If Not Fate, Then This
Benn Beckman x Reader Soulmate Au
Ch.8-A Brewing Storm
CH.1 CH.2 CH.3 CH.4 CH.5 CH.6 CH.7 CH.8
| Masterlist
Summary: Things can't stay hidden forever. But then, do you want them to?
Warnings: Violence, Yearning
A/n: The final chapter! Thank you all for reading! I've honestly never had more fun writing any other work, and it's taught me a lot about my own personal style. I hope you enjoy the final chapter and are looking forward to the release of my Shanks fic!
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The sun remained hidden by dark clouds, just the same as the kind that had brought you here for repairs. Their presence cast the day in a dreary gloom, an ill omen lingering over the harbor, though nothing stood in the way of the ship’s departure.
Beckman remained ashore while you and the others finished preparing the vessel, combing through supply logs, checking that every crate had been loaded, and ensuring the necessary repairs had truly been completed. The work consumed most of the morning, but at last the ship was ready to sail. With little left to do, you returned to the main deck in search of Beckman at Shank’s request. He should have been back a good while ago, and it wasn’t like him to be delayed for just any reason.
After asking around, you eventually found him standing at the end of the main dock, deep in a heated exchange with the dockmaster. The contrast between them was almost comical. The other man clearly tried to make himself seem imposing, but beside Beckman he looked small and flimsy. Then again, few men could hope to appear more intimidating than the pirate.
Beckman’s brows were furrowed, jaw set in a harsh line as his hands clench, arms crossed and shoulders squared. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, and you have to remind yourself to keep a normal pace as you approach.
“Everything seems to be in order. We should be set to head off.”
Your words pull the attention of both men from their staring contest. The shorter man sneers at your appearance, as if you were the problem somehow.
“Are there any issues?” You ask, to which Beckman scoffs, turning to head back toward the ship.
“None at all.”
The other man is not so convinced, hot on his heels, face red with anger. He’s trembling, the waver reaching his voice, though from fear or anger it’s impossible to say which. “You still owe me! Your ship is not pulling out of here until you pay the docking fee!”
“Already paid it.” Beckman replies without looking back, his pace brisque as you follow, practically jogging to keep up with his quick strides. “Not my problem if you decide to try and jack the prices last minute.”
Ah, so that’s what it was. It wasn’t uncommon for docks to promise one price to keep a place for the ship and raise it when they went to leave. The smart ones would at least try to come up with an excuse of some kind, such as staying too late in the morning or claiming that the deck had been damaged in some way from the ship. Normally they were smart enough to try and not do it with pirates though, as they were more apt to lead to a physical altercation than merchant or passenger ships. It seemed this man thought you had enough money to make it worth the potential risk.
Beckman ignores him as you continue back to the Red Force, every protest and complaint falling on deaf ears as they escalate in volume, polished shoes clacking behind you. It’s hard to see him as threatening when compared to Beckman, shorter even than you and softened with paperwork filing. Though you suppose the two also following you- roughed dockworkers by the looks of it, likely his attempts at intimidation- give him more confidence than he should have. The chance that you’ll dock at the same place the next time you come around here is slim and if the man had a better mind for business then he wouldn’t ward off future customers.
Like a persistent mosquito, his high-pitched complaints follow you and it becomes all too tempting to smack him away like the blood-sucking pest he is as he begins throwing insults into the mix. How you’re all nothing but crooks and how he’ll be glad when the Marines catch you- not to mention the fact that he also largely profits off the pirates using his docks- and that you're all nothing more than parasites leaching off honest working folks. As if the work he did was anything of the sort.
Blood boiling and pace faltering, you turn back. Your fist tightens, nails digging into your palm, ready to clobber or choke- you hadn’t decided yet- but a look from Beckman has your temper simmering, if not reluctantly, allowing his hand to settle on your back and steer you towards the ship. The trouble wouldn’t be worth it over a few words spoken. You know that. But curse everything if the temptation isn’t there.
Sticks and stones, you remind yourself. Sticks and stones.
You're only a few dozen yards from the ship when it happens. The man’s hand drops to his waist, drawing a dagger too pristine to have ever seen honest use. Steel flashes, intent clear as day. Fitting, really. A cowardly move from a cowardly man, emboldened by the absence of consequence for his loose tongue. Under different circumstances, maybe you could have respected the sudden willingness to dirty his hands. But there was nothing admirable in it. Not when it sprang from nothing more than wounded pride and blind anger.
