Archive of Our Own

For once, Shanks wakes up peacefully.

It’s a very odd occurrence really: be it nightmares or some emergency, he usually wakes up with a start, heart hammering in his chest, which of course discourages any laziness and doesn’t encourage trying to go back to sleep.

Today however, he can feel sleep pulling at him, his eyelids dropping down on their own accord. He feels warmth and content, a body pressed against his front, his hand resting atop a soft stomach. It’s not that terribly uncommon for him to share his bed, but his sleep is never this restful, which in turn makes him a terrible bedmate and discourages any real cuddling.

His current partner however seems content enough, snoring softly. Shanks’s face in buried in their hair, so he can’t see their face and he thinks that’s probably for the best: he knows it’s all kinds of fucked up, but like this, it’s easy enough to imagine the person lying next to him is--

He doesn’t complete the thought, instead burying his face deeper into his companion’s hair. It smells a little of sweat and sea salt and something vaguely flowery buried underneath. It tugs at his memory, but he stops himself from thinking too hard about it: he has the slight suspicion he won’t like what he’ll find on the other end (or rather, it’ll only make him more acutely aware of what he's lost.)

His partner makes another soft noise, seemingly waking up themselves. A hand gently goes to pry his own away and Shanks lets go almost immediately: it’s never polite to cling onto people, no matter how hard you want to keep them close.

“Wow,” his companion says as he sits up and Shanks’s eyelids, which had been dropping down sleepily on their own accord, immediately snap open again, staring at the voice’s owner. “No protests? No attempts to drag me back to bed? I’m hurt, Shanks. Hurt.”

Shanks can only stare, his mouth refusing to work. His former bedmate isn’t looking at him though, busy as he is stretching out and Shanks finds himself staring at the rippling muscles of his back, momentarily distracted by them. His mind however quickly goes back to panicking, desperately trying to piece together the night before, only to come up blank: no matter how hard he tries, he can not remember a single thing.

Buggy doesn’t notice any of this, slipping out of the bed smoothly, distractedly tying his hair back as he does, quietly complaining to himself about the heat and how Shanks is a furnace. He’s gloriously naked, skin glistening with sweat and Shanks can see a bruise in his thigh in the shape of teeth.

God gracious, what the fuck happened the night before? And more importantly, how could he forget it?!

Buggy remains unbothered by his state of nudity, opening the door leading to the bathroom and disappearing behind it. There’s something awfully domestic in his every move, as if he has done this a hundred times before, no hesitancy whatsoever. Shanks’s heart is hammering in his chest, his mind reeling, still desperately trying to make sense of the developments.

It’s a dream, he tells himself. It must be, no matter how real it feels. Because it’s been… ten? eleven? years since he last saw Buggy and no matter what happened the night before, he does not see him acting this nonchalant about anything. Buggy and nonchalant are not two words that go together in a sentence actually, unless there’s a negative somewhere in there.

He pushes the sheets away, taking stock of his own nudity. There are no bite marks, which feels oddly disappointing, but not entirely surprising: Buggy was possessive too, but in a different way than Shanks is, so it makes sense. He doesn’t feel particularly sticky anywhere, so he imagines that, whatever happened last night, he had enough presence of mind to clean himself up afterwards, which is also disappointing. The fact that he can not remember a single fucking thing is, of course, the height of disappointment.

He groans dramatically, lying down once more and staring at the ceiling, feeling the gentle rock of the ship underneath. If he focuses, he can hear the faint echo of people moving about, but it’s still far too quiet, which suggests it’s early in the morning. There’s some light coming through the windows, but it’s still gray and somewhat cold, so the sun must be just starting to come up.

He hears the door opening and sits up once more to watch Buggy walk back in. He’s still naked and making no move to cover himself, clearly comfortable with his state of undress and Shanks tries not to stare, but judging by Buggy’s expression, he’s failing rather miserably. “What’s up with you this morning?” he asks as he comes back to the bed and Shanks can feel his heart stopping in his chest, torn between happiness and the overwhelming confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Buggy continues, sitting down on the other side of the mattress.

Shanks doesn’t want to reply; he knows odds are that if he does, he’ll mess up somehow. But Buggy is watching him expectantly, brow furrowing slowly, making him panic further and so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t remember last night!” he exclaims, a little too quickly, a little too guiltily and he closes his eyes, not wanting to see Buggy’s expression: he’ll be angry, no doubt and there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll storm out in a huff and he does not wish to see him walk away once again.

He startles when he feels a hand on his cheek, gently turning his face towards his companion before it migrates to his forehead, brushing his hair back. He opens his eyes and finds Buggy sitting way too close, an amused glint in his eye, although there’s a trace of concern there too. “I’m not surprised,” he says, smiling teasingly. “You did drink a whole lot last night. You know, some would say you have a drinking problem,” he continues, chuckling lightly.

Many would, indeed, including but not limited to, his first mate and his closest officers. It’s an explanation, a reasonable one even, but there’s something off here, even if he can’t quite put his finger on it. “You’re probably right,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the bite mark on Buggy’s thigh. “A pity,” he adds, looking back up at his companion, half joking, half hopeful.

He expects Buggy to scoff, maybe shake him a little before leaving in a huff. Instead he hums, expression falsely considering, leaning further into Shanks’s personal space. “Well, I suppose I could give you a little reminder. See if we can shake your memories back forward, huh?”

Oh, gods. This is a dream, there’s simply no other explanation in this world: that’s why things don’t fully make sense. Dreams usually don’t, there are always small mismatched details that you can only point out once you’ve woken up.

And oh, Shanks doesn’t want to wake up. “Yeah?” he asks, a bit breathlessly, sliding closer to his companion, bating his eyelashes playfully. Buggy laughs, loud and honest and closes the distance between them, kissing him fully on the mouth as he masterfully slips onto his lap in a move that seems too smooth, too practiced, but Shanks has lost any ability he ever had to care about those small details: there’s something off, he knows, but if this is a dream, what does it matter?

With that thought in mind, he lets himself get lost in the moment.

“Alright, but where did you learn that?” Buggy asks, looking a little out of breath and more curious than annoyed. Shanks is willing to take that as a positive thing, but he’s also unwilling to press his luck by actually answering: he thinks it’s a rhetorical question. “When did you even have the time, in between last night and today?”

