Jack enters the house slowly, the labor of hauling several gallons of paint, brushes, rollers, and a drop cloth from town weighing him down. He has been doing more walking than he's been used to doing since his injury ever since he has arrived in town, and he keeps having to remind himself that he can't move like he used to be able to. He tries his best not to let it frustrate him too much or get the better of his mood, but with that he has to take it day by day. The doctors had all said that it would be better to use his leg as much as possible rather than keep too stationary— that stretching out the muscles and staying limber would help, but the work really is painful in the mean time. With the bullets and shrapnel, a lot of muscle and ligament had been torn or ripped away, and he knows that there is still some metal left in him that gets mighty irritating in the cold. Two years of time between the incident and now has not done much by way of dulling the pain.

The house is quiet when he walks through the door, but he can tell that Rose and Josephine are home. It's warm from a fire, and he can smell food cooking in the kitchen. He lays the paint in the foyer to be taken upstairs later, and removes his coat and boots before closing up the front door and making his way toward the kitchen. Rose's back is turned to him as she stands near the sink peeling potatoes. Not wanting to startle her while she's holding a knife he calls out a greeting before crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her waist.

As he pulls her close, he can feel her letting out a sigh, relaxing into his embrace a bit. She puts the knife and potato down, turning in his arms and burying her face in his neck, breathing him in.

"Hey," he says, rubbing circles on her back. "Everything okay?" She's quiet, and its not the greeting he expected. Physical interaction between them had yet been slow coming, and here she was clinging on to him like an anchor.

Rose shakes her head no, still tucked into to crook of his neck, and he pulls away a little to look at her.

"Josephine has been dealing with bullying at school recently, and its been getting worse. It's mostly been name calling, but recently it has been more about her family and upbringing. Some of the kids stole her painting today, and ruined it. William tried to stand up for her, and got in a fight, and now she's upset with him as well because she told him not to. I got to walk him home to his mother with a black eye and split lip to tell the story."

Jack frowns, unsettled to hear about the bullying. No one wants to learn that their kid is being picked on, no matter how long you've known you're a parent.

"I don't know what to do, Jack. Consoling her only helps so much when it keeps happening, and now Will has been in an actual fight with one of the boys involved. What must his mother think? And the parents of that other boy? I'm sure they'll have something to say tomorrow." Rose shakes her head, and lets go of Jack, going back to fixing dinner, and Jack makes his way over to sit on a nearby chair, unconsciously stretching his leg out.

"You said this has been going on for a while? What are they saying to her? Where is this bullying coming from?"

"At first it was about her appearance— her hair is brighter than any of the other children, so it makes her stand out. Then some of the girls were telling her she acts like a boy— probably because she spends all of her free time with William, so she started trying to dress and act more feminine. After that they began to make fun of her clothes for being out of fashion, and most recently its been about, well, us."

Rose finally throws the pan of roasting potatoes in the oven with seasoning and butter and takes a seat across from Jack. She looks stressed, and he wishes he knew what to do to ease her worries.

"The night before you came into town, Jo was upset because one of the girls, Beatrice, had called her a bastard child. The girl had told Jo that it meant her father didn't love her enough to stay, and that her mother was a sinner for having a child out of wedlock, and so Josephine was a sinner too. If I'm being honest, that's why I got so angry at the Inn this morning. I'm sure these kids are hearing these things straight from the mouths of their parents and then repeating it at school."

Jack frowns, worriedly. "I'm sure they are learning this behavior at home, with the way this town loves to gossip. Where is Josephine?"

"I sent her upstairs to have a bath and calm down. It took the whole walk home for her tears to finally stop, and then she was in no mood to talk about it, so I decided giving her some alone time was best. She's probably in her room by now. I think right now she's more upset about her ruined painting, and William not listening to her than anything else."

"Would it be alright if I tried to talk to her?" he asks, not wanting to overstep his boundaries as far as parenting is concerned. He still has no idea what he's doing.

"Of course, you can try," Rose says, standing again to check the food. "Supper will be in about twenty minutes. Maybe you can coax her downstairs for it."

