Clara Dawson

A/n: Heya, guys! I told you I would update this weekend...and I'm pretty excited about it, too. I have no idea why, but hey, I am, so that's great, lol. I want to tell you all thank-you, thank-you, THANK-YOU for all the reviews. You're all the best...and I'm sorry for getting your hopes up like that about Jack and Rose...but you'll come to see I've got my own plan for this story...so the best thing to expect would be to...expect nothing! lol I'm a nut...sorry. I know you don't want to hear about my life...but I just let this guy I really liked go...after many, many months. Long story, but let's just say he sucks...and he's not worth my time anymore! -big smile- It's nice to finally let him go. Yeee-haw...! Ahem. Sorry. What say you we get onto the newest chapter? I have a feeling I'll be done typing it in oh, say three hours after writing this little note...heh heh.

Much, much love,

Rory

-Edited 2-

Disclaimer: I own nothing Titanic. Mhmm.

Chapter Twenty-one

I shuffled my food around on my plate, and tried to find the words to begin this. I couldn't find any that seemed worth saying enough to ruin the happy mood my mother was in. I was always, always thinking of others, dammit. Why not think about my needs for once? I put my fork down and forced myself to look at her. Best to be abrupt about it, I supposed. Catch her off her guard. Give her no time to think up some lie to comfort me. I wanted the truth, and I was going to get it, so help me!

"Did he die on Titanic, Mum?" Her fork clattered to the floor at my words.

She wouldn't look at me, but she had gone as white as a sheet.

"Wh-What did you say?"

"Did my father die on Titanic?" I couldn't keep the impatience from my voice.

My mother looked like she wanted to cry. "How did you know about that?"

"Know about Titanic? I've always known about it, Mum. I'm not daft. The idea just recently dawned on me that my father could have been on it. And you. The time frame fits. I've figured it over and over in my head millions of times. Tell me the truth. Did he die on Titanic?"

"Yes." She said this so, so quietly. And then she got out of her seat, and walked to her room like a zombie. I heard her crying all through the night.

& & &

I was angry at the world, and I never wanted to see it again. I didn't want to see anyone again, and I didn't know if the feeling would ever pass. I hadn't been able to take my mother's muffled sobs, or the guilt that came to me through them. All I wanted to do was comfort her, but I knew I was the cause of it. I had snuck out my window, like some burglar, for the first time in my life.

I didn't even want to see the beach. Or, even, Daniel. Knowing I could disappear in the crowds, I decided to go into town and 'enjoy the night life'. I wasn't in the mood to be around people, but I knew I would be faceless to them. And that's just what I needed. Surprisingly, many people were indoors tonight. Usually, there would be a huge crowd around the pub. Now there were barely six men standing there. They whistled as I passed, and I knew they were drunk, so I ignored it. I was in a daze, really. And I didn't know what to do. I didn't realize that I had wrapped my arms around myself, in a protective gesture, either. I didn't realize how distressed I really was, until my attention was taken back to Earth by my bumping into someone.

I expected to fall to the ground, and I almost hoped that I would break a bone in the process. That I would feel something besides numb and dazed. It didn't happen. Hands grabbed my arms to steady me, and without looking up or apologizing, I shoved them off, and began to jog away. I had no choice but to stop when I heard Jack's voice telling me to do so. He sounded wary, confused, and even a bit angry. Weren't you always supposed to recognize things like that in a person's voice only when you knew them like the back of your hand? Well, it wasn't that way with Jack. It seemed almost instinctual, to recognize the tones of his voice. The strange feeling that it was natural, again came over me.

I may have stopped, but I didn't turn around, ready to sprint away at any minute. He must have sensed it because he grabbed my arm and dragged me for blocks, to some small and run-down house. He unlocked the door, and I guessed it was his home. He didn't let go of me, until he had shoved me into a cushy chair, and sat down on a couch across from me, glaring daggers. I ignored him.

His house was small, but quaint. Very...Jack. My chilled nerves were warming up by the burning fire in the hearth, and I was coming back to my senses. I still felt Jack staring at me. And I knew I was in trouble. A surge of anger shot through me. Who did he think he was, being angry with me? He wasn't my father! My father was dead. Dead, dead, dead! I couldn't hold back anymore. I began to sob, like a little girl whose dreams had been broken. And they had, in a way. I had always had some hope that maybe my father wasn't really dead after all, only a little lost. And that someday he would find my mother and I, and everything would be okay. Not having an explanation of his death, had given me hope. And now that I had one, that hope was squashed. I wanted to see him, hear him, just once.

I covered my face in my hands, and I fought to control the tears. It wasn't working. I felt Jack lift me into his arms, and go back to the sofa. He held me close, and told me that whatever was going on, it'd be okay. He was there, and I'd be fine. It was the first time I had ever cried for my father, and Jack was telling me that it was okay to grieve, even though he didn't know that I was. And a weight was being lifted from my heart, at the same time. Somehow, Jack had become my father. And I was finally being held by him, like my real father never got to do, like I never got to know. And I finally felt a sense of security, a protection, I had never known. And besides all that, Jack didn't seem angry anymore.

