Archive of Our Own

Shanks struggles in vain, teeth gritting as he kicks uselessly at whatever offending body part he can. “Let me go!” He shouts for the umpteenth time, glaring at the bulging bicep holding him in place. He is, of course, ignored just as he was the last hundred times he demanded his freedom. That doesn’t stop Shanks from wriggling around like an enraged cat, though it does just result in the hold tightening. 

Fucking shit.  

Now, Shanks can admit he wasn’t particularly known for his strategic planning capabilities, but even he can admit that this time around he’d been particularly stupid. So stupid! So embarrassingly stupid, in fact, that he’s almost thankful none of his nakama had been present for his most recent blunder. 

Almost.

When the looming iron gate of whoever-the-fuck’s giant house comes into view on this random wherever-the-hell island, Shanks thinks he’d be more than happy to take any and all ribbing from the crew if it meant he could be safe and sound back on the Oro. Would it result in his newly granted freedom to roam islands alone to be revoked? Oh, absolutely. Did he currently care? No.

As the giant, reinforced gate echoes shut behind them, Shanks also thinks about his last view of the crew being the sight of them all practically sprawled out across the deck, heavily, heavily hung over. 

Fucking. Shit.

—

Not much is said to Shanks between the time he’s brought in and the time he’s forced into what appears to be servant’s quarters. And by not much, he means basically nothing. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried talking to his kidnappers, but all he’d gotten was a single, grunted out, “insurance.” Whatever the hell that meant. 

The silence and unanswered questions had made the long trek across the estate drag. Seriously, who knew being kidnapped could be so boring. Shanks is almost glad when the man holding him starts up the stairs leading to a grand entryway of the main house. Not that it matters. The inside isn’t any more interesting, but at least there’s more to look at than a perfectly manicured lawn, and perfectly positioned trees. 

The place is, in Shank’s humble opinion, obscene. By every sense of the word. White marble, stone, gold, brass, rich, brown wood, more gold, more stone, more marble. Columns, archways, at least two separate courtyards, furniture that looked like it'd be a literal pain in the ass to sit on, vases the size of Shanks, if not taller. Cavernous and empty, exuding a hollow feeling and lacking a warmth any normal home would have. It was all so…much. 

He’d tried to keep track of every twist, turn, and stairway he’d been hauled through, but when Shanks lost track of which floor he was even on, he decided to spare himself the headache. Whatever. He’d figure it out when the time came. 

“Here. They might be a bit large, but they should fit.” A mousey voice says, and Shanks looks up to a quiet young maid and the bundle of fabric she holds out to him. She’d been the only one in the room when Shanks was unceremoniously dropped off, the man who took him immediately disappearing from view. Shanks wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d actually gone, though, so he’d begrudgingly introduced himself to the maid rather than make a break for it. Said maid did nothing but nod in acknowledgement. 

“What is it?” He asks, raising a brow and pinching a corner of the cloth. 

“Clothes. The lord of this estate prefers us all to be kept uniform in our dress.”

Shanks’ nose scrunches as he unfolds a pair of brown slacks, the bottoms dragging on the floor. 

“The legs can be hemmed if they become a problem. You can also toss what you’re wearing out once you’ve changed.” The maid squeaks before handing him a sheet of paper. “Here are your chores for the day. You’ll be taking the lower East wing. Mealtimes are at six, noon, and six again on the dot. There are servant closets on every floor, seven per, you should be able to find any supplies you need within them.” With that, the maid turns and heads for the door.

“Chores? Hey! Wait!” Shanks scrambles after her. She looks back. “Yes?”

“What is this? Why was I just randomly taken?!” That earns him a raised brow, the first look that wasn’t infuriatingly neutral he’d gotten since being nabbed. 

“Insurance.”

“Okay…insurance foooor…?”

“The town failed to meet the yearly tax quota.”

Shanks waits a moment, mouth pinching when he’s given no further explanation. “I don’t get it.”

“The town couldn’t pay. So now you work for the lord until it, and its accumulated interest can be paid.”

Shanks’ mind short circuits for a moment. “...hah?! And how much is that?!”

The maid shrugs. “Don’t know. It was in the seven hundred millions when I was taken a few years ago. It’s gone up since then. Plus interest.” 

Seven hundre–

“Seven hundred million?!” Shanks asks, flabbergasted, then, “but why me?! I’m not even from this island!”

The maid tips her head at that. “You’re not? That’s unlucky.” 

Shanks could scoff. 

“The lord’s guards usually just grab whoever.”

Shanks groans. Seriously, what?

“Get dressed. Interest goes up if daily chores aren’t completed.” The maid turns and glides out the door, leaving a gaping Shanks in her wake.

“WAIT!” Shanks calls out again, this time going unacknowledged. “WHAT’S AN EAST WING?”

—

On the first day, Shanks, obviously, says fuck the chores and instead sneaks around to try and find an exit. He, also obviously, gets so incredibly lost that he somehow finds himself in a cellar despite not remembering going down any stairs. He misses out on both lunch and dinner because of this, and is thankfully rescued by a tired looking butler before he has to start truly considering sleeping atop wine barrels. 

The second day is much like the first, though this time Shanks is much more careful about keeping track of the servants' dining room. It’s also here that he starts to notice how…empty the manor is. He sees the occasional worker, sure, but they slink in and out of rooms like ghosts before disappearing into service corridors. It’s all very blink and you’ll miss it.  

This, naturally, lulls him into a false sense of security, and when he finally comes across his first unlocked window, three guards immediately descend upon him. With a hard slap to the wrist, Shanks is unceremoniously shoved further back into the house before the guards all but vanish from sight. They hadn’t been outwardly violent, and Shanks figures that’s as good of a win as he’ll get from that encounter. All things considered, it was nice to know they, at the very least, weren’t needlessly cruel to those captured. 

His escape attempts on the third day see no difference, and Shanks nearly shits himself when the knowledge that one of the guards has a devil fruit that allows him to phase through walls becomes startlingly known to him. 

It’s by the fourth day that the guilt for the alleged interest rate increase–and his annoyance at both his lack of self-saving and his crew’s lack of busting him out of here–has Shanks stopping to properly look over his list of chores. He isn’t sure what exactly is keeping his nakama, because no doubt at least some of the crew have noticed his absence by now, but he figures it’s partly his own fault. 

Remember that freedom he’d been granted? Yeah. That had come after months upon months of ceaseless whining to any and all unwilling ears that he was ‘old enough to walk around without a babysitter’ and that ‘if he got into any trouble he could handle himself, thank you very much. And no observation haki!’ 

Ugh.

Shanks sniffs and adjusts the brim of his hat. He had not, in fact, tossed his clothes out like that first maid had suggested. Instead, he’d carefully tucked them under the mattress of his designated bed and boldly kept his straw hat right where it belonged–atop his head. He’d resolutely ignored the looks his fellow captees sent him, and seeing as he’d yet to be properly accosted by anyone for wearing it, he figures he’s in the clear. 

He starts opening random doors in search of one of the servants’ closets. The first thing on the list is sweeping, a chore he’s more than familiar with. Once a broom is located, Shanks comes to a junction, looking back and forth down either end of the corridor. Not quite being able to tell which direction he was facing, he figures he’d just go right. If anyone asks, he’d blame childish ignorance by assuming he was always, by default, facing North. 

He sweeps the broom back and forth across the pristine marble, his steps echoing lightly as he contemplates his predicament further. 

He hasn’t come across the lord or any other proper occupants of the estate. From what he’d gathered, they mostly kept to the upper back portions of the manor, only ever using the rooms Shanks has spent most of his time in for entertaining guests or hosting parties. Still, it never hurts to be too careful, so Shanks keeps his presence light, and his eyes and ears peeled for any wayward guards.

He falls into a rhythm, the motion automatic as he simultaneously checks every window he passes, and twists every doorknob he sees. Most are locked. The few that aren’t lead to dead ends and shifting guard-shaped shadows that Shanks makes well to steer clear of. And so he just keeps sweeping, sweeping, sweeping. 

Unwittingly, Shanks finds his mind drifting in the monotony of his task as he’s wont to do. He doesn’t pay much mind to where he’s going, too busy feeling embarrassed for himself. Seriously, it’d be one thing if he was physically detained and held somewhere in secret, but he wasn’t! Yes, he was clearly being monitored, but he was a pirate, damnit! And a Roger pirate at that! He should be able to handle some lousy kidnapping lord and his ninja guards! Said lord didn’t even bother to check on those he took! Shanks would feel affronted by this if it wasn’t ultimately an advantage. 

His stomach gurgles, breaking him from his thoughts. He grimaces, not realizing how much time he’d let slip away from him with still no grand escape plan. He huffs, figuring he’d mule it over a nice warm bowl of grub. He turns, ready to head back to—wait. 

Where…the fuck was he? 

Shanks blinks, grip on his broom slackening as he stares owlishly around him. Shit. He knew he tended to wander when his mind was preoccupied, but this looked like a completely different part of the manor entirely!

The vaulted ceilings appear to be taller, floor to ceiling windows lining either wall, sunlight washing everything in a hazy glow. He spots what looks like a courtyard to the left of him, and further down the hall is a posh sitting area. It’s also deathly quiet, so much so that when his stomach grumbles again, Shanks can’t help the pink flush that spreads to the tips of his ears when the sound echoes. 

But dang, he seriously didn’t wanna miss any meals again. Say what you will about his situation, but there was no denying the help ate surprisingly good here. Sighing, Shanks starts trudging back the way he hopes he came, turning every doorknob, checking every window, yada, yada, yada—

A door clicks open, one that’s part of a grand doorway, and almost as tall as the windows. Shanks doesn’t recognize it—is frankly surprised it even opened given how fancy it looks—meaning…Shanks is most definitely going the wrong way. Figures. He pushes through the heavy wooden door, anyways. With any luck, it would somehow lead him back to food. 

He takes a thoughtless step in and promptly stumbles to a halt. There, right in front of him, is a large, golden domed cage. And within that cage is a…a…what the hell is that? It appears to be some sort of tiger, except its fur is an almost greenish pale blue. It has golden eyes, and seems a bit too stubby to be any normal tiger, color notwithstanding. It also has a unicorn horn. 

Hmm. Yeah, okay. Sure. 

Upon further inspection, the cage is decorated quite uniquely too. Inside is a large, flat rock, of which the tiger reclines on, a small pool, and several large tropical plants lining the back side of the cage, thick enough to barely see past. The…tiger? Thing? Licks its jowls, rumbling lazily as it deems Shanks unimportant and lowers its head, eyes closing. 

Shanks shakes his head. He’d seen plenty of weird animals while sailing along the Blues with his crew, so it must say something that he’s a bit surprised when he quickly scans the rest of the area. Domed cage after domed cage line either side of the long room, all decked out in specific biomes and housing peculiar looking creatures that Shanks can confidently say he’s never seen before. A monkey with seven wings. An elephant the size of a dog. Some sort of two headed lizard thing. 

The room itself is airy and open, and like most of the house, is covered in white marble and pale, glittery stone, and accented in golds and rich woods. The floor to ceiling windows continue in here, each lining up perfectly with the cages, though from what Shanks can tell, there isn’t much to look at—just a small patch of gravel as far back as a standard flowerbed running along the side of the house, with another brick wall standing on the other side. It’s far enough away to allow in natural light that glints off the cages while still  hiding the world from view. The occasional ostrich fern dots the space in between. 

Shanks leans the broom against the wall next to the door, and slowly makes his way through further, jaw slowly dropping the more he sees. In some cages, there are creatures that resemble those Shanks had heard legends about on passing islands, or detailed in books on fables. Creatures that, before two seconds ago, Shanks would have sworn weren’t real. And yet, here they are! Caged inside a random, isolated hall, in a random manor, on a random estate, on a random island. 

Hmm. Something to ponder over, no doubt, but later, when Shanks had a full stomach and proper time to allow himself to believe that all of this was real, and he hadn’t accidentally knocked himself out while sweeping somehow. 

When he makes it to the end of the room, he passes a cage with more tropical-like flora and a funny little bird with an incredibly long tail and a scraggly, sunburnt orange beak, loose feathers littering the bottom of its cage, graying with age. It squawks at him when he freezes in place, his eyes locked on the last cage beside it. 

This cage is notably shorter than the rest, smaller too, and lacking any sort of plant life or habitat recreation. Rather, there's blankets and numerous white pillows–and what Shanks can only assume is a chamber pot shoved to the side–surrounded by piles and piles of books. And right in the center of it all sits a child whose attention is fully captured by a book open in their lap. 

If the sight of a child inside this hall of cages wasn’t enough of a shock to Shanks’ system, then the appearance of the kid definitely was. Bright, blue hair that reminded Shanks of cloudless, sunny days, pale skin—so unlike Shanks’ own sunkissed—and, most peculiarly, a large, red nose. All these features combined makes them appear…very unique. 

The child turns a page, the sound thunderous in the gentle quiet that blankets the room, and isn’t that also weird? A room full of animals, and yet the loudest thing in here was the turning of a page? Something about that thought has a different something squeezing painfully in Shanks’ chest. It’s uncomfortable, and it scrapes against a normally dormant anxiety within him. 

Shanks approaches the cage, footsteps light, and stands there, watching. A closer look allows Shanks to take in the other’s details; blue hair that fell just past their shoulders, a simple, white dress-like tunic, a jaw with babyfat still clinging to it. He…thinks they might be a boy?

“Um, hello?” Shanks finally tries when it becomes obvious the other is too engrossed in the book to even realize Shanks is there. The kid jumps, letting out an indignant squawk that sets a few of the other animals off for a moment. He flails a bit, sending the book sailing into a nearby stack, knocking it over. Shanks can’t help but wince at the loud sound.

The kid whips his head towards shanks, fast enough that his own hair flies around to smack them in the face. Large, green eyes practically bug out of their sockets at the sight of him, thin frame heaving with a jack-rabbiting heart. 

“Um–”

“What the shit?”

“Squawk! Kee-kee-kee! What the Shit!”

The kid’s eyes narrow, his focus snapping to the funny bird in the cage next to his. “Shut up, Kowkee!” He grouches, voice pitchy.

“Shut up! Squaaawwk! Stupid red nose! Kow-kee-kee-kee!”

“What’d you say about my stupid, red nose?!”

“Uh…” Shanks stands there dumbly, looking back and forth between the blue haired child and the surprisingly eloquent parrot sniping insults at one another. 

“Uh, uuuuhh, sound dumb, dummy! Squaawwwkee-kee-kee!”

“Okay.” Shanks gives up, both parts amused and annoyed by the bird’s mocking. Where and how did the avion even learn to do such a thing?

Just then, distantly, Shanks hears a clock chime the hour. He stands straighter, stomach growling insultingly in time with the dong-dong-dongs as he counts the number of chimes. 

