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Flickers Of Memory Part 3

A/N: thank you @furifuri04 for this idea and for letting me write this story. Well I initially planned for only 4 Chapters but I realized I'm gonna need probably 6 for this.

Word Count >4000

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Plot: after your accident you finally wake up but you have trouble with your memory and unfortunately you also struggle to remember the man you used to love and it breaks him every time. you can find the whole plot here

Warnings: sfw, established relationship, hurt, angst, reader injured, memory loss, not proofread

Characters: Shanks x FReader, cameos by Beckman, Hongo, Roux, Bonk Punch

The days stopped feeling like days. They became… fragments. Measured not in time, but in you. Shanks stopped expecting consistency, which was not easy but, in a way, better for him. Hope, in the way he had known it before, had become something dangerous. Something that could tear him apart within seconds. So instead, he learned to take things as they came.

Hongo worked tirelessly. Careful examinations, quiet notes, subtle adjustments in medication and rest cycles. The conclusion though always circled back to the same truth. “She’s healing,” he told Shanks one afternoon, arms crossed as he stood near the doorway. “Just not in a straight line.”

Shanks frowned slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ll get her back,” Hongo said, meeting his gaze. “Just not all at once. And not in the way you expect.”

That answer lingered. Because Shanks wasn’t sure what “back” even meant anymore.

He took the good moments, the bad ones, the blank stares, the soft smiles. Each one separately now, never expecting it to survive until tomorrow.

Hongo did everything he could, restlessly going through every medical book he had. Daily checking on you, if need be he did it up to 4 times a day. On good days he only had to do it once. You were monitored constantly, your condition tracked with careful precision. From how long your lucid moments lasted, what triggered confusion, to how your body reacted to stress, to rest, to familiarity. But the conclusion never changed.

“It’s neurological,” Hongo said one evening, his tone calm but firm. “The injury disrupted memory processing. I can treat the symptoms, support her recovery… but I can’t force her mind to heal on command.”

Shanks neither liked nor accepted this answer. So, he tried everything else. Your room was the first thing he changed because he wanted to finally get you out of the infirmary and back to something less sterile, something more like you. The infirmary was a place meant for people who were broken and Shanks made it clear you weren’t broken, you were still you even if you didn’t always remember it.

Shanks had planned to change his and your room completely but Beckman advised him against it. Not because he didn’t want his captain to be near you but because he feared that Shanks would get even less sleep if you shared the same bed again. That the familiarity of the room could be both a gift and a curse. So, he and Shanks agreed to get you to your old room, the one you had occupied when you first ended up here on the Red Force, before you and Shanks were a thing.

By the end of the week, a new space had been prepared for you with the help of the entire crew. It was just off the main deck, where the sea breeze could still drift in through the open window. The bed was layered with thick blankets and soft sheets that didn’t smell like medicine. Rugs covered the wooden floor, muting the creaks of the ship beneath your feet. Pillows were scattered everywhere, not neatly, not perfectly, simply because that wouldn’t be you, you liked your space to be cosy rather than perfectly organized. This way it made you feel… safe, like nothing had changed.

You noticed it immediately. “…these are new,” you murmured one day, running your fingers along the edge of a blanket.

Shanks, standing near the doorway, shrugged lightly. “Figured you deserved something better than the infirmary,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite how carefully he watched your reaction.

You looked around taking everything in, slowly, carefully. You felt something tighten in your chest but it wasn’t that bad feeling from before. No this was different, this felt like you were remembering something and it made you smile a bit. “…it feels nice,” you admitted quietly.

That was enough to make something in his chest loosen and he exhaled quietly enough so you couldn’t hear it. He simply felt that painful shred of hope stir up inside of him again, combined with a deep sort of satisfaction that you liked your room this way.

You kept looking around and then beside the bed spotted a wheelchair. You stared at it for a long time. “…is this… for me?” you asked quietly.

Shanks took a few steps closer, making sure not to crowd or overwhelm you as he watched your reaction carefully. “Only when you need it,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“…is something wrong with me?” you asked, your voice thinner than usual.

Shanks stepped closer, careful, measured, till he was standing right in front of you and you didn’t know why but you didn’t mind it.

“No,” he said gently. “Just… sometimes your body gets tired faster than it should.”

