"His expression was absolutely inspiring… so familiar, so characteristic of something I had seen before! Where could it have been? What potent spell was there about this fellow to attract me?" ― J. Ross Browne

Wednesday, April 10th, 1912

RMS TITANIC

The night was alive beyond the pretentious glimmer of Titanic's hull. Alone with the stars and the sea, Erik drank in open mouthfuls of frigid air. Below him, the Atlantic boiled black, the fathomless depths livid and frothing beneath the ship's propellers. Above, the heavens blazed in an effortless mockery of the portholes twinkling over the water. He needed this – the fresh air, the infinite – an escape from the stifling egotism that choked the first class decks.

He leaned his weight against the rail, his gaze trained on some imprecise, distant point on the water. There was music out here – a thunderous symphony for those who knew how to listen for it. Almost imperceptibly, his hand wavered, lilting with the timeless, unnamed melody. Lost in the wondrous strains, he felt, for a moment, almost at peace.

It wasn't to last, of course. He bristled from his reverie at the first sound of intrusion, his eyes snapping to its source. A figure – a man – was staggering his way toward the back of the ship, pitching forward in violent starts and stops. He didn't halt until the railing caught him in the gut, and even then he fell upon it with all of his weight, nearly toppling over the back of the boat. The motion seemed to knock the wind out of him, for he remained hunched over the railing for some time, his body heaving.

Erik's upper lip twitched in disgust. How typical; the very moment he managed to claim a private sanctuary aboard this godforsaken ship, it was invaded by a drunken wretch. His golden eyes rolled back in annoyance, and he let out a sharp sigh through his nose. Before he could decide what to do about the intrusion, a savage, animalistic cry erupted from the newcomer, setting Erik's hair on end. He looked up in mild alarm just in time to see the hunched figure pitch his pack of cigarettes out into the ocean, shaking like a madman. He caught only the briefest glimpse of the man in profile before the newcomer dropped his head into his hands, weeping openly. But even that quick glance was enough to jog Erik's memory with a vague hint of familiarity. Unsurprising, he supposed; half the population of Belfast had been involved, to some extent, with Titanic's construction. His eyes flickered up and down the shuddering form for another moment before he looked away again, utterly disinterested.

A glance at his pocket watch revealed that it was just after 8 PM. His colleagues would still be in the smoking room, schmoozing with the wealthiest passengers onboard. Much to Andrews' chagrin, Erik had managed to wriggle out of his social obligations for the evening by instructing a steward to bring his supper directly to his room. He'd barely settled down at his desk with his supper tray when the passengers from Cherbourg had clattered their way noisily onboard. Of particular annoyance had been a rowdy young boy who could be heard all the way down the hall, skipping, stomping, and singing (painfully off-key), all the while turning a deaf ear to his nursemaid's exasperated commands. Naturally, the boy and his nurse had been assigned to the room directly adjacent to Erik's. With a sneer, he had abandoned his untouched dinner and sulked off in search of blissful solitude. Unfortunately, with over 2000 passengers onboard Titanic, he found that privacy was an ever-evasive luxury. It was only at the stern, huddled against the icy wind, that he'd finally found himself alone.

For a while, anyway.

Erik glanced sideways, throwing a dirty look at the young man who had invaded his sanctuary. It was too early to return to his room; the child next door would not likely have exhausted himself to sleep yet. He could request a room change, but that would require him to seek out Hugh McElroy, the Chief Purser – a genial, witty man whom Erik didn't mind terribly, but who would likely be in the smoking room with the rest of their colleagues. Searching out another isolated part of the ship was an option, but even then he risked bumping in to someone he knew in the process.

Of course, there was an easier and much more appealing option: he could find a way to remove the unwanted intruder from his presence. It wouldn't prove to be too difficult; in all likelihood, the man had only come out to the deck to compose himself in private. Once he learned that there had been an active spectator to his childish little tantrum, any man with a shred of dignity would be humiliated into a prompt retreat. It was as good an idea as any, Erik decided. Carefully schooling his features into a neutral expression, he stepped over to the shuddering figure and waited to be noticed. When it became apparent that the young man was too deep in thought to recognize his presence, Erik reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. The man leapt back as if he'd been stung, blinking furiously against his tears. His hand went to his chest, and he choked a bit on his own saliva.

"Jesus Christ!" He hastily wiped at his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, looking sufficiently mortified. "Shit, I, ah… I didn't realize anyone else was out here."

