"A Thousand Points of Light"

Author: carmen_085

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters from James Cameron's Titanic, not any real people. I do not own Titanic or any characters from the movie. I do own all original characters.

Summary: Fifth Officer Harold Lowe and Titanic's Nurse Clara Barnett lives become intertwined on the ship's maiden voyage when a young drifter is brutally beaten.

Chapter Three

April 11, 1912

The emerald coast of Ireland came into view as Titanic steamed toward her last port of call, after this it would be six days of open ocean. Sighing deeply, Harry leaned against the rich mahogany railing as he stared out at the sea. He was absolutely exhausted; what he did last night did little if nothing to bring him any relief. He wasn't above casual sex, that part was practically a given with his life as a sailor. In fact, when he was younger he might have considered it one of the perks. Almost thirty and still not settled down, however, he viewed the whole thing as a waste of time if nothing else. Last night had not only been a waste of time, it had also been regrettable in every way.

Dorothy Gibson was her name; he'd seen it on those gaudy posters around her room and it was the first thing out of Jimmy's mouth when he relieved him early this morning. Did he know that the woman who had fallen into his arms last night at Cherbourg was a famous American actress. Apparently the stewards had been abuzz about the entire ordeal and eventually word had reached the bridge. While Moody was a mixture of excitement and disbelief, Wilde had been entirely oblivious on the matter. The Chief Officer had been a last minute addition to the the crew and as he passed the baton to Pittman this morning; Harry caught a queer look on the older man's face. Despondency, indifference- he wasn't sure. He'd heard that Wilde's wife died suddenly and tragically along with his two infant sons. Gossip, of course, whispered when no one thought he was around. No one had told Harry directly of course, he wasn't exactly part of the inner circle of officers, but he'd heard none the less.

For his part in the matter, Harry had acted surprised and interested as Moody yammered on about how he'd seen her briefly last night in the cafe playing cards with a group of wealthy American businessmen. This time Harry didn't have to act surprised, the woman sure got around. Still, he let on nothing of his own interaction with her and said a silent prayer that Lightoller was none the wiser about it. Fraternization between passengers and crew was strictly forbidden. If he did know, Harry was sure this would be his last posting with the White Star Line. Not to mention that he'd most likely spend the rest of the voyage scrubbing the lavatories.

Leaning his head on his hand he closed his eyes for just a moment. He was exhausted having not had a decent night sleep in quite some time. After leaving the actress last night he'd quickly showered and fallen into his bunk praying to fall into a deep sleep. Disgust and self loathing kept him awake at first, but was quickly replaced with thoughts of her. The girl with the grey eyes. Just was he had last night he replayed those few moments over in his mind. Trying to remember any little detail that had initially escaped him. Something…anything that would solve the puzzle of who she was, and more than that- where he could find her when he finally made it back to England.

It had been a dark moonless night, that last night in Southhampton, and if it hadn't been for that meager ring of light on the aft deck he might have missed her entirely. He'd been annoyed, wanting just a bloody second of peace to smoke a cigarette. No one to wonder about why an officer was slumped against the railing, his shoulders hunched, and his eyes covered. Struggling with himself before the ship had even set sail. Ungrateful for his posting on the grandest vessel in the world. And all he wanted was to deal with all of that in peace….alone.

But she was there and she refused to go quietly. Didn't scurry off like a church mouse as he blustered like the fool that he was. No, she stayed right there and let him know that she had just as much of a right to be there as him. It pissed him off- that someone was challenging him, contesting his authority. But he wasn't acting in official capacity he was just a man and she was just a woman. A woman who would't stand for his shit. That fact alone had hooked him immediately. Custom, manners, and social standards be damned. In a world of etiquette and class he'd stumbled upon someone who was real.

She was an American, he immediately picked up on flatness in her voice. Normally that fact alone would have been enough to make him turn and leave. American women were brash and unapologetic, loud and never knowing when to shut up. But somehow this woman made him do exactly the opposite. He was attracted, he wanted to see and know more. And see he did. The moment she stepped into that small ring of yellow light he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She wasn't made up and her tanned skin was all natural and clean. Her long dark brown hair blew freely around her face; not pinned or coiffed like so many women did. He inhaled sharply, his brain not remembering how to exhale as his chest burned. And then he saw her eyes. Clear gray eyes that forced a chill to wrack his body. She looked into him and right through him. He was paralyzed, speechless, not ever having an actual physical reaction to another person this strong.

