Mimi

The Polar Tang had survived sea kings, Marine battles and storms that could have split lesser ships clean in two. What it hadn't survived, at least according to you. was the sudden outbreak of a mysterious, highly inconvenient illness.

You were on your way to the infirmary because that illness was simply getting worse and worse and you needed Law to check on you. Three slow knocks echoed through the infirmary.

"...Come in," came the deep and calm voice of Law from inside. He sounded as calm and level as ever.

You pushed the door open just enough to peek your head inside. Law sat behind his desk, one hand lazily flipping through a thick medical journal while the other scribbled notes into a folder, probably one of the crew's medical chart. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, old books and fresh tea. It was quiet enough that the hum of the submarine's engines seemed almost soothing.

He didn't look up immediately. "What is it?" he asked sternly, gaze still fixed on the papers before him.

You dramatically grabbed the doorframe. "...Doctor," you huffed, trying to match your voice to your ‘pained’ expression.

Law paused and very slowly, he looked up from the files and to you. "...Yes?"

"I don't think..." You staggered one exaggerated step into the room. "...I'm going to make it."

He stared and raised an eyebrow in a mix of annoyance, confusion and a look that was clearly already questioning your sanity. "...You're walking," he countered flatly.

"Barely," you breathed over the top.

"You walked here."

"I crawled, emotionally," you groaned and a long silence settled between you before Law closed his notebook with a soft thump.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "...Explain."

You shuffled farther into the infirmary, pressing a hand to your chest with theatrical despair. "It started this morning," you recounted.

"What started?" he asked still not buying anything you were saying.

"The symptoms," you said waving your hands theatrically.

"What symptoms?"

"I fear..." You inhaled sharply. "...I'm dying."

Law leaned back in his chair. "I've heard more convincing performances from Penguin."

You gasped, your mouth agap as you looked at him. "I came here seeking medical attention, and you're insulting your patient?"

He groaned and decided to entertain your.....whatever it was you were up to. "You aren't my patient."

"I am now."

"...Unfortunately," he said and you feigned offense. Despite his dry tone, you caught the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

That was progress and it made you want to go on. "You should really take this more seriously, Doctor."

Law folded his arms. "Fine." He gestured toward the examination table. "Sit down and let me check you then.”

"I knew you'd save me," you purred as you stepped closer to the table.

"I said sit. I didn't say I believed you," he countered as he grabbed his gloves to put them on.

The examination table crinkled beneath you as you hopped onto it. Law wheeled his stool over with practiced ease. "So," he started.

"So,” you repeated, trying not to grin too widely.

"...Symptoms," he ordered, a bit firmer like he would usual do with ‘real’ patients.

"My heart's beating funny," you explained clutching it dramatically to emphasize it.

"When?"

"When I see someone," you mumbled, trying hard not to chuckle.

"Who?"

"...Confidential," you answered after a moment of thinking.

Law gave you an unimpressed look. "Patient confidentiality works the other way around."

"Oh," you huffed "...well, then you."

He blinked once, there was a tiny reaction barely there and those who didn't know him would most likely have missed it but you saw it "Keep going."

"Gladly” you said and did as told. "My face gets hot."

He tapped his pen against his chin. "Hm"

"My stomach feels weird, like there's somehting inside it making it flutter"

He didn't comment on it just listened.

"I smile for no reason," you explained and locked eyes with him so he could see the smile that was currently on your face.

"Hm."

God how that ‘hm' was gnawing at you right now. But you didn't let it stop you, especially since you really liked it when he was being the doctor. "I also become incapable of acting normal."

"I noticed," he said and there was a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You're writing all this down?" you asked.

"I like documenting unusual cases," he told you but somehting in his voice made you question if he was being serious or just messing with you.

You leaned over, trying to peek at his clipboard. The paper contained exactly three words.

‘Patient is dramatic.’

You opened your mouth staring at him and wanting to reach up and nudge his arm but decided against it. "...Rude," you complained with a mock-hurt face

"Accurate," he countered flatly before he reached for his stethoscope. "Lie back."

You obeyed with exaggerated caution. "If I don't survive—"

He cut you off before you could even finish it. "You will."

You ignored him and didn't let him ruin your dramatic moment. "...if I don't survive tell Bepo I loved him."

He sighed and rubbed his temples. "I won't."

"And Ikakku," you continued nonetheless.

"No."

"And Shachi and Penguin."

"Definitely not."

You sighed dramatically, your arm on your forehead like you were going to wither away any second from how he ignored your wishes. "So cold."

"I'm a doctor, not a poet," he grumbled reaching up to remove your arm carefully.  

"You could be both."

"I'd rather not," he said and moved.

The moment the cold metal of the stethoscope touched your chest you jumped because in all your antics you weren't really prepared for this. "It's freezing!" you complained.

"It usually is," he said dryly.

"You could've warned me."

"I assumed you were familiar with basic medicine."

"I thought doctors warmed them up first," you said purposely exaggerating.

"Only in children's storybooks," he sighed and ignored your pouting, listening quietly.

The room settled into an unexpected silence. The joking faded as you watched his focused expression. The way his brows furrowed ever so slightly. The concentration in his beautiful eyes. The careful precision with which he worked, even though both of you knew this "checkup" was entirely fabricated.

He moved the cold stethoscope again and then with a thoughtful look paused. "...Your heartbeat is elevated."

"I knew it."

"You also ran down three flights of stairs before coming here," he assumed because your heart was still trying to come down from you moving so hastily.

"...That probably contributed."

"Probably." He removed the stethoscope. "But not entirely."

You blinked confused. "...What?" You were already fearing you were seriously having a problem.

"It increases every time I look at you," he said flatly and you felt heat climb onto your face. Sure you had said that before but hearing him say it was feeling differently.

You tried to stay cool and play it down a tiny bit. "...You're making that up."

"I'm a doctor I don't make things up, besides I didn't say why that is," he explained, making you pause for a moment, your brain needing a few seconds to process everything.

"...Doctor," you finally continued with a cheeky glint in your eyes.

"Hm?"

"You're flirting," you grinned at him.

"No," he protested but you weren’t having any of it.

"You absolutely are."

"I'm making observations."

"Observations that happen to make me blush."

"Interesting." He reached for his clipboard again, steering the conversation away from your teasing.

"What are you writing now?" you asked trying to get a glimpse.

"'Patient blushes easily.'"

You groaned, shaking your head slightly. "Seriously? That’s not even a real diagnosis," you huffed trying to force the smile that threatened to spread on your lips down.

"Yes it is, I’m the doctor whatever I write as a diagnosis is a diagnosis. Now stop whining at let’s move on," he said and held out his hand, making you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "Your wrist," he added.

"Oh" you breathed and offered it without protest. His fingers wrapped gently around it, checking your pulse. Unlike your ridiculous performance, his touch was steady and careful. Professional, mostly at least.

"...Still fast," he observed.

"I told you."

"You also seem incapable of sitting still."

"I'm nervous."

"Why?"

"Because of you."

His thumb paused ever so slightly against your pulse. "...That's inconvenient."

"For who?"

"...Both of us."

A knock interrupted the moment. Before either of you could answer, the infirmary door slid open. Bepo poked his head inside. "Captain? We were wondering if—" He froze. You were sitting on the examination table. Law was holding your wrist while a clipboard rested on his lap. "...Oh."

Law didn't even look toward the door. "I'm with a patient."

Bepo glanced between the two of you before his eyes stayed on you, looking worried. "Are you okay?” he asked you.

You, obviously, let out the weakest, most pitiful sound imaginable. "I don't have much time..."

Bepo's eyes widened, there was fear in his eyes now. "What happened?!"

You opened your mouth to tell him how horrible you felt but Law didn’t let you answer and instead took over for you. "Nothing, no one’s dying, it’s just a case of severe theatrics," Law grumbled and you sighed.

"Oh," Bepo let out a deep exhale and relaxed immediately.

You pouted and ‘glared’ at your doctor. "I feel really offended. It seems my doctor lacks bedside manners."

"He still has better manners than you." Law countered.

Bepo meanwhile tried very hard not to laugh. "I'll...come back later," he said slipping back out.

"You don't have to—" But Bepo was already gone and the door had closed again.

You smirked sheepishly "...He believed me for a second."

"He's too trusting," Law said before he got up and decided to continue the ‘chek up’. "I should probably perform a neurological assessment." He raised one gloved finger. "Follow my finger."

You obediently tracked it as he moved it from side to side.

"Good." Then, very suddenly, he stopped moving and you continued staring directly at him. "You're supposed to follow the finger's movements."

"I am. I’m staring at it."

"My finger isn't moving."

"I know, that’s why I’m just staring," you deadpanned. "You forgot to tell me to stop looking," you added with a smile that was almost unfair and made Law sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"...Neurological function appears intact," he wrote down.

"I passed?" you asked, almost beaming up at him with a pride.

"Barely," he replied and you pouted but he ignored it. "Now answer honestly."

"I always do…...mostly."

He gave you a look that was close to questioning all his life choices that led to this moment. "Then answer ‘mostly’ honestly."

"Fine."

"When did these symptoms begin? And no, I’m not talking about today."

You considered the question, thinking thoughtfully. "...Probably a while ago."

"Define 'a while.'"

You huffed. "I don't know." Which was to be honest a bit of a lie.

"Weeks?"

"...Maybe," you drawled.

"Months?"

"...Maybe."

He looked at you carefully. "You waited months before seeing the doctor?"

"I was hoping it'd go away," you said quietly, though you knew it wasn’t going away.

"And did it?" he asked already knowing the answer.

"...No."

"It got worse?"

"...Much," you agreed.

Law nodded thoughtfully as though considering an actual diagnosis. "I see."

"You do?" you asked surprised.

"I think I've narrowed it down."

Your eyes widened. "You know what I have?"

"I have a theory."

You leaned closer to him, eyes wide. "Tell me," you urged, your voice almost a whisper.

He set the clipboard down. "It's chronic."

Your stomach flipped. "...Chronic? Is it curable?"

"...Possibly."

"What's the treatment?"

"You'll have to follow instructions carefully."

"I'll do anything, though I have to warn you I’m not good at following instructions," you said.

"I know." The certainty in his voice made your heart skip, though you didn’t know if you should have be offended or feel....something else. He walked toward one of the medicinal cabinets. Instead of grabbing bottles or bandages, he returned carrying a folded blanket.

You blinked, now you were truly confused. "...Blanket?"

"Patients should stay warm," he explained simply.

Your brows furrowed, still a bit surprised. "I'm not cold."

"You will be."

"What does that mean? You made that up right?"

"I already told you, I don't make things up."

"You’re also a pirate," you countered and he gave you a small tug at his lips.

"Still counts."

Before you could protest, he draped the blanket around your shoulders. It smelled faintly like clean linen and lavender detergent. And it was so damn comforting.

"...You're humoring me."

"I'm preventing unnecessary complaints."

You stared at him, not believing him a word. "You care."

"I care about maintaining peace and quiet in my infirmary."

"Liar."

"I prefer selective honesty," he said making you let out a soft chuckle as your cheeks heated up.

A few minutes later, a steaming mug appeared in your hands.

"...Tea?"

"Hydration and it also works on dramatic patients."

