Author's Note: I, uh. Well, um. About 93 years ago today the RMS Titanic set sail. Gotta give out a chapter for that, at least. I'm sorry, everybody. I swear, this will all get done eventually. It's just a matter of when. . . keep checking the LJ for notes and other such updates. Thanks for hanging with me. . . reviews would be so incredibly appreciated :-)

Historical Notes: Widows usually kept their dead husband's names, and though it's not historical—I use waking up scenes one too many times in this story. oO

NINE: WALLACE
April 11, 1912
2047

He opened the door and held out his hand to the room, inviting me inside; I slipped around the door, about to open my mouth, but he did first, expression grave and worried. "Ellen," he said gently, brown eyes large. "I'm so very sorry about tonight. I had no idea that they'd be so. . . so vulgar—"

"Oh," I said, suddenly remembering the dinner I'd escaped from more than hour ago. "I'd—Thomas, it's fine." I sat down on his sofa, and he sat down in a chair next to it. "I mean, yes, I was upset, but—but that's not what I came to talk to you about. It's—" I shook my head, not even knowing how to put this into words, grinning.

Thomas lifted an eyebrow. "The dinner's not bothering you any more, then?"

"Don't get me wrong," I assured him. "It bothers me. But it's just not—I don't know. Something else happened." He waited, leaning forward slightly. I said, "I'm getting along with Will. I mean, Murdoch."

He smiled broadly, eyes shining now. "You see?"

"He invited me for tea." I said, feeling exceptionally cozy. Content, for the first time in what felt like days. "We sat in the crew's mess and just drank tea and talked. . . it was really nice."

Thomas was grinning, too. "He's a good man, Ellen. . . sometimes he just takes time to bounce back from ill turns."

"Hey, I'd be pissed too, if that happened to me. Maybe I wouldn't hang on to it as long, but. . . and you know, he still can be a prick sometimes, but. . ." I sat back, reaching for a pillow and tucking it between my side and the arm of the sofa, knowing how pathetic I sounded. "But yeah, I think he is a good man."

"I'd be careful, if I were you." Thomas said, mischievous grin on his lips. He stood up, moving to his desk full of blueprints. "He's not courted since Ada."

It surprised me so much that I laughed—the fact that he thought I was falling for Murdoch, and that Murdoch hadn't had a date since then. "Thomas!" I grabbed the pillow and threw it at him; he laughed, too, and caught it. "Do you think I'm interested?"

He shrugged, eyes full of mirth. "Never know. You will be his charge for some time."

"Well, you're wrong." I caught the pillow when he threw it back. "I might be fickle sometimes, but not with love. And besides, even if he is nice now, he was outrageous when we first met."

"It was merely a suggestion." he said, spreading his arms on the emphasis, and grinned. "And I wanted to see how you'd react."

I rolled my eyes. "Dolt."

He chuckled, and glanced at the clock. "Don't you have a watch to prepare for?"

I looked too, and realized that it was a minute to ten. "Ah, damn it." I stood, headed for the door. "Thanks, Thomas."

His gaze was warm. "Of course. Good night, Ellen."

"Night!" I closed the door behind me, made sure no one else was in the hallway, and hurried up to the deck. Down a hallway, a left down another, up a flight of the grand staircase, then almost a full sprint down the upper deck until at last—

Moody glanced over from his position, and I glanced wildly about for Murdoch, hoping that he wasn't there. I didn't see him, but nor did I see any senior officer. Hitchens was there at the helm as usual. Just—no officers. I frowned, panting, and looked over toward Moody. "Where's—"

"Good of you to join us, Miss Wallace." Murdoch stepped from the wheelhouse, and at first I thought he was being sarcastic again—but when I looked up, he was smiling wonderfully, tugging on his gloves.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said, linking my hands behind my back, and threw in a "sir. T—Mr. Andrews wanted a word with me."

"Well then, he'll be persecuted for it." Murdoch teased, moving to stand beside me. He looked out over the waters, and we were silent for several moments. I opened my ears, listening to the waves break against the ship, the air that we cut through whizzing by. I could only see a portion of the sky through the windows ahead and to the sides of the bridge, but it was enough to tell that the sky was scattered with stars, a blue-black that matched the waves. I tried to steady my breathing from that run, and to calm down a bit.

