Chapter Text
“Captain, there’s a pirate ship approaching!”
Buggy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ease the headache that has been killing him since the morning. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep for an hour or two, but it seems that’s not on the cards for him.
Just his fucking luck.
He looks at the young recruit that came in with the news, standing by his door and waiting eagerly. Gods, he’s young, he really needs to stop picking up every runt he comes across: he’s never going to build a fearsome crew with these children.
(The thing is, he knows what it’s like to be a teen, all alone in the world, and he wouldn’t wish it upon his worst enemy, who, coincidentally, does know what it’s like to be a teen all alone in the world but that’s not here nor there).
“How far away are they?” he asks, sitting up with great effort. His head gives another throb and he swallows a curse: now is not the time to be focusing on such nothings. He briefly considers just leaving the room as he is, before he decides against it: presentation is important.
“Close,” the recruit replies, cheeks tinted red with embarrassment. Of course he can’t estimate how far away they are: how long has he been on the ship anyway? Buggy rolls his eyes as he puts on his cape, sending an errant hand to fetch his hat. “The lookouts spotted it too late,” he continues and Buggy does let out a curse this time around: this is bad, real bad. “They have a white flag, though.”
Buggy pauses midmotion, frowning at the news. Curious. “Someone we know?” he asks, although he’s not sure that’s a good thing: he wouldn’t claim to be on friendly terms with any other pirate crew, although he’s been known to work with some on occasion. He tries avoiding alliances though: life has taught him pirate alliances always end in betrayal, one way or another; given enough time, anyone will stab you in the back.
(Even those that claim to love you. Especially those, actually).
The recruit hesitates, chewing on his lip softly. “By reputation,” he answers after a beat and Buggy huffs, pushing past the young man. By reputation, he thinks and that’s a hundred times worse: it can’t be good news, to get noticed by some big name. Those have a tendency to come with a lot of problems and not enough benefits; they’re far harder to fool and/or backstab should the need arise.
Lots of screaming greet him as he comes onto the deck, men running around like headless chickens, since it’s clear no one has any idea what to do. Gods, he needs to bring these bunch of children to shape before they get themselves (and more importantly him) killed. Maybe he’ll make them run a few drills later, so he can figure out how lost they truly are.
(If they’re still alive, that is.)
“Which way?” he yells at the man atop the watchpost. He makes a face after noticing it’s Cabaji and the boy has the decency to look ashamed: he’s been with Buggy the longest and he considers him something close to his right hand man; he had expected better from him.
(But then, Buggy knows a thing or two about being let down. He should know better than to trust anyone really.)
“North, Captain,” the teen replies and Buggy hums as he sends a severed hand to retrieve the spyglass from his not-quite first mate. He intends to assess the risk, figure out if they’re better off trying to outrun the other ship or if their best bet will be to start bringing out the canons, because like hell he’s going to trust a random white flag. But then his eyes land on the other ship’s jolly roger and his heart comes to an abrupt stop in his chest.
Only one thing to do.
“Bring out the canons,” he orders and scowls when the men hesitate, sharing nervous looks among themselves instead. “Well?!” he demands, quickly growing annoyed as the men continue to stand around dumbly.
“Shouldn’t we listen to what they have to say, Captain?” one of the new recruits peeps quietly (Gods, how is he even younger than the others?!). Buggy glares and Mohji squeaks, squeezing his lion cub against his chest, making the poor animal let out a startled yelp of his own, but he does hold his stare with some modicum of bravery.
He’s a kid, really, but he’s got some semblance of backbone and he’s fiercely protective of the damn lion, devoted even, which tells Buggy he’s probably a good element to have around: loyalty is, after all, a rare virtue in a pirate.
He huffs. He doesn’t give a fuck what Shanks has to say after ten years of silence, but he supposes he can indulge him this once. If nothing else, it’ll only boost his standing among his crew: there are few who’d dare to stand up to the infamous Red Haired Shanks.
