Author's Note: I have the best reviewers. It's true. Thanks for the lovely words, gang! This chapter. . . well, here's where it all changes. A few things: I haven't forgotten about Quartermaster Rowe. He's on an errand. A long errand. At the other end of the ship. Totally. Also, the area on the bridge with the Morse lamp on top, that Captain Smith leans out of to inspect the damage—that's called a bridge wing cab, which for some reason makes me giggle slightly. And j'accuse means "I accuse" . . . you. Sort of. Finally, I feel like it's important to say: I didn't intend to have the helm scene influence the outcome of the evening. As unrealistic as the circumstances for that scene are anyway, the fact that our heroes share a moment at the helm was in no way meant to imply that they had anything to do with steering into disaster, or, or anything. There we go. Enough rambling. Until next week, dear readers.

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Chapter Fifteen: Wallace
April 14, 1912
20:35

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In the officer's mess, Moody couldn't stop snorting with laughter, which was hilarious enough on its own, but then Wilde kept trying to talk around his cigarette, resulting in a muffled, disgruntled-sounding British accent. Then before we knew it, I had somehow not completely failed at poker and had even managed to have a pair in my hand before Pitman destroyed me with a flush.

"Cheaters, the lot of you," I declared around my own cigarette, grinning as I pushed my share of the wager across the table at him. "The deck is stacked."

"Another round?" Moody asked us as Wilde shuffled.

"Oh, absolutely." Murdoch grinned, leaning in across the table. "But my money is on Miss Wallace this round."

"Hope you like being broke," I teased, our eyes locking for just a second too long. My heart skipped pleasantly as I glanced around to see whether anyone noticed us. They hadn't. "Unless your money is on me losing spectacularly."

"We must get you playing more," Wilde told me, dealing to his left. "Sooner or later chance will declare you can't get a horrible hand."

I laughed, sorting my cards, reveling in the way a few games of poker had gotten everyone to loosen up—and, when it was revealed that I loved a good card game but couldn't win for anything, eager to help. I studied my cards—not bad. I could work with this. Part of me wished Murdoch and I had been able to slip down to the third class common room for a bit of dancing, but bonding with the other officers was better in the long run. And I was definitely enjoying myself.

Ten minutes later, Wilde came out of nowhere with a straight, crushing the over-confident Pitman, resulting in another round of laughter at Pitman's gape-faced incredulity.

"Hoi, what's this?" Lightoller ducked inside the door, collar of his greatcoat turned up, pink-cheeked from the cold. "How am I supposed to sneak in here in for a cuppa when you're all here to catch me?"

"Forget the tea," Wilde said, raising his coffee cup in salute, speaking at but totally ignoring Lights. "Miss Wallace made coffee again."

"Blimey," Lights said, taking his cap off and going for the kitchen. "I'm there."

I glanced at Murdoch, who half-rolled his eyes at the two of them. I snorted. "Come on, Miss Wallace," Moody said, leaning back in his seat. "Your recipe can't be that secret."

"Please," I grinned, "it can't be that hard to figure out. It isn't even a recipe. Just a few spices."

"Ahhh." Lights came out of the kitchen, sipping from his cup. "Much better. Thanks, Ellen."

"Sure." I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Are we doing another round?"

"Speaking of another round." Moody leaned forward too, looking between me and Murdoch, one of his eyebrows raised. For a second I couldn't breathe, wondering suddenly if he'd found out, if he was about to bring it up— "I'm not sure it's my place to ask, but what exactly happened, belowdecks earlier? There was a fight, wasn't there?"

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, but now the whole table and Lights turned curiously toward Murdoch and I. "Some ruffians were getting out of control," Pitman explained, lighting another cigarette. He took a long pull. "We got them in line. That about sums it up, doesn't it, Will?"

"Absolutely." Murdoch leaned back in his seat, smiling teasingly. God, he was handsome. "That was all."

Moody sighed, knowing they were teasing with him, and turned to me. "Harry said you were both helping the stewards break up the fight. That means you'd have to've been fighting, though."

"Mr. Moody," said Wilde, shuffling the cards idly. "Don't pry."

