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dethoratsTitle: Consequence
Rating: PG
Pairing: Could be read as gen or as some combination of Shanks/Ben/Mihawk
Word Count: 1413
A/N: More stream-of-consciousness-esque writing, unedited
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” The words are heated, outraged, louder than their speaker probably realizes. Loud enough that Shanks doesn’t have to press his ear to the door of his own cabin to hear them. He does so anyway, because he has no idea what the response will be for once in his life and curiosity has always been a particular weakness of his. The air is tense, vibrating with pressure that for a change isn’t his own will but two others, each strong in their own ways but the one, at least, usually carefully put away behind layers and layers of patience and planning. He had stopped trying today, accepted it with mostly cheerful resignation. Oh, Shanks was disappointed, sorely, but it wasn’t the end of his world and there were years yet to live and so many things to do. But he supposes he cannot be entirely surprised at the anger on his behalf. Not in this instance.
There is a hiss of breath, a sigh between clenched teeth. Someone is tired of answering this question and this one does not have the same sort of patience. Never has and never will. And this man has his own store of disappointment and is not above, never has been, a low blow. “The same could be asked of you.” The tone is cold, hard, and Shanks can picture the direct stare being leveled, the bait, the challenge in it, that will inevitably be taken. He could live a hundred years and never drive the last trace of unwarranted guilt away. Doesn’t mean he won’t try, but damn the Hawk can fight dirty when he wants. Wills meet, clash, and wonder of wonders, Ben’s doesn’t slide away. Shanks bites his lip, wonders if he can risk a peek through the keyhole as the thunderheads begin to gather over his ship.
“He does what he wants.” Ben’s voice is quieter now, but fury still laces his tone. “And nothing in all the heavens can stop him if he doesn’t want to be. How dare you presume this has changed any of that!” Lightning flickers in the darkening sky and Shanks frowns. His first mate doesn’t lose his temper, not for real. It’s one of the things he likes best about the man, the cool head and the ability to see beyond the here-and-now to the bigger picture. But somehow that clarity is gone and Ben’s a volcano on the verge of eruption, rage replacing the level anger that is his first mate’s usual reaction to injustice, and it’s probably his fault. The only time Ben ever overreacts is when he’s involved. It’s flattering but in this instance it’s also dangerous.
Mihawk’s biggest flaw, since Shanks has managed to develop a sense of humor in him over the years, is his pride. In many ways it’s also his greatest strength, and Shanks winces at the icy scorn in the swordsman’s reply. “For once you are ignorant, Beckman, and speak of what you do not, cannot know. Do not PRESUME to understand.” Thunder crashes, booms over his head, and the first freezing drop lands on Shanks’ nose.
“I don’t know? YOU are the one who doesn’t know. The one who isn’t willing to find out. He’s different but not diminished, a new damn challenge that you aren’t willing to take.” Ben sucks in an audible breath, lets it back out. His voice is more controlled now, leashed, but the force of his will remains unchanged behind it. “You have no idea what he’s put himself through, how hard he’s worked, how much stronger he is because of it.”
“And that is precisely why you cannot understand.” Mihawk’s reply is immediate and implacable and there is a long silence in which Shanks holds his breath. The lightning strikes the rod mounted atop the mainmast, the sizzle of it buried beneath the accompanying thunderclap. ‘Long enough,’ Shanks thinks, and moves to intervene. Ben will forgive him eventually, which is why, once he’s thrown open the door to his own quarters, he barks out the command.
“Stand down, Beckman. That’s an order.” He watches Ben’s mouth open, then snap shut, the line of his shoulders so tense he is practically shaking. Shanks says nothing further, just makes himself watch the instantly buried flicker of pained betrayal in dark eyes as Ben complies, the force of his will slowly and meticulously buried away again as he breathes and follows his captain’s orders. Mihawk watches with an expression of indifference and Shanks is glad because he might have decked the man himself if the Hawk had chosen to react in any other way.
“Well,” he says once nothing more palpable remains of Ben’s will than a lingering scent of ozone in the air, Mihawk’s pressure drawn back in response as well. The late afternoon sun. is already shining on the deck of his ship once more. He puts his arm around Mihawk’s waist; the man’s spine is like iron, ramrod-straight and not merely because he’s just been on his guard. It’s enough that when Shanks softens his voice he doesn’t have to fake the note of regret in it. “My apologies, old friend, but I think that today at least you will not find anything you may want aboard my ship. I can offer you the hospitality of my board but nothing more.”
He isn’t choosing, because he can’t, because they’re both better than that and will remember that eventually. Shanks gently steers Mihawk towards the door, squeezes his hip. But it’s been a long day and they are, all of three of them, exhausted and overwhelmed. They need distance, before there’s a chance for real regret, and time to temper understanding. And it’s technically his fault but Shanks can’t make himself feel too guilty whenever he remembers that tear-stained grin and the promise. It had been worth it, still was. There’s a dismissal couched in his words and Mihawk takes it with dignity, gently presses his elbow against the hand at his waist as Shanks leads them onto the deck.
