from her dream. Looking around she notices the majority of the crowd have now boarded the ship and those that are left are waving goodbye to their loved ones on board.
Oh God. I'm late. She scrabbles to her feet, not taking the time to put her shoes back on, as she hears the crew making the final call for boarding somewhere in the distance.
For the second time in a day she is running- it's beginning to feel like she's constantly running away from or to something. Her feet are sore from the pounding on the rough woodwork and she's sure she's got more than a few cuts from the loose splinters but she doesn't have time to stop and worry about it as she races towards the ship.
Her eyes are focused on the ground, hoping to avoid ruining her already damaged feet. She knows she is close now, the voices of the crewmen becoming clearer with every stride.
She vaguely registers a flurry of colours fly past her in her peripheral vision, yet she doesn't see the man directly in front of her, at least not until it's too late- she sees the shocked look on his face- wide eyed and owl like- at the sight of a young woman hurtling towards him a break neck speed.
She's moving so fast that there's not enough time to put on the breaks, and he so stunned, can't bring himself to move, trapped like a deer in the headlights. Both resign themselves to the imminent collision.
She braces herself for a pain that doesn't come. Sure, she feels herself collide with his hard body, and she feels herself fall forward through the air as they begin the long descent to the ground, but it doesn't hurt. She feels his arms wrap around her, slowing her momentum, and she feels him pull her down, undoubtedly taking most of the pain from the fall by landing on his back.
She lies there for a moment, too embarrassed to move- she wants to bury her face into the darkness of his black jacket and hope that no one witnessed her spectacular fall. But then she remembers she's lying on top of a complete stranger, who's hastily withdrawing his hands from her and has gone rigid beneath her- she worries that the fall might have paralysed him.
With some effort, she pulls herself to her feet, looking anywhere but her "victim's" eyes. She offers him her hand, thinking he might need some help after such a hard fall, though he refuses to take it.
Eventually, he too picks himself off the ground. Still, she can't bring herself to look him in the eyes. Instead she notices him wiping off dust from the lapel of his jacket with long elegant fingers. She takes in every other detail of him.
Freshly shined black boots, to go along with a standard pair of long black trousers. Her eyes travelled upwards to find a black overcoat (the top few buttons done up, leaving the bottom half to flair outwards) which seemed to go over a black waistcoat and crisp white shirt, topped off with a loose grey tie. She was keenly aware of the fact the fact that she'd now been staring at his tie going on for 5 minutes. She hears him cough, and is even more embarrassed now for her staring and ongoing silence.
Taking a cleansing breath, she raises her eyes to finally meet his own. And there they are again- those owl like eyes looking down at her, a mix of shock and worry. The silence between them drags on, he scowls at her now, from her stares and her lack of a forthcoming apology.
They stand there, attempting to stare the other down. An apology begins to form on Clara's lips. But when she opens her mouth to get the words out, its not profuse apologies that spill out.
Its laughter. She laughs so hard she doubles over and clutches her stomach in an effort to control herself.
She doesn't see the strangers attack eyebrows turn off, nor the full face smile he seems unable to control.
NOTES:
Yeah it's my first fic, you can probably tell.
Apologising again for how total shit it is.
Oh and because my beta asked me the other day: the description of Colnolel Brandon is based off Alan Rickman in the film bc the first hot dad I came across.
And twelves outfit is the Victorian outfit from deep breath because thats hot af.
Thanks to am-i-a-beast-or-beauty and smilingsymptoms for beta-ing - i added some more stuff since they had a look over i, so mistakes halfway through are all mine!