Archive of Our Own

If ever there’s been a time for Shanks to believe in divine intervention, it’s gotta be now.

Garling and Shamrock both seem to be of a mind that Shanks shouldn’t ever have to return to the ‘lower’ world if he doesn’t want to, something he’s leaning into with his performance of pretending to despise it, but a few of the other Holy Knights are regardless inclined to pester him into visiting Sabaody at least once, so he can experience the pleasure of picking out a personal slave or two.

Shanks has managed to fob them off up until now, but isn’t sure he can pull off the same denial again without someone catching on.

So. Down to Sabaody he, and Shamrock, go.

At least with his prissy twin close by Shanks can constantly remind himself to keep up the act, to pretend he’s disgusted being down here, and as soon as he gets too close to snapping and lashing out, Sham will definitely go along with any excuse to return to the Red Port.

Turns out to be a good thing Shanks came down when he did.

Call it any number of things, fate, luck, sheer fucking coincidence, but he’s in the right place at the right time to catch someone hollering about Gold Roger’s son being put up for sale.

Shanks freezes mid-step.

“...found the brat hiding on some backwater in the East Blue of all places,” the auction’s advertiser is explaining, bright and eager as a crowd gathers around the crate he’s standing on. “And it’s been verified! One of our procurement agents with a telepathic Devil Fruit confirmed the truth of it from the devilspawn’s own mind! He even looks the spitting image of his monstrous sire, too!”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Even if it’s all a pack of lies, no kid deserves the fate that’s coming from being a look-alike with Roger. Shanks finds his feet moving of their own accord, the whole world narrowing to just this thin, insipid man, beaming from ear to ear as he talks about an auction for a child.

“What,” Shanks drawls in his best ‘Saint Fearsome Figarland’ voice, “Is this nonsense?”

Even without the dumb bubbles over their heads, he and Shamrock trailing along after him are obvious Celestials. The scrawny advertiser looks up, and pales, and in a split second his crowd of potential bidders have all vanished into thin air. “Ah- S-Saint, sir, your- your Worship, it’s- it’s true, I swear-”

“Doubtful,” Shanks scoffs, letting only a fraction of his true rage spill through. “But show me this supposed offspring of Roger’s if you’re truly so confident.” Best case scenario, he can pluck the poor kid out of their grasp and arrange to have him dropped off at Shakky’s place. It’s not likely, with Shamrock hovering at his elbow, just as much of a dedicated guard dog as his sword, but- Shanks has to at least try.

And if nothing else, he can firmly squash the story of Roger having a son, before anyone else gets hurt by it.

The advertiser hurries with shaking knees to lead them into whatever warehouse he works for, blathering on, but Shanks does his best to tune the man out and look unimpressed, uninterested, thoroughly bored. At one point he catches Shamrock in the corner of his eye, brows lowered in that understated way that means ‘I really shouldn’t be letting you do this but you’re my long lost brother so I suppose I’ll go along’. It’s a useful expression. Helps Shanks gauge whether or not he’s getting too close to the line of Acceptable Celestial Behavior. Going to be a bit of a tightrope, navigating whatever happens next, but at least Shamrock isn’t getting outright annoyed yet-

They step into a room with a kid chained to the far wall, and Shanks crashes to an immediate halt.

The boy’s Voice is what hits him first, exhausted and wrung out but still furious, terrified, and more to the point filled with a self-loathing that so far in his life Shanks has only experienced coming from himself. Then the little guy looks up, strands of greasy black hair falling to frame his face in a familiar way, there’s a thick cloth gag stuffed in his mouth and tied in place so tightly the rope is cutting into his cheeks, his freckled cheeks, Shanks never got to meet the woman his captain fell for but he remembers Roger sighing over ‘freckles like seashells scattered on a beach’-

And the eyes.

Holy shit, the eyes.

Narrowed, glaring, lined with barely restrained tears, Shanks has never seen eyes quite that shade of steel grey since he said goodbye to Roger.

“...may be a small bit of damage, he kept biting and refuses to hold still during custody transfers, but to be fair we feel the feral temperament goes to further corroborate his parentage-”

“I’ll take him.”

“-ah?”

“Brother,” Shamrock immediately says, stepping forward to put himself solidly beside Shanks instead of hanging back. “Are you certain this is, healthy, for you?”

Hell. He should have tried to play the imposter card. Because Shanks definitely just let too much honest emotion slip free with those three words, and now Shamrock is going to be dead certain too that this is Roger’s kid. “You’re the one who keeps reminding me not to bottle things up, brother. What better way to let out my grievances with the lower world than by paying them back to the offspring of the man who caused me so much trouble in the first place?”

Shit, the boy’s eyes just widened, fury shifting further into fear. Shanks is going to have a lot of explaining to do once he gets this kid somewhere private.

