Chapter Text
Shanks strode through the terminal with a grin. He had exactly thirty minutes before he was required back in the flight deck, and there was no power in the heavens that would make him drink the sludge from the staff room machine because it was a mechanical insult to his profession. Therefore, he needed a proper flat white from his favourite kiosk, or the next six hours of his life would be a tragedy.
And if he seemed a bit much for a Tuesday morning—too loud and far too pleased with himself—it was only because he was a First Officer.
The thing was that some people assumed Shanks was some glorified errand boy who fetched the Captain’s slippers, and that was absolute rubbish. He was a First Officer—a maritime term, like a chief officer on a ship. In their two-man crew, he was a vital half of the brain.
You know what? Actually, the media loved to get it wrong, calling men like him ‘pilot’s assistants’ as if they could not fly. On the next leg, he might be the Pilot Flying, meaning he would be the one wrestling the stick and managing the thrust, while the Captain sat there as the Pilot Monitoring, checking his homework and talking to the tower. They swapped. They shared. The only reason the other man was the ‘boss’ was that someone had to be the Pilot-In-Command when the world started to fall apart.
But until then? Shanks was the pilot. He just had a caffeine deficiency to rectify first.
He finally reached ‘The Cloud Nine Grind’, the only kiosk that made a decent brew in a ten-mile radius. Shanks checked the price board. Damn. Even with a stable income and a decent flight allowance, paying for coffee at the airport felt like being mugged by someone in a very nice apron. He could have stayed in the office and choked down the free “brown water,” but a man had to maintain his dignity.
“Morning, Banchina!” he called out.
“Morning, Shanks. You look like you have been lecturing the luggage trolleys again,” she remarked, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.
“Education is a full-time job,” he countered.
Yasopp stepped up to the till, eyes narrowing playfully. “It will be four hundred bahts for the education-provider, then. Since you clearly have so much energy to spare.”
“Four hundred? You’re taking the mick!” Shanks leaned over the counter. “Reduction for a loyal customer? A friend? A man who is literally about to fly over your head?”
“Take it up with the landlord,” Yasopp replied, unfazed. “The rent for this square metre is more than your mortgage, I bet. If I lower the price for you, we’ll be sleeping in the cargo hold by Friday.”
Shanks grumbled something incoherent but tapped his phone against the scanner anyway. The QR code cleared with a satisfied ping. “You two are mad. You could have a thriving business in a nice, leafy suburb, but you chose to be trapped in this glass cage with us lot.”
“It has its charms,” Banchina said softly, her eyes meeting Yasopp’s. “We met right at that gate over there. This place is part of our history. Plus, if we moved, who would Roger complain to about his knees? We stay for the people, Shanks. Even the crazy ones.”
“I resemble that remark,” Shanks grinned.
Yasopp handed him the cup, the milk art a perfect little heart that felt like a mockery of his grumbling. “Flat white. Sugar and stirrers are at the end of the counter. Don’t spill it on your uniform, you’ll look like a mess.”
“Cheers,” Shanks said, already feeling the caffeine-induced peace. He’d known Yasopp since their school days—in fact, if Shanks weren’t such a meddling romantic, Yasopp and Banchina never would have met at that gate five years ago. But that was a tale for a much drunker evening.
At the designated ‘condiment corner’, Shanks popped the lid, watching the steam rise like a holy mist and meticulously added a single brown sugar. Suvarnabhumi was usually a thrumming hive of panicked travellers and clattering luggage, but this specific nook was an unspoken sanctuary. It was tucked away from the main thoroughfares, a ‘staff secret’ fiercely protected by the airport community.
He glanced at his watch.
Thirteen minutes. He needed to be back on the flight deck of his Golden Age Air A350 for the pre-flight checks on the long haul to London. Then, a sudden thought struck him: he’d forgotten to get a brew for Roger. He shrugged it off immediately. Nah. The old man could suffer the office sludge or wait for a sympathetic flight attendant to brew a fresh pot once they reached thirty thousand feet.
Just as he raised the cup for that first, life-giving sip, a physical force collided with his shins.
“Shanks! Shanks! Shanks-Shanks-Shanks!”
