PRELUDE TO CONFRONTATION
Written by Jessica
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

Jack had had a very bad feeling ever since Rose had looked at him a few moments ago, her blue eyes uncertain and worried, after the officers passed by murmuring disturbing pieces of information concerning the recently crippled ocean liner.

"It's bad," he'd said softly, as much to himself as to her as he struggled to push away the fear threatening to reign.

"We have to tell Mother and Cal," she said, squeezing his fingers.

"Now it's worse."

Jack's first thought was selfish, his response immediate. No way. Go back now? To them? He knew that both Rose's cursory, overbearing fiancé and her mother, who was about as warm and receptive as a polar ice cap, loathed him. No need to get to know him, of course; the fact that he was a steerage passenger said it all. Uncouth. Unclean. Destitute. And basically adverse company for Rose DeWitt Bukater.

Well, he had to admit they'd gotten one thing right. He was definitely poor. He struggled to make ends meet; it had become part of his daily existence. And what a rush it was, waking up in the morning and realizing he only had a couple of dollars in his pocket; knowing that maybe the next morning or the morning after his already paltry money supply would dwindle into nothing and he would go days without food or shelter or work...

Yeah, he was definitely living on the edge. Insert potent sarcasm here.

This little tidbit of personal information, of course, he had bypassed cheerfully the night before at the first class dinner, with all of Rose's oh-so-patronizing society peers surrounding him and hanging on his every word like he was their very own impoverished authority on the lives of the poor and insignificant; their fascinating glimpse of how the other half lives. He'd rambled on for awhile--looking back it seemed an embarrassingly long speech; what the hell had he found to say anyway? The wine must have gone straight to his head--about things like air and blank sheets of paper and sleeping under bridges; and of course, they'd been a little tipsy too, drinking it right up just like the champagne.

All he really recalled was what he'd said about making each day count, and then looking at Rose and seeing an expression in her amazing blue eyes that rendered him utterly mute and incoherent for a few seconds before he'd managed to come to his senses. He meant that--the only part of the damned speech that had come straight from his heart, and somehow Rose had sensed it, too. Sensed it enough to raise her glass to him, her eyes never leaving his as they reduced him to utter mush in his uncomfortable mohair chair, and echoing his words.

All he could do was stare back at her, amazed that this princess, who could in one word or gesture belittle his pitiful existence and send him scurrying back to third class where he belonged, was instead looking at him as though he were the most important thing in her life at that moment. The sounds in the noisy dining room--the clinking of silverware, the murmur of voices--had been reduced to a faint drone in his ears and all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

His hands had gone clammy and his tongue had suddenly become too big for his mouth, and he'd been unable to do anything but smile what he imagined to be a weak smile as the rest of the table toasted his words of wisdom.

But he'd had eyes only for Rose.

He could drown in those eyes.

Back in the present, he flinched slightly. Probably not the best choice of words, since the colossal piece of floating iron which separated him from the icy waters of the north Atlantic now had a great big chunk taken out of it, or so he was beginning to think from the way those men had been talking. It had been more their faces than their words; they looked pale and strained and worried, and that was when he'd felt his heart thud sickeningly.

And then Rose had said she'd wanted to go tell her mother and Cal.

He tried to push his selfishness aside; of course, they'd go. It would be fine. He might get a few more death glares from Rose's charming traveling companions, but he could handle that. Nothing new. Besides, she was his now, right? She'd said it herself. "When this ship docks, I'm getting off with you." As though it were the easiest decision in the world.

And maybe, when you stripped away all the excess layers of money and social standing and got right down to the simple, basic truth, it was. He knew that he loved her. He wasn't sure when it had happened but sometime in the last forty-eight hours she'd become his reason for living, the foundation upon which he would build his future. They would be getting off the ship together, just as she'd said. And even though he was dirt poor and unemployed and basically worth nothing, they could find a way. They could. Because they loved each other, and if they had to, they could survive on love alone.

"Come with me Jack," she said, although as he looked in her eyes he could tell she knew she'd already won. "You jump, I jump...right?"

Ah. His angel had decided to throw his earlier words back in his face. Of course, it was an intelligent course of action; he now basically had no choice unless he wanted to look, and feel, like a complete hypocrite by not sticking by her and accompanying her back to her suite.

He sighed.

"Right," he assented, nodding in the direction of the doorway as the chill wind tossed his hair across his eyes.

And he squeezed her hand in acquiescence.

The End.

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