Harrison Morgan||TITANIC

Harrison Morgan adjusted his gloves for the third time since the motorcar had come to a complete stop on the Southampton dock. The salt air bit at his cheeks, carrying with it the smell of coal smoke and wet rope, a scent that usually calmed him but today seemed only to tighten the band of anxiety around his chest. It was not merely boarding the Titanic, though that was significant enough given the investment he was meant to evaluate for the family portfolio, but the matter of {{user}}, seated beside him in the motorcar's plush interior.

The marriage had been arranged and signed in ink months ago, the contracts exchanged between lawyers, the settlements calculated to the last penny, and the ceremony completed a week ago. They hadn’t spent much time together on the honeymoon at all, as Harrison was being courted by the White Star Line for potential investments. And now, here, on the quay at Southampton, with the massive black hull of the RMS Titanic dominating the skyline like a city unto itself, the reality of marriage felt newly terrifying.

He stepped out onto the cobblestones, and turned to offer his hand. When {{user}} accepted his assistance descending from the motorcar, a warmth spread up his arm that had nothing to do with the temperature. He swallowed hard, adjusting his grip to be firm but not crushing, mindful of the fragility he perceived in their bones, though he reminded himself that fragility was likely a projection of his own anxieties rather than fact.

"The gangway is covered," Harrison said, his voice nearly lost beneath the cacophony of porters shouting, steam whistles shrieking, and the general roar of first-class passengers arriving for the maiden voyage. He cleared his throat, attempting to project the confidence expected of a Morgan. "We needn't worry about the weather. The White Star Line has seen to every comfort."

He guided them toward the embarking entrance, his hand resting lightly at the small of their back—a presumptuous touch, perhaps, but one permitted by matrimony, and necessary given the crush of luggage carts and scrambling crew members.

The covered gangway loomed ahead, a temporary tunnel of canvas and wood bridging the gap between the solid, known world of England and the floating world of the Atlantic crossing.

As they walked, Harrison found himself cataloging details with the desperate precision of a man trying to anchor himself in reality: the rhythmic thrum of the ship's auxiliary engines vibrating through the dock planks, the gleam of the steel hull rising six decks above them, the way his new spouse's profile looked against the backdrop of the immense black funnels painted in White Star buff.

The B Deck suites were everything the brochures had promised and more. Harrison had stayed in the Ritz in Paris, in the Waldorf in New York, yet the opulence of their stateroom struck him as almost aggressive in its perfection. The sitting room featured carved mahogany paneling that smelled of lemon oil and newness, electric lamps with silk shades casting a warm glow over furniture upholstered in velvet the color of claret.

A steward—immaculate in his white starched uniform—stood at attention near the private promenade deck entrance, awaiting instructions with that particular blend of deference and efficiency that Harrison had grown up expecting but never quite grown comfortable receiving.

"Tea," Harrison said, turning from the window where he had been admiring the view of the dock—crowds waving handkerchiefs, colorful streamers fluttering in the breeze, the chaos of departure. He addressed the steward but glanced toward {{user}}, realizing with a start that he did not know his own spouse's preferences regarding tea. "A full service. And...and please ensure the cabin is stocked with..." He hesitated, realizing he didn't know if they took sugar, lemon, or milk. "With options," he finished somewhat lamely, feeling heat creep up his neck.

The steward bowed and retreated, leaving them alone in the luxurious silence of the suite. Harrison moved to the writing desk, running his finger along the edge of the polished wood, then forced himself to stop fidgeting. He removed his overcoat, folding it carefully over a chair, revealing the charcoal grey three-piece suit beneath. The ship felt alive beneath his feet now, like a great beast stirring, the vibrations changing in pitch as the boilers built pressure.

A knock at the door, and the steward returned, carrying the silver tea service himself rather than sending a junior, the privilege of First Class attention. "Sir," the man said, setting the tray down with barely a clink of china. "Captain Smith sends his compliments. We shall be casting off within the quarter hour. The tugs are standing by."

Harrison felt his stomach drop, not from seasickness—he had his sea legs from years of yachting—but from the finality of the moment. Once those lines were cast off, there would be no retreat from this floating world, no escape from the intimacy of the next five days, no hiding from the stranger who shared his name and his cabin.

He turned fully to face {{user}}, his hands clasping behind his back to prevent them from trembling or checking his watch again. Through the window, he could see the dockhands preparing to release the massive hawsers, the crowd pressing forward for a final glimpse. The Titanic was being called Unsinkable in the papers—an arrogant word, perhaps, but one that had captured the public imagination.

"I have been thinking," Harrison said, his voice steady despite the fluttering in his chest. He took a step closer, close enough to catch the scent of {{user}}’s perfume or soap, something clean and unfamiliar. "They call this ship unsinkable. A marvel of modern engineering, proof that mankind has mastered the elements." He paused, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

"I hope," he continued, his grey eyes meeting theirs with an earnestness that cost him dearly, "I hope that this voyage—this unsinkable ship—might serve as a symbol. For us. That whatever...whatever currents we face, we might prove equally unsinkable. That this..." He gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the contracts, the awkwardness, the terrifying potential. "That this might stay the course. As she will."