Thirty seconds that he'd replayed for hours in his mind. Dissecting each piece trying to find an answer that wasn't there. The air was cool, the night was black, his heart was pounding. His mouth tasted like tobacco, her breath smelled like coffee; she apologized he stuttered. And then she was gone leaving him to regret his inaction more than anything he'd ever regretted in his whole life.

"Mr. Lowe ?" He snapped upright blinking his eyes. Christ he'd fallen asleep on watch. Maybe it was just a second. Turning sheepishly he came face to face with Lightoller's sharp, appraising stare. "I asked if you had completed the dead reckoning this morning." He hadn't noticed. By some miracle of Christ he hadn't realized that Harry was unconscious on his feet just now; lost somewhere between reality and a daydream.

"Yes sir, I pinned it to the board in the chart room." Lightoller nodded but didn't move as he stared at Harry for a second longer. Straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, the junior officer would give him no satisfaction if he could help it.

"Was it a late night last night?" His stomach pitched. Oh God he knew.

Swallowing hard Harry decided to keep the lie as close to the truth as possible. "Haven't been able to sleep well sir. Usually happens when I'm in strange surroundings." It sounded even more pathetic than he thought it would.

The ghost of a smirk played on the older man's lips as he finally tore his eyes away and directed them forward. "Funny. I thought you'd spent most of your life in strange surroundings." Harry had no rebuttal. He was correct and any man who had sailed in as many shit holes as he had would have no issue getting a good night's rest on something as posh as Titanic. Opting for silence he hoped that his deference would be enough to satisfy. They stood there for a bit longer both staring out at the ocean. "Very well then. You're back on watch at eight pm tonight ?" Said like a question that he already knew the answer to. Of course he knew Harry was back on watch at eight, he made the fucking watch schedule.

Exhaling he nodded, "Yes sir."

Clicking in his tongue in that typical condescending way he gave a clipped acknowledgment. "Alright Mr. Lowe. Get some rest. I'll take over from here."

It was ten am and the end of his watch, but the way Lightoller was saying it made it seem like he was being done a favor. Harry wondered if this treatment was only reserved for him or if every junior officer was subjected to the same. He thought about saying something, anything, to defend himself. Just because he was subordinate didn't mean that he didn't have a hell of a lot of experience- in some cases more than even the senior officers. He'd not rode in on his last name nor with papers from a fancy school, Harry had gotten where he was the hard way.

An image of his father popped into his mind. He'd warned Harry more than once that he was a damn fool for not going about his career "the right way". The proverbial wind in his sails gone, he flicked his eyes toward the deck. This posting on the Titanic was something that he'd always dreamed of. A berth on a premiere passenger steamer, it was really the culmination of so much hard work. There would be other ships and other officers. He would get through this like so much else and come out on the other side better for it.

"Thank you, Sir." Lightoller's eye brow flicked up with just the slightest bit of surprise. Turning, Harry returned to the chart room and collected his instruments. They weren't the finest but they were his. A set of navigational tools he purchased with one of his first real paychecks- they'd been with him all around the world and not failed a single time. Walking back to his cabin he sighed. He desperately needed sleep, not paying attention on watch could not only get him fired it could literally sink the ship. Hoping that exhaustion would have its way with him he collapsed into bed.

If anyone asked she would tell them that she was desperately unhappy. Nobody asked though and nobody cared. Just seventeen years old, a child by many standards, and already forced into an engagement and a life she did not want. She'd been fifteen when the arrangement had been made, she'd barely begin to realize her own womanhood and she'd already been promised to a man almost twice her age. Caledon Hockley, son of a steel tycoon and most definitely old money. The answer to all their prayers. All her mother's prayers.

