Author's Note: For historical notes, see the LiveJournal. Oh, and I wanted to say, I don't think the real Wilde spoke French, and if he did, it probably wasn't to the officers. But Thank y'all for the reviews :-) If you can, leave one for this chapter. Thanks!

SIX: MURDOCH
April 10, 1912
18:00

He knocked softly at her door, and there was no answer; he tried again, louder, and still received no reply. Frustrated, Murdoch tried the door handle; it was unlocked, and opened easily. With a gulp, he glanced inside at her room; she was fast asleep on the chair at her small desk, head resting on her arms.

"Mi—Ellen." he said, catching himself. "Wake up." Amazing how peaceful she looked when she was sleeping. "Ellen." he said again, and she jumped slightly, lifting tired eyes to stare up at him drowsily.

"What happened?" she mumbled, lowering her head back down onto her arms to observe him.

"Nothing, yet, but we'll be in Cherbourg in fifteen minutes. We'll be needed down on the docking bridge again."

She sat up, leaning back in her seat to stretch. "Okay, thanks." She yawned, and looked at the officer. "Hey, do you have a tie I can borrow?"

"Er. . ." The last thing he wanted to do was let her borrow one of his ties, but he did have them in abundance. ". . . yes. Do want it right now?"

"Yeah, might as well." She stood up, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No, no trouble at all. I'll be right back." Damn it. He'd hoped that maybe the girl could have mooched a tie off of Lightoller, or even Wilde, but of course she'd asked him. Why wouldn't she? She was his charge, after all. He stepped down the hallway and went to his own room, unlocking the door swiftly with his tiny brass key. He opened the closet, selected one of many black ties, and re-locked the door behind him as he left.

She was tying her shoes when he got back to her room and passed her the tie. "Thanks." she said, and tried to offer a smile.

The first officer returned it for about half a second. "I'll be headed for the docking bridge, then." he said, and departed, heading first for a stop at the crew's mess, wanting a cup of tea before the load of passengers and dinner.

The second he entered the room, he could smell the fading aroma of the delicious coffee he'd had the day before, and all resolve for tea faded away. Murdoch wove around tables until he reached the kitchen door, where he cautiously pushed it open. The kitchen itself was empty (on the voyage, only breakfast and lunch were arranged in the crew's kitchen), dinner to be brought up later by several of the stewards from the main kitchen. A large, three-quarters-of-the-way-empty coffee pot stood on the stainless steel countertop, a bowl of sugar beside it.

Murdoch poured himself a cup and stirred in three lumps of sugar; he drank the coffee down cold in four large swallows. Almost immediately he could feel the caffeine jittering around in his veins. He shook his head to clear it, amazed that such a character as Ellen could make such a cup of coffee. At this rate, he'd probably never drink tea again.

With a small clink, he set his coffee cup (tea cup, really) in the sink and headed out, this time aiming for the docking bridge.

When he got there, Bert Pitman was waiting with his clipboards, now with fresh sheets of passenger lists—but thankfully, Murdoch noticed, far fewer sheets. "Seen Miss Wallace?" Bert asked. "I thought the both of you should have been here by now."

"I'm here." she was approaching, but her tie, instead of being—well, tied—was hung loosely over her neck. "Sorry—I'm having a bit of an issue, here."

"This is a guess," Pitman said. "but does it have something to do with your tie?"

"I couldn't tie the damn thing to save my life." she admitted, looking apologetically between the two officers, rearranging said accessory under her collar. "Anybody want to give me a hand?"

"We'll see." Pitman stepped forward, knowing that Murdoch wouldn't; she let him take both ends of the tie and attempt to knot it. "I've never tied one for someone—I imagine it's. . . oh, bloody hell." He de-knotted it, and tried again. And again.

It was getting frustrating to watch. "Here." Murdoch said, stepping forward, and Pitman moved out of the way. Ellen looked at the first officer uncertainly, but offered the ends of the tie, which Murdoch took. He suddenly wished that he hadn't offered his help; it required them to stand fairly close together. There was a deafening silence as he worked, looping one end over the other, doing his best not to bump her. He finally took hold of the thinner end and moved the knot up the tie until it rested at her throat.

