New York City

Autumn, 1914

Jack

Rose is quiet next to him as they make the trip across Manhattan, walking several blocks to the closest Subway station and then taking the underground train as close to Jack's Park Avenue home near 74th street as they could get– in all, nearly an hour trip from where Rose had been living.

He thinks he understands why she has been so quiet on the journey, and that this entire day– the whole start of this week, really– has to be overwhelming, as he himself has barely started to wrap his head around everything. Truly not knowing what to expect when he had finally first tracked down her address and gone to seek her out, he can't believe that now, two days later, she has agreed to come home to live with him, and sure, it's not in the way that he had hoped, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He still feels guilty enough about having had a hand in her losing her job, he's not going to turn away any opportunity she'll give him to help her or ensure her comfort now. His greatest hope now is that the longer she's with him, the more she'll open up again. He's seen glimpses of it already in the way she has begun to tease him like she had back then. Each little private joke is like an ember flaring to life.

"Well, this is us," says Jack, slowing in his walk. She hadn't reached to take his arm this time, when they had gotten off the train, but he doesn't blame her, she's so tired on her feet at this point. He's exhausted, too, having barely slept the past two nights, thinking about her all the way across town, and how to keep inventing reasons to see her. Now he doesn't have to invent reasons, and he's beyond thankful for that, but he also doesn't want to overstep.

The place in question– the urban home that Molly had insisted upon "selling" to him for about a quarter of what it's actually worth (he'd only found out after the fact, and given her an earful about it) is modest, by Park Avenue standards. Her reputation of being "new money" aside, Molly Brown is formidable when it comes to taste and thrift, and this place had been close enough to the "action" and the people she had craved interactions with whilst also being far enough away and in a quiet enough upper east side neighborhood to feel cozy. It's quiet— a street back from the small businesses that attract park-goers, Justus two blocks away from the heart of central park, where Jack often walks when he needs to clear his head or get inspired.

It's large, there's no denying that, at eight bedrooms, two sitting rooms, a library, an office-turned-studio, and a large basement kitchen that opens into a terraced back garden. It's not the biggest on the block, and it's far from the ostentatious mansions on Fifth Avenue, where the millionaires tend to play. From the outside it's a rather unremarkable brownstone situated between two others. The facade has some lovely art nouveau detailing and a grated wrought iron fence at the drop to the basement level from the street, that even he had liked: it reminded him of walks through Paris, and there is a small balcony off of the master bedroom at the back. The front stoop is wide and welcoming, the ground floor windows large, and able to open. He hadn't been lying to her when he said there was more room than he knew what to do with. It hadn't felt so large when Molly was there, and Ruth, and Molly's children on occasion: Larry and Helen, usually at differing times. For the duration of this year, however, it has been him kicking around the empty halls alone, trying to keep busy.

Rose seems to be studying the place as they pass through the entryway, but her face gives away none of her opinion. It's warm inside, the radiant heating running high already with the early chill that had come to New York almost as soon as October had hit. Never-the-less, he leads her through to the sitting room– the less formal one that he favors– and quickly stokes a fire in the hearth to warm it up some more.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "Something to eat? A drink?"

"I'm fine, Jack," she tells him. She's hovering in the doorway to the room rather than entering, which is making him nervous. She still has her single bag over one shoulder, having refused to let him carry it for her, and it leaves him with the impression of having her half in his world and half out— one foot out the door already while only having just arrived.

"Come on," he says, standing. "I'll spare you the grand tour until tomorrow. I'm exhausted, so you've gotta be worn out, too. Let's get you to your room."

"I am rather tired," she replies, as he leads the way upstairs. He doesn't have to think about it to decide which room should be hers. He had known from the moment the house became his, that the room at the back of the second-floor landing– the one with the little balcony over the back terrace and garden– was meant for her, with its openness and cheery light during the day, and the warm street light glow at night, as well as the large attached ensuite bathroom with its own big claw foot soaking tub.

He had redecorated the room himself after Molly had given it up as her master suite. He had stripped it of the dark damask wallpaper he's pretty sure had been in place for half a century if the smoke stains were any indication, and had painted it a warm sage green. He had laid down rugs to make it warmer, taken from elsewhere in the house where they were going unused, which had lent the room a rather bohemian feel in the end, with the eclectic array, the same with the bed which he had made up with the warmest selection of linens in varying patterns and colors. Molly had had some art in the house already, from prior trips to Europe— her daughter studying at the Sorbonne and good friends with a lot of Jack's contemporaries. She had never made a move to remove any of it from the apartment— had specifically gifted a Monet garden scene to Jack for Christmas the year before after he had commented on it once, and so that now hangs over the head of the large bed, in pride of place. He wrestles with his own smug satisfaction when he sees Rose catch sight of it and give a hint of a smile.

He admits, all of the choices were probably made more on the impulse to make sure that if he ever succeeded in getting Rose here, that above all else, she'd be warm and comfortable, and that she wouldn't feel as if she were surrounded by the trappings of her old life. The cold still haunts him, and so he assumes it bothers her as well, and anything about the room that she wants to change, she'll of course be welcome to, and he tells her as much.

She seems taken aback, a bit.

"Jack," she starts to argue, "this is the master suite. I couldn't possibly take this. It's your house, this should be your room."

He can't keep the amusement or the exasperation from his face, he knows. He doesn't say what he's thinking— the hope that someday this will be their shared room, together. He simply shrugs.

"I've got my room down the hallway where I've been staying since landing in New York. It does me just fine. I spend most of my nights downstairs, anyway, working until late. This room is all yours."

The smile she gives him is gracious and a little sad but he brushes that off. They both need sleep, he thinks. Once they can face everything a little more rested, everything will seem better.

"Thank you, Jack," she says, giving his arm a squeeze as she moves past him to fully enter the cozy space. "For everything."

"Good night, Rose."