May 2, 1918
Rose
"Rose."
The porcelain of her teacup is scalding in her hands. Her hands are shaking, the tea sloshing near the rim. She's chilled to her bones, and the cold rain soaked through her clothes to her skin. Rose hasn't felt this way in years, not even when Jack was drafted, but she remembers it all the same. She remembers the feel of her own terror when she realized that he wasn't breathing. She remembers sitting in a lifeboat, cold and wet and terrified as the officers pulled him in with her, waiting for some sign of life from him. She remembers running across a boat deck, and climbing over a railing, and looking over dark waves, with cool metal under her hands. It's the same mix of dread and desperation. She knows that if her hands shake any harder, she'll drop the cup, and it will shatter into a thousand pieces at her feet.
"Rose, darling. I know what's going through your head now." Mother says, steadying Rose's hands with hers. Her hands are cold against Rose's. "You need to tell me about it."
Mother didn't know what was going through her head. She couldn't possibly know what this felt like, couldn't possibly know what it was to be worrying all the time, to have anxiety creep up and squeeze the life out of her like a boa constrictor at all hours of the day. She didn't know what it was like to be so upset that she might throw up. She couldn't know what it was like to have a nightmare and not be able to go back to sleep because there was no way to assure herself that it wasn't real, or couldn't happen.
Before today, she hadn't had word from Jack in weeks . He always answered her letters- always . Their correspondence was often behind, because of the delay in mail, but he always answered her as quickly as he could, no matter how little he had to say, whether or not one of her letters had arrived. There was no reason why there would be no word from him for so long, unless something had gone terribly wrong. Unless he'd been hurt, or missing, or dead. Then today, a thick paper envelope had been in the mail- official, from the army. On the day Ada was born, Jack's unit had been under fire. They were ordered to retreat, and in the retreat, he went missing. Some reports from other men said that he'd been wounded. But it was not March anymore, it was early May. And the letter did not say whether or not he was still alive, how he had been wounded, or where. It did not tell her where he was or if he was coming home.
That was when it had become too much to bear.
In a flurry of emotions, Rose knocked Georgia's door, and asked her to watch the children for the night. She hadn't said where she was going, but Georgia must have seen how upset she was and hadn't waited before calling Ruth– who'd lived in Los Angeles almost full time since Jack was drafted. Mother had headed her off at the train station, in tears and too afraid to buy a ticket East, too upset to go home.
"Jack is missing," She says tearfully. Mother presses a pale hand to her mouth in shock. She can feel the sobs building in her chest. "You know I haven't heard from him in so long, well, I just got the letter today… It's almost a month old. I don't even know where he is or if he's alright, or…"
"Oh, darling," She says, pulling her daughter into her arms. There were many years where Rose had hardly even known her own mother's touch, much less other forms of affection. Recent years had changed that, and she admits now that even though her mother is as cold and bony as she always was, having her at her side right now is nice. "I'm sure he's alright. I know you'll hear from him soon."
"You can't know, Mother," Rose says. "No one can know that!" She cries. "I can't sit here at home waiting anymore, I need to see him, I need to know that he's alright for myself. I'm a nurse, I can go to help, and…" Her half formed thoughts don't make a lot of sense, but she's desperate. Somehow, she feels like she would be of more use there than she is here.
"And then what?" Mother demands, pulling back, hands on Rose's shoulders and eyes hardened. "What about your children, Rose? What if the war goes on? How would we care for Ada, she's only a month old!? You can't very well take her with you. I adore my grandchildren, but they don't need me, with Jack gone. They need you. Would you have them be parentless, knowing neither mother nor father? Do you think Jack would want you to leave them here alone? No."
She knows her mother is right, for once. She's right, but she can't… "I need him." Rose breathes, "And I know he needs me."
Mother sighs. "Yes, Rose. He needs you. He needs you here, safe, with your children. Jack doesn't need to be worrying about you working in some hospital in France a thousand miles away from here. What if something happened to you there? There's already a chance that your children's father may not come home, it's happened to plenty of other families. You can't add in the chance of them losing their mother as well. There are already plenty of nurses in Europe, and they say the war will be over soon. Going would accomplish nothing. Even if you went, there's no guarantee that he would be any safer, or that you would see him or know that he's safe."
She can't help but cry even harder then, because Mother is right . Rose has to stay in Santa Monica with their children. She can't go to Europe and put herself at risk just to try to find him. She's needed here. Six years ago, jumping back onto a sinking ship because she needed to was easy. Now she can't. She has people that depend on her now, in an entirely different way than how Mother and Cal depended on her so many years ago. Her children need her more than she needs Jack. Rose has to look after them in his absence.
She remembers, then, the family on that lifeboat. How the mother and children were inside it, and the father wasn't let on. Despite how the children cried for their father, despite the tears on his wife's face, the mother did not jump back onto Titanic the way Rose had, no matter how much they didn't want to be separated. As a mother, she couldn't. And Rose can't now. "For a while after the sinking," She says, wiping at her tears, "I could hardly sleep without having nightmares. Both of us, but it was different for me. Jack fell unconscious when we were in the water, he wasn't awake when we were rescued. I was the one who went to wake him and found that he wasn't breathing, that he didn't have a heartbeat. Not the other way around. In the aftermath, I needed him there beside me when the nightmares woke me, because I needed proof that he was alive. Until Jack was drafted, we hadn't spent a single night apart since the Titanic sank. But now, with the war…" She sobs, a hand over her mouth. "I haven't had dreams like this in years. And I wake up, and I'm all alone, and I can't tell myself that he's alive or even alright , because I don't know. And somehow, knowing that if something happened to him, I wouldn't know about it for weeks makes it worse…"
And now something has happened to him.
Ruth swallows. "Rose, listen to me," She says, putting her hands on Rose's shoulders again. "God knows I have hated that man in the past. But if there's one thing I have learned about the two of you in your time together, it's that you will always fight to get back to one another. I know that if there is a breath left in him, he will spend it trying to come home to you."
April 2, 1918
Jack
"How far past Soissons do you think we are?" Gus asks. They've been walking from the battle for a few days straight now, in the hopes that they would find someone official, to get to a base camp of some sort. But between the three of them, as banged up as they all were, hobbling across the French countryside avoiding enemy soldiers wasn't easy. He's got a cut on his forehead and some metal in his shoulder. Gus was probably in the best shape of all of them. A few broken ribs, they think, and some superficial cuts and nasty bruises– who was he kidding, they were all bruised. And Warren was looking the worst. Now that they're out of immediate danger, he's the next thing they need to worry about.
"I dunno," Jack sighs. Gus passes him one of the few cigarettes they have left between them. He glances over to where Warren is resting on some rocks where they'd set him down a few minutes ago. None of them have spoken much since the battle. Jack rinses his hands off in the river water– they've been following it ever since the three of them crawled out of the mud of the trenches days ago. Most rivers lead to towns or houses or people in general. People never go too far from their water. "Warren's leg is messed up bad, we've gotta get someone to look at it."
There'd been a lot of blood when they picked him up in the retreat. Warren was still in and out of it from the pain, and couldn't walk on his leg. His knee and downward had been savaged by shrapnel, and the only thing that had kept him from bleeding out was their using a belt as a tourniquet. Even so, Warren would be lucky to walk again, if he didn't get an infection and die first. Rose would know what to do about his leg, he thinks, swallowing. They've just been lucky that Gus had half a flask of cheap scotch on him when the battle hit, which they've been using to keep his wounds clean. They haven't even had time so far to attempt stopping to see if they could get any of the shell fragments out or stitch him up.
"What about Clarence?" It's the question that Jack has been dreading for days now. He thinks Gus knows already, but he wouldn't be Gus if he just let it lie. He'd wanted to look for Clarence after, but Jack had pulled him away.