You smiled into the cup, ignoring that he thought of you as being dramatic, which was definitely…..true if you were being honest. "You really are taking care of me."

Law busied himself reorganizing supplies, pretending not to hear you. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. You watched him move around the room with practiced efficiency, every motion meticulous, every instrument returned to exactly the right place.

"You know," you said softly, "you can be really nice when you’re not scolding me or looking all grumpy."

He paused what he was doing for a moment. "I’m always grumpy."

You laughed at this while your eyes remained fixed on him. "You made me tea."

"...You're occupying my infirmary."

"You tucked me into a blanket."

"I threw a blanket at you."

"But it landed perfectly."

"That was coincidence."

You smiled knowingly. "I don't think it was."

For just a moment, Law met your eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. "Don't get used to special treatment."

"I was hoping you'd prescribe more."

"We'll see," he grumbled.

You took another sip of tea. "So..."

"So?"

"When's the next part of my examination?"

Law adjusted his heat, looking every bit the composed surgeon, you knew. "I haven't ruled out your diagnosis yet."

"And what's the leading possibility?"

He looked at you for a long moment before answering. "...I'm beginning to suspect this isn't a physical illness at all."

Your gaze softened. "No?"

"...No." He picked up the clipboard one last time and wrote something new.

You leaned over, trying to read it and this time, he didn't stop you. ‘Patient appears healthy. Cause of elevated heart rate remains... under investigation.’

You looked up from the clipboard, a smile tugging at your lips. "So, you're admitting you don't know what's wrong with me?"

Law slipped the clipboard from your hands before you could read anything else. "I said it was under investigation."

"You doctors always say that when you're stumped."

"I'm not stumped. I'm being thorough."

You hummed skeptically, taking another sip of the tea. "I've heard second opinions are important."

"You don't need one."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm the best doctor on this submarine."

"The only doctor on this submarine. You've got quite the monopoly."

Law's lips twitched upward. "Occupational hazard."

The room settled into another comfortable silence. The submarine's engines rumbled softly beneath your feet, and somewhere in the distance you could hear the muffled laughter from Penguin and Shachi.

"You know," you said eventually, "It’s kinda nice and peaceful in here."

"It usually is."

You tilted your head. "Usually?"

"Until someone fakes a terminal illness."

"I resent that accusation."

"You admitted to it."

"I admitted to possible exaggeration."

"You announced your emotional death at the door."

"It was dramatic."

"It was exhausting."

"You still let me in," you said sticking your tongue out.

Law smirked, for real this time, still only a bit but you saw it. "Unfortunately I did."

Another knock echoed through the room. Before either of you could answer, Penguin cracked the door open just enough to poke his head inside.

"Captain?"

Law didn't even glance up. "Yes?"

"We were wondering if your patient is... recovering." His voice sounded suspiciously strained, as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.

You immediately wilted against the pillows. "...Tell my family I fought bravely."

Penguin bit the inside of his cheek. "I... don't think you're dying."

"You can't know that."

"I can literally hear you talking."

"Ghosts can talk too."

"They usually don't ask for tea."

"I needed one last cup."

Law sighed. "Penguin."

"Right. Sorry." He looked between the two of you. "...So... should we postpone card night?"

"Card night?" you asked.

"We thought the captain might be busy."

Law folded his arms. "I am."

Penguin raised an eyebrow. "...Busy treating a menace?"

"...Yes."

"Very serious case?"

"...Extremely."

"What've they got?"

Without missing a beat, Law replied, "Attention deficiency."

You gasped, shocked. "I've never been so insulted in my life."

Penguin burst into laughter. "I knew it!"

"Get out," Law deadpanned at Penguin.

"I'm going!" Penguin said hands raised in mock surrender, still laughing, as he disappeared down the hallway and called for Shachi.

You crossed your arms. "Your crew is mean."

"They learned from experience."

Once the laughter faded, you glanced toward Law. "You didn't have to play along."

"I know."

"But you did."

"I did."

"Why?"

Law busied himself cleaning the stethoscope. The silence stretched just long enough for you to think he wouldn't answer. "Because..."

"Because?"

"You looked like you wanted me to."

Your expression softened. "That's all?"

He paused and exhaled faintly. "Mostly."

A comfortable quiet settled over the infirmary. You swung your legs idly over the edge of the examination table while Law reorganized medicine bottles that were already perfectly organized.

"You know, I've never seen you take a break."

"I take breaks."

"Bepo says your idea of a break is reading different medical books."

"...That's still a break."

"You work too much."

"So I've been told."

You huffed and tilted your head at him. "When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?"

Law thought for a moment. "...I don't remember."

"That's sad."

"I don't need constant entertainment."

"I'm not talking about entertainment." You said and he looked at you curiously. "I'm talking about letting yourself smile. You don't do it enough."

He was quiet again. "You make it sound easy."

"It kind of is."

"For you."

You shrugged. "Maybe." Without warning, you reached over and gently poked his cheek. "There."

Law blinked a tiny bit shocked. "What was that?"

"A smile inspection," you grinned cheekily.

"I wasn't smiling."

"You almost were."

"I almost moved you into the hallway."

"But you didn't," you said triumphantly, feeling almost proud he didn't 'Room' you.

"No."

You liked the way he looked right now and the fact that you felt like you had him right there. "Because you like me," you purred boldly.

"I refuse to answer that."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"You'd take anything as a yes."

"Probably."

Law shook his head before reaching for the stethoscope again. "One final examination."

"Ooh."

"Don't sound so excited."

"I can't help it."

"You absolutely can." He placed the stethoscope against your chest once more. This time neither of you joked. The quiet was almost startling. You watched his expression instead. Focused but gently, almost fond. He listened for several moments before removing it.

"Well?"

"Your heartbeat's still fast."

"Oh no, and here I was thinking it would’ve slowed down after being treated so good by you," you breathed dramatically.

Law rubbed his temples and definitely tried to hide a grin tugging at his lips. "It increases every time you look at me," he observed.

You smiled sheepishly. "I can't control that....It's not bad though is it?"

"No." His answer came softer than before.

"It's actually pretty normal." He explained, making you blink up at him. "For someone who's..." He stopped himself.

"Who's what?" you asked because now you were curious.

"Never mind," he said brushing it off, but you weren’t having it.

"No, finish that sentence," you urged.

Law looked away, adjusting the tubing of the stethoscope with unnecessary precision. "For someone who's in love."

The room became impossibly quiet. The engines seemed farther away. Even the soft clinking of cups in the galley disappeared. You stared at him, your heart now definitely beating a lot faster. "...Doctor, I think you've accidentally diagnosed me."

"I know, it wasn’t an accident."

You laughed quietly, though your face felt impossibly warm. "I wasn't expecting you to actually say it."

"I wasn't planning to."

You slid off the examination table until you were standing in front of him. "So...does this mean I'm incurable?" you asked raising an eyebrow and looking a bit sheepishly at him.

"I didn't say that."

"No?"

"No.” He said as he met your eyes. "It just means the treatment is... unconventional."

"Like?"

"You'll need regular meals."

"I already do."

"Enough sleep."

"I try but I can hear Bepo snoring throughout the walls."

"Less unnecessary worrying."

"I'll work on it, though that one’s tough when you're surrounded by a very chaotic crew and a grumpy doctor," you chirped with an innocent smile.

"And..." He hesitated. "...someone who reminds you to take care of yourself."

You felt something tug in your chest. "That sounds suspiciously specific."

"It's medically recommended."

"By who?"

"Me."

"So your prescription is..."

Law folded his arms, looking so much like a stern and professional doctor. "Care."

Your heart did another flip, and your breath hitched for a moment before you tried to recover. "That's surprisingly sweet."

"It's practical and effective."

"I believe you." You said, your own warm eyes meeting his for a moment before you looked down at the mug still warming your hands. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

You rolled your eyes and deadpanned at him. "You know what I mean."

He nodded once with a tiny smug smirk.

"Since when did you know?"

He leaned back against the desk, considering the question. "Probably before you did."

"What?"

"You've always found excuses to visit the infirmary."

You stared wide eyed at him. "I have not."

"You came in once because you got a paper cut."

"It was deep," you said voice dropping to a dramatic tone.

"It wasn't."

"I needed emotional support."

"You needed a tiny bandage."

"And emotional support."

"You claimed your shoulder hurt after carrying one box," he continued.

"It did hurt."

"You carried it for ten seconds."

You pouted at him and then let out a long deep exhale before you laughed softly. "I can't believe you noticed all of that."

"I notice more than people think." He said, his voice no longer teasing. "I notice when you're tired." You looked at him and your smile faded into something softer. "When you skip meals. When you're quieter than usual. When you pretend you're fine because you don't want anyone worrying."

You hadn't realized he paid that much attention. "Law, if anyone else would have said that I’d call that creepy."

"You take care of everyone else." His gaze finally met yours ignoring your habit of trying to brush it off. "Someone should take care of you too."

For a moment, you couldn't think of anything clever to say. The joking, playing the exaggerating patient, the fake illness, it had all quietly slipped away. A timid knock interrupted the moment.

"...Captain?" Bepo's voice asked quietly. "Can I come in?"

"You may."

The white bear peeked inside. "Is everything okay now? Is the examination completed?"

You looked at Law and then at Bepo. "I think the doctor figured out what was wrong."

Bepo brightened immediately. "Really? What was it?"

Your eyes remained on Law as you couldn't help but smile. "...Turns out my heart was just confused."

Bepo tilted his head. "Oh…..ooooh," Bepo said as he realized what you had meant. "I guess I'll... leave you two alone." He continued now feeling like a third wheel but before shutting the door, he paused. "...Captain?"

"Hm?" Law hummed.

"You're smiling." Bepo declared with a grin and a soft look.

Law instinctively touched his face. "No I'm not."

"You kinda are." The door slid shut before Law could respond and you couldn't help but laugh. "He caught you."

"He didn't catch anything" Law protested crossing his arms over his chest.

You placed a hand over your heart. "I'll treasure this moment forever," you said.

"I was never smiling."

"You absolutely were."

"There is no medical evidence."

"There was a witness."

Law huffed and tried to glare at you but it didn't work, not the slightest bit. "Witness testimony is unreliable."

You rolled your eyes and then stepped closer until only a small space remained between you. "So...am I officially discharged?"

Law pretended to think. "Not yet."

"No?"

"I'd like to keep the patient under observation."

"For how long?"

"As long as necessary."

"And how long is necessary?"

He looked at you with that small, rare smile that hardly anyone else ever got to see. "...I'm still figuring that out."

You reached for his hand, your fingers slipping between his tattooed ones. To your suprise he didn't pull away. Instead, he gave your hand the gentlest squeeze. Your heart immediately betrayed you again. "You know," you murmured, "I think my pulse just sped up."

"I noticed." His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles. "And I think I've finally found the cause."

"And?"

His smile widened just enough to be unmistakable. "...I'd rather not cure this one," he diagnosed and you couldn't help yourself and leaned into him letting your forehead rest against his chest only to realize that his own heart was beating faster than usually.

For the first time all afternoon, neither of you were pretending. The diagnosis had never been mysterious. It had simply taken a very dramatic patient and a grumpy doctor to finally say out loud what had been blooming for some time now.

