Pirate!England x Reader: Bookworm Ch.6

{A/n}
So…
There was originally going to be quite a different beginning to this chapter, but I decided against it. I may post that other “chapter” as “.5” of this chapter, but honestly, it wasn't going where I needed it to… Yeah. That's all.
OH! And “translations” for Scottish (and whatever else I feel like) slang in the description, if you have troubles. It's all in order of when it appears, so yeah. Again, let me know if that's too irritating!~

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Chapter Six: Opening Closed Doors


You were sick of this. Completely, totally, utterly sick of it. After being aboard for only a day, you could confidently say that no, a pirate's life was NOT for you. The constant motion of the ship – though soothing when you were trying to sleep – was beginning to frustrate you because you couldn't stay standing in a full, upright position for too long. The food – as was to be expected – was lack luster and often times disgusting (sometimes you wished you could have some of that Mystery Meat back from your high school days instead of the slop you doubted farmers would feed their pigs). The constant fear of being violated or killed was a frequent visitor to your forethoughts. The annoyed glares of the other crew scared you spitless, at times. And the strange, mysterious attentions (and intentions) of Captain Kirkland drew you to your wits' end!

You would be quite content to return to your formerly quiet and subdued lifestyle of being a librarian with a comparable imagination, thank you very much, and away from the ship forever.

Of course, this was not to be. And why should it be? Nothing in life could be so easy. That much was simple fact, one that was acknowledged by all of those with the minds to comprehend it.

Groggy and wishing for the comforts of your own bed, you rolled over and pulled the covers over your head, trying to block out the faithful cheer of the sun reflecting on the water and into your eyes… Then, promptly you opened your eyes, glancing around your immediate surroundings with a trace of terror in your gaze. You did not move anywhere close to the bed last night, you knew. It just… felt wrong on so many levels, as if you would be asking for the wrong kind of attention by curling up on the Captain's bed.

You thought for a moment, then concluded that the person who had laid you to rest on the (surprisingly) comfortable bed was most likely Allistair. This made you relax into the plushness, relief causing your eyelids to droop once more. The Captain was too proud to have moved you, himself. And really, you doubted that he would've wanted you there, to begin with… However, his absence at that time, when you assumed that he would have been getting ready for the day, unnerved you. Had he retired late and resumed early? You were known for being a heavy sleeper, but even you would have noticed if someone had joined you in the bed… Which meant that he had probably never returned to his quarters, and would be extra sour for it. Great.

A peal of knocks suddenly tore through the door, before the young boy, Alfred (doppelganger to your friend at home), walked in. Groaning, you sat up with a yawn, curling the silky blanket around your body as you sleepily greeted the blonde boy with silence and a bleary gaze. Redness touched the boy's fair cheeks as he examined your disheveled figure, but he quickly averted his eyes pointedly before muttering something under his breath.

Due to your grogginess, you heard nothing of what he said. “What was that, hon?” you questioned, your voice rough from the aftermath of tears and deep sleep. “I can't hear you. You're gonna hafta speak up.” You also had the tendency to slur your words tremendously when you were tired. Late nights and (usually troubled) sleeping in places not-home did that to you.

“Captain said he wants you on deck in ten minutes, ready for work. You need to report to the galley for breakfast before you start your chores,” young Alfred clarified, his voice chirping with small breaks occasionally.

The debate between telling Alfred to tell the Captain to drag his head on the bottom of the sea while burying your face back into the pillow and actually obeying orders because you didn't feel like dying anytime soon was resolved for you by a hurried Allistair. He was quick to drag you out of the bed, where you had been so nice and comfortable before, and let you fall to the floor with a dull thump. At your cry of outrage, the Scotsman just chuckled and motioned to Alfred to get going.

“Best ye gie tae followin' those orders, hen. mah brither has bin knoon tae kill a cheil fur dawdlin', an' thaur ur far waur things he coods dae tae yoo… an' Ah happen tae loch ye, hen lassie, sae Ah dornt want onie ay 'at tae happen. Sae coorie!"

With a groan, you buried your face into the side of the bed. “You talk too much, too fast, first thing in the morning, Alli.”

