Several weeks passed, and Jemma slowly began to adjust to her new life.

At Daisy's insistence, she stayed on with her at her home in the Upper East Side, but Jemma didn't want to rely on charity. She wanted to earn her keep. At the first available opportunity, she sold the expensive engagement ring Grant had given her and used some of the money to furnish herself a new, modest wardrobe, since she had arrived in New York with nothing but the clothes on her back. The rest she set aside to start paying rent for the use of a bedroom in the large mansion, the payment for which Daisy only reluctantly accepted.

Once that was done, Jemma set about trying to make herself useful. She decided to get back in touch with the Council of Jewish Women, who had been so kind to help her upon her arrival in New York, and through them found work as a teacher at a public school. It wasn't the laboratory research of which she had always dreamed, but it was a start, and she hoped that with time and experience, she might one day work her way up to more creative scientific endeavors.

When she wasn't teaching, Jemma worked to learn more practical skills in order to be more sustainable on her own. She took the embroidery skills she had learned as a child and, under the patient instruction of one of Daisy's maids, learned how to properly sew. She also learned how to wash and properly fold clothes, and even asked the cooks if they could teach her how to prepare simple meals. The household staff all seemed gently amused by her-a proper daughter of the English nobility in self-imposed exile-but were more than willing to indulge her and help once they saw she genuinely wanted to learn. Bit by bit, Jemma started to pick up skills that would come in handy and help support her for a life on her own.

Even though Jemma had chosen to live a life more akin to the working class, Daisy still treated her like an equal, and over time they became very close friends. They ate lunch and dinner together most days, when Daisy didn't have society functions to attend, and often spent hours talking about everything and nothing. Daisy's husband Antoine also let Jemma take over the care of the rooftop terrace garden that he had cultivated, but had regretfully let fall into neglect due to his increasing time away in the capitol. Daisy was many things that Jemma was not: vivacious, talkative, outgoing and brash, and theirs was an unlikely friendship, but Jemma was unspeakably grateful for it. It helped to stave off her loneliness and the pain of her grief.

There was still a jagged, raw wound in her heart where Fitz had once been, and Jemma wasn't sure if she would ever fully recover, even with time. The future they had envisioned together had been so bright and hopeful, brimming with the promise of love, and its loss had taken an irreplaceable piece of her with it. Daisy was sensitive to her grief, giving her space to process while still being supportive, even going so far as offering to purchase a small memorial plot for him at one of the cemeteries in Queens. Jemma politely turned her down. With nothing tangible left of Fitz to mourn, she didn't see the point, and she doubted he would have wanted anyone to make a fuss over him anyway. She would be just fine keeping him alive in her memory.

Eventually, the routines of her new life kept Jemma sufficiently occupied enough that she almost didn't have time to think about how much she missed Fitz or wonder where their relationship might have gone. Sometimes, though, the life she had chosen for herself made those thoughts unavoidable. Daisy hosted the occasional dinner party or afternoon luncheon, and in order to stay hidden and keep her survival a secret, Jemma would confine herself to her room on the second floor of the house while the guests walked about downstairs. She whiled away the time with books or needlepoint, but often found herself sitting in her wingback chair, staring out the window at nothing and daydreaming about the life she and Fitz should have had together. It wasn't the best way to cope, perhaps, but she couldn't fault herself for a few moments of weakness.

The strangest experience of all, however, was when Daisy reported that a memorial was being held in Boston for Jemma herself. Daisy's lack of invitation was a pointed social snub; though she was a prominent figure amongst the elite and publicly considered a friend of the family, her low class origins and choice of husband meant she was occasionally held at arm's length by high society. It didn't seem to bother Daisy, though. She confessed that she hadn't wanted to attend in the first place.

"It would have been very strange," she said. "Being there, knowing that you were perfectly fine, alive and well here, probably learning how to roast a duck with Grace in the kitchen."

Jemma smiled slightly into her teacup. "I imagine so. How would you have kept up the pretense?"

Daisy smiled back. "I haven't survived this long in high society on my good looks alone, you know." When Jemma laughed, she took a careful sip of her tea. "I would have just kept thinking about those who really need to be mourned."

Jemma sobered immediately. She knew Daisy was referring to Fitz, and Thomas Andrews, and Lance Hunter, and all of the other good people who had perished in the disaster.

