Jack still feels out of sorts when he wakes. He's better rested but his mind is still occupied with thoughts of the war, heavier than they have been since his arrival back on US soil, and he knows he'll have to find some way to shake them before Rose becomes worried. He can hear some chatter downstairs— Rose and Josephine giggling about something, and the sound resonates within his heart, buoying him, making him feel that much lighter as he reminds himself that this is his life now. He's far from the trenches, and gets to spend his days with the wife of his dreams and three of the most perfect, beautiful children in existence. He has a family now, and they're here and safe and all his.
Making his way downstairs after getting cleaned up for the day, it's Josephine who excitedly greets him first in the kitchen doorway, throwing her arms around his middle with such force that he has to grip the doorway to keep upright, his bad leg giving a sharp twinge.
"Papa! We missed you," she tells him, and he hugs her back, running a hand through her tangles and trying to keep the grimace of pain from his face.
"Josephine Cora, be careful!" Rose admonishes, before looking up meet Jack's gaze. "Are you alright, Jack?"
He shrugs. "I'm fine! I missed you too, Jo," he tells his daughter, kissing her hair, before moving forward to greet the two infants, settled comfortably in a bassinet that can be carried from room to room— another very generous gift from Molly.
"I also missed you two little ones," he says, his voice rising to a coo as he leans over them, his finger stroking over each of their cheeks as they look back at him with curiosity. He doesn't think there will ever be a time when their bright eyes will cease to send a little thrill of pride and love through him— These amazing little humans— all three of them, are the result of the love he and Rose feel for one-another.
His eyes rise from the twin babies to the woman who had become his wife. Her expression as she watches him with their children had turned tender, and he gives her a smile, his arms automatically going around her as she steps close enough.
If he's still acting oddly she doesn't yet say anything, and instead kisses his cheek, prompting him to turn his head and kiss her on the lips. His emotions are running high right now, with gratitude for this family he gets to have— a blessing which his buddy Charlie never got a chance to experience for himself, and he knows that Charlie had had a fiancé at home waiting for him. He wonders fleetingly what had happened to her, as he hadn't thought to ask Allan.
In his thoughts, he must have looked distant or distracted, because Rose nudges him with her hip and raises a questioning eyebrow.
"Later," he tells her, knowing that he would have to open up about what had happened in New York eventually anyway, but he doesn't want to talk about the perils of war in front of Josephine. If Rose wants to argue, she thinks the better of it, nodding, and changing the subject.
"What are your plans for the day, darling?" She asks him, the endearment sounding natural now. More often than not nowadays, he calls her "sweetheart," if nothing else happens to come to mind off the cuff, and she usually just calls him "darling" or "my love."
"Well," he says, kissing her temple before letting her go and heading towards the coffee percolator still on the stove, "We're running out of time before Christmas, so I was going to take some time today to run a few errands," he says, winking at Josephine who pretends not to appear excited about the prospect of gifts. I know I just got home, but I hope you don't mind a few hours alone with the twins?" he asks her, hoping she'll agree. This particular errand has been on his mind for weeks now and the sooner he gets it out of the way the better for all of them.
"Of course," says Rose, "But are you sure you shouldn't rest some more? You still look exhausted," she tells him, coming closer again to push his hair from his eyes, drawn to him like a magnet. He still feels tired as well, physically and mentally, but he hates the idea of wasting a day.
He kisses her soundly, hoping that it will ease her mind, and with the sudden fuss of one of the twins— John, he thinks, he is able to slip out of the house, coffee in hand.
The day is cold, one of the coldest so far this winter, and as he walks he finds himself pulling his coat in tighter against the chill. Instead of taking the front path down the drive and out towards town, he goes around the back of the house and out towards the workshop he had reconstructed during the summer months where he knows he'll find what he's looking for.
With his mind already in a rough space, he tries not to think about his parents too much as he often does upon entering the workshop— tries not to think about how the tool he's seeking now, an axe, had once belonged to his father and maybe even his grandfather before that— one of the few tools that had been elsewhere on the property during the fire, and so hadn't burned. Axe in hand, he leaves his coffee on the work bench, already cold from the walk, and makes his way back outside, heading towards the woods beyond the clearing of the yardline. The Dawson property is a lot larger, as he had found out, than he had known as a child, and he is determined to seek out and bring home the most perfect Christmas tree he can find— just as his pa would do when he and Julia were children. He has such fond memories from childhood of watching as his father would drag in a tall fir tree from the cold. They would all decorate it together with tinsel and garland, and every day for the few weeks leading up to the holiday a new little gift would appear under the tree for Christmas morning— sometimes for him or his sister, and sometimes it would be his parents giving little parcels to one another. It was a warm and cheery time, and he knows that neither he nor Rose have had many decent Christmases in the decade they had been apart, and probably longer for each of them. He's determined to do what he can to turn that around and build new memories for everyone.
