Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Why is it still so small,” the nasally voice that he hates more than every other sound in the world combined whines as a pudgy finger pokes through the bars of the tiny cage to dig into his side. His feathers ruffle and a crest of flames sparks down his spine but he forces the flames to die. There’s a small part of him shoved deep deep deep down that wants nothing more to char the finger and bite it clean off the bone but he knows better. The pudgy finger shoves him again and again and again but he doesn’t raise his head from his plumage where he was trying to sleep.

When there’s no reaction, the finger withdraws and an irritated hand slaps the cage hard enough to knock him off his perch and into the bars.

“My deepest apologies, your holiness, but we believe it’s still just a chick,” one of the men in suits apologizes to the fat creature in white robes.

“Well when is it going to get big?!”

“We believe it should reach full size in about six years,” the suited man responds, “But once it reaches maturity, a phoenix lives for around a hundred years, so you’ll be able to show it off for decades to come.”

“Too long! Make it bigger, now!”

The suited men exchange looks but both nod.

“Yes, Saint Elrond. We’ll have search parties sent out to track down a Devil Fruit for you.”

“Good!”

While the men talk, he shakes himself off and lets out a flare that burns the birdseed sticking to his feathers into ash. Then he settles back down on the floor of his tiny cage and stares up longingly at his perch. There’s no point hopping back up now when the creature in white is still angry and will just knock him back down again.

The men in suits call the white robed one a dragon, but that’s never made sense. He knows dragons are massive beasts that fly and breathe fire, not whiny, cruel creatures that throw tantrums when they don’t get what they want.

He doesn’t think he wants to get bigger. He’s only ever known this tiny cage, and even if he has the vaguest idea that he wasn’t always a prize in a tiny cage in a big white palace, he doesn’t think it counts since he can’t remember it. If he gets bigger, he’ll have even less room in his cage than he does now.

It doesn’t matter what he wants, though. Anything from the white robes is an order from the gods, and that means he’s going to be bigger no matter what.

Or maybe not. It’s been dozens of moons since the men in suits promised to make him bigger and the creature in white gets angrier with every passing day. He throws tantrums and yells and grabs anything around him to throw. Usually it’s his cage, and then the anger passes as the monster watches him catch fire to heal broken wings and torn feathers with pure glee. Sometimes its jewels. Sometimes gold. Sometimes chairs or rocks or food or anything in easy reach. But sometimes it’s slaves.

The sight of the slaves makes him sick. It always does. He hates the clinking of their chains and the collars around their necks that smell like smoke and danger, he hates the sight of them toiling away while they starve and break, he hates knowing that they can’t just catch on fire and be healed the way he can. When the creature in white forces him to sing, he always sings for them. He hopes it helps.

They’re like him. They’re in collars and chains instead of a cage, and they starve while his cage is always stocked with birdseed and water, but they’re like him. Or maybe he’s like them. Maybe he was.

He doesn’t remember and thinking about that makes his head hurt like it does when he tries to think about before so he doesn’t try.

The men in suits watch impassively as the evil creature stomps a slave to death, and barely an instant after the poor man has breathed his last, they step in to pacify their master.

“The ripe-ripe fruit hasn’t been seen in twenty-five years, we are trying everything we can but it’s likely that the fruit has been lost, my lord.”

“But there are only a few more years, and you can see that its feathers are already growing quite a bit longer.”

“It’s too small!”

“I understand, your holiness, and I assure you that we will not rest until we have the fruit. But if I may… offer a suggestion? In the meantime?”

“Egh, fine.”

“What if you were to move the creature to one of your vacation estates? Udrenon, perhaps? The Nobles there have never been so fortunate as to see a phoenix before, you’ll be the talk of the century even if it is still a chick. And if the worst comes to pass and the fruit is truly lost, then we will have the creature returned to the Holy Land once it has become fully grown, and you’ll have a magnificent prize without having to look at such a scrawny bird in the meantime.”

“Hmmm… I suppose that will do. But there must be a grand celebration, I’ll expect a month of festivities in my honor for gracing the court with my presence.”

“Of course, Saint Elrond!”

“We will make the arrangements at once.”

He’s moved. Without warning, the cage is picked up and he’s being walked through unfamiliar white halls and a courtyard that stirs a memory from the back of his mind, but it’s not until they reach some kind of platform that begins lowering that he sees something he remembers.

It’s the sea.

It’s big and blue and glitters in the sunlight and the fresh air ruffles his feathers and his fire feels even warmer under the sun and all he wants is to spread his wings and—

The dream dies. He can’t fly. He wants to. He knows he should be able to. He’s a bird, he’s made of fire and blue and gold but he’s still a bird with wings and he’s seen birds flying past the windows often enough to know that he should be out there flying too.

But he’s always been in the cage.

The party lasts a full month, as demanded. It’s horrible. It’s loud and full of people with irritating voices and high-pitched laughter that sounds as pleasant as crashing in a pile of glass shards and all the guests just want to touch him and poke and prod and feel the fire that doesn’t burn and rip out a feather to keep as a token and he hates every second.

But he’s been kept for too long. He knows not to bite. He knows not to burn. He knows not to resist the flames that leap up to heal him even if he’d rather just stay in pain than go through that awful cycle of hurting and healing until every last noble in the room has had their turn.

Finally, it ends. The evil creature in white departs with the men in suits and a trove of treasures and tributes. The estate is empty. Just the staff and servants and his little cage tucked away where he’ll stay until he’s big enough to return to the white place.

It’s better here. There’s no white robes. No slaves. He has a bigger cage, little bowls of birdseed and water that the servants keep filled, and no men in suits to rip out his feathers for charring something priceless when his flames flare a little too big. It’s quiet. And lonely.

Mostly it’s boring. He’s been sent away. Forgotten. A prize without value is just… worthless.

He wakes up from his midday nap to the sounds of screaming. It’s coming from everywhere. There are dark plumes of smoke rising into the blue sky, but that’s all he can see out the window. He shifts on his perch and tilts his head, listening for more sounds.

It sounds like the entire island is screaming. At least, from the shrill glass-breaking sounds, maybe it’s just the nobles. If he could smile, he would. He likes the idea of the nobles being scared. He could smile. Wait. No, he has a beak, he can’t.

He settles in and listens to the shouts and screams and clash of metal against metal that sounds nothing like chains crashing against each other and hears a word he hasn’t heard in… has he ever heard it?

“Pirates! Run for your life!”

No, he has. The white robes hate pirates. They defy them and take things that they haven’t been permitted to, and they get mad at the Marines because they haven’t been wiped out yet.

He listens for a few more minutes, then puts his head back down. The new sounds were a nice change from the endless boredom of his new home but he’s got an important nap schedule to keep.

The door slams open and servants pile into the room before slamming the door shut with a bang that shakes his cage.

“Damn pirates,” one of them snaps.

“They’ll be executed for this!” a guard growls, “Someone get me a Den-Den!”

They all look messy and ruffled and their heavy breathing is unpleasant in his ears and they stink with sweat and fear. He doesn’t want them in the room and he trills with irritation.

“Shut up, you dumbass bird!” the guard slams a hand into the cage and he flaps his wings quickly to regain his balance before he falls off his perch. He glares at the guard, but they’re all ignoring him.

Fine. He’ll just go back to his nap and hope they’re gone when he wakes up.

That doesn’t happen.

Outside the heavy door, he hears even more footsteps and an unfamiliar voice calls, “Hey, Captain! There’s some more in here!”

The door opens and everyone in the room falls still, fear filling the air until he can taste it. He opens his eyes and lifts his head in time to see the biggest man he’s ever seen enter the room, carrying a massive staff with a curved blade that’s bigger than a full-grown man in one hand. Then man has long blonde hair and there’s a big crescent on the giant’s face that he realizes is a mustache. But mostly, the man feels powerful in a way that he’s never felt before. He doesn’t like it.

“Stay back, pirate!” the guard snarls, raising his sword. With a single slash from the mighty weapon, the giant pirate disarms and sends the guard flying. The servants scream, cowering back.

“Haven’t you heard?” a new voice says sweetly, and a trio of people enter the room behind the giant, each armed with a sword and a nasty grin, “Pirates don’t like being told what to do.”

The woman next to him lets out a low whistle.

“Plenty of treasure in here, too. Damn, those Celestial Dragons have money to spare, don’t they? We’ll be taking it.”

All hell breaks loose. The guards charge and the pirates answer while the servants scatter. He watches with half-closed eyes as the men fight. The giant pirate stays in the doorway. He must be in charge since he’s letting everyone else fight for him.

The jingle of metal catches his attention and he sees a butler fumbling with a ring of keys, looking up fearfully when the giant pirate takes a step towards him. The butler pales and scrambles backwards, grabbing the nearest object and throws it as hard as he can, trying to save himself.

Unfortunately, the nearest object is his cage. The cage goes flying and he hits the bars hard with a pained squawk when the metal collides with the giant’s chest. He flinches and tucks his wings in, bracing for something to snap when the cage hits the ground far below, but it never happens. The massive pirate catches the cage with his free hand, scowling down at the butler.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the pirate scolds in an angry voice.

“Don’t kill me!” the butler begs but the pirate has already swung the massive weapon and the butler slumps over. Unconscious, but not bloody. The keys fall to the ground with another jingle and this must be where the pirate seizes the path to treasure and plunder.

Instead, the cage gets lifted higher into the air and he’s brought up to the pirate’s massive face. Piercing eyes lock on him and he freezes, fear sending his tiny heart into overdrive.

“Hello there, little one,” the man says softly. There’s no trace of the anger but even though the look on the man’s face is gentle, he’s still terrified. More terrified than he’s been in years and the burn between his shoulder blades sears with agony he can barely remember, where he’s marked the property of the white-robed monster. The man seems to sense his fear and gives him a small smile, “That’s quite a small cage, I’m sure you’d like to be out of it.”

Before he knows what’s happening, the man reaches out and rips the door of the cage off like it’s made of paper.

Everything stops.

He can’t leave the cage. He’s not allowed to. He knows better.

The man looks sad. Without shaking the cage, the man lowers the giant weapon to the ground and reaches up with the empty hand to form a platform for him.

“It’s alright. You’ve been caged up for a long time, haven’t you?”

The man pauses, patiently waiting and he realizes that the man wants him to answer. His beak opens. Then he stops, confused. He doesn’t know why he did that. Slowly, he bobs his head once.

“That’s what I thought. If you want to stay, I won’t stop you, but I don’t think you do. So why not come with me? I’ll make sure no one puts you in a cage ever again.”

“Captain, I’ve got the keys, and Whitey’s gone ahead to the cells.”

“Give me a minute,” the giant pirate captain answers in a voice that’s still soft and steady. He blinks, staring at the man and while his flames flare and his feathers burn blue and gold because he stopped breathing the instant the cage opened. The man gives him another smile, “I can feel your fear, little one. But I promise you, I will protect you for as long as you’ll have me. You’ll always be free.”

Free.

Freedom.

He had that once.

He knows he did, because you can only lose something if you used to have it.

He wants to be free. He wants to be out of the cage. He wants to be in the sky, flying over the ocean, singing to his heart’s content because he feels like it. He wants to be out of the cage.

He takes a tiny step toward the opening and goes up in panicked flames and a terrified screech. He tried escaping. A long time ago, he tried to get out of his cage. He bit fingers and clawed at flesh and burned everything that came near him. And they hurt him. They hurt him so bad and waited for him to heal and then hurt him and again and again and again and again and—

The bars above him split open as the pirate pries the cage apart. With one gentle finger, the pirate scoops him up, ignoring the flames and talons, and ever so carefully places him down on the pirate’s shoulder.

He freezes, stunned. His talons dig into the skin beneath him and the pirate doesn’t even flinch.

“That’s good, just hang on tight,” the pirate says, one giant finger reaching up to stroke from the crown of his head down his back and he lets out a trill of surprised joy because no one has ever petted him like this and the touch feels like heaven, “I’m getting you out of here.”

And just like that, the pirate takes him away.

Chapter Text

“My name is Edward Newgate,” the captain tells him. The smile on the pirate’s face is still there every time he looks at him, “I’m also known as Whitebeard.”

He tilts his head in confusion, staring at the crescent mustache. That’s not a beard.

Whitebeard just laughs, a bellowing sound that makes him bob up and down with the motion. It feels nice. He likes the joy in the pirate’s voice.

“That’s a long story, my little friend. I’ll tell you sometime, if you’d like to hear it.”

Whitebeard continues walking toward the ship, a massive and towering creature that looks like a whale.

“This is my ship, the Moby Dick.”

He looks up at the big ship and his feathers burn gold with awe. It’s the biggest ship he’s ever seen and he can hear people moving around inside it. It’s a lot fewer than he was expecting for such a big ship.

“She’s my home, and as long as you want to stay, she’s your home too.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t choose to come. The pirate ripped his cage open and took him. But he hasn’t tried to move off the captain’s shoulder, he doesn’t think he wants to.

The pirates on deck all laugh when their captain returns.

“Looks like you made a friend!”

“You look like a real pirate, Captain!”

“Yeah, all you need now is an eye patch and a peg leg!” another cheers. The captain lets out a booming laugh and the men on deck join in. They’re all laughing, but none of them are laughing at him.

“What kind of bird is it, anyway?” one of the pirates asks after the stolen treasures were loaded aboard and the ship set sail for seas unknown.

“He,” Whitebeard corrects before he can trill in his own defense, one giant finger stroking down his back again, “He’s a phoenix.”

Someone whistles. The rest of the deck goes quiet.

“They’re real? Ow!”

The pirate that smacked the other shakes out a hand, “This is the Grand Line, idiot, why are you surprised?”

The Whitebeard pirates are nice. It’s clear that the crew all likes each other, and that they adore their captain. But he still doesn’t understand why they have such a big ship when the crew is so small. He wishes he could ask.

Within a few days, the crew has built little perches for him all over the ship, and he can hear them talking to each other excitedly about helping him get settled in. One of the cooks has taken to carrying a bag of mixed nuts and dried berries around, trying to coax him into eating a little bite. It smells so good. He’s sick of birdseed, craving something he can’t even remember, and once he smells it, he can’t get the idea of real fruit out of his head.

But he never takes it. He never sits on the perches either. He stays fixed to the captain’s shoulder, too afraid to leave it. There are worse places to be. He can stretch his wings out and flap them as much as he wants without hitting metal bars and the captain never smacks him for it. Whitebeard doesn’t seem to mind the occasional lick of flames or claws digging into his shoulder when he needs to shift his grip. The captain talks to him, pets him with a gentle finger, gives him bowls of birdseed mixed with berries and nuts and grains like the pirate somehow knew how badly he wanted it, and only coaxes him off the shoulder and onto a nice big perch next to the captain’s giant bed when it’s time for the captain to sleep. He spends his days listening to stories of the pirate’s travels, basking in fresh air and sunlight and watching the sprawling ocean glitter and churn, watching the pirates hoist sails and scrub decks and climb the masts and rig lines and just sail the seas.

There are worse places to be kept.

“So Captain, what are you going to name him?” one of the pirates asks.

Whitebeard reaches up to pat him again.

“I’m waiting for him to tell me,” The captain rumbles kindly and he preens under the warm glow. That is, until the captain asks, “You already have a name, don’t you?”

He stops.

Why would he have a name? He was just a prize in a cage for the white robes to show off and call ‘it.’

He looks up at the captain and the man’s eyes are full of kindness and patience and something knowing. Something shifts. He can feel himself shaking, his talons clinging tight to his perch as his little body trembles. His head hurts and his heart hurts and he hurts and something little breaks out of the locked box deep in his chest and he knows.

He has a name.

He had one before.

And there’s something else, too. Something important he’s forgetting; even more important than a name he doesn’t remember. His body itches, feeling suddenly too small and he spreads the feathers at the tips of his wings but it’s not right, and he wiggles his talons but there should be more of them, his beak opens and clicks shut and frustration burns hot and his flames burn even hotter.

“Uh, Captain? I don’t think he liked that,” the pirate says nervously. The captain just chuckles and runs a finger through the flames like they aren’t even there, the touch soothing to the ache in his heart.

“If you had something important taken from you, you’d be angry too,” Whitebeard says.

With his permission, the crew starts calling him Phoenix. Just until he remembers.

“Hey Captain? Can Phoenix, uh… understand us?”

He looks at the pirate in confusion. Of course he can, why wouldn’t he?

Whitebeard lets out a chuckle, shaking him with the shoulders that gently heave up and down.

“Of course he can.”

“Really?”

More pirates crowd around, looking at him in fascination. He stiffens, feathers puffing up as he remembers the nobles at the party, how fascination led to poking and prodding and then ripping and tearing and his feathers catch fire instinctively.

But none of the pirates try to touch him.

Some of them start talking to him and he realizes they really didn’t know he could understand them. Some of them introduce themselves.

The tall blue one with the big mustache is Vista, the lady with the skirt that ripples and spins when she moves is Whitey Bay, the blonde man with the metal flail is Rakuyo, the one with brown hair that sticks straight up is Kinga, and that’s all he can remember because the others that introduce themselves don’t have funny hair.

He hops on his perch and looks at the porthole impatiently. The sun is up and he’s been looking out the window since the first rays of dawn lit up the sky. He wants to be outside and feel the sunlight on his feathers. Usually the captain is one of the first pirates up on deck, with him perched happily on the man’s shoulder.

But today the pirate is still sleeping.

He shifts unhappily, flapping his wings once, staring down at the pirate who’s sleeping away a beautiful day. He eyes the gap between his perch and the giant bed, flapping his wings again to gauge if he’ll be able to jump it.

He’s not sure. Once he’s on the bed, he can hop over to the pirate, but if he misses the mattress, it’s a long fall to the ground.

Even if he could, it’s too far.

He lets out a wretched burble, misery and sadness filling every sound. Whitebeard doesn’t stir.

He tries again, louder, and this time the hollow trill that fills the room is nearly enough to shake the bed.

Whitebeard’s eyes snap open, the powerful aura flooding with danger, before the eyes lock on to him. The power filling the room fades as the captain realizes there’s no danger and the man sighs. He looks longingly at the closed door and chirps eagerly, flapping out his wings. The captain sighs again and, rubbing a hand across a tired face, grumbles, “fine, fine.”

The captain pushes out of bed and slowly crosses the room before pulling open the door and gesturing at it.

“All yours. I’ll be up later.”

He stares out the open door quizzically, before looking back at the captain and chirping again. The pirate groans.

“Right, you can’t fly yet,” yet another sigh, followed by two massive fingers massaging the bridge of the pirate’s nose. The captain looks over at him pleadingly, “Will you go up with one of the crew?”

He freezes, fear filling his tiny chest.

“Dammit. Alright, fine, I’ll get up. But,” the pirate points a massive finger at him and he knows this pirate is always gentle with him so he’s not scared, “we are going to teach you to fly so I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn every day for you. Deal?”

He quirks his head at the pirate, staring up with wide and innocent eyes. He wants to learn to fly but he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to so he’s not going to. The pirate stares him down, neither of them giving first.

Then the captain sighs, grumbling as he closes the door for privacy and turns away from him.

“I’m getting soft. Used to be a scary fucking pirate,” he grumbles, pretending to be unhappy. The massive finger points at him again and the captain accuses, “I used to be a Rocks pirate you know! I was feared!”

He doesn’t know what a Rocks pirate is so he just chirps happily and nudges the finger to pet him again. As always, the finger and the man it’s attached to gives him what he wants.

After that, Whitebeard finishes changing and holds out a massive hand. He hops onto it with a delighted chirp and lets the pirate transfer him to the shoulder.

“I’ve been dreading the day you realize I can’t say no to you,” the pirate mutters, stroking a soft finger down his back. He trills in sheer delight and starts singing, excited that the wait is over and it’s time to go outside.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” the captain agrees. But Whitebeard is smiling too.

“So, uh, I’m all for it but… how exactly do we teach a bird to fly?” Kingdew with the funny blond bob asks. The rest of the crew frowns, looking at him with matching faces of puzzlement.

“We could catch a different bird and get them to show him?” Vista suggests.

“Like a News Coo?”

“Only if you want to stop getting the paper, dumbass,” Whitey slaps the other pirate playfully. The other pirate rubs their arm. Maybe the hit wasn’t so playful. He still knows Whitey loves her crewmates and wouldn’t actually hurt them.

“How do birds normally learn?” Kinga asks.

“I heard their parents push them out of the nest,” Rakuyo says, shrugging defensively when dozens of pirates turn around with angry expressions, “What? I’m not saying we should, that’s just what I heard.”

“We could set up some perches around, try to get him to do short jumps?”

“Do you know how to glide, Phoenix?” one of the pirates whose name he can’t remember asks. He shifts his position on Whitebeard’s shoulder and holds out his wings, trying to spread the feathers out flat. The wind catches the feathers at the wrong angle and nearly pushes him over and he squawks, flapping awkwardly to try to regain his balance until the captain finally reaches up to block the wind so he can pull his wings back in. An embarrassed squawk escapes his beak and he tucks his head into his feathers to hide.

“Okay, so maybe we just start with that?”

Forget flying. He is very bad at gliding.

But every day, the Whitebeard pirates set up a series of perches in a little ring on the main deck, gathering around in a loose circle in case he gets blown off course. The first few times, he’s willing to try because he does really want to learn to fly like he’s supposed to be able to, but after the third day when he hits the deck and slams into the wooden pole the nearest perch sits on and gets swept up in a breeze and nearly launched over the side of the ship before Vista catches him, he’s done. He digs his claws into Vista’s arm and pulls himself along beak over claws until he’s secured himself to the man’s shoulder and refuses to let go until the captain finally gives in and tells the crew that it’s enough for one day. Only then does he allow Whitebeard to return him to his rightful shoulder. He pretends not to hear afterwards when Vista brags about being the only person besides the captain that he perched on.

But on day four, when Whitebeard tries to pry him off his shoulder and onto the first perch, he digs his claws in and screeches, flapping out his wings.

“I know it’s hard, but it’ll get easier with more practice,” the captain tells him patiently. He squawks petulantly and looks away, until the gentle finger nudging him turns into a trio of fingers delicately prying his claws up. He squawks in panic, nipping at the fingers warningly, but the captain just laughs and says, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, little one, we all believe in you.”

“Yeah!”

“You can do it, Phoenix!”

“You’re getting a lot better already!”

“Come on, Phoenix!”

The praise distracts him for long enough that he doesn’t realize Whitebeard has gotten him loose until he’s already sitting on the first perch. When the captain steps back, he looks up and shoots the pirate a betrayed look and a mournful trill.

“Give me a break,” the captain laughs, cheerful and completely immune to his whining, “I know you want to fly, that means you have to put in the work.”

He turns away and sulks with a low whistle.

The pirates around them laugh.

“Looks like he’s mad at you, Captain.”

“He’ll get over it,” the captain responds and dammit, he knows he’s not going to be able to stay mad.

Little by little, he gets the hang of gliding. He figures out how to tilt his feathers at the right angle to catch the wind instead being buffeted around by it and the right way to stretch out his wings. The first time he makes it all the way around the ring of perches on his own, the entire crew cheers loudly enough that the whole ship rocks. They start moving the perches farther and farther apart, and gradually he figures out how to cross the bigger distances. He still can’t fly, but now he can jump off the captain’s shoulder and glide to the first perch all on his own.

