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The afternoon was a bright blue, soft clouds painted white across the clear sky. The Red Force sailed on a calm current, nearing their next port stop. It had been a few weeks since they left Foosha Village, sailing out back into the Grand Line.
“Again, Mavis, again!” Uta cheered, clapping her hands as the last note of your song faded into the salt air.
“Alright, Alright,” you laughed, fingers already sliding the capo up the neck for the next song. This had been the norm for seven years now — ever since you'd first stepped aboard and made yourself at home among the Red-Haired Pirates.
Shanks has been nothing but an extraordinary captain—the kind who remembered which of his crew took their coffee black, who noticed when someone went quiet at dinner. He has his places, most notably on the deck, leaning on the banister with his first mate and his best friend Yassop sharing a bottle of sake. You and him had always had a certain chemistry — eyes lingering a beat too long, hands held a little too tight. But after Uta, something shifted. The crew noticed the way you took to that little girl like she was your own — the way your whole face opened up whenever she turned those big, hypnotic purple eyes on you. They reminded you of your own, making you wonder if in another life, she was truly yours.
You'd laughed until your stomach hurt, watching her wrestle your guitar into her lap—he instrument nearly as big as she was—and sing back the song you'd all taught her in a voice that was already, somehow, completely her own.
That had been two years ago. Now she was seven, and she hadn't wavered once.
“Again, Mavis, again!”
“Shanks! Can Bonk give me piano lessons again with Monster? He’s funny!”
“Nuh-uh! I won, Luffy! a hundred eighty three gazillion billion times!’
She had taken your heart by a storm. She had claimed the Red Force the same way she claimed everything—completely, joyfully, without asking anyone's permission.
Three songs later, she was out. One moment bouncing on her heels, clapping, giggling her heart out — and the next, a warm boneless weight against your side, her tiny arm hooked around yours like an anchor. You move her closer, her small head resting on your lap, split pink and white hair fanned across the seat, her breathing slow and even.
You looked up.
Benn and Yasopp were still at the railing, the sake bottle being passed between just two of them now. You caught Benn’s eye first—mouthed, ‘where is he?’ with exaggerated slowness, your eyes darting down to the sleeping child and back to Benn—volume wasn’t an option.
Benn didn’t even blink. Just tilted his head towards the stern.
Yasopp grinned around the rim of his cup. You stared at him warningly. He held up his cup in surrender, still grinning.
Uta didn't stir as you carried her, one arm tucked under her knees, her head lolling warm and heavy against your shoulder. She weighed almost nothing. You'd been carrying her since she was smaller than this, since before she could ask for it.
You found Shanks at the stern, half-swallowed by the shadow of the mainsail, his back against the mast. He looked up when he heard your steps — something flickering across his face before it settled back into easy. Below him was rope, messily tied into square knots.
“Hey,” you started.
“Mavis,” he replied. “How’s Oots?”
“Shes sleeping.” You bounce her slightly, adjusting her head to lay on your shoulder. “Knocked out after singing to her.”
“Nika, I—” he started, biting his tongue abruptly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing! Just appreciating the…weight loss, y’know? Got that extra 14 or so pounds off me.”
Your jaw tightened. He was using that smile again—the easy, effortless one he wore whenever he wanted to deflect. Instead of arguing, your eyes fell to the deck, lingering on the mangled, frustrated mess of square knots by his boots.
You stepped fully into the shadow of the mainsail with him. “Don't talk about yourself like that,” you scolded gently, careful not to disturb Uta. “You know it wasn't your fault. I—”
You stopped yourself, letting out a soft, exasperated sigh. You shifted Uta’s sleeping weight and nudged the tangled rope with the toe of your shoe. “I swear, Shanks. If you pull on that mess and manage to tear the canvas on the mainsail I spent weeks on stitching, I might just have to commit mutiny and throw you overboard myself,” you quietly chuckled. “One arm or not.”
A genuine, huffing laugh escaped him—the tension bleeding out of his shoulders—that sound you’ve grown fond of, making your head all fuzzy, into that dumb, dopey smile you can’t help but adorn.
“Have a little faith, Mavis. It's just a square knot,” he tried reasoning.
You carefully lowered yourself onto the deck beside him, resting your back against the mast, feet on the floor. Uta remained happily asleep, as you adjusted her and held her close to your body, as if shielding her from the world. You watched as Shanks leaned forward to fix the rope.
It hurt to watch. To tie it, he had to pin one end of the thick hemp under the heel of his boot, trapping it against the deck so his right hand could weave the other end through. He clamped the slack between his teeth, pulling sharply. It was awkward. Clumsy. For a man who moved like warrior in fight, watching him fumble with a knot a cabin boy could tie blindfolded felt entirely wrong.
The rope slipped from under his boot. The knot unraveled into a frayed mess.
You kept staring regardless, as if sitting there holding his sleeping child could do anything more than watch.