Shanks hums, tracing lazy circles on his companion’s arm. “Maybe last night I was too drunk for it,” he offers and if this isn’t a dream, he’s a little annoyed with himself: why didn’t he try every trick he knows to make sure Buggy enjoyed himself? Didn’t he realize how important it was to give a good impression?

Buggy hums, considering this. “I’m never again letting you have a single drop of alcohol then.” Shanks laughs and the other man smirks, sitting up. “Alright then, that’s enough indulgence for one morning. And no going back to sleep for you,” he says, patting his cheek lightly as Shanks’s eyelids start dropping once more. “There's a lot of work to do.”

“Is there?” Shanks asks, leaning back against the pillows, feeling absolutely boneless and with no desire whatsoever to move again. He wraps his arms around Buggy’s waist in an attempt to drag him back to bed, but his companion simply splits at the waist, laughing as Shanks’s pouts. “Come on, Blue. Come back to bed.”

“No,” Buggy repeats, but there’s only amusement in his tone as he heads for the bathroom once again and comes out with a wet towel, cleaning himself up before he goes hunting for a clean shirt around the room. The one he finds is a little big on him, which suggests it might be Shanks’s, although he doesn’t remember owning something quite that… colorful. “Get your lazy ass out of bed already. A ship doesn’t run itself, you know? You wanted to be Captain, you must deal with the consequences of your actions.”

Shanks huffs unhappily, flopping down on the bed once more. “Can’t we just go back to sleep? Or go for another round?” he asks hopefully, waggling his eyebrows and that earns him a pillow to the face.

“Stop doing stupid faces,” Buggy says with an amused smile. “Gods, you’re insatiable.” Shanks only continues staring at him and he huffs once more, shaking his head fondly and Shanks’s heart flutters inside his chest. “We can take a break after lunch, but only if we have figured out the heating issue by then. Deal?” Shanks has no idea what heating issue he means, but he quickly figures he doesn’t care. He nods eagerly and Buggy laughs once more before throwing him the wet towel. “Then get cleaned up and dressed already. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Shanks dresses quickly and efficiently, barely paying attention to his clothes. He catches a glimpse inside of the pants drawer and he frowns a little after spotting a pair of purple pants that he knows for a fact he doesn’t own, but doesn’t think much of it: if this is a dream, it’d make sense that the clothes are random.

No need to worry about that. In fact, he shouldn’t worry about a damn thing, he should just enjoy this wonderful dream and hope he doesn’t get woken up by some emergency or another.

And yet, he can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right.

As he follows Buggy down the hall leading to the deck, his sense of uneasiness grows. He had thought he recognized the room he had woken up in, it certainly looked like his room back in the Red Force. The hall outside however is familiar but also not; messy and colorful drawings all over the walls, the ceiling a little higher than what he remembers.

Once they emerge onto the deck, his suspicions are confirmed: this is definitely not the Red Force. He’s never been to Buggy’s ship of course, but he’s seen pictures of it and yet the ship they’re aboard isn’t the Big Top either: in fact, the ship looks like a mismatch between both ships. There are elements he recognizes from his own ship, like the stern and the  distribution of the sails. The honest-to-god circus tent sitting in the middle of the deck does resemble the one he’s seen on the pictures of Buggy’s ship and the main mast also seems to come from it. 

With a gulp, he forces himself to look at the jolly roger sitting atop said main mast and his heart stops in his chest. There’s the mark over the skull’s eyesocket of his own flag and the bright red nose of Buggy’s.

He thinks he’s going to pass out.

He stares at the jolly roger with a mix of awe and horror, happiness bubbling in his chest while dread tries to squash it. It’s a dream, it must be, the most wonderful and horrifying dream ever: it’s everything he ever wanted, everything he ever dreamed of, but it’s not real. It can’t be real.

“Are you okay?” Buggy asks suddenly, standing way too close, as if personal space was a concept he had never heard of, which was indeed true for them once upon a time. Shanks turns to look at him, feeling treacherous tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, overwhelmed by emotion. “You’re acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

Shanks laughs, a tad hysterically perhaps. “Yes, I just-- I’m so happy, Blue.”

Buggy frowns in earnest: seemingly he’s said the wrong thing. Before either of them can say something though, someone else approaches them. “Captain,” Yassop says and Shanks has to hold back the maniac grin pulling at his lips after realizing he’s addressing Buggy. “The Marines have caught up with us.”

Buggy huffs. “It figures,” he mumbles unhappily, sparing a quick glare at Shanks. “I told you to stop wasting time.” Shanks grins widely, no doubt looking a little deranged and Buggy frowns some more, suspicious.

“Permission to use the new bomb prototypes, Captain,” Yassop says, sounding entirely too excited, bringing Buggy’s attention back to him. Shanks raises an eyebrow, a little confused about this. None of his men shy away from a confrontation and Yassop certainly enjoys getting the chance to shot things, but explosives aren’t really his thing.

Buggy hums, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider the matter carefully, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “Well, I suppose you might as well,” he declares solemnly, earning himself a large grin from the sharpshooter. “Get Cabaji to help you. He could use some target practice.”

“Aye, Captain!” Yassop declares enthusiastically. “Morning Boss,” he greets Shanks briefly before turning on his heel and disappearing down the deck, yelling for whoever Cabaji is.

Buggy sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. “I was hoping for some breakfast before having to fight any Marines,” he mumbles, lips turned downwards, but he doesn’t look truly put off by the developments and Shanks feels heat stir in his gut at the prospect of fighting side by side with his best friend/love of his life again.

“I’m sure we can get coffee at the very least,” he suggests and Buggy hums. “Maybe a pastry?” he adds, remembering the other man’s sweet tooth and Buggy’s lips stretch into a grin.

“You always know what I want to hear,” Buggy says and Shanks’s stomach twists a little: that’s absolutely not true, but the fondness in his tone warms his insides all the same. “I knew there was a reason why I kept you around.”

He leans forward to press a quick kiss to his lips, just a gentle press and then he’s gone; the kind of absentminded kiss people who kiss each other every day share: thoughtless, quick, meaningless.

It makes Shanks ache.

Turns out, Buggy’s calculations on the bombs were a little off. The explosion is minimal, which makes the man pout for a good hour, which is coincidentally the time it takes the Marines to catch up with them. The bombs did cause some damage, nothing too severe, but enough to piss the Marines off a bit more, so of course the battle gets heated quite quickly.