Erik barely heard him. His golden eyes had narrowed to slits – he knew this man, he was absolutely certain of it now. Beyond that, nothing made sense. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say the man was probably thirty-something, and his accent unmistakably American. Although his hair was mussed and his tie jerked loose, he was otherwise dressed to the nines in elegant eveningwear that pegged him immediately as a first-class passenger. For the life of him, Erik could not conjure up a single scenario in which he would have ever encountered the man before. He was a perfect stranger, yet everything about him screamed of déjà vu.

Perhaps even more unsettling was the fact that the recognition seemed to be distinctly one-sided. The other man's brown eyes flickered curiously over Erik's mask before he managed to arrange his features into polite neutrality. This had become the standard reaction of the upper class upon being introduced to the reputable Erik Turner; what had once been his most terrifying feature was now dismissed as little more than an artistic eccentricity. Still, the gesture was enough to signify to Erik that they had never been introduced before.

Lost in his own thought process, it took him a moment to realize that he had been spoken to. Belatedly, he answered, "I should have made my presence known to you sooner. My apologies."

"No, no, my fault. I'll just, ah…" The man gestured vaguely at the nearest corridor, his cheeks flushed in humiliation as he backpedaled toward C deck. Something about his expression stirred a flash of memory in the back of Erik's mind; once again, he was filled with the irrational conviction that he had met the man before. The answer was on the tip of his tongue, and he knew his mind wouldn't rest until he figured it out. Unsolved puzzles were a particularly loathsome pet peeve of his.

Erik's mind scrambled for a moment, searching for a suitable stall tactic. His initial scheme to get rid of the man was working entirely too well – he had mere seconds to find an equally effective plan to counter it. Fortunately, just as the man reached the middle of the deck, an idea occurred to him. "I couldn't help but notice that you… dropped your packet of cigarettes," he called. The man froze, and glanced back hesitantly at him. Keeping one eye on him, Erik reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box of impeccably crafted, handmade Dominican cigars. "Perhaps this would serve as an acceptable substitute?"

The man's gaze fixated on the case, but after a moment he excused himself with a halfhearted, "That's very kind of you, sir, but I really should be getting back—"

"Of course," said Erik, biting back a triumphant smirk. One look at the man's hungry eyes told him he'd hit the bull's-eye; he needed a smoke, and badly.

With careful, deliberate movements, Erik thumbed open his pocket knife and cut a neat V-shaped notch into the end of a cigar, large enough to allow equal draw from the rim and the cleanly cut filler leaves. In a voice like velvet, he continued, "A pity, though. I've yet to find a cigar more luxurious than the Upmann. Flawless construction and consistency. Subtle undertones of coffee and cocoa, with a toasted cedar finish…" Unconsciously, the man had taken a step closer. "Whenever I need a moment to collect my thoughts, this…" He paused dramatically to draw the length of the cigar beneath his nose, inhaling its rich scent, "is a magnificent companion."

Either the man was extraordinarily desperate, or Erik had retained more manipulative prowess than he gave himself credit for, because the young man crossed straight back over to the railing, mumbling a vague dismissal of his prior engagement. Under the pretense of lighting the cigar tip with an even, clockwise burn, Erik took the opportunity to scrutinize the young man's features: the shape of his eyes, the set of his dimples, the strong chin and regal cheekbones… once again, shadows of half-formed memories played at the edge of Erik's consciousness, tormenting him, infuriating him! Why did he know this man so well?

Though his mind burned with questions, outwardly he managed to maintain a visage of perfect composure. As he leaned against the rail, carefully cutting a notch out of his own cigar, he remarked offhandedly, "You seem… somewhat familiar to me. Have we met?"

The man pressed his lips into a white line, shaking his head. "No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir. Gus McAfee."

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched irritably as he shook the man's hand. The name rang absolutely no bells in his head. If he did know anyone called McAfee, they were such a distant acquaintance that he couldn't even call up a single image of the person. That ruled out the idea that perhaps the young man was just a spitting image of his father. An Irish name, an American accent… it was a riddle plagued with dead ends.

"Erik Turner," he muttered, and turned a troubled gaze back out to the ocean. The rational portion of him knew that he was getting on in years – that his memories would naturally blur with time. Perhaps he was going senile, making nonexistent connections in his mind. He could not say with any certainty that dementia did not run in his family. Perhaps he was finally going mad. But still, still… his gut told him there was something missing, some critical piece of information that would draw the disjointed memories together. Every riddle had an answer, and if there was an answer to be had, here – if his intuition was correct – he would find it. He would simply have to do some digging, get more information out of the man… even if it meant submitting to one of the most loathsome activities Erik could possibly imagine: making small talk.

