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the-obnoxious-sibling · 5 months

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in which buggy admits something (if only to himself), shanks is hiding something (though who knows what), and they start to catch up.

part four of the post-marineford portion of the near miss fics! (1, 2, 3) 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: welcome to the not-date! given how long this part took, i'm expecting at least two more. orz

Buggy slept poorly, and woke before the sun was even above the horizon, let alone high enough in the sky to bother him. He stayed in bed, staring up through that window into the gloom of night, and told himself he wasn't nervous. That it was stupid to be nervous. That this wasn’t a big deal. A day with Shanks, what was that next to all the shit he’d been through lately?

It wasn’t working.

And the reason was so stupid, which might be the most infuriating part. Was he nervous about being alone with Shanks, his old rival? Shanks, his old friend? No, of course not. And he wasn’t nervous about being alone with Red-Haired Shanks, Emperor of the Sea, though he might be one of the only guests on the ship who wasn’t. But Shanks, a person who’d unknowingly kissed Buggy once, and Shanks, a person who all evidence suggested was interested in kissing Buggy now… that guy scared him.

That was the truth Buggy had been fighting so hard not to realize, ever since he’d seen Shanks again: the thought of kissing Shanks wouldn’t leave his mind, and it scared him.

It had been a long time since anything about Shanks scared him.

At first, watching from around a corner as Shanks trained with swords and blossomed beautifully under Roger’s praise, Buggy hadn’t understood what he was feeling. His heart racing, his breath growing short, sweat beading at his brow—he’d stared, confused, until his instinct kicked in. The instinct, which had saved Buggy’s life a dozen times over at this point, which Rayleigh would later call hypervigilance, told him that he felt like this when he was afraid. That he must be afraid of Shanks.

But that was ridiculous, he’d thought, the first time he ever challenged that instinct. Why? Shanks would never hurt him.

Oh, he would never mean to. But how could the crew ever care for Buggy half as much as Shanks, when he wasn’t even a quarter as good as him? What kind of legacy would Buggy be to the crew of the future king of the pirates, compared to Shanks?

His instinct had set him on the wrong path that day, Buggy knew now—Shanks hadn’t given a damn about that legacy, though he’d’ve been able to fulfill it without even trying—but at the time, it had seemed the only way to survive. If he stayed as close to Shanks as he could stand, if the legacy was Shanks and Buggy, not Shanks and Buggy… soon he’d realized he didn’t even need to work at it, that Shanks was happy to have Buggy at his side. Shanks’ arm flung casually across Buggy’s shoulder had made the queasy feeling in his stomach worsen and then ease, proof that Shanks was very capable of hurting him, and never ever would.

(Well, he’d been half right about that.)

Thinking back on that time made Buggy want to curl up into a ball and die. Fear? Burning up inside watching Shanks smile—had he really thought that was how fear felt? How he hadn’t seen those feelings for what they were—well, Buggy could grant himself a little leniency there. It had been his first time. And, as one small upside to the whole mess, the way Shanks had eventually, inevitably hurt him had stripped him of all power over Buggy. No more queasy stomachs, no more racing hearts. Just misery, and anger, and disgust.

Until now. Now, Buggy was facing both that old “fear” and the real deal, because this, this was—

Buggy took some deep breaths and told himself none of it mattered. They were just going to catch up. Buggy would find out what really happened to Shanks’ arm. He’d learn a bit about what Shanks had gotten up to and where he'd been. They’d gossip about Rayleigh. Maybe Shanks would have questions of his own, and Buggy would… probably lie through his teeth, honestly, but Shanks would be expecting that. They’d find somewhere to eat, and Buggy would get wasted on Shanks’ dime, and a good time would be had by all.

There would be no talk of (or acts of) kissing.

Unless…

Buggy smacked himself across the head. No! No unlesses! There would be no kissing.

