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the-obnoxious-sibling · 3 months

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in which late night sad topics are broached, buggy comes to his senses (???), and we do need to get out of bed at some point, shanks. there are things happening outside your personal drama, you know.

part seven of the post-marineford portion of the near miss fics! (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) if you have no idea what i’m talking about but would like to read a shanks/buggy story about kissing in disguise and then having to deal with the emotional fallout of doing that, click on this link, that’s the tag for the whole thing in chronological order. (plus a fair bit of complaining about writing, one inspirational improvised musical number, and a snippet of shanks pov) if you do know what i’m talking about: i am afraid this fic is turning into a test case for zeno’s dichotomy paradox, where the closer i get to the end the farther away it becomes. >>; i honestly cannot see how it would take me more than 5k to wrap things up, but i said that last time, and the time before that, so… see you in part eight! eta: i almost forgot!! if a moment early on sounds familiar, you may have already seen the huyandere art that inspired it. either way please enjoy the silliness.

Buggy woke with a start, and didn’t know where he was. The bed was too soft, the person at his back was too warm. And too close, Galdino had so far always curled up facing the far side of the bed, what was he—Buggy blinked blearily at the faint outline of a sake flask on the nightstand. Oh, right. This was Shanks’ room.

The windows above the bed let in a fair amount of moonlight, but the moon was waxing crescent tonight so Buggy couldn’t see much of anything. He hadn’t thought about it when he decided to stay the night, but he didn’t sleep well in new places. Stupid to think that just because there was a familiar person that the unfamiliar place wouldn’t still disturb his sleep.

Ah, well.

Buggy moved slowly, not wanting to wake Shanks if he could help it. It should be possible, they weren’t wrapped up in each other or anything stupid like that… though if Buggy had been asked, he would have imagined Shanks was as clingy asleep as awake. But no, Shanks was close enough that his body heat had soaked into Buggy’s back, but they weren’t touching.

Buggy stretched a little, yawned a little, and rolled over. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to see what a fully grown Shanks looked like asleep. The possibilities were too tempting… what if he had stupidly messy hair, or drool dried on his face, or a big snot bubble on one nostril?

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get to find out, because it turned out that Shanks was awake. He was lying on his side, in fact, staring at Buggy. Biting back a yelp of alarm, Buggy swatted him on the arm.

“What the hell!” he hissed.

“What?”

“Why are you watching me sleep? That’s so weird!”

“Is it?”

“Very!”

Shanks smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I just couldn’t sleep, I guess, so I was lying here, thinking…” Buggy open his mouth and Shanks immediately put his hand over it. “I know I set you up for it, but please, no jokes about how hard that must be for me or whatever.”

Buggy made a muffled grumbling sound and shoved Shanks’ hand away. “Thinking about what, then?”

Shanks glanced away for a moment and sighed. “Well, I guess it is after midnight.”

What did that have to do with anything? And then Buggy remembered: his moratorium on sad topics had been for one day only. With a huff, Buggy turned away from Shanks. He didn’t want to see Shanks’ face while he asked his question.

“Buggy. Buggy, look at me? Please?” Shanks’ hand tugged at Buggy’s shoulder, a silent echo of his request.

Silently groaning—he used to say no to Shanks all the time, when had he lost the knack for it?!—Buggy rolled over and said, “Fine. But I get my sad question first!”

Shanks considered him. He nodded. “That’s fair.”

Great! If only he’d had one prepared. Buggy’s thoughts went every which way—what did he want to know, what intel could he get out of Shanks?—before latching onto something totally useless, but also deeply important. “Did you know?” Realizing this was stupidly vague, he added, “About the kid?”

Shanks’ brow furrowed. “‘The kid?’”

“Ace.”

“Ah.”

“Did you know he was Roger’s?”

Shanks sighed and laid down. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “I… had my suspicions. When I met him, a couple years back, he told me a lot about himself. His dreams… where he was born… it was suggestive. And then there was his name.”

Buggy groaned. “Who names a kid after their sword?!”

Shanks chuckled. “Roger.”