Dang it. Dang it! He’d officially missed lunch! Shanks tips his beach back with a half-groan-half-sigh, mournfully eyeing the natural patterns swirling in whatever material the ceiling was composed of. He looks back down, jolting a bit when he comes face to face with the kid. 

Said kid now has his face smooshed up to the cage, hands wrapping around the bars on either side of his head. He—and Shanks is pretty sure it’s a he now that he’s looking up close—stares unnervingly at Shanks, gaze intense and unyielding. He’s a touch taller than Shanks, with skin untouched by knicks, scars, blemishes, or any other such common imperfections.

They stay like this, locked in a sort of staring contest, and Shanks marvels a bit at the kid’s ability to not blink. Before Shanks can even begin to consider breaking first, his guts do it for him, once again making their empty presence known to the room at large. 

The kid’s eyes snap down at the gurgle, laser focusing on his midsection. Shanks can’t help but squirm a bit when those eyes stay locked on his stomach. 

“Um, hi.” Shanks tries lamely, hoping to distract the kid from his…staring. It works, those bug-eyes flicking back up to meet his, though honestly, Shanks isn’t entirely sure that’s any better. Still… 

“I’m Shanks!” He’s met with silence. “...what’s your name?” Nothing. Hmmm.

“Me Kowkee-kee-kee!” The parrot squawks instead, and Shanks wonders where he can get his hands on one of these things. 

“Hi, Kowekeekee.” Shanks smiles up at the parrot, watching the bird puff up at the address. 

“It’s Kowkee.” 

Hazel eyes meet green. “Huh?”

“His name is Kowkee, not Kowkeekee. Stupid old bird just doesn’t know how to say his own name.” At the loud, affronted, “squawwwkee-kee-kee,” Shanks nods, and then, since he’s a little shit, asks, “do you know how to say your name?”

The kid scowls, the sneer nowhere near intimidating given how pudgy his cheeks look. “Buggy. Who’re you?”

“I told you already, I’m Shanks.”

Buggy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I heard you the first time, dipshit–”

“Hey!”

“But who are you? And why are you in here? No one’s allowed to come in without Papa.”

“I’m a pirate.” Shanks answers, lifting his chin with pride. The proclamation earns him a confused look that Shanks doesn’t bother to dwell on. “And I was…” Shanks pauses, shame flooding his guts at the thought of admitting he was kidnapped. “Brought here. To work. Unwillingly.” Shanks finishes instead, muttering out that last word. 

“Also if no one’s allowed in here, why’s the door unlocked? And who’s papa? Wait!” Shanks’ eyes go wide. “Were you kidnapped too? Is that why you’re in a cage? Man, you musta really sucked at sweeping!”

“Haaaah?” Buggy’s face turns mean at that. “Sweeping?! What kind of unflashy loser do you take me for? DON’T ANSWER THAT!” Buggy shouts when Shanks opens his mouth. “And who the hell would even kidnap me? Also, this is my room! Not a cage.”

“Kow-kee-kee-kee! A cage! Stupid red nose!”

“Shut up about my nose!”

“Okay, well if you weren’t kidnapped, then why are you in a, uh, in your…room?” Shanks cuts in before the two can continue their squabble. 

“Papa says it’s because I’m special, and so that he can show off how flashy I am to his friends whenever he has parties.”

“Wait, your dad locked you in a ca–room?” Shanks asks, aghast. And he thought he had it rough, yeesh. Buggy nods, then tilts his head. “What’s a dad?”

“Uh.” Shanks blinks away thoughts of his captain that immediately flood his mind, genuinely unsure of how to answer. He knew what a dad was, obviously, but given his own unorthodox family life, he isn’t completely sure how to explain the concept beyond, ‘the guy who fucked your mom.’ 

“Your dad’s, ya know, your dad. That’s what a papa is.”

Buggy scrunches his nose, looking at Shanks like he’s an idiot. “Papa’s name is Papa, not dad.” 

Shanks returns the look. “Nevermind,” he says, “so then, you, like, never leave your room?”

“Squawk! No!” 

“...how long have you been here?” Shanks asks, almost afraid of the answer. Buggy shrugs. “I’ve always been in here.”

Shanks holds in a breath at that, the mere thought of it unfathomable to him and the overabundance of freedom he’s always had. Buggy must notice the look on his face because he straightens, puffing his chest out. “It’s fine! Papa makes sure I’m never bored!” At Shanks’ raised brow, Buggy gestures grandly to the books behind him. “Look at all the gifts he got for me!”

Shanks’ lips twitch up in a smile, glad that Buggy’s naivety at least kept the true horror of his situation at bay for the time being. 

Papa says it’s because I’m special, and so that he can show off how flashy I am to his friends whenever he has parties.

The smile drops. 

“What are they about?” Shanks implores quietly. Buggy beams, the smile gummy and blinding, his large eyes folding into crescents. “Space!”

Shanks takes a seat right in front of the cage, crossing his legs. “Space?” He asks, watching as Buggy picks through the overturned pile. Shanks notes the way Buggy carefully restacks the books as he goes, quickly inspecting them for damage. Ah, Shanks thinks, these books must be his treasures. He supposes it makes sense. They were his only possessions. 

Buggy lets out a small, triumphant, “ah-ha!” When he finds whatever book he was searching for and scampers back to Shanks, nearly tripping over his bedding–Shanks shivers–to plop down before him.

He immediately opens the well cared for book to a seemingly random page, and practically shoves it in Shanks’ face, the bars likely being the only thing protecting him from a bruised nose. Shanks leans back a bit so his eyes can focus properly on it, glimpsing a blown-up image of several constellations spread between the two pages. 

“Oh, hey, Argo Navis.” Shanks says, pointing to the specific constellations. 

“You know Argo Navis?!” Buggy practically shouts in question, yanking the book back to give him a gleeful look. He goes off on a bit of a tangent, babbling out facts about the constellation, its three parts, and the stars it’s composed of. Most of it admittedly goes over Shanks’ head, especially when Buggy starts spewing out random numbers. Honestly, Shanks isn’t 100% sure Buggy truly understands what he’s saying, wondering if he’s just spouting out tidbits of information he’d memorized from the book. Regardless, Shanks can’t bring himself to stop the other’s rambling. 

It’s nice, talking to Buggy. Or rather, Buggy talking at him. Being the only kid on a pirate crew doesn’t leave him with many opportunities to talk to others his age. Sure, he hung around, and sometimes even played with kids on whatever island the crew docked at, but this was different somehow. Hell, this was probably the most Shanks had ever talked to anyone his age in one sitting. 

There was also none of the initial awkwardness, or the subsequent curious awe that typically came about when Shanks introduced himself as an adventuring pirate. There was also none of the annoying, teasing attitudes he’d usually get from other young pirates, especially those among Whitebeard’s crew.  

Shanks couldn’t really explain it, but just in this short interaction, Shanks finds himself almost inexplicably drawn to the other, aided by the fact that the boy’s sharp tongue and dry wit were surprisingly funny. There was just something in the boy’s familiar, lonely isolation, and in his excitement to talk to someone who was willing to listen—

Shanks shakes his head. It’s better to not dwell on that. 

It’s when there’s a slight lull in Buggy’s explanation of…something…that Shanks decides to jump in. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I saw it, ummm, a month and a half ago? Taro–he’s one of my nakama–showed it to me.”

“YOU’VE SEEN IT?!” Buggy shrieks, throwing himself at the bars. His eyes alight in such a way they match the stars in his book. “IN REAL LIFE?!”

“Squaawwwk!”

“Yeah!” Shanks beams back, unable to help the giddy feeling of excitement from welling up at the other’s enthusiasm. “I see a whole bunch of constellations all the time! When we’re out to sea, you can see the entire universe!” 

“Woooah.” Buggy quietly gasps, eyes glazing over as he tries to imagine it. 

“Show Ankaa! Kow-kee-kee-kee!”

Buggy shakes his head, breaking from his wonderings. “Later, Kowkee. Show me which other ones you’ve seen!” He demands as he all but shoves the book through the bars and into Shanks’ waiting hands. 

The redhead laughs, carefully smoothing out the pages so that no wrinkles can form. “Okay, okay.” He easily agrees. And so Shanks does, hunger completely forgotten.

—

Trying to locate the room of strange animals–and an even stranger Buggy–two days later turns out to be a lot harder than Shanks anticipates. It’s not surprising given how discombobulated he’d been when he finally found his way back to the servants’ quarters. It’s ridiculous how confusing the damn place is to navigate, and Shanks isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to get used to it. Not that he’d even be here long enough to! Obviously! But still!

After surviving a lecture from one of the main maids of the manor—an older, bustier woman whose name definitely started with an M—about his lack of work ethic, Shanks promises to try his absolute bestest. M-named maid…doesn’t believe his shit for a second, which, fair. 

This, of course, just results in Shanks getting stuck with a glorified babysitter in the form of a sourly, no-nonsense man who drags Shank to and fro to get not only that day’s chores done, but the ones Shanks had neglected the days prior!

It sucks! It sucks so much! 

Then, the day after that, Shanks gets put on kitchen duty which finds him peeling potatoes and carrots for hours. Truly, the redhead will never, ever, ever bitch to Rayleigh about his cabin boy duties ever again if it means he doesn’t have to suffer another potato peeler. 

Shanks must do a good job at ass kissing, and looking thoroughly and devastatingly admonished because M-named maid decides that he’s served his punishment well enough after that. So now here Shanks is, back to getting lost and hoping M-maid doesn’t somehow sniff him out for once again neglecting his list of shit to do. 

He follows his usual routine. Blah, blah, blah, check the windows, try the doors, yada, yada, yada, get the piss scared out of him by a wall-phasing guard, whatever, whatever, whatever. It takes him so long that he has to begrudgingly turn back for lunch, quickly and low-effortlessly finishing up several chores as he goes in order to spare himself.  

It’s by some miraculous stroke of luck that Shanks finally turns onto a hallway with familiar floor to ceiling windows sometime later that afternoon. He pumps his fists into the air and sticks to the walls, trying to memorize every turn he takes. He wanders in circles until finally finding the doorway from before. 

This time around, he takes a moment to properly observe it, noting the ornate carvings decorating the rich wood. They depict several plants and animals, the images skillfully mirrored on the other door. Some of the depicted fauna even look as though they’re dancing. Above the doors, he sees a plaque that reads, ‘Exotic Hall’ in an elegant script. 

His elation sours. 

“You’re back!” Buggy exclaims, genuinely surprised when Shanks walks up to him. He rushes to the cage—excuse him, room–bars, intensely tracking Shanks as he comes closer. 

“Yeah, sorry. I got super busy with stuff.”

“What stuff? Did you go outside? Did you see more stars?” Buggy asks, jumping in place as he waits for Shanks’ answer. 

Shanks swallows. Gods, but how he wishes he could see the stars. They’d never been something Shanks was particularly aware of. They had always just been there. But it’s been a week—a week—and yeah…Shanks misses them. 

“Ah, no.” Shanks replies sheepishly, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I’m…not allowed outside.”

“Oh.” Buggy deflates but just as easily brightens again. “That’s okay! We can look at my books some more!”

“Mm!” Shanks nods, taking his place on the floor in front of the cage. “I won’t be able to stay long, though. I gotta finish some stuff, otherwise I probably won’t be able to come again tomorrow.”

“…you’re coming again tomorrow?” Buggy asks, wonder in his eyes and poorly concealed hope in his voice. Shanks nods immediately, even though that isn’t really something he can completely promise. Buggy squirms, already anticipating their next meetup when a flash of remembrance crosses his face. He goes, of all things, timid then, and Shanks’ curiosity is thoroughly piqued. 

Buggy shuffles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he retreats, reaching over for something hidden from Shaks’ view. Returning, he holds it out. “Here.” He says awkwardly. “Since you were hungry last time.” The boy blushes, looking away. Shanks looks down at the offered item. 

A cookie. 

Shanks perks up. Since being here, Shanks had yet to see any sort of sweet treat prepared and plated for anyone other than the lord and his…family? Associates? Whatever, the point is, the help never receives any sort of dessert or snack, and Shanks would absolutely kill for a cookie. 

When Shanks doesn’t immediately take it, Buggy splutters out an additional, “it’s just so I don’t have to hear your annoying tummy grumbles again. It doesn’t mean anything!”

Shanks smiles at the boy, touched despite his poor attempts at pretending he didn’t care. Buggy’d clearly been surprised that Shanks had returned, did that mean he saved the treat for him just in case? The thought warms him, and he’s about to reach out when he pauses. 

He…hasn’t actually seen Buggy eat before. Granted, they’d only met the one time, but Shanks had been there all through lunch, and then some. Buggy's roomcage also lacked any sort of food or water bowls that the other cages had, even if the mere thought of their inclusion is demeaning as hell. 

Shanks scans a critical eye down Buggy’s frame. Knobby knees, fragile wrists, a peek of a hollow collar bone. 

A cage. A blanket on the floor. A windowed view of a brick wall.  

Shanks takes the cookie and snaps it in half. “Here.” He says, holding out the slightly larger half. “I ate some before I got here.”

Buggy tentatively takes the cookie piece, looking suspiciously between it and Shanks. The redhead rolls his eyes. “No take backs.”

“No take backs!” Buggy hastily agrees, snatching his hand back. 

“Squaaawk! Coo-kee-kee-kee!”

“Get your own!” Buggy snaps at Kowkee, shoving the cookie into his mouth as he makes direct eye contact with the bird. Shanks ducks his head to hide his smile, halving his half. He gets to his knees and shuffles to Kowkee’s cage, sticking the quarter piece through the bars. 

Kowkee immediately makes his move—or as immediate as an old bird with stiff joints can move—side stepping to the end of the branch he perches on and using his beak to carefully climb down the side of the cage. Once in range, the bird stretches its neck and takes the cookie, careful of his beak and Shanks’ fingers. 

The moment Shanks lets go, Kowkee books it back to his branch, somehow making it back in half the time despite the food dangling from his mouth. Once settled, he takes the cookie in foot and starts making small little chirping noises to himself as he takes nibble after nibble. 

“Kiss ass.” Buggy mutters and Shanks chuckles, popping his piece into his mouth and getting his first taste of refined sugar in days. By the Blues, and it’s a chocolate chip cookie. Shanks hums as the chocolate melts on his tongue, trying to savor it for as long as possible. 

He lazily reclaims his spot while the Buggy gathers his books. “Tell me about when you saw Eridanus” 

“Squawk! Ankaa!”

“Later, Kowkee.” Buggy says, not even bothering to look at the bird as he flips through the pages of his book. 

