Work Text:
Buggy doesn’t sew.
He knows how to, of course. He spent what felt like half his childhood mending the smelly socks, shirts, trousers and unmentionables of very important pirates that had better things to do than fixing their own damn clothes, like, for example, getting drunk and making more holes for Buggy to patch up.
And the mending had been all up to him because Shanks was utterly hopeless at it, more likely to make new holes on the clothes (and on himself) than actually managing to sew together even the simplest tear. Buggy had quickly realized that it was far more efficient to send Shanks to do the physically taxing chores under the scorching sun while he took care of all the mending and laundrying on the cool laundry room. For the good of the crew, of course.
So yeah, Buggy knows how to sew.
When he’d set off on his own and founded his crew, he’d thought that he was done with needles and threads. How wrong had he been! How laughable his innocence was! Pirate garb didn’t make itself and the circus theme he had chosen required pretty sophisticated costumes, so he had had to sit down with Mohji and Cabaji and had spent a lot of afternoons explaining, very patiently (he barely even kicked them!), how to make a decent pattern and use it to sew clothes. He’d also made his own outfit after seeing how their first attempts went (no way he was trusting these amateurs with making his captain coat!).
But that’s not the point.
The point is that Buggy doesn’t sew .
Buggy’s the captain now, he has people that do the sewing for him. And they are professionals too. Talented people that have mastered their craft, not children he found laying around in treasure chests and decided to employ on a whim. He can’t remember the last time he so much as tailored his own shirts.
So Buggy doesn’t sew.
Which makes the fact that he is rummaging around for fabrics with a needle already threaded and held between his teeth pretty fucking embarrassing.
It’s Shanks fault!
Of course it is.
Everything wrong in Buggy’s life is, and has always been, Shanks' fault.
When he dies, he wants someone to point at the redhead and say ‘this is your fault’. It won’t be mean because it will be true.
Buggy sighs. Or well, he attempts to. It’s pretty hard to sigh when you have to be careful you don’t unclench your teeth. The last thing he needs is to drop the needle. With his luck, it will end up stuck between two of the wooden planks that make up the floor and one of his crewmates will find him on his hands and knees, trying to dislodge it. He wouldn’t be able to take the humiliation and he’s not in a rush to fake his death (again).
He finally finds an acceptable bolt of fabric and unrolls it. Black is a good color in Shanks, even he can admit as much. It’s one of the few that don’t clash with that flashy hair of his. And the texture of this fabric is as soft as it can be while still being sturdy enough to actually protect its wearer from the elements.
He nods to himself and starts cutting.
Where was he?
Oh yeah, blaming Shanks.
Anyway, Buggy had been happy, thrilled even, at the lack of sewing needles in his life. And then he had had to go have a drink with Shanks.
‘It will be fun’ Shanks had said.
‘It will be like old times’ he had promised.
And yeah, it really had been like old times, that much Buggy will give him. It’s just like old times for Shanks to foist his chores onto Buggy.
They had met in a bar, or well, outside of it. Shanks had been waiting for him (Buggy should have known to be distrusting of the fact he was, for once, on time) leaning against a wall. Buggy had noticed, much to his annoyance, that he’d grown even taller. Really, was he not happy with being one inch taller than Buggy? Did the showoff truly have to go and double their height difference?
Still, 6’6’’, wasn’t it? And he needs to make it to around calf-length else Shanks will complain that it gets in the way. Maybe he can get away with making it a little longer? It will look cooler that way.
Buggy blows away a lock of hair that has fallen on his face and keeps drawing the pattern.
So after Shanks had forced a hug on him that Buggy had in no way reciprocated, he had dragged him into the bar for drinks and they had gotten to talking.
They had discussed their crews (both were doing fine), old acquaintances (the Whitebeards were still as cringy as ever if Shanks was to be believed) and the up and coming rookies (all pretty disappointing, what was the pirate world coming to?). It had, all in all, not been a completely unpleasant evening and Buggy had even thought that going out drinking with Shanks once in a while was kind of okayish.
Buggy frowns, annoyed at his own sappiness and naivety, while finishing chalking the pattern onto the fabric and grabbing the fabric scissors again.
It had all been a ruse, of course.
Shanks had waited until he was content and drunk before he sprang his heinous trap on him.
It had started with him relaying to Buggy a comment made by Rayleight. Something surfacely nice but dripping with condescension and faux-paternalism as was the man’s specialty.
What had the old geezer said exactly?
Buggy stops placing pins on the fabric to rub at his chin and almost stabs himself in the process with said pins.
Oh, who cares?!
Rayleigh says a lot of things. Rayleigh also sells himself into slavery as a hobby. He is not to be trusted.
Anyway, his point had been that Shanks was apparently too shabbily dressed to be taken seriously as a pirate and that his crew was an uncoordinated mess since they had yet to settle on a theme or at least chose something distinctive to differentiate them from outsiders.
It was bullshit.
The fact that Buggy sort of saw his point only made it even more bullshit.