It’s a small thing, and you doubt it would even harm him more than an annoying poke that he would complain about later. His audacity overlaps with stupidity and the only answer is that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. No doubt his hand would be crushed before it could even do any damage, but you don’t give him the chance.
You move on instinct, deftly twisting the man’s arm back. He cries out in pain while dropping his meager weapon as the limb twists at an odd angle. You’re quick to kick it over the edge of the dock and into the water lapping at the post of the dock below, driving your heel into the back of his knee. He goes down easily, his shout drawing the attention of Beckman, attention finally drawn back to the situation as he looks back over his shoulder not looking the least bit surprised.
Your actions hadn’t drawn just his attention, the two men who had been following you as well jumping into action at the sight of their employer on the ground. The first takes a sloppy swing, only to go down as you duck and deliver a clean jut to the jaw with your elbow, knocked out cold. The second seems a bit smarter than his friend, reaching into his jacket. You expect a gun or maybe knives, only to be surprised when he tosses something small and round at you. Not quick enough to hit, but when you attempt to bat it away it explodes, smoke filling the air. The thick smog fills your lungs, burning your eyes and forcing you to let go of the man, swatting at the air in an attempt to breathe as you back pedal. It wasn’t the same burn you got in secondhand smoke from Beckman. This was more cloying, seeming to stick to your throat and lungs.
By the time it clears out they’re both long gone along with their employer. The best scenario for them, as while Beckman had seemed mildly frustrated before, he appears absolutely livid now. He growls, steps shaking the wood as he stomps back to where you were crouch, hand on your knees and still coughing, only to stop short as his eyes flicker down.
Burning. Not the same acidic scent that normally came with smoke bombs.
At first you think it’s Beckman, but looking back you see the signature cigarette is missing from his lips. It’s only a moment later that you feel the heat, a sudden creep that has you jumping as it licks your skin. You crane your neck back, eyes wide upon spotting the tail end of your shirt on fire and spreading quickly.
“Oh fuck!”
You attempt to pat it out with frantic hands only to have the flames spread even further, much to your distress. There must have been an accelerant of some kind in those things, and it seems it had gotten on your clothes.
You pull the fabric as far as possible away from your body in an attempt to protect your skin. It’s Beckman's modified one, the modified but still large garment giving a bit more room to avoid the lames. One moment you’re on the dock, dry and warm- if not a bit too much- and the next you’re in the water, coughing and spluttering as you resurface. It’s freezing, the missing sun not having a chance to warm the waves, and the shock has you gasping. You tread the surface, confused, before a hand appears in front of you. Looking up you see Beckman kneeling on the deck.
“Sorry about that.” Despite his words, he seems a bit amused even as annoyance still clings to him. It’s with a dawning realization you realize he’s been the one to dump you in.
As annoying as the fact was it also made sense, and you feel a bit foolish for it not being your first instinct to put out the flames. He could have at least given you a bit of warning, and he only shrugs as you glare.
Regardless, you let him pull you out of the water, trying not to note the ease of which he does so, lifting you without an ounce of strain. Just as when he had hauled you from the mouth of the figurehead months ago.
The commotion has drawn a bit of a crowd, onlookers who gawked at the situation. While some eye Beckman warily, the majority are focused on you, dripping wet and shivering as you rub your arms. Didn’t they have anything better to do?
It’s not until you feel a breeze that you realize they’re not necessarily looking at the commotion, but more specifically you. Apparently the flames had spread even further than you realized, your shirt sporting scorch marks where it wasn’t burned off, held on only by scraps as it covers you chest and loops around your neck like some kind of bizarre-fashioned halter top with one sleeve. It doesn’t help that you’re drenched and cold, the light fabric clinging to your skin as you struggle to keep your now soaked pants up to preserve any remaining dignity.
“What are you all looking at you perverts! I’ll carve the eyes out of every one of you.” You shout between chattering teeth, skin burning as they continue to leer. You step forward to make good on your word as you snatch your knife, the item thankfully not having fallen out. One hand was all you would need.
Unknown to you, or rather slipping your mind in the heat of the moment as you decided on which person to start with, the mark along your lower back sat perfectly visible on your skin to the person standing behind you.
For a fraction of a second, Beckman’s brain ground to a halt as he processed the sight in before of him, trying to decide if he was hallucinating as he laid eyes upon your back for the first time. A part of him thought it was too much to ask for. That he was simply willing himself to see something so much that his brain was tricking him, but as you moved once again, he was hit with the reality that his eyes were perfectly fine as they traced along the dark lines.
