#beckrock

His breathing barely changed, but the flare of alertness was like a firework to Shamrock’s Observation haki. His eyes barely cracked open, taking in the sumptuous chamber with a look of confusion, finally settling on Shamrock like two bright gems. Shamrock considered himself pleased. Doubtless it was the first taste of true finery the human had ever had in his life, but here he was looking at Shamrock. As was right and proper. 

“May I know your name?” Shamrock asked. The insects he’d found his soulmate surrounded by hadn’t even been able to give him that, dismissing him as ‘some foreign bounty hunter.’ He’d been waiting for this moment ever since.

“…Benn Beckman.” It suited him. Shamrock nodded, internalizing the syllables, writing them onto his heart. “Who are you? Where is this?”

“I am your soulmate, Saint Figarland Shamrock.” Beckman’s eyes grew wide at the title. Good. “You are in the Holy Land, Mary Geoise. My home. Your home now as well.”

Beckman covered his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You can see our connection for yourself.” Father had warned Shamrock that his soulmate might be…unruly, upon discovering their new life, though he had never elaborated on why that might be. 

“You’re a child. Can’t even grow a damn beard yet."

Shamrock was more stung by the words than he really ought to be. “I’ve completed every other rite to become a Knight of God. Retrieving you was my final task.”

Beckman sat up, squinting at him. “How old even are you?”

“Almost sixteen. Not that it matters—”

“You’re fifteen?” Beckman said some more words, ones Shamrock didn’t know. They didn’t sound happy. 

"Not that it matters,” Shamrock repeated, imbuing the words with Conqueror’s haki to make his point. It brought his soulmate to silence, at least. “Because, as I said, retrieving you was my last task to rise to the rank of Devoted Blade. Even most among the ranks of the Celestial Dragons never attain such an honor.”

“You have to be a child bride for that?”

“Groom!” Shamrock could feel a furious blush creeping over his face. Could he not even tell—oh, he was smirking. That had been mockery. Shamrock pushed a little more Conqueror’s haki behind his next words. “A Knight of God must not lack any part of their soul, to be considered a Devoted Blade. It was required I retrieve you myself to prove my worth. I searched across the North Blue for you and raised you to the holy land beside me, to dwell with me in wedded bliss.”

Beckman looked at him the same way Father did when he had said something particularly naïve. It wasn’t Shamrock’s fault his soulmate had no sense of romance. Not when the man had spent their time together either fighting or unconscious. He’d just have to learn. 

He didn’t interrupt again, so Shamrock continued. “This is a great honor. I’m lucky to have been given the chance to prove my worth and bring you here. I will be one of the youngest candidates to ever be made a knight. It wouldn’t have been possible without the support and training and approval of the current Commander of the God’s Knights.”

“Really.” Beckman didn’t sound impressed about it, but he sounded thoughtful. Was thoughtful a good sign? “Will I get to meet this Commander?”

“Very likely. He’s my father, Figarland Garling.”

Beckman screwed up his face. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Your father?”

“It’s not nepotism,” Shamrock insisted. “I haven’t been given anything unearned. I’ve simply had the benefit of knowing—”

“Your father thought it was a good idea to put you between some, some stranger and getting out of here? At fifteen?”

“I've trained my whole life to be a Knight of God. Defeating you won’t be a problem, if you choose to be—” Shamrock shouldn’t call his soulmate an idiot in their first conversation. “—stubborn.” 

 His soulmate pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not talking about a fight, kid.” His hand fell to the string that connected them, reaching out along the intangibility of it, following the course so surely and steadily that Shamrock shivered without meaning to. He shivered again when that big hand came to rest on his heart. “If I wanted to, I could sweet-talk you so nice. Tell you how special you are.” Shamrock’s heart fluttered under his hand, and it lifted away, Beckman’s fingers trailing up the side of his neck and lacing into his hair. He let it happen, breath suddenly caught in his throat, eyes fixed on how the man had turned to face him, all of his attention on Shamrock. “Tell you exactly how clever and mature you are.” Shamrock’s heart leaped again. He was seeing it, he understood—of course he understood, he was Shamrock’s soulmate—“Kiss and tell and convince you to let that guard of yours allllllllll the way down…” Beckman was leaning in, overwhelming Shamrock’s view of everything else, and he couldn’t breathe, leaning in to meet him—

The hand in his hair yanked, hard. Not like in the novels where a lover pulled another along, but painfully like he was a child wrestling with the children next door again. “Ow!”