Jack exhales a puff of cigarette smoke. He's still dirty from the battle, mud and blood in his hair, on his clothes, ash on every conceivable surface. The sky looks like it's about to open up on them– clouds black and menacing, humidity hanging thickly in the air, fog rolling over the hills where the trees around them part. If the cold of the rain didn't kill them, they could get sick after– especially Warren. Fever could set in, and with his leg in the state that it was, he might not be able to recover. They needed to find shelter, and fast. "Clarence is dead, Gus." He says with a swallow, nausea rising in his throat. Jack's eyes flutter shut. Don't think about it, don't think about it. He can't afford to vanish back into the memory of what happened. Can't afford to think of what might have happened to his friend's body. "He was closer to where that shell hit than Warren was. If nobody found him, it's 'cause there's nothin' left to find."
Gus swallows and looks at Warren, gaze heavy. Jack has never seen him quite so low, so without light and whimsy in his eyes. But they've all been unbearably quiet for the last few days. "What're we gonna do?"
Neither of them know anything about how to fix such a wound, but it's dangerous to leave it, and they don't have any shelter. Sooner or later, they'll have to do something about it. Jack nods, looking east, over his shoulder where there's smoke on the distant horizon, carried miles away from the front. "We'll keep moving for now," He says. As if that will do us any good.
June 10, 1918
Rose
She's on that damned door again, floating under a midnight sky dotted with stars, soft waves rocking her. In the distance, Rose can hear the officers on the lifeboat, calling for survivors. She feels the light on her face, fading in and out. But the officers are not what holds her attention. Jack's icy hand in hers has that privilege.
She's had this dream so many times before that she knows by now it's a dream, but there's nothing she can do to wake herself.
Rose shakes him, tells him that a boat came for them in her ruined voice. His skin is as cold as death, nearly blue, but she can't be sure if that's the shadows or not. Frost crystals sparkle in his hair, on his eyebrows and his eyelashes. Wake up! She screams, as much as she can. Wake up, Jack! Jack! The boat drifts further and further away.
These dreams often go something like this. Sometimes she leaves him behind on the door and he sinks into the water to never be seen again, promising to never let go and leaving him with a kiss on his hand. Sometimes she's hysterical, crying in the cold, shaking him even though he won't move, refusing to accept his death and yet also refusing to do anything to save them both, to leave the door. Sometimes the officers won't take him into the boat, even though she blows the whistle and calls for it, because they say that he doesn't have a chance, if he's alive at all. Sometimes she stays right there with him on the door, goes to sleep and dies in the quiet, freezing cold, letting the boat pull the five other survivors from the water.
It doesn't matter how the dream ends. It didn't before, with Jack there to wake her up when it got to be too much. His very presence used to assure her that he was alive and safe.
Now, it still doesn't matter, but for different reasons.
Now, all that matters is that, however she wakes up, Rose always wakes up alone.
April 15, 1918
Jack
"What day do you think it is?" Gus asks him as they trudge along on a day that's blessedly warm. They're making better time than they used to. An odd week or so ago, they finally forced themselves to do something about Warren's leg, and dig around for the bigger pieces of shrapnel they could find. Jack knows there are smaller fragments, ones they can't find, and that if Warren makes it home, it will probably be still with metal in his leg. Unless they can get him to a doctor before the wound heals completely. They rested for two days in one place after that, making sure he was feeling better, and that his wounds were dressed properly and he wasn't getting an infection. He's better now, mostly able to walk with some help from him and Jack, less in and out of it than he was days ago.
"The fifteenth," Jack answers without a beat. After the night he had, he knows. Even if his mind doesn't know the date, his body always remembers, always wakes up colder than he should. There are scars that most people can't ever see or touch. It's been six years since the sinking, and though most regular nightmares have faded, this night always haunts him and Rose both; it's worse without her here. Usually they'll wake each other, but now there's nothing to pull him away from his own terror.
She's long gone from his sight, but her eyes haunt him all the same. He sees them when he wakes every morning, before he opens his eyes. She's watching him across the pillows, dark eyes shining in the pale morning light, auburn curls soft and undone. He's not a boy anymore, the way he was when he and Rose met. How could any form of childhood stay, when he found himself married inside ten days and later that they were going to be parents far sooner than either of them had intended? When it has only been six years, but he feels ten years older and has three more children than he thought he would at this point in his life? It's the war that puts these thoughts in his head, and he hates it.
Jack wonders how she slept, thousands of miles away. I would've slept better If I were with her, He thinks, though that's true of every night. Then again, maybe she didn't sleep at all, didn't get the chance or didn't even try.
The fifteenth, whispers through his mind again. His baby daughter is two weeks old. Rose probably doesn't even know he's missing yet, with the mail delay.
"You're shitting me," Gus retorts. Jack isn't sure he says it because he doesn't believe Jack could possibly have kept track of the date or because he genuinely thinks he pulled a random date out of the air. He doesn't really care which.
"I'm not," Jack answers plainly, taking a drag of his cigarette. They're stale and old. He hasn't smoked this much in years, since before Josephine was born. It's a bad habit- he knows Rose would want him to quit. Maybe he'll have to put more effort into trying. If there's one thing he's sure about, it's that her absence has not been good for him.
His shoulder aches, a dull, constant throb. He's kept it in a makeshift sling from one of their coats, immobilizing his arm as best he can but he still hasn't seen to the injury like he should have– Warren's injuries took up much of what little medical supplies they had. It itches sometimes– he knows that means it's healing, but there's still bits of shrapnel in his arm that they can't even try to take out without clean instruments. It's worse when it's cold. The cut on his forehead should have had stitches, it bled so much, but they didn't have the time. Either way, it's going to leave a nasty scar.
"How can you know that?"
He throws the cigarette away and rakes his teeth over his tongue. "I always know when it's the fifteenth," Jack says, and offers no further explanation.
July 18, 1918
Rose
The papers picked it up. News of the War travels fast. It's another blow to her already hollow heart. The Carpathia sank yesterday.
Somehow, it feels like a loss, even though Rose doesn't have much else to lose.
April 18, 1918
Jack
They come upon a small farm in the French countryside three days later, where they think they might be able to rest for a few days. Or, it used to be a farm, before the war. There's a small barn that they stop against, the wooden siding a faded grey, and an abandoned chicken coop, and no animals of any kind. But there's lamplight from inside the house, which leads him to believe that there's someone who's there at the very least. "Wait here," He tells Gus and Warren. "I'll go and knock, and see who's there." It's a stupid idea, he knows. It could be anyone in there, and in the first place, most people probably wouldn't react well to having three soldiers show up on their doorstep begging for food and shelter.
"It shouldn't be you," Gus protests, knowing as well as the rest of them that there's a high likelihood this doesn't go well. A lot of people didn't like soldiers, no matter whose side they were on, or whether or not they got a choice in fighting. Everyone's lost someone in the war, He thinks. It must be hard not to blame the soldiers when they're the ones showing up on your doorstep. "You've got kids. Let one of us go."
But Jack won't send Gus in his place. One of them needs to stay with Warren, and of the two of them, he's moving better. "It'll be fine," He says, and turns to see a silhouette approaching them in the darkness, too far away to make out what the person looks like, but moving fast enough that he knows whoever is coming to them likely isn't welcoming them, nor being cautious. "Besides, neither of you speak French."
"Jack," Warren breathes, resting against the wall of the barn, looking at the shadow moving towards them in the darkness. His leg still isn't well enough to stand on properly without one of them under his arm. "I don't know that this is a good idea. We'll find somewhere else,"
"Well, they're coming to talk to us anyway," Gus insists, looking back and forth between him and Warren. They didn't have much choice at this point– even if they started moving again, whoever was approaching could catch up to them. "We're just gonna figure out where we are, and maybe about where we can get fixed up, alright? Jack's gonna do the talkin',"
It isn't long before Jack sees that the person approaching them in the twilight is carrying a shotgun, the barrel shining silver in the dusky light. "Shit," He says. "Back to the barn–"
"Jack–"
"Get behind the barn!" He says. "I'll handle it, go, stay with Warren–" Jack ducks as a shot cracks into the air. " Arret! Attendre!" Another shot. "Merde! Parlez-vous Anglais?! Nous sommes Américains! Soldates!" Soldiers, how he hates introducing them that way. He wishes he could go back to just telling people he was an artist.