Thatch: “It does! It does look itchy, looks like it could use a good scratchin’,” his lips pull back into a mischievous grin that put his hungry canines on full display, “I could scratch it for you ya know~ what're ol pals for? You know I’m really good with these nails~” he doesn’t miss the way your body gets full on shivers and sees you hiccup.

You: “Th-Thatch-no. I-I’m seri-” you stutter through your teeth feeling your fight and flight kick in, but right now, your hands were clamped to your arms and you got a good 2 feet between you and him before you book it.

Thatch: “Yyyeah yeah you’re ‘serious’ right now, but I’m tellin ya!!” his hand is now flat like a spatula as he waves it to you for dramatic effect “THAT cute belly right there!” he waves it again “is lookin’ to get a good scra-ohhh that’s not nice-GET BACK HERE!!”

You blew a raspberry at him as soon as he called your belly cute and booked it down the hall screaming your lungs out.

You: “Ahhh!!! NO THATCH!! FUCK MAN!!” you use all the strength your very-much-shorter-than-Thatch’s-legs-legs got and try to reach your cabin to lock the door behind you.

Your shorter legs only grant you about 5 seconds before your feet leave the ground and he tosses you over his shoulder to take you away to his room instead. He lays your wiggly thrashing body onto his bed where he decides to rest his upper half across your upper half to keep your arms from protecting yourself. From your upper chest and up you’re under his armpit basically giving him full access to your lower half. You can kick and buck all you want but you’re not going anywhere unless you can suddenly lift 300+ pounds off you. He’s being careful not to crush you of course and cut your air supply.

He lets out a satisfied whistle and uses his fingers to gently and lightly roll your shirt up knowing that at this point even the movement of the fabric of your own shirt makes you squeak and gasp. He’s biting his lip from how hard he’s smiling and makes sure that some fingers drag across your bared skin to add to the torment.

Thatch: “Alllrighty! Niiice and bare nowww” he cracks his knuckles and looks over his shoulder to look at your screaming and begging face with a sweet smile that makes his scar wrinkle “ready to be put out of your itchy misery, cutie?” he can’t help but chuckle. Of course you’re ready.

He doesn’t wait for your response and turns back to dig his thick, strong and dexterous fingers into the soft flesh of your belly giving the sweet area a good wriggling to see your skin ripple. He laughs when you shriek and lets his fingers spider to the sides of your stomach making your shriek dissolve into syrupy sweet giggles that you can’t suppress and feel your face burn.

Me: “AHHH-OHHOHOMYGODSSAHHHTHATCH HAHAHA-!!” you try to gain leverage by planting your feet onto the mattress and press up but that only makes you push your stomach closer to him and he gives you a couple hard raspberries.

He splays his hands under the arch of your back keeping you nice and elevated for a couple more seconds against your will while he mouths and nibbles at your belly and sides, then lets you flop down. He leans forward and nuzzles his lips near your hip bones making you laugh so hard you’re nearly breathless, you pound at his back and try pulling his hair but he’s a fucking mountain compared to you.

Thatch: “Mmmm….I hear gnawing is a good alternative to scratching with hands, let’s try it out. You tell me.” He nibbles and bites at your hip bones now and trails his mouth to your ribs to nibble at the tender bones there too.

The whole entire trail was agonizing because his goatee tickled like hell too, especially since it was a new added texture to the mix. Thatch notices the sudden jump in reaction and noise level and moves just a smidge up to nuzzle his goatee into on of your armpits and can’t help the giddy smile he gets when he hears your laugh go silent and sees your belly bounce and tense. He nuzzles from there and back down to your ribs enjoying your adorable noises.

You: “YOU’RE NOT EVEN-!!! YOU’RE NOT EVEN SCRATCHING MY-” you can’t get a full sentence out because of how badly he’s tickling you. You try curling up by lifting your knees to your chest but that was a mistake because he latches onto your knees and massages the tender muscles surrounding them and nearly makes you piss yourself, so you were grateful he let you go.

Thatch: “I know I’m not! I’m just being nice and getting all the other itchy spots, aren’t I so nice?” he fastens himself down a little more “what do we sayyyy?” he reaches over starts to lightly pinch and grab at the soft flesh of your mons pubis. He switches from soft pinches there to deep digging and wriggling into the tendons of your groin. He knows this is what usually makes you tap out.

The fact you can’t see what he’s doing exactly drives you mad. You can’t stand any more of this, you’re certain you’ll lose your mind if he goes on any longer. You scream his name through laughing tears and feel the ticklish sensation radiate out to every nerve nearby, no matter how hard you kick and try twisting your hips to the sides his hands were glued to where he wanted them.

You know what he wants but your stubborn spirit refuses to give him what he wants. First, he interrupts your very serious conversation. Second, he threatens you with this ridiculously humiliating distraction. Third, he’s playing so fucking dirty by using that move on you. He expects you to give in and tell him what he wants to hear???

No. Way.

Nuh-uh.

That was the idea until he shoots his hand under your sweats and chonis and continues to tickle you there until he gets what he wants. Which was in about 3…2…1-

You: “THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU AHHHAHAHA THAHATCHH HAHAHA PLEASE MERCEEHEEHEEEE” You laugh your little heart out and kick for a couple more eternity-long seconds.

He stops his torture and gets off you and coos when he sees your tired sweaty smiley face.

Thatch: “You look so cute like this <3” he can’t help but clasp his hands together and press them against his chin when he says that and then wipes your sweat and hair away from your face. He leans down and smooches your left-over tears away then lets his hot breath give your ear a soft tickle “still Itchy?”

You know better than to give him a side eye. He’s gone back to full attack mode before when you show him sass after he’s asked you a question like that.

You: “N….no….not itchy no more…” you swallow in deep breaths and let your eyes shut then suddenly let out a heavy yawn and feel your body melt into goo. A good session like this always zaps your energy, but it also always gives you the best naps.

Thatch smiles warmly at the cute site and pulls your clothes off to leave you in nothing but your chonis that he’ll probably steal later, and rests you against his bare chest after he’s stripped himself of his clothes so he’s in nothing but his boxer briefs. He lays the blanket over the both of you and rakes his fingers against your scalp until you both knock out for a much needed nap.

The days stopped feeling like days. They became… fragments. Measured not in time, but in you. Shanks stopped expecting consistency, which was not easy but, in a way, better for him. Hope, in the way he had known it before, had become something dangerous. Something that could tear him apart within seconds. So instead, he learned to take things as they came.

Hongo worked tirelessly. Careful examinations, quiet notes, subtle adjustments in medication and rest cycles. The conclusion though always circled back to the same truth. “She’s healing,” he told Shanks one afternoon, arms crossed as he stood near the doorway. “Just not in a straight line.”

Shanks frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ll get her back,” Hongo said, meeting his gaze. “Just not all at once. And not in the way you expect.”

That answer lingered. Because Shanks wasn’t sure what “back” even meant anymore.

He took the good moments, the bad ones, the blank stares, the soft smiles. Each one separately now, never expecting it to survive until tomorrow.

Hongo did everything he could, restlessly going through every medical book he had. Daily checking on you, if need be he did it up to 4 times a day. On good days he only had to do it once. You were monitored constantly, your condition tracked with careful precision. From how long your lucid moments lasted, what triggered confusion, to how your body reacted to stress, to rest, to familiarity. But the conclusion never changed.

“It’s neurological,” Hongo said one evening, his tone calm but firm. “The injury disrupted memory processing. I can treat the symptoms, support her recovery… but I can’t force her mind to heal on command.”

Shanks neither liked nor accepted this answer. So, he tried everything else. Your room was the first thing he changed because he wanted to finally get you out of the infirmary and back to something less sterile, something more like you. The infirmary was a place meant for people who were broken and Shanks made it clear you weren’t broken, you were still you even if you didn’t always remember it.

Shanks had planned to change his and your room completely but Beckman advised him against it. Not because he didn’t want his captain to be near you but because he feared that Shanks would get even less sleep if you shared the same bed again. That the familiarity of the room could be both a gift and a curse. So, he and Shanks agreed to get you to your old room, the one you had occupied when you first ended up here on the Red Force, before you and Shanks were a thing.

By the end of the week, a new space had been prepared for you with the help of the entire crew. It was just off the main deck, where the sea breeze could still drift in through the open window. The bed was layered with thick blankets and soft sheets that didn’t smell like medicine. Rugs covered the wooden floor, muting the creaks of the ship beneath your feet. Pillows were scattered everywhere, not neatly, not perfectly, simply because that wouldn’t be you, you liked your space to be cosy rather than perfectly organized. This way it made you feel… safe, like nothing had changed.

You noticed it immediately. “…these are new,” you murmured one day, running your fingers along the edge of a blanket.

Shanks, standing near the doorway, shrugged lightly. “Figured you deserved something better than the infirmary,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite how carefully he watched your reaction.

You looked around taking everything in, slowly, carefully. You felt something tighten in your chest but it wasn’t that bad feeling from before. No this was different, this felt like you were remembering something and it made you smile a bit. “…it feels nice,” you admitted quietly.

That was enough to make something in his chest loosen and he exhaled quietly enough so you couldn’t hear it. He simply felt that painful shred of hope stir up inside of him again, combined with a deep sort of satisfaction that you liked your room this way.

You kept looking around and then beside the bed spotted a wheelchair. You stared at it for a long time. “…is this… for me?” you asked quietly.

Shanks took a few steps closer, making sure not to crowd or overwhelm you as he watched your reaction carefully. “Only when you need it,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“…is something wrong with me?” you asked, your voice thinner than usual.

Shanks stepped closer, careful, measured, till he was standing right in front of you and you didn’t know why but you didn’t mind it.

“No,” he said gently. “Just… sometimes your body gets tired faster than it should.”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushing lightly against the armrest. “…I don’t remember needing one.” There was no accusation in your voice just some confusion.

Shanks swallowed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s… kind of the problem,” he mumbled and you looked at him but didn’t understand what he was referring to.

“Oh, okay sorry,” you whispered and bit your lip softly.

“No, no don’t be sorry, it’s okay, we all forget some things at times right,” he immediately said to reassure you and to keep you from feeling bad.

You smiled at him, small but somehow grateful. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

Shanks exhaled relieved and couldn’t help but smile at you too, he now lived for moments like these. Even if they were rare now, even if they weren’t lasting. But these small moments were what helped him to keep going. To keep fighting for you.

Some days, you walked. Slowly, carefully and a bit unsteady. Your hand brushing walls or furniture as if relearning balance and Shanks always hovering near you like a safety net he refused to remove. The crew would help, encourage you and make you feel safe without hovering. They made room when they saw you were getting confused and stayed when they realized you needed some support. Shanks was grateful for it, they weren’t just helping you, they were also there for him. Helping him carry the weight of all.

Other days it was impossible and you simply couldn’t take a single step. Your balance would fail you, your head would be spinning too fast and your body would refuse to cooperate with your mind. Nothing seemed to work the way you wanted it to. Those were the days the wheelchair stayed close. You were still wary of it and at first, you resisted. “I don’t like it,” you muttered once, fingers gripping the armrest.

