Mimi

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.

Of course he likes you.

How could he not?

More than he'd anticipated. And more than his heart will be able to handle when you eventually get tired of those documentaries he still can't believe you're actually interested in.

"But how many dates has it been now?"

Drake shakes his head and smooths the light green shirt flat against the bed.

No. That, however, is a no.

The I'm cold-blooded and I am proud shirt isn't how he left it. From the way it's folded, he's sure you took it. Drake puts it away, thinking way too deeply about how much he would have liked to see you in it, and then chuckles at the intrusive thought about how much he'd also like to see you out of it. In that order or the other way around, he really doesn't mind.

What you'd had up until now hadn't been dates. The simple fact that it could have been made his cheeks run warm. But no. They were just... meetups? Shared meals and conversation and documentaries that kept going until neither of you could pretend it wasn't late.

How could those have been dates? How could someone like you ever want to go on a date with a guy like him?And besides, if they had been dates, what would that make you both now? His heart does that silly thing again which he hasn't gotten used to and yet already feels like a constant.

"The girl we are talking about is coming tonight, isn't she?"

Yes. You were coming over again that night. After spending one in his bed - big enough that he can't help thinking that there'd be room for two - you'd shown up willing to come back. Maybe… No. No, they weren't dates, how could they be? Dates meant restaurants. Flowers and candles, and they usually ended with a kiss. Or at least that's what the movies suggested.

"Haven't you kissed her yet?"

A kiss from you… that was science fiction. More impossible than making it out of the asteroid belt that orbits the sun alive.

Lost in thought, Drake pulls out the ironing board and unfoleds it in the living room. His friends are right about one thing: tonight has the potential to be special. It is special, actually, because you always meet on Fridays, and this will be the first time you're doing a Saturday. And more than that, it'll be the first time he's seeing you twice in the same day outside of work. So why not let himself feel something about it? You clearly have some degree of interest. Even if it's just the show keeping you coming back.

The prospect of seeing you again makes him feel like a kid on Christmas morning. Excitement, nerves and anxiety all throwing elbows to see who crosses the finish line first, and all of them arriving at the same time.

Lasagna.

He's caught you saying you like lasagna at some point, and he's going to make you the best one you've ever had. He'll figure out a way to make sure the pasta sheets and the béchamel don't derail the evening.

And since it's a Saturday maybe he could, well… he doesn't know, inch his seat a little closer to yours? He thinks of Steve, all curled up around his female, and feels a little ridiculous. But his blood is moving fast and it doesn't feel entirely out of reach that at some point during the night you might let him put his arm around your shoulders. And maybe, if the mood is right, let him hold you through the end of the episode.

And what happens when it ends?

The panic arrives right on cue.

Will he be able to do anything? Will he be enough?

Rattling with the pinball energy of feelings in every direction at once, he leaves the ironing for later and throws himself headfirst toward the supermarket.

_*_

The lasagna isn't a bad idea. If he pulls off everything he has in his head, it'll come out pretty well. But it's also an excuse to keep his hands busy and stop the nerves from eating him alive.

He's working his way down the produce aisle, picking out four tomatoes because obviously the sauce is going to be homemade, and setting them down next to the set of candles he'd slipped into the cart just in case, when...

"Drake?"

Oh, a couple of girls from work. The things of living not too far from the zoo. He greets them, and a short, polite, thoroughly unremarkable conversation follows. Drake doesn't mind. He has plenty of time, and the distraction is doing him good. Or at least that's what he thought until your name came up.

"I saw her a little while ago, actually. From a distance. She looked so happy... I'm genuinely glad for her."

The other one leans in, speaking directly to her friend like Drake isn't standing there.

"Is it true she was with someone?"

"Oh, yes, they were holding hands and hugging, completely all over each other. I haven't seen her that happy in ages. You should have seen the way she was smiling at him, her whole face just lit up. Has to be her boyfriend. He's gorgeous and she seems so in love… she's a lucky girl."

Neither of them notices the shift in Drake's expression. Those blue eyes that go grey in an instant. The hands that close around the cart handle because his knees have gone weak under the weight of something pulling him down and down, like a black hole he doesn't even bother resisting. The voice that cracks when he excuses himself. The slow walk to the checkout that follows on its own because, at least, his legs are still making decisions for him.

