Author's Note: I have absolutely no excuse for getting this out so late. I'm sorry! *runs far away, and fast, too* And I apologize for the rotten formatting in earlier chapters, and probably in this one, too. Also, I'm positive that no one in this time period would ever have said "this blows" or "don't have a cow" (too much Simpsons, here), but I don't really stick to the lingo with my characters, anyway. If it bugs you, well. . . don't have a cow, man. But thanks to everybody for your reviews! You guys are great.

TWO: LIGHTOLLER

April 9, 1912

14:25

            Charles Lightoller lowered himself slowly onto his bunk in his room in the crew's quarters. His back was ramrod-straight; his hands rested properly over his knees, and his eyes were straight ahead, staring unseeingly at the wall. Second officer. The title played again and again. Second officer. Not first officer. Second officer.

            He looked down at his hands, and realized that they trembled. The ramrod broke; he drew his knees up and leaned against the wall on the other side of the bunk, wrapping his arms around them. He felt considerably odd—the word was vulnerable. He hadn't been expecting this sudden kick back in positions. And to lose it to Henry Wilde. . . his blood practically boiled at the very thought of the man. Henry Tingle Wilde—one of the few men in the shipping business he'd come to dislike with the white-hot passion of a thousand burning suns. Of course, the burning suns part had been thought up by the all-too-literate James Moody, with whom Lightoller had worked with on a few previous occasions. 

            But it was just. . . Lightoller breathed deeply. Just that he was going to be first officer. On the grandest damn ship in the world. And now he wasn't. His duties would change. He'd lose £5 from his salary. The time of his twice-daily watch would change; he'd have to get used to an entirely different schedule. And he'd have to say good-bye to his close friend Davy Blair.

            "Lights." The voice came from outside his door, accompanied by several soft knocks. "Lights, open the door. I know you're in there."

            Lightoller took in a shaky breath, then rose slowly and leaned on the doorframe, cracking the door open an inch. He stared forlornly out at the dull-looking William Murdoch. "Come to wallow in sorrow together?" Lightoller said dryly.

            Murdoch sighed. "A little. Come on, I heard Davy's back in the crew's mess. He's heard the news, apparently."

            Lightoller looked down at his door handle, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that there would be a shifting of rooms in the next twenty-four hours. "Is Wilde around?" he asked quietly, gray eyes serious.

            "Not that I've seen." Murdoch said, glancing to his left and right.

            "Alright, then, I'll come." Lightoller closed the door behind him, and together they walked down the hallway. A left turn, though a doorway, and they emerged into the bright sunlight of the deck. Several crewmen drifted about, but other than that, the decks were practically deserted. The two men were silent for a long while; Lightoller was the first to speak, and by then they were nearly at the crew's mess hall. "This blows." he decided grimly, and added, "Excuse my French."

            "Don't bother with that," Murdoch said, blue-gray eyes tired and drained from disappointment. "I agree completely."

            "Three months now," Lightoller said bitterly, folding his hands behind his back. "Three months I've gotten used to the idea of first officer. And you—I'm sure you know all of the chief officer's duties by heart."

            Murdoch swallowed. "Won't deny it."

            "Why did they do it, anyway?" Lightoller burst out, thrusting his hands into his pockets—a most unprofessional action, and he didn't care one bit. "What's the point?"
           
            "I've heard a lot of different theories." Murdoch said bitterly. "One is because Wilde held the position on the Olympic—"
           

            "But you were there, too." Lightoller said. "As first officer."
                       

            "Exactly." Murdoch mumbled. "I suppose they just wanted someone with experience with the Titanic's sister."
           
            Lightoller couldn't suppress a smirk, and Murdoch noticed. "Come off it, Lights." he said, managing a smile of his own. "And get your mind out of the gutter. I didn't mean it in that context."

            "Speaking of which," Lightoller said, slightly more cheerful. "What do you think of Ellen?"

            "Miss Wallace?" Murdoch nearly snorted. "Hard to say. She sat there like a lump the whole meeting."

            "Well," Lightoller said, a little surprised. "I think you intimidated her."

            "How so?" Murdoch had the decency to look slightly put off.

            "You weren't very friendly," Lightoller muttered. "That is, you were behaving somewhat like a lump, as well."

            Murdoch grimaced. "You're too kind."

            "Well, I try. Here we are." They'd reached the crew's mess, and Lightoller pushed open the door, allowing Murdoch to go ahead of him. Davy Blair sat at one of the tables, leaning on the surface with his elbow, miserably stirring a cup of coffee. He looked up, dull shock in his shady green eyes.

            "Good bloody morning." he grunted, and looked back to his coffee.