That nickname earned you a scowl and an accompanying growl from the Scotsman, which brought a hidden, satisfied smirk to your lips. But he still offered his hand to help you to your feet, which you accepted with gratefulness. And while you straightened out your clothes, Allistair ruffled your messy bedhead with a grin. “Loch a lassie, arenae ye, hen? fussin' ower yer appearance but forgettin' th' most obvioos part...”

You slapped Allistair's hands away from your head and scowled at the ginger Scotsman. “Haven't had much time to do much to fix that, have I? Ugh, can I have a bandanna, or maybe a brush or comb?”

Allistair started to gently pull you along, his roughened hands feather-light though strong on your arm. “Och aye, an' Ah can dae e'en better than 'at. Ah can gie ye a comb an' a bandanna, but it's gonnae cost ye something…” He looked to your face briefly before ploughing onward, dragging you towards the area you vaguely remembered as housing the galley, or the kitchen of the vessel.

“Still only 'alf awake, ye?” That accent was distinctly Irish in nuance. “Best yer git started, lassy, or you'll fend dat captain isn't near 'alf as kind as yer man 'as been towards yer…” A ginger with freckles galore handed you a small hunk of bread and cheese, along with an orange, and directed you to the otherwise empty table. You sat, and the man – who you assumed to be part of the kitchen staff, if memory served correctly – disappeared into the galley itself.

Looking around, you sneered a bit at the shoddy cleaning job, and you most certainly didn't put your food down on the table. You were alone in the room, realizing only then that Allistair had conveniently disappeared the moment you received your breakfast… if you could call it that.  Sighing, and hearing your belly demand whatever it could get, you began to eat. Aside from the orange, the breakfast was bland, but surprisingly not stale. Then again, what had you expected?

“… an' aam tellin' ye 'at she can pay ye, herself. ask 'er fur whit she plans tae service us aw wi'. Ah willnae be th' a body tae gie ye gauld fur those, ye vile thief...” Allistair's thick Scottish brogue wafted in through the open door.

“Fine, Allistair. But whatever it is she's doing, it had better be worth my goods.”

As soon as Allistair and the man accompanying him entered the room, you turned to look at them with an expression as plain as it was serious. Just as the vaguely familiar man opened his mouth to speak, you held up a hand to silence him. You were in no mood to deal with whatever lewd remarks might spring from the pirate's mouth, and waking up so abruptly had not been helping your patience.

“I tell stories, and dang good ones, too. I used to be a librarian before I got involved in this whole mess, so you can expect to hear only the finest that the world of literature has to offer,” you said, standing up and gazing expectantly into the nameless pirate's brown eyes. “I will offer no other service. Take it or leave it.”

The stranger gave Allistair a pointed look before turning back to you. “… They had better be the best stories I'll hear, lass, or I'll be taking more than my goods back.” He handed you a crude comb made from whale bone, if your eyes weren't lying to you, and a thick square of plain red cloth. “I expect to hear my payment during supper, tonight.” And with that, the man made his exit.

With a relieved sigh, you sat back down, hastily beginning to comb your hair into something a little more presentable and finishing with tying it down with the bandanna. Allistair stood by and waiting for you to finish with your hair, then dragged you to your feet. Looping your arm through his, he half pulled, half escorted you at a rapid pace to above deck. “Waur ye bein' completely honest back thaur, hen? waur ye a bookw'rm afair ye cam tae th' ship?” At your breathless nod (because Allistair's long legs had a pace to be reckoned with), Allistair stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, for once. “Then… ye ken hoo tae reid?"

“Of course I can, Allistair! It was practically part of my job description to know how to read! Really, what good is a librarian that can't read what she's organizing?” you half growled, half snorted.

“...”

You glanced up at Allistair's face in concern. He wanted to say something, but seemed hesitant to do so. In the brief time that you'd known him, you figured that Allistair wasn't afraid to speak anything that was on his mind – even if it meant getting a kiss with a fist. You noted the redness that was creeping up the back of his neck and into his ears worriedly. “… Allistair, do you – ?”

“Teach me,” he responded simply. “An' yoong Alfred, tay. At nicht, afair we gang tae sleep, teach me an' Alfred hoo tae reid.”

