Author's Note: Thanks for the lovely words, everyone! Here I am again, this time with fluff. Also, I always sort of imagined Ellen as having custom-tailored dresses (not like she could afford it) that she could put on herself, without the help of anyone else. Hence what you see below. And I just assumed that Ellen and Murdoch would have rooms next to one another. Considering that she's the assistant and all. One final note: if you don't think suspenders are sexy, you clearly haven't watched the fifth season of Doctor Who. Onwards. Enjoy, everyone!

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Chapter Twelve: Wallace
April 13, 1912
20:09

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Rebellion was churning in my stomach with the rest of dinner as I buttoned myself into my dress.

I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to escape the officer's quarters (or get back in) without being seen, but damn it, Murdoch was being a cad again and I wanted to see my friends. After last night, I deserved a bit of fun. Even if those ham-fisted asses from that fight were there, how would they even recognize me? Last night I'd been wearing my bulky overcoat, my officer's uniform. Part of the reason I could barely block their swings.

Tonight I'd be wearing a dress. A real one. A deep teal, plain but for the way it fit. Probably a bit fancy for the third-class common room, but for once on this journey I wanted to feel like a lady, not an officer. Maybe someone would even ask me to dance; certainly one of the guys would, if they knew I wanted to.

I thought briefly of Murdoch, retracing the steps of how I became pissed at him yet again. He'd been so wonderful last night. This morning. I'd had no right to expect anything when I turned up. I still couldn't quite say why I'd gone to him rather than Thomas—wanted to prove I trusted him, or knew where my loyalty lay.

But ever since then I couldn't help but wonder if his eyes hadlingered on mine a few times. If he was trying to convey something else, the way he'd been almost protective of me.

Obviously not, considering he didn't even trust me to spend time with my friends properly.

Grumbling to myself, I looked into the small vanity above the dresser, pressing a few leftover pins into my hair, trying to knot it elegantly, not practically. Failing.

Cursing, I took the pins down and was about to try again when there was a knock at the door.

"Miss Wallace," came Murdoch's voice. "Are you there?"

I froze. How could he possibly need me now? I looked around, stupidly trying to figure out if there was a way to hide my teal dress, the fact that I was planning on deliberately disobeying his orders. Suddenly the whole plan seemed the most immature thing I could've ever imagined.

I opened the door about three inches, hoping the contrast between my low-lit room and the bright hall would hide me. "Yes, sir?"

He was loosening his tie slightly. It wasn't sexy. Only it was. "Er, hello," he said. "I just wanted to talk about earlier."

I remembered that I was supposed to be angry with him. "Yes?"

"Well." He shifted. "I was wrong. I was concerned about you getting into trouble, belowdecks, but I know you're responsible. If you want to go, you should."

I couldn't stop a smile, opening the door further. "Really?"

He glanced downward, and I remembered that I was wearing the dress. "Seems you already figured I'd reach that conclusion."

"Oh." Damn. "I was just—uh—"

"Don't worry about it." he said, half smiling, beginning to turn away. "You look nice."

Thank God his back was turned by the time the gape made it to my face. Snapping my jaw shut, I found myself saying, "You could join me, if you want."

He didn't glance back, but said, "P'raps I will."

Right, then. I closed the door and leaned back against it, giddy for some reason.

Perhaps he would, indeed.

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I was trying to suppress giggles. This was not going well. "Ellen," Fred said, waggling his cards at me. "This is how you do it." He dropped them. It was a flush. The rest of the table roared its approval over the music.

"Fred." I chucked my cards at him one by one. "You're just going to have to accept that I will never, ever get any better at this. Ever."

"So y'can't play at cards," said one of our new friends, an Irish lad named Tommy Ryan. He stood and lifted his eyebrows happily. "But can y'dance?"

There it was. I grinned, standing, holding out my hand. "You're lucky this is the one dance I actually know."

"Ha!" he took my hand, and pulled me away as the rest of the group cat-called. It was a relief, after the polite silences on the bridge. "Or are you the lucky one?"