This isn’t a problem for Shanks or any of his crew. There are several crew members he does not recognize, but some of them are decent fighters and those who aren’t, helpfully stay out of the way for the most part. Without really planning to, Shanks finds himself fighting back to back with Buggy and his heart leaps every time he catches sight of the other man from the corner of his eye: he had thought he’d never have that privilege again and now--

He still doesn’t know what’s happening and while he supposes there’s still a chance he’s dreaming, it’s starting to feel far-fetched. That being said, what other option is there? That he somehow has traveled into an alternate universe in which he and Buggy never parted ways? That sounds far more far-fetched.

He keeps getting distracted by Buggy’s maniac smile, the dangerous edge of it making his stomach twist in a pleasant way, heat spreading across his body. Probably not the sanest reaction while in the middle of the battle, but he can’t help himself: he’s always thought Buggy looked the most handsome in the middle of the battle field, splattered with grime and blood.

(Yeah, okay, maybe Shanks’s tastes are a little unorthodox, but he was raised by pirates, so it makes sense.)

“On your left!” Buggy yells and Shanks wonders how the overenthusiastic Marine cadet managed to sneak so close unnoticed and while he manages to fend off the attack, the sword comes close enough to him to draw blood, a long gash appearing on his side. It’s not deep, he can tell, certainly not the worst that has happened to him, but by the anguish in the way Buggy calls his name, you’d think he’s been gutted.

“I’m fine!” he yells back, wincing a little after noticing the way the blood pours out of the wound. “Nothing to worry about!” he assures him. 

“You idiot!” Buggy snaps, annoyed, coming closer to him, finishing his own opponents with a quick flick of his wrist and Shanks thinks that it’s fortunate he’s bleeding, otherwise his blood would be rushing southwards and he suspects that’s not a sight Buggy would approve of. “I can’t believe you’d let a green cadet get you!”

“I’m a little distracted,” Shanks defends himself, grinning all the while. Buggy narrows his eyes at him, clearly unhappy. “I’m fine, I swear. You don’t need to worry about me, Blue.”

“--not worried,” Buggy mumbles under his breath, but his eyes are fixed on the open wound. “Let’s finish this quickly. I want Hongo to take a look at you.”

“I’m fine. There’s no need--”

But Buggy is no longer listening, once more focusing on the battle. Shanks smiles to himself, his stomach doing a little flip, affection burning bright on his chest. It might be unwise, but honestly, how can anyone expect him to not get distracted by such a glorious sight, especially after so many years going without it?

What’s a little blood loss in the face of that?

“--nothing but a flesh wound,” Hongo announces. The wound stopped bleeding on its own during the battle, already starting to scab, but now it’s weeping again, thanks to the wet rag Hongo used to clean away the dried blood and grime, so he could take a proper look at it.

“I could have told you that,” Shanks murmurs sourly. “And now it’s bleeding again.”

The doctor rolls his eyes pointedly. “I needed to clean the wound,” he says very seriously. “It’s a flesh wound, but given the circumstances in which it occurred, infection can still be a concern. Or do you believe all Marines keep their weapons on top form?”

Shanks hums, conceding the point. It’d certainly make for a very stupid way to die, so he supposes there’s no harm in being extra through with open wounds. “I’ll dress that and you can get out of here,” the doctor adds after a pause during which both feel the full effect of Buggy’s icy glare.

“You should spend the night in the infirmary,” Buggy says and Shanks half turns to face him, already pouting. “Just in case.”

“There’s no need--” Hongo begins and snaps his mouth shut after seeing Buggy’s expression. Shanks feels like laughing: his doctor is a force to be reckoned with; aboard the Red Force his word law inside his infirmary, not even Shanks gets to contradict him and yet it seems that Hongo isn’t willing to argue with Buggy.

“Ah, come on Blue. I’m fine, there’s no need--”

“You should not sleep on the floor with a wound like that,” Buggy says, arms crossed over his chest. “And you’re certainly not sleeping with me after that stupid stunt.”

Hongo is trying very hard to pretend he’s not hearing a single word being said, working quickly and efficiently, all the while avoiding Shanks’s eye. Shanks pouts some more, looking at Buggy in supplication. “The puppy eyes don’t work on me,” Buggy says, glaring at him. “You stopped being cute enough for them like a decade ago.”

Ouch. “You wound me, love,” Shanks says, the affectionate term slipping out of his lips without a thought. “I bet I’d recover quickly with a little loving.”

Buggy throws a pillow at him and Shanks laughs as Hongo springs onto his feet and leaves the room without finishing tying up the bands around his torso. Buggy recovers the pillow with a detached hand and hits him again, but the other hand goes to finish bandaging him up, fighting a smile all the while.

“Idiot,” Buggy mumbles affectionately, coming to stand at his side as he finishes with the knot.

“But I’m your idiot,” Shanks says and Buggy snorts. “I’m sorry for worrying you,” he adds, taking his partner’s hand in his and bringing it to his lips, so he can press a kiss to the back of it. “Forgive me?”

Buggy huffs, looking away. “Idiot,” he mumbles again, which Shanks knows is his way of agreeing and so he grins at him.

“Kiss it better?” he asks and he knows he’s pushing his luck, but while Buggy rolls his eyes very pointedly, he does lean down to press a quick kiss to Shanks’s side, the touch butterfly light and yet it makes his heart flutter. “I’ll be as good as new in a wink,” he promises and Buggy hums, running a hand distractedly through his hair.

“Idiot,” he repeats, but leans down for a proper kiss and Shanks grins, trying to pull him closer and groaning dramatically as Buggy splits apart to escape his grip. “None of that. You need rest.”

“I really don’t,” Shanks argues, but doesn’t press, feeling warm and content. After decades of absence, just having Buggy this close is (should be) enough; anything else is greed. But then, he’s a pirate, greediness is in his veins and what’s the harm in wanting more?

Buggy hums, sitting on the bed’s edge, one hand resting over Shanks’s chest, right over his heart. His expression is distant, lost in his own thoughts and Shanks takes the opportunity to bask into his friend/lover’s closeness, memorizing every little detail, every little change he can spot and filing it away for later.

His features have grown sharper, his face having lost the baby fat that still clung to his cheeks at fifteen. There are freckles peppered all over his cheeks and nose, skin darker than he remembers, sunkissed. His eyes are the same lovely shade of blue, his lashes having grown longer and ticker or maybe he’s just using more make up. His lips are soft looking, covered in some sort of shiny balm.