He knew that mark better than a carpenter knew wood. Had seen it before himself many times in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time he was taken aback, breath knocked from his lungs as he felt his skin warm despite the weather, tingling in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.
Before you could make it any further, Beckman stepped forward and shrugged his coat off and in one smooth motion draped it around you from behind, snugly securing the front. The heavy fabric swallowed you and warmed the exposed skin, cutting off your threats as you looked back in surprise, then embarrassment.
“Uh, thanks?”
Your mind was still half focused on violence, ready to track down the dock master and his friends when you were done here.
Beckman’s expression had gone unreadable, keeping you in place as his gaze weighed just as heavy as the hand on your shoulder. While you were used to his silence, it seemed oppressive in this moment. Not the shared, silent acknowledgment it normally held, but instead a puzzling intensity of deliberation.
As your flared temper evens out, it’s with a jolt you realize how much of you had been exposed; particularly your back where you had been so careful to keep covered. Until now that is.
Surely he must have seen it? Or maybe with your body angled the way it had been he didn’t get a clear look? Would it be too much to hope that it had been mistaken as something else, moving around too much for the lines to be seen clearly? Or course you would never be that lucky, and Beckman neither that blind or foolish. His eyes were nearly as good as Yassop’s.
You wait, frozen like a rat in a trap, unsure of what to say, mouth dry despite nearly drowning a moment ago. What possible explanation could you have for this? A tongue lashing is the best you could hope for, braced for the shouting to begin.
Instead of saying anything, his hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary, making sure the fabric stayed closed. He turned you back around, pushing you towards the ship, a single glare enough to send the remaining onlookers running.
There was no mistaking it. The mark he’d seen on your back matched his exactly, down to the slightly titled placement. Suddenly the conversation in the tavern about soulmates didn’t seem nearly as ridiculous as it had before, and he mentally kicks himself. For a smart man, he should have been able to connect the dots sooner.
His silence on the walk back was more unnerving than anything. Any chance you took to peak back at him had you quickly turning back as his gaze met yours, brows furrowed in what you could only assume was annoyance. Your chest clenched.
He already hated you now.
“What happened to you? A little trist in the alley that got out of hand?” Limejuice teases, eyeing the coat around your shoulder and the ruined fabric peaking out. “I thought you had more tact than that.” “If you must know, I was set on fire and Beckman was kind enough to lend me his coat so I didn’t have to walk half naked back here.” You snap, pulling the garment closer, as if it could shield you from the entire situation.
Pointedly ignoring the mentioned man, you stomp onto the ship with the others quick to get out of your way. No way you could face him right now. Not without at least a little mental prep for the conversation. You definitely weren’t running away to lock yourself in the medic cabin and contemplate your life choices.
The ship set sail with no further trouble as you dry off and throw on one of your other shirts. No longer would you be forced to wear Beckman’s old modified one, though you weren’t entirely too happy about that, already missing the familiar feel of the fabric.
You didn’t go back up on deck, instead waiting for someone to come and get you, intending on staying hidden as long as possible as you pace back and forth. Staying still was impossible but so was going out.
Maybe you could act like the whole thing hadn’t happened. If Beckman was content to pretend like he hadn’t seen anything then so were you. Had he told the others already? Or would he want to keep the incident under wraps so they would pester him about it?
Nobody came to get you, even as the grey sky faded to night. You could hear the others passing by on the way to the dining hall, Snake tentatively calling out your name and knocking on the door before he was dragged away. It’s only hours later that you sneak out once sure that the rest of them have gone to bed, sneaking into the kitchen with the sounds of their snores covering any creak of the floorboards. As you steal some bread and jerky.
Before you can make it back Roux catches you, blocking the doorway. He doesn’t seem happy despite having caught you doing the same before, arm crossed.
“No food unless you show up for meals.”
“What?” Well, there goes your plan on avoiding Beckman for as long as possible. If you didn’t want to stare that is.
“I don’t know what you’ve done but Beckman’s in a mood, and not even a foul one. He just sits there spacing out and it’s creeping the rest of us out.” He says, pushing you out of the cabin without a chance to argue.
It’s impossible to sleep, lying in wake until the morning, getting up when you hear the others moving about. You’re first at the table, abandoning your normal spot for one at the far end of the table. “What are you doing?” Punch asks, eyeing you in his seat, his own plate in hand as you stare at your own.
“Change of scenery.” Hopefully your grumbling can be attributed to the early hour and not your growing anxiety. Something that comes to a head as Beckman walks in, hair still tousled from sleep. He stops short in the doorway, his heated gaze staring holes in your face as you refuse to look up, watching the way he moves in your peripherals. It’s as Shanks approaches behind that he moves.
