Author's Note: YEEEEEEEEEEAH, Chapter Four! We are moving right along! I dunno about you guys, but a lot of times, I feel it hard to finish a story, but this one has just been smooth sailing. Haha. Smooth sailing. . . Titanic. Ship joke. OKAY then. I'd just like to extend a huge and hearty THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of my reviewers. You guys rock.. . . the boat. Hahaha another Titanic joke. Alright, I better stop before I hurt myself. I'm waayyy too hyper here. A story note: The arm wrestling scene with Tommy and Bjorn. . . it's not the one where Rose goes, "So you think you're big tough men,", etc-- Remember how Tommy says, "Two out of three! Two out of three!". . . well, the one I have here is round number two. And in Chapter Three, I was reading back over it, and I made all these typos and mistakes. . . sorry :-( Oh, and I was going to say-- I noticed this totally sweet part in Part I. When Jack and Fabrizio are going through the hallway looking for their rooms, Fabrizio and the chick he dances with later in the movie pass each other, and they both look back at each other. Gaaa it was so sweet. Anyvay. . . don't forget to review when you're done reading. This isn't one of my favorite chapters, but maybe you guys will think differently-- tell me! lol More will be up soon, I promise. Enjoy! Millie grazie!

FOUR

"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed happily over the noise of the music and talk of the steerage general room as Fabrizio and I again knocked into another couple on the floor. We were holding each other fairly close, as the steps required, but both of us were having fun nonetheless. "Sorry!"

Fabrizio was laughing as the dance ended, and he bowed. "Millie grazie, ma bambina."

"Prego." I replied, grinning back. "I'm going to go find Thomas."

"Suit yourself," he called, and headed off, probably to find the blonde he'd been dancing with earlier. I headed for one of the low tables where a cheerful Thomas was seated, his jacket draped around the chair behind him. My breath caught in my chest as I noticed just how handsome he looked in that white shirt, the sleeves billowing a bit but rolled up to just below the elbow, dark suspenders standing out against the white fabric. I forced myself to continue toward him without faltering (which was actually pretty easy; I'd ditched the painful shoes Peckdash had me wearing and was now running around in my stockings).

The band picked up it's next tune, and I did the only thinkable thing. "Come on." I took Thomas's hand and pulled him into the fray.

"Wait a moment, Carrie!" he barely had time to put down his beer. We stopped in the middle of the dance floor; he looked somewhat worried. "I don't. . . I don't know if I can do this as well as you."

"Sure you can." I said, gasping his one hand, putting my other on his shoulder, grinning at him. "Come on, you can stand on my feet." I remembered then as he smiled slightly. "And besides, you'll be fine. You're Irish!"

He glanced around at the other couples. "Yes, but. . . I haven't done this in years."

I was still getting used to the feel of his hand in mine. "You'll be great. It doesn't matter how you do; no one else will look twice."

He nodded, just a little, and that ever-present smile tugged at his lips. "Alright." Thomas again glanced at the other dancers, and his other hand tentatively slid around my waist; I had to work to breathe properly. His hand was warm and steady. Our faces were unbelievably close; I looked up at him again and my breath caught in my chest. If I'd have leaned in a mere three inches, we would have been lip-locked. I forced myself to look at his eyes instead of his lips. "Let's go!"

And we were off, the music streaming from the band's instruments. I didn't know the steps at all to this dance, but I did what Fabrizio and I had done and just made them up as we went. Thomas caught on quickly, his grin large and happy as we danced back and forth and around the room. I realized that he was an excellent dancer. "You told me you sucked!" I cried to him over the din.

"I thought I did!" he called back, eyes shining with mirth.

I caught sight of the almost-empty stage in the center of the room; only Fabrizio and his blonde were there, dancing, and doing a pretty good job of it. I glanced back toward Thomas, who immediately saw the look in my eye and what I'd been staring at. "Oh, no." he said, but he was grinning, nearly laughing. "No. Absolutely not!"

"Ah, where's your sense of fun?" I cried, pulling him along in the direction of the stage.

"I left it in Southampton!" he said, beat but still grinning as we stepped up onto the wooden platform scarred with scuffmarks.

We'd gotten separated in our attempts to get onto the stage; now we pulled each other close again and picked up the steps. I was loving every second of this; he seemed to be, as well. The crowd around the stage cheered Thomas, me, Fabrizio, and his girl as we invented steps to a dance we'd never even heard played before.

Both Thomas and I couldn't stop grinning as we whirled each other around the floor, moving in time to the music. At one point he withdrew his arm from my waist, and I took back my arm from his shoulder, and we both performed a series of arm sweeps and swoops; I was twirled around, pulled along by his hands linked with mine, both of us laughing.