“My regrets, Shanks,” he replies, the full truth of that statement hitting home as he stares into the redhead’s eyes, “but I have business elsewhere. Some other time.”
“Ah,” Shanks nods, lets him go. “Some other time.” He watches his former rival leap down into his waiting vessel, shades his eyes against the glare as Mihawk sails off into the setting sun. Ben comes to stand at his shoulder in time enough to be there when the swordsman does, finally, spare a single look back. His first mate sighs and lifts a fist to grind roughly against his own temple before raising his hand in farewell. Mihawk responds in kind, and Shanks lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“We’ll cross blades again some day,“ he murmurs, not looking away from the retreating figure. “Might be in five years, might be in twenty, but some day. When he’s not the same either. When the field is level again.” Ben shifts next to him but holds his tongue on the retort that Shanks knows is waiting. His first mate knows him too well to think Shanks is in any way implying Mihawk has managed to surpass him. Indeed, Shanks feels sorry for the swordsman even as he regrets the fact that he has temporarily lost one of his two favorite sparring partners. But he understands and Ben will too, even if he won’t accept it right away. It’s why he stays and Mihawk always goes, because they aren’t the same and because it is those differences in each other that they respect the most.
Ben is stiff beneath the arm Shanks resettles around his waist but he doesn’t pull away. The sun sinks lower and burns in red and gold, gilding the sea and glinting off the jewel on pommel of Mihawk’s sword. It’s their last glimpse of him but they stay until the sun has slipped beneath the waves. They do not speak but Shanks can feel the patient calm begin to settle once more over his first mate, the volcano back to its deep slumber. This day has been a trial, one they have all both won and lost; someday, hopefully, they’ll look back and laugh. The dinner bell rings, breaking the silence, and Ben lets Shanks take his hand and keep it as they head off in the direction of the galley.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Could be read as gen or as some combination of Shanks/Ben/Mihawk
Word Count: 1413
A/N: More stream-of-consciousness-esque writing, unedited
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” The words are heated, outraged, louder than their speaker probably realizes. Loud enough that Shanks doesn’t have to press his ear to the door of his own cabin to hear them. He does so anyway, because he has no idea what the response will be for once in his life and curiosity has always been a particular weakness of his. The air is tense, vibrating with pressure that for a change isn’t his own will but two others, each strong in their own ways but the one, at least, usually carefully put away behind layers and layers of patience and planning. He had stopped trying today, accepted it with mostly cheerful resignation. Oh, Shanks was disappointed, sorely, but it wasn’t the end of his world and there were years yet to live and so many things to do. But he supposes he cannot be entirely surprised at the anger on his behalf. Not in this instance.
There is a hiss of breath, a sigh between clenched teeth. Someone is tired of answering this question and this one does not have the same sort of patience. Never has and never will. And this man has his own store of disappointment and is not above, never has been, a low blow. “The same could be asked of you.” The tone is cold, hard, and Shanks can picture the direct stare being leveled, the bait, the challenge in it, that will inevitably be taken. He could live a hundred years and never drive the last trace of unwarranted guilt away. Doesn’t mean he won’t try, but damn the Hawk can fight dirty when he wants. Wills meet, clash, and wonder of wonders, Ben’s doesn’t slide away. Shanks bites his lip, wonders if he can risk a peek through the keyhole as the thunderheads begin to gather over his ship.
“He does what he wants.” Ben’s voice is quieter now, but fury still laces his tone. “And nothing in all the heavens can stop him if he doesn’t want to be. How dare you presume this has changed any of that!” Lightning flickers in the darkening sky and Shanks frowns. His first mate doesn’t lose his temper, not for real. It’s one of the things he likes best about the man, the cool head and the ability to see beyond the here-and-now to the bigger picture. But somehow that clarity is gone and Ben’s a volcano on the verge of eruption, rage replacing the level anger that is his first mate’s usual reaction to injustice, and it’s probably his fault. The only time Ben ever overreacts is when he’s involved. It’s flattering but in this instance it’s also dangerous.
Mihawk’s biggest flaw, since Shanks has managed to develop a sense of humor in him over the years, is his pride. In many ways it’s also his greatest strength, and Shanks winces at the icy scorn in the swordsman’s reply. “For once you are ignorant, Beckman, and speak of what you do not, cannot know. Do not PRESUME to understand.” Thunder crashes, booms over his head, and the first freezing drop lands on Shanks’ nose.
“I don’t know? YOU are the one who doesn’t know. The one who isn’t willing to find out. He’s different but not diminished, a new damn challenge that you aren’t willing to take.” Ben sucks in an audible breath, lets it back out. His voice is more controlled now, leashed, but the force of his will remains unchanged behind it. “You have no idea what he’s put himself through, how hard he’s worked, how much stronger he is because of it.”
