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the-obnoxious-sibling · 3 months

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not a hoax! not a dream! not an imaginary story! buggy and shanks kiss in this one! oh, some other stuff happens too, but nothing as important as that, i’m sure.

part six of the post-marineford portion of the near miss fics! (1, 2, 3, 4, 5) 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 some complaining about writing, one inspirational improvised musical number, and a snippet of shanks pov) if you do know what i’m talking about: i can’t believe i thought i could finish this thing in six parts. orz …at least i’m done with this day. i’m hoping to wrap the story proper up in the next part, which means it’s time to start thinking about the shanks pov side story! are there any scenes you’re particularly interested in getting shanks’ perspective on?

Staring at that dumb, smug face, Buggy’s thoughts flipped from oh, fuck to oh, fuck it.

“What kind of question is that?” he snapped, clutching at Shanks’ collar. Pulling himself up and pulling Shanks down, he said, “You’re such an idiot, Shanks, sometimes I really don’t know why I—” Thankfully, Shanks came willingly—still grinning, the idiot—and Buggy was cut off before he could say anything truly incriminating.

And, well, Shanks was right. Their other kiss—a sweet little press of lips—was very different from this one. This kiss went on and on, and right from the start it was hungry.

The taste of shochu on Shanks’ tongue made Buggy’s nose wrinkle in distaste—‘earthy’ drinks just tasted like dirt to him—but he pushed past it, focusing on the slide of that tongue against his, a slick warmth that made him shudder and pull his arms tighter around Shanks’ neck. That wasn’t the only thing making him shudder, either—Shanks’ thumb stroking at the corner of Buggy’s jaw, encouraging him to open wider, let him in deeper, did that too. And that hand sliding down Buggy’s neck and across his back, leaving a wide trail of warmth in its wake, had Buggy making needy little noises that would embarrass him later. In the moment, when they encouraged Shanks to make desperate noises of his own, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The crick he was developing in his neck was a bit of a pain, though, and easily remedied. Buggy split himself at the waist and floated his upper half up to bring his head level with Shanks’, so neither was bending to reach the other. He must have overshot a little, though, or moved too fast without warning; Shanks let out a small, surprised noise, pressing in closer, and the pleasant weight of Shanks’ arm across Buggy’s shoulders became a desperate clinging, fingers digging into the back of Buggy’s shirt so he wouldn’t fall on his ass. Lucky for Shanks, Buggy could hold a fishman in one hand when split; a man was nothing. But holding Shanks like this would just put them in the reverse of their previous uncomfortable position, so after a moment (or two, or… look, the way Shanks clung to him was doing something for him) Buggy leaned Shanks back against the bench, pushing a little until he gave in and sat.

Without breaking the kiss—as much because Shanks wouldn’t let him as because he didn’t want to—Buggy reconnected his lower half and turned to sit with his legs curled under him on the bench. His hands, which he’d cut loose to grope around under Shanks’ shirt as they pleased, reconnected with his wrists to cup Shanks’ face between his palms. By gentling the kiss a bit, pulling back on the tongue, making some room for them to breathe, he got Shanks to ease up in turn. The press of his lips grew less forceful, less desperate. His hand loosened its death grip on Buggy’s shirt, and he started to rub circles into the small of Buggy’s back in time with the movement of his lips, which was a very distracting sensation.

Soon Buggy had to pull back, needing some literal breathing room, and stared at Shanks, breathless and red-faced for new reasons. His eyes sliding open to reveal a beautifully dazed expression wasn’t a sight Buggy would forget any time soon.

“Buggy,” Shanks breathed, and the sound of his voice in that moment was something Buggy wasn’t likely to forget either.

“Rushing things again,” he said, a little chidingly, stroking his thumbs over Shanks’ cheekbones. “What’s your hurry? I’m not going anywhere.”

An emotion washed over Shanks’ face so briefly Buggy could have told himself he’d imagined it. He hadn’t, of course, and he immediately knew what had caused it. He was going somewhere. Not right now, no, but winds and tides willing, tomorrow he’d be back with his crew. And soon Shanks would be back in the New World, where someone like him belonged.

