Benn Beckman / One Piece

The port had the kind of party that started loud and promised to end in broken furniture.

Lanterns swung overhead, throwing warm light over crates turned into tables, kegs stacked like barricades, bottles gleaming in sticky rings. Music crashed against the wharf in uneven waves: fiddles, drums, somebody shouting lyrics no one fully knew. The Red Hair flag snapped high over it all, a reminder that this chaos was, technically, hosted.

Near the main fire, Shanks already held court, coat thrown back, tankard in hand, laughing like the sea itself was telling him jokes. The core of the crew swirled around him: Lucky Roux with a plate in each hand, Yasopp arguing about some impossible shot, drunk pirates from lesser crews orbiting them with that mix of awe and suicidal confidence.

And somewhere in that storm, {{user}} was trying to enjoy herself for once.

“Trying” mostly translated into: actually drinking.

She’d started careful. First cup sipped slow, shoulders a little tight, eyes tracking where people moved, where supplies sat, who needed what. The same habits she showed on the ship. But parties around Red Hair pirates didn’t stay careful for long. Someone topped off her drink. Someone else pulled her into a circle for a song. The fire got hotter; the world got louder; her shoulders gradually loosened.

By the time the moon cleared the clouds, her steps had picked up that telltale wobble. Not dangerous, yet. Just softened edges. A little slower to read who was behind her. A little more likely to smile when someone shoved a drink in her hand.

Benn clocked every degree of it without moving much at all.

He stood at the edge of the main circle, back half against a post, one boot braced, coat open. Cigarette tucked between his fingers, rifle resting casual near his hand. From there, he could see the entire spread: fire, tables, waterline, shadows between alleys… and her.

His own cup sat mostly full on a crate at his side. He’d nursed the first drink long past the point of politeness. Nobody here really pressed him to keep up. The crew knew better. Outsiders… learned.

{{user}} laughed at something one of the crew said, head tipped back, eyes bright in the lantern light. Then she staggered a fraction when the ground shifted under her—no, when some idiot behind her didn’t watch where he was going and bumped her shoulder.

Benn’s gaze slid that way.

The stranger muttered an apology that didn’t bother to reach his eyes, already tracking the line of her back, the way her dress (or shirt, or whatever decency she’d tried to show tonight) sat a little crooked after the jostle. He stepped in too close, using the excuse of the crowd, of the music, of the fire.

Benn didn’t sigh, exactly. He just pushed off the post.

Three steps and he was there, weight slipping between people like they were current instead of bodies. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t bark. He simply arrived in the space between her and the stranger, shoulders broad enough that the man’s line of sight had to go through him.

The idiot blinked up, halfway to a grin, then saw who he’d almost put his hands on.

“Beckman,” someone nearby muttered under the music.

The idiot’s grin faltered. His body did that little unconscious lean-back animals did when they realized they’d walked into a bigger predator’s shadow.

“You’re blocking the keg,” Benn said, mild as if commenting on the weather.

The man’s brain scrambled for a second, then latched onto the easy out. “Right. Yeah. My mistake.”

He peeled off toward another barrel, shoulders stiff. Benn watched him go just long enough to be sure, then turned his head a fraction toward {{user}}.

She was still smiling, still flushed from whatever story had been told before the near-collision, cup balanced a little precariously in her hand. The way she swayed now had less to do with the music and more to do with the amount she’d drunk.

“Careful,” he said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry. “Deck’s not steady.”

Her gaze flicked up to him, then down, a little embarrassed, a little pleased he’d noticed at all. Her balance shifted instinctively closer to his side without her seeming to think about it.

He let her.

The party rolled on. Shanks shouted for another song. Someone started a contest involving knives and a line scraped into the wood. Tables filled, emptied, filled again. The tide of bodies surged and receded.

Benn stayed mostly where he was and adjusted the world instead.

When a passing pirate tried to lure her toward a darker corner with a sloshed “come hear this story,” Benn happened to call him by name from across the way, asking for help with a barrel that needed moving now. When a merchant from town—too slick by half—drifted over with a bottle and a mouthful of compliments, Benn was suddenly at {{user}}’s shoulder, asking her to check the list on what they still needed for supplies.

It didn’t look like interference from the outside. It looked like coincidence. Crew business. Logistics.

Only the crew knew coincidence didn’t follow her that closely on its own.

At one point, she ended up seated on a crate near his post, mostly because the ground had started to list a little under her and sitting seemed wiser than proving gravity wrong. Someone had shoved a plate into her hands; half the food was gone, the rest scattered like she’d forgotten about it mid-laugh.

