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Entry tags:
Random Late Night Word Vomit
Title: Counsel
Rating: G
Pairing: Shanks/Ben implied
Word Count: 1435
Notes: First mate conversations based on speculation following the outcome of the Payback War and my usual ideas of what Shanks' 'goal' is a an Emperor. Estimated time is somewhere during the two year time skip.
"Sorry yoi," Marco muttered, the guilty set of his face seemingly permanently etched there by the past several months. Ben shook his head in spite of the way it made his feet feel briefly disconnected from burning sands beneath his feet. The cough wasn't new and it wasn't truly Marco's fault, for all that he seemed determined to take the weight of every single scrap of misfortune that struck the combined crew onto his own shoulders.
"It's fine. Doc always told me the smoking would catch up to me but I didn't think I'd...well...in any event, Shanks calls the shots and he knows full well how all of his men react to this travel pattern."
One sandy eyebrow arched in Ben's direction and the Red-Hair Pirates' first mate made a mental note to tally just how many others in the role had picked up that particular muscular habit at some point. There was probably a psychological composite to be built out of them and that singular refined skill. He fished around in a pocket for the piece of old shirt currently serving as a handkerchief and winced a bit at the damp squishy feel of it between his fingers. Gingerly Ben unfolded a corner and blew his nose for the umpteenth time that day and then simply dropped to the sand to curl over as the inevitable coughing fit struck.
When he could catch his breath, Ben patted the sand in invitation and Marco, still wearing the same dubiously questioning expression, put down the basket they were supposed to be filling with forage to join him. "This isn't the first nor likely the last time the crew'll take this particular voyage." Ben cast a sideways glance at Marco and then set his sight far out to sea, the waves and sand blurring into streaks of blue and white heat shimmers under the pale, sun-bleached sky. The constant background drone of insect life faded behind the louder and more soothing hiss of salt spray and the gentle steady ringing from the pressure in his ears. For a moment, baking in the oven-hotness of midday, Ben nearly forgot the tides of mucus flowing through his head until the headache beating behind one eye and down his jaw decided to throb. "Aye, the captain knows this stretch of the Grand Line very well indeed. And he knows what effect it has on his men and on those who are strangers to it. The Grand Line protects its treasures very well. And Shanks is an excellent decoy."
"But we wouldn't be doing this if not for-"
"Yes we would. And have. And will again. You know why Whitebeard chose not to come here. And Shanks has been and seen and chosen to guard rather than to claim. Others will always try, regardless, and until they can make it past us, that's not going to change."
"But Teach..."
"Would be here if he was ready. This is just a test. We'll lead them through the maze and see what's left on the other side. If Blackbeard was here, Shanks would stand and fight. You're not the only one with a claim on him. But he's not and so we have to keep his crew from mapping the route or getting a gauge on the lay of the land. This is Red Hair territory and no one knows it better than us. Just because it's shitty territory full of extreme weather and dangers doesn't mean we won't defend it. No one's getting through without the captain's leave."
The hand Marco held up was smooth and pale as always. The flash of pity Ben felt was almost rote by now and he hid the emotion behind a smothered cough. "I know. That's why we're here...now yoi." Bitterness dripped out, slumped Marco's shoulders as much as his tone. "But I let them follow. Didn't...didn't do right by Ace or make Pops proud."
Ah. A wave of pressure throbbed through his skull and Ben wished Shanks was there with a disarming grin and gallons of booze. But the captain had chores of his own and really, Marco would already know that this was part of job. If only he wasn't sick as a dog when Marco finally decided to start the purge; his thinking was never the best when he had a massive head cold.
"You're here, the crew's alive, and you will get another chance." Ben let a small wave of coughing interrupt, turned to spit into the sand. He grit his teeth against the throb of pain and finally decided he needed the nicotine more than its absent buffer for his health. The cigarillo was lit politely by a blue flame and Ben took a long drag, breathing better than he had before. What to say that Marco would hear? There was no way for this wound to heal without a nasty scar, not even for the phoenix.
"Frankly, if you want my honest opinion, I know they'd both be proud of you. You haven't stopped fighting and the name of Whitebeard still means something on this sea." He couldn't smell the thin trail of smoke but the burn of it felt like it was opening his lungs. Hopefully true and not just wishful thinking. Next to him, he could see Marco was frowning and preparing his rebuttal. "However," and Ben pointed his smoke at the other man menacingly, "- and if you ever mention this in Shanks' earshot, I will kill you myself - I can't understand how you're still alive."
Breath hissed in through clenched teeth and Ben met squarely the stricken face staring at his own. He felt too crappy for real finesse at the moment and if Marco was going to purge, then so was he. Maybe it would do them both some good.