Tommy surprised me; he was agile and chipper as we wove around other couples, bouncing along merrily without a second thought as I tried to keep up. We twirled past his friend Fabrizo, who was trying very intently to speak to a lovely blond girl, and then past his friend Jack, who I'd met about a half hour ago. He was trying to coax a pretty redhead to dance.

"Oi!" I called to Tommy over the noise, suddenly thinking I recognized her. "Who's that, that Jack's with?"

"Name's Rose!" he called back. "She's first class—look at her dress!"

That was it. She'd sat with us at dinner the other night. She was the one who was having the wedding planned for her, with that sour-faced family. And she was dancing with Jack. I giggled again—good for her. The few minutes we'd been introduced, he already seemed like more fun than her fiancé. And she looked like she needed a bit of fun.

By the time the dance was over, I could feel myself beginning to sweat, and Tommy released me long enough for us to applaud the band.

"You're not s'bad!" he said in my ear as we elbowed our way back to the table.

"Have to be good at something!" I shot back, and realized there was someone else in my seat.

Oh.

"Hoi, Ellen!" Fred called as we drew closer, dealing cards. "Look who joined us!"

It was Murdoch, of course, who was grinning up at me. But without his officer's uniform. He was wearing just a plain shirt and suspenders, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled like the rest of the group, simple navy pants.

He looked good.

"Mr. Murdoch," I said, not sure what else to do. "Ehm—"

"Shush!" called Bill, picking up his cards. "We're starting."

"Aye," said Fred. "Pull up a chair, Ellen. Will's gonna show you how it's done."

"Calling you Will now, are they?" I muttered, yanking a chair beside him and dropping into it.

"I'm not their superior officer," he said happily, his eyes shining as they met mine. "Now come here, so you can see my cards."

I was already there, in the sense he spoke of. "Uh—" I started.

Tommy put a heel against the leg of my chair and pushed me closer to Murdoch. "Look," Murdoch said, not bothered in the least by the fact that my chair had just rammed his and that I was now struggling to be dignified while still leaning unbearably close to my superior officer. "Bad hand. Here's how we fix it."

As Tommy found a chair on the other side of the table, it occurred to me that it was entirely possible that Murdoch felt just as at home in this environment as I did. But he's an officer, the logical part of my mind argued. He likes standing around on deck and calling people sir. But then again. He'd told me about his love of the ocean. You don't feel that kind of respect for the sea if you're a shallow ponce who only loves the protocol.

"With me so far?" he asked.

"Hope so," I said, taking a deep breath. Under the smell of smoke and beer, I inhaled a faint wisp of aftershave and soap. It was great. Worse, it was Murdoch. I grabbed a half-finished cigarette out of the nearest ashtray and inhaled deeply, chanting to myself, superior officer, superior officer. . .

After five minutes of his grins and patient explanations, Murdoch was beaming down at his and Fred's cards. "A straight," Murdoch announced in the semi-quiet that followed a song's end. Someone somewhere broke a glass.

"Balls," Fred said happily. "You're pretty good for an officer, Will. You in for another round? Boys?"

Bill stepped away with a pretty blonde as a new song started, and Tommy pulled a petite brunette to the dance floor. I was just about to announce that I was game for another go at poker when Will turned toward me. We were close, from our chairs still being beside each other's, and his blue eyes were shining. "C'mon," he said. "Let's dance."

I nearly hacked on my own spit, but instead managed an unladylike gulp. "What?"

"Let's. Dance." he was standing.

"But I, uh—I don't know the steps to this one." That wasn't quite a lie.

He held out a hand, grinning. "I'll teach you."

"You know it?"

"I'm not a complete prat," he said, more to himself, then glanced down at me. "Coming?"

Fred groaned. "Ellen. Go."

