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The gentle sloping of his shoulders, the softness of his jaw and neck, his smooth, hairless face—it all made him look so young. So boyish. Innocent. Far too young to be a father. Yet here he was, smiling so infectiously, holding his first born and laughing at the sheer absurdity that something so pure and beautiful could exist. And that he got to see it.
They were both young, really. Maybe too young for this. Too inexperienced and too poor. Too busy. A mere seventeen and twenty. But life, she learned—much to her satisfaction—wasn't always predictable. And you had to learn to take what life threw at you. It turned out though, that life was feeling charitable, and it threw her Jack Dawson.
Rose watched him with tears in her eyes, heart swelling at the sight of the both of them. It was such a short time ago, still so fresh in her mind, that they had been within inches of death. Their lives hanging by a thread, Jack having survived at all a miracle in itself—a one in a million chance—waiting at heaven’s gate on the Carpathia until life gave him another shot.
And now, nine months later, they sat awestruck. Alive. Taken completely by surprise. Their gratefulness, their humility, the humble way of living they so graciously undertook—so thankful to be alive at all—was rewarded with a blessing. They'd risen from the ashes together, glowing like a couple of phoenixes.
“Look at this little guy! He's a regular Al Jolson!” Jack exclaimed with a laugh at the infant’s humorous expression.
The baby grunted and cooed, tiny hands wiggling while his father held him up.
Rose didn't say anything. Couldn't. She responded with a simple sigh. Her smile was tired, but genuine, and she felt so content in that moment, happy to just watch them.
They were here. After everything that had happened, they were here. Rose’s mind boggled just looking at the child, unable to comprehend how she had gotten so lucky. How her life had done such a drastic turn. From complete, hopeless desolation, she evolved into someone thriving. Blooming. Her old future so bleak, dark and deathly, had sunk along with the ship. The expectations forced upon her lied at the bottom of the ocean. She would never have survived with Cal. Wouldn't have even made it long enough to give him the son she knew he'd demand from her.
Although part of her knew, if Jack had died—perish the thought—Cal would have indeed gotten his son. Not really his of course, but a living, breathing reminder of the love she would have lost. And Cal would have never been the wiser. It made her smirk to think about.
“Got any names in mind?"
Rose blinked at him, still lost in her memories.
“Hm?”
Jack’s gaze traveled over to her, slowly, and he chuckled, just watching the look on her face before he repeated himself.
“Names,” he said a bit more loudly, struggling to keep a straight face. “Kid needs a name.”
“Oh!” she perked up. Names. Of course he needed a name. They hadn't even discussed that yet.
Jack’s eyes switched back over to his son, squinting and looking him over like he was trying to solve a very important puzzle.
“Cause I don't have any family names or anything. Figured you probably do though.”
The lower half of her body was still sore, but she moved closer to him, feeling impish.
“What about ‘Jack’?” she suggested, smirking though he wasn't looking at her to see it.
“That's a good one,” he nodded. “Strong. Distinct. Might get kinda confusing though.”
“Fair enough. What about… Henry?” she produced right on the spot.
Jack didn't say anything, but gave a quiet hum. His look had softened, becoming more easy and calm. The looks he still gave the baby were fewer, and instead he glanced at Rose. The far away gaze told her he was deep in thought, emotional, vulnerable and maybe even hurting.
“I was kinda thinkin’ something like Thomas.”
“Thomas,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It was acceptable. Easy to abbreviate. But she worried about the look on his face.
“Or Andrew,” he added.
It dawned on her then. The second name. The implications of the two he mentioned, where he was leading her, hinting at. A name to honor someone who had fallen. Someone lost forever in the unforgiving darkness of the ocean. A life undeserving of the card it had been dealt, cut short, its light snuffed out despite the kindness and modesty of the man who had lived it. Who had done all he could to prevent others from suffering the same fate.
“Mr. Andrews,” Rose sighed. And she was hit with a wave of sadness, her face matching Jack’s. Solemn and knowing. Hearts beating steadily in tandem to the sounds of a bubbling infant, the rest of the room in subdued silence.
When Jack knew she understood, saw the shadow befall her face, he came in close to her, leaving the chair that sat by her bed. He rested their baby on her chest. The gentle, calloused hands of his fingers, marred with splinters and blisters from working so hard to support them, stroked her face with all the intricacies and of an artist, thumbing over her cheek and wiping a stray tear.
“Thomas is a beautiful name,” she smiled despite the way she began to weep. Little Thomas was grumbling against her, tiny hands clenching without strength at the fabric of her nightgown.
Against her cheek she felt the soft breeze of Jack’s breath. A pair of lips touched so softly, a leaf that had drifted from the treetops and touched the grass without a sound. He pressed into her, kissing the flush on her cheek, eyelashes touching her temple.
He was so young. So very young. So optimistic and so soft and trembling as he touched her, but with fingers sure and confident, shaking only because he feared she'd drift into nothing if he looked away for too long. A painted canvas of pale white, she was real. A snowfall that blanketed his world in a glistening tapestry of brightness and light.
They were so young.