Chapter Text
The Den Den rings in the middle of the night. The shrill shriek of the purupurupuru has Buggy jerking awake, bleary eyed as he stumbles out of his bed to grab the receiver.
He leans against the desk, the corner of it digging into his hip.
It stings. A sharp, bright spot of pain that is somehow easier to comprehend than the fact that he needs to answer the damn snail. (Answer it. Answer it. Just pick it up and answer already!)
His entire body is heavy. A force that presses down on his shoulders and locks his jaw tight. Each molar in his mouth creaks under the pressure, and then his hand reaches out.
Gatcha.
It is four in the morning, and if this isn’t Shanks, someone will get a personal visit from Buggy in order to send them straight to the bottom of the sea. Ace is dead, his brain whispers. You were too late. Not good enough. Useless–
The voice on the other end is quiet, but the deep, drawn breaths are familiar.
“We got him,” says Shanks. “Your informant was right. He was on a prisoner transport bound for Impel Down, no Teach in sight. Whitebeard caught up with us and by then the marines didn’t stand a chance against both of us.”
Buggy takes a breath. In, then out. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, but his throat is dry. He opens his mouth, but nothing except a wet sob escapes him. A hand fists in his hair, and the pain is blinding.
It is grounding.
“I know, Bugs. I know. But he’s safe now and back with the Whitebeards. A little worse for wear, but nothing that a trip to the medbay won’t be able to fix.”
Clearing his throat, Buggy holds the receiver close to his chest.
“Have you–” The words catch in his throat, but Shanks has always known him better than he knows himself.
“Have I told the other Roger Pirates about him?”
Buggy sucks in a breath.
“No, I haven’t. The kid doesn’t like Captain. Just his name sets him off – I’m not about to throw him to the wolves. I haven’t even told Rayleigh.”
Good, Buggy doesn’t say. They already failed two kids. They don’t need to fail a third.
Outside his window, a flash of lightning rips through the sky. Rain pelts against the window, like nails on wood. Tap tap tap.
“Buggy? You still there?”
He hums.
“…When will you come see me?”
Another bolt of lightning tears right through the clouds. The light has his eyes squinting, and when he closes them, the shape of it stays behind. “Not yet, Shanks. I can’t.”
“Why not?” It isn’t a whine. It isn’t Shanks begging. It is a whisper across an ocean, and it hurts Buggy more than anything else.
“I don’t have an alibi for going. Straw Hat hasn’t made his entrance in the New World yet.”
“But–”
“If I go before he does and make a beeline for you, the government will be on our asses faster than flies on shit, Shanks. You know it. I know it. They know it. I’m still just Buggy the Clown from East Blue, on a quest for revenge against a rookie pirate.” The hand clutching the receiver shakes. His fingers are bone white. “If I go to you now, my crew will die. They aren’t ready.”
I’m not ready.
The silence is unbearable. It lies thick between them while the storm outside rages on.
“Okay?” He asks.
“Okay,” says Shanks. “I love you.”
(For the first time, Buggy wishes he could repeat those last three words back.)
He hangs up.
***
Less than a week after Ace’s subsequent rescue, a newspaper headline tears all of Buggy’s carefully laid out plans apart and reassembles them into a crooked jigsaw puzzle with the edges missing.
Straw Hat Pirates Decimated by Warlord Kuma on Sabaody!
Buggy calls Shanks before he has even read the byline.
“He’ll be back before you know it,” says Red Hair. “Besides, this gives you time to whip your crew into shape. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
It was. It is.
So he corners Alvida after dinner, and tells her they will spend the foreseeable future training. Both themselves, and the crew.
“But why?” She quirks an eyebrow at him.
“We’ll be able to finally deal with Straw Hat once and for all!” He adds a maniacal laughter for good measure, but Alvida simply scoffs in his face.
He sighs, sticking out his hand. “Just until Straw Hat comes back into the spotlight, I promise.”
Alvida frowns, but grabs his outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake. “Just until Straw Hat gets back.”
It takes two years.
The Buggy Pirates perform for locals, blow up Marine bases for the fun of it, and Buggy runs his crew into the ground with training when he can get away with it.
Then, one morning, Alvida hits him over the head with a newspaper during breakfast.
He damn near chokes on his cereal, still pounding at his chest as the paper slides onto the table. The headline is enough to make him bust out a laugh that ends in a wheeze.
Straw Hat Causes Havoc on Fish-man Island! Potential Feud Between Rookie and Whitebeards?
It is the sort of ridiculous return to piracy that he has been betting on.
“Eat up and pack up!” Yells Buggy. “We’re setting sail for the New World!”
***
They have barely stepped foot on Sabaody before Buggy speaks up. “We’re going to need to get the ship coated.”
“Coated?” Cabaji stifles a yawn with the palm of his hand. Mohji sticks a bony elbow into his side, and the yawn is abruptly cut off as he stomps on Mohji’s foot. “What does that even mean?”
Buggy rolls his eyes. “We can’t go through the Red Line, so we’ll have to go under. And for that, we need someone to coat the ship with resin.”
