Chapter Text
His head is pounding when Buggy opens his eyes.
This is, unfortunately, a common enough occurrence, so he simply groans, rolling himself onto his side, knowing this helps minimally with the oncoming nausea. His body aches in unpleasant ways, which isn’t unusual either and he seems to be lying on the cold floor, the surface damp, smelling of sea salt, which he really wishes he could say was uncommon, but it really isn’t.
He tries to sit up and that’s when he notices the shackles around his wrists and those are-- unfortunately-- a new experience.
Panic settles in surprisingly fast, overriding his pounding head and sore body, every nerve in his body alight, the urge to run overwhelming, body parts trying to scatter on instinct, only to find he can’t: the damn shackles must be made of seastone.
Oh, this is bad. Like real bad.
He can’t think, so he does the only reasonable thing to do and bites down on his own hand, hard enough to draw blood. As the metallic taste takes over his mouth, he can feel the fear receding, the physical pain pushing it to the back of his mind. He takes a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down further and then he does sit up, looking around himself, taking in his surroundings.
He seems to be in some sort of prison, although there are no bars, only a big metal door currently locked. Light, scarce as it is, comes from very high up, just a slide of it, which suggests there are no windows as such and when his eyes drop to the ground, he notices the neat row of shackles there and finds he’s bound at the ankles too.
Fucking great. He still has no clue where he is, but he’s not liking his chances of escaping.
He forces himself to breathe once more, desperately trying to remember how he ended up in this situation, trying to figure out if there’s a way to talk himself out of whatever fucked up situation he has landed himself in. Try as he might though, his mind keeps coming up blank: he does not believe he has pissed off someone particularly important lately, certainly not enough to get this kind of treatment.
The door opens then, two men dressed like soldiers coming in. Their clothes are nicely done, their armors silver plated with intricate details and Buggy gulps: this doesn’t look good at all. The men approach him with unreadable expressions that tell him he’s not getting any information out of them and so he figures he’s better off saving his breath for now.
He has no idea what’s going on, but there’s only one thing to do for now:
Wait and see.
The guards helpfully knocked him out, so Buggy imagines that explains his pounding head from earlier too. He has no idea where he’s been taken now and he does not appreciate the fact that someone seems to have bathed and dressed him while he was out cold, but honestly, that’s probably the least of his concerns right now.
He’s been left in some fancy room, tacky golden decorations all around. It’s the room of someone who has more money than good sense and Buggy thinks he can work with this: rich people tend to be rich idiots, so if he plays his cards right, he might end up better than he started, although god knows how he got into this situation in the first place. Still, he’s learned to do the best he can with the cards he’s been handed and in this case--
The door opens and he turns to face the newcomer, ready to face whatever might come, all too aware of the heavy shackles around his wrists. The ones on his ankles are gone, but while that means he can actually run, he doubts he would make it very far in this unknown place: better to wait and see what he’s dealing with, rather than rush headfirst into danger without any sort of plan.
“Buggy?!”
He hates the wave of relief that he feels as he spots the familiar face, the way his heart skips a beat at the sound of his name coming out of his mouth. It’s been a little under 10 years and yet, it only takes one word from Shanks’s mouth for his foolish heart to melt.
He doesn’t have time for this shit!
“Fuck,” Shanks curses quietly, closing the distance between them in a couple of strides, reaching out to touch him but not quite daring. His eyes dart around Buggy’s face and body, taking him in and Buggy would feel unsettled by his intense examination, if he wasn’t so damn used to it: Shanks did it often enough whenever they had spent time apart, be it an hour or a day and considering how long it’s been this time around…
Well, he can cut him some slack, he imagines.
“It’s really you,” the other man murmurs, brushing a lock of hair away from his face and Buggy is hard pressed not to lean into the touch. He still doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but he’s glad to see a familiar face, even if-- even if--
“Shanks, what the hell is going on?!” he demands, because really, he needs to focus on the important things. He pulls his gaze away from Shanks’s mauled face (seriously, what’s with all the bandages?), finally noticing the way he’s dressed and his stomach does something funny. He looks… kinda good, unfortunately, but everything about his appearance puts Buggy on edge: it’s not the sort of thing Shanks’d have picked himself. The overly fancy coat, the nice shirt and silk pants are painting a story inside Buggy’s mind he can not completely wrap his head around and he doesn’t like it one bit.