They were nearly five hundred thousand dollars in debt. A whole year of expenses in a very expensive world. A sensible person would have curtailed their spending in the face of such a situation, but not her mother. They had to keep up appearances or people would talk. They would whisper and snicker; speculate on where the money had all gone. Her engagement to Cal had secured them a loan that she would need to repay with her freedom.

It wasn't that he was unappealing. Quite the opposite, in fact, dark and smoldering like the lead actor in a silent film. He was fit and trim; at least through his clothes. Sex was forbidden before marriage and he'd not pushed the issue although he certainly toed the line now and then. If she was as unfeeling as the rest of the women in her world, he would be a catch. But she wasn't and couldn't be. Rose had always had a wild spirit and a tender heart. Taking right after her father, her mother often scowled at her zeal for life. She was a foolish, reckless little girl whose dreams could easily be squashed under a tight corset. This was her life and she had better get used to it.

It might have been bearable if he was just a pretty face. An empty suit and a charming smile; entitlement at best, smug at worst. But he was petty and cruel, berating her privately for even the slightest misstep. His temper could flare out of control and he wasn't beyond physical aggression coming a hair breadth away from striking her on more than one occasion. A slick, smooth talking gentleman in public; a monster capable of unimaginable cruelty in private. She'd told her mother, of course. However, Ruth just clicked her tongue and shook her head. She didn't actually expect her to believe such foolishness did she ? Mr. Hockley was a fine gentleman how dare she accuse him of such things.

"You like lamb, right sweet pea ?" Rose snapped out of her thoughts and looked at him blankly. Since when did he give a shit about what she liked. She forced a smile simply so he would stop staring at her. Looking around the table she was met with expectant gazes, obviously it had all been for show….like everything else in her life. Her mother had been positively strummed to secure such a lunch gathering; whispering tautly in her ear that both Mr. Ismay and the ship's builder Mr Andrews would be at their table and she expected her best behavior. No sharp retorts or intellectual conversation.

Thankfully Mr. Andrews was quite pleasant and approachable; she found it a welcome change. Ismay on the other hand was an egomaniac stroking his predictably tiny pecker to and fro for the majority of the conversation. Reaching into her bag Rose's fingers curled around a cigarette. If she couldn't escape this life at least she could hasten her death.

"You know I don't like that, Rose." The second reason why it seemed like a great idea. If she was old enough to be engaged she was old enough to smoke if she wanted and her mother could go right to hell.

"She knows." Cal snatched the cigarette out of her hand just as she'd taken her first satisfying drag. Stubbing it out rather dramatically he scowled at her, surely he would have something to say about it later. Other than Mr. Andrews, Molly Brown also served as a light hearted reprieve. She was what mother called, new money, and was brash as could be. Her husband had found gold out west and she was a true frontier woman looking as if she'd stepped off a stage coach and right onto the ship. She raised an eyebrow at Cal's theatrics but said nothing.

Ismay on the other hand continued to go on about the origins of the ship's name. Titanic as he explained conveyed size and strength… but strength above all else. Chastened by her mother and Cal, Rose didn't hesitate to say the first thing that came to mind.

"Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay ?" The man stopped talking and stared her dumbfounded. "His books about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you…" Her mother gasped, Cal groaned. She didn't give a shit. Across the table Mr. Andrews snickered holding the linen napkin up to cover his face.

"What's gotten into you…" it was hissed through clenched teeth. Oh there would surely be more to this. Next Cal would seize her hand under the table and squeeze too tight- just enough to bring her back in line. Beating him to the punch she pushed the chair out and shot up. One more moment sitting here and she was going to scream.

"Excuse me…" She made a beeline for the door. With any luck she'd have a few minutes before Cal drug himself away from their company and came to retrieve her. Smother her. Drag her back kicking and screaming.

Clara put her bag down on the deck and inspected the man's finger again. An able seaman had caught his middle finger in a pulley and ripped the nail three quarters of the way off. It now hung precariously by a scrap of flesh as blood dripped onto the newly polished deck. They'd cast off from Queenstown just an hour ago and the aft deck was crowded with third class passengers eager to glimpse the open sea. Mostly immigrants they spoke a variety of languages. The man in front of her, however, seemed to only be able to curse as she gently manipulated his finger.

