( despite having his senses stolen from him before, shanks, unfortunately, greatly underestimated how much that would disadvantage him in a serious fight. when your perception of the world exists in four dimensions and suddenly becomes flat — it's disorienting, to say the least. like being blindfolded and deafened at the same time. that, combined with the fact that the sword he'd stolen wasn't nearly the same caliber as gryphon, or fit at all to counterbalance the shortcomings of his inaccessible haki — all led to a rather disastrous opening against an opponent who was not similarly weakened. if it hadn't been for sanji, shanks probably would have sustained more than just a few broken ribs.
so, of course, he'd looked an absolute mess when quentin dropped him off at their little house, covered in blood and mud and grass and completely soaked in dirty laundry water, bruises darkening like scattered grapes from head to toe, his left sleeve torn from his shirt, one eye puffy and swelling.
valiantly, shanks had tried to walk on his own to the bathroom to clean up, and had immediately swayed into set's shoulder, which left being accompanied non-negotiable.
in fact, most everything since he stepped foot across their threshold has been non-negotiable, considering the state of him. shanks is fine with that. it almost feels like home, in a way, being barked at and fussed over and having someone else tend to his injuries. not that he's been seriously injured like this since — well, the east blue.
(dying, he thinks, isn't quite the same. set tended to him in death, too, but shanks was already gone then.)
he doesn't say much for quite a while. even breathing hurts, so he's kept his responses to a minimum, letting set have free reign over the conversation and following his orders with apologetic, sometimes amused little smiles until he sinks slowly into warm bathwater, the tension in his muscles finally beginning to release. tipping his head back to rest against the tub, he cranes his neck to watch set for a moment, his face softening with a comfortable fondness. he laughs softly at something set does, wincing as his ribs send shooting pain through his torso. )
Set. ( reaching out for set's wrist, intent on dragging him over the edge of the wooden tub, to tend to him from the bath. even an arm's length away feels too far. ) It's warmer in here.
[ Bristling, he grinds out the words. ( A testy cat, being told to come bathe. )
Tension writ upon his shoulders and the line of his jaw, his teeth grinding hard within his mouth as he furiously wrings out the cloth soaked in — some kind of herb soup, desperately assembled from the loose memories of observing his sister create her tonics and medicines for her people. Green things, needle things. Some sap. He remembers the acrid scents, and while the warm, soupy mixture doesn't precisely resemble what he knows, there's enough in there that something has to work to soothe Shanks's scrapes and bruises. A cloth nearby is already soaking with a green substance, thick as tar and smelling vaguely of pine.
He doesn't know what he's doing, only that the water is the last place he wants to be. The closest he'll come to it is the edge of the wooden tub, knees tucked along the warmed, damp slats and the dark iron banding keeping it all together; his hands trailing in the steaming waters from time to time, fussing faintly over another injury he's got to catalogue. ]
Sit there and behave, I am almost done with this [ nonsense, this nonsense of a healing tonic and poltice ] thing. Did you at least give as good as you got?
( an attempt at a sigh, which turns into more of a hiss as he admits, with all the constitution of a kicked puppy: )
I know.
( he thought, maybe, this one time would be an exception. or maybe it's simply too much to ask on top of everything else. after all, he shouldn't be rewarded for his recklessness, should he? even if he'd had good intentions. even if he'd been acting on the one thing he's always held true: no one threatens his friends, or his family.
his arm drops back into the water where he squeezes his fist idly just below the surface, attempting to recreate a whale's blowhole with just one hand. it doesn't work quite as well as with two, but it amuses him long enough to let set finish his work without any further disruptions from shanks' needy hand. )
He's lucky to be alive. He has Koby to thank for that.
( shanks very much wanted saber dead, but koby asked him not to go that far. so he hadn't. )
Do not pout, [ he scolds, mouth pursing as he studiously ( purposefully ) avoids looking directly at Shanks's dear, dear face. Despite the softness that he holds within him for the man who is his husband, Set remains an irascible sort — a temper simmers below the surface, and even petty annoyances can make him mulish. Between the frustration he feels in trying to prepare a salve that will be healthy and healing for Shanks, and the lingering pain of his insecurity ( of not knowing what has become of him, after his death; if they will survive the game of wolves together, or not at all ), he cannot bring his eyes away from his frantically-working hands.
Stirring his pathetic attempt at Isis's magic around, he finally tips the concentrated mixture into the bathwater — and reaches his hand in to begin agitating it around. The scent of mint rises softly, the cooling properties settling into the water as he stirs it around Shanks's knees. Business first. Hanky-panky after. It's how he's always been: a severe, restrained sort at heart, though he plays chaotic hedonist with aplomb and learned skill.
Eventually, he does reach for the salve he'd prepared as well, gathering some onto his thumb before he daubs it onto Shanks's face. Across the bruises and cautiously around his swollen eye. ]
I am angry with you both, you know. You, because you only just returned to me and this is what becomes of you. Him, because he refuses to defend himself in any way, and instead it falls to others again and again and again.