Jack isn't sure how far he walks into the woods— a mile, maybe more. He just lets his feet carry him, knowing that when he finds the perfect tree he'll know. He thinks, fleetingly, that maybe he should have brought a cart or something to carry the thing, but figures that its too late now. He hadn't even brought his cane, leaving it in the workshop, knowing that he wouldn't have been able to carry both. If Rose knew that he had left it, or even what he's out here doing alone she would be livid. She's always insisting that he's too stubborn about his leg, and while he knows that she's probably right that doesn't stop him from wanting to do things like this to see the joy on all of his family members' faces. This will be the first real Christmas any of them have had since fifteen or sixteen.
After a bit more time searching he finds the perfect small pine— the one that is just screaming to be taken in and decorated, and with the old axe, chopping it down is easy enough. It's the trek back that is the real work, and the cold is starting to bite, a seasonal snow storm is blowing in from the north and the flurries are starting already. Despite the effort it takes to haul the carry the thing back, bundled with twine he had brought along to keep the branches looking nice, he feels his spirit lightening with the work— he's back at home and doing his favorite thing, which is anything for the people he loves.
His thoughts are on home, and the possibility of a nap by the first later with the infants when he hears the noise, and his body reacts before his mind can. Its gunfire— several shots— ringing out through the woods. The birds around him take flight voicing their protest, and he finds himself flat on the ground, face down, hands raising to cover his head. He has dropped the sapling in the mean time, the weight of it crashing into his shin painfully as he moved to duck and cover. The sound of the shot has sweat building on the back of his neck, and ice running through his veins, heart pounding as he tries to steady his breathing.
This has not happened to him in a very long time— not since before returning here to Wisconsin at least— the aftershocks of war. The reactions are involuntary and instant. One moment he would be going about his day, and the next would find him cowering on the ground, hands over his ears as if he were back in the trenches triggered by nothing but a loud noise.
Stupid now, he thinks. He should have considered the possibility of hunters in the woods— anticipated the sound of gunfire and been prepared and ready. As he lets the panic pass and makes to stand again, he feels stupid; downright idiotic. He's a grown man with no control over his reactions, who has been scared witless by noises in the woods.
He can hear voices approaching as he rights himself, gritting his teeth as he assesses his leg which is now in even more pain than it had been.
"Dawson?" a voice calls, approaching. "Jesus, man, I coulda' killed 'ya!"
He turns to find a man named David— someone he had been good friends with once upon a time, and another man from town who's name he thinks might be Paul approaching quickly on foot, rifles slung over their backs. "The way you went down, I thought I hit you!"
"I'm alright," says Jack, raking a hand through his hair to try and mask how he's shaking.
"What the hell are you doing all the way out here?" asks David. "In all that brown I thought you were a deer!"
"What am I doing out here?" asks Jack, feeling incredulous and a little bit defensive. "Dave, you're on my property! I was out here finding a Christmas tree for my kids!" He feels a bit pompous saying it, but its not untrue, and he knows he's trying to be distracting— to do anything to keep the conversation from circling back to to the way he had reacted to the gunfire.
"I— wait, this is your property?" David asks, looking a little shocked. "Shit, Dawson, if I had known—"
Jack shrugs. "Its alright," he says. "You didn't know. To be honest, neither did I until recently."
"It's just— these woods are always the least disturbed," Paul explains, speaking up. "All of the good game seems to wind up here."
David kicks Paul's shin, cursing. "Well that would make sense now, wouldn't it Paul? If these woods are the Dawsons' ain't no one been back here in what?—" he asks, trying to do a sum in his head.
"Fifteen years," Jack volunteers, leaning over to try and pick the tree back up.
"Shit, Jack, its been that long?" asks David.
Jack nods. "Another lifetime since then."
"You were in the war, weren't you?" asks Paul.
David turns and looks at his friend, who seems to be studying Jack.