"Miss Wallace." Murdoch voice was quiet; it almost seemed as though he, too, were reflecting in the beauty of the night at sea. "I've a favor to ask of you."

For a moment I wished not to move, then remembered that this was, after all, my job. "Certainly."

"Will you run down to the engine department with this. . ." he pulled a folded and stamped sheet of paper from his pocket. ". . . and tell them you're not allowed to return without a reply."

He passed me the paper; I took it, smiled, and touched the edge of my cap with my fingers. "Sir."

"Thank you." he smiled, saluted back, and I left the deck.

I stopped in the hallway and pulled a pencil from my pocket, then went to the wall, and laid Murdoch's note against it. Quickly, I scribbled the reply from the engine department on the back of the paper so that I wouldn't forget it. I then folded it up and proceeded up Scotland Road, the widest and longest corridor on the ship.

Down here, the engines were a bit louder—but I also picked up another noise, this one of a large crowd. As I neared the stairs, the laughter and buzz of talk and music grew louder. I could smell cigarette smoke. Must be the third-class commons, I thought—and suddenly wondered if any of my shipyard friends might be there.

I hesitated before the stairs to the upper decks, and looked around for a clock. One near the ceiling farther down the Road showed that it was only ten thirty. Yes, I could take five minutes, and I could tell Murdoch I got lost, or couldn't find the chief-on-duty.

When I reached it, the common room was alive with noise—shouting and talk, laughter and very Irish music. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of good, crisp beer. For a moment I just stood at the landing of the stairs into the room and stared. There was a central raised stage; some people were dancing on it, and many couples danced around it. Tables lined the room, full of cardplayers and drinkers and peanuts and beer.

Someone shouted, "Hoi!"; I turned to look and was surprised to find the shout directed at me—and even more surprised to see that one Fred O'Malley was the source of it.

"Fred!" I cried as he fought the crowd to get to me and at last stretched out a burly arm to shake my hand. "Fred, I was hoping I'd run into one of you!"

"Evenin', Miss Ellen." he said, grinning widely, clapping me on the shoulder. "Lookit you—you're all trussed up and official-lookin'—hoi, Bill, geddover here! S'Ellen Wallace!"

"Bill's here too?" I looked around in time to find another burly arm; I shook my old friend's hand. "Hey, nice to see you!"

Bll grinned. "Any of your mates with you, Ellen?"

"No, they're all on deck—I had to come down to run an errand—"

"Well, stay, have a drink!" Fred snatched one off of a passing tray and held it up. "We've got some catching up to do—the rest of the boys are here, and their lovely lasses—"

"I can't," I said sadly, "I've got to get back up—they'll be missing me. I just wanted to stop down and see if I recognized anybody."

"And you have!" Bill said, taking the drink out of Fred's hand and swallowing a large gulp of it. "Stay for a bit!"

Fred said, "You sh'come back tomorrow night when you have more time—the fun starts 'round eight. Bring all your damn officials with you, too—bet they could use some time away from the hot pokers up their arses."

I laughed, and protested. "They're not that bad—most of the time."

"Aye, well, we'll let you go." Bill clapped me on the shoulder again. "C'mon, Fred!" He buried his face in his glass and latched a big hand onto Fred's shoulder to pull him away.

"Bye, Ellen—come back tomorrow!" Fred called.

"I will!" I called back, and grinning, hurried back to my lookout.

The deck itself was quiet, but the sea on the other side of the rail and lifeboats rumbled by far below, black and choppy this evening. Or this morning, more like. Pitman had been dead tired; Murdoch let him off early. Now the two of us were perusing the decks for our rounds.

"Tell me something about yourself." Murdoch said, looking over, eyes twinkling. "Something that hardly anyone knows."

What could I say to that? I thought it an odd question, considering that we were only just getting to know one another. But if he insisted. . .

