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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Eight

When at last a drowsy crewman came to end your shift, you were infinitely grateful. You handed him the slightly damp logbook, almost dropping it in the fumbling of hands, and nodded good-night. You did not envy the poor blighter who had the second night watch. You thought the first was trouble enough; four hours was entirely too long to stare at the same patch of water until night fell, and yesterday’s rain didn’t help to ease the discontentment that already came with the watch. You didn’t fancy your shift; perhaps you could barter it off to someone with a better internal clock—but no one wanted the night shifts. Everyone was far too exhausted to do anything by then.

It was for that reason that you were surprised to see that the captain had come out on deck just past midnight. He was usually in in quarters, doing who knows what, by now, never to emerge until the shine of early morning, but here he was, hunched over the side-rail in what seemed like lethargic loss.

You were debating whether to approach him when he stumbled over his own feet, almost tumbling over the handrail. Something had to be wrong with him—as there always was with him—so you admitted defeat and wandered over to him. You couldn’t have the captain tipping overboard on your watch.

His balance problem became apparent the moment you stood next to him: he was glaring at the horizon with a mostly empty rum bottle in his hands. His grip on it was faltering through the idle fidgeting of his fingers. If he had been wearing his gloves, he would have dropped the bottle long ago.

“Captain? Are you all right?” You nudged him with your elbow. “Captain?”

“Hm?” He edged to the right. “I’m fine.”

You smirked. “I’ve never seen a more sombre ‘fine’ in my life.” You looked around the deck to see if anyone else could take care of this. “Care to tell why you’re drunk?”

“I’m not,” the captain said, his words inarticulate, “I am not.”

“Of course; denial’s your thing, I’ve noticed.” You slouched over the railing yourself. You inspected the bottle again. “Isn’t that over the ration?”

“I’m the bloody captain; I can drink as much as I want.” He took a swig. “And Matthew doesn’t know, anyway. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Whatever you say, maudlin.”

Whatever you say. Huh. I could say anything I care to, and he won’t remember in the morning, you thought, Incredibly tempting. But then, I kind of want to sleep.

“Well, then, I guess I’m going to turn in,” you said, rubbing a sore spot on your neck and moving in a general galley direction, “I’ll report first thing tomor—”

“You’re not leaving,” the captain told you, limply beckoning, “Come back here.”

So close. You returned exasperatedly to his side, your fingers scraping the railing ridge. When he did not say anything else, you tried to follow his line of vision—sporadic as it was—to the spot on the water, but there was nothing extraordinary about it. Was he ever going to say anything? You surely weren’t going to be the first to speak. You wouldn’t be that weak.

“So,” you said, dragging out the syllable, “I trust you’re well?”

“Don’t toy with me. It’s sickening.” The captain grimaced as he swallowed another mouthful of rum. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Never said I was,” you told him, “You shouldn’t flatter yourself that much.”

He squinched up his face. “Haven’t I said…?”

“No. I’m not going to spew your words back at you. I’m not that low.”

“I—erm. Am not.” He took another drink in order to not say anything more.

You thought the silence was deafening, and you couldn’t stand the unease. You idly began to braid a small part of your hair and vaguely wondered how Matthew was going manage his smashed fingers tomorrow morning.

You jumped when the captain snaked an arm around you, his hand pressing onto the spot just above your left hip. “Wha—Capta—g-get off! Have you no integrity?” You tried to pry him off, but he tightened his grip. “Let go, y’minger.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Remember to whom you are speaking.”

He would have been frightening in almost any other situation, but right now he was struggling to say the words correctly. His ‘t’s were blunted, and he fell short on some of the vowels; his orthoepy was so poor that it was as if his tongue were half-frozen. He did not even know what he was doing.

You sighed, “I’m speaking to a cad who can’t hold his liquor.” You ceased your struggling—you didn’t stand a chance leaving, anyway. You didn’t think he currently had the mental capabilities to do anything.

