Written by Danielle
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

It’s exactly like the dream.

I’m running, my lungs burning, my heartbeat tattooing my chest. I struggle for breath against the ridiculous constraints of my dress, a bright, angry scarlet. My hair is escaping its elaborate encasings, stray tendrils framing my face as I run, the clack of my heels reminding me inescapably that I am still here.

It’s the subtle differences that remind me that this is reality.

It’s the sting of the tears on my face as they mingle with the cool ocean air, flaying my exposed skin, the cold burnishing it pink. The dream never included the sharp stabs I feel in my chest as I fight against my clothes, trying to run, the soles of my feet burning, the sobs that steal the breath from my throat as I gasp for the frigid air.

The dream never showed what happens past this point.

The water rages below me, inky black against the silhouette of night. I think about how easy it would be to be lost in those great, dark folds. To be enveloped in it, fading away. To simply let go. But it is letting go that is the hardest part.

I lean far out, as far as I dare to go. The roar of the beast below consumes me, and I close my eyes, slowly, so slowly relaxing my grip. I’m looking down and all I can see is the blue-black of the vortex that will claim me.

“Don’t do it.”

The voice, so clear and steady, startles me, and I quickly grab hold of the railing to balance myself. Panicked, I whip my head around at the sound of the voice, and after a few seconds, my eyes discern a figure standing before me. His long hair is the color of caramel as it falls carelessly into keen blue eyes fixed on my own. His hands are shoved roughly into his pockets--simple, plain clothes. I can see the concern that knits his brow as he holds his gaze firmly upon my face, strong without being accusatory, caring without being intrusive.

The antithesis of Cal.

“Stay back!” I manage. “Don't come any closer!” He ignores my command, and I flounder. I am unused to people from the lower classes. His gaze does not diminish for a second; his voice is low and gentle as he slowly stretches out a hand calloused by evident hard labor.

“Take my hand. I’ll pull you back in.”

“No!” He cannot know. He cannot possibly know. “Stay where you are. I mean it. I’ll let go!”

I lean forward to weight my words. I can’t see if he believes me or not--he is veiled behind the tears that lie unshed--but he makes no movement towards me to stop me. So, he doesn’t care, either. Not really.

“No, you won’t.” He says it so evenly, so determinedly that for a moment I forget the situation. Does no one believe me capable of anything? Am I so pliable that all free will is property of my puppeteers? Flared with indignation and wounded pride, I spit my words out angrily, tears blurring my vision.

“What do you mean, no, I won't? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me.”

He stares evenly back at me. “You would have done it already.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I stare blankly at this perfect stranger.

“You’re distracting me. Go away!” It is all I can think to say. He doesn’t seem to care.

“I can’t.” He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly. “I’m involved now. If you let go, I have to jump in after you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I splutter. “You’ll be killed.”

“I’m a good swimmer.”

He is unlacing his shoes and I panic. “The fall alone would kill you.”

“It would hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t.” His eyes are locked steadily on mine and I can see that he knows what he is saying. “To be honest, I’m a lot more concerned about that water being so cold.”

I look down. Suddenly, the reality of what I am contemplating is sinking in, and I feel, as if for the first time, no longer numbed with unhappy desperation, the biting of the icy wind on my face. My fingers, curled so tightly around the metal of the railing, feel frozen in place.

“How cold?” I ask. The stranger is continuing to unlace his boots even as he answers my question.

“Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over.” He pauses a moment, as if feeling the situation out. I can see the gray tendrils of his breath furling through the night air. “Ever been to Wisconsin?”

“No.” I am confused now. This is hardly the time or place for careless conversation, but he seems not to realize this and continues nonetheless.

“Well, they have some of the coldest winters around, and I grew up there, near Chippewa Falls. Once, when I was a kid, me and my father were ice fishing out on Lake Wissota.” He looks searchingly at me, keen blue eyes grazing my face. “Ice fishing's where you chop a hole in the--”

“I know what ice fishing is!” I snap. So, he thinks me useless and unworldly, too. I glare at him and he visibly retreats.

“Sorry. Just…you look like kind of an indoor girl. Anyway, I went through some thin ice, and I’m telling you, water that cold…like right down there…it hits you like a thousand knives, stabbing you all over your body.” He pauses dramatically, eyes locked on mine. “You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Least not about anything but the pain.” My breath hitches uncomfortably and this time it is not just from cold. He removes his other shoe and continues. “Which is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I said, I don’t see a choice. I guess I’m kind of hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here.”

I stare at him, incredulity plainly written on my face. He sounds serious. “You’re crazy!”