Buggy sighed and leaned back, hesitating only when Shanks grabbed at his arm, but it was just to take one of Buggy’s hands in his. A little clingy, but Buggy could allow that much after he’d had the man’s tongue down his throat. Licking his lips and shivering when they tingled unexpectedly, Buggy said, “What do you want, Shanks?” When Shanks cocked an eyebrow at him, as if to say I think that should be obvious by now, Buggy shook his head. “I’m serious. You’re an Emperor, you should be in the New World. My crew can’t handle those territories, they’ve barely managed to survive Paradise. So you and I are not going to sail together as allies, and you know I would never take your flag and sail as your subordinate. Even if I could bear it, we’ve always wanted different things as pirates. We wouldn’t work well together. So what do you want here? What are you trying to get?”

Shanks smiled, a slightly sad edge to it, and lifted Buggy’s hand to his lips. He pressed an insistent kiss to the back of the hand, like he was a prince out of some fairy story. “Time with you, Buggy. That’s all I dared hope for.”

Buggy squirmed. “Hardly seems worth all the effort for just one day.”

“Life is short,” Shanks said plainly. “Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again? At least now I know what it’s like to kiss you for real.” He kissed Buggy’s hand again, pressing his lips against each knuckle in turn. It made Buggy squirm in a different way, tugging his hand free before Shanks had gotten halfway through. Shanks gave him a fond, amused look. “That’s more than worth the effort to me.”

“Stupid,” Buggy muttered.

“Yeah, I guess I can be pretty stupid when it comes to you. My first mate thinks so, anyway.” Shanks dropped his hand to rest against Buggy’s waist. Tracing his thumb along the curve of Buggy’s hipbone, making Buggy hyperaware of that spot, Shanks leaned in, saying, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Buggy rolled his eyes. Just before their lips touched, a feeling came over him—a regret not yet realized, who knows if we’ll ever—and he pulled back far enough to meet Shanks’ eye. “Shanks, you know I…” Buggy hesitated. Shanks stared at him, smile fallen away. Buggy… couldn’t say it. He cleared his throat. “You know I’m not gonna stay in Paradise forever, right?”

Cocking his head to one side, Shanks said, “Is that right?”

“Yeah, you know how I am.” Buggy put a hand to Shanks’ cheek, giving in to the impulse to touch those scars again. Shanks’ eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the contact. This time Buggy let himself enjoy the view, even when Shanks opened his eyes to reveal an uncomfortably tender expression. “I wanna get my hands on every big treasure trove there is, and there’s plenty to be found in the New World.” Buggy rose up on his knees. He liked the way Shanks rolled his head back to maintain eye contact. He liked the way Shanks looked from above. He smirked. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Shanks gave him a long, considering look. “I’ll be looking forward to that,” he said with a smile. The smile was sly at the corners, concealing some little secret Shanks must imagine himself so clever for keeping. Against his better judgment, Buggy wanted to taste it. He remembered after a moment that he could, and ducked down, arms sliding around Shanks’ neck. Shanks responded with enthusiasm, pulling Buggy into his lap, and Buggy set the potential regret of words not said aside.

Buggy wasn’t worried. Yes, they were going to part ways soon, but he’d see Shanks again. In East Blue they hadn’t been able to stay apart for good no matter how they’d tried. It would be the same way in the New World. He was sure of it.

Even though they’d left the Red Force together that morning, Buggy decided they should return separately. Shanks’ cow eyes would be too obvious, he said, to which Shanks replied that he’d been wearing them around Buggy this whole time, and Buggy just hadn’t noticed. But, as it was Buggy’s reaction to the cow eyes that he didn’t want people seeing, this only strengthened Buggy’s resolve. And so Shanks was left to find something in town to occupy his attentions for twenty minutes, Buggy didn’t particularly care what, while Buggy made a hopefully unremarkable return to the ship.

Most of the Red Force's guests were still out and about, enjoying the amenities of the island, and the crew had clearly put that time to good use. There were only two crates left waiting to be loaded aboard the Red Force, and aside from a man leaning against one of those crates, the dock was clear. There were delicious smells in the air, and a cheery tune carried from somewhere above. Buggy hummed as he approached the ship, trying to figure out how he knew the tune. Whatever it was, it was catchy.

Recognizing the man leaning against a crate as the Red-Haired Pirates’ first mate, Buggy had a feeling that something about these last two crates required Shanks’s approval. He frowned, not feeling great about inconveniencing this guy by keeping Shanks away from his duties. Then, remembering that Shanks had been the one to claim he had a day free, Buggy metaphorically stabbed that feeling in the back and threw it overboard. If this guy wanted to waste his afternoon waiting around for Shanks, that was on him.