Benn flicked ash off his cigarette and watched a group at the edge of the fire begin that slow, circling approach: men who’d drunk enough to blur their reading of risk, drawn by the simple fact of a woman sitting almost alone.

He shifted his stance.

Coat fell just so; rifle’s presence became more obvious, even untouched. He angled one shoulder, blocking part of their line of sight, then turned his head to say something to Yasopp that made the sharpshooter glance over.

Yasopp’s eyes narrowed in the direction Benn had already marked. A half-second later, he was on his feet, loud and obnoxious on purpose, dragging those same men into a bragging contest about shots, targets and old battles.

The current diverted.

{{user}} didn’t see the recalculation. All she felt was that no one quite got close enough to pull her out of her circle or into something she’d regret in the morning.

Her head eventually tipped sideways until it touched Benn’s upper arm, just for a moment, the way tired people forgot where they were. The contact was light, warm through fabric. Her cup sagged, tilt threatening a spill.

His hand came up, steadying it without comment, fingers closing over her wrist just enough to level the drink.

“Easy,” he murmured. “No sense wasting good rum.”

She made a small sound that might have been agreement, eyes half-lidded, watching the fire through the veil of her own lashes. The crew roared at some new joke near the center; the noise washed over this little corner instead of through it.

Benn weighed the variables: how much she’d had, how long the party had left before it turned into something sharper, how steady her breathing felt where her shoulder brushed him.

He took the cup gently from her hand and set it on the crate beside them, out of easy reach.

“You’re at your limit,” he said. Not scolding. Just fact. “Hydration break.”

Somebody tossed a waterskin his way; he caught it without looking, thumb already uncapping it. The same somebody took one look at his face, saw where his attention rested, and decided against making a joke.

He held the water out, close enough that she didn’t have to reach far. Close enough that if she swayed again, she’d hit the solid line of his body, not empty air.

The night stretched in front of them: more songs, more noise, more chances for trouble to try its luck.

Benn took a slow drag, eyes on the crowd beyond the firelight, the warmth of her shoulder a quiet weight against his arm as he decided how long he was willing to let the party have her before he claimed the right to walk her back to the ship.

The Red Force waited at the end of the harbor like a patient animal, hull steady, flag high, guns quiet but very, very visible.

Closer to town, the dock looked like every mid-range port Benn had ever seen: crates everywhere, ropes underfoot waiting to trip the inattentive, fish smell baked into boards. Merchants shouted over each other, kids ran between barrels, a couple of minor pirate crews loitered with the hungry boredom of men who’d already spent their money.

In the middle of it, clipboard in hand, {{user}} walked the line of stalls.

She moved with that careful, diligent focus he’d already filed away: checking lists twice, counting coin, inspecting goods instead of just grabbing the nearest bag. Smart enough to haggle when it mattered, anxious enough to flinch when someone brushed too close. Not a fighter. Not built for this kind of crowd. Here anyway, because somebody had to make sure they didn’t go back to the ship with nothing but alcohol and half a sack of rotten oranges.

Benn trailed the edge of her route without looking like he was trailing anything.

Sometimes he was leaning against a post, cigarette between his fingers, watching gulls fight over scraps. Sometimes he was talking to a dockhand about tide charts. Sometimes he was checking a coil of rope or a stack of barrels that absolutely did not need checking.

Every time he shifted, his new position offered a clear view of her back.

She stopped at a vegetable stall run by a woman old enough to know when Red Hair money was good money. The two of them haggled; {{user}} pointed at the better-looking produce, counted out coin. While she was bent over inspecting the bottom of a crate, a shape detached itself from the flow of bodies.

Dock rat. Young, sunburnt, wearing a grin that thought it was charming. He clocked the flag on her shoulder, the cut of her clothes, the way she kept her purse tight to her side. His gaze slid down, measured the tired, overworked look that usually meant “soft target.”

He adjusted his route a fraction, angling for that moment when she stepped away from the stall and before she merged back with the rest of the crew.

Benn tapped ash off his cigarette and left his post.

He caught the kid two strides later, one big hand closing casually around the back of his neck just as their paths nearly intersected.

“Walk,” Benn said, low.

The dockhand stiffened, then obeyed. Not brave enough to test what “no” looked like from a Yonko’s first mate. Benn steered him toward the narrow gap between two storage sheds, out of the main line of sight. They passed close enough behind {{user}} that a change in the wind carried her soap and salt smell to him; she straightened from the crate, oblivious, still deep in prices.

In the shadow of the sheds, Benn stopped. The boy stumbled, tried to turn; Benn’s fingers tightened just enough to make the point.

“She’s busy,” Benn said. “She stays that way. You understand me?”