Daisy watched her for a moment before sighing thoughtfully. "I've been told your mother is devastated," she said quietly. "You're sure you won't contact her?"

Jemma looked down into her teacup again, as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe. "Are you sure she really misses me , and not just the fortune she was marrying me off for?" she asked bitterly.

"Well, since you're officially dead on the books and were still engaged to him when you 'died,' Grant is technically a widower," Daisy said. "I don't know if this is how things work in England, but I've gotten the sense that there's been some social pressure for him to take care of her. She's staying with him at his home in Boston."

"How selfless of him," Jemma muttered.

Daisy was quiet for another moment. "Did he actually love you?" she asked at length. "Even if he wasn't good at showing it?"

Jemma stayed silent, watching the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. She doubted it. Daisy didn't know about the yelling, or the threats, or the physical violence. She didn't know if she could ever tell her.

When another moment passed and Jemma still hadn't answered, Daisy said, "I guess it doesn't matter. That wasn't the kind of love you wanted. Or the life."

"No," Jemma replied shortly, quietly. "It wasn't."

-:-

Spring rolled into summer, and the school holidays afforded her some free time, which Jemma spent in the kitchens and the garden. A hot morning in early July found her out on the rooftop terrace, tending to the flowers and herbs she'd coaxed back to life. She was moving through the potted roses and watering them when a voice broke through the distant hubbub of city traffic.

"See you're still taking great care of my garden, Miss Simmons."

She looked up to see Antoine Triplett standing at the edge of the row of plants, hands folded behind his back and a smile on his face.

"Trip!" she exclaimed, setting down her watering can and smiling brightly at him. "What a lovely surprise! I didn't expect to see you here until the afternoon." She strode down the row to meet him. "I trust your journey wasn't too boring?"

Trip's smile widened. "Not at all. I had a good book to keep me busy, and the promise of seeing my two favorite ladies at the end of my travels to," he replied, eyes twinkling.

Jemma's nose scrunched up as her smile grew. "Oh, so I'm one of your favorite ladies, yet you still call me by my last name?" she teased. "If I'm allowed to call you Trip, then surely you can dispense with the formalities and call me Jemma, yes?"

Trip laughed lightly. "Have I earned that right? I don't want to be too forward."

Jemma smiled. "Anyone who is as near and dear to Daisy as you are has more than earned that right. Please, call me Jemma."

"Alright. Jemma," Trip said with a grin. When she beamed at him, pleased, he nodded at the roses. "So, tell me… how're they doing? Have I done enough damage? I hate that I had to leave them to ruin, but-duty called."

Turning to walk back down the row to her watering can, Jemma shook her head. "It's not so bad. They were all a bit dry and wilted, for sure, but nothing a little undivided attention and care couldn't fix." She picked the can back up and bent to water the next pot in line. "Do you have a lot of experience tending plants?"

Trip nodded as he watched her. "My grandfather was a freedman and he taught me all he knew about planting when I was a boy. I started this garden hoping it was something Daisy and I could enjoy together, but she…" He trailed off with a chuckle. "What's the opposite of a green thumb?"

Jemma laughed as she moved on to the next pot. "I believe that would be a black thumb," she said. "I confess I can't see Daisy being very good at this. But I don't mind doing it at all. I rather enjoy it, actually. It keeps me busy."

"And how are you doing?" he asked. "Keeping busy?"

She looked back up at him, her smile faltering slightly. But before she could say anything, she was saved by the door leading back inside to the house opening, and Daisy coming out. "Jemma!" she said brightly, coming toward them. "I thought I might find you out here. There's a lady from the Council downstairs to see you."

"Really?" Jemma asked. She'd had ladies from the Jewish Council of Women come calling before, but it was almost always by appointment. She wasn't expecting anyone that day.

"Yes, really," Daisy affirmed, smiling. "Come on, she's waiting."

"I'll handle this," Trip said, reaching out to take the watering can from Jemma's hands. "I promise you'll come back to find the garden in better condition than when you left it." He winked at them.

Smiling back at him, Jemma let Daisy link their arms together and lead her back into the house. On their way downstairs, she wondered what the lady from the Council wanted. Perhaps she had a new offer for a better teaching job, or even a lead on a position at a laboratory in the city that she had been quietly inquiring about.