The first mate stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet as Buggy approached the ship. Second-guessing his assumption about why this guy was hanging around, Buggy paused a few steps from him. The guy looked Buggy up and down and said, “Buggy the Clown,” with an expectant tone.

Oh no. What was his name? Shanks had mentioned it earlier, during that story about his years-long effort to woo an East Blue sniper into joining his crew. Something alliterative. With Bs? Buggy started to sweat. Shit, he had nothing. He cleared his throat. “Ben…king?” When the guy’s face didn’t so much as twitch to indicate whether Buggy had gotten his name right, Buggy gave up. “It’s something with a B, right?”

Shanks’ first mate smirked, laughing a little to himself. “Benn Beckman.” He held out a hand, and after a nervous moment Buggy took it. Beckman gave him a firm shake. Ducking down to pull a crowbar out from behind the crate he’d been sitting on, he said, “We should talk.”

Buggy gulped.

When Shanks appeared, it didn’t feel like twenty minutes had passed. Buggy frowned, checked the sky, frowned more when the position of the sun low on the horizon suggested it had actually been closer to an hour, and gave Shanks a suspicious look. He wasn’t sure whether to ask what had taken so long or to apologize for squandering the time he’d been given. He’d meant to make himself scarce, so they wouldn’t have to navigate being around other people so soon after… all that… but for a man who presented himself as ’the serious one,’ Beckman was surprisingly good company.

And a horrific gossip. Buggy still couldn’t believe some of the stories he’d told about the Red-Haired Pirates.

“What’s going on here?” Shanks asked, attempting to sound light-hearted but glancing between Buggy and Beckman with such obvious concern on his face that Buggy couldn’t help but snort.

“Just getting to know your old friend a little better,” Beckman said. Gesturing to Shanks with the bottle of rum he’d pulled out of one of the crates—which were, in fact, waiting on Shanks (to direct them to the right room, because apparently sometimes Shanks drank so much he needed a whole crate to himself! what the hell!)—he said, “I’m learning so much about you, boss.”

“Oh,” Shanks said weakly. “Good?”

Buggy cackled.

“Not good,” Shanks concluded.

“I’m learning a lot too,” Buggy said. “You know, I had a feeling being your first mate would be a nightmare. I thought I was prepared.” Shanks mouthed ‘prepared’ to himself, a bewildered look coming into his eyes. “But the hells you’ve put this man through, Shanks. You are so lucky that I left when I did, I would have killed you within a month.”

“When did you ever want to—” Shanks shook his head, cutting himself off. “Wait, don’t tell me, ‘no sad talk today,’ right?” Buggy swiped the bottle from Beckman, saluted Shanks with it, and took a sip. Shanks sighed. “Fine. But I’m bringing that one up when it isn’t today anymore.” After a moment he frowned, and swiped the bottle from Buggy. “And give me that, that’s mine!” He drank from it absently, taking note of the two crates sitting by the Red Force—one pried open and a bottle removed, the other as yet untouched, a familiar maker’s mark branded into the wood. “Are these both for me?” he asked Beckman.

Beckman nodded. “Just needed confirmation as to where you want them.”

Shanks licked his lips thoughtfully. “The rum can be available to the officers,” he decided. “The sake should go to my rooms.”

Eyebrows raised, Beckman whistled. “It went that badly?”

Shanks looked away and cleared his throat, flushing.

“Oh,” Beckman said, eyebrows even higher. “It went that well.” He gave Buggy a surprised, assessing look. Buggy scowled and crossed his arms, doing his best to pretend he was unaffected by Beckman knowing. Beckman smirked and got to his feet. “Alright,” he said to Shanks, putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking it a little. “But you know this means you’re getting the shame glasses for the next week instead of Rockstar.”

Shanks chuckled. “You say that like you weren’t gonna force the shame glasses on me no matter what happened.” Beckman shrugged, retrieving his half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear.

“…shame glasses?” Buggy said, wondering if he’d misheard.

The color drained out of Shanks’ face in an instant. “Beck,” he begged, “don’t.”