_*_

You have a boyfriend...

Drake falls onto the bed and throws an arm over his face, just over the bridge of his hooked nose as he turns over whether to be angry at you or at himself.

Angry at you feels unfair. You haven't tried anything with him. You've just shown up when invited, most likely considering him as a friend. You haven't done anything to suggest you think about him romantically, just as he thinks about you. Though he does hold it against you, slightly, that you never said anything. You talk about everything. Everything. So why would you hide something like this from him? But he can't exactly demand you share every corner of your private life with him either... at the end of the day, you're just friends.

So the dissapointment lands where it belongs: on himself. For being stupid. For letting himself get carried away with something that was never going to happen. For falling for you this helpless and immaturely unguarded.

And underneath all that there's guilt, because right now he doesn't want to see you. Or can't. And that isn't fair because you're his friend, you never asked for any of this. Wanting to be around you only while there was a chance you were available makes him feel like a stranger to himself. But his heart needs a moment to put itself back together.

All over each other, they'd said, and his blood runs hot.

Drake lies there for a stretch of time he can't measure, retracing everything, looking for a moment where you might have let something through and coming up empty. And then it occurs to him that maybe the whole thing was a mistake. A misunderstanding. Tonight's plans are still standing. Maybe if you saw each other you could talk, really talk, and clear things up.

Something tentative begins to lift in his chest until his phone buzzes on the mattress beside him.

He reaches for it, and sees at least three missed calls from you and one message.

Drake, I'm sorry. Something came up tonight and I can't make it. I called to explain. We'll pick it up next Friday, okay?

A cold thing coils inside his chest.

Okay.

That's all he sends back. Not one character more, not one less.

Some time later his bed is empty.

The lasagna ingredients are in the fridge.

And the light green shirt is back on its hanger.

_*_

"What are you doing here? Didn't you have plans tonight?" Koby steps back to let him in.

"Cancelled." Drake moves past him with no more explanation than that.

"But why?" Helmeppo makes room for him on the couch.

Drake picks up one of the controllers and fixes his eyes on the TV.

"Switch it to hard mode."

"Drake, what happened?"

"Bump up the gore too."

Helmeppo doesn't say anything. Neither does Koby as he opens the options menu and maxes out the violence.

"Drake." Kujaku steps directly in front of the TV, blocking the game from his friend's view.

"No." Drake shifts to the side to see around her.

"Drake, you should-"

"Kujaku." He pauses the game, landing his gaze, blue and hardened, on her. "Not today."

"But-"

"No." He repeats, one hand raised. "I just... I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Kujaku knows him well and closes her mouth for once. It only has taken her a second to catch the grief sitting behind her friend's hardness.

"Okay," she sighs, then steps away from the TV.

.........................

@fantasia1919 and @clumsyfleatherbird for u 💕!!

"Drake," Helmeppo says. "Says he can't come."

"WHAT. But tonight is RE night!!"

"Koby would like to formally express his deep concern over your absence. As would I. This must be serious, given how pathologically committed you usually are to-"

"It's not serious," Drake says, now letting the phone on the counter to dry is hands. "Something just came up."

"On a Saturday night?" Helmeppo covers the phone, whispers something to someone, then uncovers it. "Is it your girlfriend?"

"I don't hav-" Drake switches the phone back to his hand. "Wait... is Kujaku there?"

"Yep."

"And you're on speaker!" Hibari shouts.

"Oh, for the love of-"

"So you don't have a girlfriend?"

"I don't."

"Have you not kissed her yet?"

"We-"

"But how many dates has it been now?"

"They're NOT-," he snaps, "they're not dates, okay?"

"Oh?" Kujaku chuckles, "and what's her opinion on that? Have you asked her?"

"I-" He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He'd slept terribly on the couch. "We just hang out from time to time and watch documentaries."

For a beat, no one says anything. Then Kujaku decides to go in for the kill.

"Drake, nobody buys a second toaster for a six-hour documentary marathon buddy."

"...What does that even mean?"

"It means you like her."

Drake remains silent, lips sealed as if opening them would lead to him saying something catastrophically stupid.

"And a lot, I'd dare say," she adds.

