Chapter Text
They’re miles below sea level. Two and a half, to be exact. The pressure is three tons per square inch, and Jasper knows that if the windows succumb to that pressure….boom. They’re done in seconds. Luckily, he’s spent more than his fair share of time beneath the water, inside this very submarine, and he knows what its walls can withstand.
(Much more than the walls of the ship he’s dedicated the past three years of his life studying could that's for sure.)
They’re only a few feet away from the carcass of the RMS Titanic. It rests on the bottom of the Atlantic, its former glory completely dissipated. Though Jasper often finds that true glory comes from what you can salvage from the beneath the wreckage.
He knows that glory is finding the Heart of the Ocean. The rare blue diamond that will make his career. It doesn’t matter that he’s spent three years searching the bottom of the ocean floor surrounding the wreckage of the Titanic, attempting to find it, and has thus far come up completely empty. He knows it’s out there. And he will find it so he can finally kiss his millions hello.
He turns to his partner, Monty Green, and points the joystick next to where his foot is resting. He’s reclined against the chair, flipping through the picture book Jasper had gotten him last year for Christmas, containing all of the shots they’d taken over the past few years. He’d given it as more of a gag gift, but Monty really seemed to appreciate it.
“Fire her up, Green.” Jasper says and Monty gives him a salute, reaching down and putting his hand on the joystick, beginning to the move the electronically operated arm to get them through the doorway of ship.
They head to what Jasper knows to be the Promenade Suite, one of the most luxurious living quarters on the whole ship. They pass an unbroken champagne bottle, china, and the skull of a child that, mysteriously, looks as if it’d been fused onto the doll body that lays beneath it. Maybe Jasper should know better by now than to look at the sand in in-between spaces like this one. The remains of the passengers never fail to make his stomach churn.
They spend a few moments combing through the settled sand once they finally reach the suite. In the middle of one of the bedrooms, surrounded by a porcelain tub, the remains of a wardrobe, and many other things that point to the grandiose and gratuitous nature of whomever occupied this room, is a wooden door. “Monty, lift it. I want to see what’s underneath.” Jasper says, leaning in over Monty’s shoulder to get close to the screen. Monty moves the arm, grasping it onto the edge of the door, lifting it to reveal a safe.
A fucking safe. Jasper’s eyes light up and he points to the screen, a grin on his face. “It’s payday, Monty.” He murmurs, though with quite a bit of excitement.
“Hope so, Boss.” Monty replies, grabbing onto the safe with the claw.
Jasper watches with a giant smile on his face.
This is it.
-
This isn’t it.
All that’s in the safe is a bunch of old notebooks and money that most certainly cannot be used in his favor. He’s frustrated. He thought for sure that this was going to be it. Everything made sense. They were in one of the most luxurious and expensive rooms on the whole ship. There was a safe.
How could this not be it?
He has one of his hands shoved in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette as he leans over the railing of the boat. Three fucking years on a boat and not a goddamn thing to show for it. This was his last shot. If they didn’t find this thing by the end of the year, their benefactors were going to stop funding them. He needed to find it. Otherwise he’d be absolutely, completely, fucked. He’d put his all into this. Finding this diamond. He’d let Maya fucking divorce him because of this. If he never found the necklace, all of this would be a moot point. He’d have lost his wife for goddamn nothing.
His cigarette is nearly finished, the last of the ashes falling down into the water. From behind him he hears feet, very frantically, running toward him. He turns head to see Monty, nearly out of breath, grinning. “Boss, you have to see this.” He says and Jasper raises an eyebrow. He figures it’s probably just a bill from the restaurant. That’s all it was the last time Monty had excitedly ran to the front of the deck to get him. They walk side by side, Monty excitedly talking with hands. “We were going through all of the papers from the safe, figuring we might find something interesting, and Boss, this might be it.” He says and now Jasper’s interest is piqued. His heart rate speeds up the faster he hears Monty speak.
They arrive in the back room where most of the crew is gathered around something that Jasper can’t see. Monty starts to push through the crowd and Jasper follows. The last person, who is standing directly in front of what Jasper presumes Monty wants him to see, peels off and claps Jasper on the shoulder. Jasper, slowly, takes a step toward the table.
It’s a drawing, of a nude woman with the initials C.G. drawn on the bottom, but that’s not the interesting part.
Resting on her chest is the diamond. Monty steps up next to Jasper. “There she is.” He says and Jasper shakes his head.
“There she is.” He echoes, his vision focusing in on the drawing of the diamond. It’s the closest he’s been to finding it in years.
If only he could find the woman in the picture.
-
She’s in her bedroom, her knitting resting on her lap. She’s only half-paying attention to it, most of her attention is on her very pregnant Granddaughter, who is cooking in the kitchen. “Octavia dear, please be careful. Don’t burn yourself.” She yells, or she tries to. Her voice isn’t as strong as it used to be though it still carries far enough for Octavia to peek up, a half-smile on her face.
