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Shanks was sick.
This news was, for Law and Shamrock, about as believable as the sun rising in the west. The man who was perpetually vibrant, seemingly fueled by endless energy, was now bundled under the duvet, curled up on the master bed. His cheeks bore an unnatural flush, and the fiery red eyes that were usually so bright were dulled. A dry cough punctuated the quiet of the room.
"38.7 degrees," Law announced, lowering the digital thermometer, his brow furrowed. He unconsciously rubbed the cool surface of the device. Watching Shanks in this vulnerable state stirred a strange, tangled feeling in his chest-a mix of heartache and helplessness. He was a doctor, capable of handling complex wounds and diseases, yet faced with this simple cold and fever, he felt utterly at a loss-especially when it came to caretaking. That had never been his forte; he was always the one being cared for.
Shamrock stood by the bedside, arms crossed. His red eyes were rapidly scanning a page on his tablet about key points for at-home care of adult viral influenza. His expression was, as ever, calm, but the slight tightening of his lips and the quicker-than-usual swipes betrayed his inner disquiet.
"Data indicates sufficient rest, hydration, and adequate nutritional intake are key to recovery," Shamrock stated flatly. "Shanks's intake today is far below the level required to maintain basal metabolism."
Shanks, lying in bed, managed a weak smile, his voice hoarse. "I'm fine... sleep it off. Don't bother..." He was cut off by another bout of coughing.
Law and Shamrock exchanged a glance. In that look, a shared resolve was silently transmitted.
It had always been Shanks taking care of them. Nutritionally precise meals, tea always at the perfect temperature, an immaculate living environment, and even the quiet, steady presence that effortlessly dissolved their stress and fatigue... Shanks had built this home into a place of warmth and comfort with his boundless enthusiasm and meticulous care.
Now, it was their turn.
Even though they both knew they were, in this area... nothing short of a disaster.
The kitchen, a sanctuary usually filled with Shanks's humming and the aromas of cooking, was now enveloped in a rare, almost solemn tension.
Law was wearing an apron-the one Shamrock had once critiqued as a "source of visual pollution," adorned with a garish strawberry pattern. It was pulled taut across his frame. He stared at his phone screen, displaying a simple tutorial for nutritious congee for patients, his brow furrowed deeply enough to trap a fly. "Rice to water ratio 1:8... soak for 30 minutes..." he muttered, as if reciting a complex surgical procedure.
Shamrock stood on the other side of the counter. His tablet lay before him, screens split to show three different immunity-boosting recipes and a comparative nutritional analysis chart he'd compiled. In his hand was a kitchen scale precise to 0.1 grams, and he was solemnly weighing a small handful of goji berries. "Tutorial A recommends 5 grams, Tutorial B recommends 8, Tutorial C is unspecified. Considering Shanks's current body temperature and potential loss of appetite, a median value of 6.5 grams is suggested, to be added in two stages to observe reaction."
"The point is the congee, Sham," Law couldn't help but remind him, scooping a cup of rice from the bag, hesitating, then pouring half back. "He won't eat much. Making too much is wasteful."
"Efficiency must be balanced with nutritional density," Shamrock replied, unmoved, starting to weigh dried red dates. "Three pitted dates, each of approximately equal weight to ensure uniform sweetness distribution."
Law gave up arguing. He poured the rice into a colander and turned on the tap. Water splashed everywhere. He wasn't entirely sure what constituted "rinsed clean." Mimicking a memory of Shanks's motions, he swirled the rice a few times with his hand. A stream of grains washed down the drain.
"Approximately 12% grain loss rate," Shamrock reported without looking up. "Will impact final product volume."
Law: "...Shut up."
Finally managing to transfer the inadequately rinsed and severely depleted rice into a pot, he added water-the appropriate amount. Law looked at the measuring cup's markings, recalled the 1:8 ratio, looked at the rice in the pot, and was lost. Eventually, operating on the vague notion that congee should be thin, he filled the pot about two-thirds full.
