Chapter twenty seven:

Pain, they say, is a figment of ones imagination. Their threshold for it. Their tolerance. Jack could tolerate many things, pain included, but the thing he despised was invalidity. The vulnerability of needing another person. He would happily fawn over any person in need, but had never required it in return. Now though, as the stormy waters carried the Californian towards Boston taking with it as many passengers of the Titanic that she could, Jack was abed with a large bandage across his left shoulder from the burn which had, apparently, grown infected in the duration of leaving it to fester. He nursed a couple of cracked ribs from his fight with Lovejoy and then, there was the vomiting which hit him on an hourly basis at first, until it has ceased to once every four or five hours until eventually he succumbed to a restless sleep.

"Your body is in need of rest and nourishment. You have suffered through not just one but several traumas. Exposing yourself to explicit heat, the force of-tumbling about the deck- and then the shock of it all. We are also travelling aboard a vessel considerably smaller than Titanic, and with this storm which doesn't seem to let up, it will be choppy until we reach land." Doctor Edwards, a fifty-something, greying man told him, with a clipboard and pen to hand. "Now, take the medications as prescribed and sleep where you are able."

"I don't like to take medicine, doc, surely just eating and a few hours sleep will do and then I could take the air on the deck?"

"Absolutely not," the doctor replied sharply, "and if I hear of you leaving your bed aside from to do what is necessary, then I shall be tying you to it."

The doctor was borderline serious and so Jack had allowed him to leave in order to prevent himself from arguing further with a physician, he was sure had more pressing matters to tend to or more injuries to see.

For the moment, his stomach had settled. In the decaying room, there was a single cot in which he laid, a sink and privy cupboard and two chairs which sat beside the small window. The Californian was definitely not a ship built for luxury, and with its size, one could only guess how many passengers it had managed to rescue. Were the halls, decks and dining rooms lined with those in need? Attempting to sit up, the same pain shot through his shoulder but this time with a red and determined face, he heaved himself up and then almost tumbled out of bed as the ship took a slight wave too fast and his stomach almost cast the insides out again until he regained his sitting within the cot and rested himself back to gain his composure again.

Dear God, what what the matter with him? He was as fragile as a doe. Blinking back frustration tears, he watched as his hands trembled and his stomach rolled again. If the sickness ceased then he would be able to stand at least for a minute without hitting the floor, he was sure of it.

Jack Dawson was a man who in just a day or two was supposed to arrive in New York City and marry the woman who over the course of a week he had managed to grow enamoured with; enough to fight for her with his own life. He was to return home to Boston and somehow decide his future, but right now, there seemed to be nothing past a festering injury and a sickness which hit him like a bat in the belly.

Seasickness had hit some passengers from as little as an hour of been onboard. The sea was rough, as rain poured onto the slippery decks ensuring that most passengers stayed indoors for the most part. Who would want to view the sea? The culprit which had claimed so much from everyone aboard. Every person had lost something. Sleep hadn't come to Jack that first evening. Or so he thought. He was aware of a presence and a pressure beside him. There was the wail of someone but then he was plunged back into the depths of slumber.

After that, it was quiet. The wails died down. The gentle chugging of the ship combined with the sloshing of water was a great reminder that they were safe; the ships engines were working. The boiler room was not on fire. They were safe, even with the great choppy waves. In the darkness, he had been sick another six or seven times and each time a hand had bathed his head and his face, which dripped with sweat. The doctor had come to change his bandage and muttering was about a fever breaking.

Broken. He felt broken.

Feeling the pressure beside him again, he tried to wave it off with what little energy he had.

"No. Leave. The—there is n-no need…"

The beautiful and gentle voice would argue with him. It would hold down his fists to his side and gently stroke in circular motions whilst mopping the hot, sticky trickles from his face. It was those small touches which lulled him back to sleep and each time he woke, they were still spinning. One dainty finger across his palm, the back of his hands and they danced upwards to his wrist in the most delicate ways. He despised it but there was no fighting it. No damned reasoning with it.

"You're the devil." He would whisper in the darkness to the woman. She would laugh, heavenly in sound.

"Would that make you an angel?"

Trying to laugh in return was painful. "No, I'm not an angel."