Shanks crouched slightly in front of you, his voice softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

You looked at him, really looked, studying his face and expression. “…but you still want me to use it.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

He held your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Only so you don’t miss out on things,” he explained and something in his eyes tugged at you because it seemed to matter. The way he looked at you seemed to be more important than the explanation itself.

You kept your eyes on him and you saw something in them that made your breath hitch for reasons you couldn’t completely grip. But there was sincerity in his eyes, he wanted you to be part of the world, of his world and you exhaled. “Okay,” you whispered and extended your arms towards him so he could help you into the wheelchair.

On the worst days, Shanks simply carried you. At first you had protested. “I can walk,” you insisted weakly, even as your grip on his shirt tightened.

Shanks had only grinned a bit. “I know you can,” he said. “Just… not today.”

Eventually, you stopped arguing. Not because your head told you to fully trust him but because somewhere deep down your body seemed to. It naturally gravitated to him, leaned into him and let him carry you, hold you without feeling tense or vibrating with nerves. It was weird, really, because your head was scolding you for letting this stranger close, for being reckless while your body relaxed whenever he touched you now.

The deck became part of your routine. There was a spot he favored, always had even when you were still……you. The version of you without the memory loss, the one that never forgot him. It was tucked slightly away from the usual noise of the crew, where the sun hit just right in the afternoon and the wind wasn’t too harsh. He had it set up quietly. Rugs layered over the wood. Pillows piled carelessly but intentionally. it looked like it had always belonged there. A soft space carved out of a world made of wood and salt and wind. A place where you could sit, or lie down, without feeling like you were being watched.

The first time he brought you there, you had been quiet. He had carried you there because you were feeling a bit tired that day and tensed slightly not out of fear but something else, something that wasn’t bad though.

“…you don’t have to carry me,” you murmured, your hand lightly gripping his shirt more out of instinct than intent.

A faint smirk tugged at Shanks’ lips. “I know.”

You studied his face and didn’t argue it any longer because he looked so…..sweet and caring in a way that made your chest tighten again, for reasons you couldn’t quite name. He put you down carefully, like you were something fragile but not weak or broken. He refused to even think about this. He stayed close and helped you settle comfortably on the pillows before he sat down next to you, giving you enough space so you didn’t feel suffocated.

You looked around, letting your fingers trace over the fabric around you. You observed and took everything in with that distant, searching look you wore so often now. You leaned back against the pillows, eyes drifting out toward the ocean. For a while, neither of you spoke. “…it’s quiet here,” you said eventually.

“Mmh,” he replied not taking his eyes off you.

“…it’s nice,” you said, after feeling a strange familiarity with this place.

Shanks, who had been watching you a little too closely, blinked. “…yeah?” he asked glad that you were starting to relax.

You nodded slightly, shifting against the pillows. “It feels… warm and like I….like I know this place.”

Shanks smiled softly because that was enough. Actually, it was more than enough for him. He started to bring you there often, regularly.

On the very rare perfect days you sat there like everything was how it used to be. Babbling away, cuddling with him, calling out at the crew from your pillows and joking or messing with them by throwing grapes at them. You would even invite them to sit with you tell you stories or sometimes you wanted to play cards with them like you used to when everything was good. You still managed to make them look really bad and win smugly. Exaggerating about it ridiculously like you used to. It was rare moments where there was genuine laughter filling the Red Force.

On good days, you would sit beside him, asking questions about the sea, the ship, the crew, like you were learning your life all over again. Shanks always answered them thoughtfully, not too much, not too overwhelming.

On better days you laughed. Not always at him, not always with recognition but it was real and he held onto that like it was everything especially since the perfect days got less and less. The crew adapted too. The usually rowdy, cheerful men quieted down when needed. They talked gentler and slower to you. Gave you space when you needed it and looked at them with confusion. But they didn’t change completely because Hongo had insisted that familiarity, even if you didn’t consciously recognize it, might help.

Bad days you’d just sit there, watching the waves like they might carry pieces of your memory back to you or you’d lean into the pillows stare at the sky or simply sleep there. While he stayed nearby, always nearby.

Still it wasn’t enough.

“She needs more consistent care.” Beckman’s voice cut through the quiet of the captain’s quarters one evening.

Shanks leaned back in his chair, a bottle untouched in front of him.

“…she has me,” he replied.

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “She has you,” he agreed. “But you’re not always going to be enough.” That stung. Because part of Shanks already knew that. “Shanks you have a crew to run, a ship, a territory, you’re after all still a Yonko and while I don’t mind taking over your tasks, I’m not you.” Beckman continued. “Hongo can’t be with her every second either and she’s not always… steady.” Beckman added choosing his words carefully. “And the crew—hell, we’ll do anything for her, you know that—but she might need someone who knows what to do when Hongo isn’t around. Someone trained, someone who can—”

“Take care of her?” Shanks finished quietly.

Beckman nodded once.

Silence stretched between them.

“…a nurse,” Shanks muttered.

“Or a caregiver,” Beckman added. “Preferably someone she’s comfortable with.”

Shanks let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “…a woman,” he said after a moment. “She’d probably feel safer.”

Because right now you didn’t know him, not always. Because there were still moments, too many moments, where you looked at him like you didn’t know what he might do. And he couldn’t stand that.

“I’ll find someone,” Shanks said finally, not as a Yonko, not as a captain but a man who was fighting for his one true love, his voice firm despite the exhaustion behind it. “The best there is.”

Later that night, the ship was quiet and he found you asleep in your room. Curled slightly into the blankets, your breathing soft, peaceful in a way that felt almost unfair compared to everything else. Hongo was sitting next to you, he looked tired too but he had promised Shanks to take care of you, to bring you back to him and to be there for you when Shanks couldn’t.

“Get some rest Hongo, thank you for staying, you’ve done enough for today, hell, probably for a lifetime already,” Shanks whispered softly to make sure not to wake you.

Hongo looked at Shanks and knew arguing with him right now would be useless and only threaten to wake you, so he got up and as he walked past Shanks, placed his hand on his Captain’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “She’ll come back to you,” Hongo whispered before he nodded and left the room.

For a moment, Shanks just stood there, watching you. Then approached, slow as if you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He sat beside you, not touching this time. Just there, just being near you. Feeling your warmth and hearing your soft breathing.

“…I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, not expecting an answer and not needing one. “I don’t care how long it takes.” His gaze softened as it rested on your face. “I’ll learn every version of you if I have to.”

He exhaled and then let the silence settle for a moment before he smiled a bit pained at you. “I’ll make you fall in love with me again,” he promised.

Your fingers shifted again in your sleep, unconsciously inching closer until the backs of your hands almost touched. It was as if something inside you was reacting to him without any of you realizing it. As if your subconscious was gravitating to the man that had been your life, your anchor, your light, before the incident.

“…you said you liked the ocean,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You used to say it made everything feel smaller. Like nothing could trap you.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze softened. “…guess I’m hoping it brings you back too.”

Your fingers shifted slightly in your sleep again, inching a bit closer towards his. He didn’t know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But he knew it was enough.

The next few weeks were cruel. Not because nothing improved. Because sometimes it did and that was the worst part.

One morning you woke up smiling at Lucky Roux as though nothing had ever happened. "Morning, Roux," you chirped, your muscles feeling a bit weak but overall you were feeling good. You felt like you had slept for days.

The entire galley went silent. Lucky froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. "...you remember me?"

You blinked confused, thinking this was another of his jokes or teases. "Obviously," you shrugged your smile even brighter now. For a second the crew looked at each other like they had just witnessed a miracle. You took your usual seat at the table right between Shanks and Beckman while Roux immediately disappeared into the kitchen. You sat there talking about this and that, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why the crew looked so stunned at you. For a long moment you thought about asking if they had seen a ghost or hungover but decided against it because the smell of something really really good hit your senses.

Roux returned with a plate of your favorite breakfast. A recipe he had spent years perfecting because you always complained the first version wasn't spicy enough. He set it down in front of you with a grin. "Thought you might want this."

Your eyes lit up immediately. “Oh this smells so good,” you said totally excited. The reaction alone made his chest swell. You took a slow bite and the flavour on your tongue was like an explosion of taste. You took another bite and then another. “It’s delicious,” you mumbled, mouth half full.

Roux laughed and the whole galley seemed to breathe easier that moment, it was as if live returned to this place. "I know," Roux smiled.

"No, I mean it, you've really outdone yourself with this," you insisted, for the first time in your life not really caring about manners as you practically shoved it into you.

Something inside him faltered as he watched you. "You don't remember it?" he asked warily.

Your smile slowly faded and was replaced with a bit of confusion. You would definitely remember eating something like this. "...should I?"

The silence that followed hurt more than anyone wanted to admit. “Nah,” Roux said forcing a grin and brushing it off. You looked at him and shrugged finishing your plate. But the rest of the crew didn’t miss the way Roux stayed unusually quiet after that.

A few days later Bonk Punch tried. You were sitting on the deck wrapped in blankets while the afternoon sun warmed your face. The musician settled nearby and began playing. Softly at first. Then the melody shifted. It wasn’t just any song, it was your song, the one you used to request constantly. The one you'd drag Shanks into dancing to whenever you were drunk enough.

Several crew members looked over immediately. Waiting, hoping for something. You listened and tilted your head slightly. The music was good, you liked it. When it ended Bonk Punch smiled "Recognize it?" he asked, hopeful.

You thought for a moment, pursing your lips and furrowing you eyebrows a bit but then shook your head. "No, but I like it."

The answer wasn't cruel, wasn’t even sad, just honest and Bonk Punch just nodded. "Ah," he sighed then looked away "...thought maybe." You never noticed how quickly he packed up his instrument afterward.

The bad days became worse. Sometimes you forgot names, sometimes faces, sometimes entire conversations. Then one morning Shanks found you crying. Not loudly or dramatically. Just sitting on the edge of your bed with tears quietly sliding down your face.

His heart nearly stopped. "What happened?" he asked tense.

You looked up immediately. Relief flooded your features at first but it was followed by confusion and then fear. The emotions changed so quickly it made him sick. "I don't know," you rasped, voice trembling. "I don't know who I am."

The room went completely still. Shanks felt every muscle in his body lock. "What?"

You rubbed at your eyes. "I know people keep telling me things," you started, laughing shakily. "They keep saying names and stories and memories and I..." Your breathing hitched. "I don't know which ones belong to me anymore."

Shanks swallowed hard because you looked terrified. Like someone standing in the middle of an ocean without land in sight.

"What if none of it comes back?" you asked, feeling completely lost. The question shattered him. Because for the first time he didn't have an answer.

That evening Shanks found himself walking to Hongo in the infirmary. The doctor looked exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. Medical journals covered the table beside him, pages full of notes, observations and attempts. But all of them failures.

Shanks knew immediately. Something was wrong. "Hongo," he said forcing his voice to be steady.

The doctor was quiet for a long time. Then he sat down, exhaling slowly and carefully. Like a man carrying bad news. "I've reached the limit of what I can do."

The words hit Shanks harder than any punch. “No,” he breathed, staring at Hongo.

Hongo sighed. "I can monitor her," Hongo started. "I can help manage symptoms. I can keep supporting her recovery. But I can't fix this."

