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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Fifteen
Epilogue

1783. London.

The clicking of your shoes against the floor reverberated through the empty corridor, only emphasising exactly how small you were. Every turn around a corner bamboozled you further, and when you tried to double back, you found yourself in yet another unfamiliar hallway. For the most part, you had seen very few people in the quarter hour you had been wandering around Parliament, and you ducked behind doors whenever you spotted someone approaching, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

“It’s fine,” you told yourself, your voice echoing weakly, “Sure, I can’t find whichever tea room I was told to be in…” You glanced down the hall to your right. “…not that I’m sure I’ve found any tea rooms.” Whether it was for cleaning or rearranging purposes, the furniture in some of the rooms had been cleared out of sight. “I’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

You jumped when a hand tapped your shoulder, but you were silent save for a gasp.

“Saint Kitts?”

“Er—yes,” you said, turning so quickly that you stumbled on the edge of your skirt, “Oh, brilliant. Alice. I was…just…”

She smiled, her lips thin. “Lost? Understandable. These labyrinthine halls are unforgiving.” Alice clicked her heels. “This way.”

You followed her down the corridor from which you came, feeling a bit embarrassed at your going the complete opposite direction from where you needed to go.

“So, it’s marvellous to see you in the flesh after so long,” Alice said, her pace absurdly swift for someone in high-heeled shoes, “When did we last meet? Back in 1671?”

“Your memory’s as precise as always,” you said, lifting your skirt to catch up with her, “You’d arranged for Sebastian to stay with me.”

“You gave him the title Nevis, yes?” Alice asked over her shoulder.

“He chose it himself, after a bit of consideration. And Alice?”

“Hm?” She turned sharply around a corner.

“Thank you,” you said, lowering your voice and grimacing as you scuffed the floor with your shoe, “for helping me…dispose of Francis last year.”

“Oh, it was no trouble, dear; don’t worry about it,” she said, nodding curtly at two passing senators, “Has he persisted to…?” Alice waved her hand about in the air instead of finishing the phrase.

“Francis has continued to hector me, despite my protestations. He is ridiculously stubborn.” You glanced behind you at the senators’ backs.

“Oh?” She tightened her grip on her stack of parchment.

“He’s driven me out whenever I’ve gotten comfortable. I don’t really want to talk about it.” You kept your head down and bit your lip.

Alice hastened her pace, and you began to jog to keep up with her. “Then don’t. Reluctant prattle does no one any good. Hardly any useful information is—efficiency is all that matters, since that senseless brother of mine—anyway,” Alice said, forcing a smile, “I’ll keep a closer eye on Francis for you, if he hasn’t relented.”

“Thank you.” You craned your neck to take a look at the elaborate ceiling, nearly bumping into Alice when she slid to a stop.

“Just there,” she said, pointing towards the end of the corridor as she shifted all of her parchment to one arm, “Last door. He isn’t expecting anyone; I’ve cleared a space in his schedule.”

You nodded and proceeded on alone, with Alice lingering at the corner.

His door was different than the others—plain and austere, save for a doorknocker. When at last you had the courage to raise your hand to the knocker, you could not bear to bring it down. You glanced back at Alice.

“Don’t knock. Barge in. It won’t give him any time to think.” With that, she disappeared behind the wall, leaving you to enter by yourself.

You withdrew your hand from the doorknocker and placed it on the knob before taking it off again. You spun around, running your hands through your hair. You took a few steps away from the door, and then you retraced your steps to stand at it. Exhaling, you turned the doorknob as slowly as you could, pushing the door open to reveal the one person you had been wanting to see for over a century.

Arthur was leaning against the wide window behind his desk; the curtains were parted, a garden of blue forget-me-nots and pink petunias growing just under the window. He pressed his forehead against the pane and sketched sluggishly on the window, his coat hitching up with his arm. He had flattened his hair enough that it was tamed for once, and he held himself differently, like he had been carrying a weight on his shoulders that he was not yet used to having removed.

“Look, Alice, if it’s about Alfred,” Arthur said, turning lethargically, “then I don’t want to hear it.” The words caught in his throat when you shut the door behind you. He blinked, opening his mouth to say something and then closing it. “Hello,” Arthur said, swallowing.

“Hello,” you said, ducking your head and being strangely fascinated by the intricately designed rug—Indian, like the indigo quilt draped across the back of one of the chairs in front of his desk. Portraits of people you did not recognise decorated the little free space on the walls, but they were all beautiful people, although you had never seen them before now. The familiar hourglass and journal rested behind the parchment on his desk, albeit without ink stains, and the bookshelves—bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with tchotchkes and books, the title on the spine still shining on some of them while the others were dilapidated beyond repair.

“So, er, won’t you sit down?” Arthur finally said, gesturing to the chair with the quilt on it.