"If our places were switched and it were Shanks under the ground, I'd be rotting away somewhere or feeding the fishes by now. Hopefully I'd have my vengeance and death in one go but I'd not be hanging around out here if I'd failed. I couldn't bear to live with what you're carrying every day."
It was true. Ever since he watched Shanks watching the funeral, Ben had known it deep inside. Years ago, when the captain had still worn a straw hat, they'd discussed the possibility. Back then, before time had taken its toll and he still had a hammock of his own to sleep in, he had thought grudgingly that he could do it. Not anymore. He was too old and too invested and had gotten very bad at obeying certain orders. Looking at Marco every day had only made him more certain and more aware that he would be letting Shanks down if such circumstances ever came to pass. The truth was pathetic but at least it was finally off his chest.
"And that," Ben said as he got to his feet and stretched down a hand to the gaping Marco, "makes you a better man than me. You haven't given up and you've kept the crew alive and you had the guts and brains to ask for help. You're a credit to your captain. Always have been and always will be."
Marco's mouth worked for a moment and then he reached up beyond the offered hand to clasp Ben's arm. It was just for an instant, fleeting pressure of knowing, grateful fingers, and then Marco turned away to reach for the forage basket. Ben straightened to his full height and stared back out across the water. The sun beat down and he could finally feel the last lingering chill from the previous island melt from his bones.
The sneezing fit saved them from an awkward silence, Ben almost back on the sand from the force of it.
"Sorry yoi," Marco said again, once Ben had managed to catch his breath and was looking forlornly at the disgusting mess of his handkerchief. But he smiled, tiny and sincere, when Ben shot him a look. "I don't get sick myself or I'd loan you one of mine."
And Ben smiled back, face gradually stretching into a dangerous grin despite his red nose and clogged tone as he studied Marco standing there in the sun. "That's alright, bird, I think your shirt will do just fine."
*****
The forage basket was only half full when Shanks peeked into it that evening but Marco, for once present and sandwiched between Vista and Yasopp around the fire, raised an actual glass to them when the captain towed his whining, sickly first mate off to bed.
A/N: I'm alive. Wrote this on a whim. Health (m and p) poor since December and I haven't had the balls to speak with anyone. Hidden. Still hiding. Trying to figure out how to atone. Will try to make amends once able to.
Rating: G
Pairing: Shanks/Ben implied
Word Count: 1435
Notes: First mate conversations based on speculation following the outcome of the Payback War and my usual ideas of what Shanks' 'goal' is a an Emperor. Estimated time is somewhere during the two year time skip.
"Sorry yoi," Marco muttered, the guilty set of his face seemingly permanently etched there by the past several months. Ben shook his head in spite of the way it made his feet feel briefly disconnected from burning sands beneath his feet. The cough wasn't new and it wasn't truly Marco's fault, for all that he seemed determined to take the weight of every single scrap of misfortune that struck the combined crew onto his own shoulders.
"It's fine. Doc always told me the smoking would catch up to me but I didn't think I'd...well...in any event, Shanks calls the shots and he knows full well how all of his men react to this travel pattern."
One sandy eyebrow arched in Ben's direction and the Red-Hair Pirates' first mate made a mental note to tally just how many others in the role had picked up that particular muscular habit at some point. There was probably a psychological composite to be built out of them and that singular refined skill. He fished around in a pocket for the piece of old shirt currently serving as a handkerchief and winced a bit at the damp squishy feel of it between his fingers. Gingerly Ben unfolded a corner and blew his nose for the umpteenth time that day and then simply dropped to the sand to curl over as the inevitable coughing fit struck.
When he could catch his breath, Ben patted the sand in invitation and Marco, still wearing the same dubiously questioning expression, put down the basket they were supposed to be filling with forage to join him. "This isn't the first nor likely the last time the crew'll take this particular voyage." Ben cast a sideways glance at Marco and then set his sight far out to sea, the waves and sand blurring into streaks of blue and white heat shimmers under the pale, sun-bleached sky. The constant background drone of insect life faded behind the louder and more soothing hiss of salt spray and the gentle steady ringing from the pressure in his ears. For a moment, baking in the oven-hotness of midday, Ben nearly forgot the tides of mucus flowing through his head until the headache beating behind one eye and down his jaw decided to throb. "Aye, the captain knows this stretch of the Grand Line very well indeed. And he knows what effect it has on his men and on those who are strangers to it. The Grand Line protects its treasures very well. And Shanks is an excellent decoy."
