Archive of Our Own

You weren’t supposed to be here. Physically yes, but also mentally, emotionally, spiritually. This had the hallmark of all your worst ideas all wrapped up in a giant red flag. Possibly on fire.
You had just needed to get out of the town, undetected and preferably quickly. You thought you’d been careful. Sneaky. You should have known better. Should have sensed the eyes on you. You blamed the stress. Naturally.
Yasopp had spotted you three steps up the gangplank. Watched for a few moments, assessing you for danger, then decided it would be far funnier to let you try and stowaway.
He told Lucky Roux later that he thought having a woman around might help tidy up the place. That he was absolutely certain you were no threat and his judgement was always right. Benn just rolled his eyes with all the gravitas of a man who had seen a hundred bad decisions before and knew deep in his bones that this was yet another mess he’d have to clean up. As the ship drifted away from the port he put out his cigarette with all the gravitas of a man heading to his own funeral, stood, and made his way to the hold.

You just needed a ride to the next port. Easy enough. Hide with the supplies, wait out a couple of days, escape. It was such a simple plan. Nothing you hadn’t done before. Even if this particular hold smelled suspiciously of rum and, was that mildew? And it was in a state of disarray you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before in your life. Still, as long as they didn’t realise you were here you’d be fine, you wouldn’t even need to borrow any food if the journey was short enough. Perhaps you could quietly organise some of this chaos as repayment?
“We expect everyone on the ship to work. Even stowaways.”
You curse. Several times. In an incredibly unladylike manner. You’re pretty sure some of the fish outside gasp and swim away. You curse once more just for good measure before slowly rising from behind one of the barrels.
“Just make it quick.” You sigh, empty hands in the air.
Benn stares at you. Deadpan. Tired. Like a man who’s one more incident away from retiring. (He’s threatened it at least three times in the last week, it never sticks.)
“You’d rather die than work?”
You shrug, “Honestly I figured it was a ploy just to get me to come out.”
Benn stares harder. “We’re pirates, not monsters.”
“I’ve heard stories.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. And certainly not your panicked brain desperately trying to retain some dignity. “When you say work…”
“I don’t think the deck’s been properly acquainted with a mop in a long time,” he smirks, “unless you’ve got a better offer?”
The phrasing should sound suggestive, those words together with that smirk should be the sort of thing they publish in those romance novels they keep at the back of the bookshop. But no. His tone is so even and honest and kind that you feel terrible for even having the fleeting thought.
Still panicking just a little your mouth starts moving before your brain engages, “I, usually, have sharp eyes. My memory is excellent. I’ve been described as terrifyingly efficient–” you’re counting on your fingers now, pressing one against your palm each time you spout off a new point, like you’re going through positive qualities for a job interview. One where your life is quite possibly on the line. “I’m organised. I do actually know how to clean…”
Benn is trying not to laugh, you can see it in his eyes. It deflates you a little, your stream of consciousness stuttering to a halt. He’s just watching you, arms folded across his broad chest, expression placid if not a little amused and it still ignites a spark of panic in your chest. It’s not enough. You’re so close to escape and it’s going to be ripped from you. Desperation claws at your throat.
“I have some classified Marine Patrol Routes in my back pocket, Captain. And I’ll still mop.”
The man smiles, pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then shakes his head. “Good to know, but I’m not the Captain.”
You freeze. “You’re not?”
“No. Welcome to the Red Force.”
You swear. Again. Stare at the sack of supplies in front of you as it is personally responsible for the situation you’ve put yourself in. Look down at the floor with a silent prayer that a hole would open to the ocean floor or a Sea King would rise through the boards and swallow you whole.
“No.” You whispered, nails digging into your palms. “Not the Yonko.”
Benn watches you go through all the stages of grief with the air of a man who considers this just another Tuesday. Finally, when you look up at him again, he nods.
“I’ll get you that mop.”

You did, in fact, mop. You didn’t leave the hold for four hours. Mopping, organising, quarantining bags of supplies so rotten they were beginning to grow their own ecosystem. Thankfully there had only been two of those, but you’d yelled at the ceiling how it was a miracle none of them had been poisoned. Someone had shouted back that they’re immune. You threw several rude gestures at the ceiling in response, ignoring the laughter and smells of rum and something you didn’t want to decipher that filtered down from above. The hold is spotless and you’re staring at the door as if it’s going to bite you. You don’t want to go up there. Don’t want the crew to know you exist in any sense more solid than a ghost story. Definitely do not want to run into a red haired Yonko. But you promised Benn you would mop. Because he let you stay. Because he didn’t ask questions (or throw you overboard immediately). And because he was unreasonably calm and kind for a Pirate whose ship you'd just hidden on. Taking a deep breath you open the door, mop braced before you like a weapon as you squinted in the sudden brightness.
It’s loud.
And smelly.
Your nose wrinkles. You debate whether it’s possible to get drunk from rum fumes. Whether the ocean is actually a better option.
You take a step forward. The noise stops.
Not softly. There’s no gentle lull in the shouting or chatter. It’s like someone sucked all of the air out of the ship. There are men frozen in place. Two of them appear to have been half way through a duel with produce. One has a mug of rum slowly spilling down his shirt. And there, sat by the railing, totally removed from the chaos with a length of rope in his lap, is your saviour. You pick up your bucket, mop still held before you like someone walking into a lion's den, and start towards him.
The effect is immediate. A bomb going off on deck would have been quieter. You try to block out the noise, eyes focused on the first mate and the deck between you, but words filter through your emotional wall.
‘Pretty’, ‘terrifying’, ‘cleaned the hold’, ‘think she’ll marry me?’.
You don’t look around. Can’t. A flash of red flares in your peripheral vision and you don’t turn your head. Don’t even consider it. (Liar). You already know his face. The Handsome Red-Haired Yonko from the bounty posters. It’s not a face you forget easily. But you know the stories. He’s a one-armed natural disaster. One that makes women swoon and plan lives of adventure on the sea. You just found your freedom. You won’t risk losing it again.
“The hold is clean.” You announce, stopping before the first mate. “I need more water. And soap.”
You hefted the bucket, the water inside looked closer to rum than actual water. Smelled like it too.
Benn just nodded, tossed the water overboard and refilled the bucket with the rope he’d been working on. He also produced some soap from what you hoped was a pocket. You nodded and started to mop.