“Oh don’t worry about me, Grandma. I’m fine. You should get some rest though. Dinner won’t be ready for another hour.” She says and Lexa waves her hand in Octavia’s direction.
“Absolutely not. I must finish this before you go into labor. Your baby needs something warm and cozy to come home in.” She murmurs and Octavia smiles, something close to waddling over to where Lexa’s wheelchair is.
“You’ve already knitted me three hats and a blanket. Trust me, this kid is all set.” Octavia says with a smirk. Lexa shakes her head.
“There is no such thing.” She murmurs, picking up the needles again. Octavia rolls her eyes, though with no malice, and leans up.
“Do you want the TV on at least? I’m not good company while I wait for lasagna to cook.” Octavia says and Lexa nods dismissively. The background noise will be fine enough company, though she knows it won’t quite keep her attention. Nothing quite does anymore.
Octavia leaves the news on and she walks back to the kitchen, leaving Lexa to her knitting.
She’s distracted, quite quickly, by the pictures resting on her vanity. There are quite a few, Lexa always being one to attempt to document everything. She never wanted to miss a thing. She sighs. Still, there are few pictures she wished she’d even been able to take.
Her ears perk when she hears the word ‘Titanic’ from the news caster in the background. She turns her attention to the television where two young men are holding up a picture. “We’re hoping to find the woman in this picture. If anybody has any leads on where we may be able to find her, please call us. We figure she may want this back.” And then the camera zooms in on the face in the drawing and Lexa’s needles from her between her wrinkled fingers. Her eyes are wide and she can barely even believe it. Shakily, she says,
“Octavia, could you please bring me the telephone?”
-
Jasper stands underneath the helicopter, which is mostly lowering supplies this go round, when Monty comes out to him with that familiar grin and says, “Phone call for you.” And Jasper rolls his eyes and gestures to the propellers above him, which is making it nearly impossible to hear anything at all, let alone a crackly voice over the phone.
“I’m a little busy, Monty, can it wait?” He asks and Monty just shakes his head.
“I think you’re going to want to take this one, Boss.”He says and Jasper sighs. He waves the helicopter down and walks to the phone that sits on the deck. He holds the phone up to his ear,
“Hello?” He says and there’s silence on the other end for a few moments and Jasper is sure this is just some kind of prank fabricated by Monty to fuck with him when he hears the clearing of a throat. “What can I do for you, Mrs….?”
“Woods.” The voice on the other end replies.
“Alright, Mrs. Woods, what can I do for you?” He repeats.
“Tell me, Mr. Jordan, have you found the Heart of the Ocean yet?” And then Jasper’s ears perk up and looks at Monty with a curious expression. Monty just mouths the words ‘told you’ at him.
“Alright, you have my attention. Do you know who the woman in the drawing is?” He asks, his heart racing. There’s a chuckle from the other end.
“Of course I do, Mr. Jordan. The woman in the drawing is me.”
-
Monty tries to convince him that she’s a liar. That the woman she claimed to be, Alexandria Woodward, died on the boat. There was no further record of her after the sinking. And this woman, Lexa Woods, while possessing an eerily similar last name, worked as an actress in Los Angeles in the 20’s, and really that should be Jasper’s first clue not to trust her.
He silences Monty by saying that everybody who knows about the diamond, and its worth, either died in the sinking of the Titanic or is on this boat. He needs to know what she has to say.
-
She doesn’t quite feel like being back on a boat but it’s the only way they’ll meet with her. She wishes she had the energy she used to, she would argue with them. Especially given that the only method of getting to the ship itself is helicopter and there’s not a lot of her that wants to put her nearly nine month pregnant Granddaughter on a helicopter.
But Octavia insists. She won’t leave Lexa by herself to fly over the the Atlantic though it’s clear from her tone of voice that she doesn’t quite believe the story that Lexa has given her about the reason they’re flying over the ocean in the first place.
She’s in her wheelchair and they have to wheel her off of the plane. She has her dog tucked into the pocket of her jacket, the wind from the helicopter blowing through both of their hair.
She’s greeted directly by Jasper, who shakes her hand and takes over for….whoever is pushing her wheelchair presently. He is speaking and she can’t quite hear him so she lifts a hand to quiet him down. He appears to get the message because there’s no muffled sound from behind her until they get inside, the noises from the outside finally quieting.
He leads her to a stateroom and leaves her be, with Octavia, who begins to unpack her things. Lexa’s hand drags across the top of the dogs head, quieting him.
It takes no more than ten minutes for Jasper to return, inquiring about the quality of her room. “It’ll do.” She replies, dismissively. She wants to remind him that she’d once been aboard the Titanic. No stateroom could ever quite compare to those she’d been in back then but maybe now isn’t the appropriate time.
Octavia is unloading quite a few photographs and putting them on the vanity in front of them. “Nice pictures.” Jasper says, gesturing toward them with his head. Lexa’s smiles, slightly.
“I have to take them when I travel.” She says, offering no more of an explanation than that. “Octavia has quite a bit of practice unloading them.” Lexa says, looking back toward Octavia with a smile.
