A/N: This has been in the works for over a year now. I was always interested in the character of Tommy Ryan and what would happen to him if he had survived the Titanic. After almost rewriting the story from what I originally had (i.e the very bare Irish Rose), this is what has come of it. I've done a lot of research, and I'm still writing this as I go along. Reviews would be great! Enjoy.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of James Cameron. Any others unrecognizable belong to me. No profit is being made from this, etc.


New York Bound

He didn't know how he had survived.

The bullet, albeit poorly aimed by Murdoch at the idiot of a man standing next to him, had grazed the side of his life jacket, and the shock of it all had knocked the wind out of him as he stumbled to the opposite side, out of harm's way. He felt a pang of remorse for the man who quickly succumbed to his death, and even for Murdoch, who had taken his own life soon after.

But he had, barely.

The water had been so cold, colder even than the one time he had fell in the Shannon River in the middle of December when he had been a young boy. And when the ship finally sunk, he found himself desperately cling to memories, wishing he had listened to his mother in the first place.

"I don't know what yer tryin' to prove, son, I'll love ya just the same if you stay."

But he had been stubborn, always wanting the best for his mother, Angela, and his younger sister, Molly. America was full of opportunity, and he didn't want to be a dairy and potato farmer for the rest of his life. He had watched his father struggle, and in turn had witnessed how his family had struggled to make ends meet, and always vowed that by the time he was twenty, he would save up enough money to buy a steerage ticket and emigrate to America. Then, he would find a decent paying job and an apartment big enough for three, and when the time was right, he would send for his mother and sister.

Yet, he here was, twenty years old; the money in his pocket wet and the ship that was supposed to have taken him to America had left him stranded in the middle of the North Atlantic.

And after fighting tooth and nail to overturn the collapsible boat that was his last hope, he had managed to secure himself a spot, kept warm by a single flask of brandy that was passed around by the other men. For once, class did not divide them, as they all struggled to stay alive. He had tried to stay awake, as did the others, but he was so tired, and his body ached. Would he struggle to make a living, as his trip already started out with a bad omen?

He woke up briefly, some time after dawn, to someone shaking him awake. He managed to open one eye, and then the other. A White Star Line officer loomed above him, yet he sounded so far away that he had to strain himself to hear.

"What's your name, lad?"

"Ryan, sir. Tommy Ryan," he spoke gently, before drifting back to sleep.

April 16th, dawn

It was the beginning of a new day, with a promise of hope. The sun shone brightly in the early morning sky, casting a hint of warmth over the chill that had worked its way into the air. A few passengers were strolling along the decks, and even some survivors had made their way out of their makeshift quarters.

Tommy had been hesitant to greet the sea once again, but after a deep slumber that had lasted most of the afternoon and evening hours of the previous day, he had awoken early, unable to sleep any longer. He had been lucky enough to occupy the bottom bunk in the third class quarters, along with twenty or so other men in the small dormitory. It was small, and a tight fit, as the other third class survivors were packed in like sardines in the bowels of the ship, but he was thankful to have somewhere to rest his head, and more importantly, thankful to be alive.

The passengers and crew on the Carpathia had been gracious and kind, volunteering their beds, belongings, clothing, and other personal affects for the Titanic survivors. A kind old gentleman in second class had offered Tommy two shirts and a pair of slacks, as well as a bar of soap and a blanket. He had even been well fed, as there seemed to be no shortage of tea, soup, and bread on the ship, or so it seemed.

He clutched the cup of steaming tea in his hands as he made his way up onto the main decks, after changing out of his waterlogged clothes. He had set them on this bed to dry, while he pocketed what little he had to his name, several Irish pounds and a washed out address. He was more concerned with the latter, as it was the address of his only known relative, his cousin, Pat Donovan. Before he had left Ireland, he had written to Pat, who in turn had offered him his apartment to stay at until he could get on his feet. Several years older than Tommy, Pat had emigrated to America nearly five years ago and now lived in a tenement with his wife and young daughter. The address was now hopeless, as the only word that could be made out was:

ony Street

Sighing in frustration, he stuffed the paper back into his pocket and continued his way onto the decks, finally stopping near the back of the ship. By now, the decks were crowded with survivors, mostly steerage, like himself, and their mournful cries filled him with sorrow.

Clutching the rail with his left hand, he raised the cup to his lips with his right, savoring each drop. It was his first real meal in a day and a half, and he almost forgot about the roll he had in his other pocket. He pulled it out and began chewing little pieces of it, just as slowly.

He thought back to the previous night, of the terror that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Tommy thought of Jack, Rose, and Fabrizio, and wondered if somehow, they had survived. He had searched a little bit, once all the lifeboats had been collected, but had found nothing. Perhaps, he thought, they were looking for me as well.

He finished his roll and went back to drinking the tea, slightly disappointed when all that was left were the dregs. He had been lost in his thoughts for so long that he was oblivious to the young man who was leaning against the rail, staring out into the ocean.