You could feel him watching you. If you closed your eyes and focused just a little you could see him. One arm leaning on the rail and grinning like a rum drenched disaster. You don’t look. The steady sweep of the mop soothing the pulse thundering in your ears. You block everything else out. The chatter, the chaos, everything but the feeling of his eyes on your back. You try. Gods know you try. But in the face of a Yonko all of your mental barriers mean absolutely nothing. Instead you focus on the rhythmic swishing, the soothing abilities of a good clean. The bucket is filthy again, but the deck no longer sticks to your feet and the smell of rum and sweat and whatever vegetation was making its home between the boards is no longer quite so overpowering. You can almost smell the soap. If you try really hard.
“Doing a great job there sweetheart.”
The mop almost goes skittering across the deck, and you can only hope the sloshing of the bucket was enough to hide the undignified noise that managed to escape your throat. Rum soaked Yonko disasters aren't supposed to sound like smoke and honey.
“Good enough to have changed the colour of the deck.” You huff, swiping the mop along the boards once more.
“When you're done come to my cabin.”
You tense. It sounds downright sinful coming from him. Your eyes seek out Benn, pleading desperately for help. He just shakes his head and makes a gesture your poor brain is too compromised to decipher. Stupidly you turn around, brandishing the mop in front of you like you're banishing demons. Second big mistake in less than 24hrs, you're getting sloppy.
He's even more handsome in person. Infuriatingly so. With the easy grace and lopsided smile, and a sparkle in his eyes no bounty poster could ever hope to replicate. You swallow. Open your mouth. Close it. Swallow again.
“What?”
“When you're finished cleaning the deck come by my cabin. Sweetheart.”
He winks.
You briefly consider throwing the mop at him and diving into the sea.
“Pardon?” Despite your best attempts at calmness your voice pitches up, traitorous warmth rising in your cheeks.
“We have some things to discuss,” he shrugs too innocently, “thought you'd be happier to talk somewhere private.”
You nod stiffly. Is it too late to throw yourself overboard? Your eyes dart to the nearest railing again, but there's already one of the crew there. Smiling. You start thinking of ways to die by mop related accident.
Shanks wanders away whistling. You think he said later but your neurons aren't firing at all right now.
You're doomed.

You pretend not to notice Benn lurking near the door to the Captain's cabin, but you do throw a rude gesture at the man you now know as Yasopp when he tries to sneak towards the door with a listening device. Benn looks away, pointedly.
“You wanted to talk?”
Shanks grins, lounging back in his chair like he owns the place. He does.
“Sit down, have a drink, then we can talk.”
You sit. Stiffly. Back pressed against the chair like it's the only thing tethering you to this earth. You still take the drink. Two large swallows of what tastes like very high proof rum.
“Why are you here?”
“You asked me to come in.”
You knew what he was really asking, but the longer you could play dumb the longer you had to put together a story. It wasn’t like this had happened before.
“On my ship,” Shanks clarified, easy smile dropping just a fraction, “my First Mate and Sniper don't think you're dangerous, though if you are here to assassinate me you're welcome to try.”
You choke on the rum, “assassinate you?!” It comes out more squeak than question, “does that happen often?”
He shrugs, “most people aren't brave enough to try. Or foolish enough.”
You take another gulp of rum and pray he'll have the sense to let you swallow before he says anything else insane.
“If you're not here to cause trouble, why'd you sneak onto the ship?”
You sigh, “I just need to get to the next port and then you'll never see me again.”
“And which next port is that?”
You don't look at him. Don't dare. Your fingers curl against the wooden desk. Then flatten out. Deliberate. Slow. Forced.
“Any port aside from the one I left. I'll work, you don't even need to feed me much,” you curl your fingers again, “I'll sleep in the hold. Just to the next port you dock at.”
Shanks expression softens, you can see it in his eyes for the brief moment before you have to tear your gaze away.
“What are you running from?”
He sees it. The walls going up. The way you go even more rigid, staring at the desk in front of you as if it might bless you with a bout of spontaneous combustion.
“Just to the next port,” You grit out again, “please.”
He sighs. Slumps back a little. Better not to push right now lest you actually do set his furniture on fire with sheer determination. He didn't really need to do this, it was clear you weren't a threat, but he wanted to sate his curiosity. He failed. Spectacularly.