"The way you jumped down like that," says Paul, "I did the same— still do sometimes. Sometimes I'll hear a loud noise, or a shout, and I'll have to shake myself out of it— remind myself of where I am or when I am. And when I can't, well—" he doesn't finish the statement- leaves the words hanging there in the open to face frigid air of the day.
Jack nods, meeting the man's gaze. Hearing it spoken out loud feels validating in a way that he hadn't realized he needed, especially after rehashing everything in New York with Allan.
"Does it— have you gotten better?" asks Jack.
"It doesn't happen like it used to," Paul affirms. "With time, it has eased, and I found the more I talk about it, the easier it is."
David is looking between both men, a frown on his face evident below his thick dark beard. "You know," he says, contemplatively, "Back when it was going on, I was itching to join up. Someone had to stay around here though and take care of Ma. You heard about the fight from over here, and its all honor and glory, but knowing Paul here, and seeing you around town with that awful limp of yours and the way we accidentally scared 'ya, I feel damn lucky. My number was called up right at the very end and never I even shipped out. By the time my camp was done the war was over, and they were sending boys home."
Jack nods. In a way it feels nice to be hearing the experiences of others— to realize that he's not alone in his memory of the brutality, or in the relief he feels for anyone who hadn't had to see what he saw or go through that experience. They had all had a collective experience together though, hadn't they? Their whole generation had experienced a loss of time and relationships and comfort in one way or another and they're all out here searching through their own proverbial woods to get some of that comfort and normality back.
"How about we help you with that there Christmas tree?" asks David. "It's the least we can do for hunting on your property."
Jack nods, giving what he hopes comes off as an easy smile. "Don't worry about the hunting," says Jack. "You're more than welcome, as long as you don't do any shooting close to where the tree line starts. I don't want my daughter or her friends injured because they're playing to close to the woods. I won't say no to some help, though," he admits.
"That's fair," says Paul. "We'll stay a few miles in from now on. I wouldn't want my daughter playing near hunters either." He picks up one end of the tree, brushing some snow from the end. "You're a good man, Jack, to let us on your land."
"Well," says Jack, "I'll always just see it as my father's land. I'm certainly not out here hunting. All these woods, someone may as well use them."
Rose must have seen them emerge from the woods through the window, because she's out on the porch to greet them as they come across the yard. Her eyes are on Jack, questioning and curious as ever to learn what he has gotten up to this time, but he can also see the concern in them that he knows would be nearly undetectable to the two men who don't know her well at all. He knows in a way that he has been caught— found out. She can tell that he is limping more than when he had left and that something is still troubling him.
"What's all this?" she asks, as they're within hearing range, and Jack grins, still excited about the prospect of putting up a tree as a family.
"I have found us the perfect Christmas tree," he tells her, his smile widening more at the genuine surprise on her face. "David and Paul here were kind enough to help me lug this thing home." He doesn't mention the near accident. There's no need. He might tell her later— but still, maybe not.
"Oh!" she exclaims. "Jack you didn't tell me you were getting a tree!" She makes her way off the porch, making way for the men to set the thing down by the door. His hand goes to her waist, and he kisses her cheek.
"I wanted to surprise you," he tells her, as if that wasn't already obvious. He would never stop with the surprises.
"Rose, I'm sure you've met David and Paul around town, but not officially. David and I grew up together. His parents' place is the closest on the other side of this property."
"Nice to meet you gentlemen, officially," she says, shaking each of their hands.
They greet her graciously, if with a little curiosity. Rose had been a source of curiosity for the town since her appearance, and everyone had heard differing stories concerning she and Jack. If anything this meeting and being seen as they always are at home was helping further in dissuading the rumor mill— the suggestion that anything untoward had taken place between the pair, or that they were in any way unhappily married. One day, Jack thinks, perhaps their true story would be out in the open and people would know and understand why Rose had been on her own for a decade to raise his child. Today is not that day, but its a step.
The pair of men depart back into the woods to finish their day of hunting with the promise from Jack to set a day to truly catch up after the holidays. Rose is still watching Jack with concern as the makes his way into the house, carrying the tree easily now on even ground to set it up in the base he had placed in the sitting room when she hadn't been looking. If she wants to confront him about it now, she holds her tongue, instead expressing her admiration as the tree is unfurled.
"We'll have to leave it to settle for a few hours," he tells her, "but maybe this evening we can decorate it. I found Ma's old Christmas box in the attic."
