Chapter Text
He sat there, on the chair next to Shanks bed and tried to think of anything else, something happier maybe? Something better.
It was a losing battle, Shanks was just laying there- softly snoring, peaceful like nothing in the world was wrong. While Buggy felt the sickly feeling on his gut still.
He raised his hand and touched lightly on the other boy’s cheek, close to his eyes, trying to remember how that nonexistent scar felt on his fingertips, tried to gather that old anger towards it but felt nothing of that sort.
The feel of that scar…
He didn’t remember.
He remembered the fear, how frightened he was when that bastard Teach got one over Shanks and clawed his eyes with that unhinged expression on his face.
But he didn’t remember how that scar felt on his hands.
He assumed it would be much different than this baby soft skin, maybe a bit more puffy, a little bit more tender.
He wondered if he could get away with scaring it again- to make him get it not from Teach but from Buggy, just to make it right. Just to have something familiar, something familiar that he chose to see.
He gave up on the idea immediately after it came to his mind. He thought maybe he was being a bit too greedy, just like they said. But were gold and scars the same thing? Did it even matter?
Everything was a bit weird after these moments, he always found himself thinking about things he never would otherwise.
He knew something was amiss with him.
He felt more calm, almost hallow, numb to the degree of no recognition. He preferred it over that sick feeling, the overwhelming pressure of memories and feelings.
But this thing, this weird sort of haze he was in was an emotion too. He didn’t dare to convince himself otherwise.
He usually had time to work it out himself, his own crew having his back even towards non-physical dangers. He learned it was hard to obey to any morals, when everything was meaningless and numb- it was so easy to get violent, since the consequences were beyond his understanding.
Everything felt so amazingly meaningless.
He knew it would change in a few hours- that this feeling, a feeling like somebody carved his insides and said nothing of the results to him, was not there to stay.
The knowledge didn’t help much.
(He really wanted someone, anyone that would look at him and listen. Why was it so hard? What he was going to attempt to do was so big, so much bigger than one person.)
His hands shook and the sound of a war crept into his mind, the sound of clashing blades making his ears ring just like he was there still- in a war he begged Roger to not be a part of.
One blink and he was back on infirmary, just beside Shanks with only the low sounds of a party upstairs.
Begging felt like a part of his identity, in that ship. Begging his Captain to not go to a war, begging is Captain to go to a fucking doctor, begging to be left alone, begging to belong-
Yearning was a part of his soul in his childhood, his words always took a praying tone- To him, begging and praying wasn’t that different. A father and a God, what was the difference? He felt like he prayed to a God for years for naught. The only thing he gained from it was the laugh of it marking him to the marrow.
He took a deep breath and wished he was better at handling this. He was sure if it was Shanks in his place, he would have fixed something by now.
He felt like a fraud, trying to make people think he was just as good as Shanks, that he wasn’t lacking anything significant, while also thinking about how Shanks would have done better.
‘Childhood trauma’, his crew would say, ‘it always leaves some space for doubt.’
Buggy just sat there, for minutes or hours- time was irrelevant, it was pure bullshit.
If it wasn’t, Buggy wouldn’t be here. (It was both a good thing and a very bad thing.)
The sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, the party got louder, got silent, he sat there. Looking but not seeing, or maybe not feeling but not feeling anything was also a feeling- he always got it mixed when it came to these kind of things: emotions and the reactions.
He always thought he was good at reading other people, his crew liked to say he always got it wrong when it came to the reactions he gained.
(Hey, Buggy? Aren’t we just soulmates? We totally are, aren’t we?)
Roger laughed above him, and his bones ached.
He technically had a plan, a lackluster one, one that came to him in the middle of his ever going panic.
One plan that he didn’t even start doing.
He had to write it down somewhere, when the time mattered and memories turned their back on him once again.
For now, he sat and listened. Sloppy thoughts jumping from all to nothing, all to nothing just like Captain.
Or father, a father.
A Captain, a father, a King.
Roger was his captain, his father. But he was also a Pirate king.
That title didn’t get earned by being vigilant, that title got earned by being downright suicidal and bringing your crew down to the hell with you.
He let out a breath, stretched his body and let it lead him to the deck- talking to himself all the while.
“First step is to find the ingredients, and then comes to witch.”
He left Shanks alone in the infirmary.