[ He does like Koby, but that "kindness" has always been a deep, deep point of contention between them. ]
He does nothing for himself, and you are brought to me battered and bloody. It is nearly unforgivable.
( shanks watches and does not pout, his eyes following the movements of set's hands, frustrated and uncertain as they are. only when set's thumb sweeps beneath his swollen eye does he meet set's gaze — soft honey amber staring across from piercing cinnabar red. )
I couldn't let a threat like that slide, Set — and Koby would have died if he tried to challenge Saber on his own. Then, or now. But especially now. ( his voice softens, his hand coming to rest along set's forearm. ) You know this is who I am, ya rouhi. Why I was Anointed. Why I lost my arm.
( though it's strange to think of that time not so long ago at all, when he and set had been bound by more than just vows, when a god turned his eyes to worship a man. emptiness upon emptiness hollows him out now — his haki cut off, out of reach; the connection of their bonding mark severed — and for the first time since they wed in that chapel in the woods, shanks feels leagues away from the god he married. adrift in an endless sea.
turning his mouth to the center of set's palm, he presses a delicate kiss there, his hand reaching out to brush sturdy fingers along the back of set's neck, where the mark of an anchor once was. there is no compulsion to his words anymore, but still shanks insists: )
Don't be angry with Koby. He did try to convince me not to, but I would never see him bear this burden, even if he wanted to.
[ Even though Shanks tries to settle him, the irritation is deeper than reasonable; the edge he teeters on is fixated, like a man gazing at a long drop, knowing it's not that he will fall over the edge, but that he will eventually, inevitably jump. When he's stressed, he grows mean. Stubbornly resistant to even the people, the words he would otherwise trust.
Shanks had just returned to him, and already he was testing himself — against Saber, against the Shepherd's rules and regulations. ]
I am angry with you both, do not ask me not to be. At the very least, if you must stand for him, he should be there with you.
[ His nose wrinkles, lip curling as Shanks tells him: I would never see him bear this burden, and Set thinks of how he was forced to. How he believes that because he had to bear it all, nobody else should get a pass. Nobody else should be protected from a situation. They should at least be made to be part of the solution, rather than EXCUSED. At the very least, he does not tear himself from the touches, allowing Shanks to anchor himself upon the bare skin of his body. ]
And I know he will rarely raise a hand in his own defense. I have already discussed with him his choices not to. He knows what I think of it.
( shanks learned the hard way that not every battle can be won. or should be won. that knowing when to retreat is more valuable than headfirst, reckless abandon. this is one of those times shanks realizes it's better to withdraw than further incite set's ire. he doesn't want to fight, anyway. he's done enough fighting for one day. )
Alright. ( in a tone that seems to say i'll take that under advisement next time. only they both know, realistically, he will not. still, it's with an open-hearted honesty that he admits, ) I'm sorry.
( would he do it again? yes. but he might have told set beforehand, if he could go back. he'd underestimated saber, and now set is paying for it — playing nurse to his stupid, injured husband. who could have died, again, if a piece of rib had pierced his lung. he was foolish. but he always has been, when it comes to the defense of his loved ones.
lightly, his fingers brush through set's hair, drawing several locks to his lips to bestow a lingering kiss. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action • post-saber fight
so, of course, he'd looked an absolute mess when quentin dropped him off at their little house, covered in blood and mud and grass and completely soaked in dirty laundry water, bruises darkening like scattered grapes from head to toe, his left sleeve torn from his shirt, one eye puffy and swelling.
valiantly, shanks had tried to walk on his own to the bathroom to clean up, and had immediately swayed into set's shoulder, which left being accompanied non-negotiable.
in fact, most everything since he stepped foot across their threshold has been non-negotiable, considering the state of him. shanks is fine with that. it almost feels like home, in a way, being barked at and fussed over and having someone else tend to his injuries. not that he's been seriously injured like this since — well, the east blue.
(dying, he thinks, isn't quite the same. set tended to him in death, too, but shanks was already gone then.)
he doesn't say much for quite a while. even breathing hurts, so he's kept his responses to a minimum, letting set have free reign over the conversation and following his orders with apologetic, sometimes amused little smiles until he sinks slowly into warm bathwater, the tension in his muscles finally beginning to release. tipping his head back to rest against the tub, he cranes his neck to watch set for a moment, his face softening with a comfortable fondness. he laughs softly at something set does, wincing as his ribs send shooting pain through his torso. )
Set. ( reaching out for set's wrist, intent on dragging him over the edge of the wooden tub, to tend to him from the bath. even an arm's length away feels too far. ) It's warmer in here.
no subject
[ Bristling, he grinds out the words. ( A testy cat, being told to come bathe. )
Tension writ upon his shoulders and the line of his jaw, his teeth grinding hard within his mouth as he furiously wrings out the cloth soaked in — some kind of herb soup, desperately assembled from the loose memories of observing his sister create her tonics and medicines for her people. Green things, needle things. Some sap. He remembers the acrid scents, and while the warm, soupy mixture doesn't precisely resemble what he knows, there's enough in there that something has to work to soothe Shanks's scrapes and bruises. A cloth nearby is already soaking with a green substance, thick as tar and smelling vaguely of pine.