"I'd actually like to know," Lights said, probably just to be argumentative with Wilde, but he was looking at me curiously. "I heard the same. But surely. . ."

I lifted an eyebrow, looking at Murdoch in question. He shrugged, grinning, and said, "I don't see why not."

They were all staring. So I took a deep breath and told them—Lowe and I seeing it happen, one of the combatants socking me in the nose, at one point me hauling one of the skinnier fellows off of an older steward. I watched their expressions go from curious to surprised to respectful, Murdoch's steady smile and warm eyes on mine the only unchanging thing among them. They expressed their disbelief, so I told them a bit about the shipyard, my days there because of having a master shipbuilder as a cousin. Also because Thomas was one of the few people who kept me sane after my husband's death seven years ago, but I wasn't about to admit that to this crowd. Maybe Murdoch, later. He'd probably want the whole story, anyway.

Lights got back to his watch, and we played a few more rounds of (terrible) poker, but before long, Murdoch and I were the only ones left in the officer's mess, a battlefield of cigarette butts, plates, cups and saucers littering the table between us. I couldn't stop smiling, and he knew exactly why. "I do think," he said gently, "that you're in."

In other words, we'd all broken the ice. They'd let their guards down, they laughed when I'd spewed expletives at the reception of a bad hand, and somehow that fight earlier, bad as it had been in front of Captain Smith, had been enough to break down most of the walls between us.

"Yeah," I agreed, running a hand through my hair. "And it'll get better, too."

"That it will." He stood, came around the table, offered his hand. "Come on. We should get ready for our watch."

Getting ready consisted of me dressing quickly in my uniform, tidying my hair, tucking my gloves in my pocket, and slipping next door to his room.

It consisted of him actually taking the ten minutes to teach me how to tie my own tie, standing behind me as we stood before the small mirror above the dresser. It consisted of him untying it and asking me to redo it while he slowly kissed up the side of my neck. It consisted of me swatting him away with my hat while he laughed, dodged to the front of me, then walked me backwards against the door. It consisted of us trying not to gasp as each kiss went deeper than the last, each minute found us tighter in each other's arms.

The wheelhouse door opening and shutting called us back to reality to find that it was ten to ten, and we had to get out there.

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I was supposed to be looking to the stars, but I couldn't stop staring at the sea, waiting for Murdoch to finish speaking with Quartermaster Hitchens so I could deliver my report on the previous watch's wireless communications.

The sea was just so flat. Glassy even, reflecting the stars overhead. I could feel the wind, heard the far-off roar of the ship cutting through the waves and felt the distant rumbling of the engines, but for all that, it looked like we weren't actually moving. The horizon and sea had blended together. There wasn't even any moon.

Moody caught me staring out the wheelhouse windows. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said wistfully. "I've never seen it so calm."

"And we had all those iceberg warnings earlier," I said, the report in my hand. "It's going to make them hard to see, isn't it? Without a moon?"

"They hardly ever come this far south, though," he said. "We'll be fine."

"Miss Wallace." Murdoch was approaching the two of us, smiling. "A wireless report, isn't it?"

He sent Moody to get a report from the engine room, then Boxhall came on deck and called Hitchens away to help with something in the mail hold, leaving Murdoch at the helm and me, jobless, at his side.

"Any ships nearby?" he asked, hands steady on the helm, looking out ahead.

I'd finally put my finger on why it had unnerved me to see him standing at the helm the other night. It was sexy. That's what it was. He was so confident and in control, steering this headline-mongering monstrosity of steel and luxury as nonchalantly as someone sipping tea.

"Ellen?" he said, turning to face me.

"Er—sorry." I snapped out of it. "Californian was nearby when we last heard—we'll be passing her soon enough; they're at all stop for the night. And the Olympic is actually about five hund. . . what?"

He was grinning. "You were staring," he said. "J'accuse."

I took a step closer, smiling back, lowering my voice. "Well, you're the one standing there looking so dashing. It's hardly my fault."

He laughed, but then stood to the side slightly, both hands still on the helm, and nodded me over. "C'mere," he said. "You're going to steer."

"I am not." I folded my arms, nearly laughing, remembering the other night when I'd turned him down to keep him from knowing how I actually felt. "You're doing a fine job."