Jack nods, Standing again. Before heading upstairs, he catches Rose's hand, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'll try my best," he says, his smile calming her a bit more. It is so nice for her to have someone around to talk about this kind of thing with. It makes her feel less alone in the endeavor of raising a ten-year-old.

— — — —

The first time Jack knocks on Josephine's door, he's met with silence and a sniffle. The second time he knocks, he announces himself, and a moment later his red-faced daughter is poking her head around the doorway.

"I thought you were mama," she says, leaving the door open and going to sit back on her bed, clutching an old black and brown stuffed bear to her chest.

He grins at her in spite of himself. "You weren't going to let your mother in?" He asks, already knowing the answer. Rose had told him how headstrong and stubborn their child could be. Even just the idea of makes him wonder what Rose was like as a child.

"I already told her I didn't want to talk about it."

"Okay, so you don't wanna talk about it. That's alright. Can you show me your canvas?"

The girl shrugs, and reaches under her bed, pulling out her ruined painting and holding it towards Jack. The ink has splattered across the picture, and there's a gash through the middle. It's un-repairable, but the stretcher bars are salvageable. He thinks with some tacks and a bit of the canvas from the drop clothe he has brought home today, he can easily make her a new one. It won't do anything to save the painting, but at least she can finish the surprise for her mother that she had been so excited about.

"Wow Josephine, under the damage, this painting is beautiful. Rose said you were gifted, but this is quality work, young lady."

The little girl looks up at him, questioning.

"Really?" She asks, biting her lip.

"Absolutely," he says, pointing to a corner that's untouched by the ink. "See here, how you've captured the shadow of the pear tree on the side of the house? Its at just the right angle and shade. You've got quite the eye." Truly, he is impressed. She's not just good for a child— she's good in general. He's not sure he himself could do better. "Now, you don't have to, but if you want, I can take this one apart and make you a new canvas tonight, ready to start again in the morning. I know your mother would love a Josephine Dawson original to hang in her bedroom when its done."

The little girl sniffles again, nodding hesitantly. "Thank you, Mr. Jack."

He smiles at her, taking the canvas and setting it by the doorway. "I know you don't want to talk about it, and that's okay, but I want you to know that things will get better. Kids are mean. Most of the time they're being mean out of jealousy, or because they're not happy with something in their own life. When I was a kid, I was picked on all the time at school— I wasn't like the other boys. I didn't like sports or hunting and would much rather draw or read, and that wasn't normal to those around me. You're a very bright and talented girl, Josephine. With time, whatever these other kids are saying and doing won't matter a bit because you're going to do so many great things."

"How do you know?" She asks, looking up at Jack full of self-doubt.

"I know because you're strong, just like your mother. And you're smart, and creative, and full of talent and spirit. You're a Dawson woman, Josephine. Dawson women can do anything they want to do; my Ma and sister were amazing at everything they put their minds to, with a little hard work of course. So is your mother, and so are you."

By the time Jack is done talking, the little girl has a small smile back on her face. He persuades her to come back downstairs and enjoy a nice dinner before an early night.

— — — —

With Josephine asleep early after such a trying day, Rose is settled on the sitting room sofa, enjoying the warmth of the fire with the radio playing in the background, and watching jack assemble a new canvas for Josephine from a piece of fabric he must have had lying around. As he works, she surveys him. He's deep in concentration, making sure that the fabric is pulled tight and even on each side before placing each new tack. Her daughter had been in a much better mood after Jack's talk with her, and Rose wasn't sure how he did it, but she was grateful. She could tell that Jack was nervous about interacting with his daughter, but so far he had been doing a fantastic job.

As she watches Jack work, her eyes are drawn to his hands; the artist's hands that she loved so much once upon a time. He seems so careful in every movement he makes— very precise in all of his motions. She's still lost in thoughts of the past a few minutes later when she feels him settle onto the couch next to her.

Her hand is now in his with his careful fingers tracing circles on her palm, and her eyes are drawn to his face, drinking him in. She still can't believe how much older he looks; still can't believe that he's here at all.