“Wonderful morning, isn’t it?” He yawns, stretching his arm high as he stands on his toes. It was one of the worst parts about his missing limb, he’d once told you. The difficulty of getting a good stretch in. It doesn’t seem to bother him now as his eyes roam the cabin before landing on you. Unlike Beckman, he doesn’t hesitate, tossing an arm around your shoulder as you try to busy yourself with your coffee.
“Missed you at dinner last night. What are you doing all the way down here?”
“Change of scenery apparently.” Punch offers, now in your seat. His large body provides a decent shield from Beckman who’s just settled on the other side of him, looking none too happy.
“That so?” Shanks doesn’t look the least bit convinced, but lets go regardless as you give a weak nod, grabbing a plate and taking his own spot at the head of the table. It’s not abnormal for breakfast to be quiet as everyone shakes off the dregs of sleep, but the mood hangs heavy.
You spot Beckman reaching for his mug only to find it missing. Of course it would be. You were the one who normally got it for him. But now the spot remained empty even as he stared hard, like it would appear if he focused enough. When that didn’t work he got up with a sigh, heading over to get it himself as you dipped your own drink. It was still too hot to properly enjoy but you didn’t care much, only wishing to get done and out the door as soon as possible, where you could occupy yourself with your chores and not the thoughts that had kept you awake all night. You'd even take as many from the others as they wanted. Anything to stay busy.
As such you’re the first to finish, tossing your plate in the sink and all but running out the door, ignoring the curious glances of the others.
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It seemed you didn’t have to worry about Beckman approaching you about the topic after all as he spent the next two days avoiding you just as much as you were him. An unfamiliar tension between you that neither would approach lingered in the air like a dense fog over the ship. Everyone else seemed to sense it as well, noticing how you stiffened when the other got close, your normal easy conversations silenced. Yassop tried to ask about it but was quickly shut down with a glare.
You could feel Beckman’s eyes burning into you whenever he was in proximity, shrinking under his attention as your stomach churned, hands shaky as you tried for the third time to tie a simple knot. Only Shanks seemed to maintain an oblivious, if not sly, attitude about the whole thing. In fact he seemed absolutely giddy, practically skipping around the ship and following you like a shadow. When he asks you to fetch Beckman for him instead of approaching as you normally would, taking any portion out you could to talk, you instead loudly call over the deck “Captain is looking for Beckman.” Something he could easily have done himself to get the attention of the man who was no more than twenty feet away.
You continued to dance around one another, acting through the others on the ship and not looking each other in the eye when you passed in the halls. That is, when you’re not darting into the nearest room to avoid him.
The only reprieve is your room, and even then you’re subject to Hongo’s scrutiny.
“What the hell happened?” Hongo finally asked after watching you tense for the thousandth time as one of the others walked past the door. He spins in his chair, fixing you in place from where you currently sit with a pillow tucked to your chest. Normally during any free time you’d be up on deck, wrestling around and playing games with the others. But that also meant facing Beckman, who remained up top.
“He found out.” You say, burying your face in the pillow, half hoping he wouldn’t hear. But you need to say it. To get the oppressive weight off your chest and let at least one person know of your turmoil, and Hongo was the only one you could. Maybe he had some sage soulmate advice. At the very least he could considerate enough to sedate you so it didn’t feel like you were going to have a panic attack every time the first mat got within ten feet of you.
Hongo sighs, standing from his seat and plopping down next to you next to you.
“You had to know it was going to happen eventually. We’ve all seen each other naked at some point.” You remember back to the memory of Snake, shuddering. ”So I guess you’re lucky you made it this far. Honestly, I expected you to break sooner.”
Hongo places an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to lean into his side. The silence thrums like a current, pushing against your will until it becomes too much.
“He didn’t even say anything.”
“What?”
“When he saw the mark. I’m positive he did, and yet he didn’t say anything. Just gave me his stupid cloak and walked me back to the ship.” You clutch said garment closer, still having neglected to return it and the owner not having asked. Another sign he wanted nothing to do with you.
“Maybe you should just talk to him.”
“I can’t! Every time I get close I feel like I’m going to puke. He’s going to kick me off the ship, I can feel it.” Your eyes burn but refuse to cry like some teen, roughly wiping at your eyes to the point Hongo grabs your hands, pulling them away.
“No he’s not. Shanks and the others wouldn’t let him anyways.”
