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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Thirteen

“Aah, aah. I’m so sorry,” you said, sucking the cut on your finger, “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Matthew told you, stooping to help you gather the forks, each of them slightly bent at different angles. “I shouldn’t’ve put the box on the edge. My fault.”

You tsked and told him to return to his cleaning, and you turned back to the rubbly shelves with the box under your arm.

“You really don’t have to organise the shelves,” Matthew said as he picked up his mop, “It was on my list for later.”

“And I’d rather you finish early than my hindering someone on deck.” You slid the box onto one of the higher shelves, pushing it until it hit the wall. “I would be in everyone’s way.”

“No,” Matthew said, leaning on the mop with a smile, “You just don’t want to see the captain.”

You waved him off. “Please,” you scoffed, “I’m not going up there because of Ar…Arthur; it’s because I’m simply too exhausted to do anything more than domestic.”

“If you say so. You don’t know what to do with yourself, since you haven’t been specifically ordered to do anything.” Matthew plunged the mop into his bucket of water that was only slightly less filthy than the floor.

“I have…not,” you said, scowling, “In case you haven’t noticed, Matthew, I’ve been trying to go about my business as usual.”

“Trying being the key word.” He let the excess water drip into the bucket, and he grinned up at you.

“Oh, no. I am not going to talk about it.” You peered at the back of a shelf and frowned. You removed a couple of canisters.

Matthew swabbed the floor near the table, clearly vexed about the quality of the water. “I’m just warming up. You will.”

You hunched over to place the containers on the floor. “I will not—”

“Arthur and you’ve got a fair bit of tension, yes?” Matthew leant on the mop, supressing a smile. “You two even look at each other, and the stars stop.”

The remaining canisters tumbled out of your arms and hit the floor, the metal crashing against the wood. You held up a finger. “You haven’t seen anything.”

He shrugged. “I saw that time on deck.”

“One time.”

“I don’t think that’s it, though.” Matthew continued to mop nonchalantly, as if he were having the most natural conversation in his lifetime. “You don’t speak to each other anymore. Something’s got to have happened.”

You swallowed and began to put the fallen cans onto the bottom shelf. Shut up. Shut up. Give him not the satisfaction of your frustration.

“But it can’t be that bad,” Matthew said, glancing over to see you shove everything to the back, “if he hasn’t kept you from working.”

You grimaced. “That’s not fair. You know how I feel about being incompetent.”

“And the captain does, too. It’s got to be your hamartia. However, if you don’t want to talk about it anymore, that’s fine.” Matthew shrugged and swiped the mop across the floor. “But I do have one more thing to say before we change the subject. Whatever he did to—”

“Enough.”

Matthew grinned in your peripheral vision, waiting a moment before resigning himself to his work in silence.

You resolved to do the same, crossing to a different shelf to organise the rest of the food store and take inventory.

You inhaled through your teeth. Small but numerous boxes of aged hardtack littered the cabinets, but that was nearly all that was left. A limited supply of salted supplies lingered, and rum bottles, some full, some halfway so, were clinking against each other in the bottom cupboards. You traced some calculations onto your palm, and you found there would be enough for the whole crew for about half of a week, even if their fishing efforts were successful consistently—for some reason, everyone on board had particularly poor luck with their fishing attempts, especially Alfred, who was generally disgruntled at almost everything nowadays. Yes, Alfred felt he had a right to be cross about a few things, but Arthur had good reason to shorten rations.

Obviously Alfred’s going to be cross, you thought, slapping yourself inwardly, as he’s having a bloody mutiny. You sighed and closed the lower cupboards. Alfred had said, simply ages ago, that Arthur was too distant and inhuman. You would have once agreed with him, but Alfred’s main selling point at the time had been that you had never seen Arthur when you were not his principal focus; that point was long since null and void. When you’d seen Arthur with his crew, he had been perfectly professional and cordial, somehow at the same time.