The cheers and applause from the crew feels nice, but it’s the proud look on the captain’s face that makes his chest feel all warm and happy. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. Now that he can glide, the next step is to fly and then he’ll be able to soar like he wants to. And with the way the crew encourages him and stands ready to catch him, and the proud look on the captain’s face, he knows he can do it.

This ship is fun. The crew is nice and the captain always feels so happy with him perched on the giant shoulder and they sail across the seas without fear and take him to islands beyond anything he’s ever imagined and they feed him berries and nuts and little crunchy things that make the best popping sound when he bites them and he’s happy.

He loves being kept here.

Chapter Text

Compared to learning to glide, flying is easy.

Well, short flights are easy. He can jump off Whitebeard’s shoulder and flap twice, crossing half the deck before tilting his feathers in to make a fast landing on the perch that’s waiting just for him. He can also go a little way up and grab onto the rope ladder leading up to the main mast but he usually gets his wings caught and panics— after setting everything on fire for the sixth time, it’s pretty universally agreed that he should stay away from the ropes.

But the problem is, that’s as much as he can do.

He should be able to go farther but he just can’t. Two flaps of his wings against the powerful breezes that buffet the ship and he’s exhausted. The first time he successfully crosses the entire deck, he immediately puts his head down and sleeps for the entire rest of the day, only waking briefly when the captain brings him inside for the night.

At first, the crew thinks it’s just because he’s so little and hasn’t had to fly before. But when he just gets more and more tired, even after weeks of practicing his flying, they start to worry.

“Do you think he’s malnourished?” Hatchet with the purple eyebrows asks, frowning as one calloused but gentle thumb rubs under his chin. He burbles sleepily and leans into it.

“We can try to feed him more, but he’s already not finishing the stuff we put out for him,” one of the cooks answers.

“Are you still hungry, Phoenix?” Kinga asks softly, leaning in closer. He opens one eye blearily and looks at the pirate. He lets out a miserable trill and he doesn’t mean to but the sound cuts through the chatter of the mess hall until everyone is staring at him in silence. The pirates sitting around the captain all look down at the untouched food in his bowl that he can’t bring himself to take another bite of.

His little stomach is practically full to bursting and he thinks he’ll explode if he eats anything else. As long as he’s been on this ship, he’s had as much as he could possibly eat put in front of him, and even when he was in the little cage, the bowls were always kept full.

But it’s never enough. He’s never understood how he can have a full belly and still ache with hunger same time. And now that he’s flying and hopping and singing, it’s getting worse and worse. He’s not just hungry, he’s ravenous but no matter how much he eats, he’s always full long before his hunger fades. Like there’s a black hole in his center that just takes and takes and takes and he’ll never fill it.

“I’m not sure if that’s a yes,” Whitey Bay says slowly, frowning as Kinga tries unsuccessfully to feed him another berry.

“Come on, Phoenix, just a little bite,” Kinga coaxes. The fingers come a little too close and he snaps out, drawing the tiniest bit of blood and the pirate drops the berry, shaking out the bleeding digits and swearing, “Ow, shit! Sorry, buddy, I’m just trying to help.”

He feels bad, shame adding to the gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach and he shifts on the wooden tabletop, reaching one talon out with an insistent chirp. Kinga looks confused, glancing at the other pirates who all seem equally confused, but the finger is slowly brought back towards him.

He ignores the berry and grabs the finger in one talon, slowly pulling it towards him until he’s half sitting on it. The pirates all watch in confusion but the captain seems fascinated. He ignites without warning, holding tight when Kinga lets out a surprised yelp as blue and gold flames consume the bleeding finger, and after a second, he releases it.

“Sonnuva—”

“What the hell was that?!”

“Holy shit!” Kinga exclaim, holding the finger aloft.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” the captain asks adoringly, one hand reaching down to scoop him up and he settles into the warm palm with a sleepy trill.

“He fixed it!” Kinga says excitedly, “Look, it’s not bleeding anymore!”

“He’s got healing powers?” Rakuyo asks in awe.

“Well, whatever it is, it looks like it wipes him out,” Whitey says, gesturing to where he’s practically melted into the captain’s hand.

“We’ll need to keep an eye on him,” Whitebeard says as one massive thumb gently strokes across his exhausted body, “His exhaustion seems unnatural, even for such a young creature.”

“Hey, I’ve been telling you we need a doctor for ages,” Prattle says.

“We’ll see,” the captain half-agrees and that’s the last thing he hears before sleep takes him.

His short flights never get longer, but his aim gets better and soon he can get himself anywhere on the main deck without missing or veering off course. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of landing in the rigging, but he’s at least stopped panicking when his wings get stuck, trusting the crew to get him untangled quickly.

He’s at the point when the practice sessions are his favorite part of the day instead of something he dreads, and he knows the captain is as happy about it as he is. But when the crew breaks off to go back to their duties, he feels Whitebeard grow more and more unsettled with every time he immediately returns to the captain’s shoulder after delightedly soaring in tiny circles from perch to perch.

The practice wrapped up hours ago and he’s been a good sport about it, but there’s a pod of massive creatures the crew calls Sea Kings off the starboard side and the captain is happily settled in the center deck with a tankard in hand and doesn’t budge to matter how insistently he chirps and nudges at the shoulder and stares longingly at the perch perfectly positioned to watch the massive beasts as they burst out of the water and roar.

Whitebeard gives him a sideways look at a particularly loud and unhappy chirp and glances over to the empty perch.

“What’s that look for?” the captain demands, “You’re perfectly capable of getting yourself over there.”

For a second, he’s just confused. He knows he is, why does that matter?

Then it hits him and the soft flames dancing at the edge of his tail feathers extinguish as misery settles over him like a blanket. He shifts his talons, tucking his legs under him, before putting his weight down and laying his head in his feathers. He tells himself he’s just napping, but he knows it’s clear as day that he’s sulking.

The captain is making fun of him. He doesn’t think the pirate is trying to taunt him, it doesn’t feel anything like when the white robes made him hop around and dance in a silly little pattern to entertain them, but he still doesn’t like it. He wants to watch the Sea Kings and the captain knows he does, but they both know he’s already had his flying time for the day.

“What’s that face for?” the captain asks in a baffled voice without any mockery behind it. A clunk echoes along the deck and he realizes the pirate did something unbelievable; Whitebeard put down the booze just to look at him. He raises his head and meets the confused gaze, not challenging his new owner but showing his unhappiness all the same. A massive hand comes up to gently stroke his plumage and the pirate asks, “What’s wrong, little one?”

He looks over at the empty perch on the other side of the deck and keens, trying to tell the man how badly he wants to be over there and doing his best to show he’s not trying to be difficult. He just wants to see the sea monsters twist and coil in the waves like dragons of the sea.

Whitebeard’s expression twists and the hand falls still.

“Oh,” the pirate breathes, disappointed and sad. He freezes, waiting for the punishment that always follows his master being disappointed in him. The hand reaches down to make a platform and he obediently hops on, holding still as the pirate brings him up so he’s looking right at those big, sad eyes.

“You don’t need my permission, little one,” the captain says solemnly, “You’re free to do as you wish. I love having you on my shoulder, but only if that’s where you wish to be. Do you understand?”

He tilts his head, looking up in confusion. He lets out a trill that’s soft and uncertain.

This pirate took him. Fed him. Taught him to fly. Listened in delight when he sang. Kept him.

He likes being kept by this pirate, he does.

He just doesn’t understand.

The pirate sighs.

“I didn’t take you out of that place so you would be mine,” the captain tells him, and the words sound honest even if they don’t make any sense, “I took you out so you would be yours.”

He doesn’t move. He just watches the big pirate’s face and waits for the words to start making sense. He’s a prize. He’s meant to be owned. That’s what the mark on his back means. The mark might not be visible under his feathers, but he knows it’s there. That’s the only thing he’s never forgotten.

“I know you don’t understand yet, but that’s alright,” Whitebeard says softly, running a finger down his spine and he shivers under the weight of the words, “I’ll just keep telling you until you do.”

The pirate continues, “You’re free, little one. All I want is for you to be happy. If that means leaving the ship and finding your own adventures, then we’ll see you off safely. And if you want to stay, you’ll always have a place on this ship. But you have never been my possession. You’re a member of this crew the same as any other and you should do as you please.”

The finger stops petting him and hovers in front of his face like an outstretched hand.

“Do you understand now?”

He looks up at the finger and chirps softly, nuzzling into the touch. He doesn’t understand, not yet, but he hears the message. He is wanted here, and whether or not he believes that he has a choice, he wants to be here too.

He looks down at the massive pirate in the bed, dead to the world and snoring loud enough to shake the entire room. He thinks about what the man said earlier. He’s his own. He should do as he pleases. He doesn’t have to stay on his perch just because the captain put him here.

And if that’s true, then maybe he can do what he’s wanted to since the day the pirate brought him on board.

If he’ll be punished for it, he might as well find out now. He shifts nervously and puffs out his feathers once in a spray of blue and gold sparks, then hops off his perch and glides down to the mattress. The pirate doesn’t stir as he hops along the bed, flapping his wings quickly to leap over the massive slumbering form.

Whitebeard blinks as he nuzzles into the crook of the massive shoulder, settling down on the pillow and resting his head on his feathers. There’s a long pause and he waits nervously for the captain to scoop him up and put him back on his perch. But instead, the man gives him a soft smile.

“Just be careful, little one,” the giant pirate warns, stroking his feathers gently, “I’m quite a bit bigger than you.”

He tweets softly, sending out a blue-gold flare that burns out almost immediately, reminding the pirate that he’s not that helpless.

“Alright. Goodnight, little one.”

He trills happily, tucking his head back down into his feathers and basking in the man’s warmth, letting the rumbling of the heavy breaths lull him to sleep.

For the first time in his entire life, he falls asleep feeling safe.

In the morning, when the captain and his navigators stand over a map and a set of strange little globes with arrows that spin in meaningless directions, he surprises them all by flying off the captain’s shoulder and hopping up and down on the table to get a better look at the maps.

“Ever seen a log pose before?” one of the navigators asks and he taps the glass with his beak instead of answering, watching the little arrow bob up and down before settling back in the same direction. The navigator’s eyes widen and they reach down to yank the strange object out of reach, “Whoa, careful! Those are fragile! And expensive.”

He lets out a little chirp and Whitebeard chuckles.

“He was just curious, Lima. Why don’t you explain how the equipment works?”

He looks up happily, hopping up and down on the table and little sparks fly off the end of his tail feathers. One of the other navigators looks down nervously.

“How about we move you away from the flammable and extremely important for us not to get lost in the middle of the Grand Line equipment first?” the black-haired man suggests. He lets out a put-out chirp, as if he’s insulted that they think his control over his flame is so bad, and the navigators all look apologetic.

“Sorry, he didn’t mean that,” another navigator apologizes. If he could smirk, he would, but instead he lets out a cheery trill, jumps off the table and flaps up until he’s sitting on an empty shelf just high enough where he can still see the maps. Whitebeard chuckles even louder and claps the navigator on the back.

“Looks like he’s sticking with you today, I’ll be on the deck. Bring him up when he’s done playing with you, will you?”

“Sure, Captain,” the man nods. He’s pretty sure he’s the only one that caught the captain’s double-meaning, especially when the man catches his eye and winks before leaving the room. He trills after the man, but then the navigators begin explaining all the equipment and the different kinds of compasses and log poses and maps and he’s completely fascinated by the idea that people can actually find their way across the endless seas and get wherever they want to go.

He still spends most of his time on the captain’s shoulder, but he slowly starts to explore the other perches around the ship. Most of them are on the deck, and he likes looking down at the water and up at the sky from different angles. He wonders what the sea will look like when he’s soaring high in the sky, but he’s not anywhere near strong enough for that yet.

The tallest point on the ship is called the crow’s nest and even though it’s much higher than he can fly, he wants to see it. So, one morning when Whitebeard is too busy sleeping to enjoy a beautiful sunrise, he flies out of the captain’s cabin and up into the rigging, beginning the long and arduous climb-fly-rest-hop-rest some more-fly-hop-get tangled-get untangled-rest-fly again journey all the way up the main mast to where Rakuyo is on lookout.

The pirate looks surprised to see him but when he warbles cheerfully and does a little victory hop, Rakuyo just smiles and tells him he did a great job getting all the way up by himself. He knows, but he preens anyway.

Then, absolutely exhausted, he sits down on a little platform that juts out from the main mast and falls asleep immediately.

He wakes up a little while later to the sounds of heavy footsteps rushing across the deck and cranes his neck to look down. All the pirates look so small from here as they run back and forth and all around the ship. They’re funny.

Rakuyo is gone, replaced by Kingdew, who lets out a curious hum and says, “I wonder what they’re doing down there.”

He doesn’t know, and he’s still exhausted, so he just closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

He discovers, several hours later when a frantic Vista shouts, “FOUND HIM! HE’S UP HERE!” right in his face and rudely wakes him up from a really great nap by scooping him up with one sweaty, smelly and calloused hand, that they were looking for him.

Whitebeard’s face is almost as pale as his mustache when a giant hand lifts him up to it and says in a shaky voice, “At least tell me that you had a good time.”

He fluffs out his feathers and chirps happily, trilling a little song he made up when he was watching the tiny lights glittering on the water from way up high. Whitebeard sighs, one shakier than usual finger petting his back.

“Next time, promise me you’ll make sure the lookout knows you’re there,” the captain nearly begs. He tilts his head and chirps in confusion. Whitebeard frowns and adds, “So that we know where you are if I wake up and you’re gone.”

He tilts his head even further and then cranes his neck around, tweeting at Rakuyo who suddenly pales. Whitebeard follows his gaze and the shaky but relieved look turns into a furious one.

“Rakuyo,” the captain says in a voice that is not even a little bit pleased, “Did you know that he was in the crow’s nest?”

Rakuyo’s mouth drops open and one hand rises in an attempt at self-defense.

“In my defense,” the pirate starts nervously, “I thought you knew he went up there.”

It’s not a good defense, but Whitebeard isn’t cruel. The pirate just gets extra mopping duties for a few weeks and complains about it loudly when he lands on Rakuyo’s head and nestles into blond dreadlocks.

The navigators add a little swing in the map room just for him and he likes studying the maps while Whitebeard is occupied with something boring like showering or swinging his giant scythe around for hours at a time.

Once the crew realizes he wants to explore, new perches start popping up all over the ship. He doesn’t like flying through the hallways, so he never goes very far, but the infirmary and the kitchens are both pretty close to the main staircase so he likes hanging out there too.

There are always cooks at work and the kitchens always smell warm and inviting and he’s careful to keep his feathers out of the way of the prep stations after the first time the cooks gently scold him. One of the cooks always talks to herself while she chops vegetables and stirs bubbling pots and the songs she hums and whistles and quietly sings stirs something in the back of his memory. She introduces herself as Magora and feeds him a little yellow cube of fruit that’s juicy and tangy and immediately becomes his new favorite food. He likes her.

Magora says she’s from the Grand Line originally, unlike most of the crew that hailed from one of the Blues. He’s excited when he hears that; the navigators have just taught him all about the four Blues and what kinds of different islands can be found on each one. He’d never heard of a Blue before that.

 He also likes the infirmary. They haven’t found a doctor yet, but there’s a nurse who wears a silly pink outfit that she insists isn’t just because she likes girly things. Once she finishes wrapping up a skeptical crewmember’s bloody hand and sends the pirate out the door with orders to keep ice on the swelling, she leans over to him and whispers, “Pink is a lot easier to hide bloodstains than white, the boys just don’t like hearing that.”

He chirps in amusement, watching in fascination as she dabs a little bit of a clear chemical on her bloodstained shirt and the blood bubbles up with white foam that she wipes away with a little bit of water.

“See?” Whiskey grins. He tweets back at her excitedly, wondering what other kinds of secrets she knows.

The scent of something spicy and creamy and garlicky makes the birdseed suddenly taste dry and disgusting in his mouth. He spits it out and raises his head, watching intently as Magora sets a massive bowl of something on the table in front of the captain.

“Don’t remember where I picked this recipe up, but it’s one of my favorites,” she smiles at the captain, “Enjoy!”

She turns and yells at the rest of the crew, “That goes for all you mongrels too!”

With cheers, the pirates dig in.

He hops up to the side of Whitebeard’s bowl, staring down at the orange curry. He sticks his beak down and smells it, his eyes widening at the mixture of chilies and onions and nutmeg and tangy yogurt.

The ever-present pit of hunger roars suddenly, and he’s never wanted anything as much as he wants to eat the curry. He doesn’t just want to. He needs to. He remembers this, he’s had this curry before and he needs it now as much as he needs to breathe.

He sticks his entire head in and grabs a big mouthful with his beak, the spices and cream tasting like absolute heaven and while the flames leap up to burn the sauce off his messy feathers, his mind spins with things he’s never remembered before. There’s a woman’s voice and soft laughter at the table next to him and a man’s hand ruffling his hair as he sets a bowl down and tells him to eat up. A little boy giggles, “Thanks, Pops!” and picks up the bowl with his fingers, slurping down the curry and his parents laugh while he beams and practically devours it.

The memory shatters when a finger gently lifts his head out of the bowl.

“Careful, you’re going to drown if you keep on like that,” Whitebeard chuckles, nudging his head up and sliding the bowl out of the way. He lets out a pathetic chirp, flapping his wings and trying to get his head free. He wants more.

Needs more.

He wants to remember. It feels important. Like something he’s forgotten that he wants to remember.

“Can he even eat that?” Vista asks nervously.

“I’m pretty sure there’s chicken in this,” Lima adds with a frown, and all the pirates shudder and move their bowls away from him.

“Sorry, little one, no more for you,” Whitebeard says softly and refuses to budge no matter how much he chirps and tweets and wriggles to try to get free from the gentle grip and take just one more bite.

Whiskey gives him a disapproving frown when Whitebeard brings him into the infirmary not long after that, cheeping softly and cocooned into his own feathers, miserable and scared because his stomach won’t stop hurting no matter how many times he catches on fire.

“No more people food for you, alright?”

He trills pathetically and she rolls her eyes.

Chapter Text

He feels fine the next day, but the captain is too worried to let it go. The head nurse and the cooks and anyone who knows anything about birds gather around the captain’s chair, debating his diet and trying to figure out what to do about it. As far as he can tell, they’re worried he’s not eating enough and think that him trying to eat human food is just a sign that the things they’ve been feeding him are all wrong. It doesn’t matter to him; he’s perfectly happy here and there’s no reason to worry about anything when he can just take a nice nap whenever he gets tired.

“Maybe he needs more protein? I don’t have any idea what phoenixes are supposed to eat, we’ve just been mixing mealworms and some of the dried bait into his birdseed,” the head cook Otterburn admits.

His eyes snap open, all thoughts of napping abandoned, and he squawks in outrage.

They’ve been feeding him worms?!

He sprays off a wave of angry sparks in Otterburn’s direction and flaps over to the captain’s other shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at the man that’s been feeding him disgusting worms.

“You need the nutrients!” the chef calls defensively, but he turns up his beak and ignores him.

“There must be something else you can give him,” the captain says as one giant finger strokes along his back in a peace offering. He eyes the finger distrustfully for a brief second before deciding that the captain didn’t seem to be aware of what the chefs were doing and leans into the touch.

“I don’t know much about birds of prey, but I heard something about messenger hawks eating rodents from the holds of ships,” Whiskey suggests.

Now they want him to eat rats?!!!!

He doesn’t know exactly what kind of sound he makes at that suggestion but he knows it makes his feelings about that perfectly clear. Whitebeard chuckles and says, “We’re not going to feed you mice.”

The captain shoots a look at the assembled crew that makes it clear that is non-negotiable. He chirps happily and nuzzles against the captain’s neck.

“Maybe fish then? We could give him a little of whatever the crew catches.”

“What do you think of fish?” Whitebeard asks. Thinking about the smell of butter and garlic and onions and paprika and all the other spices that the cooks use to roast fresh-caught fish makes his stomach rumble and he twitters, his wings fluttering at the thought of it.

“Well, that’s that problem solved,” Whiskey smiles.

“I’ll go see if anyone’s fishing right now, otherwise I’m sure I can get a couple people to try and catch something fresh,” Kinga offers.

He can’t wait for dinner. He’s too excited to nap and he spends the afternoon hopping around and singing. By dinnertime, he’s burned so much energy that his little body is rumbling with hunger and Whitebeard’s face has gone a little bit pinched like it does when the pirate gets a headache. He’s not sure why, the captain hasn’t had too much to drink today and the pirate has been much too busy listening to him sing to do anything noisy or loud.

He's practically vibrating with excitement when the cooks bring the food out and he jumps onto the rim of his little bowl the instant it’s put down in front of him, expecting to see something like the fish the cooks made for dinner a few nights ago.

Instead, there’s a little slab of something white and slimy that smells a little salty. When he pokes it with his talon, it feels squishy but firm at the same time.

He stares down at it in disgust.

Everyone is looking at him when he stares up at the captain in betrayal. Where’s his fish? This isn’t what he wanted.

“Give it a try,” the captain encourages him, gesturing down at the bowl. He stares down at the white lump and his stomach protests. Only because the captain stuck up for him about not eating rats, he lowers his beak to the bowl and nips off the tiniest bite he can.

The instant the slimy, tasteless lump hits his tongue, he spits out the whole thing and immediately lunges for the edge of the table, gnawing on the wood to get rid of the taste.

“You don’t need to be so dramatic,” Vista laughs at him, picking up the abandoned bowl and sniffing it once, “Raw fish is a delicacy in most parts of the world.”

He pauses gnawing at the table long enough to chirp indignantly at the swordsman before going right back to the wood grain. Whitey Bay takes the bowl from Vista and pushes it back at him.

“You need to eat, Phoenix,” the pirate tells him in a voice that leaves no room for argument. He eyes the bowl unhappily and he knows that if it was just the two of them, she wouldn’t give him any choice but to stop whining and eat it. Luckily, it’s not just the two of them.

He turns around and looks alllllll the way up at the captain’s face, letting out a tragic and subdued warble. Whitebeard frowns, shifting uncomfortably. He knows it’s impossible for the big pirate to miss the longing looks he’s been shooting at the plates the others have been given. They all got cooked fish, not this disgusting raw lump.

He doesn’t try to steal from their plates though. Whitey Bay has made it more than clear that she won’t let him get away with it. She might be one of his favorites for letting him play with her hair and always combing through his feathers and telling him the best stories, but she’s being so mean to him and worse, she’s the only one on the ship that won’t give in eventually when he wants something.

The captain is another story. Whitebeard frowns, trying to look away for a long minute before sighing.

“Could you cook it for him a little?” the captain asks one of the cooks.

“Captain, you’re spoiling him,” Whitey Bay huffs, “He’ll get used to it once he gives it a chance, there’s no need to make the cooks do any more work.”

He lets out a mournful chirp and stares at the cook before Whitey’s words have a chance to sink in. The cook immediately rushes forward to pet his head soothingly.

“Hey, it’s okay Phoenix, it’s no problem! I know the texture of raw fish can be a little weird.”