His gaze does not leave my face as he leans gently forward and says coolly, “That’s what everybody says. But with all due respect, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship.” He slides one step closer, and this time I don’t flinch. Beyond the sincerity in his eyes I can see the kindness, the genuine concern, and somehow I trust this man whose name I don’t even know. “Come on,” he whispers. “You don’t want to do this. Give me your hand.”

I stare at him for long moments. How can he read so much from so little? Because he is right. I don’t want to do this. But at the same time, I don’t want to not do this. It is the only thing I can think of--everywhere around me there seem to be walls slamming into place. I am in chains. The only way I can see to break free is to let go, but everything seems different now. Everything has slid out of place and all I see now are the eyes of the stranger in front of me, this madman prepared to jump into the icy depths of the North Atlantic for a girl he has never met. I feel my defenses melt. “All right.”

Slowly, I unhook my fingers from the cold metal, reaching around towards him. He grasps my hand firmly and I look at his hand, mesmerized, feeling the calluses beneath my own soft fingers, seeing the contrast of his tanned skin against my own milky plumpness.

“I’m Jack Dawson.”

“Rose DeWitt Bukater,” I mutter breathlessly, and he laughs, a pure, clear sound.

“You’re gonna have to write that one down,” he says, and I laugh with him, a laugh I would have sworn I didn’t have in me.

I start to turn slowly. Now that I have decided to live, the height terrifies me. I shift my footing carefully, turning to face the ship, overcome by vertigo. I am afraid to loose my grip from Jack’s soft fingers and as I start to climb I step on the folds of my dress. The scream is torn from me as I slip, freefalling through time, terrifyingly slowly, plunging down, down, down…

Jack’s hand is still wrapped around mine and the force of my fall jerks him toward the rail. I scream for help, scrabbling desperately at the side of the ship as the waters rage below me, clamoring to reach me, claim me, roaring my name.

“I’ve got you,” Jack tells me. “I won’t let go.” His words pierce the haze of terror and I believe him as he braces himself on the railing, his hand wrapped tight around mine. I try to climb back over the railing, but encumbered by my evening wear, I slip once more, my terror absolute. Jack clutches at me awkwardly as I flail helplessly, finally pulling me over with all of his strength, and tangled, we collapse on the deck.

“Here, what’s all this?!” The furious words stun me from my dazed reverie and as I look up I realize the appearance of the situation. I take in my torn dress, the hem revealing my ripped stocking. I hear the dry sobs that scrape through my throat as I blink away the tears. I see Jack lying on top of me, of a lower class and with his boots and jacket off, and I see the expression of disgust on Rowe’s face as he starts to draw conclusions. He pulls Jack roughly from me, quickly joined by two seamen, who he orders to fetch the Master-at-Arms.

Everything happens so quickly now. In a daze I see the handcuffs snapped carelessly on Jack’s wrists. I see Cal, still in black tie, rushing by me as I sit hunched over on a bench, crying softly, to reach Jack, his fury evident. He grabs him by the lapels.

“What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée?! Look at me, you filth! What did you think you were doing?!”

I cannot let Jack be detained for a crime he did not commit, especially not after what really happened, and I rush forward. “Cal, stop! It was an accident!”

Cal is unused to being challenged, and especially not by me. He falters, spluttering on the incredulity as he forces his words out. “An accident?!” I know he is putting two and two together. I also know he is getting five. I plunge on.

“It was…stupid really. I was leaning over and I slipped.” I look hard at Jack as I speak, eyes locked firmly on his, and I hope that I am the only one who can read his bemused expression. “I was leaning way over, to see the...ah...ah...the…” I pause, pretending not to know the word as I warm to my theme. “Propellers! And…I slipped and I would have gone overboard...but Mr. Dawson here saved me and he almost went over himself.”

Cal seems mildly amused, and I know what he is thinking. “You wanted to see the propellers?”

“Women and machinery do not mix,” says Gracie, and for once I am grateful that they think me a silly little girl trying to play with men’s toys.

“Was that the way of it?” the Master-at-Arms growls at Jack, and I stare hard at my savior, begging him with my eyes not to say what really happened. My relief when he agrees is so strong that I feel light-headed with it. He holds my gaze a second longer than is strictly polite as he is uncuffed. I feel Cal rubbing my arms as he fusses around me, Jack gone from his mind like the third-class scum he so clearly, at least in Cal’s mind, is.

As we walk away from the man who saved my life, it feels as though the air has changed. I can breathe. I chance a glance back at Jack, standing alone in his socks and shirtsleeves. An unspoken contract has been signed between us. Myself and my savior.

The End.

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