Dawn was beginning to make herself known when Buggy gave in and got up. He dressed, considered the Marine jacket and hat he’d stolen and rebranded, and decided against them. Despite what the ex-prisoners had said yesterday, this wasn’t going to be a conversation between captains. If anything, this was going to be a conversation between former pirate apprentices, and to Buggy that meant no symbols of higher office.

But this left Buggy in the worn shirt of his prison uniform, which he was not wild about, even paired with the white Marine pants. The stripes were alright, but the ragged sleeves didn't exactly scream “ordinary guy” or “capable pirate.” He wasn’t about to go begging Shanks’ quartermaster for clothes, though—that could only lead to Buggy wearing something embarrassing from the Red Force’s lost and found. Given the things Shanks and his crew wore willingly, their idea of embarrassing must be excruciating.

Ah, well. Shanks never wore anything but that old salt-crusted cotton shirt anyway, Buggy wouldn’t look that weird next to him.

He considered himself in the mirror. The small smudges and imperfections he’d noticed yesterday were still there, of course, along with some new ones. Something had really fucked up the lower half of his crossbones, they were barely visible past the shadows under his eyes.

He didn’t feel good about leaving it like that.

He felt worse about caring how he looked today.

While he was fussing—and hating himself for fussing—something struck him over the back of his head. Buggy spun around to see Galdino squinting at him from the bed, hand outstretched from throwing... some kind of wax stick? Buggy picked it up, surprised at how little it weighed.

“Don’ squeeze it,” Galdino mumbled. Buggy’s hand flexed in spiteful reflex, and he realized the wax was stiff and porous. “Isn’t perfect, but it’ll strip most kinds of makeup off.” He laid down, tugging the blanket back up, and said, “If you wanna try and reapply it I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but I can make it softer and concentrate the pigment into a small point.”

Buggy considered this. Probably not worth the effort, he decided, starting to scrape the lower half of the crossbones off his face. The upper half was solid enough it wouldn't look too unbalanced. It might even seem intentional, like his eyes were meant to represent the lower knobs of bone. Yeah, Buggy thought, scraping the smudged corners of his lips to sharp points, this was a halfway decent look.

“Thanks,” he offered, as much of a white flag for yesterday’s… behavior… as Buggy was willing to offer. Galdino let out a vaguely agreeable grunt. “How’d you learn to do that?”

Galdino sat up and rubbed at his eyes, resigned to being awake. “You met Mr. 2.” He shrugged. “We fought sometimes, and I learned by accident that my wax could do similar things with his makeup that I’d already learned to do with paint.”

“Well, it's impressive,” Buggy admitted, tossing the crayon back to Galdino. “Better than I could've hoped for without my special makeup-removing solvents.”

“You’re welcome,” Galdino said, letting the crayon melt away until he was left with a smear of black and white powder on his fingertips. “Now. I have a feeling you won’t want to answer me, but I’m going to ask anyway: having slept on it, do you know what you’re doing with Red-Haired Shanks?”

Buggy grimaced, crossing his arms. He should’ve seen this coming. “No.”

Galdino sighed. He put a hand to his temple. “Do you know what you want to be doing with him?”

Face going warm, Buggy turned away. He wanted to say “nothing,” but somehow Galdino was a person he couldn’t convincingly lie to, so he snapped, “No!”

“Well, at least you’re somewhat self-aware about it,” Galdino muttered. “Okay then.”

Buggy spun around to stare at Galdino. “‘Okay then?’” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Yawning, Galdino said, “Having slept on it myself, I’ve realized you were right, Red-Haired Shanks isn’t going to strand us in the middle of nowhere because you refuse to put out. So I’ve decided this doesn't concern me anymore. Good luck, or whatever.” And with that, he laid down and went back to sleep.

Baffled, Buggy stared blankly at the back of Galdino’s head for a minute. Well, that was a turnabout. He told himself he was glad—he hadn’t wanted anyone bothering him about Shanks in the first place—but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Which was stupid; Galdino had said from the start his interest was entirely one of self-preservation. But a part of Buggy had still thought he’d found a real friend in these bizarre circumstances.