He raises his head hopefully, chirping once and fluffing out his feathers gratefully. Whitey Bay scoffs and rolls her eyes in disbelief, leaning back in her seat.

“Boys, I swear to god,” she mutters under her breath.

The cooked fish is still bland and he can’t eat very much of it at all but it’s still way better than the raw stuff. Still, he doesn’t like the texture and by the time he’s full, he’s mostly just frustrated and missing the little crunchy things they put in his birdseed and the tangy red and blue berries. Besides, this fish thing didn’t help at all; he’s still starving.

Whitey Bay comes back from the scouting party covered in something purple and sticky.

“Do not talk to me,” she warns the captain as she stalks past and he perks up from his nap at the smell of fresh boysenberries.

“So, turns out we were right that those pirates from the last island had a base here,” Rakuyo reports as the rest of the scouting party gathers in front of the captain’s chair, “Also turns out that they were using the local syrup factory as their cover.”

He doesn’t listen to anything else because the smell of syrup is fading and he flies after it. Whitey jumps when he lands on her shoulder and he immediately bends down to start cleaning the syrup off his talons. Whitey rolls her eyes and makes a huffing sound before throwing open the door that leads down into the ship and heading down the main staircase.

“At least you’re happy,” she mutters, reaching up to pet through his feathers and tugging her shirt back, “But this is going straight in the wash.”

He would tweet at her but he’s too busy licking up the syrup. The fruit is sweet and tangy and fresh and it tastes even better than it smells.

“Alright, time’s up,” Whitey warns him a little while later when she enters a room he’s never seen before. It’s big and full of huge boxes and sinks and buckets and it smells like soap. He lets out a confused chirp and tilts his head, or at least as much as he can while still eating.

“Oh right, you’ve never been in here before. This is the laundry room.”

Laundry? What’s that?

He chirps again and tilts his head even more.

“It’s where we clean our clothes. That thing you’re eating right now is called a shirt, and it’s one of my favorites so I’m going to get this stupid goo off it before it’s ruined. So get off.”

He takes a few more seconds, not breaking eye contact as he licks up the last of the syrup from the spot he was working on, and then very deliberately flies over to one of the big boxes. It makes a fun little clacking sound when he lands on it, and he hops around, his talons making funny clicking noises against the box.

When he’s done hopping around, he turns back to Whitey Bay and chirps loudly, banging his foot against the box.

“That’s a washing machine,” she calls back as she tugs off the dirty shirt and syrup-covered skirt, “You put your clothes in and then it fills with soapy water and spins around to clean it. If you ever got stuck in there, you’d drown, so don’t be an idiot, okay?”

He huffs. He’s not stupid, besides the top of the box with all the clicky sounds is the most fun part anyway. He flies over to the bench in the middle of the room and watches as Whitey disappears through the door and comes back with a bag full of dirty clothes that she throws in with the syrupy ones. He’s not sure what she does but soon the machine is rumbling and clicking and he can see everything spinning around through the little window.

He tweets and puffs out his feathers, wanting to know how it works.

“You better not be asking how it works because I have no idea,” Whitey tells him, “But that mechanic we picked up a few islands ago might be able to tell you. Otherwise, you’re out of luck, it’s probably runs on dials or something.”

The mechanic is his next stop, then.

Before that, his eye catches on a pile in the corner that he didn’t see before. He hops up and down and then flies over. Whitey turns to watch him and huffs.

“Some idiot forgot to take their laundry out,” she scowls, “Honestly, there’s fifty people on this ship, you’d think they know we have rules about that for a reason.”

There’s something at the bottom of the pile and he dives in, worming his way through the clean-smelling pile and when he emerges, it’s with a triumphant cry and a little silver coin clenched in his beak.

“Finder’s keepers, I guess,” Whitey laughs, settling in to watch him play with his new treasure. He bites the coin and tries to stand on it, and rolls around with it until something new catches his attention. It’s a white sock, perfectly sizes for him to tunnel inside.

He burrows in and hides his coin at the very back where he can protect it, then settles down inside his sock and starts singing happily. It’s the perfect hiding place and it’s right at the bottom of the nice warm pile of clothes, and he has no intentions of moving anytime soon.

Whitey laughs and reaches down to scratch his head.

“Now that’s finder’s keepers,” she smiles, “Here’s the deal, Phoenix. Anytime you come in here and there’s a pile of clothes left out like this, it’s all yours. Steal as many socks as you want. Deal?”

He pokes his head out of the sock, treasure securely held in his beak, and tweets as well as he can around it.

“Coins too,” she agrees.

He gathers an impressive collection of socks in only a few days, stashing them in a pile under the captain’s chair where only he can reach it. He keeps his coin collection inside one of his favorite socks. The captain doesn’t think anything of it until the crew starts complaining about their socks going missing and then it’s not long before the captain catches him red-handed dragging a new addition to his collection.

Whitebeard confiscates the sock and picks him up in one massive palm.

“It’s not nice to steal from your crewmates,” the captain scolds him and he curls in on himself, until he sees Whitey on the other side of the deck and snatches the sock back before flying over to her for safety. He lands on her shoulder and chirps loudly, drawing her attention over to the captain.

“Whitey,” the captain calls her over, and once she’s close enough that the entire deck won’t hear, he asks, “Did you put him up to this?”

“Maybe,” Whitey Bay shrugs, “But if people respected the rules of the laundry room and kept track of their clothes, then it wouldn’t be a problem in the first place.”

There’s a staring match between the captain and his crewmember that’s finally broken when Whitebeard sighs.

“Next time you want to prove a point, please leave him out of it,” the captain asks in a defeated voice, “I will make an announcement tonight to remind everyone of the rules, but you are responsible for making sure everything under this chair gets back to its rightful owner. Understood?”

Whitey agrees, and the captain gets up to go explain the situation.

“Hey Phoenix,” Whitey Bay grins when the captain can’t hear them anymore, “I bet people would be willing to trade you a coin for their socks back.”

More coins?!

This is why Whitey is his favorite (after the captain, of course).

The next island has a Marine base on it. He stays on Whitebeard’s shoulder as the crew descends from the Moby Dick and he takes in the sights from his comfy perch. But when the captain immediately heads to a tavern with Vista, Kindew, Lima, Hatchet and Rakuyo, he lets out an unhappy chirp and flaps his wings once.

Whitebeard looks down and frowns.

“You want to go explore?” the captain asks. He chirps. The captain sighs, “Alright, but be careful. Do you know how to get back to the Moby?”

He lets out a confident trill.

“Good. Be careful, there’s a lot of white hats around here and we don’t need any trouble.”

He chirps happily, nuzzles his head against the captain’s neck, then hops off the shoulder and flies into the trees.

He loves exploring. He never goes very far because he still can’t fly very much, but it’s still fun. He can see the Moby in the distance, just a short glide off the cliffside and over the beach. He has plenty of time and energy to explore, rest, and then fly back over to the ship.

He glides across the village, hopping from roof to roof and looking down at all the people and shops and gets so caught up watching it all for hours that he doesn’t realize he’s gotten hungry. Well, hungrier than usual. And a quick check shows that the Whitebeards aren’t in the tavern anymore.

He hops on the branch, fluffing his feathers. He’s rested enough, it’s time to go back to the Moby and eat some nuts. Maybe the cooks will have more of those little crunchy things.

He flaps his wings and leaps into the air, flapping again to catch a good air current that will carry him all the way back. He glides over the forest, heading towards the beach when he hears shouts and clanging and something blaring that doesn’t sound very nice.

He glances down, looking at the blurry shapes below and he can make out the bright blue of Whitey’s skirt and the tall tower of Kinga’s hair. They’re both running from a cloud of white.

He squints, dropping closer to see what the cloud is. And then he sees it’s not a cloud at all, but a bunch of white hats. The white hats that Marines wear.

His eyes widen and his little heart beats faster when he realizes the pirates are being chased by Marines. He swoops down in front of them, twisting up his wing feathers to land on Whitey’s outstretched arm.

“Phoenix! Is everything okay?” she asks him breathlessly. He chirps sharply, and she smiles, completely unphased by the Marines chasing her. Her arm doesn’t even jostle that much as she runs, which is good because the blood on it makes it slippery, “Oh them? We’ve got it covered! Nothing to worry about.”

Kinga swings his sword and blocks an overhead strike, but there are still more Marines behind them.

“Hey Whitey!” the pirate calls urgently. Whitey gives him a confident smile.

“We’ve got this. Can you head back to the ship, let them know we’re on the way?”

He chirps again and hops into the air. With her arm free, Whitey Bay pulls her own sword and joins the fray with Kinga. He turns his head to focus on the trees in front of him, knowing the cliff line is coming up soon.

“Catch that bird!” one of the Marines shouts, and that’s the only warning he has before some kind of rope thing shoots past him. It almost misses.

“Phoenix!” Whitey shouts.

“Don’t touch him!” Kinga growls, sword slashing even faster as the two Whitebeard pirates try to block him from the Marines. He lets out a stream of terrified tweets as he flaps his wings harder, plummeting to the ground as he tries to shake himself free from the net his right wing is tangled in. One of the Marines breaks past the pirates, charging at him with a greedy, outstretched hand, and with a desperate thrust, he gets his wing free and takes off right before the man can grab him.

He's free and in the air, but it comes at a price.

He was hungry and tired to begin with, and he wasn’t high enough when he crossed the line of trees so there are no air currents for him to ride all the way back to the Moby. He flaps his wings as hard as he can, pushing through the rapid beating of his heart to fly higher and higher because he’s not going to make it back unless he does.

It’s not enough.

Black spots appear in his vision and he can’t blink them away, and his wings feel heavy like they’re full of sea stone, and even the flames lining his feathers are dimming more and more with each second. The world is even blurrier than usual and he can’t even see the Moby anymore. He just sees a blur of sand and glittering white lights and suddenly everything turns upside down and he’s going faster and faster but not because he’s flying.

He's falling.

He tries to spread his wings, to regain control over his free fall and glide safely down to the beach but he’s completely exhausted. His wings won’t move and right before he hits the ground, he thinks about how much a broken wing is going to hurt. Especially since he hasn’t broken one since he left the white place.

He blacks out.

The impact wakes him up, slamming face-first into the gritty sand and half-tumbling and half-skidding down the beach, wet sand burning his skin as he skids across it and the flames that rise to heal him are sluggish and weak. By the time he stops, he’s sprawled out in the sand, one leg bent in a way that feels unnatural, one arm pinned under his chest and the other stretched out to the side and somehow buried in a dark mass of sea weed and kelp and a spray of salty water that saps out every bit of energy he had left.

He can’t move.

Everything is spinning and he’s dizzy and everything hurts and he’s too tired to feel it but he knows he’s terrified.

“Phoenix!”

Whitey’s voice is far away and the sound swims in and out of his ears. He tries to call out to her but he can’t make a sound.

“Shit, he went over the cliff!”

“Don’t just stand there! Come on!”

“Phoenix!”

“Can you hear us?!”

“Phoenix!”

“I see a trail!”

They sound closer now. He doesn’t even have enough energy to open his eyes.

“Shit, how far did he…” she cuts off suddenly, “…skid.”

“What the fuck,” Kinga breathes.

“Is that…”

“No, that’s not… that is not possible!”

Whitey Bay inhales sharply, stepping forward.

“Get the captain,” she orders. She sounds like she’s going to faint. She takes another breath and then there’s a heavy thud in the sand and warm hands are touching him and then everything spins when he’s rolled over onto his back, “GET THE CAPTAIN, NOW!”

Chapter Text

He opens his eyes and sees white. He lets out a terrified squawk, wings flying out in a desperate attempt to flee the white place and he realizes something. This isn’t the white place. It looks like the infirmary but it’s wrong. Everything is too small.

The realization is terrifying and he screeches in fear, flapping his wings and getting even more terrified when that doesn’t do a thing. He kicks out his legs but they’re tangled in something and he remembers the ropes the Marines shot at him and he panics even harder because he doesn’t want to be caught.

He flails and kicks and screeches and just gets himself more and more tangled and he’s scared, he can’t fly away and he doesn’t know why everything is so wrong and he’s so afraid and alone and—

“Hush, hush now, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Whiskey is there suddenly, and a warm palm settles over his frantically beating chest and another one gently strokes his face and it feels nice and warm and safe even if he doesn’t understand why her hands are so small, “Deep breaths now, you can do it. Just follow me. In and out, just like that. You’re safe, you’re okay, everything is okay.”

She breathes in and out and sets a comforting rhythm for him to follow until the panic fades even if he’s still lost and confused.

“Great job, you’re doing great,” she praises, still gently petting him the way he likes, “You need to get some rest now, can you close your eyes for me?”

He lets out a soft chirp. At least, he tries to. Nothing comes out but a choked gurgle and the surprise makes his heart start beating faster again.

“It’s okay, shhh, you’re fine.”

She repeats it over and over until he’s calm again. His eyes drift shut, too hungry and exhausted to keep them open anymore.

He sleeps.

When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Whitebeard’s face. Relief washes over him and he trills in happiness that the strange dream is finally over and he’s back where he belongs.

But the trill won’t leave his mouth. He can’t make a sound.

His eyes widen and he tries to flap his wings but they’re wrapped up in something. He looks down and sees a red blanket, like the ones on the beds in the infirmary. He looks up and sees the infirmary.

He’s in a bed in the infirmary.

Why is he in a bed? How is he in a bed?

He looks up at Whitebeard with wide eyes, terrified and confused and trusting that the man will protect him. The captain looks down at him gently with a soothing not-quite smile.

“It’s alright, little one,” the captain says as one big finger that isn’t as it big as it should be strokes the side of his face gently, “I know you’re afraid, but you’re safe. I’m going to move the blanket so you can see, but I ask that you try to remain calm. I’ll explain everything as best as I can.”

He’s too afraid to try and make a sound that won’t come out again so he just keeps watching Whitebeard. The pirate reaches for the blanket tucking him tightly against the bed and slowly pulls it back.

He’s a phoenix; he’s covered in blue feathers and he’s got wings and a beak and talons and a tail made of fire. And he’s still tiny, even after all these months of being fed and cared for and loved.

But his body isn’t there anymore. Instead, there are scrawny pink arms and long, spindly legs and too many little talons coming off his feet. And there’s fabric wrapped around him and he doesn’t understand why the body attached to him is wearing clothes and one not-wing rises to his face and stubby not-feathers press against squishy skin and he can’t find his beak and he’s so afraid and his heart starts pounding and his wings flail and—

A big hand wraps around him, gently but firmly pressing him down into the bed so he can’t flail anymore. He looks up at Whitebeard again, desperately searching the face for answers or promises that this isn’t real and he’ll be fixed the next time he wakes up and that this is just a scary dream. He just wants to be a bird and sit on the captain’s shoulder and for everything to stay exactly how it’s supposed to be.

“I’m sorry. I know this is scary. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but this body is yours.”

He stops struggling. Stares up at the pirate, not understanding anything.

This isn’t his body. He’s a bird.

“Do you know what a Devil Fruit is?” Whitebeard asks him gently. This time when he freezes, he’s trembling.

A Devil Fruit is what the white robes were looking for to make him big. Is that what happened? Did the pirates use the Devil Fruit to make him big and now he’s stuck like this forever?

No. That’s wrong, the captain wouldn’t make him big without asking, the captain isn’t like the white robes.

“There are many different kinds of Devil Fruits that grant strange and unusual powers. I myself have one. It’s called the Quake-Quake Fruit, you’ve seen me use it to make seaquakes.”

A desperate whine finally escapes his mouth and it’s not the confused keen he was trying for but it is the first real sound he’s made since this nightmare started. He didn’t know that was a Devil Fruit, he just thought that was something that captain could do because of being so big and strong.

“I believe you ate a Devil Fruit as well. There’s a very, very rare kind of fruit called a Mythical Zoan that allows its user to transform into a legendary creature at will. I believe you ate the Phoenix Fruit.”

Something deep inside him stirs, hidden within the locked box that stays stubbornly buried, and he has a flash of blue and gold covered in beautiful swirls. His nose wrinkles up as the memory of something sour and acrid and goopey fills his mouth. The captain chuckles quietly.

“Yes, Devil Fruits are known for tasting awful.”

He thinks for a second. If he really ate a magic fruit that lets him turn into a bird whenever he wants, then he should be able to turn back. He closes his eyes and thinks really hard about being a bird, about going back to normal, and never having to come back to this scary dream.

Nothing happens.

The giant hand holding him squeezes once, like an apology.

“I’m afraid your powers aren’t going to work right now,” Whitebeard rumbles with a knowing frown, “You’re exhausted, and your body has needed significantly more nutrients than you’ve been able to consume for a very long time. Once you’re healthy, you’ll be able to change forms as much as you like, but for now, you need to rest.”

He’s scared. He’s scared and confused and hungry and tired and everything aches in ways he can’t understand and he just wants it to stop. He just wants to be a bird. This is wrong.

His eyes lock onto the captain’s face, pleading and terrified. For a second, Whitebeard looks so sad but then the man smiles warmly, the hand holding him shifts until he’s cupped in the giant palm the way he likes.

“Everything is going to be alright, little one,” the man rumbles, so confident that he starts to believe it, “If you think you can stay awake for it, Whiskey will bring you something to eat. Otherwise, it’s time to rest.”

The giant thumb pets the side of his face the same way it always does and his eyes sting but it feels right when everything else is scary and wrong. His eyes stay fixed on the captain’s face and the man just keeps smiling down at him like everything really is fine.

“Just rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When he wakes up, Whitebeard is still there. But so is the bad dream.

As promised, there’s food waiting for him. There are nuts and berries and some crackers like he normally gets, but there are also dark green vegetables he’s never seen and a little bowl of dirty water that smells like garlic and earthy roots.

The captain holds out the bowl of fruit and tells him, “Start with this, it’s going to take you a little bit to get used to it.”

The pirate patiently demonstrates how to grab things up with his hand, explains that he can’t just crush things with his beak so he’ll need to use his teeth to chew, and helps him hold the bowl of broth (it’s cooked water, not dirty water) up to his lips and take small sips.

By the end, they’re both covered in small bits of food and there’s red berry juice staining the sheets and blankets and it’s all over his hands but even though he’s exhausted, the gnawing hunger in his stomach has started to fade. And the captain never gets mad at him for the mess or for being slow and clumsy.

He mostly just sleeps and then wakes up to eat and sleeps more. The first time he wakes up and Whitebeard is gone he panics but somehow the captain knows he’s scared and appears in the doorway of the infirmary almost immediately. The pirate’s presence is enough to cut through the panic, and the man quickly soothes him back to sleep.

That happens a few more times and eventually it stops being so scary to wake up alone, because he knows the captain will be back as soon as he needs it. He still hates it though. He hates this body, hates being so wrong, hates not being on the captain’s shoulder where he belongs.

Whiskey is the one to help him learn to use the new arms and legs and fingers. She shows him how to grab a fork in his fist so he doesn’t get so messy when he eats, and as he gradually stays awake longer between meals, she teaches him about all the things that human bodies can do that he never needed to know before.

But the captain is never away for long when he’s awake. And when he finally starts feeling more antsy and bored than tired after he eats, Whitebeard is the one to coax him out of the blanket nest and effortlessly supports his weight while Whiskey tries to teach him how to walk on his new legs.

It’s not as hard as learning to glide, but he hates it more. He wanted to learn how to glide and fly, he doesn’t want to know how to walk like a human. He’s not a human, he’s a bird and he’s sick of not being back to normal. But Whitebeard looks so proud of him when he tries and he can’t trill or chirp or sing anymore so the only way to answer the captain’s encouragement is to keep trying.

But this stupid body is weak and the legs are so thin and frail that he can’t even stand without the big pirate holding him up. He wants his body back and he never wants to be in this body again.

Because it’s wrong. He’s not a human, even if he’s stuck in this body, he knows better. He’s a bird. Just like he’s supposed to be. And that’s all he wants.

Every time he wakes up, the first thing he does is always the same. He closes his eyes and thinks really really really hard about being a bird again. Then he peeks his eyes open and…

Nothing. It never works. But it’s been forever (Whiskey said it had been two full weeks!) and he’s miserable and anxious and there’s a sick feeling growing in his chest the longer he stays stuck. Every day that passes make him more and more terrified and he doesn’t even remember why. Whitebeard still comes and sits with him every day but the captain has other things to do and he’s stuck in the infirmary so he gets left behind and it’s so wrong.

Not even the rotation of pirates that sit with him in the infirmary and keep him company makes him feel any better.

“Heard you’re getting a lot stronger, buddy,” Kinga smiles encouragingly.

“Did anyone tell you about the storm we hit earlier?” Rakuyo asks.

“One of the scouts brought back a new map today, thought you’d like to check it out,” Lima tells him, putting the map in his hands and not even flinching when his clumsy fists close around the delicate paper too hard and the paper rips halfway down the middle.

The only good thing is that the starving pit in his stomach is going away little by little until one day he wakes up and he’s barely hungry at all.

“Let’s go up on the deck today,” Whitebeard suggests after watching him carefully drink from a glass of water clenched between his hands and then put it down on the table without spilling more than a few drops.

He freezes, looking over at the man in fear.

His stomach churns at the thought of going outside like this, of being out in the open where anyone can see how wrong he is.

“You can hold my hand the whole way,” Whitebeard promises, and before he knows it, he’s being led down the short hallway and gradually helped up the stairs and the next thing he knows, he’s out on the deck.

He’s standing on the deck.

Everything looks off. It’s all smaller than it’s supposed to be and the angles are all wrong. He’s gotten used to the infirmary now but he hasn’t been out on deck since this happened and with everything looking wrong and the rocking of the ship with the waves crashing around them, he gets dizzy.

He stumbles, weak little legs giving out under him, and the captain catches him immediately by scooping him up in one hand. The pirate looks down at him and smiles before the hand lifts up to his right shoulder.

He scrambles onto his perch, clumsy fingers grabbing at the fabric with all his might as he pulls himself onto the massive shoulder and it takes a little bit of wiggling around but eventually he’s sitting right where he belongs and even if it’s still not quite right, it’s the closest thing he’s gotten.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” the captain smiles and he lets out some kind of happy sound because he’s finally back where he wants to be. He can feel from the man’s chuckle and the finger that gently runs down his back means that he’s not the only one who’s missed this.

He curls up into the pirate’s neck and snuggles in, watching the waves glitter in the distance until the warm rays of sunlight on his pale skin makes his eyelids heavy and he falls asleep.

When the captain tries to put him back down on the bed in the infirmary, he digs in his fists and holds on as tight as he can and makes a pathetic, wobbly sound and the pirate lets out a mighty sigh. He can’t fit in his usual spot, but the pirate sits on the mattress in the captain’s quarters, back resting against the headboard, and sets him down in his lap. He puts his head down on the massive knee and practically melts as the pirate brings one hand down to rub his spine with the other pulls out a book to read.

He falls asleep, finally feeling like everything is going to be okay.

“You can’t take my patients out of the infirmary without asking me!” Whiskey scolds, and he drags one heavy eye open to see the nurse standing in front of the captain’s bed with her arms crossed.

“He needed me,” Whitebeard responds levelly, one finger still moving in gentle circles along his back, “He’s been so scared since he turned back, and I didn’t realize that I was making it worse.”