Next was the accompaniments. The tutorial suggested adding some shredded chicken and vegetables. Law retrieved a portion of chicken breast Shanks had pre-portioned from the fridge, thawed it, and placed it on the cutting board. He picked up the knife-the impeccably sharp chef's knife Shanks maintained.
Shamrock paused his own precise weighing and looked over. "Recommendation: use the knife designated for cooked ingredients to prevent cross-contamination. Additionally, based on muscle fiber analysis, cutting against the grain will result in more tender meat."
Law ignored him, focusing on the meat. He brought the knife down. The chunk was tougher than expected; the blade stuck halfway. He applied force, and the knife slipped violently, grazing the edge of his left thumb.
"Hiss-" Law sucked in a sharp breath. A shallow cut appeared, beading with blood.
"Wound length approximately 0.8 centimeters, depth superficial. Immediate disinfection is advised." Shamrock set down his items, retrieved the first-aid kit from the living room-its location and contents he remembered as clearly as Shanks did. With efficient, detached movements, he disinfected the cut with an iodine swab and applied a band-aid. The whole process was coolly clinical, as if handling a lab specimen.
Law watched Shamrock's lowered, meticulous profile, then looked at the band-aid on his own finger-a perfect match for the ones Shamrock himself had worn during past kitchen misadventures. A strange mix of amusement and... a peculiar warmth washed over him. These two brothers, geniuses in their respective fields, were matched in their kitchen clumsiness.
"Thanks," Law muttered.
"Unnecessary. Proceed." Shamrock returned to his station, starting on the greens. "Blanching the greens for 30 seconds is advised to remove oxalic acid while preserving most vitamins."
Law abandoned the idea of shredding the chicken. He decided to throw the whole piece into the pot with the rice and shred it later-should work, right? He tossed the chicken into the now-bubbling pot.
Meanwhile, Shamrock's precision cooking hit a snag. He intended to steam an egg custard. The tutorial said: "Beat eggs, add 1.5 times warm water, a pinch of salt, filter, steam for eight minutes." He followed the ratios strictly, whisked the mixture to perfect uniformity, and prepared to filter it.
Where was the fine-mesh strainer?
Shamrock scanned the kitchen. He knew the general location of every tool, but which specific drawer... He pulled open three drawers: utensils, baking tools, miscellaneous. No strainer.
"Location of the strainer?" he asked Law.
Law was attempting to slice ginger into shreds and didn't look up. "Dunno. Shanks usually keeps it..." He gestured vaguely toward the tool holder by the stove, which held spatulas and ladles, but no strainer.
Shamrock was silent for two seconds, then abandoned the filtration step, pouring the egg mixture directly into a lightly oiled bowl. Next, he studied the steamer. How much water? When to start timing? The tutorial said: "Place in steamer after water boils, steam over medium heat for 8 minutes." He calculated water volume and heating time, setting three countdowns on his tablet: estimated water boiling time, boil alert, and 8-minute steaming timer.
Then he realized he didn't know what constituted "medium heat." The gas knob had no markings.
Shamrock stared at the knob, brow slightly furrowed, briefly stymied by this lack of quantifiable standards.
Meanwhile, Law's congee pot reached a vigorous boil. White foam surged up, spilling over the rim and sizzling onto the stovetop.
"Foam overflow!" Shamrock alerted immediately.
Law scrambled to lift the lid, steam scalding his fingers. He hissed, turned down the heat, and stirred with a ladle. The foam subsided temporarily. But the sight in the pot sank his heart-there seemed to be far too much water. The grains of rice rolled forlornly in the vast liquid, and the chunk of chicken sat stubbornly on the bottom, unchanged.
"Do I need to skim the scum?" Law asked the tutorial uncertainly, but it didn't specify.
"Based on culinary principles, the initial foam during boiling primarily consists of starch and protein from the rice surface. Skimming can result in a clearer broth," Shamrock offered, despite having never performed the action himself.
Law found a spoon and attempted to skim. His movements were clumsy, and he ended up scooping out some rice grains along with the foam. The congee's appearance worsened.