            "Come on now, Davy." Lightoller dropped down beside him. "It can't be all bad. At least you get to stay here with your wife."

            "Yes." Davy looked just as forlornly back up at Lightoller. "I know."

            Lightoller snorted. "Oh, of course. Sorry."

            Murdoch had seated himself on Lightoller's other side. "I hope that's not the only thing you're so depressed about."

            "Of course not." Davy knocked back a swallow of the hot coffee, graying hair flipping back a bit. "I've been looking forward to this for God knows how long. And I won't even have the chance to taunt Lights about Ellen. Who, just to let you know, makes an excellent cup of coffee." He took another swallow.

            "She made that?" Lightoller asked, staring at the mug as Davy put it back down.

            "She did. Go ahead and ask her for some; she made a full pot."

            "Did someone want coffee?" Ellen stepped halfway out of the door to the kitchen, hair tied back, fashionable gown gone. In its place was a pair of run-down overalls and a light blue shirt.

            For a moment Murdoch and Lightoller both just stared at her, stunned at the change of appearance—from stylish (though somewhat grimy) dress to—for God's sake—to overalls, as though she were some kind of factory worker. Lightoller managed a smile, however, knowing he shouldn't have been surprised. "We'll both take one, Ellen, thank you."

            "Sure." she disappeared back into the kitchen with a gentle smile.

            "What the blazes is this?" Murdoch said idly, tearing a paper doily into shreds. "She's an officer, not a cook."

            "Junior officer, watch yourself." Davy corrected.

            "Sorry." Murdoch muttered, and glanced up again when Ellen entered with two mugs of coffee.

            "It's a little strong." she said, placing them on the table, barely suppressing a raised eyebrow at the pile of shredded doily in front of Murdoch. "Thought you guys could use the jump."

            "That we could," Lightoller agreed, already stirring sugar into his drink. "Thank you."

            Ellen nodded. "If you want any more, I'll be in the kitchen, or thereabouts."

            "You know," Murdoch muttered. "if you wanted to serve coffee for a living, you should have been a stewardess."

             Lightoller stared at him, wide-eyed. "Will!"

            Ellen's jaw clenched, but she managed a small and brief smile. "And if you wanted to insult people professionally, you should have joined the army." She turned for the kitchen. "Excuse me."

            Lightoller (and even Blair) was gaping openly at Murdoch, who was tearing up more of the already destroyed doily. The former looked back at the retreating junior officer, halfway to his feet. "Miss Wallace—"

            "Don't have a cow." she didn't look back. "There's more coffee in here when you want it. I'm sure you're more than capable of retrieving it yourself."

            Lightoller slowly sat back down. "I can't believe you." he said to Murdoch, wondering whether to be amused or upset. "I thought I was irritated—could you have been anymore insulting to her?"

            "If he'd have given it another five minutes." Davy said dryly.

            "I'm sorry." Murdoch released what was left of the doily. "I'm just. . ." he sighed, drummed his fingers on the countertop. "I think I'm just tired."

            "No excuse, m'boy." Davy told him. "Next time wait till I'm out of earshot to insult her—she makes better coffee than my wife ever did, and I'll probably never drink it again." He looked forlornly into his now-empty coffee mug.

            "Well, maybe Murdoch can ask her what she does to it, if he ever lightens up." Lightoller muttered. He rose to his feet with a sigh, taking his coffee with him. "I'm going to go find her, and apologize for you, my friend." He clapped Murdoch on the back, maybe a little harder than he should have.

            Murdoch ran a hand over his face, and he did look weary. "Thanks. I think I'll finish my coffee and then go. . . I don't know. Go somewhere."

            The door of the crew's mess opened; in walked Wilde, who noticed Lightoller and then immediately ignored him. "I thought I smelled coffee."

            "Coffee. Mugs. Kitchen." Lightoller said, and walked past him, heading quickly for the exit. "See you when we get back, Davy."

            "Bring me back her coffee recipe!" Davy called, then looked over at Murdoch and the paper shreds as Wilde went for the kitchen. "Will, quit tearing those things up." He stood up. "I'm off—I want to get off this God-forsaken boat. Have fun, don't give Wallace a hard time, and really, don't let Lights forget about that coffee."

            "Fine, fine, and fine." Murdoch managed a smile, and stood up as well. The two men shook hands. "Take care of yourself, and say hello to Charlene for me."

            "I will." Blair smiled. "See you in a few weeks."

            "Until then." Murdoch agreed, and sat back down to his coffee as Davy Blair walked out of the door. Will sighed, and looked at his watch, knowing his break would be over soon. The Titanic sailed on the morrow, and he had yet to figure out what his first officer duties consisted of.