"S'en aller!" The young woman spits back at him. Go away. She's a woman. He can see that now, even in the dusk. She's young, but he can't tell how young in the darkness. No older than him, he's willing to bet. But then the war makes everyone older on the inside. She's a head shorter than him, slight and slim, barely more than a girl, with pale skin and dark hair. Dark eyes peeking back at him, flashing with anger. "Nous n'avons rien pour vous!" She thinks they want something from her, or that they're going to take something.
"S'il vous plaît, attendez, Mademoiselle!"
"Les soldates causent des problemes," The woman hisses. Jack breathes in a sigh. Soldiers cause problems.
"Je sais!" He answers. "Je sais! Mademoiselle, Je… Je… Ou sommes-nous?"
"Ten miles south of Compiegne," The girl answers in English. "Parlez-vous Français? You speak it well for an American."
"Oui," Jack answers. "Un peu. Parlez-vous Anglais?"
"Some," She answers, her answer as vague as it possibly could be and thickened by her accent. She's only slightly lowered the shotgun. The woman had fired two shots into the air before coming close enough for them to see her face. Despite that, Jack isn't entirely sure she knows what to do with it, and hadn't just been trying to scare them. Still, he doesn't doubt her willingness to use it if pressed. "From which part of the front did you come?"
"We were… east of Soissons. We followed the river." It's been at least two weeks since the battle, and following a water source had seemed like a smart idea at the time. He wonders now if he shouldn't have made more of an effort to get back to somewhere he knew there was a real unit, or a base or hospital. With their current course, they've been missing for two weeks. No one else even knows they're alive. That's probably long enough for them to have gotten word to someone at home. Jack swallows, pushing down the thought of what Rose would do when she got word that he was missing.
"You are lost?" Her dark eyes catch on Warren's leg, the bloody, mangled trousers and bandages. On the ghastly cut above Jack's temple. On his arm in a sling. The girl lowers her weapon only slightly, her features relaxing somewhat. She doesn't trust them yet, still keeps caution and eyes Gus and Warren over his shoulder with suspicion. But she must realize that with the three of them in such states that they are, they're not much of a threat. It's only then he realizes her hands are shaking.
"In the retreat," Jack explains. "We haven't seen anyone since then. We're just trying to find a unit nearby or something, maybe sleep in your barn for a night if it's alright with you. Our friend, he's been wounded, and he needs to rest. He needs someone to look at his leg."
"He's been wounded?" The girl asks. Jack nods. "Merde," She sighs, looking over her shoulder, back to the house, light still coming from the windows. Jack sees the shadow of another person puttering around inside. "Come with me,"
Jack
"This is my uncle," The young woman explains of the old man who's cutting into Warren's leg with steadier hands than Jack has ever seen. Warren is laying on their dining room table, getting drunk on a bottle of French wine to help with the pain. "Alain. He used to be a physician. Un Chirurgien." A Surgeon.
"Ne bouge pas," The old man says.
"He says to hold still," Jack tells Warren, even though both Gus and him are holding the third man down. He swallows down his bile as the young lady's uncle removes a large chunk of shrapnel from deep in Warren's knee. Jack looks across the table at the girl, who's busy getting bandages ready and cleaning used instruments at the sink. "He used to be a doctor, wouldn't he be at an army hospital? And what about you? Most people have left the villages closest to the front." Except, of course, the people with nowhere else to go. Which probably answers his own question.
"It's still a ways away yet. My brother is a soldier too. I have not heard from him in months. Uncle… il est retraite." Retired. "This has been his home for twenty years, so he would not leave. Even though we could not afford to keep the farm up. But he is old. He needed someone to help. So here I am." She says. Alain lays a hand on his niece's to get her attention and tells her in quiet French to stitch up Warren's wounds and dress them. "You are lucky he did not lose the leg," She says. "It is not good to leave a wound open so long. It may never heal right. He will need a cane." The girl relays from her uncle. "He wants to see your shoulder next," She nods at Jack. "And you will stay in the house with us. Uncle would not hear of your friend staying in the barn where his leg could be infected. There is enough room for all of you. Just until his leg is healed."
"Thank you," Jack answers. "What's your name, Miss?"
"Colette," She answers. "Colette Lavigne,"
"Nice to meet you, Colette," Jack nods. "I'm Jack Dawson,"
August 6, 1918
Rose
Time passes. Life goes on, much the same as it did before. Rose is still without Jack in her life, it's just a firmer absence than it was before. More permanent, and more weighty with grief.
She doesn't know what to tell Josephine and Thomas. What should she say? When should she say it? Are they even old enough to understand? And then there's the question of if she should have a funeral. Their family is small– Jack has a lot of friends in Santa Monica, but his side of the family is rather short on relatives. They don't even have a body to bury, so what would really be the point? Nor do they know for certain that he's really dead.
Eventually, Rose gives in and decides it's alright to call herself a widow. Because on the inside, that's how she feels.
Still, she goes on. Life doesn't stop moving for her to grieve. Her children grow. She keeps on working at the hospital, and keeps on having tea with mother on sunday afternoons. She can't bring herself to stop writing to Jack, even though she doesn't send the letters. One day, a studio hires her for a movie. It's the first thing she's been properly excited about in ages , and she can't wait for production to start. She actually smiles when she tells mother about it– Rose thinks it brightens the look in her mother's eyes to see her happy, coming back to life.
She hasn't worked specifically with this director before, but she's seen him on other movie sets, and they interacted quite a bit in the casting process. His name is Reginald Pierce, but she and everyone else called him Reggie– he's something of a flirt, but she's seen his films before and enjoys his style. It had been a bit of a surprise to be called for the role so soon after having Ada, but Reggie had cared significantly less about her having children than several other directors Rose has worked with the last few years, which had been a breath of fresh air. The last picture she'd been in was a trial of trying to conceal her pregnancy in the last weeks of shooting or risk being fired. Even with the war, many people still believed that a woman's place was in the home, with her children.
She begins in the first week of August. That's when Rose meets Ian.
Reggie introduces them before she even finds the way to her dressing room. "Rose, I'd like you to meet Ian Carmichael, one of our cameramen," The director tells her on her first day on set, introducing her to a young man around her age, with dark brown hair and eyes somewhere between blue and green. He's strong featured– almost pretty , in a way– and for a moment, Rose can't quite believe he's working behind the camera and not in front of it. "Rose is of course, our leading lady, so I expect you'll be seeing a lot of one another– or rather, Ian will be seeing a lot of you." Reggie grins, brows raised in something like delight as he looks back and forth between the two of them.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mister Tyler," Rose says with a cordial smile, offering her hand– Ian returns the handshake, with a gentle smile and sparkling eyes. His smile is beautiful, Rose thinks, unable to stop the thought. Beautiful, not manic and electrifying the way Jack's was– Still is, She forces herself to qualify. Though his smile was beautiful, too. It was just a different sort of beauty. Rose feels a warmth spreading outwards from her stomach, like butterflies. Not butterflies, She makes herself think again.
"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Dawson," He says. His voice has a lovely, rich accent to it, but she can't quite place which part of the Isles it's from. I'll have to ask him later. "And I prefer Ian, honestly,"
"Well, then, I should ask you to call me Rose," She smiles. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Reggie's assistant– a dark haired woman named Nini– approach and tug on his sleeve, saying something about–
"Oh, you two will have to excuse me," Reggie interrupts them, "I need to go speak with our props manager. Ian, why don't you show Rose around the set in the meantime, huh?" Without another word, he vanishes, leaving the two of them on their own– as on their own as they can be in a crowded studio, bustling with extras and the film crew.
Rose flounders for a moment, not quite sure what to say to this stranger she's been left with. She's interacted a bit with the other cast, and the costuming people, as well as those involved in casting her specifically, but the rest of the production crew is largely unknown to her. "Have you been working for the studio very long?" She asks after a rather awkward moment. She starts to worry her hands, twisting the pearl wedding ring. It makes Rose realize that she didn't correct him when he called her Miss , and now it's too late to interject it into the conversation. Do I truly wish to start every interaction being introduced as a widow, though?