“I know it’s stupid,” Buggy murmurs after a beat, a finger smoothing over the scars on Shanks’s eye and his heart gives a little lurch. Ah, that explains a lot, actually. “But you really need to be more careful. It’d be embarrassing that the one who does you in is some wide eyed marine recruit.”

Shanks nods, holding the palm pressed against his face affectionately. “Sorry. I got a little distracted,” he says sheepishly. “You’re just too damn attractive, love.”

Buggy’s cheeks go bright red and he stands up abruptly, so Shanks hurries to hold his hand hostage, keeping it firmly pressed against his cheek. “Let me go, you brute,” Buggy says, tugging his hand, trying to break free. “That’s it, we’re officially done. It’s over.”

Shanks chuckles. “You don’t mean that,” he says and finds he means it. Which feels a little ridiculous, considering-- “Have we ever actually broken up?”

Buggy stops trying to escape straight away, a mighty frown replacing his annoyed expression. “What?” he asks, suspicion clear in his tone, staring at him intently. 

It’s possible, of course, that this is just an elaborate dream conjured by his subconscious and the unadvisable consumption of some other substance (alcohol in all likelihood, although he’s been known to eat some questionable mushrooms once or twice), but he’s beginning to think that’s not the case at all. He can’t explain it, but deep in his bones, he somehow knows: this is real, it’s just not his reality.

And gods, doesn’t that make it worse?

“Remember I told you I can’t remember last night?” he says and Buggy nods once, still looking suspicious but also a little concerned. “Well, it seems my memories are a little jumbled.”

Buggy huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And here I thought it was just a ruse to get me back in bed,” he mumbles unhappily to himself. “But no, you must make everything more complicated. I’ll go get Hongo back in here and then you’re spending the night in the infirmary.”

“No!” Shanks protests, squeezing his hand tighter and earning himself an annoyed yelp. “It’s nothing serious, I’m sure. Just… indulge me?”

Buggy hesitates, expression unhappy before he seemingly comes to a decision and sighs dramatically, dropping himself on the empty side of the bed. “Fine, let’s test how bad it is. What do you want to know?”

“Have we ever actually broken up?” he repeats and Buggy snorts, leaning back against the headboard. 

“Like a dog with a bone,” he mumbles to himself, lips curving upwards. “Every other week,” he replies and Shanks raises an eyebrow. “You’re always doing stupid things, which always annoys me. You always manage to get back onto my good graces, though,” he adds after a beat, cheeks a rosy color. “You can be pretty convincing.”

Shanks preens without really meaning to, throwing him a saucy wink that makes Buggy laugh good naturedly. “I’m very charming,” he agrees and Buggy snorts once more, but doesn’t contradict him. “So… never?”

“Well… No, unless you count the two weeks following Captain’s--” he interrupts himself, looking away and closing his eyes, as if bracing himself against something painful. “Well. You know. You do remember that, don’t you?”

Yes, Shanks doesn’t imagine there’s much difference between his memories and whatever happened in this reality on that regard. “Yes,” he says, squeezing Buggy’s hand once more. “So, other than that, no?” he asks, not wanting to linger on the subject for long.

“No,” Buggy agrees. 

“And have we… that’s the longest we’ve been apart? Those two weeks?”

He receives a hum this time around. “You’re really fucking clingy,” Buggy murmurs, fakely annoyed, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “If it was up to you, you’d be glued to my side all day.”

Sounds like him. It certainly had been like that when they were kids: Rayleigh had to pry him away from his best friend more than once. Let him breathe, he’d say, which never failed to annoy him: Buggy could breathe well enough with him around.

“I love you,” he says, the words slipping out before he can think them through. They’re the truth, even a decade of absence later and he imagines they’re particularly true for this Buggy: after all, unlike him, his Shanks did go after him.

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Buggy says with an eyeroll, but Shanks knows that’s his way of saying I love you too. He smiles, like the sap he’s been accused of being, and Buggy huffs, rolling his eyes dramatically, but doesn’t resist when Shanks pulls him closer so he can properly kiss him, even letting him roll him underneath him without breaking the kiss.

He feels vaguely guilty: this isn’t his Buggy after all, but honestly, desire is louder than his conciense.

“Not here,” Buggy protests, stopping his hand when it attempts to sneak under his shirt. “And not now. You’re gonna reopen your wound and Hongo will be very mad if we get blood on the sheets.”

“It’s the infirmary," Shanks protests. “I feel like if there’s a place where you can expect a little blood on the sheets, it’s here.”

Buggy laughs goodnaturedly, giving him a quick peck. “Come on. We wouldn’t want to undo all of Hongo’s hard work.”

Shanks huffs, leaning down for another kiss that Buggy is happy to return. “It’s his fault I was bleeding again in the first place.”

Buggy rolls his eyes pointedly, but doesn’t say anything, simply slips a hand between them and Shanks groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head on their own accord. It’s embarrassing, really, how the easy touch has him already seeing stars, his hips moving on their own accord, searching for friction as Buggy’s fingers wrap themselves around him and he buries his face against his partner’s neck. He’s built quite a bit of stamina in the last few years, but Buggy’s touch posses a certain kind of magic and before he knows it, he’s already coming with a loud groan that he’d be embarrassed about at any other moment, but right now he can’t bring himself to care.

Buggy offers him a self satisfied smirk. “Will you look at that? you’re bleeding again,” his partner announces when Shanks tries to kiss him again, already slipping out of the bed. “Come on, I’ll draw you a bath so you can properly clean up.”

Shanks hums: a bath does sound wonderful. “Will you be joining me?”

“See? Clingy as fuck,” Buggy says as he tries to pull him out of bed, expertly avoiding Shanks’s arms when he attempts to pull him down once more. “No, I need to look through my calculations again; those bombs ought to work.”

And just like that, Buggy is lost in his own head, talking to himself about measurements and chemicals and Shanks finds himself smiling, his heart feeling ready to explode inside his chest as he looks at his best friend/ love of his life:

He’s always known himself a fool.

But he’s never regretted it as much as he does right now.

The water is a little cold, so Shanks imagines that’s the heating issue Buggy mentioned earlier.

It’s not uncomfortable though, it’s warm enough outside to even be kind of pleasant. Or maybe he’s just too boneless and self satisfied to care overly much. Either way, he doesn’t suppose it matters overly much and so he allows himself to simply bask in the feeling of contentment.