"I think you could be. Beneath the devilish exterior there is a man of the purest kind. Selfless, kind and adoring."

Then he did laugh and the pain shot at his shoulder and ribs. It turned to a cough, wrecking his entire body until he shuddered and his head fell onto a sturdy but steady female shoulder adorned in white lace. In the darkness, he made out a pair of pale bare feet poking from beneath a long bed gown.

"You are the angel." Jack whispered.

"No, I would settle to be your wife." She started the circular pattern upon his wrist once more and laid his head down on the pillow with such an ease. As she went, her hair graced his cheeks and the familiar feminine scent clung to his nostrils. He could smell again.

"My wife."

Jack muttered them in his sleep and he saw her there, her face soft and crying tears of worry for him as he was cradled by her in life boat number seven surrounded by blankets. Rose. After the world had gone black aboard Titanic, Jack hadn't learnt of her fate. What had happened to the great ship? Could she have remained afloat some how and managed to limp to the nearest coastline to be pulled in for repair or had she foundered with a huge loss of life?

The aftermath was blurred until he had spoken with the doctor. Somehow he was bought aboard the SS Californian and assisted by their staff.

"You're so stupid," Jack heard her whisper repeatedly. "So dammed stupid."

The sound of scratching finally disturbed the bizarre chain of dreams which had inhabited his brain for the better part of twelve hours. It was like a quill on paper, or something scurrying. Opening his eyes, the light of the room invaded his sight at once and he groaned at the brightness. Good Lord, the room had always been so abysmally dark when he had looked before. The scratching went on but he was alone. Glancing about there was the assortment of pills which the doctor had insisted he take. Medication was not the answer and wouldn't help him. The source of the sounds seemed to be in a small adjoining room which Jack had failed to notice before now.

Jack felt less heavy. Less dizzy and he moved his legs to the edge of the bed and was about to swing them to the ground when he realised that he wasn't wearing a stitch on his body aside from the damned bandages. Hissing out the pain and frustration between his teeth, he pushed back the covers to glance down at his own naked body. Holy shit, how much weight had he lost? He was like a spindle. His ribs went in, and his stomach followed. How many good meals did he need? How many hours in the gymnasium to repair the damage? He was weaker than a kitten.

"Good morning, Jack."

The voice hit him sharply and he pulled the covers back across his nether area but it was too late; the visitor had already seen but as he glanced up to the source of the voice, he was spiralled right back into the depths of emotion.

Rose was in the doorway, wearing an ill fitted, navy blue beaded dress which clung to her in areas it should perhaps if one was to attend a ball to attract a suitor. If he wasn't truly awake before, he was now and his body seemed to respond violently.

"Rose." His voice was hoarse, cracked. Immediately she went to the small table and poured a small glass of water from a larger pitcher.

"I have forgotten just how blue those eyes were in the light, it feels as though we have been in the darkness for so long."

A soft, beautiful feeling settled into his stomach and it seemed to discard any other. Taking the water from her, soft fingers lingered near and as he downed the entire contents of the glass, crystal green eyes met his and it was as though his whole stomach rearranged. It was different to the sickness from the ships choppiness but something else. Like a butterfly trapped or a bird. Rose's fingers traced across his chest, suddenly, trailing down to a dusting of hair across the middle and he sucked in his breathe until he realised that she was wiping away traces of water which he had dribbled whilst drinking.

"I'm not an invalid." Jack snapped, and she retreated her fingers. "I don't want pity and I don't wish to be mopped up and looked after like a child. I am twenty years old and I have been self sufficient for the better part of five years…"

As soon as he had finished, Rose had taken to the chair beside the bed. Her mood was unable to be determined.

"I don't pity you and I certainly don't think of you as an invalid."

"Why am I unclothed? Why am I unable to move? Why?"

Rose ignored his queries and came to him. The light scratch of her fingernails on his scalp sent chills of pleasure through his aching body. But he was so mortified by his uncleanliness, not to mention his helplessness, that he shoved irritably at the gentle hand.

Bending over him, Rose touched the bandage on his shoulder, beginning to untuck the end.

"No," Jack said harshly, moving away from her.