You hesitated. Your fingers brushing lightly against the armrest. “…I don’t remember needing one.” There was no accusation in your voice just some confusion.

Shanks swallowed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s… kind of the problem,” he mumbled and you looked at him but didn’t understand what he was referring to.

“Oh, okay sorry,” you whispered and bit your lip softly.

“No, no don’t be sorry, it’s okay, we all forget some things at times right,” he immediately said to reassure you and to keep you from feeling bad.

You smiled at him, small but somehow grateful. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

Shanks exhaled relieved and couldn’t help but smile at you too, he now lived for moments like these. Even if they were rare now, even if they weren’t lasting. But these small moments were what helped him to keep going. To keep fighting for you.

Some days, you walked. Slowly, carefully and a bit unsteady. Your hand brushing walls or furniture as if relearning balance and Shanks always hovering near you like a safety net he refused to remove. The crew would help, encourage you and make you feel safe without hovering. They made room when they saw you were getting confused and stayed when they realized you needed some support. Shanks was grateful for it, they weren’t just helping you, they were also there for him. Helping him carry the weight of all.

Other days it was impossible and you simply couldn’t take a single step. Your balance would fail you, your head would be spinning too fast and your body would refuse to cooperate with your mind. Nothing seemed to work the way you wanted it to. Those were the days the wheelchair stayed close. You were still wary of it and at first, you resisted. “I don’t like it,” you muttered once, fingers gripping the armrest.

Shanks crouched slightly in front of you, his voice softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”

You looked at him, really looked, studying his face and expression. “…but you still want me to use it.” It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

He held your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Only so you don’t miss out on things,” he explained and something in his eyes tugged at you because it seemed to matter. The way he looked at you seemed to be more important than the explanation itself.

You kept your eyes on him and you saw something in them that made your breath hitch for reasons you couldn’t completely grip. But there was sincerity in his eyes, he wanted you to be part of the world, of his world and you exhaled. “Okay,” you whispered and extended your arms towards him so he could help you into the wheelchair.

On the worst days, Shanks simply carried you. At first you had protested. “I can walk,” you insisted weakly, even as your grip on his shirt tightened.

Shanks had only grinned a bit. “I know you can,” he said. “Just… not today.”

Eventually, you stopped arguing. Not because your head told you to fully trust him but because somewhere deep down your body seemed to. It naturally gravitated to him, leaned into him and let him carry you, hold you without feeling tense or vibrating with nerves. It was weird, really, because your head was scolding you for letting this stranger close, for being reckless while your body relaxed whenever he touched you now.

The deck became part of your routine. There was a spot he favored, always had even when you were still……you. The version of you without the memory loss, the one that never forgot him. It was tucked slightly away from the usual noise of the crew, where the sun hit just right in the afternoon and the wind wasn’t too harsh. He had it set up quietly. Rugs layered over the wood. Pillows piled carelessly but intentionally. it looked like it had always belonged there. A soft space carved out of a world made of wood and salt and wind. A place where you could sit, or lie down, without feeling like you were being watched.

The first time he brought you there, you had been quiet. He had carried you there because you were feeling a bit tired that day and tensed slightly not out of fear but something else, something that wasn’t bad though.

“…you don’t have to carry me,” you murmured, your hand lightly gripping his shirt more out of instinct than intent.

A faint smirk tugged at Shanks’ lips. “I know.”

You studied his face and didn’t argue it any longer because he looked so…..sweet and caring in a way that made your chest tighten again, for reasons you couldn’t quite name. He put you down carefully, like you were something fragile but not weak or broken. He refused to even think about this. He stayed close and helped you settle comfortably on the pillows before he sat down next to you, giving you enough space so you didn’t feel suffocated.

You looked around, letting your fingers trace over the fabric around you. You observed and took everything in with that distant, searching look you wore so often now. You leaned back against the pillows, eyes drifting out toward the ocean. For a while, neither of you spoke. “…it’s quiet here,” you said eventually.

“Mmh,” he replied not taking his eyes off you.

“…it’s nice,” you said, after feeling a strange familiarity with this place.

Shanks, who had been watching you a little too closely, blinked. “…yeah?” he asked glad that you were starting to relax.

You nodded slightly, shifting against the pillows. “It feels… warm and like I….like I know this place.”