"Oh, two or three years now," He responds, nodding around the studio– she expects he's been in this room before, then. It's set with props to look like an outdoor terrace, with a painted background of a city on the Mediterranean. "And yourself?" Ian asks, turning his attention back to her. A dark lock of hair falls out of place over his forehead, and he doesn't reach to put it back into place. "Forgive me, but I don't think I've seen you before in the pictures,"
"I'm not very surprised," Rose smiles. "I've only had three or four real parts before. It's just recently that my name has come into some demand. Before that, I mostly worked as an extra, or had other equally small roles– I've been in some theater productions as well. The last film I was in was released this last winter. And how about you? Have you been working as a cameraman this entire time?"
"I came to Los Angeles six years ago," He answers. Together, they find themselves wandering through the studio– perhaps wandering farther from set than they should. They pass by the props department, where Reggie is, with Nini on his heels, and then the costume shop, where some girls are working on one of the dresses Rose will be wearing, as well as putting together outfits for the extras. "The first year or year and a half, I worked as an extra body of sorts– I would help handle lighting equipment or move props. But I made friends with one of the other cameramen, and he taught me a great deal in our spare time on set. Eventually I could fill in for him as needed. Before long, the studio just gave me a different job."
"Would I have heard of anything you worked on?"
Their conversation goes on like this for a while– they talk about different work projects, and where they're from, eventually moving onto more mundane topics like the weather, and just genuinely getting to know one another. In this time, Rose learns that she does truly enjoy his company, for the little time that they've known one another. That was probably by Reggie's design, pawning her off on the cameraman on the first day so that she would be more comfortable with Ian when they were filming. He has an easy way about him, a sort of quiet genuineness. It makes relaxing around him easy, makes smiling around him easy. "Some of the cast and crew are going out for drinks tonight, once the first day wraps up," He announces as they approach her dressing room. It's nearing the time she's supposed to be getting her makeup done and into her costume, and she supposes that he must start getting the camera equipment ready. "You should come with us," Ian offers.
"Oh, I–" Rose clears her throat, twisting around her wedding ring, realizing she still hasn't said anything about Jack. She hasn't gone out dancing or for drinks with anyone since before the news about him; She hadn't felt like celebrating. It still feels wrong. "I don't think I can."
She's not sure if it's the way her lips pinch in discomfort or if she moves her gaze a certain way, but something clues him in that something's not right. And then after a moment, he hones in on what is holding her attention– or at least a degree of it, for at that moment her mind feels very far away, feels like it's in France, but she's still twisting the ring around her finger, twisting and twisting. Ian's greenish-blue eyes catch on the gesture and the piece of jewelry itself, which can only really be one thing. He swallows and immediately backtracks, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were married. It's nothing like that at all, honestly–"
"No– no, it's not that." Rose insists, shaking her head. They're both blushing a little at this point, Heavens, I'm not a child, She thinks, but can do nothing for how flustered she is. She hadn't expected for someone to show interest in her so soon. Perhaps she should have. "It's… it's just a difficult situation," She says, but doesn't clarify. She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to immediately be looked on with pity, the way everyone has been looking at her over these last few months. Sometimes, it's nice to just be Rose, and not Jack Dawson's widow.
"I understand," He says, even though he doesn't, but it's not really what he means, so it's okay. What he really means, is something along the lines of 'Don't worry about it,' and 'I won't push you,'. It's refreshing, instead of how many people demand answers with just their eyes, or worse, asking outright. "Well, I need to speak to some people about the lighting in this scene coming up, and I'm sure you need to start to get ready," Ian nods at the door to her dressing room, and finally reaches up to push that lock of hair back over his forehead. Even though he's sort of stumbled onto the truth, he's still not looking at her with pity. The way he looks at her is unweighted. "But I'll see you later, yes?"
"Of course," She smiles. He returns it, and turns away to head back to the camera equipment. She watches him for a moment, the way he moves, and thinks of how she hasn't gone out for fun with anyone in months. Certainly not since the letter came. And perhaps not even before then. Rose swallows. Hesitates. "Ian," She calls. He turns back to her, with a sweet smile, hands in his pockets and eyes sparkling at her. She feels those butterflies again, and decides not to fight them, to let them carry her where she's meant to be. "I… I didn't mind it. Ask me again sometime. When I'm ready, I'll change my mind."
April 19, 1918
Jack
After Colette's Uncle sees to Jack's arm, pulling the remains of metal and shell fragments out of the muscle, he passes him off to his niece for stitching the larger cuts and dressing the wounds. The clock on the wall says it's sometime past two in the morning, but his vision might not be the best in the soft lamplight, further addled by a considerable amount of alcohol consumed to dull the pain– though not as much as Warren.
After Alain went to bed, through with cutting into them and cleaning up, the electric lights were turned out in favor of kerosene lamps– giving the room a warm golden glow, and releasing the faint smell of burning oil. It casts Colette's dark hair in a pretty light, braided back away from her face to keep from getting in the way while her uncle works. Her brow is furrowed while she works, and her hands are shaking as the needle pulls through his skin. Lamplight flickers across her dark lashes, sliding down her forehead and puddling on her cheekbones. At that moment, Jack wishes keenly that his paper and charcoal were handy.
He must have said that aloud, because the next thing he hears Colette say is, "You were an artist?"
"Oh, I still am," Jack grins. "I spent a year in Paris. That's how come I can speak French."
"There are many artists in France, Jaques," She responds with a wry smile.
"Yeah," He nods. "I didn't do so hot over there. But back home, I was finally starting to get my name out there, you know? Some of my stuff was getting into galleries, and I was actually starting to make some real money off of it. Then I got called over here."
"You have family, back in the Americas?"
"Yeah," Jack smiles. "Rose, my wife. We have three kids. My daughter, she was born just a few weeks ago. Day of the battle. I don't know her name, she wanted it to be a surprise. I guess I'm gonna have to get home if I ever want to find out." He longs to thumb at his wedding ring at the thought of her, but doesn't. If he moves his left arm at all, it will just mean more pain from the stitches. Jack swallows. "Your hands shake when you do that," He says. He notices that the fingernails on her hands are worn way down, the way most working class folks' are, from chewing nails in anxiety or doing manual labor. The way his fingernails are. The way Rose's weren't when they met.
"I used to want to be a seamstress before the war," She says. "But I'm not used to stitching flesh," Colette admits. Her jaw tightens minutely, and her face takes on a pallor that suggests nausea.
"That's alright," He says. But what he thinks is. Rose's hands wouldn't shake. She was used to this after so many years working as a nurse. Jack closes his eyes and thinks of his wife's lips on her brow, her hands in his hair, on his ribs, on– everywhere. He breathes in an imagined smell of Lily of The Valley. He swallows. Too much to drink, and not enough sleep, he reminds himself. But he fears what terros will come to him if he does rest. He's so tired he barely registers when Colette finishes with the stitching and begins wrapping bandages around his shoulder. "Do you have someone, Colette?" He asks. He shouldn't. It's not my business.
"Oui," She answers, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She ties the bandages tightly and slips the makeshift sling he's been using for days around his arm again. "Someone. There was a boy, before the war. Sebastian. He was lovely. Very good with horses, and at singing. He told me he wanted to marry me, and they made him a soldier. He writes sometimes, but I do not know if he will come back. Or if he will still want me when he does. The war… it is very… solitaire, no?"
Lonely is the word she uses. And Colette is right. Jack swallows at the pang in his chest. "Yeah," He agrees. "I know the feeling."
September 14, 1919
Rose
She goes out for lunch with Ian on the days she works– they often have the same breaks, so spending time together is convenient. It's how they get to know one another better. She enjoys once again having someone to spend time with like that. Rose can't help but watch his mannerisms as they eat. He's left handed. He holds his coffee cups with two hands, not one.
It's all those little mannerisms that she misses so dearly about Jack. How she knew another person so intimately. He used to twist his fork while he ate, the same way he twisted his pencils and paintbrushes. He'd eat fast, the way that only someone who grew up in poverty does- someone with neither the time to eat nor a certainty of their next meal. He used to wash his hair first thing in the bath, then the rest of him, shoulders to toes. He'd brush his teeth carefully every morning. Used to. He still did.