"I can't save it. It'll need to come off." Another procedure that a doctor should be doing, she was left to see to this as well as most everything else. The Captain was having a luncheon and Dr OLoughlin told her not to bother him unless it was important.

"Fuck me…" The man groaned as she set about fixing a bandage to stop the bleeding. Working on a ship was dangerous business as she had quickly learned, especially a new ship where nothing was broken in and nobody was quite sure how anything worked. There had been a few passengers but by in large the majority of her work had been crew members. She'd checked on her patient in steerage this morning as she had three times a day since the doctor ordered him back to his bunk. His wound was healing nicely and the other men in his cabin were keeping a close eye on it. Well at least that's what she thought they said. From what she could gather they were bringing him his meals and helping him to stay off of his feet as much as possible.

She ignored his slip of the tongue and collected her bag. "You'll have to come back to the infirmary. I can't fix it here." He sighed deeply shaking his head.

"Let me get my bloody jacket…" Clara had been doing this kind of work long enough to now that it wasn't her he was angry with but himself. Shit happens though. Leaning against the railing, her eyes wandered over the crowd. All of their faces painted with the same sense of exuberant hopefulness dreaming of what promise awaited them in America. A man and little girl caught her eye feeding the sea gulls as she smiled. Just beyond them, a group three men sat talking casually. One of the men appeared to be drawing in a leather bound portfolio. His gaze occasionally flicking up with a soft smile and a thoughtful expression.

Clara's attention turned back to her patient. He said nothing as he shouldered his jacket and gave her a nod. "Alright then. Right this way." As with every other place she "officially" went on the ship, a male steward escorted her. She'd assured them she was just fine on her own, but the British were uptight at best when it came to single women and their unchaperoned interactions. Of course when she was off duty she was permitted to do as she pleased however they had been quick to remind her that she was representing the White Star Line day and night. Any transgressions would be met with her swift removal.

"Make any money with your drawings ?" A thick Irish brogue pipped up. Her eyes flicked up and at that moment a woman in a green dress appeared on the promenade deck. She was eye catching for sure with flame red hair and porcelain skin. Her dress costing more than what Clara made in a year it was not to be outdone by the amount of jewels dripping from her ears. All of the first class passengers had money and this girl was no exception. But despite that, she appeared sad- despondent- and wishing to be anywhere else. Such a waste she thought.

The steward led their little party toward the infirmary weaving through outstretched legs and dodging waving arms. As she passed the lanky young man with the drawing pad she intended to steal a glance and see if he was any good. His attention, however, had quickly swept away from his work and toward the woman on the deck above. He stared at her in the way only a poor, common man could; with reckless abandon. Unbound by the expectations of upper society he simply did what he felt in the moment. Speechless, unmoving, totally overcome by what he was seeing.

It made her heart clench painfully around itself. Dark eyes, a serious face, and a pleading look. He begged her to look at him and demanded that she look away all at the same time. He was so close to her that night her fingers itched to reach out and touch him, to make sure this entire experience was indeed real. In the quiet of that dark night she swore she could hear his heart pounding. Which was just fine because she clenched her own knees together to keep herself from shaking. No man had ever caused her to react so physically and frankly it scared her. She was weak, swooning like a damn school girl. And yet it didn't feel wrong.

Still, she felt the need to get out of there. It was overwhelming and if Clara hated anything it was not being in control. He was an officer, that much was apparent from his uniform and the gold stripes on his sleeve, but whether he was a Titanic officer that was a question she deeply regretted not asking. Before the ship sailed locals from Southhampton as well as officers and seamen from all over the White Star Line had come to ready the vessel. So much needed prepared and tested that it was impossible for just the ship's actual crew to manage it. Not to mention that there was a bit of scandal with officers just a day or so before sailing and she'd heard that one of them was replaced suddenly.

Clara had not seen him since that night and she would admit only to herself that she was looking everywhere. In the face of every crew member on the entire ship. Maybe he wasn't an officer at all, maybe he was one of the pursers- they dressed very similar. When she wasn't totally consumed by her work her mind wandered to him and who he was, where she could find him, and what little detail she might have missed from before. Her mind ran in circles with no clear answer. All she knew was that no one had ever made her feel like that in her entire life. It was as he'd thrown her a rope and now they were forever connected.