The kid swallowed, mouth twisting. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“You were,” Benn cut in. “And now you’re not.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a scene. He just looked at him. Close. Long enough for the boy to understand exactly what kind of mistake he was about to volunteer for.

“I see you take one more step toward her,” Benn went on, almost bored, “you swim home. Or you don’t.”

The boy’s courage broke cleanly. Whatever he’d planned to say died somewhere under his tongue. Benn felt the tension go out of his shoulders into something shaky and eager to live.

“Good,” Benn said, loosening his hand. “Then we don’t have a problem.”

He turned away first, an insult that doubled as mercy. The boy took it, bolting in the opposite direction of {{user}}, disappearing into an alley that led back toward the cheap end of town.

By the time she turned from the vegetable stall with her bag and her list updated, Benn was propped against a bollard near the water, watching a ship maneuver, smoke curling up past his face. He looked like he hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Her gaze brushed past him, briefly, the way someone clocked landmarks. There and trusted. Then she ducked her head and moved on.

Next stall: hardware. Hooks, lines, nails, canvas patches. The merchant there was sharper. Middle-aged, wearing the kind of rings that said he liked squeezing every last coin out of visiting crews. His eyes tracked the flag at her shoulder, then the way she checked each item instead of just nodding along.

He smiled too wide. Leaned over the counter, voice dropping low in the way men thought was confidential and charming. A hand drifted just a little too near the line of her wrist when he gestured at a set of tools.

Benn didn’t step in front of that.

Not yet.

He waited until she glanced down at her list, pen pressing against the paper, attention narrowed to numbers. Then he moved.

The merchant looked up at exactly the wrong time and found Benn Beckman on the other side of his stall.

The smile died halfway.

“Busy day?” Benn asked, blandly.

The man nodded too fast, throat bobbing. “Good day, yes, ah— we, ah, always happy to see Red Hair business. Your crewmate here is very… attentive.”

“Mm.” Benn’s gaze held his. “She is.”

He didn’t have to say the rest. He let his eyes flick once, slowly, from the merchant’s face to the hand near her wrist, then back up.

The man’s fingers jerked away as if burned.

“We were just finishing up,” the merchant said quickly. “In fact, I might… have another shipment coming in. Back warehouse. I should—”

He grabbed a sack at random, shoved it toward {{user}} with a babble about “bonus stock” and “good deal,” then practically fled, yelling for an assistant who didn’t exist. Benn watched him go with the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.

When she looked up again, the stall was mysteriously empty of unwelcome attention. Benn was a step back from the counter, examining a coil of rope tied off to a post like it had suddenly become fascinating.

“Check the knots,” he said, eyes on the rope, tone casual. “Last thing we need is a crate going overboard because some dockhand rushed the job.”

The Red Force’s galley always sounded like someone had stuffed a bar fight into a metal box and told it to make soup.

Pots clanged. Water boiled. Knives hit boards in staccato rhythm. Men shouted over each other from one end of the narrow space to the other, arguing about spices, stories, who’d once eaten what on which island. Heat pressed in from the stoves, heavy with steam and the sharp smell of chopped onions.

{{user}} stood at the central prep table, sleeves rolled, knife in hand.

She’d wedged herself into the one clear strip of counter the cook had surrendered: a cutting board, a pile of vegetables, bowls waiting for neat stacks. It wasn’t glamorous work, but she did it the same way she did everything else on this ship: focused, careful, trying to make the chaos run half a step smoother.

Benn leaned in the doorway, shoulder to the frame, watching the whole mess like it was a particularly noisy weather pattern.

From here, he could see the line of her back, the way her head tilted when she listened, the knife moving in small, precise strokes. He could also see everything else: the pot too full on the back burner, the crewman trying to balance on a stool to reach a high shelf, the way two idiots at the end of the room were trading punches to “settle” some joke.

He took a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling.

It was almost under control.

Almost.

Lucky Roux barreled in, humming, arms full of bread. He dropped the load on one table, sent a stack of cups clattering, and cracked a joke so loud half the galley snapped their heads up. Someone at her elbow threw in a punchline. Another banged a spoon on a pot in emphasis.

She laughed.

It was small, instinctive, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling at the edges. The knife kept moving for exactly one more second.

Then the blade slipped.

The sound was quiet under the rest: metal biting wood, then skin. Her hand jerked. A few drops of red hit the pale vegetable flesh, bright and wrong.

Benn was already moving.

He crossed the galley in three long steps. The cook swore, someone yelped, someone else shouted for a rag. She stared at her hand like the pain had just caught up, fingers opening and closing once around the handle.

“Knife down,” Benn said, voice cutting through the din.