Beckman’s smirk went wide enough to show teeth. “Just a little bit of public humiliation we put a member of the crew through when they’ve done something unwise, but not really dangerous.” He clicked his lighter a few times before the flame held and lit his cigarette. Tucking the lighter away, he said, “There’s a silly pair of glasses he’ll have to wear in the public spaces of the ship. It doesn’t tell anyone what he did, just that he’s to be laughed at.”

Ah. Buggy nodded knowingly. “Like the punishment fruit.”

“…punishment fruit?” Beckman asked, lit cigarette smoking away in his hand, forgotten.

Shanks laughed, his natural color restored. “Oh, that. When we were too little for Mr. Rayleigh to knock us over the head when we were acting up, we had to carry around fruit while we did our chores, whatever Chef happened to have spare. The worse we’d messed up, the more we had to carry, and if we dropped one we had to add another, two if the first had been damaged. How many did you have to carry at once, a dozen?” he asked Buggy.

Buggy groaned. “I wish,” he said. “I think the most I ever had was twenty? I kept trying to find less annoying ways to carry them,” he explained to Beckman, “but I always fumbled one, and then I’d have to start over.”

“Though no one could beat the captain’s record,” Shanks said fondly.

“Thank god for that. I could barely handle twenty limes, let alone three dozen.”

“At least it wasn’t twenty coconuts.”

Buggy burst out laughing. “Oh, do you remember the day Chef only had watermelons? I thought you were going to cry.”

“I did,” Shanks admitted with a chuckle. “Four of those weighed more than me at that age, I could barely walk!”

Cigarette finally remembered, Beckman took a pull and huffed out a laugh. “Learning so much,” he said, wrenching the lid of the rum crate back into place. “I’ll have these moved to the appropriate places before dinner, boss,” he said to Shanks. “We’re expecting the rest of our guests back in the next hour or so, so you may want to move… this… somewhere more private.” And with that, he was marching up the gangplank and getting the attention of a few pirates who’d been lounging around, casually facing the docks—the Red-Haired Pirates’ version of being on watch duty, Buggy supposed.

Shanks cleared his throat.

Buggy didn’t look his way.

“Beck is… assuming things,” Shanks said, voice a little strangled. “I don’t—we don’t have to—” When Buggy gave in and looked at him, he found Shanks wearing an expression so uncomfortable and embarrassed he nearly laughed.

“How did that talk Crocus gave us go?” Buggy said, faux-thoughtfully. “‘If you can’t say the word, you’re not ready to do it?’”

Shanks spluttered. “Buggy!”

Buggy grinned. “How are you still this easy to mess with?” He gave Shanks a pat on the shoulder, hoping it came off as friendly to any onlookers. “I know we don’t have to. I haven’t decided if I want to.” Shanks let out a small, hurt sound. Buggy ignored this. “Even if I decide in your favor, I wouldn’t want to now, not when everyone will be back aboard within the hour.” He cocked an eyebrow at Shanks. “Or would that be enough time for you?”

A tortured look came over Shanks’ face: part embarrassment, part exasperation, part… something Buggy didn’t want to label just yet. “You…”

Cackling, Buggy split himself into a dozen pieces and flew off, his feet jogging up the gangplank while the rest of him reformed on a higher deck. He leaned against the railing and watched Shanks bury his face in his hand, make an incoherent noise, then board the ship like nothing had happened. Buggy grinned. It was good to be on this side of the balance of confidence, to feel comfortable around Shanks again.

Letting his legs float in the air behind him while he waited for his feet to find him, Buggy laughed a little at himself. How had he thought Shanks’ interest in him could be just physical? If anything, it was barely physical, the interactions of their bodies the only way Shanks knew of to express the gooey feelings he’d somehow kept to himself all these years. And while it would be easier for Buggy if his feelings were strictly physical… the fact was, they weren’t. A handsome man pinned in place beneath Buggy was always a welcome sight, but no one had ever been half as captivating in that position as Shanks.

And Buggy could have him in that position again, and others, if he just… made a decision.

He’d told Shanks that he hadn’t yet decided whether he wanted to push forward—which was a lie. Of course he wanted. What was yet undecided was if it was a good idea. Buggy’s gut said yes, very good in fact, but his instinct said no, not even a little. It was unsettling to have his two major impulses fighting against each other on a matter less serious than life-or-death.