Shanks opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything, he freezes, the sound of steps coming their way interrupting him. Shanks places his hands on his shoulders, expression deadly serious. “I’ll explain later,” he promises. “But for now, I need you to trust me and play along, alright?”
Trust him?! Ha! “Wha--?” Buggy begins just as the door opens and he feels the intense press of Haki all around him. Damn it all, he thinks, glaring at Shanks briefly before he figures that doing as he says is actually in his best interests.
Play along, he thinks, which he imagines includes reacting like regular people would react to this amount of Haki pressing onto their consciousness, promptly pretending to faint. It’s tricky, to properly fake losing consciousness, the body has a tendency to not want to drop down bonelessly, but he hopes the newcomer isn’t paying him that much attention. In any case, he doesn’t really need to fall, for Shanks catches him almost immediately, which isn’t hard considering his hands had been on his shoulders before and he deposits him on the ground, although without any of the gentleness Buggy had expected from him.
He’s not disappointed, he tells himself. It’s not like he spent a ridiculous amount of his early teens fantasizing about ridiculous scenarios in which Shanks would come to his rescue, pick him up bridal style (of course in real life, he’d have murdered him if he had tried that shit, but that’s what daydreams are for!) and carried him to safety.
Still, he’s a bit confused by the harshness of the move: growing up they were rough with each other, of course, constantly shoving and hitting the other, but if one was hurt or needed a little help with something--
Then again, it’s been nine years. What was he expecting really?
“Ah, so you’ve found your gift,” an unknown voice calls. It’s the same baritone of Shanks’s, the same cadence, but Buggy can tell it’s not his (ex) friend the one who’s speaking and he’s thankful for the fact that some of his hair ended up in his face when Shanks put him down, for it allows him to open his eyes the slightest bit without being noticed.
What he sees confuses him further though: what’s this? some devil fruit user? a doppelgänger? what--?
The newcomer is a perfect mirror image of his not-friend, minus the ugly injury over his eye now. The hair is a little longer, neatly tied back and he wears his garments with a little more grace than Shanks, but other than that--
A twin?! What the fuck?!
“What’s the meaning of this, Shamrock?” Shanks asks, turning to face his… brother?, tone seemingly neutral, but for someone as familiar with him as Buggy is, it’s easy enough to hear the carefully contained fury underneath.
The other man (Shamrock, apparently), shrugs. “It’s a gift,” he repeats, as if that explains shit. Maybe it does, to him, but it certainly doesn’t throw any light onto Buggy’s predicament, at least not to him. “Father thought it’d be appropriate, considering your recent… performance.”
Buggy can’t see Shanks’s expression, but he can tell he’s clenching his jaw by the way he bites the next words. “How generous,” he says, voice sounding neutral still. “And what I’m I supposed to do with it?”
“Whatever you please,” Shamrock replies, seemingly bored, giving a mighty roll of eyes when Shanks only stares at him. “It’s a slave, Shanks. It’s not that hard to figure out.”
Buggy is most definitely not liking the direction this conversation is taking, the implications behind it. He knows better than to react though, so he continues lying as still as he can, trying to keep his breath steady despite the rising panic.
Shanks hums, looking away from his companion, turning his gaze onto Buggy. His eyes are full of cold anger, mouth twisted in disgust, but he smoothers his expression before turning back to his brother. “In that case, would you mind terribly conveying my thanks? I’d do it myself, but I might be busy for the immediate future.”
It’s the brother’s turn to look disgusted. “You have funny tastes, Shanks,” Shamrock says and Buggy is hard pressed not to protest because, what the hell is that supposed to mean?! “But fine. Just remember we’re expected at the training grounds in an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” Shanks assures him and Shamrock hums, giving Buggy a quick once over before he shrugs to himself, turning on his heel and exits the room in a couple of strides, closing the door after himself.
“Fuck,” Shanks curses once they’re alone, after a few seconds of listening to his brother’s retreating steps as he sinks onto his knees on the floor. “Fuck, this is bad.”
Buggy huffs, sitting up. “You can say that again,” he agrees, hugging his knees to his chest. In fact, bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. “And I know I’m a hot piece of ass, but honestly? Did you have to say it like that?”