A soft knock at the door distracted Buggy from his thoughts. He chop-chopped an eye to secretly put it to the window, and immediately ruined any hopes for subtlety when he spat out an incredulous, “Shanks?!”

“Hey.” Shanks gave the eye at the window a quick smile before Buggy threw open the door to gape at him more directly. “Sorry, I know it’s early, but I heard you talking so I didn’t think I would be disturbing you. We never decided when to meet yesterday—is now a good time?”

“I…” Lost for words, Buggy stared at Shanks. He wasn’t wearing his usual ratty, half-buttoned shirt of cheap white cotton. Under a hooded cape (of course he had more than one), the blue button-up (left unbuttoned, of course) patterned with white lilies was the kind of shapeless fit that must have been bought from a mass-market store… or a tourist shop, knowing Shanks’ interests. It had, sometime in its recent history, been ironed. And Shanks’ hair looked like it had seen a comb this morning.

It was barely light out.

Shanks was eager.

And scared as he was, Buggy was… not unaffected. He didn’t let his eyes linger on the full length of Shanks’ chest, but even a glance was enough to make Buggy see the truth. However complex his feelings towards Shanks as a person were, Shanks’ body evoked a very simple reaction: a desire to touch.

“Something wrong?” Shanks asked.

Buggy huffed a sigh. “It’s stupid.” When Shanks looked earnestly at him, he rolled his eyes and said, “I thought you were going to be in that same old shirt of yours, so I wasn’t bothered about being stuck in this prison uniform, but… you almost look nice.”

Shanks smiled at this backhanded compliment, and Buggy lost track of the point he’d been trying to make, distracted by the curve of that mouth. It opened a few times, and Buggy realized he’d been so distracted he hadn’t heard a word of what Shanks said.

“Uh, what?”

Shanks’ smile went a little wider. Ah fuck, he’d noticed. “I said, you could always borrow something of mine? I think we’re still about the same size… on top, at least,” he added, glancing down at Buggy’s waist.

Buggy thought about attempting to squeeze into the sunflower-patterned capris Shanks was wearing and snort-laughed. Yeah, they were definitely not the same pants size anymore. “Do you even own anything I would wear?”

Shanks pouted. “What, don’t you think this is a little flashy?” He gestured to his outfit, comprising four entire colors and two floral patterns.

Buggy shook his head. “A little, maybe. But I’m never anything less than 100% flashy if I can help it.”

Shanks jerked his head to the side. “Come check out my wardrobe, then. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Buggy raised an eyebrow. Would he, now? “We’ll see about that.”

He stepped out of the room, and before he could close the door found it slamming shut behind him, a faint trace of wax bulging around the frame before disappearing. Buggy’s face went hot. So Galdino hadn’t fallen back to sleep immediately after all.

Voice shaking with laughter, Shanks said, “Shall we?” and led the way.

The wardrobe wasn’t bad—sure, Shanks had a lot of basically identical white cotton shirts, but there were a dozen exceptions that did surprise Buggy—but the real treat was getting a peak at Shanks’ rooms. He still had the messy habits of their childhood, Buggy was delighted to see, dirty clothes and empty bottles on the floor. The furnishings were beautiful, and hand-carved to fit the ship, if Buggy wasn’t mistaken. The bed—Buggy didn’t look at the bed.

Buggy’s hands lingered over a few locked drawers—Shanks had seen how long Buggy was going to take and wandered off, foolishly—but there wasn’t any point to breaking in. That rubber brat had reminded him of Shanks for a reason: the things he called “treasure” didn’t have any shine or value to them at all. If Shanks did have treasures hidden away, they wouldn’t be anything Buggy could sell. They would be sappy in context and meaningless without it—like the hat, given to Shanks as a gift and no doubt given to Monkey D. Luffy for similar reasons.

No, he’d best do what he’d come in here to do.