Drake still doesn't say a word. This time it's Kujaku who sighs.

"For fucks sake, Drake, you are a goner. The girl we are talking about is coming tonight, isn't she?"

Drake nods before remembering she can't see him.

"Great, wear the light green shirt."

"Why would I wear that shirt? That's my Christmas-and-job-interview shirt."

"Because you look really good in it."

@fantasia1919 and @clumsyfleatherbird for u 💕!!

You had woken up with a strange feeling.

Not because of the Red Force’s rocking, nor the already lively voices on deck, nor even the sunlight filtering through the curtains of your cabin.

No.

You had woken up because an awful pain was shooting through your neck.

You had tried to move your head once, still half-asleep. Big mistake. A jolt of pain had shot all the way up behind your ear, and you had frozen instantly, breathless.

“Ow… Fuck…”

You stayed still for a few seconds, your eyes closed, as though the pain might kindly decide to disappear if you pretended you did not know it was there.

It did not disappear.

On the contrary, when you tried to sit up, your neck protested so violently that you let out a small, frustrated groan. You found yourself stuck, lying on your back, unable to turn your head without feeling as though someone were driving a knife between your shoulder and your neck.

It was ridiculous.

You had survived storms, Marine attacks, and a meal Lucky Roux had made with far too much chili.

But there you were, defeated by your own pillow.

"Are you planning on growling like that for long?"

You almost jumped.

Well… as much as your neck allowed you to.

Hongo was standing in the doorway, a steaming cup in one hand and his eternally far-too-calm expression on his face. He had probably knocked, but you had not heard a thing through the pain and your bad mood.

"How long have you been there?" you asked.

"Long enough to understand that you did not simply decide to sleep in".

You tried to shoot him a dark look.

The problem was, you could not turn your head toward him.

Hongo gave a small smile, very subtle, but you caught it out of the corner of your eye.

He set his cup down on the small bedside table, then slowly approached the bed. His movements were calm, precise, as always. Even after all those years sailing with the Red Hair Pirates, even in the middle of fights and chaos, Hongo always gave the impression that nothing could truly rush him.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"Can you move your arms?"

"Yes"

“Your fingers?”

You moved them slightly.

"No tingling?"

"No."

"Dizziness? Nausea?"

"No, Doctor."

"Very well. So, you probably slept in a catastrophic position."

You narrowed your eyes.

"What a brilliant conclusion."

"Thank you. I studied for a long time to reach it."

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. He noticed it, of course. Hongo always noticed everything.

He leaned slightly toward you.

"I’m going to take a look. Don’t move."

"I can hardly do anything else."

"I know."

His hand came to rest near your shoulder, warm through the fabric of your top. He did not force you to turn your head. He simply examined the line of your neck gently, his fingers brushing over the tense muscles.

You barely breathed, as though breathing too deeply might make things worse.

"Here?" he asked, pressing delicately near your shoulder.

You winced.

"Yes."

"And here?"

"Hongo…"

"So yes."

"You take far too much pleasure in being right."

"Not at all."

He said it with such perfect serenity that you immediately knew he was lying a little.

His fingers slowly moved up toward your neck, massaging with a light, steady pressure. At first, you tensed up even more. Then the warmth of his hands began to loosen something in your muscles. It was slight, but very much there.

You let out a trembling breath.

"Sorry," you murmured. "I know you have better things to do than take care of me because I slept in some shitty position."

Hongo paused for a second.

"You know," he said softly, "just because it isn’t serious doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve help."

You did not answer.

He resumed his movements, a little more slowly.

"And besides," he added, "you would not have come to see me on your own, would you?"

"I would have managed."

"Of course."

"I would have waited for it to pass."

"Which is exactly what I just said."

You let out a breath through your nose, offended despite yourself.

Hongo gave a small laugh. Then, with great care, he slipped one hand behind your neck and the other against your shoulder.

"I’m going to help you sit up. Tell me right away if it pulls too much."

"Okay."

He did not rush you. He guided every movement, supporting you with an almost tender patience. When you were finally sitting against the pillows, you kept your head slightly tilted, unable to do any better.

Hongo picked up his cup and held it out to you.

"Tea. And before you protest: there’s something in it to relax your muscles."