The captain's jaw tightened his heart feeling like breaking once again. "There has to be something."

"There might be." Hongo rubbed his eyes. "But it's beyond me."

The admission looked painful. Because Hongo wasn't the type to quit. Not on anyone and especially not you or his Captain. "I've gone through every text I own," he continued his voice sounding tired. "I've tried everything I know."

Silence filled the room. For the first time since the accident, Shanks looked genuinely lost. Not angry, not determined, just lost. "What if she doesn't come back?" he asked fearing the answer as the question slipped out before he could stop it. Hongo looked at him, then away. And that answer hurt more than words ever could.

The breaking point came three days later. One of the very rare perfect days. You remembered everything, like absolutely everything from the whole crew’s birthdays, to your first time stealing from marines, to every little thing that you had been through with them, except for the incident that is. You laughed with the crew. Played card with them and cheated shamelessly. You bantered with Yasopp, stole food from Roux, mimicked Beckman’s stoic look (and failed miserably), you sang off tune to a song Bonk Punch played, helped Hongo with the inventory and curled against Shanks beneath the afternoon sun.

For hours it felt normal. Like none of this had ever happened. Shanks couldn't stop smiling. Neither could the crew. That night you fell asleep in his arms. For the first time since that day he allowed himself to believe. Maybe Hongo was right, maybe there was still a chance for you to come back, maybe it really just took a lot of patience, maybe it was finally happening. He kissed your forehead and you snuggled more and more against his side as you let out a soft sigh.

The next morning he brought breakfast to your room. He was still smiling, still hopeful after yesterday. He opened the door and you looked up at him sitting in the bed already and his heart stopped. Because he recognized that expression immediately – confusion, fear, distance.

"...hi," you said softly a bit tense because you had no clue who that man was. The tray nearly slipped from his hand you could see it and you kept staring at him. "...have we met before?" you asked politely yet a bit cautious.

That night Beckman found Shanks sitting alone. The bottle beside him was already half empty. Another rested near his feet. The Captain was drinking because he couldn't think anymore. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw yours. But not the ones full of that light, that sparkle or warmth no he saw the blank, afraid and lost stare.

Beckman sat beside him. Neither spoke for a while. Eventually Shanks laughed, it was a horrible sound and had nothing to do with Shanks usual boisterous and addictive laugh. It sounded broken instead.

"She remembered everything yesterday," he mumbled, voice cracking. "Everything." Beckman remained silent, listening to his Captain and friend. Shanks smiled a weak smile "She called me an idiot, stole food off my plate,” he stopped wiping at his burning eyes. "Then this morning she looked at me like I had never existed," he continued and the smile disappeared and suddenly he couldn't hold it together anymore.

His shoulders shook, his head dropped and the bottle slipped from his fingers falling to the deck spilling the remains of it onto the deck. "I don't know what else to do," he hitched the confession coming out ragged. "I can't lose her." For a moment he looked less like an Emperor and more like a man drowning. "I can't."

Beckman placed a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. The way he always used to when he knew Shanks was at his worst. "Then we find someone else," Beckman assured without hesitation.

Shanks wiped at his face, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck. “Someone else,” the words echoed in his head. Another doctor, another expert, someone, anyone. Slowly his thoughts drifted towards a familiar lighthouse. Towards a man who had once sailed with him while he was with the Roger Pirates. Towards one of the few people he trusted without question.

“Crocus,” Shanks exhaled and sat up. For the first time in days something appeared in his eyes – purpose. "If Hongo's reached his limit..." His voice was hoarse. "Then we'll go to someone who hasn't."

Beckman nodded not questioning his Captain for a second. He exhaled a deep plum of smoke and then squeezed Shanks’ shoulder. “I’ll tell Building Snake to set the course,” he said and Shanks looked up at him and he was grateful for his first mate, hell for having this crew that supported him without hesitation or doubt.

Shanks turned his head towards the door leading below deck, towards where your room was. The woman who was fighting a battle she couldn’t even remember. "Hold on a little longer," he whispered into the air, the promise barely audible. "Crocus is going to take a look at you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back to me. Even if it breaks me."

For the first time in weeks, Shanks wasn't waiting. He was sailing towards a new hope.

The days stopped feeling like days. They became… fragments. Measured not in time, but in you. Shanks stopped expecting consistency, which was not easy but, in a way, better for him. Hope, in the way he had known it before, had become something dangerous. Something that could tear him apart within seconds. So instead, he learned to take things as they came.

Hongo worked tirelessly. Careful examinations, quiet notes, subtle adjustments in medication and rest cycles. The conclusion though always circled back to the same truth. “She’s healing,” he told Shanks one afternoon, arms crossed as he stood near the doorway. “Just not in a straight line.”

Shanks frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ll get her back,” Hongo said, meeting his gaze. “Just not all at once. And not in the way you expect.”

That answer lingered. Because Shanks wasn’t sure what “back” even meant anymore.

He took the good moments, the bad ones, the blank stares, the soft smiles. Each one separately now, never expecting it to survive until tomorrow.

Hongo did everything he could, restlessly going through every medical book he had. Daily checking on you, if need be he did it up to 4 times a day. On good days he only had to do it once. You were monitored constantly, your condition tracked with careful precision. From how long your lucid moments lasted, what triggered confusion, to how your body reacted to stress, to rest, to familiarity. But the conclusion never changed.

“It’s neurological,” Hongo said one evening, his tone calm but firm. “The injury disrupted memory processing. I can treat the symptoms, support her recovery… but I can’t force her mind to heal on command.”

Shanks neither liked nor accepted this answer. So, he tried everything else. Your room was the first thing he changed because he wanted to finally get you out of the infirmary and back to something less sterile, something more like you. The infirmary was a place meant for people who were broken and Shanks made it clear you weren’t broken, you were still you even if you didn’t always remember it.

Shanks had planned to change his and your room completely but Beckman advised him against it. Not because he didn’t want his captain to be near you but because he feared that Shanks would get even less sleep if you shared the same bed again. That the familiarity of the room could be both a gift and a curse. So, he and Shanks agreed to get you to your old room, the one you had occupied when you first ended up here on the Red Force, before you and Shanks were a thing.

By the end of the week, a new space had been prepared for you with the help of the entire crew. It was just off the main deck, where the sea breeze could still drift in through the open window. The bed was layered with thick blankets and soft sheets that didn’t smell like medicine. Rugs covered the wooden floor, muting the creaks of the ship beneath your feet. Pillows were scattered everywhere, not neatly, not perfectly, simply because that wouldn’t be you, you liked your space to be cosy rather than perfectly organized. This way it made you feel… safe, like nothing had changed.

You noticed it immediately. “…these are new,” you murmured one day, running your fingers along the edge of a blanket.

Shanks, standing near the doorway, shrugged lightly. “Figured you deserved something better than the infirmary,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite how carefully he watched your reaction.

You looked around taking everything in, slowly, carefully. You felt something tighten in your chest but it wasn’t that bad feeling from before. No this was different, this felt like you were remembering something and it made you smile a bit. “…it feels nice,” you admitted quietly.

That was enough to make something in his chest loosen and he exhaled quietly enough so you couldn’t hear it. He simply felt that painful shred of hope stir up inside of him again, combined with a deep sort of satisfaction that you liked your room this way.

You kept looking around and then beside the bed spotted a wheelchair. You stared at it for a long time. “…is this… for me?” you asked quietly.

Shanks took a few steps closer, making sure not to crowd or overwhelm you as he watched your reaction carefully. “Only when you need it,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“…is something wrong with me?” you asked, your voice thinner than usual.

Shanks stepped closer, careful, measured, till he was standing right in front of you and you didn’t know why but you didn’t mind it.

“No,” he said gently. “Just… sometimes your body gets tired faster than it should.”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushing lightly against the armrest. “…I don’t remember needing one.” There was no accusation in your voice just some confusion.

Shanks swallowed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s… kind of the problem,” he mumbled and you looked at him but didn’t understand what he was referring to.

“Oh, okay sorry,” you whispered and bit your lip softly.

“No, no don’t be sorry, it’s okay, we all forget some things at times right,” he immediately said to reassure you and to keep you from feeling bad.

You smiled at him, small but somehow grateful. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

Shanks exhaled relieved and couldn’t help but smile at you too, he now lived for moments like these. Even if they were rare now, even if they weren’t lasting. But these small moments were what helped him to keep going. To keep fighting for you.

Some days, you walked. Slowly, carefully and a bit unsteady. Your hand brushing walls or furniture as if relearning balance and Shanks always hovering near you like a safety net he refused to remove. The crew would help, encourage you and make you feel safe without hovering. They made room when they saw you were getting confused and stayed when they realized you needed some support. Shanks was grateful for it, they weren’t just helping you, they were also there for him. Helping him carry the weight of all.

Other days it was impossible and you simply couldn’t take a single step. Your balance would fail you, your head would be spinning too fast and your body would refuse to cooperate with your mind. Nothing seemed to work the way you wanted it to. Those were the days the wheelchair stayed close. You were still wary of it and at first, you resisted. “I don’t like it,” you muttered once, fingers gripping the armrest.

Shanks crouched slightly in front of you, his voice softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

You looked at him, really looked, studying his face and expression. “…but you still want me to use it.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

He held your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Only so you don’t miss out on things,” he explained and something in his eyes tugged at you because it seemed to matter. The way he looked at you seemed to be more important than the explanation itself.

You kept your eyes on him and you saw something in them that made your breath hitch for reasons you couldn’t completely grip. But there was sincerity in his eyes, he wanted you to be part of the world, of his world and you exhaled. “Okay,” you whispered and extended your arms towards him so he could help you into the wheelchair.

On the worst days, Shanks simply carried you. At first you had protested. “I can walk,” you insisted weakly, even as your grip on his shirt tightened.

Shanks had only grinned a bit. “I know you can,” he said. “Just… not today.”

Eventually, you stopped arguing. Not because your head told you to fully trust him but because somewhere deep down your body seemed to. It naturally gravitated to him, leaned into him and let him carry you, hold you without feeling tense or vibrating with nerves. It was weird, really, because your head was scolding you for letting this stranger close, for being reckless while your body relaxed whenever he touched you now.

The deck became part of your routine. There was a spot he favored, always had even when you were still……you. The version of you without the memory loss, the one that never forgot him. It was tucked slightly away from the usual noise of the crew, where the sun hit just right in the afternoon and the wind wasn’t too harsh. He had it set up quietly. Rugs layered over the wood. Pillows piled carelessly but intentionally. it looked like it had always belonged there. A soft space carved out of a world made of wood and salt and wind. A place where you could sit, or lie down, without feeling like you were being watched.

The first time he brought you there, you had been quiet. He had carried you there because you were feeling a bit tired that day and tensed slightly not out of fear but something else, something that wasn’t bad though.

“…you don’t have to carry me,” you murmured, your hand lightly gripping his shirt more out of instinct than intent.

A faint smirk tugged at Shanks’ lips. “I know.”

You studied his face and didn’t argue it any longer because he looked so…..sweet and caring in a way that made your chest tighten again, for reasons you couldn’t quite name. He put you down carefully, like you were something fragile but not weak or broken. He refused to even think about this. He stayed close and helped you settle comfortably on the pillows before he sat down next to you, giving you enough space so you didn’t feel suffocated.

