[Fanfic] Titanic - Part 1 of 2

[pink-vader0001.livejournal.com]

Title: Titanic
Author/Artist: pink_vader0001 
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mostly England, smatterings of America here and there.
Rating: Hard T. Arthur, being Arthur, lets some choice words fly, but there's nothing horribly violent or sexy or anything.
Warnings: Horribly sad, a bit of choice language -- oh, and it's about 12k words.
Summary: “She’s the ship o’ dreams, Arty. Safest ship o’ her time. C’mon, ye really don’ think I’d put me wee baby brother on a ship that could kill ‘im, do ye?”

Part 2

Epilogue

 

September 1, 1999

The only time that Alfred invited Arthur over to watch a movie was when it was a scary movie. This didn’t bode well whenever Alfred did call, because Arthur and Alfred usually had very, very different opinions on what qualified as scary.

Somehow, Arthur always ended up hopping the pond anyway.

Arthur was about to ask what movie they were watching, when he heard the plaintive strains of one of the most popular songs of the decade, saw the yellowed, sepia-toned dockside footage of the launching of a ship the size of a skyscraper.  That ship.  He would know it anywhere.  The bowl of popcorn fell out of his hands and clattered to the floor.  Alfred turned around.

“I...” Alfred started, but then Arthur was cursing lividly and getting down on the floor to pick up the popcorn, dumping it angrily back into the bowl, hiding his reddened cheeks from Alfred’s gaze.  Alfred got up and came around the sofa.

“Arthur,” he said, but was paid no heed. “Arthur,” he tried again, kneeling down next to him.  Again, he was ignored.  He arrested Arthur’s hand and, startled, Arthur dropped the popcorn he was holding back onto the floor. “Arthur,” Alfred said again, carefully, sympathetically.  This time, Arthur looked at him, and he had a lost look in his eyes that broke Alfred’s heart.

“How could you...You...Did you forget?” Arthur asked, wrenching his hand away. “Fucking Hollywood!  I’m going home,” he said simply, his voice going cold.  He got to his feet and turned to leave, but Alfred was faster and scooped Arthur up into his arms.  Arthur was sucked back in time, eighty-seven years prior, when Alfred had clung to him like he was the dearest treasure in the world.

Then he was dropped back into reality by the sound of a mechanical arm as it turned over a wardrobe door on the telly.  He tried to pry Alfred’s arms from around his waist, but with the other Nation’s super strength working against him that was a futile effort.

“What do you want?” he asked peevishly.

“Watch it with me.  Arthur, please,” was the reply, and Alfred nuzzled the crook of Arthur’s neck with his nose.  Texas’ frames pressed into the soft, sensitive flesh under Arthur’s jaw.

“No.  Alfred, if I haven’t wanted to talk about it for the past eighty-seven years, what in the bloody hell makes you think I’d start now?” he asked. “Look.  I don’t care how good of a bloody movie it is, or how much our people liked it.  Our people weren’t there.  I was.  And I don’t want to see how Hollywood has bastardized the greatest peacetime disaster the world has seen.  Not...Not after I lived it, Alfred.”

Silence, except for the sound from the telly, which Arthur was pointedly trying to turn into white noise.  Finally, Alfred’s arms unwound from around Arthur’s waist, and then the TV went silent.  The movie was muted, Arthur confirmed when he turned around and saw their lips still moving.  Alfred was watching the screen, reading the white-on-black subtitles that appeared on the bottom of the television screen.  When he looked back at Arthur, there was something old, something almost haunted in his blue eyes.  For a split second, Arthur regretted snapping at him, as it sped back to him that Alfred in a way had lived it too.

“So tell me,” Alfred said. “What it was really like.” Arthur froze.

“What?”

“Yeah.  Tell me.  You haven’t talked about it in eighty-seven years.  You said so yourself.  All of the other survivors told their stories.” Alfred sat back down on the sofa and patted the seat next to him. “I think it’s about time we heard yours.” Arthur watched Alfred for a few minutes, wondering if he was kidding or completely daft.  Apparently, the answer was neither.

So Arthur stepped tentatively around the pile of popcorn on the floor and moved to sit on the other end of the couch.