I stood, too quickly, and turned to face the hopeful Murdoch. Beyond the fact that I was trying to fight thoughts of how good he looked (and smelled), he was my superior officer. My boss. Sort of. This wasn't supposed to happen. I lowered my voice. "Mr. Murdoch. Please. I can't. . ."

He smiled, stepped closer so I could hear his lowered voice. It was disorienting. "Ellen, I'm sorry. You don't have to. I thought maybe I'd make up for being unreasonable earlier."

I closed my eyes. He wasn't flirting. He was just being a nice guy. Because that's what he was. And if he was flirting. . . would it really be so bad? "Order me." I said, looking back up at him, unable to stop a smile.

"What?"

"Order me to dance with you. It's the only way."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, then straightened slightly, meeting my eyes squarely. "Miss Wallace," he said.

"Mr. Murdoch?"

"There's a first officer in want of a dance partner. See if you can fill the spot, would you?" He held up a hand between us, smiling gently.

I smiled too, heart hammering, and took it. "Certainly, sir."

His hand was warm, grip tight as we wove to the floor.

He could dance. What's more, he was teaching me even as he moved. The fingers of his left hand were tangled with mine on my right, his right arm half around my waist, holding me to him while we both tried to watch our feet. I could feel his muscles shifting under my left arm, felt the solid wall of his chest against my side. It was brilliant.

As the dance ended and we released each other, he grinned, slightly winded, as was I. "There now," he said over the applause. "Fun, right?"

"Right." The band began to play a slower tune—clearly with romantic intentions. I started heading back to the guys. "Come on, you can help me out this round."

I glanced back only for a second, but it was enough to see the instantaneous flash of disappointment in Murdoch's eyes. He'd been intent on asking me to dance that next one, too. Plowing on resolutely, I gritted my teeth. Better this way, I tried to tell myself. Think of how awkward it would be. And later, on your watch! No. Better this way.

I got Fred to deal me another round, and Murdoch came to sit beside me, one hand on the back of my chair as we all played. His other arm leaned on the table as he muttered suggestions and cracked jokes at his and my expense, which the guys found uproariously funny. I myself was having a hard time not giggling despite the fact that I hadn't had a single drop of ale.

"So," Fred said at last, eying Murdoch and me over this round's pile of loot—a fancy cigar, a penknife, two brass buttons, and a charming assortment of pocket lint. "Let's have it, then."

Murdoch and I looked at each other. He nodded once, grinning.

I dropped my cards. Four of a kind.

"What!" Fred cried, the rest of the table in an uproar, pats raining down on my back. "Impossible!"

Tommy pushed the pile of nonsense across the table to Murdoch and I. "Congrats, you lot."

"Thanks, Will," I said, reaching over to shake hands with him only to find that his eyebrow was a mile high. "What?"

"Nothing, Ellen."

Shit. I'd called him by his first name. "Oh—sir, I'm sorry—"

"Hush. We're not on duty," he said patiently, and looked around. "Speaking of. D'you have the time?"

I swung round to look at the clock on the wall—and cursed, jumping up. "We have to go!"

"What—" he looked, too, and saw that it was 9:47.

"Tommy!" I called, grabbing the cigar and buttons while Murdoch took the penknife. "Fred! Bill! We've got to go!"

Amid a chorus of good-nights and the music, Murdoch and I hurried out of the common room and raced up the steps, laughing. "Still gotta change," I said as we clambered up the stairs, skirt in my fists so that I could take the steps two at a time. D Deck, C Deck, B Deck. "The entire bridge is going to smell like beer and smoke."

"Least there's only a few of us out on watch," Murdoch said, holding the door to the boat deck for me.

As we sped down the freezing cold deck, I glanced over at him. He was still smiling when he met my eyes. "Thanks," I said.

"Whatever for?"

For not being an ass. For making me feel pretty. For having fun, like a real person. "I don't know," I admitted. "Just. Thanks."