“Ankaa!!!” The bird screeches, loud enough to elicit some annoyed animalistic grumbles from several other cages. Kowkee tightly holds onto his branch and aggressively flaps his wings in place, screeching around the cookie still held in his beak. The sound is ear splitting, and Shanks can’t help but hike his shoulders up in a flinch. 

“Okay, okay, okay! Shut up! Gods.” Buggy snaps, abandoning his book to reach back for another. He repositions himself so that he can rest his back against the cage bars, holding the book so that both Shanks and Kowkee can peer at it over his shoulder. Shanks huddles closer to get a better look while Kowkee, who finally finishes off his cookie, marches over, sliding down his cage bars to join them. 

“Uh, what’s an anka?” Shanks asks. 

“Home! Kee-kee-kee!”

“Ankaa. It’s a star.” Buggy clarifies, pointing at a bright spot on the page. “Part of the Phoenix constellation.” 

“Phoenix constellation, Phoenix constellation.” Shanks hums, tapping his chin. “I don’t think I know that one.” Kowkee lets out a sad-sounding garble, and Shanks shoots the little guy a sheepish grin. “I’m mostly familiar with constellations in the West Blue and along the Grand Line. Sorry, Kowkeekee.”

“It’s Kowkee. Don’t you pay attention?” Buggy snarks. Shanks sticks his tongue out playfully to the sound of a joyous, laugh-like,“kee-kee-kee!”

Buggy tilts the book so Shanks can follow his finger as it trails along the constellation. “It’s supposed to be in the South Blue.”

Shanks perks up. “Really? That’s where we are!” Shanks squishes his face into the bars, trying to see if he could make out its exact position. “I wonder if we’d get a good view of it from here…”

Buggy and Kowkee both bounce in place, delighted by this revelation. “If it’s here and we’re here, then we totally would!"

“Ankaa! Follow Ankaa! Home kee-kee-kee!”

“Mmm, not necessarily.” Shanks corrects. “The world’s really big, so depending where you are, and what time of year it is, you wouldn’t be able to see it unless you were already close.” 

“What? That’s stupid.” Buggy taps the page. “This says all of these stars and constellations are visible in the South Blue.”

“Yeah, but not all at once.” Shanks sticks his arm in to point at the far right edge of the image. “If you were standing right under this one,” he drags his finger to the far left, “then this one wouldn’t be visible ‘cuz of the horizon.” At Buggy’s pout, Shanks adds, “the sea gets in the way of a lot of things.” He smiles. “Not that it’s an issue when you’ve got a pirate ship.”

Buggy scrunches his nose cutely. “You said that word again. What is that? Another constellation?”

Shanks blinks at him. “A ship? Nah–well, actually, there is one, but I was talking about a real–”

“No! Pirate. What is that?”

A look of clarity flashes across Shanks’ face, the redhead briefly remembering Buggy’s first reaction to the word. “Oh! Pirates are people who sail the entire world! They visit a bunch of islands and go on lots of adventures, hunt for treasure, and beat up Marines and rival pirate crews. They’re the freest people in the world!” Shanks proclaims, hands held out in a grand gesture. He smiles wide, ignoring the sad twinge at his heart the words bring.

“That’s so cool!” Buggy gasps, clutching the book to his chest. “What’s a Marine?!”

Shanks tells him. He tells him about Garp and Roger, and their legendary fights. He tells him about the friendly skirmishes they have with Whitebeard’s crew that always ended in a grand feast and a party. He talks about the islands he’s visited, the friends they’ve made, the sea kings they’ve fought. 

He tells him about life as a cabin boy on a notoriously strong ship, and the type of training he did daily. About Davy Back Fights and all the funny and weird devil fruits he’s seen, and how no one on their crew needed one, they were that strong. He tells him about his straw hat. 

He talks about Roger, and Rayleigh. Gaban. Seagull. Taro. Sunbell.

He misses them. Silently, he wonders what’s keeping them. There’s no way they haven’t noticed he’s missing by now, it’s been a week–

 He tells him about fishmen, and mermaids, and underwater islands. He tells him about the seasons, and logposes, and how you could only rely on the stars for navigation in the East Blue, in Paradise. 

He answers questions, and then even more questions. Questions that, truthfully, hurt a little. 

“You can swim in the ocean?!” 

Of course you can. You didn’t know that?

“Binks’ Brew? That’s a funny name.”

You’ve really never heard it before?

“Is dancing hard?”

No…

“A hug? And your crew gives you them all the time?”

…yeah. They’re nice.

Shanks falls silent then, running out of steam. 

It’s been a week. 

Buggy, undeterred, immediately picks up the slack, unsurprisingly pivoting the conversation back to space. 

“Did you know you can even see planets?! They just look like more stars, though.”

“Follow Ankaa!”

“Yeah, yeah, we heard you the first billion times.”

It’s been a week, and he’s no closer to escaping.

“Have you ever seen a planet?”

“...I don’t know.”

It’s been a week. He wants to leave. He wants his crew. He wants to set sail and never have to see this stupid manor again. He wants to swim in the ocean, and sing Binks’ Brew, and dance. He wants to be free, like a proper pirate. He wants–

Buggy hums. “That sucks. I’ve always wanted to see one.”

Kowkee ruffles his tail feathers, a feather flying free. Seeing this, Buggy sucks in an exaggerated breath and blows at it, spitting more than anything else. Somehow, the feather still catches on the breath, loop-de-looping in the air. Kowkee kee-kee-kees. 

Buggy turns to him. “Will you tell me another story?”

“Sure.”

It’s been a week.

—

Later that night, Shanks strategically plans his schedule for the following day. As fun as it was to pop in on Buggy and Kowkee whenever he could, it wasn’t sustainable in the long run. If he was there for too long, he missed meals and fell behind on his chores which garnered questions and a stricter eye. If he didn’t want to get caught, he had to be smarter about this. 

Avoiding the guards wasn’t too much of a problem, thankfully. They only ever really gave Shanks a hard time when he drifted a little too close to potential freedom. Still, he’d need to keep an eye and ear out for the devil fruit user just in case. 

No, the only person he really had to watch out for was M-named maid. She watched him like a hawk whenever he was within the same vicinity as her, and had bombarded him with questions the moment he’d returned late the day before. The fact that his chores had just barely been finished, therefore leaving him without a proper excuse for where he’d been all that time, had not helped. 

So, the plan goes like this: Shanks wakes up early, the dawn light just barely beginning to creep into the manor in order to get a head start on chores. He does the easier tasks first before heading to breakfast. It’s bad luck that sees him on kitchen duty again, though this time it’s blessedly only for lunch. Once he finishes there–and scarfs down his own lunch–he goes to complete the rest of his chores.

When he finally finishes his list for the day, Shanks has just enough time to race back to his bed, grabbing his pillow. Knowing no one ever came into the sleeping quarters until the late evening, Shanks takes the time now to rumple his sheets in such a way that it looks like someone’s curled up underneath the blankets. 

He races back at the call for dinner, chewing loudly and ignoring the disgusted looks his tablemates shoot at him. He smiles at them, mouth still full with half-chewed food, poorly masking his amusement when they all quickly look away. By the time the meal is over, and Shanks helps with cleanup, he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. And when the coast is clear, and M-named maid is thoroughly distracted, Shanks makes a mad dash for the Exotic Hall. 

Windows. Doors. Wall-phasing guard. Nearly shit himself. Yada. 

He arrives just a half hour shy of dinner, slipping in and bee-lining it for the back. “You’re late!” Buggy says with a huff the moment he’s spotted, stomping his foot. 

“I never said when I’d come.” Shanks answers cheekily, grinning at the annoyed flush reddening Buggy’s cheeks. 

“Squawwwk! Yeah! Stupid red nose!” Kowkee chirps, sitting on one of the lower perches within his cage, a bit hidden in nearby foliage. 

“You’re lucky you’re over there and I’m in here, you stupid seagull!”

“Kee-kee-kee!”

Shanks shakes his head, fond. It’s a little past seven now, the setting sun’s light unable to properly breach the windows and making the room darker than it ought to. Between every other window, a wall mounted lantern flickers. Luckily for them, one of the lanterns sits between Buggy’s and Kowkee’s cages. 

Shanks unceremoniously tosses his pillow to the floor and drops down beside it. The motion catches Buggy’s attention, and both he and Kowkee tilt their heads to the side in question. Shanks sagely decides not to point this out.

“What’s that for?” Buggy asks.

“Well, typically people use pillows to rest their heads against, like when they sleep or take a nap–”

“You know what I meant, smartass!”

Shanks shoots him a wink. “It's so we can have a sleepover.”

“A what?”

Shanks sighs dramatically, loud enough to raise the other boy’s hackles.

“I mean! I know what that is! Um, but why?”

Shank smiles, playing along. “So we can hang out and tell scary ghost stories.” 

“G-ghost stories?”

“Yep. All the cool kids do it.”

“Well, I’ve never done it.” Neither had Shanks, but he wasn’t about to tell Buggy that.

“I said cool kids.”

Buggy just flips him off. 

“Come on, get your pillows. You gotta make a cozy nest for when we stay up all night talking.”

“Who’d wanna stay up all night just to talk to you?”

Shanks raises a brow. “Kowkee? Who did you think I was talking to?”

“Kow-kee-kee-kee!”

Buggy tuts. “This is stupid.” He grumbles under his breath, but complies. Shanks takes off his hat and sets it beside him, laying back with a hand between his head and the pillow, his other resting on his stomach. 

“You ever heard of the Flying Dutchman?” Shanks asks once Buggy’s properly situated, Kowkee having shuffled closer as well. The boy, unsurprisingly, shakes his head. Shanks delves into the tale, exaggerating and embellishing things here and there just for the fun of it. He’s careful to keep his tone and facial expressions dire, not sparing a single, made-up, gory detail. 

Halfway through his tale sees Buggy clenching a pillow to his chest, burying his nose into the fabric as he listens with wide eyes. When the story starts to get proper spooky, Kowkee even joins in, emphasising scares with menacing ‘kee-kee-kees’, and weird, drawn out squawks. 

“People say that to this day,” Shanks hisses to a rapt Buggy, “if the sea is calm and a heavy blanket of fog surrounds your ship from all sides, then it’s already too late.” Shanks leans in, Buggy unconsciously mirroring the motion. “And from the fog, flying high over the water, the Flying Dutchman will appear, ghostly green with torn sails that billow against nonexistent wind. Then, you’ll hear him. Vander Decker.” Shanks pitches his voice low, doing his best to add a gravely quality to it. “‘Dead men tell no tales.’

“The Flying Dutchman will slide up right alongside your ship, and when you look over, the deck will be completely empty. And then…” Shanks waits a beat before yelling out, “HE GETS YA!” Shanks grabs Buggy’s cage bars, suddenly bringing his face as close to Buggy’s as he could manage to really sell the scare. 

Buggy screams, startling every other creature in the Exotic Hall into screeching as well. 

“Squaaawwwkee-kee-kee!”

Shanks falls back and laughs, holding his stomach as tears form in his eyes. 

“Shut up!” Buggy gasps once he finally runs out of breath. “It’s not funny!”

“You should’ve seen your face!” Shanks howls. “Oh man, that was great!”

“No it wasn’t, you unflashy bastard! SHUT UP! STOP LAUGHING!”

“Kow-kee-kee-kee!” 

“You too!”

Shanks starts to calm down, wiping a tear away. “Okay, okay, I’m calm–hehehehe.” Shanks clears his throat, still snickering under his breath at the ruddy pout Buggy gives him, his lip jutting out and arms crossed, showcasing his displeasure. “I’m calm.”

“Hmph!” Buggy turns away so his back is to Shanks, chin held high. Shanks rolls his eyes at the display, but his smile doesn’t falter. 

It’s properly dark now, golden lantern light glinting prettily off every surface. It’s not enough to light the room, not really, the high ceiling and opposite end of the room disappearing into creeping shadows, but it’s plenty to see Buggy and Kowkee. 

Both boys lay back into their respective pillows, staring up into the darkness. Kowkee shakes himself, a white downy feather gently floating free. Shanks glances over to watch its slow descent. Noticing the attention, Kowkee chirps out, “Ankaa!”

“Say,” Shanks begins, not looking away from the bird, “what’s with Kowkee’s obsession with Ankaa? Did you show him the word and he just liked it or something?”

“Nah. He already knew about Ankaa and the Phoenix constellation.”

Shanks raises up on his elbows and looks at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Squawk! Follow Ankaa!”

Buggy nods. “Kowkee didn’t always live here.” Buggy begins, eyes lazily trailing over to the bird, watching as it grooms itself. “Papa just showed up with him one day years ago, back when I was still really little. He’s been my nemesis ever since.” 

“Squaawwwwk. Best friends forever. Kee-kee-kee!”

 Buggy narrows his eyes. “Arch nemesis.” The boy huffs. “But yeah, he’s actually the one that told me about it.”

“Follow Ankaa! Below Island home!”

Shanks hums. The room falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional wheeze from Kowkee.

“Hey, Shanks?” Buggy quietly asks after a long while. 

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever seen a shooting star?”

“Mhmm. Lots of them.”

Buggy trails a finger over the spine of one of his books, a smaller one Shanks knows depicts stories rather than facts. “Is…it true they grant wishes?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You never tried?” Buggy asks, looking genuinely shocked. Shanks only shrugs. “I’ve always had everything I wanted.”

And he had. For the most part. As a young kid, he wanted for nothing, his nakama surprisingly attentive for a group of ill-prepared pirates. There was always a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, and arms to fall safely into.

But as he grew older, Shanks started to feel…a little awkward doing those things? No, awkward wasn’t the right term for it. He still readily and happily accepted all of those things. It was more like he didn’t always know how to relate to them, and they him. He wasn’t their age, and he wasn’t their friend in the same way that they were one anothers’ friends. He was a kid, their kid, and he was treated as such. 

He couldn’t always fight alongside the crew, whether because he wasn’t at the level necessary to take on their New World foes, or to keep his face hidden from the Marines. He wasn't old enough to drink–even if he still managed to sneak a few bottles behind Rayleigh’s back. Sometimes when he entered a room, conversations would be redirected or stop entirely.

Shanks understood the reasons why things were the way they were, but that didn’t make any of it less frustrating.

It didn’t make things any less lonely. 

Hiding below deck as his crew fought and cheered. Trying to keep awake while the crew around him got drunker and drunker, too lost in their drink to entertain a child. Always feeling like he was out of the loop somehow, like he couldn’t be trusted with a secret, like he wasn’t strong enough to help carry the weight on his nakamas’ shoulders. 

Sometimes, Shanks just wished he had someone of equal standing to himself. Someone who he could relate to properly, and who he could tell his secrets to, who’d trust him with theirs in turn. Someone who would be able to understand him, know him, inside and out. 