He was naked beneath the covers, stinking of sweat and medicine. And even worse, dangerously vulnerable. If she continued touching him, tending him, his defences would be smashed, and God knew what he would say or do.

"Jack," she said, her too-careful tone maddening him further, "I want to see the wound. It's almost time to change it. If you'll just lie flat and let me-"

"Not you."

Lie flat. As if that were even possible, with the roaring erection that had sprung to life as soon as she had touched him. He was nothing more than an animal, wanting her this way even when he was ill and filthy and still drugged from morphine even knowing that to make love to her was like signing her death warrant. Had he been a prayerful man, he would have begged the pitiless heavens never to let Rose know what he wanted or how he felt.

A long moment passed before Rose asked in a perfectly normal tone, "Who do you want to change the bandage then?"

"Anyone." Jack kept his eyes closed. "Anyone but you." He had no idea what Rose's thoughts were, as the silence became heavy and prolonged. His ears pricked at the sound of her skirts swishing. The thought of fabric moving and swirling around her slender legs caused every hair on his body to rise.

"All right, then," she said in a matter-of-fact tone as she reached the door. ''Shall I send in the doctor?''

Jack moved his hand to the place on the mattress where she had sat, his fingers splayed wide. And he fought to close his heart.

''Or will you lay and suffer?''

His empty gaze was a knowing response.

''Yes, I thought as much.'' Rose had replied, as she arranged his pillows to lean him back in the bed. Using a cool damp flannel to wipe away the remaining blackness from his cheeks and nose, she struggled to contain her own rage at him for endangering himself, for saving the lives of at least nine men, for frightening her to death.

''When Molly told me what you had done, I couldn't sit there and wait for you to be burnt alive.''

Upon seeing that the traces of dirt were gone, leaving just a reddened complexion and weary eyes, Rose placed the watering tray to one side and begun her examination of his hands. They were sore, the skin on his palms burnt in places due to touching the metal ladder at a scorching heat. ''The doctor said you're lucky to have not been injured more, especially your lungs. Your throat is damaged, but it will heal in a few days.''

''What about the rest of the men?''

Lowering her head to his hands, Rose shook her head. ''I didn't ask, you were my concern.''

Rose watched as Jack tried to lift himself from the bed, but was unable to move as fluidly as usual. A white-hot pain seared from his shoulder, and Rose winced, placing her hands across his chest to settle him back. ''Why can I not move?''

''Your wound. You have a bandage.''

''Why?''

''Because the flames caught you there. Just as you were coming up the ladder. That was how I found you.''

''Allow me to move, it is just a small burn.''

Rose blinked back tears at his distress, until she was overcome by the same adrenaline which had taken her to the boiler room in the middle of a burning Hell. ''No, you stubborn man. I watched whilst a doctor cut away your shirt, applied a salve to your wound and drugged you with morphine as you screamed out in pain for me to be the one who was safe!''

''What did you say?'' Jack's voice was quiet but it reverberated with such intensity that he may as well have been shouting.

''You cannot tell me anything, you cannot hide from me-'' Rose's voice broke into a groan and she went to a nearby chair and sat abruptly as if her knees had buckled. ''I watched him clean your wound, I watched him with a variety of mechanics to sew this, to remove that. I have never witnessed such an act of both heroic and careless behaviour, even the good doctor said so himself.''

Jack was stunned. Rose was near shaking with such emotion and he couldn't even come to comfort her.

"Y-you still wish to be about me?"

"Who do you think tended to you? Who washed your body and held your head whilst you vomited all over? Who soothed the nightmares and cleaned away the blood, the sweat and the tears that you cried whilst I held you in a tortured dream you couldn't wake from?"

Jack felt like he was about to be violently sick, there before her again. Rose was not a woman accustomed to cleaning bodily fluids when just a mere day or so before the woman had to be aided in all matters from dressing to eating. How was a person so changed and how was he a man so changed and so in need of her. Not the doctor. Just her.

" I don't tell you this for thanks, for gratefulness or anything other than the fact it was where I wanted to be."

Jack felt as though he was about to call her a liar until the tear which escaped her eye was a stark contrast. Her body although rigid, completely trembled. Her unpinned hair fell into her eyes and Jack itched to kiss the weeping away.