He doesn't know what he's doing, only that the water is the last place he wants to be. The closest he'll come to it is the edge of the wooden tub, knees tucked along the warmed, damp slats and the dark iron banding keeping it all together; his hands trailing in the steaming waters from time to time, fussing faintly over another injury he's got to catalogue. ]
Sit there and behave, I am almost done with this [ nonsense, this nonsense of a healing tonic and poltice ] thing. Did you at least give as good as you got?
no subject
I know.
( he thought, maybe, this one time would be an exception. or maybe it's simply too much to ask on top of everything else. after all, he shouldn't be rewarded for his recklessness, should he? even if he'd had good intentions. even if he'd been acting on the one thing he's always held true: no one threatens his friends, or his family.
his arm drops back into the water where he squeezes his fist idly just below the surface, attempting to recreate a whale's blowhole with just one hand. it doesn't work quite as well as with two, but it amuses him long enough to let set finish his work without any further disruptions from shanks' needy hand. )
He's lucky to be alive. He has Koby to thank for that.
( shanks very much wanted saber dead, but koby asked him not to go that far. so he hadn't. )
no subject
Stirring his pathetic attempt at Isis's magic around, he finally tips the concentrated mixture into the bathwater — and reaches his hand in to begin agitating it around. The scent of mint rises softly, the cooling properties settling into the water as he stirs it around Shanks's knees. Business first. Hanky-panky after. It's how he's always been: a severe, restrained sort at heart, though he plays chaotic hedonist with aplomb and learned skill.
Eventually, he does reach for the salve he'd prepared as well, gathering some onto his thumb before he daubs it onto Shanks's face. Across the bruises and cautiously around his swollen eye. ]
I am angry with you both, you know. You, because you only just returned to me and this is what becomes of you. Him, because he refuses to defend himself in any way, and instead it falls to others again and again and again.
[ He does like Koby, but that "kindness" has always been a deep, deep point of contention between them. ]
He does nothing for himself, and you are brought to me battered and bloody. It is nearly unforgivable.
no subject
I couldn't let a threat like that slide, Set — and Koby would have died if he tried to challenge Saber on his own. Then, or now. But especially now. ( his voice softens, his hand coming to rest along set's forearm. ) You know this is who I am, ya rouhi. Why I was Anointed. Why I lost my arm.
( though it's strange to think of that time not so long ago at all, when he and set had been bound by more than just vows, when a god turned his eyes to worship a man. emptiness upon emptiness hollows him out now — his haki cut off, out of reach; the connection of their bonding mark severed — and for the first time since they wed in that chapel in the woods, shanks feels leagues away from the god he married. adrift in an endless sea.
turning his mouth to the center of set's palm, he presses a delicate kiss there, his hand reaching out to brush sturdy fingers along the back of set's neck, where the mark of an anchor once was. there is no compulsion to his words anymore, but still shanks insists: )
Don't be angry with Koby. He did try to convince me not to, but I would never see him bear this burden, even if he wanted to.
no subject
[ Even though Shanks tries to settle him, the irritation is deeper than reasonable; the edge he teeters on is fixated, like a man gazing at a long drop, knowing it's not that he will fall over the edge, but that he will eventually, inevitably jump. When he's stressed, he grows mean. Stubbornly resistant to even the people, the words he would otherwise trust.
Shanks had just returned to him, and already he was testing himself — against Saber, against the Shepherd's rules and regulations. ]
I am angry with you both, do not ask me not to be. At the very least, if you must stand for him, he should be there with you.
[ His nose wrinkles, lip curling as Shanks tells him: I would never see him bear this burden, and Set thinks of how he was forced to. How he believes that because he had to bear it all, nobody else should get a pass. Nobody else should be protected from a situation. They should at least be made to be part of the solution, rather than EXCUSED. At the very least, he does not tear himself from the touches, allowing Shanks to anchor himself upon the bare skin of his body. ]
And I know he will rarely raise a hand in his own defense. I have already discussed with him his choices not to. He knows what I think of it.
[ How it is dangerous, to people like Set. ]
no subject
Alright. ( in a tone that seems to say i'll take that under advisement next time. only they both know, realistically, he will not. still, it's with an open-hearted honesty that he admits, ) I'm sorry.
( would he do it again? yes. but he might have told set beforehand, if he could go back. he'd underestimated saber, and now set is paying for it — playing nurse to his stupid, injured husband. who could have died, again, if a piece of rib had pierced his lung. he was foolish. but he always has been, when it comes to the defense of his loved ones.
lightly, his fingers brush through set's hair, drawing several locks to his lips to bestow a lingering kiss. )
What can I do to make it up to you?