Oh…

“I wish I could see a shooting star. Heh.” Buggy says, unaware of Shanks’ wandering thoughts. “What would you wish for?”

Shanks doesn’t answer right away, but rather stares long and hard at Buggy. Finally, he smiles. 

“Mmmm, not telling.”

“Haah? Why the fuck not? I told you mine! Kinda!”

Shanks sticks his tongue out. “Everyone knows telling someone your wish out loud makes it not come true, dummy.”

“WHAAAAT?!”

—

A strange sound breaches through the dark fog of Shanks' mind. He groans softly, burrowing his nose into his pillow and ignoring the ache where his hip rests against the marble floor. 

He isn’t sure when exactly he’d fallen asleep, but it must have been a while ago if the stiffness of his limbs is anything to go by. The edges of his thoughts turn muddy, slipping through his grasp, his brain unable to latch onto any one thing. He breathes in deep, the breath catching at the back of his throat in a gentle snore. 

Then, so softly that he misses it at first, Shanks hears…crying? Why is there crying? And why does it sound…off?

Goosebumps raise across his arms. His eyes snap open, scanning the dark room for answers. He’s disoriented, forgetting for a moment where he is until Buggy’s tired voice whispers, “relax, it’s just Kowkee.” 

Kowkee? Shanks hadn’t realized the bird was even still awake, having seen him curl up and tuck his head into his feathers far before Shanks had succumbed to his own slumber. Shanks looks up into the bird’s dark cage, the weeping, while still quiet, starting to come clearer. 

“Is he okay?” Shanks whispers back, worry building in his gut. 

“Yeah. He’s just crying.”

“He’s crying?” Shanks asks in alarm, quickly getting up and approaching Kowkee’s cage. Buggy hums, crawling closer as best he can. “Yeah. He does that every night.”

Shanks looks back at him. “Why? Is he okay? Does he need a doctor, or…wait, are there doctors for birds?”

“He doesn’t need a doctor.” Buggy says, the corner of his mouth twisting up wryly. “He’s just sad.”

“How come?” Shanks’ eyes trail over the bird’s shaking form.

“Because he wants to go home.”

“Ankaaaaa.”

Shanks' expression turns mournful. He watches the bird tremble, muttering squawks of ‘Ankaa’ and ‘island home’ drifting down to his ears. 

“…every night?” 

Buggy nods. 

“Since he’s been here? For years?”

Another nod, and fuck, Shanks has never thought much about birds in cages beyond their metaphorical use in regards to slaves and Celestial Dragons, but this…well, the saying had to come from somewhere. 

Shanks swallows. “Oh, Kowkee. Can you come here? Please?” Shanks watches as the weeping bird slowly makes his way closer. Once he’s within range, Shanks sticks a tentative finger through the bars to carefully scratch the side of Kowkee’s head. The bird closes his eyes, leaning into Shanks’ fingers. Though he doesn’t stop crying, he does quiet down at his ministrations. 

“Is he soft?” Buggy asks. “I’ve always wondered, but I can’t reach him.”

“Yeah…” Shanks answers, voice a bit awed because soft was an understatement. Kowkee’s feathers were easily the softest thing he’d ever felt. He runs his finger down along fragile bones to rub a knuckle against Kowkee’s chest, sinking into the plumage. His finger disappears further in than he’s expecting, the bird much thinner than he appears. 

Kowkee squawks in appreciation, the first positive sound Shanks has heard since waking up. “There we are.” He says, just for Kowkee’s ears. 

He should’ve done this way sooner. Even if Kowkee’s feathers had turned out to be itchy and weird to the touch, it would have been worth it just to see the way the bird soaked up the attention. Gods, but Shanks can’t imagine what it must be like, never feeling someone else’s touch for years. Shanks may not know much about birds, but the poor thing didn’t look to be properly preened either.

His thoughts flash to Buggy. Did…has Buggy not touched anyone in years either?

“I’ve never seen him make that face before, he must like it.” Buggy says with a smile, breaking Shanks from his thoughts. “Oh, wait! Hey, Kowkee, why don’t you tell Shanks about your island? Maybe he’s been there before.”

Kowkee lets out a pathetic squawk, but complies. He pulls away from Shanks’ hand but doesn’t go very far, fluffing himself up. “Follow Ankaa. Squawk! Island home below!” The bird sways back and forth. “Orange! Kee-kee-kee! Fruit, fruit, fruit! Treeee!”

Shanks settles back, listening intently to the tale. Scattering words of tropical forests and crystalline beaches paint a vivid picture. 

“Pretty bird! Pink, blue, green! Kee-kee-kee! Singing! And hermit crabs! Giant! Squawk! Towers of seeea glass! Seashell! Follow Ankaa! Home!”

It’s wonderful, every little detail. The childlike way the bird describes his island, it almost seems like a fairytale, a colorful paradise, the likes of which Shanks has regrettably never seen. 

Buggy shuffles to Shanks, whispering, “when he cries, talking about home helps. I’ve got it all basically memorized by now.” Shanks nods, having noted the lack of bird-sobs once Kowkee started getting into it. 

When Kowkee starts to wind down, Shanks breaks the news to him. “I’m sorry, I’ve never been there.” The bird practically deflates at this, and Shanks sighs.

Suddenly, the redhead perks up. “But it shouldn’t be far from here, right?” He asks the two, turning to Buggy for clarification. “We’re in the South Blue, and that’s where you said the Phoenix constellation was?” Buggy nods, grabbing one of his books and wordlessly flipping to the page to show Shanks. 

“And all you have to do is follow Ankaa, and you’ll eventually find it, right?” He asks Kowkee who squawks in confirmation. 

“That’s perfect!” Shanks beams, jumping up in his excitement. “When I figure out how to get out of here, I can get you out too! Then you can go home!” At his words, Kowkee’s eyes glitter as he stares intently at Shanks. 

“Home!” Kowkee parrots, notable hope in his voice. He bobs his head, swinging back and forth in a sort of dance. It’s the most active Shanks has seen the bird be since meeting him, on top of being plain adorable. “Kowkee-kee-kee go home! Follow Ankaa! Shanks!”

“Follow Ankaa!” Shanks repeats, smiling large enough to ache. 

“…you’re leaving?” Buggy suddenly asks, voice small. Shanks looks over his shoulder to see the other boy hunched in on himself, eyes to the floor. 

“Uh, well, yeah…” Shanks confirms, his gut twisting. “I can’t stay here forever. I’m a pirate, remember? Plus, my crew’s probably looking for me by now.”

“Oh…”

“Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No.” Buggy pouts, turning to stomp away, plopping down with his back to Shanks. 

“Hey.” Shanks approaches, huffing softly to himself when the other boy just rotates in order to keep his back to him. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?!” Buggy snaps, looking at him in anger before remembering he was trying to avoid him. He whirls back around. “Nothing! It’s not like you’re gonna leave and take Kowkee with you or anything!”

Ah. 

“Come with us.” Shanks says, zeroing in on the way Buggy’s shoulder tense at his words. 

“W-what?” Buggy asks, tentatively peeking over. 

“Come with us.” Shanks repeats with more conviction. “We can all escape together.”

Buggy’s eyes go wide. “But-but…”

“Escape! Squaaawk! Home!”

“Come on, Buggy!” Shanks pushes, determination pulsing through his veins. He wouldn’t—couldn’t, take no for an answer. Now that the thought is there, there’s no way Shanks would be able to just leave. As far as he’s concerned, it was all or none now. 

“But what about Papa?” 

“What about him? S’not like avoiding him will be hard. He’s never around, anyway. It’s the guards that’s gonna make this suck.”

“He-he’ll get mad!” Buggy presses, completely ignoring Shanks’ points. “I’m not allowed outside. What if…what if he takes my books away! Or-or moves Kowkee to another cage!” Buggy’s breath hitches as he works himself up. “What if he makes it so I never see you again!”

“He won’t.” Shanks says, gaze turning to steel. “I won’t let him.”

“What if—what if we just ask Papa really nicely if-if you can play with us? Then, then—”

“I can’t stay here.” His tone, while sad, holds a finality to it, one that Buggy catches, quieting down to stare wide-eyed at Shanks. “I can’t. I don’t belong here, Buggy.” Shanks can feel himself getting choked up. He roughly swallows the lump in his throat, face growing hot. “I don’t want to be trapped anymore. I-I want to go home!”

“Home!”

“I want to sail the seas. I want to go on more adventures, and explore the world! I want to see my nakama, my captain.”

Buggy shakes his head. Shanks swipes an arm across his eyes. “It’s okay to be scared.” Hazel eyes meet green. “But you can’t let your fear keep you inside this cage. You can’t! Because it’s not a room, Buggy, and you know it.”

Buggy’s eyes drop to the floor, his big toes anxiously rubbing against one another. 

“Don’t you want to see the stars?” Shanks gently pushes. 

At this, Buggy’s eyes grow glossy, his bottom lip trembling. He shudders and fists the fabric of his tunic. “…yeah.” He admits wetly. 

Shanks grabs the bars of Buggy’s cage. “Then come with us.”

Buggy sniffs. “But…I-I don’t…” He bites his lip. “I don’t have a home like Kowkee…where would I go?” 

The answer to that is easy, one that requires no thought, no questioning. “You can stay with me.” Buggy looks up at that, surprised. 

“We can be pirates together.” Shanks adds, unable to stop now that he’d started, excitement building in his chest. “We can go on adventures! And hunt for treasure, and-and I can show you how to fight! So you don’t have to be scared anymore!”

Shanks takes a breath, voice slowing as his eyes fall to Buggy’s piles of books. “We can look for all the constellations in your book. We’ll sail the whole world searching for them if we have to.”

Buggy is actively sniffing now, the occasional breath catching on repressed sobs. His gaze doesn’t stray from Shanks’.

“And…if you don’t want to be a pirate, that’s okay too. Me and my crew will protect you, and you can still see all the stars you want. I betcha I can bully my captain—or maybe Gaban—into getting you a telescope. Oh, and then you’d be able to see the planets!” Shanks smiles, hopeful. “So? What’d’ya say?”

“Squaawwwk! Come! Escape! Stupid red nose!”

“Shut up.” Buggy automatically replies, but there’s no bite to his words. If anything, Shanks thinks he detects a hint of a laugh. The boy scrubs at his eyes before peeking up at Shanks through his lashes. “You mean it? You…You’ll let me stay?”

Shanks sticks his arm into the cage, holding out his pinky. Buggy looks at it, confused. “It’s a pinky promise.” Shanks answers the unasked question. 

“What’s a promise?”

“A vow.” Shanks says with all the gravity the word entailed. “If I promise you something, it means I’ve gotta do it, and I can’t go back on my word.”

“Okay…but what’s your pinky gotta do with it?”

“A pinky promise is the strongest promise in the world. That’s why you can never break one. It’s the ultimate betrayal.” Shanks waggles his pinky. 

Shyly, Buggy reaches his own pinky out, unsure exactly what he was meant to do. Shanks wraps his around the other, the hold a bit awkward with how limp Buggy’s pinky was in his. Shanks smiles. 

He turns to Kowkee’s cage, stretching his other arm as far as he could, thankfully able to fit his fingers through the bar. He offers that pinky as well, and Kowkee readily wraps a foot around it. “I, Shanks, cabin boy and apprentice of the Roger Pirates, promise to bust us all out of here and escape.” 

To Kowkee, he says, “I promise to stay with you until you can safely follow Ankaa home. And I promise to visit!” 

To Buggy, he says, “and to you, I promise to show you every star in the sky, and if you don’t want to stay, then I promise to help you find a home.” He ends the statement with an up and down motion of both hands before letting go. “Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear.” Buggy whispers. Shanks smile goes blinding. 

“Squaaawk! Pinky! Follow Ankaa! Kee-kee-kee!”

“Follow Ankaa!” Both boys cheer.  

They settle down relatively quickly after that. Despite the buzzing anticipation and excitement of escaping, it is still the middle of the night, and it isn’t long before three pairs of heavy-lidded eyes begin to droop. 

Shanks blearily stares up at Kowkee, mind buzzing as it drifts away. Sleep comes to take him, his eyes closing before he’s even aware of it. 

—

Shanks…

Shanks. 

Something feather light swats desperately at his arm. 

Shanks!

Sighing, Shanks turns away, consciousness already falling away. 

“Shanks!”

Shanks snorts in a breath, waking up. “Huh? Wha…”

“Kow-kee-kee-kee! Papa coming!”

Papa’s…? Oh, shit!

Shanks springs up, nearly stumbling over himself as his heart jackrabbits. He quickly notices how bright the room is and realizes he’s definitely missed breakfast. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

“Hurry! You have to hide!” Buggy hisses, looking equally as frazzled. “No one’s allowed in here, remember? You’ll get in trouble!”

Shanks spins in place, brain still half asleep despite the adrenaline suddenly rushing through his veins. “Over there!” Buggy hisses, pointing to the cage across from his where a giant, furry tortoise looking thing munches lazily at a leaf. Shanks makes a break for it—

“Your pillow!”

—and spins back on his heel, grabbing the pillow and diving for cover behind the tortoise-thing’s body just as the doors open at the end of the hall. Shanks tries to calm his breathing, as the slow steps tap closer, two softer pairs following after, steps light enough to almost be missed. 

“Good morning, Papa.” He hears Buggy mutter. 

“Good morning, poppet.” A smooth voice replies, baritone rich. It’s got the curlings of an accent, one of those posh, snooty types Shanks has regrettably come across time and again, though it’s not nearly as condescending as he’d expect. 

Shanks carefully peers around the tortoise-thing’s body, eyes instinctively landing on Buggy who anxiously fidgets, avoiding the man’s eyes. Shanks gulps at the sight, lips thinning into a line. 

Damnit. Damnit! He should have thought of this! Buggy likely never had to lie or deceive his “Papa” in any way, judging by how bad of a job he’s doing trying to appear normal. The boy looks like someone who knows they’ve done wrong and hasn’t quite figured out how to live with the guilt yet, inadvertently giving themselves away. It’s all so painfully obvious to Shanks, and the redhead can only hope the lord’s lack of care outshined his ability to read a child’s mannerisms. 

Shanks takes this time to finally observe the lord. He’s tall, lithe in build, and blond, shiny hair swept back in a neat style. He wears a charcoal gray pinstriped suit, styled casually, with shiny black shoes, and a pale blue undershirt. With his back to Shanks, he can’t make out much of his face beyond a sharp jaw. 

Beside him stand two maids; a plain woman holding a simple tray of eggy porridge, milk, and a cookie, and a girl who looked only a few years older than him carrying a chamber pot. They’re dressed in the same uniform as Shanks, the only difference being a maroon flower pinned to their lapels. While the girl wasn’t familiar to him, he’d only ever seen the older woman once or twice in passing. From what Shanks can recall, she was one of the lord’s main maids—as designated by the pin—and often stayed within the portion of the manor he most frequented. 

