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Noise Complaint	By : poorlittlerichgirl91 Category: S through Z > Titanic Views: 1612 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic and I make no profit from the story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
"Rose?" Jack called throughout the apartment, loving the sound of her name on his tongue, just as he always had; the name of his flower.
He dropped the bag of supplies he had been carrying by the front door and kicked off his scuffed boots, knowing full well she would make him pick them up later.
As he walked into their living room, he couldn't help but smile; his heart soaring as he took in the scene in front of him. Rose lay there on the sofa, outstretched, her face calm and serene as she slept. Her lips were parted slightly and she had an arm hanging over the edge where a book she'd been reading had dropped onto the floor mid-slumber.
Jack reminded himself for the umpteenth time that this angel was real, and furthermore, that she was his — that she'd chosen him. He smiled his wide, lop-sided grin; acknowledging without reservation how hopelessly in love with her he was. Absentmindedly, he yearned for August: the fifth was to be her eighteenth birthday - meaning they could be legally wed then, and he was so thankful that they had a concrete date to look forward to; he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to wait otherwise. He knew that their bond was unbreakable – with or without the ceremony of vows and rings – but there was something about a wedding that was so profoundly absolute: the final stage to signify a union of endless love. There was more to it than that, though; there was also security, logistics. . . Once married, they would never have to worry about the prejudice that came with being an unwed couple living together; they would also never have to worry about Hockley rearing his head and forcing Rose to return to her former life.
Sighing softly, he lowered himself down to where she napped, carefully picking up the copy of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet that had slipped from her grasp and placed it on the side table, carefully folding the corner of the page she had been reading. As his gaze fell upon her again and he watched her chest rise and fall with every tender exhalation of breath, every rousing flutter of her closed eyelids; he felt the peacefulness soothe his very soul. Months before, Jack had not believed in true love. It had simply not existed; it was a fairy tale that was frayed at the edges.
Yet, now, here she was: true love personified beyond his wildest dreams.
He placed a gentle hand on her abdomen and leant forward to kiss her ever so gently – not able to help himself. She had the most beautiful lips he'd ever seen. Reacting to his lips on hers, she stirred slightly as he leaned closer, feeling his breath tickle her neck. Automatically, even in her sleep, her lips searched hungrily for his and caught them, gently kissing him, before she fell back against the ratty cushions and blindly reached for his body.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured quietly against his chest as her eyelids fluttered open. "I wanted to get dinner ready but then I . . . I . . . I felt so tired and. . ."
He tenderly stroked her face, his eyes so loving it made her heart swell and ache, "Hey, shh, shh. . . You know I don't expect anything. I'll take care of it. Rest, sweetheart. You deserve it."
"Mmm. . ." She slid her hands up his torso, straightening his braces. "Yes well, sleep doesn't visit us much at night, does it, darling?" She giggled, arching an eyebrow at him teasingly.
He chuckled against her lips, pecking her a few times before pulling back and running a hand through her hair; his fingers tangling in her red curls; his thumb brushing over the column of her cheekbone as he gazed at her, cherishing her.
"Romeo and Juliet, huh?" He smiled, eyeing towards her book he'd placed on the table.
"It reminds me of us. . ." She blushed coyly.
Jack let out a small scoff, his broad thumbs caressing her cheeks delicately. "Our love story is far more romantic than that."
She sighed happily, stilling for a few seconds before her eyes lit up playfully. "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" She affected a dramatic tone, quoting the play. "It is the east, and Jack-" She giggled, throwing her arms around him. "Is the sun. . ."
He chuckled, playing along. "A Rose by any other name would taste just as sweet. . ." He whispered against her lips, before showering her face and neck in frenzied kisses, muffling her delighted cries of laughter.
"Jack!"
He finally pressed his lips against hers, causing her laughter to die down as she melted underneath his embrace.
"How was your afternoon?" She asked, licking her thumb and then softly rubbing at a charcoal smudge on his cheekbone.