“Then I’ll kick myself off at the next port. I can’t live on this ship with him hating me. It was what I was trying to avoid in the first place.”
Hongo sighs, rubbing his temples as he takes a few deep breaths.
“I’m not letting you off this ship until you talk with him. If you do and still want to leave then fine, but don’t go planning your escape just yet.” He grabs your shoulders, pulling you upright. “Promise me you’ll talk with him. I don’t feel like dealing with his attitude if you up and disappear."
You should promise. It would be the easiest thing to do. But you can’t bring yourself to, unable to lie to him. Because nothing in you wants more than to do what you seem to do best. Run away from it all.
Instead you wrap the cloak around the pillow and bury your face in the fabric. It still smells like his cologne. Something he had started wearing just a short while ago, and which the others had laughed about, but the scent had already been ingrained in your mind as uniquely him. Just as was the smell of tobacco, and the specific shade between the most beautiful night and richest onyx stone that colored his eyes. The faint scent of oil that clung to his hands from cleaning his rifle.
“At least get some sleep before your watch tonight. You look like shit.” Hongo prods, expecting a jab back, only to receive silence.
Fine. If you wanted to be like that there was still another person he could go to in order to stamp out this issue. And so he sets out of the room with determination, leaving you to wallow in your self-imposed doom and gloom.
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The sea is quiet as you sit on lookout duty. A grateful distraction from everything, giving you more of an excuse to avoid Beckman by sleeping late in the morning. It marks the longest you’ve ever gone without talking to Beckman since you joined the crew, and you yearn to hear his voice despite knowing that would mean having to talk with him. To confront what you’d been avoiding. He had hardly even spoken to the others the past three days even, spending most of his time shut up in the map room or standing at the back of the ship watching the wake of churning waves.
The ship glides steadily, the horizon a seamless blend between sea and sky, sails full and the wind cool against your skin as you sit in the crow’s nest. Beckman’s jacket is draped over your shoulders, unable to let go of the last piece you have of him. You’re reminded of the last time he had lent it to you, all that time ago when he had first coaxed you from the mouth of the beast on the front of the ship.
Maybe you should have let it eat you then and saved everyone the trouble.
The lantern below throws a soft glow across the deck, but up here the world is only shadow and stars. You should be watching the horizon for anything suspicious but instead stare up at nothing, mind occupied. Your fingers keep drifting to your lower back, brushing the fabric of your shirt where the mark sits hidden beneath like a brand.
The memory of the incident keeps replaying in your mind like some awful nightmare as your stomach twists. Except there’s no waking up from this one.
He had seen it. There’s no way he didn’t even if every part of you hoped it wasn’t true. He was too observant not to, and not even skinning the mark from your back could save you now.
You groan, drop your forehead against the railing with a painful thud.
Great. Just great. You’ve spent months avoiding this exact scenario, and now fate apparently decided you had done enough hiding. You should have known better than to tempt it. To stay so close when you knew the risk of it being seen. You should have gotten off on the first island and ran as soon as you knew but those pesky feelings of infatuation that had latched onto the man had kept you there, deluding yourself into thinking your plan could work. If you had no bad luck, then you wouldn’t have any at all.
Footsteps on the ladder make you freeze, identifying the cadence as one you had memorized long ago, not even having to look to know who it is, his very presence ingrained into your soul.
Beckman pulls himself up into the crow’s nest without a word, settling easily beside you, just as he’s done a hundred times before. Neither of you says anything, unsure as to even what you would.
From the corner of your eye you spot movement, flinching, then feeling guilty as he pauses. He stays like that a moment longer before moving again, this time slower, holding out a mug. Your favorite. A wooden piece with a rather ugly carving of a mouse on the side that you found endearing. Or maybe that was only because Beckman had been the one to gift it to you.
You blink, hesitant and wary as you debate taking it, fearing it would invite conversation. Beckman makes the decision for you, thrusting the cup into your hands, trying and failing not to jump as your fingers brush his, electricity spiking down your spine.
The warmth seeps into your fingers as you take a sip. Something sweet and spiced with a vaguely herbal note. One of the drinks he usually brings you when you’re stuck with watch on cold nights. Something to keep you up that won’t prevent you from sleeping later.
Long, sturdy arms lean on the railing beside you, too close, gaze sweeping the horizon like he’s actually checking for ships.
It almost feels normal.
Almost.
Beckman’s standing close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the chill of the night having no effect on him as the wind blows back his hair, devoid of the normal tie that keeps it back as it flies around his face.
“Quiet night?”
