Titanic Fic: Commiseration (3/3)
Title: Aftermath
Fandom(s): Titanic
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,159
Summary: She may be a maid who goes unnoticed, but she has a life too. And sometimes it's the unnoticed that make an impact.
Commiseration
Part III: Aftermath
The night she tells the story of April tenth through a few days after the fifteenth, Brock Lovett gives her the drawing, stating some bullshit reason-she knows it was the diamond he’d really wanted, not some piece of art-which she places next to her photographs on the bedside. She gazes at it for a while; or, more precisely, at the small lettering and signature at the bottom, remembering as she’d watched Jack mark his work. It is all she has left of him, and despite the life after the sinking that she doesn’t regret, she’s not willing to give that up.
She falls asleep staring at it, and somehow knows this would be the last time she’d find herself in this incarnation. That the next morning, Lizzie would come into her room to awaken her, only to find out she couldn’t. But Rose can’t think about that; all she can think about is what is still in store for her.
As she slips into unconsciousness, there’s a brief meeting that takes place between her and some shadowy, robed figure that maybe should be frightening but isn’t, who merely asks her for a sort of fare-she’s certainly got money to spare-then smiles, escorts her to a boat which transports her across a deep river, and gives her a jerky nod. She hardly remembers it even the moment after it ends, guesses that’s the point, and she finds herself not standing on the shore of the river, but on the promenade of the Titanic.
It has been restored to its former glory, no sign of the destruction, pain, or misery it experienced that fateful night. She can smell the paint, the lacquer on the chaises, and sees the metal gleaming in the sunlight. She takes in the waves, the misty salt air, the perfect weather conditions, and for a few moments lets the sun’s rays beat down upon her face. She looks down at herself to find she’s in a beautiful white gown, without a corset of course, one she’s never owned before, and that she too has been restored to her former self.
She glances to her left, where one of the entrances to the inside of the ship beckons her, and as she walks towards it, the handful of people walking on the promenade give her smiles and nods, which she politely returns. Ushers she vaguely recognizes do the same as they open the magnificent doors, and she steps through both curiously but gracefully.
The entrance she chose is that which leads to the grand stairwell, the fantastically crafted window high above her bathing the room in light. People have congregated in the entryway, some nameless faces in the background, but ones she knows well in the front. She passes Trudy, wearing the uniform from so many years ago, and Ben, dressed in his horseman’s attire; J.J. Astor who had always been kind to her despite his wealth and Rose’s indifference; the four musicians who had devoted their lives to their craft and to sharing it; Tommy Ryan to whom she’d taken warmly but regretted not getting to know well enough; Mr. Guggenheim and his loyal valet, who had gone down as gentlemen; innocent little Cora and her devoted father; Mr. Andrews, whom Rose wishes to hug but doesn’t, at least not just yet; Fabrizio and stunning Helga; and many others whom she had met during her time on the ship, all three classes mingling together and all welcoming her with glowing grins.
She wants to spend time with everyone, but knows she’ll have plenty of it. For now, something different propels her forward, to the base of the staircase. She looks upwards, and her heart constricts. Not in anguish or fear-no, in love and finally.
His back is to her, but he’s the same as back in 1912: same nearly threadbare pants held up by worn suspenders, same weathered shirt covering equally weathered and tanned skin, same sandy blond hair that always falls into his eyes.
He turns then, sensing her presence, and her heart skips another beat. He’s just as beautiful as ever. His blue-green eyes light up when he sees her, a smile more loving than anyone she’d passed erupting on his face as he waits for her-as he’s waited for all this time.
She ascends the stairs, wearing a smile of the same ilk, and puts her hand into his outstretched one. They’re a grand juxtaposition, her lotion-saturated skin with his calloused artist’s. He radiates warmth, exactly opposite to the last time she saw him, and she can barely feel those last few steps, lost in his eyes.
Then finally, finally, after eighty-four years of yearning, he leans down and presses his lips to hers. They’re as soft as she remembers, and she wraps her arms around him, melting into his embrace. She vaguely hears the applause of their audience, but pays it no mind. It’s hard to do so, after all, when his hand gently comes up to her hair, pulling her head towards him to deepen the kiss. She’s more than willing to oblige, having waited so long for this moment. Air seems to not be needed in this plane, but he pulls away, mischief claiming his expression.
Without a word, he grabs her hand and hurries up the stairs, navigating the ship effortlessly. She follows, and finds herself in her old stateroom, her old bedroom. He easily unbuttons her dress, letting it fall to her feet and takes in her form just as he had when he drew her portrait; she doesn’t have much more difficulty than he as she rids him of his attire.
He leads her to the bed where they make love, multiple times, her fingernails leaving red marks down his back, his hands leaving bruises on her hips and shudders of pleasure through her body. She had forgotten how alive being with him felt, winding up in hours of pure bliss. In this world John is but a faraway thought-though she had loved him in a way, it was nothing like this.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Rose murmurs to Jack as they lay beneath the covers, recuperating.
He gazes down at her with fire-bright eyes and kisses her forehead. “You upheld your promise. That’s all I could have asked for. And besides-better late than never.”
“Can you promise me something this time?” Rose asks.
“Anything.”
“Promise we’ll be forever like this,” she says, keeping his eyes. “Promise we’ll never be separated again. I don’t think I could handle a second time.”
Jack chuckles, and Rose’s fingers clench-oh how she’d missed that sound. “Here,” he says, a hand trailing down her cheek, “anything less is impossible.”
And so, for the first time since she’d met him and they’d abstractly spoken of going to the Santa Monica pier, she sees only calm seas ahead and a future that will hold nothing but hope and love.