"You put that in my tea without asking me?"

"You were going to refuse."

"Maybe."

"There you go."

You took the cup carefully. Your fingers brushed against his.

Hongo did not pull his hand away right away.

"You’re staying here this morning," he declared.

"Hongo..."

"This is not a negotiation."

"Shanks is going to make fun of me."

"Shanks makes fun of everyone. It’s a constant of nature."

This time, you really laughed. It was another mistake: the movement pulled at your neck and you immediately winced.

Hongo sighed, feigning exasperation, before leaning toward you.

"Don’t move too much, alright?"

He gently brushed a strand of hair stuck to your cheek aside, then his thumb grazed your temple.

"Let me take care of you for once."

Your heart tightened a little too much over something so simple.

You lowered your eyes to your cup, unable to hide your smile.

"Alright, Doctor."

Hongo smiled in return.

Kid: It’s a 50-50 on whether he’ll blush, depending on how off guard you caught him. (He’s confident, but there’s just something about you that makes him second-guess himself.) If he’s blushing, he’s more reluctant—he’ll still kiss you, but it will be more chaste and quick. He’ll probably get mad at himself for hesitating, and then pull you into a second, more intent kiss. But if he’s drinking, celebrating, or in otherwise high spirits from the start, he’ll hold you possessively and kiss you with tongue, an open-mouthed, assertive and claiming kiss.

Killer: “Eh?” Tilts his mask down at you. “A kiss?” “Mhm. And quick, before I lose consciousness…” “We certainly can’t have that,” he says, his tone amused. He leans down and touches his mask to your face. You smooch his mask where his lips would be. Killer’s powerful arms tighten around you fondly, and he stays like that for a second, enjoying the closeness. (Only in the privacy of his own room, when you’re alone, would the mask come off.)

Wire: Secretly elated that you chose him, but he plays it off cool. “You’re dying, huh?” “That’s right!” You place your palm to your head. “Oh, the agony! The misery!” Wire grins. “Beg me for it.” “Pleeaase,” you beg, batting your eyelashes. “Pretty please, Wire?” “That’s my good Y/n,” he says, rewarding you with a heated kiss.

Heat: “Um…You want it now?” he hesitates, much more shy than most of his crewmates. “I need it now! I’ll die! I’ll wither!” you curl your fingers through the strings of his corset and tug slightly. “It has to be from a handsome man with tattoos and sky-blue hair.” “That’s really specific…” “Ack! It’s happening! I’m dying!” You rest all your weight in his arms, groaning and moaning in pain. “Ohh… Need kisses… Won’t last…” “Okay, okay.” He leans in to kiss you, but in his nervousness misses your lips, pecking your nose. You giggle, grabbing his face and pulling him in for a proper kiss. “Thanks, Heat!” you singsong, slipping out of his arms and skipping away. The kiss has stunned him in place, feeling his lips as he watches you disappear.

Koby: “W-W-What?” he says, a blush lighting up his face. He’s holding you securely, but inwardly panicking because you’re in his arms. “I need a kiss or I’ll die,” you reiterate, wrapping your arms around his neck. He reacts from head to toe, going stiff and wide-eyed in alarm. He’s the one who is going to die, he thinks. “You’re—you’re not—but I!” he stammers. “The sea is fading…I see a light…” You sag in his arms, closing your eyes. “Y/n! D-Don’t do this to me! Hey!” he shouts. “I, I…!” “If only I was so loved as to be kissed…” you murmur weakly. IF no one else is around, that’s enough to do him in. Overcome with guilt at the idea you may not feel loved—so long as you keep your eyes closed—he’ll give you a very fast peck on the cheek, very close to the corner of your mouth like he wanted to kiss your lips but chickened out at the last second. Then he’ll very carefully let you go so you support yourself, making sure you’re steady, before he runs in the opposite direction, steam coming off his head. He will not be able to look you in the eye for at least a week or two.

Smoker: Looks down at you. The change in his expression is very subtle, just the slightest tilt of his brow, but you can tell he’s amused. “Don’t I give you enough attention as it is?” he says. “…No?” You say, giving him a look. “Obviously not.” “Then I guess I’m a bad partner.” “You might be, if you don’t kiss me,” you smile. He rolls his eyes, but when he kisses you it’s with a hand gently cradling the back of your head, his other hands holding his cigars away from your body.

