"You can't just cut off my hair, that'll ruin my image."
The suffering look Ben gave him tried desperately to be anything but. It wasn't working all too well for him. "And why not?"
"I'm Red-Haired Shanks, Ben, you can't just take away my trademark feature, that's rude."
The image of Ben staring was too much to take, and someone in the back of the crowd that had gathered cheered their agreement on, invoking several more to do the same, leaving Ben surrounded by a chorus of "Yeah, what are you, stupid Ben?" and "There's no other way, you're gonna have to do this by hand," and the situation found him pinching the bridge of his nose with a strangled sigh that only prompted more jeering.
Finally he managed a, "So what you're telling me," and the crew quieted down to scattered snickers and shit eating grins, "is that you'd rather me spend indeterminable hours prying you loose—" he paused for a strained look at Shanks' uh-huh, "—than simply cutting off where you're caught?"
"That'll be like cutting off Whitebeard's beard," Shanks said with an honest face. "You can't just do that."
"Whitebeard doesn't have a beard."
"Yeah, you know why? Because he got caught in a tree, Ben, help me out here, please," and when all he got was another look, he pulled a face of feigned dispair. "I'm dying, Ben. You're letting me die."
The crew at Ben's back agreed in full, relentlessly pelting him in jests and witticisms until the man dragged a hand over his face. "Alright," he finally relented to a backdrop of hollared cheers. "Alright."
The story: Shanks was a wanderer of simple nature — and the night before had him indulging in a drink or two (or twenty) and, as all good drinks often do, led to a loud and merry affair. It lasted long into the night and into the early morning and after a quiet lull in their festivities, another party was thrown again just because they weren't ready to head off to bed just yet.
One by one, each member of his traveling crusaders eventually fell into a deep slumber, and stirred late into the afternoon with headaches and hangovers to nurse. However, they awoke to find Shanks missing, and after a fruitful search found him asleep in a patch of shrubs the forest provided, splayed out in a mess of heavy limbs and snoring breaths.
He arouse slowly, and let out a long yawn as he made to pull himself from the bed of leaves and twigs he made for himself but fell back down with a speed so sudden it had several heads turning to make sure he was okay.
He played it off with a little laugh, once more making to sit up but he fisted a hand in his hair halfway there and froze in that position until Yasopp piped up.
"You, uh, stuck there, Boss?"
Shanks carefully turned to look at him, small smile bemusing, and when it quirked a degree, several pairs of feet came to stand before him.
Sometime in their late night (early morning) antics, he had gotten himself tangled up in a small shrub — probably on his way to passing out, and Shanks couldn't manage more than a hunched over squat with his hair knotted into the branches.
After many failed advances at attempted disentangling, Ben finally put down his mug of coffee and sauntered over to survey the situation before suggesting to simply cut him loose.
To this, Shanks let out a rather dignified "No," and proceeded to blindly aid someone trying to free him from the confines of the small tree.
At that, Ben had turned back to his coffee with a "Suit yourself," casually thrown over his shoulder and didn't return until Shanks had continuously mewled out his name hours later, laying on his back after efforts had ceased to exist, only occasionally reaching back to more so play with the tangle than anything else.
It was with a sigh and several "Your kid's crying for you Ben, better go check on him" that got him staring down at his captain, watching the boyish smile slowly spread across his face — and Ben felt his own fond one form in return.
"Hey," Shanks greeted, making no indication of moving, "so, you wanna help me out here now, or not?" And he knew it'd take a little convincing to get Ben to even think about budging, so he crossed his arms behind his head, wincing slightly when the motion tugged painfully at his hair.
Unfortunately, Ben started with, "Hair grows back." And at the pout that Shanks spouted — "You don't really care about the hair, or the pocket watch you traded off for it—"
"Hey, it was hard parting with it—"
"You had it for a week."
"It was vintage," Shanks made a gesture with his hand as if to emphasize his point. "Retro—"
"Please don't use that word."
"A relic of a forgotten era—"
"Which you put in Doflamingo's hands."
"Unfortunately, yes," he agreed, "But with good reason."
Ben quirked a brow and asked dryly, "Which is?"
"For my good looks."
Ben turned, "Good luck getting yourself unstuck, I'm busy packing up the mess you unraveled last night."
"Oh come on, Benny, just cut me loose— wait no, not actually cut, but like— come back here, Ben please, I need you." And when Ben continued walking, Shanks made to follow but was made short by the knot in his hair literally planting him in place. "Ben, why do you hate me?"
He proceeded to ignore him, organizing his belongings and placing them back into his bag, going over the procedures of departing the camp the crew had made when they were ready, checking in on supplies and stock with his back turned. It was with that and a good natured "Don't look now guys — the parents are fighting," that, after several more banters shared (and one suffering attempt at prying him loose), saw Ben finally taking a knife to the knot in his captain's hair — and with an entire crew's worth of protest, none saw any real damage done, Shanks having had his fun and laughter scattered throughout camp.
Ben ran his fingers through the shortened red strands several times before giving it a yank.
"Ow," was the only complaint Shanks gave through another smile. "You could've just called me an idiot and moved on."
"You wouldn't have learned your lesson otherwise."
It was Shanks' turn to quirk a brow, and his grin stretched. "Which is?"
"You gave away an invaluable artifact of indeterminable worth for a dye job," and when Ben tugged at his hair again, it was to draw him closer this time, "you come up with a way to pay off ferrying a crew's worth of wanderers to Fusha docks."
"Who says we're going to Fusha?"
"You just got your roots done, of course we're going to Fusha." There was a beat passed where all he did was look at his captain's boyish smile before — "You're insufferable," but it was softened by the curve of his lips, and Shanks returned it with a laugh.