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dethoratsTitle: Exposé
Rating: G
Pairing: Pre Shanks/Ben
Word Count: 466
He was halfway up the rigging with the rest of the small crew before Ben realized that the red-haired jackass the rest of the crew called ‘Captain’ hadn’t meant to include him in the order. The shrouds were taut, sturdy, beneath his feet and he mentally shrugged and finished climbing up to grab the mizzen-stay. The wind had come up and they needed all possible speed for their pursuit of Habaland. The rolling hitch looked tight, barely gave as he pulled on it. A point in Shanks’ favor, one he would grudgingly award, was the general seaworthiness of his vessel. And he had to grant another for the man’s precaution and the swift obedience of his men. If they failed to gain ground, it would not be due to poor preparation.
Which meant it was back on his shoulders again, his, and Shanks’ half of the map. Ben hustled back down, dropped the last few feet onto the deck and kept his feet under him despite the slight pitching of the ship. Shanks was waiting, the slight tilt of his head as he watched Ben approach the only clue that he was feeling distinctly nonplussed about what he had just witnessed. “Not just a bluestocking* after all.” It was a statement rather than a question but Ben decided to answer anyway.
“No,” he replied flatly, reaching out to take the yellowed parchment. “I just happen to be that in addition to many other things. Lucky for you.” He couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Shanks’ face after that last shot, amused at the gobsmacked expression that quickly twisted into genuine humor as the redhead laughed aloud.
“Proof’s in the pudding,” Shanks said, punctuating his words with a slap on the back that was just this side of too-heavy to be purely friendly. “Where’s that damn dog headed?”
Ben studied the shaky scrawls of copied Parshem, frowning as he tried to decide the intentions of the original author from a second- or third-hand source. That last symbol could be interpreted several ways as it seemed incomplete. He superimposed the fragmented clues on top of his mental map of West Blue and debated for a long moment before he finally nodded. It was the only logical choice and it matched the direction that Habaland had last been moving. “To Preguiça Island. The clues indicate that the next heading can only be determined from there.”
“We’ll catch Habaland there, get your teacher back,” Shanks promised, eyes bright with the prospect of the chase and battle to come. “To Prequiça Island, men, with all possible speed!” As the ship cut through the sea and the crew set about tending their weapons, Ben had to admit that he was beginning to think Shanks might actually manage to do just that.
*Bluestocking is a synonym for bookworm or scholar. I'm most familiar with its usage as a collective name for early 20th century Japanese feminists (and their publication) but apparently it has also been used elsewhere. Anyway, it's a fun term and somehow I can see Shanks using it, what with the weird mix of old and new that is the OP world.
Title: Scutwork
Rating: G
Pairing: Ben -> Shanks-ish
Word Count: 454
A/N: Inspired by continued musings about technology in One Piece and by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sans_pertinence's excellent fic 'Thin Red Line' in which she brings up interesting questions about just where everyone's money is coming from and got me thinking.
It was only on particularly trying or tedious days that Ben wished they could be a little less self-sufficient. The need for circumspection was obvious and Shanks was adamant about just who they would or would not take despite being pirates. Still if their entire meager budget wasn’t devoted so faithfully to booze, it would have made his life a bit easier. He leaned heavily on his rake, studied the windrows of tangled green seaweed, and resigned himself to repeating the day’s chore for at least another two weeks. The need to lay low in order to enable certain contacts to be made without detection meant a winter anchor and that meant they needed heat. Wood was expensive to purchase, time consuming to process for any great quantity, and heavy. So seaweed fires would be the prime source of fuel, supplemented by a small store of charcoal and wood. Dried seaweed coated with a thin layer of balsam pitch would burn slowly, prolonging their supply. Of course such a fuel was also somewhat time-consuming to produce, albeit easier overall that hewing logs, but Shanks had a crew at his disposal to take care of such chores.
At least he hadn’t drawn harvesting duty. The water wasn’t freezing but it wasn’t terribly warm either thanks to a cool current that lay close to the shore. Instead he and four others were responsible for laying out the seaweed and then collecting it into neat windrows once it was partially dry to continue the process and make room for more of the harvest. Still others were out gathering pitch and that was only a fraction of the crew. The rest were all busy with their own chores, including prepping the ship, collecting food, and overseeing the modification of clothing for sub-zero conditions. Shanks had plucked shopping duty out of the detail bucket, the lucky bastard, and Ben was nearly positive he’d rigged the outcome somehow. Though that was probably a mix of concern and wistfulness, as he knew just how tight the budget was and he missed the familiar teasing banter that usually filled his days, not that he’d ever admit it. Three days without Shanks felt longer than it actually was thanks to the sheer amount of time they spent in each other’s company thanks to the limitations of being ship-bound.
The captain would be back tomorrow, though, and Ben intended to have the other preparations well in hand when he returned. Rake slung over one shoulder instead of his gun, he headed back down the shoreline to check on the others. And there was still time to set out one more round of fuel to dry before sunset if he put his back into it.