The gentle circles on his back are soothing and warm and then he’s asleep again.

Chapter Text

Something feels different when he wakes up.

His arms and legs feel light and his stomach barely even gurgles when he sits up and he wants to jump up and down and run as fast as his legs can carry him and he realizes he’s just not tired anymore.

He thinks he can even feel his fire again.

The flicker of blue dancing along his human arms might not be real, but when he closes his eyes and reaches down and pulls, there’s nothing fake about the wave of pure rightness that washes over him.

When he opens his eyes, he’s back.

He’s himself again.

He hops up and down on the mattress, trilling in sheer delight when the little trail of sparks dances off his tail and one flap of his wings is strong enough to propel him up into the air and he doesn’t even get tired after circling the small room twice so he does it again and then again and then another time for good measure, singing happily as he goes.

When he looks down, he notices that the captain is awake and joyfully dive-bombs into the man’s chest, knowing that the giant hands will catch him. He sings with delight strong enough to rattle the walls as the captain cradles him gently, flapping his wings in a brilliant spray of blue and gold sparks and ecstatic song echoing through the cabin, head tilted forward to the best angle to scratch his plumage.

The only problem is that the captain hasn’t petted him yet the way he obviously wants to be petted.

He looks up, expecting the captain to be smiling down at him, but there’s a weird look on the pirate’s face. He stops singing and trills in confusion.

He’s back to normal, just like he should be. Everything is good now.

So why is the man frowning?

He shivers, pulling his wings in closer and letting out a quiet warble.

He’s back the way he’s supposed to be, so if the captain is upset, it can only be because he did something wrong.

Fear pricks at his chest.

Whitebeard brought a bird onto the crew but he’s caused so much trouble. Maybe the captain thinks he’s not going to stay a bird anymore. Maybe the pirate doesn’t want him now.

He lets out a sharp call, settling down and tucking his legs under his feathers to show that he’s not going anywhere. He’s a bird again, just like he’s supposed to be. And that’s how he’s going to stay. Whitebeard has nothing to worry about. He’ll be good, he’s a bird, he’s not going to make any more trouble.

The captain sighs heavily, and then the hands shift and one big finger runs along his feathers. It feels like heaven and he melts into it.

“I’m sorry, little one. I got lost in my thoughts for a minute, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Whitebeard apologizes and he can feel the honesty in the words. He doesn’t know how the pirate can always tell what he’s feeling, “I’m happy to see you so energetic.”

He stiffens and pulls away from the finger, hopping backwards until he’s barely still on the man’s hand. Whitebeard doesn’t move as he stares up up up at the giant face and studies it carefully.

The captain didn’t say anything about him being a bird again.

Even when he was wrong, the captain never said a thing about his new body, other than pointing out things to help him learn to use it.

He’s back to normal. Everything is okay again. But Whitebeard is upset about something. He can tell.

The pirate still isn’t saying anything.

He chirps once, insistently, and Whitebeard offers him a soft smile and the giant finger but he stiffens and leans away from it. He looks down at the mattress below and then meets the captain’s eyes, making it clear that he’ll leave if the man doesn’t tell him the truth.

Whitebeard sighs.

“You want me to be happy that you’ve changed back into a bird, don’t you?”

He lets out a keening sound, the little chirp hollow and devastated. The question is enough to knock the wind out of him; the joy deflates all at once. He does, and it feels like the world is ending now that he knows the captain isn’t happy he’s back.

“I don’t care what form you’re in, little one. No matter what shape you take, you’re my responsibility to care for and protect, and it makes me very sad to see you so miserable,” the captain offers the finger again and this time he lets the man pet him. They both need it.

“It’s going to be sunrise soon,” Whitebeard says, a peace offering because the pirate can’t give him what he really wants, “How about we go up on deck to watch it?”

He nudges at the finger one last time, then flutters his wings and flies up to the captain’s shoulder.

He hopes that at least someone on the crew will be excited that he’s back to normal but they’re all being just as weird as the captain is. They tell him they’re happy to see him out of the infirmary and that they’re glad he’s feeling healthier, they call him buddy and little guy and make sure to include him in their conversations.

No one calls him Phoenix.

He just wants everything to go back the way it was. He loves the long days sitting on Whitebeard’s shoulder and exploring the world at the captain’s side.

But everyone is on edge. He sees crew members exchanging glances and constantly feels himself being watched and catches glimpses of the captain frowning when he’s not looking. It’s like the entire crew knows something and no one will tell him. He hates it.

Otterburn puts a massive plate of fried rice and roasted vegetables and a slab of steak ten times the size that he is down in front of the captain. He’s expecting his usual bowl of berries and nuts and little oats but the chef puts a second smaller plate down next to the captain’s. He looks at Otterburn in confusion and chirps, politely reminding the chef that the captain’s right side is his spot and nobody else gets to sit there.

Otterburn grimaces and the pirates around them go quiet suddenly.

“You haven’t had a full meal in a few days,” the chef tells him hesitantly and he freezes as the horror dawns on him. Everything clicks into place suddenly.

He understands why the crew was acting so strange.

They want him to turn back.

He jumps, turning around to look up at the captain. His legs are trembling when his neck cranes all the way back and he sees the captain watching him steadily, but not surprised.

He flaps his wings and nearly knocks a water glass off the table before Vista snags it out of the way.

“You can turn back as soon as you’re done eating, but it’s not possible for you to eat enough as a—right now.”

His heart pounds in his chest and the world starts to go blurry with panic. Turn back. Turn back. They want him to… they’re going to make him… he can’t, it’s wrong, he can’t he won’t—

“You’re alright, little one,” Whitebeard’s voice is solid and steady and the gentle squeeze of the massive palm cuts through the fear. Just a little.

Otterburn frowns, wringing calloused hands together.

“As a chef, it’s my job to make sure that no one on this ship is going hungry. Especially now that you’ve recovered, we need to make sure that you stay healthy.”

He shivers and his flames go out. The pirates are all looking at him with matching expressions of worry, even Whitey. Lima and Rakuyo exchange glances.

“Maybe he could… how much would he have to eat like that?”

He perks up at the question, chirping intently even though his legs have given out and he can feel his heartbeat vibrating against Whitebeard’s palm.

Otterburn frowns before the cook heads back to the galley.

They’re not going to make him do anything. These pirates aren’t like the white robes, they won’t force him to do anything as awful as turn back. They just want him to eat enough.

Well, he can do that! Even if his stomach is full, he’ll make himself keep eating. Then he’ll stay healthy and he’ll never have to think about turning back ever again.

His confidence lasts until Otterburn returns with Magora, each carrying a big bowl.

The pile of fruit that gets set down in front of him is much bigger than he is. And the piece of unseasoned fish could have swallowed him whole when it was still alive.

Just looking at all the food he’ll have to eat makes him feel sick.

“He needs to eat that much every day?!” Kinga exclaims, staring down at the small mountain of food in front of him.

“At least this much,” Otterburn grimaces, “And he’s going to need a lot more if he ever has a growth spurt.”

The idea of having to finish all the food in front of him and then keep eating makes the world spin with dizzying swirls. But the alternative makes him cold and sick and his little lungs struggle to breathe against the crushing weight filling his chest. He stares back at the pile of food and puffs out his chest with as much confidence as he can find and tells himself it’s not as bad as it looks. He’ll eat it all and then he’ll never have to turn back ever again. Besides, if he does get bigger someday like the chef said, then his stomach will get bigger too and it’ll be easier to eat everything.

So he ignores the worried looks from all the other pirates and takes a big bite out of a big red berry and chirps happily at the delicious spray of juice that comes out.

Newgate tries to pretend not to watch him as he stubbornly makes his way through the gigantic piece of fish, and the rest of the crew follows the captain’s lead, but he can feel their eyes on him as he struggles to choke down bite after bite of nuts and berries long after he wants to stop.

When his stomach is so full he knows he’s going to hurt himself if he eats any more, he sees the captain’s hand twitch like the man wants to stop him from taking another bite. The motion makes him flinch, but even worse is the worry he can feel radiating off the giant pirate. The unshakable confidence he put on before shatters into a million pieces and the little chunk of fish in his mouth suddenly feels like lead. Even if his stomach does burst, his powers will heal him. But suddenly, that thought isn’t helping him eat more, it just scares him. What if his powers use up all the energy he had and he has to eat more all over again?

The fish falls out of his mouth and he turns away from the plate, waddling over to the captain’s hand and settling himself in the folds of the man’s shirt sleeve before closing his eyes for a nap. The captain’s thumb gently traces over his feathers and he can feel the relief in the gesture, even if he’s not totally sure what the pirate is so relieved about.

When he cracks one eye open to glance back at his plate, he can almost believe that he made a little dent in the pile of fruit. And that piece of fish definitely used to be bigger. He did the best he could and it’ll have to be enough for the chefs.

None of the pirates say anything to him.

“It’s just for a few minutes,” Whiskey says calmly, but her patience is wearing out and he refuses to look up at her from the perch Whitebeard set him on. He turns around to find the captain sitting on a large stool, hands clasped together in a gesture that almost looks nervous, and the giant won’t meet his eyes either.

“I’ve explained this to you already. I know you don’t want to, but I need to give your other form a check up to make sure your recovery is on track. The sooner you change, the sooner I’ll be done and you can turn back.”

He tweets petulantly at her. There’s no way he’s going back to that other form. Whiskey already gave him a long talk about making sure he’s healthy and tracking his recovery but he doesn’t care. He’s himself again and he feels just fine and even if the hunger is starting to creep back in, he’s fine that way too. Besides, he’d rather be a little hungry than ever have to go back to being that wrong.  

Whiskey sighs. She stands up and brushes invisible dirt off the fabric of her pink skirt and turns to where the giant pirate is engrossed in a large poster about the dangers of scurvy.

“Captain, can you please…” the nurse trails off and nods her head at him. Whitebeard winces but then there’s a gentle hand stroking his feathers. He shoots the captain a betrayed look but doesn’t voice the protest yet.

“You know that we all just want to make sure that you’re healthy and happy,” the captain starts, and he knows that’s true so he leans into the touch to give the giant hand better access to the itchiest feathers. Newgate takes the hint and scratches a little harder, expertly hitting all the best spots. He trills happily and for a long minute, he forgets everything except that magical feeling of the fingers combing through his feathers, “I know that it’s hard for you, but if you don’t let us help you now, then we’ll have to watch you suffer later.”

“It makes us all feel very guilty when you’re not feeling well and there’s nothing we can do to help you,” Whiskey adds. He bristles at the overly gentle voice, as if she’s speaking to a child, but he remembers the uncomfortable twist on her face and frustration that turned into over-protectiveness after he got that awful stomachache. He shifts his talons on his perch, not able to look either of them in the eye. He doesn’t want to hurt but he can’t change into that other thing. He’s a bird. He has to be a bird, he can’t be a person because he’s not a person and even pretending to be anything other than what he is is wrong and he can’t because he’s a bird and—

“I know you’re scared,” Whitebeard’s voice is soft and steady and he can feel the man’s heartbeat when the massive palm settles across his back, “But I promise I won’t let anything hurt you. Will you let us help you? Please?”

It’s the last word that does it. The captain’s face is raw and vulnerable and the voice echoes with honesty and that little bit of desperation and even though he’s scared and he knows it’s wrong, this is his captain. His friend. His caretaker. The man who saved him and protected him and brought him home and he can’t say no.

He thinks it should be difficult to turn. Every fiber of his being resists it and he knows it’s wrong wrong wrong but all he has to do is breathe and let go and suddenly his form is growing and his body lengthens and his wings shift and the tips of his feathers split into fingers and Whitebeard’s hand catches him when his too-big body slips off the perch.

Whiskey lets out a breath and smiles warmly at him, already helping him to the examination table.

“Thank you,” she says.

He shivers and grabs at Whitebeard’s finger. He doesn’t let go the entire time Whiskey looks over him and between his racing heartbeat and the nausea building in his stomach, he can’t hear a word she says to him even though he knows she’s explaining every step of the checkup to him.

It feels like a million years before she finally smiles at him and says, “That’s all. I’m done now.”

The instant she gives him the nod, he pulls on his Devil Fruit and turns himself back the way he should be. Whitebeard just raises a hand to pet through his feathers when he burrows into the collar of the giant shirt, but the captain’s attention is on the nurse.

“How is he?”

“The good news is his arm is all healed. There’s no sign of any fracture and he didn’t seem to have any discomfort during manipulations.”

“And the bad news?”

“He’s still dramatically underweight and his muscle tone recovery isn’t nearly as far along as I predicted.”

He stills, peeking out at her through the folds of the fabric. She gives him a look that’s not quite sad and not quite pity but he still doesn’t like it. Is she saying that he’s sick? But he feels fine!

“As powerful as your Devil Fruit is, it still has its limitations. As long as one form remains malnourished, it will affect the other. That’s why you had so much trouble with flying any kind of distance or exerting yourself for more than a few seconds.”

He blinks at her and lets out a nervous chirp.

“I’m sure it’s also not very comfortable for you. Am I right that you’re still hungry after you’ve eaten, even if you can’t eat any more?”

He doesn’t want to answer that. He’s just fine the way he is and he knows when he’s being led into something. But Whiskey is already nodding like she knows the answer and Whitebeard frowns.

“What do you think he should do?”

Whiskey sighs.

“You’re not going to be happy about this, but you’re going to have to start consuming human sized portions of food at least a few times a week. And I’d really like to do some physical therapy work with you, there are some exercises that will help speed the muscle development along.”

Silence falls over the infirmary as he processes and as soon as he does, he squawks in outrage and flaps his wings to fly up to the rafters where they won’t be able to reach him. He stubbornly sits down on a beam and tucks his head into his feathers, ignoring everything they say to try and coax him down in favor of taking a very long nap.

Chapter Text

“Imagine that these weights represent the strength of each of your forms,” Whiskey says a few days later, pointing to the one in front, “This one is your phoenix form. It’s much stronger and healthier than your human form.”

He frowns, looking at the weight wayyyy back on the deck.

“Both of your forms are connected. That’s the rope. Now, let me show you what’s happening now when you try to get stronger. When Rakuyo pulls the weight forward, what do you think happens?”

He tilts his head but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to see. But he still watches as Rakuyo tugs the weight forward with clear effort, and slowly the first weight slides forward as he struggles against the weight in the back.

“Your human form will get stronger as your phoenix form does, but you’re fighting against both forms and putting tremendous pressure on your Devil Fruit. Rakuyo, how did that feel?”

“Exhausting,” Rakuyo huffs, dropping the weight on the deck with a crash that makes one of the shipwrights turn with a dark scowl. He hopes that the crewmate will interrupt and start a fight, but clearly the crew has all decided to turn against him because there’s no luck, “It’s a heavy weight on its own, but this way I have to pull twice as much weight and make sure I don’t pull too fast and snap the rope!”

“And look, the weight barely moved forward at all, even with all that effort,” Vista points, showing where the weight sits only a few inches farther than it had been.

“Alright, now let’s see what happens if you focus on just strengthening your human form. Rakuyo?”

Rakuyo nods at Whiskey and moves to the other end of the deck where the far weight is sitting. With relative ease, the pirate lifts the weight and slowly but steadily pulls it back over to set it down gently next to the first weight. The rope coils loosely in between them.

“How was that?”

“Easy! I mean, it’s still heavy but there was only one weight and I didn’t have to worry about the rope breaking.”

“So that’s what it’ll be like when his two forms are at similar strengths?” Lima asks. He shoots a sharp trill at the navigator, knowing that the pirate was told to say that. This whole thing is clearly practiced and he doesn’t like it. Especially because it’s making their point well enough that he can’t deny it. He’s been trying so hard to get stronger for months and the only time he ever saw real progress was after the first time he turned back from his human form.

He can protest all he wants, but he’s not going to get any stronger for a long, long time at this rate.

“Exactly!” Whiskey smiles like she didn’t tell the navigator to ask that, “And now let’s see what happens when he tries to train his phoenix form again.”

Rakuyo picks up the first weight again and pulls it all the way to the limit of the rope.

“We pretty much crossed the whole deck,” the blond pirate grins.

“You need to work with your Devil Fruit,” the nurse explains, turning back to him with a small but firm smile, “The more you try to fight it, the harder it’s going to be to get stronger at all. Does that make sense?”

He looks down, considering the two weights and glaring at the one in the back. Stupid human form. If he didn’t have it, he’d be able to get stronger right now.

But does have it. Even though he’s not a human. He’s a bird with a weak, feeble, pathetic human form that needs to get stronger.

Instead of answering, he flies up and crosses over to the other deck where Whitebeard is sitting, landing on the man’s shoulder and pretending he’s asleep when the captain tries to ask him how it went. Just because he knows he lost the argument doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Lima moves the log pose over to show him how it points in a different direction than yesterday and explains how they’re going to have to chart a new course now that they’ve veered into a stronger magnetic field.

“Do you want to give it a try?” Lima offers, holding out the protractor and pencil. At first, he chirps excitedly and reaches out with his beak. But the navigator hesitates, pulling back a little, and the realization hits him like a stray fist in a fight.

Lima and the other navigators are in on it too. They’re trying to get him to turn back.

He squawks angrily and turns, flying off in a spray of blue and gold sparks.

“Sorry sweetie but we’re a little swamped today,” Magora apologizes when he flies into the kitchen looking for his special snack of cubed pineapple. She’s right about it being busy; all of the cooks are running around stocking cabinets and unloading crates and even a handful of crewmembers that normally never step foot in the kitchen are being ordered around by Otterburn and the bald cook.

He lands on his perch and tweets, trying to ask what they’re all doing while he tries not to be too sad that he’s not going to get his favorite fruit today.

“Part of the supply room flooded during that last storm,” Magora explains as she unwraps ruined packages and tries to separate out the lumpy contents from the ones that are still salvageable, “We have to figure out how much we lost and what we can still save, plus finalize the inventory we need before we hit the next island.”

He chirps and fluffs out his feathers. That’s not good. They should reinforce the storage rooms at least; losing any amount of the ship’s food supply is really bad, and they’re lucky that the ship is still way too big for the size of the crew. The Moby Dick is big enough for at least a thousand people and the Whitebeard pirates aren’t even a fraction of that, which he still doesn’t understand. So even though they’re lucky now, they really need to make sure they fix up the ship so it doesn’t happen again.

That’s the captain’s job though. He wishes he could tell Newgate that, and also the fact that they need more shipwrights than they have. He chirps, thinking about all the other things he wishes he could tell the captain and Magora looks over at him.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “If you’d like, I can show you how to cut the pineapple up and you can do it yourself.”

He freezes, all thoughts of ships and captains flying out of his head. He doesn’t care about the fruit that much but now Magora’s in on it too?!

He doesn’t go back to the kitchen the rest of the week. Or the navigation room. Or the laundry room where Prattle tried to teach him how to load the machines. Or the lower deck where Vista and Rakuyo offered to show him some exercises Whiskey recommended. And definitely not the infirmary.

It feels familiar in a way that he thinks should feel nice to spend all his days in his only safe spot and Whitebeard doesn’t say anything about having him permanently attached to the man’s shoulder again. But it doesn’t feel nice. Well, being with the captain is always good, he loves the captain, but he misses exploring the ship and playing with the other crewmates and learning about navigating and cooking and treating injuries and sailing and watching Vista and the other fighters train. But he can’t anymore, because whenever he leaves the captain’s shoulder, someone is always trying to get him to change back. And he can’t. He won’t. So he has to stay.

“I need to have a meeting with some of the crew today,” Whitebeard tells him, stroking a finger down his feathers and smiling softly when he trills with joy. Then he realizes what the captain said and tilts his head curiously.

“In private.”

He tilts his head even further and trills curiously. Why’s the captain telling him? It’s not like he could tell anyone what they were talking about.

The captain sighs.

“You won’t be able to join me. But why don’t you explore the ship while I’m busy? You haven’t sat by the prow in a little while. Or you could go up to the crow’s nest.”

He blinks, tilting his head the other way. The captain doesn’t like when he goes up there; it makes the man nervous. It sounds fun. But he can’t; if he goes out alone on deck, then it’s only going to be a matter of time before someone tries to make him change again.

The captain won’t tell him what the meeting was about, not even when he chirps insistently and tugs at the man’s sleeves and demands as much attention as he can. He pouts at first, but then he sees Whiskey crossing the deck out of the corner of his eye and he dives headfirst into the pocket of the captain’s great coat to hide.

Newgate sighs but doesn’t say anything. The man just gently reaches into the pocket to pet his head. He hides in the pocket for most of the day; it’s not very exciting but it’s cozy and perfect for a nap as long as the captain doesn’t move around too much.

“We’re going to try something new today,” Newgate says, stroking a finger lightly down his back to get his attention. He looks up from his preening warily, feeling the underlying nerves in the captain’s voice. “This is your home, and it’s important to me that you feel safe here. I understand how difficult it’s been for you lately.”

He looks up at his captain and warbles softly, shifting his perch on the giant shoulder. He does not like where this is going and he glances up at the roof of the captain’s cabin behind him to see that it’s empty. He hops up, spreading his wings and takes off—

Only for a massive hand to swiftly but gently close around him.

He squawks in protest, tweeting sharply and loudly enough to make most of the pirates on deck wince. Newgate just brings him up to the pirate’s face, a stern frown set into the wrinkled lines.

“It’s not polite to leave in the middle of a conversation, little one,” the captain chides. He chirps petulantly and beats his wings uselessly against the big fingers holding him. “Would you like it if I ignored you while you wanted to show me something?”

He stops flapping and looks up at the captain with big eyes.

“Will you at least hear me out?” Newgate asks gently. He lets out a quiet chirp, his stomach twisting with embarrassment, and rubs his head against the massive palm to distract himself.

“Thank you,” one of the giant hands lifts away and a finger strokes through his feathers again, “I know that Whiskey has explained the exercises she wants you to be doing, and the chefs want you to be eating bigger meals, but I know how much it’s scaring you. I don’t want you to think that people only want you for your human form.”

He tilts his head in confusion. He knows people don’t want him for his human form, they want him because a Phoenix is a prize bird and they want to keep him and show him off and… and that was before. That was before when he was stuck in the White Place with the suits and White Robes but the captain took him away and now he’s free. So if the Whitebeard pirates don’t want to keep him as a prize then maybe… maybe the captain is right. Maybe the rest of the crew does only want him for his human form. Maybe that’s why they want him to change, because they don’t want him like this and they only want him to be wrong and maybe once they realize how wrong he is they won’t want him at all—

“So we’re going to try something new,” Whitebeard’s voice continues, “Ideally, Whiskey would like you to do your exercises four times a week, and the chefs want you to eat large meals five days a week.”

He startles back at the thought of having to turn back that many times, wings flapping out to keep himself steady.

“So instead of that, I’ve come up with a compromise,” Whitebeard says before he can panic. The hand that isn’t holding him reaches down and grabs something sitting on the armrest of the chair. He cranes his head to see and the little dice look hilariously small in the giant pirate’s palm. “Each of these dice has the numbers one through six. Every week, you’ll roll both of them. Whichever comes up with the lowest number is the number of days you’ll spend in your human form. What that means is on those days, you’ll eat bigger meals and do your exercises. But what it will really mean is that on the other days, no one will be allowed to ask you to change.”

