Title: Just to Love
Author: Sarah (sfrench@austarmetro.com.au)
Rating: PG
Part: 6
Fandom: Titanic and Moulin Rouge.
Archive: My site, fanfiction.net, Red Windmill, Penniless Poet, any Titanic fic archives, anyone else who wants it, really. Just let me know.
Disclaimer. All recognizable characters copyright of their respective creators- BL and JC.
Feedback: Most welcome. You can flame if you like, but I most probably won't answer.*g*
Status: Incomplete. Still. I know.lol.
Summary: A Titanic/Moulin Rouge crossover. What if Calvert's first name was Christian?
A/N: This is kind of a bridging chapter. I know it's short, and I wasn't going to include any of this stuff , but I didn't like the way it sat without it, I felt we needed some explanation of how Christian was feeling and hopefully by the end we'll see that Rose is more than just a 'Satine replica'.. or that's the plan, anyway. Who knows if it'll work. *g* There will be action in chapter 7. I have written most of chapter 7 already, because it was actually meant to be part of chapter 6, but I decided that it was just way too long to be one chapter, so I'm splitting them in two. Make sense? Lol. Thanks for bearing with me.. I swear this will be finished soon. *g* thanks also to the people who have reviewed over the months. :)

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Dawn was an orchestra of soft pastels and shimmering gold, creeping shyly over the horizon and peering through the curtains. Christian had never woken easily, and now his eyes protested against the smoky, blue glow of morning light. One arm was heavy and numb, and as he went to rub the legacy of sleep from his eyes, his fingers tangled in Rose's hair.

She lay next to him, captured by dreams. Her head rested solidly on his arm, strands of hair reflecting the morning light and casting a glow across Christian's pale skin. A blanket was draped gently across her, and she was casual in sleep, an arm thrown to one side and hair everywhere. So different to Satine, Christian thought, remembering all the mornings he had waited for her to wake, silently hoping that he could watch her a little longer. Such moments might have sunk beneath the ebb and flow of an ordinary life, but they lived on in Christian's mind, sunlight-tinged and suspended in time. Even now his heart lingered somewhere between a soft smile and a sob as he remembered the way she had never seemed to sleep peacefully. Instead, she had clung to him, or had wrapped herself in a neat cocoon, as though that might provide protection from whatever invaded her dreams. But despite her late-night tears, Rose slept as though untroubled. In the unvarnished grip of sleep, Rose was nothing like Satine.

Darkness caught in his throat at that thought. What was he doing? Was he deluding himself, leading himself down a dangerous path that would only end in yet more heartbreak for both of them? Rose had red hair, blue eyes, dreams of stages and applause. But she wasn't Satine any more than the shopkeeper at the market or the dark haired young mother next door might have been. Time and place had brought everything together- her hauntingly familiar appearance, his memories, a night wrapped in dejavu moments and the soft light of candles on these walls. But had the soft smiles and tender words of last night merely been directed at a shadowy reflection?

A cold shadow of bewilderment and betrayal passed over him, as it seemed that Satine had been snatched from him once more. Suddenly, he saw a stranger before him, and wondered how he could ever forgive Rose for bearing the veneer of his lost love so convincingly. His memories of Satine had been distilled over the years; grief and loss whittling them down to the purest of emotions- idealistically remembered love. It seemed shameful, somehow, to have transferred those memories so effortlessly when they were all he had left. Somehow, that seemed more of a betrayal than ten years worth of half hearted love affairs. Satine would have wanted him to love again, he knew that much. But she would've wanted for him a love of substance, not something lulled into being by her half-whispered memory. Was that what was happening here?

Bleary eyed and crumpled in last night's clothes, he sighed as he propped himself up on one elbow. Confusion clouded him, but as he gazed at Rose, the night came alive again in slow moments. She had grown heavy in his arms, and he had settled her down on the cushions where they sat, tucking a blanket around her and avoiding the familiar creaks in the floorboards. Moonlight had laid a path through the open curtains and across the floor, throwing gentle, blue-toned shadows and silver highlights across Rose's face, and he remembered now that he'd found himself lost in her; transfixed by her eyelashes curled against her cheek, by the lines of her hand against the pillow and the contrast between her red hair and pale skin. Lost in peaceful wonder, the most extraordinary feeling had dawned on him. It was the crystallized recognition of the miracle within the ordinary. For the first time in so long, there was contentment in being enfolded inside a moment that didn't ask 'what if.' Finally sleep had tugged at his eyes, too, and it had seemed right that he lay down next to Rose and allow himself to be lulled into dreams by the steady pattern of her breathing.

However sunlight was harsher than moonlight. It did not allow the cracks of the past to be papered over quite so readily-it allowed thought and examination and rational behaviour. It demanded explanations and asked questions. This morning brought guilt and whispering uncertainty, and all at once Christian felt like a busybody crashing clumsily through a private moment.

Rose stirred slightly, hovering on the edge of wakefulness and he was trapped. At any moment she would open her eyes and see him there. Attempting to pre-empt her, he reached a hand out to her and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Rose? Rose, wake up. It's morning."

*To be continued.*