Buggy sighed. “Roger.” He propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Shanks. “So he didn’t—no one told you?” Told you and not me?

Shanks shook his head. “Who would have? Who could have?”

Buggy shrugged. “I don’t know, doesn’t that haki stuff sometimes let you talk in each other’s heads or something?”

Shanks laughed. “No! It doesn’t work like that! How many times—”

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t know how it works, I don’t care how it works! I just—” Wanted to know if I’d been overlooked again. “—wanted to know if you knew.”

“No.” Shanks eyes softened, as if he’d heard Buggy’s real reason. He reached up to curl the end of Buggy’s ponytail around a finger and tug Buggy closer. “No, I think the only person Roger told was Garp.”

Buggy made a disgusted noise, which was not at all strangled by his reaction to Shanks’ hand in his hair. (Nope! That wasn’t provoking any kind of feeling in Buggy at all!) “Garp,” he muttered darkly. “What the hell was Roger thinking?!”

“Probably that Garp could keep his son safe.” In the dim light, Shanks’ eyes were hooded, unreadable.

“Oh yeah, he kept him real safe,” Buggy said dryly.

“As a kid, I mean.”

“What’s that matter? However safe his childhood was, he’s dead now,” Buggy snapped. “Our childhood was about as far from safe as possible, but at least we’re alive! At least we were cared for! That kid… the way he thought of himself…” Buggy buried his face in Shanks’ chest and sighed deeply. “It wasn’t right. One of us should’ve had him.”

Shanks’ hand came to rest on the back of Buggy’s neck. “Being a dad at sixteen would’ve been hard.”

“I guess,” Buggy grumbled. “But we would have managed.”

Shanks’ hand went stiff and still, fingers digging into Buggy’s neck a little. Buggy realized what he’d said and started to sweat. He’d been hoping to distract Shanks from his question, not bring them back around to that topic himself.

“Buggy. Please look at me.”

Buggy craned his neck back to look Shanks in the eye, resting the point of his chin on his chest in a pointed, hopefully painful move.

Shanks grimaced. “I’m sorry, Buggy, but I have to know. When did you ever want to be my first mate?” How did I miss that, his eyes seemed to ask.

It was about as hard to look at as Buggy had expected. He averted his eyes. “That last year with Roger? Maybe earlier, I don’t know.” Shanks started stroking his thumb across the spot where Buggy’s neck met his hairline. With that bit of contact soothing him, he managed to get the truth out. “I thought it was the only way I’d get to the last island.”

“…you wanted to go there together? That long ago?”

Buggy grimaced. That awed tone of voice told him Shanks had gotten the wrong idea. “More like I didn't think I could get there alone.”

“Oh.” After a moment’s pause, Shanks went back to stroking Buggy’s hair. Buggy relaxed, cheek sinking into Shanks’ chest. His heartbeat thudded away by Buggy’s ear in a slow, steady comfort. I’m here, I’m alive, I’m here… “Then I’m glad.”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad we didn’t stay together back then,” Shanks said, sounding almost surprised by his words. Buggy stared blankly into space. Was he hearing Shanks right? Shanks nodded, surer, and said, “Yeah, never thought I’d say that, but… I want you to believe in yourself more than I want you to be with me, Buggy.”

Buggy blinked a few times, fighting off a sharp stinging in his eyes.

Shanks tensed underneath him. “Buggy?”

Buggy shook his head, lifted himself up the barest amount, and pressed their lips together. Shanks made a soft, protesting noise, but Buggy would not be moved. He wouldn’t express these feelings in words, it couldn’t be done. This was the best he could do.

With a resigned little sigh, Shanks sank back into the bed, fingers threaded into Buggy’s hair, and let Buggy kiss him. Their faces came together and drifted apart so slowly, so many times, that Buggy would be hard-pressed to pinpoint the moment when they finally stopped, but stop they did, as sleep claimed them again.