You looked around, letting your fingers trace over the fabric around you. You observed and took everything in with that distant, searching look you wore so often now. You leaned back against the pillows, eyes drifting out toward the ocean. For a while, neither of you spoke. “…it’s quiet here,” you said eventually.

“Mmh,” he replied not taking his eyes off you.

“…it’s nice,” you said, after feeling a strange familiarity with this place.

Shanks, who had been watching you a little too closely, blinked. “…yeah?” he asked glad that you were starting to relax.

You nodded slightly, shifting against the pillows. “It feels… warm and like I….like I know this place.”

Shanks smiled softly because that was enough. Actually, it was more than enough for him. He started to bring you there often, regularly.

On the very rare perfect days you sat there like everything was how it used to be. Babbling away, cuddling with him, calling out at the crew from your pillows and joking or messing with them by throwing grapes at them. You would even invite them to sit with you tell you stories or sometimes you wanted to play cards with them like you used to when everything was good. You still managed to make them look really bad and win smugly. Exaggerating about it ridiculously like you used to. It was rare moments where there was genuine laughter filling the Red Force.

On good days, you would sit beside him, asking questions about the sea, the ship, the crew, like you were learning your life all over again. Shanks always answered them thoughtfully, not too much, not too overwhelming.

On better days you laughed. Not always at him, not always with recognition but it was real and he held onto that like it was everything especially since the perfect days got less and less. The crew adapted too. The usually rowdy, cheerful men quieted down when needed. They talked gentler and slower to you. Gave you space when you needed it and looked at them with confusion. But they didn’t change completely because Hongo had insisted that familiarity, even if you didn’t consciously recognize it, might help.

Bad days you’d just sit there, watching the waves like they might carry pieces of your memory back to you or you’d lean into the pillows stare at the sky or simply sleep there. While he stayed nearby, always nearby.

Still it wasn’t enough.

“She needs more consistent care.” Beckman’s voice cut through the quiet of the captain’s quarters one evening.

Shanks leaned back in his chair, a bottle untouched in front of him.

“…she has me,” he replied.

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “She has you,” he agreed. “But you’re not always going to be enough.” That stung. Because part of Shanks already knew that. “Shanks you have a crew to run, a ship, a territory, you’re after all still a Yonko and while I don’t mind taking over your tasks, I’m not you.” Beckman continued. “Hongo can’t be with her every second either and she’s not always… steady.” Beckman added choosing his words carefully. “And the crew—hell, we’ll do anything for her, you know that—but she might need someone who knows what to do when Hongo isn’t around. Someone trained, someone who can—”

“Take care of her?” Shanks finished quietly.

Beckman nodded once.

Silence stretched between them.

“…a nurse,” Shanks muttered.

“Or a caregiver,” Beckman added. “Preferably someone she’s comfortable with.”

Shanks let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “…a woman,” he said after a moment. “She’d probably feel safer.”

Because right now you didn’t know him, not always. Because there were still moments, too many moments, where you looked at him like you didn’t know what he might do. And he couldn’t stand that.

“I’ll find someone,” Shanks said finally, not as a Yonko, not as a captain but a man who was fighting for his one true love, his voice firm despite the exhaustion behind it. “The best there is.”

Later that night, the ship was quiet and he found you asleep in your room. Curled slightly into the blankets, your breathing soft, peaceful in a way that felt almost unfair compared to everything else. Hongo was sitting next to you, he looked tired too but he had promised Shanks to take care of you, to bring you back to him and to be there for you when Shanks couldn’t.

“Get some rest Hongo, thank you for staying, you’ve done enough for today, hell, probably for a lifetime already,” Shanks whispered softly to make sure not to wake you.

Hongo looked at Shanks and knew arguing with him right now would be useless and only threaten to wake you, so he got up and as he walked past Shanks, placed his hand on his Captain’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “She’ll come back to you,” Hongo whispered before he nodded and left the room.

For a moment, Shanks just stood there, watching you. Then approached, slow as if you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He sat beside you, not touching this time. Just there, just being near you. Feeling your warmth and hearing your soft breathing.

“…I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, not expecting an answer and not needing one. “I don’t care how long it takes.” His gaze softened as it rested on your face. “I’ll learn every version of you if I have to.”

He exhaled and then let the silence settle for a moment before he smiled a bit pained at you. “I’ll make you fall in love with me again,” he promised.

Your fingers shifted again in your sleep, unconsciously inching closer until the backs of your hands almost touched. It was as if something inside you was reacting to him without any of you realizing it. As if your subconscious was gravitating to the man that had been your life, your anchor, your light, before the incident.

“…you said you liked the ocean,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You used to say it made everything feel smaller. Like nothing could trap you.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze softened. “…guess I’m hoping it brings you back too.”

Your fingers shifted slightly in your sleep again, inching a bit closer towards his. He didn’t know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But he knew it was enough.

The next few weeks were cruel. Not because nothing improved. Because sometimes it did and that was the worst part.

One morning you woke up smiling at Lucky Roux as though nothing had ever happened. "Morning, Roux," you chirped, your muscles feeling a bit weak but overall you were feeling good. You felt like you had slept for days.

The entire galley went silent. Lucky froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. "...you remember me?"

You blinked confused, thinking this was another of his jokes or teases. "Obviously," you shrugged your smile even brighter now. For a second the crew looked at each other like they had just witnessed a miracle. You took your usual seat at the table right between Shanks and Beckman while Roux immediately disappeared into the kitchen. You sat there talking about this and that, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why the crew looked so stunned at you. For a long moment you thought about asking if they had seen a ghost or hungover but decided against it because the smell of something really really good hit your senses.

Roux returned with a plate of your favorite breakfast. A recipe he had spent years perfecting because you always complained the first version wasn't spicy enough. He set it down in front of you with a grin. "Thought you might want this."

Your eyes lit up immediately. “Oh this smells so good,” you said totally excited. The reaction alone made his chest swell. You took a slow bite and the flavour on your tongue was like an explosion of taste. You took another bite and then another. “It’s delicious,” you mumbled, mouth half full.

Roux laughed and the whole galley seemed to breathe easier that moment, it was as if live returned to this place. "I know," Roux smiled.

"No, I mean it, you've really outdone yourself with this," you insisted, for the first time in your life not really caring about manners as you practically shoved it into you.

Something inside him faltered as he watched you. "You don't remember it?" he asked warily.

Your smile slowly faded and was replaced with a bit of confusion. You would definitely remember eating something like this. "...should I?"

The silence that followed hurt more than anyone wanted to admit. “Nah,” Roux said forcing a grin and brushing it off. You looked at him and shrugged finishing your plate. But the rest of the crew didn’t miss the way Roux stayed unusually quiet after that.

A few days later Bonk Punch tried. You were sitting on the deck wrapped in blankets while the afternoon sun warmed your face. The musician settled nearby and began playing. Softly at first. Then the melody shifted. It wasn’t just any song, it was your song, the one you used to request constantly. The one you'd drag Shanks into dancing to whenever you were drunk enough.

Several crew members looked over immediately. Waiting, hoping for something. You listened and tilted your head slightly. The music was good, you liked it. When it ended Bonk Punch smiled "Recognize it?" he asked, hopeful.

You thought for a moment, pursing your lips and furrowing you eyebrows a bit but then shook your head. "No, but I like it."

The answer wasn't cruel, wasn’t even sad, just honest and Bonk Punch just nodded. "Ah," he sighed then looked away "...thought maybe." You never noticed how quickly he packed up his instrument afterward.

The bad days became worse. Sometimes you forgot names, sometimes faces, sometimes entire conversations. Then one morning Shanks found you crying. Not loudly or dramatically. Just sitting on the edge of your bed with tears quietly sliding down your face.

His heart nearly stopped. "What happened?" he asked tense.

You looked up immediately. Relief flooded your features at first but it was followed by confusion and then fear. The emotions changed so quickly it made him sick. "I don't know," you rasped, voice trembling. "I don't know who I am."

The room went completely still. Shanks felt every muscle in his body lock. "What?"

You rubbed at your eyes. "I know people keep telling me things," you started, laughing shakily. "They keep saying names and stories and memories and I..." Your breathing hitched. "I don't know which ones belong to me anymore."

Shanks swallowed hard because you looked terrified. Like someone standing in the middle of an ocean without land in sight.

"What if none of it comes back?" you asked, feeling completely lost. The question shattered him. Because for the first time he didn't have an answer.

That evening Shanks found himself walking to Hongo in the infirmary. The doctor looked exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. Medical journals covered the table beside him, pages full of notes, observations and attempts. But all of them failures.

Shanks knew immediately. Something was wrong. "Hongo," he said forcing his voice to be steady.

The doctor was quiet for a long time. Then he sat down, exhaling slowly and carefully. Like a man carrying bad news. "I've reached the limit of what I can do."

The words hit Shanks harder than any punch. “No,” he breathed, staring at Hongo.

Hongo sighed. "I can monitor her," Hongo started. "I can help manage symptoms. I can keep supporting her recovery. But I can't fix this."

The captain's jaw tightened his heart feeling like breaking once again. "There has to be something."

"There might be." Hongo rubbed his eyes. "But it's beyond me."

The admission looked painful. Because Hongo wasn't the type to quit. Not on anyone and especially not you or his Captain. "I've gone through every text I own," he continued his voice sounding tired. "I've tried everything I know."

Silence filled the room. For the first time since the accident, Shanks looked genuinely lost. Not angry, not determined, just lost. "What if she doesn't come back?" he asked fearing the answer as the question slipped out before he could stop it. Hongo looked at him, then away. And that answer hurt more than words ever could.

The breaking point came three days later. One of the very rare perfect days. You remembered everything, like absolutely everything from the whole crew’s birthdays, to your first time stealing from marines, to every little thing that you had been through with them, except for the incident that is. You laughed with the crew. Played card with them and cheated shamelessly. You bantered with Yasopp, stole food from Roux, mimicked Beckman’s stoic look (and failed miserably), you sang off tune to a song Bonk Punch played, helped Hongo with the inventory and curled against Shanks beneath the afternoon sun.

For hours it felt normal. Like none of this had ever happened. Shanks couldn't stop smiling. Neither could the crew. That night you fell asleep in his arms. For the first time since that day he allowed himself to believe. Maybe Hongo was right, maybe there was still a chance for you to come back, maybe it really just took a lot of patience, maybe it was finally happening. He kissed your forehead and you snuggled more and more against his side as you let out a soft sigh.

The next morning he brought breakfast to your room. He was still smiling, still hopeful after yesterday. He opened the door and you looked up at him sitting in the bed already and his heart stopped. Because he recognized that expression immediately – confusion, fear, distance.

"...hi," you said softly a bit tense because you had no clue who that man was. The tray nearly slipped from his hand you could see it and you kept staring at him. "...have we met before?" you asked politely yet a bit cautious.

That night Beckman found Shanks sitting alone. The bottle beside him was already half empty. Another rested near his feet. The Captain was drinking because he couldn't think anymore. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw yours. But not the ones full of that light, that sparkle or warmth no he saw the blank, afraid and lost stare.