"Quiet enough for me to get workin' on a new piece. You wanna see?"
He was already reaching for his portfolio before she could say yes. She smiled wide, leaning her head on his shoulder lovingly, watching him intently as he scanned through his work.
He stopped, finding his latest portrait of her, which took up the centrespread of his sketchbook. She shifted closer and was met with a painting of herself in a silk kimono, the material hugging her hips and emphasising the subtle swell of her breasts, her hair flowing like red waves cascading down the valley of her torso. Jack had recently started experimenting with colour, and the blazing scarlet hues he'd used to capture her hair only made her appear even more regal. Rose studied her face; the accomplished, seductive look in her eyes – he had not painted her as a meek, subservient girl; but as a powerful, self-assured goddess of a woman, surrounded by books and art and flowers, whose eyes taunted the viewer in their sultry but determined stare — as though daring the world to underestimate her. She recognised this unapologetic gaze; it could be found in most portraits Jack made of her. With a smile, she realised this was just how he saw her: her fire ablaze and all-consuming, much like his love for her.
"You just keep getting better and better," She gasped, almost in a whisper, eyes still glued to the portrait of her. "It's perfect."
He turned to her then, smiling wide as he kissed her softly. "Yes, you are."
She kissed his cheek as she watched him look at his work, his eyes glazed over with a mixture of concentration and pride; simultaneously admiring his subject matter whilst scanning for areas that could be improved technically. The silence was comfortable; though the harsh, criticising voice in her head couldn't be stopped.
"But Jack," She fretted. "Don't you worry about people getting sick of seeing me in your work? You use me almost exclusively. . ."
Almost as if to prove her point, she moved her hand to turn the pages. Countless portraits of her filled the sketchbook, drawings that captured her in her most solitary moments - often alone; reading, thinking, sleeping. Amongst her favourites was one of her sat at their bedroom window, a look of contemplation gracing her features as she combed through her unruly red curls, admiring her own reflection and not acknowledging the viewer. She smiled as she skimmed through more pages, finding studies of her face and body - every angle, every variation of lighting – she sighed in amazement; he knew her body better than she knew herself.
"Well firstly," He smiled, bringing her onto his lap. She took the sketchbook in both hands now, holding it lower so they could both see the contents as she continued turning the pages. "I don't think I can imagine anyonegettin' sick of your pretty face." She let out a sigh, rolling her eyes and letting out a delighted laugh as he pecked her lips with a peppering of loving kisses. "Secondly, I don't care even if they did. I create art for myself. I put on paper what inspires me; what I find beautiful," He tucked a stray curl behind her ear as he spoke. "If people like it, that's great, if not, I'll still do it. I'm not try'na please anybody."
Nothing was more attractive to her than when Jack spoke about his work; exuding passion and intensity, speaking with his hands. She let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding, her eyes travelling around his face as she stared at him in wonder and incredulity; unable to believe that her partner in life was someone she respected and adored so deeply - both as an artist and a lover - a man who cared about her emotionally as well as physically; a man who strived every day to make her feel empowered and free instead of suppressed and restricted.
"Alright then, Monsieur Big Artiste, don't you ever get bored of using me? Drawing the same thing over and over surely must get boring, Jack?"
He turned to her, grinning. "It's never the same thing. Every time I draw you it's like I notice something new; you somehow get even more beautiful each time I look at'cha. . . How'd ya do that, huh?" He teased, his finger curling under her chin and tipping her face upwards, smiling wide against her lips and kissing her.
She sighed happily, shaking her head at him hopelessly. She was convinced no other woman had ever felt even half as adored as she did.