You idly slid the boxes as closely together as possible. One of Alfred’s reasons for mutinying was that Arthur was too calloused and detached, but you ultimately joined because you saw Arthur being too human. You hadn’t let Alfred know this, of course, and he never asked; Alfred was just pleased that you were involved. He may never have asked for your reasons, but he always was spouting enough foul things about Arthur to try to put a sting in your judgment. Last time, Alfred had said that Arthur was heartless. You had learnt that he had too much of one.

“Matthew,” you said, scratching your neck, “if we don’t stop at port soon, we’re going to have to drink pure alcohol, since the water’s so tainted.” You exhaled. “Not that the majority of the crew will mind.”

“Allistor won’t.”

“Don’t remind me.” You glanced over your shoulder to Matthew as you latched the cabinets closed. You were impressed with Alfred’s ability to be so secretive about the mutiny. You did not even have a roster of mutineers, and you could not tell if Matthew played a part. He had not breathed a word about it. The small, satisfied smirk and the wistful eyes beneath the glasses could only be from the conversation, not his contemplations.

“So, tell me more about this Gilbert person,” Matthew said, cracking one of his knuckles and shaking his hand in pain, “He sounds quite the character.”

“Hm?” You smiled, turning to him. “There’s not much left. I’ve told you everything I can.”

“Tell me about the seashells again.”

“They weren’t that inter…” You lowered your eyebrows as the ship tilted sharply to the left, the chafing sound of crates scraping across deck leaking through the ceiling.

Matthew put a finger to his lips. He motioned towards the door and, when you moved towards it, caught you by the shoulder, making you sit down at the table. You rolled your eyes, and Matthew smiled at you before leaving the galley.

When he wasn’t back in a couple of minutes, you grew uneasy, listening to the incoherent shouts on deck. Boots were scuffing across the wood, and you could hear sporadic bangs through select parts of the ceiling, along with the shaking of dishware in the cabinets that they caused.

The roar of the crowd was silenced, and you waited a beat before stumbling over the mop handle and over to the miniscule window behind the stove, pushing the rotted frame out as well as you could. A gust of salty air hit you brusquely, and a sole voice made its way to the window—very faintly. The wind muffled his words, but the intonation was undeniably Alfred’s.

What reason would he—I’m an idiot, you thought, biting your lip and forcing the window shut, I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe—but today’s not the day for the mutiny. You shook your head as you climbed over toppled baskets. They’re bloody pirates. I’m not sure they’d keep to a schedu—what if they didn’t trust me? You jogged over to the door and turned the knob. I can’t say I’d blame them, you thought, sighing, because if Matthew saw, then… It’s not like I had a big part in the mutiny, anyway. They can handle themselves without me. You swept your hair out of your face. But I still don’t want to be left out.

The lanterns in the hallways had been snuffed, but the door at the top of the stairs was flung open, light flooding the front passage. You crept to the base of the staircase, the wood creaking under your feet, and climbed up four steps before hesitating and retreating to sit on the bottom step. Alfred’s speech was more clarion from where you were, but it was nothing you had not heard beforehand.

A few nights after you had agreed to Alfred’s mutiny, he had arranged for you to sit with him during his watch. His excuse, he had told Allistor, who shared the shift, had been to help you study the stars in order to better understand navigation. Really, it had been just an excuse to get you in an isolated place in which to speak to Alfred.

You had followed Alfred to the forecastle deck and, after the two of you had doubled back to check some precariously loose rigging, had slid down against the side of the ship and had settled into the spot just before the bowsprit. You had acted similarly on slow nights on your own watches, even though it hadn’t been proper, but you hadn’t been assigned a watch since you returned to the ship; you could not say that you missed it.

“I mean, it’s not the pay. Pay’s not the issue, since I’m quartermaster,” Alfred had said, pulling out his scrimshaw and a knife from his pocket, “I can dally about in that as I please. It’s that I’m tired.”

“Well,” you had said, clicking your tongue, “a mutiny seems to be an overreaction, then.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Alfred had snapped, “I’m tired of being reliant on Arthur. I can’t provide for myself at all, you know? Not food, water, or safety.”

