Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! It's so good to be back, and to hear from you. As far as this chapter goes, I ask you to bear in mind that I developed most of this plotline when I was still a young'un, and I do realize how unrealistic a lot (read: most) of it is. Also, did you know Margaret Brown was never actually addressed as "Molly"? I didn't either, until a few weeks ago. Facts! They're so fun. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter—it's now the (early) morning of the day before the sinking. And the plot! It's finally here! Sort of. We continue about an hour after the last chapter ends. . .

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Chapter Eleven: Murdoch

April 13, 1912

02:45

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There were several soft knocks at his door; he sat up, glanced to his alarm clock—it was a quarter to three in the morning; he'd barely gone to bed twenty minutes ago. The knocks came again, still almost embarrassedly quiet. "Coming." he rasped, and swung himself out of bed. He quickly threw on his navy blue dressing gown, tried to smooth his hair down, and opened the door.

Ellen was standing there, still in full uniform and visibly trembling, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve—and facing the door to the boat deck, so that he could only see one side of her face. She didn't look at him, but focused on her cuffs. Murdoch glanced down at them—only to realize that they were spattered with blood.

"Miss Wallace?" he said, suddenly completely awake. "What—"

"I need some help." she said, voice unsteady, glancing over at him but not turning her head. "There was—there was a brawl downstairs." He gaped; she said quickly, "The stewards and I got it under control. Pulled the men apart, filled out the report. But they, uh. I was there, and I've. . ." she took in a shaky breath, and gritted her teeth, pressing the bloody cuff of the sleeve to her nose with a sniffle.

She was obviously hurt. "Did you get decked?" he asked, quietly.

She slowly turned her head, and his jaw fell open—a bruise spanned her left cheek bone, and the skin was swollen and purplish. The cuff and its current position against her face suggested a bloody nose. "Hurts like hell." she gritted. "But that's not the problem—I don't know how I can hide it tomorrow, because the captain will want to know, and he's going to question me and he'll know I was below decks and I was trying to break up a fight. . . I'm already on the line, here, and I just can't. . ." She broke off, meeting his eyes pleadingly.

Murdoch opened the door wider. "Here, come in." She stepped inside, and he left the door open a crack—regulations. They had to keep the door open if Ellen, as a junior officer and a woman, was in their quarters for any reason.

He snapped on the light, suddenly aware that he was about as disheveled as any person could be. "Sit down a minute." he pulled the chair from the desk out; she sank into it, still trembling.

"Thanks." she breathed, sniffling. "I'm—I'm not crying. Some guy got me in the nose and it's bleeding all to hell." She held up her sleeve. "That's what this is."

"And your hand," he said, noticing that a bruise was forming across her knuckles.

She looked down at it, cursed bitterly. "Hadn't noticed," she said, pale.

Murdoch was looking for a handkerchief. "Have you gone to the infirmary?"

She started to shake her head, then stopped and winced. "No. They'll tell the captain. I thought. . . thought maybe if I came here, I'd at least have time to think of what I'll say when he dismisses me."

"I'm sure he won't." Murdoch glanced back at her, thinking of something. "Have you gone to your cousin?"

She looked at the floor. "No."

Sparks went off in his chest. He instantly tried to suppress more of them by digging deeply in his jacket pocket, and finally surfaced with a handkerchief. She came to me before her own cousin. "Here. Use this on your nose."

She covered it and tilted her head back, closing her eyes. "Thanks. I think I'll just. . . I don't know."

Murdoch regarded her for a moment, then jammed his feet into moccasins. "Well, we've got to get you help; you can't sit there and bleed to death. We may as well go to Thomas—he's bound to have some sort of first aid supplies in his cabin, and if not, he can ring for a steward without suspicion. Do you have. . ." He paused, realizing suddenly exactly how little he knew about the private lives of women. ". . . er. . . something to cover the bruise? Some sort of face. . . er. . .?"

"No." Her lower lip began trembling; she bit it.

He looked away. "Perhaps Thomas knows someone who does. C'mon."

A minute later they were sneaking out of the officers' quarters, she still holding the handkerchief, which was dotted with blood, to her nose. Murdoch, now bundled into his greatcoat, was torn between being impressed at her ability to take a hit and not complain about it, and being furious with himself for helping her hide the fact. The captain should know, but stewards knew how to hush. Her name probably wasn't even in the report—and anyway, if they could hide it, did the captain really need to know? She'd helped break up the fight, after all, not started it. On that note. . .

"Er—you didn't start the fight, did you?" he ventured cautiously as they slipped along the deck, then couldn't stop a smile at the intense but good-natured glare she offered. "Sorry. Explain?"