“And that is precisely why you cannot understand.” Mihawk’s reply is immediate and implacable and there is a long silence in which Shanks holds his breath. The lightning strikes the rod mounted atop the mainmast, the sizzle of it buried beneath the accompanying thunderclap. ‘Long enough,’ Shanks thinks, and moves to intervene. Ben will forgive him eventually, which is why, once he’s thrown open the door to his own quarters, he barks out the command.
“Stand down, Beckman. That’s an order.” He watches Ben’s mouth open, then snap shut, the line of his shoulders so tense he is practically shaking. Shanks says nothing further, just makes himself watch the instantly buried flicker of pained betrayal in dark eyes as Ben complies, the force of his will slowly and meticulously buried away again as he breathes and follows his captain’s orders. Mihawk watches with an expression of indifference and Shanks is glad because he might have decked the man himself if the Hawk had chosen to react in any other way.
“Well,” he says once nothing more palpable remains of Ben’s will than a lingering scent of ozone in the air, Mihawk’s pressure drawn back in response as well. The late afternoon sun. is already shining on the deck of his ship once more. He puts his arm around Mihawk’s waist; the man’s spine is like iron, ramrod-straight and not merely because he’s just been on his guard. It’s enough that when Shanks softens his voice he doesn’t have to fake the note of regret in it. “My apologies, old friend, but I think that today at least you will not find anything you may want aboard my ship. I can offer you the hospitality of my board but nothing more.”
He isn’t choosing, because he can’t, because they’re both better than that and will remember that eventually. Shanks gently steers Mihawk towards the door, squeezes his hip. But it’s been a long day and they are, all of three of them, exhausted and overwhelmed. They need distance, before there’s a chance for real regret, and time to temper understanding. And it’s technically his fault but Shanks can’t make himself feel too guilty whenever he remembers that tear-stained grin and the promise. It had been worth it, still was. There’s a dismissal couched in his words and Mihawk takes it with dignity, gently presses his elbow against the hand at his waist as Shanks leads them onto the deck.
“My regrets, Shanks,” he replies, the full truth of that statement hitting home as he stares into the redhead’s eyes, “but I have business elsewhere. Some other time.”
“Ah,” Shanks nods, lets him go. “Some other time.” He watches his former rival leap down into his waiting vessel, shades his eyes against the glare as Mihawk sails off into the setting sun. Ben comes to stand at his shoulder in time enough to be there when the swordsman does, finally, spare a single look back. His first mate sighs and lifts a fist to grind roughly against his own temple before raising his hand in farewell. Mihawk responds in kind, and Shanks lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“We’ll cross blades again some day,“ he murmurs, not looking away from the retreating figure. “Might be in five years, might be in twenty, but some day. When he’s not the same either. When the field is level again.” Ben shifts next to him but holds his tongue on the retort that Shanks knows is waiting. His first mate knows him too well to think Shanks is in any way implying Mihawk has managed to surpass him. Indeed, Shanks feels sorry for the swordsman even as he regrets the fact that he has temporarily lost one of his two favorite sparring partners. But he understands and Ben will too, even if he won’t accept it right away. It’s why he stays and Mihawk always goes, because they aren’t the same and because it is those differences in each other that they respect the most.
Ben is stiff beneath the arm Shanks resettles around his waist but he doesn’t pull away. The sun sinks lower and burns in red and gold, gilding the sea and glinting off the jewel on pommel of Mihawk’s sword. It’s their last glimpse of him but they stay until the sun has slipped beneath the waves. They do not speak but Shanks can feel the patient calm begin to settle once more over his first mate, the volcano back to its deep slumber. This day has been a trial, one they have all both won and lost; someday, hopefully, they’ll look back and laugh. The dinner bell rings, breaking the silence, and Ben lets Shanks take his hand and keep it as they head off in the direction of the galley.
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no subject
Date: 2011-09-27 03:42 pm (UTC)In an unrelated note - can you wear an XL teeshirt? Because I just got something I think you'll like, but I'm not sure it'll /fit/. ;) (No, I'm not telling. lol)
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Date: 2011-09-28 12:20 am (UTC)As for size, I can indeed wear an XL shirt, anything medium or above is fine (I tend to wear my t-shirts a bit oversized in any event...also surprise?! Eeee!)
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Date: 2011-09-27 03:43 pm (UTC)“Might be in five years, might be in twenty, but some day. When he’s not the same either. When the field is level again.” -> This makes me wonder whether Zoro might be the one to level the playing field. I don't know if you meant to suggest it but it's such a delicious idea, I'm tempted to steal it.
Gah, there's so much stuff that I love in here and want to comment on but it's getting to be too overwhelming. For now, though, it's going in my memories :-)
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Date: 2011-09-28 12:38 am (UTC)As for Zoro, that is EXACTLY what I meant. I have trouble believing Oda would have Zoro kill Mihawk when they have their penultimate duel but I could easily see some sort of writerly urge to inflict similar damage on him as had happened to Shanks and then there would be no reason at all for them not to fight once more.