A/N: Hello, everyone, and thank you so much for joining me on my latest phanphic endeavor! This story is already very near and dear to my heart, and I am so looking forward to going on this journey with you. For the record, this is NOT a crossover. I repeat: not – a – crossover. That said, I think it's safe to say that nearly everyone will be familiar, to some degree or another, with the historical context in which I am placing the Phantom characters, due largely in part to the major motion picture that has forever branded itself on millions of hearts. I have spent hours upon hours reading up on the actual historical events – every detail in this story, down to what they eat, and what ferry they're on, has been meticulously researched. I will do my best to remain as true to actual events as I can. Of course, a few artistic liberties might be taken here and there for the story's sake, but for the most part I'm being really strict with myself on this.

A BIT OF SETUP: My characters and their respective histories are based upon a combination of Kay, Leroux and ALW. I've set the events of the Phantom of the Opera as having taken place in the year 1875. With the exception of the prologue, this story takes place entirely in the year 1912 – that's thirty seven years later, for those of you who don't like math.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: First and foremost, I absolutely must thank Flora Grey, without whom this story would have never gotten past the "So, I have this crazy idea..." phase. For the hilarious 3 AM banter, endless psychoanalyzing, encouragement, friendship, and insistence that I do not suck nearly so much as I think I do, this story is dedicated to you. "I don't know, I wrote it!"

Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber and the Really Useful Group get all the credit for the Phantom characters and their glorious backstory. I'm just the sadist who takes those poor characters and tortures them mercilessly for fun! ;)

Raoul and Christine's son is my only original character in this story - and because I know someone is inevitably going to ask, YES, he is ACTUALLY Raoul's son. All other characters, aside from little bit roles like people on the street/in the bar/what-have-you, are actual historical figures.

I'm posting this story now, on the 99th anniversary of the night Titanic went into the sea, taking with her 1517 men, women and children. My goal is to complete this story and make the final post a year from today, on the 100th anniversary of the tragedy.

C H A P T E R O N E

Friday, February 16th, 1912

Belfast, Ireland

"No."

"Just – just – hear me out a minute, Turner! 'Twouldn't be in any official capacity—"

"No."

"You wouldn't even need to be a part of the guarantor group this time! I'll sign you on as a private contractor. I'll pay you out of me own pocket, if that's what it'll take…"

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, then scrubbed a hand over the good side of his face. Over the course of the workday, the dull, persistent throbbing beneath his eye sockets had intensified to a stabbing pain. He was currently in no mood to be pressed. Unfortunately, Thomas Andrews had a rich vein of Irish stubbornness, and seemed to have no intention of leaving until he got the answer he had come for.

"An hour a day for technical rounds, that's all I'm askin'. The rest of the time would be yours to spend however y' please." Andrews' brown eyes flicked desperately over his friend's impassive face for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he let his hands fall limp at his sides and lowered his voice half an octave. "I'm askin' you as a friend, here, Turner. You know what this launch means for my career. I've got Ismay breathing down my neck and a thousand reporters watching our every move. One hiccup in the system and it's my head on the chopping block. Please. I need the best with me on this run. Do this for me now, and I'll never ask you for anything again, on me honor as an Irishman."

A long stretch of silence passed between them before Erik finally let out his breath in a sharp sigh. "Get out of my office, Andrews." He passed a hand over his eyes, then added gruffly, "Leave the damned blueprints, if you must."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a grin split Andrews' face from ear to ear. The young architect laid his scroll of draughting paper on the desk, then stepped back and clasped his hands before him in appreciation. "I'll make it up to you, Turner, I swear. You won't regret this."

"I already do. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Erik waited until the brisk clip of Andrews' shoes disappeared behind a closed door before carefully unfolding the scroll of paper left in his possession. With gnarled, arthritic fingers he traced the outline of the second-born in a class of ships that had become the highlight of his career and the bane of his existence. Last year, after a particularly nasty falling out, he had ripped up these blueprints in the design team's face and tossed the scraps into the fireplace. In a fit of rage he'd sworn off any further involvement with the insolent bastards at Harland & Wolff and struck out on his own as an independent contractor and naval architect. There were a thousand other jobs he could be doing – the stack of proposals from this week alone was overflowing off the edge of his desk. He'd enjoyed a long and distinguished career, and broken ground on several technical innovations which had since become the very backbone of the booming transatlantic trade. There was no reason, none at all, for him to ever return to working on the overblown, press-happy waste of steel known as Titanic.

Except Thomas Andrews.

Erik had known the lad since he was a bright-eyed intern of sixteen, eager to learn everything and anything about the shipbuilding trade. From the very beginning the boy had been groomed for a high profile managerial position, and it would have been entirely too easy to dismiss his rapid progress through the ranks of the company as favoritism on the part of his uncle, the senior partner and chairman of Harland & Wolff. But the honest truth was that Andrews was a bright and charismatic young man, as kindhearted as he was hard-working. He was just as likely to be seen taking his lunch at the docks with the welders as with the company's president, and the men loved him for the fact that he walked among them as equals. "Tommy," as he was known about the docks, was about the damned most likeable man Erik had ever known. Despite his valiant efforts to despise the cheerful young Irishman, he found himself in the unfortunate position of sharing every resident of Belfast's opinion of the managing director of the Harland & Wolff shipyard. Had any man short of Andrews himself come to Erik to beg for him to sign back on to the Titanic project, he would have been met with a cruel bark of laughter and a door in his face.