He closes his eyes as he leans back on the bathtub, doing a quick mental recap of the facts he’s learned: so Buggy left him here too but, unlike himself, this Shanks wasn’t stupid enough to simply let him run away and went after him. Granted, it took him two weeks apparently, but in the great scheme of things, what’s two weeks compared to never?

He wonders what other different choices he made here. Has he forgotten Captain’s request? Forsaken his mission? At the very least he’s put them in the back of his head, because based on what Buggy said, he never went to the Holy Land in this universe (or perhaps he did and came back very quickly? but that wouldn’t be possible: the trip alone would take weeks). There’s a vague sense of guilt at that thought: after all, what’s his personal happiness to the greater good?

It looks like this Shanks made all the selfish choices. And yet, he’s sailing with Buggy at his side.

So weren’t those the right choices after all?

Aboard the Red Force, in the galley, there’s a wall dedicated to the crew’s bounty posters. The wall of infamy, his officers joke and Shanks supposes it’s accurate enough, so he’s never protested against the name.

The first few years of sailing around, only his poster decorated the wall, every new update coming to hang next to it. When Benn got his, the crew had thrown a week-long celebration, as they later did for every other officer. More and more posters started to appear on the wall, along with several updates on the older ones, the wall quickly getting crowded, and so it was decided only the most recently issued poster would be on the wall, replacing its predecessor and so keeping it slightly more organized.

The one exception is Shanks’s first ever poster though. The crew claims it’s for sentimental reasons and there might be some truth in that, but Shanks knows the full truth: they enjoy making fun of him.

In that first poster, he’s freshly turned seventeen and he certainly looks his age: he had been a gangly teen, all awkward limbs, hair way too long, one very large pimple on his nose. He had been attempting to grow a beard back then, he remembers, but calling the few hairs on his chin stubble would be far too generous.

It’s a terrible photo, honestly. Shanks had been so embarrassed when he saw it the first time, even if he had also been terribly proud of himself: a five million bounty was a very good start, especially given his age and his ragtag crew.

(He had briefly wondered if Buggy had seen the picture and what he had thought of it. It felt a bit like a wasted opportunity.)

The wall exists in this universe too and, as if to mock him, his first bounty poster is also there. But there’s a difference, a crucial one that steals the breath away from his lungs:  in this poster, he doesn’t stand on his own, sword in hand. No, the posture is the same, but he’s pressed back to back with Buggy.

The Buggy in the picture looks a lot like he does in his memory of Loguetown, perhaps a tad more handsome, which feels kind of unfair: teenage years are not supposed to be kind. And yet there he is, in all his teenage glory, grin as sharp and maniac as ever, hair falling wildly around his shoulders, his knives at the ready, standing next to Shanks as they always did back when they sailed together.

(But then, in this universe, they never stopped sailing together and isn’t that something?)

The bounty is the same, he notices and it feels a bit insulting. Double trouble and he thinks the bounty should reflect that, but--

“Everything alright, boss?” Benn has appeared at his side, silent as ever and Shanks startles a little, which makes the older man’s lips curve upwards briefly. It occurs to Shanks he didn’t see him during the confrontation with the Marines, but then, he was a little distracted. He grins at the man, glad some things are constant regardless of the universe, although he does wonder if Benn is the first mate here too. Yassop called Buggy Captain earlier and both Yassop and Benn have addressed him as boss, but he doesn’t suppose that’s necessarily telling: they call him boss back at his universe too. Then again--

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he hurries to reply, after noticing he’s gotten lost in his own thoughts for far too long. Benn has an uncanny ability to tell when Shanks is hiding something, it seems safe to assume that’s an ability he has here too and the last thing Shanks needs is to bring any kind of suspicions onto himself.

Benn frowns, unconvinced and Shanks panics: if someone is going to discover there’s something off with him, odds are it’s going to be his first mate. There’s only one person that can read him better than Benn, but Buggy tended to turn a blind eye whenever Shanks was acting weird, letting him talk when he felt like it.

“I just got thinking,” Shanks hurries to say, deflection his go-to reaction as usual. “It was such a low bounty, especially for a double one.”

Benn raises an eyebrow, not fully buying it, but before he can say anything, Yassop collides against him, wrapping an arm around Benn’s shoulders. “You’re never gonna let that go, eh boss? They grossly underestimate you, we’ve shown them better several times by now. The end.”

Huh. It figures that sort of thing would irk him in every universe. “Still, it’s insulting.”

Yassop laughs loudly and good naturedly and Benn huffs, his own lips curving into a small smile and Shanks dares to believe the danger has passed. He does a quick look around the galley, taking everything in: the distribution is surprisingly similar to the Red Force, although bigger. It makes sense, he supposes, the combination of both his and (presumably) Buggy’s crew, makes for large numbers. He wonders briefly if his different choices somehow ended up affecting who and when they joined the crew, but finds he’s not terribly concerned about that. Which might be kind of shitty of him, but--

The door to the galley opens then and Buggy strolls in. His ponytail is coming undone, more than a few strands hanging loosely around his face. His shirt is untucked and there’s a spot of something that might be paint on his pants. There’s also a smudge of gunpowder along his jaw and Shanks is well aware it’s absolutely ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself from staring, desire running like lightning across his spine.

Gods, a decade later and he still has it bad. Then again, he technically hasn’t seen Buggy in a decade, unlike this (very lucky) other Shanks, so it’s entirely possible--

“You’re staring boss. Again,” Yassop says, playfully bumping their shoulders together and Shanks can feel himself blushing. “We get it, you’re madly in love, but could you maybe be a little less obvious about it? You’re giving us a bit of second-hand embarrassment."

“Love is a beautiful thing,” Lucky Roux says, appearing out of thin air, sounding entirely too amused. “Don’t be jealous, Yassop. The boss told you to bring your lady along.”

Yassop huffs, but doesn’t protest. Shanks frowns a little at the cook’s words: he knows for a fact he did not suggest that back in his reality. It makes an awful kind of sense though: bitterness is such a horrible thing.

Buggy doesn’t even look in his direction, simply strolling across the galley towards one of the tables in the far corner, the more colorful one by far. He’s greeted by several happy cheers, the noise on that corner of the ship growing exponentially. Shanks doesn’t think he recognizes anyone in the group, they look a little too young to be his usual recruits. He has taken a couple of younger pirates under his wing back in his reality, but never aboard his own ship: less dangerous like that, he figured.