The dance finally ended; we applauded with the rest of the people, grinning and hot. "Nother beer?" I asked him as the band struck up a new song and we sucked in deep gulps of air.

"I'll need it if we're to keep doing this," he answered with a grin, and I took his hand in mine and we looked for vacant seats and drinks. The table I found was nearly full, but with a few empty chairs. Thomas and I took them, and grabbed two of the beers. It was at this point that I looked and saw Tommy Ryan, Jack and Fabrizio's new friend, locked in a fierce arm-wrestling match with one of the Swiss men from our quarters, Bjorn Gundersen. I couldn't help but to root for Tommy. He was one hell of a friendly guy, from what I'd seen of him earlier. Neither man appeared to be winning, but both of their faces were red as they struggled to force the other's hand to the table.

"Now this," I called to Thomas. "is quality entertainment!"

He laughed, raising his glass to his lips, and drank deeply of the cheap beer. I watched him knock back gulp after gulp, somewhat amazed, but very amused. He caught my stare and grinned, lowering the glass. "I don't have Irish blood for nothing!" he joked, I laughed, having the time of my life.

We turned toward the arm wrestling match; I grinned, knowing that the only purpose of the match was for Tommy and Bjorn to show off. I'd been around men long enough to know that if there was a woman within a twenty foot radius, they'd be doing something to show their strength or skill.

At last, Tommy's hand was forced backward, nearly knocking over Thomas' beer. "Cor!" Tommy cried, a grin stretched across his face, cigarette balanced between his teeth. We all laughed as he paid up for the bet he made, and then he turned to Thomas and I. "Dammit." he shook his head and took a long drag from the cigarette. "Shouldn'ta done tha, huh."

"You were having fun, Ryan." I lifted an eyebrow, grinning. "That is, it looked like you were having fun."

"Aye, I was." he looked over to Thomas. "Gonna introduce me to your friend there, Carrie?"

"Sorry," I apologized. "Tommy, this is Thomas Andrews. Thomas-- this is Tommy Ryan."

They shook hands. "Pleasure to be meetin' ya." Tommy said, friendly grin in place.

"Same-- thank you, Mr. Ryan." Thomas said, smiling back.

"Oh, no." Tommy grinned. "Don't you be goin' all first-class on me. The name's Tommy. And if y'must call me by my last name, then leave out the mister part. We're all friends down here, Andrews."

Thomas had a wonderful smile on his face. "Thank you, Tommy."

"Don't be thankin' me." Tommy said, smashing his cigarette into an ashtray. "I didn't set the customs system down here." He glanced up at me, savage grin still in place. "Oy, Carrie, Jack tol' me you were one hell of an arm wrestler."

If ever I had a hit list, Jack moved into first place on it, knocking Mrs. DeWitt Bukater out of the way. "You're just sore about losing." I said, wondering where I could find a cigarette of my own, trying to change the subject. "I'm no such thing."

"Well, you can't exactly be a softy working in the shipyards." This comment, to my surprise, came from Thomas, whose twinkling eyes met my surprised ones.

I looked back and forth between him and Tommy. "C'mon, Carrie." Tommy urged, hopeful grin on his face. "I want to see how strong y'are 'gainst the likes of me. You know you want to."

After a moment of glancing between Tommy's hopeful face and Thomas' amused one, I gave in. "Well, I'll do it. As long as we don't bet anything."

"Fair enough." Tommy rested his elbow on the table, and held out his hand. "Y'ready?"

"I was born ready." I shot back, resting my elbow in front of his. Our hands settled around one another's. Tommy's grip was shockingly tight; I could see the muscles bulging in his forearms. I prayed I wasn't doing something stupid.

Bjorn noticed what we were doing and started gibbering in Swedish to his friends, who gathered around again, pulling other guys with them.

"Want I should be referee?" Thomas asked, leaning forward, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of my chair.

"Sure." I said, noticing that Thomas's action made him a whole lot closer to me than he had been. I then turned toward Tommy, my grin slowly melting away. "Say when, Thomas."

Tommy and I both shifted slightly when Thomas said, "Ready. . ."

My eyes were locked with Tommy's. His grin had faded, and was replaced by a look of extreme determination and overall tough-guy-ness. The crowd around us was silent.

"Set. . ."

I gritted my teeth. Please don't let me make a fool of myself in front of Andrews. . .

"Go!"

Force like I'd never felt was exerted on my hand as the crowd began yelling at hooting, but I returned just what was given, and kept Tommy's and my palms right where they'd started. I tried pushing his over backwards, but nothing happened. My arm trembled from the effort, as did his. "Blimey," he gritted.

The noise from the crowd was filling my ears as they picked one of us to root for; the music in the background was completely drowned out by it.