So what if Shanks' crew didn’t all go around with matching tattoos? It’s not like they were so many people that they got confused about who was an ally and who a foe during battle! Not everyone wanted a crew in the hundreds! Some people actually liked being able to personally know everyone they sailed with.
And as for Shanks, the man had charisma! He didn’t need a tacky moustache to make people remember him!
Not that Buggy had told him that, of course.
He laughs at the absurdity of the thought and starts sewing his basting stitches.
No, obviously, he hadn’t told Shanks anything of the sort.
What he had done was remind him that Rayleigh still wore the same hairstyle and weird beard he had back when they were children and gently suggested that maybe he wasn’t a guy they should go to for fashion advice.
Really, the man goes around in bermudas and sandals, who is he to call anyone else shabby over the way they dress?
But Shanks had pouted and asked Buggy directly if he thought he looked like a pirate.
And what was Buggy supposed to say to that?
What does a pirate even look like?
Shanks had not liked him answering his question with another and had badgered Buggy for a ‘real’ answer until Buggy had, very sweetly, asked if Shanks would prefer an eye-patch or a peg-leg because he was more than willing to help him get either.
That genuine and nice offer had only made Shanks whine louder so Buggy had relented and told him that, perhaps, a coat like the one Captain had (like Buggy has) would help bring his outfit together.
Buggy truly doesn’t know how they went from that innocent suggestion to this.
He sighs again, stares at the fabric in his hands and very pointedly refuses to calculate how many stitches this is going to need. Handmade stitches too because the sewing machine is too loud to use when most of his crew are asleep.
The basting stitches had already taken him longer than he planned and his eyes are starting to hurt. In hindsight, doing this with only the light of a lamp was probably not the best idea but what was the alternative? To come here during the day and have to answer awkward personal questions? No, that would have been far more painful than the headache he already feels building up.
Buggy rethreads the needle and starts the small, almost invisible stitches he’s foolishly decided on.
He does know how he got here, is the thing.
He got here because Shanks apparently has a lot of feelings about coats. Or more accurately, on their ability of remaining in place during battles when not worn properly.
Apparently every time Shanks has tried to wear a coat as a cape it’s slid down and ended up on the floor for some reason?
And man was he mad about that!
So mad, in fact, that he had started a very passionate speech in the middle of the bar they were in without any regard for anyone else and their lack of interest in Shanks’ opinion on menswear. Buggy had mostly tuned him out, but he was pretty sure it had a long section on how sleeves existed for a reason and also included accusations of witchcraft directed at him, Captain, the Vice-Admirals, and everyone that actually managed to follow the very widespread fashion trend that seemed to vex Shanks so.
His unhinged rant had been summarized by Shanks yelling very loudly ‘a coat is a coat and a cape is a cape!’ much to the amusement of all the bar patrons which had paused their own conversations to better appreciate the spectacle Shanks was making of himself.
Buggy, of course, had been forced to reply: ‘So get a cape then.’
Shanks had blinked, like the idea had never even occurred to him before. The moron.
Then he had turned big, pleading eyes in Buggy’s directions and said, in his best pitiful tone: ‘Buggy, I don’t know where capes are sold.’
In his defense, not that Buggy makes a habit of defending the overpowered drunkard, they had already finished several bottles of sake by that point so his confusion could have been attributed to the drink. The drink was definitely to blame for Buggy’s answer.
Yeah, only a very drunk Buggy would have smiled at Shanks and, without a care in the world for what his sober, future self would have to endure, answered: ‘Oh, capes are easy. I can make you one if you want!’
He’s never getting drunk again.
He’s never meeting with Shanks again.
How could he have been so stupid?
He should have known, he really should have known. Shanks has been trouble since the day they met.
Buggy blinks tiredly. Okay, only a few dozen or so stitches to go.
Suddenly, the door to his left opens, letting in far more light than what Buggy was expecting or is able to handle. He closes his eyes, instinctively hugging the almost finished cape towards his chest. Simultaneously, there’s a very loud shriek that lets him know that, apparently, the person that was trying to enter the room is as surprised to see Buggy as he is of seeing them. That’s a relief.
Buggy tentatively opens his eyes and realizes that it’s already daytime and that Battye, the seamstress he all but begged to join his crew (no one does cuffs like she does, no one ) is standing on the threshold. She’s pressing a hand to her chest and is clearly trying to recover from the fright that Buggy has inadvertently given her (if she leaves the crew because of this, Buggy will actually kill Shanks this time).
He briefly considers hiding the evidence of his crime, but what’s the point? She’s already seen it all, from the needles to the thread. Yeah, there’s no weaseling out of this one.
Instead, he raises his chin defyingly, ready to face the music.
Battye looks from him to the cape, her lips pursed in disapproval. She crosses her arms, cocks her hip and utters her condemnation in the form of a single question.
“Captain, have you spent the whole night sewing?!”
And really, there’s only one answer Buggy can give to that.
“... No.”