"Miss Clara ?" She jerked, blinking her eyes as the steward looked at her expectantly. "We're here Miss Clara…where do you want him ?" In the midst of her daydream she mindlessly followed the two men down four flights of stairs and through a maze of corridors without a conscious thought. Forcing a smile she nodded toward the bed in the corner.

"Over there should do. I'll just need a moment to collect some supplies." The steward nodded ushering the seaman toward the for the distraction, Clara went to the small kettle she had and poured herself a cup of coffee. Taking a deep breath she knew she needed to put those thoughts away and would be time to think of him later and wonder why she'd been such a fool.

There was no way out of this and she knew that now. She'd hoped, at least for a time, that her mother would save her. Tell her she didn't have to marry Cal if she didn't want to. That she could go to school, that she could be something other than a man's wife. That hope was even more foolish than the one she'd had for Cal to be a kind and decent man. Even if she didn't love him, she could have tolerate him if he was just that. But he wasn't and her mother certainly wasn't going to save her.

So this was it. When the ship docked in New York they would board a train and in a month's time she would be Mrs. Caledon Hockley. The entire notion made her sick. All around her servers bustled pouring champagne here, water there. Dishes were brought and taken away, silverware was shuffled, mindless conversation went on. She stared at nothing. Inside she was screaming, wanting anyone or anything to notice her right now. To save her from this misery, from a life that had already been lived. As usual, though, no one looked up- no one cared or even noticed.

It was nine-thirty and an hour and half into his watch. Thankfully he'd been able to sleep, dreamless and shallow, it was far from restful but he wasn't complaining. It would be enough to get him through. Checking the coordinates again he knew that they were a few days from any ice fields, although the lack of binoculars in the lookout's post was more than a bit concerning. Apparently it had been Lightoller's responsibility and he'd failed to secure them before leaving Southhampton. That fact alone churned a dull anger inside him. Had it been his error God knows he would have never heard the end of it.

Bent over the charts, Harry heard the phone ring on the bridge. He was the only officer on watch, the senior men attending a Captain's Dinner in the First Class Dining Room. When he had to make his rounds he would turn the bridge over to the Quartermaster, it would be fine and in fact preferable. Without a senior officer he was free to run the shift as he saw fit.

Lifting the listening device up he flicked the phone on. "Bridge, Lowe." He listened for a moment, completely still, his eyes flicking side to side trying to figure out what he was hearing. "Right she was pulled back though?" The helmsman looked over his shoulder trying to figure out what was going on. The bridge was otherwise quiet as everyone man was on task. They didn't know Lowe well but he had proven himself very capable. There was no bullshit on his watch, everyone did their job and he did his. Replacing the receiver Harry sighed as he shook his head.

"Everything alright, Sir?" The helmsman asked out of curiosity more than necessity. If it was his business to know Lowe would tell him.

Harry didn't give one shit about the rich and having discretion regarding there "personal issues". Their ridiculous attempts for attention did nothing but serve as a distraction for the crew who had plenty to keep them occupied getting the ship safely across the Atlantic. "Some petty little girl tried to throw herself off the back of the ship…" A few of the men gasped in surprise. "Aft deck Seaman heard her screaming bloody murder, come to find her half dressed on top of a third class passenger." Harry couldn't hide the smirk on his lips. The richer these people got the dumber they became. "Said she was trying to see the propellers or some horseshit of the like." A chorus of laughs broke out at the woman's expense. Some might have called the response cold hearted but these were working men who'd chosen an unforgiving life at sea. Away from home for months at a time just to make a living wage, they couldn't fathom the woes of the rich. How troubling could a life be when all you had to do was exist? "Said the bloke pulled her back, apparently her fiancé didn't see it that way." He shrugging his shoulders. "Master at Arms says its settled."

"I can't believe these people need something else to occupy their time….my God this ship has everything a person could want," one of the crewman mused. Harry pursed his lips staring out at the black sea. He couldn't deny that statement although there was something he wanted that was most likely long gone.

