Author's Note: Hey gang. As usual, thank you so much for your lovely comments! This chapter is the last of the is-there-actually-plot-here? chapters, I promise. The next one? Oh. You will love the next one. I am confident in that. You can probably tell where it's headed, too. And again, I realize the unrealistic situations in which I place these characters. Ah, well. Fiction. Enjoy, and please leave some constructive (or otherwise) criticism when you're done. Until next week!

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Chapter Thirteen: Murdoch
April 14, 1912
08:15

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Murdoch was on the verge of losing his inner battle with a horde of gargantuan yawns, each of which mounted a more furious assault than the last. He couldn't exactly let himself go because he was seated on the makeshift altar in the dining hall, right in the middle of church services that morning. He was stage right of Captain Smith and Mr. Wilde, and he was facing over a hundred bright, well-rested passengers.

It had been a long night. He slept fitfully and wouldn't get more, considering his next watch started soon after the service was over.

Maybe if he hadn't spent five minutes with his forehead crushed against the wall connecting his and Ellen's rooms when they returned last night. Maybe if he'd just gone to bed instead of standing there like an idiot, one hand resting against the smooth painted panels, trying not to think of dragging each pin from her hair, her brown eyes wide and wanting.

He snapped himself out of it. He was at a church service, for God's sake.

He glanced up. Boxhall, Lowe, Moody and Ellen were seated in the first row, down and across from him, all in various degrees of glaze. Ellen was fiddling with a button on her cuff, eyes boring into the carpet at the base of the stage. Suddenly she glanced up; Murdoch looked away, but not soon enough—she'd seen him looking.

He chanced a glance back a moment later to find her studying the floor again, a blush in her cheeks—or cheek, really, seeing as the makeup on the bruised side hid most of the color.

Murdoch was trying to ignore the fact that perhaps her feelings were mutual. But he knew, in the part of him that was proper, the part of him that had been at sea over sixteen years, he knew that even if they were mutual, even if she wanted him to deftly work each button of her greatcoat undone and—and so on, that it just couldn't happen. In every sense. He had to stop this. She wouldn't even be his charge in less than a week. She'd be Lightoller's, and Murdoch would hardly ever see her.

Somehow he delivered his reading without stammering, and without Wilde's flourish, and without Captain Smith's brevity, and they were released.

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It was a bright, sunny day on the North Atlantic, wind pleasant but not overwhelming, great billowing clouds piled high above them. Murdoch couldn't help but feel a bit guilty when he decided to send Ellen on errands that took her throughout the ship's innards, away from the pleasant weather. But what else was he supposed to do? There would be other gorgeous days, and besides, that part of him that he currently hated, the rational part, knew that taking a step back from her was the best way to crush his feelings for her.

At one point, still before noon, he realized it was probably a good thing she was away—Thomas led a tour through the wheelhouse that included the family who had been so wretched at dinner the other night, the DeWitt-Bukaters, and the fiancé, Mr. Hockley. Thomas didn't exactly seem thrilled at the idea, either, but was a gentleman, and acted it. Murdoch stood with his back to them in the wheelhouse, heart thudding slightly when he realized that the daughter, Rose might recognize him from the party in the third-class common room. Fortunately she seemed distracted, though her mother stared first at him, and then looked around—presumably intent on mouthing off at Ellen.

He tried not to glare.

A little after one, Murdoch was on his rounds alone when Lightoller fell into step with him, brandishing sandwiches. "Hungry?" Lights asked, waggling the small paper-wrapped lunch.

"Starved," Murdoch said gratefully, taking it, and together they perched under the jutting deck of the wheelhouse. It was fairly secure; they had a good view of the bow, so they were technically still on rounds, but they were out of sight of the other officers—who were directly above them. Sitting there munching and chatting with his old friend, Murdoch could feel contentment deep within his bones. "Haven't shirked duty like this in awhile," he admitted finally.

"It's hardly shirking," Lights said around a mouthful of ham and cheese. He swallowed. "Just lunching. And anyway, you looked like you could use a break. Miss a bit of sleep last night?"

Murdoch shrugged. "Had to get up earlier than usual for the service."

"Right, I forgot. Night shift. Not exactly looking forward to taking over that one."