He needed an outside perspective. There were plenty of those to go around on this ship, but one willing to offer him a sympathetic ear would be hard to come by. Impossible to find, really, unless… Buggy huffed out a sigh. After the way he’d acted the last few days, he’d need to do some work to regain Galdino’s favor.

If he could just figure out what that man might want…

By the time dinner service was underway, a crowd of ex-prisoners had gotten bottlenecked at the end of the dock. The wait to climb the gangplank was so long Lucky Roux had lower-ranked Red-Haired Pirates slinging buckets of food and drink down the ropes that attached the Red Force to the dock, to give the crowd something to snack on until they made it aboard ship for the main course: an enormous, slow-cured haunch of Sea King that Roux had apparently been saving for a special occasion. (And it was definitely a special occasion kind of food. Even Buggy, who’d thought himself so tired of Sea King meat that he’d be sick if he had it again, couldn’t resist going back for seconds.) The men didn’t seem to mind the wait, chatting excitedly amongst themselves and looking around the dock for friends and comrades. Given how many were squinting up at the rigging, Buggy could guess who they were really after.

After the day he’d had, he wasn’t exactly starving for attention, but it never hurt to get lavished with praise. Buggy split away his feet, jumped over the railing and did a little spin to draw the eye. “Looking for me?!” he called out.

“Captain Buggy!” they cried, ecstatic.

“I hope all of you behaved yourselves out there,” he said from his position above the crowd. “You reflect on me, and on our hosts, you know!”

“We know!”

“We wouldn’t dare bring any disrespect to yourself or the Red-Haired Pirates!”

“We were on our best behavior, we promise!”

“Captain Buggy! Captain Buggy!” said one particularly persistent man, a shaggy-haired guy Buggy couldn’t have picked out of a lineup. He started to tremble when he realized he’d successfully gotten Buggy’s attention, but with his neighbors supporting him got himself under control. He held up a brown paper package, saying, “Some of us had the idea—that is, we wanted to thank you for taking us under your wing, Captain. So… this is for you!”

Buggy’s jaw dropped. “A present?” For him? To thank Buggy for looking after them? How backwards could you get?! Well, Buggy wasn’t one to turn up his nose at free stuff. “You shouldn’t have!” Buggy said, swooping down to snatch the package out of the nervous man’s hands. He started to open it, then froze. They’d just said they’d been on their best behavior, but… “How did you get the money to pay for this?”

“Honest work!” Dozens of men threw their arms up, revealing hands that were red and chapped from manual labor.

“I’d never done any before, it was surprisingly fun!”

“We’re learning so much under Captain Buggy’s tutelage!”

Buggy grinned, shaking his head. These guys were something else. No longer worried about Shanks’ crew complaining that Buggy’s men had stolen from ordinary people—the kind of soft-hearted rule Buggy had no doubt Shanks had carried forward from their days on the Oro Jackson—he tore open the package with glee.

Under the paper sat an eyeshadow palette and a tube of lipstick.

Neither were Buggy’s usual brand, of course; these days he only wore special, extra-durable cosmetics that he ordered from hard-to-get catalogs. But the sight sparked a nostalgic pang in his chest for those early days, when he hadn’t known what he was doing or how to do it, and just grabbed things at random from every general store he robbed. They had managed to find a lip tint that was close to his usual deep red, and while the palette was mostly neutral colors, it did include a black eyeliner pencil and a square of white powder, which was all he was wanting for at the moment.

They’d noticed his makeup getting thin, and worked together to do something about it. Without even letting on that they’d noticed! To his embarrassment, Buggy found himself tearing up.

“You guys…” he choked out, clutching the gift to his chest. “You’re… you’re not half bad!” And with these inadequate words, he zoomed off to his room to give the new product a try, leaving his followers sobbing in his wake at his touching emotionality.

Galdino was in the room, of course. He’d had the sense to get back early, like the Whitebeard Pirates, and had eaten in the mess at the same time as Buggy. He hadn’t done anything so obvious as sit on the opposite side of the hall, but he’d kept his distance. The message had been pretty clear: Galdino was tired of dealing with Buggy, and he didn’t intend to start up again. Buggy had accepted that, and spent the meal attempting to convince Lucky Roux to leave his dull ship behind in favor of the far more exciting environment of the Big Top—no luck there, sadly.