"Thank you," she said, and stepped back, looking to the clipboards, moving a hand up to grasp the knot.

"Too tight?" Murdoch asked, and immediately chided himself: What do you care?

"A little." she didn't look up; instead she read over the names on the passenger list.

Pitman, feeling the tension, said, "Will, I heard something about you not being here the whole time, for this?"

"Oh," Murdoch said, remembering. "You're right. The captain and Mr. Wilde will not be on deck, so I'm the senior officer for the evening—I have to keep going between most of the stations to make sure everything is going properly."

"Where are they?" Ellen asked. "Captain Smith and Mr. Wilde, I mean."

"They're at dinner with the passengers." Murdoch said, and added, "It'll be the two of us that have to dine with him and his friends tomorrow."

She'd been holding a pen, but it slipped out of her fingers to clatter onto the tabletop. "What?" she managed.

He wondered vaguely why she seemed so worried. "Each night he dines with a different officer in descending order of rank. I suppose we come two to a package, because he's informed me that the two of us will be with him when he sits with his high rollers tomorrow evening."

She blinked, said a quiet, "Oh," and looked back down at her papers.

Murdoch and Pitman traded glances, but at that moment, the minute vibration felt from the depth of the ship calmed and stopped, and it almost seemed to grow quiet. "They just stop the engines?" Ellen asked after a moment.

"I believe so." Murdoch said, looking out the port window. There was a city on the land now, rather than just countryside. "We'll drop anchor any minute."

Any minute came and went. The large door was cranked open; the Normadic approached from the docks with her smattering of passengers; gangplanks were brought out, and more passengers loaded onto the ship of dreams. The Normadic emptied out; the Traffic was brought in, and still more passengers boarded.

Down in the forward docking bridge, there wasn't much trouble—at least as far as Murdoch could see. Each time he stopped by, Ellen wasn't snapped at, and no passengers had any problems. . . except for the second to last group.

Murdoch was piling tickets on the table near Ellen, and glanced up to see the lead gentleman hand Ellen his group's tickets. But then the man really looked at her and realized that she was, indeed, a "her". "Oh," he said, and reached out to grab his tickets back and pass them to Bert, who looked flabbergasted at the man and apologetic toward Ellen. The girl herself swallowed and backed a few steps away from the group, looking hurt but attempting to hide it.

The last passenger boarded, a woman traveling alone. She had a trunk in either hand, and he dropped one of them to dig out her ticket. Apparently she'd noticed how rude the group before her had been. "Damn idiots." she said, not bothering to keep her voice low as she passed her ticket to Ellen. "Never you mind them, honey. Margaret Brown."

Murdoch watched a relived smile form on Ellen's lips as she hunted through her passenger list. "Welcome aboard, Mrs. Brown. You'll be in cabin A-24."

"Thank you much," the woman said, and picked up her bags again with a half-wink. "You keep up your good work." She and the other group glared at one another as she passed.

Murdoch shook his head as Ellen approached the table with her tickets. "Your people skills are incredible." he mused, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Go to hell," she said kindly.

Bert snorted and dropped his own stack of tickets onto the table. "Well," he said, clapping Murdoch on the shoulder. "Who's ready for dinner?"

The first officer looked up at the clock on the wall; it was five until eight. "I most certainly am."

"Me, too." Ellen added.

Pitman grinned. "Well then, let's go, and let the crew take care of this." he gestured toward the gangplank; already there were crewman detaching it. "I'm starving." He led the way to the crew's mess, Murdoch right behind, Ellen following in their wake.

Later, it was she who woke him, only his door was locked, and he was curled up on top of the sheets. "Mr. Murdoch." Her voice was hesitant; she knocked harder on the door. "Our watch starts in twenty minutes."

It was dark in his room; he hadn't turned on a light before he'd begun his nap, and he fumbled blindly to the door, snapping on the light before calling, "I'll be out in a few minutes."

He sighed to himself and stretched slowly, hearing her footsteps leave his door. If he were still the Chief, his watch would be over in twenty minutes, not just starting. Now it was off to stand on deck and stare into space for four hours—then roam around more than a mile of decks for another hour. It took effort to shrug into his jacket and greatcoat, and pull on his leather gloves, but he did, and hurried to the deck.