“Can I get anything for you?” Jasper asks and Lexa looks up. She knows exactly what she wants. It’s the only reason she’s even here.
“I’d very much like to see my drawing.” She says, tilting her chin up.
Jasper nods. Lexa knows that really, that’s what he wants too. He wants some kind of explanation about the diamond and its whereabouts.
She’s not quite ready to give away those details, not yet, but her heart speeds up at the thought of seeing the picture again in person. It’s been….too long since she’s had the pleasure of viewing it and from what she remembers, it’s truly exquisite. Possibly the only image to ever capture her in the correct way and she’s posed for many a pictures in her 100 years of life.
She’s wheeled into a room, a preservation room if her instincts tell her correctly.
They place her right in front the image, where it is still submersed in water. “Until we find a way to preserve it, we have to keep it in the water. Soon, ideally.” Jasper says and Lexa barely even hears him.
It looks exactly as she’d remembered it. She looks exactly as she remembered.
Her hands are framing her face, her long curly hair down and cascading across her shoulders, her breasts pert and beautiful, her stomach flat and without stretch marks that come from childbirth.
She was right - it is the only image that ever captured her perfectly. And she knows why - she does. The artist saw her in a way that nobody else ever had. As she truly was.
“Exactly as I remember it.” She murmurs and she wishes that she could reach out and touch it, drag her fingers across the charcoal lines. Absorb some of the memories, some of the feelings. Bring herself back to the moment she was draped naked across the couch of her stateroom, squinting eyes staring at her while she tries her best not to move or even smile.
There are tears pushing at the backs of her eyes and she can’t cry, not yet, not before everybody else in the room understands exactly why this image is so important.
It’s time to tell her story. No more hiding. No more pretending. Time to tell the truth.
Time to do exactly what she would have wanted her to do.
“Grandma, do you really think this is you?” Octavia asks, sounding skeptical and she can understand why. She’s obviously changed quite a bit in the last 84 years, the only wrinkles on her coming from the old paper in the image across from them. She looks up at Octavia with a raised eyebrow.
“It is me, darling.” She pauses and there’s a small smirk that makes its way across her face. “That necklace felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Incredibly uncomfortable.” She murmurs. “This is the only time I wore it. Any other time and it would have felt like….like an anchor, keeping me in place.” She continues and she barely notices the looks being exchanged above her.
“Someone made an insurance claim for it a while back. Very hush hush. Do you have any idea who would have been interested enough to make a claim for it, Mrs. Woods?” Jasper asks and Lexa’s lips purse.
“Someone with the last name Collins, I’d be inclined to believe.” She says and Jasper’s eyes light up. He nods and swings himself around so his hips are resting against the table and he leans forward, his arms crossed.
“Cal Collins. For the necklace his son, Finn, allegedly bought for his fiancee, you, somewhere in Paris about a week before the Titanic set sail. The claim was filed not three days after the ship went down. It’s assumed that the diamond went down with this ship.” Jasper says and Lexa has to fight the urge roll her eyes. “Look at the date on this drawing. April 14th, 1912. The day she went down.” He says, his eyes glazing over perhaps more than even Lexa’s had. “Which means, you were wearing the diamond the day the ship went down, Mrs. Woods.” Lexa nods.
“Excellent observational skills, Mr. Jordan.” Lexa quips and he laughs.
“Anything you can tell me would be incredibly appreciated. I’ll compensate you for any valuable information you give.” He says and Lexa waves a hand.
“Don’t bother. I don’t need money.” She says and Jasper raises an eyebrow.
“You’re going to hand over information without any kind of incentive?” He asks and Lexa nods.
“I know how awful the thought of giving up money is to a person so hungry for it, Mr. Jordan. I wouldn’t dare ask you to hand over anything of the fortune I suspect you desire.” She says and Jasper goes quiet for a moment. Lexa knows men like him. His motives are completely unsurprising to her. “Give me the drawing. That’s all I ask.” She says and Jasper can’t do anything but nod. There’s silence for another moment and then Monty clears his throat.
“Over here, we have some other things we recovered from your stateroom. Not all of it is valuable, I’m sure, but you can take a look.” He says and walks over to wheel her over to the table.
On the table, Lexa spots so many pieces she recognizes. Her mother’s brooch that she desperately wanted to go back for. A butterfly comb that she’d worn in her hair the night the drawing was done. And a mirror. She reaches for that first. She smiles. dragging her fingers over the handle. “Incredible. I swear, it looks exactly as it did all those years ago. I had no idea the ocean was so remarkably good at preserving items.” She says, putting it down slowly.
She goes for the butterfly comb next, her stomach falling as she remembers the last time she’d worn it. Her chin is quivering as she slides it between her fingers. She feels it all at once - the things she’s been suppressing for over 80 years. She’s shaken from her reverie though, when Jasper says,
“Are you ready to go back to the Titanic?”
She isn’t. She’s sure she never will be. But now is the time.