“I’ll have you know,” Captain Kirkland said, prodding your foot with his own, “that I can’t argue with that.” He adjusted a strap on his coat. “Except the my being a cad. D’you really think that ill of me?”

“With all my heart,” you told him. You took the bottle away from him and added, “You imbecile.”

“Oy.” He tried to grab it back, but you threw the bottle across deck. His flintlock fell out of his belt. “I’m not that much of an idiot. I’m not stupid; I know someone’s planning a mutiny,” he said, stooping to pick up the gun, much to your discomfort of him having one on hand when he was intoxicated, “And I’m ready for it, whenever it happens.”

What? No. He can’t know, you thought as he slid his arm around you again, Change the subject. Now.

“The next time you speak, use words. You’re an inarticulate mess. Honestly, Captain, I thought you were supposed to set an example.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, drawing you a little closer to him, “but no. All I can do is tell people what not to do. Learnt from my own experiences.” The captain was too warm to be healthy. His body temperature had skyrocketed. “But I don’t always tell the exact truth about them. I like to see Francis suffer.” His face was flushed as well, but his stupidly green eyes were unexpectedly bright.

“That’s a bit sadistic.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“You forget you’re on board with the most froward scoundrel since William the Bastard,” he said, grinning.

You blinked. You didn’t account for his knowing anything outside of thalassic information. Perhaps he was cleverer than you thought.

“William the Conqueror, then?” You flicked his sleeve. “I take it you’re a fan?”

“Absolutely.”

“I must admit,” you said, on the verge on laughter, “I don’t see how.”

“Yeah, I know,” the captain said, finally letting go of you and gesturing loosely with his hands, “he was the invading force, yes, and he did loads of wretched things. Like screwing around with the clergy and others about which I’m not comfortable speaking. But the false retreat? So amazing.” He propped a hand against the railing again, slipping a little because of the dampness, and gazed up at the stars. “And yes, then they came back to fire blindly at us, and Harold was killed. Bloody brilliant death, though. Shot through the eye with an arrow.”

You were smiling, not even out of spite, but you didn’t want to say anything. This drabble was almost too good to be true. It was the first time you had seen him thoroughly passionate about something—or at least frothing about something. He seemed to swop between utter loathing and complete admiration for this invader, and it was actually kind of nice. Okay, it may just be the alcohol talking, but you were taking it.

“I wouldn’t fancy it myself, but it was still a pretty honourable way to die. You can’t do anything about an arrow to the eye, Kitts. I mean, what would you do with it? D’you push it through, or pull it out? Wrong,” he said to your open mouth, “You can’t do a thing. You’re dead. The horse thing was also really peculiar, but that wasn’t until later.”

“I know,” you said, remembering what Naomi had told you about the Battle of Hastings. That seemed so long ago now.

The captain sighed. “And then the nobility was just…” He made a small flicking motion with his hand. “…eradicated. Such a blasted shame.” The wind began to make a shambles of his hair. Captain Kirkland didn’t say anything for a while, but he lazily tried to trace a constellation with his finger.

He clasped his hands together. “But! It had to happen. New era. And Allistor thought it was a laugh until William paid him a visit. Misery loves company.”

You smiled softly. “You’re the only person I know who would babble about history when he’s intoxicated.”

“Hey, it’s my history,” he said, stretching his arms above his head, “and we’ve already established that I’m extremely conceited.”

That was true. Well, both were true. You had forgotten for a minute that he was a country. He had become just your captain.

“I can’t deny that,” you said, “but I have a question. Exactly how much did you drink? You’re being ridiculous.”

“Eh,” he said, waving you off, “Lost count after my somethingth bottle.”

You yawned. After a brief pause, you said, “Honestly, Captain. Have you always been like this?”

“Like what?” He put his hands in the pockets under his coat.

“So—”

“Charming? Heady?”

“Determinedly puerile.”

You immediately knew you had said the wrong thing. The captain’s mouth twitched, and he narrowed his eyes. He bent over the railing, this time farther away from you.