When Buggy woke for the second time, early morning sunlight gleamed through the windows over Shanks’ bed. He was warm and well-rested, sated in almost every meaning of the word, and had no interest in getting up. And who could blame him? Shanks, still asleep, was lying on his back facing Buggy, his hand loosely curled around the back of Buggy’s neck, unconsciously keeping him close. Not that Buggy had made any effort to get away in his sleep; his head was on Shanks’ shoulder, his hand resting lightly against Shanks’ carotid, where he must have kept track of that pulse all night. I'm here, I'm alive, I'm here… Shanks’ face was so close that Buggy could see every small hair of the dark red mustache that had grown back in overnight, could feel the air flutter against his cheek every time he breathed. Which—well, the sour, alcoholic morning breath didn’t exactly fit the morning’s atmosphere, but Buggy had smelled worse.

Buggy drifted a little, enjoying the gentle rocking of a boat at sea, the human contact with someone who cared for him, eyes shuttered against the sun’s attempt to wake him fully. He didn’t want to get up until he had to. That motion of the boat meant they’d already left port. It wouldn’t be long before they met up with Buggy’s ship and crew, before this time together came to an end. Buggy intended to enjoy it while it lasted. Maybe if he laid here long enough, concentrating on his warm satisfaction, he’d be able to preserve it in his memory.

Outside, something fell to the deck with a loud crunch of wood on wood, the moment was ruined, and Buggy came to his senses.

He grimaced. What was he thinking? Preserving the memory of this sweet, soft morning? Ugh. Buggy rolled away from Shanks, his sappy thoughts snapping him to true wakefulness. What was he, some dockside lover pining away for a pirate he only saw once a decade? As if! If anyone was leaving someone behind here, it was Buggy! And he wasn’t gonna be some sappy excuse for a pirate either, staring wistfully at the horizon, thinking of someone he couldn’t be with—no way! Best to start as he meant to go on: by reminding himself of all the reasons he’d left in the first place, reasons why he would not miss Shanks at all.

He got up, not bothering to wake Shanks but not going quietly about his business either. His clothes were scattered all over the room—which was, he noticed with a touch of amusement and (ugh) affection, a lot less messy than it had been when he stopped by yesterday morning—and they’d gotten all mixed in with Shanks’ clothes, too. After a few false starts (they’d been right, Buggy could not fit in Shanks’ pants these days), Buggy made himself sartorially presentable. One last check in the mirror hanging next to Shanks’ closet, and—what the fuck.

Buggy gaped. He looked like something out of a horror story. His chin was streaked with red, his cheeks a ghastly pale gray where the powder hadn’t rubbed away entirely, just the faintest hint of the original crossbones showing through.

Good god, this makeup wasn’t just cheap, it was really cheaply made. The kind of stuff that would barely last an hour on an expressive face, let alone a day. Buggy put a finger to his cheekbone and watched with dismay as powder came off in a little cloud of dust. Not even his good setting spray would save this stuff. And the way the lip had smeared was—

A thought occurred to Buggy, and he spun around to stare at Shanks in horror. Marks that he hadn’t noticed last night were in the light of day very obvious lip prints in a deep red tint. On his neck, his chest, all the way down his chest in a very telling progression… oh no. No, no, no. This could not be borne.

Buggy dug around in his pockets and pulled out the makeup removing stick he’d gotten from Galdino. He’d thought he might need to touch up the makeup a bit in the morning, but not this much. Glancing between Shanks, the little wax stick, and his own increasingly panicked expression in the mirror, Buggy came up with a plan.

He finished making himself presentable— cleaning up the edges of his lip and removing almost all of the powder from his face, save the slashes of blue meant to draw attention to his eyes—and leapt onto the bed, jolting Shanks into consciousness.

“Shanks!” he hissed.

“Mm?”

“Shanks!” he hissed again. Shanks didn’t stir. “I’ll hit you,” he warned, and Shanks groaned piteously, hungover.

“Not into that so much,” he mumbled, “but if you insist…”

Buggy flushed, shoved that reaction down deep, and said, “Would you wake up already?! I have to go, and you need to promise not to leave your rooms until I’m back.”