Rose draws closer to him, and takes his thick coat from his arms, laying it across the nearby arm chair before coming back to wrap her arms around his middle, placing a kiss on his jaw.
"Jack, will there ever be a day when you don't amaze me?" she asks him, laying her cheek against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her tighter against him and breathing in the lilac scent of her curls.
"All I've done is gotten a Christmas tree, Rose," he tells her, fighting the urge to chuckle. She's quiet, and he pulls back to look at her.
"Don't tell me you've never had one?" he asks, incredulous.
Her cheeks tinge scarlet. "Not a real one," she explains. "We always had a big one in the foyer for the annual party— a great ugly thing that mother insisted on covering with poinsettia plants, but not one like this— not one that you decorate and put gifts under. We never did that. Mother once referred to it as a vulgar practice— a pagan holdover that we would have no part in."
He pulls back a little bit, stunned. He would have thought, coming from money, that she had grown up showered with Christmas gifts. "You mean, you never had presents at Christmas?" he asks, saddened by this information. The more he had learned of Rose's childhood, the more he had realized that before the fire he had been the one with the ideal upbringing.
Rose shakes her head. "No," she tells him. "Not really. Father would usually sneak me a book or some chocolates, but mother wanted nothing to do with the holiday if it wasn't to make her look better. The only way I ever celebrated it growing up was to sneak below stairs with Trudy after everyone had gone to bed. I have tried to make sure that Josephine always had something to open, however, and once she was old enough, she started making something for me each year. We would have a quiet Christmas morning here and then have supper with Miranda and Will. We've gotten on."
Jack shakes his head again before kissing her forehead in a gesture she had learned to mean that he's promising something, if even just to himself. "Well, this year you're gonna have a real Christmas," he tells her. "A Dawson Christmas. We're gonna trim this here tree, and we'll roast chestnuts on the fire," he starts.
"And have hot cocoa?" she asks, and he grins.
"Sure, and we'll sing carols, and make gingerbread men," he says enthusiatically, bring his nose down to touch hers.
"We should have Julia over," she tells him," and Miranda and Will."
He nods, smiling. "If you'd like, sure. I'm sure Julia would appreciate havin' a home-grown Christmas again."
At the mention of it he tries to quell the guilt he still feels at leaving town in the first place, and of having no clue that Jules had survived all these years— all the Christmases the could have still spent together, but he tries to stop that train of thought. It's no use to keep dwelling on the past when his present and future is standing right in front of him, arms wrapped securely around his waist.
As if knowing that he needs a distraction, the twins give a cry from the other room where they're in their bassinet. He catches Rose's hand as she tries to pull away and go to them, squeezing it gently.
"I'll get it," he tells her. "You relax. You haven't had much time to yourself since I've been away."
If she wants to protest, she doesn't. She knows that since leaving he had been missing having the twins in his arms, and she's not about to take that away from him.
It's over an hour later, when taking a break from glazing some stoneware she had recently finished that she goes in search of Jack again, and has to take pause wondering for the millionth time how she had wound up here— how she had gotten so lucky, as the sight that greets her makes her heart swell with fondness. Jack has fallen asleep on the sofa with John tucked peacefully into the crook of his arm and Juliette sound asleep atop his chest with his other hand draped comfortingly over her back. In the corner of the sitting room, Josephine is perched on a chair, sketching the scene, and looks up when her mother enters, sharing a secret grin. Rose crosses to stand behind her daughter to see the page, and grins. Under Jack's tutelage she has begun drawing people nearly as well as he does, which, for her age, is astoundingly impressive.
Kissing her daughter's hair, Rose makes her way back to the studio room to clean up for the day, not wanting to disturb the peace that has settled over the household.
— — —
Unsure how to bring up Jack's odd mood since his return, Rose finds late that night that she doesn't need to. It is brought up all on its own when Jack starts violently from sleep not long after they've settled down in the first place.
She can feel his heart hammering rapidly where her fingers had been resting on his bare chest, and in his movement he had jostled her from his shoulder, sitting up and yelling out.
Josephine, having awoken from the commotion, knocks softly on their door a moment later.
"Papa?" she asks softly, unsure.
The sound of her voice seems to be what makes Jack focus back in on reality, his eyes going from somewhere far away back into the room, sliding to the doorway and then to Rose as he swallows hard, and she can tell that he's trying to control his emotions, willing back tears.
"It's alright darling," says Rose, and she's not sure if she's talking more to Josephine or to Jack. Her fingers rise to push Jack's fringe from his eyes, finding it sweaty.