Ian eventually does learn that she's a sort-of widow. He responds better than most– sympathy, rather than pity. He understands her grief, but knows her well enough to see that it comes from a deeper place than merely the loss of a second income or a husband to manage the bills or work while she looks after the children– whatever it is that goes on in most other married households these days. He knows that– that ideal of what a man's place in the household is versus a woman's– her own marriage was very different, and so her grief is different, too. His absence is a wrong that her body reacts viscerally to. How can he be gone, when she can still feel his body under her hands? How can he be so far away, when his scent still lingers on the space of the mattress beside her, and she dreams of his eyes every night?
She wonders if he's alright all the time. If he's even still alive, if he's just wounded. If he's been wounded, she hopes more than almost anything that his hands and eyes are fine. Jack would hate not being able to dance, but she knows he'd be able to survive without his legs. His hands, though. His eyes. Not being able to make art would destroy him. Although even that would be better than him not being alive at all.
Rose hates how easily she barters away body parts if it means Jack's return.
Somehow, slowly and without meaning to, she begins to learn Ian's mannerisms over their days and lunches together, the way she once learned Jack's. He wears stiff white shirts, but can't abide ties or collars, and always rolls the sleeves up when he's not in a jacket. He likes wool vests, but sometimes leaves them unbuttoned. He takes his coffee with milk and no sugar. He likes dancing, and some of the other girls say he's good at it. He sings along to songs on the radio and gramophone with a startlingly beautiful voice.
Ian isn't quite as tall as Jack was, and he's a touch broader than him in the shoulders. His hair a darker shade of brown, almost black, and kept just a touch shorter and neater than she's used to. His eyes are green– she's finally decided that– but there's a touch of blue that Rose tries to pretend isn't there, because it reminds her too much of someone else. Truth be told, in dim lighting, he nearly looks like Cal, but his features aren't as sharp, his eyes not so deep set, and jawline not so harsh. His voice is sweeter, instead of a stuffy, fabricated accent. His voice has a charming sort of lilt to it, just mild enough that the accent isn't especially regional, and placing where he's really from is difficult– he does have a tendency to change it day to day depending on who he's with or just for fun. It's a strange talent for a cameraman, being good at accents. But he's kind, and he makes her smile, makes her children laugh when mother takes them to visit her on set.
She knows Mother, at least, sees how he looks at her, the few times they've had cause to interact on set. Rose tries to pretend she doesn't notice, but she does. Mostly, she pretends she doesn't notice because she doesn't know what she would do if she acknowledged it. Rose took a vow until death parted them, but she doesn't know if it has. How long should she wait? Is there anything to wait for? She's only twenty-three. If Jack really is dead, he wouldn't want her to waste her life by being alone. That she knows with certainty. What she doesn't know with certainty is her own heart– something she can say for the first time in six years. Is she ready to move on? If she is, what would it mean if Jack were alive?
Privately, Rose wonders when she began to refer to Jack in past tense, rather than holding out hope in the present. Hadn't she waited longer, once? Hadn't she waited an age, or what felt like it, and still believed he would return to her, even when she could feel for herself how still he was, the silence of his heart? It's a thought she doesn't allow herself to linger on for long. After all this time, if he was going to be found, wouldn't he have been? A part of her despairs. How can a person be lost for months? It's an argument she carries out with herself on the quietest nights, when the entire house is silent and she has the whole bed to herself and wishes that she didn't. She debates reasons for his continued silence until dawn. Perhaps he really is lost. Perhaps he has been found, and his letters aren't getting through. Perhaps he has nothing to write. Perhaps he can't write because he's truly dead. Back and forth, back and forth for hours. Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Some nights, Ian asks her out dancing. But some nights, she says no, because that was what she did with Jack. He knows she's grieving, and he respects the barriers she puts up. He's kind to her anyways. Once in a while, to see if she's ready, he keeps asking. Rose doesn't mind it nearly as much as she feels like she should.
May 2, 1818
Jack
They take to doing tasks around the house, just to keep busy. They develop an easy sort of routine while staying with Colette, trading off making meals, and doing the laundry and the dishes, routine chores such as that, intermixed with fixing up the farm house, which had begun falling into disrepair in places. So much of the war had been boredom, just waiting for battles to start. It's nice to do normal things now, without getting told to do them by one of the officers. It's nice to sleep in a real house again, to have mundane things to worry about, like laundry and cooking and making sure things around the house don't break. They've been helping out a lot with that, since it's just Alain and Colette here usually, with no one to do real repairs. It starts with them pulling weeds in the garden around the back, and then clearing some of the fields. Now it's turned to talks of clearing out the barn and taking care of the chickens. In the last few days especially, with their wounds healing, all of them have begun to pile on tasks to do, to avoid returning to the front. The three of them are intent on finding reasons to stay at the little cottage, and Colette keeps giving them.
"You are very good with your hands, no?" She asks one day while Jack fixes the fence, perched on one of the beams he's already done. His shoulder is much improved lately, and he's felt well enough to go out and repair some of the fallen beams– setting the cross bars back parallel, making sure the posts weren't tipped over, using a hammer and nails where needed. It's not bad work in the cool afternoon, the sun starting to lower over the green hills, clouds overhead in shades of pearly grey.
"My father was a carpenter," Jack answers with a smile. "I learned all about that stuff when I was a kid." A part of him is surprised she's picked up on it– 'good with your hands' tends to be a very broad trait. But then, he's been helpful around the house these last few days, often with the jobs requiring a bit more finesse, and he knows he told her he was an artist as early as their first night, the memory of the ticking clock on the wall and the soft glow of kerosene lamps lingering with the sound of Colette's voice. Whatever the pain of the stitches felt like that night, it's faded from his mind.
"Is he waiting for you?" She asks, swinging her feet back and forth the way a child might, palms pressed down into the beam. Her chestnut skirt flutters in the wind. The white cuffs of her blouse are rolled up to her elbows– she's probably been doing laundry before coming out here– and her collar is open, but not far enough to show anything truly indecent. Tiny, colorful embroidered flowers follow the lines of the buttons up her chest. Jack wonders if Colette was the one to do it, or someone else, like her mother, or another family member. "Back in the Americas?"
"No," Jack chuckles. "No, he uh, he died when I was fifteen. My mom, too. I've got an uncle and some cousins yet, but mostly it's just Rose and our kids." Jack flashes a smile at her. Sometimes, Colette and Alain's home reminds him of the little house in Chippewa Falls where he grew up– the peaceful quietness of it, the sense that nothing there could ever go wrong. And yet, as sure as a fire killed his parents, as sure as a war started only miles away, it had. "Rose and I were trying to teach our daughter some French before I left."
"Truly?" Colette asks, brows raised in a sort of surprise, voice taking a higher pitch. She reaches up with a delicate hand and brushes a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. Jack nods. "She speaks French as well?"
"Yeah, but she learned it in school. Not on the streets." It was one of the things they liked to do together at home– it was good for private conversations, and in the early days of their marriage had been another thing they'd found in common with one another. But the differences in the way each of them used the language had been almost as exciting as the similarities– Rose knowing many of the proper grammar rules and usages, but little slang or curses, idioms and common language, which of course, having spent a year in Parisian slums, Jack knew in spades. They both made efforts over the last few years to continue using the language, and between their shared knowledge, Jack could comfortably say that he probably spoke French better now than when he left France six years ago– something which has aided him quite considerably since returning for the war.
"And is that what you do together? Speak French and try to teach your children?"
"Well we do other things, too," he says with a grin. Like make children, he thinks, trying to imagine the baby Rose has only just had and failing. A daughter. "We draw a lot. And sing songs, and dance." We do everything together, he wants to say, but he doesn't quite think Colette would understand the sentiment. She may have someone who she's waiting for, but just having someone isn't the same. In Santa Monica, they cooked together, cleaned together, ate and slept side by side, raised their children, among dancing and singing and making art.
The Frenchwoman's gaze hovers out over the horizon– east, behind him, in the direction of the front. She pulls her eyes back to his face; the rich, earthy brown of her irises reminds him of the forests in Chippewa Falls, forests he hasn't seen in years. Maybe after the war, I'll go back there, He thinks to himself. If I can go home. "Sebastian and I used to go dancing," Colette tells him, a sweet smile pulling at her rosy lips, touching her eyes with a faint sparkle.
"Yeah?" Jack asks in return, unable to keep a similar expression from his own face.