Most of the flashier shirts were floral patterned. It seemed to be a recurring thing for Shanks, which was all well and good—if you found something you liked, why not stick with it?—but it wouldn’t do for Buggy. They wouldn’t literally be matching, but if they were both in florals it would appear all too well-coordinated for Buggy’s comfort. But, digging into the very back of the wardrobe, Buggy found a shirt that made him smile.

And after yesterday, how could he not?

He strode out of Shanks’ rooms with a smirk sharpening the corners of his lips, wearing an orange button-down (left unbuttoned because they weren’t quite as close in size as Shanks had thought) decorated in a pattern of skewered fishcakes and konjac. He was a walking, talking pot of oden.

Shanks rounded the corner, spotted him, and grinned. “I’m not going to say I was hoping you’d pick that one, because if I do you’ll probably go back and change—” Buggy scowled, ignoring the sudden impulse to do just that. “—but that is one of my favorites. And orange looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” Buggy said snidely, walking ahead, not letting himself read anything into that comment. Or the glance up and down Shanks gave him after he said this, or the little nod of agreement Shanks made as they left the ship.

“What’s that?” he asked instead. Shanks was holding his arm at an odd angle—hiding something behind his back? For a moment, Buggy was struck with the awful thought that Shanks might have gotten him flowers.

“Breakfast,” Shanks said with a grin, bringing his arm around to reveal a pair of rolls, one fruit- and cream-filled, the other stuffed with—

Buggy gasped. “Is that a hot dog?”

“Close!” Shanks let Buggy snatch up the second roll, which on closer inspection was holding a breakfast sausage, sandwiched between two thin lengths of egg, and drizzled with—Buggy dabbed at the sauce with a finger to get a confirmatory taste—some of the porridge syrup from breakfast yesterday. “I asked Lucky Roux to put something together that would be easy to carry and eat one-handed, and he thought you’d like this.” Looking impressed, Shanks said, “I guess you do.”

Buggy blinked. Half the sandwich already eaten, the rest shoved so far into his mouth he couldn’t fully close his jaw… yeah, no shit he liked it. Easing off the sausage, Buggy said, “If I thought I could steal him from you, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Shanks laughed. “Sorry, Roux’s been with me nearly twenty years now, I don’t think he’s leaving for love or money.”

“Too bad,” Buggy muttered, attention back on his breakfast. It was stupidly good, sweet and savory and greasy all at once. “How’d he know, though? The syrup, sure, I had that yesterday, but the roll? This specific shape?"

Shanks, mid-bite, smiled a little sheepishly. Licking cream from the corner of his lip, he said, “Ah, that one’s on me. Roux asked if I remembered any of your old preferences or allergies, and I mentioned your obsession with cheap boardwalk hot dogs.”

So the chef wasn’t a mind-reader. That was a small bit of comfort. Shanks remembering Buggy’s favorite food was… something else altogether. “Well… thanks.”

Shanks smiled like Buggy had lavished him with compliments, instead of barely managing two words of gratitude. “I’m just glad you like it.”

Buggy had assumed Shanks knew this island, maybe even this specific town, pretty well, but the ease with which he led them out of the dockyards proved it. They went south, which didn’t seem to be particularly busy at this hour—that honor went to the docks themselves, with workers wheeling crates and rolling barrels up to the side of the Red Force and the handful of other ships in dock.

South was… just beach? Well, it was early, maybe whatever sights there were to see in town weren’t open yet. A walk on the beach, though, that was a bit…

Buggy told himself to stop thinking about it.

As they finished off their rolls, they came upon a little shack with an “OPEN” sign hung out front. Shanks spoke familiarly with the proprietress, who handed him a steaming paper cup of pale green tea in exchange for a few coins. He offered it to Buggy, who wrinkled his nose at the vegetal smell and interrogated the woman about what else she had. The list wasn’t long, but it included drinking chocolate, which Buggy didn’t get to indulge himself in too often, so he made Shanks get him two cups.

The bittersweet taste lingered deliciously on Buggy’s lips. Definitely the right call.