“Fine,” he mumbles unhappily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t drop your guard, though,” he warns, even if he knows there’s no point in it: the crew wouldn’t stand a chance against Shanks’s even trying their best, but he also knows Shanks isn’t here to fight. Not like that, at the very least.
(He knows he won’t hurt his men. Himself, on the other hand? Well, that he’s not so sure.)
He pinches the bridge of his nose once more, his headache now a fullblown migraine: when he woke up with his head pounding, he had foolishly thought his day couldn’t get any worse.
He should have known better than to tempt fate.
The ship that pulls up next to them is not the Red Force and Buggy has no idea how to feel about that. The man standing at the deck is not Shanks either, but his first mate, who Buggy recognizes from his many bounty posters. He’s even more imposing up close and Buggy has to hold back a shiver: the man has the same serious air of Rayleigh whenever he meant business and suddenly he feels ten-years-old again, having gotten himself in trouble for following Shanks’s dumb plans.
He pushes his hair back, straightening his back as he watches the newcomers board his ship, looking for all intents and purposes calm and self assured despite his heart hammering against his chest. He has figured out by now that Shanks hasn’t come himself, a fact for which he’s not sure if he’s thankful or not.
Benn Beckman and the other two officers approach the quarterdeck to join him, Buggy’s crew parting around them as they whisper nervously among themselves. The two accompanying officers are looking around, trying to look merely curious but their gazes are assessing and Buggy tries not to bristle at the thought of being found lacking.
He keeps his gaze locked on Beckman though, watching the other two men from the corner of his eye. The man is watching him curiously, head slightly tilted to the side as he gives him a once over. He seems puzzled, mostly and wisely wary: this is a man used to identifying threats and dealing with them. It’s clear he hasn’t decided if Buggy is a threat or not and so he remains on guard.
“Your Captain’s got some nerve,” Buggy comments, keeping his voice even and carefully dismissive. “What, the bastard could not be bothered to come himself?”
The officers bristle, as Buggy assumed they would and he offers them a smirk. He’s somewhat nervous, knowing he has no way of winning a fight against these men, but he’s more or less confident that, if nothing else, Shanks instructed them not to fight him and so he’s probably safe, even if he keeps running his mouth.
Beckman however barely reacts, a raised eyebrow the only sign he did hear him. He gives him another once over, searching for clues no doubt and Buggy forces himself to hold still, expression betraying nothing, smirk firmly in place.
“I’m afraid our Captain is indisposed,” Beckman finally replies evenly, earning himself surprised squeaks from his companions, as one of them hurries to whisper something urgently to him. Beckman ignores him, eyes fixed on Buggy still, watching his reaction carefully.
His treacherous heart betrays him, squeezing painfully in his chest, making him grit his teeth and clench his fist for a beat. Beckman’s satisfied nod tells him he didn’t miss it and Buggy scowls: what a bastard.
“He’d better be dying,” he replies after a beat, trying to imprint all his contempt in the words, his foolish heart betraying him once more as a trace of concern slips into the last word. It seems no one notices though, judging by Shanks’s officers unhappy frown and his men's many dramatic (and terrified) gasps.
There’s no need for concern, though. Shanks’s not dying, of course: the bastard would not do him that favour.
“Not anymore,” Beckman replies, earning himself a new round of protests from his companions, but Buggy barely notices, his heart having come to an abrupt stop for the second time that day. Not anymore? What the fuck does that mean?! “He got deadly injured recently, though. Our doctor ordered total rest for a while.”
It’s a dangerous thing to say in the presence of an enemy crew or at least one that’s not explicitly allied to you. Beckman’s companions are whispering urgently among themselves while trying to get the first mate’s attention, but he continues ignoring them, his gaze locked on Buggy.
Buggy considers this. Maybe Beckman doesn’t consider him (them) enough of a threat, maybe he’s figured there’s nothing he can do with such knowledge even if he wished Shanks ill: he simply doesn’t have the strength to face him, even injured as he might be (even near dead, apparently!). But somehow he doubts Beckman is such a self assured fool, who thinks himself and his crew too strong to fall: no, this isn’t a man who doesn’t fear retribution, he’s simply a man fishing for answers, baiting Buggy into revealing something.