-
They go into a dark room, some of the screens lit up with pictures of the wreckage that lies on the bottom of the ocean. There’s a photograph of the bow of the ship and Lexa’s eyes soften at it, a sigh escaping her. The picture changes quickly though, not leaving her much time to dwell on it.
“We have the largest database in all of the world on the Titanic. We know nearly everything there is to know with evidence to support it, from exact measurements and a few copies of the initial plans for the ship, to personal effects from passengers. We were able to recover a few skulls as well.” He says with enthusiasm and Lexa does her best not to flinch. She wishes they would leave the dead to rest. Despite their lives ending in absolute chaos, they deserve to rest in undisturbed peace. She hopes the soul of whoever’s skull they took from its resting place is at peace if the body cannot be. She keeps her mouth closed though, letting the men ramble on about something that they are clearly very passionate about.
It’s strange to see people so….enraptured by the sinking of the ship. Titanic had always been something of ‘big news’, making headlines even before it set sail. She supposes the ship will never stop making headlines. Something Ismay would likely be happy about, if he were around to see it.
“We’ve developed a simulation of how she went down, if you’d like to see it?” Monty asks and Jasper hits him on the shoulder.
“She was there, Monty. I doubt she’d want to relive it.” Jasper says through a clenched jaw. Lexa just shrugs and waves a hand in their direction.
“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Jordan. I actually am quite curious to see what you have.” She replies calmly and Monty’s eyes light up. He turns to his computer, bringing something up and Octavia turns to her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t need to do this, Grandma. I can take you to go rest or out onto the deck for some fresh air.” She says, practically pleading and Lexa looks up at Octavia with a raised eyebrow.
“Darling, I have spent enough of my lifetime on the decks of ships. I’m glad to stay in here and watch the simulation these gentlemen have constructed.” She points out and Octavia blushes.
“Alright, if that’s what you want. If you want to go back to your room, at any point, just let me know, okay?” She says and Lexa nods.
“Of course, dear.” She says as the simulation appears on the screen, slowly zooming in. The iceberg is clearly visible. Lexa watches as the simulation Titanic grazes the iceberg, putting holes in the bow of the ship. “She hits the iceberg just before midnight. Grazes the side, punching holes it in as goes along. Water starts to fill the front compartments, where the holes are, and it’s fast. So quick it practically happens in the blink of an eye. The bow goes down and the stern goes up and it keeps going until the hull can’t support all of the weight. It had to be 20 or 30 thousand tons. It can’t handle all of that so it completely splits. The bow side goes down and the weight makes the stern go completely vertical until the bow half detaches. When it does, it goes straight down, and hits the ocean floor at speeds of about 12 miles an hour. The stern side bobs there like a cork in the water for a few minutes until finally, that goes down too at about 2:20 am. The stern implodes in on itself as it goes down, combusting and spreading debris everywhere across the ocean floor, landing like a pile of junk.” Monty explains, speaking quickly. Lexa’s face is blank. She’s very careful not to say or do anything with her face that might give away how hard this is to watch. How she feels herself gripping onto the railings of the stern side as it bobs and how she felt like that night was the night her life was ending.
“Excellent analysis, Mr. Green. Though, the actual event was much less….clinical.” Lexa explains and then Jasper is leaning in.
“Will you tell us about it?” He asks and Lexa takes a deep breath, steeling her shoulders.
She wonders if she’d have the strength. If she’d be able to do it.
Flashes of memories from the final night run through her head. A toddler crying, standing ankle deep in the water, too far away for her to reach. Men in navy blue suits yelling, “Women and children only!”, the orchestra playing until the ship went under, and endless row of doorways. Her eyes flutter closed.
Octavia sighs. “No, I’m taking her to rest. She needs to rest.” She says and she grabs the back of Lexa’s wheelchair, beginning to wheel her out of the room when strongly, Lexa says,
“No.” Octavia stops. “No. I’ve kept quiet long enough. It’s time to tell this story.” Lexa says.
“The floor is yours.” Jasper says and Lexa’s eyes flutter closed again.
“It’s been 84 years….” She trails off and Jasper interrupts,
“Don’t force yourself, only tell us what you can recall.” And Lexa glares at him.
“It’s been 84 years. I can still smell the fresh paint. Hear the Grandfather clock ticking. Feel the sea breeze against my face. Feel the sheets that had never once been used across my skin.” She pauses, opening her eyes.
“The Titanic was called the ship of dreams. And it was. It truly was.”
-
April 10th, 1912.
It’s warm - for April, at least. Her pinstriped dress covers her arms and the brim of her large purple hat shields her from the sun.
She’s still sitting in the backseat of the car, her hands folded in her lap. They’re gloved so no unnecessary bit of skin is showing. She knows that if her Mother had her way, she’d be covered from head to toe. She’s sure Finn feels quite the same way.
He is out of the car before she is. He raises a hand and she stares at it for a moment, taking a deep breath. She always has to prepare herself before she reaches down and grabs his hand. Doesn’t stop her skin from crawling whenever she does, though.
