Apologies that I am late this week, Dear Readers; this chapter needed some careful attention, so I had to spend extra editing time to make sure it was right ;)

To my guest reader: I'm so glad the themes of classism and social inequality resonated with you! Oh, I could write an essay on that topic as it relates to the Titanic! (Maybe I have below, haha). Cameron's Titanic accurately shows that classism was prevalent in Edwardian times - and you can see the casual dismissal of the lower classes in publications from that time period as well. If you were lucky enough to be a third-class woman and survive the disaster, you might have read statements like these when you arrived in America:

"It is customary in cases of this kind for the women to be saved first; even the women in the steerage would be taken off before the men passengers of the first and second cabin" (my emphasis) - Philip Franklin, American vice president of IMM, which owned White Star.

Or worse, this:

[men of] "high birth and ideals threw away their lives so that women whom they had never seen - women of the steerage - might be saved." - "J.F.H. ." Editorial. New York Sun. April 21. 1912.

The unspoken belief being, of course, that rich men, who contributed more to society, should have been saved before women of poor birth.

I wanted Corrine to be a third-class passenger for three reasons: 1) because I find I can't relate to wealthy Edwardians at all; 2) the experience of third-class passengers, a source of fascination to me, is sometimes overlooked in history and fiction; and 3) because the difference in classes between our two protagonists adds some tension - especially when you factor in the unequal treatment of the steerage passengers during the sinking. In the story, Corrine is painfully aware of her lower social status, and although it personally doesn't matter to her one whit, she knows that it has the potential to impact her relationship with Harry. It's why she kept telling herself in the beginning that a fancy ship's officer would never be interested in her; such things just weren't done then. Harry's not oblivious to the class differences... he's just decided that he doesn't care, which I think fits with RealLowe's personality. Margaret Brown relays this statement from RealLowe on the Carpathia: "...they [the ship's officers] saw to it that, among those who were saved would not be any of the 'rich nabobs', again reiterating the same, adding, 'We saw to it that they would take their chances with good men'." As to how much this will play a role in #harrine's story... well, we'll just have to wait and see ;) There is definitely some 'unease' (the title of this chapter!) between them under the surface, and several different causes for it. Which brings me to...

Rose1421 (thanks for writing, by the way! Lovely to hear from you!): you may be onto something there with Harry and the reason for his distance. The thing is, there is a LOT going on in his head, and in this chapter we get a wee peek in there to see what he's been struggling with.

Oh Rosie, my dear friend... I hope you are ready for this... both parts of it...!

The first sentence gives it away - there's going to be some smut in this chapter ;) And some cussing on Harry's part.

On their way back to her cabin, Corrine decided that she was going to seduce Harry.

Not that she knew exactly how, of course. But she had had enough of waiting for him to make the first move. And she had a pretty good idea of what she needed to do: a sultry look here, an accidental brush of her hand there, some clothing that happened to come off... she could manage it, she thought. She could tell that he wanted her, too - at least, most of the time, when his self-control wasn't getting in the way, that is. She would have to do something about that tonight. She smiled wickedly to herself. At last, she would know what it felt like to make love to him... at last, he would be hers, truly hers. But underneath her calculated scheming was an undercurrent that she didn't want to admit, even to herself: finally, it would put her insecurities about him to rest once and for all. Finally, she wouldn't have to feel inferior to all the women who came before her - or anyone who was trying to win him over now.

She pushed away the disturbing memories of the afternoon, the lingering doubts about whether she deserved him. Soon, she wouldn't have to think about any of that ever again.

They passed the remainder of the walk to the room in uncharacteristic silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Once he escorted her inside, she shut the door deliberately - and locked it. The move wasn't lost on Harry, who looked suddenly uneasy.

She crossed the room, moved the chair, and stood in front of the bed. "Harry," she purred, "I'm going to need your assistance while I take off this dress."

The pretense, and the backdrop of the bed, gave her away instantly. He tried to protest: "Corrine, I shouldn't... I can't-"

"Well, you helped me put it on," she interrupted, pushing her bottom lip out in a pretty pout. "How am I supposed to get undressed without you? And it's feeling... so... restrictive all of a sudden." The last was said in a low, breathy voice.

Her words and tone were chosen deliberately, and she saw the effect they had on him. He swallowed, and she noticed his heart rate accelerate in the pulse of his neck. "Corrine..." he warned. "You're still quite weak, and you very nearly died. We have to control ourselves."

