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Buggy, who was happy to have finally gotten a wanted poster but was still getting used to people calling him “the Clown,” was not usually a pirate given to subtlety or discretion. He wanted word of his wicked deeds to spread far and wide! If people were afraid of him, they’d give in faster, so he wouldn’t have to work as hard to get what he wanted!
But usually, there weren’t rumors of Monkey D. Garp in the area.
Buggy would happily thumb his nose at most Marines, idiots and hypocrites all of them, but Garp was an exception. Not because he wasn’t an idiot or a hypocrite—he was, but that guy had a monstrous strength on par with Buggy’s former captain, plus he was equally famous for his incorruptibility and his bullheadedness. All in all, somebody Buggy absolutely did not want to deal with.
And sure, his bounty as it currently stood didn’t warrant a Vice-Admiral’s involvement, but Garp must have a long memory. It was possible—probable, even—that he would recognize Buggy as “one of Roger’s brats.” And while they never had bounties of their own back then, surely the Navy still wanted their heads. They went after Tom, for fuck’s sake, there was no way Buggy was safe.
So until he heard from a reliable source that Garp had left this particular corner of the East Blue behind, Buggy was not going to leave the sanctuary of his ship without a thorough disguise.
The first thing to go was his makeup, of course. His hair, a somewhat uncommon color in this part of the world, he tied up and tucked away under an old knit cap, which he’d sewn an ink-black wig to the lining of. After all, if someone saw hair protruding from a hat, they’d never suspect that an entirely different color of hair was hidden underneath! Buggy had even rubbed a bit of ink into his eyebrows, to be doubly sure of this ruse working. And, last but hardly least, he chopped his nose off, sticking an ordinary-looking prosthetic in its place with spirit gum that would be very annoying to remove later—but better a bit of adhesive rash than a public execution.
Looking in his mirror at a stranger, Buggy sighed, clapping his hands together. “Right!” His ship needed a resupply, and Buggy had sailed his favorite little skiff here to take care of it so he wouldn’t have to explain this disguise to his crew. “We need rope, sailcloth, gunpowder, and food,” he muttered as he headed out.
Just a few essentials for any sailing vessel. Nothing obviously piratical about it! A perfectly safe supply run!
A squad of marines went thumping past, and Buggy couldn’t hold back a flinch at the sight.
He breathed in deep. Everything would be fine. All Buggy had to do was avoid drawing attention to himself, and…
“Hey, you!”
Buggy froze, fighting the urge to turn around. Freezing was bad enough, that would make him look super guilty, and the Marines loved it when you did that. They always loved it when you incriminated yourself, it gave them less work to do when justifying their actions later. Buggy forced himself to relax, breathe easy, and start walking again. After all, with a call like that how could anyone possibly know who was being addressed? The Marines could be after anyone on this street!
“You in the hat!”
Ah, fuck. Buggy couldn’t lose the hat, that’d be half his disguise gone right there. He glanced back, cursed under his breath when the squad of Marines began walking his way, and made a break for it.
“Stop!”
“This is Navy business!”
Cursing again as the Marines’ walking speed became a jog, became a charge, Buggy picked up the pace himself, dashing around a food cart, behind the far side of a small crowd of people, and ducked into a small alley where, hopefully, the Marines wouldn’t think to look.
“Stop! By order of the World Government!”
“Cooperate and you won’t be harmed!”
Buggy nearly laughed. “Like hell,” he muttered, blinking when he heard an echo of his words and realized there was someone standing next to him. Had there been someone else running from the Marines this whole time? Shit, had Buggy even been their target in the first place? Had he run for his life for no reason? He turned to give the guy what for, and just about choked on his tongue, because—
Well, because it was Shanks.
Shanks, with that same stupid, distinctive hair; Shanks, with that same stupid, distinctive hat. Shanks, with a cape! That was more style than Buggy had ever thought Shanks would develop, but it was also a stupidly distinctive sense of style, so Buggy wouldn’t call himself a fan of this development.
…Shanks, with a pretty nasty scar over one eye.
Buggy took his first reaction to that detail—I wouldn’t have let that happen!—and shoved it violently down into the bottom of his soul, where stupid thoughts went to die. There was no point in thinking about such a ridiculous “what-if.” All that mattered was that the scar was also distinctive, making this entire guy deeply inconvenient for Buggy to be standing next to while the Marines were on the hunt for him.
Shanks looked Buggy over and gave him one of those soft-hearted, empathetic looks Buggy had always hated. “Ah, sorry, I think I got you tangled up in my business.”