"Well, you've a few days, still." Another week and a half until they came charging back to Southampton. At which point Ellen would become Lightoller's assistant.

"True. So how's Ellen? Has she gotten into any more scraps?"

Murdoch couldn't stop a smile. "No, she's fine. She'll be yours soon enough."

"I'm rather looking forward to it. Though I could go without being woken at three in the morning."

Murdoch thought back again, remembering the trust in her eyes, the blood on her cuff. "I didn't mind."

Lights shifted, crumbling his sandwich wrapper. "I can tell."

Murdoch glanced over. The other officer was staring intently out at the sea ahead of them. "Can you," he said flatly.

"Might want to be a bit more guarded, mate," Lights said, still not looking at him.

"What—"

"Oh, come on." Lights glanced back, grinning. "I saw the way you've been looking at her. And at breakfast, when I stopped in for tea."

Murdoch felt his heart skip, and racked his brain. He didn't think he'd lingered in his occasional glances. "I don't know what you're—"

"I doubt anyone else noticed," Lights said, leaning against the rail now. "They haven't known you nearly as long as I have. But look at you. You're smitten."

Murdoch's face felt warm. "Sod off, Lights. I am not."

"It's no use lying to me, old friend. I'm just telling you to be more careful, in case someone else notices."

"Lights, listen to me. We're not. . ." Murdoch let out a frustrated sigh. "There's nothing there. We can't be involved. She's a junior officer."

"It wouldn't be so bad." Lights was grinning again, ignoring the protests. Murdoch couldn't decide whether he wanted to throttle Lights or not. "You could probably go undetected for quite awhile, especially once she becomes my responsibility."

"Lights. . ." Murdoch said helplessly. He hadn't felt this silly in ages.

"If you ask me, which I know you won't, I think it's brilliant. You could use a bit of honest fun."

Murdoch gripped the rail in front of him. "Right, well, I won't deny that. But there isn't anything there. And there won't be. There mustn't be."

"Don't give up so easily." Lightoller straightened, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to go. "Now come on, I've held you up long enough. You've got to get back to your rounds. Grumpy sod."

"Pillock." Murdoch managed a smile. "Thanks for the sandwich."

"You're welcome. And Will?" Lights turned back, now walking backwards and away. "I've seen her looking at you, too."

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Loads on his mind, Murdoch got back to the wheelhouse in time to speak with Mr. Wilde, who was coming on for the next shift. As they were finishing, Ellen turned up on deck with a completed report for Murdoch. He realized he was pleased he was to see her, thinking that he wouldn't send her on such long errands again, wondering exactly how true Lightoller's words were.

And she didn't look like she'd only gotten four hours of sleep, apart from the wisp or two of hair that had come out of the knot at the back of her neck. He thought of the pins again.

"Engine room's doing better," she said, handing over the slip of paper that was the report. "Holding steady."

"Oh—Ms. Wallace, glad you're here." Mr. Wilde stepped in beside Murdoch. "I need a favor. Mr. Lowe?" Wilde snagged the passing fifth officer. "Have you time to run an errand? Good. We need help in the mail hold. Listen up, both of you."

Murdoch listened with them, a bit annoyed. Wilde wasn't used to having either officer on his shifts, so he wasn't sure what they were capable of. Ellen or Lowe probably could have done the job on their own—the barest lift of Ellen's eyebrow, aimed at Murdoch, reinforced that fact. He gave a slight shrug, and flicked his eyes toward Wilde. If the chief asked you to do something, you did it, and no questions.

After they left, Murdoch went to the crew's mess to grab a cup of tea and try to get his thoughts in order. Despite Lights' unconventional blessing, Murdoch wasn't convinced it was a good idea. And besides, he needed to be certain. He couldn't just dive in on a whim, especially with so much at stake. What if Lights had misinterpreted her stares? What if her friendliness was just that—friendliness, not flirting? If he brought it up, they'd destroy their working relationship, too, which would make every single crossing a complete disaster even if she was Lightoller's responsibility.