Shanks had walked in silence the whole time Buggy was drinking, which he’d pretended didn’t bother him. Shanks being quiet, being contemplative, wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. Shanks contemplatively watching Buggy was, just a little.

“So,” Buggy said, breaking the silence. “How did you lose that arm?”

Shanks blinked, coming to a halt. He huffed a tired little laugh. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“My first guess was that Whitebeard cut it off, and my second was that you were dumb enough to let a Sea King eat it,” Buggy said dryly, staring out at the ocean with his arms crossed. The sun glinting off the waves made his eyes hurt. “How much worse can the truth be?”

“…well, you know Luffy, right?”

After a deranged moment of thinking the rubber kid had eaten Shanks’ arm, Buggy put it together and sighed. “It’s not enough that you gave him your hat, you lost your arm for him too?”

Shanks smiled. “I said you weren’t gonna like it.”

“Of course I don’t like it!” Buggy fumed. “I hate that kid! He’s so—” Making a strangling motion with his hands, Buggy yelled wordlessly. “I can’t believe people still go around talking like that!”

“Like our captain, you mean?”

Buggy hissed, “Yes!” Spinning on Shanks, he asked, “Wait, did he say—?”

“—the same thing Captain Roger always did?” Shanks raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think I gave him the hat?”

Buggy rubbed a hand across his face. “I really couldn’t believe it. Wearing that hat, saying those things, it was like I was a kid again! Who’s that naive anymore? We’ve seen what happens to people who talk like that.”

Shanks nodded thoughtfully. “And that’s why you tried to kill him at Roguetown.”

Buggy started to nod, then froze up. “You, ah… you heard about that?”

“I’ve talked about Luffy to… a lot of people over the years,” Shanks said, a wry smile on his face. The breeze that came in with the tide grabbed at his hair, tossing it back from his face. “They like to bring me news about him, when they can.” Cocking an eyebrow at Buggy, Shanks said, “Including newspaper articles about freak lightning strikes that burn down the execution platform famous for hosting Captain Roger’s final words.”

Buggy sulked silently. That stupid lightning…

“But yeah, it was for Luffy’s sake,” Shanks said easily. “He was just a kid, and he’d eaten a Devil Fruit that was in my possession. Even if I didn’t care for him, I’d’ve still felt responsible. He was tossed into a Sea King’s hunting grounds, and I got there too late to scare it off. It was my arm, or Luffy’s whole body.” Shanks shrugged. “Not much of a choice.”

Buggy looked at Shanks, staring out to sea and remembering that moment. For all the lightness of his words, his expression looked heavy. “You have bad luck with Devil Fruit users, huh,” he said at last.

Shanks smiled at him, a sad little wrinkle by his eye the only sign he wasn’t perfectly content. “No worse than I deserve.”

Buggy stared. That almost sounded like Shanks had accepted responsibility for what had happened to Buggy. Maybe being responsible for someone else eating a Devil Fruit had put things into perspective for him.

“Is it my turn now?” Shanks asked, the sort of cheeky tone in his voice that he used to pull out when he wanted to pretend everything was fine, and draw attention away from how he was really feeling. Buggy was surprised to find he still recognized it. He’d’ve thought Shanks would have less obvious tells by now.

Buggy rolled his eyes. “I guess it’s only fair.” Gesturing dramatically at Shanks, he added, “But I reserve the right to refuse to answer! If you think you can get me to reveal my deepest secrets this way, you’ll have to think again!”

Shanks chuckled. “What deepest secrets?” Before Buggy could start to sweat, or sputter out some kind of non-answer, he said, “Anyway, I’m not interested in that. I want to know about your crew.”

“My crew?”

“Yeah, what are they like? The only one mentioned by name in that article was ‘Iron Mace’ Alvida, and it sounded like she’d been a captain in her own right before you met. Are your crews allied or merged? What are your goals?”