Beckman sat beside him. Neither spoke for a while. Eventually Shanks laughed, it was a horrible sound and had nothing to do with Shanks usual boisterous and addictive laugh. It sounded broken instead.

"She remembered everything yesterday," he mumbled, voice cracking. "Everything." Beckman remained silent, listening to his Captain and friend. Shanks smiled a weak smile "She called me an idiot, stole food off my plate,” he stopped wiping at his burning eyes. "Then this morning she looked at me like I had never existed," he continued and the smile disappeared and suddenly he couldn't hold it together anymore.

His shoulders shook, his head dropped and the bottle slipped from his fingers falling to the deck spilling the remains of it onto the deck. "I don't know what else to do," he hitched the confession coming out ragged. "I can't lose her." For a moment he looked less like an Emperor and more like a man drowning. "I can't."

Beckman placed a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. The way he always used to when he knew Shanks was at his worst. "Then we find someone else," Beckman assured without hesitation.

Shanks wiped at his face, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck. “Someone else,” the words echoed in his head. Another doctor, another expert, someone, anyone. Slowly his thoughts drifted towards a familiar lighthouse. Towards a man who had once sailed with him while he was with the Roger Pirates. Towards one of the few people he trusted without question.

“Crocus,” Shanks exhaled and sat up. For the first time in days something appeared in his eyes – purpose. "If Hongo's reached his limit..." His voice was hoarse. "Then we'll go to someone who hasn't."

Beckman nodded not questioning his Captain for a second. He exhaled a deep plum of smoke and then squeezed Shanks’ shoulder. “I’ll tell Building Snake to set the course,” he said and Shanks looked up at him and he was grateful for his first mate, hell for having this crew that supported him without hesitation or doubt.

Shanks turned his head towards the door leading below deck, towards where your room was. The woman who was fighting a battle she couldn’t even remember. "Hold on a little longer," he whispered into the air, the promise barely audible. "Crocus is going to take a look at you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back to me. Even if it breaks me."

For the first time in weeks, Shanks wasn't waiting. He was sailing towards a new hope.

The days stopped feeling like days. They became… fragments. Measured not in time, but in you. Shanks stopped expecting consistency, which was not easy but, in a way, better for him. Hope, in the way he had known it before, had become something dangerous. Something that could tear him apart within seconds. So instead, he learned to take things as they came.

Hongo worked tirelessly. Careful examinations, quiet notes, subtle adjustments in medication and rest cycles. The conclusion though always circled back to the same truth. “She’s healing,” he told Shanks one afternoon, arms crossed as he stood near the doorway. “Just not in a straight line.”

Shanks frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ll get her back,” Hongo said, meeting his gaze. “Just not all at once. And not in the way you expect.”

That answer lingered. Because Shanks wasn’t sure what “back” even meant anymore.

He took the good moments, the bad ones, the blank stares, the soft smiles. Each one separately now, never expecting it to survive until tomorrow.

Hongo did everything he could, restlessly going through every medical book he had. Daily checking on you, if need be he did it up to 4 times a day. On good days he only had to do it once. You were monitored constantly, your condition tracked with careful precision. From how long your lucid moments lasted, what triggered confusion, to how your body reacted to stress, to rest, to familiarity. But the conclusion never changed.

“It’s neurological,” Hongo said one evening, his tone calm but firm. “The injury disrupted memory processing. I can treat the symptoms, support her recovery… but I can’t force her mind to heal on command.”

Shanks neither liked nor accepted this answer. So, he tried everything else. Your room was the first thing he changed because he wanted to finally get you out of the infirmary and back to something less sterile, something more like you. The infirmary was a place meant for people who were broken and Shanks made it clear you weren’t broken, you were still you even if you didn’t always remember it.

Shanks had planned to change his and your room completely but Beckman advised him against it. Not because he didn’t want his captain to be near you but because he feared that Shanks would get even less sleep if you shared the same bed again. That the familiarity of the room could be both a gift and a curse. So, he and Shanks agreed to get you to your old room, the one you had occupied when you first ended up here on the Red Force, before you and Shanks were a thing.

By the end of the week, a new space had been prepared for you with the help of the entire crew. It was just off the main deck, where the sea breeze could still drift in through the open window. The bed was layered with thick blankets and soft sheets that didn’t smell like medicine. Rugs covered the wooden floor, muting the creaks of the ship beneath your feet. Pillows were scattered everywhere, not neatly, not perfectly, simply because that wouldn’t be you, you liked your space to be cosy rather than perfectly organized. This way it made you feel… safe, like nothing had changed.

You noticed it immediately. “…these are new,” you murmured one day, running your fingers along the edge of a blanket.

Shanks, standing near the doorway, shrugged lightly. “Figured you deserved something better than the infirmary,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite how carefully he watched your reaction.

You looked around taking everything in, slowly, carefully. You felt something tighten in your chest but it wasn’t that bad feeling from before. No this was different, this felt like you were remembering something and it made you smile a bit. “…it feels nice,” you admitted quietly.

That was enough to make something in his chest loosen and he exhaled quietly enough so you couldn’t hear it. He simply felt that painful shred of hope stir up inside of him again, combined with a deep sort of satisfaction that you liked your room this way.

You kept looking around and then beside the bed spotted a wheelchair. You stared at it for a long time. “…is this… for me?” you asked quietly.

Shanks took a few steps closer, making sure not to crowd or overwhelm you as he watched your reaction carefully. “Only when you need it,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“…is something wrong with me?” you asked, your voice thinner than usual.

Shanks stepped closer, careful, measured, till he was standing right in front of you and you didn’t know why but you didn’t mind it.

“No,” he said gently. “Just… sometimes your body gets tired faster than it should.”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushing lightly against the armrest. “…I don’t remember needing one.” There was no accusation in your voice just some confusion.

Shanks swallowed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s… kind of the problem,” he mumbled and you looked at him but didn’t understand what he was referring to.

“Oh, okay sorry,” you whispered and bit your lip softly.

“No, no don’t be sorry, it’s okay, we all forget some things at times right,” he immediately said to reassure you and to keep you from feeling bad.

You smiled at him, small but somehow grateful. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

Shanks exhaled relieved and couldn’t help but smile at you too, he now lived for moments like these. Even if they were rare now, even if they weren’t lasting. But these small moments were what helped him to keep going. To keep fighting for you.

Some days, you walked. Slowly, carefully and a bit unsteady. Your hand brushing walls or furniture as if relearning balance and Shanks always hovering near you like a safety net he refused to remove. The crew would help, encourage you and make you feel safe without hovering. They made room when they saw you were getting confused and stayed when they realized you needed some support. Shanks was grateful for it, they weren’t just helping you, they were also there for him. Helping him carry the weight of all.

Other days it was impossible and you simply couldn’t take a single step. Your balance would fail you, your head would be spinning too fast and your body would refuse to cooperate with your mind. Nothing seemed to work the way you wanted it to. Those were the days the wheelchair stayed close. You were still wary of it and at first, you resisted. “I don’t like it,” you muttered once, fingers gripping the armrest.

Shanks crouched slightly in front of you, his voice softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

You looked at him, really looked, studying his face and expression. “…but you still want me to use it.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

He held your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Only so you don’t miss out on things,” he explained and something in his eyes tugged at you because it seemed to matter. The way he looked at you seemed to be more important than the explanation itself.

You kept your eyes on him and you saw something in them that made your breath hitch for reasons you couldn’t completely grip. But there was sincerity in his eyes, he wanted you to be part of the world, of his world and you exhaled. “Okay,” you whispered and extended your arms towards him so he could help you into the wheelchair.

On the worst days, Shanks simply carried you. At first you had protested. “I can walk,” you insisted weakly, even as your grip on his shirt tightened.

Shanks had only grinned a bit. “I know you can,” he said. “Just… not today.”

Eventually, you stopped arguing. Not because your head told you to fully trust him but because somewhere deep down your body seemed to. It naturally gravitated to him, leaned into him and let him carry you, hold you without feeling tense or vibrating with nerves. It was weird, really, because your head was scolding you for letting this stranger close, for being reckless while your body relaxed whenever he touched you now.

The deck became part of your routine. There was a spot he favored, always had even when you were still……you. The version of you without the memory loss, the one that never forgot him. It was tucked slightly away from the usual noise of the crew, where the sun hit just right in the afternoon and the wind wasn’t too harsh. He had it set up quietly. Rugs layered over the wood. Pillows piled carelessly but intentionally. it looked like it had always belonged there. A soft space carved out of a world made of wood and salt and wind. A place where you could sit, or lie down, without feeling like you were being watched.

The first time he brought you there, you had been quiet. He had carried you there because you were feeling a bit tired that day and tensed slightly not out of fear but something else, something that wasn’t bad though.

“…you don’t have to carry me,” you murmured, your hand lightly gripping his shirt more out of instinct than intent.

A faint smirk tugged at Shanks’ lips. “I know.”

You studied his face and didn’t argue it any longer because he looked so…..sweet and caring in a way that made your chest tighten again, for reasons you couldn’t quite name. He put you down carefully, like you were something fragile but not weak or broken. He refused to even think about this. He stayed close and helped you settle comfortably on the pillows before he sat down next to you, giving you enough space so you didn’t feel suffocated.

You looked around, letting your fingers trace over the fabric around you. You observed and took everything in with that distant, searching look you wore so often now. You leaned back against the pillows, eyes drifting out toward the ocean. For a while, neither of you spoke. “…it’s quiet here,” you said eventually.

“Mmh,” he replied not taking his eyes off you.

“…it’s nice,” you said, after feeling a strange familiarity with this place.

Shanks, who had been watching you a little too closely, blinked. “…yeah?” he asked glad that you were starting to relax.

You nodded slightly, shifting against the pillows. “It feels… warm and like I….like I know this place.”

Shanks smiled softly because that was enough. Actually, it was more than enough for him. He started to bring you there often, regularly.

On the very rare perfect days you sat there like everything was how it used to be. Babbling away, cuddling with him, calling out at the crew from your pillows and joking or messing with them by throwing grapes at them. You would even invite them to sit with you tell you stories or sometimes you wanted to play cards with them like you used to when everything was good. You still managed to make them look really bad and win smugly. Exaggerating about it ridiculously like you used to. It was rare moments where there was genuine laughter filling the Red Force.

On good days, you would sit beside him, asking questions about the sea, the ship, the crew, like you were learning your life all over again. Shanks always answered them thoughtfully, not too much, not too overwhelming.

On better days you laughed. Not always at him, not always with recognition but it was real and he held onto that like it was everything especially since the perfect days got less and less. The crew adapted too. The usually rowdy, cheerful men quieted down when needed. They talked gentler and slower to you. Gave you space when you needed it and looked at them with confusion. But they didn’t change completely because Hongo had insisted that familiarity, even if you didn’t consciously recognize it, might help.

Bad days you’d just sit there, watching the waves like they might carry pieces of your memory back to you or you’d lean into the pillows stare at the sky or simply sleep there. While he stayed nearby, always nearby.

Still it wasn’t enough.

“She needs more consistent care.” Beckman’s voice cut through the quiet of the captain’s quarters one evening.