It was a high-pitched, rhythmic chant that tickled his ears, sounding suspiciously like the cadence of that Thai nursery rhyme about elephants. Shanks froze, coffee hovering precariously near his lip, and looked down.
A small boy, perhaps three years old, was practically velcroed to his leg. He was the picture of chaos: a white T-shirt with an anchor printed on the front, rumpled shorts and cheeks so chubby they looked like they’d been stuffed with marshmallows. The boy looked up with massive, liquid-dark eyes and a grin so bright it rivalled the runway floodlights.
Shanks felt a sudden, inexplicable ‘attack’ of pure cuteness right in the chest.
Wait a minute, he thought, his brain stalling. How on earth does this tiny human know my name?
The toddler began to jump, his hands drumming a tattoo against Shanks’s uniform trousers. “It’s really you! You’re flying the planes! I told Buggy I smelled adventure, and he told me to shut up and eat my crackers, but I found you! We’re going to London for his new job—he’s a master chef, you know, very expensive!”
“Woah, easy there, Anchor. You’ll spill my life-blood,” Shanks cautioned, gesturing to his coffee. He stopped dead, the name Anchor echoing in his mind. It felt like a reflex, an old habit he’d practiced for a thousand years. It was just a picture on a T-shirt, he told himself, yet the word tasted like salt and sunshine.
The boy let out a shriek of delight. “You said it! You said Anchor! That means you know! You remember the One Piece and the promise! Buggy said he didn’t know if anyone else came back ‘right’, but you’re definitely my Shanks!”
Shanks tuned out the talk of promises and ‘coming back’, his mind reeling from the sheer, overwhelming presence of the child. He knelt on the polished floor, keeping a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. The kid looked like he was ready to sprint across the tarmac if given the chance.
“Slow down, tiger. Or... Anchor,” Shanks corrected himself, feeling that strange warmth bloom in his chest again. “Is Buggy your dad? Your guardian? We need to find him.”
The boy laughed, a bright, infectious sound.
“Buggy’s Buggy! He’s the chef! We’re going to live in London and he’s going to make so much money!” He tilted his head, his dark eyes searching Shanks’s face with a sudden, touching vulnerability. “But you’re happy I found you, right? You remember me, and you’re happy?”
Shanks was struck dumb, his tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth. He looked at the boy and felt a dizzying surge of vertigo. It was that face. He knew that face better than his own flight manuals, but he had never seen it before in his life. It was a visceral, soul-deep recognition that made him want to pull the child into a crushing hug and weep for a reason he could not name.
Even the name ‘Buggy’ echoing in his mind brought a sharp, stinging nostalgia, a phantom image of blue hair and bickering that made his throat tighten. He was happy, desperately so, but he was also terrified because he knew this child, he knew him completely, but he did not even know his name.
“Shanks?” The boy’s voice broke through the haze. He reached out, his small, warm hands cupping Shanks’s stubbled cheeks. His brow furrowed in a sudden scowl. “Are you going to cry? You have the leaky-eye face.”
Shanks realised with a jolt that his vision was indeed blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head gently against the boy’s palms. “No, Anchor,” he said softly. “Not crying. Big men don’t cry. It’s a rule of the uniform.”
The boy immediately let go of his face to pull a raspberries-blowing tongue at him. “Liar! Buggy says that’s rubbish! He says men who don’t cry are just hollow bottles with the corks stuck in. He says crying is just your heart being too full and needing to spill a bit so you can stay kind.”
Shanks opened his eyes, stunned.
By every god in the heavens, the child was a masterpiece of cuteness.
The urge to simply wrap the boy in a thick, woolly blanket and spirit him away to the flight deck was becoming alarmingly strong. He could be a living, breathing mascot—a lucky charm to bring morale to the entire crew. Shanks briefly considered giving up coffee entirely just to save enough money to buy out whatever catering company this ‘Buggy’ worked for, just to keep the boy within arm’s reach.
The internal plotting was abruptly cut short by a sharp smack against his cheek.
“Ow! What was that for, Anchor?” Shanks whined, rubbing the stinging skin with a wounded expression.
“Because you were making a stupid face,” the boy said, looking entirely unimpressed. “You looked like you needed to go for a poop.”