You nod, unable to find your voice without trusting it to crack. Another moment passes as the wind rustles the sails with a soft creak overhead. He shifts, the familiar clink of his lighter sparking before a soft glow burns in the dark. The warm light does little to smooth the harsh lines of his face, fading back out as the end of his cigarette turns to ash, burning down quickly with the deep drag he takes. When he blows out you find yourself leaning just a bit closer. The smoke had long ago lost its sting, and you were an honorary member of the vice despite only ever having tried once. An offer from Beckman when you doubted the fact it helped him warm up on chilly nights such as this, and which had left you coughing and wheezing much to his amusement. It was almost worth the shoulder shaking laugh he gave.
No, you didn’t smoke, but were addicted all the same. Only when it comes from his lips, or rather because of it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ah. It seems the pleasantries are over. A small mercy to begin with given his normal blunt nature.
The words lodge in your throat as he waits for an answer, knowing he won’t speak again until he gets one. You pretend not to understand, not ready to out yourself on the minuscule chance that by some miracle he hadn’t seen and was referring to something else.
“About what?”
He turns slowly, the look on his face making it clear you’re not fooling anyone, least of all him. But why couldn’t he turn a blind eye to it? Let you sweep it under the rug and pretend like nothing changed. You fiddle with the cup as your shoulders slump, running your finger along the carving. No matter what, you promise yourself, you won't cry. Won’t beg. Only accept what’s to come. “You aren’t interested in soulmates.”
It sounds weaker out loud than it did in your head, cringing at how pathetic it sounds. You have half a mind to jump into the sea if you weren’t so sure that he would grab you before you could.
“I did say that, didn’t I.” He admits.
Your stomach sinks, knuckles turning white as you will the tears to stay away, as if keeping them from falling will prevent the chasm that feels like it's opened in your chest. It shouldn’t hurt so much, but outright rejection stings more than months of yearning. The feeling is sharp and hollow all at once, like the air has been pulled straight from your lungs and leaves nothing behind.
You hadn’t meant to hope, had told yourself not to, over and over like a mantra, and now the stubborn part of you that swooned over romance was being crushed beneath the weight of his words.
How are you supposed to take this? To face him every day knowing that you’re meant for each other, that you love him, but he doesn't feel the same? It would have been more merciful for him to say something back on the island so that you wouldn’t be stuck with him on the ship for the foreseeable future and could sneak off on your own. It felt like a knife twisting in your gut, to think of giving up all this. A place you found to belong after tears of wander on your own. It seemed the universe really did have a cruel sense of humor, dangling the prospect of a happy life just out of reach, yanking it back every time you got comfortable.
You’d never considered Beckman a cruel man. Quite the opposite, even if he could be violent at times. But never towards anyone who didn’t threaten him. Never towards you. But now you fear his wrath. Of what he would do now knowing the truth.
“But I’m interested in you.”
The words hit with all the grace of a hammer, your brain stalling, jarred from its downward spiral. Silence rings once again as you process, convinced he’d said something else or even nothing at all because there was no possibility you’d heard correctly.
Your voice cracks, little more than a whisper.
“What?”
He looks at you. The same way he does when he thinks something should have been obvious. Like he had just told you not to throw the anchor down while in the middle of a hurricane. “I’ve been interested in you for a while now.”
You stare at him, hardly able to believe what you were hearing, his words a contradiction of one another as you try to understand. Was he trying to get you to admit something just so he wouldn’t feel bad about kicking you off the ship?
“You said soulmates were a distraction!”
He doesn’t flinch as you throw his words back in an attempt to recover your defenses, refusing to act like a complete lovesick fool despite the way your pulse races.
Instead he doubles down.
“They are.”
You didn’t like being made a joke of, and now it felt as though he was simply toying with you. Maybe it was his payback for trying to pull one over on him. Any earlier apprehension gives way to anger. An emotion you know what to do with. One that’s helped you survive other situations before, so why not this?
“Beckman-”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” His gaze never wavers as he steps forward, forcing you back until the cramped space runs out. The low wall of the railing digs into your spine, and for a fleeting second you considered vaulting over it just to escape the intensity of him.
“I can't get you out of my head. The way your face pinches when you're mad, or how your voice raises an octave when you laugh too hard. How your breathing stops just before you take a shot, or the way your hands twitch when you're being stubborn, like you’re about ready to strangle someone.”
Another step. Close enough that the end of his cigarette threatens to burn you.
“The way you say my name, like it’s the most casual thing in the world even though it makes every other thought fly out the window.”