At the steamer, the water finally boiled. Shamrock waited with scientific rigor for his "boil alert" to sound before placing the custard bowl in the steamer basket, covering it, and resetting the timer for eight minutes on medium heat. His judgment of "medium" might have been off, because soon, the steamer began emitting a violent, whistling sound of near-dry boiling.
"Water's running out!" Law warned.
Shamrock instantly cut the heat and lifted the lid. A cloud of steam billowed out. The egg custard inside the bowl... its surface was pockmarked like the moon, and the center was still somewhat watery and unset.
The two of them looked at their respective creations in silence.
The kitchen was a warzone. The stovetop was splattered with congee broth and foam, the sink piled with unwashed utensils, vegetable leaves and rice grains littered the floor. The air held a faint scent of something burnt and the distinct eggy smell of steamed custard.
Law rubbed his temples, feeling a level of frustration he'd never encountered solving complex medical problems. Shamrock, expressionless, inspected his custard, seemingly analyzing the failure points: water ratio? Steaming temperature? Timing error?
Just then, coughing and footsteps came from the direction of the bedroom.
Shanks appeared in the kitchen doorway, clad in pajamas, leaning against the frame, looking frail. He'd clearly been drawn by the commotion and the faint acrid smell.
When his gaze took in the devastation, his fever-dulled red eyes widened dramatically.
There was Law, in the ridiculous strawberry apron, a band-aid on his finger, staring morosely into a pot of overly thin "congee" where solitary grains of rice and a whole chicken breast floated listlessly. Shamrock stood before the steamer, holding a bowl of tragic-looking custard, his tablet still displaying complex timers and data tables.
The counter was a mess, tools were scattered, and the air was... complicated.
Shanks froze.
Then, an indescribable wave of emotion washed over him-surprise, amusement, exasperation, but overwhelmingly, a surge of warmth and tenderness so profound it threatened to overwhelm his sickly, weakened body. His Law, his brother... these two geniuses whose combined destructive power in a kitchen might rival a small army, were trying to care for him in the way they were least equipped to do.
He saw the band-aid on Law's finger, saw Shamrock's glasses fogged by steam, saw the look of mingled defeat, stubbornness, and earnest concentration on their faces.
"You two..." Shanks began, his voice raspy but laced with unmistakable laughter and a hint of a choke. "...What are you doing?"
Law shifted awkwardly, trying to block the view of the failed congee. "...Making congee. You should go back to bed."
Shamrock delivered a calm report. "Attempting to prepare nutrient-rich congee and steamed egg custard. Current completion rates estimated at 75% and 60% respectively. Multiple optimization parameters exist."
Shanks carefully stepped around a stray vegetable leaf and entered the kitchen. He went to Law's pot first. Picking up a spoon, he stirred gently, scooped a little, blew on it, and took a tiny taste.
Law watched him anxiously.
"...A bit too much water," Shanks assessed, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "The rice isn't fully cooked through. The chicken should have been cut smaller or parboiled first." He then looked at the custard in Shamrock's hands. "The egg mixture probably wasn't strained. The heat was too high during steaming, and you likely didn't cover the bowl, so condensation dripped in."
Every point was precisely accurate.
Neither Law nor Shamrock spoke. The acknowledgment of failure was a blow, but Shanks wasn't mocking them; he was simply stating the facts, which somehow made it easier to bear.
What Shanks did next, however, left them both stunned.
He took another spoonful of the congee, this time with a few more grains and a bit of chicken, carefully blew on it, and ate it. He chewed deliberately and swallowed.
Then, he walked over to Shamrock, scooped a portion of the most cratered, worst-looking section of the custard, blew on it, and ate that too.
"Shanks, don't!" Law couldn't help but protest. "It might not be cooked, and it's terrible..."
Shamrock also frowned. "Consumption of food not meeting safety standards is not advised."
Shanks shook his head. He set the spoon down, his gaze traveling between Law and Shamrock. His red eyes were watery from the fever, but now they shone with an intense, astonishing brightness, filled to the brim with an impossibly soft emotion that threatened to spill over.
"It's delicious," he said, his voice quiet but crystal clear. "This is the best congee and custard I've ever had."
Law and Shamrock were both speechless.