She knows that the drastic change in his appearance has been mostly due to the war. She eyes the scar running down the left side of his jaw and below his neckline, obscured by facial hair he hadn't been sporting when they first met those ten years ago. The goatee suits him, she thinks. It makes him look older, more mature, while he still has a kind of boyish charm in his smile and the light of his eyes. Meeting his eyes now, though, while they still hold the optimism and kindness and adventure that had been so captivating once, they now also hold a heaviness and solemnity that had not always been there. It's unfair, she thinks, the amount of death and destruction that Jack has seen in his lifetime— first his parents and sister, and then all of the souls that had perished on Titanic, only to follow that up with the atrocities of the front lines in Europe.

"I feel as if I'll never say it enough, Jack, but I am so glad you're here. I'm still having a hard time believing that it's real."

He smiles then. "It's real, Rose."

The silence that follows is comfortable. They're able to just take in the presence of the other, and as a drama show and advertisements on the radio end, to be replaced by a slow playing orchestra, Rose finds herself pulled to her feet and into Jack's arms for a dance right there in the sitting room, and it's a gesture that makes her heart clench. She hasn't been like this in the arms of a man since she was still a teenager, let alone, danced.

With her arms still around his neck, she pulls away a little to see him better. "Jack, dancing with you has always been one of my most cherished memories. That night, that party, it was the first time I had ever truly tasted any kind of freedom. It changed me."

Despite his small smile, Jack's gaze is serious. "It changed me, too, Rose. Meeting you, and especially after that night, I went from thinking I would spend the rest of my life alone, going wherever chance seemed to take me, to wanting some kind of stability for the first time in years— I wanted to be with you, to love you and protect you no matter what that meant, and barely dared to dream it could ever actually happen. At the time, Cal was the obstacle. Even after the sinking, when I thought you to be gone, I never fully gave up on that feeling— I never felt like you were fully gone. It's what has sustained me— what got me through the war, and I'm glad I trusted that, because here you are."

There was an intensity and sincerity in the way that Jack was looking at her now that had her pulse rising and cheeks flushing.

"Jack." He's leaning in closer now, and when he finally claims her lips, it feels to her like coming home— something she wasn't sure she had felt since childhood; a feeling of calm and security all wrapped up in this one man, and she lets herself respond and kiss him back with fervor.

She pulls back, and doesn't speak as she find's Jack's hand and pulls him along with her, out of the sitting room and past the kitchen towards her small bedroom at the back of the house. She turns when he pauses at

the threshold.

"Are you sure?" He asks, his hand finding her cheek again, and she nods, stepping into the room and turning on the one small lamp on her dressing table.

"Jack, I've waited for you for ten years and then some. I am sure." Her voice is calm and assuring and so very matter-of-fact.

"I've waited for you, too," he replies, and its an admission that surprises her.

"There haven't been other women?" She asks, suddenly feeling shy, but here he is stroking her cheek again with those wonderfully rough but gentle fingers, and suddenly she wants to know— not that it would change how she felt. It had been a decade after all, and she doesn't expect that he's spent it alone; she at least had had a child to keep her busy.

"No. Not since that night. There were women who showed interest, sure, but I knew that no one would ever be able to compare to you, Rose, so what was the point in trying? No one else would be able to compare to even the memory of you."

She shakes her head, pressing it briefly to his shoulder, before looking back up to meet his gaze, both surprised and touched by his sentiment. "I want this, Jack," she says firmly, pulling him across the threshold and fully into her small bedroom. "I want you."

Her words seem to be the catalyst he needs to make a move, and he's no longer afraid that she's doing this because she thinks its what he wants. His mouth finds hers again in an instant with a kiss much more searing than before, and his hands fumble behind them to close the door before fully turning his attention towards her. After a week he's still having trouble believing that this woman, whom he had longed for for a decade and believed dead, was here alive and breathing and taking up residence in his childhood home; that he had a family, a daughter, and legally now, a wife.