But what exactly is he looking for? Which question does he want answered?
That’s the thing, isn’t it? “Am I supposed to care?” he asks, trying to imprint his words with indifference, but he suspects it’s a losing battle. His heart is hammering too loudly in his chest, panic rising with every passing minute. Beckman has said Shanks isn’t dying (anymore), but--
“Don’t you?” the first mate asks him and Buggy glares, every nerve in his body alight with tension. He shouldn’t, he knows and he’d definitely never admit it out loud, but, unfortunately, he does.
“Is there a point to this?” Buggy asks, pretending to be bored with the conversation, mostly tired of playing games: Shanks is alive and that’s what matters, everything else… he doesn’t give a fuck. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Captain wishes to talk to you,” Beckman replies and Buggy’s treacherous heart gives another little flutter. Ugh, that fucking bastard.
He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, earlier concern replaced with annoyance and hurt. What, does he expect him to drop everything and run to him, like some… idiot in love? Just because he was injured? He’s not even dying anymore! What right does he have to Buggy’s time? Does he think that just because he’s finally gotten his head out of his ass and has looked for him, Buggy owes him shit? “Tell him to go to hell,” he sentences, earning himself new dramatic gasps. One of Shanks’s Commanders reaches for something in his belt (a pistol, if Buggy had to take a guess) and the other looks ready to fight too, enraged on their Captain’s behalf. Beckman continues holding Buggy’s stare evenly, but a wrinkle has appeared between his eyebrows, not quite frowning, but certainly unhappy with Buggy’s words. “Now get off my ship before I lose what little patience I have left.”
His own men are whispering urgently among themselves, some desperately trying to get Buggy’s attention, most begging him to try to defuse the situation somewhat, some apologizing on their Captain’s behalf, none of them eager to face the other pirates, even if there’s just three of them against a couple dozen of them.
Cowards, the lot of them.
Beckman nods slowly, seemingly having come to a decision. “Very well,” he agrees, voice entirely too even and Buggy frowns: he was not expecting such easy acceptance. “We’re staying at Dawn, a week or so away from here,” he adds and Buggy huffs. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. “Windmill village. I expect we’ll stay for a month or so, until Captain’s ready for discharge. Do with that information what you will.”
His companions are whispering something urgently once again, but the first mate is already turning on his heel, heading for the plank connecting the two ships, clearly unbothered. Buggy’s gaze remains on his retreating back, heart still beating erratically, anger making him feel overly warm, the last traces of fear leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth.
Fuck! How he hates that fucking bastard!
And yet--
The fucking nerve of that fucking bastard! How dare he do this to him?! After a decade of silence, what right does he have to come now and… and mess with his mental peace?!
His crew jumps out of his way as he stalks across the halls, whispers following his wake. Even those who didn’t witness the “confrontation” above deck must have heard what happened by now and to say people are nervous would be an understatement. The crew is terrified and Buggy supposes they have good reasons to be: to an outsider, the way he addressed Shanks’s officers looks more than a little suicidal. But if they knew-- if they understood--
Buggy is the injured party here! He’s the victim of Shanks’s bullshit!
He can’t tell them that, though. He can’t explain the context, because that’d give too much away. He’s done his very best to bury his connection to the Pirate King and his crew, to hide who he was once upon a time. It’s just too dangerous.
He slams the door open and stalks into the room, slamming it close as soon as he’s inside. The scream that has been tearing at his throat for the last ten minutes or so finally escapes him, leaking frustration and hurt.
He allows himself to fall onto his knees, disintegrating into a pile of severed limbs shortly after. He’s still screaming, he’s vaguely aware and he can feel fat hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s not upset, he’s not! He’s furious! These are angry tears, not sad ones!
A loud wail escapes him and he pounds the floor with too much force, screaming all the while. Stupid Shanks, always messing with his head! How dare he? How dare he?!
Pain explodes across his knuckles and that’s when he realizes he’s broken skin. Which is quite a fucking feat, considering the whole room is padded, especially built to not let sound out.