"I'll behave, I promise," she said lightly. She crossed her fingers behind her back. She would do no such thing, of course.

He nodded reluctantly, and she turned so that her back was facing him. He fumbled with the first button, loosening it at last. While he was working on the next one, she casually leaned her lower body into him. He cursed and jerked back, but not before she felt the stiffness in the front of his trousers. Good. Her plan was working perfectly, then. Unseen by him, she smiled triumphantly.

But it was not as easy as she had anticipated to maintain control of the situation. The brush of his fingertips on her back as he worked his way past her shoulder blades and then lower sent shivers shuddering down her spine. She let out a low moan, and it was not playacting this time, not a ruse to manipulate him. His nearness was like a drug, and she was helpless in its all-consuming power. She knew that he was feeling the effects as well. His fingers shook as he slowly unfastened each tiny button. Right after he finished the last one, he bent over her neck. She could feel his warm breath tickling the hairs on her nape as he hesitated, breathing heavily. Then, with a helpless groan, he brushed a kiss onto her exposed skin. One, and then another... and she was turning, looking into those fathomless, expressive dark eyes as he surrendered to her entirely.

Their mouths met in a mutual frantic accord, devouring the distance and drowning all the pain that had come between them. He pulled the pins from her upswept hair and it fell cascading down her back. Wrapping his fingers in it, he trapped her head between his hands as he plundered her lips with his own.

She fell headlong into the kiss, her yearning for him carrying her away in flood of emotions that had been pent up for far too long. She had been waiting for this moment ever since she had woken from her lengthy period of unconsciousness, and she wasn't about to hold back. Her tongue pressed into the seam of his lips insistently, and when they parted for her, she delved into his mouth, exploring its depths. She savored his taste, the warmth of his lips and breath, the movement of his mouth in time with hers.

The heat rising between them was threatening to obliterate her every thought, but she regained her senses momentarily and remembered her objective: to lure him into bed. And with that came the realization that there were far too many layers of clothing in the way. As much as she had wanted that dress on earlier, now she wanted it off, and she broke away from him briefly, slipping it from her shoulders. It fell to a heap on the floor, and she stepped out of it, clad now only in her undergarments and her petticoat. She slid the petticoat down her hips as well and stood before him, waiting.

Her near-nudity ignited a wildfire in his eyes. His hands clenched at his sides in a vain attempt to stop himself from reaching for her. "Don't..." he pleaded with her one last time, but she overrode his objections and took a deliberate step toward him.

She pressed her soft curves against the hard planes of his body, and his control snapped. He crushed her against him, and it was all she could do to keep breathing as his mouth seared hers with such fervor and raw passion that her knees quavered. His eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, rolled back in his head as he groaned and ground himself against her, seeking to increase the contact and friction between their bodies.

He wanted her - she could feel it very clearly - and it made her wild, reckless, desperate. Her hands and her mouth tugged at him, demanding, and he responded in turn, his hands groping over her body as he ravaged her mouth. Her little whimpering sounds of pleasure at his aggressiveness only increased his frenzy; he seemed driven nearly mad with lust.

He reached up to cup her breasts, caressing her nipples roughly with his thumbs through her chemise, and she gasped as the spot between her thighs throbbed with sudden, urgent need. His hands left her breasts to grab her buttocks and then slid lower, to the tops of the back of her thighs. She lifted one leg and placed it on the bed, allowing him access, and he hissed in a breath as his hand brushed the thin cloth covering her and felt the dampness there. She threw her head back and moaned deliriously as his mouth left hers to roam freely over her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and then trailing lower, to the top of her chest right above the swell of her breasts... while his hand inched ever so close to her aching center...

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought she might faint. Through the haze of her own lust, she realized that the moment had finally come - any minute now he was going to push her onto the bed and take her. She had him in thrall now, she was certain of it. Her hands slid to his waist, to the front of his trousers, and fumbled for his belt buckle.

He gasped suddenly as if doused with cold water and stepped back away from her grasping hands. "No, Corrine," he croaked, eyes wide with alarm. "I can't... If you touch me, I don't know if I can stop..."

"What if I don't want you to?" she whispered, reaching for him again.

His caught her hand and lowered it firmly to her side. His body was trembling from head to toe. "No, Corrine," he insisted again. "Not now, not like this..."

He exhaled loudly, running his hands through his hair. Turning away from her, he faced the door for several long minutes. She watched the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he slowly calmed himself.

