Author's Note: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry, really, I am. Blame the homework. But to make up for it I made this cool LiveJournal for my Titanic story info and other Titanic stuff. You can find the URL in my author profile. Sorry again for the crappy formatting here. Please review if you can. This, um. Does get better. Next chapter is the actual launch—that will be fun.

FOUR: MURDOCH

April 10, 1912

4:54

He slowly blinked himself awake, found himself under a stack of soft blankets, and closed his eyes again with a long, deep sigh. Will Murdoch was deliciously drowsy, limbs still heavy with sleep, and he was so very comfortable. Yet he was still an officer, and his years of service hadn't taught him to snooze the morning away when there was work to be done.

He rolled onto his side, squinting through the dim blue light that escaped past the linen curtain over the porthole. On his nightstand, he located the alarm clock, and drew the apparatus before his eyes. The time was four fifty-five in the morning, five minutes before the alarm would sound. He turned it off, however, then returned it to the stand to lie back once more, smiling contently.

Murdoch linked his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, wondering vaguely why he was so cheerful this morn—ah, of course. Today was the day, the day they'd leave port, the day the Titanic would finally set sail. Or set engines, at least.

And for the moment, being first officer didn't even bother him much.

If only Ellen weren't there.

Murdoch sat up slowly and swung his socked feet onto the floor, running a hand over his face, the drowsiness suddenly not pleasant at all.

Why was it that the two of them simply did not get along? Well, certainly because they snapped at one another. But why had they begun that?

He pondered it as he dressed, then as he shaved, and while combed his hair. He was sure Ellen was very kind, and she certainly seemed to be. And yet. . . yet with every look at her, he saw the title of first officer! flashing before his eyes, saw Wilde instead of himself as chief officer. Ellen was the symbol of his defeat, the knowledge that, once more, Will Murdoch hadn't been good enough for the top spot.

Indeed, there had been times before that were similar to this. Oftentimes he'd applied for chief officer on various ships and liners—but always, someone better was there, someone who'd been in the business longer than he, who'd been first officer longer than he, always someone who was better.

The Titanic had been different. Murdoch had been hand-picked by Smith, and Harland and Wolff. Told that only in the most grievous of circumstances was it even probable that he could fall back a position. Besides, such an honor could hardly be taken back. And this time it was worse—he actually didn't think he'd mind the switch, if it weren't for Ellen. He'd even talked to Thomas about it. The two of them were good friends, and the shipbuilder was always an excellent source of advice, even if his cousin was the one that Murdoch was troubling about. He'd merely said to lighten up and give it time, although those were easier said than done.

Ellen was extra baggage, someone who would be practically hanging on his arm the entire trip, always waiting to be told what to do. And she was a she—when was the last time anyone ever heard of a woman working a job like this, on an ocean liner? It was practically embarrassing to have a woman working with him.

At ten to six, hat under his arm, Murdoch glanced in the mirror to make sure that he looked decent, and took in a deep breath. He straightened his collar, made sure his tie was tucked neatly into his vest, and headed for the door and a long day. Emerging into the quiet hallway, he closed the door gently behind him, then wondered if he should see if Ellen was still in her room. Maybe he would remind her that they were to be in the wheelhouse at 6:00 a.m. Oh-six-hundred hours, he reminded himself silently, and paused before her door to knock softly upon it.

"Miss Wallace." He prayed that no one else in the general vicinity could hear him, and kept his voice low as he could. "Miss Wallace, are you awake?"

"Hang on." the voice was muffled, grumbled, and he could hear bed springs creaking and then slow footsteps shuffling toward the door, which cracked open two inches.

Murdoch blanched. Indeed, Ellen was awake—but it appeared that she had just rolled out of bed. She wore a rumpled nightshirt and sleep trousers, and her hair was slightly wild, eyes drooping from slumber. She squinted at him though, and glanced behind her toward her own alarm clock. "Mr. Murdoch?" she looked bewildered. "What are you doing awake?" She barely stifled a yawn. "It's not even five yet."

The man was practically at a loss for words. "Miss Wallace. . . it's five minutes to six."

"Not what my clock says." she squinted at him, and realized that he wasn't kidding. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No." he shook his head. "Look, over there—" he gestured to the clock over the door to the wheelhouse. "Five to six."

She stared at him. Then, "Christ have holy mercy." she muttered, and moved quickly away from the door. It opened several more inches; Murdoch watched her fly to the small bureau and yank out the day's uniform. "Shit." she said, halfway between stunned and amused. "Shit, I'm not even dressed. Or combed." She pulled a shirt off a hanger on the door, and paused when she saw that Murdoch still stood there. "Were you going to watch, or what?"