We got into the crew's quarters without being seen, and I quickly stripped out of my dress, took my hair down and knotted it properly, then pulled on a clean uniform. On second thought, I tucked the cigar we'd won into my greatcoat pocket, and quickly dug around for a lighter. I didn't usually smoke, but I always kept a lighter on hand. And now I could use it on my rounds.

Satisfied, securing my cap on my head, I slipped out the door and reached the wheelhouse just as the clock hit 22:00.

Murdoch was already there, in uniform, calmly addressing the captain as though he'd been there the whole night. When Captain Smith saw me, he smiled. "Ah. Miss Wallace. Good evening."

"Evening, captain." I touched my fingers to the brim of my hat.

"I've just one request for you tonight," he said. "Word has reached me of your excellent coffee. Would you mind brewing a batch for tonight's watch?"

Patching uniforms? came Mrs. Worsting's voice, unbidden in my mind. Brewing tea?

"Certainly, sir." I smiled, trying to make it look like it didn't hurt. Murdoch was staring at the captain from behind, mouth in a thin line. He didn't like it, either. I headed for the officer's mess.

Well, it was my own fault. I'd been the one to insist on making coffee my first day. Besides, the process helped calm my nerves. I guessed I could use that now. I needed to switch from completely wired to focused.

When I returned a short time later, my own grumblings under control, Captain Smith was still on the bridge. "Thank you," he said to me. "I know everyone's grateful. Mr. Murdoch, will you check in with the crow's nest?"

"Yes, sir," Murdoch said, disappearing into the wheelhouse.

Smith turned toward me. "So, Miss Wallace," he said, hands linked behind his back. "Tell me. Doing all right, with your job? With the crew?"

"Fine, sir," I said honestly.

"You're being treated fairly? Plenty to do?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Mr. Murdoch tells me you're a hard worker, so everything should go smoothly when you become Lightoller's charge next week. It wouldn't hurt to get to know the man—he's a decent chap. He'll expect your help."

I nodded. "He'll get it, sir." I was surprised by the pang in my heart at the thought of not working under Murdoch. I hardly saw Mr. Wilde now; once Murdoch became chief officer it would probably be much the same.

"Good. Keep up the good work, Miss Wallace. Good night."

"Good night." I watched him head into the wheelhouse for a few final words with the officers, then realized I was just standing there, and went to see if there was anything I could do to help.

It was a busy evening. Murdoch had me learning star charts with Moody, who was blinking and sleepy-eyed, as this was his off-night. I found the whole thing incredible, but then again, I wasn't tired—was wide awake, even. Murdoch and I kept locking eyes, at which point neither of us could keep from smiling and had to look away again. I was unable to stop thinking of the feeling of his fingers tangled in mine, his blue eyes shining as he joked with my friends. A few times I had to shake my head to snap myself back to the star charts.

Pitman was doing most of the teaching, the three of us crowded around the table in the chartroom, but Murdoch would pop in for ten minutes at a time, adding something here, saying something there.

"We've got instruments, though," Moody said when he missed one of the constellations for the third time. "This is the twentieth century. Do we really need the stars?"

"Aye, then," Pitman said bracingly, "What're you going to do when your mail craft is sunk twenty miles from the nearest coast and you're teetering in a lifeboat with forty witless passengers? Pick a direction and hope you get lucky?"

Moody kept his mouth shut after that. I did, too, trying to absorb everything, occasionally glancing out the window in front of us to see if I could pick out any of the patterns we were studying. The lesson ended with the promise that there would be many more.

I started rounds by myself for once, which was fine with me. I was reviewing the evening's events in mind play-by-play, trying to figure out why the hell I couldn't stop feeling so giddy. "This is stupid," I muttered to myself, voice swept away by the wind. No one else was out and about so late. "Clearly he doesn't have feelings for you. He's just being nice to make up for his idiocy a few days ago. He's your bloody superior officer. And if he did have feelings. . ." I trailed off. Would I even want them?

Well. Yes.

Swearing under my breath, I went to the railing for a moment, pausing to look out over the black ocean, endless stars overhead. I hooked my arms over the rail, leaning carelessly, chin on my crossed arms, trying to pick out constellations as I thought.