When he turned back around, his face was perfectly smooth. The heat that had bloomed in his cheeks earlier had subsided, the wildness in his eyes was gone. "There will be plenty of time for us to be together once we reach New York." And yet... he was evading her eyes, as if he weren't quite being honest with her.

Wet, aching, and miserable, she sat, wincing as her overly-sensitive body touched the edge of the bed, and studied him. There was a noticeable bulge in the front of his trousers that accentuated the wet spot where his need had leaked through. A quick glance down confirmed that her own skin was still flushed pink, her nipples pointy and hard beneath the flimsy chemise. They both wanted it. Why was he holding himself back from her?

She tried one last time. "I can give you what you need, Harry. Please, let me show you..." she implored.

"I'm sorry, Corrine. I shouldn't have... I- I have to go," he stammered. He moved toward the door, fumbled with the lock, and finally flicked it open. "I"m sorry," he said again quietly, and then was gone.

She sat there for some time without moving, a tempest of humiliation and confusion. She had thrown herself at him - practically begging to give her body to him - and he had refused her. Why? An unwanted, unbidden doubt slivered its way into her thoughts: maybe he thought her fumbling, amateur attempts at seduction were embarrassing and ridiculous. Maybe she had done something to offend or disgust him. Or maybe, her mind insisted sadistically, maybe he's not in love with you the way you are with him.

She threw herself face-down on the bed, ignoring her aching breasts, and groaned into the mattress. All she had wanted was a chance to cement her place in his life... and instead, she had mucked it up entirely.

How were they ever going to get past this?

Damn. Shit. Fuck.

He just couldn't stop mucking it up, could he?

Harold paced back and forth on the promenade deck outside of Corrine's room. He should go back in there... he should take her in his arms and shag her senseless - hell, he was still hard as a rock- ... no, he should walk away from her and never look back. It would be in her best interests, anyway. He was a right mess, might as well admit it.

He had seen the look on her face as he closed the door. Her usual lively expression was strained, her eyes pinched with confusion and sadness. But what could he do? He couldn't take advantage of her like that... not when he knew that she was throwing herself at him because of a situation he alone had created.

He groaned in frustration. What a fucking knob he was! That comment about the corsets - what the hell had he been thinking? That was foolish enough, but those women abovedecks... he cursed himself once again. He should've known better than to bring her there. He had recognized the predatory looks on some of their faces right away - and apparently Corrine had eventually as well. Ironically, there was a time not too long ago that he would have eagerly capitulated. The opportunities for casual encounters had presented themselves frequently enough that he had learned to avail himself of them every chance he could - once he was ashore, of course. But he never should have exposed her to that. She was so sweet, and so innocent - it was one of the many things he adored about her. She didn't need to see what the world was really like - what his life was like before he met her. But now she knew, all right, and he saw the hurt and realization in her eyes as she processed it all.

Everything that happened today was all his fault; he had made her feel insecure, and in turn she had felt driven to seduce him - to prove herself to him. He saw it all too clearly in her eyes as she locked the door to her room and posed by the bed; she was practically pleading with him to make love to her, to provide her with the reassurance she desperately needed.

And to his disgust, he almost did just that - and not in mindless pursuit of his own selfish gratification, either. Nor was it merely because his profound feelings for her made him crave that physical connection, although that was definitely a part of it. No, he wanted so badly to bury himself in her, even though it would mean deflowering her and spoiling her purity, because maybe, just maybe, he would be able to forget everything in her arms...

He hated himself for even thinking it. He hated himself for everything lately.

He paused in his restless wandering and stared unseeing at the horizon, the beautiful golden hues of the late-afternoon sky a sharp contrast to the darkness that had enveloped his heart and threatened to steal his sanity in the past few days.

The shadow had come on him unexpectedly. It had been only a pinpoint at first, the slightest twinge of gloom and remorse, but it had steadily grown, pooling in the depths of his soul until it became a foul, festering wound that not even Corrine's bright light could touch. He had hidden it well from her, he knew... but when he was alone, he could admit the truth that had insidiously wormed its way into his consciousness: he was not, and might never again be, the man he was before the sinking. His life had been shattered into pieces in the span of a few hours, and it felt like those pieces would never go back together the way they were before.

At first, his fear for Corrine's safety, his frantic search for her, and his relief at her miraculous survival had, for a time, overshadowed everything. In addition, he had been running on pure adrenaline for so long that he hadn't been able to feel anything else.