I folded my hands behind my back as we walked, and fought a grin. "Well. . . let's see. . ." I could tell him that heights didn't bother me, and neither did rats, but spiders could scare me out of my wits. I could tell him that sometimes I helped test-drive new Ford models that came to my father's dealership—tested them until they ran off their wheels. I could tell him that once I'd written sappy love poetry so that my brother could have something to read to the girl he was flirting with. But that reminded me. . .

I said, "I love getting flowers." And I immediately felt ridiculous. Should have told him about the damn Model T's!

He cocked his head, curious. "Flowers?"

I looked down at my shoes, blushing. "Yes. I remember when Thomas and Helen were—well, courting—he'd always send her roses and wildflowers and the like, and she'd be thrilled. I never. . ." I shook my head, and changed the subject. "Well—well tell me something about yourself, then." I grinned. "Don't make me feel like an ass by myself."

"All right." he pushed his hands into his pockets, let out a long, clouding breath, thinking. "When I was a little boy, my father used to take me hunting, out in the Glasgow backwoods." At this point I grinned, hearing his very Scottish "out"—and he wrinkled his nose, smiling. "Ellen, that's the second time I've caught you doing that while I'm speaking. What's funny?"

"I'm sorry—your accent. I'm used to Irish ones, and there's something about the Scottish burr I've always been fond of."

He rolled his eyes, amused. "You know, it's you that has the accent to me, Ellen."

You do not enjoy hearing him say your name. "True. Forgive me—what about your father?"

"He tried to take me hunting." I tried to imagine Murdoch hoisting a rifle, and nearly giggled. He said, "I hated it—I wouldn't shoot a doe—" (nearly laughed there, too, but managed to keep a straight face) "—and I was whipped for it later." He chuckled. "My father confined me to my room, and I started reading—that's where I read up about the sea."

I grinned. "You got your origins in seamanship through a whipping."

"Near burned my bum off," he said, grinning back. "And now here I am."

"Here you are." I agreed, and sighed, staring up at the stars. "Must be wonderful."

I felt more than saw him look at me, and then away. He said, softly, "Yes."

I shook myself mentally. You're imagining things.

He said, "Don't you have Scottish ancestry?"

I glanced over. "What?"

"Well, you got me thinking after you brought up the accent. 'Wallace' is about as Scottish as they come, isn't it? Or was that your—your husband's name?"

I shook my head. "No, it's mine." I smiled though—not only was Murdoch a Scot, but he knew his history. "But yes, I'm fairly Scottish—and Irish, too. I've got the Andrews bloodline in me, as well as Wallace. Unfortunately I don't carry either accent."

"You speak like an American," Murdoch said, and I glanced over in shock—for he'd just imitated my own "accent". He glanced over, grinning, and still carried the style: "What, I'm not that bad, am I?"

I laughed, and clapped a hand over my mouth to restrain myself. "No—you're not—it's just funny to hear it!"

He chuckled, and his voice returned to normal. "I'm sure you can imitate me, as well."

"Aye, that I can." I said, quite the Scot. "Actually, I like this. The words roll around a bit nicer."

He was laughing, too. "Oh, sod off—I don't sound that native!"

"Nay, I cann'a think of anyone that sounds that bad. I'll stop." I grinned at him, and to my delight, he grinned back.

When we got back to our quarters, he said in an American tongue, "Good night, Miss Ellen."

I shot back Scottish-ly, "G'night to you, Mr. Murdoch." With two final smiles at each other, we retired.

I closed the door softly behind me. "Ellen, you fool." I muttered to myself, loosening my tie and throwing it over the back of my desk chair. I took off my jacket, which joined the tie on the chair, and then I kicked off my shoes and fell into bed, trusting that Murdoch would wake me up as he always did.

Next morning I awoke when there were sharp knocks at my door. I called thickly, "I'm still asleep. Go bother somebody who's awake." With one arm I reached up to yank the curtains closed further; the shafts of light sweeping into my room disappeared.

"Sorry to tell you, it's been tried on me before." Murdoch's voice from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, and I know you're awake."