“Hm, ’s that so?” Shanks cracked open one eye, finally, and frowned a little at the sight of Buggy, fully dressed. “Now who’s the one in a rush?”

“Didn’t I just say I’ll be back?” Buggy chided. He flicked a finger against Shanks’ chest. “You need makeup remover, and I assume you don’t keep any in here.”

“No.” Shanks blinked. He looked down at himself. “Why would I—oh.” He looked under the blanket. “Oh, wow.”

“You see the problem,” Buggy said dryly.

“I sure do,” Shanks said, voice wavering with disbelief and laughter. “I mean, wow, Buggy.”

“Shut up! It’s not my fault—those guys went and bought me new makeup yesterday!”

“That was sweet of them.”

“Yeah, that and three hundred berries will get you a cup of coffee. Stupid me, I assumed a couple dozen guys doing a day’s work could afford something a little better than this.” Buggy waggled the wax stick around; powder rained off it onto the bed. “This stick’s run its course, so I’m off to beg another one…” Buggy gave Shanks’ lipstick-marked chest a considering look. “Maybe two… off Galdino.”

“Bring him tea,” Shanks suggested. “Roux says he’s more agreeable after a cup of Earl Grey.” At Buggy’s look of surprise, Shanks smirked. “That guy’s not the only one keeping tabs on people around here, you know.”

Huh. Well, Buggy would have to rethink every conversation he’d had with or in the presence of Lucky Roux. Later. For now, a bribe of tea sounded like a better plan than the one he’d had (shouting until he got what he wanted). He headed for the door, but was stymied by a hand tangling in his sash. He glared over his shoulder at Shanks.

“What now?”

Shanks—Buggy blinked, not believing what he was seeing—pouted. “Can’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

Buggy blinked twice, not believing what he was hearing. “You must be joking.”

“You aren’t gonna kiss me again after you get this lipstick off me, not when that would undo all your hard work,” Shanks said, sounding very reasonable for a man with his bottom lip stuck out so far. “But I need a kiss. Just one more, please?”

If someone had told him even yesterday that Shanks would become such a baby the second he was shown the smallest bit of affection… “You know what? Fine.” A delighted expression bloomed on Shanks’ face as Buggy walked back to his side. Buggy smiled, laid a loud, wet kiss dead-center on his forehead, and pulled back to watch his face crumple.

The pouting was, if possible, worse this time. “Buggy, come on.” Shanks tugged at his sash again.

“I don’t know who told you this behavior was attractive, but they did you a real disservice,” Buggy said, splitting at the waist when it became clear Shanks would rather pull the sash loose than let go. “I’m going. I—” Actually, if he was flying anyway… “—do your windows open?”

Shanks dropped the pouty look—ugh, Buggy knew he’d been faking, what an ass—and glanced up. “Yeah, there’s a hinge somewhere…”

Buggy flew up and found a simple latch that let the windows swing out. Not great for hiding that the windows were open, but sensible for evacuation purposes. He flicked the latch and carefully swung open one window. Just big enough for him to get out, excellent.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Shanks gave him a fond smile. “As you wish.”

Giving Shanks a wary look—he really couldn’t tell how many of these strange comments were jokes anymore—Buggy floated out the window and off toward the mess. Roux happily put together a mug of tea for Galdino when asked. He also pulled out a cup of drinking chocolate for Buggy, unprompted.

Now that Buggy knew to look for it, it was a little uncanny how well Roux had him figured out after all of two days’ acquaintance.

Well, however well Roux knew Buggy, Buggy didn’t know him at all; he couldn’t tell if the grin on Roux’s face was a smug, knowing one, or if that was just how he smiled. As Roux was adding the finishing touches to the tea—apparently Galdino liked it with lavender syrup and steamed milk, which was about as fancy as Buggy might have expected—Buggy thought, what the hell, the first mate already knows, and asked for something to eat, chef’s choice, and a bowl of that tomato-egg stuff Shanks liked, both to be picked up when Buggy was done bothering Galdino.

Roux’s grin didn’t change when he agreed, which answered that question.