“You seem disheveled. Did you stay up late?” The lord asks as the maid grabs a ring of keys attached at her hip. She approaches the door of Buggy’s cage as he answers, “yes, Papa. Sorry, I was…reading to Kowkee.”

Kowkee, in a surprise twist, doesn’t make a peep. In fact, the bird isn’t acknowledging them at all, back turned and feathers agitatedly fluffed. Atta boy, stick it to the man! Shanks thinks with a smirk. 

“You and that bird.” Pap says with little inflection, though the distaste he feels still finds a way through. “Don’t do it again. I need you well rested.”

“Y-yes, Papa!”

“I’m planning a soirée for the end of the week. Mr. Lundingard will be there, do you remember him?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Shanks’ attention is immediately grabbed, then, by the sound of a lock unlatching. Shanks’ attention zeroes in on the older maid as she opens the cage door, a resulting gentle whine ringing in the silence of the room. Buggy takes several steps back as the younger girl swoops in, swapping his chamber pot with the new one before bustling away. As the girl heads for the doors, the older woman steps just inside, ducking to quickly lay the food dishes down right on the floor. 

Shanks sneers at this, though his attention still remains mostly caught on the keys dangling from the door lock. From what he can tell, each is embellished with a unique design, though from here, all he can tell about Buggy’s key is that there’s something blue on it.

He clutches his pillow to his chest, hope sparking as the inklings of an idea start to formulate in his head. 

“Good. He enjoyed the little show you put on, last he saw you. Be sure to be prepared. I expect for him to be properly entertained.”

“Yes, Papa.”

The lord turns to the woman. “Lorinda, for lunch, be sure to use the premium cuts and feeds for the rest of the animals. I want their coats shining in time for the party. And have that door oiled. I won’t have such unpleasant sounds in my halls.”

The maid steps out and quickly shuts the cage, key twisting until she yanks it out to hook back onto her belt. 

“Yes, my lord.” Lorinda, apparently, says, dipping her head and heading for the door. Shanks watches her go, craning his neck to keep the jangling keys within his sights. 

Just as she disappears from his view, a slight movement catches in the corner of his eye. He looks up to where Buggy nods along to whatever nonsense the lord is spewing. Their eyes meet, and Buggy quickly shoots a look towards the retreating Lorinda and back. Subtly, he lifts two fingers in a ‘go’ motion. 

Shanks nods, jaw set. He casts one last critical look at the other boy, assuring himself that he’d be fine while distracting the lord before quietly dashing after the maid. He hugs the walls, taking cover behind the cages whenever one of the animals reacts a little too loudly to his presence. He shushes a particularly curious winged pig, its sniffing snorts briefly catching Lorinda’s attention. 

Shanks is just barely able to slip through the crack of the door before it fully closes, pressing his back to the wall as Lorinda walks off, none the wiser. He’s about to turn and head for the servants quarters when he pauses. He shoots a look over his shoulders just in time to see the maid disappear behind a corner. He only takes a brief moment of consideration before chasing after her, eyes narrowed. 

He tails her through corridors and up staircases, occasionally throwing himself out of sight whenever another servant, or even a guard, crosses their path. He even checks some doors and tries some windows when the woman finally pushes her way through a nondescript door, thin and out of the way. Shanks checks that the coast is clear before saddling up to the doorframe, back to the wall, catching the door with his fingers before it can fully close. He cracks it open, just enough to peer into. 

The room looks like a small scullery, used more for food storage than actual preparation. The woman quietly mutters to herself as she puts the tray away. She putters about, jotting down notes on a booklet left open on the counter before finally reaching for the keys. She hangs them up on a hook on the wall and turns to the door. 

Shanks scuttles away, ducking behind a decorative plant across the hall with a hand to his mouth. He tenses when her footsteps near him, but she thankfully ends up walking through a separate doorway before she can come across him. He waits a beat until he can’t hear her footsteps, turns…and realizes he’s completely lost. Again. 

Damnit. 

Still, he’s careful about his journey back, using all of his brainpower to keep track of the scullery in relation to himself and where he’s going. He needs to make sure, with absolute certainty, that he gets the route memorized correctly now that he knows where the cage keys are. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let this golden ticket slip from his fingers by getting lost when it most counted. 

By the time he makes it back to the servant quarters he’s familiar with, it’s well past lunch—a fact his stomach refuses to shut up about. He rubs his tummy, willing it to be quiet as he comes to a stop in front of the door. He braces himself for a scolding, pushing it open and stepping in. What he sees, however, is entirely unexpected. 

Rather than a fuming M-named maid waiting for him, he sees a surprisingly large group of servants all huddled together, whispering excitedly. This time of day usually saw the servants quarters empty, everyone away attending to their tasks, so seeing so many of them has him immediately intrigued. 

That very first maid he’d met the day he’d been brought here notices him, quickly coming to over grab his arm. “You’re in luck!” She says by way of greeting, startling Shanks a bit with the wide, hopeful grin on her face. Rather than explain further, she drags him towards the group where everyone surrounds a man he’s never seen before.

“What’s going on?” He quietly asks, a little stunned to note that M-named maid is also part of the excited gaggle. 

“A new guy! His name’s Adrian. The guards brought him, except he came willingly!”

“What? Why?”

“Shhh!”

Shanks sticks out his bottom lip at being hushed, but tunes in to listen either way. 

“And you said the whole town’s in on it?” A butler asks. The man nods. “Yes. A small faction of us have been saving up for years to buy off one of the guards.”

Shanks raises a brow at this, suddenly much, much more intrigued. 

“This is incredible!” Someone else gasps, giddy. “If this works, we…we can go home!” The group bursts into excited chatter. 

“So what’s the plan?” M-named maid cuts in over the noise, the rest falling silent on instinct. “If we want the best chances of this working, we need to know exactly what to do.” Everyone leans in, anticipation radiating off them in waves, Shanks included. 

Adrian nods. “The guard gave word of a house party in a few days. He’s to leave a side door along the West wing unlatched for our infiltration groups while the lord is distracted with his guests. There’ll be three groups, one to ambush the lord and detain him, another to lay siege to the manor and the guards, and the last to extract you lot. 

“As for the time being, it’s imperative that you all continue as you are. We risk giving ourselves away if any of you act out of place. When the time comes, all I ask is that for those of you willing, you take up arms. If not, then make for the West wing. Then, if we fail, it won’t all have been for not.”

“We’ll stay.” Someone immediately says, and no one disagrees. “We know all the service corridors in the manor. We can help sneak you all through.”

“That, and also I’d love nothing more than to take a frying pan to that smug bastard’s face.” Another says to a chorus of cheers. 

“Right, well you heard the man.” M-named maid says with a clap of her hands. “We’ve loitered around here long enough. Get back to work before anyone notices we’ve not begun our afternoon chores.” 

“Yes, ma’am!” Everyone agrees before scurrying off, still unable to hide their wide grins. M-named maid nods in approval. “Come with me, Adrian. I’ll fit you with a uniform and explain the day to day here. And don’t worry, we’ll be sure to trickle information down to those staffed in the back of the house and to the kitchens.”

“You have my thanks.” He says, following her into a side room. 

Shanks just stands there, stunned. No way, there’s no way. First the key and now this?! Davey Jones himself must be smiling down on him today because what the fuck. Gods, he can’t wait to tell Buggy and Kowkee!

Shanks has no idea what he did to garner so much good karma, but he’s not about to question it. Hell, he just hopes it holds out until he’s at least a good three islands away. 

Mood brightened exponentially, Shanks skips away to tend to his tasks. He’s got a lot of shit to get through if he wants to have any time to sneak away, afterall. 

—

In the following nights, Shanks falls into a new routine. He knocks out his chores as early as possible, being extra careful to steer clear of any guards—it’s surprisingly easy now that there’s no windows or doors from his to loiter around. 

During mealtimes, the servant dining hall fills to max capacity, hushed instructions and plans passing from one person to the next, Adrian at the helm. 

The main reoccurring topic is that of weaponry; which ones they could safely steal from the guards during this inbetween time, and what they could use as weapons from the tools they had. Knives from the kitchens are obvious, made easy by the fact that no one other than the servants and cooks ever went into them. Shanks thinks he recalled seeing a machete in there once, used primarily to cut open thick-skinned fruit. It’d been a little worn, but he decides that’ll be a good enough replacement for his sword. 

Brooms are also brought up, some left as they are so as to not break appearances while others are beheaded and sharpened to a point. Mops get treated in kind. 

The seamstresses get creative, fashioning reverse pincushions to gloves, and hiding sewing scissors on their persons. They also sew scraps of leather and metal under as many uniforms as they can as makeshift armor. 

Hell, Shanks even finds himself giving quick Fighting 101 group lessons after breakfast and lunch if he finishes early enough, running down the basics on how to throw a punch, block a sword, and knowing when it’s time to just run like hell. 

Garden tools get passed around, shards of ‘accidentally broken’ teacups get shoved into pockets, and extra cast iron pans and clothing irons get stashed away in little hidden crevices throughout the manor. It’s all wonderfully violent. Roger would be proud. 

There’s also talks of contingency plans, and lengthily discussed ‘what ifs’. The servants end up grouped similarly to those infiltrating, each meant to aid in that group’s specific goal. They even have their own team leaders to take charge in the case things go awry. The sheer detail of it all is impressive in Shanks’ humble opinion, especially when taking into account the general lack of experience in…any of this, really. 

Shanks pays close attention to all of it, mentally mapping out moments he could take advantage of. He thinks it’s best that he, Buggy, and Kowkee escape while the initial siege is underway, while everyone is at their most distracted. With so many servants promising to take up arms rather than immediately escape, more guards will be busy, and if things go south, then at least Shanks and his two companions will be home free. Hopefully. 

His days end after dinner, when Shanks sneaks off to spend his nights with Buggy and Kowkee. They’re much more careful about it, of course, neither willing to stay up too late after that first night. Buggy, so he’s well rested per the lord’s instructions, and Shanks so he can wake up early enough to sneak back in the mornings. 

Kowkee doesn’t make it easy on them, though. He still cries every single night despite their promise, but Shanks isn’t complaining. He’ll never begrudge him his woes, understanding it takes more than hopeful words to cut through years of yearning heartache. He’ll reassure the bird over and over again if he has to, and thankfully, a reinstatement from Shanks usually enough to settle Kowkee into a brighter mood. 

Shanks takes a deep breath, jaw aching with how tense it's been all day. It’s late, later than he’d have liked to be awake, but he’s restless. He’d barely been able to fall asleep a few hours prior, but there’s little chance of it happening again now that Kowkee’s woken him up.

At least he’s able to rest, Shanks thinks with a quick glance up to the now slumbering bird. It’d taken longer to console him this time around, understandable given how anxious all three were. With how Shank has felt since being here, he can’t even begin to imagine the depths of feelings the little bird had brewing. 

Tomorrow was it, after all. 

Shanks turns on his side to stare at a softly snoring Buggy, the boy curled up inside his little nest of blankets and pillows. Loosely clutched in one arm is a book, one of the more mythological ones pertaining to stars. He’s been adamant about reading tale after tale aloud to them like some sort of never ending bedtime story, claiming after each story that whatever star or constellation it was about was the one he was most excited to see. It was endearing, even if Shanks grew admittedly bored after a while having already known some of the tales. That, and the fact that Buggy tended to repeat his favorites near nightly. 

Shanks rolls onto his back, unable to get comfortable. As sweet as his friend looked asleep, his rougher edges softened, the redhead knew he’d never be able to find the sight of him like this, in here, anything less than horrible. Soon, he thinks. Soon he’d get to see the other sleep in a real bed—or hammock—like a normal kid, or at least as normal as Shanks was himself by comparison. He closes his eyes, forcing his mind blank as he settles into sleep. 

In the end, Shanks doesn’t really get much rest. He thinks at one point he might have drifted off, but in that way where you blink and an eternity passes but suddenly it’s dawn and you’ve got a killer headache. He wipes a hand down his face, not having the energy to feel miffed at the unseen, chittering morning birds calling from outside.  

Judging by how dark it still is, he’s definitely woken up earlier than usual, but there’s no point in even humoring more sleep. He sits up with a groan, rolling his head to help alleviate the crick in his neck. 

Right. No time like the present. 

He checks on Buggy, still snuffling away. He reaches in as far as he can, only managing to pat his wrist with a whispered, “I’ll be back soon.” He turns to check on Kowkee and frowns. 

The bird’s awake, staring at Shanks with beady little eyes. That in and of itself isn’t strange, no, but the fact that he’s looking up at Shanks is. “Kowkee?” He whispers in question. The bird doesn’t say anything from where he rests on the cage floor. “You alright? Tired? I know I am.” Kowkee fluffs up, a small feather escaping. 

“Follow Ankaa. Home.”

“Yeah. Follow Ankaa.” Shanks repeats. 

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Kee-kee-kee.”

Shanks smiles. He reaches his pinky into the cage. “One more for the road?” Kowkee taps closer, nearly tipping over when he lifts his foot to grab ahold of Shanks’ pinky. 

“Woah, buddy!” Shanks gasps, catching the bird’s foot just in time. He waits for Kowkee to regain his footing before allowing the bird to wrap a foot around his pinky. With a gentle up and down motion, he pulls away. “Get some rest. We’ve got a long night ahead.” Kowkee quietly squawks at this. 

Shanks gets up. “We’ll be out of here before you know it.” He says with one last lingering look at the pair before dashing for the door. 

—

Today is easily the longest, most eternal day of Shanks' entire life, and he knows he’s not the only one who feels that way. Even as everyone operates with business as usual, no amount of forced normality can hide the tension in the air. Everywhere he turns, he sees coiled muscles pulled tight and ready to spring, locked jaws grinding down teeth, and a fluttery nervousness that sends eyes flitting about, too consistently to be casual. It’s to the point that Shanks truly believes the only reason they haven’t immediately given themselves away is because the lord acts as though a majority of them don’t exist. 

But seriously. If time dragged any slower, it’d be moving backwards. 

Shanks sweeps a broom down a hallway, wishing he was capable of getting lost in thought regardless of his mind’s preoccupation. At least by dissociating, time would move quicker. Alas, he’s just as stuck impatiently waiting as everyone else. 

He wordlessly jiggles a door handle he already knows is locked, and then he tries to open a latchless window for good measure. Consistency makes the actor, afterall, and so he flutters away at the first sign of a shadowed guard. 

By the time the sun begins to set, Shanks is on the verge of ripping out his own hair. He sits with the majority of the servants not currently waiting hand and foot at the lord’s party. It’d started a little over an hour ago, his leg bouncing nearly in time with the quiet tick-tick-ticking of a nearby wall clock, his and everyone else’s eyes glued to the crawling minute hand. 