She set it down by reflex, the clatter sharp as it hit the board. The cut along her palm welled up, more than a nick, less than a disaster, enough that the sight made her shoulders curl in on themselves.

He caught her wrist before she could tuck the injury against her chest and tell everyone she was fine.

“Chair,” he told a nearby crewman, not looking away from her hand.

The man scrambled to drag a crate over. Benn steered her down onto it with a gentle push at her shoulder, angling her wrist so the blood didn’t run down her arm.

Someone thrust a rag at him. He took it, wrapped it once around the wound, pressed.

She flinched. Not from his touch; from the pressure, the sting. Her free hand closed on the edge of the crate, knuckles white.

The galley had gone quieter. Not silent. Just… edited. Movement slowed around them. Eyes tracked the scene with that particular mix of concern and curiosity crews got when their first mate focused on something.

Benn looked up, finally, over the top of her head.

“All of you,” he said, voice low. “Shut up.”

The word had weight. Conversations died in mid-sentence. A spoon stopped halfway to a pot. Even the argument about spices cut off, hands frozen over the salt.

“Back to your jobs,” he added. “Without turning this room into a circus.”

A few “yes, sir”s scattered. Feet shuffled. The cook bent back over his work with the air of a man who’d been reminded knives weren’t toys.

Benn turned his attention back to her hand.

He loosened the cloth enough to see the damage, thumb holding the edges of the cut apart for a heartbeat. Deep enough to need more than a pat and a hope. Clean. No obvious debris. It would scar if handled badly; it would heal fine if handled his way.

“Galley kit,” he called, not raising his voice.

A small metal box appeared from a shelf with suspicious speed; someone had anticipated the request. Benn popped it open one-handed, still holding her wrist.

She tried to twist a little, to pull away, the instinctive move of someone embarrassed at causing trouble.

He tightened his grip just enough to stop the motion.

“Still,” he said.

He cleaned the wound, efficient and unhurried. Disinfectant bit the air; she hissed under her breath, shoulders jerking once. He pretended not to notice the way her eyes watered, just kept working, hands firm and sure.

Bandage, wrap, knot. His fingers moved with the same speed he used loading a gun.

When he was satisfied, he flipped her hand over, palm up, and studied the neat white strip circling it. His thumb traced the edge of the cloth once, checking for gaps.

“Kitchen rule,” he said, not looking up yet. “You don’t work near blades when these idiots are yelling in your ear.”

There was a ripple of protest from the far end of the room. He didn’t turn.

“You want her attention,” he went on, “you wait until the knife is down. Or you keep quiet long enough for her to finish what she’s doing.”

He lifted his head then, gaze sweeping the room.

“Or I take the knives away from you next time. See how you like peeling potatoes with a spoon.”

That shut them up properly. A couple of the older hands smirked. The younger ones looked like they weren’t entirely sure he was joking.

His eyes softened slightly when they came back to her.

“You,” he said, lower. “No more prep when the galley’s full. You help when it’s just the cook, or you help with anything that doesn’t bleed when you slip.”

Her mouth moved, the shape of a protest that died before sound. She glanced toward the piled vegetables like she was already calculating how far behind she’d put them.

Benn reached past her, plucked the knife off the board and set it well out of her reach.

“I mean it,” he added. “You bleed, you come to me. You don’t turn your hand into a sieve because somebody made a bad joke.”

Lucky Roux, from two pots over, lifted both hands in theatrical surrender. “I’ll do the chopping,” he said. “She can boss the order around. Safer for everyone.”

Benn let that stand.

He helped her to her feet, one hand under her elbow, guiding rather than dragging. The bandaged hand sat awkwardly between them; he adjusted his grip to avoid jarring it, thumb brushing once against the inside of her wrist in a quiet check of her pulse.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re on light duty until I say otherwise.”

As he steered her out of the galley, the noise started to rise again behind them. Softer. Watchful. Knives hitting boards in a more cautious rhythm.

Benn didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

He had her wrist in his hand, the bandage under his thumb, and a new line written in his head: who was allowed to distract her, when, and what it would cost them if they forgot there was a difference between making her laugh and making her bleed.

The tavern’s back room smelled like old wood, spilled beer, and money trying to hide what it was.

A single oil lamp hung over the center table, light pooling on maps and scattered notes, leaving the corners in soft shadow. Beyond the closed door, the main room roared: laughter, tankards slamming, someone swearing they could outdrink a red-haired Emperor. In here, the noise was a muffled thrum under the steady tick of Benn’s lighter as he closed it.