It was hard to draw breath without gasping; I took them in slow and deep, focusing on forcing his hand just a little more to the side. "Come on, Carrie." the voice carried through the shouts of the men; it was Thomas. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his left hand still gripping the back of my chair, the other arm on the edge of the table. He was watching this fight very closely. His voice gentle but insistent, he urged, "You can do it. . . look at him, he's hardly pushing on your hand at all. . . you're ten times stronger than he is. . ."

The whole time he spoke I could nearly feel the reserve of strength building in me. But I had to keep it; I couldn't let it go yet, not until I was sure it was strong enough to overtake Tommy.

Thomas was still speaking, and he was less than a foot away. "You can do it, Carrie. I believe in you. I know you can beat him." he paused, almost as if he thought he'd said to much.

"Jesus." I said to him through clenched teeth, my eyes still boring into Tommy's. "Don't stop that."

A definite smile in his voice now, Thomas continued. "Come on. . . I know you can do this! Think of your boys at Garrison and Wheeler. Don't let them down!" he added, so quietly that I thought I'd imagined it, "Don't let me down."

"Haa-ah!"

I cried out in triumph as I smashed Tommy's hand down to the table. The crowd around us erupted in cheers and hollers; Tommy was laughing again, shaking his head. We shook hands (squeezing a little tighter than we should have) as the crowd continued to applaud and hoot, and I turned to Thomas, who was all grins. "Thank you." I said quietly, grinning at him, shaking out my hand.

"I was only trying to help." his one hand still rested on the back of my chair; we were very close because of it. His eyes were so gentle, and this time I couldn't convince myself that that wasn't love I was seeing there.

"And you did a damn good job." I assured him, clenching my hands to keep them from shaking.

"Thank you." He smiled as the band struck up a slow tune. "Oh," he said quietly, eyes taking on a far-away look. "This song. . ." he turned to me. ". . . my mum and dad used to talk about how this was the song they first danced to."

I smiled a little. "They back in Ireland?"

"Thank the good Lord, yes they are." he said, then returned the smile, soft and warm. "Carrie, would you. . ." his voice faltered; he cleared his throat. "Could I ask you to dance with me?"

I met his gentle eyes and wondered if it were humanely possible to say no. "Please." I managed to say.

He stood up and offered his hand; I took it and he pulled me to my feet. We walked out to the floor and Thomas glanced at the other dancers. I brought my arm back up to his shoulder and took his left hand in my right. His right hand then slid around my waist again, once more warm and steady. We were even closer than before, and I was sure I was blushing like a fiend. We revolved slowly around the floor to the music, our faces mere inches apart. My heart was pounding like a piston, and I was sure that I was shaking. I forced myself to continue looking at him. His eyes were full of care. . . and full of love. His face was gentle, so kind. "Carrie." his voice was husky, quiet.

"I'm listening." I said, and remembered he'd said those exact same words earlier.

"Give me one good reason why I--"

"Thomas Andrews!"

We both froze, recognizing the voice, both of our eyes shocked. We turned toward the voice; my hand slid lower on his shoulder and our clasped hands dropped, but Thomas's hand remained on my waist, and it tightened slightly.

Bruce Ismay stood nearly right beside us, looking both horrified and disgusted. "Thomas." he lowered his voice. "What are you doing?"

I turned back to look at Thomas, whose shoulders slowly rose and fell as he tried to control his temper. "What does it matter?" he said, voice low and angry, eyes not meeting mine.

"I'd like a word." Bruce said sourly, one eyebrow raised as he stared at me in distaste, reminding me strongly of Mrs. DeWitt Bukater.

I turned to look at Thomas, my face beet red. His didn't look much better. "Carrie--" he began.

"I'll wait." I said quietly, unable to meet his stare as our hands separated. "I'm sorry."

Ismay turned on his heel; Thomas actually touched my cheek, his hand so gentle. "You're not the one who should be apologizing." he murmured.

I looked up at him, surprised at his touch, but warmed to the bone by it. I found myself putting my hand over his, staring into those concerned and sorry eyes. "Thank you."

He nodded, just slightly, then followed Bruce, slowly drawing his hand off of my face.

Conveniently, Fabrizio was waltzing by. "Fabri!" I grabbed his shirt and accidentally pulled him so hard that he ran into me.

"I thought you liked Andrews, not me!" he cried.

"Sorry." I quickly pushed him away again, then stood close so that no one would hear, spoke into his ear. "He and a mustached guy are going over to speak by the stairs. See them?"

He looked. "Si, si."

"Can you go listen in?"

"Wait here." he hurried off; I stood back, feeling nervous somehow. The dance ended, and another lively one was struck up by the band. I wondered what in the world Thomas was going to say when he'd asked me to give him one good reason why he. . . why he what?