Murdoch made it back to the bridge to check in only to see Mr. Moody on the wheelhouse telephone, brows knit together, struggling to be heard, Mr. Pitman hovering behind him. "What?" Moody was saying. "Please repeat, I can't—"

Murdoch and Pitman traded surprised glances, for even at that distance they could hear the garbled nonsense coming from the line—people yelling, and then the broken voice of the steward: "There's a—fight—"

Murdoch turned on his heel and was already heading towards the stairs that would take him down. "E-Deck! By the mail hold!" Moody called after him, and Murdoch found Pitman at his side. "The stewards are outnumbered!"

They took the stairs three at a time, lettered decks blurring past, the same thought racing through Murdoch's mind: It's Ellen. It's Ellen. Please don't let it be Ellen.

The silence between Pitman and Murdoch was terse; Murdoch supposed his face was a grim mask from the way passengers leaped out of their way as he hurried toward the fight, unstoppable. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there—just that he had to get there.

They heard the fight before they could see it, shouts of encouragement and protest rebounding down the walls, so that if they hadn't known to head for the mail hold, they wouldn't have known which way to go. People were hurrying to and from the noise, but as they saw the uniforms heading their direction, were backing out of the way.

There was a crowd gathered; Murdoch could see parts of the scuffling ahead—the white uniforms of the third-class stewards, occasional flashes of navy blue. There was no way they would get through or make themselves heard. Unless. . .

Murdoch glanced over; sure enough, there was a silver whistle hanging from Pitman's neck. Murdoch gestured to it, and Pitman raised the whistle to his lips.

FWEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Everyone froze.

Murdoch and Pitman elbowed their way through the stunned-silent crowd until they reached the fight itself.

It was a mess. Three stewards, a bedraggled Lowe and Ellen, and six ruffians had been fighting. Two still tried to continue the fight, two of the stewards holding them back. Lowe and Ellen looked like they wanted to disappear—hats gone, clothes slightly askew. Ellen's hair had mostly come undone, and her nose was bleeding again, though not as badly as the other night. She was biting her lower lip hard, eyes level on his, unapologetic and dying of shame all at once.

"All of you." Murdoch's voice was low and deadly, glancing to the gathered crowd. "Dismissed. Now."

The crowd began to shuffle away.

Murdoch turned back to the fighters. "Mr. Lowe. Miss Wallace. Abovedecks with you. Mr. Pitman, can you manage the report with these gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir." Pitman turned to the stewards, stern-faced.

"Very well. You two, with me. Now." Murdoch turned and went back the way they'd come. His heart was pounding, but not in a good way. He was confused as to the hows and whys, and didn't quite think he could bear it if Ellen had caused the fight. Either way, they'd have to tell the captain this time. Too many people were involved, and no doubt Smith would have heard of the commotion on the bridge by now. He could only hope the captain wouldn't try to dismiss Ellen on the spot.

"Sir," Lowe tried quietly. "We were only—"

"Hush," Murdoch all but snapped. "Save it for the captain."

Neither Lowe nor Ellen spoke on the way up, just trailed behind Murdoch like scolded ducklings. Murdoch did do them a small mercy and took them a less populated back route, but before long he left them in a slump-shouldered mess just outside the wheelhouse while he reported to the captain.

In minutes they were assembled in the captain's quarters with a physician on the way, Lowe and Ellen sitting like school children about to be punished. Lowe had given his handkerchief to Ellen, which she was holding against her nose. Captain Smith was staring between the two of them and Murdoch, brows low, mustache turned downward. "Explain yourselves," he said finally.

"We were on our way back from the mail hold," Lowe started. He appeared mostly unscathed, though grim. "The fight was already breaking out. We only stepped in to help the stewards, but those men were too stubborn to stop. We had a duty to help, so we tried."

Smith turned away. "Duty. Indeed. Was that the way of it, Miss Wallace?"

"Yes, sir," Ellen muttered, not meeting Murdoch's eyes.

The captain sighed, running a hand over his face. "In all my years, I've never heard of junior officers getting involved in the affairs of passengers the way you two just have. Fights of that nature are left up to the stewards. If they seem outnumbered, you find help elsewhere. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," they said together.