…so, he didn’t recognize Buggy.
Well—good! This was good, this was—this made things salvageable! Buggy cleared his throat, trying to throw his voice a little higher, to speak a little more politely. Anything to keep that soft look from becoming one of recognition, or that awful heartbroken look from all those years ago. “That’s okay by me! Anything to inconvenience the Marines.”
As the rhythmic sound of boots thumping against cobblestones got louder, an idea occurred to Buggy. “Speaking of…” He grabbed hold of Shanks’ cape, pausing only when Shanks put a hand to his wrist and gave him a wary look. An almost threatening look, one meant for a stranger.
…right. For all Shanks knew, Buggy was about to sell him out. (As if!) Buggy rolled his eyes, impatient. “Sometimes it’s better to fight smarter, not harder.”
Shanks considered him for a moment. With a small nod, he let go of Buggy’s wrist.
Permission granted, Buggy moved quickly. Goodbye, stupid hat! He flipped the cape around; the lining was a different color, so that would do nicely as a visual misdirect. He adjusted the closure so the fabric that was supposed to be the top hem instead functioned as a hood, all the better to hide that hair and that scar… sure, it probably wouldn’t hold up to a close inspection, but who needed it to? Low-level Marines were idiots.
To finish things up, Buggy leaned back against the alley wall and spread his legs wide to make himself appear shorter (and to be easier to hide). When Shanks didn’t seem to get the memo, Buggy rolled his eyes and tugged him closer, and closer, until Shanks was standing almost too close for propriety, the bottom hem of his cape hiding both of them from view.
His hands pressed to the wall above Buggy’s shoulders, Shanks stared at him intently, an eyebrow going up as they heard the Marines run past without giving their hiding spot so much as a first glance, let alone a second one. “Impressive,” he said.
Buggy snorted. “Naturally.”
Something about this response made Shanks’ placid exterior crack. He grinned, dropped one hand to Buggy’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Thanks for the save, gorgeous.”
Buggy’s mind went blank.
Well, mostly. “Gorgeous?!”
Shanks frowned, though his eyes were still smiling. “Don’t tell me nobody’s ever called you ‘gorgeous’ before.” Buggy didn’t react—had no idea what Shanks was doing—as that hand slid up his shoulder, his neck, to cup his cheek. Shanks leaned just that little bit closer, taking the lack of space between them from the appearance of improper to actually improper. Buggy still had no idea what Shanks was doing until his thumb started to rub small circles near the corner of Buggy’s eye. “That’s just not possible. I mean, your eyes alone are stunning…”
That—he knew that move. Shanks had told him about that move, about the barmaid who’d used it on him the first time, using a compliment about Shanks’ eyes as an excuse to touch his face, right before she—
The thing was, it was a very sweet kiss.
It was the kind of kiss Buggy would have expected of Shanks, if he’d ever let himself think of things like “Shanks” and “kissing” at the same time before. (Face hot, it occurred to Buggy that maybe the way he’d always violently shut down such thoughts might mean something. He violently shut down this line of thinking.) Shanks pulled back after a brief moment, a curious look in his eye that Buggy took to mean ‘more?’
Whatever look happened to be on Buggy’s face must say ‘no’ for him—though probably not in as insistent a tone as he would’ve liked, his mind was still pretty fuzzy—because Shanks stepped back, casually giving Buggy space. Like of course after… that… all he wanted to do next was fix his cape and retrieve his hat.
After a minute spent blinking dumbly at Shanks, Buggy’s mind seemed to be functioning well enough to attempt words.
“Wh…?”
Well, an attempt was made.
Shanks’ eyebrow went up, and he smiled a little smugly as he slid that stupid hat back into place. “Like I said. Thanks for the save.” And with that, he was gone.
Buggy’s knees gave out.
He spent ten minutes sitting in that alleyway, definitely not thinking about anything that had just happened, or preserving it in his memory with any particular detail, or wishing he’d answered an unspoken question in a different way. Eventually, he remembered that he had duties to attend to, and he’d better attend to them soon if he wanted to get off this island today.
Which he did.
He certainly didn’t have any reason to want to stick around here, no sir!
“Rope, sailcloth… limes?” For some unknowable reason, Buggy couldn’t remember the last thing on his list.
Well, it couldn’t be that important if it was the last one, right? Right. Surely they could go without… whatever it was… until after Garp had gotten tired of this part of the East Blue.
Because Buggy was never going out in disguise ever again.