But once he was certain that Corrine would live, he had had a chance to take stock of his surroundings, and the full weight of the tragedy finally began to sink in. He saw weeping widows everywhere - some, he knew, who had lost their husbands because he refused to let their men board his boat. And there had been room, even in his own crowded lifeboat, for a few more. He recalled the unoccupied seats in the boats he had filled with Murdoch on the starboard side, as well as the ones in his flotilla - enough that he had been able to find space for his passengers among them when he returned to search for survivors. True, the officers had done the best they could despite the passengers' initial reluctance to abandon ship and the urgent need to launch all the boats before the Titanic sank. Still, the lifeboats hadn't been filled to capacity... and even though there wasn't much Harold himself could have done about that, his conscience still pricked him on the subject.

But the rescue attempt... well, that failure fell squarely on his own shoulders. There was no use in trying to banish the thoughts that were chasing themselves around in his head; he let them overtake him, bracing himself for the familiar litany he knew was coming, for the self-censure he surely deserved. The same thoughts, over and over: he should have come up with the idea earlier, made the passengers move faster, found the wreckage sooner, chased the cries of the dying in the water more effectively, saved more people...

But he had been too late. Too late to make a real difference, to do more than sift through frozen bodies in an agony of self-condemnation.

And overriding all of his regrets was the nagging thought that refused to stop plaguing him: would he have gone back at all if he weren't so desperate to find Corrine?

He pushed that one away immediately, as he always did. There was a chance that he wouldn't be able to live with himself at all if he answered that question in the negative... because the guilt of knowing the truth might eat him alive.

Resolutely he continued to pick at the edges of his raw emotions, deriving a perverse sort of satisfaction in his own pain and hoping that punishing himself would somehow keep the ghosts at bay. It wasn't just the needless death of so many passengers that was haunting him; he also mourned the loss of his fellow officers. In addition to the captain, the chief officer, Wilde, had also died. But it was the loss of Murdoch and Moody that hurt the most. Murdoch's skill and diligence, his calm, quiet, inspiring leadership, had won Harold's high regard - and his loyalty - during their brief time together... and sadly, these same admirable traits had also ultimately led to the man's demise. The guilt and responsibility Murdoch felt for the collision had sat heavily on his shoulders - Harold had seen it in his eyes that night - and it was his unwavering sense of duty and honor that made the first officer feel obligated to go down with his ship.

And Moody - Harold squeezed his eyes shut in pain at the thought. He had genuinely liked the young bloke, so full of enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonder. Moody had made him feel welcome from the start, had treated him with kindness, and had disregarded Harold's reticence with an easy, natural friendliness that had been surprisingly endearing. Although the two of them couldn't have been more different, they had become close on the journey. It had been a cruel blow indeed when Harold found out that he had perished; the man had been Harold's junior, and by all rights he should have left the ship before him.

But Harold had survived. He was one of the lucky ones... wasn't he?

So why then was he choking on the overwhelming sense of loss? Why had his mind become a prison of torment and agony, replaying over and over the images and sounds from that night, the ones that haunted both his waking and sleeping hours without ceasing?

...Corrine, stretching her arm out in a futile attempt to reach him as he descended in a lifeboat...

...the roar over the water as everything tore loose from the ship in her death throes...

...the screams and moans and pleas from the abandoned in the sea...

...the mother and baby he had seen frozen to death, bumping into the side of his boat...

...Corrine, lying so white and still in the swamped collapsible...

He pressed his hands to the sides of his head to try and block it out, to keep the memories at bay, but it was futile; they washed over him in a wave, relentless and brutal. His breathing became shallow and his skin broke out into a clammy sweat. Frantic, he tried to fight the demons wrestling for his soul... but he was pathetic, weak, powerless to overcome the wretched sensation engulfing him. The panic made him feel dizzy and sick, and he swayed on his feet, seeing blackness at the edges of his vision.

For the first time in his life, he wished for a stiff drink. He needed something, anything, to make this feeling go away...

Suddenly, he was running, his feet flying over the freshly polished wood. He had to get away... to escape the past, his own mind. He sprinted past startled passengers and crewmembers, leaping over lines and dodging cranes and hatches. He reached the poop deck without any memory of having done so, panting as he threw himself on the stern railing, facing the churning water below. He stared, unseeing, remembering...