With a sigh, Erik spun the blueprints back into a roll, tucked them under his arm, and stormed out of his office. His secretary leapt back toward her seat when he turned the corner into the lobby, accidentally overturning her cup and saucer in her frantic attempt to look as if she were doing her work. "Oh!" she muttered as she drew out a handkerchief and began to sop up the tepid coffee. "Mr. Turner, I apologize, I didn't see you."

But Erik hardly noticed her mumblings at all; the admonition he had prepared suddenly died on his tongue as he was met face-to-face with perhaps the largest, most elaborate floral arrangement he had ever seen in his life. Orange and pink roses, hyacinths, lilies and carnations exploded out of a vase in a riot of color, taking up nearly a third of the front desk.

"What, pray tell, is that?"

His secretary looked at the arrangement dumbly, then offered, "Fl-flowers, sir?"

Erik was certain the blood vessels in his eyes would burst at any given minute. He put two fingers to his temple, attempting vainly to massage away the oncoming migraine. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "Thank you, Mary, I can see that. What I am more interested in gleaning from you is what exactly they are doing in my office."

"Why, Mr. Andrews brought them in for me, bless 's heart!" she gushed. "He remembered that my Michael's got a right nasty case of the mumps, thought a splash of color might brighten 'is day. He brought a fruit basket, too, and a lovely card, bless 's heart."

"I see. And I suppose the glow from Mr. Andrew's halo rendered you temporarily incognizant to the fact that I gave you specific instructions not to admit him?"

The secretary did, at least, have the good grace to blush. "No, I remembered it well, sir! But bein' as Mr. Andrews is your superior, I couldn't very well—"

"He is not," Erik interrupted coldly, "my superior. I choose to work for him, or not work for him, at my own convenience."

"Of course, sir," Mary conceded, though her eyes had drifted deliberately to the scroll of draughting paper in his hand.

Unwilling to dignify the passive-aggressive stare with a response, Erik turned on his heel and marched toward the door. "I'm taking the rest of the day off," he announced as he pulled his hat and coat down from their respective pegs. He took up his cane and put a hand on the doorknob, and then sighed. "Mark yourself the full day's salary, and go home to your son. I'll see you Monday morning." He slammed the door on her exclamation of thanks – gratuitous appreciation made him uncomfortable.

A quick glance at his pocketwatch revealed that it was just after two o'clock, and still early enough to beat the Friday rush for a quick drink at McHugh's; at hornblow, four thousand hungry men would descend upon the pubs of Belfast, and by that point Erik fully intended to be tucked away in the peace and quiet of his own flat, nursing what promised to be a headsplitting migraine. A few shots now would take the edge off the worst of it, though he would likely pay for the instant gratification tenfold come morning…

To hell with it, he decided, ducking into the dimly lit pub. Impulse control had never precisely been his strong point.

There were only a few patrons currently lounging about the bar, and Erik cringed inwardly as he realized that he knew every last one of them. For as large of a city as Belfast was, he found that this was the case an alarming amount of the time. It seemed everybody in the coastal Irish town was involved one way or another in supplying and constructing the White Star Line's mammoth luxury liners, forming a massive meshwork of communication and common ground; everyone from the barbers to the grocers knew the current specs and statistics on the sister ships Olympic and Titanic, and blathered on incessantly about them as if they were discussing beloved children.

Joseph Murray looked up from behind the bar as the door chime announced Erik's entrance. He jerked his head once in greeting, and gestured a welcoming hand at the stool in front of him. "Early start to the night, eh, Turner? What're you havin'?"

"Whiskey, on the rocks."

The bartender grinned as he poured him a double, revealing a crooked row of yellow teeth. "That bad, eh?"

"Ahh, Tommy must've made it down to see yeh, then," laughed a man two stools over – Mack Hayes, a former colleague from the draughting department. "He said he was headin' your way after lunch to sees about gettin' you back on the Titanic job. I bet 'im three pounds he couldn't do it."

Erik shot back his whiskey in one burning gulp, then raised a finger for another.

"Bleedin' Christ," Mack swore, "You didn't take him up on it…?"

With a stony glare, the masked man procured three pounds from his waistcoat and slid them down the bar. "Go to Hell," he grumbled.

"What has he got you doin' then, fittin' out the new promenade deck?" Joseph asked, already in the act of pouring Erik another drink. "You've heard they're enclosing it now."

"Since when?"

"Since this week," Mack supplied. "First classers on the Olympic've been complaining 'bout the amount of spray kicked up on rough waters. White Star's just put in the order to have forward A-Deck covered."

"Well, there goes their March launch."

"April, they're sayin' now."

Erik swore under his breath, swirled the melting ice and whiskey in the bottom of his glass, and took another deep drink. "Andrews conveniently failed to mention that," he said, rolling an ice cube around his mouth.

"Ah, you should be flattered, mate. He wants you on his team somethin' sore."

"So I've noticed."

He withdrew into his own thoughts as talk turned, predictably, to technical statistics on the size, scale and luxury of Titanic, comparing her to her sister (and here the arguments became heated, with loyalties on either side as to which was ultimately the better ship), and, finally, hearsay about which American millionaire had bought a ticket this week. At that point, Erik finished his drink in one last gulp, and promptly excused himself. The architect in him could withstand a certain level of blather on the ship itself, but he had no stomach for the press or celebrity gossip.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Aye, you as well, Turner." Erik turned to leave, but stopped when Mack cried out, "Oy! Turner! Good to have you back, mate."

He didn't allow himself to smile until he was tucked away in the privacy of his own flat.