"I was going to release you from the engagement and allow you your freedom. I would take care of you as a friend and ensure that Hockley never found you and that he would pay for what he attempted whilst we were aboard waiting for the life boat." Jack sat himself upright, ignoring the pain jolting his ribs. "I do not wish for you to feel as though you have to be here to dote on me like some frail man."

"If I wished to have severed ties then I would but I have grown to care about you more in the last day than I have about anyone in my entire life." Rose reached her hand out to his and he almost wished to recoil. "I don't care how unkempt you are, it wouldn't change me laying with you here in this cot every night for the rest of my life."

"You've washed me?"

"Yes."

"You saw me in my entirety and ill and that didn't deter you away?"

Rose smiled, her lips curving upwards in such a way that Jack curled his fingers about hers. "No, I am more intent to stay."

"You're so stupid, Rose." Jack whispered, as she knelt by the bed, her chest uncomfortably close to his arms.

"And you're stubborn."

In a look that stole what was left of his heart, Rose wiped a tear away. Another stray fell and this time Jack caught it.

"Do you want to marry me for the conveniences still?"

"Yes, because it would solve so many of our problems even with Hockley out of the picture but he will emerge. I want to marry you to be the only man to see how you soar, how your eyes light up when I take you to see the lights of Broadway, the way you will grew inebriated after several pints of cheap beer, how you will dance in the surf of the warm ocean. I want to be at your side when you marvel each night sight and I want you to be in my arms whilst it happens."

"Jack," she sighed, "I believed your interests had waned and you'd turned cold or unintentionally so."

"I'm sorry, I'm never one to be fussed over."

"But you will recover."

Jack stroked her face, her hair and felt her chest pressed against his own bare skin and how there her breathing quickened for him. Her heart raced for him.

"I will recover. By the time we get off this dammed rickety ship I shall be recovered."

Rose raised her head to gaze to him. Once leant back on her knees, she addressed him with a concerned look.

"What is it?"

Rose exhaled and got to the chair where she sat with her hands in her lap. "We shall arrive in Boston tomorrow evening, we have been aboard the ship two days. The ship was bound for Boston originally and Captain Lord decided to remain on track."

"I had transport hired from New York."

"Yes," Rose frowned. "They managed about 400 passengers onboard and the remaining had to wait for the Carpathia which will take them to New York City."

Jack parted his dry lips. "The Titanic did founder?"

"I believe she was last seen in the horizon with the stern raised in the air. The screams were horrific—"

"Of those left aboard?"

"Those in the boats and aboard this ship. It was like watching a ghostly apparition. A dragon in a fable raise before descending into blackness."

Jack squeezed his eyes closed and a cough came to wrack his body once more. "What is the death toll?"

"It was estimated about a hundred, perhaps one hundred fifty. Some jumped from the ship instead of taking to a lifeboat. Some remained aboard the ship and others died in the life boats before they were pulled aboard." Rose bowed her head. "I know my mother would never have reached a boat."

"She was to go when we left her?" Jack recalled.

"No, you see Molly urged her aboard but she was terrified of the heights and so convinced it would be a drill. She left for the comfort of her stateroom and her name isn't on a list of the passengers aboard. There is the Carpathia but I know in my heart."

"Rose, I don't even know what to say."

"Say nothing. We have to think of tomorrow because yesterday has gone."

And that was what she did. For now.

There was so much information limited about the Californian other than it was bound for Boston when it was nearby to the Titanic and that it was small, carried about 200 passengers and was not at all luxurious, more practical, some accounts even said the ship was 'filthy'. The only resources really paint the Californian as the Devil for shutting off its wireless for the night and staying put, yet it saw the flares of the Titanic on the horizon and never went to investigate and could have pulled a few hundred passengers to safety. The investigations transcripts about the Californian were interesting to read and that was why I chose to weave this ship into the story rather than the Carpathia, as everyone knows the heroic story of Capt Rostron and how he handled the situation. There seemed to be little heroism from the Californian or its captain Stanley Lord, some even named him as a coward or a villian and he seemed to live his days as a reason of the Titanic sinking. Whoever was to ''blame'' I feel this fate for the captain wasn't deserved.