Jack parked the car in the street out front of a two-story stone house, and looked to the passenger seat. Rose was fast asleep, wrapped in Jack's brown wool coat, her matted red curls strewn across her shoulder, cheek pressed into the leather of the door.
Jack took a deep breath and then leaned over, brushing a lock of her red hair away from her eyes. "Rose." She stirred a little bit. "Rose, sweetheart, wake up."
Jumping in her seat, she opened her eyes.
Putting a hand on her shoulder to calm her down, Jack smiled. "'We're here, Rose."
She sat up, and looked out the window. The house was old, but charming. It was several stories tall, with a wide wrap-around porch, and a balcony off of one of the second story picture windows, and it had a sturdy looking tin roof. There was ivy growing up the side, even in the late winter chill, and it was shaded by two enormous oak trees. Cautioning a guess, she would say it was probably built shortly after the civil war, as it was not quite Victorian in style. In Rose's mind it looked exactly like a place Jack would live— there was something rustic and wild about it.
"Where is here, Jack?" She had no idea how long they had been driving; only that it had been dark when they left Manhattan, stopping briefly at Madam Beauville's so that Jack could collect Rose's few belongings, and now it was fully light out. They had been bouncing along in Jack's old ford for about twelve hours, at a guess.
"Well, Rose, We're in Virginia, about fifteen miles west of the Capitol. "
Rose wanted to question him further, but realized that she was much too tired to really care all that much about their location, and the house in front of them looked inviting. Almost sensing her desire to get out of the car, and the cold, Jack hopped down from his side and went around to help her out. Unable to contain the boyish grin as he stood straight, offering his had to Rose as he had once done in the bowels of the Titanic, he supported her slight weight as she gracefully stepped out onto the pavement below. He was reluctant to let go of Rose's hand after she had righted herself, but so far she had been reluctant to have much physical contact, and Jack was wary not to push her. He knew that it had been a rough week; a rough couple of years.
Rose sighed, audibly and sadly, and pulled Jack's coat tighter around her, and following him up the short walkway to the front door, where he produced a key from the depths of his pants pocket and swiftly unlocked the heavy bolt.
Jack watched Rose take in a breath as he opened the door, which she seemed to retain as she stepped into the entryway. Jack fidgeted from foot to foot as he tried to gauge her reaction, but was unable to surmise what was going on in Rose's mind. He looked around himself.
The interior of the house was dark wood and stone, mostly, with the exception of a few bare white walls. He hadn't devoted much time to furnishing the place, as the majority of his efforts the past year, while not put towards earning a living, had been spent tracking down the redhead now standing before him in this hall.
He did not think, though, that he had done badly for himself. He had earned a fairly high salary the past few years, and his lifestyle now was a million times different from what it had once been. There were no more bridges to sleep under, but a fireplace and a large soft bed— never mind that he would forgo the bed anyway in favor of the sofa or blankets on the floor. In his mind the bed was much too large for just him, and much too comfortable and elegant for a bachelor. He had to admit to himself that when he had bought it, it was Rose that he had in mind.
He watched Rose now. She seemed lost, and somehow overwhelmed. She took a step forward, and stopped short.
"I know its not much. Its probably nothing compared to what you grew up with, but, for now, its home," Jack says, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Well, its home now that you're here."
She smiles then, but it doesn't reach her eyes, making something in Jack's heart sink.
Rose, I'll get your fire back if it's the last thing I do.
"Its beautiful, Jack. Really. I'm afraid I'm just too exhausted to appreciate it fully right now. Could um," She suddenly seemed shy. "Could – is there somewhere I could rest? A guest room or something?"
Jack frowned. Guest room? After all they had been through together and apart, were they still playing at such propriety?
"I uh, haven't furnished any guest rooms yet, but you can take my bed, and rest for the day. I sleep better on the couch anyway," he assured her, and lead her upstairs, and through a doorway on the right.
Jack's room was simple: white walls with a mirror and a few drawings scattered about. In the middle was a double bed with a frame of wrought iron, and a plush looking down mattress. A white coverlet was folded neatly on top. Upon closer inspection, Rose saw that the wrought iron of the headboard formed intricate patterns made to look like a vine of climbing roses on a trellis, and with a slight smile she noted that there on the bedside table was a single red rose. It was wilting with age and lack of water, but the fact that it was there touched her heart. Perhaps Jack truly did still love her. He at least loved the idea of her, whether he could care for what she had become or not.
"Make yourself comfortable, Rose. This room is yours now. I think it was always meant to be." Jack smiled at her as genuinely and graciously as he could. "I'm gonna go get everything from the car, get this place warmed up, and get some sleep myself. Help yourself to anything you need."
Rose nodded, suppressing a yawn, and Jack closed the space between them briefly, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead before retreating back down the stairs.
Rose surveyed the room further, as she shrugged out of Jack's coat and draped it on the back of a chair sitting at a small vanity. Stepping closer to the pictures on the walls she was transported into scene after scene from the Titanic. There was the day they had walked the deck dreaming carelessly. The way he had portrayed her made her seem both stately and slightly crazed, and perhaps she was. She had certainly been crazed by all of the new ideas and ideals about freedom that Jack had spouted off so poetically.
She moved on to the next drawing, of a little girl with a bow in her long dark hair, pointing at something over the ship's railing. Rose recalled sadly that the girl's name had been Cora. Jack had seemed to love children, and had a particularly touching brotherly bond with this young one.
As she roamed the room, looking into the past on his walls she was greeted by more familiar smiles: Fabrizio and Tommy from Jack's "real" party, and even Thomas Andrews, who had been kind to both her and Jack, even assisting in saving both of their lives. What stung the most however was the way in which Jack had captured her own smile, even without a model. He seemed to have held her image so perfectly in his memory that even the emotions she felt on those few short nights were perfectly preserved; such happiness, and excitement, and even serenity that she now feared would never be hers again, and it made her weep now to remember. She had shut it out for so long, and locked away the Titanic and anything that would remind her deep in her heart, and now that everything was being called so abruptly to the surface, all she could do was collapse onto Jack's bed, still in her hospital gown, and cry herself into a fitful sleep, dreaming of what could have been, and maybe what still could be.
