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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Twelve

Arthur shut the door behind him, his hand reaching for his pocket with the key but withdrawing hastily. He ushered you forward, motioning towards the fingerprint-smudged window as he slid his arms out of his sleeves and folded his coat over the back of a chair.

“Can’t believe Francis only kept you for two weeks,” Arthur said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I thought I was getting a fair trade. You must be too much trouble for the both of us.” He scratched his forehead, his fringe puffing out at the tips.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Can’t believe it took you two weeks to catch up with us. You must be slipping, Captain.” You shifted the logbook to one arm and rubbed your fingers over a splotch of ink on his desk, which resisted removal.

Ink stains were just about the only recognisable element of his quarters. Fading sunlight dusted the room, but nothing else did. The cabinets had closed, although the knobs were twined together, and cobwebs were missing from the corners and table legs. A faint lustre on the wood, the quiet scuff of shoes, and the tantalising scent of absolutely nothing—you were unsure of how he had managed it.

Neatened stacks of paper now adorned his desk, his journal resting on top of one of them. The majority of the hourglass’s sand was still in the upper piece.

You flicked it, the clink briefly reverberating. “Keeping time on the attack?”

“Mm. Not the term I’d use,” Arthur said, wrenching off his gloves and placing them in the top drawer of the bureau, “but yes. Marks two hours, that.”

“And the bottles are gone.” You jerked your head towards the cupboards. “Either you’ve stopped drinking, or you’ve gotten better at hiding it.”

“Oy. I don’t exactly drink regularly.”

“Exactly?”

He waved it away. “You’d caught me at a bad time.” He crossed to the desk on your left and swept aside a few papers. “And I cleaned up. I do that on occasion.”

“Bet that was the only productive thing you got done while I was away.” You turned to lean against the desk and tucked the logbook to your chest, your skirts swishing around your ankles.

“It was not,” he said, dragging out the last word. He moved to sit on a clear spot, careful not to crush any of his parchment. Arthur sighed and shook his head. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” You flipped over the hourglass. “All right, then, you pedantic brute. I missed you, too.” You glanced up, smiling, and his mouth was twitching at the edges.

“Well, then,” Arthur said after a moment, “I suppose I should… I mean, erm. How are you?”

You tried not to laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” he said, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, “You were not… Francis and you didn’t…”

You rolled your eyes. “You and he have such trouble asking this question. No. Francis and I shared quarters but not a bed. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, well, erm. Good. So you’re—”

“He did nothing to me save bore me with his voracious attempts of courtship.”

“You’re not…?” He gestured loosely.

“No, I’m fine, you idiot. He didn’t touch me. Admittedly I had to tell him not to do so, but thankfully, Francis listened.” You tested your own weight on the desktop before joining him on it.

“Okay, then. Good. Excellent. Yes, well,” Arthur said, regaining his usual eloquent articulation, “Then, if that’s true, why did you return? There’s got to be a pretty good reason.” He crossed his arms. “I know you weren’t exactly fond of living here.”

“I was,” you said, staring down at your hands, which you refolded on top of the book, “Although I didn’t realise it initially. It’s because of the manner in which I was treated. Francis was kinder, at first, yes, but he never let me out on the ship to help. He kept me packed away in the shadows.” You crossed your legs at the ankle. “Like I would break at any moment.”

Arthur snorted, bringing his hand to his nose.

“But you didn’t. I’m well aware that the situations were wildly different, but you gave me less than special treatment. You let me become part of the ship. Thank you,” you said, your eyes tracing the shape of his cheekbone and how it curved to meet the corner of his eye. “I know you kidnapped me, and that’s wrong. Unforgiveable.” You ran your fingers over the frayed edges of one of the stacks of parchment. “But I forgive you.”

“What?” Arthur looked up from his lap. “Why?”

“Before I answer, I should say that by no means does this excuse the abduction; it’s horrible, and you should never do it again,” you said, reaching over to flick him, “But you made me realise that where I had been and where I would go were caustic. Court was positively draining the life out of me, save for Naomi—”

“Naomi?” He scooted a few inches closer to you.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks. “She’s the, er, real Barbados.”

He nodded slowly. “Ah. Sorry. Go on.”

“I, er. Well. Francis—it was like he froze time but tried to force it to melt. I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You sighed. “I just… I prefer being a person here to being an object with Francis and in Court. So, thank you.”

Arthur shifted his weight on the desk, pushing piles of paper together before hunching forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’re welcome,” he said, so quietly you almost did not catch it.

“So,” you said, flexing your fingers, “what happened to you while I was away? Besides your tidying up, of course.”