“Of course,” you said, keeping your head down as you took it.

He clasped his hands in front of his belt. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thanks,” you said, smoothing your skirts, “Yourself?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.” Arthur scratched his right ear, a piece of it missing from Dylan’s cut. “I heard you took on a ward.”

“Yes,” you said, looking him in the eyes for the first time, “Nevis. Sebastian, if you will.” You folded your hands in your lap, rolling back your shoulders.

He smiled faintly. “I’m honoured.”

“He’s a good kid. Sebastian’s apt to learn, and he does so rather quickly, if I do say so.” You jerked your head to the side. “He’s got a bit of a sweet tooth, though, so I try to keep that in check.”

“He sounds charming,” Arthur said as he moved to sit in his own chair on the other side of the desk.

“He is,” you said, twiddling your thumbs, “Is it true you’ve been having trouble with your own ward? I’m afraid I’ve been unable to keep up with the news.”

Arthur sighed. “Alfred.” He tilted his head, frowning slightly. “How have you not heard? I thought I was the laughingstock of Europe.”

“No doubt a deserved title,” you said, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Arthur grinned, too, in spite of himself. “But I…haven’t been able to station myself for very long. I’ve always been pushed out when I’ve grown too at ease. No news source could reach me.”

His brow creased. “Who’s been terrorising you?”

“Francis, of course,” you said, staring at your lap.

“Of course,” Arthur sneered, rolling his eyes, “I did hear of a little spat you had with him last year.” His expression softened. “I’m pleased you made it through.”

“I would not have, had your sister not stepped in.”

“My sister?”

You nodded. “Alice has been so kind to me. Do thank her for me, will you? I already have, but I can’t express my gratitude enough.” When he did not respond, you continued: “I thought perhaps you might’ve had something to do with it as well.”

Arthur shook his head, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “I played a small part.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” You glanced up at him, and he was struggling to hold back a smile. “Would you mind,” you began slowly, shifting in your seat, “begging your pardon—telling me about Alfred?”

Sighing, Arthur stood and returned to the window. “His rebellious streak has not faded. He no longer wishes to associate with me at all,” he said, his voice low but even, “Alfred’s gone, or at least, I feel he will be officially before the year ends.” Arthur pushed back his fringe so that it stuck up at odd angles. “I’ve already withdrawn troops…”

You rubbed one of your eyes. “I’m sor—my condolences.”

Arthur held his hand to his mouth, biting one of his knuckles, and waited a beat before asking, “Tea?”

“Please—if it’s not too much trouble,” you said, looking off to one of the bookcases. The one to your immediate right had a shelf on a man called Alexander Hamilton. That’s a bit peculiar, you thought, Wasn’t he one of Sebastian’s protégés?

“Allistor and I,” he was saying as he retrieved a mismatched, porcelain tea set from the back corner of the room, “have formed a partnership. He’s here, actually—well, not here here; he’s got an office a few doors down, but he’s off gallivanting about the countryside or else something just as ridiculous. I haven’t really kept up with him. Just as long as Allistor’s not doing anything…stupid.”

You leant forward, trying to see into the back corner. “D’you just have a stove back there? How are you boiling the water?”

“Ah, no, I had someone bring some in not long before you arrived.”

“I was about to say, because that seems a bit ludicrous,” you said, easing back into the chair.

“Not that ludicrous,” he said, leaning against the wall, “Anyway. Seamus and I had a row back in 1649, not too long after—you—about denominations, you know, Catholicism versus Protestantism. We were on rough terms for a while, but I think he’s coming round again. And, as for Dylan,” Arthur said as he began to pour tea into cups, “He’s…” Arthur rolled his eyes. “…still outrageously stubborn. He’s gotten into copper, of all things, and he refuses to speak English, for the most part. It’s not like I can’t understand Welsh; it’s just extremely aggravating for me.”

You accepted the teacup he offered you. “Can he do nothing right?” you asked, a smile edging onto your face.

“There’s a lot that can be said for Dylan, but I can’t deny that his poetry’s gotten a lot better since the Romans were with him.” He seated himself again, frowning when he splashed tea onto his shirt. “They’re doing reasonably well.”

“Yes…that’s good,” you said, swishing the tea around in your cup, as if to brag about not spilling it. You smirked as you watched him button his waistcoat over the stain.

“And I’m fine,” Arthur assured you, picking up his teacup again to mimic your swishing, “All of my misfortunes I have brought upon myself. I did not consider the repercussions of my actions, but I am suffering them well enough. I…” Arthur stared into his teacup. “…want for nothing.”

You followed him around the desk when he set down his tea and retired to the window again. “Nothing?” you asked, holding your breath as you came to a stop next to him. Your shoes scuffed against the worn stretch in the rug, exactly in the path as if he had been pacing for ages.