“Fine,” he said, then turned and looked at the screen. “Let’s watch the damn movie.” The screen in front of him went black.  Damn it all.

“Alfred,” he said, in a warning tone.  The telly didn’t come back on.  He groaned in frustration and glared at the offending American. “You invited me here to watch the movie, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did, but I don’t want to watch it anymore,” he said. “Arthur, what is it you’re so afraid of?” Arthur sputtered and his cheeks flushed pink.

“I’m not afraid of anything!” he snapped. “You can’t possibly want to hear my story that badly, Alfred, now you’re just trying to be a wanker.” Alfred set the remote control on the coffee table, just out of Arthur’s reach even if he lunged for it, unless he was looking to be as conspicuous as possible.  As Arthur was pondering seizing the remote anyway, Alfred leaned forward.  Arthur found his gaze intercepted by those vivid blue eyes.

“I still have nightmares,” Alfred confessed. “I know, it’s been eighty-seven years, I really should get over them – I mean, I wasn’t even on the ship.  But...in a way,” he said, and met Arthur’s eyes. “It was harder for the people who were the safest.  I don’t envy the passengers, whether they survived or not.  But however horrible it must have been, I don’t think you know what it’s like to find out that someone you care for might be dead – all because they were on their way to see you – ” Alfred’s sentence broke off, and he turned away.  For all that he was pressing Arthur about not talking about the disaster; Alfred had been just as bad.  A beat of silence passed between them, and then Arthur leaned forward, and cupped Alfred’s chin in his hand, bringing his former colony’s face up so that their eyes met again

“I...still have nightmares, too,” he said to break the silence. “Mine are different from yours, I’m sure.  But I still have them.  I fall asleep, and then suddenly it’s 1912 again, and it’s so cold that I can’t breathe, let alone think, and daybreak doesn’t even offer a respite because –” Arthur stopped.  Alfred was looking at him, into his eyes, and Arthur just...stopped.  His hand released Alfred’s chin, finally, and he sat back.

“...Arthur,” Alfred tried after a moment, but Arthur wouldn’t meet his gaze. His green eyes were empty, his mind was elsewhere, was seeing people long-surrendered to the icy Atlantic, was hearing an almost inhuman chorus fade into silence, was feeling nothing but cold desolation and the heavy realization that the ocean had just closed over the greatest ship built by men’s hands.  The hollow look in his eyes worried Alfred. “Arthur, I –” Cognition sparked in those green eyes again, and they snapped into focus as he met Alfred’s eyes.

“I was in a first-class stateroom,” Arthur said. “Its splendor was unmatched for its time – and since, really.  I heard that the second-class staterooms were like first class on a lesser ship, and steerage was as high-class as one could hope for with that kind of ticket.  Of course, I didn’t ever get a chance to discover this for myself, being restricted to the high society.”

April 10, 1912

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” the Irishman asked, looking up at the wall of riveted black steel.  England shielded his eyes and looked up at the magnificent ship, as he stepped from the carriage that had brought him from the train to Southampton.

“You’re sure she’s safe?” he asked, and glanced at his brother.

“Safe?  ‘Course I’m sure!  She’s damn near unsinkable, that’s what she is!  Drove in a few of her rivets meself.” The relationship between the brothers – and indeed, between their other two brothers as well – had improved vastly since the four of them were united under the flag of the United Kingdom.  So when Ireland slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close to his side, England didn’t immediately try to get away. “She’s the ship o’ dreams, Arty.  Safest ship o’ her time.  C’mon, ye really don’ think I’d put me wee baby brother on a ship that could kill ‘im, do ye?”

The look that England gave his brother could have driven all the snakes back to Ireland if he tried.  Ireland laughed heartily and pushed his brother away from him, and England stumbled and dusted himself off idly.  The glare he gave his brother was half-hearted at best.

“Jes’ go get on board, ye wee bastard,” Ireland said. “I’ll get yer trunk sent up ‘n ready t’go for ye.”

“Are you coming along in her?” England asked, just before he turned to go toward the first class gangplank.

“Eehh, just to Queenstown,” Ireland replied. “Gotta get back home somehow, aye?” At the arch look of disbelief on England’s face, the redhead laughed. “Don’t ye worry none about me crashin’ yer high society dinners,” he said. “Me ticket’s fer steerage.” England’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink.