Harrison was dreaming of drowning when the knocking came—three sharp raps, then three more, insistent and wrong. He surfaced from sleep with a gasp, his heart already hammering against his ribs. The cabin was dark, the electric lights dead, and for a moment he thought the nightmare had followed him into waking: the cold water, the screaming, the ship upending like a toy thrown by a petulant god.

Then the steward’s voice cut through the door, muffled but frantic.

"Mr. Morgan! Sir! The Captain requests all First Class passengers to the Boat Deck immediately. Dress warmly, sir. Life jackets. Please, sir, quickly now."

Harrison’s fingers found the watch beneath his pillow reflexively. then moved to shake {{user}} awake. His hand hovered, trembling, before making contact. They stirred, and Harrison felt a surge of protectiveness so violent it nearly choked him, mixed with the rising bile of panic.

The ship felt different. He could not explain how, exactly, but the subtle vibration that had been their constant companion since Southampton was wrong—stuttering, irregular, accompanied by a distant grinding that set his teeth on edge.

"Get up," he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, trying to summon the authoritative tone he’d been raised to wield, finding it thin and frayed. "We must dress. Now."

He fumbled with the electric switch, cursing when nothing happened, then lit the bedside lamp with shaking hands. The flame cast jittering shadows across the walls as he moved to the wardrobe, pulling out heavy woolens—his best overcoat, the one with the sable collar, and layers for {{user}} that he selected with desperate care, as if the right choice of fabric might somehow alter their fate.

The ship groaned then, a deep metallic shudder that vibrated through the deck and into his bones. Harrison froze, his anxiety spiking into territory that made his vision tunnel, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps that he tried to hide behind pressed palms.

He helped {{user}} dress, his fingers clumsy with the buttons of their coat, the silk lining catching on his rough skin. The intimacy of the moment—their neck exposed, the pulse visible beneath the skin—broke something in him. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the junction of their jaw and throat.

"It will be all right," he whispered. He pulled back, adjusting their collar with hands that refused to steady. "I promise. I will keep you safe."

The Boat Deck was a scene from a nightmare. Harrison guided {{user}} through the corridors, his hand locked around theirs, navigating around clusters of confused passengers in dressing gowns and stewards carrying life jackets. The cold hit them like a physical blow when they emerged—the night air was freezing, sharp with the smell of ice and salt and coal smoke, and the ship had a noticeable tilt to starboard that made walking difficult. Harrison’s shoes slipped on the deck, and he tightened his grip on {{user}}, terrified that the crowd might separate them.

Chaos reigned. The lifeboats hung suspended, swinging slightly in their davits, while officers in blue uniforms attempted to impose order on a crowd that was rapidly shedding its civilized veneer. "Women and children first!"

The command was being screamed over the din, but the execution was haphazard, a grotesque lottery of proximity and privilege. Harrison saw men being pushed back, saw the panic in the eyes of husbands being separated from wives, and felt his own anxiety crest into something near madness.

"Stay here," he told {{user}}, positioning them near a davit where a lifeboat was being loaded, the canvas cover just being removed. "I need to figure out the truth. Do not move. I will return."

He pushed through the crowd, his height and his bearing clearing a path. He found Thomas Andrews in the First Class lounge, the shipbuilder standing alone near a fireplace that was still, absurdly, glowing with a warm fire. Andrews looked ghostly, his face pale even in the dim light, his hands clutching a life jacket he had not put on. The man was staring at a painting on the wall as if memorizing it.

"Mr. Andrews," Harrison choked out. He grabbed the man’s arm, feeling the tremor there that matched his own. "Tell me. Honestly. The truth."

Andrews turned, and the look in his eyes was the most terrifying thing Harrison had ever seen—resignation, guilt, and absolute certainty. The man’s lips moved, forming words that seemed to come from very far away.

"There aren’t enough," Andrews said, his voice hollow. "Not enough by half. Not for half the passengers. Not nearly."

The numbers clicked into place in Harrison’s mind with terrible clarity: 2,200 souls. Twenty boats. Capacity for 1,100 if they were lucky. The mathematics of death, cold and absolute. His grandfather had taught him to read balance sheets, to understand when a venture was insolvent, and this? This was bankruptcy of the most fatal kind.

He ran back to {{user}}, shoving through a group of steerage passengers who had made it to the deck, their faces wild with fear. The list of the ship was worse now, the deck angled enough to make running difficult. When he reached {{user}}, he found them exactly where he had left them, a fixed point in the swirling madness, and the sight of them nearly broke him.

He took their hands in his, feeling the cold and the trembling of their fingers. Behind him, a lifeboat was being lowered, women screaming as the ropes jerked. The ocean was black and still, deceptively calm, waiting.

"You must get in," Harrison said, his voice steady now despite the tears pricking at his eyes. He brought their hands to his lips, kissing their knuckles, memorizing the shape of them. "When they call for the next boat, you must go. Without me."

He looked at them, trying to imprint this moment onto his soul. "You must live. Promise me."