This group however looks quite fond of Buggy and he imagines his… boyfriend? enjoys the attention and is happy to milk it for all it’s worth. Buggy has always enjoyed attention a little too much and the group stares at him as if he had personally hung up every star in the sky: admiration and adoration rolled into one.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.

Buggy laughs at something, throwing an arm around one of the young men, who doesn’t look a day over twenty and Shanks can’t help narrowing his eyes at the sight. He can hear his men snickering around him and he imagines it’s a common enough sight, since no one calls him out on it. He imagines he’s glaring a little too hard though, because Buggy turns towards him then, a frown already on his face.

Their eyes meet and Buggy rolls his eyes at him very pointedly, but there’s a smile dancing on his lips; pleased but trying to hide it. Shanks forces himself to look away, ignoring every instinct in his body urging him to close the distance between them, pull Buggy back to his side, right where he belongs.

What right does he have, however? Sure, in this universe he might have gone after Buggy, but in his own--

“You’re doing a fantastic job reigning the jealousy in, boss,” Yassop teases and Lucky Roux hides a laugh behind a cough. “You know, it’s not the kid’s fault your husband has taken such a shine on him. If you spent less time glaring at him and actually got to know him--”

Shanks is no longer listening however, stopped the second the word left Yassop’s lips. Husband. Shanks thinks he’s going to pass out of sheer happiness. Husband, as in married. Buggy had once told him he wasn’t really the settling down type and Shanks hadn’t truly believed him, but he had sort of assumed that even if they stayed together, Buggy wouldn’t want to make it official. Which was not what he’d prefer, sure, but it was workable. And yet--

God, how did he fuck up so spectacularly in his own universe?

He spends all day feeling like he’s walking on the clouds, a no doubt silly smile on his lips the whole time, plastered to Buggy’s side as often as he can get away with. He had dreamed of a future that looked a lot like this once upon a time, but had abandoned such daydreams shortly after their parting at Loguetown. By now, he’s mostly resigned himself to his gray existence, with spots of contentment but no true happiness. He can say he’s lived a good life so far, can not deny he’s enjoyed himself and indulged in many simple pleasures, but now that he’s seen what he’s missing-- the life he could have had--

He does not believe he can go back to not having this.

It’s temporary, he knows. Whatever led him to this alternate universe (some impossible magic or devil fruit power? some vengeful spirit or an entirely too kind one?) is unlikely to keep him here forever; it'll be over eventually. And sure, he can hope that ending is very far into his future, but he thinks it’s much more likely it’ll be over soon.

It doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy every second in between that moment and this one. In fact, if anything, it means he should treasure every second, take advantage of every stolen moment he can claim. He’s a pirate, after all: an expert in taking whatever he wants.

And oh, how he’s wanted this.

By nighttime, Shanks is feeling (in his opinion) appropriately angsty.

Considering how his morning started, he thinks there’s a good chance this miracle will end the moment he goes to sleep. Which is partly why he forsook his regular afternoon nap: too much of a risk with too little reward.

He can feel sleep tugging at him now, but he fights it with every bit of his strength. He has refused every single drink pushed in his direction, knowing alcohol can make him sleepy and while that earned him more than a few confused stares, no one really commented on it (although he’s noticed there are several men keeping watch: he’s probably making people paranoid, thinking he senses upcoming trouble).

“So, what’s up with the sudden sobriety?” Buggy asks, leaning against his side, shoulders bumping together. He’s learned that Buggy isn’t opposed to showing some casual affection when they’re surrounded by people, but he’ll draw the line at them actually getting cozy. Shanks can throw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and he’ll allow it, will even let him steal a kiss or two, but a proper make out session is out of the question and if he lets his hands wander…

Well. It was worth it, but his cheek aches a little.

“You told me this morning you weren’t letting me get drunk ever again,” he points out and Buggy snorts, amused, hiding his blush against Shanks’s neck. “It’s nothing really. I just-- I want to enjoy the night fully.”

Buggy hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t press, taking a sip of his own beer distractedly, pulling a face as he does. “I’ve never seen the appeal myself,” he says, twirling the bottle distractedly. “At this point, I feel like I do it just out of habit.”

Shanks hums back. He does enjoy the taste of beer and rum, but for the most part, he also drinks out of habit: it’s the easiest way to get his mind to shut up, the most efficient way to keep his regrets at bay, to drown the pain and the sorrow. He brushes Buggy’s hair away from his face, wondering briefly if that’s his case too: he should think not, he certainly looks happy, but then, Buggy was always very good at masking his real feelings.

The thought is more than a little horrifying. Shanks has had his best day in many many years, enjoying a day in the life he always wanted for himself. But what if Buggy doesn’t share the feeling? What if he’s actually miserable?

“What?” Buggy asks, a mighty frown having taken over his face, looking at him suspiciously. Shanks realizes he’s tightened his grip a little and hurries to loosen it up, although he doesn’t relinquish his hold on his friend.

“Are you happy, Blue?” he asks earnestly and that earns him a deeper frown.

“What? What are on about?”

“The truth, please,” Shanks says and Buggy opens his mouth to protest, but he must see something in his gaze for he immediately snaps it shut. He continues frowning, but he seems more thoughtful than angry now.

“Yes, of course,” Buggy replies after a beat and at Shanks’s narrowed gaze, he rolls his eyes very pointedly. “Yes, Red, I’m happy. I don’t know what’s up with you, but I assure you I’m happy. You make me happy.” He scrunches his nose at this, clearly unhappy with having said that out loud, but probably sensing what Shanks wants (needs) to hear.

And that’s precisely what makes him all the more angsty. Because once upon a time, he had thought that to be the truth, but-- “You wouldn’t lie to me about that, would you?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Buggy curses, pinching the bridge of his nose, quickly growing annoyed. “I’m not saying anything sappier than that. But to answer your question… yes, I would.”

Shanks nods slowly, not fully convinced, but willing to let it go. It certainly seems that way, he hadn’t seen anything that would lead him to believe Buggy’s lying, but then, he hadn’t really seen the signs before, had he? Although maybe--

“What’s up with you today?” Buggy asks and he sounds mostly annoyed, but perhaps a tiny bit concerned too. “You’re not keeping secrets again, are you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at him. “Because that’d make me very unhappy, Shanks. Very very unhappy.”

Which secrets? he wonders but he shakes his head, decisively, even if he knows that’s untrue. But then, the secret he’s keeping it’s not the sort of thing Buggy is picturing. Buggy looks unconvinced still, but he doesn’t press, humming thoughtfully instead.