"Go back to sleep, Jo. Everything's alright," she says, speaking directly to her daughter this time. Jack looks at her thankfully, as he obviously hadn't trusted himself to speak yet. She's surprised that the commotion had woken Jo, but that the twins are still sleeping soundly a few feet away.
"Darling, are you going to talk to me?" she asks softly. "I've known since you got home that you have something on your mind, and this proves it." She sits up, propping herself against the headboard, pulling Jack closer by his shoulders, scooting him until his head is resting in her lap. She wants to be able to see his face fully, and he doesn't protest. Instead he closes his eyes, comforted by her fingers carding through his sweat dampened hair.
"What happened in New York?" she asks more directly.
He sighs, knowing that she can simply read him too well.
"Have I told you about Charlie?" he asks, his eyes meeting hers. He knows full well that he hasn't.
"Tell me about Charlie," she tells him, ready to listen.
"Charlie was my best friend through the war," he tells her. "We met at Camp Lee in Virginia after we enlisted, and we were by each other's side through all of it. For four year he was the closest thing to a brother I had ever had, aside from Fabrizio. We stuck together like glue. During training we shared our complaints so we wouldn't seem weak in front of our superiors. Out in the trenches we wasted the hours any way we could, counting down to the next meal or dry change of clothing, or the next time we would have to charge out there and meet the enemy. Our battalion used to joke that we shared a mind. Charlie could finish my sentences that's how well he knew me. Charlie would listen to me talk about you for hours— about returning home to find you again, and how I knew, in my gut that you had survived somewhere. He had never judged my belief in that. He knew everything that had happened to me— before the Titanic, and after. Out there there was nothing better to do than to rehash the past, because any past, no matter how dark at times, was better than that present. It was better than the cold and dismal trenches, and the mud and rain, and hunger and constant oppressive fear that any living moment could be your last or the last of the person next to you."
As Rose watches Jack she can tell he's no longer fully here— he's outside of this room, maybe thousands of miles away, wherever Charlie was. She can tell from the frown tugging at his lip and the firm set of his jaw that this is not an easy story for him to tell— that he is finally starting to let her in. Into the recesses of his mind, and all of the dark places that he tries to hide from prying eyes.
He stops talking for a moment, his gaze still far away, and she can see the unshed tears that start to line his eyes— knows without him saying how this story ends. She wants him to say it, though— thinks that maybe if he speaks it out loud that he can get some relief from whatever thoughts have been burdening him for so long.
"What happened to Charlie?" she asks softly. His eyes find hers and he swallows again, his tears still unshed, collecting in his water line.
"The day that I was injured was the day Charlie died," he tells her. "It's how Charlie died. He was shot, injured, and me and some other men went out to pull him back. One of the men stepped on an armed fuse and blew us all sky high."
Rose nods, her suspicions confirmed, but still not quiet understanding Jack's apparent guilt. He had told her the story before, but never in full detail. "And you feel responsible?" She asks.
His eyes are on hers as he lays all of his thoughts and emotions bare now. " I am responsible. It's my fault he was out there.I could have done more," he tells her, and she can see that he truly believes that.
She shakes her head. "How?" she asks. "You were trying to help when you got injured. You didn't step on that fuse, and it wasn't the fault of the man who had stepped on it, either. You were trying to reach him— trying to help."
Jack shakes his head, his tears falling now. "It was supposed to be me out there, Rose. It was supposed to be me arming those fuses that night— me who would have been shot, but Charlie, he— he went out before I could stop him. I hadn't been feeling well that day, the cold getting to me and making me think too much of the North Atlantic. He knew I wasn't in the right headspace to concentrate on the job and he had shoved me back down into the trench when the order was given and had climbed out himself. It's my fault he died. My fault that so many men in my regiment died or were injured. Once he was shot, everyone had rushed out with me to help him, because Charlie— he truly was everyone's best friend— everyone's brother. "
Jack's tears come heavy now, a sob wracking his body as Rose pulls him up and into her arms, his head pillowed on her bosom, his hot tears making her own curls stick to her neck has he clings to her, his hands tangling in her nightgown as he grasps at her desperately in his need for comfort.
She holds him close, shushing him, fingers carding through the hair at the base of his neck.
Her lips drop to his forehead, and she lets them rest there, brushing his skin as she speaks.