Your time on the Red Force, as much as you hated to admit even to yourself, was quite pleasant. Except for the Red-Haired Yonko constantly hovering in your periphery. It was also a longer journey than you'd planned on, and you secretly thanked Benn for finding you. In the meantime you carried on with your chores; cleaning, repairing their torn clothes… Benn has called it women's work, but just the once after the cold stare you levelled at him. Hongo, at least, was glad someone else had taken over the sewing so he could focus on his medical work. Still the Yonko hovered. He rarely said anything, perhaps the odd compliment when you finished your task, but he was always there. Waiting. Analysing.
“Don't you have a ship to captain?”
It had been a long day, the staring was getting to you, and after the third time you stabbed yourself with the needle you finally snapped.
“The crew have got it. Besides, you're far more interesting than the rest of my crew right now.” He chuckled, soft and lazy.
You scowled, dragging your eyes away from his face with some effort, “I should have known repairing shirts would be a mystery to you.”
You heard him laugh again, warmer and more free. Could picture his head tossed back, red hair sparkling in the sunlight where the breeze caught it.
“Oh no sweetheart, you're the interesting one. I'll get your story out of you eventually.”
“Not before the next port. Not before I leave.” The words were sharp, like the broken edges of something long shattered.
Shanks didn't say anything and you didn't dare look at him, too afraid of finding something soft there and breaking the last fraying ropes of your resolve.

He didn't get your story out of you before the next port. He tried. Even roped half the rest of the crew into solving the mystery. But you remained tight lipped. Benn had been the closest to victory, but something in your eyes and the cracking edges of your protests made him stop pushing. So you remained a mystery. And that only made Shanks more invested in you, cataloguing plans in his head as he watched you walk back down the gangplank and out of their lives. Yasopp and Lucky Roux were crying and holding each other. Even Benn looked a little dejected. But Shanks smiled, warm and bright as ever, as he waved you goodbye from the prow. Promising you'd meet again, despite your protests. None of them missed the sparkle of wetness on your lashes as you walked away, fading into the crowd like a ghost.
You left the stolen patrol routes on your pillow.
The ship felt somehow emptier after your departure. In little less than a month you’d practically become a part of the crew. Hongo kept trying to send people to you when they appeared in the infirmary with torn shirts, the dishes hadn’t been washed for three days after your departure, and there was a suspicious smell starting to come from the pile of rags on deck. Benn drafted up a rota. It was actually followed. Shanks leant against the figurehead, the breeze turning his hair into a fiery halo, and spoke into the silence with all the gravitas of a God putting intention into the world.
“She’ll be back with us soon.”
Benn muttered something about kidnapping and terrible ideas with the resigned air of someone who’d seen things and knew that more things were yet to come. No one else even questioned the statement. After all, Pirates hate to lose their treasure.

Three weeks after your departure they solved the mystery. Limejuice walked into the Captain’s cabin holding a piece of paper before him like a holy relic. He dropped it on the desk and left. No words. Just an inescapable feeling that this was something important. Shanks just stared at the sheet before him. Benn, mouth still half open from the sentence he’d been trying to get through when Limejuice walked in, picked up the paper and sighed. He stared some more. Sighed again. And placed the sheet back in front of his Captain.
“I'll let them know we're heading to Smallharbour.”
“Akina. If we've seen it then I'd wager she knows, and she's not an idiot.” Shanks grinned, running a finger along the portrait.
Benn nodded, turning and leaving without another word.
Shanks ran his fingers over the paper once more.

You almost decided the little port town was a nice place to live. To build a new life. When that stupid paper brought your whole plan crashing down around your ears with all the weight of a brick wrapped in a life of bad choices.
Your face stared back at you from the wall. Not a perfect likeness, they never did get the nose right did they? And you could swear your chin wasn’t quite that round was it? But it was close enough to be clearly you. Not a proper bounty poster, even with his money he couldn’t force the Marine’s hand, but close enough to one that you couldn’t tell from a quick glance. And the number on the bottom… that alone would be enough to motivate most people.
You swore. Swore again. And grabbed the poster from the wall.
“So much for that plan.”
You turned towards the harbour.

It took them three islands to catch up with you. No one questioned it. Even Benn, usually the voice of reason on the ship, merely nodded and pointed them in whatever direction the Captain suggested. It had been decided. Without a vote and without your knowledge. You were part of the crew, and they planned to bring you home.
You crept from the latest in a long and increasingly decrepit line of ships after dark, listening carefully for any sign one of the traders hadn’t left the ship with the rest. You made it three steps before you crashed into a wall. A warm, surprisingly soft, wall. You tensed. Span to flee. But the wall had one hand clamped on your shoulder.
You heard your name, then a chuckle, “need another ride?”
“I don’t have payment this time.”
Benn shrugged, “you clean, that’s enough.”
“Please.”
You didn’t miss the smug look on the Yonko’s face as his First Mate walked you back aboard the Red Force.
“Your bed is where you left it sweetheart.”