He frowns. Even with two dice, he’ll have to spend at least one day every week in that other form.

“What do you think? Are you ready to give it a try?” Whitebeard prompts with a gentle smile, holding out the massive palm with a pair of dice in the center.

No. He’s not. He doesn’t want to and he hates every part of this but the Captain isn’t going to back down. He hates that this is happening even though he can’t avoid it forever after Whiskey’s talk with the weights. He just wants to be a bird. It doesn’t matter if he’s going to be small and weak for the rest of his life, he just wants to stay exactly like he is.

But they’re not going to stop. Every single day, someone has been trying to make him change and between Otterburn and Magora coaxing him to eat a human meal or Whiskey making him sit for an examination or Vista and Kinga and Hatchet and Rakuyo and Whitey trying to show him how to do the exercises the nurses came up with. He can’t relax. He’s afraid to go anywhere because as soon as he settles in, one of the crew comes along with another reason that he has to change forms and the longer he refuses, the more frustrated and antsy the whole crew gets.

The only safe place is the Captain’s shoulder. He burrows into the giant pirate’s neck, tucking his head into his feathers and tuning out the rest of the world. He hates everything about it. He just wants everything to go back to how it was before, he wants to sit wherever he wants and explore whatever he feels like and for the crew to shower him in praise and affection like they did before.

It’s his fault. He hates himself for it, if he hadn’t left the Captain’s shoulder that day, then none of this would have happened and he would still be happy.

The first day is… bad. It starts out okay; the Captain carries him up to the deck to watch the sunrise together. After breakfast, Whiskey only makes him do a few of his exercises, which isn’t so bad, but after he finishes, it really sinks in that he has to spend the rest of the day like this. That’s when the day starts to get worse. All he wants to do is go up to sit in the crow’s nest but he can’t. Sometime in between lunch and the sea king attacking the ship; a big flock of songbirds go flying past the ship and he tries to sing to them in greeting, but the only sounds he can make are human garble.

It's wrong.

It’s so wrong.

He shouldn’t be like this. He’s a bird. He should be a bird.

He needs to change back, but he can’t. The captain is counting on him and he promised and he has to do it but he can’t—

The panic in his chest just grows and grows and grows and by dinnertime, he’s so overwhelmed and panicked that he spends the entire meal hiding inside the Captain’s coat, tucked safely away on his lap and hidden from the world, and he can’t handle more than a single bite even though Magora made the special curry just for him.

The instant that the captain finally smiles at him, looking oh-so-proud, and congratulates him on making it through a full day, he’s back to normal. He’s got his feathers and break and talons and flames and he’s exactly the way he’s supposed to be. He lets out a happy warble, settling down into his plumage. He loves his soft feathers; has he ever really taken the time to think about how great they are? He’s thinking about it now.

He's perfect like this. Everything is perfect. Especially when the Captain reaches down to scoop him up and place him right back on the man’s shoulder, exactly where he belongs. Everything is perfect and he wants to stay like this forever.

So he does.

As horrible as the first day was, the second day is so perfect it almost makes up for it. The captain was right; nobody bothers him at all about turning back. Not even Whiskey! Everyone smiles and makes room for him and treats him exactly like they did before and he’s so happy to finally have everything back to normal.

He spends all day exploring, doing everything he’s been missing for the last few weeks. He checks his secret stash of socks and coins and buttons, and sure enough, they’re all exactly where he left them under the biggest washing machine. He goes to Navigation to listen to Lima plot their course. And he goes to the kitchens and lets Magora feed him little bits of pineapple and helps her pick out the menu for the crew by nipping at different recipe cards as she holds them out.

It’s perfect. He’s finally home again.

The next day is great too.

And the day after is even better.

The day after is good, but the looming shadow is starting to get bigger and bigger. He pretends not to notice it, and even if the captain sneaks looks at him all day, the pirate doesn’t say anything. And maybe it’s not a problem! Maybe he agreed to the silly dice thing, but the captain can see how much better things are like this, right? He doesn’t need to turn back anymore, that was a dumb idea and it’s better now.

It’s not until the sixth day that Whitebeard finally confronts him.

“You gave me your word,” the captain reminds him, “You knew that you had three human days this week. You’ve only done one so far, and there’s only two days left. That means today and tomorrow.”

He turns up his beak and refuses to look down. Newgate’s eye twitches, but the man’s voice is as calm as ever while crouching down to coax him onto the massive palm.

“I am a man of my word. It’s important that I keep my word, because that is the foundation of trust. If they don’t trust that I will keep my word, how can my crew trust anything I do or say? And I expect that from each member of my crew in return.”

He keeps looking away, not wanting to see the look on the man’s face.

“Little one,” Whitebeard says, irritation starting to bleed through, “I know that you can understand me. I do not appreciate this attitude.”

He flaps out his wings and flares his flames as far as he can, making sharp and angry screeches. The crewmates gathered nearby flinch back and jam their palms over their ears.

“Do not make me repeat myself!” Newgate has to shout to be heard over the racket he’s making. He rears back on his perch, screeching even louder.

“That is enough!” the captain orders. He puffs up his feathers and shrieks again. He’s not doing it! The captain tries to reach for him and he snaps at the giant hand, sharp beak breaking skin as he bites down hard.

Newgate snatches the giant hand back and the look on the pirate’s face is thunderous. His stomach, already tight with hunger that just won’t go away, plummets through the ship all the way down into the ocean when he realizes that he just bit the captain. And now the captain is angry at him and he knows that the white robes being angry at him meant pain pain pain and he’s too afraid to find out what happens now.

He’s in the air before anyone can move.

“Get back here!” the captain shouts, and even though he’s never heard the man sound so angry and frustrated, even though he can feel the air vibrate as the man’s Devil Fruit reacts to the overwhelming emotions, he knows the captain would never hurt him. So he keeps flying anyways.

Rakuyo is the first one to find him, only a few minutes later. He thinks the man must’ve immediately headed up for the crow’s nest as soon as he heard that the phoenix had flown off.

“Hey buddy,” Rakuyo says quietly, pulling himself off the rope ladder and up into the crow’s nest with him, “Mind if I join you?”

He picks his head up from his plumage and looks over at the pirate. If he was a human, he could just tell the other man to go away and leave him alone. He thinks it would be so much easier if he was a human. But that’s the whole problem. Even if he has another form, he’s not a human. He’s a bird. He has to be a bird and the more they keep insisting on him turning back into… into that… the worse it gets. It’s boring and it’s scary and he hates it and worst of all, he’s hurting the captain.

He can’t do it. He just wants this to stop. He doesn’t understand why they won’t leave it alone. He doesn’t even want to be healthy anymore, he just wants to be the way he should be.

“You gave the captain a little scare,” Rakuyo nudges him gently, scooting him over so the other pirate has room to sit, “Pretty sure they’re all running around like headless chickens down there.”

He gives a little chirp and it comes out absolutely miserable. Rakuyo frowns.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I know you hate this. But you know, Captain’s not mad at you.”

That gets his attention, even more than the hand stroking softly through his feathers and trailing through gentle flames. He tilts his head up to give the other pirate a hard look and tweets sharply. Newgate was angry, and it was all because he refused to turn back. And maybe because he bit the man’s hand. He knows he agreed to it, but they didn’t give him a choice and as much as the captain promises otherwise, the man doesn’t understand. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to turn back, it’s that… it’s that… it’s wrong. He can’t. Every time he does, it just makes him sicker and sicker and more afraid because he… he knows it’s wrong.

He looks up at the sky and away from Rakuyo’s face that’s twisted with an ugly emotion he doesn’t like and remembers the view of the clear blue sky from the white place. He used to want to soar through the air like the other birds, anything to escape the endless boredom. But now he almost wants… he misses the white place and the white robed creatures and his little cage. It was boring and he hated it but at least… he was right. All he had to do was be a prize, sing and dance when he had to, and that was it. Everything was right.

He's more afraid now than he ever was then; as long as he behaved, the only thing he had to worry about was a little pain that wouldn’t even last. But now? On this ship that he loves with a crew he adores and a captain that he knows only wants him to be happy?

He’s so afraid. He’s miserable and scared and sick because they won’t just let him be, they keep making him turn again and again and again and he just can’t.

“Look, part of being a crew is doing stuff that helps the rest of the crew, even if you don’t want to. I mean, you think I swab the decks for fun? Hell no, I hate it. But you know why I always do it when it’s my turn?”

He looks over at the man and chirps softly.

“I do it because the deck gets really slippery when it gets dirty. If there’s a storm, anyone out on deck is at risk of slipping and falling over the railing. It’s not just about keeping it clean, it’s about me being able to help keep my crewmates safe. It’s my job as part of the crew to do what the captain asks of me. And the captain? Well it’s his job to keep us all safe.”

Rakuyo scratches under his chin and smiles encouragingly.

“So I promise, he’s not mad at you. He’s just worried because he’s trying to keep you healthy, and he’s frustrated because he can’t do his job if you don’t do yours. Does that make sense?”

The sound he lets out is miserable and frustrated and and and he doesn’t even know what else. For the first time, he really wants to turn back because he knows humans can scream and that’s all he wants.

“How about this? You stay up here as long as you need, and when you’re ready, let’s go down and find the captain. I know the two you can handle this together, okay?”

He looks up at the captain with wide eyes, staring into the man’s face with all the focus he has. He’s always felt like the captain just understands him, but the reality that he can’t actually tell the man anything suddenly hits him like the bars of the metal cage being whipped across the room.

He thinks as hard as he can, trying desperately to just be heard.

Please. Please don’t make him do this. He can’t do this.

“How would you feel I was very sick,” Whitebeard asks gravely, and he sees the light of understanding in the pirate’s eyes but the somber look on the giant face isn’t changing, “And there was something I could do to make myself all better, but I refused to do it?”

He makes a keening sound, the idea of something horrible happening to his captain drowning out the other panic.

“That would be bad, wouldn’t it?”

He shoves his head into the man’s palm, heart pounding at the thought that something might be wrong with his friend. Panic builds in his chest at the thought. He needs the captain, the captain can’t be sick, the captain can’t just stay sick when he needs Newgate to take care of him and play with him and tell him stories and lead the crew, whatever the pirate doesn’t want to do he’ll make the man understand that—

“I’m not sick, little one. But you are.”

He stops.

The captain isn’t sick? Then why would the pirate say that? He was so scared that something bad happened and—

“I know that thought upset you,” Whitebeard says, stroking his feathers comfortingly, “And I know how you felt because that’s how I feel right now.”

He stops. Slowly, he stares up at the face looking down at him and he can’t meet those sad eyes because it just makes guilt stir in his stomach. He’s not sick. He’s just always hungry and maybe his stomach hurts and he sleeps a lot. That doesn’t mean he’s sick. There’s not enough reason to change.

He chirps but the sound is hollow. He’s scared.

“Whiskey thinks it wasn’t as much of a problem before we found you,” Whitebeard tells him, still petting his head softly, “But now that you’re free to fly around and play as much as you like, your body is burning through much more energy. And if you can’t replace that energy, then your Devil Fruit is going to eat up whatever it can to keep you alive.”

The captain’s hand starts to shake and the pirate’s voice twists with something that scares him even more.

“And when there’s nothing left…. you’ll burn out.”

The ship is silent.

“You’re free now and I will never let anyone put you back in a cage ever again. And I won’t just sit back and watch you wither away. So that leaves me with only one option, which is to be selfish and ask you to do something that you really don’t want to do. I know how hard it is for you; we all know how hard it is. But we’re pirates, and we’re selfish, so we’re going to ask you to do it anyway because we don’t want to lose you.”

He can’t look at the captain. He’s scared and he’s sad and his chest hurts and his head hurts and his stomach hurts and he’s so hungry and he doesn’t want to burn out but being human is so scary but his captain looks so sad and he wants to do whatever it takes to make it better.

It’s funny. It’s so wrong but it’s so easy. Now that he knows what that missing thing was, all he has to do is let go and that’s all it takes.

He reaches up, feeble arms trembling with tiredness but he pushes through the nausea rolling in his chest and how his stomach hurts so much worse like this and even how this is so so so so wrong. His captain’s eyes widen with relief and gratitude when his little hand grabs onto the massive finger.

The next second, he’s swept into a hug and pressed tightly against the giant chest and it feels so safe and perfect that for a second, he wonders how he could be wrong like this when it feels so right.

But the feeling doesn’t last. As soon as the captain puts him down, the nausea comes creeping back in along with the sense of wrong wrong wrong. He wants to change back, he needs to change back so badly but he looks up at the sheer relief and pride on the captain’s face and a giant finger is held out and he grabs onto his lifeline.

“Let’s go get something to eat, does that sound alright?”

He almost screeches and shakes his head but… he already changed. He already made up his mind, he hates every second of it but he’s going to do it. He hates those stupid dice but he’s going to do his human days like he promised because the captain needs him to.

So he squeezes the finger even tighter, does his very best to be brave even though terror claws at his chest, and lets his captain lead him to the mess hall.

Chapter Text

He’s bored. Bored out of his mind and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he goes near any of the crew, they’ll just try to get him to do human stuff and he’s sick of having to remind them he’s never going to do that. He’s only doing this so he doesn’t get sick and make his captain worry, but he’s still a bird and birds don’t do human stuff like reading or writing or sword fighting or map making. If Lima tries to trick him into holding a pencil again, he’s going to bite him. He’d take a nap, but the captain doesn’t let him sleep on his shoulder on human days, which is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

‘I don’t want you to fall off, little one,’ had been the giant’s excuse the first time that massive hand had betrayed him by gently scooping him off his favorite shoulder and onto the captain’s lap. He’d been too outraged to answer. What, was the captain afraid he’d break an arm? As if he’d even feel it for more than a few seconds before his flames fixed him.

The washing machine rumbles again and he stares longingly at the little golden coins glittering underneath the big box. This stupid body is too big to fit in his hiding place, and that means his treasures—his coins, his socks, his buttons—are all out of reach.

It’s torture.

He lets out a long whine, missing his beak and the sharp trilling notes of displeasure that the stupid human mouth can’t make.

He hates human days. He just wants to turn back but every time he’s about to give in to the sick pit in the center of his chest, the captain’s face won’t leave him alone. His captain is counting on him and he promised.

With another keening wail, he throws himself down to the wood floor and ignores the way the cold planks press against his stomach to keep staring longingly at his treasures. He’s so lost in his misery that he doesn’t even notice the door opening behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here, buddy! Cap sent me to find you, it’s lunchtime.”

He slowly looks over at Kinga with wide eyes, trying to convey the depths of his misery to the older pirate. Kinga frowns, hands fidgeting as he refuses to move from his spot on the ground.

“Hmm, looks like you dropped something,” Kinga says, bending down to pick something off the floor. The man holds it out and his jaw drops. It’s a coin! How did it get over there? He checked the entire laundry room for any of his precious treasures three times to find any that weren’t stuck!

He lunges for the coin, grabbing it and happily pulling it close to his face to rub his cheek against the shiny metal, the weight on his chest lifting away just a little bit.

“There’s a troubling situation that’s come to my attention, little one,” Whitebeard rumbles that evening as he perches contentedly on the captain’s lap while giant fingers stroke down his feathers. No more human days this week, he’s done all three and he’s back to normal until those stupid dice have to come out again. He pauses in his grooming and stares up at the pirate. Whitebeard’s face is solemn. “Kinga told me that you seemed quite distressed when he found you in the laundry room.”

Yeah, obviously. He couldn’t fit in his treasure stash. How else is he supposed to feel? Human days suck, and he punctuates that feeling with a sharp chirp.

Newgate chuckles but it doesn’t last long before the serious expression is back.

“As pirates, there are some things we hold sacred. The most important of which is that you should never separate a pirate from their treasure. That’s why I’d like to ask you if you would consider moving your treasure stash somewhere else.”

Move it?! But that’s the only place on the ship where no one else can get to it! He spent weeks trying out different hiding spots around the ship! Those are his treasures and he’s had more than enough of random crewmates trying to take his socks out of his stash!!!

“Please hear me out, little one,” Newgate taps him gently on the beak, “I’ve put serious thought into this. It’s a very important matter.”

Damn right! (He heard Vista say that a few weeks ago and he likes the way the words sound in his head)

Whitebeard gives a small smile at his screech of agreement.

“What if you move your stash under this bed?” the captain suggests, “This is my cabin, only you and I are permitted in here unattended. And with my size, I’m not going to be crawling underneath it anytime soon. Your treasures will be safe, and I’m sure your crewmates will be able to help you find smaller boxes to hide in if the space feels too large. But most importantly, you’ll always be able to fit.”

“Come with me,” Whitey says, flicking him on the shoulder to distract him from where he’s slumped miserably next to the captain’s empty chair. Newgate is in the middle of the deck, swinging around the giant bisento and he’s bored out of his mind. The captain tried to get him to join but he’s not going to budge. Fighting is for people, and he’s a bird.

He hates people days.

“Hey! Mopey!” Whitey flicks him in the forehead again and he’s too bored to even be annoyed. She crosses her arms over her chest and nods at the doors that lead down into the ship when he looks over, “Come on. I’ve got something I need your help with.”

She leaves before looking to see if he’s following her. For a second, he thinks about ignoring her since she’s so pushy, but on the other hand he’s dying of boredom so he follows after her. He takes the stairs slowly, still nervous about tripping down them with his stupid clumsy human legs, and to his surprise, Whitey is waiting patiently at the bottom.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she teases and he scowls. If he was a bird, he’d have something to say about that, but it’s bad enough he has to be in this body, he’s not going to start talking like a human. Instead, he just follows her down long hallways and down more stairs until he’s in a really dark hallway he’s never seen before.

“I figured that since you’re not busy, you can help me out down here,” she starts, and before he opens his mouth to make some kind of protest noise (he doesn’t know how many times he has to tell them he won’t do any human stuff) she turns around and holds up a finger, “And before you say anything, you’re going to be helping me with this every day, it doesn’t matter what body you’re in.”

He stops walking and looks at her suspiciously.

Whitey looks back at him for a second, halfway through the massive wooden door at the end of the hallway, and then sighs.

“Give me a little more credit than that,” she says, reaching out to run her hand through the tuft of hair on top of his head. It feels really nice so he lets her.

When he relaxes a little, she smiles at him. It’s the kind of small and real smile she doesn’t want the rest of the crew to know she gives him, not when she’s the one making fun of them for being wrapped around his little talon.

“I promise you’re going to like this. Will you give it a chance?”

He thinks for a second, and then decides that she’s earned that much. The pile of coins stashed under the captain’s bed is only as big as it is because of her idea to sell the crew’s socks back, plus she also somehow convinced the captain that it would be unfair to confiscate all his treasure when Whitey was the one behind it in the first place. So he follows her through the door.

“Welcome to the hoard,” Whitey throws open the door and he stops, his jaw dropping and an excited trill falling out of his mouth.

It’s full of treasure. Massive piles of treasure so bright that it shines even in the dim lighting. It’s SO SHINY.

The next thing he knows, he’s launching himself head first into the biggest pile, rolling around happily in the coins and his wings sifting through the stacks of gold and silver and jewels and his talons tap against the metal with a happy little clinking sound and it’s even shinier up close.

He hears Whitey laughing but he’s having way too much fun to care that she’s laughing at him.

“Thought you’d like it,” Whitey smiles, joining him over by the pile to run a hand down his back feathers after he’s tired himself out from playing in the treasure and settled in for a nice nap amongst the gold.

He’s always wanted to do this. The white robes always had so much gold and shiny treasure that was just begging to be rolled around in but he was just another treasure and he wasn’t allowed to even look at the rest of the collection when they took him out of his cage to dance and sing. But now Whitey is letting him play around as much as he wants and it’s the best thing that’s happened to him since meeting the captain all those months ago.

“So here’s the deal,” Whitey says, settling in on the ground and tossing a few coins up and down between her fingers, “We’ve got all this treasure to sort through and appraise and unfortunately, the usual crew in charge of managing it have all come down with a nasty bug.”

He nods knowingly. Whiskey had cancelled both his checkups this week because of how full the infirmary was and nobody wanted him to get sick.

“So you’re going to help me sort everything and get some kind of system going so we can offload some of this at the next island. It’s a big job, so it’s probably going to take us all week.”

He tilts his head and chirps, dragging a wing through the gold. It won’t be very hard to sort it by value if that’s what she wants him to do. Plus, playing with the gold all week will be fun!

“Exactly. We just need to sort everything. I figure you can help me get all the loose coins in a pile until you get a sense of how much the other stuff is worth, and we can get through it all that way.”

He helps her stack the coins into piles and bags and slowly they start to make a dent in one of the piles. It’s fun. She talks to him the whole time, asking yes or no questions he can chirp to answer, and he hops around the pile digging out shiny things.

He pulls on a curved piece of gold and nearly goes toppling onto the ground when it won’t budge. He flutters back up and grips it with a talon instead, trying to get a better grip. But it won’t move.

He tries a few more times to get it loose but it’s too big for him. For a second, he debates giving up, except this curvy gold thing is the shiniest piece of treasure he’s ever seen and there’s little glints of blue stones the same color as his feathers and he wants it. So he switches to the bigger body and grabs it with both hands and yanks with all his might.

The cup comes free, along with a small avalanche of gold and silver that luckily settles before it can bury him.

“You okay over there?” Whitey calls. He’d answer, but he’s too busy staring at the cup in his hands. It’s a goblet; big and tall and shinier than anything he’s ever seen, and it’s got little blue stones inlaid all around it and the whole thing is the most beautiful cup he’s ever seen. Plus, it’s the perfect size for him to curl up inside if he just tucks his wings a little.

He wants it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Whitey repeats, coming around the collapsed pile of treasure and stopping when she sees the goblet in his hands. “What do you have there?”

He shows it to her, beaming with pride at his discovery.

“That’s nice, isn’t it? I have no idea where we picked that up, but the captain’s been holding onto it until we can find a buyer who won’t rip us off too badly.”

They want to sell it?!

He looks up and clutches the treasure together to his chest in horror. They can’t sell it! Not when he wants it!

Whitey looks at him up and down and frowns.

“Look, I’d love to be able to just let you keep it, but that’s worth more than most of this stuff combined. We need to sell it to support the whole crew.”

He frowns even bigger, clutching the cup tighter.

Whitey sighs.

“Alright, how about this? You stay in human form and help me finish everything for today, and you can ask the captain about keeping the cup. But I’ll warn you now, he’s probably not going to be able to let you keep it even if he wants to.”

He doesn’t like it, but that’s as fair of an offer as he’s going to get.

He and Whitey work for a few hours and make a lot of progress, especially once Whitey realizes that he knows exactly how much things are worth. She’s confused, but he doesn’t have any way to tell her that he spent his entire life watching the white robes collect treasure. Still, he never lets the cup out of his sight.

When they finally hear the dinner bell go off, he grabs the cup in his arms and cradles it all the way back up the ship to the mess hall. Newgate smiles brightly and pulls him in for a hug, asking if they found something fun to do. Whitey explains that he’s got a knack for sorting treasure, and it’s at this point that the captain pretends to notice the treasure wrapped in his arms.

