Chapter Text
“Really, Boss?”
“…We’re not gonna fight it?” Yasopp spoke incredulously.
In the unusually still air of the Red Force’s galley, every pair of eyes studied their ship’s captain, stunned.
“That’s what I said,” Shanks finally answered. Even as he replied, his sight stayed focused on the paper laid before him. It was splayed across the table accusingly, almost like the sentenced body itself. The World Economic Journal’s headline balefully stated:
Whitebeard Pirates’ Second Division Commander, Portgas D. Ace:
SLATED FOR EXECUTION
“But all those scouting jobs we ran—” Lucky Roux protested, “—tracking down Whitebeard’s crew, even goin’ personally? You crossed swords to try and make him call the kid off! What’s the point, if we stop now?”
Shanks’ stunned gaze was still locked on the newsprint, distant; yet he spoke evenly, almost like he’d had the words rehearsed. “I don’t mean for us to stay completely uninvolved. Here’s my plan…”
Weary but steady, he pulled a map from under the table’s other scattered materials. One finger traced a rough sea route through the New World. “Whitebeard’ll have a long way to cover between here and Marineford. The most direct path will take him…” His hand slowed next to a swirling pattern of currents, and at their center, an isolated land mass. “...right by Wano.”
At that, Shanks lifted his gaze, recapturing his crew’s focus. “There’s no way Kaido’ll let the old man through without a fight. That’s where we’ll come in.” Shanks’ eyes swept across the room, searching for agreement. “We intercept Kaido, and give Whitebeard a fighting chance.”
At the uneasy quiet, he went on, “This isn’t our war anymore, men. We did our best to stop the rising tide, but it’s up to Whitebeard from here on. Ace…”
For a split second, Shanks’ face fell; but he continued, quietly: “Ace is his boy.”
Those words finally got his crew to pause. Viewed through that lens, Shanks’ plan made sense: he’d done what he could to stop the conflict, all while maintaining the delicate code of honor between the Emperors. Playing support was the next logical choice. They began to settle their doubts.
…that was, all except for Beckman. The first mate eyed Shanks closely, keeping his silence even as the other Red Hair Pirates started discussing battle preparations and drifting from the galley. Finally, when it was just him and his captain, Beckman withdrew his pipe.
Shanks once more stared flatly at the paper, reaching for a nearby bottle of sake. A slight frown was the only hint at his discontent.
“Luffy’s brother really stepped in it this time, didn’t he?” Beckman’s gruff voice ventured.
It took Shanks the space of a few breaths to muster an extremely pained smile. “Something tells me,” he said, filling his cup with a generous pour, “the Marines would’ve been out for his head no matter what.”
“Mm,” Beckman hummed. He took a pull of smoke, then leaned far back in his chair for the exhale. The hour was getting late. Even for a couple of layabouts like them, it’d be time to turn in before long.
Eventually, Beckman murmured, “Gonna be honest, you’re not usually one to bet on losing dogs—at least, not ones you can’t save.” His gaze slid to Shanks, waiting until the man warily met his eyes. “This one meant more, though. Didn’t he?”
Shanks’ reaction was slow, but gradually, his shoulders sagged; he lifted the cup to his lips and took a long, regretful draught.
“You’d think I’d have learned by now,” he murmured.
Beckman offered, “I dunno.” A long exhale. “Seems like you’re giving up awful early.”
Shanks’ face soured, but again, he composed it. “We have our role to play.” Beckman noted that his hand strayed toward his shoulder—must be aching—but the movement was aborted.
Ever so slightly, Beckman’s eyes narrowed. But he only quipped, “If you had any brains you’d find a way to do both—play your part, and have your cake. Or sake, whatever.” At that, the first mate stood, making for the main deck.
He paused just within the galley’s doorway. “I won’t harp on it if you’ve made up your mind, but… Guess I worry, Chief. Just, think about it. Whether you can live with that regret.” Then he left his captain to ruminate. His last glimpse was one of Shanks at the table, focus sliding to his sake. Yet, he didn’t drink it; only stared into the surface, eyes going soft at the reflected, dancing flames.
Beckman’s light was burning down to its last embers when Shanks finally appeared on deck.
“How certain are we about those Dressrosa reports?” he asked, apropos of nothing.