Just another fifteen minutes. Down to ten. Five. Three. And then—

There’s a knock on the door, quick and sharp, and Adrian immediately stands. “That’s the guard.” He says, hushed. “The door’s been unlocked. I’ll go and meet with the infiltration groups. Those leaving, head for the designated hiding spot until I can give the go-ahead. Everyone else, go to your stations.” There’s a chorus of agreements and everyone stands and arms themselves, faces determined. 

Shanks quickly stands with the leaving group, sparing a glance back to watch the others disappear behind doors and down darkened hallways. He trails behind the nervously quiet servants, dragging more and more behind, careful to not make his lagging too obvious. They make it to a junction, a door ahead serving as the group’s hiding spot—an unused sitting room that the servants had commandeered years ago in secret—and to the right, the West wing. 

“Alright, you lot stay here. If I don’t return within thirty minutes, use the service corridors to get to the open door. Stay hidden, and be quiet. If it’s blocked, you know what to do.” Adrian says. He’s met with grim nods, and one by one, everyone piles into the room. 

Thankfully, the doorway’s skinny enough that the large group has no choice but to enter one by one. Adrian doesn’t wait for them all to file in before rushing down the hall. It’s only once Adrian diverges from them that Shanks tears himself away from the line. He doubts anyone will notice he’s gone, and even more so that any of them would attempt hunting him down, so he mentally wishes them luck, and quickly doubles back to the servants’ quarters. 

He flies into the room, practically diving for his bed where he’d hidden his clothes all those days ago. He quickly sheds himself of his stupid, stuffy uniform, and relishes in the softly worn threading of his shirt and pants. He ties his sash around his waist, squeezing it taught with a nod before securing his straw hat atop his head from where it’d been hanging along his back. He double checks the laces of his boots and books it for the kitchen. 

He slips in and bee lines it towards an old radiator at the opposite end of the room, practically sliding on his knees when he throws himself at it. He peeks around the side, face pressing into the wall as he feels around for the old machete he’d stashed. He checks it for damage, satisfied that the radiator hadn’t seemed to do it any harm. 

It had been harder than he’d liked to admit stealing it from the pile of weapons the others had gathered, guarded as it was. He’d felt a little guilty about it when the chance to nab it presented itself, but knew that if he didn’t square it away, it’d be one of the first weapons claimed. He grips the hilt tight, taking a deep breath. 

Right. Now for the hard part. 

Shanks pokes his head around a wall, peering down an endless hallway. He slinks through it, sticking to any available shadow along the way. He considers taking a more round-about route once he gets closer to the room with the key on the off chance that section of the house is more heavily guarded, but ultimately decides against it. With Adrian’s plan already in motion, he doesn’t know how much time he has before things start getting crazy, so he prioritizes speed over stealth

He goes as fast as he can without making himself obviously known, flinching a bit when a loud chorus of laughter rings out from somewhere deeper within the manor, the sounds echoing and bouncing off the cavernous halls. Almost there, almost there, he thinks, turning left down a hall, and bounding up a staircase before screeching to a halt. He throws himself back behind the wall he’d just turned in from, heart pounding as sweat tickles his temple. Slowly, he carefully peeks an eye to get a better look. 

There, in front of the thin door, stands a guard and the maid who’d fed Buggy. Lorinda, was it? They’re talking quietly, too far from Shanks for him to hear. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

Shanks’ eyes skate around, trying to find something, anything, that’d spark an idea in him. While he’s sure he’d be able to take Lorinda in a fight no problem, he isn’t so confident about the guard. As much as it sucks, he’d be dumb not to acknowledge the fact that they’d constantly one-upped him since the moment he was taken. Armed as he is, the guards’ weapons are of a higher quality, and the last thing Shanks wants to do was risk his machete shattering if their blades clashed. No. A one on one fight would have to be a last ditch effort. Especially because he’d yet to free Buggy and Kowkee. 

That thought doesn’t stop him from resting a hand against the machete hanging from his waist. He tries to come up with something, anything, that’ll help him get the pair away from the door–curse his inability to strategize, seriously–when finally his eyes land on the plant he’d hidden behind days before. 

Ah. There’s an idea. 

Suddenly wishing he’d kept his servants' clothes to help blend in with the walls, he tilts his straw hat low over his head to hide his shock of red hair. He takes a deep breath, and once he’s fairly sure the two are distracted enough with their conversation, he huddle-runs towards the plant. He sees the guard’s head turn, and dives, sliding the rest of the way behind cover just in time. 

Shanks forces himself to breathe slowly, pressing himself against the wall. After a moment, he peeks through the plant’s leaves to see the Guard turn back to Loinda, the maid’s eyes staring past the guard’s shoulder and into the hall, narrowed in suspicion. Neither turn to look at the plant, and Shanks allows himself a small sigh of relief. He waits for her to turn back before shoving a hand into the potted dirt.  

He digs around a bit before his fingers curl around something hard and smooth. He pulls a rock free, rolling it around in his palm and testing its weight. He looks up, squinting at where the light barely penetrates the highest points of the arched ceiling, and takes aim. The rock soars through the air, barely perceptible to even his own eyes, and clatters noisily on the structure above. 

The duo immediately look up at the sound, the guard unsheathing his sword. “Did you see anything?” Lorinda asks. “No.” The guard gruffly answers. The rock falls, landing between the two and bouncing away. Their gazes drop to the floor, both bending low to get a look at what’d just fallen. With their attention on the ground, Shanks pops up and reels his arm back, tossing another rock as far as he can down the opposite hallway. 

This time, the sound draws the guard away, the man racing after the sound, Lorinda following a step behind him. Shanks races to the door, yanking it open and slipping in. He shuts the door quietly. He bee-lines for the hanging keys, clinking through them until a spot of blue catches his attention. On the bow of the key sits a glittering stone, bright blue and crystalline like how oceans tend to be when surrounding summer, tropical islands. A pattern like shattered glass webs within the stone, fracturing light and glittering prettily, and to one side, a peculiar spot of bright red blooms, just as bright. Very apt, Shanks begrudgingly thinks, fisting the key tight enough for its teeth to press lasting indents into his fingers. He swipes through the rest, taking a wild guess that the key with a bright, aquamarine feather etched into the bow belongs to Kowkee. He runs to the door, listening intently for the maid and guard, and making a break for it when he hears nothing but silence. 

His journey to the Exotic Hall is blessedly uneventful. He thinks he sees a quick glimpse of the armed servants flitting from one servant corridor into another, but when Shanks turns to confirm this, the hall is empty. When he reaches the double ornate doors, he grins, wide enough to make his cheeks ache as adrenaline courses stronger through his veins.

When he slips into the exotic hall, however, he pauses, a small spike of fear racing through him at an unknown sound he hears upon entering. After listening for a bit, he realizes it sounds like sobs. Was Kowkee crying again? It was a bit early, but he’d been acting strange the last time Shanks had seen him as well, except…the crying didn’t sound like Kowkee. If anything, it sounded like it could be–

Shanks sprints to the back of the room, anxiety gripping at his heart as Buggy comes into view. He’s sitting curled up into a ball, knees drawn up, with his face hidden within his folded arms. His shoulders shake in time with the sobs, confirming Shanks’ fears. 

“Buggy?!” He calls, “what is it? Are you okay?!” He falls to his knees, reaching in to grasp Buggy’s arm in comfort. 

“It’s K-Kow-kee-ee.” Buggy sobs, voice muffled and wet with tears. “Papa…Papa—”

Shanks spins around to look into Kowkee’s cage, only to see it empty, a pile of disturbed plumage blanketing the floor. His pulse quickens. “What happened?! Did the lord take him?!” Shanks asks, fists clenching when Buggy nods. “Okay…okay, that’s okay. We’ll-we’ll get him back! I promi—”

“There was s-something wrong with him.” Buggy says through shuddering breaths. “He-he wouldn’t get up.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He was really tired, and this morning he was sle-eping on the floor.” 

Shanks’ world momentarily stops, cold with dread. His heart pounds, and he can practically feel the way it rattles loose, plummeting from his chest to thud against every rib before landing heavy in his gut. 

“And-and I tried to-to wake him u-p, but-but.” Buggy breaks into harder sobs, snot dripping from his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Papa was mad.” He gasps out. “And he-e made some people t-take Kowkee-ee away.”

Shanks swallows, throat clicking painfully as he tries to blink away oncoming tears. 

No. Not Kowkee. Not when they were so close. So close! They were supposed to leave together, all three of them! Kowkee was supposed to follow Ankaa! To go home! He…he—

A sob tears its way out of Shanks mouth, and he can’t wait any longer, he can’t! He needs to get out of here! He needs—

Shanks fumbles with the keys, barely able to make them out as he selects the correct one. He shoves it into the keyhole, nearly missing with how hard his hands shake, ripping the door open. With a barely repressed wail, he reaches in and grabs a crying Buggy by the front of his tunic, yanking him out of the cage and into a crushing hug. 

Buggy goes momentarily rigid in his arms, clearly unfamiliar with the gesture, and Shanks squeezes him tighter. He eventually melts into the embrace, sagging into Shanks and molding himself awkwardly around him when he attempts to hug back, the both of them smearing snot and tears into the other’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Shanks feels Buggy push at his shoulder, and the redhead reluctantly pulls back. He doesn’t go very far, still keeping a firm grip on Buggy’s shoulders. Shanks sniffs, swallowing down the mucus in his throat noisily. 

“You-u need to h-hurry.” Buggy gets out through hitching breaths, gently pushing again at Shanks’ shoulders, the action at odds with the way he grips the fabric of Shanks' shirt in a vice-like grip. “Before-before Papa comes back. You need to g-go.”

Shanks swallows thickly. Confusion striking a line through his grief. “What?” He asks, voice shaky. 

“You gotta go.” Buggy repeats, voice stronger now. “Now’s your chance! Before Papa’s friends come!”

Shanks stares at him a moment, dumbfounded. Confusion and fear and heartbreak all war with one another in his heart. “You—huh?!” 

Buggy finally relinquishes Shanks’ shirt, pushing him more firmly this time. “Y-your crew. They gotta-a be looking for you, right? And-and—”

“Stop being stupid.” Shanks snaps.  “Now c-come on.” He urges, standing and trying to pull a limp Buggy up with him. Buggy stares up at him, dumbfounded. 

“You…you still want to take me with you?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?!”

Buggy’s mouth opens and closes a few times, the boy at a bit of a loss. Wordlessly, his gaze strays to Kowkee’s cage. “Because…because he’s…K-Kowkee is,” Buggy chokes on a fresh wave of tears. “Th-the promise. It’s…it’s broken now!”

Shanks bites his cheek hard enough to taste metal. “I made a promise to both of you! I won’t leave you behind!”

Buggy squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as his sobs come harder. 

“Buggy, please. We-we don’t have t-time. You said so yourself. We gotta hurry.”

“But-but Kowkee—”

“Kowkee would want us to be free!” Shanks nearly shouts, then quietly, “he’d want you to be free.”

Their gazes meet, both swirling with heightened emotions. Finally, Buggy relents with a single, jerky nod. A rush of air whooshes out of Shanks, a fragile smile spreading across his face as he finally pulls Buggy to his feet. He takes Buggy's hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze before tugging him forward. Buggy takes a few shaky steps to follow, growing bolder with each footfall. 

“W-wait!” Buggy stops, eyes wide. He lets go of Shanks’ hands and rushes to one of his book piles. He picks out one of the books–the one with Ankaa–and returns, clutching it to his chest. Shanks gives him another smile, taking his hand again to lead him out. 

They make it halfway past Kowkee’s cage when something makes him stop. Shanks slows, something within him—his gut, his heart, his soul—illcontent with just leaving things the way they are. He forces himself to look into the dark, empty cage, and breathes. 

He pulls Buggy closer to the cage, unwilling to let go, and crouches. With his free hand, he reaches in as far as he can, ear and cheek pressing into the cold bars. His fingertips brush against a feather, and he strains a bit before he’s just able to snag it between his index and middle finger. He pulls it back, taking it in. 

It’s a flight feather. Large and vibrant, more manicured than many of Kowkee’s other feathers had been. Still soft. 

“We’re getting out of here, buddy.” He whispers. He gives himself a moment before carefully tucking the feather into his pocket. “Let’s go.” He says to Buggy who only nods, eyes wet. 

The two race for the door when a loud CLANG startles them into nearly tripping over themselves. They whirl around to see one of the caged animals pawing incessantly at the bars, large paws loudly beating against them. It yowls at them, the clanging growing louder.

“W-what’s wrong? Why’s it doing that?!” Shanks asks, nerves fraying at how loud the creature is being. They’d never made such a ruckus before, and the timing of it was the worst it could've been. 

“I don’t know! She usually isn’t like this!”

The two take a few tentative steps onward when another caged beast roars, and suddenly, that sets the rest of the room off. Mournful cries and calls and roars and caws fill the room, near deafening. The boys look at one another in horror. 

“What’s happening?!” Buggy shouts over the noise. Shanks shakes his head, an inkling starting to spark in the pit of his gut. He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath. He tries his best to focus in the way Rayleigh had been teaching him as of late, reach out, out, out—

Please. 

Help me. 

Please. 

Take me with you. 

Freedom. 

Please. 

Let me out.

Home, home, home–

Shanks sucks in a large breath and clamps down on his haki, head spinning from the cacophony of voices.  

“Shanks?” Buggy tentatively calls, noticing how pale the redhead is. He gives Buggy’s hand a reassuring squeeze and takes off. The creatures claw and beat at their cages even harder, their cries growing louder and more desperate as the pair make their way down the room. 

Shanks shuts wet eyes and squares his jaw, not slowing down. Despite no longer seeing the desperate faces of the animals around them, the sound of their frantic calls still gouges deep wounds into Shanks’ very being. Guilt floods him as he runs even faster. 

Call him a coward, but he just…he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk Buggy. There are over twenty animals total in this room, and trying to release them all would take time. Time he didn’t know they’d have. This may be their only chance, and he can’t jeopardize it. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He thinks—chants—in his mind, trying in vain to block the sounds of paws and bodies pushing at cages as tears run hot down his cheeks. 

They’re about half way down the room when the doorknob on one of the grand doors suddenly turns. Shanks registers Buggy’s gasp behind him before his mind properly catches up to what he’s seeing. Buggy yanks him to the side, making his arm twinge painfully as the two dive for cover just as the door opens and a gaggle of laughing party guests filter into the room. 

The laughing cuts off abruptly, numerous pairs of wide eyes staring at the animals with trepidation. The lord, standing at the head of the group, flushes in anger, his teeth grit. 