You shift, trying not to look stupid under his pinning gaze, noting the way his eyes flicker to your throat as you swallow, processing his words.
He wants you.
He wants you.
Your heart is beating hard enough that you’re sure he can hear it as the words repeat over and over in your head. A mantra that you could never tire of. One you had already dreamed of, now brought to reality. Or was it? Maybe you had hit your head on the dock and this was all a hallucination, and if it was then it was particularly cruel. But the brush of his arms against yours as he cages you in, blocking the light of the moon above, feels all too real. As does the way your pulse spikes in response.
“You’re a complete ass.” You manage to stutter out, gripping the railing like a lifeline, trying to regain your thoughts. But you can’t. Not when they're filled with him.
He doesn’t deny it, only responding with a rough chuckle that sends goosebumps across your skin as the moment stretches taut between you.
This close, you could see the shadows beneath his eyes more clearly now, the dark circles deeper than before, as though sleep had long since stopped finding him.
Hesitantly, almost without thinking, you lift a hand toward his face. The motion faltered halfway through, uncertainty catching at you, but he reaches up before you could pull away, guiding your palm against his cheek just as he had in the medical room what felt like an eternity ago. Your thumb brushed lightly beneath his eye, tracing the tired lines carved there. The gesture was soft- far gentler than anything either of you usually allowed yourselves- and it drew a quiet sigh from him. His shoulders loosened beneath it, tension draining as though some invisible burden had finally eased. Like the weight of the world had been resting there, and if memory served correct there seemed to be a few more grey hairs dotting his temples and streaked throughout.
Beckman leans forward, closer than could be considered casual or friendly. No room for misinterpretation. His hand brushes your cheek, guiding you to look at him as he leans closer, grinning, and you realize as his finger brushes under jaw he must be able to feel your racing pulse.
Beckman’s not unaffected either. His own breathing turned uneven beneath your touch, each slow inhale sounding more strained than the last as he holds your gaze with an intensity that made it difficult to look away, hardly able to keep himself from closing the gap.
You weren’t some fleeting mistake. Some stranger he would disappear from before sunrise and never think about again. He wants you to meet him there, to show he hasn’t fucked everything up. That you still want him with the same unbearable certainty that he wants you. He can’t even imagine how you must have been feeling all this time, carrying on in silence for months, pretending nothing had changed while standing beside him every day.
Had you really feared he would reject you even after- to him- such blatant displays of interest?
He might have commended your performance if it didn’t drive him insane at the same time. Meanwhile, after only two days of knowing, he was already unraveling beneath the weight of it, trying to give you space to approach in your own time until he finally broke.
The air between you is shared, warm and electrified. Every breath tangled together in the narrow space, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his lips against yours. A question lingered there in the silence, unspoken.
Your hand brushes a stray lock of hair from his face. The simple touch draws a sharp hitch from his lungs, breath stuttering as though the gesture affected him far more than it should have.
That sound was what finally undoes you.
Your lips crash against Beckman’s with painful force, cigarette dropping somewhere underfoot as your fingers grip in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer. Any remaining restraint vanishes the instant he kissed you back, rough and desperate, lips equally so, chapped by wind and sun. The impact of it steals the breath from your chest, all heat and hunger and weeks of unspoken tension finally snapping at once.
He still tastes of rum and smoke, delicious in how they lay on his lips, though you would never accept them delivered any other way. His hand slides to the back of your neck, possessive. The kiss is devouring, comforting, and everything you’d been wanting for months.
Beckman groans, the sound felt more than heard as he lifts you up with ease, setting you on the edge of the railing so he doesn’t have to hunch down to reach you while giving him an even better angle.
It’s a bit nerve wracking, balanced carefully on the edge with the deck a few dozen feet below, but with the way his hands- the ones you’ve had too many dreams about- latch on to your hips, your own dig into his forearm, leaving crescent marks while the other remains clutching his shirt like a lifeline. You have no fear of falling. It would be nothing compared to the fluttering that’s moved from your stomach to every inch of your body, now pleasantly humming as if the universe had been set right. The only thing you have to worry about tipping over the edge is your own sanity as his lips seal your own in a clumsy, hurried pace, as if trying to make up for lost time, groaning into the action.
Your lungs burn for air by the time you finally pulled back, though even then he’s chasing after, stealing several more hungry kisses before forcing himself to retreat far enough to let you breathe.
The two of you stand dazed and panting, the world around you feeling distant and inconsequential. Your eyes caught on the thin strand of saliva trailing down his chin, and the sight alone sends your pulse stumbling again.