Shanks stares at him, cheeks turning as red as his hair and Buggy wonders how he managed to keep a straight face when he implied… what he implied. “I didn’t-- I just-- Buggy!” Shanks whines, hiding his face behind his hands and Buggy can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, relieved. He hadn’t thought-- of course Shanks wouldn’t-- but it’s been a decade since they last saw each other and everything around them points to some big changes in Shanks’s life, so what does he know? “I just let him run with his own conclusions.” Buggy hums, conceding the point: it’s the smart choice, he imagines, although it doesn’t mean he likes it. It makes him feel… weird. The whole thing is weird, honestly. “I was kinda hoping you hadn’t heard any of it.”
Buggy rolls his eyes. “You were standing a few feet away from me. How could I not hear?”
“No, but I mean-- I thought you’d be unconscious for a bit longer.”
Buggy blinks. That’s-- “Shanks, have you forgotten I’m immune to your Haki?” Or any Haki, he’s learned, but he’s not about to reveal that bit: you never know which secrets might come handy down the road. Trust him, ha! After the shitshow from Lougetown? No way in hell.
Shanks looks at him with big, surprised eyes. “Still?!”
Buggy frowns, slightly confused. Shanks always had a big head, but this level of conceit is new. “What do you mean still? Of course I am! Why wouldn’t--?”
“I’ve gotten much stronger,” Shanks says, sliding closer to him, the awed expression on his face a little uncomfortable to look at and Buggy is hard pressed not to put distance between them. In fact, if he had his powers, he knows he’d have split apart and escaped far away. “It’s part of the reason I was allowed back here. I’ve got too much potential to let it go to waste, apparently. According to the teachers, my Haki is hard to resist, even for experienced fighters.”
Buggy has no idea how to answer that. They had never quite figured out how that worked; ever since Shanks’s Haki first manifested, everyone could tell it was pretty impressive, but Buggy never really reacted to it. He felt it, of course he did, but it had no effect on him.
It’s not important, he imagines. “Right… and where back here is, exactly?”
Shanks’s expression closes off, growing tense. Buggy has to hold back a frustrated sigh: he can just tell he’s about to say something very stupid that’s only going to succeed in pissing Buggy off. “I’ll get you out of here,” Shanks says, which isn’t a fucking answer.
“Where-are-we?” Buggy asks again, enunciating every word very clearly, narrowing his eyes at his once-friend. “And don’t you fucking lie to me, Shanks. I have a killer headache and I'm in no mood to put up with your bullshit.”
Shanks’s expression softens, going concerned in less than a breath. “Do you want me to get you a doctor? Or medicine! I could--”
“Shanks,” Buggy interrupts sharply. “I don’t know how things work wherever the fuck we are, but getting called a slave certainly put things into perspective and I’m getting the feeling you’re gonna pretend your interest in me is merely physical, so you’re gonna have to be more of a dick than usual to me.”
Shanks’s cheeks have gone cherry red once more, so caught in his embarrassment that he fails to rise to the bait. Buggy rolls his eyes again, because honestly, what was he thinking? If he’s gonna act this flustered everytime someone mentions something even remotely related to… the activities he implied they’d be doing, someone is gonna catch him in the lie very soon. He honestly doesn’t know how he managed to lie to his brother’s face, even if it was only for a few seconds, but--
And speaking of the brother… “And what the fuck is up with the twin?!” he demands to know. “How come I didn’t know you had a brother? Do you have a whole family tree you’ve been hiding from me?”
“I didn’t know about them,” Shanks murmurs sourly, looking away. “Both things are related, so I suppose… I’ll explain, but first you must tell me how you ended up here.”
Up where?! “I have no fucking idea where we are,” Buggy hisses, narrowing his eyes at him. “Nor any idea how I ended up here, because it seems a chunk of my memory is missing, so how about you stop trying to dodge the subject and tell me what you do know, huh?!” It’s so like Shanks, to try to change the subject to avoid discussing whatever needs to be discussed. And any other day Buggy might have let him (or he’d have, before) but today he’s feeling far from generous and honestly, he feels that between the two of them, he’s the one who has more reasons to be concerned.
A fucking slave. That’s not good, in fact it’s the farthest thing from good: if he had been captured by Marines, there’d be hope of escape. He’s too much of a small fish to guarantee tight security and it’s not like anyone was gonna bother with going after him if he did manage to flee. But human traffickers are a whole different animal and most of them work with the World’s Government blessing, so--
He looks at Shanks once more, paying attention to his appearance and then he looks around the room, taking in the decoration, looking beyond the absolute lack of taste. He had thought everything pointed out to ridiculously rich pricks, but now that he’s actually paying attention…
He gets up with a jump, startling his companion, but he pays him no mind as he hurries to undo the ridiculously small buttons of the shirt he’s wearing before he decides he doesn’t care enough and tears it apart. Shanks lets out a sound he doesn’t know how to interpret, but he’s not paying him attention, too busy looking for a mirror.