Doll: “Hm…I dunno,” she says. “Coming off a little desperate.” “Of course I’m desperate! It’s a matter of life and death!” you insist. “Oh, really?” “Really! My head will explode! My guts will be everywhere! It’ll be horrible! Unless a beautiful woman kisses me!” That makes her crack a smile. She glances aside. “Alright, alright. Come here.” Doll kisses you only briefly, but it’s one that warm with her affection.

X Drake: His fight-or-flight response is triggered, and he freezes. The blush starts from his chest and goes up. He doesn’t say anything, and you peek an eye open. Clearing your throat, you repeat yourself. “If someone doesn’t kiss me, I’ll die! Terribly! Horridly!” “But,” X Drake finally says. “But. But…” “You’re the only one who can save me, Drake!” you say dramatically. He swallows, looking genuinely terrified by the prospect. “I, I mean… Um…” You’ve never seen him so out of his depth, but you’re determined to try and wrangle a kiss from him. “I need it… It’s gotta be you,” you say, looking up at him with those soul-piercing eyes. “I need you.” He nearly passes out, his face beet red and eyes glazed over. When he gets his wits about him, he’ll run away with a hurried apology of “I’m sorry…I can’t!” over his shoulder.

Rosinante: Stares at you open-mouthed. You approached him in his own room, so the two of you are alone. You know him well enough to assume he’d never kiss you in front of the Family. He leans you on one arm to support you, and with his other arm free, takes out his notepad, resting it on top of your head. You’re the perfect height to use as a table, it seems. “Hey,” you protest. He scribbles, which feels funny on your head, then holds the notepad out for you to see. ‘What.’ “You heard me.” You loll your head back against the crook of his elbow like supporting yourself suddenly got impossible. “I have a disease where if I don’t get a kiss in the next ten seconds, I’ll wither away.” He’s quiet. You can spot the faintest blush creeping up his cheeks. You start counting down. When you get below five, you close your eyes. “Three…two…one.” You say. You can feel Rosinante moving, and your breath holds in your lungs. Will he really…? Softly, so softly and carefully, he presses his lips to yours. It feels like magic, ebbing between your lips. It lasts for a glorious few moments, and then it’s over. He’s looking away when you open your eyes. He gently pulls away his support, turning away. He won’t write to you for the rest of the night, withdrawing into himself, but he will hold your hand for as long as you two still have privacy.

Aokiji/Kuzan: “My, my,” he says. “I’ll never get my paperwork done with such a distraction.” “You’d rather do paperwork than kiss me?” you tease, knowing the answer. “If I kiss you, I won’t have it in me to face the paperwork again.” He touches your cheek with the crook of his finger, tracing down to your lips. “Kissing you isn’t motivating…It’s all-consuming.” “So that’s a no?” you say, looking as disappointed as you can. “Hmm…You’re a bad influence, you know?” he says, angling you so he can kiss you properly. Naturally he doesn’t do any more paperwork for the day, just makes out with you in his office. If he’s not feeling too lazy he might even fuck you there, but most of the time he’ll just pull you down for a nap with him.

Kizaru/Borsalino: “Ohh?” he says, tilting his head. “Now what’s this about?” “It’s about…my impending death,” you say weakly. “Only a kiss can keep me alive…Hurry…” “Ah, I see.” He takes off his glasses, pausing to wipe them when he notices a smudge. Then he puts them back on, looks down at you, remembers what he was doing, and takes off his glasses again. “You took too long. I’m dead now,” you say, sticking your tongue out. “Bleh…” “Well, that’s a shame. I can’t kiss a corpse, now can I?” He tries to set you down, but you lean your weight into him so he can’t without dropping you. “I changed my mind. I’m alive,” you say quickly. “That’s what I figured,” he says, and kisses you.

Akainu/Sakazuki: He’ll actually do it without much fuss if the two of you are alone. The harsh lines of his face will soften when he looks down at you, a subtle show of adoration. You’ll be on his mind the rest of the day. Be warned; he’s the type to react more so in bed, recalling how cute and perfect you were with increasing force behind his movements.