Jack Dawson was a simple man with a kind, open heart. The accommodations on the ship were lovely, even for a poor drifter like himself, still he liked to be alone sometimes just to think. Tonight, wrapped up in his threadbare peacoat, he lay back on the wooden bench and stared at the night sky. Thousands of stars lay out above him as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He wondered what was next for him in life and what he would do once the ship docked in New York. Would he stay there for a while or make his way back to Chippewa Falls. Maybe he'd just light out straight for California.

Like most things in his life, though, the answer came to Jack before he could wonder very long.

Heels clipping against the wooden deck and a pained, breathless cry. She was a blur of black and red as she ran right past him. He was naturally very curious and even if he hadn't had a deep feeling that something was wrong he would have followed anyway. In the dim circle of light on the aft deck, he saw a very beautiful woman hanging off the back of the ship. It took him a moment but he quickly realized this was the same woman he'd stared at longingly just hours ago. Copper hair, porcelain skin, full lips; the first class girl with the sad expression.

From there it all happened so fast. Getting her to turn back, slipping and nearly falling, screaming- so much screaming. At first Jack was happy, someone would hear and they would come help him pull her back over. But no one came, not soon enough anyway, and he found himself laying flat on the deck with her on top of him shaking and half clothed. That's when they came, a group of sailors, their boots thundering down the deck. They were on him in an instant.

Third Class Filth

The employees of the ship weren't making first class money by any means but they also weren't immigrants. They didn't have much more money but they had a job and a place to call their own. And that devine right in itself made them of a higher class than someone who was on God's good humor.

They were rough, dragging him to the side with more force than necessary. Throwing his boots in his face, they made it clear that he would stay away and not move an inch. The Master of Arms would be along to sort this out. In the mean time her fiancé showed up. The dark, slick looking fellow who'd all but drug her off the railing earlier. He started at Jack while the seaman told him what they'd found and after a second he was there, in his face. Backing him against the railing until it hurt. The stench of brandy and expensive cigars practically rolling off of him. He a drunk, angry, entitled. Jack didn't make it his practice to have run ins with people like this, but he could reason how this might go. A whole lot of them and one of him. He stared the rich prick in the face and let him know that whatever was going to happen would happen with him standing right here, boots on and unlit cigarette perched between his lips. No way was he going to beg. No fucking way.

She got in the middle of it before it went any farther. Arming her way between them and pushing her prick fiancé back into the arms of his manservant. Someone had thrown a blanket around her shoulders and she was a lot less exposed than before. Her hair was wild around her face, her make up running all over the place. She was messy and imperfect and so very amazing. A wildness was underneath all that class and it drew him to her like a moth to light.

"Cal…it was an accident…really I wanted to see the propellers." If Jack didn't care he would have laughed out loud right now. How ridiculous ! There was no way he would believe this. Staring at her for a beat, the alcohol must have made Cal delirious because he began to laugh- a tense nervous laugh. The other gentleman with him shook his head offering his own opinions on the matter- women and machinery did not mix. And that was it. They had already forgotten about him. A shadow, an apparition- existent but not acknowledged.

One of the sailors called the bridge, briefed the officer on watch of the matter. Nothing else was said or done. Jack was free to leave and after a sharp retort from the girl- Rose Dewitt Bukater- as he had just learned, the manservant slipped a twenty in his pocket. A snide observation falling out of the side of his mouth he made sure Jack knew that he was no fool. And then they were gone and he was left to sit in the dark and finish his cigarette.

It took him an hour or more to calm down. What the hell had just happened? Brushing aside the fiancé and his obvious anger, Jack chose to focus on Rose. My God was she something, not like anyone he'd ever met in his whole life. A woman of class and obvious breeding who wanted to break free so badly she was willing to die. He didn't know the first thing about her 't know the first thing about what he was doing. But he knew he needed to see her again.