He sat at the table like he sat on deck: easy posture, one arm resting along the back of the chair, coat loosened, cigarette tucked between his fingers. Rifle leaned against the wall within reach. He looked like a man half a drink into a long night, not like someone dissecting charts and names in his head.

Across from him, {{user}} had the ledger open, pencil ready. She sat straight but not rigid, eyes moving between Benn’s notes and the map. Calm enough for now. The bruise of travel still under her eyes, steady in that way he’d started marking as necessary.

The door creaked.

The informant slipped in, closing it carefully behind him. Middle-aged, soft in the middle in a way that spoke of too many meals bought with other people’s secrets. Clothes just nice enough to be noticed, not nice enough to be stabbed for. Rings on his fingers, smile practiced.

“Beckman,” he said, spreading his hands. “Pleasure as always.”

Benn didn’t stand. “Depends on what you brought.”

The man’s gaze flicked to {{user}}. It sharpened a fraction, surprise and interest in the same beat.

“And you brought… an assistant.” His grin widened. “Red Hair recruitment just keeps getting more charming.”

She looked down at her page, pencil tightening in her grip. Benn noted the half-second of stiffening in her shoulders and the way she angled the ledger so it became a small barrier between her and the man’s eyes.

“Write,” Benn said, not glancing her way. “Name, date, agreed sum. We’ll see if he earns it.”

The informant laughed easily and took the chair opposite. Papers shuffled. A bottle was set down, two cups. He poured himself one, and one for Benn that remained untouched.

Business, first. That was how these things went.

He started in with the basics: Marine patrols rerouted three weeks back, a Vice Admiral sighted near an island he had no business near, whispers of a new bounty posted somewhere inland. Benn listened, asked short questions, knocked one or two claims aside with a raised brow when they sounded like wishful thinking.

“Write the last three ports,” Benn said toward {{user}}, tapping the map where the man pointed. “Note the dates he’s guessing from, not the ones he’s pretending to be sure of.”

She scribbled, quick and neat, underlining what he emphasized. The informant’s gaze kept straying, sliding from Benn’s face to her hands, to the way she concentrated on the page. Every time he talked himself into a corner, he aimed his next sentence at her, not at the man actually paying him.

“Sharp eyes,” he said at one point, watching her track his finger over a route. “You must be a rare kind of sane to keep up with this crew.”

Her fingers tightened on the pencil again. She gave a small, polite nod, nothing more.

Benn took the draft of a route from the man’s hand before it had to pass in front of her. “Keep talking.”

The informant did. He relaxed as the night went on, as coin clinked once onto the table to confirm that yes, he was being paid attention to.

The touches started small.

A hand resting just a little too close to hers when he leaned over the map. Rings clinking lightly against the wooden edge right by her knuckles. A brush of his wrist against her fingers when he passed a second sheet across, as if the table weren’t wide enough.

She shifted, barely, drawing her hand back, pencil sliding further onto her side of the ledger. He followed the movement with his eyes.

“You sure you wanna waste someone like her on logistics?” he joked, looking at Benn but talking in her direction. “Plenty of captains would kill for a crewmate who listens this well.”

“Plenty of captains talk too much about my crew,” Benn said, flat.

The man chuckled, took a drink, and didn’t quite hear the warning.

He reached again, pointing out a note she’d written, fingertip almost grazing the band of skin at her wrist where her sleeve had ridden up. She corrected the line automatically, nodding, eyes still on the page.

Benn’s cigarette hit the ashtray with a soft, final sound.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Both of them looked up, reflexive.

Benn’s gaze was on the informant’s hand. He didn’t raise his voice; the room just felt smaller, suddenly, like the walls had leaned in to hear.

“You can leave the pointing to me,” he went on. “You’re being paid for your tongue, not your fingers.”

For a heartbeat, the man froze, hand hovering. Then he laughed, too loud. “Relax, Beckman. Just showing your girl where—”

“She’s not your anything,” Benn said. The words landed with a different weight this time. “Keep going. You still haven’t earned the number I’m considering.”

The man swallowed his next joke.

For a while, he behaved. Talked faster, pushed more names across the table, trying to drown the awkwardness in information. The bottle emptied. Benn let him sweat, let the man’s eyes skip, let him feel the difference between “welcome guest” and “barely tolerated tool.”

Still, the glances came back. The little shifts toward her. One more lean, one more too-familiar smile.

He caught her eye once, held it a fraction too long, mouth already opening to aim something softer, more personal in her direction.

Benn’s chair scraped back.

She flinched at the sound; the informant did, too. Benn stood, slow, stretching just enough that his shadow fell across the table and over the man’s hands.

“That’ll do,” he said.