“Must be frustrating.” You had hugged your knees to your chest and leant your head against them.

“Yeah. Bit constraining, what Arthur does. And the crew, you know, they agree with me. At least, the part that I’ve spoken to. I think Arthur wants us to have to depend on him. To not think for ourselves. None of us like it.” Alfred, biting his tongue, had chipped off more of the bone than he had meant. He had pursed his lips as he tried to fix the flaw in the scrimshaw. “Not to mention that the conditions are excruciatingly poor. Absolute rubbish, that’s what we’re treated like. Everyone’s tired, Kitts. Literally and figuratively.”

“You’re sure about this?” You had puffed out your cheeks. “It kind of sounds eleventh-hour. What’s the word… haphazard?”

“I’m sure. We’re all sure,” Alfred had said, holding his work to eye level, “A mutiny needs to happen. We can’t rely on Arthur forever. We’ve got to pave our own way in the world.”

“Desenrascanço. That’s it,” you had said, licking your chapped lips, “But d’you guys have what it takes to do this?” You had glanced up at him, searching for any hesitation in his expression.

“Absolutely,” he had said with a nod, “We know what we’re doing. We may not have the majority of the crew on our side—we’re split a bit unevenly, but we still have enough for a chance. That’s our only downfall. There are enough of us to still sail the ship. And I’ve heard enough about other mutinies in other crews to know that to be successful, you’ve got to have a high-ranking officer who knows what he’s doing.” He had pressed the knife into the side of the bone, turning it slowly. “And that’s me.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” You had smirked. “And pardon my asking this, but isn’t a mutiny a bit extreme? I know, it’s a tad late to be asking this.”

Alfred had cricked his neck. “Nah, it’s understandable. Mutiny’s our only choice, really. The chance to jump ship has passed, and only inklings of the mutiny had been hatched last time we were in port. Plus, I needed more people at that point to be successful. Ship-jumping in port, well, that’d also break the contract Arthur’s drawn up for everyone.”

You had narrowed your eyes. “But you’re trying to be rid of him. Who cares if you break contract?” You had sat upright. “I don’t have a contract.”

“You’ve got to be special, or something. I don’t think Arthur can make a woman sign a contract. It must be part of his moral code, however limited that may be. But we, the crew, cannot break contract. It’s an honour thing.”

“You’re bloody pirates.”

“It’s an honour thing,” Alfred had insisted, “and Arthur’d get suspicious. Even though ship-jumping is supposed to be common, it just doesn’t happen on his ship.”

“And you could’ve been the first,” you had said, pulling your knees closer to yourself.

“No,” he had said, glancing over his shoulder, “I couldn’t’ve. It would’ve made it worse for everyone else who feels oppressed. I can’t just leave them. I’ve got to help them.”

From what you could hear from the bottom of the staircase, Alfred was now repeating what he had said that night—but without the colloquial inflections.

You climbed the stairs slowly, halting when the deck was at eye level and being careful to stay in the shadows. Alfred stood on the forecastle, staring down at Arthur, who stood at about ten paces from your door with his back to you. The crew was so widespread across the deck that you could not discern between the mutineers and the loyalists—save for Allistor, who was close behind Arthur with a scowl directed right at Alfred. Matthew and Seamus were nowhere to be seen, but Dylan was still at the wheel, leaning on it with a pained expression.

While Alfred was still giving his meticulously rehearsed speech, Arthur sighed, much too dramatically to be genuine. “Honestly, Alfred.”

Alfred glowered down at Arthur. “I wasn’t fin—”

“I thought you were cleverer than this.” He gestured lazily towards Alfred. “I knew a mutiny would arise eventually, but I never thought you would be leading it.”

“You knew? And you didn’t try to fix anything?”

“I did, actually. You just didn’t notice, I suppose,” Arthur said, scratching his forehead, “Shorter shifts but shorter rations. A necessary precaution, you understand. I’ve tried to keep morale up nevertheless.” You could hear his smile. “But obviously, not well enough.”