You blinked, and your brow furrowed. It wasn't so uncommon that you read with small children in your library, often helping them when they stumbled with larger, more complicated words, but never had you been tasked with the actual teaching position. “I – I don't know what to say, Allistair,” you breathed. “I've never tried teaching someone something like that, before.”

The Scotsman looked into your eyes for a second, then sighed. You had made it to the top deck, where Captain Arthur Kirkland stood, compass in hand, staring into the distance. As the two of you inched closer, Allistair whispered, “Ne'er min', lassie. forgit Ah speart.”

You wanted to reply, saying that it was fine, you simply lacked the confidence to teach, but Captain Kirkland was cranky from lack of sleep. You could tell from the dark crescents under his eyes. And so, you snapped your mouth shut upon seeing the Captain's less than amused glare. Allistair withdrew himself and took up his post at the helm, not once giving you his usual comforting grin. Your eyes had followed the disappointed Scotsman to his post, but you snapped to attention upon realizing that the Captain was standing directly in front of you.

“Did you rest well, [Y/n]?” he questioned, out of the blue. He held your gaze trapped in his own.

… Was that a trick question? Still, he had asked, and it had startled you. Why was the Captain asking, though? When you found your tongue again, you replied stiffly, “… Fine. About as good as you can get when you're held captive against your will on a ship full of pirates.” Ohhh, tired made you sassy. And you were angry with the whole situation, yes, but maybe you should turn it down, a touch. Captain Kirkland was clearly in no mood to be dealing with sass, and he was the man who directly controlled your fate.

Arthur Kirkland's expression tightened, the weariness still in and around his eyes, but all the rest of his face spoke of irritation. “Be grateful, lass. I am a forgiving man. But do not try my patience.”

Your jaw clenched, but you held his gaze. It was time to grow a backbone, but maybe it would be best to get one slowly. Or at least, not show it as much when the Captain was obviously exhausted and cranky.

“Now, get to work.”

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Work, for that day, meant cleaning the common room – the place where everyone sat and ate and hung out after nightfall when they didn't want to go to bed – from top to bottom. Lunch time had been the worst time to be in there, because you had to jealously guard the half you had only finished cleaning a mere ten minutes before the men began pouring in. Some had tried to ignore you, but it's hard to ignore somebody when they're yelling at you and chasing you off with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other.

Several men learned, that day, that it would be wise not to mess with your work – especially if they attempted to sabotage your efforts. And they had the welts to prove it.

Luckily for you, you got closer to the cabin boy, the little Alfred. Normally, it would be his job to tidy up in the common room, but with your taking over part of his chores, he had more free time to be a boy. And he was surprisingly ready to show you his appreciation by talking with you and trying to be your friend. Which was totally and adorably sweet. However, after everyone had filtered out of the common room, you noticed that Alfred walked out of the galley with enough food for two people. When you asked who it was for, Alfred explained that half went to Allistair, and the other half went to Captain.

Allistair was avoiding you.

As the sun began to descend, taking with it the light of the day, and dinner time grew closer, you became close to finishing the large room. Alfred had already finished his chores for the day, so he sat perched on a barrel you had scrubbed voraciously a few hours earlier, talking with you about his dreams to become someone people could rely upon, one day, in the Americas. Because, out of all the places he had seen and been to, the Americans were the people that “had the most heart” and determination. And though the Americans were very stubborn about being self-reliant, they couldn't always feed and care for the poor. They couldn't support the needy. And that's what Alfred wanted to do. In essence, he wanted to be the All-American hero.

Such a sweet boy.

But, he admitted, he was going to have to start small, so he was learning how to lead by serving. And, he offered with a shy smile, if you ever needed a hero, you could always count on him!
This made you giggle. The boy was sweet and very intelligent for one his age, and with his upbringing… It was nothing short of a miracle that Alfie (as he told you that you could call him in private) wasn't a mindless heathen. Granted, he was still boyish and a pain in the butt with his constant jabber, but in the most endearing way. Such intelligence needed honing, you admitted, and what better way could you do that than teaching the boy to read?