Voice nasal from holding the handkerchief to it, she told him that coming back from the engine room, she heard shouts and a brawl, and the stewards were outnumbered. So she naturally dove in and tried to help the stewards pull people apart. Unfortunately fists were still flying, and she got caught with one.

"It was over a girl, I think," she finished as they neared Thomas's suite. "There was one standing off to the side and watching. And the men were drunk. Didn't see any of my mates around, thank goodness."

It again occurred to him that she was being irrationally calm. "You've been in fights before," Murdoch asked, "haven't you?"

"Shipyards," she said simply, then glanced over. "What about you, I don't suppose you've ever. . ."

"Shipping business," he replied, resisting the urge to clap her on the back, like he had earlier in the evening. She was not one of his friends. She was a junior officer. And that's it, he told himself forcefully. "You sort of get used to it, in the beginning."

Thomas was at the door just moments after the last knock. He wore no jacket, top button of his shirt undone—he'd been awake, from the looks of it, and working, from the looks of the blueprints spread everywhere. The instant he saw Ellen, he drew them inside, shutting the door quickly.

"What happened?" he asked, already heading for the washroom, presumably for a hand towel and water. Ellen sank down gratefully on a sofa, unbuttoning her officer's jacket.

"Fight," she said, and Murdoch could feel the shame in it. "Downstairs. I was trying to help a few stewards break it up."

Thomas came over, handing her a damp towel to clean her face. He sank down into a chair across from her. "That's one hell of a bruise," he said. "Captain won't be pleased."

"We were hoping you could help," she explained, surfacing from behind the towel. She looked much better without the blood on her face, but Murdoch's heart twisted at the bruise, which was now sporting yellowish undertones. "I'd just wear something to cover it, but I don't. . ." she studied the floor. "I don't know any women onboard. If I did, maybe one of them could let me borrow. . . I mean. . ."

"Aye." Thomas stood. "I know just the woman to ask. And you can bet she's still up, too. I can go and find her. Will you two wait here?"

"Of course," Murdoch agreed.

"Thank you," Ellen said wearily. Thomas hurried out the door.

Ellen swung her feet up onto the sofa and stretched out, pressing the coolness of the damp towel against the bruise. "Better," she sighed, closing her eyes.

Murdoch, who had been standing rather mutely near the blueprint-swathed desk, came around to sit in a padded chair across from the sofa. There was something surreal about the whole situation—dead of night, Ellen with a bloody nose, the fact that he was finding himself caring enough to not tell Captain Smith. He was about to say something about it when he realized she was asleep.

"Ellen?" he said softly, just to see if she really was out. She didn't move, just lay there, looking almost peaceful except for the bruise on her cheek.

Murdoch sighed, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, watching her sleep. "You're the most confusing woman I've ever met, you know," he muttered. "And you've got me up after three in the morning, and I'm not even cross about it. Why?"

She didn't stir.

He sat back, running a hand over his face. "Have it your way, then. Don't explain."

The door opened and Murdoch stood; Ellen stirred, looked over, then followed him up. Thomas was ushering a stout, sparkling woman through the door. Beads rustled from every seam of her dress, catching the yellow light of the cabin and reflecting it back, and a large blue feather bobbed on her head as she walked. Reddish brown hair was swept back fashionably, and a broad grin was spread above several chins. "Right then," the woman said gamely, dropping her shawl without invite onto a chair near the door. "Where's the kid?"

"Mr. Murdoch," said Thomas, smiling, because as Murdoch saw, it was hard not to around this obvious firecracker. "Ellen, this is Margaret Brown."

"Pleasure," she said, already coming over to a surprised Ellen to study the bruise. "Didn't I see you at boarding a few days ago?

"Yes," Ellen smiled, or tried. "Told an old man he was an idiot."

"He deserved it." She clicked open her tiny, beaded bag and rooted around inside it. Murdoch doubted he could have fit one handkerchief inside it, let alone the arsenal of goods this woman seemed to have within. "That's what I thought—our skin's just about the same color." She produced a tiny, flat jar of a concealing makeup. "C'mon, honey. I'll fix you up."

"Mr. Murdoch," Thomas said from near the door. "A word?"

Nodding, Murdoch followed him out to the empty, bright hall, where Thomas shut the door and then his pleasantly calm manner dissolved. He asked coolly, "Would you mind explaining how my cousin's managed to get a bruise that size, Will?"