“What do you have there?”

He shyly presents his treasure, his heart fluttering nervously as the captain examines that beautiful jewel-encrusted goblet.

The captain frowns.

“You want to keep that, huh?”

He nods and pulls the goblet back against his chest.

“You know the treasure is meant to be split with the whole crew, right?”

He flinches, knowing it’s selfish, but he can’t help it. He wants it and he’s tired of not getting what he wants and if they’re going to make him roll the stupid dice and spend his time pretending to be a human, he doesn’t see why they can’t just let him have this one little thing.

“Did you help Whitey today?”

He nods emphatically. He did! She said she wouldn’t have gotten half as far without his help, he knows he helped her!

“Today was a human day,” the captain reminds him and he doesn’t like the knowing look on the man’s face, “Did you stay as a human the whole time?”

He nods stubbornly.

The captain raises an eyebrow.

“Did you really?” Newgate asks knowingly.

He frowns, his head hanging down when he knows he’s been caught. He only changed back for an hour, it shouldn’t be that big a deal.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal. You have five more human days this week. If you stay human all the way through them without changing back early, and you help the crew get the rest of the treasure sorted, then I will let you keep that.”

His head snaps up and he beams at the captain in delight.

“I’ll take that a yes,” the captain laughs. But then his face turns serious.

“You’ll need to give me your word, though. No cheating, not even for a few minutes. That means nights, too. Do we have a deal?”

He freezes.

Human days are one thing—even though he hates them with all his being, he’s starting to get used to them after the past few weeks and they’re starting to just be horribly boring instead of completely terrifying. But he always changes back to normal at the end of the day.

He hasn’t spend the night in the human body since his weeks in the infirmary.

But the cup!

It’s the most beautiful and shiny treasure he’s ever seen and the captain is willing to let him have it. It’s just a week! He spent his entire life being bored in a tiny cage, a week is worth it for his goblet.

“We have something to show you,” Kinga says, and the trio of shipwrights nod excitedly. They lead him down the stairs and a little ways down the hall, and it’s a short enough walk that he has no trouble hopping along after them.

He doesn’t notice anything weird about the door at first. He’s never spent much time in this hallway because it’s a little too small for the captain to fit comfortably but Whitey’s room is just up ahead and he likes to hide in there whenever she forgets to close her door. The face she makes when she realizes he’s hiding in some little nook is his favorite, and he loves to see how long it takes her to find him.

He’s still hopping towards Whitey’s room when he realizes the crewmates have stopped and are all watching him with excited smiles.

“It’s this one,” Rakuyo nods at the ordinary wooden door. He chirps and tilts his head, flapping his wings and fluttering over to sit on Rakuyo’s shoulder to get a better look.

Up close, he can see that there’s a tiny little platform next to the door, plenty big for him to land on, and when he does, he can see that there’s a little flap in the wall. He pushes through the flap and finds himself in a room with sunlight streaming in through a set of portholes in the wall. There’s a big perch in front of one of the windows and he chirps happily as his talons settle onto the wood like it was made for him. The portholes are a perfect height to watch the waves churn and the way the sun shines high in the sky and he thinks this is his new favorite spot after the captain’s shoulder.

He looks around the room and sees a desk in the corner with blank papers and an assortment of colorful crayons and little trays of paint lying on top of it. There’s also a little chair in front of the desk that’s got thick arm rests and a tall back that’s perfect for him to perch on. Most of the rest of the room is empty but there’s a bunch of shelves on the walls and a little cushioned chair across from the portholes.

There’s a knock on the door and he chirps loudly enough for the crew to hear it on the other side.

“We figured that since you have some things of your own now, you should have your own space to put them,” Rakuyo smiles, “This room is just for you.”

Kinga nods along.

“We can add any other stuff you want to the room too.”

He’s hanging out on the Captain’s shoulder (the day after his one and only human day of the week, he loves rolling a 1!) when he sees Lima and a few other pirates come out on deck. None of the other three are navigators, so he assumes that they’re all hanging out on deck to drink together. But instead, they sit in a circle facing Lima while the head navigator makes silly hand gestures at them.

And the funniest part is, the other three start doing it back. Is it a game?

It looks silly.

He wants a closer look.

Briefly pausing to headbutt the Captain’s chin to let him know he’s leaving, he takes off and flies for the perch closest to where pirates are sitting. They all look over when he lands, smiling and waving, but then they go back to their game.

He watches for a little while. It looks like Lima is the one that knows the rules, because he keeps correcting the other three and showing them the gestures again.

It looks fun.

He flies down to land on the shoulder of the pirate sitting across from Lima—he’d land on Lima’s shoulder but he wants to see the man’s hands for the game. He chirps when he lands, flapping his wings.

“Hi buddy,” Lima smiles, “We can play with you in a little while, we’re in the middle of this right now.”

He tilts his head and chirps again, before dipping his head down to nip at the hand of the pirate he’s sitting on.

“Lima’s teaching us hand signs,” the pirate explains. He thinks the man’s name is Wicker. He looks up at Lima again and chirps.

“Signs are really useful! You can pass messages or give signals. We use them a lot during storms when it’s hard to hear,” Lima explains.

“And at long distances,” the pirate next to Wicker adds.

“Or to signal a News Coo,” Lima says.

The pirates keep listing out examples of what the hand signs can be used for but he’s not listening anymore.

They use these signs for birds? Well, he’s a bird! He can make signs!

That settles it!

He flies off Wicker’s shoulder and lands just in front of the perch he was sitting on before. He clamps his teeth down on the wood, flapping his wings to keep his balance as he pulls with all his might. The pirates gathered on deck watch him for a few seconds.

“Want some help?” Kingdew approaches him first, covering hand covering his mouth for some reason. He pauses, turning back to look at where the pirates are sitting in a circle, and then back at the perch and realizes it’s still very far. So he lets go and chirps at Kingdew, waiting for the pirate to pick up his perch before flying over to where he wants it to go. Kingdew follows and sets the wooden perch down across from Lima.

He tweets at Kingdew and then flies back up to his perch, now perfectly positioned to watch the navigator.

“Oh, you want to watch?” Lima asks. He chirps, and Lima shrugs, “Alright.”

Lima turns back to the other pirates and raises a hand.

“Next one we’re going to do is ‘yes’. You make a fist and then flip it forward.”

Lima demonstrates, and the rest of the pirates try to copy it. He watches for a second, tilting his head when he realizes that they’re really bad at it. Lima has to keep correcting them but they just don’t seem to get it. Wicket keeps trying to use an open hand even after Lima said it should be closed.

He could do better!

He shifts on his perch so that his weight is on his left claw and raises his other one. He curls his talons closed and flexes his foot like Lima curled his fist.

It’s easy!

He does it again.

Yes! See, he can do it even easier than they can, these pirates are so dumb sometimes. Well they’re lucky they have him.

He puts his foot down and chirps until all the pirates are looking at him.

“You need something?” Lima asks. He sits up as straight as he can, feathers puffing up proudly, and then his lifts his claw and makes the sign for ‘yes’.

Lima’s jaw drops.

“Holy shit—” one of the pirates starts before Wicker elbows him.

“That’s right,” Lima says, shaking his head abruptly before giving him a huge smile, “Wow, I’ve been trying to teach these guys for days and you got it just like that! I guess birds really are better at signs.”

That’s right! Birds are great at signing. And he’s smarter than any News Coo! He wants more.

He makes the gesture for ‘yes’ again, then flaps his wings impatiently and tweets loudly.

“You want some more? Maybe you can help me teach these guys.”

‘Yes. Yes,’ he answers, feathers puffing out with pride and blue gold flames when Lima claps his hands together and Kingdew gives him a big thumbs up from the railing.

Signs are great!

And Lima was right, birds are way better at them than people. After only a few days, he’s learned a bunch of them and the rest of the crew that already knows them keep saying how they can’t believe he’s picking it up so fast. Wicker, Fozzy, and Milligan have barely gotten the hang of yes and no but he’s already learned a bunch! Now he can sign yes, no, what, why, who, how, this, that, big, small, in, out, treasure, want, food, water, like, and his very favorite, no like.

He's even started coming up with some signs of his own, and it only took the crew a few hours to figure out what they meant. But now he can also say play, sock, and most importantly, Captain Newgate (by using his talon to pretend he has a mustache).

‘Why did you pick them?’ he signs, staring at the captain expectantly. Instead of an immediate answer, the giant pirate frowns the way the crew does when they don’t understand what he’s asking.

“Why yes?” Newgate repeats after a pause, confirming that’s what he asked. He nods and signs ‘yes.’

“Why yes what?” the captain asks, “Are you asking why something happens?”

‘No,’ he signs, then tries again, ‘Why did you pick these people?’

“Why yes who?” After he confirms that the captain understood the signs correctly, the captain frowns, “When you say who, do you mean people?”

‘Yes!’ he chirps. Now that the man understands, he’ll finally get an answer about why the crew is so small like he’s been dying to know since they brought him on board.

“Why yes people,” Whitebeard muses, stroking his giant mustache while trying to figure out the question, “Why do I agree with people?”

He chirps indignantly, signing ‘no’ over and over in frustration. How much more clear could he have been?!

“I’m sorry little one. Can you try again with some more words?”

He chirps sharply at his captain, but he tries to think. How much more clear can he be? Maybe this?

‘How do you know what people you want?’

“How know… something who? I didn’t get that third sign.”

He lets out a shrill call, flames flaring out as the frustration takes over. He shifts into his other form and signs as clearly as he possibly can.

“Want,” Whitebeard realizes, eyes lighting up with recognition, and he signs back ‘yes!’ “You’re asking how I know who I want for the crew?”

‘Yes!!!!!!’

The smile that crosses the captain’s face is the best one he’s ever seen. Two giant hands scoop him up and pull him against the man’s chest, and he snuggles into the hug while pressing his head against the man’s shirt to hear the comforting heartbeat.

Whitebeard pulls back and raises him up until he’s at eye-height with the man’s face.

“The same way I knew with you,” the man tells him solemnly. “Before I started this crew, I was a member of another crew. We were called the Rocks pirates, led by a captain named Rocks D Xebec. We were the strongest crew on the seas and every member was tougher than the last. But when all that matters is strength, other things get left behind. My old crewmates were selfish, to say the least. Now that I have my own crew, I’m not going to rush it.”

The captain sets him on his favorite shoulder and he leans in as they sit and watch the ocean together.

“I want a very big crew someday. That’s why I made sure that this ship will have enough room for all of them. But I want person on this ship to be like family to me.”

Oh! That’s why the ship is so much bigger than the crew needs. It’s just not full yet.

He tweets loudly and makes a grabbing motion with his talon for ‘want that.’ No, wait, it’s an arm. He forgot he turned into a human. His shifts back into a bird.

“A crew?” Whitebeard repeats, bemused by the sudden shifts. He shakes his head back and forth wildly. He wants a sign for family. He likes the way the captain says it, wants to be able to tell him.

“Family?”

He trills triumphantly, holding out his talon expectantly for the captain to demonstrate the sign. The pirate’s face softens.

“Why don’t you make one up and show me?”

Chapter Text

“Come on, slowpoke!” Whitey teases. He gives her a look. She knows the one.

“What? You scared or something?”

‘Can’t,’ he signs at her, trying to convey the fact that she’s being stupid even though he doesn’t have a sign for it.

“You can’t?” she repeats dubiously.

‘Yes.’

“Oh, so yes you can?”

‘No!’ he signs back, wishing he had his wings and flames and beak to flare and screech at her. She’s doing it on purpose!

“Okay, let’s start over. Do you want to be in the crow’s nest?”

‘Yes!’

It’s his favorite place that isn’t the captain’s shoulder! She knows that!

“Great, I do too. So let’s go.”

‘Can’t!’

“Why not?”

‘Can’t!’

Whitey sighs, shaking her head at him.

“Phoenix,” she says, and his head snaps up to look at her, eyes wide because no one’s called him Phoenix since they found out he had this stupid other form and his stupid promise to the captain and he’s been dying for someone to call him that again, “You love the crow’s nest. It’s a perfect place for a bird to be, it’s literally got crow in the name. And you’ve been climbing up there since before you even knew how to fly. You honestly expect me to believe that there’s anything that will stop you from getting to your favorite place?”

He stares.

He’s… that’s… she’s…

Climbing ropes and ladders is a person thing! And yes he loves the crow’s nest but he can’t… birds don’t climb ladders. But he did, even before he knew how to fly. He loves climbing ropes. It was his favorite thing to do back in the cage, to climb the little rope up to his perch and swing back and forth until the suits or the White Robes came back and got mad that he was being loud.

The little pit in the center of his stomach loosens a little bit. They got mad at him for being loud, not for climbing the rope.

So birds do climb ropes.

And birds definitely belong in the crow’s nest, that’s obvious even without Whitey reminding him.

So… even though he’s in a person body today, he can still climb ropes and go to his nest because that’s all still bird stuff. Whitey’s right! He can!

He clambers for the ropes before she has a chance to ask him again, little stubby fingers twisting into the lines while his uncoordinated legs scramble to find perches. It’s harder than the first time he decided to climb up, way back when the captain still slept through beautiful sunrises sometimes, because this body is a lot heavier and stupider. But the exercises that Whiskey and the rest of the crew have been making him do (stupid promise to the captain) are helping him now, and he doesn’t even get tired the way he used to. He had to stop and rest tons of times the first time, now he only has to pause once or twice— and maybe an extra time but that’s because Whitey’s hair is flying out in the wind next to him on the rope ladder and he loves watching the way the blue strands whip around— before he’s back in his favorite spot. And even better, now he can come up here whenever he wants!

‘What’s that?’ he signs, tugging at Vista’s sleeve.

Vista glances down at the stall, looking away from the display of swords to see the shiny sphere.

“Huh. You know, I’m not actually sure.”

‘Want that!’ he signs excitedly.

Vista raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t want to know what it is first?” The swordsman asks patiently.

‘Want that!’ he signs again, his eyes sparkling at the thought of adding the shiny little ball to his pile of treasures hidden safely under the captain’s bed. Or maybe on one of his new shelves in the new room that’s just for him, the light from the portholes will make the whole room shiny!

“Are you sure? You heard the captain, you only get one present. Maybe you want to look around a little more before deciding?”

He’s still got mixed feelings on the captain’s ruling that he gets one present per island they stop at. On one hand, he gets to pick a new shiny thing for his treasure stash under the captain’s bed every single island. But it’s so unfair that he only gets to pick one when there’s so many things he wants all over the place! And only one thing makes no sense; he wanted matching spice jars with shiny rocks pressed into the metal, but the captain made him choose something else even though the telescope stand was more expensive than both of them put together.

He's beginning to suspect that his captain is not very good with money. Luckily for the whole crew, they have him now.

‘That!’ he insists, barely resisting the urge to grab the ball because the captain has reminded him a lot of times that he can’t just take what he wants without paying, they’re pirates, not thieves. That means they don’t take things from nice people. Mean people, sure, but the taking things part doesn’t happen until the Whitebeards have finished making them regret challenging them in the first place.

“Alright, if you’re sure,” Vista waves a hand and calls out to the woman in the stall, “Excuse me! How much for the, uh, ball thing?”

“The Sacred Orb of Alabsta?” the shopkeeper gasps, rushing over to grab it off the table before Vista can pick it up, “I’m afraid I could never part with it. It’s not for sale.”

His eyes widen and he pushes closer to the stall, pushing himself up on his toes to get a better glimpse. The light catches off the orb, scattering blue and green dots everywhere, and a funny gasping sound comes out of his human mouth.

And sacred? He knows that word, that means it’s really valuable. And Vista wanted him to keep looking! He ignores the part where he’d only wanted it because of how shiny it was, he knew it was special all along.

“Then why is it on the table?” Vista challenges.

“For my safety, of course,” the woman announces, clutching the orb tighter and lifting it higher. Her eyes flit down for a second and a warm, amused look crosses her face when she sees him gaping at the treasure that was soon-to-be his. “It’s enchanted, you see.”

The woman leans down, her blond hair cascading across her shoulders, and she winks at him.

“It keeps away pirates.”

He stands up, tilting his head and staring at her in confusion.

How can it keep pirates away? It must not be a good enchantment. Well, he is a bird, maybe it doesn’t work on birds. Can he still be a pirate even though he’s a bird?

Wait, Vista is definitely a pirate, and the orb didn’t keep him away.

“Let me guess, you couldn’t possibly part with it for less than…” Vista trails off, his eyebrow raised.

“A hundred thousand berries,” the woman answers immediately. His eyes widen. That’s crazy! Even if it did keep pirates away, which it clearly doesn’t, it would be too much! He could buy a hundred other shiny things for that much money!

“For a glass ball,” Vista repeats dubiously.

“For an enchanted relic, sacred to the ancient kingdom of Alabasta, I remind you, that will safeguard you from vicious pirates that may do you or your… little brother… harm,” the woman leans in, and even though he’s not paying a hundred thousand berries for one little shiny treasure, the way she’s holding it lets him stick his face right up against it and look at the thousands of little swirls inside. “And I don’t know if you travelers have heard yet, but your passenger ships aren’t the only ones that just made port. There’s a pirate ship at the docks, a huge one! I’ll bet the island is crawling with bloodthirsty pirates as we speak.”

Vista grins, straightening as he lets out a large laugh.

“Well if it really keeps pirates away, we definitely don’t want it,” the swordsman announces, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re pretty happy with our crew, right buddy?”

Of course he is! He loves the crew! He hopes Whitebeard will be finished with his important business by the time they get back, showing his captain his new treasures is the best part of any island stop!

The woman freezes. Her head tilts and she looks at him with a lot of confusion.

“You’re pirates?” she says.

Vista nods proudly. He… still hasn’t figured out if he is or not.

“We’re with the Whitebeard pirates,” Vista announces boldly, and that is definitely true so he smiles as big and proud as he can and nods, “Maybe you’ve heard of us.”

“Not a lot of people in the New World who haven’t,” the woman says slowly. She puts down the orb, uncaring as it rolls away and he almost reaches out to catch it, but it stops before he has to. “I’ve heard rumors about your captain. What kind of man is he?”

“The best I’ve ever met,” Vista answers immediately. He nods even harder, because even though he’s met so so so many people since the White Place, his captain is the best one by far.

‘My captain is the best!’ he signs proudly. The woman watches him sign at her and she smiles, her shoulders dropping as she relaxes.

“And… him?” the shopkeeper is looking at him now, and he can’t figure out what the look on her face means. “Your captain allows him to sail with you, even though…”

She trails off before she finishes talking, but he’s pretty sure the last words were going to be “…he’s a bird.” She must be confused on the birds being pirates thing too.

“Between you and me, he pretty much runs the crew. Captain’s wrapped around his little toe like you wouldn’t believe.”

The relieved smile that crosses the woman’s face makes no sense to him.

“Would you two come inside with me for a minute?”

Vista’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Why? So you can lure us into a trap?”

What?! She can’t do that! He turns on her with an angry scowl; he liked her! She doesn’t get to try and trick them!

“So distrusting!” The woman gasps, a hand clutching at her chest.

“You just tried to sell me a piece of glass for the cost of a small ship,” Vista points out immediately. The woman rolls her eyes.

“Excuse me, some of us have to make a living. You think it’s cheap running a business like this? You think it’s easy saving up for a ticket off this rock?”

Vista crosses his arms over his chest. If it wasn’t such a human gesture, he’d copy it. But instead, he just gives the woman his best unimpressed look.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Not me,” the woman grins again, nodding her head at the table. “I’ll make you a deal, come inside and meet my sister, and I’ll throw in the orb for two thousand berry.”

“One.”

“Three.”

Vista opens his mouth to protest, but he knows where this is going, and Vista isn’t exactly the best at bargaining. Unless it involves his swords, then he can get a great deal.

He tugs at Vista’s sleeve, catching both people’s attention, and gestures for the tiny bag hanging off the swordsman’s belt. That’s his bag, the one that has his pineapple cubes that Magora cut up for his before they left the ship, and a tiny portion of his treasure stash that he likes taking with him everywhere he goes. Vista gives him a confused look, but hands the bag over, and he digs through it carefully.

With a lot of concentration, he pulls out his treasures one at a time. The shopkeeper is watching him with that soft, warm look on her face, and she doesn’t let Vista interrupt him when the swordsman tries. He reaches out again, tugging at her sleeve until she holds out her palm.

One at a time, he puts the coins down. One. Two. Three.

Then he looks up at her and proudly holds out his three fingers.

Vista sighs.

“Buddy, she didn’t mean three coins, she meant—”

“No, that’s what I meant. Great job, buddy!” With a big smile, the woman holds out the orb, and his eyes shine with excitement. She wanted a hundred thousand for it, but she’d accepted three hundred berry! That was barely anything! “Do you want me to put it in your bag?”

He nods happily, holding it out for her to put his new treasure inside. When it’s done, he turns back to Vista and beams.

“Buddy,” Vista says, and there’s a little bit of chastisement in his voice, “I know you know coins. Did you do that on purpose?”

‘I bought it!’ He signs back happily, technically not lying but also not answering the question. Vista sighs.

“Alright, you’ve got your orb, let’s go inside,” the woman announces, holding out her hand. He takes it immediately and follows her in.

“Hey, wait! Don’t just go off with strangers!” Vista calls, scrambling to catch up.

‘I like her!’ he signs back one-handed.

“The name’s Malta, by the way.”

“Vista,” Vista answers, catching up as they enter the little building behind the stall.

“And you are?” Malta asks him, still smiling kindly down at him.

‘I’m a bird,’ he signs at her. She blinks. Clearly she doesn’t know signs. Which makes sense, since they are for birds after all.

“We’re not sure yet,” Vista says for him, “He still hasn’t picked one he likes. We usually call him buddy and stuff like that.”

‘And phoenix,’ he reminds Vista hopefully. So far, only Whitey has called him that. But maybe the others will take her lead.

“So where’s this person you want us to meet?”

Matla shrugs.

“I’m sure she’s buried in one of her textbooks,” she leans through a doorway and shouts, “Hey, Tate! Get out here, I got some people to see you!”

Tate looks just like Malta, except a little younger and shorter. She takes one look at him and Vista and asks, “Which one of you needs treatment?”

“Huh?”

“Treatment. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Tate asks.

“You’re a nurse?” Vista asks curiously.

“I’d like to be. I’m in training,” Tate answers. Malta scoffs.

“She’s been in training for years. You need to actually find an island with a hospital if you want to be one for real,” Malta says. He nods because that makes a lot of sense.

“You know why I can’t,” Tate is smiling still, but when she looks at Malta she really doesn’t look that happy.

“Well I’ve got good news for you, baby sis. You saw that huge pirate ship down by the harbor?”

Tate’s eyes widen and her mouth drops.

“You two were attacked by those pirates?!”

“Guess again, brat. They are pirates. That’s their ship.”

Tate whirls on her older sister.

“Malta!” she snaps angrily.

“Tate.”

“Malta, absolutely not! We’ve been over this!”

“They’re different.”

“How do you know?!”

Instead of answering, Malta turns back to them, throwing her arm out for emphasis.