Even if I craved his affection, I couldn't have it. I was a junior officer. It would be horrendously improper. Court-Marshall improper. Even more improper than my position with the crew. And what if we did get together, and he left the Titanic? Or I did? Went to work for some other White Star Liner, or a different company? We couldn't be together then. And he'd told me himself that he chose the sea over a woman he loved. Granted, one who didn't quite understand the lure of the ocean. But still.

"Taking it easy tonight, are you?"

I flung myself away from the rail and straightened. It was Murdoch, of course, hands in his pockets as he approached. "No, sir," I said. "I—I'm sorry, I was trying to pick out a few constellations."

"At ease, Miss Wallace. You're not in trouble."

I let go of a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Right. Shall we go on?"

"Not so fast." he paused beside me, leaning on the railing, looking up at the sky. "Find anything?"

He was onto me. I thought quickly, scanning the heavens. "Well, Polaris is there." I pointed. "Ursa Major, uh, there. Ursa Minor, over here. Erm. Antlia, there—"

"You were listening, then," he said with approval.

"I can't believe I'll ever know them all," I admitted, leaning on the railing again, though with slightly more decorum. "How long did it take you?"

"Oh, ages," he said, almost wistfully, still looking up at them all. "Dead useful, though."

I remembered the cigar in my coat pocket. "Er, would it be improper of me to smoke?"

"I don't think so." He glanced over. "Until earlier I didn't know you did."

"Rarely," I insisted, pulling it and the lighter out of my pocket. "But especially if there's good cigars involved. Still have that penknife on you?" He handed it over, and I set about sawing the end off the cigar. "So—as you said, dead useful. You've used stars before, aside from intimidating junior officers?"

We started walking. He told me about the time he'd wrecked off the coast of South America and had no navigational tools to guide him back—just stars. He talked a bit about the near-disaster of the liner Arabic, how he'd disobeyed his chief officer and saved the ship because of it. We started passing the cigar back and forth, his gloved fingers brushing over mine as we traded, me trying not to think about tasting him on the cigar.

He grew tired of my questions and turned them on me; I found myself babbling about how frustrating it was to want to work and not be allowed, about how I longed for both pretty gowns and a set of overalls, how my blood blazed to do something that would give women the right to vote.

"But you, you're something impressive," I heard myself say. We'd long since thrown the dead cigar butt over the railing. "You've saved lives. I've just walked about with banners and made old men angry."

"Surely you aren't serious." We were slowly drawing within sight of the officer's quarters, and he was looking at me incredulously. "Look at you. You're a junior officer, Ellen. Can any other woman say that, anywhere? And at least you're actually putting up a fight for what you believe in. Plenty of women think like you, and don't bother speaking up."

I was touched by his compliment, but before I could reply, I saw the clock above the entrance to the crew's quarters. "Oh," I said.

"Oh," he agreed, holding the door open for me. It was nearly three—our rounds had long since ended. "Well." he said, suddenly embarrassed as we entered the corridor. "Good night, Miss Wallace."

"Mr. Murdoch." I reached for my door handle, and found myself trying to think of what I'd do if he tried to kiss me just now. Realized that protocol be damned—I wanted him to. "That was fun, belowdecks."

"That it was." He turned the key in his lock, and smiled, meeting my eyes. His were full of an emotion I couldn't quite name, and before I could figure it out, he was moving into his room. "Good night."

"Night."

In my room, I pulled off my coat and jacket, peeled off my gloves and let them fall straight to the floor. I went to the right-hand wall, the one that connected my room with Murdoch's. I pressed my forehead against it, palms flat against the cool surface, closing my eyes. "Damn it," I whispered. "You'd make this a lot easier if you went back to being an ass."

After a minute I forced myself to move. I gently scrubbed the makeup off my face, stripped down to my skivvies, and wrapped myself in my blankets. I had to stop this. And so did he.