Murdoch was surprised; he couldn't remember ever hearing Thomas address him in that tone. Quickly he explained what happened—Ellen delivering a message, breaking up a fight with the stewards, accidentally getting hit. Coming to find him, thinking he might help.

"But the bruise on her hand." Thomas strode a few paces away in frustration. "It means she fought back. I don't blame her—it's anyone's instinct, and she can hold her own in a fight. But if that person comes forward and says the first officer's assistant clocked him and they both have the bruise to prove it, they've got enough evidence to throw her out. Which I reckon she knows."

"She does." It was hard to sound serious in a nightshirt and greatcoat, but Murdoch thought he was doing a fairly good job. "But she said the men were drunk out of his wits—unlikely they'll remember at all."

"But then there's the issue of the fight report."

"She said the stewards didn't include her. And I wasn't. . ." Murdoch trailed off, and lifted his chin to salvage a bit of dignity. ". . . wasn't planning on raising the alarm about it."

Thomas walked back, eyes narrowed. "Weren't you?"

Murdoch studied Thomas for a moment. They were both the same age, had known each other a few years. Ellen had probably told Thomas about Murdoch's less than kind reception. Which meant what he, Murdoch, was about to say would sound utterly feeble, no matter how much he squared his shoulders. No matter how much he meant it. "No. I'd rather keep her around."

Thomas's eyebrow went up. "Would you?"

"Yes. She's a good worker, Thomas. Haven't heard a single complaint out of her, no matter the task. Makes my job one hell of a lot easier."

Thomas studied him. Murdoch wondered exactly what Ellen had said about him.

"Thank you," Thomas said finally. "I worry about her. And this hasn't exactly helped."

"I can imagine."

"Look, I know. . ." Thomas sighed, ran a hand through his graying hair. ". . . that it's not conventional, her job. And she says you're a well enough mentor. Just know that she's about as convinced of the legitimacy of her position as the rest of you—which is to say, not much."

Murdoch nodded. He'd sensed that for certain, when the two of them spoke. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Thanks. And thanks for bringing her here."

"Of course," said Murdoch, and they ducked back inside.

Ellen and Margaret Brown were standing by the mirror over the faux fireplace, and as Ellen turned toward them, Murdoch blinked—he couldn't see the bruise. Ellen smiled at his surprise, reaching up to gingerly touch her cheek. Margaret's makeup had worked, then. The right side of her face did look slightly swollen, but it would probably be reduced by morning.

"Good as new, right?" Margaret planted her fists on her hips, regarding Ellen happily.

"Right," Thomas agreed. "I'm impressed."

"Here." Margaret gave the little makeup pot to Ellen. "You keep it."

"I couldn't—" started Ellen.

"Sure you could." Margaret grinned. "I insist. You need it more than I do."

Ellen tucked it in her coat pocket, looking at Margaret with wide, grateful eyes. "Thank you."

"I'd better get back to my card game." Margaret picked up her small bag, and threw her shawl around her shoulders again. "Thomas, let me know if you need anything else, will you?"

Thomas saw her out the door while Murdoch looked over his charge. She did seem to be feeling a bit better—less shaken, more optimistic—and tired. "We can get ice in the officer's mess, on the way back," he suggested.

"Good idea," she agreed, and started to yawn, then winced. "We should probably get going, then. It's late."

"Or early," Thomas said, coming to stand next to his cousin. "Feeling better?"

"Much." She tried to smile, and Murdoch noticed it quivering slightly.

"Let's get you back," he said, wondering at the protectiveness he was feeling. He and Ellen bade good night to Thomas, and they began the hike back to their quarters.

They were on deck when she spoke again. "I don't know how to begin to thank you," she started, and he waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't mention it," he said, and added wryly, "If reporting you comes with the risk of losing you as an assistant, I wouldn't dream of it."

Her eyes were bright in the deck light, searching his to gauge his sincerity. "Truly?"

Murdoch gnawed the inside of his cheek. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to tell her what he told Thomas. Some of it, anyway. "You're a good worker," he admitted. "Wouldn't want to lose that." Inwardly he cringed, wishing he could have made that sound slightly less professional. But what for?

"Thanks," was all she said.

They filched a chunk of ice and a tea towel from the officers' mess, the combination of which Ellen was already holding against her cheek as they got back to their quarters. They both stopped outside her door, blinking in the bright light overhead. "I'm sorry I woke you," she said quietly, turning to fit her key into her lock.

"It's fine." He lifted his hand to grasp her shoulder, then changed his mind, dropping it. She didn't notice. He swallowed. "I can't cover for you every time, but let me know if you need anything."