But by the look on Galdino’s face at the neatly folded offering sitting on his half of the bed, Buggy had some hope that he might have better luck with this partnership.

“What is this?” Galdino asked, picking up a pair of black cropped pants. The quartermaster hadn’t had a problem with Buggy taking anything and everything he wanted—if it ended up in his stores, no one must have cared for it much, he claimed. So Buggy had pulled out everything that looked around Galdino’s size, to give him every possible option for new, clean clothes.

(He’d also grabbed a few things for himself, and changed into a new outfit before dinner—he wasn’t about to wear Shanks’ shirt in front of his crew, who’d surely recognize it.)

Buggy sighed. “An apology.” Galdino’s eyebrows went up. “Yesterday, and this morning, you were asking reasonable questions. I was just… freaking out about Shanks and pretending not to. Ignoring you didn’t help. This was the only way I could think of to make it up to you.” He shrugged. “I had to guess at your sizes, but the Red Force’s quartermaster has tons of clothes on hand, I can go back if you need a different fit.”

Galdino sorted through the pile without a word, holding shirts up to his chest and setting them aside, tugging waistbands apart and frowning. He ended up settling on that pair of black pants and a sort of reddish-orange button-up, which he tried on after silently twirling a finger at Buggy to make him turn around. Buggy didn’t deal well with silence, but he made himself still. His apology wouldn’t land right if he undermined it by acting out now.

“Okay, I’m done.” Buggy spun to take in Galdino’s new look. The fit wasn’t perfect, but it was a marked improvement on the prison uniform. And Galdino was smiling a little. Surely that had to mean— “Now, how’d you fuck it up this time?”

Buggy squawked. “Excuse me?!”

“You aren’t fooling me,” Galdino said, sitting on the edge of the bed and hooking one leg over the other. He laced his hands together and looked up at Buggy with a wide, knowing smile on his face. “You wouldn’t apologize unless you needed something from me—and you just got finished indirectly complimenting my advice. So: what went wrong today?”

“I—nothing!” Flustered, Buggy said, “Since when do you care, anyway?! I thought this didn’t concern you anymore!”

“When you were pretending there was nothing to be concerned about, it didn’t,” Galdino said bluntly. “But if you’re done with that pretense, so am I. On that note: nothing went wrong? Really?” One of his eyebrows went up. “So, you got to have your private conversation, caught up, and… that’s all? Something like six hours passed between you leaving the ship and returning, and that’s all that happened?” He glanced over at Buggy’s side of the bed, where the oden-patterned shirt sat in a crumpled pile. “While wearing a shirt from his closet?”

Buggy rolled his eyes, pretending he wasn’t blushing furiously. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, you were right. Though we did spend a few hours catching up, we also made out for a while.”

“Made out?” Galdino wrinkled his nose. “That’s all?”

Buggy frowned. “Yeah? What else were you expecting?”

“For you to get a room for the afternoon.” Enlightenment struck Galdino. “Ah, that’s what this is about. You don’t know if it’s a good idea to seal the deal.”

“I—” In a lot of ways, Galdino was a kindred spirit to Buggy, but his euphemisms were a bit… businesslike for Buggy’s tastes. “Basically.”

“Right.” Galdino relaxed a little, leaning back to consider Buggy. “Well, we’ve already established he’s a sure thing. And you like him well enough to offer lip service if not the full menu.” (“Do you have to call it that?”) “Downsides… the way you describe him, he seems soft-hearted enough, I suppose he could get overly attached.” Buggy snorted. “No?”

“He’s already overly attached,” Buggy explained. “But he’s not stupid, he knows we’re not sticking together.”

“And as you’re the one who told him so, you must know better than to get attached.” Galdino gave Buggy a considering look. “More attached, anyway.” Buggy didn’t pout at this (correct) accusation, but it was a near thing. Holding his chin in one hand, Galdino said thoughtfully, “I guess the ultimate question is, what would you regret more: missing the opportunity, or taking it and having it go bad?”

Buggy blinked. Framed like that, it was obvious. (Who knows if we’ll ever…) “Missing it.”

Galdino waved his hand toward Buggy. “There you have it, then.”