"I know you want to," he said fondly. "You were there when the first sheets of steel were bolted together. Of course you want to steer her. Come here, before I have to order you."

I grumbled for a second, then approached, still slightly nervous, glancing around. "You're sure I won't run her off course?"

"Trust me, it takes a bit of muscle." He let go as I replaced my hands where his had been, at about 11 and 2 o'clock, and I stepped behind the helml.

Before the surprise could set in of how amazing it actually was, Murdoch stepped in behind me, his body flush against my back, then closed his hands over mine, far enough forward to kiss my cheek. I don't know how long we stood like that, just staring out at the calm sea, his hands shifting at times from my hands on the helm to run gently up my sides. Breathless, I was staring out at the sea ahead of us. You could feel the ship from here. The slight vibration in my fingers was like the pulse of a beating heart, or a satisfied sigh. Which I let out, feeling every bit as though I were part of the ship. "Is it always like this?" I whispered. "This feeling, this. . ." It was like flying. Soaring.

His smile hummed along my ear. "Always."

We stood there, contentedly silent for long moments. At last I murmured, "So what do you want?"

"How do you mean?" His hands at my waist again.

"I dunno, I mean—out of. . . everything. Do you want to stay a chief officer forever?"

"You're philosophical all of the sudden. I suppose. . . well, I suppose I'd like to be a captain someday. Though it's probably contingent on the ability to grow a proper beard."

I giggled; he held me close against him. I caught that smell of soap and aftershave again. "You're probably right."

"What about you, Ellen?" he said against my ear. "Do you want to stay a first officer's assistant forever?"

I heard footsteps behind the wheelhouse door and before I knew it I'd stepped backward and Murdoch had taken over again and Hitchens was coming back with his mail room report.

We're good, I thought, Hitchens taking back over with nary a glance my way, Murdoch's voice steady as he asked about the mail room.

It occurred to me that this was going to be more difficult than I'd originally thought.

Seeing that they were busy, glanced at the clock (23:30) and went out to the bridge to peer ahead in the darkness, leaning on the rail. It wasn't long before Murdoch came to join me. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "That was a bit close."

Shrugging, I squinted out ahead, smiling. "It's all right. We just need to be careful."

Murdoch leaned on the rail next to me, our sleeves touching. No one else was on deck, and Hitchens couldn't exactly leave his post. "This isn't going to be easy," he murmured. "But I think I'd rather have difficult with you than easy with anyone else."

My heart pitter-pattered. "And I think I agree."

A door burst open on the forward well deck below us; we jumped and turned toward it to see a couple swinging merrily onto the deck, laughing uncontrollably, twirling each other about.

"That is sweet," I said, watching the two of them as they pulled each other close. He was wearing a coat, but she only a pretty, flowing dress—they must have been cold, but didn't show it.

"Isn't that the girl from dinner the other day?" Murdoch asked. "And then down in steerage last night—she had the gown that didn't quite fit in with the rest of them."

It was her—Rose DeWitt-Bukater. Her red hair was down about her shoulders, but I recognized the boy, too—one of Fred's new friends, Jack. The two of them started kissing each other fervently. I remembered vaguely that she was engaged to that ass, Mr. Hockley. "She's first class," I said, watching them go. "And he's third. If they can make it work, Will, so can we."

He nodded, running a hand along my back. "So can we." He took a good look around. No one was on deck, we were out of view of Hitchens, and the wind was whizzing through the rigging. Murdoch kissed me, deeply, once again hinting of a restraint that was holding back a great reserve of passion, weakening my knees. Later, I found myself thinking happily as we pulled away. Later I will coax it out of him.

"I'll have you and James go over some of the star charts later," he said huskily, clearing his throat. "Then perhaps afterwards—"

Clang clang, clang.

It was the crow's nest bell. Three clangs meant danger ahead.

I turned straight ahead, both of us squinting into the darkness, but there was nothing, just black sea and black star-spangled sky.