The bridge was brightly lit, glowing against a black, star-studded sky. Ten miles distant, to the east, the black ribbon of land glowed with the lights of night. It was chilly out, but not cold—not like what was waiting for them out in the North Atlantic.

"Evening, Lights." Murdoch greeted the second officer, who was stationed on the starboard wing of the bridge.

"Evening." Lightoller said, gazing contentedly over the sea ahead of them. "And a nice one, at that."

"Yes." Murdoch agreed. "Anything I should know about?"

"I don't think so." Lightoller rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Everything's in order. We just need to keep on course and we'll be in Queenstown at oh-eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Then it's due west to New York."

"Good deal." Murdoch nodded, and remembered a chat with the Captain that he'd had earlier. "Oh, and I was going to ask—do you know where the binoculars are? I've been looking for them and I haven't had any luck."

Lights shook his head. "I've no idea. Ask the lookouts." he waved his hand toward the crow's nest, where the guard was changing.

"I will. Keep an eye out, won't you?"

"Certainly." Lights smiled reassuringly, and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Well, I'm going to be off on my rounds. The sooner I'm done, the sooner I can sleep, eh?"

"Mmm." Murdoch agreed. "Cheerio, then."

"Cheerio." Lights gave a friendly wave as he headed off the bridge, and just for a moment, it felt to Murdoch as though they weren't in this disposition on the Titanic­—it was as though they were back on the Olympic, and all was right with the world.

Murdoch sighed, but made his way over to the station of telephones, and hit the line that connected with the crow's nest. A long ring met his ear, and then a merry, "Evening, sir!"

"Evening, Mr. Fleet." Murdoch grinned. If anyone ever had a happy word, it was Fred Fleet. "Just wanted to know if you or Mr. Lee have any idea as to where the binoculars have escaped to."

"Damned if I know." Fleet muttered. "We figured one of you officers had them."

"Not that I know of." Murdoch said. "Thank you, though. I'll let you go."

"Aye, sir, thanks."

With a hollow-sounding click, Murdoch hung up and turned back toward the starboard wing—only to find Ellen standing on the bridge, staring out ahead, hands linked behind her back. Somehow it made him uncomfortable. "Miss—Ellen." he corrected himself.

She turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you stop by the wireless shack and ask the operator on duty if we've anything to be on the lookout for?"

To his surprise, it looked for a split second as though she were fighting a smile. "Yes, sir." she said, and "Excuse me." as she brushed past him.

Half of him didn't trust her; he drifted closer to the door of the wheelhouse; beyond it was the wireless room. He hoped he could listen in without being obvious; he glanced toward Quartermaster Hitchens at the helm. Hitchens merely stared blankly out ahead.

". . . to know if. . . anything. . ." Murdoch could only catch wisps of the conversation.

"Bloody coast. . . going to jam us up if. . . nothing. . ." he recognized Harold Bride's voice, sounding rather peeved. And then there were footsteps in his direction; he moved back to his spot just as Ellen reemerged.

"Nothing to be worried about, sir." she reported. "No ships to look out for—at least not on our watch, and the weather's acting fine."

"Thank you." he, too, returned to staring ahead, and after a time moved out to lean on the starboard wing rail.

And thus it was—endless minutes of staring into space, of taking reports from random departments whose crew members drifted up from the innards of the ship, of trying to recognize constellations from his training years ago. Pitman reported for duty at midnight, and the two men talked jovially. All the while, Ellen stood by just inside the entrance of the bridge, staring out ahead, not saying a word. Murdoch found himself wondering what she was thinking, and after a time chided himself that he didn't care.

After an eternity, a sleepy-looking but cheerful Henry Wilde flounced onto the deck, his greetings almost all in French. For several moments, Wilde and Murdoch chatted over what to keep an eye out for, and then Murdoch was relieved of his watch with an hour of perusing the decks facing him.

Pitman agreed to walk with him, and once that was settled, Murdoch had to figure out what to do with Ellen. It appeared, however, that she'd already thought of a plan.

"Sir," she said quietly. "If you don't wish to take your rounds with me, then. . . then perhaps I could go a separate route, by myself."