When he was thirteen, he had stolen the family punt from its mooring in Aberamffra and taken it for a sail. He had known it would be risky, given the blustery weather, but he had wanted to test himself. Sure enough, the wind picked up, the boat capsized, and Harold was thrown into the sea, wearing his clothes and heavy boots. He was half a mile from shore, and he panicked, feeling the drag of his gear pulling him under. As the waves lapped his head and he flailed ineffectually, his mind suddenly cleared. Despite the desperate situation, he took deliberate, slow breaths, and felt a strange calm overtake him. It allowed him to think clearly once again, and he decided that he would win - he would beat the sea, and live, no matter the cost. He started swimming, one stroke at a time, slowly creeping back to the shore over half a mile away. Steady breaths... steady strokes... he was so intensely focused that he didn't register he had reached land until his shoulder struck the soft sand. He had received a sound thrashing from his furious father, who had already lost his oldest son to an accidental drowning, but the experience had been transformative. That day, he learned that the sea offered him both life and death, and he had devoted himself to it ever since.

And now he needed it to be his salvation once again.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the salt water as he had that day so long ago. Gradually, his pounding heart slowed, and he felt that same sense of serenity and purpose return. He stood there for some time, looking out to the sea, feeling the spray on his face as his body slowly relaxed, letting the water heal and soothe his raw soul.

Once he was able to think clearly again, his thoughts returned to Corrine. The water wasn't the only source of his peace now, he realized. She, too, had to power to make the pain go away. The times he had spent with her here, on this ship, telling stories and confiding in one another, had been his only respite - the only time he had felt whole again - since the night he had woken to find the world falling apart. He pictured her eyes in his mind, so very like the sea he loved so much, and his resolve hardened. He would go to her. He would explain everything, and they would-

"There you are, old man," said a voice behind him. Composing his features with an effort, Harold turned to see Pitman striding toward him. "It's time for our meeting with Ismay."

Harold suppressed a groan. He had forgotten all about it. He had detested the White Star executive even before he knew who he was, back when Harold was lowering Titanic's lifeboats and he was just an anonymous nutter bouncing all over the deck getting in his way. But his dislike had only grown after he heard about Ismay's behavior aboard the Carpathia. It was said that the man hid himself away in Dr. McGee's cabin, talking to no one, in the throes of a nervous breakdown. A nervous breakdown? When he had taken a spot in one of the last lifeboats, while hundreds of women and children - his company's passengers - remained stranded on the ship? He had no sympathy - and certainly no tolerance - for a man like that.

And yet... was he any different?

Vainly, he tried to suppress his traitorous mind, but the questions came anyway, pummeling him with their brutality. Why did he survive, when so many others died? Shouldn't he, too, have gone down with the ship, like the other officers? Wasn't that his duty?

Guilt came crashing down, smothering him under its weight. Oh, if they only knew how unworthy he was - all those people who praised him, who thanked him...

You're a hero, Mr. Lowe...

The only officer that did anything...

He was so brave, going back for those poor people...

Thank you, Harold, for saving us...

Panic welled up in his throat again. He was no hero; he was selfish, cowardly, and weak. Why couldn't they see that?

Pitman was still waiting, watching him closely. His fellow officers had noticed something different about him in the past few days, but luckily they didn't know him well enough to comment. Only Lightoller, who knew who and what Corrine was to him, and knew better than most what Harold had seen in the aftermath of the sinking, seemed to understand him. But even Lightoller was wary of the strange shiftings in Harold's mood, and although he looked like he would once or twice, he hadn't dared broach the subject.

He couldn't tell them. He had to keep it hidden; they would never understand, might even despise him if they learned who he really was.

Taking a deep breath, and giving Pitman what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Harold nodded. "Let's be off, then."

Crushed by feelings of shame, worthlessness, and self-hatred, he followed Pitman to Ismay's room.

The story about the punt is true, and recorded in both Wyn Craig Wade's book and Inger Sheil's biography. Unfortunately, not much is known about the incident other than that RealLowe swam to shore for a half mile in his boots after the punt capsized. As usual, I have embellished details to flesh out the story.

You can see now why you haven't been allowed inside our hero's head space since before 'Chaos'. It's because it's ugly in there. Although Corrine has suffered more physically, in some ways she is better off than Harry - at least her conscience is clear. And while I do not personally endorse Harry's viewpoint about the disaster and his resulting actions, I portrayed it this way because I think it would be highly plausible, given the particular set of circumstances and his unique role in them, for him to feel survivor's guilt.

And THIS - the aftermath of the tragedy, and its profound effects on the survivors - is the story I've always wanted to tell.