You glared at Shanks from across his desk. Bathed. Fed. Irritated. Your face stared back at you from the wood.
“Looks like you’re worth a nice sum.” Shanks grinned, tapping the paper.
“Says the man with the 4 billion Berry bounty.”
Outside the room Benn smothers a smirk, eyes still fixed on the other eavesdroppers in a vain effort to keep them under control.
“We’re making sure she stays this time right?”
“Pretty sure that’s the Captain’s plan, yeah.”
You turn your head towards the muffled sounds at the door but Shanks taps his fingers against the poster again.
“Going to explain now?”
That gets your attention. You return to glaring at him. Hoping that if you glare long enough this entire situation will be over and your life will be yours again. It doesn’t work. But trying makes you feel just a bit better.
“That depends entirely on what you plan to do with the information.” You bluff, allowing yourself the illusion of choice for just a few moments more.
“Solve a mystery.”
He’s grinning at you like an idiot. Like he isn’t holding your entire bloody future in the palm of his hands. You realise, with slow horror and a horrible churning in your gut that you don’t want to name, that you’re just a curiosity to him. An amusement.
You swallow the knot in your throat. “I’m just a runaway.”
Shanks keeps staring. You try to meet his eyes. Fail. Stare at the numbers on the poster in front of you. Several lies float through your mind but you get the horrible creeping sensation that he would know. Somehow. Yonko powers probably.
“I…” you clear your throat, smooth down the fabric against your thighs, “I was engaged. He seemed pleasant enough, as least as far as these things go. My parents could have made worse choices.” A piece of paper tears off in your fingers, you didn’t even realise you’d been worrying the edge of the poster. “Until he got into debt with the wrong people, and I became collateral.”
Shanks gently frees the poster from your curled fingers, but still says nothing. Smoothing the paper back down against the desk.
“I doubt I’d make a very good slave. And probably a worse bride.”
“I think you’d look very fetching in white.” Shanks grins, pulling open a drawer.
The look you gave him could have curdled milk but he ignores it, placing two cups and a bottle on his desk.
“Sake, the finest my territory has to offer.” A cup is placed in front of you. “Stay with us.”
You freeze. Shanks just keeps smiling. Softer this time. Warm. Real.
“I have nothing to offer.”
“You care about us!” Comes through the door, slightly muffled and followed by a thump.
“I used you for transport!” You snapped back, too tired and too frazzled to even be properly angry at the eavesdropper.
“You cleaned and repaired our stuff. Made sure the hold was organised-”
“That was just payment for transport!” Your voice pitched higher.
“You listened to everyone’s complaints, offered advice. And you left behind the patrol routes.” Shanks was grinning at you with the air of a man who knew he’d won.
“Payment!” You insisted.
“I told you to keep it.” Benn, the traitor, called through the door.
Your head smacked into the desk. You were betrayed. And worst of all you did care about them. You liked the stupid pirates who had saved you twice and treated you like family. Better than family.
“I hate you.”
A warm hand ruffled your hair, “no you don’t.”
You grabbed the cup and drained it in one swallow. Holding it out for more.

It was almost alarming how quickly you settled back into a routine. The deck was mopped once more, the pirates' torn clothes slowly repaired and the hold reorganised. The pile of filthy rags on the deck was burned. Almost immediately. You think you saw three evil spirits escape. They treated you like you’d never left them, and you loved them all the more for it. Shanks still watched while you worked, but it felt different this time. The weight of his gaze felt softer, less judgemental and more… something. Something you were too afraid to investigate further. So you kept cleaning.

You knew, logically, that Shanks was powerful. Despite all appearances to the contrary he was a Yonko. Yet somehow it never truly crossed your mind that he would also know powerful people. At least until the Warlord incident.
You were camped up on some beach. An island Shanks insisted was part of his territory and perfectly safe if you didn't try to swim. There was a lovely little port town near where you'd docked, with a comfortable looking Inn and actual shops, but Shanks had insisted you camp. Insisted it would ‘build character’ and ‘strengthen bonds’ while Benn just sighed tiredly in the background. You were starting to suspect the townspeople had just tired of their raucous partying one of the last times they'd docked here as you watched Bonk Punch and Building Snake duel each other with the remnants of dinner, bone cracking against bone. Shanks was grinning beside you, a bottle of sake sunk into the sand at your feet. His shoulder bumped yours as he went to refill your cups and you tried to batter down the warmth that started to bloom in your chest. You could feel Benn and Yasopp watching. Plotting.
“What are we even celebrating?” You asked, sipping your drink carefully.
“Calm seas, blossoming love, and two months of our new crew member.”
You choked. Benn smirked around his cigarette. Somewhere in the background someone cheered.
“Love?!”
Shanks bumped his shoulder into yours again, loose sleeve slapping against your thigh. “Yeah, you love us.”
“I tolerate you.” You lied, downing your cup.
There was a commotion further out towards the ship. You tensed, heart racing. Shanks didn't react in any noticeable way, but you felt his warmth at your side increase just a little. A subtle shift of position that eased the tension in your muscles.
You felt the presence before you saw him, the receding of the sea before the tsunami. You saw the sword first, massive and imposing, strapped to the man's back like a promise. He strode across the sand, sharp eyes fixed on Shanks. And you.
It wasn't a stare, it was a surgical dissection.
“Hawkeyes! What are you doing out here?”
He threw something. Shanks caught it effortlessly. Those golden eyes narrowed on you. You imagined this was how people felt in the afterlife as their souls were judged.
“You're new. And clean.”
You stared back, only trembling slightly. “I value personal hygiene.”
“And you joined this crew?” His tone was flat but there was the barest hint of amusement flickering in the gold of his irises.
“Stockholm Syndrome.” You lied flatly.
Mihawk inclined his head to Shanks, “I like this one.”
“Too bad, I saw her first.” He replied, edging just a little closer so his thigh pressed against yours.
You frowned at the offending limb. Someone cheered. Again. Mihawk arched an eyebrow.
“Would you like a drink?” You offered, gesturing to the bottle.
“Yeah Hawkeyes, sit, drink with us. We're celebrating! I even got out the good stuff!”
He didn't wait for a response, grabbing a fistful of the man's coat and forcibly pulling him down into the sand on his other side. A cup was forced into his hand and you filled it sheepishly. All the while questioning what God's you angered in a previous life that left you with a group in this one that were not only insane enough to manhandle a warlord of the sea and walking force of destruction into drinking with them, but did it with a smile.
He didn’t manage to escape for another two bottles. You were swaying slightly as you watched him leave.
“Do the Marines make you all less attractive on their posters on purpose?” You sighed.
Three people cheered. You think one swooned. Shanks just laughed.