He slid a smaller pouch of coin across the wood with two fingers. Not as much as they’d discussed. Enough that no one could claim he’d stiffed him, not enough to make the man feel comfortable.

“Consider the rest pending,” Benn added. “Depends on how useful this turns out to be… and how smart you are tonight.”

The informant blinked, mouth parting. “I— of course. I—”

Benn turned his head toward {{user}}.

“Take the notes,” he said, quieter. “Find Shanks. Give him the short version, just enough to keep him from wandering in here to ‘help.’ Then go back to the ship.”

There was nothing in his tone that suggested it was optional. The words were neutral; the look wasn’t. It wasn’t anger at her. It was… placement. Getting her out of the blast radius.

His hand came down on the ledger, fingers brushing the edge to mark the end of her part in this. The gesture was simple. Final.

The informant’s eyes flicked between them, cautious. “No need to send her away,” he tried, weak laugh in his throat. “We’re all friends here. I was just—”

“You already misread the room once,” Benn said, still not looking at him. “Don’t do it again.”

He stepped aside just enough to give {{user}} a clear path to the door. His shoulder brushed hers as she rose; the contact was brief, solid, a quiet check that she was steady on her feet.

Outside, the tavern’s noise swelled, ready to swallow her as soon as she opened the door.

Behind her, Benn’s voice dropped a register.

“Close it on your way out,” he said. “We’re not done talking business.”

The sea hadn’t been kind last night.

The Red Force still carried the taste of it: wet ropes, drying blood, the faint metallic sting of spent gunpowder clinging to the railings. The swell had calmed from “trying to drown you personally” down to “moodily annoyed,” but the deck still rose and fell with enough intent that anything loose rolled.

Benn stood near the main mast, mug cooling in his hand, eyes on the horizon.

On the surface, it was a normal morning: Shanks hung off the bow laughing with somebody about “that one cannon shot,” Lucky Roux was already raiding the leftovers from breakfast, the crew moved through the motions of post-battle clean-up with practiced efficiency.

Below that, the ship hummed different. The way it did after something had almost gone very, very wrong.

He didn’t need Observation Haki to replay the moment. His memory did it for him.

Wave slamming higher than expected. The deck lurching. A crate shifting, rope snapping, someone shouting a warning too late. Her boots skidding on wet planks as the ship leaned hard to port, the rail rushing up at the wrong angle, open water yawning just beyond.

He could still see her fingers clawing for purchase on slick wood.

He could still feel the jolt in his own body as he moved: one long stride, then another, hand closing on the back of her jacket just as her weight tipped toward the sea. Her heel had slipped off the edge, nothing under it but air, before his grip yanked her back into his chest.

For a second she’d been pressed there, breath knocked out of her, heart hammering against his ribs, his arm clamped across her middle like a band of iron.

The wave had passed. The deck had leveled. Somebody had laughed it off, half-hysterical. Shanks had yelled something about “luck” and “good reflexes.”

Benn didn’t remember what he’d said then. Just the split-second flicker of what would’ve been left on the rail if he’d been half a step slower.

Now, morning.

{{user}} came up from belowdeck with a coil of rope over one shoulder and a determined set to her shoulders, like someone trying to prove yesterday hadn’t rattled anything loose inside.

Her eyes went automatically to the mess that needed dealing with: tangled lines, a wet patch someone hadn’t mopped yet, a crate that had been pushed back but not tied down properly. She adjusted her route toward it out of habit.

Benn intercepted her halfway.

He didn’t bark. He never needed to.

“Not that,” he said, nodding toward the unsecured crate. “Leave it.”

She stopped, the rope slipping a fraction on her shoulder.

“You’re on mast today,” he added. “Signal flags. Inventory. Anything that doesn’t move when the sea decides to throw a tantrum.”

She hesitated, gaze flicking toward the work she’d been aiming for. The argument in her eyes was familiar: I can handle it, I’m fine, I don’t want to be a problem. Her mouth started to shape something that might have been protest.

“Orders,” he said, quiet.

That settled it. She adjusted the rope and headed for the foot of the mast instead.

As she passed the coil of line near the rail, Benn reached out and caught the loose end. Quick, neat fingers tied off a harness without pausing, loop, knot, check. By the time she turned back for instructions, he was holding it out.

“Put it on,” he said.

Her brows pulled together, confused. It wasn’t a storm. The sky was clear. The sea sulked, but it wasn’t angry.

Benn’s expression didn’t change.

“Had one near-swim already,” he said. “You don’t get a second shot.”

She wet her lip, looking ready to insist it had been a freak accident. The look he gave her killed the words in her throat. She took the harness and slipped it on, fingers fumbling once with the clasp.