His lips curled in as he narrowed his eyes, keeping them on the garden out of the window and disregarding the lump in his throat.

You sighed, tearing your gaze away from Arthur, and stared out at the forget-me-nots with him. The walls of Parliament bordered the edges, but the garden flourished despite the intense negativity in such close proximity. The blossoms were vibrant in colour and had a gossamer air about them; the garden felt almost blinding. A hopscotch pattern was drawn on the path cutting though it. You pretended to be examining the closest petunia. “We were in love once.”

Arthur lifted his forehead from his arm on the window to look over at you, his eyes full of light. “Once?”

For a moment, you couldn’t hear anything but your heart pounding, but then it all tried to tumble out: “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t’ve—”

“I was an arrogant blackguard, and I—”

“Oh.”

“Er.”

“You go first,” you said, nodding as you took a step away from him.

After plucking at his fringe, Arthur clasped his hands behind his back. “I was horrible to you. I was a scoundrel, truly, but I never want to be that way again.” He bit his lip, glancing up at the ceiling. “I don’t like being malicious. I’ve tried to improve myself, and I still have so many rough spots—I’m a wretch,” he said, his tongue flicking out of his mouth, “But I am trying to be a gentleman now. And dar—Kitts, I am so, so sorry. I’m sorry, and I don’t deserve any part of you, not even your scorn.” His chin started to shake. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.”

“And I—” You swallowed. “—I was rude and insensitive, and I didn’t listen to you. I was discourteous and tactless,” you said, your eyes welling up, “and I should have paid more attention to you. I’m sorry. And I forgive you, even though I’m to blame, too.” Arthur shook his head, but you ignored him. “Yes,” you insisted, touching one of your shoes to his, “I was too daft to listen. I was too stubborn, headstrong, and all of the adjectives for idiotic, even too much so to be admitted into Court again.”

Arthur wiped the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. “Wait, Antonio wouldn’t let you back into—never mind that, Kitts, there’s something I need to tell you—”

“You know,” you said, looking up at him through the nascent tears with an abrupt smirk, “when I was near Court again, I noticed how distinctly unharmed it was.”

Arthur clapped his hand over your mouth, grinning. “Please,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “listen this time. When you…left, I had been trying to tell you why we were sailing to Court.” He lowered his hand, taking yours in his. “In that logbook of Francis’s,” he said slowly, rubbing your palm with his thumb, “he had written his future routes and conquests, remember? We were going to save Court from Francis, not conquer it.”

“Aah,” you groaned, bringing your hands to your face, “Cripes, I am—a complete and utter clod.”

He pushed them away to hold them again. “No, no, no; it was my fault; I didn’t—”

“No, shut up. I’m sorry,” you said, scrunching your nose.

“But—”

“Shh. My fault.” You closed your eyes, trying to ease your breathing. “Thank you.”

Suppressing a smile, Arthur lifted your hands to kiss them, never breaking eye contact with you.

You blushed, a scheme forming in your mind. “Oh—you—”

“Am I all right?”

“You’re fine,” you said, your gaze darting in a triangle between his eyes and mouth, “More than fine. Almost perfect.” You glanced at your shoes and then at his chin.

He raised an eyebrow. “Almost?”

You nodded very slightly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. You swallowed your last nerve, placed your hands on his shoulders, and kissed him, sliding a hand to the back of his neck to tilt his head more towards yours, your fingers grazing a few of his scars, some of them rougher than the others. And bugger, the scent of salt and tealeaves lingered about him after all these years.

You ignored that Arthur had floundered initially, gripping the windowsill nervously before lacing the fingers of both of his hands through your hair, because now he was whispering your name—your name, instead of your title, at last—against your lips.

Arthur was winded when he broke the kiss, his forehead still touching yours. “Are you…are you going to try to gain admittance to Court again after this?” he asked through half-lidded eyes that perhaps weren’t as stupidly green as you’d thought.

You tried to conceal your smile, but it played at the corners of your lips. “No. Never again,” you said, sliding your hand from his neck to his chest. You tilted your head, unable to hide your grin any longer. “And I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hm?” Arthur was beaming along with you, losing his balance and recovering by holding onto the windowpane.

“I’m yours,” you said as he leant down to kiss you again, lifting you slightly as he did so.

The revolution, the wards, the sister expecting the two of you in the hallway—they all could wait. For you, it was done—the deception, the fighting, and the mistaken identities—and the ownership was resolved. The two of you did not belong to anyone but each other.

You had to break the kiss you were smiling so much. You felt happier than you had in over a century, so much that it bubbled inside of you and threatened to escape. For one thought consumed you, and it was all that you needed.

And he was yours.