Your insecurities in this endeavor were still present, but as you continued to acquaint yourself with Alfie, the more those paled in comparison to the compassion you felt. If there was nothing else you could do to help this boy achieve his dream, then you would do the one thing that you knew that no one else would.

You sent Alfie on a scouting mission for chalk and some sort of slate or old piece of wood that would be smooth enough to write, that no one would miss. “And after you find something,” you added, “please tell Allistair the good news. But don't tell anyone else, ok? These lessons will be our little secret.”

Alfred scampered off, his smile almost the size of his entire face, and promised to keep the lessons a secret. With a shake of your head and a small smile on your lips, you returned to your work with earnest. Maybe the time would go quicker if you worked harder…

The call for supper came the moment after you took a satisfied sigh of relief. The common room was finished, at last. The room practically sparkled in the lamp light! And though you knew they would only mess it all up again, you were satisfied with the accomplishment.

After stowing your cleaning implements off in the corner, where they were less likely to get destroyed in cross-fire arguments or brawls (what? It never hurt to be prepared for such occurrences. They're pirates, after all!), you were abruptly hauled off to the side by the weathered, scarred pirate who had traded with you for the comb (which was tucked away in a fold of your shirt) and the bandanna. He wanted his payment.

But the room began to crowd and get noisier by the second, so you could barely get in a word edge-wise. The men noticed your presence as the grog began to flow. As they became more raucous, the pirate with whom you traded grew all the more impatient for his story. But you were having trouble thinking of a good one with all the noise. And you were tired. Therefore, a headache began to form, so you closed your eyes and attempted to block out all the sounds that were annoying you. Allistair wasn't nearby, so he couldn't help you. Alfred was probably still searching for tools for his impending lessons, so he couldn't act as intermediary. As the trader grew ever more impatient, he shook you by the shoulders, demanding his payment NOW or suffer the consequences…


That was the straw that broke the camel's back.



With a frustrated growl, you pushed back the grubby excuse for a man and stood on top of the chair where you had been corralled into moments before. “HOY!” you screeched. “SHUT UP!”

The chatter drew to a startled halt. All of the men looked to you, and some flinched and recoiled at the unhidden, unbridled frustration on your face.

“Thank you,” you huffed. “Now, I'm going to be telling a story. But none of you will be able to hear it if you're jabbering each others' ears off, so I recommend you all shut up and sit down, if you know what's good for you.”

That earned you some blatant glares and sneers.

“How do we know your stories are any good, brat?”

“Aye, how do we know you're not full of codswallop?”

You glared right back at the doubtful. “Well, you'll never know if you don't find out, will you?”

The hush remained, and you smiled triumphantly as you climbed down from your perch. Perhaps all these men needed was a firm, female hand around to keep them in line...

From the doorway, Allistair smirked, “Alrecht, lassie, ye hae mah attention. whit kin' ay story ur ye gonnae teel?”

Many of the men nodded their affirmation, and you looked to the Scotsman with a twinkle in your eye. You had noticed, from talking with Alfred and overhearing quite a few conversations of the crew, that they didn't understand or recognize many pop culture references. In fact, it was as if they had never tasted the twenty-first century! So you decided then and there that you would cheat a little bit and borrow from one of your favorite franchises.

“Oh, it's nothing, really,” you said, humbly resuming your seat. “Just the story of the greatest pirate who ever lived...”

If that didn't catch their attention, then you didn't know what would. Their eyes focused on your nonchalant form, begging you to continue.

You smirked.

“Let me tell you the story of a pirate called Captain Jack Sparrow...”

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The hushed creak of the door closing roused you from your light slumber.

From the waxing light of the moon outside the window, you could see the outline of the mess of chalk and boards and clearing rags in the corner, tokens from your lesson with Alfred and Allistair earlier. Looking to the other two hammocks in the small room, you saw Allistair breathing softly and Alfred snoring loudly, the moonlight reflecting off their peaceful faces. A faint smile touched your lips, remembering with fondness the eagerness with which both men attacked the alphabet, learning for themselves how to shape each individual capital letter. After all, reading is only half the battle, and writing should go hand-in-hand with reading. At least, that's how you had been taught as a child.

Rolling over in your improvised bedding on the floor, you tried to find a more comfortable position. After several restless minutes, you had to resist the painful urge to growl in frustration. There was no way you were going back to sleep so easily. You needed some fresh air.