Shanks let out a huff of mock indignation, standing his ground. “I’ll have you know my digestive system is in peak condition, thank you very much. Absolutely no emergency movements required.”
The boy collapsed into a fit of giggles, the sound so bright and musical that Shanks felt a fresh wave of affection. It was a sound he wanted to record and set as his ringtone immediately. As the giggles died down, however, the boy’s expression turned sober, his dark eyes searching Shanks’s face.
“So... you remember, right? You remember me?”
The air seemed to leave the terminal.
A crushing weight of guilt settled in Shanks’s stomach.
He looked at the boy, truly wishing he could lie, but the honesty in those eyes demanded the truth. “Oh... that question,” he murmured, his gaze dropping. “Listen, little man... I am so sorry. My bad, really. I don’t actually remember. I have no idea where we could have met, or how I could have possibly forgotten a face like yours—or a man like Buggy—but it’s… just not there.”
Shanks felt like an absolute idiot.
Shit. If they had met, forgetting such a pair was practically a criminal offence.
The boy’s face fell instantly, the vibrant light in his eyes snuffing out like a candle in a gale. He looked down at his scuffed trainers, his small shoulders slumping as if he had just been told the sun was never coming back. Shanks felt a frantic urge to restart the conversation, to lie, to do anything to bring that grin back.
“I—I am so sorry, really! Look, we can start over, can’t we? New friendship! We are mates now, right? Maybe you can just... remind me? Tell me a story?”
The boy slowly looked up, his lower lip trembling in a way that made Shanks want to find a bridge to jump off. He looked as though he were about to shatter. “The… straw hat?” the boy whispered. “The promise at the docks? The One Piece? We were going to meet at the end of the sea. You gave me your arm.”
Shanks stared at him. Straw hats? Promises?
He searched his memory for a playground game he might have played, some elaborate imaginary world he had built with this child and then heartlessly forgotten, but there was nothing. “I’m sorry, Anchor. I don’t remember any of that,” he said. “But I won’t forget again, I swear on my wings! We can make new promises.”
The boy stayed quiet for a moment, then he let out a heavy sigh that sounded far too old for a five-year-old. “It’s okay, Shanks,” he said, his voice steadier now. “It happens. I met Woop Slap and Makino in the park, and they didn’t remember either. It’s okay if you don’t remember.”
Before Shanks could offer another apology, the boy’s face suddenly cleared, a big, familiar grin splitting his cheeks once more. He stood tall, thrusting a thumb toward his chest. “My name is Monkey D. Luffy! I used to be the King of the Pirates. I don’t know what I’m going to be in this life yet, but it’s very nice to meet you again, Shanks!”
The name Monkey D. Luffy echoed in Shanks’s mind, settled there with a clicking sound like a lock finding its key. He didn’t care about the logic of it anymore, so he simply beamed back. “A King, you say? That is a lot to live up to. I am Shanks Figarland, First Officer at your service. It is a pleasure to be reunited, your Majesty.”
Luffy giggled, his head tilting to the side. “Your hair is still red!” he shouted, and then, without any warning, he sprang.
Shanks performed a minor miracle of physics, pushing his coffee away just in time to catch the small whirlwind. Luffy was feather-light, a tiny scrap of a thing, yet his arms wrapped around Shanks’s neck with surprising strength. He held on tight, his small heart beating rapidly against Shanks’s shoulder.
“I’m four years old!” the boy declared proudly.
Ah, but you feel more like a very loud three-year-old, Shanks thought, though he kept the comment to himself. Luffy pulled back slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as if he had heard the silent observation.
“Buggy says I’m a ‘late bloomer’ because I spend all my energy on being awesome! But he feeds me the best chef food every day. He promised I’ll be taller than him by next week.” With that, he slammed back into the hug, tucking his chin over Shanks’s epaulette.
Shanks chuckled, adjusting his hold on his new stowaway. He stood up straight, coffee in one hand and a former Pirate King in the other. “This is certainly the highlight of my Tuesday, Luffy. But now… for the real question... where exactly is this Buggy of yours?”
Luffy froze. He slowly pulled his face away, blinking as he scanned the crowded terminal behind them. He looked back at Shanks, his eyes wide and blinking. “Oops?”