“And let me guess,” Alvida hums, one hand on her hip, lips pursed. “You know someone who can do the job.”
“Of course I do.”
“Of course you do.”
The only problem is that Buggy really, really wishes that he knew literally anyone else who could do the job. Coatsmen are hard to come by, any New World pirate worth their salt knows this. It doesn’t stop Buggy from wanting to book it back to the beginning of Paradise right this instant.
“So?” Alvida quirks an eyebrow. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go threaten this guy into giving us a discount. Or maybe I just need to show my face. After all, I am the most beautiful pirate on–”
“No,” says Buggy. “I’ll meet with him alone.”
Cabaji makes a noise, brows furrowed, as Mohji locks his arm around his neck in a chokehold. Richie growls next to them, head tilting sideways as the lion glances at Buggy and licks his chops.
“Go back to the Big Top and wait for me there. If he’ll take the job, I’ll bring him back with me. Understood?”
Mohji’s grip around Cabaji’s neck goes slack, and the swordsman tumbles to the ground, head first. They both throw him a two fingered salute. “Aye, aye, sir!” And then Cabaji is back on his feet, sticking a wet willy into Mohji’s ear. Their bickering gets swallowed by the atmosphere of Sabaody; between the screams from the ferris wheel and the howls of the enslaved, Buggy hopes they get back safe.
By his side, Alvida scuffs the heel of her stiletto into the dirt. It drags a thin, deep line through the soft clumps of moss and dirt, and her gaze remains fixed on the gouges she has made. “Is he dangerous?”
“Who?”
“The coatsman. Is that why you’re hesitating?”
Buggy’s lips do a complicated dance, and in the end he lets out a snort. “Yes. Very dangerous. But not to me, alright? You don’t have to worry about me, I’m flashy enough to not get into trouble here, of all places.”
Her face grows a ripe, tomato red. It curls over the freckled bridge of her nose, around her jaw and up the shell of her ears. “Worri– who says I’m worried about a low-life thug like you?!” Her hand comes up and the palm of it strikes his cheek. It doesn’t hit hard, and her nails don’t drag against his skin. She turns on her heel and stalks off, two steps at a time, until she has caught up to the trio of Buggy’s best and brightest men (and one lion).
He stands there, on the edge of Grove #47, rubbing his cheek and wondering if meeting Rayleigh again will end in bloodshed.
***
It is a mossy, decayed building. The wooden sign above the door proudly proclaims Shakky’s Rip-off Bar, and Buggy has to bite down a laugh. Only a former pirate would be this straightforward.
Still, he skulks around, taking one step closer to the door, then two steps back. He gets his hand on the door handle only once, but the cold metal snaps through the layer of comfort that his gloves provide, and Buggy rips his hand back to his chest, cradling it there.
For the better part of an hour, Buggy paces like a beaten dog outside of the bar.
Not once does a customer enter, or leave.
(Shanks was right, the old man has made a great hidey-hole for himself. Too bad that Buggy has a Den Den, and an Emperor contact who was very willing to share the information of the aforementioned hidey-hole.)
He is still pacing when the door swings open so hard that it slams against the brick wall of the bar and the hinges groan. Buggy jumps half a foot in the air, head swiveling around to stare.
“Are you going to keep lurking outside all day, or do you wanna’ come in?” The woman’s voice is like gravel, a cigarette perched between two fingers while she leans against the frame of the door. “I’m sure Rayleigh would be happy to see you, Blue.”
“Shakuyaku,” says Buggy. “It’s been a while.”
She pats the frame of the door. “I’ve told ya’ to call me Shakky, boy. Now get in.”
Buggy’s knees are shaking. Great, wobbly shivers that only grow more pronounced with every step he takes towards the bar. He grabs onto the wooden frame of the door, and the old, rotten thing nearly comes apart in his grip.
The bar is empty inside.
There is a pot sizzling on the stove, the distinct fragrance of refried beans filling the air, alongside a note of cheap tequila and dirt. The tables have been hastily wiped down, one of them still glittering and sticky with spilled booze.
She cocks her head towards one of the barstools. “Have a seat.”
He slides into it, slumping onto the bardesk. “When will he be back?”
Shakky uncorks an entire bottle of sake and puts it down in front of him. She doesn’t give him a glass. “Any day now.”
“Any day–” Buggy splutters. Days. Days?! He has waited years to get back to Shanks, and the old man has the audacity to not be here the one time that Buggy musters up the courage to ask the damn fart for a favor–
The door to the bar creaks open.
“Impeccable timing,” Shakky calls through the bar. “Must be some of that forsaken D. luck that has rubbed off on ya’ both.”
Turning in his chair, Buggy stares at Rayleigh. The first mate of the Oro Jackson. Blue and Red’s teacher, nanny, and parent all rolled into one. Roger’s… something.
If Buggy had been younger, he would have yelled. Gone red in the face, neck straining, as he cried and screamed and yelled at the man who abandoned them when they needed him the most. Now, all Buggy does is lean back and take a long swig of the sake.