“Oh, I...” he said, but Ireland waved it off.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Can’t stand those big windbags anyway.  Those’re yer people.” He heaved Arthur’s trunk from the back of the carriage. “Besides,” he added, and tapped his temple with an index finger. “I know ye think ‘m not worth licking the dirt from yer pretty little shoes.  Don’t forget t’say hi to Alfred for me, when ye get ta the merry ol’ US o’ A,” the elder brother added cheerfully.  Before England could respond, Ireland was headed off through the crowd, merry as can be, humming a jaunty tune.

Cheeks burning red and his eyebrows furrowed, England watched until that shock of vibrant red hair was lost to the crowd before he composed himself, adjusting the lapels of his suit jacket before striding confidently through the crowd to the first-class gangplank.

At twelve noon, when the Titanic was set to depart, Arthur was up on the boat deck.  He leaned against the rail, looking down with bemusement at the gathered throng.  A pair of children rushed to stand next to him at the boat deck, waving enthusiastically down.  He smiled faintly, and then looked back down.  The low, mournful sound of Titanic’s whistle blew thrice, answered by the childlike replies of the tugboats, and then she started forward with a purr that Arthur hadn’t thought a ship could make (this was his first voyage on one of the sisters, since his brother had told him to wait until the Titanic was finished instead of sailing on the Olympic). 

Arthur moved to one of the deck chairs, not caring to stand at the railing when there was no one in the crowd for him to wave to.  He sat down carefully, and then relaxed as the lull of the ship started to wash over him.  Just as he got comfortable enough to close his eyes, some of the ladies let out a cry, and the men started shouting and rushing about.  Arthur jumped up and ran to the railing, just in time to see a much smaller vessel break free from its mooring and swing out toward the Titanic’s hull.  For a brief, terrified moment, Arthur foresaw the ships colliding, foresaw Titanic having to be towed for repairs, and he decided he would be damned if he wasn’t going to get on another damn ship just as soon as he could.

But then the liner underneath their feet trembled, and ropes were swung over the smaller vessel.  Several tense moments passed, as the passengers on deck watched the smaller ship swing closer and closer.  Arthur was certain that she was closer than a man’s arm span.  But slowly, Titanic’s propellers pushed her away, and the tugs were able to pull her, and a crisis was averted.  Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.  The passengers around him murmured amongst themselves.

“Terrible luck for a maiden voyage,” one man murmured.

“A bad omen,” another agreed.  Arthur shuddered, and silently invoked the guardianship of the faeries for this journey.  He looked at his watch, and saw that that whole affair with the smaller ship had put them nearly an hour behind schedule.  But they were out on the seas now.  And the bugle blew to call the first class passengers to lunch.

When Titanic dropped anchor in the harbor at Cherbourg, the sun was just beginning to set and a lovely twilight had fallen over the evening.  Arthur, however, couldn’t have cared less, and was down in his stateroom on B-deck, passing the time until the ship would start up again.  Several of the first-class men were upstairs in the smoking room, sharing cigars and brandy and talk of politics.  The women were probably watching the new arrivals come on board, gossiping amongst themselves like as many chattering birds.  Arthur sighed.  He really should go do something, at least.  Go up to the boat deck and watch the sunset, perhaps.  Yes, that sounded like a positively brilliant idea.

Finding the boat deck proved to be a mite harder than he thought.  He was a sailor, yes, a skilled captain...but he hadn’t served in the Royal Navy since before all of the technological advances that let ships grow to this mammoth size.  In his days of sailing, ships had been made of wood, had been sturdy and dependable.  And wood had a certain warmth to it that cold white iron didn’t.  He felt like he had descended into some desolate catacombs, and a chill of dread trickled down his spine.  He was lost.  There were no two ways about it, he had only been on the ship for about eight hours and now he was lost.  Finding his stateroom hadn’t been as hard as finding the damn Grand Staircase.  As luck would have it, he passed a steward in the hallway.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t quite gotten my bearings yet.  Could you direct me toward the Grand Staircase?”