The hand fell away before Shamrock could break it, could grab back, could punish him for daring to—“And then I’d break your heart or slit your throat and go right out the window. Idiot.” Beckman pulled away, rolling to sit up, facing away from him.

This—Shamrock was breathing hard now, jumping back up out of the chair, face furiously red. No wonder Father had warned him about this, if—“But you’re my soulmate.” His missing piece, the end of his loneliness, tied to him by fate. The finest tribute offered to the gods-on-earth. No one had ever said he was allowed to be mean.

“So? It still happens all the time.” Beckman still wasn’t looking at him. “And you’re my soulmate, but that didn’t stop you from kidnapping me.”

Shamrock would not lose his temper. He had been too well trained, he knew what was expected, he was just going to stand here and become calm and think of a suitable punishment—

“Bet it won’t stop you from having me whipped, or thrown in a dungeon, or whatever else you need to do to tell yourself you’re the boss here, either. And it sure as hell won’t make it worth it.”

Shamrock was—going to leave. And stand outside. Until he was calm again. Because any retaliation at this point would just prove this idiot right. 

As Supreme Commander of the God’s Knights, and the first-degree relative of an Elder Star, Shamrock had the privilege of suites within the heights of Pangaea Castle itself. They were in a low-status position on the Eastern outer wall, but that suited him just fine. The sunlight came in through crystal-paned windows, scattering scraps of rainbow across the far wall, where a curtain of ivy and jasmine flowed from well-tended planters and filled the room with a pleasant green scent.

There was a superb aura of peace over the room. Shamrock’s muscles had the warm, well-stretched feeling that came after a satisfying workout. The table was spread with platters of cured meats and smoked fish and pickled vegetables and fine sliced rolls and boiled eggs and cheese, pots of jams and pâtés standing open and adding to the kaleidoscope of rich scents. Steam rose from a silver carafe of coffee and a cast-iron teapot, enameled in blue.

Shanks was across the table, grinning at his own jokes, freshly bathed and dressed in uniform—not perfectly up to standards, of course, he never managed that himself. If they had any formal obligations today Shamrock would have to tuck his shirt properly under his collar and retie his loose cravat, and adjust the tangled fringe of his epaulettes, but here in a private setting they were just proof Shanks was still himself. Shamrock’s brilliant devil-may-care younger brother, rumpled and roguish and in love with life.

Beckman sat between them, without a single aspiration to formality. He wore a draping silk robe, black with swirling purple patterns, half falling off his shoulders. His hair fell loosely around his face, white strands catching the light like the crystal windows, enhancing the luminous quality of his face as he smiled slightly, eyes half closed like a lazy cat. From his left ear an earring dangled between the strands of hair, gold ring and chain trailing down to a large, pleasingly red gemstone. It hung at just the right spot to draw attention to the hickey standing out on his neck. The sight of the two things together gave Shamrock an enormous glow of satisfaction. A cigarette holder hung at a long angle in his grasp, tipping towards the floor, rising briefly as he draw in a content trickle of smoke.

Father was elsewhere, occupied with his responsibilities, but Shamrock was sure that they would see each other by the end of the day. Shamrock would be able to report on his recent successes, that he was living up to the responsibilities expected of him, and Father might even offer one of his rare and hard-earned gestures of professional approval. Here and now, there was only the satisfaction of everything as it should be.

“Lost in thought, there?” Shanks asked, and Shamrock smiled as he spread pâté on a pale roll.

“Just enjoying the moment,” he said.

It was morning in the Holy Land, and this moment was so perfect he thought it might last forever.

-

It was morning in the Holy Land.

Being Supreme Commander of the God’s Knights, and the first-degree relative of an Elder Star, Shamrock was privileged enough to reside within the heights of Pangaea Castle itself. His suite was in a low-status position on the Eastern outer wall, but this was hardly a hardship, when the sunlight came in through crystal paned windows and threw thready scatterings of light across a green curtain of ivy and jasmine. The sight was a fantastic backdrop to Beckman, dressed in piratical clothes with his hair pulled back for battle, cigarette between his teeth, pistol tipped back on his shoulder and pointed at the ceiling.

“What the fuck?” he asked. “Why am I here?”

