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Shamrock is restless.
He's been cooped up in the infirmary for ages now, between his injuries and the fever. But Marco's phoenix fire has dimmed the grasping agony down to a dull ache, and Shamrock is finding that the discomfort of having been off his feet for so long is becoming more frustrating than the pain.
Marco is off with Roger's pup, presumably reacquainting himself with his lost brother. And Shanks and his right hand are busy contacting allies, seeking out support. With the rest of his men occupied doing whatever it is they do on this ship, Shamrock has been left unguarded. Or-- unattended, more accurately. He doesn't intend to do anyone any harm. He doesn't need a guard.
Every time he's been allowed out of bed until now, it's been under close supervision. But he hardly needs it. He's a Knight-- hm. He was a Knight of God. He might be injured, but he's not weak.
Sitting up, even slowly, sends pain through his ribs, but Shamrock grits his teeth and ignores it. Hongo said that, with the seal and its healing capabilities now gone, it will likely take six weeks or more for the bones to heal completely. Shamrock needs to learn to get used to it.
He's stuck in his brother's clothes, for now. The white shirt is at least a size too small-- which, when his brother had given it to him, had led to the question of why Shanks still owned it. With a lackadaisical shrug, Shanks had said that it still fit as long as he didn't button it up all the way. The pants are a dusty grey. Shanks had laughingly said he hadn't them worn in years. Given his propensity for hideously patterned trousers, this doesn't come as a surprise. Shamrock doesn't have shoes, at the moment; he's not certain whether or not his boots survived the fight. He'll have to ask after them.
He reaches up to tie his hair back and realized, with alarm, that he has no idea how to do it one-handed. He can't even manage to pin it back, let alone properly braid it.
Fine. That's . . . fine. He'll just leave it down. He doesn't even have shoes right now; leaving his hair loose is a far lesser indignity. Pirates don't know anything about hygiene. They won't care. Shamrock would care, but it's not like it really matters, under the circumstances.
He stands up, and has to hesitate. The world spins, and Shamrock has to brace himself against a wall. Of course, the arm he'd normally brace himself with is unavailable, and he has to scramble to catch himself.
He takes a breath. He'll just step outside for a few minutes. Walk on his own, without someone hovering over him.
Pushing the door open, Shamrock peers outside. The hallway is empty, miraculously. Shanks' ship seems to be as busy as an ant hill, but Shamrock has hardly had the opportunity to figure out what the schedules and routines are. He takes a cautious step into the hall, quietly shutting the door behind himself.
He keeps a hand on the wall and his Observation up as he walks. He's not quite sure where he's going. It seems foolish to go outside, where Shanks' men are certainly working, but-- dammit, he wants to see the sun.
He makes a guess, based on the sounds of the ship, which way the main deck is, and starts heading that way.
The Red Force is, Shamrock will admit, a nice ship. She's made of warm, dark wood, strong and well-kept. Clean, cared for, and meticulously managed. The floors are well-worn into smoothness and it's a good thing, too; otherwise he'd risk picking up splinters. Unlike every ship Shamrock has ever been on, the Red Force is not only a vessel, but home to her crew.
But it's not Shamrock's home. He doesn't know this ship. So he inevitably manages to stumble on an uneven patch of floor, and before he can catch himself--
Someone catches him by the shoulder.
The uninjured shoulder, thankfully. Shamrock gets his feet back under himself and pulls away, looking up to find Shanks' right hand glowering down at him. Beckman; his name is Benn Beckman.
"Left alone for half an hour, and you're already making escape attempts?" Beckman says dryly.
Shamrock sneers at him. "Hardly," he replies. "What sort of a fool would I be, to try to escape a ship that's far from port, in the middle of the New World?"
The look Beckman gives him suggests that his estimation of Shamrock's intelligence is exactly that low. "Then what are you doing out here?"
Shamrock opens his mouth, then hesitates. It will sound like a ridiculously feeble attempt at lying if he says he wanted some sunlight. The truth feels paper-thin on closer inspection, and Shamrock doesn't know how to begin explaining himself.