Beet red, Murdoch stepped away and closed her door without a word. For God's sake, she wasn't even dressed yet and it was five minutes until they had to be fully ready and stationed in the wheelhouse. Captain Smith would skin him alive—or at least give him a nice, long speech—if the two of them were late.

But then, if he went ahead to the wheelhouse, he wouldn't be blamed for her tardiness. And he probably would be if he waited. With a frustrated sigh, Murdoch stepped down the hallway and pulled open the door to the wheelhouse.

The other officers, and many of the quartermasters, were milling around, chatting idly. Through the windows, Southampton was graying with dawn, and a light fog lingered around the harbor. Lightoller waved Murdoch over to his miniature cluster of gentlemen, and passed his friend a small cup of coffee. "You're late." he commented. "Sleep in?"

"I didn't. Thank you." Murdoch took the coffee. "Miss Wallace, however, is another story."

"Indeed?" Lights sipped his own coffee, while the young James Moody and Harold Lowe looked on. "What happened?"

"I just went to her quarters to see if she was up, and. . . well." he shook his head. "I suppose she's still getting used to this time zone. She was hardly awake."

Lightoller shook his head, amused. "She'll be here."

"I hope so." Murdoch took a swallow of coffee, and was surprised by its blandness as compared to the coffee he'd sampled the day before, the brew made by Ellen. That cup had been strong and nutty and seemed to kick at his stomach, while this stuff just tasted bean-y.

The door of the officer's quarters banged open, and Ellen stumbled out of it, her cap under her arm, uniform on and ready for the day. She looked slightly disgruntled, but mostly normal, her hair pulled hastily back into a knot at the back of her neck. Seeing Lightoller and Murdoch, she headed for them, gulping uneasily as she realized that several of the men on deck were staring. "Hi." she said finally, still looking half asleep.

"Tie?" Lightoller said.

She stared (and so did Murdoch). "What?"

"Where's your tie?" Lights gestured to his own dark tie, knotted perfectly at the collar of his white shirt.

"I had to have a tie?" Ellen ran a hand over her face. "Damn. Since when? Anybody have one I can borrow? Or will I—"

"Good morning." The door to the bridge opened and closed, and in between, Captain Smith entered, smiling broadly at the group standing in the lamplight. "I trust you've all slept well, but now we've got to get down to business."

The first order of it consisted of the introduction of the quartermasters to the officers, because the group members had come from so many different places but would be the ones working together the most. Murdoch knew most of the quartermasters and all of the officers, and he let his mind wander.

He wondered if they'd get ten minutes for breakfast. He wondered how much of a pain Ellen would be this day. He stared dully at the floor when he remembered that when the Titanic took off, he'd be at the docking bridge, instead of the forecastle—where the chief officer would have been.

When it came time to introduce himself, he forced a smile and told himself that he didn't sound monotonous. Name is William Murdoch. Born in Dalbeattie. Scotland. Thirty-nine years young. First officer. First officer. First officer. Damn it all, first officer.

Of course he didn't speak in that way—but his mind certainly did. He barely heard the rest of his shipmates. When they finally were dismissed for thirty minutes worth of breakfast, he found that he was starving.

Lightoller sat down first in the crew's mess, and Ellen sat next to him. Then, biting back a grimace, Murdoch lowered himself in to the seat next to The Girl. Talk was loud and friendly, an excited air hovering about the group. Professional though they were, today was leave-day, and everyone was buzzing.

"Wish they'd print these damn things in English." Ellen complained cheerfully, staring down at her menu.

"It is in English." Lightoller said, half grinning. "Where else would you put 'scrambled eggs' into four words that don't even include 'egg'?"

"True." she let out a long breath, smiling back. "What're you guys getting?"

"Can't eat breakfast." Fifth Officer Harold Lowe sat back in his seat, pushing his menu toward his plate. "Just need a cup of coffee and I'll be fine."

"Not this." Murdoch gestured to his own coffee. "It tastes like dishwater."

"And how would we know that?" Lightoller prompted, and Murdoch couldn't stop a chuckle.

"Yesterday it was fine." Lowe said. "Really good, actually."

"Probably Miss Wallace's, then." Lightoller said, and glanced at her.

"You made it?" Lowe looked at her as well, mildly startled. "It was exceptional. What do you do to it?"

"Not telling." she smiled a secret little smile and looked back to her menu.