Lexa only keeps hold of his hand long enough for her to step out of the car and put her feet on land. She pulls her hand from his grasp as quickly as she can. She turns to the boat, which is just a few feet from them and she looks up at it, unimpressed. “Is this it? It doesn’t look any larger than the Mauretania.” She says. Finn rolls his eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lexa. Titanic is over 100 feet larger than the Mauretania. And far more luxurious. Safer, too, if you ask me.” Finn explains, offering Lexa his arm as they begin to walk and Lexa wishes she could drag her feet. She wishes she could run back to the car and lock herself inside of the doors. Anything to get away from this.
But she can’t. So she loops her arm through his. She’s careful to avoid looking at him. People are running all around her, free to move at will, and she wonders what that must be like. What it must feel like to run and feel the earth beneath her feet, never worrying about yanking the chain that keeps her tethered to the fate she doesn’t desire.
She supposes she’ll never know. Though it never hurts to dream.
“For all of the hype surrounding this boat, this had better be the most luxurious and beautiful ship I have ever been on!” Says a voice from behind Lexa. Finn turns his head to smile at her Mother.
“I assure you, Mrs. Woodward, it absolutely will be. She’s the greatest vessel this century has ever seen. I suspect it won’t see another quite like her any time soon. Safest, most durable ship to touch these waters. She won’t go down.” Finn says with confidence and Lexa finds herself wishing that untrue. Perhaps being on a capsizing ship in the middle of the Atlantic would give her a good enough reason not to marry Finn.
Lexa’s mother catches up to the pair of them, keeping her arms close to her body. She turns her nose up at the people running on the deck. Most of them look to be of a lower class, their dirty and ratty clothing giving them away. Mrs. Woodward keeps her purse tucked close to her body as she warily glances around the deck. “Mr. Collins, I do wish you hadn’t made these plans so last minute,” She begins, crinkling her nose as a small child swipes past her, bumping into the edge of her dress, “So we may have boarded with our….travel companions.” She finishes, careful to avoid saying exactly what Lexa knows that she means. So they could have avoided boarding where the third class board. So they could have boarded without being ‘tainted’ by the lower class citizens.
“Oh, Mother, relax. Poverty isn't contagious,” Lexa quips and her Mother’s eyes rise and harden.
“Alexandria,” She says, her tone one of warning. Lexa keeps her eyes locked on her Mother’s for as long as she can before she’s forced to look down. Her Mother takes a few more careful steps toward her, gripping the top of her arm. “It will do you well to be respectful and polite. This is your last chance,” She nearly hisses and Lexa’s nostrils flare. She knows that. Nobody has let her forget it in the six months since she’s become engaged to be the new Mrs. Finn Collins. Since the rock that feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds was put on her finger. She suspects nobody ever will let her forget. Maybe she deserves to always remember.
The clock strikes nearly 11. They’re five minutes away from setting sail and they just barely make it through the doors of the ship.
“Just in the nick of time,” Finn exclaims and Lexa detaches her arm from his. She can’t bear to grip it any longer. Lexa’s Mother flashes another quick warning glance toward her. She pretends she doesn’t see it. “Of course, we’d have arrived earlier, had Lexa not decided to complete her full beauty regime twice,” Finn continues and it’s phrased as if it’s meant to be a joke but Lexa knows him well enough by now to hear the malice beneath it. She shrugs.
“You told me to change,” She mutters, glancing around the extravagant room. There’s large gold plated clock resting above the fireplace. She wonders if the rest of the ship is this grand.
“You were wearing black, Lexa. It’s bad luck to wear black on sailing day, you know that,” Finn says, explaining his request. Lexa shrugs again.
“I felt like black,” She replies, looking over her shoulder to one of the butlers whose name she can’t quite place. “Show me to my room,” She says and it’s phrased much more like a demand than a request but she figures that she might as well give orders while she still can. Before the right to do so is stripped away from her and she has to live her life with a permanent stocking in her mouth.
The ship may be beautiful, and it may be labelled as ‘the ship of dreams’, but to Lexa it feels like slave ship, bringing her to her permanent prison. A life as Mrs. Finn Collins.
She wonders if thinking that name will ever stop making her feel like she’s suffocating. She suspects not.
She’s barely out of the Great Room when she bumps into someone. They’re wearing suspenders and a cap, that Lexa nearly knocks off. She glances up momentarily and her green eyes meet blue and for a moment, her breath hitches.
“Pardon to you too, Miss!” A voice calls, gruffly, from next to the person Lexa has bumped into and Lexa rolls her eyes. She straightens her back and looks away from the person across from her, pulling the brim of her hat down over her eyes.
“Keep moving,” She murmurs to the man who is carrying her things as she turns away from the pair. He nods.
“Of course, Miss,” He replies.
She wonders if the boat has started to move yet when she feels her stomach flip.