The walk back to his cabin wasn't far. Down six flights to G-Deck, along the rear corridor, and two left turns. It took him a day or so to get it down but now that he knew he could find it with his eyes closed. He'd always been that way- adjusting to a new place without much trouble. Brain still hazy with thoughts of Rose, he didn't see the fist unit it was too late. Hit square in the face he fell backward striking his head on the metal stairs. His teeth rattled- his fucking brain rattled- as he groaned blinking his eyes trying to understand what had just happened. And then there was another hit to his ribs, a foot to his stomach, and another fist to the side his head. He forced his eyes open covering his face ad trying to get enough wherewithal to fight back. Through cracked fingers he saw black and white.

A tuxedo. Black hair. The stench of whiskey and cigars.

He groaned kicking and missing as he turned onto his side trying to protect himself. The blows kept coming though and before long Jack was unconscious. His blood dripped down the stairs. He was alone now, his breathing ragged he knew even in his blacked out state that he needed to do something or he would die here. Forcing himself awake he pushing himself down to the next step and then the next. His pained gasps filling the empty stairwell.

A door opened and there was once again footsteps. If the same person was coming back he was done for. Then a thick Irish accent and a shriek. Jack rolled down the last two steps and landed on the F Deck landing with a thud and moan.

"Help !.. We need Help !"

It was nearly midnight when Clara was roused by a steward. The infirmary was empty at the moment as she had passed out on one of the beds, meaning to only sit down for a moment or two. Now she was wide awake and heart pounding as she followed the steward along Scotland Road aft. He'd not told her much other than a man had been beaten and was in bad shape. It wasn't clear who he was but he looked to be a third class passenger. She wanted to ask him why the fuck that mattered but she already knew better by now. The British lived for the class system- it made their entire existence something they could understand.

He had no other information and for that reason alone she'd brought her full kit. Bandages, sulfa powder, needle and thread, cold packs. Dr. OLoughlin had been alerted and said he would come see the patient once Clara had assessed him. What a surprise there.

Her hair had fallen out of its tight regulation bun and was now hanging loosely around her face. She was tired and would need to put on a pot of coffee when she got back. Clara was beginning to realize that the increase in pay was because she basically worked non stop. Available any hour of the day for an emergency, she wondered if it was like this on all ships. Readjusting the bag on her shoulder she saw a small crowd gathered up ahead. Mostly third class men they whispered amongst themselves. Between their legs on the ground she saw a bloody body that was unmoving. Swallowing hard she took a deep breath.

Jack knew that a crowd had gathered around him by the shadows and the whispers. He reasoned he must have looked pretty bad if so many people wanted to stare. For the life of him, however, he couldn't move. It just hurt so damn bad.

"Move aside ! Move aside !" The steward pushed the men out of the way annoyed that they were blocking his path in the first place. Jack heard the scuffing of boots and then a light gasp. A woman's voice. She was kneeling next to him and her gentle hands were on his face getting a look at him. He was relieved not just that someone knew what to do but that someone was actually doing it. He'd half expected for the sailors from earlier to come, collect him, and throw him overboard. He sighed deeply and the proof that he was breathing on his own seemed to relax the woman as she fell into a rhythm she apparently knew well. Bandages were wrapped tightly, a cold pack was applied to his head, his arms and legs were straightened, and a needle poked him in the arm. Within seconds the pain lessened and he relaxed. She was cradling his head in her lap now, a gentle hand pushing the bloody hair away from his face.

"I need the cot, he's going to the infirmary." An American voice, just like him. The steward agreed although Jack could hear the reticence in his voice. "And call the officer of the watch as well as the Master of Arms." This time he vocally protested.

"But miss do you think that's really necessary ?" Clara did think it was necessary. This man as obviously beaten within an inch of life by someone who as still on the ship. Someone who could be a threat to others. She didn't know much about him but she could see he was poor. Third class for sure and with little to offer, she worried that the Master of Arms may try to disregard the entire matter. She'd heard that he hated dealing with 'Third Class Trash' and knew what was liable to happen. So she wanted the officer of the watch as well, they oversaw the entire ship and she would not let something this brutal be swept under the rug.

"Yes it is necessary." She stared at the steward knowing that he would chafe under her orders. It was too bad, though, she was a skilled person on this ship and he was not. When it came to an injured person the only person who could overrule her was the doctor. Clipping his bottom lip between his teeth he nodded tersely before disappearing.

