AUTHOR'S NOTE (whedonite1113): This fic was co-written with ItFeelsSoWrite, and has been written to near entirety. Weekly updates will be posted on Saturdays unless otherwise specified in the Post Author's note. I hope you all enjoy this endeavor, and don't forget to leave feedback! It makes the baby Jesus happy.
04/11/1912 11:45 A.M.
There was something about the pubs in Southampton that distinguished them from London's drinking holes. Whether it was the salt permeating the air or the fact that none of the Sotonian barkeeps knew of Emily Fitch's reputation as a pickpocket, smooth-talker and notorious marathon runner of tabs, all Emily knew for sure was that she felt lucky. Lucky enough to win her way to virgin territory on a maiden voyage guaranteed to make history. She wasn't sure which she was more excited to see; the Statue of Liberty or the innards of the world's largest ship to date. But before any of it, she had to see this last hand through. Preferably alive.
Sat at a round table of four, an untouched whiskey beside her and a fan of five cards in front of her face, Emily watched as the ill-tempered Swede across from her muttered harshly to his comrade beside him. They had been whispering back and forth for the last half-minute, about what Emily could not be sure. In all her travels, she had never had a reason to pick up Swedish. But considering the bickering had started the minute the shrinking companion offered up his ticket aboard the ship to set sail in fifteen minutes to the pot, she had a hunch the growling Viking descendant was not as eager to call the bet with his own.
As they continued to debate, heated breath lousy with liquor, Emily looked to the fourth player at her left. He was as broad as he was dark, his black skin sheening in the mugginess of the stale, smoky room. His eyes smiled before his lips could afford the same courtesy as he met Emily's sidelong glance. His hands were empty, his cards laid flat and neatly stacked upon the table, having folded with nothing left to spare. The lilt in his voice as he leaned inward towards Emily to speak in a hushed whisper suggested a French native.
"You turned out your pockets last hand. And now you finger what I assume is your last possession of worth." His black eyes momentarily traced to the necklace Emily tugged at as she rolled the charm attached between her index finger and thumb. It was one half of a two-piece trinket in the shape of a puzzle piece, pure gold with the name "Katherine" engraved in loopy, cursive font. There was no doubt that the sentimental value of the necklace far exceeded whatever it had cost to obtain it. Emily had sooner bet her father's pocket watch just moments before the ticket thickened the pot.
Caught in her absent-mindedness, Emily let the puzzle piece fall from her fingers, leaning in closer to the soft-spoken giant, genuinely curious as to how a man of such observance had yet to line his pockets with the contents spilled on the tabletop. "It is obvious they are together. You are willing to go all in, even knowing you are one versus two in a game of chance?"
Emily smiled for the stranger's concern and matching his volume, whispered back, "The owners of these treasures . . . if they're alive, they're in America. All this?" Her eyes jumped to the pocket watch briefly in indication. "It's . . . stuff. Stuff I have no intention of losing, but stuff none the less. It's not sweet, singing voices or strong, warm arms. It's nothing but memories of something I don't have anymore. And when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose."
"Flicka. Spela." The simplistic bark in which the Swedish man spoke drew both Emily's and the stranger's attention back to the game at hand. Now in the pot, accompanied by a hand reluctant to let go of it, was a second ticket matching the first. The Swede stared hard at Emily, gauging her reaction as it went from neutral, to . . . something . . . to a grin only a madman or a fake would flash with the chance of a lifetime on the line. And it was only then that the man released his ticket and rocked back into his chair, exhaling a breath he had been holding the whole time.
Heart pounding, Emily placed her fan of cards down, dashing away the looks of relief beginning to flood across the faces of the foreigners with a "one moment" motion of her hand. Taking the same hand, she reached behind her neck and worked the latch of her necklace until it released. Pulling the chain free of her person, she refastened it and placed it atop the pile, smiling politely at the scowls across from her before picking her cards back up.
"I'm all in. Moment of truth."
The brand new Rolls-Royce which had been purchased as an engagement gift for Mr. Leonardo Mclair's son drove slowly across the walkway and up to the pier before finding an adequate parking space right in front of the primary leasing building for the White Star Line. The brunette passenger within the car's cabin peered out her window to see the flocks of people gathered for miles across the landing. Most had been there for days and rather out of curiosity or annoyance that the car was now taking up a wide birth of standing room, began to swarm against her car to see if they could recognize the person inside. To her right, the door opened and the young, handsome, and scathingly rich Fredrick Mclair stepped out dressed in his finest three piece light gray brass suit to cross in front of the car and shoo away the nosey onlookers. "Back, back, back, nothing to see here," his considerate but firm tone insisted as he opened the door on the left side of the car. A hand appeared first, perfectly and properly covered in a white glove before a boot stepped onto the ground. And from beneath a large, red hat a young, nineteen year old Naomi Campbell peered up at the massive ocean liner that the papers had heralded as "the ship of dreams."
"I don't see what the big fuss is," Naomi said as she turned to her fiance and pointed up at the massive ship in front of her. "It doesn't look much bigger than the Mortania."