He lets out a quiet whimper, mixed with a sob, still hitting the walls but more weakly now. Not because of the pain, not really, but because he feels drained. What a fucking horrible day, he can’t wait for it to be over.
Not a day goes by without him thinking about Shanks, not a day goes by without his heart breaking into a million pieces. He’s gotten used to the pain, and has learned to deal with it. For the most part, what angers him the most is his inability to get over it, not the fact that the fucker left him. Worst still is knowing he’s doing fucking dandy for himself, that he’s better off without Buggy: the confirmation of all his fears.
And now-- now--
Not anymore, Beckman’s voice resonates inside his head and Buggy groans as he sits back on his haunches, glaring at the ceiling. What happened? he wonders and for a brief moment, berates himself for not asking for more details. But he doesn’t care, not one bit, so why should he have? He knows Shanks isn’t immortal, nor unbeatable, but he had thought-- he had always thought--
Well. He had thought many things about Shanks, hadn’t he? And with how many of them turned out to be a lie, why would he think this is any different? The idiot was always reckless and stupid and too strong for his own sake. It was a dangerous combination that was bound to get him in trouble sooner or later.
Did he get into a fight? With who? Over what? Did he rush into trouble without a plan? Did his soft heart make him get involved in something he shouldn’t? Was he so busy playing hero that he bit more than he could chew?
He doesn’t care, he reminds himself. He’s afraid he cares too much.
He twists his mouth unhappily as he remembers Shanks’s latest bounty poster. He had noticed the new scar straight away: hard not to, considering just how fucking big and jarring it was. Buggy’s heart had leaped to his throat, leaving him breathless for a beat, a ridiculous thought taking the forefront of his mind: that this was his fault.
It wasn’t. He knows it wasn’t. But the thing is, Shanks is strong, but he’s also a reckless fighter, way too used to Buggy watching his back to bother doing it himself. He’s fairly certain that’s what happened: he got distracted and forgot to keep an eye on his surroundings and his opponent caught him distracted.
Is that what happened this time too?
He doesn’t care. Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter. Maybe the fool will now learn his lesson and start keeping better track of his surroundings or he’ll get someone to do it for him at the very least (like that fucking first mate of his. Surely that’s part of his job? Rayleigh would have never let that shit happen to Captain.)
He sighs, leaning back and letting himself fall completely on his ass, hugging his knees to his chest shortly after. He’s not upset, he really isn’t, he couldn’t care less if he tried. Fuck Shanks, he’s as good as dead to him. He can go ahead and actually die for all he cares.
The nerve of that asshole. Sending his men to fetch Buggy as if he was… what? some land bound wife, waiting patiently for her pirate husband? Ha! What is this, a cheap romance serial?
What was he expecting, really? That they’d bury the axe, at least for the time being, long enough for Buggy to go check on him? Why? Because he was sick, hurting, in pain? Well, Buggy doesn’t owe him shit, he certainly doesn’t owe him a doctor’s visit.
He thinks of being fever bound in bed, his whole body aching, his blood burning. He hadn’t know pain like that, not before and not after, he hadn’t known a fucking fever could be so debilitating. He thinks of Shanks at his bedside, bringing him water, pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, gently brushing his hair back. It’s all gonna be fine, Blue.
Yeah, well, that was then and this is now. That was before the fucker went and betrayed him. Besides, back then, Shanks would have known better than to expect Buggy to play nurse maid: he lacks the patience or inclinations for such tasks, really.
But--
Fuck. He hates the bastard so fucking much.
He springs onto his feet and throws the door open once more before he can change his mind. He’s going to regret this decision, he knows, but it’s not really a decision: it’s a need. He needs to see the damage for himself. He needs to see that Shanks is indeed fine.
“Set course for Dawn!” he yells at no one in particular, but he knows the men heard him judging by how alive the ship comes above him. He makes a face and slams the door closed again, letting himself scatter into a hundred pieces once more.
Gods, he’s such an idiot.
(An idiot in love and isn’t that worse?)