“What is the meaning of this? Quiet! All of you!” He snipes. He storms to the nearest cage and bangs a fist against the bars, but it does nothing to quiet the creature inside. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Shanks whispers to Buggy while the Lord’s back is turned. They rush behind the plants littering the next cage, and when the coast is clear, they duck behind another housing a sturdy palm tree. 

“Enough! Hush, all of you!” The lord bellows, his patience thinning the more his unruly pets ignore him in front of his guests.

Almost there, Shanks thinks to himself. He bites his lip nervously when he peeks around the palm tree trunk and spots the lord’s party guests still lingering by the door. How they’ll get past them unseen, he’s unsure, but figures he can worry about it when they get there—

“EEEEE-AHH-AHH-AHH!”  Between one blink and the next, the face of the seven-winged monkey appears, practically nose to nose with Shanks from around the other side of the tree.

“Fuck!” Shanks hisses, falling back onto his ass with how badly he startles. Buggy grips his shoulders tight enough to bruise, shoving him down at an awkward angle to better hide themselves. 

 Shanks winces when the monkey continues to incessantly screech at them, jumping and fluttering around, reaching out through the bars. Shanks puts a finger to his lips, shooshing it. “Shhh! Please! Please be quiet.” Shanks desperately whispers, but the monkey only screams louder, jumping to-and-fro. 

The lord turns towards the noise, storming over. “Enough, I said! What are you screaming at?”

Shanks’ wide eyes meet Buggy’s. He reaches for the machete, eyes flicking around the group, assessing. While he’d have preferred the sneaky route, he figures he can get a few good swings of the arm in before any nearby guards come to their lord’s rescue. The fact that the rest of his party looked far from the fighting type meant he likely wouldn’t have to worry much about them interfering either. 

Shanks readies himself when a book is suddenly shoved into his chest, hands grabbing the keys from his waist. Before he can so much as splutter a protest, Buggy rounds the other side of the cage, frantically parsing through the keys. 

“What in the—” Before the lord can finish his no-doubt curse, Buggy jams a key into the monkey’s lock, twisting it open.

The monkey hurls itself at the door the moment the lock unlatches, screeching and flying around the exotic hall in a frenzy. The lord’s party guests join in on the screaming, a few running out of the room while others try in vain to help the lord corral the creature back towards its cage. 

Buggy doesn’t even spare the chaos a look, instead running to the next cage and opening that one as well, releasing a large, lumbering hound. The lord catches sight of this, and rages, “poppet! What is the meaning of this?! Get back to your cage at once!”

Buggy meets the man’s eyes briefly, large and terrified, and sharply whistles, catching the room’s attention. “H-here!” Buggy shouts, tossing the keys to the monkey who swoops down, catching them mid-air. It holds them up in triumph, releasing a victory screech. 

It’s at that exact moment that the doors burst open, loudly banging into the walls. Servants and townsfolk storm in, weapons raised and shouting obscenities, Adrian leading the charge. This sends the lord’s party guests into a frenzy, many begging for mercy or throwing one another under the bus as the group rounds on them. Meanwhile, the monkey flits about, unlocking cages and swinging fists at any head he passes, uncaring if it was friend or foe. 

It’s crazy. It’s chaos. It’s fucking wonderful.

Shanks throws his head back and laughs. He runs around the cages to meet Buggy. He grabs his hands, smiling warmly when the other’s shaking fingers close around his. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” 

“Please!”

Shanks tugs him towards the doors, weaving them through the crowd. They rocket through the door, and as they round a corner, above shouts and cries, Shanks hears the lord shout, “GUARDS!”

—

The corridors echo with their heavy breaths and pounding feet, neither boy speaking as they charge ahead with single-minded focus. While the distance from the Exotic Hall to the West wing isn’t particularly far, with all the dodging and weaving Shanks has had to do to avoid the guards, the journey feels twice as long. Shanks estimates they’ve only got a quarter of the distance left when he feels himself start to get dragged back. 

He looks over his shoulder to see Buggy flagging, his face flushed and sweaty as he harshly pants, the sound made obvious by the oddly quiet hall the two currently found themselves in. There’s an almost glazed over look to his eyes as they stare intently into nothing, sucking in lungfuls of air as Shanks slows to a stop. It takes a moment for Buggy to even realize they aren’t moving before he blinks up at Shanks. “Wha…w-why’d we…stop.” He gasps. 

Shanks doesn’t answer, too busy noting the way Buggy’s knees tremble with exhaustion, clearly unused to–

Holy shit. 

Something heavy flushes over his heart, a physical pang that would otherwise concern him if he hadn’t already known its cause. 

Buggy…has never ran before. 

He clenches the book, knuckles white. It’s the minor, mundane consequences of Buggy’s existence here that really never fail to fill him with something angry and red-hot. Something as simple as running, something so common, denied from him without a second thought.

Soon, he thinks, soon we’ll be out of here, and Buggy’ll never have to see another cage ever again. 

“Sh…Shanks?”

Shanks, in that moment, also realizes with a bit of a start that he’s winded as well. While normally, these intermittent bursts of running wouldn’t do much more than elevate his heart rate, he supposes he’s been here long enough–has been away from his daily training long enough–to have lost a bit of his endurance. He takes a long breath, calming himself. 

Shanks hands Buggy his book, the boy taking it tentatively. He lifts his straw hat from his head and places it on Buggy’s, smiling when the other boy stares back at him with wide eyes. Shanks tugs the brim down, breaking their eye contact. “Keep the brim low, okay? To hide your face and hair.” Without another word, he turns around and squats. 

“Whaaaaaat are you doing?”

“...offering you a piggy-back ride?”

Buggy stares at him incredulously. “...you’re not a pig?” A beat. “Right?!”

Shanks scoffs. “No. Just lean over my back. I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

“Haaaaah?! Carry who?! Why?!”

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“N-no! Who said anything about being tired?”

Shanks looks back at Buggy from over his shoulder. “We haven’t even gotten out of the manor yet. How far do you think the sea is?”

Buggy pouts back at him, seemingly to only then take notice of the way his legs quiver. “...fine.” He huffs. 

Shanks offers a reassuring smile, biting back any teasing remarks as Buggy hesitantly and awkwardly drops against him. “Now what?”

Shanks quickly juts his butt out, forcing Buggy to collapse against him with a strangled shout. He wrangles Buggy’s legs around his waist and hoists the boy up. “Hold on tight.” He says with a cheeky wink before dashing down the hall. 

True to instruction, Buggy holds on tight. Like, really tight. Too tight, but Shanks doesn’t say anything. “Keep your head low.” He chokes out instead, rounding a corner. Buggy does, tucking his face into the space where Shanks’ shoulder meets his neck. 

A round of heavy footfalls accompanied by shouts and the flashing of metal has Shanks careening off their path and ducking through an unknown door. When Shanks finds himself in a less familiar area of the manor. He curses under his breath. 

He tries a door. Locked. He jiggles another’s handle. Also locked. They’re at a dead end. 

Honestly? Fuck these doors. And screw every single window for good measure!

The hairs on the back of Shanks’ neck suddenly rise, and he finds himself spinning around without a second thought just in time to see the wall-phasing guard wall-phase right in front of them. 

“FU-uuuuck!” Buggy squeaks into his ear, startling at the guard’s sudden appearance. 

“Please don’t shit on me.” Shanks whispers back, pained. 

“You—Huh?!”

The guard unsheathes a blade, and damnit. 

“Fine, Asshole, let’s do this.” Shanks says softly, lowering himself to gently slide Buggy off. He holds an arm out protectively in front of the other boy, grabbing the machete from his belt. “Shanks?” Buggy questions, a tremble in his voice. 

“It’s okay.” Shanks says, his intense gaze never leaving the guard. He hears Buggy audibly gulp and shuffle away, and centers himself. 

They stand there, locked in a silent stand-off when the guard suddenly lunges and–was he swimming?!

“Oh, what the fuck.” Shanks mutters to himself, eyebrow ticking in annoyance as the wall phasing guard dives, breaststroking through the floor. He disappears, and goosebumps wrack their way down Shanks’ spine. He leaps out of the way just as the guard pops out behind him with a slash of his sword. 

Shanks rushes in to meet the guard, their blades clanging together. The force of it against his weaker machete sends a buzzing sensation through Shanks’ palms.

The guard catches him by surprise with a sudden kick to the gut, sending him stumbling backwards. He dives into the ground, breaching the marble right in front of Shanks a moment later before Shanks can gather himself. He grabs onto Shanks’ face, large fingers digging into the top of his head and temples. Using his body’s momentum, the guard slams Shanks’ head into the locked door behind him. 

Fireworks burst at the back of his skull. Shanks gasps as he slumps to the floor, and fucking shit–ow! Pain momentarily overrides everything else, and Shanks would be cursing himself for such a rookie mistake if he had the mind for it. 

The guard lifts his sword, angled to plunge when–THWACK! 

Buggy’s book goes sailing, smacking into the side of the guard’s head to flop unceremoniously to the ground. It doesn’t do much, the guard’s body not so much as swaying, but it’s enough to distract the man as small hands wrap around his arm. 

Shanks blinks blearily up at Buggy, who stares fearfully back. He practically dangles from the guard’s forearm, lip quivering as he tries to pull the arm away from Shanks. 

The guard doesn’t even blink, simply reaching over to grab one of Buggy’s boney wrists. He squeezes it hard, the fragile bones inside grinding together. Buggy releases a yelp of pain, letting go. 

The guard harshly tugs Buggy, the force of the pull causing him to stumble over his own feet, helpless to stop the guard as he’s lifted into the air. Buggy gasps, clawing at the vice-like clutched around his wrist. He weakly kicks out, whatever blows he lands doing nothing. 

Shanks’ grip on his machete tightens. Shaky, he silently plants his feet, bracing himself. “L-let him go!” Shanks warbles out as he springs forward. He stumbles a bit, still a little dazed, causing his blade to slice against the top of the man’s wrist rather than pierce straight through as he’d intended. Still, it does the job, the guard instinctively releasing Buggy as blood bubbles and streams out. 

Buggy gasps as his butt hits the floor, too distraught to catch himself. 

The guard stares down at the dribbling wound when his face suddenly contorts, a red-hot flush so deep it’s practically purple creeping down his neck as veins pulse from his forehead. “You’ll regret that.” He says through gnashing teeth, voice like gravel as he stares at the machete in Shanks’ hands.

Shanks jolts, the guard’s switch in demeanor so jarring it’s as though he’s looking at a completely different person. The guard shakes, the metal of his armor gently clinking. “A blade as unworthy as yours doesn’t get to spill my blood and live.” The guard spits.

“Buggy, hide!” Shanks shouts, blinking stars from his vision. He falls into a fighting stance as the other boy scrambles away, wrist protectively tucked to his chest.

They clash, trading blows as the guard swims in and out of walls, his movements much less graceful this time around. Shanks just barely lifts his blade in time to halt a powerful down swing from the guard as he pops out above him. The power behind it forces Shanks to take a knee, his blade chipping. The guard doesn’t relent, pushing down on him, sword gleaming. The corners of his mouth slowly tick up into a nasty grin, the look just as crazed as his previous sneer. 

Shanks’ arms shake from exertion. With a spark of panic, Shanks realizes the chip is growing, cracking along the machete’s blade. With a twinkling snap, it shatters in half, the guard’s sword flying through. Shanks rolls out of the way just in time, the sword cracking into the marble where he’d just been. 

Shanks holds his half of a machete up with a tsk, readying for another attack. While far from ideal, he figures it’s close enough to a knife. Granted, Shanks wasn’t very skilled in dagger combat, and the hilt was all wrong, but it was better than nothing. Besides, Shanks has always had good luck when it came to flying by the skin of his teeth.  

Rather than face him however, the guard stays where he is, hunched over the upper half of his machete. The guard laughs, quiet and low, shoulders shaking. “Gye-heh. Gye-heh-gye-heh.” He chortles. “Unworthy. You were unworthy, so you had to die. Hye-hehe.” He mutters to the dull metal, still smiling. 

Shanks raises a brow, turning to meet Buggy’s eyes in question. Buggy just shrugs, equally disturbed. Shanks takes a small step back towards him. Maybe if the guard was distracted, they could– 

The guard’s head snaps to him, stoic once more. He stands, weight shifting, and for a brief moment, Shanks thinks he’s going to forgo the stupid wall swimming-phasing-whatever and just attack him head-on. And he does…before his eyes slide to Shanks’ left. At the last possible moment, the guard jerks in that direction, diving. 

The world slows around him as Shanks turns with wide eyes. He stares at Buggy who stands partially hidden within another alcove, helpless as he watches the guard pop out of the ground right in front of Buggy. 

Buggy gasps, jerking back, but he isn’t quick enough. The guard fists his tunic and lifts him up. Buggy shrieks, once again fruitlessly kicking as the guard. “Let me go!” 

The guard flings him over his shoulder and turns, not even sparing Shanks a glance. “W-wait!” Shanks cries out as the guard’s feet begin to seep into the floor, and fuck. If the guard phased away with Buggy, there was no way Shanks was gonna be able to find him! 

Shanks runs after them to jabs what was left of his machete, but the jagged metal meets air, the guard dodging out of the way. He spins, knocking the hilt out of Shanks’ hands with a sneer, watching as it clatters uselessly to the ground. 

Shanks chases after it as the guard walks away, calm and collected like an absolute bastard. Shanks swipes up the hilt, blood freezing when he looks to see the guard’s front leg phase through a wall. 

“No! Let him go!”

Shanks rushes towards them, but knows he’ll be too late. He meets Buggy’s gaze, the other boy’s eyes spilling over with tears. The guard takes another step, and he has to do something. He has to do something! He’s going to take Buggy!

“Shanks!”

Shanks’ pupils shrink to a pinprick.

“STOP!”

A wave of something shudders its way down Shanks’ spine, through his legs and out his feet. It ripples along the floor, radiating off of him in pulses he can feel reverberating against the walls. Buggy shudders as it passes over him to slam into the guard, locking him in place.

The guard’s body seizes, beginning to tremble, fists white knuckling and sweat beading along his temple.

Then, his eyes roll into the back of his head, frothing foam bubbling up to spill from the corners of his lips. He releases an odd groan before going limp, falling oddly with his leg still stuck in the wall, taking Buggy down with him.

Shanks blinks, stunned, as he and Buggy gape at one another. Was that…did he just…

Shanks shakes his head, tossing his machete and bolting the rest of the way to the pair. He drops in front of Buggy. “You okay?”

“...what the fuck just happened?” Buggy croaks instead of answering. 

“...I think it was–”

“This way! They came from the West wing, check for any more intruders!” A gruff voice echoes from another room, footsteps stomping closer. Both boys jolt, heads swiveling in the direction of the noise. 