-
She’s got her hair tucked beneath a cap, the cards tucked securely between her thumb and forefinger. She glances around, reading the room as best as she can. The man across from her is squinting at his cards, his knee bouncing. His tell. He doesn’t have anything worth being concerned about. The only other person still in the game has been the hardest to read all afternoon. Clarke hasn’t been able to tell what he’s had in his hand since they’ve started playing. Clarke quirks an eyebrow at Wells, who subtly nods.
This is their last shot. If they can’t win this, win these tickets, they’re done for.
There won’t be any way for them to get back to America. The two tickets sitting in the middle of the table are the best, and only, shot. She can’t afford to get across the ocean by herself. She’d barely been able to scrape up enough money to get to Paris. She’d never anticipated leaving but….well, things happen.
And home is where she needs to be.
(And she can pretend she’s not going back to lick her wounds - that she’s not running back with her tail between her legs just as her Mother said that she would. There are reasons and they’re better than her wounded pride. That’s what she tells herself.)
She bites down on her lip as Wells says, “Hit him again,” And so the dealer does. She does her best not to smirk. She gestures to the middle of the table, where the dealer is sitting, indicating that she’s finished.
“Put ‘em down boys,” He says and they start across the table. Nothing. Nothing. A two pair. It’s her turn. She smiles now. She lays the hand down.
A full house.
The boys across from her lean back in their chairs, dragging their hands down their faces and Clarke scoops up the tickets from the middle of the table before they have a chance to take them back. She fans them out in her hands and smirks, “Thanks for the tickets, boys,” She says, speaking for the first time since she’s arrived at the game. She watches as their eyes widen and she swears one of their jaws even drops. A perfect reaction. She looks to Wells, “Come on Wells, we’ve got 5 minutes before that ship leaves and it’s not going anywhere without us,” She says resolutely and Wells smiles. They start to run.
Vaguely, from behind her she hears, “You fucking lost to a girl. You gave our tickets away to a girl.” Clarke smiles to herself. The thrill of hearing the shock in boys’ voices when she reveals that a girl has just stripped them of their life savings and their dignity never quite gets old.
“Faster, Wells! I’m not letting this chance slip through my fingers because you couldn’t run fast enough,” Clarke yells over her shoulder, pushing past strangers. She won’t wait for him. If she has to get on that ship alone, she will. The only things standing in the way of Clarke and the future she’d always dreamed of were this massive crowd of people and Wells’ heavy feet.
The final horn sounds and they just manage to make it to the bottom of the ramp.
An officer in navy is detaching the ramp from the ship and Clarke’s eyes widen. No. It can’t leave. She runs up the ramp, flashing the tickets at the Officer. “Let us on! We’re passengers,” She exclaims, slightly out of breath. Wells finally sidles up next to her. He nods. The officer narrows his eyes and takes a step back, away from Wells. Clarke’s fists clench and her nostrils flare. They don’t have time for this.
“Have you been inspected?” He asks, focusing particularly closely on Wells. For his credit, Wells stands tall and doesn’t back down from the heavy glance. Clarke steps in front of him, waving the tickets once again.
“We paid for these. Isn’t that all that matters?” She inquires. “We’re passengers. This boat hasn’t left yet and we have right to be on it when it does,” She says, forcefully.
Another officer whispers, “We’ve got to go. Just let them on,” And so the officer in front of them steps aside.
“Alright, come aboard,” He says, reluctantly and they have to jump over the empty space between the ramp and the ship. Clarke looks over her shoulder and she grabs Wells’ elbow.
“Let’s go,” She says and she jumps first, Wells close behind her.
The doors of the ship close and Clarke smiles, glancing around her. They fucking made it. It’s every bit as beautiful as she’d imagined it to be, though she’s sure everything surrounding her costs more money than she’d ever seen in her lifetime. She turns to Wells. “We’re the luckiest fucking people on this planet, Wells,” She exclaims, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He smirks and raises his hand to return the gesture.
“Not Lucky. Skilled,” He says, tipping his cap to her with his free hand. She laughs.
“They had no idea what they were doing. I’d have been able to beat them with my eyes closed.” She says, closing her eyes to hammer the statement home. As her eyes close, she feels herself bump into somebody. She snaps her eyes open.
The girl standing across from her is….stunning. She’s got a long, black and white pinstriped dress on, her purple hat large and obstructive. It hides most of her face, but the bit that Clarke can see, well, damn near takes her breath away. She doesn’t apologize but she meets Clarke’s gaze and Clarke is shocked by the beautiful green of them. Wells, offended on her behalf says,
“Pardon to you too, Miss!” With a bit of a sneer on his face and Clarke digs her fingernails into Wells’ shoulder to quiet him. They break eye contact and she turns away, grumbling something to the man next to her who is carrying her luggage. She walks away without a second glance.
“Bloody fuckin’ rich people,” Wells murmurs and Clarke doesn’t respond to him. She watches the girl walk down the corridor, away from them, not once looking back.
“How many of those do you think she’s got?” Clarke asks, her eyes still not leaving the corridor the girl travelled down.