"So this is the one that they call unsinkable?" Gina Campbell inquired as she stepped up behind her daughter and gave her future son-in-law a little pat on the back. Her face beamed out over the cogs of the crowd, all of them bustling and yelling to be heard over the range of noises circling about on the pier.
"God himself could not sink this ship," Fredrick commented, the gloating in his voice causing Naomi's eyes to instinctually roll. Before he could rattle off any form of a rebuttal, a tap on his shoulder indicated a steward was now nervously inquiring about the delivery of their bags. Naomi turned to her mother with a wry smile and muttered,
"Then 1912 is the ideal year to be an atheist." Gina gave her daughter a playful nudge before Fredrick re-appeared, offering an elbow to both women as they were led to the boarding dock.
Naomi fought not to be shoved in every direction whether by a bearded man, the charge of a battle army of children, or simply from becoming entangled with the other fine garments which were soon to be the semblance of the surrounding foreground in front of them. Fredrick handed their tickets off to the piers master and ushered Gina ahead of him so that Naomi could walk on his arm up over the masses, across the tiny cusp of the Atlantic, and into the ship.
Their feet immediately hit finely decorated carpets. There wasn't a speck of dust on any of the interior, and Naomi thought, as one of the nearby trays with a bucket full of fine silverware, the China has never even been used. A curious thought to have, certainly, seeing as how this was hardly her maiden voyage across any large body of water.
But she had to do something to drown out the ever present gnawing at her stomach, the frightful, shrill sounds of every fiber of her being which were urging her to disembark from the ship. Not for any reason of paranoia or fear, at least not about her travels, but rather entirely engulfed in the very aura, the very presence, the man who was smiling down at her.
Eyes, not hands, moved to and fro as the three of them waited for the other to reveal their cards first. Had there not been the din of the patrons surrounding them, Emily bet she could have heard the gritting of teeth coming from the man across from her. It was certainly visible enough.
"You are left of the dealer, my friend," the Frenchman prompted kindly, addressing the Swede beside him by first tapping the make-do dealer button (a coaster - hardly utilized by the locals) and then tapping the backs of his cards. The Swede's chest swelled with another deep breath as he laid his cards down face-up and spread the stack with the drag of his thumb before leaving the cards be.
"Two pair," Emily announced under her breath, more for herself than for her company.
The Swede's companion was next to reveal, rousing a joy in Emily that took all of her willpower to suppress, made just the slightest bit easier by the way the owner of the two-pair tensed, hands balling into fists upon the table. Her French friend had been right. The Swedes used each other like safety nets, likely to split the pot that should have been easy winnings. Except that this safety net had nothing but a king high.
"Well boys, I can't say I'm happy yours are the last faces I'll see of England, but I am happy to say I won't be seeing them again." The Swedes looked on at Emily impatiently as she kept her tone and expression purposefully neutral. Until she couldn't.
The corners of her lips curled upward into the plump of her flushed cheeks even before she splayed her cards out in a neat, tight fan, revealing two queens and three sevens. "Full house!"
"Nej!" The temperamental Swede yelled, bolting upright in his chair, very nearly taking the table with him. He swiped up his ticket and loomed over the rest of the table towards Emily, white knuckles biting into the wood-grain as it bore his barely-leashed anger. Emily swallowed hard, but kept her eyes harder as she met the gaze meant to disintegrate her then and there. How she was going to pry her newly-won property from the jaws of this man's fingers she hadn't quite figured out when, very calmly, the Frenchman between them stood to his full height, rolling back his shoulders to display his barrel-built chest.
All eyes were on them now, most marveling at the size of the man that had managed to remain mostly invisible with his mild manner and choice words, others darting between the tense triangle, trying to fathom the outcome just on the horizon.
The Frenchman, still just as calm, extended his upturned palm in the neutral air between them, milky black eyes holding irate, buzzing blue irises in a silent, judicial stare. Jaw fit to crack into itself with how tightly he gnashed his teeth, the Swede's fist tremored before releasing the crumpled paper, reforming not a second later to swing at the face of his companion, knocking the man and his chair clean to the ground before storming out.
The bleeding man did not stir, but Emily was spurred to motion, quickly pulling the entirety of her winnings from the table with the cradle of her arms, gathering fistfuls as she neared the edge of the table to stuff her pockets. Smoothing out the crumpled ticket and snatching up the other, she looked to her defender with a curious glint in her eye.
"What's your name?" He smiled courteously as if he had not just stood in front of a seething locomotive.
"Thomas, ma'am." Smoothing out the neater of the two tickets, Emily extended it to Thomas.
"Thomas, would you like to go to America?" The Frenchman's lips parted to reveal a nearly blinding smile.
"Very much so."
"Then I'd suggest y'stop talkin' 'bout it," the bartender chuckled, twisting a rag into a freshly-rinsed mug. "The Titanic's set to sail in five minutes, mates."
Ch. 2 Post Date: 02/21