When Galdino didn’t answer the door, Buggy went ahead and broke in. (Though was it really breaking in when it was supposed to be your room too?) He was dead to the world, those wax plugs in his ears again. Buggy started rapping his knuckles against the headboard, knowing the vibrations would get through even if normal sounds wouldn’t. After a minute, Galdino groaned, rolled over, and wrapped himself in a cocoon of wax.

Buggy paused. That was different.

“Did you get drunk last night or something?” he asked, speaking loudly to be heard through the cocoon. He couldn’t think of another reason Galdino would be this resistant to getting up.

The wax melted away to reveal a miserable, red-eyed man huddled in a ball on the bed. “Or something,” he agreed. Spotting the tea in Buggy’s hands, Galdino made a pathetic little sound and reached for it weakly, fingers stretching out but his arms not actually moving. “Those Red-Haired Pirates do not mess around when it comes to drinking games.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Buggy said, passing the tea along to Galdino, who drank slowly and gratefully. “Shanks could polish off a bottle of wine in an afternoon with no problem by the time we were thirteen, it’s only natural he’d find a crew with similar tolerances.”

Galdino groaned. “Yes, well, that would have been helpful information to have yesterday.” Draining the mug, he said, “What did you want, then?”

“Hey, not every interaction has to be transactional, you kn—” Buggy started to say. Galdino gave him a narrow-eyed look, and he gave up mid-word. “More of the makeup removing sticks, please. The shit those guys got me was cheap as hell, it got everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Galdino’s eyebrow shot up. “Like… everywhere everywhere?”

“…and how’s that any of your business?” Buggy asked flatly, glaring daggers at him.

“You can’t blame a man for being curious,” Galdino said with an unrepentant little smirk.

“The hell I can’t, you flashy, nosy know-it-all!” Buggy grabbed the closest weapon—a pillow—and tried to smother Galdino with it. Galdino shrieked, shielding himself from the onslaught with wax armor. After a brief battle of wills, Buggy stopped trying to kill Galdino, and Galdino made him a full dozen makeup removing wax sticks, at which point Buggy attempted to smother him again, and half the sticks melted and bound Buggy’s hands up, and—anyway. Buggy got out of there eventually, with a reasonable number of wax sticks hidden away on his person.

As he left that room there was a tugging at his waist that had Buggy looking back, remembering too late that his waist wasn’t here, and grumbling to himself. Oh, was he taking too long for the poor Emperor of the Sea? Tough luck. If someone wanted to see Shanks that badly, they deserved to see him as he was, all lipstick-stained and sex-haired. So long as Buggy wasn’t in the room when it happened, it wouldn’t embarrass him. (Probably.)

The tugging continued, and Buggy rolled his eyes and let it happen, even when it changed from a tugging to a gentle pressure, what felt like Shanks’ whole hand pressed against his waist. What was Shanks thinking, touching Buggy like this? Was he just lying in bed, staring at Buggy’s disembodied legs? What a weirdo. Buggy smiled—then, remembering himself, frowned. What a creep.

At least the mess was empty. Buggy hadn’t checked a clock, but he suspected the night shift and first shift men had already come through, and those without an early schedule had yet to get up. It was super convenient, actually: no one but Roux would see him doing something sort of thoughtful for Shanks. Not that he deserved it, the way he was acting right now, making Buggy start to sweat with the effort of not reacting to the hand on his waist, the thumb rubbing little circles into his skin.

Roux had, somehow, just finished preparing the food, though Buggy had taken twice as long as he’d meant to with Galdino. He had everything packed up in little boxes, tied together with butcher’s twine, a paper cup that reeked of grassy green tea sitting on top of the stack.

“Let me know what you think of what I made for you today,” Roux said with a grin as Buggy went to leave. “I got a little experimental.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Buggy said with a grin. “I almost think you could get me to eat tomatoes and like it.”

Roux laughed. “I still haven’t managed to get Shanks to eat blueberries, but I guess anything’s possible!”