But oddly enough, he doesn't have to.
Beckman gives him a searching look, then sighs. "You're going to be just as bad about staying on bedrest as your brother, aren't you." It's not a question.
Blinking, Shamrock looks at him. He can't quite manage to find the words for a reply before Beckman claps him on the shoulder and says, "Alright. A little time on deck won't hurt."
He was so certain that he'd been sent back to his sickroom that he follows Beckman without argument when the man pushes open the door at the end of the hall. And then he's outside, and the light is bright enough that he has to shield his eyes. It's warm outside; they must be sailing near a summer island.
Beckman herds him towards a bench and frowns until Shamrock sits down. "Can you stay put for five minutes?" he asks.
Shamrock scoffs. "I hardly need take orders from you," he says, refusing to acknowledge how pliant he's been.
"Fine then," Beckman says, turning away. "Yasopp! Keep an eye on him until I'm back!"
"On who-- oh." A pirate with oddly familiar features tucks a telescope into a pouch on his belt. "On it, Benn."
As is only appropriate, Shamrock turns his scowl on the new guard. The guard just grins at him.
-----
"I think Marco is going to have problems convincing Shamrock and Ace to get along," Shanks says suddenly, while he, Benn, and Building Snake are working out a course to Fishman Island.
Benn, who has been doing his best not to think about Shamrock, Marco, or any possible futures, blinks in confusion. He glances over at Snake, who looks just as baffled. But Snake raises his eyebrows to convey that the captain is Benn's problem, and hides behind a book of log points.
"I don't think anyone should expect Ace to get along with Shamrock," Benn replies slowly, trying to understand what train of thought could have led Shanks to this point. Normally, he's better at understanding the somewhat haphazard pattern of his captain's logic, but this time, he's coming up blank.
"But they'll have to be around each other, at least," Shanks counters, setting down a compass and looking at Benn. "Although I don't know whether Shamrock will be willing to join the Whitebeards."
Benn has gone from confused to entirely lost. "And why would Shamrock even consider joining the Whitebeards?" Benn is fairly resigned to Shamrock joining the Red-Hairs, at this point If only because it would be a tactical disadvantage to let go of the information he holds, especially when the Whitebeards have Marco.
"Because he's going to stick with Marco." Shanks blinks at Benn, like this is obvious.
It is not obvious. Frankly, it is absurd.
Benn does not tell Shanks as much in so many words. Instead, he pulls a lighter out of his pocket. "You're going to have to explain that one to me, boss," he says, as he lights a cigarette.
Shanks frowns at him. "They know each other," he explains. "They trust each other; you saw Marco dealing with Shamrock's injuries. Shamrock didn't say a word of complaint."
"You're the only person Shamrock has any real respect for," Benn counters. "Even if he's been on his best behavior, he's still a Noble. The rest of us aren't even people to him."
"Which is just another reason he can't stay here." Shanks doubles down. "If he doesn't want to be a Noble anymore, he has to start learning how to work with people. And he already knows how to treat Marco with some decency, at least."
"But the reason he left," Benn says, with increasing exasperation, "was to keep you alive."
This should have made Shanks pause and reevaluate his argument. Instead, he shakes his head. "He's succeeded," Shanks says, brushing Benn off. "He doesn't have to worry about me anymore. Marco's the only other person who knows the future they came from. They understand each other."
Benn does not let his head fall into his hands in a fit of despair. But he does exhale smoke slowly and deliberately.
Shamrock is not just going to stop worrying about Shanks. Benn knows better than anyone else: worrying about his captain is a full-time job. That's the other reason Benn is willing to accept Shamrock as part of this crew. He won't mind having another person around whose first priority is keeping Shanks alive.
But he has no idea how to explain all of that to Shanks.
As he opens his mouth to try to find the words, he's distracted by an oddity in his Observation. He pauses to confirm that, that, yes-- "Shamrock is up and about."
"Oh, hell." Shanks sounds exasperated. He starts to stand, but Benn waves him off.
"I'll deal with him, boss."