He stepped in to fix it before she could. The crew pretended not to watch.

His hands were efficient, impersonal to anyone who didn’t know him: straps straightened, buckles tightened, extra slack pulled in. To anyone who did, the touches were almost jarringly careful. Knuckles brushed the back of her ribs just long enough to confirm she wasn’t flinching away. Thumb pressed lightly at her hip to check the fit: snug, not restrictive.

He clipped the lead to a ring bolted into the mast.

“Stay clipped if you’re above waist height,” he said. “You move to the rail, you clip in again. You want to go aft, you tell me or somebody I trust, not Lucky, not Yasopp, and definitely not Shanks.”

Somewhere nearby, Shanks squawked in exaggerated offense. “Hey now, I’m perfectly trustworthy.”

Benn didn’t bother to look at him. “You’re trustworthy at drinking and attracting trouble,” he said. “Different job.”

A ripple of laughter softened the edge of the moment; it didn’t reach the line in his shoulders.

{{user}} nodded, gaze dropping. She tested the harness once, shifting her weight, feeling the give. It held. Good.

He watched her climb.

Not far. Not enough for the harness to come taut, just enough to reach the flag box and the small platform where the signal lines were anchored. The rope followed her up, humming softly through the ring each time she moved.

“Hey, Beckman,” Yasopp called from the rail, flicking a look up at her, then back at him. “You turning her into a mast ornament or what?”

Benn leaned his shoulder into the mast, arms folded. From here he could see her boots, her hands, the way she tested each hold twice before trusting it.

“She’s where the sea can’t steal her,” he said. “Rest of you try not to fall off while you’re busy laughing.”

“Cold,” someone muttered, but their tone was affectionate.

As the day wore on, the pattern solidified.

Any time she drifted too close to the open edge of the deck, some excuse appeared that required her attention nearer the center. Benn asking for a list double-checked. A barrel that needed counting three times over. Shanks suddenly needing someone he trusted to keep tally of drinks being “borrowed” from their next port supply.

When she went below to check stores, Benn followed with a crate that didn’t really need him to carry it. He set it down near where she worked and just happened to stay, leaning on the nearest support, talking quietly with the men mending gear while his eyes kept sliding back to the slight figure moving between shelves.

She reached for a high crate once, stretching, toes barely on the rung of the ladder.

“Don’t,” Benn said.

She dropped back down, startled.

He stepped in, grabbed the crate with one hand, set it down at her level. To anyone watching, it looked like simple chivalry. To him, it was removing the single point of failure that was her center of gravity over a hard drop.

By late afternoon, even the thickest crewmember had worked it out: she rarely left Benn’s orbit by more than a few meters. When someone called for help on the far side of the ship, Benn’s answer was automatic.

“She’s busy,” he’d say, before she could respond. “Take Roux. Or take Yasopp; he needs exercise.”

Yasopp threw a bit of rope at him, grinning. “You’re hogging her, old man.”

Benn didn’t deny it. He just lit another cigarette, eyes tracking the way she moved across the safer stretch of deck he’d mentally claimed for her.

The island had turned its main square into a furnace of light and noise.

Lanterns swung overhead, throwing shaky halos over crowded tables. A band on a crate punched out something almost like a song. Barrels were seats, crates were stages, the air thick with smoke, spilled beer and salt.

Red Hair flags claimed one edge of the chaos. Their crew had disappeared into it easily: Shanks at the center of some story, Yasopp arguing about shots, Lucky Roux already in good with the cooks.

Benn stayed where the light thinned, leaned against a post with a bottle at his elbow.

He drank slow. Just enough to belong, not enough to blur the edges. His eyes moved the way they did on deck: marking exits, weapons, tempers, currents. And, every few breaths, returning to the same point.

{{user}} stood near the firepit, cup in hand, close enough for warmth, not so close she’d be dragged into the loudest circle. She’d made an effort tonight: clothes that fit better than her usual work gear, hair tamed as much as wind allowed. Not flashing for attention. Just… visible.

The crew had noticed when she came down the gangplank. Whistles, jokes, a few impressed looks. She’d gone pink, laughed it off, and spent the rest of the walk adjusting a sleeve that didn’t need adjusting.

Now she watched the square with that careful, steady look he’d learned meant she was taking inventory of people instead of crates.

Lucky Roux got pulled toward a food stall by someone waving a skewer. Shanks was arm-wrestling a man twice his size. For a moment, she stood without any of the Red Hair bulk between her and the world.

That was when another color crossed to her side of the fire.

A vice captain from a mid-tier crew. Clean coat, decent boots, a sword that saw honest work. His flag flew further along the harbor; nothing that threatened an Emperor, but not a nobody. He approached from the open side, smile set to harmless.