Within moments, Fabrizio was back, but he was smiling. "Okay," he said. "This is what I heard. The man with the mustache was asking Andrews what he was doing, and Andrews said he was hanging out with you. Mustache asked why Andrews would hang out with third-class trash--"

My hands balled into fists.

"-- and Andrews got upset. He said that Mustache should wait to get to know people before he looked at what class they were in. Then Mustache said Andrews was going to get in trouble, and Andrews told Mustache to mind--" Fabrizio grinned. "--I am quoting this-- to 'for God's sake, mind his own bloody damn business'. Then they started talking so quiet I couldn't hear it."

"Thank you." I told Fabrizio, feeling a little odd. Thomas had not only stuck up for himself, but for me, too. "If there's anything I can do to repay you--"

"I'll tell you." he assured me, Italian accent thick as ever, bright eyes shining. "Okay, I'm running now-- here comes Andrews."

Thomas was approaching, Ismay disappearing up the stairs in the background. Thomas looked terribly sad. "Carrie, I'm so sorry." he murmured, staring at the floor. His voice was hurt. "I told you that Ismay was a good-for-nothing git, and he's only reinstating his title."

"My God, Thomas." I said, surprised he was feeling so guilty. "It's not your fault. Please don't apologize." He took in a deep breath, and nodded, his eyes finally meeting mine. I smiled at him. "Come on. Let's go drink some more beer, forget this happened, and make fools out of ourselves on the dance floor."

He nodded again, looking relieved. "Sounds like a plan." he let out a long breath, but managed to smile. "Lead the way."

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Thomas took me back to my rooms later, and when we reached my cabin, I suddenly realized that I hadn't led him back to the girl's cabin, but the one I was sharing with Jack and Fabrizio. Luckily he hadn't seemed to notice, and he took the hand that was on his elbow carefully in his free one, and removed it from his arm, after which he kissed it again. "I'd like to see you again." he said softly.

"Same here." I told him, staring into those deep brown eyes.

"Do you-- do you plan on going to services tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah," I said, knowing he meant the several church services in the morning. "What about you?"

"I was going to go to the eight o'clock." he said. "Then I've a tour to start with the DeWitt Bukaters and a friend or two of theirs after they go to the ten o'clock. Could I meet you for the service, and then we could get breakfast?"

I grinned. This was unbelievable. "Sounds good to me. Thank you. And-- and thank you again for this evening. I really did enjoy it."

"As did I." he assured me gently.

"Well." my smile was shy now; I felt that way. "Good night."

"Good night, Carrie."

I pushed open my door to see Bjorn and Olaus Gundersen already snoring in their bunks, Fabrizio propped up against the wall on our bunk, struggling to read a small pamphlet.

"Carrie, where've you been?" he wanted to know.

"Great Scott." Tom whispered, eyes wide as he stared at me. "You sleep in a cabin with three men?"

"Four." I said, embarrassed. "Jack's gotta have someplace to sleep."

"Nothing wrong with that, Meestare Andrews." Fabrizio assured him. "We wouldn't touch the girl."

"They don't, and they wouldn't dare." I assured Thomas, who was still looking rather dumbstruck. "Besides, otherwise I wouldn't fit. There aren't any extra bunks."

He was still looked concerned; he didn't like the arrangements. "The women's part of--"

"We've been traveling together for two years," Fabrizio said. "We weren't about to split up now, not on our way to America." his grin shone brightly again at the name of our destination. "And we were worried that something would happen if we were apart."

Thomas swallowed, looking down at me. "Well. . . alright, but. . ."

"Any better suggestions?" I asked. "It is kind of cramped."

"Actually," He only had to think for an instant. "Yes. My stateroom has an extra room, and Lord knows I don't need it."

"Oh, Thomas, I couldn't." I insisted, trying to hide the shock I felt at actually being offered a room by him. "I'd be completely in the way--"

"The last thing you'd be," he assured me quietly, "is in the way."

I looked toward Fabrizio, wanting to accept Thomas's invitation. "That okay?"

The Italian was grinning from ear to ear. "Si!"

"Alright, then." I said, suddenly realizing that I'd be sleeping in first-class-- forget first class, I'd be sleeping in a flipping stateroom! "Thanks, Thomas."

"No problem, I assure you." he smiled back, looking thoroughly relieved. "On the way back we'll stop at Mrs. Peckdash's. She's likely to have some dressing gowns for you."

Mrs. Peckdash was more than generous, offering not only nightclothes but daywear for Sunday, as well as enough to last me until the ship docked Tuesday night. I showered her with thanks, and then Thomas and I talked the whole way to his stateroom.