"Thanks, Beck," Shanks says with a smile as Benn heads out the door.
As he walks, he turns over the issue at hand.
Shanks is right, at least, that Shamrock has achieved his goal. Benn gets the impression that, the moment he found himself in the present, Shamrock put into motion a plan to keep himself from killing his brother. True, he's succeeded; he will not be forced to harm his own brother. But Benn doesn't think that either twin truly appreciates the gravity of what Shamrock has lost. Enacting his plan meant sacrificing his home, his position, his family, and his left arm. Shamrock has nothing left-- except for Shanks.
And if the weight of that loss hasn't hit him yet, then Shamrock has likely not begun to make plans for what to do now. He prevented the future he feared, but Shamrock hasn't yet realized he has to live in this altered present.
Benn rounds a corner just in time to catch Shamrock as he stumbles. "Left alone for half an hour, and you're already making escape attempts?"
Shamrock pulls free as soon as he's regained his balance, and immediately sneers at Benn: trying to save face. "Hardly. What sort of a fool would I be, to try to escape a ship that's far from port, in the middle of the New World?"
Well, at least he's got that much sense. "Then what are you doing out here?"
Shamrock looks decidedly shifty, not meeting Benn's eyes. Every single time Hongo has ever tried to keep Shanks in bed after an injury flashes through Benn's head at once, and he sighs. "You're going to be just as bad about staying on bedrest as your brother, aren't you."
Wonderful. Another stubborn patient. Hongo will be thrilled.
Fortunately, Benn does know how to handle Shanks, and he suspects Shamrock will be much the same. "Alright. A little time on deck won't hurt." Give him a bit of time in the sun and fresh air, let him have the win, and it'll be easier for Hongo to wrestle him back into bed so he can rest. Hopefully, he'll exhaust himself a little and will stay put for a while before they have to repeat the whole affair.
He sits Shamrock down on a bench outside, tells Yasopp to keep an eye on him, and goes back in to report back to Shanks-- and let Hongo know where his recalcitrant patient has gone.
-----
The guard set by Beckman reminds Shamrock of someone, but he can't figure out who.
It's bothering him. He'd like nothing more than to relax and enjoy the sunlight, but he has a nagging feeling of approaching threat every time he glances over at the man.
Eventually, he gives in. "What did he call you?"
The man starts, and blinks down at Shamrock, evidently surprised to have been addressed. "What?"
"Your name," Shamrock clarifies, irritated.
"Oh." The man grins. "I'm Yasopp. Sniper for the crew."
"Yasopp," Shamrock repeats slowly. That is even more familiar. And now that Shamrock looks at the man with that knowledge in mind, he can place his face. "You have a son on Strawhat's crew."
Yasopp jolts, and looks down at him. "I do?"
Hm. Could Shamrock be mistaken? Or, no-- "He received a bounty later than most of the crew," he recalls. "Perhaps that hasn't occurred yet. Usopp, is his name. A sniper of exceedingly dangerous skill."
The grin that spreads across Yasopp's face is wide and bright. "That's my boy," he says, with reverent pride. "What's his bounty? What does he do?"
"I hardly recall the exact bounties of every irritant I've ever met," Shamrock replies.
"You've met him?"
Admitting that much may have been a tactical error.
Yasopp's grin turns eager, and he sits down far too close to Shamrock. "I haven't seen him since he was a boy. What's he like? Is he good?"
"Of course he's good," Shamrock says. "The Strawhats are, to a man, the best in their fields. They'd hardly be such a threat otherwise."
Yasopp's grin doesn't wane, eyes alight with curiosity.
Shamrock sighs. "His moniker is God Usopp." Which alone would have been enough to anger plenty in the Holy Land. "By all accounts, he was instrumental in taking down that upstart Donquixote."
"Doflamingo?"
"The Warlord, yes."
Yasopp's smile only grows. Shamrock wishes the man would just leave him be, so he could take in what little fresh air he's permitted in peace, but . . .
