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dethoratsTitle: Hone
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks and Ben
Word Count: 1056
A/N: second ficlet based around 'desire'
The curiously hollow sound of steel meeting iron shuddered in the air, couldn’t quite manage to reach a pleasant ringing tone, and died, smothered beneath the steady muted roar of water meeting land. Shanks frowned, scuttled backward through the sand, and brought his arm up for another rally. His plan was for an overhead feint followed by a quick sideways jab to the chest. Unfortunately his opponent was canny and he gave himself away, move choreographed too obviously so that it brought the heavy wooden butt of the gun around to strike right above his blade’s guard. His sword went spinning, landed at an upright angle in the surf, and Shanks finally uttered the curse that had been hovering on his lips since the exercise began. “Fuck!” Ben let the muzzle of his heavy, old-fashioned blunderbuss tip down to brush the sand and didn’t say a word as Shanks ran over to retrieve his blade. “Again!”
Two hours later and it was past noon, the sun beating down on sweaty backs and bare heads. Shanks leapt over a knee-high swipe, arm whipping around for a follow-through slice, and stumbled as he overbalanced, unable to compensate when Ben dodged rather than parried. He tried to flail but he had nothing to windmill with, and he dropped forward, eyes and mouth clamped shut against what was sure to be a faceplant into the sand. Shanks wound up with his cheek against worn mud-green cotton instead and was so angry he was tempted to bite.
“I think it’s time for lunch,” Ben said mildly as he watched his captain roll off his lap and into the sand, snarling all the while.
“Again!” Shanks insisted, once he managed to get the word past clenched teeth, his whole body tense and shaking with angry humiliation.
“Very well.” Ben stood up, brushed sand off his pants, and let his gun settle comfortably against his neck. It was insulting, that he looked so casual, and Shanks sprang at him only to be casually cuffed aside. He finally stopped rolling, landed on his back and staring into the blindingly blue sky. At least his sword was still in his hand as he brought it up to shade his face. The insistent throbs bathing his left side and the sullen ache of what was going to be a bruise on his lowest rib from where he’d just been caught nagged, urged him to get up again but he lay still for a long moment to wrestle with his temper. When he sat up, it was to find Ben had taken off his boots and was in the process of rolling up his pants.
“Lunch,” Ben answered when Shanks finally caught his eyes. “I’m hot and hungry and could use a break.” He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, took a long drag. “Give me an hour to eat and recover and we can go again if you want.”
“Fine.” It was grudging but it was the best he could manage, resentment and frustration simmering under his skin. Shanks sat long enough to watch Ben take his first hundred steps through the surf back towards the distant blur of the ship before he planted his sword and stood. There had to be something else he could do, some other element he was missing.
When he wandered back out of the woods two hours later, covered in scratches and with leaves in his hair, it was with a grin on his face. Ben was lounging on the sand back up against the tree line, book in one hand and a bottle in the other, and Shanks headed past him back to retrieve his sword. “Again?” Ben asked and had the courtesy to only raise an eyebrow when Shanks shook his head.
“Nah. Not yet. Got some other training to do.”
“And some lunch to eat,” his first mate said pointedly, insisting on something for the first time that day. The tossed bottle forced Shanks to drop his blade but the cork came out easily beneath the pressure of his thumb and the wine was cool as it ran down his throat. He sat in the shade and ate his sandwich and didn’t argue when Ben carefully unwrapped the bandages and rubbed soothing, numbing salve into his skin. Later, once he’d eaten and digested and rested his head on Ben’s lap while the older man read aloud from the day’s paper, he headed down the beach towards the water. The tide line was clear and Shanks dropped to the sand, began his first round of push-ups.
It was sunset when the water lapped at his fingers and toes and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. Ben had hung around for a while, then headed into the forest himself. He came back down the shore from the direction of the ship and stood in front of Shanks while the captain blindly watched foam wash over his first mate's feet, unsure for the moment if he had the strength to get up. “Here.” Ben held out the sword. “You carry this and I’ll get the rest.”
Somehow he found the energy to drag himself upright, biting his lip to hold back the grunt of pain as locked joints grudgingly worked free. They walked back slowly and in silence, Shanks’ sandals sticking out of Ben’s back pocket. On board a hot bath was drawn and Shanks collapsed into it gratefully. He soaked for a while, finally perked up with the promise of dinner. Later, as he pretended to be humoring Ben with quips and eye-rolls even as he let the man rub his shoulders and slowly melted back against him, he noticed Sponson and Yasopp engaged in an arm wrestling match conspicuously in front of him. It came to him then, as he watched, a brilliant plan. That could serve as a benchmark of sorts, let him know his progress, and Shanks sat up a little straighter.
“Pushups again tomorrow, Ben,” he said, beginning to plot, “and balance work and then an hour or two of sparring.” And Ben leaned forward to knock his temple against the back of Shanks’ head, effectively hiding his smile behind a faked groan and red hair.
“Tyrant. I’ll do it but only if you can make it out of bed in the morning.”