He doesn't want to rush this as had been necessary the last time they were together in that old Renault in the boughs of Titanic. Jack pulls back a bit, taking his time in committing her beauty to memory; the depth of her gaze and the slight freckles on her cheeks, the way her lips seem to be set in a permanent pout that can give way to a grin in an instant. He reaches up to her hair, seeking whatever pins hold her soft auburn curls up and away from his touch, and sets the long locks tumbling down as he pulls the pins away, laying them on her dressing table.

All the while, Rose has shifted her own hands from his shoulders down to the front of his shirt and has begun working on his buttons, which distracts Jack slightly.

"Rose," he breaks another kiss. "There's something…" He pulls back a little, and she stills her hands, looking back up to his eyes with concern, and he takes a breath again. "I'm not much to look at anymore, Rose. After that bombshell in the war, well, there's a lot of scarring— probably more than I let on. I don't want you to be startled."

Rose shakes her head with a slight frown and reaches her hand up to the scar visible on his jaw, resting it there before allowing her hand to trail down the side of his neck, and then back to his shirt front, feeling the warmth of his skin and the shape of the muscles underneath. Jack suddenly seems self-conscious in a way that is so unlike him.

"Jack, it's who you are that matters to me, not what you look like. Nothing could stop me from thinking you're the most handsome man I've ever met."

Jack leans forward, kissing her again on the lips before moving his hands over her now still ones, and undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt. He moves it aside, and lets her push it fully from his shoulders, not meeting her eye. He can feel her fingers brush over his arms and down to his chest and ribs, settling on his right side where he knows most of the scarring is. It's scattered and chaotic; angry patterns formed on skin healed over from the bits of metal and rock that had perforated his body in that damning blast. Some of that metal was still with him, so deep in his leg that they were never able to remove it, and he knows that it will be a bother for the rest of his life. What Rose can see here is nothing compared to the larger area of scarring over his right thigh.

In a act that astonishes Jack, Rose leans forward again, brushing her lips first against the scar running down his jaw to his collar-bone, making his pulse rise in an instant, and she continues kissing down his now bare chest, paying attention to each clustered scar down to his hip. Seeking out her hands from where they had settled at his waist, he pulls her back upright, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her soundly. Even without words, Rose had known how to put him at ease within his skin. He had truly been afraid that she might recoil at the sight of him now, but he had obviously been mistaken.

Clothing is soon discarded freely, and there she is beneath him looking even more like a goddess than he had remembered. He is unsure if his hands ache more to touch her or to draw her.

Their union is so beautiful that it brings tears to both of their eyes. For his part, Jack had been just as gentle and passionate as Rose had recalled, and Rose had surprised him by being so sure of herself. Completely spent, both from the trying day and the lovemaking, Jack collapses onto his back, pulling her to settle at his side where she drapes and arm and a leg back over him, snuggling close. He's nearly dozing off as she traces patterns onto his chest with a finger, his attention returning to him when she speaks.

"It's funny. I have a child, and yet this is the first time I've ever lain with a man in my bed."

Jack can't help but to chuckle a bit, and squeeze her close, dropping a kiss into her hair.

"Not even Cal?" Jack asked, wondering. Back then it hadn't been something he could have asked her. It had been taboo enough just to ask her if she loved her fiancé. Rose shakes her head no.

"Not for his lack of trying, I assure you, but we weren't yet married and so I was able to get away with my privacy on the pretense of waiting for marriage. I suppose with him I had wanted to put it off by any means possible. A union of that nature with Cal was not something I was looking forward to. I had heard rumor even then that he was cruel in bed. He was rough enough with me outside of the bedroom."

Fighting down the protective anger that flares within himself at the mention of Cal's temper and his own memories of the man, Jack looks down to Rose whose hand has stilled now, finding her expression pensive.

Sitting up a bit so he can look into her eyes, he speaks sincerely. "I promise you, Rose Dawson, that I will never treat you with anything but but the love and respect I have for you. If I ever do anything to make you feel stifled in the way you felt on that ship, please come talk to me. That fire you once had is still there burning bright in spite of everything, and I never want to do anything to see it dim again."

Rose nods her head, her cheek resting against his heart. "I love you, Jack."

"I love you, too, Rose."