Rating: G
Pairing: Pre Shanks/Ben
Word Count: 466
He was halfway up the rigging with the rest of the small crew before Ben realized that the red-haired jackass the rest of the crew called ‘Captain’ hadn’t meant to include him in the order. The shrouds were taut, sturdy, beneath his feet and he mentally shrugged and finished climbing up to grab the mizzen-stay. The wind had come up and they needed all possible speed for their pursuit of Habaland. The rolling hitch looked tight, barely gave as he pulled on it. A point in Shanks’ favor, one he would grudgingly award, was the general seaworthiness of his vessel. And he had to grant another for the man’s precaution and the swift obedience of his men. If they failed to gain ground, it would not be due to poor preparation.
Which meant it was back on his shoulders again, his, and Shanks’ half of the map. Ben hustled back down, dropped the last few feet onto the deck and kept his feet under him despite the slight pitching of the ship. Shanks was waiting, the slight tilt of his head as he watched Ben approach the only clue that he was feeling distinctly nonplussed about what he had just witnessed. “Not just a bluestocking* after all.” It was a statement rather than a question but Ben decided to answer anyway.
“No,” he replied flatly, reaching out to take the yellowed parchment. “I just happen to be that in addition to many other things. Lucky for you.” He couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Shanks’ face after that last shot, amused at the gobsmacked expression that quickly twisted into genuine humor as the redhead laughed aloud.
“Proof’s in the pudding,” Shanks said, punctuating his words with a slap on the back that was just this side of too-heavy to be purely friendly. “Where’s that damn dog headed?”
Ben studied the shaky scrawls of copied Parshem, frowning as he tried to decide the intentions of the original author from a second- or third-hand source. That last symbol could be interpreted several ways as it seemed incomplete. He superimposed the fragmented clues on top of his mental map of West Blue and debated for a long moment before he finally nodded. It was the only logical choice and it matched the direction that Habaland had last been moving. “To Preguiça Island. The clues indicate that the next heading can only be determined from there.”
“We’ll catch Habaland there, get your teacher back,” Shanks promised, eyes bright with the prospect of the chase and battle to come. “To Prequiça Island, men, with all possible speed!” As the ship cut through the sea and the crew set about tending their weapons, Ben had to admit that he was beginning to think Shanks might actually manage to do just that.
*Bluestocking is a synonym for bookworm or scholar. I'm most familiar with its usage as a collective name for early 20th century Japanese feminists (and their publication) but apparently it has also been used elsewhere. Anyway, it's a fun term and somehow I can see Shanks using it, what with the weird mix of old and new that is the OP world.
Title: Scutwork
Rating: G
Pairing: Ben -> Shanks-ish
Word Count: 454
A/N: Inspired by continued musings about technology in One Piece and by
sans_pertinence's excellent fic 'Thin Red Line' in which she brings up interesting questions about just where everyone's money is coming from and got me thinking. It was only on particularly trying or tedious days that Ben wished they could be a little less self-sufficient. The need for circumspection was obvious and Shanks was adamant about just who they would or would not take despite being pirates. Still if their entire meager budget wasn’t devoted so faithfully to booze, it would have made his life a bit easier. He leaned heavily on his rake, studied the windrows of tangled green seaweed, and resigned himself to repeating the day’s chore for at least another two weeks. The need to lay low in order to enable certain contacts to be made without detection meant a winter anchor and that meant they needed heat. Wood was expensive to purchase, time consuming to process for any great quantity, and heavy. So seaweed fires would be the prime source of fuel, supplemented by a small store of charcoal and wood. Dried seaweed coated with a thin layer of balsam pitch would burn slowly, prolonging their supply. Of course such a fuel was also somewhat time-consuming to produce, albeit easier overall that hewing logs, but Shanks had a crew at his disposal to take care of such chores.
At least he hadn’t drawn harvesting duty. The water wasn’t freezing but it wasn’t terribly warm either thanks to a cool current that lay close to the shore. Instead he and four others were responsible for laying out the seaweed and then collecting it into neat windrows once it was partially dry to continue the process and make room for more of the harvest. Still others were out gathering pitch and that was only a fraction of the crew. The rest were all busy with their own chores, including prepping the ship, collecting food, and overseeing the modification of clothing for sub-zero conditions. Shanks had plucked shopping duty out of the detail bucket, the lucky bastard, and Ben was nearly positive he’d rigged the outcome somehow. Though that was probably a mix of concern and wistfulness, as he knew just how tight the budget was and he missed the familiar teasing banter that usually filled his days, not that he’d ever admit it. Three days without Shanks felt longer than it actually was thanks to the sheer amount of time they spent in each other’s company thanks to the limitations of being ship-bound.
The captain would be back tomorrow, though, and Ben intended to have the other preparations well in hand when he returned. Rake slung over one shoulder instead of his gun, he headed back down the shoreline to check on the others. And there was still time to set out one more round of fuel to dry before sunset if he put his back into it.