“I just--” Shanks starts, unsure of what he should say. He’s keeping secrets, in a way, but he does not believe telling Buggy the truth would make things better. Although perhaps-- “Do you believe in alternate universes?”

Buggy blinks, clearly not having been expecting that answer. “Do I-- you mean like… other planets?”

Shanks shakes his head and maybe he’ll regret it, but the words keep coming. “No, like, other realities. Like, alternate lifetimes in which we made different choices, that led to different futures.”

Buggy hums, considering. It’s clear he thinks there’s something wrong with him, but he seems willing to indulge him for the time being. “Sounds a bit crazy,” he acknowledges, twirling his bottle as he considers. “But I suppose it’s not impossible. I mean… different choices lead to different outcomes, it’s not crazy to think that that would lead to the creation of different realities. It’d definitely not be the weirdest thing to happen in this world.”

Shanks has to chuckle at that: his thoughts exactly.

“But why are you thinking about these alternate realities?” Buggy asks after a brief silence, looking at Shanks expectantly.

He sighs, chewing on his lip gently. He could come clean, he imagines, but soon enough it might not matter anymore, so why spoil what little time he has left to enjoy this reality? “I was just thinking… imagine if I had never gone after you. If we had gone our separate ways forever that day--”

“Ugh, depressing,” Buggy says, silencing him by passing him the beer bottle. “You’re not even drunk and you’re being a mood killer.”

Shanks laughs, stealing a kiss instead of taking a sip of the drink and Buggy huffs, but allows it. “You’re right. Sorry love, don’t know what came over me.”

Buggy doesn’t reply, just steals a kiss of his own and Shanks thinks everything is alright in the world.

If only--

There’s only so long he can push sleep away and eventually he loses the fight to tiredness. It’s a pity, really, he’s stayed up later for stupidier reasons (a very loud party, a fight or fleeing somewhere), but this time there’s no avoiding it.

Besides, Buggy looks plenty sleepy himself and so refusing to go to bed might raise suspicions.

Now that he’s actually paying attention, he can see all the differences between his own room aboard the Red Force and this one. For one it’s bigger and the bed larger and with many quilts (Buggy was always sensitive to the cold, while Shanks’s inner temperature always ran higher). There aren’t many things in the way of decorations, but there are several shiny trinkets laying about and colorful clothes thrown all around. It’s a bit chaotic, reminding him of their room aboard the Oro in some ways.

He lies down on the bed, listening to the sound of Buggy moving around the bathroom, running commentary as he goes about his evening routine. He smiles softly, running a hand over Buggy’s side of the bed, his heart clenching with longing: the ending is fast approaching, he thinks, and he’s nowhere near ready for it.

“You alright?” Buggy asks, reappearing into the room, dressed in soft loose pants and an even looser shirt, so washed up it’s practically transparent. “You’re looking all sad and thoughtful. Again.”

Shanks smiles sadly. “I’m fine,” he mumbles and chuckles at Buggy’s unbelieving huff. “I was just thinking again of that alternate me. The one who lost you.”

Buggy huffs, coming to sit on the bed, brush in hand, distractedly undoing the loose ponytail his hair had been pulled into. “What about him? I mean, he’s clearly a fool.”

Shanks chuckles, sitting up, taking the brush from him, running his fingers through his hair, softly undoing any tangles he comes across before he actually starts brushing it. “Don’t you pity him a little?”

Buggy snorts. “Why should I?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, oddly defensive. “When I ran at Lougetown, I honestly thought you’d catch up with me the second I stopped running, but you didn’t,” he confesses after a brieft pause and Shanks flinches a little at his tone, but he carries on, undeterred. “I told myself you just needed some time. That you’d realize you were being an idiot and come after me,” he continues and while it’s been a decade, it’s clear the memory haunts him still and that makes Shanks ache anew. “Do you have any idea what those two weeks after Lougetown were for me? I was starting to lose faith, if you hadn’t shown up--” he interrupts himself, taking a deep breath, unclenching his jaw. “I can’t imagine a lifetime of waiting. It’d be absolute hell.”

Shanks considers this as he continues to brush his hair, thoughtful. “What if I had good reasons to stay away?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Buggy hisses, splitting apart, his body starting to pace the room while his head continues floating in front of Shanks. It’d be a funny sight, if their discussion didn’t feel so serious. “We agreed, no more secrets, Red! You promised me! But this is like the whole Mary Geois debacle all over again! You asking weird questions, as if expecting me to-- what? I swear to god, you’re--”

Shanks blinks, stopping midmotion. Wait, has he told Buggy… well, everything? His words seem to imply as much. Or perhaps he didn’t tell him everything, but he did say enough and that’s-- that’s--

He has no idea how to feel about that. He had always thought this burden was his to carry alone; back in his universe, he hasn’t told a soul about it. And yet-- 

Oh. Oh, this is… marvelous and horrible and terrifying, all at the same time. Good god, what is he supposed to do with this revelation?

It’s definitely something to ponder later, but right now, he can tell he’s distressed Buggy greatly and that’s a big no-no. His other self seemingly has been working very hard to make things work with his Buggy, it’d be poor form to mess things up for him.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, getting out of the bed so he can wrap his arms around Buggy’s middle, making him stop pacing. His head goes back to its place and he scowls at Shanks, but doesn’t try to pull away. “I promise it’s nothing. It’s stupid, I don’t know what came over me.”

Buggy huffs, unconvinced, gaze narrowed. “You promise?” he asks and Shanks’s heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone. He nods once, hoping it’ll be enough, unsure of what he’ll do if it’s not.

“Come back to bed,” he says after a beat in which Buggy just watches him in silence, as if trying to read into his very soul. “Let me finish brushing your hair.”

Buggy hums, still looking wary, but going along with the motions, sitting down on the edge of the bed, slowly leaning back against Shanks so he can continue with what they were doing. The silence is heavy, but not unpleasant and soon enough he loses himself in the repetitive motions, his thoughts quieting down for the most part, except--

“You said a lifetime of waiting. Would you have really waited that long?”

Buggy snorts, glaring at him over his shoulder. “You’re insufferable,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he turns to look forward once more, avoiding his eye. “I’m not saying any of that sappy shit to love to spew. You know how I feel about you. You know there could never be anyone else. You have your answer.”

Shanks’s heart simultaneously leaps of joy and twists with guilt.

Gods, what a fool he is.