(The taste of it is oddly familiar in his mouth.)
Rayleigh looks old.
All gray hair, wrinkled skin and scars pulling tight at their edges.
“Blue,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He doesn’t fumble his words – the Dark King never does, but Buggy knows he has caught him off guard. The left corner of Rayleigh’s mouth gives a twitch and his shoulders are tucked just a tad bit higher than they should. Not up to his ears, but to someone who knows Rayleigh, they might as well be.
“Been a while, old man,” says Buggy. “I’m heading into the New World, and I got it on good authority that you can coat a ship.” I can pay, he doesn’t say. If Rayleigh isn’t going to ask for it, then Buggy isn’t going to offer.
Seas know the old man owes him that much.
Rayleigh fixes a smile onto his face and slides onto the bar stool next to Buggy. “That I can. Any particular reason that you’re heading to the New World? As far as I recall, you’ve never been fond of that place.”
“Shut it. You’re spending your retirement in a crappy bar on the worst island in all of Paradise, you have no room to talk.” Neither of them are fond of the New World. Not any more. (Even now, Roger’s ghost won’t let go of them.)
Grabbing a spoon from a drawer, Shakky sends both of them a wink. The stove clicks off and she grabs the pot with her bare hands. “I’ll leave you boys to it.” Then she heads up the stairs and out of sight.
Ah, he’d hoped he would be able to get a helping of those refried beans…
“It’s good to see you again, Blue.” Rayleigh leans over the counter, hand fiddling with something out of sight. His tongue pokes out of his mouth, only going back in as he leans back with a bottle of rum in his hand.
“I’d say the same to you, but then I’d be lying.” There is a buzz in his ears that might be the booze hitting a bit too hard, a bit too soon. Or maybe it is the anger in his gut going from a slow simmer to a full boil. “Maybe if you’d shown your face every once in a while, I’d be of a different opinion.”
He doesn’t turn to look at Rayleigh. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the bottle – a West Blue brand with a label old enough that the edges are curling in on itself, no longer sticky. Shanks’ favorite sake.
Of course it is.
“You know why I couldn’t.” Rayleigh runs a hand through his hair and takes a swig. A trickle of rum escapes from the corner of his mouth and splashes onto his beard.
Buggy’s grip on the neck of the sake bottle is molten and hardened silver. “Was calling too hard for you in your old age? I know Shanks gave you my Den Den number against my wishes.”
Rayleigh takes another swig. So does Buggy.
“I would have taken both of you with me if I could. But the marines, well…” The old man’s eyes are glassy, gaze stuck on the bottle in his hand. It is half empty already. “Adults don’t always have the right answer.”
“Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But you could at least have fucking tried, couldn’t you?” He scoffs, because if he doesn’t he might do something stupid instead. Like, pick a fight that he knows he can’t win. He might end up doing it anyway, if this conversation goes on for much longer.
Clearing his throat, Buggy slams the bottle onto the counter and slides out of his seat. “Look, can you coat my ship or not? I didn’t come here to catch up and reminisce about the old days.” He is halfway out of the bar, foot over the threshold and hand on the doorknob when Rayleigh speaks again.
“I’m sorry. For everything.”
Buggy shivers, and wonders how he ended up here in the first place. In a dark, damp bar on an island of slave traders, in the company of the Dark King. (He was never meant for the big things, but they keep finding him anyway.)
“Sorry, doesn’t make it alright.” He shuts the door behind him, and Rayleigh doesn’t follow. In the humid heat of Sabaody, he tugs his coat tighter around him. His hands, his feet, his goddamn heart, every part of him is freezing.
Not even the sun can bring the heat back into his limbs.
***
“Buggy?”
The tone of Alvida’s voice alone is enough for cold sweat to break out on Buggy’s skin. “Yes?”
“Care to explain why the Dark King is coating the Big Top? For free?! ” She hisses half of her sentence, hand grasping Buggy’s ear and twisting it.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
She gives a sharp jerk of her wrist, and his entire ear comes clean off. Her long nails scratch at cartilage.
“Careful with that!” He shrieks. “Just because it comes off doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt!”
Alvida rakes her nails down the back of his ear as the soft hum of Bink’s Sake flows in the air. It would have been a jaunty tune, if it had been coming from literally anyone but the Dark King himself.
“Seas, he’s humming,” Alvida goes white as a sheet. “We’re all going to die.”
“Don’t be daft,” says Buggy. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Rayleigh claps his hands together, sticky sap clinging to his fingers and flecks of it splattered in his beard. “That should do it, you’re all set to go!” He slaps the hull of the ship, feet firmly planted in Sabaody’s squishy grass. He glances up at the gathered Buggy Pirates all peeking at him from behind the railing, wide-eyed and slack jawed.
He throws his paintbrush back into his bag, eyes zeroing in on Buggy and Alvida near the stern of the ship. “Take care, and give Red my regards!”
Buggy leans over the railing, the wood digging into his stomach, and screams; “I hope you keel over and die soon, old man!”
His crew gives a collective screech as Rayleigh walks off with a wave and a laugh.