He finds one at the edge of the lavish bed and he hurries towards it, deliberately avoiding stepping too close to said bed, refusing to think of Shanks’s foolish implications. He comes to stand in front of the mirror and he takes a deep breath before letting the shirt drop and turning around, so he can look at his back’s reflection.
Nothing. His back is as blank as ever and he lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. No Celestial Dragons involved, thank fuck! Shanks’s brother might have called him a slave, but as long as he doesn’t carry those fuckers mark on his back, he’ll be fine: slave is an escapable enough denomination, as long as you don’t have a mark that marks you as some Celestial fucker’s property: then you’re pretty much screwed for life.
Shanks must have followed his line of thought, judging by the way he’s staring at his back’s reflection too, every muscle in his body tense, eyes narrowed. Buggy bites his lip, feeling a bit embarrassed now, quickly growing overly conscious of his state of undress and he hurries to pull the shirt back up, although it keeps opening up due the way he tore it open.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Shanks says, stepping closer, reaching for Buggy and then thinking better of it, dropping his arm at his side. “I-- I’ll make sure you don’t-- I’ll talk to my… father about it.”
How odd, the way Shanks practically spits the word. He hadn’t sounded overly fond of his new found family, but he hadn’t seemed entirely hostile with his twin. Then again--
That’s not important though, not to Buggy, at least. The implication however, suggests he’s not as out of the woods as he had hoped and so he forces himself to take another deep breath, steading himself. “Are we in Mary Geois?” he asks, panic steadily rising in the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry, Blue,” Shanks says, once more reaching for him, this time actually touching his cheek gently. “I’m so sorry I’ve dragged you into this somehow.”
Buggy just stares at him, heart betting madly inside his chest. He keeps thinking things aren’t as bad as he feared, only to be proved wrong a second later. That is, of course, the story of his life: Lady Luck is a fickle mistress and she seems to have too much fun playing with Buggy.
Well, fuck.
“From the start, then,” Buggy says, taking a seat in one of the plush reading chairs in the room. It’s very comfortable, against his suppositions: things this fancy tend to look nice, but are a pain to actually use.
Shanks comes back into his line of view, carrying something with him. Buggy rolls his eyes, but takes the offered shirt, blushing a bit and chiding himself for his foolishness a second later. Growing up he and Shanks basically shared a wardrobe, so he lending him a shirt is nothing new, but something about the gesture now feels a little too intimate: maybe it’s the setting, maybe it’s the situation they’ve been put in, maybe it’s the echo of Shanks’s “conversation” with his twin.
Whatever it is, he doesn’t like it one bit.
His stomach tightens at the casual way in which Shanks breaks his chains, so he can actually shed off the tattered shirt and replace it with the new one. Now is not the time, he chides himself once more, but of course his stupid libido is disinclined to listen, as it often was when Shanks was involved. He huffs, sliding into the new shirt and refusing to meet his companion’s eye, trying (and failing) to not feel annoyed at the fact that the shackles around his wrists remain: it’s probably safer for him, for the time being, to continue playing this role he’s been thrusted into, but--
His ex friend takes a seat in front of him, looking entirely too regal with his nice clothes, brushed hair, clean shaved. It makes something in Buggy ache for some reason, while also tickling his ridiculous libido further: he never had to worry about his stupid weakness for well dressed men around Shanks before, but now--
Ugh. What a nightmare.
“Alright,” Shanks says, nervously shifting on his seat, which ruins the effect thankfully. “You remember the story Captain told us about the circumstances in which I came aboard the Oro.” Buggy hums, hating the overly formal tone, but figuring it’s better if he doesn’t comment on it just yet. “As you might recall, they found me in a treasure chest they had gotten at God’s Valley.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a hit and Buggy tilts his head, considering him. Just what exactly is going on? “I was there because… because my father was there too. He was participating in the hunt.”
Fucking hell. “You’re a Celestial Dragon.”