"I understand," she tells him. "I understand, Jack. You can't blame yourself though. Whether for your benefit or not, Charlie went out there because he wanted to— to help a friend. I know you and I know you would have done the same. You did do the same, going out there to help him. What happened only happened because that's the nature of war. and I don't pretend to know or understand what it must have been like out there, but Jack, you cannot blame yourself like this. You can't let this tear you apart."
He's quiet still, still holding tightly to her, and she can sense that maybe he is ashamed as well to be showing so much emotion in this way. He doesn't want her to think him weak.
"Darling," she starts, trying a new tack, "I have known since the moment you arrived here that you've been holding on to something— harboring some kind of guilt and sadness from the war. If it's my opinion of you that you're trying to preserve, you don't even need to think of it. There isn't anything in this world that could make me think less of you or love you any differently. If anything I love you more, knowing what you've survived and what you've been dealing with, and that you're opening up to me."
He's quiet still, but pulls back to look in her eyes again, reading her sincerity there.
Sensing that he has more to say but that he's still having difficulty opening up to her, she moves to stand from the bed, helping him up as well. He doesn't say anything as he follows her into their bathroom, leaving the adjoining door open so they can hear the twins if the awaken. He's not surprised at the act of her drawing a bath. It's something they had done countless times since that first time when she had gotten ill earlier in the year— it had become an unspoken routine for the pair of them. If they needed time alone or refuge together or if something was troubling either of them, they would make a sanctuary of the warm water, their words coming easier this way.
Rose steps into the deep tub first, sinking below the water, her eyes drifting over Jack's form as he steps from the pants he had worn to bed, a frown coming to her face when she spots the scrape and purple bruise on his shin from the forest that morning, but she doesn't yet ask him what had happened. Instead, she holds out her hand, helping to steady him as he climbs into the water, and she tugs him back into her arms before he can settle across from her as he usually does. Right now she wants to have him close, and he seems to appreciate the proximity as well.
"So what happened in New York?" she asks, her lips placing light kisses to his shoulders, willing him to let go of all of the tension he's holding there.
His sigh is audible, and his hands find hers under the water, holding them.
"I couldn't sleep," he told her, shaking his head. "The war has been on my mind a lot recently, as it was around this time last year when I finally got discharged from extended duty to come home. As long as its been since the injury, I have never had insomnia that badly before— I don't know what was causing it, if not just being away from you, and from here— from our children. It was driving me crazy not having you sleeping there next to me. No matter what I did, all I wanted was to come home, but I knew that I needed to stay another day. A while after midnight I got tired of trying to sleep and gave up— I decided I'd go for a a walk and maybe find somewhere to sit and sketch."
Rose nods into his neck, letting him know that she's listening.
"I, well, I don't know if its fate, or luck, or what it was," he states, "but of all of the people I could have run into in the middle of the night in Manhattan, I collided with Charlie's younger brother."
"Oh?" asks Rose, a bit surprised. She hadn't expected anything like that.
He looks down at their hands under the water, fidgeting for a moment with the way their fingers fit together, as if trying to distract himself from showing his emotion again. She squeezes her hand to still his, her lips falling to his shoulder again.
"What is it?"
"I just— I feel so guilty still," he tells her, turning his neck to see her face. "First I mistook him for Charlie, and I can't imagine how that felt. I mean, I saw Charlie die— of course there was no way it would have been him, but part of me hoped that somehow— I mean after you were still alive, and Julia… I just—"
He doesn't finish that thought, and she holds him tighter as emotion wells up again. "Oh, my darling," she whispers, finally understanding that much better. Jack is still seeing the ghosts of his past, looking for them in every day places, and why shouldn't he? Hadn't he found two of them still alive and well?
"Anyway, after I explained myself we got to talking and went for a drink. I explained how I knew Charlie— and how Charlie had died. His family had been notified of the death of course, but they never explain how, usually because there was no way of knowing for sure, but I thought that Allan and his family deserved to know that he was a hero. It's just that I left out the part about how it was supposed to have been me."
"Oh, Jack. You don't know that. You don't know that had he not gone that it would have ended any differently. You can't beat yourself up about that."
Jack shakes his head, turning in the tub until he's facing her, retreating to the other side of the basin where he would usually sit. "You can't know that, Rose. You can't. Somehow, for some goddamn reason, I keep dodging bullets in this life, and I just feel so incredibly guilty. So many lives could have been saved in place of mine!"