That had Buggy laughing to himself the rest of the way back to Shanks’ rooms. He’d forgotten Shanks’ thing about blueberries! As a child, Buggy had accused Shanks of copying him, pretending to hate a blue food in revenge for Buggy legitimately hating a red one, but the truth was he’d always been a little squeamish about their yellow-green insides. Hadn’t liked the look of them, or so he’d said.

Oh, the pranks Buggy had pulled! Hiding a single overripe blueberry in all kinds of terrible places: the bottom of a bowl of porridge, on the seat of a chair, gently placed between the pages of a novel Shanks had bought at the last port town… man, he’d been such a menace as a kid. But Shanks had given as good as he got, so it never felt unfair to mess with him. As they’d gotten older, though, he’d stopped reacting. Either stopped getting mad, or stopped showing he was mad, Buggy had never been quite sure which. God, it had pissed him off. Shanks was only five months older than Buggy, where did he get off suddenly being so grown-up?

And now Shanks was more easygoing than ever! Buggy didn’t trust it; no one was that unruffled by him, especially not when he was being obnoxious on purpose. Even now that he’d seen some of what Shanks had been hiding, Buggy knew there was more to it. Behind those fond smiles and carefree laughter, there was a part of Shanks he didn’t trust Buggy with.

Which was fine! It was the most sensible thing he’d ever seen Shanks do, honestly—Buggy was a no-good, thieving, backstabbing pirate, he shouldn’t be trusted—but that he wouldn’t admit to it pissed Buggy off. To others, sure, let Shanks play the fool, whatever, but to Buggy? The least Shanks could do was be honest about lying to him.

As he was approaching the open window to Shanks’ room, a sudden jolt of sensation nearly made him yelp. Shanks had shifted his hand lower in a caress that sent a shiver up Buggy’s spine, and now he was rubbing his thumb across Buggy’s hipbone, just like yesterday in the park, which was… Buggy shivered again. Not something to be thinking about in public, damn him! He flew in the window, scowling, dropped the food on Shanks’ nightstand, scowling, and floated back up to shut the window with a scowl on his face.

“Buggy, hey!” Shanks was sitting on the edge of his bed. He’d found pants at some point, but not bothered with a shirt. He grinned. “You got us breakfast?”

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Buggy said, turning that scowl on him.

“Hm?” Shanks said, an innocent look on his face. He was still stroking Buggy’s hip, like that four-inch curve of flesh and bone was the most fascinating thing he’d ever felt.

“I refuse to give you your stupid goodbye kiss, so you decide to rile me up while I can’t do anything to stop you, so when I get back I’ll be unable to help myself, huh? Is that it?”

Shanks blinked. He looked from Buggy’s lower half, standing between his legs, to Buggy’s upper half, floating above him. “Couldn’t you have just… stepped back, or kicked me, if you didn’t like it?”

Buggy opened his mouth to respond and found he didn’t have one. He could have done that. He just… hadn’t wanted to.

Shanks began to smile. “‘Unable to help yourself,’ you said?”

Buggy scowled. “Oh, you’re lucky you’re hot.” He shoved Shanks back and climbed on top of him, ignoring the laughter that burst out of Shanks as his head hit the mattress.

Later, very relaxed and searching for reasons to stay mad at Shanks, he was annoyed to learn that the boxes Roux had packed everything in were special heat-retaining boxes that could stay warm for upwards of half a day if left alone. He couldn’t even revenge himself on Shanks with a cold breakfast! He tried to eat resentfully, but the food was just too good to manage it: thin cuts of yesterday’s fancy ham, fried with syrup to a salty-sweet crisp and layered with fried eggs, cheese, and a sour spicy sauce on a hot dog bun. Roux really was some kind of miracle-worker; the bun wasn’t even soggy.

At least with a hand-held breakfast he could scrub aggressively at lipstick stains with his free hand while he ate. Shanks had to hunch over his nightstand to eat his breakfast (the tomato-egg stuff Buggy had requested, served over fried rice with what looked like spicy pickled cabbage and the fancy ham mixed in), and obviously he had no hand free to pitch in. He was happy to criticize Buggy’s technique, though, saying, “Won’t pressing hard enough to bruise defeat the purpose of cleaning me up?” as he leaned into the scrubbing motion.

