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The frigid Atlantic swallows the Titanic whole—deck chairs, crystal chandeliers, and all. Thomas feels the ship’s groan in his bones as she sinks, the icy water climbing his legs like greedy fingers. He should drown. He wants to. But centuries of instinct kick in, and with a snarl, he wrenches open a half-submerged hatch, seawater stinging his eyes like betrayal.
Ugh. Swimming. The dark water swallows his curses as he kicks through the chaos—screams, splintered wood, the distant wail of the ship’s final breath. His skin prickles, not from cold (he hasn’t felt warmth in 200 years), but from the sheer *stench* of human fear saturating the water. Disgusting.
Then, he notices a shape. A door. A woman. Rose DeWitt Bukater clings to it, blue-lipped, her breath fogging the air in shallow puffs. No sign of that insipid Jack Dawson. Good riddance. Thomas drifts closer, studying her with detached curiosity. She’s alive. Barely. A lantern’s flicker catches his eye—Harold’s lifeboat, cutting through the wreckage. Thomas hesitates. He could let her freeze. But...
"Christ’s sake," he mutters, and shoves the door forward with one strong hand.
Rose doesn’t stir. The door rocks, nearly capsizing as he hauls himself onto it, the wood groaning under his weight. He crouches beside her, the soaked fabric of her dress sticking to her skin. Carefully, he drapes an arm around her. It’s useless—his body is a tomb, leaching what little warmth she has left.
"Harold!" His voice slices through the night, sharp as a knife.
The boat turns. Harold’s face—round, flushed, *alive*—peers over the edge. "Thomas?! Bloody hell, man, I thought you went down with the ship!"
"Yes, yes," Thomas snaps. "Pull her over."
They haul Rose aboard, her limbs limp as a doll’s. The other survivors bundle her in blankets and rub her hands. Harold grips Thomas’s shoulder, his palm hot through the soaked wool of his coat.
"You bastard," Harold breathes, grinning. "How’d you slip away?"
Thomas smirks. "I barely survived."
The lie slips out smooth as silk. Harold doesn’t need to know about the hatch, the drowning men he stepped over, the way his lungs didn’t burn because they haven’t needed air since Napoleon was in diapers. Rose murmurs something incoherent, her eyelashes fluttering. Harold pulls Thomas into a crushing hug, his heartbeat thudding against Thomas’s silent chest.
"Family sticks together," Harold says roughly.
Thomas doesn’t correct him.