“My father is a Holy Knight,” Shanks replies, clutching his arm suddenly, eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and fury. “So is my brother. I-- In order to-- I’ve had--”
He looks so agonized and a part of Buggy wants to reach out and comfort him, but he finds he can’t move, way too focused on processing the revelations. It’s… unexpected, mostly and kinda weird: Buggy supposes there are plenty of reasons to hate the World Government and the ruling class, but he’s always thought of them in the abstract, entities so far apart from him and his life that they might as well be a myth.
He tilts his head, watching Shanks closely. He had thought his heart had been hammering inside his chest before this, but now it has somehow doubled the speed at which it beats. “Why are you here?” he asks, because that’s the only answer he needs really, the one that’ll determine what he needs to do next.
The Shanks he knew would not have come here willingly, would have been horrified at the prospect. The Shanks he knew cared not for riches or privileges and he certainly wouldn’t live a life of them built on other people’s pain and suffering, certainly not to the degree the Government causes it.
But the Shanks he knew let him go in Loungetown nine years ago and he doesn’t know this new one.
“I had to,” Shanks replies, expression stormy. “There’s something I need. Information,” he explains, looking away, guilt clear in his expression. “I promised Captain something and now I need to see it through.”
What? Buggy wants to ask, but he also realizes Shanks’s vagueness is deliberate and it makes something vicious gawk at his heart and he scowls, unhappy. He should know better by now, honestly, but he’s still a hopeful fool. “I see,” he says, tone carefully blank, expression detached.
“You don’t,” Shanks says, standing up abruptly and starting to pace. “These last few months have been hell, Bugs. The things I’ve seen… the things I’ve done… the memory of them doesn’t let me sleep at night and it’s gonna haunt me down the road every day for the rest of my life and I-- I--”
Buggy sighs. He was never as self sacrificing as Shanks, never as noble, so he knows he’d never put himself through something unpleasant for someone else’s sake, certainly not for something as flimsy as a promise, so he doesn’t know what to say, he has no words of comfort to offer.
“And to top it all!” Shanks says, turning to him and suddenly Buggy finds himself pressing his back against the chair’s, trying to put more distance between them, not liking the half mad look on Shanks’s face. “Now I’ve gotten you involved somehow and I-- I-- I’m so sorry, Bugs. If something happens to you-- I’ll get you out, I swear, I just--”
It’s a talent of his, honestly, to say the exact thing that will piss Buggy off the most. Some might think it sweet, these bouts of protectiveness, but Buggy finds them condescending. A reminder they’re not on the same level, have never been, never will be. “I’m perfectly capable of saving myself,” Buggy hisses, arms crossed over his chest. “No need for you to worry about that.”
Shanks snaps his mouth shut, having the gall to look hurt and Buggy huffs. Stupid Shanks, making everything about him. “Buggy, I don’t think--”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Buggy interrupts, tone light and Shanks glares at him, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips all the same. “I’ll be fine,” he assures him, because he really doesn’t want to have this argument: he’ll be fine, he just needs a plan. “I’ve made do without you all these years, haven’t I?” he says, unable to resist the petty words and his chest warms with vicious satisfaction at Shanks’s pained expression.
It’s cruel and petty and uncalled for, probably, but Shanks has no right to be hurt by it. He was the one who didn’t want Buggy, the one who let him go, the one who forgot all about him and never looked back.
“Buggy I-- I didn’t--” he starts, coming to kneel in front of him, startling him as a hand lands on his knee. Buggy’s stomach flutters and he can’t tell for sure if it’s a pleasant feeling or not, but he does know he can’t deal with this much closeness, not right now.
“You should go,” Buggy says, looking away, pulling his legs up, hugging them to his chest. “Your brother said you were expected somewhere else.” Shanks opens his mouth to reply, seemingly unwilling to go and Buggy sighs. “Come on, run along. I’ll be here when you come back,” he adds, waving him away, his shackles and the broken chains clicking merrily with the movement and Shanks’s gaze drops to them, expression unhappy. For a beat, it looks like he’s gonna argue, but then he sighs, standing up again.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises, heading for the door. He hesitates there, looking at Buggy again, as if afraid he’ll disappear if he takes his gaze off him.
Fat chance, Buggy thinks annoyedly, watching as the other man leaves, the door closing softly after him. “Not like I can go anywhere,” he mumbles to himself, considering the shackles around his wrists once more.
Well, fuck.