His muscles clinched reflexively at the very thought. How ironic; he'd taken such pains to avoid mingling with the first-class gentlemen in the smoking room, and yet here he was, swapping cigars with a bourgeois neophyte, playing at social niceties, preparing to launch into a conversation about such enthralling topics as the weather, business mergers, perhaps even the results of the most recent polo match…

He sucked in a long, deep draft on his cigar, feeling a headache coming on. This would not be pleasant.

"Chilly out tonight, isn't it?"

The young man – Gus, was it? – bobbed his head once in acknowledgment. "Sure is." A painfully awkward stretch of silence ensued that only served to reinforce Erik's inherent loathing of forced conversation. Fortunately, his companion seemed to be much more well-versed in maintaining idle chitchat than Erik, for he added, "Much colder out on the water than it was at port."

Grateful for a lead, Erik pressed, "Did you come in at Southampton?"

"Cherbourg."

"Ah."

"You?"

"Belfast, actually."

"Oh?" The young man quirked an eyebrow, appearing genuinely interested. "Are you with the White Star Line?"

"I… contract with them on occasion," Erik answered, trying to keep the disdain from his tone.

"What do you do?"

"Mechanical design. Architecture. Depends on the project." Before the conversation became too focused on his own life, Erik asked, "Are you in the shipbuilding business?"

"No, no." Gus gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "Nothing that interesting. I hold a partial share in a few textile mills in Philadelphia."

"Mm. Anything I would have heard of?" Erik probed, searching for anything, any remote clue…

"Kentucky Blue Jeans?" the young man offered.

Erik wilted slightly. "Oh, of course," he fibbed. Then, before he could be caught in the lie, he pressed on, "Were you in France on business, then?"

"No, just passing through on our way back home. Actually, my companions and I have spent the past few weeks big-game hunting in Africa. Made a stop over in Hungary to visit my friend's hunting lodge, then on to Cherbourg from there."

"I see." The more the young man talked, the more Erik began to have the sinking feeling that perhaps senility was not out of the question. The last time he'd been to Hungary, he'd been staring out at the landscape through the bars of a gypsy caravan; he knew no one who lived or worked in Philadelphia, let alone manufacturing denim; and any knowledge he possessed of the African savannah was derived from the articles in his Encyclopedia Brittanica collection. Perhaps he was truly grasping at straws, trying to make sense of a riddle that never existed in the first place.

While Erik attempted to figure out a way to bow out of the conversation gracefully before he embarrassed himself further, Gus surprised him with a candid confession. "Listen, I, ah… I'm sorry about that little display you had to witness just now. I honestly didn't think anyone else would be out here at this time of night."

Erik eyed him up and down once, and then answered, "I don't blame you. It's a rare breed of man who seeks solitude on the first night of a cruise."

"Yes, well." The young man's tone took on a decidedly bitter edge, and he blew a hard stream of smoke out into the air. "Sometimes solitude is preferable to the present company." After a beat of silence, he looked up, horrified, and amended, "I don't mean you, 'present company,' I mean… previous 'present company.' Past company."

"I knew what you meant," Erik assured him, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Gus let out a sigh of mixed relief and exasperation, and dropped his forehead into the palm of his free hand.

"She's just… infuriating. I don't know why I expect her to change; she never does."

Erik glanced at him sideways, curious if nothing else. "Your wife?"

Gus raised his eyes miserably. "My mother."

The raw, searing pain behind the word struck Erik like a lightning bolt to the chest. Golden eyes snapped up to meet brown. Reflected in the glassy surface, all he could see was an angry, terrified child.

"Erik, I've had quite enough of this silly game now. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you will have nothing at all…"

Gus must have seen the horror on his face, for he suddenly shook his head, as if he had remembered himself. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this." He was retreating again, slowly pulling back toward C deck. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik reached out and caught the young man's shirt sleeve.

"No!" he managed, surprised by the conviction of his voice. "Please, don't be." His eyes locked again with the young man's; he hoped they would convey what words would not. "I… understand. I understand very well."

Slowly, very slowly, the tension drained from Gus's shoulders. After a while, he gave a little nod, and came back to stand with Erik at the railing.

Neither of them said anything else that night.

A/N: Blatant Kay-ism there, for those who were unfamiliar with the reference. Oh, Madeleine.

Anyway… a little ironic, this unlikely companionship, hmm? I'd love to hear what you guys are thinking right about now! All I can say is that Erik had better watch his tongue on the commiseration front. It might come back to bite him later. ;)