"I was speaking to Mary earlier," Daisy said amiably as they descended the front staircase to the foyer. "She said you did a wonderful job on the dress she sent you last week. You'll be a fully-trained seamstress before you know it."

"I only took up the hem," Jemma replied modestly. "Quite a small task, all things considered."

Daisy tutted. "Considering that all you could do when you arrived here was stitch a sampler, I think you're doing great," she said. "And on silk, no less. Though-ah, here we are."

They'd arrived at the entrance to the sitting room. But when they stopped in the doorway, Jemma saw not a woman, but a man in a brown suit standing in front of the fireplace, his back to them, holding a cap in his hands. He turned around at the sound of their entry, and Jemma felt all of the blood drain from her face.

It was Fitz.

He stared at her for what felt like an endless, extended moment, seemingly speechless, before swallowing thickly and licking his lips. "Hello, Jemma," he said quietly.

Jemma stared back at him in something akin to confused horror. It wasn't true; it simply wasn't possible for him to be standing there in front of her. She'd waited, searched everywhere for him, combed through the survivors' list four times over, and there had never been any sign of him. He had died. She'd mourned, cried herself raw, spent countless hours trying to piece her broken heart back together. She'd accepted that he was gone. It was beyond all rational thought and hope for him to be standing in the middle of Daisy's sitting room in broad daylight, looking at her like she was the ghost.

It wasn't real. He wasn't real.

She felt her breathing stutter and pick up speed as her vision tunneled in on him, going spotty around the edges, and suddenly her legs felt dangerously weak. In front of her, Fitz's forehead creased in a frown.

"Jemma?" he said again, worry tinting his voice.

But the room was swimming out of focus, a loud ringing in her ears, and the last thing Jemma heard as the floor tilted up to meet her was Fitz and Daisy both calling out her name in alarm. Then everything went black.

-:-

"You should've told her as soon as I wired you."

"I didn't think she would react this badly! I thought there'd be more... joy ."

"You didn't think…" A soft scoff. "She-she looked at me like…"

A pause. "I didn't think it would be right for me to tell her. I... I wanted her to see with her own eyes."

"Well. Now we see how well that turned out." A deep, heavy sigh.

Jemma struggled to pull herself out of the darkness, a dull ache in the side of her head making her skull throb. She could hear two people speaking, their voices sounding distant and muted as if she were underwater, but couldn't quite pinpoint who they were or what they were discussing. All she knew was that she felt terrible, and that the wounds in her heart that she'd been trying so hard to carefully heal over had been torn afresh. As such, it was tempting to let herself slip back under, where the pain of her grief couldn't reach her, but something stronger compelled her to wake up instead.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on a sofa in the sitting room, several pillows stuffed behind her head. Daisy was perched beside her, leaning over her with a concerned expression that eased when Jemma looked up at her. "There you are," she said gently, smiling. "I was beginning to think I might need to ask Mary to fetch some smelling salts."

Jemma blinked a few times, getting her bearings; then her face crumpled as she remembered what had happened. "Oh, Daisy," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "I must have spent too long out in the sun. I-I've had a funny turn, it made me see things... I-I thought I saw Fitz…"

She sniffled, deeply ashamed that her subconscious was still so tightly fixated on him that overtaxing herself had caused a hallucination. Was this the beginning of a spiral into madness?

An odd look passed over Daisy's face, and she frowned slightly before reaching out to take one of Jemma's hands. "You weren't seeing things, Jemma," she said quietly. "Fitz is really here."

She twisted to look back over her shoulder, and Jemma followed her gaze. She'd been so focused on Daisy that she hadn't noticed the man standing at the edge of the sofa, watching them. And it really was him: Fitz. Dressed in a slightly shabby brown wool suit, still clutching his cap tightly in his hands, worried eyes fixed on her face. Healthy and whole and very, very much alive.

Jemma stared at him, unable to comprehend it. "How?" she croaked, her tears spilling over. "I-I searched, I looked everywhere for you, I-" Her voice cracked and she faltered, barely able to speak past the lump that had risen in her throat. "I asked everyone, but you were gone."

Fitz's face twisted in anguish, and she saw that his knuckles where he gripped his cap had gone white. "I could ask the same of you," he said hoarsely, but there was no accusation in his tone-only deep sadness and loss.