Shanks smiled softly because that was enough. Actually, it was more than enough for him. He started to bring you there often, regularly.

On the very rare perfect days you sat there like everything was how it used to be. Babbling away, cuddling with him, calling out at the crew from your pillows and joking or messing with them by throwing grapes at them. You would even invite them to sit with you tell you stories or sometimes you wanted to play cards with them like you used to when everything was good. You still managed to make them look really bad and win smugly. Exaggerating about it ridiculously like you used to. It was rare moments where there was genuine laughter filling the Red Force.

On good days, you would sit beside him, asking questions about the sea, the ship, the crew, like you were learning your life all over again. Shanks always answered them thoughtfully, not too much, not too overwhelming.

On better days you laughed. Not always at him, not always with recognition but it was real and he held onto that like it was everything especially since the perfect days got less and less. The crew adapted too. The usually rowdy, cheerful men quieted down when needed. They talked gentler and slower to you. Gave you space when you needed it and looked at them with confusion. But they didn’t change completely because Hongo had insisted that familiarity, even if you didn’t consciously recognize it, might help.

Bad days you’d just sit there, watching the waves like they might carry pieces of your memory back to you or you’d lean into the pillows stare at the sky or simply sleep there. While he stayed nearby, always nearby.

Still it wasn’t enough.

“She needs more consistent care.” Beckman’s voice cut through the quiet of the captain’s quarters one evening.

Shanks leaned back in his chair, a bottle untouched in front of him.

“…she has me,” he replied.

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “She has you,” he agreed. “But you’re not always going to be enough.” That stung. Because part of Shanks already knew that. “Shanks you have a crew to run, a ship, a territory, you’re after all still a Yonko and while I don’t mind taking over your tasks, I’m not you.” Beckman continued. “Hongo can’t be with her every second either and she’s not always… steady.” Beckman added choosing his words carefully. “And the crew—hell, we’ll do anything for her, you know that—but she might need someone who knows what to do when Hongo isn’t around. Someone trained, someone who can—”

“Take care of her?” Shanks finished quietly.

Beckman nodded once.

Silence stretched between them.

“…a nurse,” Shanks muttered.

“Or a caregiver,” Beckman added. “Preferably someone she’s comfortable with.”

Shanks let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “…a woman,” he said after a moment. “She’d probably feel safer.”

Because right now you didn’t know him, not always. Because there were still moments, too many moments, where you looked at him like you didn’t know what he might do. And he couldn’t stand that.

“I’ll find someone,” Shanks said finally, not as a Yonko, not as a captain but a man who was fighting for his one true love, his voice firm despite the exhaustion behind it. “The best there is.”

Later that night, the ship was quiet and he found you asleep in your room. Curled slightly into the blankets, your breathing soft, peaceful in a way that felt almost unfair compared to everything else. Hongo was sitting next to you, he looked tired too but he had promised Shanks to take care of you, to bring you back to him and to be there for you when Shanks couldn’t.

“Get some rest Hongo, thank you for staying, you’ve done enough for today, hell, probably for a lifetime already,” Shanks whispered softly to make sure not to wake you.

Hongo looked at Shanks and knew arguing with him right now would be useless and only threaten to wake you, so he got up and as he walked past Shanks, placed his hand on his Captain’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “She’ll come back to you,” Hongo whispered before he nodded and left the room.

For a moment, Shanks just stood there, watching you. Then approached, slow as if you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He sat beside you, not touching this time. Just there, just being near you. Feeling your warmth and hearing your soft breathing.

“…I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, not expecting an answer and not needing one. “I don’t care how long it takes.” His gaze softened as it rested on your face. “I’ll learn every version of you if I have to.”

He exhaled and then let the silence settle for a moment before he smiled a bit pained at you. “I’ll make you fall in love with me again,” he promised.

Your fingers shifted again in your sleep, unconsciously inching closer until the backs of your hands almost touched. It was as if something inside you was reacting to him without any of you realizing it. As if your subconscious was gravitating to the man that had been your life, your anchor, your light, before the incident.

“…you said you liked the ocean,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You used to say it made everything feel smaller. Like nothing could trap you.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze softened. “…guess I’m hoping it brings you back too.”

Your fingers shifted slightly in your sleep again, inching a bit closer towards his. He didn’t know what it meant or if it meant anything at all. But he knew it was enough.