The telephone in the wheelhouse went off like an alarm and then stopped; Moody got it, I could see him through the wheelhouse window, cup of tea in hand. "What—" I began, turning back, but that's when I saw it and the bottom of my stomach dropped as the thing loomed up out of the darkness, almost blacker than the ocean itself, nothing reflecting—

Murdoch hurtled toward the wheelhouse but I couldn't tear myself away; I looked back to hear Moody cry, "Iceberg right ahead!" and Murdoch shout almost over him, "Hard to starboard!" as Moody echoed it back.

"Christ," I gasped, unable to move, waiting for orders. Moody's tea went flying as Murdoch elbowed past him to get to the controls, yanking the lever first to STOP then FULL ASTERN; I turned back to the bow, gaping.

The iceberg was coming closer, becoming huge, and we were still heading straight for it, panic rising up in my throat, heart pounding hard as Murdoch returned to my side. "Is it hard over?" he shouted towards Moody.

"It is, yes sir, hard over!"

"Christ," I breathed again, hands over my mouth, watching it draw closer, and we weren't bloody turning one bit; we were sailing straight toward it. I could feel the frozen horror radiating off Murdoch as he stared ahead, his hands in a death grip on the rail, saw the combination of panic and math fighting in eyes as he tried to work it out.

"C'mon," he murmured, staring straight ahead, "C'mon, c'mon, turn—"

The bow slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to swing away, but the iceberg was so close now that I could see deck lights reflecting off it, a gray-blue glistening peak and oh God, the collision—

The point of the bow swung clear and for an instant, I could breathe.

Then the rumbling began.

The bridge railing was vibrating in my hands; I released it, taking a stunned step back to feel the whole deck doing the same thing; heard a crunching and saw that the upper deck railing on the starboard side was breaking great chunks of ice onto the well deck, panic bubbling up in me again, the shrieking, muffled sound of tearing metal coming from far below; I stepped back again as the berg went by, huge as a mountain, tiny whisker-like snowflakes suddenly blustering around the deck lights—

"Hard to port!" Murdoch shouted, Moody again echoing it back as Hitchens yanked the helm, and Murdoch hurried back into the wheelhouse; I followed in time to see him throwing the switch to close the watertight doors, which set off an alarm bell as they all went at once.

The rumbling in the ship had stopped, the port maneuver taking the aft side of the ship away from the berg.

I realized I was trembling, sweating even, as I went to stand beside Mr. Moody, who hissed to me, "Shouldn't they have at least a sixty-second warning?" He meant the stokers in the boiler room.

"They have ladders," I said tightly, eyes on Will.

"Mark the time," he told Moody, voice none too steady. Sweat shone at his temples. "Enter it in the log."

Moody stepped away to do so, fazed but not shaken. Hitchens looked like a kicked puppy. Murdoch's eyes met my own, the watertight indicator alarm bell echoing his blank but horrified expression.

"What was that, Mr. Murdoch?" Captain Smith bustled in, collar stays unfastened, tie loose, vest flapping open.

I wrangled my shaking hands behind my back, heart aching for Murdoch.

"An iceberg, sir," he managed, unable to believe his own voice. "I pulled her hard to starboard and ran the engines full astern, but it was too close. I tried to port 'round it, but she hit, and I—"

"Close the watertight doors." Smith headed for the bridge.

"The doors are closed, sir," Murdoch said, following him out, and I trailed behind them, Boxhall now on my heels, his face a wreck of confusion.

"All stop," the captain called back, and Boxhall called, "All stop, aye sir," and went to go turn the levers.

Captain Smith went to the wing cab as the lever dinged, leaning far over the side of the ship, trying to see any damage below. Murdoch glanced back at me, his jaw clenched, burning with nerves and humiliation. I wished I could offer him some sort of strength, but I knew I looked the same.

"Find the carpenter," Smith said to Murdoch, now staring into the well deck, where fallen ice was scattered everywhere. Jack, Rose, and a few others were staring over the starboard side, trying to get a glimpse of the berg. "Get him to sound the ship."

"Yes, sir!" Murdoch brushed past me, his shaking hand at my elbow in a quick squeeze.

"Miss Wallace," Smith didn't turn towards me as he spoke. "Fetch your cousin. You'd best bring him on deck."

"Yes, sir," I said, and made myself put one foot in front of the other as I hurried from the bridge.