“Morale? Are you kidding?” Alfred spluttered, clenching his hands, “You don’t care about how we feel.”

“And this direct confrontation. I knew something would happen, Alfred, but I am just a bit…disappointed.” Arthur tugged on his gloves. “This is taking the leap, isn’t it? You thought of a work stoppage, right? But a straight-out work stoppage wouldn’t have worked, would it? Less than half of the crew is divided against. And you can’t do that, anyway, because the ship wouldn’t sail. You might die at sea of purely natural causes, then,” he said, his voice lowering on the last phrase. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace nonchalantly. “Now,” he said as if he were haggling at a trade, “I want to know precisely why you’re doing this. No flowery words covering up the reasons, if you don’t mind. Maybe if it’s not too bad, I can fix it, and you can join my crew again.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” Alfred spat, jumping down from the forecastle, “And I don’t want to be under such an offending commanding officer ever again.”

Arthur snapped his fingers as he reached the railing. “Not hearing any reasons, Alfred.”

“You’re leading an unsafe ship,” Alfred said to Arthur’s back, “You’re irresponsible and chronically drunk. Your brutality is inexcusable, especially when you forced us to join your crew. And we’re in danger of dying of natural causes, as you put it, from lack of fresh provisions. We’ve had too few dockings and breaks.” He tripped slightly over his own shoes. “We’re tired, Arthur. We’re tired of your work, and we’re tired of you. And you don’t seem to think that the exhaustion of the crew is a serious danger.”

Dylan, still steering the wheel, was skimming the crew for new prospects. He glanced towards your door, and you hunched down, holding your breath.

“Well,” Arthur said, his voice level, “It seems like you have every reason to mutiny, then. But I am not chronically drunk. I’m about as poorly off as you on that matter.” He spun around, pushing himself from the balcony before beginning to pace again.

Dylan’s gaze now fixated on Alfred and the action. You kept an eye on him, and you shifted up a step to get a better view. You rested your elbow on deck.

“I’m ready for this to be solved. Quickly,” said Alfred, his eyes following Arthur’s footsteps across the deck. “Make your decision. Either you can renounce your position, or you can let us wreak havoc on your ship.”

“Hold on,” Arthur said, grinning as he screeched to a stop at his original position near you, “The rank of captain is elected. If my crew is unhappy with my performance, why not just raise a vote of no confidence in me? They’d have their new captain, and I’d be off. Seems to me, Alfred, that all of this fuss isn’t necessary.”

You had to smile. Alfred hadn’t mentioned that to you in his plan for the mutiny, but Allistor had told you on that first day. A schism in the vote, he’d said.

Alfred bit his lip, clearly hoping that Arthur would have elided that particular piece of information. “I know.” He spoke so hastily that his words smushed together. “Obviously, I would prefer that, to, you know,” Alfred said, nudging the shoe of a nearby crewmember, who looked alarmed at the contact, “bloodshed. But seeing as, as you said earlier, more than half the crew is actually fond of you, I’ve decided the best way for this to be settled is to challenge you to a duel.”

Your jaw dropped. That wasn’t part of the plan, you thought, What is he thinking? Arthur is going to slaughter him. You pulled up your boots and laced them again. What an idiot. I can’t let him kill himself.

“Is that it, then?” Arthur was saying as you hopped up the last step, closed the door, and began to edge your way behind him, “That’s your final decision? Really, Alfred.” Dylan caught your eye, and he looked furious. He jumped down from the wheel after directing another crewmember to it and began to climb down the stairs to the quarterdeck. “I thought you’d have something with a little more style. This seems a bit cliché.”

The gangway was too narrow for you to pass unnoticed, and you paused. Dylan wouldn’t be able to confront you without passing the captain, but you would have to try to pass him yourself. If you slid by him when he was looking the other way, you could make it.

Alfred’s twisted smile returned. “Yes, but it’ll work.” His gaze drifted just over Arthur’s shoulder to you. “I was…”

Arthur lowered his eyebrows at the silence and pivoted to see what held Alfred’s attention. You froze, not three paces behind him, as the light appeared in his eyes. Arthur glanced back at the crew before turning back to you. “Well, then,” he said, putting a hand on one of his hips, his coat flaring out at the focus.