It came to a head three months and six islands later. The others had left to do some business in town. You stayed behind to mop the deck and rescue your organisation system. Again.
You'd nearly finished the deck when a small ship sailed into port. Pirates, if the poorly stitched together flag was any indication, but not any symbol you recognised. Nor did any of the faces spark any recognition. You adjusted your grip on the mop. Most people knew to avoid things much more dangerous than them, and the Red Hair pirates were more dangerous than most things in and on the sea. Then again pirate crews were not, by and large, renowned for their critical thinking skills or aversion to risk. You just had to hope someone on that ship had an inkling of common sense.
They did not.
“Hey Cap'n, is that a woman?”
“Looks like it, that's a fine ship too… must have pretty nice stuff on a ship like that…”
“Who's flag is that?”
“Err Cap–”
“It dont matter. They aint here. It's basically asking for their stuff to be taken.”
You adjusted your stance, trying to remember all the duels you'd seen between the crew. And the few things Limejuice had taught you on night watch. You had no illusions of victory, even if you knew how to fight one mop vs six swords wasn't good odds, but you wanted to go down swinging. You pointed the mop towards the gangplank, narrowing your eyes at the group heading your way. Determined. Free.

Two men were down. One knocked out, the other probably not passing on his genes any time soon. But you were still outnumbered, and your mop was less of a sword and more a very sad dagger. Everything hurt. You were pretty sure you needed at least one set of stitches. And definitely new clothes. But you were still standing. Still free. And the Red Force remained unlooted.
No one had expected an angry banshee welding a mop. Not even you.
“She's feisty. Can we keep her for a bit before we sell her off?”
The Captain scowled. “No. She's trouble.”
You spat blood. Grinned. It looked more insane than unbothered, but their expressions were worth it. “Wait till you meet my crew. I'm the least trouble on the ship. They'll mop the floor with you when they get back. Literally.”
You were stalling. Cornered. Praying the others were on their way back.
“C'mon Cap, just once?”
“I ain't helping when you lose your junk.” He snorted, turning back to you. “Your crew ain't here princess. Now play nice and we'll try not to hurt you too bad, can't lower your sale value too much eh?”
You lashed out with your little wooden dagger as one of the men stepped towards you, catching him across the face with enough force to leave a red scratch. You didn’t see the hand that lashed out in retaliation but you felt it. The whole side of your face felt like it was on fire, ear ringing as you crashed against the side of the ship. For a moment the world swam, a blurred figure coming towards you. You blinked rapidly. The figure stopped.
Then you felt it.
The pressure of an oncoming storm. The Red Hair Pirates were coming back. And they’d realised something was wrong.
You strained your eyes towards the path. Impossibly you swore you could see them coming over the small rise. Could see him. Red hair glowing like avenging fire in the slowly sinking sun. It had to be a hallucination. A desperate vision in your mind's eye. Your eyes were good, but not that good. Were they? But he wasn’t smiling. Shanks was always smiling when you pictured him in your mind.
Well, almost always.
He never looked like that.
The air thickened, crackling like thunder. Your head throbbed. If you hadn’t already been sprawled against the deck you were sure your knees would have gone out from under you. And still the pressure increased. You clamped your hands over your ears, muffling the thuds as the pirates collapsed to the deck with you. There was screaming. Some of it was yours. Blood. Shouting.
Then silence.
Silence so sudden and complete you thought you’d died.
At least until a strong arm scooped you off the floor, cradling you against the warmth of a strong chest. Your arms lifted automatically to their neck, anchoring you against your saviour as you pressed your face against a shoulder that smelled of salt and sake.
“You did good–” murmured into your hair.
Your head swam. Your eyes burned against your attempt to remain in control. Your cheeks felt wet as the world went dark.

You wake in an unfamiliar bed. Too big. Too comfortable to be yours. And far too quiet. Adrenaline floods your system. You knew you couldn't possibly have seen him coming to save you. A hallucination conjured by your unconscious brain. A dream to protect you while they–
You bolt upright, flailing against the weight of the blanket over you. You're sore all over. Almost all over. Not the places you feared. Too late you realise it isn't a blanket you're tangled in but a cloak. Warm. Familiar. Smelling like safety. Like home. You're still dressed too. And the soft snoring that had served as background noise is clear now in its absence.
“Try not to tear that, it's my favourite cloak."
Your head snaps around, so fast you feel something twinge in your neck that you'll be paying for for days. You clutch the fabric against you like a shield.
“It's your only cloak.”
He laughs, nodding his head like he's pleased to hear the light jab. “Most people would have run. A smart person probably should run.”
“And let them loot the ship?” Your tone suggests that he's the crazy one here, not the woman who tried to fend off six armed pirates with a mop.
“I knew you loved us.”
You huff, “you've grown on me. Like a mold.”
Shanks just grins like he's just been handed the answer he always wanted to a question he never asked.
“My bed is yours until you're healed. Or any other time, you just need to ask sweetheart.”
You manage to fight back the blush until he leaves. (You don't.) When the door closes you bury your face in the cloak and breathe, trying to pretend there's no warmth growing in your chest.
Outside Benn glances across the ship, watches the Captain walk out of his cabin and turns his head up towards the crows nest.
“One week.”
Yasopp doesn't reply, just gives him a quizzical look and writes something in the notepad.
“Smile's different.” Is all the explanation Benn gives.
He starts planning.
Yasopp doesn't tell anyone Benn is in on the bet. The first mate has a way of winning every time he enters.