Alvida twists the ear still in her grasp, and Buggy crumples to the floor, making grabby hands as she tosses his ear to Richie. The lion has it in his mouth, chewing, before Buggy can screech at the injustice.
***
Returning to the New World is far from a joyride.
A thunderstorm with hail as big as cannonballs takes out the majority of their sails and leaves them stranded for over a week at a nearby island. A pod of sea kings comes dangerously close to tipping over the entire Big Top right after. But perhaps worst of all, is Alvida’s mood.
“What are we doing here, Buggy?” She asks him one evening. “What are you doing in the New World?”
For a second, he considers telling her. About Roger, his childhood, Shanks.
Then the moment passes as the weather shifts from sunny to sleet, and they both dart underneath the crow’s nest to huddle for some semblance of warmth and cover. “We’re here for Straw Hat,” he says, wrapping his coat around himself. “Naturally.”
Seas, his toes are freezing.
Her teeth clatter against one another as she forces her mouth open. “No, we’re not. I’m not an idiot, Buggy! Your whole network of spies, your connection with the Whitebeards, of all people– you’re hiding something and for some stupid reason, you won’t tell me. ”
The deck has been hastily vacated in the horrid weather, but the few lingering crewmates take one look at the seething Alvida and make themselves scarce. Lucky bastards. If only Buggy could do the same.
“Look,” she leans against the mast, half hidden behind a stack of tied down crates. “Either you tell me where we’re going and who we’re meeting, or I’ll jump ship at the next port.”
“You what?! ”
She stares him down, the corner of her lip pulled up in a grimace. “I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here, Buggy. This started out as an alliance to get back at Straw Hat, but we both know that hasn’t been the goal for a long time.”
There are a thousand things he can say. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them will be the wrong answer, and Buggy isn’t sure his brain can find the correct response that won’t have Alvida leaving the Big Top behind.
“You’re right, we’re not going after Straw Hat. We’re meeting up with an… ally of mine. He’s a big wig. A top dog– don’t tell him I said that.” Buggy takes a seat on a crate next to Alvida. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything in life is complicated, Buggy.”
He barks a laugh. “Yeah, sure, but this is World Government execution level sort of complicated. I can’t tell you until we meet up with who we need to, for your own sake.” With every word out of his mouth, her eyebrows disappear further into her hairline. “Besides, you don’t need me to spell it out for you, do you? The entire crew relies on your guidance just as much as mine. If you leave, what’ll happen to the work morale?”
It works to soften up the mood. Alvida gives a snort and hides it behind a hand.
“One day, you’ll tell me everything, won’t you?”
He nods, because one day, he might be ready to spill it. But not now. Not today.
“ Captain! ” Mohji’s voice cuts across the deck. Buggy and Alvida both jerk as the man bounds up to them, coated in a fine layer of frozen sleet and wobbling, blue lips with no Richie in sight. “Captain!”
“What?”
He holds out a clenched fist, fingers uncurling around something the size of his palm. An hourglass with three needles and a tiny bronze plaque featuring a swirly script in a familiar scrawl.
Huddling closer to both of them, Mohji frowns. “Can either of you tell me why a Newscoo just dropped off an eternal logpose for an island called Elbaf?”
Buggy offers them both a grin that is all teeth.
***
“We can’t dock here,” says Alvida. “Literally, Buggy, we’re all going to die if we do, and I am not dying on fucking Elbaf! ”
There is a grin pulling at the corner of his lips, but he smothers the urge to let it out. Alvida is standing at the helm next to Buggy, both of her hands clasped firmly onto the end of her spiked kanabo, eyes darting to the flagpoles stuck deeply within the sand of the shoreline.
All of them are flying Red Hair’s Jolly Roger.
The laughing skull with three, red lines dragged through an empty eye socket is giving them its best approximation of a smile.
(Like it is Shanks himself, waiting to welcome Buggy home.)
To the rest of the people on the Big Top, it means something entirely different.
Red Hair might have a reputation for partying and a general lax demeanor, but it doesn’t escape Buggy that this will be his crew’s second meeting with an Emperor. They might have survived their first encounter unscathed, but who is to say it will be the same this time?
Still, Buggy shares none of the same sentiments as the crew running around the deck, screaming like headless chickens about turning back and being too young to die like this.
The only thing he hadn’t been counting on, and the thing leaving Buggy’s palms sweating so hard that he has to wipe them on the back of his pants over and over again, is the fact that they are not the only ship coming to dock at Elbaf.
The Red Force is nestled gently between the crook of two other ships. All of them fly their own Jolly Roger on the top mast, but just below sits a smaller version of Red Hair’s own. He recognizes all of them.
The Puddle Pirates. The Bourgeois Pirates. The Social Club. Even the forsaken crone, Oli, appears to have made it to Elbaf. But the one that makes his heart skip a beat, is the giant boat moored far, far away from the others. Five times the size of the Red Force, and with a Jolly Roger the size of his own mainsail; the Giant Warrior Pirates.