Eventually he puts the brush away, laying back down, patting the space next to him to invite his partner to lie down. Buggy gives him a funny look, one eyebrow raised. “What? No attempt to get handsy? Not even some innuendo?”

Shanks laughs; it looks like he’s still a proper menace, even a decade later. Back when they were teens, Buggy would often jokingly complain about him never keeping his hands to himself and he could tell that while he didn’t quite understand it, he did enjoy it. 

It seems like some things never change.

That being said-- “How about we just cuddle for a bit?” he suggests, not because he’s not dying to get his hands back on his companion, but because he wants to enjoy what little time he has left with small intimacies. Sex is great, of course, but it’s not something he’s exactly missing. This closeness however… this easy existence…

That’s an entirely different animal.

Buggy raises an eyebrow, looking more amused than suspicious. “Alright, now I know there’s something very wrong with you,” he says but he’s already lying down, sliding closer to him, fitting his head against Shanks’s chest. “Who are you and what you’ve done with my husband?” he asks playfully, eyes alight with mischief.

Shanks laughs goodnaturedly, ignoring the ache in his chest. “I love you,” he says, pulling his companion close instead of actually answering. “I don’t know if I say it often enough,” he adds, gently cupping the other man’s face.

Buggy scrunches his nose, leaning forward for a quick kiss. “You’re a sap,” he announces, which tells Shanks he says it exactly as often as he likes to hear it and he smiles, stealing another kiss.

It’s reassuring, in some ways, knowing there’s an universe in which they actually get to be happy. It’s also heartbreaking, because why can’t they be in his own?

Because he’s a fool, that’s why. It hurts so bad to know that all these years he’s not only caused himself a lot of pain, but to think that Buggy has been suffering through it too? It’s almost unbearable.

But if this Buggy is right about him still waiting…

Well. That’s something, isn’t it?

When Shanks wakes up, pain flares from his side, so strong that it nearly makes him pass out once more.

He manages to sit up through sheer force of will, every move making him feel like he’s dying. He tries to put together his scattered thoughts, refusing to succumb to the panic rising in the back of his mind: he’s not sure where he is, what day it is or what is happening, but panicking won’t help one bit.

“Good morning, boss,” Hongo’s voice comes from his good side, the doctor appearing carrying a glass of something that honestly looks all kinds of disgusting, but that Shanks drinks without protest, figuring it’s something for the pain. It tastes as bad as it looks and he sees no change in the pain, but he supposes he should give it some time to work.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asks, because that feels like the most pressing matter. His injury is quite severe, life threatening even, so if there’s any immediate danger--

Well. It’ll be good to know just how screwed they are.

“You’ve been coming and going for the last couple of days,” Hongo replies, passing him now a glass of water and Shanks hums, considering this. No memory raises, so he still doesn’t know how he got injured, but it’s probably safe to assume the threat has been neutralized: if he’s been unconscious for so long, it probably means they’re in no immediate danger anymore.

The pain flares once more and so he forces himself to look. There’s a tourniquet on his upper arm, the bandage underneath painted in the dark red of dried blood. His arm ends abruptly just underneath it and that shakes his memories enough for him to recall the whole thing.

Ah, the Sea King.

“How’s Luffy?” he asks, because he figures there’s not much to explain when it comes to his missing arm, not much to do about it now. The boy however--

“You know how he is,” Hongo says, a small brittle smile on his lips. “He’s a crybaby, so he’s been crying for the past two days. Beck had to drag him away, because he kept upsetting your wound, making it bleed again.”

Shanks hums, lips curving upwards briefly. There’s something else tugging at his memory, something about getting blood on the infirmary sheets.

Buggy, he thinks and just like that, the other memories are slamming to the forefront of his mind, so quickly that they make him dizzy. What was that about? Was it all a hallucination, conjured by the pain? It is possible, of course, it certainly makes more sense than him somehow traveling to an alternate universe, but--

“You’re awake,” Benn’s voice comes this time and Shanks blinks, turning to look at his first mate. He gets the impression time has passed, although he couldn’t tell for sure: the room seems a little darker than before and Hongo is nowhere to be found, which suggests time has indeed passed.

“Yes,” he agrees, leaning back on the pillows, managing not to make too many faces as he does. The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, but it feels like a small price for what he’s gained: his freedom, first and foremost and Luffy’s life too. “Hongo tells me you had to peel Luffy away.”

Benn huffs, amused, a smile coming to his lips unbidden. “The kid is entirely too attached,” he acknowledges, sitting next to the bed. “It seems the feeling is mutual, though.”

Yes and no. He cares about Luffy a great deal, of course and he wanted to keep him safe, but he didn’t sacrifice his arm just because; he could have taken a different approach. “Everything alright with the crew? They didn’t get too angsty?”

“Everything’s in order,” Benn replies, leaning back on the chair. “We’re ready to sail whenever you want.”

Shanks smiles at this: his first mate can read him entirely too well. It’s time to leave Dawn, yes and the East Blue all together, but before that-- “I need you to do me a favor,” he says and he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, but the hallucination (if that was what it was) still has a tight grip on him and maybe he’s being ridiculous, but if there’s a chance--

“Whatever you need, boss,” Benn agrees, easy as breathing. Shanks stays quiet for a beat, considering all his options, trying to decide on the best course of action. It feels foolish to poke at sleeping dragons, but then he looks at his missing arm and thinks that’s Buggy’s side and so he comes to a decision.

“You’ll find a bounty poster in my desk, under the first drawer’s fake bottom,” he starts and Benn nods slowly, taking in the request. “I need you to find where the pirate in it is.”

It’s an odd request, to be honest. It’s not everyday that Shanks actually goes looking for someone, let alone another pirate and he certainly doesn’t go around collecting bounty posters of people he’s not connected to. Benn would have every right not to question what this is about, every right to be concerned about it and it’s a testament of his trust that he simply nods once, before exiting the room.

Shanks lies down once more, staring at the ceiling, heart beating erratically in his chest. In truth, to go looking for Buggy is not a new urge, although it’s one he’s been careful to ignore, telling himself over and over again that they were better off apart. He’s always believed as much; the weight of the secrets he carries is too overwhelming, too much of a burden to share.

But the dream/ hallucination/ trip? has given him hope. Foolish hope, perhaps, but now that it’s there, he can’t ignore it. So he’ll take the risk and pray to all those gods he doesn’t believe in for it to pay off.

Maybe he’ll get lucky.

Although truth be told, luck always favored Buggy.