Maybe there's something nice, about being able to give someone good news. Everything else from Shamrock's future is hell. But this little fragment of it is welcomed with such easy joy that Shamrock can't quite bring himself to demand the man leave him be.
"What happened to him?" Yasopp asks, expression suddenly darkening. "My son. And the rest of his crew, too."
"I don't know," Shamrock replies.
Yasopp opens his mouth-- probably to protest this disappointing answer, but another voice interrupts.
"We really don't." Marco's voice comes down to them from above, as the man flutters down to land beside them. A bright streak of fire lands beside him and resolves into a skeptical Firefist. Given Marco's propensity for staying aloft, he must have been nesting up in the crow's nest with Firefist. "We went down defending the Strawhats while they attacked Pangaea Castle."
Shamrock wrinkles his nose. He would not have disclosed that, given the choice. The phantom pain of a sword through the heart burns for a moment.
"Like," Firefist glances between Shamrock and Marco, "died? You died?"
Before either of them can answer, Beckman comes out on deck with a mug of something hot. He gives Yasopp a grateful nod, then presses the mug into Shamrock's hand. "Hongo says to drink that." Shamrock would scowl at him, but he's grateful enough for the distraction to permit a moment of disrespect. He sips at the liquid and discovers it's a savory broth.
Of course, his moment of graciousness is immediately rendered pointless, when Yasopp says to Shamrock, "You were working with the Strawhats?"
Marco, who is a bastard, says gently, "I wish we could tell you what happened, in the end. I know the castle fell, but after that . . ." He shrugs.
"Someone had to delay the Knights," Shamrock says. He's not sure he managed to kill any of them before he was brought down. "If nothing else, it was an effective distraction."
"I'm sure it would have been," Beckman says, quiet and thoughtful. "I imagine they're not keen on having a renegade Knight running around." He gives Shamrock a significant glance.
Perhaps it's unwise to remind Beckman that they're harbouring a fugitive. Or perhaps he thinks he understands: all of them are pirates, all fugitives. But none of their crimes are sacrilegious in nature. None of them have fallen from such a height. It is only fair to remind him of the true nature of Shamrock's hunters.
"No," Shamrock replies, voice kept just as low. "No, it is the duty of the Commander of the Knights to eliminate any traitors." Or the Supreme Commander, if the Commander is the one who has gone rogue. Not that any of them know what that really means. Not even Marco.
Will his father hunt him down again this time? Or will he simply presume Shamrock dead?
"So the Strawhat Pirates outlasted us," Yasopp says thoughtfully, distracting Shamrock from Beckman's inscrutable expression. Yasopp laughs to himself, and elbows Shamrock gently-- fortunately, not in the broken ribs. "And you were working with them."
"Out of a need for revenge alone, I assure you," Shamrock says, hiding any expression behind his soup. Firefist is looking at him again. Shamrock dislikes the feeling of being watched.
Somehow, the wind manages to blow his hair into his mouth, and Shamrock grimaces. He has to set down his mug just to brush his hair out of his face. Having loose hair is remarkably tiresome when Shamrock can't just tie it back. No wonder Shanks keeps his short.
"I can help with that, if you want."
Shamrock looks over at Yasopp, stunned. "What?"
"It's got to be annoying, keeping your hair out of your face like that," Yasopp says. "I used to do my wife's hair all the time, so I promise I won't make a mess of it."
Shamrock can only look at him for a moment, wondering what the catch is.
Maybe Yasopp understands, because he adds, "I owe you. For telling me about my kid."
Shamrock wants to refuse. He almost does.
". . . Fine."
Back home, Shamrock would never have let anyone touch his hair. It's absurd to let a pirate touch it, much less braid it. But for now, Shamrock can't do it himself. To his credit, Yasopp is careful not to pull on his hair. The sun is warm and bright overhead, and the sea breeze cool and fresh. Shamrock sips at the broth and watches Marco tell Firefist about a doomed final battle against the Knights of God, while Benn smokes and listens on.
Shamrock will have to figure out how to braid his own hair. It can't be that hard. But for now, he'll tolerate a pirate's help.