He was torn between slight pity and agreement, but Pitman stepped in: "Nonsense!" he said. "You may walk with us, Miss Wallace. You're part of this club, after all."

She looked to Murdoch, still uncertain, but he forced a smile. "Indeed, I agree with Mr. Pitman. Let's go, then."

They took off, walking along the starboard side of the boat deck, the lifeboats large and quiet to their left. "Nice night, isn't it?" Pitman said, glancing up at the stars.

"Beautiful." Ellen said, voice quiet again.

Pitman looked over at her. "What's on your mind, Miss Wallace?."

She was slightly startled, but shook her head. "Nothing, sir."

Murdoch wondered if she were thinking about him, and how he'd been. . . less than kind on the voyage thus far.

"Hardly nothing." Pitman said. "I'd say something."

A moment's silence, then, "Is it true that—" Ellen burst out, then stopped, embarrassed, before beginning slowly again. "Mr. Murdoch, is it true that we have to attend dinner tomorrow evening with the captain? I mean, I know you have to go, but—"

"I was told," Murdoch said, glancing at his charge. "that you would accompany the captain and I to dinner on the second night out, no questions asked."

"In our uniforms?" she pressed.

"Did you want to go in your unmentionables?"

Even in the dim light, he could see her cheeks flame. "I just thought—"

"Yes, we have to wear our uniforms." Murdoch told her. "No fancy dress, no coat and tails—just our uniforms."

Pitman was staring at her now, concerned. "What's the problem with going to dinner?"

Murdoch realized, then, remembering how rude the passengers had been earlier in the day. And now the thought of actually having to dine with them—to spend time in their presence . . . "Oh." he said. "It's the passengers, isn't it?"

She let out a long breath. "Well, no, it's just that. . ." she trailed off, and drew her hat off of her head to look up at the stars. "Yes, it's the passengers. If they behaved as they did at the docking bridge, then having to sit with me must be much worse."

"Well, maybe you can ask the captain if you can miss the dinner." Pitman said. "I'm sure that he knows your situation; he wouldn't put you through a nightmare for the sake of being social."

Ellen gulped. "Really?"

"I believe so." Pitman said, and clapped the girl on the shoulder. "Stop worrying. Everything will work itself out."

She nodded, trying to smile. "Thank you, sir."

They continued the walk in silence, finally changing directions upon reaching the stern. "So, Ellen," Murdoch said as they walked on the port side boat deck. "How long will you be staying with us on the Titanic?"

She looked slightly surprised, and for an instant, confused—as though wondering if he were really curious, or if he just wanted to know how much longer he would have to put up with her. But she said, "To tell you the truth, sir, I'm not quite sure. I do imagine that it will be for a good length of time—but you yourself won't have to stand me much longer."

It was his turn to be confused. "How do you mean?"

"Well—" she glanced from one officer to the other. "—you know, you're only first officer until we get back to England."

For a moment, he wondered if he'd heard right. "Beg pardon?"

"Smith didn't tell you?" Pitman said, looking surprised, and at Murdoch's own shock, continued. "Yes—once we get back to Southampton, the chief's duty is all yours. You didn't think you'd be first officer for the rest of the ship's career, did you?"

It had certainly seemed like it. "Well. . . I. . ." Murdoch stared at the two of them incredulously. "Are you sure?"

"If you want to call hearing it from both Smith and Wilde 'sure', then yes, I'm sure." Pitman said, grinning. "They only dragged Wilde in because he has experience with chiefing around on the larger ships, and they wanted to make sure that the maiden voyage is completely flawless and that the officers were in their most comfortable jobs."

"Ah." Murdoch said finally. "Well, I admit it. . . it did seem that I would be first officer for quite. . . some time."

"Yeah, don't worry." Ellen said. "In a few weeks, I'll be Lightoller's problem."

For an instant, Murdoch felt almost insulted—and then immediately somewhat embarrassed that he'd kept such an attitude toward Ellen. After all, he'd only have to put up with her for a little while, and then he'd have his true job back. It wouldn't be on the maiden voyage, but it would still be trips across the pond. Chief Officer, William Murdoch.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled broadly, and meant it.