It wasn't until he spoke that Tommy was broken out of his reverie by the man's thick Scottish accent, thicker than his own Irish one. "Aye, I hate sea travel. Makes me sick to my stomach every time. But, the promise of America and a new life was worth it, I suppose."

Tommy managed a nod. "Ain't that the truth."

"Me mum told me to stay put, but I didn't listen to her. I'm kicking myself in the arse for it now."

"Aye, my mum told me the same. Begged and pleaded with me. I always wanted better for my family, for myself."

"I hear ya on that." The man adjusted his hat over his red curls, the freckles in his face even more prominent against his pale skin. "William MacNab." He extended his hand.

Tommy held out his hand and shook MacNab's gently. "Tommy Ryan."

"Where are you from? Or should I say where are you headed?" he questioned, his face having regained some of its color.

"County Galway, Ireland. You?"

"Edinburgh meself. That's Scotland, not Ireland."

Tommy chuckled at this. "I know. I have a few relatives there, on my Pa's side. It's not too far."

"No, I suppose not. Couldn't wait to get away, and once I get off this ship you're going to have to get a good drink in me to get on another one to go home. Titanic…unsinkable, my arse."

"And when the ship docks, what will you do, boyo?" He was curious about this, wanting to see what a perfect stranger would do in the same situation he was in.

"Find a job and place to call home. Find a nice girl to settle down with. Have a family." William nodded to Tommy. "Well, it was nice meeting you. The sea and me don't really agree; never have, so I think I'll head back to lie down. Good luck."

"You too," Tommy acknowledged as the Scotsman headed for the stairs. If it was out of line to think of MacNab as strange, he didn't care, for the exhaustion was beginning to return. Yawning, he collected his cup and made his way through the sea of survivors, heading in the direction of the third class stairwells.


April 18th, noon

The past two days had gone by uneventfully, and Tommy had neither heard from William MacNab nor had managed to find Jack, Rose, or Fabrizio on the survivor list. He had even searched high and low in his spare time, only to turn up with no leads. Saddened, he had accepted that his friends had perished that night in the icy Atlantic waters, and now he was all alone to build his new life in America.

He spent most of his days either wandering the decks or resting in his bunk, and was discouraged when he had developed a hacking cough, along with a new bout of exhaustion almost overnight. A task as simple as climbing the stairs to the open air decks now nearly knocked the wind out of him and made his heart race. The previous night had been hell, as the tight feeling in his chest and his persistent cough had not only kept himself up but several others as well. By dawn, several other men were coughing along with him and complaining of similar symptoms.

After he had finished his tea and hard roll, Tommy made his way in the direction of the infirmary, knowing that the best thing he could do for himself was to get a doctor's advice and pray that it didn't develop into influenza. It had killed his father, and after surviving the Titanic and making it this far, he vowed that he wouldn't let any disease get the best of him, either.

There was a short wait of men, women, and children, and once he gave his name and reason of his visit to the head nurse, he was whisked away to a small cot and a thermometer was shoved under his tongue.

She sighed and tucked a strand of her grey hair behind her ear. "The doctor will be with you shortly, son. The bedpan is to your right, if you feel that you are going to be ill."

He nodded in thanks and continued to hold the thermometer between his forefingers. Feigning exhaustion, he was just about to lie down on the cot when the doctor, a thin, middle aged balding man pulled back the curtain with a curt nod.

"Tommy Ryan?"

"Yes sir." He sat up and removed the thermometer from his mouth.

"I'm Doctor Reynolds. Let's have a look at that." He took the thermometer and brought it up to the light, inspecting it carefully. "I'd say a hundred-point-one. You made a good choice in coming here. What are you symptoms?

"It hit me all of a sudden, sir. I had a tightening in my chest and a cough last night. It takes the breath out of me."

Dr. Reynolds nodded. "Let's have a look at you then." He examined Tommy briefly and listened to his lungs and heart. "You've got a little bit of congestion in there, possibly even some fluid, son, and some wheezing. I'd like you to spend the rest of the day here in the infirmary. You have a nice case of bronchitis, and I don't want it to turn into pneumonia, like so many other passengers have. When we dock tonight, I'd like to send you straight to St. Vincent's, just as a precaution. They may have you spend a day or two there and send you on your way, but it's better to be safe then sorry. The staff there will be a lot more lenient then the immigration officers at Ellis Island, I'll have you know."

"All right," he agreed patiently. "I'd have to get my things."

"I can send one of the nurses. For now I want you to rest and regain your strength. I'll be by before we dock to check on your condition."

Thanking the doctor, Tommy quickly informed the nurse of where he had been staying on the ship and she promised to return within the hour with his belongings. She instructed him to get some rest and that she would be by to check on him when she returned.

He didn't hesitate to rest, and once his cheek grazed the cotton fabric of the pillow, he fell into a fitful slumber.