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dethoratsTitle: Spots
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks and Ben
Word Count: 536
A/N: I swear they won't all be about chores...
The water suddenly dripping down the back of his neck was cold and unexpected, as off-putting as bumbling face-first into a cobweb on the way to the head in the middle of the night. Ben scowled darkly into the frothy water before him, wished he wasn’t up to his elbows in soap suds, and slowly tipped his head back. Two smiles met his gaze, one sheepish and the other unrepentant and a little wicked. Sponson ducked his head as Ben frowned up at him but Shanks just laughed, shaking the rigging and sending a scattering of more water down onto his first mate’s head. The pair were busy with their own chore, Sponson’s vest bristling with clothespins and a damp bag full of newly-washed clothes wedged into the shroud gaps at his waist while Shanks, stripped to just a ratty old pair of cut-offs looked particularly foolish with still more clothespins dangling from his hair and rattling about his ears.
“Isn’t there somewhere else to hang those?” Ben asked pointedly even though he already knew the answer, hunching up his shoulders so that his shirt soaked up the wetness on his skin. “Perhaps a location NOT directly above where I or anyone else is working?”
“Sorry boss.” Sponson shook his head, apparently unaware of the minefield he was stepping into. “But Cap’n says the sun is gonna shift over here soon enough and this way the clothes’ll dry out quicker.”
“You do realize,” Ben said, resolutely not looking at twinkling hazel eyes, “that with our current heading this side of the ship is facing East and we’re already into the afternoon.”
“I did wonder about that a bit but orders are orders.”
“That’s true. Sometimes we do have to do extremely foolish things thanks to the commands of our illustrious leader.”
“Hey-“ Shanks started to protest before he cut himself off, not liking the way Ben’s head slowly turned in his direction.
“But I think you’ll like this order. Stay where you are if you don’t want a scrubbing.” And with that Ben was on his feet, the stiff brush the crew used on blood and ketchup and chocolate spots in hand and soap bubbles streaming down his arm. Shanks took off like a rocket, leaping free of the shroud lines and pounding across the deck with his first mate in hot pursuit. And he would have gotten away, too, if he hadn’t tried to be clever and lose Ben in the flapping white maze of hanging linens between the masts. Just as he was about to sneak out and make a mad final dash for his cabin, a hand shot out, clamped around his wrist. The scrub brush left a big wet patch on the seat of his shorts and Ben tsked loudly and towed him towards his cabin. “Got a particularly stubborn stain here,” he proclaimed loudly, grinning as the rest of the crew was all too happy to agree with him. “I suspect it will be a while before I can get it off.”
“Call us when chow’s on,” Shanks said, unrepentant to the last and wanting the final word as he closed the door to his cabin and locked it behind them.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks and Ben
Word Count: 536
A/N: I swear they won't all be about chores...
The water suddenly dripping down the back of his neck was cold and unexpected, as off-putting as bumbling face-first into a cobweb on the way to the head in the middle of the night. Ben scowled darkly into the frothy water before him, wished he wasn’t up to his elbows in soap suds, and slowly tipped his head back. Two smiles met his gaze, one sheepish and the other unrepentant and a little wicked. Sponson ducked his head as Ben frowned up at him but Shanks just laughed, shaking the rigging and sending a scattering of more water down onto his first mate’s head. The pair were busy with their own chore, Sponson’s vest bristling with clothespins and a damp bag full of newly-washed clothes wedged into the shroud gaps at his waist while Shanks, stripped to just a ratty old pair of cut-offs looked particularly foolish with still more clothespins dangling from his hair and rattling about his ears.
“Isn’t there somewhere else to hang those?” Ben asked pointedly even though he already knew the answer, hunching up his shoulders so that his shirt soaked up the wetness on his skin. “Perhaps a location NOT directly above where I or anyone else is working?”
“Sorry boss.” Sponson shook his head, apparently unaware of the minefield he was stepping into. “But Cap’n says the sun is gonna shift over here soon enough and this way the clothes’ll dry out quicker.”
“You do realize,” Ben said, resolutely not looking at twinkling hazel eyes, “that with our current heading this side of the ship is facing East and we’re already into the afternoon.”
“I did wonder about that a bit but orders are orders.”
“That’s true. Sometimes we do have to do extremely foolish things thanks to the commands of our illustrious leader.”
“Hey-“ Shanks started to protest before he cut himself off, not liking the way Ben’s head slowly turned in his direction.
“But I think you’ll like this order. Stay where you are if you don’t want a scrubbing.” And with that Ben was on his feet, the stiff brush the crew used on blood and ketchup and chocolate spots in hand and soap bubbles streaming down his arm. Shanks took off like a rocket, leaping free of the shroud lines and pounding across the deck with his first mate in hot pursuit. And he would have gotten away, too, if he hadn’t tried to be clever and lose Ben in the flapping white maze of hanging linens between the masts. Just as he was about to sneak out and make a mad final dash for his cabin, a hand shot out, clamped around his wrist. The scrub brush left a big wet patch on the seat of his shorts and Ben tsked loudly and towed him towards his cabin. “Got a particularly stubborn stain here,” he proclaimed loudly, grinning as the rest of the crew was all too happy to agree with him. “I suspect it will be a while before I can get it off.”
“Call us when chow’s on,” Shanks said, unrepentant to the last and wanting the final word as he closed the door to his cabin and locked it behind them.