Jemma let go of Daisy's hand to sit up. "What do you mean?"

Fitz swallowed, the same way he had when she'd first walked in the room, and took a step forward. "I saw you safely away on a boat, so I... I didn't understand why-why I didn't see your name on the survivors' list. Daisy-" His eyes flicked briefly off to her before snapping back to Jemma's face. "She said you gave another name."

"I did," Jemma whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. "I gave them yours. Jemma Fitz."

Fitz gaped at her, his jaw going slack as his expression turned stricken. Next to her, Daisy rose from the sofa.

"I'll let you two have some privacy," she said quietly, turning to leave the room. They barely noticed her go. The doors shut behind her with a soft snick , leaving them alone.

In the silence that remained, Jemma pushed herself to her feet and slowly walked forward to close the gap between them. Fitz watched her, looking almost apprehensive, but didn't object when she reached out to take his cap from his hands and set it down on the side table. Then she picked up one of his hands, and held it lightly in hers, staring down at it. It was warm between her fingers, solid and real, his skin just as soft as she remembered it being. That she was even able to hold his hand brought on a fresh wave of tears, and she looked up at him as they slipped down her cheeks.

There was so much she wanted to say to him, to do; she wanted to fling her arms around him, to cry and let all of her emotions out; she wanted to hug him and kiss him, to feel his arms around her and tell him how much she'd missed him-but she felt paralyzed. She was trapped under the weight of the grief she'd been carrying for three months, and having him here in front of her so unexpectedly, alive after all, left her feeling rudderless. She didn't know what to do.

Taking in a deep breath, Jemma squeezed his hand between hers. "How, Fitz?" she asked again, her voice wobbling. "How did you survive? There were hardly any boats left, and-I saw the ship break apart with my own eyes…"

For his part, Fitz didn't look much better than she felt. His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed to be struggling to hold himself together as well. When she spoke, he watched her for a moment, looking hesitant. "It's a bit of a story," he mumbled at last, and Jemma didn't miss the shadow that passed through his eyes.

"I can listen," she urged, squeezing his hand again. "Please."

Fitz nodded, glancing down. Then he shifted so that he was holding her hands in his own, and ran his thumbs across her knuckles before looking back up at her. "Once your boat was gone, I knew that I had to focus on myself," he started. "If I had any hope of making it back to you." He smiled grimly at her. "I found a group of men working to get one of the collapsible boats down from the roof and decided to help. But it didn't go right, and the boat ended up crashing to the deck, bottom up. We tried to get it turned over, but... the water was coming up the deck too quickly and we were washed overboard."

Jemma vividly remembered seeing scores of men being swept into the water as it advanced up the deck, and could still hear the echoes of their cries for help. The knowledge that Fitz had been among them left her horrorstruck.

"The boat came with us," Fitz continued, looking down at their entwined hands. "It floated out overturned. There were so many men trying to climb on top of it, just to get out of the water... anyone who could find purchase did. It was madness." He frowned. "I ended up sitting rather uncomfortably with my feet jammed between the slats and someone standing on top of me, but I didn't care. I was exhausted and frozen to the bone. All I could think about was how glad I was you were safe."

Jemma's gaze caught on his face, the stiff line of his jaw, his softspoken words, the way he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"As the night went on, we started to lose men. They just... gave up they couldn't hold on. Succumbed to the cold. We'd hear a splash, and that was it. I thought I was going to be one of them, honestly." He gave a short, dry laugh. "The boat couldn't carry our weight and it started to sink low in the water until it was up to my knees. I couldn't feel my legs. When I wasn't so bloody consumed by the cold I kept telling myself to keep strong, just a little longer, that help would come and then I could see you again."

New tears fell down her face as she imagined how harrowing Fitz's experience must have been. "Help did arrive," she continued for him, her voice thick.

"Eventually," Fitz replied, nodding. "We'd been put into another boat before the ship got there, and I think we were the last brought on. I remember seeing the ship, and the ladder... but when I tried to stand, I couldn't. It was agony. They were telling me to stand, to grab onto the ropes…" He shook his head. "That's the last thing I remember."