" Oui. " she says, hopping down from the fence. "Viens ici. Come," Colette steps closer at the same moment he does, and takes his hand in hers, pressing her palm to his. She tugs his arms around her with a practiced gentleness, her hand on his shoulder, arms relaxed against one another. Jack's hand slides around to the back of her waist, rather than higher on her ribcage. Their stances are offset; their feet would be between one another's if they moved any closer. "Like this," She says, swaying with him as she hums a slow French song, a lovely smile on her face. Colette looks up at him through her dark lashes with playful brown eyes. A laugh passes her lips when he turns her around, brown skirt flaring outwards.
He hasn't been this close to a woman in a very long time. It almost feels like home. Almost. Jack feels a flutter of something in his chest, a lightness, something happy. It reminds him almost of that first dance with Rose, so long ago, as he and Colette stand there swaying and turning around one another, with no true music or beat to follow, laughing in the fading daylight. It feels right and wrong, and he knows why, but he doesn't want to name the reason, the emotion. Naming it makes it real, makes it more than just trying to find a small corner of happiness at wartime, more than laughing with a friend. The feeling simmers below the surface nonetheless.
It's not until later that evening that Jack looks at the calendar and realizes his and Rose's sixth anniversary was more than a week ago, and that it passed entirely without him noticing.
October 4, 1918
Rose
The last few weeks, Ian has been walking her home after filming wraps for the day. Rose tells herself she should mind it– that she should discourage him. But the truth is, she doesn't. In fact, many times, she is glad to have someone to talk to at the end of the day, outside of the bustling studio, someone other than her Mother. It's a relief, a breath of fresh air, and leads to them taking lingering afternoon walks through the streets of Santa Monica. Lately, she can't bring herself to go to the pier– it reminds her too much of Jack– but the rest of the city seems just as haunting. In fact, once or twice she thinks that they passed the first apartment Jack and she moved into after getting married– the one where Josephine was born.
There's talk of the war ending soon. Rose realizes that the reason she's stalled so long in pursuing anything with Ian is likely because it still goes on. Every day, the war gets closer to being over, and every day, she doesn't hear word of Jack. Six months have passed since his disappearance, no word from the army since then, either confirming his death or life. Every day, she drifts a little farther, and is a little surer that he won't be coming home. When the war truly ends, and he still hasn't been found, what will that final blow do to her? After so long, will it even hurt?
"Do you have any plans for when production wraps?" She finds herself asking as they go along. The cobblestone streets are a little damp from the rain earlier in the day, moisture still hanging in the air. They had hemmed and hawed over whether or not to take the trolley back to Rose's home, but she hadn't wanted Ian to waste the fare of two trips, once to her home and then back to his. Additionally, it's still plenty comfortable to be moving around outside, and will continue to be even in the winter. Rose hasn't needed a coat at all yet, and Ian's dark blazer is slung over his shoulder in habit, sleeves of his pinstripe shirt rolled up to the elbows, mismatched charcoal vest undone.
"I don't know," He says, throwing a smile across at her. Ian's dark hair flutters against his forehead in the fall breeze. "The studio will have me on another set before long, that I'm sure of. But I'd thought of maybe taking some time to visit home first,"
"Your parents?"
"My Father isn't well," He explains, brow pinching together a little, gaze pensive on the street ahead of them. His jaw tightens minutely. "We haven't spoken for some time– he didn't want me to come to the Americas, always complained about me wanting to work in film. He was a bit of an arse, really, thought I was sort of useless because I wanted more than working my life away in an industry job I hated." Ian says. There's a hardness in his eyes that speaks of whatever distance and pain there is between him and his father– it says more than he tells her directly, at any rate. "But my Mother, she wants me to see him once more. I ought to be there for her, anyway,"
"I'm sorry about your Father," Rose says. Their hands brush together at their sides, quite by accident. Rose's fingers twitch; she feels his twitch in response. Neither of them say anything, not quite reaching for the other's hand. Ian doesn't press for it, and she's grateful. For a moment, she'd like nothing more than to entwine their fingers and walk together, lingering in streets with a meandering stride, trying to draw out their time together. She wonders how his hand would feel in hers– how different the calluses would be from what she is used to, in their intensity or placement, the difference between working with charcoal and paper to cameras and lighting equipment. Rose swallows and pulls her hand back instead, cursing herself for her cowardice. She clears her throat."Believe it or not, my Mother and I were estranged for quite some time. Around four years,"
"Really?" He asks, an intrigued expression crossing his face, the interest in his greenish eyes tangible. "I have a hard time believing that. You're so close now,"
"Yes, we are now," Rose responds. "But at the time I had a very good reason to stay away from her. She thought I was dead, actually."
"Dead?" Ian balks. "You faked your own death? Whatever for?"
Rose shrugs. "It was the only way out, and it was easy. I was escaping an arranged marriage. I feared any children I had would be forced into the same path. We were separated in the sinking and afterward, I just… didn't give my real name to the officials. Jack and I ran off together, moved here." There was a point in time when she would have avoided discussing the sinking with anyone and everyone other than her immediate family, than Jack and Mother and sometimes her stepfamily. Now, for many of the people in her life, it's common knowledge, if not something they outright ask her about.
"What about you?" Ian prods, after a moment of quiet stretches between them. He gives her a light nudge in the side with his elbow. Rose looks across at him, sees his brow lifted at her in innocent curiosity. "What do you think you'll do once production is over?" You could have a drink with me, She hears him asking without asking, playful flirtation in his voice. Have a drink with me, Rose. She can picture the very way his eyes will glitter at her when he asks.
"I'll look into other roles at the studio," Rose says. "They'll probably want me for something. And if they don't… I don't know. I can always go back to the hospital. Everywhere needs Nurses." Which is better for the children? It's a question she has to ask herself now that she can no longer guarantee a second income. The nursing has more regular hours, but it's more demanding on her time and her body, and it pays less. She enjoys acting, and it pays well. The hours are more flexible, but they're also odd, and more likely to be evening work.
She's thought, lately, about going back to Chippewa Falls for a little bit. If Jack is never found, when the war is over. We could… we could put a headstone with his parents. She can't think of anywhere else he'd want one. She'd like to be able to give the children one more piece of their Father, to show them where he grew up. Such a trip, though, would take time to arrange, and save up for. It's not one to take on a whim.
Ian swallows, his eyes tracing over her face. "Do you think he'll come back?" He asks.
"Who?"
"Your husband," He teases. Ian can sometimes tell when she's thinking of Jack, just by the face she's making. It's probably what gave her away. "The eternal elephant in the room. Do you think that once the war is over…"
Yes, She wants to answer– that nothing would ever stop Jack from coming back to her, that he'll find her, that he's still fighting, and just hasn't been able to get through to her. No, is what she really thinks. Rose swallows. "I don't know," She admits. "There was a time when… I would've been so sure. I was certain for so long that he would come back to us, no matter what. But it's been so long, I don't–" She blinks, clears her throat. "If he were going to come back… wouldn't I have been told something by now?" The army makes many mistakes, loses paperwork all the time, and the last few months, she's spoken with others having trouble getting letters through to loved ones. The lines are stalled, any news delayed. It's possible that he has been found, and no one's been able to tell her. It's possible that his letters haven't been getting through. It's not very likely, either. Rose swallows, looking over at Ian. "Doesn't it bother you that I'm married?" She asks.
"Doesn't it bother you?" Ian retorts, asking all the questions she doesn't want to think about long enough to answer, getting right to the heart of the issue. She doesn't want to think about what happened the last time someone was so good at getting under her skin, and what it could very well mean this time. She's beginning to feel something she hasn't felt since first meeting Jack. Something she didn't think she ever could or ever would feel for anyone else. She isn't ready for that again. Rose looks away.
So often the lines of right and wrong are muddied in Hollywood, particularly in marriage– based on what she's seen in the few films she's been in. She's seen enough cast and crew having affairs with one another to know that it isn't always as simple or as easy as whether or not a person is married. She's not surprised that Ian is unbothered by her marital status in his pursuit of her. She is surprised that it doesn't bother her– not as much as it should. Rose knows that she could tell him to stop, to leave her alone, and he would, so why doesn't she?
