Maps
Blinking as he stepped out into the daylight once more, Morse scowled as he caught sight of a smirking pirate not three feet away. He took a hearty gulp of his rum, which he'd been sure to top up before following the captain, and then took the last few steps forward.
"So? What do you want?"
"That's what do you want sir, sailor".
He almost resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the smug man.
Almost.
Catching his snarky look, Jakes' expression immediately soured, and Morse found himself strangely missing the playful look that had left the man's eyes.
"Come on" He snapped, turning.
He quickly jogged to catch up, cursing the pirate's longer legs and trying desperately not to spill his grog. If the Sarge was going to be in a mood, after all, then he'd need it.
"Where are we going?"
"I am going to work; you are going back to DeBryn".
He pulled up short.
"What? No".
Jakes sighed, prayed for some semblance of patience, and then turned to face him.
"What now?"
"You pulled me out of lunch to send me to my room?!"
"Yes".
Morse stared at him.
Jakes raised a solitary eyebrow.
"I'm not a child!"
"No? You sure as hell act like one".
"Called the pot kettle!"
The Sarge stilled, biting back yet another sarcastic remark.
"You've been working on my ship".
"The doctor told me to fit in!"
He snorted in disbelief, and Morse felt his cheeks redden.
"You couldn't fit in if you tried! Look at you! An educated city boy with rich parents".
He shook his head.
"You're on a pirate ship, brat. Each and every single person onboard has killed at least a score of men; even your pretty little friend Trewlove… How could you ever hope to fit in?"
Morse's eyes burned and he briefly considered throwing his tankard at the irritating prat's head.
Then he considered the waste of rum and decided against it.
His only weapon now were his words.
"Oh yea?" He challenged, "And how the hell did you manage?"
Jakes blinked in surprise, obviously having expected him to cower away from his insults.
Unfortunately for him, Morse had been hurt a fair bit worse in the past.
"If I'm such a city boy then what are you, Sarge?" He continued, "The crown's spy?"
His hand flung to the blade at his hip, and the younger man couldn't help but laugh, "Look at yourself, captain. Riled up by mere words… And yet you call me a brat".
"Watch your tongue".
"No, actually, I don't think I will" He snapped, taking a step forward and pausing only long enough to take another sip of rum.
His head was starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy, and he didn't think he'd ever been so confident.
"Rumour has it, you began in the King's navy. So, if either of us are less likely to fit in onboard a pirate ship, it sure as hell isn't me. Yes, I've been working, and yes, I've been… making friends, of a sort. But I'm only here until you reach port".
Taking another swig of grog, he took another step closer until he could feel the heat and anger than rolled off the man in waves.
"So would it really kill you to play nice until then?"
Jakes seemed to actually consider his words for a moment, before slowly releasing his death grip on the cutlass and straightening up.
"… You are so lucky that you're drunk".
"What?"
Morse frowned, completely thrown by the off-hand remark.
"I'm not drunk!"
"You're literally swaying on your feet".
"I'm on a boat!"
"A ship" Jakes snapped, "My ship. And I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here!"
"Yea, because I'm standing right in front of you!"
"Then why is your skin flushed?"
"Because I'm angry!"
"Oh, just- Here, give me the damn rum".
"… That won't exactly make me any less angry".
"Brat".
"I'm not a child!"
"And I refuse to start this argument again!" Jakes finished, "So give me the bloody alcohol, now".
Morse pouted, then scowled when it didn't work.
Ignoring the faint buzzing in his ears, he jumped back out of the man's reach and quickly tried to down the rest of the rum.
"Hey! What did I just say?!"
The captain lunged at him but Morse was quicker.
Feeling strangely giddy, he laughed and dashed for the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck.
"Get back here!"
"Or what?" He taunted, swinging around a mast and then frowning as his head continued spinning long after he'd stopped.
"Or- Or I'll- I'll put you on mess duty for a month!"
"But I thought you didn't like me working?"
Jakes growled and shot forward, managing to catch the edge of his shirt just as he made it to the quarterdeck rail. It was the same place they'd both stood all those nights before, and he found himself strangely mournful that it wasn't yet dark.
"Give me that!" the captain snapped, finally pulling the tankard away from him, and Morse sighed loudly and collapsed heavily against the rail.