The shift was about to turn over and Harry had handed the bridge off to Moody. Always a pleasure to be around, he and Jimmy double checked the coordinates, heading, and dead reckoning together before Harry officially went off watch. He'd not had time to make his rounds so he reasoned he would do that last and was about to set off when the phone rang again.

"Bridge, Moody." Harry stood by in case it was something serious. He trusted Jimmy but he was still the junior officer and he would be remiss if he left the younger man in a bind. "Where ? Alright, I'll be right over." He looked at Harry visibly paled.

"What is it ?" Harry's stomach rolled. Was something wrong with the ship ?

"A man has been beaten in third class. The nurse is requesting the officer of the watch. Apparently it's pretty bad." Harry immediately recalled Moody's nauseating tale of blood and gore in the infirmary and smirked.

"I'll go. I still need to do my rounds anyway." Jimmy's face broke into a smile that made Harry laugh a bit. Pointing at the younger man he shook his head, "You owe me, old man. Don't forget that."

With no senior officers around the atmosphere was more relaxed. Batting his eyes, Moody forced his voice high, "Harold Lowe, you're my hero."

Harry smiled as he closed the door against the cold night air and set off to see what all the fuss was about.

Clara was getting irritated, the steward still had not returned with her cot and neither the officer of the watch nor the master of arms had made an appearance. The crowd was getting restless and she had been left alone. The man's badges were seeping and she had nothing left to stop his bleeding so taking a knife from her kit she cut off a piece of her dress and pressed it tightly against the gash on his head.

"Ain't you gonna help him ?" A red hair burly man yelled.

"This isn't right man…it isn't right at all." A young Irish lad pipped up.

"What are you waiting for ?" Another accent yelled from the back.

They were right. She couldn't wait anymore. Looking up she locked eyes with the first man she saw. "Get me a sheet, I'll need help carrying him back to the infirmary." The man nodded as a few others quickly volunteered to help. In the mean time she set about reassessing the man, securing what dressings she could, checking his heart rate and breathing with her stethoscope.

"Alright make a path…make a path !" Her hearing was muffled but there was something distinctly familiar about that voice. English for sure but with a delicate lilt that she couldn't identify.

'Well this just bloody figures'

She blinked. It couldn't be.

Harry didn't hesitate to push the men aside as he came upon a bloody man and a woman bent over him. He was in bad shape and at first his attention was completely on that. Gashes that continued to bleed, bruising, and pale, lifeless hands. Christ this was serious.

And then the woman looked up. And his heart stopped.

It was her. Grey eyes pierced right through him as she blinked. Her hair was a mess and she was covered in someone else's blood but it was her. If possible she looked even more beautiful than the first time he met her. Slowly he came to squat down across from her, words leaving him all he could do was smile.

Clara numbly pulled the stethoscope from her ears as she returned the intense look. It was him, he was a Titanic Officer. Those same dark eyes studied her now as he offered a lopsided smile. A stark contrast to his formidable presence, his face was endearing and unsure. "Hello." The word came out of her mouth before she could think.

"Hello." He let out a nervous laugh. This was no place for such things but he couldn't help himself. "I'm Harold..Harold Lowe…..Harry." She nodded wondering that exact fact for the majority of the last two days.

"Clara Barnett." They both nodded at one another, an awkward silence stretched on. The man returned with the sheet and she was grateful for the distraction. "Can you help me get him back to the infirmary ?"

Snapping out of the spell he was in Harry quickly nodded. "I'll help you. I'll do whatever you need." Her lips turned up into a smile as she set about the task.

Harry's heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. Against every odd he'd found her and from this moment forward he intended to keep it that way. If it was the last thing he ever did he was going to find out everything he could about Clara Barnett.

TBC…..

This is a Harry/Clara story just to be clear. Jack and Rose will be in the background but only to move the plot with our main couple along. I intend to include some original snippets of Jack/Rose that will enhance their own- very well known story.

Next chapter will be almost all Harry/Clara

Thanks for reading and please review !