Welp, this is happening. If there are two things that I love in the world of entertainment, they're Bechloe and Titanic. That lands me here, with a mixture of the two.

I am aware that I have another fic which is currently in progress, but what can i say? A Bechloe Titanic AU was too much to idly think about. I haven't abandoned my other story in the least, it's just that this thing has not been able to leave my mind since it sprung up there.

Thank you to BlackLightning1212, who has indulged and validated my Titanic Bechloe feels.

R&R, y'all.

"Alright, fellas. I'm all in, I guess." Beca reached into the pocket of her trousers and grabbed the admittedly meager wad of bills and the handful of coins that were left there, and placed them on the small pile in the middle of the table. She inwardly cursed Jesse for demanding that they actually buy railway tickets from London to Southampton instead of hopping in one of the boxcars when the crew wasn't looking.

Her best friend, already having emptied his pockets onto the table, sat to her right. Sweat was beading on his brow, and he gaped at her in alarm. 'The boy needs to work on his poker face,' she thought to herself.

A smirk was attempting to make its way onto her face, but she held it back in favor of an expression of unease. She could see the smug faces of her opponents across the table, but she knew that with the cards in her hand, those tickets lying amongst the pile of bills, coins, and other small affects were as good as theirs.

Beca was certainly not a god-fearing woman, but with the stroke of luck she was having right now, it seemed like someone or something meant for her to be on this ship.

The betting came to an end, and the time came for the table to reveal their hands.

Jesse let out a puff of air as he tossed his cards on the table in defeat, giving Beca a sharp look. "Nothin'," he grumbled.

"Damn," she murmured. She still knew she had the winning hand, but hell, it was just fun to play with him.

The other two at table, whom Beca wasn't sure spoke even a lick of English, set their hands down, the best of which was a two-pair.

She slowly set down her cards, revealing three kings and two jacks. Slamming both fists onto the table, loudly enough to cause other patrons in the pub to flinch and shoot her dirty looks, Beca let out a 'woop' of excitement and rose from her seat. "Full House, boys!" She gave a disbelieving Jesse a playful punch on the shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "We're going home, pal!"

They both turned to face the men they'd been playing with, and found them each with a face red enough that Beca thought she might see steam coming out of their ears soon. She was not surprised to see one of them rearing a fist back in his anger, and she squeezed her eyes tight in anticipation of the blow which never actually landed.

Hearing a crash, her eyes shot open to witness the other foreigner sprawled on the floor under the poker table, next to his chair which was now on its back on the ground. 'Serves you right for betting your damn tickets,' she figured.

Beca turned to find Jesse doubled over in laughter. "Let's split before this gets ugly," she suggested quietly.

"You mean uglier," he responded, seeing the split eyebrow, and the black eye that was already forming on their competitor's face.

While Jesse scooped up their winnings from the top of the table, ignoring the bickering Germans or Danes, or whatever, Beca made her way to the barkeep. She asked him what time it was, as she knew that her ride home was due to sail at noon.

Taking a break from wiping down the pint glass he was holding, he took a look at his pocket watch. "It's 11:50, miss," he said, returning to his pint glass.

"Shit," she exclaimed as she rushed back to the table where Jesse was gathering his belongings. "Jesse, we gotta go. We only have ten minutes left!"

She grabbed her rucksack that contained the few pieces of clothing that she owned, as well as the case that held her most prized possession. She would have, and did in fact, bet every cent that she had on that hand of poker, but nothing could drive her to let go of the trumpet that her late mother had given her when she was younger. It was the last thing she owned that reminded her of Sarah Mitchell, and had become a source of both comfort and passion.

The two friends raced along the dock, shoving people aside as they encountered them. Along their way, Beca had to grab Jesse by the back of his wool coat to keep him out of the way of an approaching car. Resuming their race to the gangplank, Jesse essentially vaulted over a small child who was holding its mother's hand. "Do you see the size of this thing, Becs?! I think they're right when they say it's unsinkable," Jesse yelled at her over his shoulder.

'Damn these short legs,' she internally complained. Trying her best to keep up with Jesse, she couldn't take the time to truly appreciate the magnitude of the already legendary RMS Titanic. Its massive iron form towered over them and blocked most of the light from the late morning sun, casting a shadow that stretched halfway across the port.

The stroke of luck that they'd experienced in the pub had apparently not run out. They managed to snake their way past the end of the line of other third class passengers waiting in line to be inspected before they could board the ship, just in time to push their way onto the gangplank. Not they needed the health inspection anyway. She and Jesse may have been poor, but they made sure to keep their hygiene satisfactory, at a minimum. They certainly didn't have lice, or whatever it was the inspectors were screening for.

Jesse, bouncing with excitement, shoved their tickets in the face of White Star Line crewman standing in the doorway that led into the ship. The crewman looked at them suspiciously, and in a move that was very uncharacteristic for her, Beca put on her best puppy-dog eyes and a pout on her lips. It seemed to have won him over, as he wordlessly shoved them through the door and onto the ship that was to take them home to the United States in a few days' time.

Once they were out of earshot of the crewman, Beca turned to Jesse with a wide grin, to find him wearing a grin of his own. "Alright, pal. Let's check this shit out!"

He handed Beca her ticket, and they made their way along the narrow corridors in search of their cabin. Their journey took some time, seeing as their cabin in steerage was on F Deck, two decks below the one on which they had entered the ship. At last, they found their assigned cabin and upon entering, discovered the room's other occupants had already settled in. The two men looked at Beca and Jesse quizzically; Beca assumed they'd been expecting those two suckers who thought it was smart to bet their tickets in a hand of poker.