She can hear the anguish in his voice, and his defensiveness. "It's not just the war, Rose. It's Titanic, too. There are so many people who could be living, if only I had acted differently, or sooner. It's my parents' death too— if I hadn't been so stubborn that morning… if I hadn't been so in my own head, I could have saved them, or better yet it wouldn't have happened."
"No." she says sternly, scooting herself close to him again, practically onto his lap as she places her hands on either side of his face. "No, Jack. You cannot think like this. Everything that has happened, and I am so sorry for all of it, Jack, but everything that has happened— your parents accident, anyone we might have known or brushed elbows with in the sinking who perished, any of your comrades who died in the war— that all happened as it was meant to. Whatever the divine reasoning may be, we'll probably never know, but all of that has led to now— to this life that we get to share together, and the family we have created here. You cannot continue to torture yourself like this. You are not to blame, Jack. None of it is your fault."
He looks down again, and as if he's about to argue, but she forces his chin back up, her eyes gazing into the clear sapphire of his. "It is not your fault, Jack. None of it."
She can see the tears rising in those eyes again, and keeps talking, keeps willing him to see it her way and to forgive himself. "You've talked of fate and of heaven before, Jack. I don't pretend to know what's out there, and I don't know what I fully believe, but one thing I do know? All those people— Charlie, and Tommy, Cora… your parents… they're up there, glad for the chance you have now to live this life, and who are we to say why things happen the way they do, or what could have happen if different choices had been made. Maybe we were supposed to end up right here, right now, anyway? Maybe we all reach the same outcome no matter our choices, and that's the true design of fate. You can't keep beating yourself up over the lives that have been lost, Jack, because in the end they would all want you happy— not down here wasting the short time you have on this earth dwelling in guilt and sadness."
"You really think so?" he asks, his tears brimming over again, running down his cheeks.
"I do. I think that whenever we get to heaven they'll be there waiting, and smiling, happy that in their sacrifice you've been able to live a full life."
"How can you be so sure?" he asks, the guilt still eating at him and his skepticism apparent.
She shakes her head, leaning forward to kiss his lips lightly.
"I can be so sure, because that's how I made it through so many years without you," she tells him. "When I thought you were gone I made it through on the belief that someday we would be reunited— that I'd get to heaven and you'd be there waiting for me, but only if I kept my promise to go on. I couldn't let myself dwell in guilt, Jack, because I knew you wouldn't have wanted that for me. You would have wanted me to keep living, and so that was the only thing to do."
The shake of his head now is one of incredulity and amazement. "You're astounding, Rose. You know that?"
She shrugs, her hands dropping from his face to his shoulders. "I'm not, really," she responds, her eyes still reading his. "It's just— I see you, Jack Dawson."
Her words send a shiver up his spine at the memory of a different time and place when he had uttered them before. His eyebrows raise, now hidden beneath the hair that has once again fallen in his eyes.
"And?" he asks, his eyes not leaving hers.
"I love you."
Her words are a promise, and he understands that inherently. Its not his fault. She loves him. in spite of everything she loves him, and nothing he has told her has changed that or swayed that in any way.
Suddenly unable to bear the distance between them, he crushes his lips to hers, the kiss searing. He feels so reassured, so very loved that he doesn't know how to contain it or to express it. He feels as if she has taken his worries, and the mess of his thoughts and freed him of them— swept away the cobwebs that have lurked in the corners of his mind for so long— all of the doubts and guilt and fear. How she has done it he's not sure, but he fully believes that she is capable of anything.
If she is surprised by how sudden the kiss is, she doesn't let on, and kisses him back just as passionately. His fingers slide through her hair, and to her cheek, cupping it as he pulls away to look at her. Just by the expression in his eyes— the visceral longing there, she knows what comes next, and just the very thought sends goosebumps rippling across her body.
When his lips meet hers again, she wastes no time and makes no pretenses. She lifts herself and further up onto his lap, taking him fully into her— taking charge. Letting the added weightlessness the water affords her, she makes love to him then and there, both of them feeling closer to one another physically and in spirit than they ever have before.
Through this conversation, and in Rose, he knows that he has truly found his soul mate, and as they retreat back to the comfort of their bed together, sated and calm with the twins still sleeping away peacefully, he thinks that perhaps she's right— those souls in his life who had perished had done so when they needed to, and that every event in his life, good and bad, had led he and Rose to being together, here and now— had led to this beautiful life and family that they have together.