She doesn't know what she wants anymore. She tells Ian as much.
"I'm going to keep asking you, Rose," Ian says to her in response, a sincereness in his tone that sinks into her bones, a promise. It has weight to it, it's real, something she can feel– but it's not a burden. It's steadying. "Until you tell me not to,"
She knows. There's something honest about his pursuit of her, his patience. A sense that even if she never sorts her own feelings out on this subject, she wouldn't lose his respect as a person.
Rose wonders idly if that isn't the reason why she keeps on coming back for more.
Ian kisses her hand when he leaves her at the door that night. She considers, briefly, inviting him in for supper, but somehow that feels too intimate. "When you decide what you want from me, Rose," He tells her, hand still clasped in his, looking up at her through his long eyelashes, "I'll be waiting. Whatever that may be."
May 22, 1918
Jack
It was supposed to be a week, maybe two. It ends up being a lot longer. Now, it's been more than a month. They heal, and grieve for Clarence, and work for their room and board. But the reasons to stay are running out, the projects dwindling. The house looks almost unrecognizable to what it was when they first arrived. Jack's arm is completely fine, though he does have a jagged scar running along his hairline. Gus' ribs have healed. Warren can walk on his own most of the time now, though he keeps a cane on him, which he'll probably always need.
In the evenings, sometimes there's drinking and music and card games and dancing– except for Warren, who is still a bit unsteady in that respect. Uncle Alain will dance a few songs with his niece, but for the most part doesn't like her modern music. Jack hasn't been dancing since before he left. It's been ages since he's had a carefree night. But here, in Colette and Alain's home, they've had weeks without so much as hearing the shelling.
It's her that Jack has gotten to know the best so far, over the last few weeks. She'll peer over his shoulder while he's drawing her uncle or Gus or Warren, and tell him stories about her family. The two of them have a shared camaraderie, talking about the war and missing their loved ones, particularly Rose and Sebastian. He knows there are nights where he stays up too late talking to her, and days where she sits too close to him, and that he doesn't mind it nearly as much as he should. He should be afraid of her interest; instead he's afraid of losing the only semblance of ease he's had in nearly a year. Afraid of returning to the front, regardless of the cost of staying where they are now.
"We could just stay here," Warren says one afternoon, the wooden cane Alain gave him for his leg resting across his lap. He shuffles the cards in his hand, golden hair catching in the fading sunlight. "Wait it out till the end of the war. Then go home."
It's a nice thought. It's peaceful here. Jack has been pulling out his pencils and paper here more often than he has the entire war. Usually he sends the drawings home to Rose, so she can see what he's been doing. Lately, he hasn't been able to.
He thinks of the way Colette's been looking at him lately, the wind in her dark locks, brown eyes glowing like amber when the sun hits them just right. He thinks he's caught that look in some of his drawings. Jack doesn't know what he would tell Rose about that. But then, he doesn't know what he would tell Colette about Rose. They've been missing long enough for the army to tell their families. She has to know I'm missing by now, He thinks to himself. They wouldn't have let it go this long without saying something to her. What he really wonders, though, is what the Army told her. Did they say that he was missing, or did they say that he was dead?
I could find a post office, and write to her. But then, what would he say? That there's little he wouldn't do to avoid going back to the front? Even if it meant letting the army think he's dead, letting Colette look at him that way for a while longer, meant a dishonorable discharge when he finally found his way home. Going into town to send a letter though would probably alert the army officials that they weren't actually lost or dead. Which would mean their little peaceful sojourn in the French countryside would come to an end, and they'd have to go back to the front.
The thought makes his stomach twist.
There's little he wouldn't do for Rose, but it wasn't Rose that asked him to go to war. He can't reconcile trying to return to her with going back to the front. Jack thinks, perhaps selfishly so, that she would never ask that of him. He could be wrong. He doesn't want to be. He still has nightmares almost every night. He can't ignore the way his chest tightens and pulse races at the thought of going back to those damp, mud ridden trenches, back to the gunfire and mud and cold and explosions, back to the rats and lice and rotting bodies that they couldn't take the time to move. Back to the shelling and the poison gas. Here, he gets to be safe, and to not have to worry about the poison gas and the shelling and the vermin and disease. Here, he doesn't have to fight to keep from disappearing back into the field of bodies on the ocean years ago at the sight of the men who died with their eyes open, and shining like glass.
"It's a bad idea," Gus says after a while, taking a sip from the wine bottle. He passes it to Jack. "Someone's gonna find us, and when they do, we'll be arrested for desertion. And as long as we stay here, no one back home knows what happened to us. I don't know about you guys, but I don't want my Ma thinkin' I'm dead any longer than she has to."
"He's right," Jack admits as he draws a new card. But that's all he says, and he's said it far later than he should have.
They do need to go back. And it needs to be soon. He can't let Rose go on believing whatever she believes now until the end of the war, whenever that is.
That doesn't make the thought of returning any easier.
June 1, 1918
Jack
He's in his room for the night, bathed in soft candlelight. There's no real bed in the room, just some soft blankets and pillows laid out on the floor over the last month or so that they've turned into the best home they can. Most nights, it was better than an army cot, or cold dirt. Rose's letters are on the space beside him. He'd meant to open them, reread her words even though there's been no new news for months, but they sit there untouched, still in the envelopes, tied together with a length of twine. They no longer carry the scent of her skin and perfume on the paper. He has kept them over his heart these many months- now, if anything, they smell like him.
Jack pulls Rose's dime from his pocket and twists it between his fingers, heads to tails and back again. It's the one she gave him for that drawing, the night the ship sank all those years ago. For weeks after the sinking, he'd forgotten he even had it. It had survived somehow– the real miracle was that it hadn't fallen out of his pocket while they were undressing in that car– and he's kept it ever since, the little coin with Liberty's head on the face, in a crown of laurels and the year 1910 written in small numbers below. He doesn't think Rose knows he has it, not that he's taken pains to keep it secret from her. It never felt right to spend it. The coin feels lucky in a way, so he's just taken to carrying it with him everywhere. It was the first thing Rose ever gave him.
Colette had asked earlier if he would come downstairs later in the evening, to help her with… something. Dishes, maybe. And to bring down some of his old drawings for her to look at afterward. He keeps telling himself that that's all she wants– to finish up with the nightly chores, and look at his artwork. In the pit of his stomach, he can feel that she really wants more, but he lies to himself anyways. It's easier to believe that neither of them are capable of betraying their loved ones that way, even if a part of him knows better.
"Why did you fall in love with Rose?" Gus asks him, as he turns the dime in his hands. Gus is surly tonight– mostly at Jack, but that's because he knows him so well. He's his best friend, other than Rose, the closest he's had since Fabrizio. Gus also knows that Colette is waiting for him downstairs, and that he's probably going to go see her. Knows that they've been spending time together– more time than she spends with the others, and that he forgot his anniversary.
Jack searches his own memories and struggles to put the emotion into words. He's never been good at that, at explaining himself in speech. Not the way Rose was. "Because it was easy," Jack admits, but it's not the whole truth, nor does it sound good. Because she's amazing. Because she's easy to love. Even trapped, she'd had so much spirit and personality. "She was in a rough spot and I helped her out– her life had been really sheltered. But then… the more time I spent with her, the more I realized I wanted to be there with her, when she was off getting those firsts and exploring, living life." That really was the crux of it all, that he wanted to see her being happy and taking charge of her life and learning, wanting to be at her side through it all, though they were little more than strangers at the time.
"Don't you still want that?" Gus asks him. What he's really asking holds more weight than those few words can carry. Why give up the life you've built with her? Why let Colette pine after you? Is a few minutes of feeling less lonely really worth it?
His thoughts go to the daughter that was born not so long ago, who doesn't know him. It's been two months since the battle, and Rose probably doesn't know whether or not he's alive. He can't help but wonder if, since he's been gone, she's been tempted. He doesn't wish to know in the way of jealousy, more in that he wishes to know if he's alone in his frustrations– if he's worthy of her forgiveness. He wishes he could tell her that it's alright to be lonely, because he's lonely too, and it's hard for him to be away from her, too. But then, if she did move on, Rose would have more of a reason for it than he does. At best, she has no idea where he is or if he's alive. At worst, she thinks he's dead. All he is is lonely.