“Certainly, sir,” the steward replied, and pointed the way that Arthur needed to go (the opposite he had been going, funnily enough), with added instructions that no one could get lost by.  Following those directions, Arthur soon found himself in the opulent Grand Staircase, with its ivory floors and oak wall paneling.  He climbed the stairs and then briefly paused to examine the statue of Honor and Glory crowning Time.

“Arthur Kirkland?” a voice from behind him said incredulously.  He turned at the sound of his name, and saw the pair who knew it.  “What are you doing here, dear?” the woman asked, extending her gloved hand to him as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Sir Duff-Gordon,” Arthur said, bowing regally to the gentleman. “And Lady Duff-Gordon,” he added, taking her hand and scarcely brushing his lips against it. “Positively stunning as usual, my dear,” he said, and she smiled.

“We’re the Morgans, for this voyage,” the sportsman said. “The missus has had some problems with the customs in America, you see.  We’re hoping to avoid the entire issue.” Arthur nodded understandingly.

“Arthur, dear, you never answered my question,” Lucy chided him gently, with that little half-turn of the lips that the ladies had mastered to make men feel like fools.

“I apologize, madam, it must have slipped my mind.  I’m headed to America,” he told them. “Same as you, I’m supposing.”

“Oh?” Sir Duff-Gordon asked. “For business or pleasure, m’boy?” he asked.

“Pleasure, I suppose,” Arthur replied. “I’m on my way to see a friend of mine.  It’s been a while since I paid him a visit, I’m afraid, and so I wanted to show up in the flashiest way possible.” Cosmo, the gentleman, laughed heartily.

“Do you hear that, Lucy?” he said to his wife. “I believe our friend Arthur here is a bit of a showoff.  Where are you headed, Arthur?” he asked.

“I was intending to watch the sunset from the boat deck, but I fear by now I’ve missed it,” Arthur replied. “It’s sure to be a lovely night, though.”

“Well, let’s go sit with him a while, then, shall we Cosmo?” Lucy asked, with her arm still through her husband’s.  Cosmo hemmed and hawed for a moment behind his mustache.

“I don’t see why not,” he decided. “Lead the way, Arthur.” Arthur nodded, and, in the company of the gentleman and the gentlewoman, headed to the boat deck.  They sat on deck chairs for a while, nursing hot drinks on the cool April night, and they chatted about everything from the weather, to the ship’s schedule once she left Cherbourg.

“Oh, Arthur,” Lucy said, when she was ready to retire for the night. “Would you be so kind to escort me to mine and Mr. Morgan’s stateroom?  My husband is such a silly man; he would rather smoke all night than sleep at a normal hour.”

“Who can sleep, when there’s so much of a magnificent ship to explore?” Cosmo replied cheerily. “After you’ve finished taking the lady to her stateroom, Arthur, will you join me in the Smoking Room for some whiskey and a hand or two of cards?  After all, the night is for men, while the ladies are safe abed.”

“Of course, Mr. Morgan,” Arthur said cordially.  He stood and offered his arm to Lucy, who stood and slipped her arm through his neatly.  “Shall we, milady?” he asked, with all of his charm and dignity.

“So proper,” she laughed lightly. “We shall, then, sir.”

September 1, 1999

“In the interest of time, I’ll spare you the details of my evening spent with Sir Duff-Gordon,” Arthur said, perhaps a bit uneasily.  Alfred shifted forward, bracing himself with hands on his ankle.

“No, Arthur, come on,” he goaded, blue eyes bright behind Texas like a child being told tales of a gumdrop palace. “I want to hear your whole story.”

“Well, that’s just it.  It’s been so long, and so much has happened since, I’ve...I’ve forgotten the minutiae of that particular conversation.” Arthur’s face flushed scarlet and he looked away from Alfred.  The American caught on.

“You mean the two of you drank too much, and you don’t remember what happened,” he said, with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, Sir Duff-Gordon was my brother’s countryman, but as I represent the whole of the United Kingdom he was my own as well, in a way,” Arthur said. “And the brandy was top-shelf, truly,” he added, as if that was any defense.  Alfred kept fixing him with that look.  The look he’d given him multiple times in the past when Arthur had done something stupid while drunk.  The look that plainly said “I believe you have a drinking problem, you poor pitiful creature.”