"That reminds me," Lightoller said, leaning forward a bit. "Miss Wallace, after you left yesterday, Mr. Blair asked me if I could ask of you what, exactly, it is that you do to make such an excellent brew."

She smiled again. "I couldn't say, sir. It's the family's recipe, and it's tradition for us not to tell anyone."

Lightoller looked at Murdoch. "Talk to her, Will." Lights glanced at Ellen. "If anyone can pry information out of someone, it's our first officer."

There it was again. First officer. "Let her keep her secret." Murdoch said mildly, forcing down another swallow of the bad coffee. "As long as she keeps making it, I don't have a problem."

There was a long silence; Murdoch stared more at his menu, Ellen absently stirred her own coffee, and Lightoller kept glancing at the clock on the wall. Lowe leaned back to study his menu better, and Moody had already buried himself in another book. Orders were finally taken, and the great silence loomed over them all again.

At last, Ellen cleared her throat. "What're you reading, Mr. Moody?"

He glanced up. "King Lear. Shakespeare."

Murdoch winced, and grinned through it. "Speaking of dishwater."

"I tried to read it once." Lowe said. "And gave up after the first three lines."

"Not one of the man's better works," Lightoller agreed. "Why don't you read one of his classics, like MacBeth, or even Romeo and Juliet?"

"Everything Shakespearean is classic." Moody argued. "Besides, I'd be laughed at to no end by all of you if I were to be caught reading Romeo and Juliet."

"Don't worry," Lowe said. "We already laugh at you to no end."

Moody grinned as the others chortled. "You're too kind."

"Mr. Murdoch, may I have a word?" Everyone at the table glanced up to see Chief Officer Wilde standing behind Murdoch, who said, "Certainly." to Wilde and "Excuse me." to the table. He rose and followed his superior to a spot by the door. "What is it?"

"Just a question," Wilde said, hat in hands. "I tried to find Captain Smith to ask him, but he's in his cabin. Where—where is it that I'm supposed to be at noon? For the launch, that is."

Murdoch swallowed. Right where I was supposed to be. "The forecastle."

"Oh." Wilde's face was actually somewhat disappointed. "I was almost hoping I'd get to be up on the bridge."

You and me both. "I'm sorry." Murdoch tried to smile. Wilde really was his friend; it was practically impossible not to be after years' worth of working together. . . and technically it wasn't Wilde's fault that he was brought in to be chief at the last minute, so there was no reason to really be angry. . . but still.

"It's nothing." Wilde shook his head, smiled back. "Well. That's all. See you up on deck."

"See you." Murdoch watched him go and then let out a long breath. Damn, but he'd wanted that spot on the maiden voyage. When he got back to the table, he saw that everyone already had their food. It seemed the excitement of the day reappeared with the rations, and talk among the table occupants picked up once more until Smith finally came to call everyone to their stations.

It was cool and calm out on the deck, the air damp but clean, gray dawn fighting the fog. Murdoch found himself breathing deeply, loving the smell of the ocean with the morning air. He didn't realize that Ellen was with him until she spoke.

"Excuse me, sir." she hesitated when he glanced over. "I just wanted to say that. . . that I apologize for quarrelling with you again last night."

He was surprised, but not much. "Thank you."

"And I—I'm sure that this isn't exactly easy for you, being first officer, and with the launch today." Her words came out in a rush. "But my job's to be the assistant—so just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. If I can help at all, tell me. And if I'm getting annoying, tell me to go away. This shouldn't have to be misery for you." she swallowed. "I guess it already kind of is."

He met her eyes, and saw that they were sincere, almost pleading. He nodded, and looked away again, wondering if someone would let her borrow a tie. "Thank you, Miss Wallace."

She looked away, too. "You're welcome."

He shook his head to clear it. "We're stationed on the forward docking bridge this morning. I suppose we should make our way there. Bert—Mr. Pitman—will be with us."

"Mr. Murdoch, Miss Wallace, if you please—" Captain Smith approached the two, who slowed to a halt and faced their captain. "—thank you. Miss Wallace, might I have a word with you?"

"Sure." She glanced somewhat confusedly between Murdoch and the Captain.

"Not to worry." Smith smiled warmly. "You're not in trouble."

"Oh." she let out a relieved breath, returning the smile a bit. "Guilty conscience."

Smith nodded toward the first officer. "Mr. Murdoch, go ahead to your station. Miss Wallace will only be a moment."

"Yes, sir." And as he headed for the docking bridge, Murdoch was taken aback to find that he felt very awkward without Ellen at his side.