“Because they’re the kind of people who go out of their way to care for and protect a little boy who’s… special. Shithead pirates don’t do that. Good people do. The kind of people who will take you safely to a bigger island where you can get some actual medical training like you’ve been dying to do since dad kicked it!”

“Uh… just a second,” Vista interrupts awkwardly. Both sisters turn to look at him and he raises his hands awkwardly. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

Vista’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“He’s not… well he is special, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

Malta’s eyebrows rise.

“He’s not a mute?”

“Not exactly. He’s… uh… well it’s easier to just show you.”

Malta and Tate exchange glances. Vista taps him on the shoulder to get his attention before crouching down.

“Think you can change back for a second? Just to show them?”

His eyes widen and for a second, he can feel his feathers and fire just waiting to burst out. But then he scowls because he can’t, he made that stupid promise.

‘People day,’ he reminds Vista, ‘Can’t.’

“I know buddy, but just for a second.”

He looks away and pouts. Vista knows he wants to! But he can’t!!!!!

“Uh, I know! This is a special one-time-thing, okay? I’ll explain it to the captain, I promise you won’t get in trouble.”

That catches his attention. If Vista promises he won’t get in trouble, he believes it. His captain takes promises really seriously.

‘Sign?’ He demands. He needs to be able to show the captain some kind of proof that he didn’t break his promise.

“Hmm. How about, this?” Vista points one finger straight up and moves his hand in a circle. As far as signs go, it’s not hard. He tries the motion once, looking at Vista to see if he did it right. When Vista nods, he does it again.

“What are you doing?” Tate asks gently.

“It’ll make sense in a second, I promise,” Vista says, before turning back to him. The swordsman makes the new sign for special, one-time permission. “What about now, buddy? Can you show them?”

He makes the sign back, and beams happily. Because now he’s got permission to do the only thing he wants to, and blue and gold flames consume his body in an instant. As soon as his feathers are back, he shoots up into the air, circling the room and singing happily.

Malta gasps and Tate is staring at him in astonishment when he lands proudly on her shoulder. Her long blonde hair tickles on his feathers and he nudges against her chin. She gasps in wonder, eyes shining as she twists her head to stare down at him, her fingers cautiously rising up to his plumes.

She hesitates, looking at Vista, but he chirps loudly and bumps his head against her fingers. Why’s she looking at Vista? They’re his feathers.

“He says it’s okay,” Vista says, sort of translating, but it’s close enough that he doesn’t protest. Tate’s fingers land on his back and stroke down and at first, it’s too soft for him to feel. He chirps, pressing back against her hand, and she takes the hint to pet him harder. The next pass of her fingers is bolder and it feels great as her fingers card through layers of fiery feathers. After a few seconds, he’s practically melting on her shoulder.

“I think he likes you,” Malta laughs and Vista’s smile is huge.

“He’s amazing,” Tate breathes out. Her eyes are practically glowing with awe and he preens under the attention. He wants her to stay with him so she can be amazed by him all the time.

As soon as he has the thought, his eyes widen and he tweets excitedly, flapping his wings out.

“You okay, buddy?” Vista asks.

‘Let’s go home!’ he signs as fast as he can. Vista’s face does that twisty thing that means he doesn’t understand the sign. He’s about to turn back to tell him faster but special one-time permission means he doesn’t get to turn back if he does. So he chirps sharply and signs again, a little slower.

“You want to go back to the Moby?” Vista asks. Malta looks fascinated.

“He can still talk like that?”

A flash of annoyance almost ruins the excitement and he sharply turns his body to look up at her. But Vista comes to his defense before he can.

“No, no! It’s not like that, he just knows how to imitate these call signs we use for the News Coos,” Vista says quickly. He huffs, nodding his head firmly, and then he readjusts his weight to balance on one foot a little better. He sees Malta giving Vista a weird look, but he’s already making more signs.

‘Let’s go now!’

Vista frowns.

“Right now?” The swordsman asks, “You don’t want to talk with Malta and Tate anymore?”

He tilts his head in confusion.

‘I want to bring family home now,’ he signs, annoyed that Vista hasn’t already figured out that she’s clearly supposed to be with the Whitebeards. This is how it works, the captain already explained to him how he knows which people he wants to be part of his family and since he knows, all that’s left is to bring Tate home.

“What did he say?” Tate asks.

“Uh… I think he wants to show you guys the ship?”

He huffs in annoyance, but that’s close enough, so he tweets once and then makes the sign for ‘yes,’ just so there’s no confusion. But Vista can be so slow, maybe there’s going to be confusion no matter what he does.

“What do you say? You guys want to come see the Moby?”

“Um…” Tate hedges, looking at her older sister. Which is stupid because she clearly wants to and she should do what she wants to do. Especially because it’s what he wants her to do. Malta is giving her a weird look and Tate’s face goes all red. “If it’s alright with you. I mean, I’m sure you need to ask your captain if it’s okay.”

Vista laughs.

“Trust me, the captain will be happy to show you around.”

The trip back to the Moby is fun, but not as much fun as seeing Malta and Tate’s faces as they approach his home and follow Vista up the gangplank and onto the ship. Tate’s eyes are wide, taking in everything and everyone, and he does his best to chirp to draw her attention to as much fun stuff as possible.

The captain is sitting in his favorite chair, chatting with Kinga and drinking sake. He flies off Tate’s shoulder and sings happily before landing on the captain’s lap. Newgate looks happy to see him and strokes a massive finger down his back in greeting, but his eyebrows are raised as he looks at Vista.

“You’ve brought some guests?” the captain asks. He chirps, gesturing with his talons.

‘No! One more family!’

Newgate’s face does something funny and the eyebrows climb even higher.

“Is that so?” his captain asks. He nods happily, chirping loudly and hopping up and down.

“What’s he saying?” Tate asks curiously.

“He’s under the impression that you’ll be joining my crew.”

“What?!”

Tate isn’t the only one who gasps. He’s not sure why everyone is so surprised? He was being pretty clear with his signs.

“Little one,” the captain holds out a finger and he climbs on, spreading his wings out for balance as the captain brings him all the way up to look him in the eye, “It’s the captain’s decision who joins his crew.”

Right! And since the captain always listens to him, Tate is part of the crew now. He tilts his head and leans up as far as he can to bump underneath of the captain’s chin.

Newgate sighs.

“How old are you, lass?”

“Seventeen,” Tate tells the captain boldly. Malta elbows her and she adds, “Sir.”

The captain sighs again, swiping a massive hand through the air.

“None of that sir business. We’re pirates, not noblemen or whoever came up with that nonsense. Call me Newgate.”

“Alright,” Tate beams, already clearly having decided that his Captain is the best and she’s going to love sailing with them.  He flaps his wings out and chirps excitedly, ready to stop all this standing around talking so he can show her all his favorite places on the ship. Well everywhere except his treasure stash, that’s a secret between him and the captain only.

“Little one, you need to be patient,” the captain gently reprimands. He puffs up, insulted that the captain thinks he’s being impatient, and turns his beak away. There’s a huff, then a big finger gently scratching at his plumage and it feels amazing and he’s too excited about his new friend to stay mad.

“My friend here thinks you’d be interested in joining our voyage. Is he right?”

Tate’s face turns bright red and Malta makes a little huffing sound, rolling her eyes as she turns away to hide her smile from her sister.

“Well not… your voyage specifically but I…” she trails off, looking surprised when no one interrupts her. She continues, her face lighting up with every word, “I want to see the world! This place, it’s so small but even going to the next island is impossible for civilian ships. But if I stay here, I’ll never get to see anything. Unless…”

Whitebeard raises an eyebrow.

“Unless?”

Tate scowls, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Unless I join the Marine nursing corps.”

“What, you don’t want to be a nurse?” Kinga asks.

“I do!” Tate throws up her hands, “But not for those shitheads!”

“Tate!” Malta scolds.

“What?! They’re pirates, they’ve heard worse!”

The sisters dissolve into quiet bickering and the Whitebeard pirates just watch with amusement. Whitebeard gives them a minute to settle before leaning forward.

“If you leave this place, you may never come back. Are you prepared to leave your home behind?”

Tate’s face twists in a funny way.

“If I stay, I’ll have to settle down and get married and… ugh. Malta’s the only person I like here anyway.”

The captain has some more questions, and pretty soon most of the crew is gathered around to talk to the sisters, but the longer they all talk, the more the captain’s face changes as the man realizes that he was right all along.

Whitebeard starts laughing, interrupting Kinga as he and Tate discuss the local something or other that he wasn’t listening to.

“How on earth did you know so quickly?” Newgate asks him, and he beams, puffing up his feathers proudly.

He LOVES having Tate on board. If he thought Whitey’s hair was fun, it’s nothing compared to Tate’s. She’s got long, curly locks that are soft and bouncy and she just laughs when he tangles himself up playing and climbing around her head.

He follows her around for most of her first week, and he’s worried that the captain will get lonely without him, but Tate sits at the captain’s table for dinner and listens as Whitebeard tells her stories of their exploits for hours. Even though he’s heard a bunch of the stories before, it’s so much fun. Especially with the rest of the crew throwing in their versions and correcting the captain when he gets stuff wrong. At one point, they let him have a turn, applauding and nodding and laughing in the right spots as he hops around the table and chirps and sings.

Whiskey loves having Tate around more than anyone else. When he brings his new crewmate down to the infirmary and the captain explains that Tate will be joining them, Whiskey throws her head back and laughs.

“Oh thank god!” Whiskey crows, grabbing Tate by the shoulders and pulling her in for a hug, “Another girl! I was choking on all this testosterone!”

By the end of the second week, he can’t believe that Tate hasn’t always been part of the crew. She’s constantly in the infirmary with Whiskey, looking so excited to learn from the best nurse in the world, and sometimes he’ll find the nurses with Whitey Bay and Magora and the couple of other women on the ship, all of them chattering away and giggling, and he wonders why the rest of the crew stays away when they do that.

Rakuyo even hits his head on a wall one time, backpedaling and muttering about girl time.

Best of all, Tate figures out quicker than any of his other crewmates not to try and get him to do people things. There is one time, though, when he lands on her new desk while she’s writing a letter to Malta and she offers to show him how to write a letter of his own.

“Uh, uh, uh—” Whiskey cuts Tate off from across the infirmary before he even has a chance to protest, “He might look like a human, but he’s a bird. He only does bird things. Isn’t that right?”

He nods firmly, happy that at least Whiskey understands.

“Oh. Right, of course. I’m sorry, I got confused. I haven’t met many birds before,” Tate apologizes.

She’s the best.

About three weeks after Tate joined the crew, he has an unlucky dice roll. Six whole people days. And maybe he’s getting used to them and there’s so much more bird stuff that Whitey and the crew have helped him figure out that he can still do, but there’s something about rolling a six—a SIX!!!—that pricks his feathers.

He made a promise though, so he doesn’t even whine about it. There were some fun things this week; Kinga made a giant ropes course on the main deck as training for some of the newer crewmates, and after they were done training, he got to climb around and play on it as much as he wanted. He also got to help Whitey and Hatchett sort more treasure down in the lower decks, and he earned four more coins for helping them. Now he’s got even more coins than before he got his orb! But by day six, he’s sick of his stupid stubby fingers and his dumb weak human nose and the weird floppy ears, and his tummy hurts from how badly he wants to go back to normal. When the captain goes off to practice with his bisento, he mopes around until he finds Rakuyo hanging out on the deck. He’s got a little block of wood that he’s whittling at with a knife.

Rakuyo looks up and smiles when he plops down on the deck next to him.

“How're you doing, buddy?” Rakuyo asks, and he shrugs instead of signing anything back. He’s bored. And he hates his people days. “The captain’s busy, huh?”

‘Yes,’ he signs, leaning back against the wall of the outer cabin. Rakuyo ruffles his hair and then picks up his wood block and knife again.

“Well, I’m happy to keep you company. Did I tell you about the Elephant Tuna that Otterburn and I saw in the market on the last island? The thing was the size of a house! I thought it was a sea king for sure!”

He likes listening to Rakuyo’s stories, and he’s also really glad he didn’t see the giant fish. Birds are supposed to eat fish, but a tuna that big would try to eat him in a heartbeat. He does not want to be eaten by a big tuna.

Looking for treasure with Vista was so much more fun.

That thought gives him an idea.

He reaches up to tug on Rakuyo’s sleeve, and the man cuts off mid-story to look down at him.

“You look you want something. What’s up?”

He raises one finger and waves his hand around in a circle, looking up at Rakuyo hopefully.

“Uh… you want another? Another story?”

He shakes his head and repeats the gesture.

“Is that a new sign?”

‘Yes,’ he signs back. Then he makes his new sign again and adds, ‘Ok?’ as he looks up pleadingly at his crewmate.

“Yeah, of course it’s okay. I’m happy to learn a new one. Can you show me again?”

That’s an easy one. He does the gesture once, and then again. Rakuyo copies him, and when his crewmate gives permission for him to turn back (just this once), he jumps up to his feet happily.

“I guess I did it right, then. What’s it mean?”

Instead of answering— and honestly he couldn’t if he wanted to, he doesn’t have words for special or permission—he nudges Rakuyo’s chin with his head. Maybe a hug would be better, but birds can’t hug.

“So it means… wait, where are you going?” Rakuyo calls after him as he starts to run back towards the main deck. He’s too excited to stop, but he can hear the man muttering, “Why do I feel like I just agreed to something I shouldn’t have?”

“Little one. This is supposed to be a human day. You made me a promise.”

‘I didn’t break my promise!’ he signs back happily. Looks like the captain is done with his practice!

“This is the last day of the week,” Newgate crosses his arms over his chest, “How are you planning to keep your word to me if you’re skipping your human days?”

He beams and holds up one talon before waving it in a circle.

‘Special permission!’

Whitebeard takes a hard look at the gesture and frowns.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, little one. I think you owe me a real explanation for why you’re going back on your word,” the captain chides. His mouth opens in shock. He’s not! He got permission and everything!!! Still bristling, he looks around for Vista. He finds him near the upper deck, swinging his sword around. Vista nearly drops the sword when he lands on the teen’s head suddenly.

“Whoa, buddy, you scared me!” Vista exclaims. He chirps and tugs on the blue shirt with his beak. Vista is confused until he notices the captain’s eyes on them, and then carries him back across the deck.

“Well?” Whitebeard asks.

He flaps his wings to make sure Vista’s attention is on him, then makes the sign again. The captain raises an eyebrow at Vista.

“Do you know what that gesture is?”

“Uh…yes…” Vista says nervously, “But I didn’t!”

“What does the sign mean?”

“It’s, uh, special permission, captain. I came up with it when we met Tate, we were trying to convince her… but that was a one-time thing! I didn’t tell him he could this time!”

“It’s alright, Vista. I believe you,” the captain smiles, “In fact, I think it’s a very good thing to have a sign for. But—”

All the captain’s attention is on him and the pirate does not look impressed. He pouts.

“That does not mean you can give yourself special permission. You gave me your word that you would do your human days.”

He puffs up and screeches, insulted that the captain thinks he’d do that.

‘I didn’t!’ he signs as soon as he’s calmed down enough.

“You didn’t give yourself permission?” the captain repeats.

‘No! Didn’t!’

“Then who did?”

He gives the captain his best innocent look.

‘I don’t have a sign for his name,’ he answers, keeping his eyes as wide as he can and tilting his head.

“No sign who?” Vista repeats, sounding confused.

“He doesn’t want to tell me,” Whitebeard sighs, “That’s fine. Vista, please go gather everyone. We’re having a whole-crew meeting.”

“This is the sign for special, one-time permission for our little friend to turn into a phoenix on his human days. Now, somebody gave him permission today, and I suspect that they didn’t know what they were agreeing to.”

Rakuyo slaps his forehead with his palm and groans.

“Buddy, come on,” he groans loudly, “Don’t get me in trouble with the captain!”

Before he can feel too badly, Whitebeard chuckles.

“No one’s in trouble, Rakuyo. That being said, I expect everyone to learn this gesture. I’m giving you all permission to use it if it ever becomes necessary.”

His eyes widen and he flaps his wings excitedly, looking at all his crewmates that can now give him a loophole to his promise. But before he gets too excited, the captain looks right at him and continues.

“But I expect you to use your judgement, because if you turn without a good reason, you’ll have to spend two more human days to make up for it.”

His beak drops open in shock. That’s not fair!

‘But danger!’ he protests.

“It’s always alright for you to use your powers if you’re in danger. Your safety comes first and that will always be a good reason.”

He pouts again.

“Your human days aren’t meant to be a punishment, little one. They’re incredibly important to make sure you stay healthy and safe."

“You want it here?” Atmos asks, crouching a little bit so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. He chirps happily, hopping up and down on the horns sticking out of his crewmate’s helmet. Atmos has only been on board for a few days, but the pirate is quickly becoming one of his favorites. And not just because of his helmet!

Maybe a little bit because of his helmet. It’s the perfect spot to ride on when he wants to be carried around and the captain wants to sit around and drink instead of explore.

But not just the helmet! Atmos also has a fun beard and he’s got great stories about the island he grew up and how he had to wrestle snakes the size of mountains. Whitey says he’s gullible, but he can’t wait to see a snake someday. And also he wants to see a mountain so he knows how big they are.

“Here,” Whitey passes Atmos the hammer and nails and Lima helps steady it so that Atmos can secure the shelf in place. He jumps with every strike, the vibration shaking the helmet’s horns, but he doesn’t want to miss a second.

“There, that should do it,” Atmos announces, stepping back to admire his handywork.

“Looks good to me,” Kinga nods from where the pirate is sitting on the couch against the wall. Whitey yelled at him for being in the way, and now he’s supervising, which seems like a very important job. “What do you think, buddy?”

He tilts his head and looks at the shelf.

Then he looks down at Atmos.

It’s still empty. Why haven’t they put his treasures up yet?

He lets out a call, trying to be gentle since they’re trying to help while still letting them know he is not impressed.

‘It’s not done,’ he signs at Whitey, who rolls her eyes.

“We know it’s not done, genius, he’s asking if you think it’s straight enough. We’ll put whatever you want up after we’re sure it won’t just fall off.”

Oh. That makes more sense.

He flies off Atmos’s helmet and lands on his perch by the porthole. Then he tilts his head and considers.

The shelf looks good. The pirates look happy when he tells them so.

“Great! So what do you want to put up first?” Vista asks, gesturing at the little pile of treasure in the corner of the room. Rakuyo and Kingdew are sitting across from him, drinking the leftovers from the party the night before while they supervise Vista. Everyone laughed when he insisted on it, but he trusts Vista to make sure no one touches his treasure and he trusts Rakuyo to make sure Vista doesn’t take anything and Kingdew looked like he felt left out.

He flies over to his treasure pile and hops around a little bit. Most of his coins and socks are still in his hiding place under the captain’s bed, but they went to a museum on the last island and the treasures there were so much prettier out in the open than stuffed under the captain’s bed in the dark. And this room is the safest place, nobody gets to come in unless he says so.

His most important treasure is still safely tucked into the corner of the captain’s room, right behind the bedpost where no one but him can see it, but most of the treasures that aren’t his cup are laid out in front of him. He starts with the shiny orb Vista bought him, and he likes the way that Vista’s face lights up.

“This one?”

‘Yes,’ he signs, ‘Put it on top.’

“Alright, this one on top,” Vista hands the orb to Rakuyo, who passes it to Kingdew, who shows it to Kinga the supervisor before passing it to Whitey. Whitey holds it up to the porthole, letting the sunlight catch on the glass.

“You sure you want it up that high? It’ll catch more sun if you put in on the lower shelf.”

He thinks about that once he’s done being distracted by the thousands of glowing lights along the walls.

‘More light,’ he answers decisively. Whitey puts it on the lower shelf.

“This one next?” Rakuyo asks, pointing at the glittery half-tiara the captain had fished out of a shipwreck. He’d taken one look and known that the broken piece was definitely the missing half of the tiara the White Robes had been furious about losing, but the Whitebeards had just seen the gross seaweed and barnacles and given it to him without looking twice. He’s pretty sure Whitey knows he knows something they don’t, but the captain just reminded her that they’d already agreed to give it to him and she’d agreed to polish it up for him.

He chirps happily and tells them to put it in the middle, where he can see the red and green jewels from his perch. None of his other treasures are anywhere near that valuable, so he wants it front and center.

The pirates work for a while, sorting his treasures and putting them up on display, and they take turns helping him put things up. He moves around, using each of his friends as a perch, but they’re almost done when he lands on the desk and puts his foot in something that feels weird.

It’s squishy. When he jumps away, his foot leaves a yellow splotch behind.

He chirps loudly, staring down at his foot and trying to contort himself to get a better look at it.

“You okay?” Lima asks from the couch where he’s now helping Kinga supervise. And also helping Rakuyo and Kingdew finish the beer. He chirps in dismay, holding out his foot so his friend can see.

‘What is that?’ he signs as best as he can with one foot covered in the weird thing.

“It’s paint,” Lima tells him, “There’s a couple pots of it on the desk.”

Paint? Isn’t that the thing for ships and flags? He’s not a ship or a flag. What’s it doing on him?

“You can make pictures with it. Remember the ones we saw in the museum? You can use paint to make them,” Atmos explains gently, “There’s some paper if you want to try.”

Everyone in the room goes tense, and he sees Whitey open her mouth, but he’s too busy signing, ‘Yes!’ to see what she’s saying. The museum had great paintings, like the ones the White Robes used to have but even better because they had so many colors and the captain carried him right up to them so he could see them up close. Paintings are treasure, just like his coins and socks and… like him. He doesn’t know where he came from, and he knows that coins and socks and gold are things you find, but to discover that paintings could be made?

If Atmos is right, he can make treasure. And it’s right there!

He’s hopping up and down in excitement by the time Atmos places a big piece of paper down on the desk and starts laying out different bowls of paint for him. There’s so many colors and he’d seen them before but he’d always just assumed they were decorations. He hops into the bowl of dark blue, jumping up and down to coat his talons and then flaps up and starts jumping around on the paper.

He’s so caught up in his excitement—he’s making treasure!—that it takes him a while to realize that the Whitebeards are crowded around the desk to watch him. He stops hopping and flaps over to Whitey, landing on the desk close enough to grab her finger in his beak. He hops towards the paints, dragging her hand with him, and she watches him with a raised eyebrow as he takes her hand all the way over to the bowls of paint.

‘Make pictures too!’ he tries to sign, but his talons are covered in paint and none of the Whitebeards can figure out what he’s saying.

“You want Whitey to paint too?” Vista asks.

‘All of you!’ he signs excitedly.

“You want us all to paint?” Rakuyo grins, and he hops up and down a few times before remembering to sign ‘yes’ at them. “Guess we’re gonna need more supplies.”

Rakuyo and Atmos disappear into the hallway for a little while, before returning with a bunch of paper and more bowls of paint and some little brooms before passing them out to everyone. He returns to his own painting, hopping into the red and starting on the next shape.

It’s so much fun. His treasure slowly comes into being, and with every hop and foot mark across the page, it gets more and more perfect. His crewmates are having fun too, even if they all keep laughing about pirates sitting around painting. They do look funny, sweeping the little brooms across the paper to paint.

The bird way is so much better.

He’s very tired, not to mention covered in paint, by the time his masterpiece is done. He looks down at it, tracing the swooping lines and big, artful blocks of colors, and beams proudly. There’s only one thing left.