“What, ridiculous hats or butlers?” Wells asks and Clarke smirks.
“Both,” She clarifies.
“More than you do,” He starts, waving a hand in front of her face. “Snap out of it. Let’s go wave goodbye to this pisspot of a country,” He suggests, gripping hard into her shoulder. She nods.
“Yeah, alright,” She replies and they turn, running up the grand staircase, to what they assume is the exit to the deck. They’re correct. There’s people packed against each other like sardines in a jar but Clarke and Wells manage to fight their way to a railing. Clarke figures it’s because she’s so small and because Wells….isn’t.
(She knows it’s likely that people cleared away from Wells because he’s a large black man but the thought of that makes her so sick she can’t think about it. So she pretends it’s simply because of his stature.)
They both grip the railing, Clarke leaning over it. She waves with a middle finger stuck in the air as the ship starts to move. “It’s been a pleasure, see you never!” Clarke yells over the railing, laughing to herself as she sees the scandalized faces of the people who notice exactly what finger she’s saluting the town with.
She hears her Mother’s voice in the back of her head, telling her how improper it is to have that finger standing alone. How impolite. How dispicable.
Now, she figures, that’s all the more reason to do it.
The more uptight people she offends, the better off she’ll be. She has no desire to impress anybody, not anymore. Especially people she’s never going to see again. She’s been over the idea of propriety for years. She isn’t about to let it catch up with her now.
The boat begins to move and slowly, the people on the dock become the sardines, too small for Clarke to even see, and the deck clears out.
She doesn’t leave though. Not yet.
The view is too pretty to give up.
-
The suite is beautiful.
Not that she’d ever dare tell that to Finn.
But it is. The woodwork is exquisite and it’s barely anything less extravagant than her bedroom at home.
It is, of course, lacking any kind of decoration.
The walls are bare and Lexa can’t stand the blandness of the room. She points the butler who brought her things up toward the box full of paintings that she’s brought with her. “Help me hang these,” She says. He nods.
“Of course, Miss,” He says and Lexa wonders if he’s able to say anything else or if he’s been hypnotized to only be agreeable. She thinks that maybe this is what her Mother and Finn wish she was like. Someone who was only able to agree with them. Never able to fight back.
(Not that she’d been doing much fighting back at all - she knows there’s no use.)
She’s got a Picasso painting in her hands. She stares at the walls, trying to find the best place for it. It’s a personal favorite, mostly abstract, but there’s something about it that speaks to her. Maybe it’s the way it looks like how a dream feels. It brings her away from reality, for just a moment.
She may lack the skills to create art but she has a mind sharp enough to appreciate it, as much as Finn and her Mother wish that she didn’t.
Finn walks into the room, cigar in his hands. He glares down at the painting Lexa is holding. “Is there a reason you decided to bring those glorified puddles with us?” He asks and Lexa’s jaw clenches.
“They’re quite lovely to look at,” Lexa starts, glancing at Finn through a curtain of her hair, “Unlike some other things that were stowed away and taken with us,” She finishes, looking pointedly at Finn. She may not be able to outright say anything to him but she figures the subtleties hurt just as much. At least, they’re a wound to his pride.
He steps up next to her and he rests a hand on her waist. Lexa freezes. His hand drags down her side, resting on her hip and squeezing. Lexa squeezes her eyes closed. His hand feels horrid against her. It feels intrusive and as if seaweed were dragging against her body (though she’d prefer that to his hand). He leans down, kissing the space where her neck meets her shoulder. She shudders. She wishes he’d back off. Stay away. She knows he won’t. “My beautiful Lexa,” He begins and Lexa twitches at the word my. She’s not his. She’s never been anybody’s and she’ll never be his. Never. Even when the wedding band is circling her finger, cutting off her circulation, she will never belong to him. “I would watch your tone. You and I both know how...unfortunate it would be for you if this engagement were to fall through,” He says, his mouth traveling up and planting another kiss just below her jaw line. She keeps her eyes closed. He finally pulls back, still keeping a commanding hand on her hip. “Put that thing in the wardrobe, where I don’t have to see it,” He says, glancing back at her once more before walking away.
Lexa lets out a long breath.
She feels as if she has to take a shower to wash him off of her.
She wishes her Mother could have picked a better man (or better yet, not a man at all).
But money is money and she understands the position that her family is in. She knows what position she’s in.
She has to do this. She won’t love it. She won’t love Finn. But she’ll do it.
Because if she doesn’t, it isn’t only her life on the line, but Costia’s. And she can’t risk her life. Not anymore than she already has. She’s done enough to damage to Costia to last a lifetime and more. She won’t be responsible for her death because she’s unable to keep a promise to her Mother.
But she can hang this painting, right in the middle of the sitting room, where Finn has to see it. She might not be able to fight back but she can yank the chain, just enough so he knows he doesn’t own her.
And he never, ever will.
