A little romance while you're waiting for the next Chapter of "Catnip". Enjoy ;)
The creaking of old, damp wood and iron is the only audible sound.
A warm, orange light illuminates the spacious cabin, deriving from an old oil lamp that sits in the corner of a wooden davenport. Various maps stand beside the antique piece of furniture, some decorate the walls, two are unfolded on the desk. A thin red line runs across them, conjoining two islands, one still situated on the Grand Line, the other far off somewhere in the New World. One map is clear and detailed, the other still vast and rather empty.
Beckman sighs and leans back in his chair while rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He's been going through quite an assortment of maps throughout the entire night. Some are self-made, others are bought, others found, others stolen, none of them is quite accurate and he has given up on silently cursing under his breath.
So far, it seems, nobody has been able to draw a decent map of the New World.
He stubs out his cigarillo just to pick up the next one and light it immediately. He'd love to give the excuse that he smokes more at work but after years and years of chain smoking he's quite certain that the excuse won't work.
"Still at it?"
He hears the movement behind himself before he hears the voice, calm and clear and so familiar that he automatically relaxes a little.
His reply is a low humming sound and he watches Shanks getting comfortable on the corner of the desk, trying to avoid the unfolded maps.
"How's it going?"
"Guess that journey's gonna be quite suicidal."
"Eh? You couldn't find a safe route?"
He hears the amusement in his captain's voice and frowns a little upon the bright grin covering the redheads face.
"You, the great Mister Safety Comes First can't find a route? Man, I gotta mark this day in my calendar."
"You have a calendar?"
"No but if I had one I'd mark it."
The grin grows even wider as Beckman chucks his pen at Shanks and only misses because the redhead dodges remarkably well. The first mate leans back in his chair again, one foot casually on the desk as he inhales a lungful of smoke.
"I think I'm getting too old for this."
"For what?"
"Adventuring. Pirating. All that stuff."
The grin on Shanks face softens a little but won't fade completely.
"Feelin' it in your old bones already?"
"My back cracks in the morning."
"Outrageous!"
"Shut it, kid."
Shanks infectious laughter fills the cabin and makes Beckman smile a little.
"So what do you wanna do about it, old man? Eh?"
"Dunno", Beckman folds his muscular arms behind his head, the cigarillo hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"I might retire, you know?"
"Eh? Retire?"
"Yeah. Find myself a nice, quiet island. Grab my share of all the treasure, take most of the rum and just laze in the sun all day. Do a little fishing maybe."
"You want a pension and insurance too?"
"Sounds good."
Shanks chuckles.
Lately they've been having this kind of conversation a lot. It's been about 20 years since he met Beckman for the first time. He had just parted with Roger's crew, ready to find his own ship and recruit some people when he noticed Beckman in a rather small fishing village somewhere in the East Blue. A born fisherman he was quite sturdy, knew his way around the sea and was blessed with the patience of a mule. He drank Shanks under the table the first night in the local pub and the redhead had decided to ask him to join his crew right on the spot.
Beckman left him hanging on for a couple of days, pretending to be busy with work or plainly ignoring him when he buzzed around him too much. Being around about 10 years older than Shanks already he surely made an impression on the Hotspur.
The day Shanks was supposed to set sail, Beckman appeared on quay, a duffel bag over his shoulder and the rifle in hand, claiming that being a fisherman would probably be a very unspectacular life.
Back then his hair had still been black and long and his body had still been undazzled by battle wounds. But other than the shorter grey hair and the ridiculous amount of scars, the biggest one covering half of his face, nothing has changed much, Shanks notices.
"Stop messing, old man."
20 years are a freakishly long time after all.
"You know I'd be screwed without you."
"Yeah, I know", Beckman retorts bluntly, earning himself a slap on his shinbone.
"You can't retire. Never. You gotta keep on saving my sorry ass until one of us drops dead into the sea. And knowing me it's gonna be me head down first."
"Most likely, yes." Another slap.
"So stop pretending that you're falling apart already. You can still beat the crap out of me with that thing", Shanks warily points at the rifle that barely fires bullets but rather clubs friend and foe alike into oblivion.
"That reminds me… when was the last time that you got a good beating?"
"A while ago. But there's no reason right now!"
"You're keeping me off work."
Before Beckman can lay a hand on his rifle Shanks quickly snatches it away, holding it behind his back.
"Don't you dare, you wicked old man!"
"Wicked, eh?"
"Stop being a grinch and drop this stuff. It's late already."
Shanks carefully places the rifle against the wall, far enough from Beckman's reach so he won't get the handle slammed between his shoulder blades on his way out. Happened before, he's just precautious.
The redhead hops off the desk, supporting himself on his remaining right arm and pretends to dust off his white shirt.
"Besides", his gaze meets Beckmans and the grin is back on his features, "the bedding's too cold without you."
As he walks past the older man he stops for a brief minute, pinches the cigarillo and places a loving and tender kiss on his first mates lips. His fingers trace the crosswise scar on Beckmans left temple and he smiles softly into the kiss.
He can't retire.
After all he can't just leave the man he loves, right?