Shanks froze. He stared at the unraveled rope for a long, heavy moment. He didn’t even try picking it up again.
“I’ve been tying these since I was barely seven years old,” he said. His voice was stripped of its usual loud, boisterous cadence. It felt like it was barely a rasp over the sound of the lapping waves.
He leaned back beside you against the wood, the back of his head thumping slowly against the mast. He raised his right hand, looking at his calloused palm. “I can't keep reaching for things that aren’t there, Mavis. I go to draw Gryphon, and I try to draw it with an arm I left in Foosha. I try to catch a bottle Yasopp throws, and it just…shatters on the deck.”
He glanced down at his pinned-up sleeve, swallowing hard, watching as his mind replays it all—the struggle, the adjustment, the pain. “I don’t regret it. One on bit. You know I don’t. I’s give my other arm, my legs for that kid…and that one right there?” He snorts, pointing at Uta, sleeping peacefully draped across your body. “I’d give my soul and the world if I could. But Nika…it’s frustrating.”
You looked at him, down the the little girl in your arms, then to him again. You didn’t tell him it would get easier, or that he was still the strongest man you knew (even if that sentiment did hold true still). He didn’t need pity, or sentiments that would only stand to wound at the moment.
So, instead, you just slid your body closer to his, that sweet girl starting to drool lazily on your shoulder, until your shoulder pressed firmly against his remaining arm—grounding him.
You reached out your free hand and gently covered over his calloused one where it rested on his knee. His fingers were stiff for a fraction of a second before they relaxed, immediately turning over to intertwine with yours. He held on a little too tight—just like he always did.
“It's allowed to be frustrating, Shanks,” you murmured softly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You're allowed to be mad at the ropes.”
He let out a long, shaky breath, the tension finally melting out of his frame. He turned his head, his cheek coming to rest against the top of your hair. He smelled like sea salt, sake, and something entirely, intoxicatingly him.
“What would I do without you, Mavis?” he whispered into the quiet space between you, his thumb tracing the back of your hand.
You smiled, leaning into his warmth. “Probably sink the ship trying to tie a square knot.”
You felt the rumble of his quiet, genuine laugh against your shoulder, his fingers squeezing yours just a little bit tighter.
The heavy silence was broken not by words, but by a soft, sleepy yawn. Uta stirred against your chest, her split pink-and-white hair tickling your chin as she rubbed her eyes with tiny fists.
Shanks immediately shifted. The raw, vulnerable man who had been staring at his hand vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the Captain. He blinked away the glassiness in his eyes, pulling a wide, practiced grin onto his face just as Uta’s purple eyes fluttered open.
“Shanks!” she chirped, her voice still thick with sleep but instantly bright. She scrambled out of your arms, nearly tripping over the tangled mess of rope and legs as she lunged for him.
Shanks caught her with his one arm, hoisting her onto his lap with an easy strength that hid the struggle he’d just been having. “Hey there, Munchkin. You finally decided to join the land of the living?”
“Mavis played me a hundred songs!” Uta exclaimed, leaning back against his chest and gesturing wildly toward you. “She’s the coolest, right? She can make the guitar sound like the ocean! She’s the best pirate on the whole ship!”
Shanks’s gaze drifted from Uta’s excited face up to yours. The look in his eyes wasn’t the "Captain" mask anymore. It was something softer, warmer, and much more dangerous for your heart.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling tone that made your stomach flip. “She’s definitely the best we've got.”
Uta didn't notice the way your face heated up; she was too busy grabbing Shanks’s face with her small hands. She looked down at the messy, frayed knots on the deck, then back up at him. Seven-year-olds were more observant than people gave them credit for. She knew when her dad was ‘sad-smiling.’
“You look like you need a song, Shanks,” she declared, standing up on her wobbling legs and puffing out her chest. “I’m gonna sing the one Mavis taught me! It’s the cheer-up song. It makes the bad stuff go away.”
She didn't wait for an answer. She took a deep breath and began to belt out a melody, her voice clear and unnervingly beautiful at her age.
As she sang, dancing in small circles on the deck, the atmosphere changed. The frustration of the missing arm, the weight of the "14 pounds" he’d lost, the shadow of the East Blue—it all seemed to retreat.
Shanks leaned his back against the mast, watching her with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. But then, he reached out his right hand across the small gap between you. He didn't say anything. He just left his hand open on the deck, a silent invitation.
You didn't hesitate. You slid your hand into his, your fingers locking together in the space behind Uta’s dancing form.
He squeezed your hand—tight, just like he always did—and leaned his head toward yours until your temples touched.
“You hear that, Mavis?” he whispered over the sound of Uta’s singing. “She wants to cheer me up.”
“Is it working?” you breathed, afraid that moving too much would break the spell.
Shanks took a deep breath, the scent of your hair and the sound of his daughter’s voice finally grounding him. “Yeah,” he said, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. “Between the two of you? I think I’m gonna be just fine.”