This was, unfortunately, a reasonable point.

Muttering, “Well excuse me, I didn’t realize you bruised so easily,” under his breath, Buggy switched his focus to less easily bruised parts of Shanks. Just as he was getting started, there was a knock at Shanks’ door. The two of them shared a look—Buggy recently reclothed and fed, Shanks sitting there half-naked with his half-full bowl of food—and Buggy sighed. He split himself a couple ways, leaving one arm behind to scrub at the lipstick on Shanks‘ chest, floating his head and the rest of his torso to the other room.

“What?” he barked out, sounding so annoyed at being interrupted that (hopefully) no one would question why Buggy was in Shanks’ rooms at this hour.

“Oh, good,” said Benn Beckman. He walked in, terrifying Buggy, who’d been fairly certain that door was locked. “I didn’t have any idea where to check if you weren’t here,” he admitted, glancing past Buggy and making a face at the glimpse he caught of Shanks. “Boss, I think you’re gonna need to just give in and bathe to get all of that off,” he said, before returning his attentions to Buggy.

But Buggy was too distracted by this piece of information to let Beckman get back to his point. “There are bathing facilities on this ship?” he said, horrified. I could have gotten actually clean? Jabbing a thumb at Shanks, he said, “And he still looks like an unwashed rat half the time?!”

“Hey!” Shanks said, affronted.

Beckman coughed, poorly hiding a surprised laugh. “Well, I can’t speak to my captain’s personal hygiene decisions, but yes, we do have showers, and yes, we deliberately hid them from you.” Buggy gaped, aghast. “Our potable water reserves and salinity filters are decent, but we just don’t have the capacity to let hundreds of people use them over such a short span of time,” Beckman admitted. “It would have caused interpersonal conflict none of us wanted to deal with to only give some people access to the showers, especially if there appeared to be any signs of favoritism.” He gave Shanks a sideways look. “And there would have been.” Shanks shrugged affably, not denying it.

Buggy scowled, but nodded. This was a fair point. He'd been avoiding thinking about similar issues that would be sure to come up when he attempted to squeeze all of the Impel Down prisoners onto the Big Top. The space, the supplies, the food… he needed to find a proper home base, an island no one cared about in Paradise, where he could leave most of these guys while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with a crew that had more than quadrupled in size overnight. Multiple ships? (How?) A bigger ship? (How?) A permanent land-based population? (Who? Where?)

Buggy shook his head. Stupid to borrow problems from the future when he had plenty on his plate in the present. “What did you want with me, then?”

Beckman tilted his head towards the door. “Captain Buggy, if you don’t mind?”

Oh. Using his title, and wanting to talk without Shanks overhearing? This was serious. Buggy dropped the wax stick—Beckman was right, a shower with lye soap would work just as well on makeup this cheap—and reconnected his body, following Beckman into the hall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “I’m listening.”

Beckman ran a hand across his face. In a ragged undertone, he said, “Our timeline is a lot tighter than we’re making it look. There’s a trade wind we need to catch tonight, and to do that we need you and yours off this ship within an hour of docking. And, well, you saw how slow-moving that bunch can be. Can you get those guys in some kind of order? God knows they aren’t going to listen to anyone but you.”

Buggy nearly laughed. Encouragement to boss around those guys some more? Was that all? With a grin, he gave Beckman a slap on the arm. “Tell you what,” he said, pushing Beckman back towards Shanks’ room, “you take care of your idiot in here, and I’ll take care of all of mine out there.”

Beckman sighed, relief making him look ten years younger. “Deal.”

(If a protesting sound came from within Shanks’ room, both of them chose to ignore it.)

#notfic #the near miss fics #one piece #shuggy #buggy #shanks #i gotta get these guys off the damn boat. /fatt reference #(but also literally. the fic can’t end until buggy leaves the boat. pls leave the boat buggy i’m begging you.#← says the person who keeps finding new reasons to keep him on the boat.)

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