It made Arthur want to punch that superior look off of his face, if it wasn’t the same way that he sometimes looked at his middle brother.  He scowled in the face of it, then cleared his throat.

“At any rate, relations between us for the rest of the trip were cordial, if perhaps not as welcoming as they had formerly been.  Perhaps it was for the best, though.  After the sinking, like many of the gentlemen who survived that night, Sir Duff-Gordon was ostracized as a coward for surviving when so many men, women, and children perished.” He paused a moment, in silent mourning for the fifteen-hundred souls who had perished that night.

“He – ” Arthur’s words choked off, and he stopped for a moment, pressing a hand to his eyes to compose himself. “Sir Duff-Gordon didn’t deserve it, unlike some.  He was in a lifeboat because – because Lucy and her secretary wouldn’t go without them.  Rather than perish all three together, all three were saved.” Arthur shook his head.  Alfred reached out to him and put a hand over his, but Arthur pulled his hand away.  Silence passed between them.  Alfred could tell that speaking would only make it worse.  Arthur was waiting for Alfred’s no doubt tactless interruption.

“I’m off-track,” he said suddenly. “I wasn’t exactly ostracized from all levels of proper society, whatever transpired that evening with Sir Duff-Gordon.  There were multiple circles amongst the upper class, and I could fit into most of them with no trouble.  So, somewhat shunned from one circle, I didn’t lack options...”

April 11, 1912

Arthur felt renewed and invigorated as he toweled his hair dry with one of the heated towels provided by the steward.  The swim in the saltwater pool on board the Titanic was luxurious, and he marveled at how far the world had come to be able to swim on board a ship, but at the same time it reminded him of younger days, of his first clumsy attempts to cross the Channel in pursuit of Francis, and, later, of meeting friendly merfolk in the ocean for hours of frolic.

Back in the ruthless days of the sea dogs, when the sea was a mistress to be feared and respected, Arthur would never have imagined a ship as lavish and fantastic as the Titanic.  She was even greater than her sister ship, Olympic.

But the time when men were allowed to swim for free was soon to be up, and he had to return to his stateroom to wash the salt from his hair in the washbasin so that he could look proper and dignified before the ship docked at Queenstown.  Many of the first class travelers would already wonder why he had decided to skip one of the first meals aboard the Titanic.

She sailed toward Queenstown for most of the night, making leisurely time, but she had dropped her anchor in the harbor before lunchtime.  Arthur was up on the boat deck when the tenders America and Ireland pulled up alongside of Titanic to take what she wanted to be rid of and to bring her new passengers and cargo.  The humor in the names of the White Star tenders didn’t escape Arthur.

Neither did the crop of bright red hair of one of the few passengers for whom Queenstown was the final destination.  Ireland turned to see if his brother was watching for him, and even with eleven stories and some distance between them their eyes met. 

Ireland grinned, and tipped his cap to his youngest brother.

England glared, but his cheeks were flushed pink as he turned away.

His stomach growled as he turned away from the railing.  He checked his watch.  Lunch was about to start in the dining saloon, and it wouldn’t be prudent to miss another meal when he’d already missed breakfast.  So he went in, after taking one last final look at his brother’s land before nothing but ocean would stretch out before him until they hit New York.

He glanced around the first-class waiting lounge, looking uncertain because while he knew some of the people standing about chatting no one seemed to be noticing him.  He saw two young women, and their matronly chaperone, he assumed, standing off to the side, and he made his way over to them.

“Good afternoon, madams,” he greeted cordially, and the eldest of them offered her hand, which he took.

“And whom do we have the honor of addressing?” the matriarch asked, and Arthur immediately noticed that she had an East Coast American accent.

“Arthur Kirkland, ladies,” Arthur replied easily, offering a charming smile.  The youngest, scarcely a teenage girl, giggled, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Elisabeth Robert,” the eldest lady replied. “This is my niece, Elisabeth Allen, and my daughter, Georgette Madill.”

“A pleasure,” Arthur said. “Pardon my boldness, but I noticed that you three lovely ladies are traveling by yourselves?”

“We are,” Miss Allen replied, and her accent was softer, more Southern. “I’m returning home to gather my belongings before my wedding.”