Buggy blinked, thrown by this line of questioning. What did Shanks care for the personalities and interests of an above-average East Blue pirate crew that had gotten in over their heads after entering the Grand Line? But the way he was staring expectantly at Buggy, it was undeniable that Shanks did care. “Ah—Alvida and I are allies. At first it was just because she also had a grudge against Strawhat, but we’re both interested in finding Captain John’s treasure, so…”

Shanks smiled fondly. “You’re still after that one, huh?”

“Damn right I am! I never give up on a treasure hunt!” Buggy insisted, raising a triumphant fist in the air. “I even—” Buggy cut himself off. He wasn’t stupid enough to reveal to another pirate captain that he’d been given acquired an important lead on a treasure hunt, not when he was still technically in that captain’s custody. Smiling slyly, he said, “Well, let’s just say I’m getting closer to finding it all the time.”

“And the rest of your crew share that interest?”

“Of course! We’re all greedy, treasure-loving pirates at heart!” Buggy went on to tell Shanks a few stories of his crew’s successes—maybe a little exaggerated, sure, but who did that hurt? So the treasure chest Richie had dug up at Mohji’s command hadn’t really been full of priceless gemstones, he’d still found it! That was impressive to Buggy, and he wanted other people to feel just as impressed. If he had to twist the truth to get that reaction, so be it.

Shanks was still smiling when Buggy got tired of bragging about his men. “I’m glad,” he said. “I remember how much you wanted to have a crew that loved treasure the same way you do… I’m glad you were able to find one.”

“I—” Buggy stuttered. He—had Shanks just wanted to know if Buggy was happy with his life and his crew as it was? Face hot, Buggy paced down the beach, ignoring Shanks calling after him. This fucking guy. How was Buggy supposed to behave around him, acting like this?

Shanks caught up to Buggy a pace from the wet sand that marked the highest point the tide had reached. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the water ebb and flow, Buggy inching backwards when progressive waves made it clear high tide was yet to come. Quietly, Shanks asked, “Was that all you had to ask me?”

Buggy glanced sideways at Shanks. Had he imagined that disappointed tone? Shanks’ face certainly didn’t look disappointed. It didn’t look like much of anything, though; he was hiding his feelings again, but behind a casual interest instead of a careless smile. Why? What did Shanks have to hide?

Buggy lifted a hand to hover next to Shanks’ left eye. “I could ask about these scars, but I think I know how you got them.” There were only so many weapons that used three blades set so close together, and only one person who used them that Buggy could think of who was good enough to get at Shanks with one.

Shanks smiled, a forced little thing. “Ah, yeah, that…”

“When I saw them the first time, I thought to myself, I wouldn’t have let that happen!” Buggy laughed; Shanks’ face was frozen in surprise. “Yeah, stupid, right? Like I could’ve gotten between you and Teach. Like I would’ve wanted to.” Buggy shrugged. “Still thought it.” Giving into the impulse, he pressed forward, tracing his thumb down the line of the outermost scar. It was rough, a sharp-edged divot in Shanks’ face. Unnatural, especially on someone like him. “It’s weird, seeing proof you can actually get hurt.”

Shanks’ eyes had fluttered shut; they opened at these last words. “Buggy…”

Stepping back, Buggy shook his head, hair swinging wildly behind him. “Which is why I’m not asking any more questions like that! It’s bad enough thinking about all the shit that just happened, I don’t want to think about other bad times.” He glared at Shanks, daring him to push back.

Shanks just nodded. “Okay, Buggy.” He stood there, letting the tide flow between his toes, waiting patiently for Buggy’s next question.

If only he’d had something in mind. Scrambling for one and coming up blank, Buggy went with the easy option and threw Shanks’ own question back at him: “What about your crew? Who’d you pick up first, the first mate?”

Shanks grinned. “Well, technically,” he began, and Buggy let him go on, hardly listening, satisfied by that easy, real smile.

#notfic #the near miss fics #one piece #shuggy #shanks #buggy #soon... soon taking a gd magnifying glass to the ch 581 cover is going to pay off...

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