Aaaaand I upset him. Brilliant, you thought, glancing over, but he shouldn’t be. I’ve said worse. He’s said worse. Who cares? The alcohol does, obviously. But there’s nothing I can do about it. It’ll pass.

The two of you stood in silence for a while, much longer than the other times had been, but it was not as uncomfortable for you. You tried to identify some of the constellations that Dylan had taught you, although some of them were blocked by the rainclouds of yesterday. You didn’t know them all, but you did know that they were awfully pretty. Shiny. It made you feel worse that you were stuck on this ship.

The last thing on your mind was what came of out his mouth. “Why you?”

You were taken aback. “What?”

“Why you, of all people? Why were you the root of all of this trouble? Do you know what I’ve had to do?” He pushed his fringe out of his face. “I’ve got to go out of my way to find Francis—under peaceful terms, even—and I’ve had to draw a blasted tr-truce between Antonio and me. The truce is rubbish, Kitts. Pure rubbish.” His tongue flicked out of his mouth before he glowered at you. “You still technically belong to Antonio. But I’m disregarding that.”

“I don’t belong to anybo—”

“Shut up. Of course you do, y’fobbing charlatan. But why you? You’re so small and insignificant. You have noth-nothing to do with the progress of the world. Why you? It shouldn’t be you.” He gripped the handrail until his knuckles turned white. “You’re so much trouble.”

Your lips curled in while you thought about what to say. “Please understand; I didn’t mean—”

“I didn’t think it possible, but I sincerely and irrevocably hate you. I’ve never really hated anyone before, but, but now…” The captain cleared his throat. “Bugger, you hellion. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. No wonder Antonio was so keen to get rid of you.”

“Shut up,” you said, your voice cracking, “Shut up. He would never—”

“D’you want to know exactly how the peace came about?” He circled around to your right side. “Antonio and I show up at the rendezvous to discuss something completely different—our commercial relations—but the subject turns to you. Excuse me, to Barbados. Antonio mentions that Barbados is, in fact, safe at home in Court. And I say that was kind of funny. Antonio, he’s, he’s taken aback.” He sneezed, taking a little away from the pressure he was trying to force on you. “Ah. He says that Saint Kitts is the one that’s missing. Not even missing! Lovino was on the ship we at-attacked. He told Antonio what happened, and he didn’t even care. He only wanted to stop fighting with me.”

You shook your head. “Shut up,” you choked out, stepping back and slipping slightly on the dank deck, “Spain wouldn’t do that; he—”

The captain laughed. “Spain. You still respect him enough to call him by his title. That’s a laugh. He doesn’t care about you, darling. Antonio didn’t even fight for you. He just, just gave you to me.” He would’ve held a sour expression if he hadn’t been so under alcoholic influence.

“Don’t say that.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, doing your best not to cry. You wouldn’t let him see that. Screw it; he wouldn’t remember your crying. You gave yourself permission. “Don’t you dare say that. He cared. He still cares.”

He ignored you. “And the crew… the crew probably th-thinks I’ve gone soft. For not killing you. Like I usually do with prisoners.” The captain lifted his hands to stare at them, and for the first time that night, his eyes were wide open. “I have not gone soft. I haven’t. I can’t!” He paused briefly before whipping his flintlock out of his belt and aiming it at you. “I can’t,” he snarled, shaking his head.

And this is how it ends, you thought, You basta… Bugger. Unnaturally green.

You braced yourself as he pulled the trigger, but no shot even came. Captain Kirkland shook the gun and tried the trigger again, but again it failed.

“Bugger,” he muttered, “Blasted wet gunpowder…”

And yesterday’s rain had saved you. Brilliant, but now you had to deal with him further.

The captain scowled. “Get back to work.”

You backed away to retreat to the galley before he could change his mind. You had had enough of his alcoholic babbling, and you neither wanted to see it nor that recalcitrant cur ever again.