“Oh, well then, allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune,” Arthur said.  Georgette, the teenaged girl, giggled again. “If I may be so bold, I am traveling alone as well, and a single gentleman couldn’t bear to see anyone try to take advantage of three lovely ladies without an escort.”

“Are you saying you want to escort us, sir?” Mrs. Robert asked, the more worldly of the three ladies.

“If you would care to have me,” Arthur replied. “I can assure you that you could not possibly be in safer hands.” It was something that young gentlemen did, when traveling alone.  He didn’t expect to ever see any of these three women again, after they disembarked in New York.  They were Alfred’s citizens, anyway.  It was in the name of good diplomatic relations to make sure that no harm came to them on this, a ship built by the Irish, manned by the English, but made for the Americans.

“Oh, Mama, please,” Georgette begged.  Arthur recognized the beginnings of teenage infatuation. “It would be ever so nice to have a gentleman escort us to New York.” Mrs. Robert looked Arthur over, seeming to size him up, and he straightened just that touch more, and nodded his head humbly.

“Since Georgette has already taken such a liking to you, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm,” she said finally, and Miss Allen smiled slightly, as Georgette looked terribly excited.  The doors opened into the dining saloon, and they brought up the end of the throng moving through the doors.

“Will you be joining us for lunch, Mr. Kirkland?” the younger Elisabeth asked.  Arthur offered his arm to her, and she took it.

“If you’ll have me,” he replied.

“You devil, you,” she said lightly. “I see through you, Mr. Kirkland.”

“I haven’t the slightest what you mean,” Arthur said honestly, looking abashed at the accusation. “If I have behaved untowardly, I assure you that was most certainly not my intention.” Miss Allen’s cheeks flushed, and she looked bashfully away.

“Oh, I...I thought...” she started.  Georgette smiled widely and slid her arm through Arthur’s other.

“Arthur’s a perfect English gentleman, aren’t you sir?” she flirted, batting her eyelashes at him, and he chuckled.

“I do try,” he replied easily.  When they sat down at a table, he felt a bit like the odd man out, being the only one there who wasn’t American.  He took an immediate interest in one of the women, who wasted absolutely no time in capturing everyone’s attention with her infectious laughter and raucous stories.  The men at the table were entertained by it, and while Arthur was far from scandalized he felt as if it was an improper way for women to behave.  Were Alfred’s women all so strong-willed?  Then again, as of late his acquaintances had started to tell him that his ideas of women’s roles was a few centuries behind the times.

And, well. Mrs. Brown’s stories were charmingly entertaining.  So he laughed along with the rest.

September 2, 1999

“You’re yawning,” Arthur said accusingly.

“No I’ no’,” Alfred defended through the hand covering his wide-open mouth.  Arthur’s only response was to raise one of his eyebrows and lapse into patient silence.  Until the yawn flew around the room and hit him in the back of the head, and he fell victim to one himself.  He picked up Alfred’s cell phone off the coffee table and turned on the display.  Hm.  No wonder.

“What time is it?” Alfred asked, rubbing at his chin as if he needed a shave.

“Three-fourteen,” Arthur replied, not taking his eyes off the phone before he reached over and put it back on the coffee table. “If you’re tired, I can continue tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah right like you’ll continue,” Alfred replied. “You’ll just pack up and run scared until I corner you about it again.  Do you think I’m retarded?”

“Now that you mention it,” Arthur shot back, but his lips were quirked into a smirk.  He couldn’t have turned that one down in a million years.  Especially not after all the grief Alfred had given him over the years.  The American scoffed and continued to attempt to stare through him.

“Come on, Arthur, keep going,” he whined. “I can stay awake.”

“Oh all right,” Arthur conceded. “The twelfth and thirteenth were rather mundane, really.  I went for a swim each morning, dined with Miss Allen, Mrs. Roberts, and Miss Madill for lunch...” he trailed off, having lost his train of thought.  So he picked up the next one he came across.

“Human beings are creatures of habit, and even we as Nations are no different.  We fall into routines and habits, no matter how long we know they will last.  The Titanic was due to reach New York on Wednesday.  A week’s journey, for many of the passengers.” He paused, and rubbed at his forehead, whether from tiredness or heartache it was impossible to tell. “But those twenty-two hundred people aboard that ship never knew that their routine would be cut so horribly short...”