"But we wouldn't be doing this if not for-"
"Yes we would. And have. And will again. You know why Whitebeard chose not to come here. And Shanks has been and seen and chosen to guard rather than to claim. Others will always try, regardless, and until they can make it past us, that's not going to change."
"But Teach..."
"Would be here if he was ready. This is just a test. We'll lead them through the maze and see what's left on the other side. If Blackbeard was here, Shanks would stand and fight. You're not the only one with a claim on him. But he's not and so we have to keep his crew from mapping the route or getting a gauge on the lay of the land. This is Red Hair territory and no one knows it better than us. Just because it's shitty territory full of extreme weather and dangers doesn't mean we won't defend it. No one's getting through without the captain's leave."
The hand Marco held up was smooth and pale as always. The flash of pity Ben felt was almost rote by now and he hid the emotion behind a smothered cough. "I know. That's why we're here...now yoi." Bitterness dripped out, slumped Marco's shoulders as much as his tone. "But I let them follow. Didn't...didn't do right by Ace or make Pops proud."
Ah. A wave of pressure throbbed through his skull and Ben wished Shanks was there with a disarming grin and gallons of booze. But the captain had chores of his own and really, Marco would already know that this was part of job. If only he wasn't sick as a dog when Marco finally decided to start the purge; his thinking was never the best when he had a massive head cold.
"You're here, the crew's alive, and you will get another chance." Ben let a small wave of coughing interrupt, turned to spit into the sand. He grit his teeth against the throb of pain and finally decided he needed the nicotine more than its absent buffer for his health. The cigarillo was lit politely by a blue flame and Ben took a long drag, breathing better than he had before. What to say that Marco would hear? There was no way for this wound to heal without a nasty scar, not even for the phoenix.
"Frankly, if you want my honest opinion, I know they'd both be proud of you. You haven't stopped fighting and the name of Whitebeard still means something on this sea." He couldn't smell the thin trail of smoke but the burn of it felt like it was opening his lungs. Hopefully true and not just wishful thinking. Next to him, he could see Marco was frowning and preparing his rebuttal. "However," and Ben pointed his smoke at the other man menacingly, "- and if you ever mention this in Shanks' earshot, I will kill you myself - I can't understand how you're still alive."
Breath hissed in through clenched teeth and Ben met squarely the stricken face staring at his own. He felt too crappy for real finesse at the moment and if Marco was going to purge, then so was he. Maybe it would do them both some good.
"If our places were switched and it were Shanks under the ground, I'd be rotting away somewhere or feeding the fishes by now. Hopefully I'd have my vengeance and death in one go but I'd not be hanging around out here if I'd failed. I couldn't bear to live with what you're carrying every day."
It was true. Ever since he watched Shanks watching the funeral, Ben had known it deep inside. Years ago, when the captain had still worn a straw hat, they'd discussed the possibility. Back then, before time had taken its toll and he still had a hammock of his own to sleep in, he had thought grudgingly that he could do it. Not anymore. He was too old and too invested and had gotten very bad at obeying certain orders. Looking at Marco every day had only made him more certain and more aware that he would be letting Shanks down if such circumstances ever came to pass. The truth was pathetic but at least it was finally off his chest.
"And that," Ben said as he got to his feet and stretched down a hand to the gaping Marco, "makes you a better man than me. You haven't given up and you've kept the crew alive and you had the guts and brains to ask for help. You're a credit to your captain. Always have been and always will be."
Marco's mouth worked for a moment and then he reached up beyond the offered hand to clasp Ben's arm. It was just for an instant, fleeting pressure of knowing, grateful fingers, and then Marco turned away to reach for the forage basket. Ben straightened to his full height and stared back out across the water. The sun beat down and he could finally feel the last lingering chill from the previous island melt from his bones.
The sneezing fit saved them from an awkward silence, Ben almost back on the sand from the force of it.
"Sorry yoi," Marco said again, once Ben had managed to catch his breath and was looking forlornly at the disgusting mess of his handkerchief. But he smiled, tiny and sincere, when Ben shot him a look. "I don't get sick myself or I'd loan you one of mine."
And Ben smiled back, face gradually stretching into a dangerous grin despite his red nose and clogged tone as he studied Marco standing there in the sun. "That's alright, bird, I think your shirt will do just fine."
*****
The forage basket was only half full when Shanks peeked into it that evening but Marco, for once present and sandwiched between Vista and Yasopp around the fire, raised an actual glass to them when the captain towed his whining, sickly first mate off to bed.
A/N: I'm alive. Wrote this on a whim. Health (m and p) poor since December and I haven't had the balls to speak with anyone. Hidden. Still hiding. Trying to figure out how to atone. Will try to make amends once able to.
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