Beckman looks wrecked. A deep flush spreads across his face, coloring his cheeks and reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. The most color you’d seen on him that wasn’t earned beneath the sun. His breathing came unevenly, chest rising sharply beneath your grip on his shirt, still trying to recover. Seeing him like this only made the heat curling beneath your skin worse, tempted to see how much more disheveled you could get the composed man.
Moments ago the cold air had seeped straight through you, leaving you shivering despite your layers. Now you felt feverish, heat blazing through your veins so intensely it seemed impossible your body could contain it. Like one more look from him might be enough to make you spontaneously combust.
Beckman settles between your legs, tightly clamped around his hips, both trying to get as physically close as possible and keep the other from getting away. His hand sits heavy against your back pushing you flush against his chest and you wonder over the miracle it was that you had remained seemingly so apart for so long when it felt natural to be entangled like this.
“Fuck.” Beckman breathes out, placing another chaste kiss to your jaw, slowly trailing further down as he speaks between each one. While you were still greedily gulping air, he didn’t seem as concerned. It seemed he was intent on covering every inch of skin he could reach and even more as he pushed the collar of his coat you still wear aside, humming as his fingers moved the fabric. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”
His words have your legs tensing, feeling the way his lips curl against your skin. Your fingers thread through his hair at the base, pulling him back as he grunts in annoyance.
“If you think this makes up for how you reacted, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Please,” He laughs, dipping you back over the railing just enough to have you gripping him even tighter, stomach fluttering. “I intend to make up for it. But let's not pretend you weren’t walking around for months knowing.”
His fingers tighten a fraction on your waist. Enough to nearly bruise, though the thought isn’t completely unappealing.
“That’s different! You were-”
Beckman cuts you off before you can finish, pulled you back in once again. But this time you’re just a bit more prepared, fighting for control the best you can while also trying not to melt. If anyone were to try and sneak up on you now they would have no issue. Nothing short of a cannonball splitting the mast could break you apart now, gasping as Beckman’s teeth nip at your lip.
Well, that, and one other thing.
The first shout from below barely registers. The second was louder, followed by an entire chorus of cheering that finally shattered through the haze clouding your thoughts.
You jerked back, nearly toppled over the edge of the crow’s nest, catching yourself at the last second with a startled curse. Beckman only lets out a long, weary sigh before dropping his forehead against your shoulder, as though surrendering to fate.
Below, the entire crew had gathered on deck, all of them staring upward with far too much enthusiasm. Shanks was practically folded in half with laughter, clutching at his stomach while the others hand over pouches of coins, though you see Hongo pocketing a few himself.
“I told you!” he shouted triumphantly, pointing up at the two of you like he’d just won the greatest bet of his life.
Heat flooded your face so fast it bordered on painful, burning in an entirely new way than before. Meanwhile, Beckman simply looks down at the others with the exhausted expression of a man who absolutely should have seen this coming, yet had somehow convinced himself he might be spared the humiliation anyway.
“I’m going to kill them.” You growl, already turning as you reach for your slingshot, ready to notch a stone at the ringleader as you spit profanities of them being perverts and creeps amongst other insults.
Beckman, despite the situation, finds himself grinning. Because now he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking glances when you're not looking, or feeling as if he has to stick beside you every time you dock in fear someone else would try to woo you, though he doubts any would have been successful. Still, the thought of someone else touching you after that kiss made something possessive curl low in his chest.
You made it halfway down before the crew scattered in complete panic. Men bolted in every direction, scrambling for cover and retreating to the quarters below deck, slamming the door and bracing it before you could reach them.
Shanks, traitor that he was, only laughed harder. Even he wasn’t saved from your wrath, dodging a shoe thrown his way with frightening accuracy and speed.
You were preparing to leap the last few rungs when Beckman finally intervenes. With the ease of someone entirely unbothered he catches you around the waist and hauls you over his shoulder before your feet even hit the deck.
“Beckman!”
“You’ll survive.” he says calmly over your continued swearing, one large hand keeping you firmly in place as he carried you away. Shanks and Hongo watch in amusement, the only two left on deck, one smug and the other seemingly relieved.
At least the doctor’s talk with Beckman had gone better, much to his relief. The man was already so infatuated all he needed was a little push in the right direction. And to think Beckman thought you were going to reject him, and that its why you’d kept it a secret.
Ignoring both them and your continued threats of violence, Beckman heads toward the medical room instead, unable to hide the smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You had a lot of lost time to make up for, and he intended to show you exactly how he’d been feeling all these months.
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