...and that probably won’t be able to happen anywhere other than his personal rooms at the Figarland Estate, otherwise Shamrock is going to keep on hovering, dammit.

Well.

Shanks did already say he’d take the kid.

Guess now he has to follow through, and ignore the phantom sound of Rayleigh sighing in his ears.

It might be perfectly normal for Celestials to come back from Sabaody with new slaves, but Shanks still feels incredibly uncomfortable walking around with a human being he just bought. Rather than make the kid stumble along at the end of a chain, he scoops the little guy up, tucks him under his cape, and tries to feel less like a sleazy kidnapper. Doesn’t help when the boy gradually stops struggling, the wriggles and kicks fading out of sheer physical exhaustion. His heartbeat keeps hammering away, though, hard enough Shanks can feel it through his jacket.

Shamrock, thankfully, despite a single arched brow, keeps his mouth shut. Even better, once they reach the Figarland mansion, he murmurs “I will, ensure Father is otherwise occupied,” giving Shanks a chance to move quicker to his quarters without raising suspicion.

In through the main door, across the sitting room, into the little private study with a picturesque view of the gardens - he’s not stupid enough to take the kid to his bedroom, no matter what Buggy might like to say about the general state of his brain.

“Okay,” Shanks breathes out, as soon as they’ve finally reached actual privacy, and he can untuck the kid from his hip and gently set him down in the padded velvet chair. “I’m going to get all that stuff off of you and then we’ll figure things out, alright?”

Grey eyes stare, giving the distinct impression their owner thinks Shanks has lost his mind. Rather than worry about it, he offers a weak smile, and starts putting deed to word.

The explosive collar goes first - like fuck is Shanks letting that stay on this kid any longer than absolutely necessary. Next up are the shackles and chains wrapped around his arms and legs, which leave behind a mess of rubbed-raw skin and deep, unhappy bruises, going to need to quietly get ahold of some medical supplies to handle all that. Last but hardly least, Shanks snaps the rope holding the kid’s gag in place, gently eases it away and goes for the-

“OW!”

Spitting out the wadded cloth himself, little shit has the nerve to bite his fingers. Shanks reacts more out of instinct than any true pain, but in his moment of distraction, the boy drops off the chair and tries to make a run for it.

Which would be bad, for LOTS of reasons.

Swearing, Shanks lunges, scooping the brat up and plunking his butt right back into the chair, this time holding him in place. “Hey, trust me, you take off up here and way worse people than me are going to make a stink about it!”

“Fuck off,” the kid snarls, hoarse and rasping and scared as much as angry. “I’m not just gonna hold still ‘n be a punching bag, or a pet!”

“Damn straight,” Shanks agrees, which draws the boy up short. “Kid, I’m trying to help, I don’t want anyone hurting you just because of who your old man was.”

After a startled moment, the snarling comes back. “I fucking heard you! You said- you said Roger caused you trouble and-”

“I lied.”

Grey eyes blink, rapidly, several times.

Moving slowly, Shanks lifts one hand off the kid’s shoulder, offers it for a shake. “My name is Red-Haired Shanks. I’m a pirate. I just also happen to have some asshole relatives who are World Nobles, and I’m trying to run a scam on them, hence, uh, everything you heard before. And I swear,” he lends a touch of haki to his words, “I do not want to hurt you. What I do want is to get you out of here alive.”

The kid’s face wobbles, teetering on the edge of maybe, possibly, believing it. “You- but you knew him, you-”

Shanks gives him a gentle smile. “Of course I knew Roger. He was my captain.” Ah, the lingering anger is finally gone, replaced by outright shock. “And I loved him as much as any kid loves their dad. And, I really can’t say this enough, like hell am I going to sit back and let anybody who wants to put one over on him come after you.” Since a handshake still hasn’t happened, he reaches up higher, to smooth his hand over dark hair and brush a tiny, grimy, freckled cheek with his thumb. “I’ll find a way to get you out of here, kid. I swear it. I’ll swear on that big dumb mustache Roger loved to tickle my face with, if that helps.”

The startled noise that lurches out of the boy’s throat might be halfway to a laugh. But immediately after, his expression cracks, and the tears and choked sobs show up, so Shanks leans forward and wraps himself around the kid, trying to make himself feel big and warm and safe, just like Roger used to be.

He must do something right, because tiny little fingers latch onto his jacket, and through the half-stifled upset sounds, the kid mumbles, “A- Ace. My- my name is- is Ace.”

“Yeah?” And somehow, despite the deep shit they’re still in and the uncertainty that Shanks will be able to follow through on his promise, despite meeting this pipsqueak, this little brother of his very own in just about the worst circumstances possible, Shanks absolutely means it when he says, “Well Ace, I am so happy to meet you.”

If anything, the kid just cries harder. But that’s okay, he’s allowed. Shanks can figure out a way to make him laugh later.