I muttered several curses into the pillow before dragging myself vertical and toward the door, half the sheets and blanket still wrapped around me. So much for wanting him to wake me up. I pulled the door open, feeling tired and heavy. "Yeah. Now I'm awake."

Murdoch smiled, looking wide-awake and cheerful, fully dressed. "Only wanted to let you know that breakfast is ready in the crew's mess."

I ran the heel of my hand over my right eye. "Time is it."

"Quarter to nine."

I squinted at him. "You woke me up when I could have slept in for another hour?"

He rolled his eyes, still smiling good-naturedly. "Wouldn't want to have you still half asleep on watch."

I grimaced. "You're too kind." I closed the door, leaned against it.

"Will you be coming for breakfast, then?" he asked, voice muffled through an inch of painted, paneled wood.

Unable to think of a witty reply, I said lamely, ". . . yeah. I'll be in shortly." His footsteps faded quietly down the hall, and I turned to the room. Slowly I inched back toward the bed, threw open the curtains, squinted and cursed at the rush of light, and fell back onto the mattress again. "Day three." I mused aloud, but quietly. By degrees I was able to force myself upright, and to dress—and then the dilemma of tying my tie.

I went to breakfast with the tie in my pocket, and when I got there, found Wilde and

Murdoch chatting amicably around their hotcakes. "Morning." I dropped down beside Murdoch; both men greeted me with warm smiles, and Wilde looked around. "Don't see a steward." he said, and pushed his seat back to stand up. "I'll go find one to bring you a plate, Miss Wallace."

"Oh—thanks!" I said, surprised a bit by his kindness as he headed for the kitchen. But of course, that left me alone with Murdoch.

I remembered the tie in my pocket. Now or never. Now or never. Now or "Hey, uh. . ." I fished it out. It was a lot longer than I remembered it. "Could you give me a hand with this again?"

"I suppose so," he said, half smile on his lips. I arranged the tie under my collar quickly, then offered the tails to him. He took them, hands bare again.

Don't watch his hands. Don't watch his hands. Don't—oh, Jesus, don't blush. Iceiceiceice you are like ice and cold water and snowiceiceice shit. . .

He slid the knot up to the base of my throat, gently, and let it go. "There we are."

I coughed and turned back to the table. "Thanks."

"Too tight?" his eyes were concerned. "I'm sorry—"

"No, no—of course not. I just—I swallowed funny."

"I do believe I deserve fanfare." Wilde emerged from the kitchen, grinning triumphantly over a steaming breakfast plate, and he set it before me with a flourish. "Miss Wallace, your breakfast."

I grinned back. "Thanks, Mr. Wilde."

"My pleasure." he seated himself again, picked up his fork, and looked at the two of us. "Gone for a run, Will?"

"What?" Murdoch said; when I glanced over at him, I realized that a blush was fading from his own cheeks. "Not sure I understand you."

Wilde glanced at me, his expression reading quite clearly, "Yeah, right." He said, "Never mind." and turned back to his breakfast.

I dusted salt over the scrambled eggs and began to poke at them with my fork. "Hey, uh." I was thinking of last night. "Mr. Murdoch, are you going to be needing me right before our watch tonight?"

"I shouldn't think so." he said, then sipped his coffee. "Why do you ask?"

Friday went by like caramelized molasses. I didn't see much of Murdoch; on our watch he had Mr. Lowe and I check down in the fuel department, where I guess they'd been having problems with all the heat. By the time we got back up, not only were Lowe and I sweating and tired, but our watch had ended and Murdoch was off somewhere in another part of the ship. We turned our report in to Mr. Wilde.

Complaining and tired and miserable, we two junior officers went to our cabins to change and to meet in the mess for a late lunch. Even lunch was tiring. Lowe and I didn't speak much, just picked at our meal—and then I went back to my room to get some sleep before the evening came.

The trumpet call for the first-class dinner came at seven and woke me—at which point I remembered my promise to Fred that I'd go down to the commons to stay for a bit. I picked a plain skirt and matching jacket from my belongings, and a white shirt; I could always throw on my uniform right before the watch. I probably wouldn't be staying that long anyway; Murdoch would get worried that I'd be late.

Wouldn't he?