(Who leads them now? Jarul and Jorul have both passed, just like all the other links to their shared past.)
No one comes to greet them or chase them away as they dock.
The only noise ripping through the air is the sound of an entire damn orchestra playing a rendition of Bink’s Sake further inland, broken only by the noise of boisterous laughter and drunk yelling.
The Buggy Pirates anchor themselves as close to the Red Force as possible. Alvida chews at her lower lip. Cabaji and Mohji plaster themselves close to one another. The three of them shake, sticking close as Buggy disembarks and plants his feet into fine sand.
“C-c-captain!” Mohji squeaks – an appropriate sound for a man in his thirties who has just cut his hair to resemble a pair of mouse ears. “Can’t we just leave? Right now? Please. ” He pleads through gritted teeth, Richie breathing down the man’s neck, fur standing on end.
Buggy’s feet sink further into the sand. The beach swallows his footprints faster than he can leave them behind.
“No,” he takes a deep breath. “I’ve waited long enough for this. I sure as hell ain’t waiting another second.”
He doesn’t bother following it up with any sort of explanation.
Alvida is still gripping her spiked kanabo, the club resting on her shoulder as she slips out of a pair of high heels and her bare feet touch warm sand. She follows him, three paces behind with not a word out of her.
Explanations, she had demanded less than a week ago.
You’ll get them, he had said.
Except this is the sort of thing that can’t quite be explained in words, can it?
(Years and years and years of longing. Of calls in the night. Of whispered nightmares and dreams shared in the same breath. Of variations on I miss you, and the dreaded I want to see you. And always, always having to answer not yet. )
The sand turns to grass beneath their feet. Clumps of moss and a smattering of colorful daffodils peering their buds up at him in passing. Through the treeline, Buggy spots a party in full swing.
The booze flows freely and in dangerous amounts. A puddle has formed beneath several of the alliance captains’ feet, like a facsimile lake of alcohol waiting to burn at the flick of a lighter. The roar of the people has the lake shivering in its makeshift spot, artificial waves consisting of beer froth lapping at the edges of it all, staining their shoes and boots.
There is no Shanks.
Someone shoves a mug of sake into Buggy’s empty hands. “Come on, drink! We’re celebrating!” And then the woman is gone, swallowed by the crowd.
The mug almost slips out of his grip, palms still stained wet with gathering sweat.
Another couple of people offer his crewmates the same treatment. A beer, a mug, a glass – even Alvida has to let go of the grip on her weapon lest she drop the glass of white wine that someone shoves into her face.
Near a tree stump, massive and raised, stands far, far too many musicians. Thirty at least, fifty at the most. All of them are plucking, hitting, swaying, dancing, singing.
Buggy is loath to admit it, but this rendition of Bink’s Sake is something else.
The song is stripped down to its last few, final notes, and with the low hum of a bow passing over the string of a violin, it comes to an end. The crowd springs to their feet, screaming and stomping for an encore as the orchestra gives deep bows in tandem.
Mohji and Cabaji, even Richie, do their best to clap along despite the alcohol in their hands, and the sharp slap of their palms meeting has the entire grove falling quiet in one second flat.
Every head turns towards their little party standing not quite in the middle of everything, but still surrounded on all sides. The glass of white wine slips from Alvida’s hand and shatters against the ground.
Eyes darting from Buggy to the pirates staring them down, both of her hands grip her weapon again. Buggy, as the only one, does not grab one.
Someone slips a spyglass out of their pocket. The whip-crack sound of it unfolding has the entire cove holding their breath all at once. The Red Hair alliance to see whether the newcomers fly the Emperor’s flag, and the Buggy Pirates because they know it won’t be there.
“It’s the Buggy Pirates!” The woman whips the spyglass back into her pocket, sidling up next to her captain, the crone, Oli. She leans in close, whispering at a volume that Buggy can’t hope to make out.
Judging by the twitch of Oli’s eyebrow and the frown tugging at her lips, their status as not allies of the Red Hair Pirates is about to spill like the guts of an animal having been flayed alive, ripe for eating.
Alvida presses her shoulder close to his. At a glance, her face is set in an indifferent mask, long nails gently cradling the handle of her kanabo. But Buggy knows her by now; knows the slight tremble to her arms, the weight of her body leaning more on her right hip, and the grinding of her teeth.
Her eyes are on him, only him , and Buggy averts his gaze.
“Say,” croaks Oli, one nail tapping at her chin. “What’s a small-time crew like the Buggy Pirates doing here? If you’re hoping to crash the party, you’re severely outnumbered.”
Her laughter is nails on a chalkboard, only drowned out by the hiccuping snorts of ‘Ball Fingers’ Gerotini as the man gasps for air, slapping his knee. The rest of the crew gives various chortles as Buggy’s people press closer to their captain.
Richie crawls to sit near Buggy’s feet, shoulders hunched and head hanging low. A pitiful growl escapes the lion, and Buggy runs his fingers through the purple mane. A smirk spills past his lips.
“If we’re such a small-time crew, I’m glad to know that you’ve heard of us. Makes me feel really special, crone Oli.”
