Chapter Text
Aboard the Red Force, somewhere between nowhere and trouble…
The sun spilled across the deck in lazy sheets of gold. The ocean stretched out in every direction, glittering like a drunk god had scattered diamonds across it. The crew lounged in their usual post-job glory, half-drunk and wholly obnoxious. Meat sizzled on a spit. Ale sloshed over the rims of wooden mugs. Shanks was already barefoot and grinning, daring someone to arm wrestle him using only their toes.
You had your boots up on a crate, pretending to read a logbook while quietly timing how long it would take before someone started a drinking contest, a shouting match, or a spontaneous musical number involving a barrel and a mop.
It began, as most disasters did on this ship, with Lucky Roux.
He sat cross-legged beside the fire pit, chewing on something suspiciously shiny and waving a turkey leg like a gavel.
“Alright. Serious question. No lying. No thinking. Just gut reaction.”
Yasopp groaned. “That’s never once ended well.”
Roux grinned, looking around at the crew. “Who’s your daddy?”
Someone shouted, “The sea!” Another offered, “Shanks!”
Laughter rippled across the deck.
And without hesitation, without thought, without any self-preservation whatsoever, you replied aloud.
“Beckman.”
The world stopped moving.
Silence dropped like an anchor. A fork clattered to the floor. A barrel stopped mid-roll. Even the gull circling overhead gave up and flew away.
You blinked. Your mouth was still slightly open. Your soul tried to climb out through your spine.
Across the deck, Benn Beckman looked up from cleaning his rifle. His expression didn’t change, but the raise of his brow was slow and deliberate. It was the kind of expression that caused earthquakes in bureaucracies. He was watching you now.
Shanks nearly fell over.
“Beckman?!” he coughed. “Seriously? What the hell!”
You scrambled for cover. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant authority. Like… command structure. You know. Leadership.”
Yasopp lost it completely. “Oh no. Don’t even try to walk that back.”
“You said it like it was burned into your DNA,” Roux cackled.
Shanks pointed accusingly. “I’m literally your captain. What does he even have that I don’t?”
“Dignity,” someone muttered from the rigging.
You covered your face. “I hate this ship. I hate all of you.”
Beckman stood. It wasn’t dramatic. He moved the way he always did, with the weight of quiet inevitability. The crew parted as he walked, still snickering. You were considering diving overboard.
He stopped in front of you.
“You know,” he said, voice low and maddeningly calm, “if I actually were your daddy, you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to me the way you do.”
Your soul left your body.
Somewhere behind you, Shanks screamed.
Beckman’s smirk widened just slightly as he turned and walked away, the sea breeze tugging at the edge of his coat like it was proud to know him.
The crew erupted. The teasing was immediate and merciless. Yasopp dubbed you “Little Miss Beckman” on the spot. Shanks protested so loudly that the figurehead vibrated.
You didn’t live it down for the rest of the month.