The next few weeks were cruel. Not because nothing improved. Because sometimes it did and that was the worst part.

One morning you woke up smiling at Lucky Roux as though nothing had ever happened. "Morning, Roux," you chirped, your muscles feeling a bit weak but overall you were feeling good. You felt like you had slept for days.

The entire galley went silent. Lucky froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. "...you remember me?"

You blinked confused, thinking this was another of his jokes or teases. "Obviously," you shrugged your smile even brighter now. For a second the crew looked at each other like they had just witnessed a miracle. You took your usual seat at the table right between Shanks and Beckman while Roux immediately disappeared into the kitchen. You sat there talking about this and that, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why the crew looked so stunned at you. For a long moment you thought about asking if they had seen a ghost or hungover but decided against it because the smell of something really really good hit your senses.

Roux returned with a plate of your favorite breakfast. A recipe he had spent years perfecting because you always complained the first version wasn't spicy enough. He set it down in front of you with a grin. "Thought you might want this."

Your eyes lit up immediately. “Oh this smells so good,” you said totally excited. The reaction alone made his chest swell. You took a slow bite and the flavour on your tongue was like an explosion of taste. You took another bite and then another. “It’s delicious,” you mumbled, mouth half full.

Roux laughed and the whole galley seemed to breathe easier that moment, it was as if live returned to this place. "I know," Roux smiled.

"No, I mean it, you've really outdone yourself with this," you insisted, for the first time in your life not really caring about manners as you practically shoved it into you.

Something inside him faltered as he watched you. "You don't remember it?" he asked warily.

Your smile slowly faded and was replaced with a bit of confusion. You would definitely remember eating something like this. "...should I?"

The silence that followed hurt more than anyone wanted to admit. “Nah,” Roux said forcing a grin and brushing it off. You looked at him and shrugged finishing your plate. But the rest of the crew didn’t miss the way Roux stayed unusually quiet after that.

A few days later Bonk Punch tried. You were sitting on the deck wrapped in blankets while the afternoon sun warmed your face. The musician settled nearby and began playing. Softly at first. Then the melody shifted. It wasn’t just any song, it was your song, the one you used to request constantly. The one you'd drag Shanks into dancing to whenever you were drunk enough.

Several crew members looked over immediately. Waiting, hoping for something. You listened and tilted your head slightly. The music was good, you liked it. When it ended Bonk Punch smiled "Recognize it?" he asked, hopeful.

You thought for a moment, pursing your lips and furrowing you eyebrows a bit but then shook your head. "No, but I like it."

The answer wasn't cruel, wasn’t even sad, just honest and Bonk Punch just nodded. "Ah," he sighed then looked away "...thought maybe." You never noticed how quickly he packed up his instrument afterward.

The bad days became worse. Sometimes you forgot names, sometimes faces, sometimes entire conversations. Then one morning Shanks found you crying. Not loudly or dramatically. Just sitting on the edge of your bed with tears quietly sliding down your face.

His heart nearly stopped. "What happened?" he asked tense.

You looked up immediately. Relief flooded your features at first but it was followed by confusion and then fear. The emotions changed so quickly it made him sick. "I don't know," you rasped, voice trembling. "I don't know who I am."

The room went completely still. Shanks felt every muscle in his body lock. "What?"

You rubbed at your eyes. "I know people keep telling me things," you started, laughing shakily. "They keep saying names and stories and memories and I..." Your breathing hitched. "I don't know which ones belong to me anymore."

Shanks swallowed hard because you looked terrified. Like someone standing in the middle of an ocean without land in sight.

"What if none of it comes back?" you asked, feeling completely lost. The question shattered him. Because for the first time he didn't have an answer.

That evening Shanks found himself walking to Hongo in the infirmary. The doctor looked exhausted. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes. Medical journals covered the table beside him, pages full of notes, observations and attempts. But all of them failures.

Shanks knew immediately. Something was wrong. "Hongo," he said forcing his voice to be steady.

The doctor was quiet for a long time. Then he sat down, exhaling slowly and carefully. Like a man carrying bad news. "I've reached the limit of what I can do."

The words hit Shanks harder than any punch. “No,” he breathed, staring at Hongo.