She splutters, and Fugar manages to swallow a chortle before it gets out of his throat.
And maybe that is actually a fair reaction. Buggy isn’t sure whether someone has had the guts to call her that to her face, but Shanks has spoken of her enough that it is all he calls her at this point, at least on calls with Buggy.
“We’re not here to crash the party,” he cracks his neck, fingers carding through Richie’s fur as the lion turns to pudding in his hands, reduced to a purring, kneading mess. “I have a standing invitation.”
Fugar gives a snort. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
At the edge of the tree grove, a towering man with spiky red hair takes off at a sprint. Rockstar, Buggy’s mind supplies. Ninety-four million bounty, member of the Red Hair Pirates.
Good.
At least someone with two brain cells rattling around his skull is likely to find Shanks and bring him straight here.
Buggy shrugs, crossing his arms. “It means I didn’t come here for a fight. Not with Red Hair, and not with you.” By his feet, Richie chuffs at the lack of headpats.
“Ah,” a Tontatta woman clambers up Fugar’s shoulder and takes a seat there. “Ha–have you come to pledge yourself to the alliance, then?” There is a tremble in her entire body. Minute spasms that make the red of her lipstick look like a shaking caterpillar.
He can’t help the laugh that it wrings out of him. “Gyahahaha! Absolutely not. ”
The laugh is a bit like throwing gasoline on an already roaring fire. A ripple of murmurs tears through the gathered crowd and Fugar steps forward, one bushy eyebrow raised at Buggy. “Now, now, young man, there’s no need to be rude. All of us here,” he spreads his hands out wide, nodding at his fellow captains. “Have happily tied ourselves to Red Haired Shanks for one reason or another.”
You’ve got it the wrong way around, Buggy doesn’t say, I think he might be tied to me.
“I’ll never pledge myself to Red Hair. Not in this life, or the next.”
They are allies, in a way. In the only way that two people can be, when they have grown up alongside one another, shared their first kiss, their first kill, their first everything. None of the captains here have seen Shanks at ten, hanging over the railing as he puked his guts out after Sunbell and Petermoo had dared him to drink his first hard liquor. None of them have held him through nightmares in a dingy bar in Loguetown. None of them have spent the night with him – or if they have, Shanks is going to be in the doghouse real fucking quick.
(What they have– what they are can’t be simplified into allies or friends or lovers. )
Buggy taps his foot against the ground.
None of the top officers of the Red Hair Pirates are present at the moment. He has spent enough time pouring over each and every wanted poster, old and new, to be able to recognize them on sight. Shanks isn’t here either.
He can only hope that Rockstar will be quick about it.
“If you aren’t here to join,” says Gerotini, taking a step forward. “You’re here to fight.” He croaks the last word, and it takes a second for all of the pirates in the clearing to catch on to his words.
In between one blink and the next, the gathered Red Hair alliance have their hands on their weapons, guns drawn and swords sliding out of their sheaths.
Buggy’s crew presses in on him from all sides, Alvida’s elbow in his gut and Cabaji’s breath down his neck. Buggy snorts. A loud, ugly sound that rips through the air.
It sets them off again.
“This disrespect will not stand!” Spit flies from Fugar’s mouth, his dentures shaking loose. His lips open again, chasing a rattling inhale, and then he snaps his mouth shut. The alcohol puddle by the captain’s feet is silent, and then it isn’t.
It quakes.
It shivers.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Birds shriek and fly from the trees. The ground shakes beneath their feet, and Buggy senses him before he sees him.
The brilliant starburst of Haki that wraps around Shanks, always warm, always roiling as though he is the sea itself and the waves are the only thing keeping him moving. Behind him, several other Haki signatures keep pace.
Buggy doesn’t need his observation Haki to see the giants, though. He cranes his neck up, up, up, and sure enough, two giants are meandering through the forest, the top of their heads reaching above even the tallest of the abnormally large red pines.
It is Dorry.
It is Brogy.
(They’re alive. They’re fucking alive! )
Old crone Oli hides a chuckle behind the palm of her hand, eyes flicking over to Buggy and his crew. They must look a right mess, with Richie cowering and whimpering at their feet, but Buggy can’t bring himself to care.
He has waited long enough.
Shanks steps out from the shade of a tree and when his eyes land on Buggy, the sky splits in tandem with the smile on his face.
The Red Hair allies screech, some of them keeling over as conqueror’s Haki seeps into the air. Buggy’s own people remain standing on wobbly knees, for the most part. Or rather, Alvida does.
And because Buggy’s mouth has always been faster than his brain, the first thing he says to Shanks is; “You look old.”
It isn’t a lie. Buggy hasn’t seen him in person for years, and wanted posters can only convey so much. There are fine lines of wrinkles near the corner of his eyes, warped only by the scar on his left side. His hair falls in gentle waves, as red and dark as ever. There is a three day old stubble on his chin, his white shirt is stained, and even from here, Buggy can smell the alcohol on his breath.
He has never looked better.