Shanks leaned back in his chair, a bottle untouched in front of him.

“…she has me,” he replied.

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “She has you,” he agreed. “But you’re not always going to be enough.” That stung. Because part of Shanks already knew that. “Shanks you have a crew to run, a ship, a territory, you’re after all still a Yonko and while I don’t mind taking over your tasks, I’m not you.” Beckman continued. “Hongo can’t be with her every second either and she’s not always… steady.” Beckman added choosing his words carefully. “And the crew—hell, we’ll do anything for her, you know that—but she might need someone who knows what to do when Hongo isn’t around. Someone trained, someone who can—”

“Take care of her?” Shanks finished quietly.

Beckman nodded once.

Silence stretched between them.

“…a nurse,” Shanks muttered.

“Or a caregiver,” Beckman added. “Preferably someone she’s comfortable with.”

Shanks let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “…a woman,” he said after a moment. “She’d probably feel safer.”

Because right now you didn’t know him, not always. Because there were still moments, too many moments, where you looked at him like you didn’t know what he might do. And he couldn’t stand that.

“I’ll find someone,” Shanks said finally, not as a Yonko, not as a captain but a man who was fighting for his one true love, his voice firm despite the exhaustion behind it. “The best there is.”

Later that night, the ship was quiet and he found you asleep in your room. Curled slightly into the blankets, your breathing soft, peaceful in a way that felt almost unfair compared to everything else. Hongo was sitting next to you, he looked tired too but he had promised Shanks to take care of you, to bring you back to him and to be there for you when Shanks couldn’t.

“Get some rest Hongo, thank you for staying, you’ve done enough for today, hell, probably for a lifetime already,” Shanks whispered softly to make sure not to wake you.

Hongo looked at Shanks and knew arguing with him right now would be useless and only threaten to wake you, so he got up and as he walked past Shanks, placed his hand on his Captain’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “She’ll come back to you,” Hongo whispered before he nodded and left the room.

For a moment, Shanks just stood there, watching you. Then approached, slow as if you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He sat beside you, not touching this time. Just there, just being near you. Feeling your warmth and hearing your soft breathing.

“…I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, not expecting an answer and not needing one. “I don’t care how long it takes.” His gaze softened as it rested on your face. “I’ll learn every version of you if I have to.”

He exhaled and then let the silence settle for a moment before he smiled a bit pained at you. “I’ll make you fall in love with me again,” he promised.

Your fingers shifted again in your sleep, unconsciously inching closer until the backs of your hands almost touched. It was as if something inside you was reacting to him without any of you realizing it. As if your subconscious was gravitating to the man that had been your life, your anchor, your light, before the incident.

“…you said you liked the ocean,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You used to say it made everything feel smaller. Like nothing could trap you.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze softened. “…guess I’m hoping it brings you back too.”

Your fingers shifted slightly in your sleep again, inching a bit closer towards his. He didn’t know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But he knew it was enough.

The next few weeks were cruel. Not because nothing improved. Because sometimes it did and that was the worst part.

One morning you woke up smiling at Lucky Roux as though nothing had ever happened. "Morning, Roux," you chirped, your muscles feeling a bit weak but overall you were feeling good. You felt like you had slept for days.

The entire galley went silent. Lucky froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. "...you remember me?"

You blinked confused, thinking this was another of his jokes or teases. "Obviously," you shrugged your smile even brighter now. For a second the crew looked at each other like they had just witnessed a miracle. You took your usual seat at the table right between Shanks and Beckman while Roux immediately disappeared into the kitchen. You sat there talking about this and that, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why the crew looked so stunned at you. For a long moment you thought about asking if they had seen a ghost or hungover but decided against it because the smell of something really really good hit your senses.

Roux returned with a plate of your favorite breakfast. A recipe he had spent years perfecting because you always complained the first version wasn't spicy enough. He set it down in front of you with a grin. "Thought you might want this."

Your eyes lit up immediately. “Oh this smells so good,” you said totally excited. The reaction alone made his chest swell. You took a slow bite and the flavour on your tongue was like an explosion of taste. You took another bite and then another. “It’s delicious,” you mumbled, mouth half full.

Roux laughed and the whole galley seemed to breathe easier that moment, it was as if live returned to this place. "I know," Roux smiled.

"No, I mean it, you've really outdone yourself with this," you insisted, for the first time in your life not really caring about manners as you practically shoved it into you.

Something inside him faltered as he watched you. "You don't remember it?" he asked warily.

Your smile slowly faded and was replaced with a bit of confusion. You would definitely remember eating something like this. "...should I?"

The silence that followed hurt more than anyone wanted to admit. “Nah,” Roux said forcing a grin and brushing it off. You looked at him and shrugged finishing your plate. But the rest of the crew didn’t miss the way Roux stayed unusually quiet after that.

A few days later Bonk Punch tried. You were sitting on the deck wrapped in blankets while the afternoon sun warmed your face. The musician settled nearby and began playing. Softly at first. Then the melody shifted. It wasn’t just any song, it was your song, the one you used to request constantly. The one you'd drag Shanks into dancing to whenever you were drunk enough.

Several crew members looked over immediately. Waiting, hoping for something. You listened and tilted your head slightly. The music was good, you liked it. When it ended Bonk Punch smiled "Recognize it?" he asked, hopeful.

You thought for a moment, pursing your lips and furrowing you eyebrows a bit but then shook your head. "No, but I like it."

The answer wasn't cruel, wasn’t even sad, just honest and Bonk Punch just nodded. "Ah," he sighed then looked away "...thought maybe." You never noticed how quickly he packed up his instrument afterward.

The bad days became worse. Sometimes you forgot names, sometimes faces, sometimes entire conversations. Then one morning Shanks found you crying. Not loudly or dramatically. Just sitting on the edge of your bed with tears quietly sliding down your face.

His heart nearly stopped. "What happened?" he asked tense.

You looked up immediately. Relief flooded your features at first but it was followed by confusion and then fear. The emotions changed so quickly it made him sick. "I don't know," you rasped, voice trembling. "I don't know who I am."

The room went completely still. Shanks felt every muscle in his body lock. "What?"

You rubbed at your eyes. "I know people keep telling me things," you started, laughing shakily. "They keep saying names and stories and memories and I..." Your breathing hitched. "I don't know which ones belong to me anymore."

Shanks swallowed hard because you looked terrified. Like someone standing in the middle of an ocean without land in sight.

"What if none of it comes back?" you asked, feeling completely lost. The question shattered him. Because for the first time he didn't have an answer.

That evening Shanks found himself walking to Hongo in the infirmary. The doctor looked exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. Medical journals covered the table beside him, pages full of notes, observations and attempts. But all of them failures.

Shanks knew immediately. Something was wrong. "Hongo," he said forcing his voice to be steady.

The doctor was quiet for a long time. Then he sat down, exhaling slowly and carefully. Like a man carrying bad news. "I've reached the limit of what I can do."

The words hit Shanks harder than any punch. “No,” he breathed, staring at Hongo.

Hongo sighed. "I can monitor her," Hongo started. "I can help manage symptoms. I can keep supporting her recovery. But I can't fix this."

The captain's jaw tightened his heart feeling like breaking once again. "There has to be something."

"There might be." Hongo rubbed his eyes. "But it's beyond me."

The admission looked painful. Because Hongo wasn't the type to quit. Not on anyone and especially not you or his Captain. "I've gone through every text I own," he continued his voice sounding tired. "I've tried everything I know."

Silence filled the room. For the first time since the accident, Shanks looked genuinely lost. Not angry, not determined, just lost. "What if she doesn't come back?" he asked fearing the answer as the question slipped out before he could stop it. Hongo looked at him, then away. And that answer hurt more than words ever could.

The breaking point came three days later. One of the very rare perfect days. You remembered everything, like absolutely everything from the whole crew’s birthdays, to your first time stealing from marines, to every little thing that you had been through with them, except for the incident that is. You laughed with the crew. Played card with them and cheated shamelessly. You bantered with Yasopp, stole food from Roux, mimicked Beckman’s stoic look (and failed miserably), you sang off tune to a song Bonk Punch played, helped Hongo with the inventory and curled against Shanks beneath the afternoon sun.

For hours it felt normal. Like none of this had ever happened. Shanks couldn't stop smiling. Neither could the crew. That night you fell asleep in his arms. For the first time since that day he allowed himself to believe. Maybe Hongo was right, maybe there was still a chance for you to come back, maybe it really just took a lot of patience, maybe it was finally happening. He kissed your forehead and you snuggled more and more against his side as you let out a soft sigh.

The next morning he brought breakfast to your room. He was still smiling, still hopeful after yesterday. He opened the door and you looked up at him sitting in the bed already and his heart stopped. Because he recognized that expression immediately – confusion, fear, distance.

"...hi," you said softly a bit tense because you had no clue who that man was. The tray nearly slipped from his hand you could see it and you kept staring at him. "...have we met before?" you asked politely yet a bit cautious.

That night Beckman found Shanks sitting alone. The bottle beside him was already half empty. Another rested near his feet. The Captain was drinking because he couldn't think anymore. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw yours. But not the ones full of that light, that sparkle or warmth no he saw the blank, afraid and lost stare.

Beckman sat beside him. Neither spoke for a while. Eventually Shanks laughed, it was a horrible sound and had nothing to do with Shanks usual boisterous and addictive laugh. It sounded broken instead.

"She remembered everything yesterday," he mumbled, voice cracking. "Everything." Beckman remained silent, listening to his Captain and friend. Shanks smiled a weak smile "She called me an idiot, stole food off my plate,” he stopped wiping at his burning eyes. "Then this morning she looked at me like I had never existed," he continued and the smile disappeared and suddenly he couldn't hold it together anymore.

His shoulders shook, his head dropped and the bottle slipped from his fingers falling to the deck spilling the remains of it onto the deck. "I don't know what else to do," he hitched the confession coming out ragged. "I can't lose her." For a moment he looked less like an Emperor and more like a man drowning. "I can't."

Beckman placed a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. The way he always used to when he knew Shanks was at his worst. "Then we find someone else," Beckman assured without hesitation.

Shanks wiped at his face, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck. “Someone else,” the words echoed in his head. Another doctor, another expert, someone, anyone. Slowly his thoughts drifted towards a familiar lighthouse. Towards a man who had once sailed with him while he was with the Roger Pirates. Towards one of the few people he trusted without question.

“Crocus,” Shanks exhaled and sat up. For the first time in days something appeared in his eyes – purpose. "If Hongo's reached his limit..." His voice was hoarse. "Then we'll go to someone who hasn't."

Beckman nodded not questioning his Captain for a second. He exhaled a deep plum of smoke and then squeezed Shanks’ shoulder. “I’ll tell Building Snake to set the course,” he said and Shanks looked up at him and he was grateful for his first mate, hell for having this crew that supported him without hesitation or doubt.

Shanks turned his head towards the door leading below deck, towards where your room was. The woman who was fighting a battle she couldn’t even remember. "Hold on a little longer," he whispered into the air, the promise barely audible. "Crocus is going to take a look at you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back to me. Even if it breaks me."

For the first time in weeks, Shanks wasn't waiting. He was sailing towards a new hope.