You return to your duties the next day. Slowly. Carefully. With unasked for assistance. You try to pretend you don’t need it, but with every ache of your muscles or pull on the stitches you’re thankful for the extra hands. You try to return to your own bed as well, pretending you’re not afraid of what staying in the Captain’s means. To you, if not to him.
You don’t sleep.
One night of plush, sumptuous, comfort has completely ruined you. That and the neat row of stitches in your arm that pull no matter what position you try to lie in. Instead you organise the deck, neatly coiling rope and brushing away the last remnants of the failed raid. You try not to look at the splatters of rust staining the boards. You fail.
Hongo lectures you for almost an hour the next day for tearing your stitches. Insists that if you're not able to sleep in your own bed you’ll be sleeping in the infirmary until the stitches are healed. You stare warily at the infirmary bed. It creaks back threateningly. A spring glints in the light like a threat.
You ask Shanks if you can sleep in his bed again. You almost regret it when he winks. Almost.
The Captain’s bed is the sort of thing dreams are made of. Better even than any of the beds back home. You briefly wonder whether Benn has as nice a bed, apparently out loud if the look of utter betrayal Shanks throws at you is any indication.
You just shrug. “Thought you might want your bed back.”
He considers it for a moment, “only if you’re staying in it.”
You bury your face in a pillow. “Only if it gets really cold.”

Two days later you sail into a snowstorm.
The sea itself, it seems, is intent on meddling in your emotions. Or perhaps just a stoic first mate trying to give two idiots a nudge in the right direction.
You stab yourself three times trying to darn your own shirt. You’ve given up trying to fight the numb shaking of your fingers, or the occasional full-body shudder that tore through you.
A warm heavy weight dropped around your shoulders, the comforting familiar smell enveloping you. You tilted your head back, looking up at the man looming over you.
“We’ll get you a good coat on the next island we stop at, that will have to do for now.”
You don’t tell him that you couldn’t imagine a better coat. That what's wrapped around your shoulders right now is utter perfection, made of soft fabric, terrible life choices and the glowing embers of something you should know better than to hope for. Even if it has been drenched in enough drink for the alcohol to become one with the fibres. You just breathe a thank you with your nod and continue sewing. He smiles, but his eyes are softer and more serious in a way that makes your stomach start to do funny things against your ribs. He saunters off to talk to Benn and you can’t help but try to listen in.
“How much?”
“Three thousand Berry.”
“You know I’m supposed to be your boss right?”
You try to sneak a look, worried now despite the amusement in his tone. Shanks doesn’t look angry though, a little frustrated, but mostly amused. Benn is smirking with the expression of a man who knows things, and worse orchestrates things.
“You couldn’t find anyone else willing to be your First Mate if you tried.” He answers, with all the confidence of someone who knows they’re right (he is). “I’m just giving you a helping hand.”
That has Shanks laughing, and you turn back to your work feeling just a little lighter. At least until Limejuice sneaks up behind you and you stab yourself. For the fourth time.
“That the Captain's cloak?”
You nod, shrugging the fabric up around your face a little more and trying not to breathe in too deeply, “I was cold.”
He grins, looks across the ship at someone, then frowns. “Damnit, I was so close.”
That night in the cabin you find yourself staring at the Captain, curled up on the chair under his cloak. He’s not shivering, but you can feel the bite of the chill in the air even under the covers so you’re sure he must be feeling it too. You drum your fingers against the mattress. Thinking. Debating.
“It’s cold.” You said finally, slowly. With all the levity of a woman walking to the gallows.
Shanks blinked at you. “It is.”
“You could…” you swallowed hard, stared at the wall beside him, “I wouldn’t say no to… to some extra warmth. You must be cold too.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his grin is the epitome of sinful as he slowly unfolds himself from the chair. You start to regret the offer.
“Bring the cloak. For warmth. And a wall.”
Shanks just chuckles, but he does grab the cloak.

You wake to the soft thrumming of a heartbeat in your ears, toned muscle cradling your cheek instead of a pillow. It's early, light barely creeping through the cabin windows, but you're wide awake. You didn’t fall asleep like this. You made sure your back was turned against his, not your body sprawled across the firm expanse of his chest, legs tangled. Still dressed, both of you, and no tell tale aches. Not that you expected different, but the certainty is still nice. You trust yourself less than you trust him. You might have good reason to.
“Mornin’.”
You try not to jump. Fail miserably. But his arm keeps you in place.
“Did you do this?” You ask warily.
“This was all you sweetheart. If you wanted to be on top of me you just had to say so.”
You muffle your shriek in his chest. His warm, toned, delicious, chest. He just laughs, hand slipping just a little lower to the small of your back. You don't scream this time, though you do mutter a prayer to whatever will listen that the sea might swallow you whole now.

He's touchier after that. Hand on the small of your back as he passes behind you. Thigh pressed against yours as you sit around the table for meals. The crew notices. Of course they do. There are hushed whispers, pointed looks, and the odd sympathetic smile from Benn every time he calls you sweetheart and you consider swan diving from the crows nest. All the time the butterflies making home in your chest hammer hard against your ribs, so hard you swear they've caught on fire. For nothing else could explain the growing warmth every time you look at him, or he speaks to you, or touches you. It has to be an illness. Surely. It couldn't be anything else.