The captains of Red Hair’s alliance all sidle closer to their Chief, heads hung low as they skulk and lean forward to whisper, hands grabbing at Shanks’ arms, his cloak, his body.
“He’s spoken ill of you!” Pururu cries.
“He crashed the party, someone should teach him manners!” Oli giggles.
“I’d be happy to give him a good wallop myself!” Gerotini croaks.
“He’s been insolent from the time he got here!” Fugar is red in the face.
“He’s been insolent since the time he could crawl,” says Shanks, peeling their wandering hands off of himself. “It’s what I like about him the most.”
Buggy flushes from the root of his hair to the tip of his toes. His skin crawls, fingers digging into the flesh of his crossed arms. Seas, not even a minute and Shanks is running his mouth!
“Shut the hell up!” Buggy’s feet move on their own, closer and closer and closer to the man he has missed for so long. “You’re an idiot, and a bastard, and a fucking moron who let a sea king eat his arm!”
Less than two feet away, Buggy finally unlatches his hands from their iron grip on his arms. One of his hands pops off of his wrist and lands a slap on Shanks’ arm. The sound is loud in the grove, despite the people gathered here.
Nearly all of them suck in an audible, sharp breath at the action.
The only ones who don’t react are Red Hair’s top officers suddenly mingling in the crowd. Buggy’s eyes do a quick tally, because Shanks’ smile is too bright as the idiot just stands there, teeth on full display like an actual loon.
Hongo has made his way to the collapsed pile of Richie, Mohji and Cabaji at Buggy’s back. Alvida alone is the only one standing. As Red Hair’s doctor slinks forward, he gives her a smile. Near the buffet table, Lucky Roux has his arms slung over a pair of Bourgeois Pirates. Bonkpunch grabs Pururu and settles her on his own head, before grabbing Gerotini by the neck. Yasopp pats Fugar on the back, and Beckman loops his arm around Oli’s waist.
There is a cigarette in the man’s mouth, but no hand on his gun. Instead, the first mate of the Red Hair Pirates gives Buggy a nod.
(Do they know?)
Shanks closes the last distance between them in two, three quick steps. He lifts Buggy’s arm with the crook of his elbow, and with practiced ease, slides Buggy’s chopped off hand back into place onto his wrist.
“You’re late.” Shanks grins, bumping their foreheads together, his hand brushing against the back of Buggy’s neck before grabbing a fistful of blue hair.
Buggy breathes into the man’s mouth, eyes flicking down to his lips. “I’m right on time, you bastard.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Shanks leans in first, but Buggy follows willingly. There is stubble scratching along his skin, sharp and itchy, but the lips on his are rough and chapped, just like he remembers them. His hands come up to cup Shanks’ face, fingers digging into the dimples that emerge as they both smile into the kiss.
They come apart in howls of laughter, Shanks flushing red all the way down to his chest, courtesy of the open shirt he is wearing.
Sound filters back in slowly.
Perhaps because there isn’t much sound at all.
Beckman’s mouth has fallen open, his cigarette on the ground. It hisses against the dew wet grass, sputtering only once before it goes out, and the noise it makes is repeated half a second later by most of the people gathered in the grove.
Limejuice’s glasses fall down the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide, blinking. It is a look mirrored by many others, both alliance crews and Red Hair Pirates alike.
(Ah. So they didn’t know about… this.)
Shanks sticks his nose into the crook of Buggy’s neck. It is cold and wet, and on instinct he slaps Shanks’ arm again. “Hey,” he says. “Did you stick your head in the freezer? How are you this damn cold if you’ve been drinking?”
A smile is pressed into the skin right above his collarbone. Shanks scrapes the edge of his teeth over the bone and Buggy shivers. “I’m always cold,” he says without lifting his head. “I missed you.”
I missed you, too, Buggy doesn’t say. Words still aren’t easy, so he says it with his hands, with his body. With fingers stroking the ridge of Shanks’ spine, a lingering kiss pressed against the Emperor’s temple, and an exhaled sigh brushing against red locks.
Then Shanks lifts his head and smiles out at the perplexed crowd.
“Who killed the music?” He laughs. “Buggy’s back, let’s celebrate!”
At once, the maestro taps his baton and the music starts back up.
Bink’s Sake has never sounded better.
***
Buggy wakes to an arm in his mouth, one that isn’t his own, and an insistent tapping noise. The hairs on the back of the arm tickle his nose, and his entire face scrunches as he fights off a sneeze. Licking his lips, his tongue comes away salty.
His eyes flash open.
Shanks’ arm is thrown over his neck and partways up Buggy’s face while the man it is attached to snores up a storm. The sort of growling, snorting gasps that can, and have, scared off fully grown sea kings before.
And Buggy slept right through it.
(What does that say about him? About his trust in Shanks, to not wake because of something like that, but instead to a soft tapping – )
There is a Newscoo outside Shanks’ cabin window, its beak pecking at the glass and head tilting left, then right. It squawks as its beady little eyes land on Buggy. The tapping resumes threefold. Tap tap tap tap tap—
Buggy groans and shoves Shanks off the bed.