"Right here," he said finally, turning into a tiny alcove with a door set at the end, drawing a key ring from his pocket. He unlocked the white-washed door before him and pushed it open, then allowed me to step inside first.

My jaw dropped open. While looking much like Mrs. Peckdash's room, this one was far more grand in scale. A huge writing desk, covered in blueprints, some half unfolded, others rolled up completely, stood off to one side. The wooden paneling was awash with golden trims every which way, and there were windows all along the back wall, which brought the private promenade deck into view. A crystal chandelier was magnificently lit on the ceiling. The room itself was decked with armchairs and sofas. "Expecting company?" I managed.

Thomas was smiling openly at the look of astonishment on my face. "Not quite." he said, hanging up his jacket in a small closet. "Come on. I'll show you your rooms."

"Was that plural?" I asked faintly, following him to the side of the room where he went through an archway to another door, this one sporting wood paneling like the walls

"Yes," Thomas grinned. "It was." He threw it open to reveal a thirty-by-twenty foot room, a large, king-sized bed in it, a small cosmetic table and dresser on one side of the room, a large wardrobe to the other side. Two, count 'em, two portholes were in the room, and dainty, gauzy curtains were tied back beside them. Another door, slightly ajar, led to a well-furnished bathroom.

"God in heaven." I breathed, turning to look at him. "Thank you."

"Wasn't a problem." he assured me, eyes twinkling. "Feel free to take whatever you need."

I smiled at him. "Thanks again, Thomas. This is great."

He was absolutely scarlet under all of my thank-yous. "As I said before, Carrie. It isn't as though it's paining me to do this."

"I know." I said gratefully. "But I mean it."

"I know you do." he returned quietly, and smiled gently, eyes warm and kind. "Call me if you need anything." he ducked his head, so slightly, in a nod. "Good night."


"Night." I said, watching him smile as he closed the door behind him. I turned to the room, and realized that I'd like very much to try out the shower and bath. But one step forward reminded me that I was still trapped in my corset and gown. Suddenly I realized that I'd never be able to get out of them on my own, and it was much too late to ring for a maid. I looked back at the door toward where Thomas had left, and realized numbly that I had only one option.

I slowly opened the door to my room and poked my head out. Thomas was standing over his desk, staring down at a pile of notes. Somehow feeling as though I was intruding on something, I said quietly, "Thomas?"

He looked up quickly, startled a little, but relaxed immediately and smiled. "Yes?"

I was blushing tremendously. "I'm sorry to interrupt--"

"You weren't interrupting." he assured me, stepping away from the desk.

"Alright, well. . ." I swallowed, one hand still hanging on the doorknob. "Listen, this is. . . this is really embarrassing, but my dress, and my corset-- I don't really know how to get out of them. They're all tied funny, and I just need them loosened enough to. . ." I trailed off. "Could you give me a hand?"

Thomas blinked, once, and I noticed that his face was red as well. "Certainly." he moved forward; I stepped back into my room.

"Thanks." I said as he followed me inside, my throat dry. "You know how?"

"I can figure it out."

I faced the bedpost as Mrs. Peckdash had instructed me to. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." I felt his fingers take hold of the back of my dress, and find the tiny metal hooks that kept the back of it seamlessly together. I half wished I could see his face. "Thank you for taking me to the party this evening." he said. "I really enjoyed it."

My heart pounded as he unhooked the dress. "You're welcome. I had fun, too."

Done with the dress, I heard Thomas's hands travel back up to the corset. He untied the knot and loosened the string. I had to grit my teeth to keep from sucking in a sharp breath as his warm fingers brushed my bare skin. Goosebumps ran up my arms; I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that his shaky breathing behind me was normal.

"That enough?" he said finally, voice slightly hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

"Yeah." I turned back to him, embarrassed as hell. He didn't look much better; his face was a deep scarlet. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Though still blushing, he seemed slightly surprised. "For what? What else could you have done?"

I blinked, and couldn't help the small smile growing on my face. "I dunno, I just. . ."

To my absolute shock, he leaned down and kissed my cheek, lips lingering there. "You're a fine lady," he murmured when he drew back, face only a few inches away. The smell of his aftershave and pipe smoke, was intoxicating. "And you need never be sorry in front of me."

And I only thought my heart was pounding before. I could still feel his lips on my cheek, how wonderful it was, knowing I would only need to turn my head three inches to the right for us to. . . I swallowed. "I wish I knew what to say." I told him quietly.

"That was more enough." he assured me, and smiled gently, eyes wonderfully kind. "Good night, Carrie."

"Night." I said again, and watched him go.