Jemma blinked rapidly, trying to quell even more tears. "I waited," she sniffled, squeezing his hands. "I watched them bring everyone aboard, looking for you, I tried-but I fainted before the last boat." Her breath hitched. "If only I'd waited a little longer-"

Fitz shook his head again, finally looking up at her. "You wouldn't have seen me. They took me straight to the ship's doctor. When I woke up, I was in a proper bed with my feet in bandages and a terrible fever. My ankles were badly sprained from being,wrenched about on the boat, and I'd gotten frostbite in the water. I was very sick." He gave her an apologetic look. "I was taken to the hospital when the ship docked here in New York, too. And... and that's where I was when I read an announcement for your memorial service in the society pages of the paper."

Jemma's heart sank. "Oh no," she whispered.

He sucked in a shaky breath, looking terribly pained. "I couldn't leave the hospital, I hadn't heard from you, and I had no idea how to find you... so I started looking through the paper for anything. I was desperate." His eyes begged her to understand. "And one day, there it was: 'We regret to announce the death of Miss Jemma Anne Simmons, young bride-to-be of Mr. Grant Douglas Ward of the Boston Wards, who tragically perished in the sinking of the great ocean liner Titanic last week.'"

Fitz said it as though the words had been permanently burned into his memory, like they had haunted him and kept him awake at night. It was only then that Jemma fully took notice of the faint shadows smudged beneath his eyes and the pale cast to his skin-a reflection of what she saw on her own face every day in the mirror. He'd thought she had died, too, and he'd clearly suffered for it, just as she had suffered mourning him.

"So as soon as I was released from the hospital, I went back home to Belfast," Fitz said with a sad, lame shrug, finishing his story. "And…" He sighed heavily. "I-I tried to go on with my life."

Jemma felt the urge to hug him again, to take his sorrow away, but something about the way he was holding himself-hesitant, shut off, and withdrawn-kept her from doing so. Instead, she asked the last questions she had.

"But-then why are you here? How?"

His eyes flicked up to hers for an instant before darting away again, an emotion she couldn't read passing across his face. "I, ah... well... Daisy had shown me a great kindness, on the ship," he said, rubbing one hand at the side of his neck. "I felt that perhaps I could trust her, and... after an appropriate amount of time had passed, I sent her a telegram. I thought-I felt-well, she'd been a friend to your family, so she might know... where you were buried. Or if there was a memorial. And if it was in England, I thought that maybe, someday... I might visit and pay my respects."

Jemma's face crumpled all over again as she fought to keep from completely dissolving into tears once more. She was never going to stop crying, not at at this rate. It was all too much. Fitz's tale of narrow survival, his clear heartbreak at learning of her death, the pain in his voice as he recounted asking about her grave... it tugged too harshly at her, reminding her of all the ways she had struggled to pick up the pieces and move on in the wake of losing him. And there was despair, too, at the futility of it all-if only she had managed to stay awake just a little longer on the Carpathia , then she might have seen Fitz in that last boat as he was brought aboard, and spared them both months of unbearable heartache.

"She immediately replied that you were alive," Fitz said, awe and disbelief tinting his voice. "Then she wired me a month's rent and wages and booked me a ticket on the first steamer here. And... well, here I am."

Jemma took a deep breath, shaking her head as the full brunt of the story hit her, and took a step away to try and clear her mind. "I wish Daisy had told me," she said, bitterness creeping into her tone. "Then I would have known , and I-I would have had time to prepare, and this wouldn't have been such a... a shock."

When she looked back at him, Fitz's face had turned grim. "I... see," he said carefully. Then he inhaled, looking back down. "I know my absence has caused you a lot of pain. I… I would understand if you no longer wanted to see me."

"No longer wanted..." she started, trailing off. She swallowed and took in another deep breath before stepping forward and grasping his hands tightly between hers. "I never want you to leave me again."

Hope flared in his expression, but his brows furrowed as he studied her face. "But you said it was-a shock. To see me. I wouldn't-"

"It's because I never dreamed that I would see you again," Jemma said, struggling to hold back another wave of tears. "There was nothing I could do to make it stop hurting. Not even for a second."

Fitz's expression became tender then, and he reached up to gently brush away her tears with his thumbs. "I won't lie, it was-" He swallowed. "Terrible, but we're here, now. Together."