"Traitor".
"Brat".
"Bastard".
Jakes slowly turned to him; a solitary eyebrow raised.
Morse meekly avoided his gaze.
"… Too far?"
The silence said more than words.
They stared out at the murky waters far beyond the ship, stretching as far as the eye could see, and then even further on again. It wasn't as beautiful as it was by night, but Morse could still see the appeal, especially since the sea was calm today. He still felt vaguely ill whenever he remembered the wild storm that had battered the waves against the last ship he'd been on, not even three days into their journey.
But now, as he looked out with the occasional seagull passing overhead, he was quite in awe of those powerful treacherous waters. The clouds reflected on the ocean below him, and his own head felt just as light. There was a fire in his chest, the grog having warmed him to the core, and with plenty alcohol to go around, he could see why pirates fell in love with sailing.
"I think I might love rum" He said suddenly.
Jakes snorted.
"You won't love it tomorrow morning".
Now that his memory was jogged, Morse turned to stare at the tankard that the man still held, and found the captain doing the same. There wasn't much left in it, the remains either peacefully laying in Morse's own stomach, or else spilt across the deck from his impromptu running session.
Jakes shook the cup lightly, watching as the golden splash from side to side, before suddenly raising the tankard and downing it in one go.
Morse watched him, transfixed.
There was something strangely intimate about the older man placing his mouth where Morse's had been, drinking from the same mug, gulping the same alcohol that he himself had already partly drank. With his head thrown back to swallow, he could see a long pale column of his neck exposed, and Morse briefly wondered what it'd look like covered in bites. When the rum was finally finished, he lowered the tankard with dextrous fingers, his pink tongue darting out to lick a drop from even pinker lips.
Morse found himself feeling deliciously hot.
He tried to blame it on the alcohol.
He failed.
"Well, that's that then" Jakes said, completely oblivious to his staring, "I need to warn Strange to ration your drinks. If you're like this after only two mugs…"
The man's piercing gaze landing on him, and Morse quickly shook himself out of the daydream.
"I only had one and a half" He protested, "The rest is either on deck or in you!"
"There was barely a mouthful left".
"You're a mouthful!"
Jakes blinked.
Morse flushed.
They both looked away.
After a few minutes, the captain cleared his throat.
"You should go back to DeBryn".
He quickly raised his hand when the younger man began to protest.
"I'm not ordering you to, I just think it's a good idea. You're gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow, and he's the only one onboard with some semblance of a cure. You'll thank me later, trust me".
"Okay".
They both startled at the sudden admission.
Morse mentally cursed himself and avoided the man's intense gaze.
Trust me.
Okay.
The man was a pirate for christ's sake, and not just any pirate, but Peter bloody Jakes, one of the most renowned pirates on the seven seas and he'd just said okay to trusting the bloody bastard because his brain to mouth filter was apparently no longer working.
He never wanted to have rum again.
Morse groaned and swore as he tossed and turned later that night.
He'd quickly gone back to the infirmary at Jakes' suggestion, and then complained to DeBryn about having too much grog all the while trying not to furiously blush over how his conversation with the captain had ended.
In order to avoid the man further, he'd given into the doctor's orders to go to bed, and had fallen asleep almost immediately. Nearly nine hours later, he had a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and weirdly sweaty palms. Morse had downed half a gallon of water before lying down; DeBryn promising him that it was the only way he'd be able to function once he woke up.
He didn't want to think how bad it'd be if he hadn't had the water.
But now, here he was, no longer tired and feeling horribly ill and having absolutely nothing to do because the rest of the bloody ship had only just gone to sleep.
He paused; pillow half turned over in his hands.
The rest of the ship were asleep.
A slow grin spread across his face.
The rest of the ship were asleep.
It had been far too long since he'd seen the stars.
Mind made up, he staggered out of bed and tugged on his trousers, leaving his feet bare. There was something oddly reassuring about feeling the ship move underneath him, and the wooden boards would still be warm from the sun.
Silently opening the infirmary door, he made sure than no one else was around before quietly slipping out. It was far earlier than when he used to sneak away, and the clouds were blocking the moon. As a result, he couldn't see more than two feet in front of him, but he didn't want to risk lighting a lamp.