Her eyes wandered his face, sighing as she took in his impossible beauty; the golden glow of his skin, chiseled facial features that, accented against soft, hooded ocean eyes, produced a unique blend of rugged mannishness and profound compassion. He was, simply put, the most handsome being she had ever seen. She knew she was not alone in this observation; she noticed the way women would gawk at him in the street whilst he would obliviously walk on by, blissfully unaware of any romantic attention unless it came from Rose herself. When he looked at her, even in public, it was as though she were the only person he saw; they could be in the middle of a crowded room and yet, Jack could somehow make her feel like the only person there. She couldn't help her immense attraction towards him – never had been able to – it had caused her stifled world to come crashing in around her in a single glance. He'd coaxed her out of her gilded cage with his magnetic gaze, and she'd known as soon as her eyes first locked with his that nothing on earth would ever be the same.
Reaching the final pages, she was met by a drawing of herself sat under a large oak tree. She instantly recognised the place, remembering the day it was from: during one of their walks to Washington Square Park in the weeks following Titanic. In the drawing, although her mouth was smiling, her glassy eyes looked haunted; still struggling to come to terms with everything that had happened; looking to the viewer – Jack – with desperate love and the need for reassurance. Fear and uncertainty lingered within the depths of her irises, and yet, a quiet strength that looked towards Jack as the symbol of hope and safety. She remembered back to that time - the days immediately following the sinking, their first week in New York - days plagued with survivor's guilt and nights haunted by dreams of freezing water and floating corpses. They comforted each other, allowing themselves to be completely honest and vulnerable – taking it in turns to hold one another as they would intermittently wake up in the middle of the night - sometimes Rose, sometimes Jack - spending full days cradled and crying in each other's arms. Those weeks had cemented their bond even more and had only confirmed that as long as they had each other, they could and would get through anything.
Not for the first time, she felt overwhelmed by her love for him. He saw everything - every emotion, even ones she tried to keep concealed.
She turned to him, no words necessary, simply looking at him in adoration, contentedness filling her entire soul. During moments like these, Rose could scarcely believe that at one time she had envisioned a future so drastically different; one that involved being ordered around, to birth children and manage the household . . . She had dreamt of true love when she was younger, of course; had secretly longed for the kind of relationship she had read about in all the great romance novels, but she had also accepted with resignation that it simply was not in the cards for her.
She nudged her nose against his, his breath against her face warm and intoxicating. They kissed slowly, Rose relishing the flavour of his kisses; the depths of his mouth tasting like nicotine and honey.
He kissed down the column of her neck and over her collarbone, placing soft kisses down the exposed part of her torso; the teasing swell of her breasts and cleavage pushing against the material of her dress.
After dinner, Rose cleared their plates as Jack had cooked for them. She loved his cooking, despite how initially wrong it had felt to sit and do nothing whilst a man prepared her food. She was affectionately getting used to the idea that their life together was not going to follow social rules or tradition – everything about them was unconventional, and it always would be.
She stood at the kitchen sink, washing the unclean dishes; Jack in his usual position whenever she did this task – with his arms wrapped lovingly around her waist.
"I missed you today," She whispered, melting back against his embrace. "I was thinking of getting a job. Only a few hours a week, maybe. . ." she trailed off, biting her lip, knowing that seeking employment would not have even been an option in her old life. She knew Jack was different; but her previous conditioning still made her nervous to even think such things, let alone bring them up in discussion.
"Then why don't you?"
The casual tone he'd spoken with made her giddy; as if her getting a job was absolutely the most normal thing in the world.
"Oh, Jack. Really?" She spun to look at him.
"Of course. If you want to, why not?"
She almost immediately replied with the rehearsed list of reasons that her mother and upper-class society had ingrained into her mind as to 'why not'. Seeing the distant sadness in her eyes, he lifted his hands to cup her face, the rough skin of his thumbs brushing against her cheeks tenderly.
"I mean it. Whatever you want to do, Rose, I'll support you. As long as you're happy, I'm happy. I love you."
She felt grateful tears begin to brim as she stared at him, saying more with her eyes than she ever could with words. "Jack Dawson, you really are the most wonderful man I've ever met."
- 3
- 4
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Noise Complaint