-
“What do you think, Wells? Not too shabby?” Clarke says as they sling their satchels onto their respective bunks. There are two men already in the room and Clarke suspects they’re a bit struck dumb by the fact that they’re sharing quarters with a girl. She knows the hallways are typically separated by gender, save for the cases of families and children, so this is a mens only hall.
But they won their tickets from two men. Clarke didn’t expect any less. And she’s not quite apt to care.
Wells looks at her with a grin, “It’s not the worst place I’ve ever slept,” He replies and Clarke grins back.
Wells has been her biggest ally since she’s been overseas. She met him in France, a lone Englishman trying to speak to the bellhop at a hotel, begging for a place to stay but the language barrier was only the first thing to prevent him from getting a room. Clarke had stepped in, speaking in beautiful, nearly fluent, French to get Wells’ request across.
And Clarke is a pretty girl. She’s found that people find it difficult to say no to a pretty girl who speaks their language. She knows what she has and she makes it work for herself. There’s no way she’d have made it, trekking through a foreign country with only the clothes on her back, without using everything she has to her advantage.
She made most of her money drawing, though often times she’d have to pretend to be a man to even attract subjects. It’s how she’d become so accustomed to walking like a man, playing poker like a man, fuck, even spitting like a man.
She’d learned the tools of her trade quickly enough. She’d pretended to a mute artist, knowing her voice would give her away immediately. With her face hidden beneath the brim of a cap, many of her overly feminine qualities were hidden. She’d passed well for your average, everyday male.
The mannerisms were a bit harder to capture but all she had to do was pretend she owned the ground she walked on, despite being penniless and wearing a shirt that looked as if it’d been used to clean the floor of a brothel.
She and Wells came to an agreement pretty early on in their relationship. She drew, he spoke. She gave him a cut of what she was paid, which wasn’t much but it was….livable. As long as they stuck together, they’d make it anywhere.
They’d made it around Paris, finally running out of prostitutes to paint and unable to land any clients of higher monetary substance.
And the artist market is…..tough in good ol’ Paris. Everybody wants to make it there. Not everybody can. She’d been to many, many appraisers in an effort to sell something, but nothing had ever been appraised over twenty and it’s hardly worth it to sell for so little.
It takes something out of you, being told that your work isn’t worth anything. And she came, she tried, she nearly conquered, but in the end, it just wasn’t a success.
She, by no means, is giving up on the dream of being an artist but standards are lower in the homeland. They always had been. Clarke had just figured that the French would have a finer appreciation for what she was doing. Clearly, she had been wrong.
But it’s fine, it really is. She’s going to be fine.
Everything has a way of working on in the end. She knows that.
(Even if the idea is getting harder and harder to hold onto - it has to be true. It has to be.)
She grabs her sketchbook from her kit. It’s one of the only things she has to her name and the idea of losing it, or leaving it behind is almost worse than the thought of losing a limb (as long as it wasn’t her drawing hand). There’s barely any shaking beneath her feet, something of a shock to her. The boat she’d came in on had been smaller, shakier, and she’d spent the whole journey seasick. This time? Nothing.
She knows how...luxurious this ship claimed to be. How high end everything was. She knew that even the third class bunks she slept on were more valuable than her entire life.
But while she was here, she might as well act like she belonged there. Like this ship was as much hers as the woman’s she’d walked into this afternoon.
And that means saying ‘fuck it’ to the separation of the decks. That she had every goddamn right to be on the top deck as the people who are more than likely criminals and swindlers. At least she was (mostly) honest about everything she’d done. She doubted she could say the same about any of these people.
She walks with her head down. Most people she passes don’t even spare her a second glance. Part of her is tempted to spit on their shoes since you know, she is invisible. The other part of her, the part that still feels the tightness of a corset on her ribs, knows better. Spitting on the shoes of these people, no matter how long she’s desired to do so, won’t do any good. It’ll just make her enemies and she doesn’t have the desire to deal with upturned noses and sidelong glances from behind a fan.
The sun is beginning to set and the top deck is nearly empty. She figures the rich and wonderful are all in their staterooms, unpacking their thousands of dollars in possessions that they absolutely had to bring on their transatlantic journey.
She reaches the bow of the ship and she’s the only one there. Her sketchbook is shoved underneath one of her suspenders, into the waistline of her pants. She closes her eyes. The air smells like salt and feels a bit like freedom. While on this boat, there is nothing she has to be besides Clarke Griffin. She doesn’t have to pretend to be a mute with her hat pulled over her head to get work. Not here.
There’s a smile on her face, a real one - one she hasn’t been able to produce in months. But here, on this beautiful boat, nothing in view on either side of her but ocean, she can’t do anything but smile.
A gust of wind blows and hits her right in the face, blowing her cap off of her head. She tries to reach it before it blows away but she doesn’t quite manage. She whips around, hoping to catch it. When she does, she sees the cap caught between two very delicate, very beautiful hands. Clarke’s eyes travel up.
It’s the girl from the entrance. Standing across from her with a small smile on her face. “Did you lose this?” She asks, an eyebrow quirked. Clarke swallows.
Oh no.