“Mm…” Beckman took the pipe from his lips, considering. “It was Hongo on that job, so pretty damn sure. I’d wager my gun on it, at least.”
Shanks ran an ink-stained hand through his hair. The moment didn’t stretch long, but Beckman felt the weight of that pause: he could practically see his captain existing out of time, poised between worlds.
Then Shanks said, “I have a call to make,” and disappeared back below deck.
Beckman watched him go. He couldn’t help the small, crooked grin that spread across his lips.
—
The battle was over.
Grave-faced, the Red Hair Pirates handled the aftermath. They’d arrived as quickly as they could, but too late. Now, this was the least they could do: their forces ushered the remaining pirates to safety, covered Whitebeard and Ace’s bodies in shrouds; and reverently conveyed them aboard the Red Force.
Whitebeard, with his giant stature, was kept on the deck of the ship out of necessity. Ace, meanwhile, was brought down to the stillness of the infirmary. Accompanied by Hongo, Shanks gently placed him on one of the room’s cots. His mournful gaze trailed over the bruised and battered form. Even under the white sheet, Shanks could tell the once powerful body had been mistreated: too light from lost muscle mass, too brittle from days in damp and cold.
He found some solace studying the boy’s lax expression. His freckles, though inert, at least framed a look of quiet contentment. It was the face of someone who had found peace despite terrible circumstances. There was no telling if it came due to or in spite of his impending death; the only way to know would be asking that lost soul itself.
Shanks had to wonder, was his final choice easy? Sacrificing dreams for family… for love—
And then—
Blue light flashed across the room, and the sound of yelling erupted from the passageway above. Shortly, Yasopp’s face poked through the infirmary’s door.
“Oi, Boss. Law’s here making a real ruckus about wanting triple pay—”
At the same time, Limejuice sidled up beside him, asking, “So about that grave we’ve gotta fake—didn’t we find his hat somewhere?”
Down the hallway, Benn hollered, “Remember, boys, we’re setting sail for the stronghold right after Amazon Lily! Don’t want any delays, alright—”
Hongo stood, about to gripe at the others for quiet, and Shanks rose as well. He didn’t expect things to get quite this out of hand.
Of course, that was when Trafalgar Water D. Law barreled his way into the room, face alight with rage. “Red Hair,” he breathed, “I was supposed to be working with two discreet puncture wounds in the thoracic cavity. Not a race to get his goddamn spine out of the way of a fucking magma fist—”
“I understand,” Shanks interrupted, hand raised to placate. “Well, not the ‘thoracic’ bit. But we have your blueprints, and your gold—tripled of course, fair’s fair. I just need,” he gestured beseechingly at Ace’s form, “you to be so kind as to uphold your end of the deal.”
Law bristled, fingers twisting as he activated his powers. “Why I ever agreed to this—”
“Boss, about the flowers—”
“Ah, the wind’s changing, shit—”
—
Ace had been hot, so hot, before darkness settled around him like a brother’s embrace. He’d expected cold after that. A quiet, numbing cold, something that would finally settle all this pain. He could make peace with that, with finally slipping into nothingness.
Instead, something flickered in his blurry sight. Did people dream, at moments like this?
He was on a mountainside, snow everywhere, and—he remembered this. All he had to do was climb a bit farther. But oh, god, he had to climb farther.
Still... The noise around him grew, and the warmth, and it beckoned him forward. He could at least try. He knew what laid ahead, in that shelter: fire, and burning drink, and—a smile—
—
Portgas D. Ace opened his eyes, and came gasping back to life.
—
Afterward, standing on the gangplank between ship and submarine, Law looked back at the man hailed as an Emperor. In a way, Shanks was exactly as expected: dashing, aloof, rugged, quick. And yet, there was an incongruence about him—something that peeked through the edges when he thought no one was looking.
Law wasn’t normally one to bother, but the scientific part of him bred the urge to ask: “Why do it, Red Hair? What do you get out of this?”
Shanks blinked. A smile spread across his face, crinkling his scars, and suddenly the cracks were gone. If he weren’t confident in his observations, Law might have thought he imagined the weariness from before.
“Your bet’s as good as mine, Doc. What do you think?”
Law simply rolled his eyes, turning back to his ship. He didn’t have time to deal with that headache.
And besides, there was another idiot brother to save.