Cursing as he stubbed his toe off something, he quickly bit down on his hand to stop any further noise.
The floorboards creaked ominously above him, and in the distance, he heard a rustling of papers.
Morse frowned.
Who the hell was reading at this hour?
And now that he thought about it, follow up question, who the hell onboard could actually read?
Morse had taught himself at a very young age. His father would read the newspaper out loud while his stepmother made breakfast, and directly below them in the basement, he had heard every word. Once the paper was finished, Gwen usually brough it down along with a slice of bread and tossed it at him for bedding. Instead, he had always carefully unfolded the yellowing parchment and tried to match up what he heard to what he could see, eventually advancing to tracing out the letters one by one with a stick of coal.
After a few years, reading and writing ended up saving his life, and he soon ran away to Oxford on a scholarship he'd secretly applied for.
But here, now, onboard a ship full of dirty uneducated pirates, there was someone else who could read?
He knew DeBryn could, of course, but the doctor had gone to bed himself not an hour ago, and although he remembered Strange poured over a ships log at one point, he could also hear the man's rambunctious snoring echoing through the halls.
Creeping down the lower deck, he kept one hand outstretched to stop him hitting off of anything else, and trailed the other along the wooden walls to help guide him. It wasn't until he reached the other end of the ship that he caught a flash of tell-tale light spilling out from underneath a closed door.
Morse frowned.
He had never been in that room before, and he struggled to remember what DeBryn had called it.
Stepping forward, he cautiously placed his ear against the worn wood and tried to hear something else.
There was movement inside, he was sure of it.
Papers turning, a rustling of maps, and-
Cursing?
Morse's frown only deepened.
He recognised the voice and tried his best to place it, but before he could succeed, there was the tell-tale scraping of chair legs against the wooden floor.
Biting back his own curse, he quickly spied two barrels in the corner opposite him and managed to duck down behind the pair just as the door opened.
Warm yellow light formed an unearthly halo around Jakes as he glared at a pile of papers in his hands. His hat was missing, revealing surprisingly fluffy hair which was sticking up in all directions from the man constantly running his fingers through it. His shirt collar was also open, revealing that tantalising stretch of skin once more, and Morse swallowed thickly at the sight.
Jakes paused just inside the door, before angrily flinging the papers at the table inside.
"Bloody things will never make sense".
Grabbing the lamp, he stopped at the door once more, before swinging the light around in a wide arch as if suspecting someone there.
Morse ducked his head and prayed not to be seen.
After a moment, and with another swear, Jakes put the light down on the desk inside, closed the door and started for the ladder. He made his way above deck in the total darkness with ease, the bastard, and Morse cautiously counted to ten before straightening up.
He stretched stiff limbs and fumbled for the door handle, quickly shutting it again behind him as he ducked into the warmly lit room.
Once he was sure that no one had heard him, he turned his attention to what had irritated the captain so much.
And then swore himself.
The room was an absolute disaster.
Slowly stepping forward, Morse stared at the heaps of maps on the desk in the centre of the room, the clearly abused equipment scattered all over the floor, and the rows upon rows of books and papers haphazardly shoved into whatever space they could fit in the bookshelves.
No wonder Jakes was annoyed.
He racked his brain for any mention of a navigator, for this was clearly his room, but the only thing he could remember was an offhand comment DeBryn made about needing to find a port anyway because they were down one man. It wasn't too much of a stretch to realise that the man they were short was the one in charge of steering.
He glanced back at the closed door, and then at the messy unorganized room once more.
His main area of study had been the Greats when he was up, but he'd also dabbled in ciphers and cartography, liking how similar the numbers could get to poetry. He'd always dreamed of getting away, and even though escaping to Oxford had all but killed him, he always promised himself that he'd put even more distance between him and his parents after he got his degree.
Morse gave a wry smirk.
He hadn't quite expected it to be like this, however.
Either way, it meant that the maps and charts on the table weren't as foreign to him as it seemed that they were to Jakes, and any semblance of organization at all would help the captain tremendously.
And besides, it wasn't as if he was getting any more sleep tonight.
So, taking a deep breath, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, careful to not catch on any bandage, and tried to figure out where to start.
It was time to prove just how well he could fit in.