Carefully, you slipped out of the brothers' (for apparently Alfred was yet another Kirkland sibling aboard the ship, though he went by the surname of his father, Jones) room and into the hall. All was still and silent. With soft steps and breaths, you tip-toed out onto the main deck, relishing in the gentle zephyr that ruffled your hair.

Looking up into the heavens, you found yourself drifting off to the side, tracing the constellations you recognized with outstretched arms and your fingers. A delighted grin splashed onto your lips, and you sighed with content. At least the stars never changed.

But while you reveled in the fresh air, a certain pirate Captain was standing nearby, watching the moon refract off your hair, giving your skin an ethereal glow. This was the angel he had dragged down onto the earth, he nodded. This was the temptress with the smooth skin and peaceful, mesmerizing face that he had become infatuated with.

A sudden warmth at your side alerted you to another presence, but since they stayed silent, so did you. A weight on your shoulders tore your gaze from the starry firmament back down to the deck of the ship, and more specifically the figure by your side. Captain Arthur Ignatius Kirkland had placed his coat on your frame, leaving it with you to keep you from getting chilled. He blatantly refused to meet your gaze, though the confused tilt of your head was the utmost adorable thing he had ever seen.

“The breeze can get chilly after a while,” he muttered.

That was about as close to an explanation as you were going to get, you acknowledged with a slight sigh. “Thank you,” you replied softly. And your gaze returned to the heavens once more.

Leaning over the railing, Arthur examined your distracted expression. The stars sparkled in your warm eyes, and the act of looking at them seemed to make you peaceful – even despite his presence. Your entire mien seemed softer, less hostile than in the harsh reality of the morning. Or maybe that was just his imagination, because he always seemed to be finding ways to test your nerves.

Maybe this was just a dream, and he would wake up in his bed in his cabin, alone and lonelier than ever for it… But if this was a dream, would he be able to touch you like he wanted to? … Might as well find out.

He reached out and began to lightly trace your cheekbones. Startled, you tried to recoil, but a gentle but firm hand held you in place by the shoulders. With both hands now starting to trace your features, you relaxed your guard enough to not tense at his feather-light touch. Normally, you would never let anyone not extremely close to you touch you so intimately like this, but with Captain Kirkland like this, it couldn't be anything other than a dream.

It… was a dream. Wasn't it?

He was handsome, you had to admit to yourself, in a roguish way. And to him, you were the most divine creature in the world. It was a natural attraction between a lonely woman and a lonelier man, with the craving only for love.

One hand dipped down your neck, sending pleasurable jolts of electricity down your spine, while the other buried into your hair, his thumb gently stroking the skin behind your ear. When the first hand began to ghost over your collarbone, the second went to rest on your cheek. You captured that hand beneath your own, your eyes fluttering closed for a prolonged moment. When you opened your eyes again, your breath caught in your throat. His eyes locked on yours, reeling you into those jade pools, searching for something, seeking something.

Wasn't this a dream?

Upon seeing the beginnings of your panic, Arthur released you, that flash of hurt being the last that you see of his eyes before he withdrew into himself. With a heavy sigh, Arthur resumed leaning over the railing, gazing now into the dark depths of the sea. Dumbfounded, you found yourself staring at the pirate Captain.

“Go back to bed, [Y/n],” Arthur grumbled. “You're going to need your rest.”

In silence, you flitted back down, below deck.

Arthur was reminded then of the mere presence you used to be upon his ship. And now that you were actually there with him, in the flesh, he realized he had no idea what to do now than he did before. He stared at his hands. Normally, they were his perfect tools, the only things he could count on in any situation. Now they were his betrayers, some of the many things that seemed to push you away from him. First they had opened the door to his brothers' room to check on your sleeping face, and now?

He sighed.

In the faint brushes of the dawn, the wind began to pick up. A scent on the wind, one that Captain Arthur Kirkland knew intimately, as all good sea captains do, carried with it danger. The Captain looked into the distance and frowned. That mass in the horizon couldn't be mistaken for anything less than dangerous.



There was a storm coming.








End of chapter six~