“Hm. Grenade explosion on deck. Shortened rations.” He tapped his chin. “Nothing, really.”

“Excellent,” you said, smiling, “I didn’t want to have missed anything.”

Arthur laughed softly, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Through the window, the dissolving crepuscular rays of the sunset faded into the clouds, coating the room in a ruddy orange light. It disillusioned you slightly. If I were trapped in a glass sphere, I think this is what it would feel like. In your mind’s eye appeared a picture of Court, or rather, what Court could be. You had heard of masques in stories, but you had never attended one. The laughter of the attendants beneath the distorted, false faces, and the constant, colourful motion—totally unusual. For once, it would seem inviting. Then Alfred would be speaking to a violinist, and Allistor would be chatting up a young colony. Arthur would be making up stories about the guests with you, dragging you out to dance to get a better look at the subjects. Yes, Court wouldn’t be so wretched if they were there. No, stop. You can’t. Not now.

“So, hey! What’s that book?” asked Arthur, pointing to it.

“Oh, it’s Francis’s logbook,” you said, eyebrows creasing, “Actually, I’m not sure what it is. He used it more often than you write in yours, and I can’t read it, anyway.” You shrugged and handed it to him.

“You can’t read it?” He ran his hand over the spine, sliding off the edge of the desk as he did so.

“Of course I can’t.” You followed suit, pushing the hourglass out of your way. “It’s in—”

“Hold on; let me get a candle. It’s getting too dark in here.” Arthur retrieved a candlestick from a cupboard, muttering under his breath. “Where’s my…?”

You opened one of the drawers on the other side of the desk and handed him his tinderbox.

“Thanks,” you told him as he finally made a spark large enough to make a light. “Anyway, it’s written in French. I figured you would be able to read it.”

Arthur pushed his sleeves to his elbows before spreading the book open across his desk. You stood on your toes to examine it over his shoulder.

“Yeah, actually,” he said, flipping a few pages, “It’s more of a journal than a logbook. Maybe a diary, since Francis’s so disgruntled.”

“I knew it.” You moved to the right and pointed at an entry in which only a single sentence was written. “What does that bit say?”

“This? ‘Saint Kitts is a miserable gout’.”

“Oh, stop it.” You elbowed him, and his hand flew to his side.

“Mm,” he said, grinning, “You’ve developed a bit of a sting, there.”

“Good. I need to be able to fight back.”

“On the contrary, you’re still no match for me whatsoever.” Arthur nudged you back, his nose crinkling with his smirk. “Maybe one day, if you catch me off guard.”

As you listened on, Arthur began to translate some of the French. He paraphrased some of it in order to spare you the details of Francis’s thoughts. Some of them did concern you, but by the date, you would have been still on Arthur’s ship.

As he cursed Francis’s penmanship, Arthur shifted his arm so it snaked behind you and rested on the desk, claiming it was so you could get a better view. Such a small pressure on your waist—you really should not have even noticed it. His hand—it should be on you; he should be near you. This should happen—but somehow, the timing was wrong. Yes, you thought, biting your lip, but now’s not the time. This could be warm and comforting in the future, but…I can’t handle it today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. But maybe… You exhaled. I don’t know how to feel.

“Oh, cripes,” Arthur said, flipping back and forth between a few of the newer pages, “Francis has written down his future routes and conquests.” His voice had a slight lilt to it, like it was going to crack at any moment.

“Oh, really? I didn’t think anyone could be that stupid,” you said, uselessly flicking a few pages yourself, “Are you sure you’re not screwing it up somehow? You have before, and in your own language.”

Arthur circled the desk and brought out a quill and ink. “Heh. Have I ever told you about Anglo-Saxon? All of those consonants. Now, there’s a language that can confuse the tongue,” Arthur said, his own flicking out of his mouth. His gaze drifted down to your lips—not like you weren’t already watching his—and lowered a bit. He cleared his throat, standing upright and rounding back to face you.

You were appalled and slightly concerned that Arthur was so fixated on your chest before he picked up the scented sachet from its resting place on the ruched piece of your collar.

“What’s this?” he asked, the tips of his shoes touching yours.

You wavered between stepping back and staying where you were, but the sachet made your decision for you: the string holding it around your neck was too short for you to step away. “Eurgh, it’s nothing,” you groaned, “Francis gave it to me, and it was the most repulsive thing I’ve ever seen him do. It’s like he wanted me to become part of the furniture.” You moved to rip the string, but Arthur lifted it over your head, careful to keep it from twisting in your hair. “And it gave the most mixed signals, too, because lavender means—”

“Distrust and devotion. That’s strange.” He rubbed the fabric between his hands before opening it. “It’s not lavender anymore. Tea leaves?”