Hongo sighed. "I can monitor her," Hongo started. "I can help manage symptoms. I can keep supporting her recovery. But I can't fix this."

The captain's jaw tightened his heart feeling like breaking once again. "There has to be something."

"There might be." Hongo rubbed his eyes. "But it's beyond me."

The admission looked painful. Because Hongo wasn't the type to quit. Not on anyone and especially not you or his Captain. "I've gone through every text I own," he continued his voice sounding tired. "I've tried everything I know."

Silence filled the room. For the first time since the accident, Shanks looked genuinely lost. Not angry, not determined, just lost. "What if she doesn't come back?" he asked fearing the answer as the question slipped out before he could stop it. Hongo looked at him, then away. And that answer hurt more than words ever could.

The breaking point came three days later. One of the very rare perfect days. You remembered everything, like absolutely everything from the whole crew’s birthdays, to your first time stealing from marines, to every little thing that you had been through with them, except for the incident that is. You laughed with the crew. Played card with them and cheated shamelessly. You bantered with Yasopp, stole food from Roux, mimicked Beckman’s stoic look (and failed miserably), you sang off tune to a song Bonk Punch played, helped Hongo with the inventory and curled against Shanks beneath the afternoon sun.

For hours it felt normal. Like none of this had ever happened. Shanks couldn't stop smiling. Neither could the crew. That night you fell asleep in his arms. For the first time since that day he allowed himself to believe. Maybe Hongo was right, maybe there was still a chance for you to come back, maybe it really just took a lot of patience, maybe it was finally happening. He kissed your forehead and you snuggled more and more against his side as you let out a soft sigh.

The next morning he brought breakfast to your room. He was still smiling, still hopeful after yesterday. He opened the door and you looked up at him sitting in the bed already and his heart stopped. Because he recognized that expression immediately – confusion, fear, distance.

"...hi," you said softly a bit tense because you had no clue who that man was. The tray nearly slipped from his hand you could see it and you kept staring at him. "...have we met before?" you asked politely yet a bit cautious.

That night Beckman found Shanks sitting alone. The bottle beside him was already half empty. Another rested near his feet. The Captain was drinking because he couldn't think anymore. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw yours. But not the ones full of that light, that sparkle or warmth no he saw the blank, afraid and lost stare.

Beckman sat beside him. Neither spoke for a while. Eventually Shanks laughed, it was a horrible sound and had nothing to do with Shanks usual boisterous and addictive laugh. It sounded broken instead.

"She remembered everything yesterday," he mumbled, voice cracking. "Everything." Beckman remained silent, listening to his Captain and friend. Shanks smiled a weak smile "She called me an idiot, stole food off my plate,” he stopped wiping at his burning eyes. "Then this morning she looked at me like I had never existed," he continued and the smile disappeared and suddenly he couldn't hold it together anymore.

His shoulders shook, his head dropped and the bottle slipped from his fingers falling to the deck spilling the remains of it onto the deck. "I don't know what else to do," he hitched the confession coming out ragged. "I can't lose her." For a moment he looked less like an Emperor and more like a man drowning. "I can't."

Beckman placed a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. The way he always used to when he knew Shanks was at his worst. "Then we find someone else," Beckman assured without hesitation.

Shanks wiped at his face, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck. “Someone else,” the words echoed in his head. Another doctor, another expert, someone, anyone. Slowly his thoughts drifted towards a familiar lighthouse. Towards a man who had once sailed with him while he was with the Roger Pirates. Towards one of the few people he trusted without question.

“Crocus,” Shanks exhaled and sat up. For the first time in days something appeared in his eyes – purpose. "If Hongo's reached his limit..." His voice was hoarse. "Then we'll go to someone who hasn't."

Beckman nodded not questioning his Captain for a second. He exhaled a deep plum of smoke and then squeezed Shanks’ shoulder. “I’ll tell Building Snake to set the course,” he said and Shanks looked up at him and he was grateful for his first mate, hell for having this crew that supported him without hesitation or doubt.

Shanks turned his head towards the door leading below deck, towards where your room was. The woman who was fighting a battle she couldn’t even remember. "Hold on a little longer," he whispered into the air, the promise barely audible. "Crocus is going to take a look at you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back to me. Even if it breaks me."

For the first time in weeks, Shanks wasn't waiting. He was sailing towards a new hope.

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