Jesse tried to be friendly and extended a hand to each of them, which they took hesitantly, but Beca paid them no mind. Instead, she looked around at their accommodations. She had to say she was impressed. Third class though it was, everything seemed clean, even the mattresses that sat atop each bunk bed. Then again, this was the ship's maiden voyage so what should she have expected? It really didn't matter to Beca or Jesse. The cabin was small for four people, but even this beat some of the places that the duo had ended up resting their heads for the night. She shivered as she remembered the bridge that they'd wound up sleeping under during their travels in Paris, not too long ago.

She moved her bag and trumpet case to the side of the bunk bed, and climbed to the top bunk. Jesse turned from the conversation that he attempted to have with their cabin-mates, which really didn't get very far, as it appeared that they spoke even less English than their poker-playing counterparts. He turned around confusedly, looking for his friend. Sure, Beca was small, but even she couldn't get lost in a cabin that was essentially the size of a closet.

He finally spotted her laying on her back on the top bunk, smirking at him. "Hey! What if I wanted the top?!" he exclaimed, shoving her lightly.

"Too late, pal," she responded, her smirk growing even bigger. Jesse merely let out a huff and collapsed onto the lower bunk.

The two friends laid on their respective beds for some time, each reflecting on the events that had led them here, their fortune at finding their way onto the most luxurious ship ever built, and what would their future would hold once the ship docked in New York.

As White Star Line crew members hauled the possessions that she, her fiancé, and her parents had brought along on their voyage, Chloe took some time to examine the stateroom that would be her residence for the next few days. Objectively, she could appreciate the beauty in the luxurious appointments of the first class accommodations. Subjectively, the room was stifling. The fireplace that she couldn't imagine anyone would ever use. The furniture which she would only be able to sit on daintily. What was the point in such beautiful affects if she couldn't use them properly? Instead of laying on the couch beside a warm fire, she would have to sit on the edge of the seat with her back straight and ankles crossed.

"Can you see, now, how Titanic is even more grand than the Lusitania, dear?" Luke asked from the doorway he was leaning on, a smirk playing at his lips as if he knew without a doubt that he was right.

In her mind, Chloe wanted to say no. She honestly couldn't see the difference. Another beautiful stateroom, another set of crewmembers tripping over themselves to attend to her needs. Always the same thing. How many extravagant staterooms can a person stay in before they all blur together into a singular, generic room? She'd never understood the phrase, "there can be too much of a good thing" more than she did in this moment.

As she opened to her mouth to say so, her parents appeared behind Luke's shoulder, smiling at her. One look at her parents reminded her of the answer she was supposed to give. The appropriate response if your fiancé asks such a question.

"Yes."

The other three people entered the room after touring the private Promenade Deck that was attached to their room.

"I told you she'd come around as soon as she came inside, Victor," Luke said to Chloe's father. Her father strode towards her and placed a hand on her shoulder, "She always does. That's my Chloe."

Chloe loved her parents, Victor and Evelyn Beale. They loved her, too, of that she was sure. Though she wasn't so sure that they loved her as much as they loved their station in life. The Beale name was well known and well respected. It had been that way for generations. Until her grandfather, their family had been extremely wealthy. Somehow, (Chloe wasn't sure she wanted to know how), her grandfather's disastrous business ventures had been kept out of the mainstream press.

That was how Chloe found herself in the predicament she was currently facing. Luke Davenport, a son of another legendary (and still wealthy) family, desired Chloe's hand in marriage. Though he knew, through private channels, that the Beale fortune had all but disappeared, he still wished for the outward beauty of the Beale "heiress" and the influence that accompanied the Beale name.

As Luke and Victor retreated into the adjoining room for another glass of brandy, Evelyn approached Chloe to inform her that it was time for tea on the Promenade.

Instinctively, Chloe cordially answered, "Yes, that sounds nice mother." She cringed internally as the words slipped off her tongue. She felt like a dog, trained to answer at the sound of a bell. 'Pavlov seems to be on to something', she thought.

Out on the Promenade, Trudy, their assigned servant for this voyage, had made her way to their table at least twice, bringing a kettle of tea and various finger foods. Chloe couldn't confidently say what flavor the tea was, or the type of sandwiches placed in front of her. She was bemused to think of the way that, just like her stateroom, the endless pots of tea and stupid tiny snacks blurred together to form a tasteless tea and a flavorless sandwich.

Chloe barely registered the words thoughtlessly spilling from her mother's lips. She'd caught a few words here and there. "Bridesmaids"..."flower arrangements"..."invitations."

Her gaze was focused on the vast expanse of ocean that lay beyond her mother's head. Miles and miles of sea stretching beyond the scope of her comprehension. It put her mind at ease to know that there was a world out there beyond the tedious details of an unwelcome wedding that her mother still seemed to be harping on.

Couldn't she see that Chloe's mind was the farthest it could possibly be from wedding plans?

"Chloe?"

Her mother was looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for answer to a question Chloe hadn't heard.

"Pardon?" Chloe asked, hoping her mother would clue her in so that she could give her a plausible answer.

"What do you think about white orchids as your floral arrangement?"

White orchids. Signifying elegance, beauty, innocence, reverence. 'Naturally,' Chloe thought. As if there were any other messages that were not, figuratively, beaten into her head from the age she had first developed conscious thought.

"That sounds nice," Chloe mechanically replied.