“I, er…” you faltered, watching Allistor back away from behind Arthur, “I—”

Arthur rolled his eyes, seizing your arm and pinning you to his chest. “What…” His belt chafed against your lower back, and the knife he had concealed in his shirt was poking your side. His grip was tight across your ribcage, and, much to your frustration, you were in no position to elbow him.

You coughed and spat your hair out of your mouth. “I—I was—”

“I advise you to bite your tongue,” Arthur said in your ear, drawing from within his coat a gun and pressing the barrel into your stomach.

“What‽” you gasped, turning your head enough to glare at Arthur from the side and already feeling lightheaded from your heavy breathing.

“Now,” he said, blowing your hair out of his face, “Alfred. D’you still want to challenge me?”

Alfred hesitated, shuffling a step backwards. He took his hand off of his sword handle, and he pushed up his glasses to rub one of his eyes.

Dylan, who had gone to his side when you couldn’t be reached, put a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “She’s not worth it. She wasn’t here at the start. Kitts isn’t a help. Forget her.” He nudged Alfred, his eyes never leaving the gun. “Never was there any luck on a boat with a lady aboard. You’d just be worse off.”

The beads of sweat forming on Alfred’s hairline could not compare to yours when Arthur jabbed the flintlock into your stomach again, but when you smelt the familiar scent of salty soap and tealeaves and felt his cheek press against the back of your head, you slowed your breathing. The knot in your stomach dissolved.

Arthur loosened his grip on you, but he did not do so conspicuously. “Make your decision, Alfred. Either you can renounce your mutiny, or…” He jerked his head to the side.

Alfred narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingers nervously on his other hand. Dylan took a step away from him, whispering to the crewmembers behind them.

Arthur sighed and brought the flintlock away from you to shoot lazily at the mutineers.

You coughed at the gunsmoke, and you glanced up to see Alfred clutching his shoulder, his teeth clenched. He was holding his breath.

“So, Alfred. Back off.” Arthur bumped your foot with his own. “If you don’t want anything else to happen, that is.”

Alfred was laughing, but no noise came out of his mouth. He bit his collar as he drew his hand away from the wound, and he slapped his hand back when blood gushed. “Perfect,” he said, glaring back up at Arthur, the fingers on his free hand twitching on the handle of his sword.

“Alfred?” Dylan lifted his hand to console him, but he lowered it. “Maybe you should…tone it down. You need to sit down; we need to get that treated.”

Alfred scoffed. “I’ve never met someone more spineless.”

Arthur released you, pointing for you to stay behind him. He motioned for other crewmen to prepare for a fight, directing them subtly to certain spots around the gangway. Allistor stood just above Alfred on the forecastle, a grenade and a tinderbox in hand.

Alfred followed your eyes to each spot, and he laughed again, hunching over and coughing. “Ah. Mm. You wouldn’t do that,” he huffed, “It would damage your precious ship.”

“Oh, but the ship can be restored,” Arthur said, grinning as he watched Allistor twirl his grenade in his hands, “Lives cannot.”

Alfred scanned the surrounding crewmen, counting the number of mutineers to their opposers. He coughed again. He tried to step forward, but he let out a cry as blood seeped through his fingers. “Ah. Give. I give.” Alfred pushed back his glasses, smudging them with red.

“Seamus,” Arthur said, looking around for him, “Seamus!”

“Here, Captain,” he said, jumping down from the capstan.

“Put the mutineers in the brig until we can find an island. And find someone else who can navigate. I will, if you can’t find anyone else, but do try.”

Seamus nodded and called over Allistor and a few other loyalists. He approached Alfred, pulling a rope out of his waistcoat.

Arthur began to edge along the side of the crowd to the quarter gallery, keeping you behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to you, smiling nervously.