He closed the door softly behind him. I lowered myself onto the bed, still in shock. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud-- if this wasn't love, then what the hell was!? But another part of me wanted to just sit there and cry. No one ever in my life had ever done so much for me, had made me feel so wonderful-- no one had ever been in love with me. I was so thankful, and I wanted to repay Thomas, do something as special for him as he was doing for me-- but I couldn't even begin to comprehend what kind of an action would embody everything I loved him for.

I mulled over all this as I showered. Afterward, I pulled on my dressing gown, turned out most of the lights, and climbed in between the crisp but soft sheets. Never had I been in a bed so soft, or luxurious. I felt as though I were in a pool of feathers. The pillow was poofy and comfortable; the covers were thick, deliciously so. I pulled them up to my nose and turned to the side, closing my eyes.

In my dream, I was dancing with Bruce Ismay in a stairwell at uncomfortably close quarters. Thomas was the one who appeared and demanded to know what was going on, and then they got into an arm wrestling match, which was refereed by Mr. Murdoch. Thomas's hand was forced onto the table, only Murdoch declared HIM the winner. At this point, I woke up, and I glanced at the clock. It was one thirty, a mere hour after I'd climbed into bed. I tried to get back to sleep for a half an hour, but had no success. Restless, the entire day's events still fresh in my mind, I slipped out of bed, pulled on some socks, and walked to the door that led out to the private deck that was shared with the foyer and Thomas' rooms.

I shivered at how cold it was against my still-damp hair, but the air felt good, and it cleared my head. I pulled my dressing gown more tightly around me against the cold and then leaned on the open window, staring out at the calm sea, the sky twinkling with stars.

I thought of Thomas for awhile, and then cast a glance back toward the foyer where his desk sat. To my surprise, the lights were on, and he was leaning over the desk, scribbling something on a sheet of paper, a blue and white diagram before him. He was still fully clothed. I watched him as he leaned his head on his hand, stopped writing. He looked up at the wall in front of him; sensing he was about to turn my way, I quickly looked back toward the sea.

Sure enough, after several moments, I heard the door click open. "Carrie?" Thomas came out onto the deck beside me, and shivered slightly. "It's freezing out here. What's the matter?"

"Nothing." I said truthfully, a little embarrassed to be caught with damp, tangled hair. "Just can't sleep."

He nodded, understanding. "Neither can I." he crossed his arms. "Why don't you come back inside? It's warmer, and insomnia is better overcome when you have someone to share it with."

I smiled at the comment. "Alright. Thanks." We headed back for the foyer; he held the door for me. I entered and somehow felt a little more relaxed. The lamplight created a soft, cozy yellow glow against the wood paneling, and Thomas' diagrams and blueprints were even more numerous and scattered than before.

I paused at the coffee table, on which a large blueprint rested. "Can I get you anything?" Thomas asked, refilling a pen with ink.

"No, thanks." I slowly lowered myself onto the sofa, my eyes still glued on the diagram. It was at least four feet long, the ends held down by paperweights, and was a lengthwise cross-section of the ship. "Geez," I said, squinting at the tiny letters and delicate lines. "This is one hell of a nice blueprint."

He walked over, looking down at it, smiling. "Yes-- that one's my favorite. It was one of the ones we had tacked up in the drawing room when we were first developing Titanic."

"I've always loved looking at them," I said, my eyes traveling over the third class general room. "Even at the shipyards. I can spend hours looking at them. I just wish I knew more about it all."

I looked up, and his eyes met mine. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Do you want to learn?" his voice was quiet, with undertones of hopefulness.

"Would. . ." I couldn't believe his offer, and figured it'd be pretty creepy to holler, YES! ". . . would you teach me?"

"Carrie." he said softly, eyes so kind. "All you need do is ask."

I asked.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"The bulkheads only go high as E Deck?" I said, a little surprised. Thomas and I were still seated on the sofa with the diagram before us, our shoulders less than three inches apart.

"Unfortunately." he said, letting out a long breath. "We wanted to make them go all the way up to A Deck, but I was overruled." I caught a trace of bitterness there in his voice.

I said, "Ismay again?"

He nodded, a kind of sad smile on his features. "Indeed, it was Ismay." he managed a smile.

I swallowed, but spoke again, lowering my voice a little. "And was it also Ismay who ordered only twenty lifeboats?"

"You figured it out, eh?" he said quietly, eyes flickering from mine to the diagram. "Yes, that was him. He figured that too many of them would make the deck look too crowded."

"Appearance, Thomas." I said, angry with Ismay, resting an elbow on my knee and my hand in my palm. "Looks. That's all he seems to give a shit about. If it ain't pretty-- even if it'll save some lives here and there-- ditch it."

Thomas's look was empathetic, understanding. "My uncle tells me that he's going to move Ismay along to lower position in the company."