& & &

I was wrong, about the Jack not being angry part. After I had calmed down, and dried my tears, he had looked, again, like he wanted to throttle me. And I didn't mind. It actually made me feel cared for; like he was my father even more. His feelings were completely paternal, and I once again wondered how a basic stranger, could have a bond with my like that.

He wanted an explanation, I knew. I got up from the sofa and went to stand in front of the fire place, staring into the flames. Where to begin?

I didn't have to worry about that, as Jack made the first move.

"Why in hell were you out this late at night? In town?" Well, I wasn't the only abrupt person in this world!

"I-I was just walking, and-"

"Horse shit, Clara. Give me something more believable." I was offended by his choice of words, but they told me just how angry he was.

"Fine, then. I don't know what the hell I was doing!" He now seemed startled by my loud voice.

"All right, let's both calm down here. What's goin' on? Why were you just crying your heart out a minute ago?"

The tables had turned. Jack was now the one trying to help me. And I, personally, was in no mood for any help.

"It's nothing, Jack. I need to get home, before my mother finds I'm gone-"

"Oh, so you sneaked out, did you? That sounds like me when I was your age."

"Nice to know. But, I really do have to go-"

"Stop. Right. There." My feet froze.

"You're not going anywhere until you give me some sort of an explanation, Clara. And then I'll walk you home."

I opened the door. I didn't know what was coming over me. I had never been this defiant of anyone. I'd never been reckless. But the guilt and the wariness was just too much for me. I was worn out.

"I'm sorry, Jack. But, honestly, I don't have to listen to you."

I had a sleepless night.

& & &

Jack wanted to hit something. What the hell was going on with him? He'd always been good with kids, but he'd never thought of himself as being capable of being a father. This girl was bringing something out of him. He wanted to kill her and protect her all at once. Throw her over his knee, and comfort her all at the same time. He had a connection with this young girl, that went far beyond the short friendship they had. She was having dreams, just like him. A dream that sounded so much like that damning night. And he was having dreams of a house that, had he not been more logical, was hers. Just to remember that dream, to see Rose's face alive with that vibrancy, that fire he so remembered, brought painful tears of grief to his eyes. And that little girl. He almost thought that she could have been theirs, hadn't some fancy ship marketed on a lie, torn them apart.

They had said it was unsinkable. God had a funny sense of humor. Just had to prove them wrong. Horribly wrong. He had had nothing but the clothes on his back, and his best friend when he'd first boarded Titanic sixteen years earlier. And by the time he'd traded the Titanic for the freezing North Atlantic, he'd both gained and lost everything that would ever matter to him in the world: Rose DeWitt Bukater. Something in him had died with her that night. He'd been so self-possessed, self-assured and witty at twenty. Now at thirty-six, he was a man haunted by his past. Not even the fire that had killed his parents when he was fifteen had done this to him. He'd always been like the wind: adept to change. He'd always been able to get himself by.

Now, until Clara, he'd been a ghost of his former self. Walking the Earth, but not alive. Meeting this girl, all that was changing. Jack Dawson, though much changed, was slowly coming back. He sighed and looked into the dying fire. He had come to California, of all places, about a year ago to finally settle down because that was where he and Rose were going to go when the ship docked. He'd figured it was as good a place as any to live out the rest of his life. In a way, he felt it brought him a little closer to her. He had a stable job at an art museum not far from this shack he liked to call home. Hopefully, he'd be promoted to curator, if he was lucky. Not that he needed the money, he'd never much cared for the stuff. It was just some work to give him something to do.

He'd been thinking about Rose more, as of late. And besides that, he was having that dream. He ran a hand through his already tosseled hair. The only reason he'd been out this late was because the damned dream had woken him up, and he couldn't get back to sleep. It was a good thing, too. Who knew what that flighty hellion of a teenage girl would have gotten herself into, otherwise. Why had she been out, in the first place? He'd never gotten an answer. He intended to do just that the next time he saw Miss Clara, whenever that would be.

A/n: Omg, this chapter sucked so horribly at the end! I had to write it from memory. It seems that I stopped writing this chapter in my notebook at the word 'hadn't', and had to go from there, months and months after the chapter is written. And of course, it came out like crap. I'm so mad. The whole chapter did. But, hey I'll be able to update a bit more now, who knows. Yes, I'm ranting, I'm sorry. Anyway, this chapter was heavy on the drama, but that's one of the genres...and I fully intend to live up to both...or more. Please review and tell me what you thought of the Jack part...I sorely need to know. I may rewrite it, I don't know. Ack, I'm really tired, so I'm gonna go. Maybe an update tomorrow. I'll be plotting all night.

And much thanks, to you all, once again.

Rory