She nodded, tilting her cheek into his touch, finally starting to believe that this was real-that the future they'd envisioned together wasn't lost. It had just been delayed a little.

"I love you," she blurted, dizzy relief coursing through her at finally being able to say the words. "I'm so sorry I never said it, before. I couldn't stop thinking about it, how I never got the chance, and the thought that you'd died, not knowing that I loved you... it tore me apart."

Fitz smiled, surprise shining from his face as much as joy. "Oh, Jemma. I knew. I promise, I knew. And I love you, too."

Then he tilted her face up and leaned in to press his mouth to hers in a sweet kiss. Jemma immediately sank into it, sliding her hands up to curl around the back of his neck as the embrace quickly turned more fervent. Fitz wrapped his arms around her back, holding her close, and Jemma let herself get lost in the sensation of his lips moving over hers, the warmth of his body, the overwhelming joy of finally being home. This was all she had wanted in his absence, to be held by him again, to taste his kiss. Now that she had it back, the cobwebs of her sorrow were quickly being swept away by effervescent happiness.

When they finally broke apart, slightly breathless, Fitz rested his forehead against hers. "Do you think you can give me another chance?" he asked, eyes bright. "Will you come with me back to Belfast? Without Mr. Andrews and my designs, I don't have an apprenticeship, but... maybe we can still try for the things we dreamed about, you and I. Together."

Jemma was smiling so widely her cheeks hurt. "Of course I will, Fitz. You're alive! If you asked me to, right now I could fly."

His smile lighting up to match hers, Fitz kissed her again, short but firm and giddy. Then he said, with a touch of nerves, "And... perhaps we could make the name you took honest, too. If you like." When she gave him a questioning look, he released her and reached into his inner jacket pocket to pull out a small, knotted white handkerchief. Undoing it, he plucked a small object from the center and held it out to her: In his palm lay a shining gold ring.

"It was my mother's," he said, watching her closely. "You don't have to accept, but-I think she would want you to have it. I know we've had so little time together, but you know I love you, and-you're brilliant, and beautiful, and amazing and kind and witty. Nothing would make me happier than for you to come home with me as my wife."

There were tears brimming in Jemma's eyes again, but this time, they were tears of joy. "Oh, Fitz," she breathed, her voice catching, " Yes . A million times, yes."

She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and Fitz let out a soft laugh of happy disbelief as he hugged her back, the ring still clutched in his hand. When she let go, Fitz took her hand in his and carefully slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit nearly perfectly. They both looked at it for a moment, the gold glinting against her pale skin, before looking back up at each other and smiling.

"We should go tell Daisy," Jemma said, feeling excitement twine through her. "She'll be so thrilled. She did like you, you know."

"I'd hope so," Fitz replied, shifting on his feet and ducking his head bashfully. "She took care of everything so I could come here for you."

Jemma nodded. "She's been a good friend," she said quietly, thinking of how Daisy had been so thoughtful and attentive to her needs while she'd been healing. But no matter-the time for grieving was past. She had Fitz back, and a world of possibility lay ahead of them now. It felt like both an end and a beginning: A final end to the unhappy life she had led and the sadness and grief that had punctuated her days after the sinking, and a beginning to all of the hopes and dreams she and Fitz could finally set out to accomplish together.

"Well." Jemma held out her hand and smiled. "Shall we go find her, my husband-to-be?"

Fitz smiled back at her, bright and dazzling, and the way it transformed his face took her breath away. "Yes, I think we should," he replied, taking her hand. "My wife-to-be. Let's go."

With that, they walked hand-in-hand to the door and out into the entryway, heading toward their future and all of the days they had now promised one another, eager to see where life and love would bring them-together.

And here we are! You made it to the end!

On a historical note: for anyone curious about Fitz's tale of survival, it is absolutely a thing that really did happen. The story of Collapsible Lifeboat B has always been one of my favorite bits of Titanic lore, and in planning this fic I immediately knew that was how I wanted to get Fitz off the ship. It was actually depicted in the James Cameron film, if you know where to look-both in the final cut of the movie (here, here, and here) and in deleted scenes. I borrowed Fitz's injuries from junior wireless operator Harold Bride (shown here being carried off the Carpathia with his feet in bandages), who survived the sinking atop Collapsible B and whose account of the night I used as inspiration for Fitz's story.