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks and Ben
Word Count: 1056
A/N: second ficlet based around 'desire'
The curiously hollow sound of steel meeting iron shuddered in the air, couldn’t quite manage to reach a pleasant ringing tone, and died, smothered beneath the steady muted roar of water meeting land. Shanks frowned, scuttled backward through the sand, and brought his arm up for another rally. His plan was for an overhead feint followed by a quick sideways jab to the chest. Unfortunately his opponent was canny and he gave himself away, move choreographed too obviously so that it brought the heavy wooden butt of the gun around to strike right above his blade’s guard. His sword went spinning, landed at an upright angle in the surf, and Shanks finally uttered the curse that had been hovering on his lips since the exercise began. “Fuck!” Ben let the muzzle of his heavy, old-fashioned blunderbuss tip down to brush the sand and didn’t say a word as Shanks ran over to retrieve his blade. “Again!”
Two hours later and it was past noon, the sun beating down on sweaty backs and bare heads. Shanks leapt over a knee-high swipe, arm whipping around for a follow-through slice, and stumbled as he overbalanced, unable to compensate when Ben dodged rather than parried. He tried to flail but he had nothing to windmill with, and he dropped forward, eyes and mouth clamped shut against what was sure to be a faceplant into the sand. Shanks wound up with his cheek against worn mud-green cotton instead and was so angry he was tempted to bite.
“I think it’s time for lunch,” Ben said mildly as he watched his captain roll off his lap and into the sand, snarling all the while.
“Again!” Shanks insisted, once he managed to get the word past clenched teeth, his whole body tense and shaking with angry humiliation.
“Very well.” Ben stood up, brushed sand off his pants, and let his gun settle comfortably against his neck. It was insulting, that he looked so casual, and Shanks sprang at him only to be casually cuffed aside. He finally stopped rolling, landed on his back and staring into the blindingly blue sky. At least his sword was still in his hand as he brought it up to shade his face. The insistent throbs bathing his left side and the sullen ache of what was going to be a bruise on his lowest rib from where he’d just been caught nagged, urged him to get up again but he lay still for a long moment to wrestle with his temper. When he sat up, it was to find Ben had taken off his boots and was in the process of rolling up his pants.
“Lunch,” Ben answered when Shanks finally caught his eyes. “I’m hot and hungry and could use a break.” He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, took a long drag. “Give me an hour to eat and recover and we can go again if you want.”
“Fine.” It was grudging but it was the best he could manage, resentment and frustration simmering under his skin. Shanks sat long enough to watch Ben take his first hundred steps through the surf back towards the distant blur of the ship before he planted his sword and stood. There had to be something else he could do, some other element he was missing.
When he wandered back out of the woods two hours later, covered in scratches and with leaves in his hair, it was with a grin on his face. Ben was lounging on the sand back up against the tree line, book in one hand and a bottle in the other, and Shanks headed past him back to retrieve his sword. “Again?” Ben asked and had the courtesy to only raise an eyebrow when Shanks shook his head.
“Nah. Not yet. Got some other training to do.”
“And some lunch to eat,” his first mate said pointedly, insisting on something for the first time that day. The tossed bottle forced Shanks to drop his blade but the cork came out easily beneath the pressure of his thumb and the wine was cool as it ran down his throat. He sat in the shade and ate his sandwich and didn’t argue when Ben carefully unwrapped the bandages and rubbed soothing, numbing salve into his skin. Later, once he’d eaten and digested and rested his head on Ben’s lap while the older man read aloud from the day’s paper, he headed down the beach towards the water. The tide line was clear and Shanks dropped to the sand, began his first round of push-ups.
It was sunset when the water lapped at his fingers and toes and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. Ben had hung around for a while, then headed into the forest himself. He came back down the shore from the direction of the ship and stood in front of Shanks while the captain blindly watched foam wash over his first mate's feet, unsure for the moment if he had the strength to get up. “Here.” Ben held out the sword. “You carry this and I’ll get the rest.”
Somehow he found the energy to drag himself upright, biting his lip to hold back the grunt of pain as locked joints grudgingly worked free. They walked back slowly and in silence, Shanks’ sandals sticking out of Ben’s back pocket. On board a hot bath was drawn and Shanks collapsed into it gratefully. He soaked for a while, finally perked up with the promise of dinner. Later, as he pretended to be humoring Ben with quips and eye-rolls even as he let the man rub his shoulders and slowly melted back against him, he noticed Sponson and Yasopp engaged in an arm wrestling match conspicuously in front of him. It came to him then, as he watched, a brilliant plan. That could serve as a benchmark of sorts, let him know his progress, and Shanks sat up a little straighter.
“Pushups again tomorrow, Ben,” he said, beginning to plot, “and balance work and then an hour or two of sparring.” And Ben leaned forward to knock his temple against the back of Shanks’ head, effectively hiding his smile behind a faked groan and red hair.
“Tyrant. I’ll do it but only if you can make it out of bed in the morning.”