Huh. That had been easier than Buggy expected. “Thanks.” Snatching up his forgotten present with one hand and the hand mirror with the other, he floated himself up to get the best angle on the remaining sunlight shining through the window. “Now, if you'll excuse me…”

“Yeah, sure,” Galdino got to his feet with an amused expression on his face. “Got to make yourself pretty for your date.”

“Say something like that again and I’ll kill you,” Buggy said, applying a test swatch of the lipstick to his inner arm. It had a surprisingly smooth application, maybe it wasn’t as cheap as he’d assumed. He applied a quick layer to his top lip, admiring how well it blended with the tint already there. “Oh, but first, can you make me another of those make-up removing wax sticks?” Something hit Buggy in the side of the head. “Thank you!” he crooned as Galdino left the room, muttering imprecations under his breath but smiling all the while.

If Buggy had thought his spirits were lighter just knowing where he stood with Shanks, it was amazing how much better he felt knowing where he stood himself. No more second-guessing, no more doubts. Shanks was a sure thing, and so was he. Shanks just didn't know it yet.

Hm. To draw things out to torture him, or get the waiting over with?

Now this was a fun decision to be struggling with, Buggy thought as he carefully traced out the crossbones he'd been missing from his cheeks. On one hand, torturing Shanks was always a good time… on the other, given how things had gone this afternoon, Buggy had a reasonable suspicion that there was a good time to be had on the other side of that waiting.

He bit his lip thoughtfully, remembering. A very good time.

Of course, this assumed that Shanks was available. Just because he’d claimed to have the whole day free didn't make it so—look at Beckman, hanging around the docks waiting for Shanks to show up and tell him where to put his booze. There might have been another dozen small tasks like that waiting for Shanks. He hadn’t eaten dinner in the main mess; according to Lucky Roux, Shanks hadn’t left the senior officers’ lounge since he returned to the ship. That could have been to avoid Buggy, the way he’d wanted Shanks to, or it could be that the work he hadn’t been around to do today had caught up with him.

Well, there was one way to find out.

Buggy got to Shanks’ rooms without any difficulty. The decks were full of half-asleep men lounging around with their full bellies sticking out, singing along to the tune the musician and his pet (?) monkey were playing, but the inner workings of the ship were more sparsely populated. At this hour, people were either on the deck or in their rooms, not moving between spaces. Shanks would either be here, or in his senior officers’ lounge… which Buggy didn’t know the location of, so he sure hoped Shanks was here. He wasn’t about to go asking someone like Beckman where Shanks was, Buggy wasn’t interested in being that obvious.

He knocked. After a minute of quiet footfalls on gently creaking wood, the door swung open.

Shanks blinked a few times at Buggy. “Buggy?” He swiped something off the top of his head and shoved it into a drawer. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Oh, well, you know,” Buggy said evasively, ducking around Shanks, “I thought I should return this now, or knowing me I’d forget to do it at all, and then I’d be a regular shirt thief.” He held out the oden-patterned shirt, neatly folded into the kind of bundle Rayleigh had taught them decades ago.

Shanks blinked down at the shirt. “And we wouldn’t want you being called a shirt thief,” he said slowly.

”It’s certainly not the kind of thievery I aspire to,” Buggy said, shoving the shirt into Shanks’ chest with a grin on his face. He hadn't expected him to be this slow about things, it was kind of cute.

”No,” Shanks agreed, staring down at the shirt in his hand. He set it down on a desk and looked at Buggy with hope, and maybe a hint of something else, in his eyes. “Buggy, are you—really?”

“What, did you expect me to walk in still wearing that shirt and say, oh, let me return this to you, and start stripping or something?” Buggy scoffed. “Sorry, I'm not that suave.”

“No,” Shanks agreed, “you could never make things that easy.”

Buggy raised an eyebrow at him. “I see the joke you’re leading me towards, and I’ll have you know I am never easy.”

Shanks grinned. “I’m well aware.”

Splitting a hand at the wrist, Buggy floated it around Shanks’ back. With a grin of his own, he said, “But maybe you can convince me to make an exception for you.”

The door closed. The latch slid into place. And neither were opened again until morning.

#notfic #the near miss fics #one piece #shuggy #buggy #shanks #sorry this took so long! huyandere posted new shuggy art and i lost my goddamn mind. could not focus on what i was supposed to be writing.#anyway if a scene in the next part sounds like it’s describing one of his drawings… yeah. that was very unavoidable.

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