"Miss Wallace," Smith said next, and she met his eyes, back straight, though Murdoch sensed she wanted to fold in half and disappear. "I shouldn't have to tell you that a woman—a junior officer, at that—has no place in a fight. If anything, you should have been the one finding more help. By God, you've proven yourself so far, but this is absolutely absurd. I don't know how things were during your days in your cousin's shipyard, but it's different here. You have joined a time-honored corps rich with a tradition of respect, patience, and restraint. We do not throw punches to solve our problems. Is that quite clear?"

"Sir, that isn't fair." Lowe spoke up, and everyone turned to him in surprise.

Captain Smith looked as though steam was about to start curling out of his ears. "Pardon."

"It's just—you're speaking as though she was the only one who was involved, but she was better at trying to pull them apart than I was, and she definitely wasn't trying to pull punches."

Ellen was staring at Lowe, wide-eyed at his defense. She doesn't expect it, Murdoch thought, heart aching for a moment. She doesn't expect any of us to fight for her. Maybe she'd hoped he, Murdoch, would, but he couldn't in this situation. She and Lowe had done something stupid, and this was how it worked.

There was a silence, Smith apparently calculating whether the truth or his rage was more prudent. "Is this true, Miss Wallace?"

She said quietly, "Yes, sir."

She couldn't have punched anyone anyway, Murdoch remembered, wishing he could say something. She would have destroyed her bruised knuckles.

Captain Smith sighed. "Very well. Either way, do not let this happen again. I will not have the next captain of this ship be made a fool of because his junior officers can't keep themselves in line. And I will especially not permit you, Miss Wallace, to embarrass Mr. Murdoch or Mr. Lightoller again. Dismissed."

Murdoch saw her eyebrows slant upward and her cheeks grow scarlet, and she closed her eyes for a second. That was the worst part for her, he realized, heart thumping again. Not the fact that she might've been let go, not the fact that Smith was angry at her—the idea that something she did reflected poorly on Murdoch.

There was a knock on the door as Ellen and Lowe stood; the captain opened it to admit the ship's physician. "Dr. O'Laughlin. Please escort Miss Wallace back to her quarters," Smith told the physician, a kindly older chap. "And take a look at her nose." Ellen nodded to the physician, but to get out the door she had to slide past Murdoch. He tried to meet her eyes, desperate for a way to hint that everything would be fine, but she couldn't even look at him, and he caught the flash of tears in her lashes as she slipped past.

He felt like a prat again.

"Mr. Murdoch." Smith closed the door after the physician, Lowe, and Ellen were gone. "We knew having a woman on staff would be difficult. But even I couldn't have anticipated this."

Murdoch switched from prat to defensive. He owed her that much. "She was doing what she deemed right."

Smith shook his head. "But it isn't. She's a woman. She has no place in a fight."

"Which she has no doubt learned."

Smith sighed, reaching for his hat. "I suppose you're right. You really would prefer to keep her around?"

"Yes, sir. Her work ethic is admirable."

Smith settled the cap on his head. "Well, fear not. She'll be Mr. Lightoller's to deal with soon enough. Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch."

"Afternoon, sir." They saluted each other, and then Murdoch went to his quarters. Inside, he threw his jacket over the back of his desk chair, beginning to pace. He could hear bits of conversation from Ellen's room—no words, but the low drone of voices. Before long he heard the physician leave and her door snap shut.

Murdoch sank into his desk chair, running a hand over his face. He wanted to talk to her, to say something—anything—about that confrontation with the captain. He didn't like that he'd been so cold and detached, but what could he have done? He was an officer, she was his charge, and she and Lowe had just been blindingly stupid. Of course he was angry. She could have gotten herself far worse than a bloody nose. She could have been fired. Someone could have easily broken her arm, or a leg. He shouldn't have to explain to her why the fight should have been avoided.

But one way or another he'd better go talk to her about it, so they could sort it out. He'd been thinking on and off about their watch this evening, and was relishing the opportunity to go over the star charts in more detail. To get to know her better. He'd loved the way she'd talked with him the previous evening (that morning, really). How she'd been so open and honest, how she'd clearly enjoyed his stories, too.

Murdoch stood up, took a deep breath, and loosened his collar slightly. "Stop thinking so bloody hard about this," he muttered. Then he opened his door and headed for hers, hoping she could forgive him for doing his job.