“Er, yeah.” Arthur’s tone had softened, and it was a bit unnerving.

“I wonder why.” Arthur smiled faintly, his eyebrows flashing upwards and his hand moving to your waist.

Your breath hitched, and you had to ease your hands up his chest as Arthur pulled you closer, his hand edging to the small of your back. “I-I don’t see how you can behave in a civilised manner around him,” you mumbled, fearing a sweat would break out on your forehead, “He has…” His warmth was different than the last time—natural and cognisant this time. His heart was pounding under your palms, and he slid his right hand up to lace through your hair. You tried to ignore the way his jawline melded with his neck, not to memorise the laugh lines around his eyes, and not to trace the faint smattering of freckles across his nose or the small scar under the edge of his fringe that you had never noticed before now. Arthur kept his eyes on your mouth, swallowing every word that you said. “…absolutely no self-control.”

Arthur leant forward very slightly, his fringe tickling your face, but you turned your head at the last moment: his lips met your cheek. He held his breath and drew back, his stupidly green eyes pleading and distraught.

“I-I’m sorry, Arthur.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I… I do,” you said, struggling to find the right words, “care for you—really, I do—but I, I don’t think I can pursue a romantic relationship right now.” You clenched part of his shirt in your hands, attempting to disregard the tea leaves that began to fall down your skirts. “I can’t be your colony, and I can’t be courted. I’ve spent too much time around Francis; I need time to recuperate.”

Both of his hands fell to your waistline as he shut his eyes. “Darling. I-I mean…” He sighed. “I understand.” Arthur turned away from you, clasping his hands behind his back rather stiffly, as if to start pacing again, or else fling himself onto the unsightly patchwork quilt on his bed. However, you heard him begin to laugh under his breath.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, squinting.

He pivoted on his heel. “I know there was another reason you came back.”

“What?” you spluttered, tripping over your own feet and not even having the lucidity to beshrew your shortage of panache.

“I mean, it couldn’t be just because you like living here,” Arthur said, smirking at his boots as he nonchalantly strode across the room.

“Excuse me? It certainly helped—”

“And I can’t believe it actually happened.” Arthur pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and his hands reverted to their places of your lower back and neck to hold you closely to him.

You took shallow breaths, trying not to breathe in his scent of soap and salt. “What’s… what’re you…?” You squirmed against him, for little else could be done when clothing was the only space between two persons. You tried to struggle against his grip, but you stopped moving altogether when his lips grazed your temple.

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” he murmured into your hair. Arthur ghosted his mouth over to the shell of your ear, biting down on the cartilage.

You stammered, your eyes widening, and you dug your heel into his foot, startling him enough for you to shove him away. “What,” you gasped, your ear throbbing, “What’s wrong with you?”

I hate you, you thought.

He adjusted his belt after checking his toes for permanent damage. “Wha—pardon?” Arthur asked, his eyebrows high on his forehead and cheeks flushed, along with the top of his ears. “How do I offend?”

“I just told you,” you said, backing away, never ceasing to watch him, “I’m not ready for this. I thought you could listen. I thought you respected me. Or are you too lacking in gallantry that a gentlemanlike thought cannot enter your head?” Your back hit the door, and you fumbled around behind you for the doorknob with all the grace and style you could muster.

Arthur swallowed, shifting his weight between his feet. “I—”

“I…” You found the door handle. “I thought I could trust you.”

I hate you.

You bolted out of the cabin, slamming the door shut just in time to see Arthur collapse on the tacky, patchwork bed.

You stormed about the ship, your footsteps heavy. Your groans from knocking into corners drew the attention of nearby crewmembers but not of the one for whom you were searching.

After you had been tangled in loose ropes and had slipped in spilt rum, you reached the hold and finally found the blasted quartermaster, whittling away at a piece of bone.

“Alfred!” you barked, striding towards him and knocking on each barrel on your way.

He looked up from his scrimshaw. “Oh, hey—”

“Your mutiny,” you said, screeching to a stop in front of him, “Is it still open?”

I hate you.

Alfred’s expression sank into a twisted grin that was too big for his face. “Did you ever even doubt?” he asked, pushing himself up from the ground and extended to you his hand, “I’ve been waiting.”

Part of you screamed that you shouldn’t join, that it was the worst mistake of your life, but a larger, louder part shoved its hand over the other’s mouth and told you to go ahead.

You kept your eyes on his as you took it. Your vision began to blur, but you stifled your tears. “Count me in.”

I love you.