"Really." Shanks stepped forward, reaching out to simultaneously ruffle Law's black hair and pat Shamrock's shoulder. The movements were light, weakened by illness, yet brimming with affection. "Thank you. Really... thank you."
His voice was hoarse, thick with congestion-whether from the cold or something else was unclear.
Looking into Shanks's eyes, seeing the unmistakable, unfeigned gratitude and happiness there, seeing his pale, sickly face lit up by such a warm smile, the knot of frustration and failure in Law's chest simply dissolved. In its place was a soft, aching tenderness that made his eyes burn. He knew the congee was terrible, the custard a disaster. But in Shanks's eyes, they weren't food. They were intention. They were a clumsy, earnest attempt at reciprocation.
Shamrock fell silent. He looked at the pure smile on his younger brother's face, then at the failed custard in his own hand, as if processing a complex internal calculation. Finally, he let out an almost imperceptible sigh, but the usually rigid line of his mouth softened for a moment.
"You require rest," Shamrock stated eventually, his tone returning to its usual flatness, yet carrying a subtle undercurrent of gentleness. "Data indicates standing during persistent low-grade fever expends additional energy."
"Sham's right," Law concurred, moving to support Shanks's arm. "Back to bed. We'll... clean this up."
"The congee can be salvaged," Shanks allowed himself to be guided toward the bedroom but glanced back at the kitchen with a knowing smile. "Add a little more water, simmer it longer. Fish out the chicken, shred it, and add it back in. Season with a bit of salt. The custard... hmm, a dash of soy sauce and sesame oil might help mask the flavor."
Back in bed, Shanks soon drifted into a fitful sleep. Even in slumber, a faint smile lingered on his lips.
Law and Shamrock returned to the kitchen, surveying their handiwork and the surrounding chaos.
"Try his suggestions?" Law asked.
Shamrock nodded. "The optimization plan is viable."
This time, with Shanks's guidance and their own focused, non-innovative execution, the salvage operation proceeded much more smoothly. The congee was reconstituted, achieving an appropriate consistency. The chicken was shredded into fine strands and returned to the pot with a pinch of salt and minced ginger. The custard was drizzled with soy sauce and sesame oil. Its appearance remained pitiful, but it was at least edible.
When Law carried in a bowl of warm, modest-looking congee and Shamrock followed with the small dish of improved custard, Shanks was just waking up.
Propped against his pillows, he took in the two salvaged dishes, then the expectant, slightly cautious expressions on Law and Shamrock's faces. His smile blossomed again.
"Must have been tough," he said softly, accepting the bowl. He ate slowly. The congee was bland, utterly ordinary. The custard was far from delicious. But he ate with care and evident satisfaction, as if savoring a gourmet feast.
Law and Shamrock sat by the bed, watching him eat. The kitchen disaster, their clumsiness, the failures and mess... in this moment, none of it seemed to matter.
What mattered was they had tried. In the way they were least adept, they had attempted to repay the constant, warm care they'd received.
And that clumsy, sincere intention had been received. It had been treasured.
Outside the window, dusk settled. The bedroom was bathed in warm lamplight. The patient slowly ate his mediocre sickbed meal, watched over by two stern-faced men whose eyes had gone impossibly soft.
This home, even without perfect meals, even with kitchen catastrophes, was still filled with the most profound kind of warmth.
Because love was here. Clumsy, but real. And the real, more often than not, is far more moving than the perfect.
Shanks finished the last spoonful of congee and handed the bowl to Law. Then he reached out, taking Law's hand in one of his and Shamrock's in the other.
"Thank you," he said again, his voice gentle and sure. "Having you both here... it's everything."
Law's grip tightened in return, the tips of his ears flushing pink. A low "Mhm" was his reply.
Shamrock stated calmly, "Data indicates a significant positive correlation between a functional social support system and disease recovery rates. We have merely fulfilled a necessary supportive function."
But his hand, too, remained clasped in Shanks's, not letting go.
The three of them stayed like that for a quiet moment.
There were no jokes, no teasing. Just simple, solid companionship, and a clumsy, utterly genuine sentiment, carefully received and held safe.