“Fuck,” he said, wiggling his left hand. He still had most of it left. A gunman could shoot without a pinky finger—though Shamrock suspected his brother would want to commission a custom weapon, if he intended to keep the man around and operating at his previous utility. 

“Benn Beckman,” Shamrock said. Benn’s eyes snapped to him with gratifying speed. “It’s been a while.” Years, since Shamrock had bothered to try to knock some sense into his brother and taken a bullet to the skull. It had taken an inconveniently long time to heal—enough for Shanks to get his bearings back and emerge the victor of that little altercation. Unlike some of his colleagues, Shamrock would never stoop to revenge when there were more important things at stake, but he couldn’t deny a certain satisfaction in the artistry of this. Benn had denied him his brother once. Now he would be the tool to Shamrock getting him back. 

“Shamrock.” He didn’t bother with titles. One of the many charmingly rough quirks of pirates. “So hard up for funds I’m being sold for parts? Could swear your bosses wanted me in one piece. Not breathing.”

“Mmm. They still do. But I’m sure I can convince them of the benefits of an alternate arrangement. My brother should be receiving proof I have you in, oh….four days. I expect him to take another three tracking down the meeting spot I want him to find. You won’t be there to greet him, unless he takes some particular initiative in demonstrating his repentance.” Shamrock glanced up at the slope of the ceiling where the den-den mushi was recording. “You and I are the only ones in this facility. There is no one else you can trap, or trick, or fight. The only access is by my lord’s seal. You will not be leaving this place unless I allow it.” Best not to give him too many details. Just enough to realize how hopeless his situation was. 

Shamrock watched with some satisfaction as Benn considered this, clearly rotating plans in his mind. Testing his shackles again. Eyeing the blank wall behind Shamrock, trying to peer around the column in the center of the room he was chained to with no luck. He could see the grim acceptance in the set of his shoulders, the way his teeth worked around a nonexistent cigarette. 

It was with rather less satisfaction that Shamrock felt his teeth turn sharp with haki and watched him attempt to rip open the vein at the inside of his elbow. 

-

“Stop—stop!”

Figarland Shamrock used a rough grip on Benn’s jaw and a hard squeeze on his brand-new amputation site to, painfully, wrestle apart teeth from flesh. His hand snaked up into Benn’s hair and gave him a hard shake, dragging him up until he was staring into familiar-unfamiliar snarling eyes. 

Even without the scars, he looked nothing like Benn’s captain. 

“If you’re stupid enough to die in my keeping,” Shamrock gritted out. “I will cut your head from your body as a trophy and display it on a pike beside the gates of the Holy Land. I will taunt my brother with it until he arrives where I want him. You know he will.”

Benn did. He wasn’t in any real hurry to die, either—if he’d wanted to bleed out from an elbow wound, he’d need to wait until he was alone, when Shamrock wouldn’t arrive in enough time to stop him. 

But he’d wanted to see how badly Shamrock actually wanted to keep him alive, and it was good to remind him that Benn could see the weaknesses with his ‘only one guard’ approach. If Shamrock couldn’t afford to leave him alone long enough to eat and sleep, as he’d need to, what would he do in response? 

Benn needed information if he was getting out of this, and right now, that meant it was all about move and counter-move. 

This was an interesting counter-move. Made it clear that he knew enough about how Shanks ticked to know he would show up to a provocation like that—knew that Shanks and Benn were close enough Benn would be convinced by the possibility of staying alive to help him. See, this was why Benn hated this guy’s guts. He knew too much. 

Well. He still didn’t know enough.

“Guess I better bide my time, then.” 

Shamrock’s face curled in a sneer. Bastard. “You aren’t getting out of this. You still come second to my brother. He and I are matched in skill.” He gave a harder yank on Benn’s hair, tipping his chin back and driving his skull against the wall. “There’s no place for you to end up but beneath me.”

Benn resisted the temptation to innuendo. Plenty of time for that later. “You can try all you want to be as good as Shanks, but you’ve got a pretty major disadvantage.” 

“And what is that.”

Benn allowed himself one lazy blink. “You don’t know any of my tells.”

The hand in his hair tightened again, and Benn allowed himself to groan into the pain. It tightened, further, and then released. 

“Yet,” Shamrock said, finally. “Yet.”

Move. Counter-move. Thinking this over would be a good distraction from the pain still radiating down his arm.