The end of the week comes and the Red Force docks at a small port. Small but lively, with a bar that has clearly seen pirates come and go before. The whole time Shanks has been flirting, touchier, but still he feels untouchable. The smile never changes. You're too afraid to look him in the eye, that you might find the same capricious sparkle there as always. Just a passing amusement.
And you're frustrated. On a knife's edge. With every near intimate touch and flirtatious comment only winding the spring tighter. Ready to snap.
The bar is busy when you enter, but still the crew have no trouble finding a table. You're not sure whether it's Benn's sheer presence of will or the spark of crazy in Lucky Roux's eyes at the thought of a meal uneaten, but you're glad for it. It's nice to be off the ship. Warm. Comfortable. And being fed glasses of decent wine and better food.
Your frustration is still gnawing at you, a slow burn as you make your way back to the bar to order the next round. A man pushes in next to you as you wait, not as tall as the Captain or Benn, but broad shouldered, dark haired and handsome enough you suppose. He smiles down at you in a way that makes your stomach simultaneously roil and heat.
“Not seen you around here before.”
You shrug, “you wouldn't have, it's a brief stop.”
“Oh, are you not enjoying our little town?”
“Nothing like that,” you shake your head, pausing for a moment to make your order for the table at the back, “it's lovely, I'm just not staying long.”
The man chuckles, low and smooth, his hand moving to rest dangerously low on your back. “You sound unfulfilled, and I'd hate to let a lady like you leave here any less than completely satisfied.”
If you were less drunk, less frustrated, you probably would have punched him for the hand alone, never mind the proposition. But you're too close to breaking and too many glasses of fine wine in to be thinking clearly.
You almost say yes. Almost.
You feel the pressure building before his shadow falls over you. The man beside you blanches, backs away.
“Red Haired–”
Shanks cuts in, all amusement gone from his voice “I'm afraid she has other plans.”
The handsome stranger doesn't say anything else before he bolts. You watch him run with a sigh before you whirl on the Captain.
“I have other plans do I?” You hiss, fingers curling in the air like you're dreaming of grabbing his shirt and shaking him.
He smirks, “just ask sweetheart, we’re already sharing a bed.”
You lean into his space, practically vibrating with rage, “just ask” you parrot mockingly “you know you being an insufferable flirt at anything with two legs isn't an excuse right?”
The smile fades a little and he shakes his head, “not anything, just you. I've just been waiting for you to catch up.”
“Catch up?” It's almost shrill. A little broken. The edges of your anger dulled by the wine and his infuriating smile.
Shanks nods. Smiles far too softly with far too much gentle wanting. Stops just short of cradling your cheek with his hand. He wants you to come to him.
You almost short circuit. Brain a mess of wine and want and terrible decisions. Instead you snap. Fisting a hand in the precariously low V of his shirt you lean up and kiss him in a way that could best be described as smashing your face against his. You pour all of your frustration into the kiss, all the mornings waking up against his chest and telling yourself you were an idiot for ever thinking it was more than sharing warmth and letting you heal, all the touches you convinced yourself were meant for women braver and tougher than you, every smothered butterfly and drowned hope. All the flirting and soft looks and insecurities and lies you told yourself. You pour it all into him but all you get back is warmth and affection and belonging. Like a final piece of the puzzle sliding into place.
You can hear the crew hollering and whistling in the background. Hear someone call for the others to pay up. It's a problem for later. Right now all you need to know. All you can know. Is that Red Haired Shanks is kissing you in the middle of a bar with the kind of devotion and intensity that could break every heart in a four mile radius. His hand a warm anchor against your lower back, pressing you into him and keeping your knees from giving out all at once. When you finally break away for air he's staring at you with a dopey smile and half lidded eyes, and a silent promise to finish this later.

When you wake in the Captain’s bed the next day it's with 100% less clothes than usual. Your back aches with the memory of being pressed against the walls, the desk, the bed, other places ache with even more pleasant memories. Shanks promised he didn't need two hands to ruin you completely and he more than made good on his word. Your neck stings when you turn your head to watch his sleeping face, a longer lasting reminder of the culmination of a back and forth dance you didn't even realise you'd been caught up in. You take the small moment of peace to study his face, really study it. He's softer in his sleep, somehow more genuine. There's a small line of drool on his chin and he's snoring. You don't mean to smile, but you can't help it, your chin resting between his pecs as you watch him.
Slowly you lean up, stretching as far as you can with his arm a steel band around your waist, and press a soft kiss against his chin.
His eyes crack open, just a little, “looking for round four already?”
You huff, dropping your head to his chest again, “aren't you supposed to Captain the ship?”
He grins, wicked and amused all at once “that's why I have the greatest first mate on the Grand Line. Beckman will keep the ship afloat while I'm busy.”
“You're incorrigible.”
“You weren't saying that last night.” Shanks teases, hand sliding up your side.
“You had a lot of making up to do.” You try to sound stern, but the breathy sigh that leaves you as his fingers trace the side of your chest ruins the whole thing.
He flips you with too much ease for a man with one arm and the beginnings of a nasty hangover, lips pressing against yours possessively before trailing down. You release a breathy sigh, resigning yourself to the fact you'll have stubble burn for days. It will be worth it.
This wasn’t the life you were supposed to have. There are no maids or pretty dresses, instead you have freedom, adventure and a crew of the finest idiots on the four seas that will always have your back. But as Shanks rolls his hips into yours, slow and deep and infuriatingly loving, you think this is the best life you could ask for. Rug burns and bite marks be damned, you belong here.
While you’re still panting, brain still catching up with your body, Shanks presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“So when are we getting married?”
You blue screen. Complete system shutdown. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.
“Married?!” Your squeak is muffled by his shoulder when your mouth finally starts working again.
Shanks laughs, but it isn't mocking or joking like usual. This laugh is soft, warm, honest. It feels like a promise. Or a threat.
You’re doomed.