"Good." I said, relieved. "Soon as he leaves, you get some more lifeboats on this thing."

"It's already in my notes," he assured me, then looked concerned. "Carrie, you're not worried about a disaster of some kind, are you?"

I had to smile. Truth to be told, I wasn't worried about a disaster. At all. "No." I said, gently as I could. "No, I'm not. I just. . . well, at Garrison and Wheeler one year, we sent out a ship that had lifeboats for only two-thirds of the passengers. Everyone figured it wasn't a big deal, but three voyages in, the thing sank. You wouldn't imagine how many law suits there were against G and W. They had three hundred people die that night. That's when the new manager stepped in, and since then, we've made sure to put enough lifeboats for everyone aboard onto each ship we sent out." My eyes were locked with his.

"Well, it won't take much work to load more on." he said, and smiled slightly. "Have you noticed the bits of metal on the boat deck, inside the first row of boats?"

In fact, I had noticed, but had paid them no means. "Yes, actually." A thought came to mind. "Those wouldn't be those new davit bits, would they?"

Thomas grinned. "Yes, they are. Latest and greatest technology-- anyway, they can take another row of boats, so. . . soon as Titanic gets back to Belfast, I'll work on that." he paused. "What about you, Carrie? What are your plans after we dock?"

I thought back to my list, and stared wistfully down at the diagram. "I'd love to get back with Garrison and Wheeler, and try to get into a better company position."

"D'you have a goal?"

"Yeah," I said, meeting his level gaze. "I want your job."

A slow smile spread on his face. "You do-- really?"

"I have for a long time." I said, and had to smile back. "But I don't know if they'd let me get that high up in the company. I mean. . . I'm a girl, for crying out loud."

"Anything's possible." he murmured. "And I'd think you'd have a good a chance as any man. You. . . you're tough as nails."

I blushed. "Thanks."

"You arm wrestled with a man nearly twice your size, and still managed to beat the piss and vinegar out of him."

"Well." I said, remembering the other day. "It wasn't enough to get rid of Chester the Molester."

He didn't seem to catch the joke. "You broke the man's nose, Carrie. Did you not know that? Once we finished with the inquiry-- well, you saw what a fierce nosebleed Chester had--" he smiled now. "-- we took him to the infirmary, and one of your hits broke the bastard's nose."

I grinned; I hadn't known this. "Wow. I just. . . wish I could have done something else."

"Didn't they teach you self defense in the shipyards?" Thomas asked.

"The boys kept telling me they would," I said wistfully. "But something was always coming up."

"I understand that one." Thomas said, then looked at me sideways. "Do you want to learn it?"

I was a little surprised by the offer. "Well, yes, but--"

"Throw something decent on and we'll go."

"Wha-- go where?"

"The gym," Thomas said. "They've got punching bags and the like we can work with. Come on, Carrie."

"Thomas," I was flabbergasted. "It's two thirty in the morning!"

"All the better." Thomas said, amused at my surprise. Normally it would have been me suggesting something out of the ordinary. "If you mess up, there's no one to see you do so."

"Right, but. . ." I shook my head. "It'll be closed."

"Carrie," he said, rising off of the sofa. "Let me tell you a little something about being the master shipbuilder." he walked to the desk, and pulled open a drawer. "When you're in this position. . ." he pulled out a key ring clanking with at least two dozen keys. ". . . they give you a key to every major room on the boat."

I grinned, standing up as well. "Could I run down to E Deck and grab something more comfortable?"

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Fabrizio stirred as I rummaged quietly in my bag for my worn pair of denim workpants and a shirt. When I looked up, the bundle under my arm, he was looking down at me from the top bunk. Illuminated by the light of the hall and the halfway open door, his bleary eyes met mine. "Carrie?" he whispered.

"It's me." I murmured back. "Sorry. I'm just stopping in for a moment."

"Did Andrews kick you out?" Suddenly he was wide awake, and his eyes were ablaze. "That stupid-- I'll beat the--"

"No-- shh! You'll wake Jack!" Jack was on the bunk beneath Fabrizio, head thrown back on his pillow, snoring with his mouth hanging open. I looked back up at Fabrizio. "I'm fine. Really. Thomas and I are on our way to the gym. . . he's teaching me some self-defense moves."

"Oh." he relaxed a little, and smiled. "I better watch out then, eh?"

"You bet." I said, grinning, preparing to head out the door. "See you."

"Carrie?"

I turned back and had to smile at Fabrizio. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, and his chin was slightly scraggly with stubble. The lighting made him look pretty handsome. No wonder his blonde girl liked him. "Yeah?"

"Have fun, okay?" he grinned at me.

"I will." I waved best as I could. "Thank you." Thomas was waiting outside the door; he and Fabrizio waved at each other before I closed the door behind me. "Okay."