Fandom(s): Titanic
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,159
Summary: She may be a maid who goes unnoticed, but she has a life too. And sometimes it's the unnoticed that make an impact.
Commiseration
Part III: Aftermath
The night she tells the story of April tenth through a few days after the fifteenth, Brock Lovett gives her the drawing, stating some bullshit reason-she knows it was the diamond he’d really wanted, not some piece of art-which she places next to her photographs on the bedside. She gazes at it for a while; or, more precisely, at the small lettering and signature at the bottom, remembering as she’d watched Jack mark his work. It is all she has left of him, and despite the life after the sinking that she doesn’t regret, she’s not willing to give that up.
She falls asleep staring at it, and somehow knows this would be the last time she’d find herself in this incarnation. That the next morning, Lizzie would come into her room to awaken her, only to find out she couldn’t. But Rose can’t think about that; all she can think about is what is still in store for her.
As she slips into unconsciousness, there’s a brief meeting that takes place between her and some shadowy, robed figure that maybe should be frightening but isn’t, who merely asks her for a sort of fare-she’s certainly got money to spare-then smiles, escorts her to a boat which transports her across a deep river, and gives her a jerky nod. She hardly remembers it even the moment after it ends, guesses that’s the point, and she finds herself not standing on the shore of the river, but on the promenade of the Titanic.
It has been restored to its former glory, no sign of the destruction, pain, or misery it experienced that fateful night. She can smell the paint, the lacquer on the chaises, and sees the metal gleaming in the sunlight. She takes in the waves, the misty salt air, the perfect weather conditions, and for a few moments lets the sun’s rays beat down upon her face. She looks down at herself to find she’s in a beautiful white gown, without a corset of course, one she’s never owned before, and that she too has been restored to her former self.
She glances to her left, where one of the entrances to the inside of the ship beckons her, and as she walks towards it, the handful of people walking on the promenade give her smiles and nods, which she politely returns. Ushers she vaguely recognizes do the same as they open the magnificent doors, and she steps through both curiously but gracefully.
The entrance she chose is that which leads to the grand stairwell, the fantastically crafted window high above her bathing the room in light. People have congregated in the entryway, some nameless faces in the background, but ones she knows well in the front. She passes Trudy, wearing the uniform from so many years ago, and Ben, dressed in his horseman’s attire; J.J. Astor who had always been kind to her despite his wealth and Rose’s indifference; the four musicians who had devoted their lives to their craft and to sharing it; Tommy Ryan to whom she’d taken warmly but regretted not getting to know well enough; Mr. Guggenheim and his loyal valet, who had gone down as gentlemen; innocent little Cora and her devoted father; Mr. Andrews, whom Rose wishes to hug but doesn’t, at least not just yet; Fabrizio and stunning Helga; and many others whom she had met during her time on the ship, all three classes mingling together and all welcoming her with glowing grins.
She wants to spend time with everyone, but knows she’ll have plenty of it. For now, something different propels her forward, to the base of the staircase. She looks upwards, and her heart constricts. Not in anguish or fear-no, in love and finally.
His back is to her, but he’s the same as back in 1912: same nearly threadbare pants held up by worn suspenders, same weathered shirt covering equally weathered and tanned skin, same sandy blond hair that always falls into his eyes.
He turns then, sensing her presence, and her heart skips another beat. He’s just as beautiful as ever. His blue-green eyes light up when he sees her, a smile more loving than anyone she’d passed erupting on his face as he waits for her-as he’s waited for all this time.
She ascends the stairs, wearing a smile of the same ilk, and puts her hand into his outstretched one. They’re a grand juxtaposition, her lotion-saturated skin with his calloused artist’s. He radiates warmth, exactly opposite to the last time she saw him, and she can barely feel those last few steps, lost in his eyes.
Then finally, finally, after eighty-four years of yearning, he leans down and presses his lips to hers. They’re as soft as she remembers, and she wraps her arms around him, melting into his embrace. She vaguely hears the applause of their audience, but pays it no mind. It’s hard to do so, after all, when his hand gently comes up to her hair, pulling her head towards him to deepen the kiss. She’s more than willing to oblige, having waited so long for this moment. Air seems to not be needed in this plane, but he pulls away, mischief claiming his expression.
Without a word, he grabs her hand and hurries up the stairs, navigating the ship effortlessly. She follows, and finds herself in her old stateroom, her old bedroom. He easily unbuttons her dress, letting it fall to her feet and takes in her form just as he had when he drew her portrait; she doesn’t have much more difficulty than he as she rids him of his attire.
He leads her to the bed where they make love, multiple times, her fingernails leaving red marks down his back, his hands leaving bruises on her hips and shudders of pleasure through her body. She had forgotten how alive being with him felt, winding up in hours of pure bliss. In this world John is but a faraway thought-though she had loved him in a way, it was nothing like this.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Rose murmurs to Jack as they lay beneath the covers, recuperating.
He gazes down at her with fire-bright eyes and kisses her forehead. “You upheld your promise. That’s all I could have asked for. And besides-better late than never.”
“Can you promise me something this time?” Rose asks.
“Anything.”
“Promise we’ll be forever like this,” she says, keeping his eyes. “Promise we’ll never be separated again. I don’t think I could handle a second time.”
Jack chuckles, and Rose’s fingers clench-oh how she’d missed that sound. “Here,” he says, a hand trailing down her cheek, “anything less is impossible.”
And so, for the first time since she’d met him and they’d abstractly spoken of going to the Santa Monica pier, she sees only calm seas ahead and a future that will hold nothing but hope and love.