Benn finally stopped gloating a month ago. Just barely.
You're docked somewhere called Foosha Village. Wherever it is it seems to be important to Shanks and that makes you curious.
You don’t tremble this time when you see the other pirate ship already docked at the port. You’re sure you don’t. But Shanks throws the edge of his cloak around your shoulders anyway, the weight dragging you against his left side. He’s warm and grounding and you can’t help but smile softly up at him.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, those are the Pirates we’re here to see.” He murmurs into your hair, lips soft against the crown of your head
The pirates you're there to see turn out to be the Straw Hats, and you've heard more than enough stories out of Shanks about Luffy that all the tension seeps out of you the moment you see them. The crew have a strange familiarity about them, as loud and raucous as the ones you now call family. The woman they introduced as Nico Robin reminds you far too much of Benn for you to relax completely, that gaze sees too much, knows too much. You're sure she's worked it out long before she gives you a knowing smile.
The drinks are flowing and you're happily listening to Luffy recount stories of their adventures, sprawled back on the comfiest chair you could find, one eye keeping casual watch on Shanks at the bar where he's very into his conversation with the barmaid, when the Straw Hat's cook approaches you. You've heard stories. Really you know better. But the pretty barmaid looks flushed and Shanks is grinning a little too much and the alcohol is dulling your finer critical thinking skills. You smile at him and gesture at the seat next to you.
“I didn't know the Red Hair Pirates had such a radiant beauty on board.” His voice was like syrup, his hand wrapping around yours to lift and kiss your knuckles.
You allowed it. Just this once. To make a point.
"I'm something of a newer addition,” you laugh, he's endearing if nothing else.
“I hope those brutes are treating you like you deserve Mon amour,” His eyes dart to Shanks, still deep in conversation, yours follow, “if not you're always more than welcome aboard with our crew. I'll treat you like a queen.”
You giggle again. You don't mean to, you really didn't want to send him the wrong message but he was just so sincere and dramatic you couldn't help your amusement. He really believed every word he was saying. Each sentence landing with the conviction of a martyr walking to the gallows.
“Ah Mon amour I'd cook you the finest meals. Use ingredients so fresh and exquisite they could almost rival your delectable beauty. Tell me you'll consider it?”
You glance to the bar again but it's empty. A shadow darkens the surface of your drink, warm hand falling onto your shoulder with a possessive squeeze.
“Trying to run away with my wife?” His tone is still light, jovial. But only a fool wouldn't notice the thread of a threat laced through the words. Luckily for him, Sanji is many things but a fool isn't one of them.
Silence falls over the bar like a blanket. Sanjit slowly stands, backs away like he's staring down a rabid lion carrying a very sharp sword (he isn't too far off).
“He was keeping me company while you were busy.” You respond. Voice calm and sharp as ice, not looking at him.
Across the table Luffy blinks at you a few times then, loud enough that half the East Blue must have heard, "YOU'RE MARRIED?!”
You and Shanks answer in union.
“Yep.”
“It's a hostage situation.”
Robin across the room smiles and mutters something into her drink that sounds suspiciously like “interesting”.
Shanks looks down at you, hand leaving your shoulder and flying to his chest as he feigns a grievous wound.
“You agreed to marry me! The crew wore suits! I even bribed Hawkeyes into officiating!”
You smiled, tapped your straw against your bottom lip, “they do scrub up well,” you agreed, “and I suppose you did almost fully button your shirt.” You think of mentioning your brief impulse to run away with the officiant, but decide you're teasing him more than enough already. Besides, it wasn't a real thought, Mihawk would have killed you before you left the ship.
“I did! And you said vows. Vows!”
You nod, slowly, “and you forgot all about a ring. I don't think it's legally binding without a ring.”
Shanks points at the sea glass around your neck. It is, for a somewhat abstract definition of ring, ring shaped. He starts to say something but you shake your head.
“Benn, would you say this classifies as a ring?”
Shanks looks utterly betrayed and Benn’s eyes gleam.
“It's circular I suppose.” He shrugs.
Shanks looks victorious and you can hear Sanji muttering something about savages and heartbreak from a safe distance. You roll your eyes.
“Circular is not a ring.” You grumbled. “If you weren't so pretty and I didn't like you so much I'd have thrown you into the sea.”
“But you do love me right?”
He leans down, all smiles and smug victory and you don't bother to resist the urge to lean over and kiss his cheek softly.
“You've grown on me. Like a mold. Or a particularly stubborn venereal disease.” But you're smiling, and your gaze is far too soft to be anything but love.
“You're never getting rid of me.” He murmurs, low and altogether too pleased.
You smile and kiss him again, “Good.”
Across the table Luffy watches the whole thing with wide eyes, turkey leg almost forgotten in his hand. “I can't believe I was invited to the wedding! You need a do over, with all of us!”
Laughter ripples around the bar, warm and loving and altogether too much like home. You're not where you were supposed to be, never in your wildest dreams or worst nightmares did you see yourself surrounded by pirates and married to a walking war crime, but you wouldn't trade this for all the treasures in the world. You never knew life could be so happy.