Alfred held out his hands to Seamus for him to tie. “My regards to the captain,” he hissed, whipping out a dagger from his belt and slashing open Seamus’s shirt, a thin red line blossoming on his chest.

Your back hit the door to the lower staircase, and you turned the knob. The two of you stumbled backwards onto the staircase as the mutineers launched into attack. You caught yourself before you fell more than a few stairs, and Arthur yelled instructions to Allistor before closing the door on the fracas.

“No, no, no,” you said, raising a finger, “You’re the captain. Get back out there.”

“I will! I will,” he said, grasping your shoulders with his eyes widened, “I’ve just got to keep you from being out there.”

“What? No. Let me go back. Let me fight,” you said, as he began to lead you down the staircase.

Arthur shook his head. “I can’t.”

“But I can do it; I’ve learnt so much!” You jumped off the final step and waited for him to do the same.

“Oh, darling, I know, but you always have been rubbish with a sword.”

You sighed, puffing out your cheeks. “All right. I’ll work on that while I wait for you to wrap this up.”

“Shouldn’t get more than ten minutes of practise, then. Matthew keeps swords down there?”

“More or less.”

Arthur grinned and pushed back part of your hair before turning to climb the staircase again, and that was the last you saw of him until he was shaking you awake in the galley after what seemed like hours.

You sat up in your chair and rubbed your forehead. The table was harder than you had thought. “Hi. What time is it?” you asked, yawning. Slight blurs hazed your vision.

“First watch,” Arthur said, grunting as he pulled up a chair to sit across from you, “You’ve got the grain of the table imprinted on your forehead, you know.”

“I bet.” You cricked your back. Next time, you would just go to bed. “What’d you do with the mutineers?”

“They’re in the brig until an island is found.” He folded his hands on the table.

You leant your head on your hand. “I thought I broke the lock.”

Arthur smiled with a flash of his eyebrows. “I forgot to tell you. That’s something else I accomplished while you were away.”

You nodded drowsily, your nose twitching. After you rubbed your eyes and blinked a few times, Arthur wasn’t as blurry. He had gashes on his hands, mostly, each bleeding through its bandages, but a thin cut ran up the side of his neck to touch his jawline. Gunpowder flecked his hair, the most concentrated spot just below his right ear, its plaster already a deep scarlet. Bugger that boy, you thought.

“Are…are you okay? You’re…slightly mangled,” you said, gesturing towards his hands.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, flexing his fingers on the table. The blood oozed more quickly for a moment. “It wasn’t so bad, except for my ear. Ah,” he winced, tapping it, “still smarts.”

“Who did—don’t tell me,” you said, reaching down to unlace your boots, “It was somehow self-inflicted.” You smirked when you saw the scuff on his own boot and the maroon bruise peeking through slashed fabric on his leg. He let his guard down, if only for a second, you thought, sliding off a shoe, He’s letting his emotions dictate his actions.

“It wasn’t,” he said, tracing a pattern in the wood, “Dylan caught me at a bad time.”

“I don’t think I’m so cross at you for making me stay down here anymore,” you said, sitting upright and folding your hands together.

He paused in the middle of his pattern. “All right. May I be serious for a moment?”

You hesitated a beat and then nodded.

“About the mutiny.”

“Yes?”

Arthur ducked his head, never breaking eye contact. “Were you involved?”

Your throat went dry, but you couldn’t swallow. You blinked. “I was not,” you said, raising your hand to scratch your nose.

Arthur closed his eyes and smiled, shaking his head. “Liar,” he said, sighing, “Bugger, Kitts.”

“Excuse me? I don’t think I’ve ever been so insulted.” You felt your cheeks flush, and you clenched your jaw to keep it from quivering.

“I can’t trust you, Kitts. But since you didn’t speak up during the actual mutiny…” He drummed his fingers on the table, pursing his lips. “Your freedoms are to be restricted. I will keep you under close watch.”

You crossed your ankles under the table. “There are worse things,” you said with a somewhat diffident air. You clenched your hands until your knuckles whitened, eyeing his hand and trying to decide if you should take it or not.