"I really appreciate it," she murmured, turning to look back up at him. He felt his heart skip under her grateful gaze. "Good night, Mr. Murdoch."

"Good night, Miss Wallace." By the time she closed her door, he was digging his own key from his pocket. He lay awake in bed for some time, trying to interpret the warm, light feeling in his chest.

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They didn't see each other much the next morning, though Murdoch noticed the swelling in her face had gone down considerably, and that with Ms. Brown's makeup, he didn't even notice the bruise. At breakfast she kept the cuff of her sleeve pulled down, and on deck she kept her gloves on.

He tried to avoid giving her much to do. He kept thinking of her standing in his doorway, trembling, with blood on her sleeve and her eyes so trusting in his ability to help. He also kept trying to avoid thinking of the fact that she came to him first, because after all, he was her superior; why wouldn't she?

At any rate, Ellen had dealt with it calmly enough, but her nerves had obviously been a bit frazzled, and he wanted to give her the chance to take it easy.

Until she came to stand beside him on the bridge and said casually, "Mr. Murdoch, I don't know if there's a light load today, or if you're just being nice, but don't let me off the hook, all right? Give me a real job or I'm going to go mad."

"You've seen through me," he admitted, hoping he was less transparent in other respects. And pleased that she wasn't willing to be coddled. "I could use a report of this morning's wireless communications."

"Thank you. Right away." She turned to go.

"And Miss Wallace?"

"Yes, sir?"

Murdoch hesitated. He didn't want to do this—but he didn't want to take the chance that someone might recognize her, or try to call her out on her actions last night. "I don't know whether you were planning on going belowdecks again this evening, to be with your friends, but it isn't a good idea."

A muscle in her cheek ticked, the cheer fading from her eyes. "Sir?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept away from the third class common room." He hated this. It felt like every ounce of friendship they'd built up—and whatever more that feeling in his chest seemed to argue in favor of—was coming crashing down. But he didn't have a choice. He didn't want to risk either of them. "At least until we get to New York, when the current passengers have disembarked. I'm concerned one of those involved in the fight might see you, and report you."

For a moment she was silent; Murdoch watched the inner struggle, guilt-ridden and trying to hide it. But he knew he was right. And she knew it, too—she had to. "Yes, sir," she said finally, and turned toward the wireless room.

"What was that about?" Lightoller asked, coming to stand next to Murdoch as they looked to the Atlantic. "She didn't seem so chipper."

Murdoch studied Lightoller for a moment, and supposed it wouldn't hurt to tell him. They'd been loyal to each other far longer than they'd been loyal to Captain Smith.

So Murdoch briefly explained what had happened the night before, the fight, the report without Ellen's name on it. The reasons why he forbade her from visiting third class. "I hate asking it of her," he said. "She was so enjoying her friends the other night. But it's just too much of a risk."

Lightoller smiled, adjusting his hat. "Will," he said sagely. "You're being a bit of a prat."

Murdoch bit back a groan. "I am not, Lights, you can't tell me that doesn't make sense."

Lightoller shook his head, and held up a few fingers upon which to count. Obnoxiously. "First, you're assuming she'll be down there in her officer's blues. Unlikely. Second, you said yourself the men involved in the fight were intoxicated beyond reason—therefore, they probably don't even remember her, and it was two in the morning, not eight at night. Thirdly,she's not stupid. If she sees one of them coming, she'll get out. And you said she's got her shipyard friends, right? You think they'll stand by and watch if someone tries to give her a beating?"

Murdoch hated it when Lights made sense. "But I don't. . ." want her to get hurt, he thought. Or get found out, and have to step down. "I don't just let any of you go off and visit with your friends during off hours," he said lamely.

"Well, we work with our friends." Lightoller stared out over the water. "She's alone in this new job save for us, and fat lot of great company we are. You being a huge prat, and all."

Murdoch cracked a smile. "Shut up before I'm forced to admit you're right."

"Never." Lightoller nudged him in the arm. "She's responsible, Will. She'll be fine."

"Fine." Murdoch lifted his hands. He surrendered. "You're right. I'll tell her when I see her next."

"Yes, or I will," Lightoller threatened cheerfully.

The rest of the day passed slowly. He saw Ellen when she handed in the report later, and was honestly about to tell her he'd changed his mind, but Wilde needed an extra person to take rounds with another junior officer, so asked her to do so.

By the time the rest of the day passed, Murdoch was so distracted that he didn't remember until just after dinner, when he didn't see Ellen in the officer's mess. It was a bit after eight when he made his way to her closed cabin door to let her know he'd changed his mind.