On our way back up, we had to pass Thomas' rooms again, and that's where I stepped inside to change. I pulled on the comfortable workpants, and then a light blue blouse, of which I rolled up the sleeves until I could push them above my elbow.

It was freezing on the deck by the entrance of the gym, but it was unbelievable to see the sea this late at night-- or so early in the morning. It was a vast maw of black, the sky a deep navy color above it, stars glittering here and there. Thomas opened the door of the gym and ushered me inside; he flipped the lights on from a switch on the wall. I looked around; all sorts of equipment and machinery were scattered around. And by the side, there were three full-size punching bags. A tinier speed bag was hung from the ceiling.

"Nice." I said, grinning at him.

Thomas grinned back. "Well." he shook out his arms; I did some stretching positions for them that I knew from the shipyards. "Let's get going, then." He stepped closer and said, "First things first. Make a fist for me-- like one you'd hit a man with."

I did so, bringing my thumb to the side. "Like that?"

"Exactly. You don't want the thumb over or under the knuckles, because the force of a hit could break it. Now." he moved toward one of the larger, 150 pound punching bags, which hung from the ceiling by thick cords. "When you hit, you don't want to lock your elbow, because you could break the elbow."

"Geez." I said, both of us grinning. "You'd think it'd be better just to run the other way."

"Well, in some cases, it is. Anyway, you always want to hit with the first two knuckles, and when you're punching, the other hand should always guard your face, like this." he demonstrated fist positions and the stance before the punching bag. "And when you hit, it should be fast and hard; pull your fist back quick as y'can. Like this." To illustrate his point, he slammed his fist into the punching bag, which rocked violently back and forth, squeaking as it bounced against the cords.

"Holy crap." I said, impressed. "That was incredible!"

Thomas grinned and blushed as he stopped the swinging. "Thank you." he gestured to the punching bag. "You try it."

I glared at the black surface of the punching bag before me, and set my arms. I imagined the face of the man who'd cornered me in the stairwell, and I punched it, hard, my arm tensing as I did so. The bag was knocked back toward the wall and swung back and forth.

"That was good!" he said, pleased. "Excellent!"

"Thanks." I said, a little pink in the cheeks from his praise.

Thomas had me try it a few more times, then had me switch stances and repeat the process with my left hand. After he was satisfied by my performance, he made me face him. "Now," he said, both of our hands raised to our faces. "I want you to hit me."

I stared, my hands dropping slightly. "What?"

He was smiling slightly. "I want you to aim right for my nose and hit me as hard as you can."

"Are you insane!?" I demanded. "I could kill you! If I broke your nose, I could knock bone splinters straight into your--"

"Yes, I'm well aware." he was still smiling. "Now are you going to hit me or not?"

I swallowed, not wanting to hurt him. But he had to know what he was doing. And if not. . . . well, he deserved what was coming to him. I let out a breath, then took aim. I hit as hard as I could--

And suddenly I was in a headlock. "What the hell!" I spluttered, struggling to free myself from his iron-like grip around my windpipe. My fist hadn't even touched skin.

Thomas was chuckling. "Do you know how to get out of a headlock, Carrie?"

"No," I said, a little surprised at how easily we were speaking while being so close to one another. I mean, his arm was wrapped around my neck and forcing me to his side, for Chrissake. My knee was practically glued against the back of his leg. I could smell him again-- God, did he smell good. Somehow I felt a little wobbly. "No idea."

"Alright, then, that's lesson number two. If you're in a headlock, you want to aim for the back of the person's knee. Hit it hard as you can with the side of your hand."

"Like that?" I dug my hand into his leg with a gulp.

"Exactly so. And it should throw them off balance, like this," he caught himself mid-fall. "and you should be able to grab their shoulder and force them to the floor."

I did so, and made sure he went down; Thomas laughed. As I pulled him to his feet, I said, impressed, "How the hell did you do that?"

He showed me. What he'd done was blocked my punch, grabbed my arm, pulled me forward, and locked his arm around my neck. We worked for more than an hour; he showed me more blocks and punches, including an uppercut to the jaw (and gut), a backhand that hit with the (big surprise) back of the hand, a left and right hook, and numerous jabs, as well as how to fake punches. He showed me how to keep the shoulders still when punching so as not to give anything away to the attacker; he showed me a bunch of kicks I could use, including a roundhouse to the side and head, side kicks, and a thrust kick, a very efficient move in which one pulled up their knee and leg, and then thrust their foot out toward the person.

At four in the morning we reached his quarters again, tired but happy. Thomas offered to wake me at seven to prepare for the services; I agreed to it and we turned in for the night. I was asleep within moments of my head touching the pillow.