Too close shouts and the clashing of steel kicks Shanks into gear. “Come on!” he hisses, hoisting Buggy onto his back. Buggy latches on as Shanks grabs his book, doubling back to find another way through.    

—

Walking through the cracked open door and into the cool night is somehow both egregiously anticlimactic, and so overwhelmingly relieving that Shanks has to stop himself from collapsing to his knees to kiss the grass right then and there. He doesn’t slow down to take in the sights, doesn’t relish in his first proper gulp of fresh air in weeks, doesn’t spare a single thought beyond run, get away, run, get away.

Shanks rounds the side of the manor, away from the sounds of fighting and the orange haze of fire emanating from the front of the manor. From the corner of his eye, he can just make out the estate’s gate, open with a steady stream of incensed townsfolk storming in. Shanks keeps his eyes trained ahead, running at a diagonal towards a distant treeline.

They crash through the underbrush, not slowing even as Shanks feels sharp twigs and branches scrap against his cheeks and legs, though he does try to lessen how often they hit Buggy. The terrain is steep, slippery, and altogether tedious to navigate through, making it a perfect natural border for the estate. Shanks doesn’t even wanna think about the number of times he nearly rolls an ankle whenever the forest floor suddenly dips into sheer drop. 

After a while, the ground mercifully evens, and then Shanks finds himself stumbling into an open clearing, tall grass and wild flowers swaying in the breeze. He slows, sucking in haggard breaths to try and calm the adrenaline-fueled jitters still sparking through his body. He closes his eyes, taking in deeper and deeper breaths. 

A wisp of wind blows past, sharper than the rest. Buggy shivers, digging his nose a little deeper into the crook of Shanks’ neck where he’d shoved it the moment Shanks had picked him up. Shanks looks down to where Buggy’s hands clench the fabric of his shirt and frowns. He delicately places a hand over Buggy’s bruised wrist.

“Thanks for saving me. You shouldn’t have had to, not after I said I’d protect you. I’m sorry.” Shanks says, voice hushed.

“If you almost get stabbed again, I’m throwing the book at you next time.” Buggy sniffles, voice muffled by Shanks’ shoulder. “Jerk.”

The redhead huffs, chest warm. He hikes the other a bit higher up on his back and presses onward, this time at a much more sedate pace. 

The clearing is large, but not overly so. Shanks can faintly make out the sounds of a tinkling stream, bugs chirping and buzzing melodically in tune with it. He looks around, less concerned with where his feet fall given how flat the clearing is and how brightly the moon lights everything now that there weren’t any trees blocking it. Shanks looks up, a large grin slowly growing on his face. 

“Buggy. Buggy!” Shanks says, jostling the other.

“Hm?”

“Look up!”

Buggy lifts his head just as another breeze rushes past, catching on the brim of the straw hat and pushing it off Buggy’s head to dangle against his back. Buggy gasps, his arms around Shanks’ neck turning into a proper chokehold. Shanks doesn’t mind, though, not with how brightly the glittery night sky reflects in Buggy’s awe-struck eyes. 

“This is nothing.” Shanks beams, drinking in his fill. Who knew he’d one day come to miss the sight of something usually so mundane for him. “Like I said, you gotta see them when there’s no lights from an island–ACK!” 

 Shanks hacks as Buggy suddenly bounces in place, practically climbing up Shanks’ back and nearly sending them both crashing to the ground as he points insistently upwards. “Shanks!” He nearly shouts, Shanks wincing at the volume right next to his ear. He tries to look up despite Buggy’s best efforts to force his head and shoulders down, struggling to not drop the other boy. “Shanks! Look! It’s-it’s—”

“Ankaa.” Shanks breathes, quiet and reverent when he finally gets a chance to look up. He feels grief well up as he and Buggy keep their sights trained on the star, falling into a sad silence. It’s bright, easily the brightest star in the entire constellation. Red, too. Shanks slips a hand into his pocket, running a finger along Kowkee’s feather. 

“We should go.” Shanks whispers. 

“Hm?”

“We should go.” Shanks repeats, stronger this time. “We should bring him home.” Shanks pulls out the feather. Buggy’s eyes go wide in realization. “It’s all he ever wanted.” Shanks continues, something desperate and needy and mournful chasing after the words. Then, softly, “I promised.”

Buggy gently takes the feather, twirling it between his fingers. He smiles at the way the moonlight catches on its iridescence. His smile turns into a full-blown grin, gummy and bright. “Well, what’re we waiting for?” He raises his hand, dramatically pointing the feather at Ankaa. “Follow Ankaa!”

“Follow Ankaa!” Shanks cheers, reinvigorated. He sniffs back his lingering sorrow and takes off.

Dawn’s light is only just starting to creep across the sky when they finally breach through to the other side of the forest, Ankaa a faint pinprick. It ends with a cliff, though not one too terribly tall, the spot where the land starts to even out visible from where they stand.

From their vantage, Shanks can see a few rundown homes, the island’s main town in the near distance. He soaks it in as much as he’s able to in the pre-dawn light, not having been able to really sight see much before he was taken. He’d thought it pretty if quaint when he’d first arrived, and looking at it now, it appears even more run down than he remembers.

A niggling indignation for the islanders’ behalf festers. The lord’s manor was large enough to get lost in, consisting of high quality stone and metal, his estate spanning acres. From here, he can see the red haze lighting the sky where the estate is. He hopes the fires he saw raises the entire property to the ground. 

Shanks yawns, awkwardly reaching up to rub his tired eyes, though Buggy doesn’t seem bothered by the jostling. He looks around in wonder, though he still mostly keeps his gaze trained up, having excitedly pointed out numerous stars and constellations on their journey here. He gasps when the first slip of the sun breaches the horizon, peeking out over the ocean to their right. 

“It’s so bright!” Buggy exclaims, squinting as the sun slowly rose. 

“Don’t look straight at it.” Shanks advises. “It’ll mess up your eyes.”

Buggy grunts,  but very obviously doesn’t look away despite the constant fluttering of his lashes. Shanks smiles up at him as they take a moment to just watch the rising sun. Shanks squits right alongside Buggy, uncaring of the way the sun’s light sears into his corneas. He didn’t mind, though. This is Buggy’s very first sunrise, afterall. It’s important. 

They stand like that until the sun is fully above the water. Shanks averts his attention, scanning the shoreline for–Ah-ha! “It’s the Oro Jackson! Look, over there!” Shanks says, excitement overriding his exhaustion. He points to where the tops of several shifts sit docked. 

Buggy leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Uuhhhh…”

“That one, with the red sails! Do you see the jolly roger?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Buggy perks up before deflating. “It’s still so far. Is every island gonna be this big?” He pouts.

Shanks laughs. “Oh, man. This island’s actually tiny compared to some of the ones we’ve been to. Some are so big, it takes days to get from one end to the other, and that’s only if you’re not walking.”

“Days?!” Buggy slumps with a whine, cheek smooshed into Shanks’ shoulder. Shanks pats his arm in mock sympathy and laughs.

—

The morning sun bathes everything in a golden as Shanks trudges onto the docks. Early birds and shop owners bustle about, getting ready for the day as the town slowly wakes up, though judging by how few a number he sees, Shanks is willing to bet that many were involved in last night’s coup.

Shanks trips, foot catching on a loose plank. “Sorry.” He mutters, blinking away dark spots from his vision. Buggy frowns before wrestling himself free from Shanks’ grasp. “I can walk the rest of the way.” He says, petulant. Shanks gives him a knowing look, though doesn’t say anything. He stretches, rubbing at his sore neck with a groan when a familiar laugh booms through the quiet morning. 

Shanks freezes, heart leaping up to clog his throat. He’s completely unprepared for the wash of longing that crashes over him, making him practically sway. Captain…it was his captain! He didn’t even know it was possible to miss someone like this, mind and body aching in tandem with the need to bury himself in his captain’s arms, and smother into their safety.  

“We’re almost there!” Shanks says. Hand in hand, the boys race down their final stretch to freedom.

He sees a few of them milling about, yawning and still half asleep, muttering things about breakfast and ale. Roger, surprisingly, stands tall and proud, completely awake. He laughs again, head thrown back as Rayleigh glares up at him, clearly tired.

“Captain!” Shanks shouts, grabbing the attention of his crew.

“Shanks!” Roger’s smile breaks into a blinding smile. “Where have you been? You missed all the fun!”

“Where have you been?!” Shanks shouts back, smiling just as wide. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting. That bastard Garp ran us out of town the moment you stepped foot on the island. He’s been dogging our asses nonstop, the relentless bastard! He wouldn’t even let us dock! Bwahahaha!”

Shanks feels something settle within him at that, like a jagged edge being smoothed down to fit back into place. Relief, perhaps, that he hadn’t been trapped in the lord’s manor because his nakama were too busy partying, or getting drunk, or just plain out forgetting about him.

“We finally managed to give him the slip! Come on, boy, before that bastard sniffs us out again. Taro! Bring your ass back here, we’re heading out!”

“Who’s this?” Rayleigh interrupts, coming to stand behind his Captain. He looks from Buggy to Shanks, eyebrow raised. Buggy shrinks away, letting go of Shanks’ hand to hide behind him. 

“His name’s Buggy.”

“You made a friend?” Roger asks, eyes turning to crescents. “He looks funny! Bwhahaha!”

“Who has a big red nose?!” Buggy bristles, momentarily forgetting his wariness. “Shut up! Stop laughing!”

“Roger.” Rayleigh warns with a glare. “Ignore him.” He says to Buggy before addressing Shanks. “Say goodbye to your friend. Roger wasn’t kidding about Garp. I’d rather not get caught in a weeks long fight again.”

“W-wait!” Shanks says as Rayleigh turns away. “We gotta bring him with us!”

Rayleigh gives him a look. “Shanks, we can’t just take some random kid with us.” 

“No, we have to! Please?”

“Shanks.” Rayleigh says, tone sharp.

“Captain!” He says, large, pleading eyes landing on Roger. 

“Ah, sorry my boy.” Roger says, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Rayleigh’s right. He’s young, he should stay here with his family.”

Shanks looks between his captain and first mate, knowing that telling them Buggy didn’t have one wouldn’t change their minds. So, though it breaks something in him, he accepts this.

He draws in a breath, then takes a step back, then another, until he’s standing side by side with Buggy. He bows low. “Thank you for everything.” He takes Buggy’s hand. “But if he can’t come, then I’ll stay.”

Roger, Rayleigh, and Buggy’s eyebrows shoot up, expressions slack in surprise. “What?” Roger asks, voice so low Shanks nearly misses it. 

“What?” Buggy echoes, voice shaking. “B-but you can’t!” He exclaims. “What about your crew? And all the treasure and adventures? You..you told me you had to leave. That you couldn’t stay here.”

“There’ll be plenty more treasure and adventures.” Shanks says, willing his voice not to waiver. “And…and it’s fine! My crew will understand. We’ll figure things out!”

“What?” Roger repeats, louder. “Shanks–”

“I already told you, I’m not leaving you, Buggy!”

Buggy shakes his head, nauseous desperation paling his skin. “But-but they’re your crew! Your nakama! The ones from all your stories! You can’t just leave them! I…I can’t do that to you.”

“But I told you I’d–”

“It’s okay.” Buggy sniffs. He smiles. “I-I got to see the stars because of you, and have my first sleepover, and be in my first ever fight, and go outside and have a pirate adventure. I saw the sea, and the trees. I got to see the sun!” Buggy’s bottom lip wobbles. “It’s amazing, It’s all so amazing, so-so please–” Buggy’s voice breaks, tears welling up. “Please don’t stay because of me.”

Roger assesses Buggy, thoughtful as he ruminates over the boy’s words. Shanks doesn’t notice, too busy wetly staring at Buggy, gaze shifting from eye to eye. He blinks the tears away, resolute, and looks Roger dead in the eye. “I was kidnapped."

Roger and Rayleigh balk at this.

“Hah?!”

“Kidnapped?! Who–”

“But it’s okay, because I wasn’t alone.”

Something in Shanks voice, his eyes, gives the men pause. “I had Buggy, and Kowkee.”

“Kowkee?” Roger asks, scanning the beach for another child. 

“Our friend.” Shanks digs the feather out of his pocket, presenting it to his Captain. “We promised to take him home. He–” Shanks’ voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “He was Buggy’s best friend, and he’d tell us stories of his island, and how you could find it with a star. And he’d tease us, and-and he was so excited to leave, to go home. He just wanted to go home, captain. So we’re taking him back. Both of us.”

He looks at Buggy. “And if I have to stay behind to do it, then fine, because I’m not letting you go back there. You’re never going to be locked inside a cage ever again, not while I’m around! We’re going to sail the Blues, we’re going to go on adventures, we’re going to find all the constellations in your books, and we’re going to sail to Kowkee’s island! I want to do these things with you! So you don’t have to feel guilty. This is my choice, so quit trying to get rid of me! We’re going to be pirates together, okay?”

Buggy sniffs. He fidgets, looking unsurely between Shanks and Roger before quietly saying, “...okay.”

Shanks turns back to Roger. “I made a promise.”

Roger looks between the two boys with a gleam in his eyes, twinkling with something like pride. He turns his gaze inland where a plume of billowing smoke can be seen in the far distance. 

 “I see.” He says, kneeling down in front of Buggy who shrinks in on himself, shy. “A cage?” 

“For his entire life, captain.” Shanks answers for him. 

“Is that so…” Roger hums. At Buggy’s hesitant nod, he asks, “who put you in there?”

“...Papa did.”

Roger’s fists clench, and Shanks can hear Rayleigh sigh in defeat. “I’ll have Gaban ready another bunk.” He says and walks away. Roger pays him no mind, smiling down at two pairs of widening eyes, shining with hope.

Roger’s smile widens, teeth on display. “Well, guess that’s that then. Now,” Roger nods to the feather. “Which star are we following?”

—

The boys stumble over their feet, dashing through the sand across a sparkling beach. One, with red wind-tousled hair, throws his head back with a laugh, bright and free as the other trips and lands face first in the sand. He mutters, dusting loose granules from his new clothes, checking to make sure they’re still intact. 

The redhead offers him a hand, pulling him up when it’s taken. He doesn’t let go.

With his free hand, he pulls out a beautiful, glossy feather, holding it up to the other boy. Their hands eclipse one another, and together, they release it, watching it catch on the wind. 

The feather floats up, up, up, vibrant colors glowing in the burning, setting sunlight. It twirls in the air, soaking in the sea’s visage, and down below, a pair of giggling boys race back, diving into their Captain’s waiting arms. 

Their captain’s laugh echoes along the salty breeze, the man swinging the shrieking boys around and around. They board their ship, and from above the feather watches as they ready the sails, faraway stars twinkling in the distant, darkening sky.