"Of course," He says. "Of course I still do, Gus. You know that." But it's not always that simple. He doesn't say. Colette was here, and Rose wasn't, and that was the truth of it. No one has wanted him for anything but death and destruction in a very long time, but whatever Colette thinks she'll get from him is more than that, and in a way, simpler. Because it's nice to be wanted. Because I could stay here for a long time and it would be safe, buf if we go back to the front, we might never get to go home. It would feel so pointless, to return to the front just to die before he could see his wife again.
"Don't go downstairs, Jack," Gus says. "You know she's down there waiting for you."
"She's engaged," Jack says. Or something like that– her supposed lover Sebastian, off fighting the war, devoted even though he hadn't quite proposed. "Even if she…" Well, perhaps she's not quite as devoted as any of them want to believe. Jack shakes the thought from his head. "Nothing's going to happen." He dismisses.
"Yeah, because being in another relationship stops people all the time,"
Gus is right. His own relationship is proof that being engaged, or even married, doesn't necessarily stop people from looking elsewhere– or doing much more than looking. He's known others, too, who had affairs outside of marriage. In fact, it's all too common. But he would never do that to Rose. He has to believe that Colette feels the same about Sebastian. "Gus, we're just going to sit and talk. She asked about some of my drawings. That's it,"
"Don't go down there, Jack," He insists. "You'll wreck your marriage if you aren't careful,"
It's a sweet fantasy that they can just stay here and wait out the war, safe and free of consequences. If he closes his eyes hard enough, he can trick himself into thinking that if they stay here longer, Colette will never ask him for more– regardless of what she might really want– that he'll be able to return home when all of this is over and nothing will have changed. I would never do that to Rose. I would never do that to Rose. How many times does he have to think the words until he feels sure that it's true? He's always been sure of himself, but now, here, that sense has vanished. I can't stay here. I can't go back to the front. I can stay here a while longer. It will be fine. I won't have to go back to the front. She won't ask me for something I can't give. She won't make us leave.
In spite of Gus' warnings, Jack closes his eyes, and rises from the bed, Rose's letter's left behind. He picks up the little folder with some of his drawings in it, tells Gus that he'll be back in a little bit. In spite of it all, he goes downstairs anyway.
October 5, 1918
Rose
The cool breeze flutters over her skin, nudging at the edges of her lavender dressing gown, but Rose doesn't mind it. Even evenings were temperate this time of year in Los Angeles. The children have been in bed for several hours now, but Rose can't bring herself to even try to sleep– perhaps because she knows it wouldn't come easily, that she'd just end up tossing and turning until the first light of dawn shone over the horizon.
She takes a long drag from her cigarette, and exhales. Rose loves the blue shadows on nights like this, when the moon is so bright that you can't even see the stars. Neither of them smoke much anymore, with the children. At least, it was that way before Jack left. Sometimes, before the war, an opportunity would arise where she and Jack could come out to the back porch and pass a cigarette back and forth between them, for old times sake. They would start kissing, slow and sweet, and Jack would slip off the railing and push her thighs apart, and then he would kiss her there. After that, they might walk down to the beach and make love in the shallows, if the water was warm enough.
She wonders if he ever thinks about that. Does he smoke more, now? Now that he doesn't have to be cautious of the children? Rose does it more with him gone, when she's alone. "When I can't sleep at night, I come and sit out here," She says, like he can hear her, half a world away. "Some foolish part of me actually believes that if I sit for long enough, one day I'll see your shadow coming back to me. I never do."
How old is she? Twenty three. Almost twenty four. She isn't a seventeen year old girl anymore. She's stronger than she ever thought she was. She has set bones and mended wounds. Her body is scarred from carrying and birthing three children- Ours, not just mine . She has buried a father. She doesn't know where her husband is, or if he's still alive. Rose feels much older than twenty four- as old as she will ever be. Will he ever come back to me? That thought starts a deep ache in her stomach- its tendrils spread out, reaching, grasping, till it's in her legs, in her arms, clenching around her heart and lungs so that she can't breathe.
But she knows in her heart that she's not as alone as she feels. As she pretends to be. Rose thinks of dark hair and greenish eyes, and a twinkling smile. It would be incredibly easy to step into his arms and fold him into her life, at her side on this porch. In her bed. To allow herself to feel for Ian even though she's still grieving Jack. Lately, his hand has always been there when she needs it, offering her strength when she has none. He's there, and patient, and kind, and waiting for her to return his feelings– always offering love but never demanding it. And she knows he would continue to support her even if she never wants more from him. But is she sure she doesn't?
Rose buries her face in her hands and weeps, choking on her sobs, eyes burning.
"I don't know when I turned into Madame Bijoux, Jack, but I have," She sobs, her voice trembling. She wipes halfheartedly at her tears with a gasp. The linen sleeve of her robe comes away damp. "It seems so wrong, but I can't help but wonder if you weren't just living on borrowed time until now. If we were always meant to be torn apart. I wonder if you weren't meant to die on Titanic in payment for surviving that frozen lake when you were a boy. And if you weren't meant to die now, having survived the sinking. I know there's some world out there where you didn't make it that night. Where I couldn't save you…"
Rose feels as helpless as she did that night on the door, with the black waves all around them, and the floating corpses, and Jack's hand frozen to hers. And his eyes that wouldn't open. And his heartbeat, that she couldn't feel. And his breathing, that she couldn't hear. She feels just as helpless as she did then, just as useless. "God, Jack, I miss you so much," She wails. "I've loved you forever, I don't know how I can live without you. You promised me you would come back. You promised me. So come back."
How long is she meant to keep waiting for his shadow to appear on her doorstep? How long can she go on speaking to the wind? Jack wouldn't want her to wait forever, and, as she thinks of Ian's sea-green eyes, twinkling at her from behind the camera, Rose realizes she doesn't want to wait forever either.
October 6, 1918
Rose
Ian asks her out again that day.
This time, she says yes.
Sorry about the very long wait on this one guys. I'm really busy lately with school, and the editing for this chapter was a nightmare. I decided in the end that bouncing back and forth between perspectives/times would work better in terms of parallels than moving chronologically. Unsurprisingly, this chapter has been (sort of) split due to length, and me not having everything done, as usual. Some plot lines which were meant to wrap up this chapter got moved to next chapter, because… this thing is already 23 pages, I don't need to add more right now (which isn't even done, and would take longer) I also wasn't sure of the content, and how best to address it without deeply upsetting people.
There's some… potential for poor choices in this chapter, which will wrap up in the following chapter. I'm sorry if all of it felt sudden or rushed, and I'm sure a lot of you might not be fans of the direction I decided to (almost) take the story to. I wanted to address, in a serious manner, infidelity at war, and how a relationship can be tested. Which is part of the reason why this chapter took so long to get out to you guys; I knew it needed to be handled delicately. I hope I haven't alienated anyone. Considering the scenarios they're both in, Rose being thousands of miles away and Jack's being alive unknown, I really wanted to touch on how they might react to another's expressed interest, and how being apart isn't easy. More on this in the notes for the next chapter (which I haven't even started working on, and have no idea when it will get out to you, but I hope soon)
The French:
Stop! Wait! Shit! Do you speak English! We're Americans! Soldiers!
Go away! We don't have anything for you!
Please, wait, Miss!
Soldiers cause problems.
I know! I know! Miss, I… I… where are we?
The opening of this chapter is on Jack and his surviving friends as he makes his way through the french countryside. Please note: my capacity for research is limited by the very few fucks I give at this point. I have minimal medical knowledge in regards to the injuries in this chapter, as well as little knowledge on the French landscape. I don't know how feasible it is for Jack to be wandering around the countryside for an extended period of time and not be running into other soldiers and be missing in action following a very disorganized retreat. I always have trouble looking into War history just because of how quickly it gets messy, particularly comparing military protocol to what might have actually been happening. Consider it creative license.
Following this cliffhanger, I will be hiding in my creative-writing hole for the foreseeable future. Please don't yell at me.