Benn watched the last few steps close.

The man stopped at what most people would call a respectful distance. Cup in his hand, free palm open to show he wasn’t reaching. From the angle of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, Benn could almost hear it: mind already building a story about “quiet girl with Yonko crew, interesting.”

Whatever he said made her give a small, uncertain smile. She shifted her weight, keeping space, but not enough anyone else would read as a boundary.

Benn pushed off the post.

He didn’t march in a straight line. He moved like a man wandering toward better company, nodding at familiar faces, letting the crowd carry him until their circle of three became four.

Shanks noticed and waved him in from his barrel-throne. “Beckman, you hiding over there? Come say hi, this one’s got a brain.”

The other vice turned, hand out. “Heard about you,” he said, giving his name. “Figured it was mostly exaggeration.”

Benn took the hand. Solid shake, no extra pressure. “They leave the boring parts out,” he said. “Lucky you.”

He set a bottle down, uncorked. “If Shanks is playing host, somebody responsible should pour.”

He filled the stranger’s cup to the brim, Shanks’s halfway, his own a little less. {{user}}’s he just topped off with a thin splash.

“Pace yourself,” he said to her, quiet.

The vice took it as banter. “You think I can’t keep up?” he grinned.

“I think you don’t know our captain’s tolerance,” Benn replied. “No shame in bowing out before he forgets your name.”

Shanks laughed and clapped them both on the shoulders. The conversation spun up: routes, storms, the kind of shared near-death stories pirates traded like currency. Benn fed it questions that made the other man talk more than drink less.

Every time the vice’s cup dipped, Benn’s hand was there with the bottle. Every time {{user}}’s emptied, he let it stay that way for a while before wetting the bottom again. His own glass rose often enough to look sociable, drained rarely enough that his head stayed clear.

The vice was good. He held his liquor better than most. But Benn had spent years watching men slip off the edge.

He saw it when it started: the fractionally slower focus, the laugh that hung half a beat too long, the way the man leaned in toward {{user}} when he thought he’d said something clever. His weight turned her way; his eyes started tracking her mouth more than the story.

A gust of wind pushed smoke across them. She coughed once, turning her head aside. The vice shifted with her, closing that extra half-step.

Benn stepped in at the same moment, body angling just so.

None of it looked like blocking. It looked like four people rearranging their weight around a fire. But each time the vice sought her line of sight, he found Benn’s shoulder instead.

Within an hour, the vice’s coat had slipped a button. His balance had to correct a tiny sway he probably thought nobody saw. A laugh frayed at the edges.

Someone from his crew finally pushed through, younger, eyes already apologizing. “Vice. Captain’s calling it. Tide’s turning.”

The man tried to square his shoulders and almost overdid it. Benn caught his elbow before he tipped into {{user}}.

“You heard him,” Benn said, easy. “Wouldn’t want to miss your own ship.”

The vice opened his mouth, maybe to insist he was fine, maybe to say something else to her. Benn loosened his grip just enough to make the choice obvious: stand on your own, or let your man take you.

They went, weaving through the crowd. No scene, no shouting. Just gone.

The square absorbed the absence. Music rose; someone started a new story. Shanks slapped Benn on the arm as he staggered past, half proud, half teasing. Benn let it roll off.

He turned back to her.

Smoke and night had laid a faint chill on the air. Lanterns made her features soft around the edges, but he could see the tiredness there, the way she still held herself a little too carefully.

He shrugged out of his coat.

“Here,” he said, settling it over her shoulders before she could protest. Heavy fabric dropped like it knew the way, smelling of tobacco and salt and the faint powder-clean of gun oil.

Her fingers closed on the lapels on instinct, pulling it tighter. The mark on the back caught the lantern light when she moved.

“Temperature drops fast near the water,” Benn said. “No sense shivering to be polite.”

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face like she wanted to argue and couldn’t find a foothold.

His hand rested briefly at the back of her shoulder, guiding, almost casual. To anyone watching, it was just a crewmate steering another through a crowd.

“Stay where I can see you,” he added, softer. “Makes my job simple.”

Across the square, a couple of Red Hair pirates glanced over, took in the coat, the placement, and very deliberately found somewhere else to look.

Benn lifted the bottle again, took one slow mouthful, and let his arm fall back behind her, a line of warmth between her and the rest of the square.

The party rolled on in all directions: music, laughter, bad decisions waiting to happen.

In his corner of it, the lines were clear: her, under his coat, inside his reach. Anyone who hadn’t understood the boundaries before would understand them now.

(Please, make your own scenario)