His snoring cuts off abruptly as his naked ass hits the floorboards and the man jerks awake. “Wha–?” He blinks, bringing up his arm to rub at his eyes. Smacking his mouth, Shanks frowns at the wet stripe going across his forearm, and Buggy tries very, very hard to not let the blush on his face become any more prominent than it already is.
(Naked Shanks is a sight to behold, and Buggy will admit it to no man.)
“The morning paper is here,” he says instead. “Pay the damn bird so we can go back to sleep.” Outside the window, the Newscoo huffs. Its pale feathers are rimmed in harsh sunlight, nearly see through at the edges, and if Buggy has to hazard a guess, it is probably closer to noon than anything else.
Shanks grins up at him from the floor, propping his chin up on the mattress. His eyebrows do a strange wiggle, lifting first both, then only one. “How about instead of sleeping, we do something else?” Ah, so an attempt at a seductive eyebrow wiggle, then.
Smirking, Shanks grabs Buggy and pulls him into a kiss. Their morning breaths are rank, the skin of their lips flaky and chapped, and Buggy has to contort himself like a damn escape artist in order to not leave his warm cocoon of blankets.
The kiss breaks as Buggy swats at Shanks’ shoulder, cocking his head towards the window. “News first, then sex.”
Springing to his feet, Shanks saunters over and pulls the latch of the window open so fast that the bird on the other side loses its balance. It pecks at Shanks’ fingers while he drops a couple of coins into the open pouch, but from Buggy’s position on the bed, the man’s bare ass is something to die for.
“Enjoying the view?” Shanks shuts the window, eyes skimming over the front page as he saunters back to bed, a sway in his hips and a grin on his face.
“Immensely.”
Shanks’ short walk back to the bed halts entirely as the corner of the paper’s midsection shakes loose in his grasp. The edge of a wanted poster peeks out, or so Buggy assumes. “Oh,” says Shanks. “They reprinted it!”
The Emperor starts a chuckle that turns into a full belly laugh. The sound bounces off of the walls as the man himself laughs and laughs and laughs until tears escape from the corner of his eyes.
Buggy puffs out his cheeks. “What’s so funny, dickhead?”
The man doesn’t answer, nor does he wipe away the tears. Instead he doubles over as he slaps his knee with his hand and the paper in his hand crinkles.
“Shanks, I swear–”
The Emperor hurls the newspaper at Buggy’s head, and from it falls a single sheet of paper. Lightly stained from the press, the laughing face from a wanted poster looks at Buggy as it drifts down into his lap.
“Is that–?!”
Shanks nods, crawling back into their bed. His feet are freezing as he shoves them against Buggy’s thighs. Any other time Buggy would have shrieked, but not today. Not with the face of Joy Boy in his hands, wearing the skin of the boy that Shanks had given his straw hat all those years ago.
“Anchor’s come a long way, Bugs. He’d make a good Pirate King, don’t you think?”
Buggy hums.
(Is this what Captain had whispered to Shanks that day, after the crew had returned from Laugh Tale? Is this how Shanks’ knew to place his faith in a little boy from East Blue?
Is this why Shanks didn’t want to find the One Piece?)
“Bugs? You in there?” Shanks raps his knuckles against the side of Buggy’s face.
“Knock it off!” He shrieks, shoving the wanted poster into Shanks’ face. The Emperor inhales a breath through the paper, and it flutters down into their tangled sheets. Swinging one leg over the other, Buggy straddles Shanks’ waist and leans in, close enough for their noses to touch.
Shanks sucks in a sharp breath.
“Maybe Straw Hat’ll be a good choice,” Buggy pokes a finger at Shanks’ bare chest. “Maybe he’s already proven to be a better choice than most, but that doesn’t excuse you from trying. The One Piece will either be yours or his, so you better not back down, you hear me?”
Leaning forward, Shanks bumps their foreheads together, his hand coming up to curl around the wrist of Buggy’s hand where it digs into his chest. “I know,” he says. “I made a promise. I intend to keep it.”
Buggy’s anger deflates, and he thinks that perhaps right here, right now, with both of them tangled together in creased sheets and the outside world far from their minds, those three stubborn words will finally string themselves together.
It is Buggy who kisses Shanks this time. It is Buggy who initiates, and against Shanks’ lips, he whispers, “I love you.”
He has plenty to make up for. Years gone by and things unsaid through their countless Den Den calls. And maybe, just maybe, if the crown doesn’t fall on Shanks’ head, Straw Hat isn’t such a bad alternative, if this is what it gets him – Shanks close enough to touch. To kiss.
To love.
(Let Straw Hat have the notoriety of the One Piece, and all of the struggles that come with it. The battles, the worry, the government dogs salivating at his heels. In return, let Buggy have Shanks, and a quiet life at sea, once everything is said and done.)
“Buggy,” Shanks kisses a line up his throat, and Buggy shudders. “Stop thinking.”
He rolls his eyes and snorts. “Fine.” He says, but there is a smile on his lips, and no matter how hard he tries to wipe it away, it stays.