He lets out a loud trill, hopping up and down on the desk. The pirates all look up at him, and he can tell that the beer is long gone by the way most of them are swaying.

“You finished, buddy?” Kinga asks.

He shakes his head no and holds up his foot.

‘Whitey come here,’ he signs.

“What’s the magic word?” she teases. He pouts and lets out a sharp call of annoyance; how is he supposed to sign ‘abracadabra’ when they can’t even understand the word ‘treasure’ half the time??? “Alright, fine.”

She climbs to her feet, wiping her paint-covered hands on Vista’s blue jacket, laughing as he yelps and tries to wipe it on Lima. Whitey comes over to the desk and looks down at his painting.

“Wow,” she says, nodding a bunch of times, “That is just… wow.”

He preens, crest of flames glowing proudly under her praise.

“What’d he make?” Kingdew calls, still hard at work on his own painting.

“Art,” Whitey Bay answers, “Art that defies mere description.”

He sings happily in agreement, joyful tweets filling the crowded room. Then he remembers what he needed her help for, and he tugs at her hand.

‘Write for me!’ he signs excitedly.

“You want to sign it?” Whitey asks.

‘No,’ he shakes his head, digging around the desk for the thing he needs. He pulls it out with his beak, dragging it over. Whitey picks up the pen.

“You want me to write something for you?” she tries again, and this time he nods. It takes her a few tries to understand what he wants, but when she gets it, she freezes. She looks back at his picture and her mouth falls open. She covers her mouth with the hand that isn’t holding a pen. Her eyes get all wet and he shifts anxiously; did he make her sad? Why’s she crying?

He chirps quietly, tilting his head.

‘Okay?’ he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great. It’s a great picture.”

She leans over the desk and begins writing, being very careful to get every stroke perfect. When she’s finished, she puts the pen back on the desk and straightens.

“Well?” Rakuyo calls, “Can we see?”

Whitey looks at him for permission, and he nods. Whitey shows them his picture and they all love it; of course they do. It’s treasure!

“You know, I bet the captain would love this. He’s given you a lot of treasure, maybe you can give him this one?” Kinga suggests carefully, aware that it’s no small thing to suggest giving treasure away. But he just looks at the captain’s right-hand man like he’s an idiot.

Of course it’s for the captain. It’s the first piece of treasure he’s ever made, of course he’s giving it to his favorite person in the whole world.

-

They find the captain in the infirmary, where Whiskey is just finishing up his daily treatment for the leg wound he’d gotten in the fight with the Beast Pirates. He hates the Beast pirates; they’re mean and really smelly. Like, really smelly. Fights with them are gross.

“It was quiet around here, I was wondering where you’d all disappeared to,” Newgate greets warmly as a bunch of his crew enters the infirmary in a pack, “I hope you found something more pleasant than being thrown to the wolves.”

Whiskey laughs at the insult, swatting the captain’s arm with her clipboard. Tate tries to hide her laugh behind her own clipboard, but everyone can see her do it.

“Excuse you, captain. If anything, I’m a vulture with the way I get the picked over scraps to put back together,” Whiskey teases back.

“Of course, my mistake,” the captain smiles, a warm glow in the man’s eyes. He chirps excitedly, tired of being patient. Newgate gives him a curious look, like the captain is wondering why he hasn’t already returned to his favorite shoulder.

“We’ve got a little something for you, captain,” Whitey Bay announces, drawing the attention of the entire room. He bobs up and down before accepting the roll of paper Rakuyo holds out to him. The captain holds out his hand as a perch, and he flies onto it immediately. He can’t wait.

“For me?” Newgate asks, and he drops the paper and immediately resumes hopping up and down anxiously before realizing that the man will need both hands and hops back over to Whitey’s waiting arm. What if the captain doesn’t like it?

The captain doesn’t make him wait long. He unrolls the paper and sees the picture.

For a second, there’s silence. The captain looks utterly shocked. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open, just like Whitey’s had. And then he just stares. And keeps staring.

His captain stares for long enough that he starts to get nervous… does his captain really not like it?!

But before he can start to panic, his captain puts down the art and picks him up instead, bringing him all the way up to his face where he can see the pure joy.

“This is the greatest treasure anyone has ever given me,” the captain’s voice is nothing like usual; it’s all quiet and choked up. But the words make him glow with pride, his feathers burning even brighter as he sits up straight and puffs out his feathers. “Thank you.”

‘You like it?’ he signs.

“I love it.”

That night, the captain hangs up the picture in his room. He curls himself up against the massive shoulder, basking in the sight of his treasure hanging proudly on the wall. He’s got the best family ever.

Chapter Text

They’re being chased by marines but this time, the captain looks a little worried. He’s in bird form, clinging to the captain’s shoulders, when they’re attacked by someone who is much, much stronger than anyone the pirate has fought before.

And there’s a lot of marines this time, more than he’s ever seen in one place before. He can’t see any of his crewmates anymore, and he’s trying not to be scared because his crew is the strongest ever but there’s so many white hats and they just keep coming.

But the marine who’s punching at Whitebeard with bare fists is scarier than all of them. He’s got a huge scar on the side of his face and he charges straight for his captain, hollering, “What the hell were you thinking, Newgate?! You think those damn nobles were gonna just let you ransack the place?!”

The bisento meets the bare fist and a huge shockwave nearly knocks him from his perch. He digs his talons in as hard as he can—his captain is tough enough he can’t hurt him—and holds on for dear life.

“You chose a bad time to pick a fight with me, Garp!” Whitebeard shouts furiously, “Those bastards are lucky I didn’t burn the place to the ground!”

“This isn’t like the old days, you idiot!” The Marine—Garp—shouts back. He pulls back and launches a barrage of fists that Whitebeard matches blow for blow, “Times are changing! The nobles are pouring money into the Marines and they want results!”

“And they thought they could get those results by sending you after me?!” Whitebeard demands, “If you want my head, it’ll take a hell of a lot more than a bunch of recruits that are green around the ears. Unless you think you can beat me alone!”

“Damn pirate!” Garp hollers, terrifying fist crashing against Whitebeard’s blade, “Shut up and listen to me! They sent me to get that fancy bird back! That’s all I’m here for.”

The world stops.

This Marine… this terrifying Marine who can punch his captain’s blade with his bare hands… is here for him.

He wants to take him back.

Back to the White Robes.

Back to his cage.

No!

No, he doesn’t want to go!

He doesn’t want to go back ever!

A blast of energy erupts from his captain, and he can’t see it but he can still feel furious power filling the air. And he can see the way the swarms of white hats stiffen and fall, while his crewmates look around in shock.

Only the scary Marine doesn’t move. He looks a little surprised, but mostly angry.

“Over my dead body,” Whitebeard growls.

“Didn’t you hear me? Those idiot dragons are pissed as hell and they want that damn bird back.”

“I said, over my dead body.”

The air splits apart, and this time the shock wave rips the ground beneath the captain’s feet. Garp goes crashing back. He stares at his captain, too terrified to think, just watching his anger grow bigger and bigger.

“You pirates are all the same,” Garp spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he climbs back to his feet, “You think you can do whatever the hell you want, take whatever you want with no consequences? Well not this time!”

“You even think about touching him, and I swear, Garp, you won’t leave this island alive.”

He’s expecting Garp to get angry, but the man just throws his arms up like his body can’t hold all his disbelief.

“You’re serious! You’re going to get your whole crew killed over a bird?!”

Instead of answering, Whitebeard just raises his blade and slashes down. The attack blasts through the air and knocks Garp back.

The fight is too fast for him to follow. His captain moves like lighting, too fast for a man as big as he is. But Garp is just as fast, and as scary as each of the blows are, the shockwaves that come after are worse. The island around them is ruined; trees shredded, huge holes in the ground, and anything that their fight left alone is torn up as the other Whitebeards keep fighting the marines.

He’s too scared to look. He just keeps his eyes shut and clings to his captain’s shoulder for dear life. His captain won’t lose, he’s too strong to lose, and he promised him that he never had to go back. He doesn’t want to go back! He hates the White Robes and the cage and being a treasure to stare at! He wants to stay with his captain and his crew!

“You stubborn bastard,” the Marine is still on his feet, his chest heaving up and down with blood running down the side of his face. But there’s a scary smile on his face. Like he’s having fun fighting the captain. Like he knows something the captain hasn’t said out loud. “What the hell’s this really about? You’ve never been a bleeding heart, why now?”

Instead of answering, his captain raises the giant bisento and slams the end into the ground. The shockwave pushes Garp back again, leaving silence behind.   

“Little one,” Whitebeard says, his breathing heavier than he’s ever heard it. He’s never seen the captain fight anyone for this long before, and the crazy Marine doesn’t look like he’s going down anytime soon. “I need you to trust me.”

He lets out a little chirp, the loudest he can possibly manage because of course he trusts his captain, but this is the scariest fight he’s ever been in and he just wants to go back home to the Moby. But if he leaves his captain’s shoulder, they’ll catch him.

“I need you to turn back.”

WHAT?!

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO—

“I know you’re scared. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. But I need you to trust me right now and do I ask. Please.”

NO!

He can’t! Not in front of this Marine, the crazy scary one who wants to take him back to the White Robes and will tell them what he did if he turns back—

“Little one. Your crew is counting on you. I know you’re scared but I need you to trust me more than your fear. I promise that everything will be alright.”

There’s no choice even though it’s the scariest moment of his entire life. He just looks at his captain and trusts that he’ll take care of him and the next thing he knows, massive fingers close around him and pull him off Whitebeard’s shoulder and into his palm. The Marine’s face bleaches of all its color. The man stands as still as a statue, staring at Whitebeard.

He shifts in his captain’s hand, clutching at the giant fingers cradling him, his heart pounding so fast he’s going to explode. He can’t breathe. Even though the captain promised everything will be alright, he’s never been this afraid in his entire life. He’s freezing cold and there’s a spike of pain piercing through his chest from behind and his back is on fire and everything is blurry and the only reason he isn’t throwing up is because moving even a single muscle would be a death sentence even without the crushing weight on top of him.

“He doesn’t even know his own name,” Whitebeard says quietly, “I’m warning you now, Garp, there is not a thing in this world I wouldn’t do to keep him safe. And my crew feels the same way.”

Garp says nothing. Finally, he scoffs.

“Dumbass Celestials, forgetting animals need food. Damn thing was dead in its cage when you sacked the place. Nothing I can do about that!”

“You’re alright,” the captain soothes, stroking down his feathers. He’s hiding on the man’s lap, safely hidden behind the folds of the greatcoat. “The Marines are gone now. You’re safe, just like I promised. Are you ready to come out?”

He does not come out.

“Are you really going to spend all day under there?” Whitey calls, the tips of her boots poking under the captain’s bed. He curls up tighter around his cup and stays exactly where he is. He’ll come out when the captain is back from fighting that pirate crew the lookouts spotted earlier and not a second before. “It’s been hours, you can’t possibly be comfortable on the floor like that.”

He shifts in the nest of blankets and pillows he built in his hiding spot. It’s a people day and that means his stupid big body gets antsy and uncomfortable so fast, it’s just another reason why his real body is so much better. But his fire still works and whenever his stupid people legs and back start feeling bad, there’s a wash of blue and gold flame that fixes him. He’s happy right where he is, the only problem is his stupid person body.

There’s a big sigh and then the shifting of fabrics as Whitey settles onto the bed above him, and he wonders how she got all the way up there with her broken arm still in a big white cast. Who knows, it’s Whitey Bay.

“Alright then, I guess I’ll just have to read this book while I wait for you.”

He perks up at that.

A book?

He’s always wondered what’s in them. He knows there’s lots of words, and he knows there’s different kinds of books, like the map books with all the pictures that Lima has in navigation, and the cookbooks that tell Magora and Otterburn how to make food, and record books like the White Robes used to keep track of all the treasure that they got from the Heavenly Tribute. But books are definitely a people thing, it’s not for him.

But it’s not for him.

Whitey’s reading for herself, it’s got nothing to do with him. Even if he is sitting close enough to hear her. It’s just like any of the times she’s told him a story.

There’s nothing wrong with just listening.

“There once lived in a town two brothers, the elder who married a very rich wife and became a wealthy merchant, and the younger who married a woman as poor as himself and lived by cutting wood. One day, when the younger brother was in the forest, he saw in the distance a great cloud of dust…” Whitey reads. He shifts around his cup, craning his head up at the underside of the captain’s bed to make sure he doesn’t miss anything.

Soon, he’s drawn into the story of thieves and gold and treachery.

“Remembering the words the King of the Thieves used to cause the hidden cave to open and shut, he wondered if he could get the magic words to work for him as well. And so, once he was sure that all the thieves had gone, he crept among the shrubs and bush and stood right before the concealed door. With a deep breath, he shouted, ‘Open Sesame!’ And then—"

Whitey stops suddenly. He hears the sound of the book closing and he almost hits his head sitting up too fast.

She’s stopping? Why did she stop?! What happens to the treasure?!

“It’s already dark out?” Whitey Bay wonders aloud, “I’d better go help get the crew wrangled for dinner.”

She climbs off the bed and he hears cracks as she stretches out her back before leaning over and sticking her good hand underneath the bed.

“You coming? It’s curry night,” Whitey says. He stares at her hand and for a second, he just stays curled around his cup—his shiny gold cup that’s just like the piles of treasure hidden in the cave of the King of Thieves—and then he gets a glimpse of the thing sticking out of her bag.

His eyes widen.

She’s taking the book with her.

What if she keeps reading at dinner and he misses the rest of the story? He’ll never find out what happens!

He carefully puts his cup inside the extra secret hiding place before crawling out enough to take Whitey’s hand.

“Wow, the art in here is so pretty,” Whitey comments as she turns another page. His head lifts from where he was half-dozing on his captain’s shoulder. The captain hums appreciatively as Whitey holds the book out for him.

“Talented illustrator.”

He wants to see too!

But he’s not supposed to look at books.

Hmmm.

He’s not really looking at the book though, just the art. Birds can look at art. He was never allowed to touch it, but he could always look! So he makes a little call and flies off the captain’s shoulder and onto Whitey’s, nudging at her chin with his plumage to get her to show him the art.

“It’s the caravan,” Whitey explains, pointing out the little carts and tents and camels in the sand.

“Oh no!” Lima exclaims suddenly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my book!”

He looks at the bookcase in the Navigation room and immediately notices that there’s tons of books missing. He doesn’t see them in the room, just rolled-up maps and log poses and navigating equipment.

‘What book?’ he signs. He just learned the sign for book a few days ago when Whitey was trying to figure out why he’d been following her around all day.

“It’s called ‘Sabaody’s Mangroves.’ And I have no idea where it is!”

“Well, we’ll all keep an eye out for it,” one of the other navigators says.

“Yeah! What’s it look like?” another asks.

Lima takes out a piece of chalk and draws on the big black board. He makes a big, tall squiggly line.

“Alright everyone, look for a book that starts with this letter.”

“Got it!”

They stop at an island with a big market and the entire crew disembarks to load up on supplies. Whitebeard wanders through the market with a few crewmates behind him, and they’re all laughing and joking and admiring the wares and it’s amazing to see how such a big man can navigate the space so easily.

It’s a busy day and there’s tons of vendors and people bustling around and he’s taking in all the sights happily.

“Hey Marco!” one of the vendors they’re passing calls and he freezes, stunned, as the name crashes into him like a flying brick. His shock is so strong that not just Whitebeard but all the pirates with them stop.

A man carrying a huge sack of lumber waves at the vendor as he passes, but he doesn’t even notice.

“Marco,” Whitebeard repeats, and he blinks like the name shocked him, staring at the man dizzily, “Is that your name?”

He just blinks, trying to see straight through the sudden rush of feelings and blurry memories that he can’t remember. When it fades, he still doesn’t remember, but that name, Marco, it feels like the curry. Something surprising but just right, like something he didn’t know how badly he was missing until it came back.

“Marco the Phoenix,” Whitebeard smiles, his eyes gleaming with something very warm, “It suits you.”

Marco.

He’s Marco.

Mar-co. Marco. Marco, that’s him.

He has a name and everything. He’s free, Marco is free and that’s him. Marco the Phoenix. Marco the Phoenix.

“Marco!” Whitey shouts, and one second she’s halfway across the battlefield but suddenly she’s on top of him, her sword nowhere in sight while her hands grab at his shoulders, dropping to her knees. “You’re going to be fine, just show me where he got you.”

Marco looks up at her. He tilts his head and stares at her. Whitey looks really freaked out and it’s freaking him out a little because Whitey never freaks out. Marco slowly raises a hand and points to his shirt, where the sword sliced through the fabric.

“What the hell?! He… he hit you, I saw it, you were bleeding! Where’s the—”

Marco raises his hand higher and points to his collarbone, where the last of his flames are closing the sword slash. It was really deep. It’s not the same kind of hurt like getting his feathers all ripped out because that’s sharp and everywhere except this is sharp and it’s all right along a line. He’s glad it’s gone.

Whitey gasps.

“You can heal yourself?”

‘Yes,” he signs and he’s confused that she doesn’t already know that. He’s healed lots of times, like when his wings get snapped. But he hasn’t hurt his wings in a long time.

He used to heal all the time. But that was back when the white robes would make him dance and pull out his feathers, the Whitebeards never push him off his perches or rip at his feathers or grab him around the middle and squeeze until—

“Marco… are you okay?”

He looks at her. She doesn’t look freaked out anymore but she’s still staring at him with a weird look on her face. Marco looks down at his chest just to make sure but there’s only smooth skin. The cut is long gone and he’s fine.

He looks back at Whitey and signs ‘yes’ again.

“Didn’t it hurt?”

He signs ‘yes’ another time. It did hurt, it hurt a lot, but it’s already gone. It’s fine now.

“It must have been scary, right?”

Scary? Not really. Maybe a little, when he saw the sword coming down at him and couldn’t get out of the way, but his fire always puts him back together. Pain always goes away.

Whitey Bay drops to her knees and throws her arms around him, pulling him into her chest for a hug. The crew likes to hug him as much as they like to hold his hands and pet his hair and feathers; Marco likes the captain’s hugs best and he usually likes Whitey’s hugs too.

But he doesn’t like this one.

It’s different.

Whitey is upset with him. She’s so upset that she’s shaking with it. She’s mad at him and she’s touching him and the box swallows everything just like it’s supposed to until there’s nothing but the way his chest feels all funny and tight.

She finally pulls back but she doesn’t move her hands off his arms.

“Marco, it’s okay to be sad.”

Okay, now she’s lost him. Maybe it’s different for people, but birds don’t do that.

Bad things, like sad and mad and Before, they all go in the box.

But Whitey looks upset still so he tries to explain that it’s really fine.

‘Sad goes in the box,’ he signs as best as he can.

“Sad in?”

‘Yes,” Marco signs, relieved that she understands. Whitey lets him go.

Newgate looks over at him when Marco starts tapping the shoulder he’s sitting on. He and Kinga have been talking with the helmsmen for hours and Marco is bored out of his mind.

“Yes, Marco?” Newgate asks.

‘I want to explore the ship,’ Marco signs.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Whitebeard smiles, “I’m going to be busy for a while, but I’m sure someone would be happy to go with you.”

Marco signs, ‘No.’

“No?”

‘By myself,’ Marco corrects. He’s not expecting the captain’s face to light up as much as it does, but Whitebeard looks like he’s just been given another piece of treasure.

“Well, have fun,” Whitebeard beams, “I can’t wait to hear about what you find.”

The Moby Dick is the best ship ever. It’s his home and he loves it but the more he explores, he discovers it’s way bigger than he ever imagined. Marco knows all the room on the upper decks; the captain’s room, navigation, the room with the big steering wheel, the little storage closets full of places to hide when they play hide and seek. He also knows some of the rooms below decks, like the big kitchen and the mess hall and the infirmary and the treasure room and Whitey’s room and the laundry room and the room that’s just for him that’s full of all his treasures. But it’s not until Marco finally braves climbs down the staircase near the bow of the ship that he discovers there’s entire floors of the ship he’s never seen before.

The Moby Dick is so big.

Marco’s seen a bunch of different islands now but he’s never felt more like a real explorer than when he explores the ship he lives in by himself. So many of the rooms are empty and as he hops around the empty space, listening to the sound of his bare feet against the floorboards, he imagines what they’re going to be filled with someday.

Probably barracks, like the rooms some of the newer crewmates share together on one of the higher floors. The captain wants to fill the whole ship up someday, and their new crew will have to sleep somewhere. But maybe they’ll fill the whole ship up with treasure.

And then he can pile it all up and take a nap in the middle of a ship full of gold, just like the dragons from the story Whitey read to him.

If he had his beak, he would let out a trill at the thought of having that much gold. But today is a human day, so he just goes further down the hallway and goes back to his exploring.

Marco tugs on Lima’s sleeve, pointing at the little island getting bigger and bigger as the Moby approaches.

“What’s up, Marco?” the navigator grins down at him.

‘Why are we going there?’ Marco signs.

“What do you mean? It’s an island, why wouldn’t we stop?”

‘It’s not on the route,’ Marco says. He’s sure, they’re supposed to be going to a place called Capstone Island that’s got huge, flat planes of rock that are covered in dense red rocks. Whitey told him he’s going to love it and he wants to see it!

Lima’s face does something funny and he tilts his head.

“Can you sign that again for me? Sorry, Marco, I’m not great with bird signs.”

Marco takes a second to be annoyed, but then again, why would people be good at bird signs? It’s not Lima’s fault he isn’t a bird. So Marco repeats the question a few times until Lima understands.

“You’re right, it isn’t. But one of my friends heard a rumor about some pretty cool stuff happening here and the Captain said we could check it out.”

‘Then next?’

“You mean after this island?”

Marco nods.

“Well, we’ll get back on the route we were on before.”

‘Good!’ Marco signs excitedly. He really, really wants to see those big rocks.

Lima laughs and puts a hand on Marco’s head.

“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to like this island though, Marco.”

The second they’re back on the ship, Marco flaps his wings and makes a beeline for the room with all his treasures in it. He’s too excited from what he saw to even think about telling the captain where he’s going.

Because Lima was right. Marco did like that island.

Well the island was fine, but there was something on the island that blew Marco’s entire mind apart.

A bird.

Marco blasts through the little bird door and careens through the opening to the room, hopping up and down because he’s too excited to even think about sitting still on his perch.

Because the bird—and he was definitely a bird, those jet black feathers and sharp beak and black talons, no way he could have been anything else—the bird on that island talked.

Marco feels his brain exploding. Everything he knew feels upside down.

The bird talked.

The bird talked. With his beak. To his human friend.

His human friend said hello and the bird answered him. He made people words with his beak.

Birds can talk!

He knows because he saw it with his own eyes. And it wasn’t just a trick, the bird said lots of different things. His human friend told Lima that he was a raven, and that ravens were just one kind of bird that was capable of talking.

Marco is too excited to even keep hopping. He spins in a circle one way, then the other, then throws back his head and sings. He can’t remember the last time he was so excited. Because his signs are great and he likes using them but the rest of the crew is so bad at understanding them and it drives him crazy.

But if birds can talk then maybe he can learn how also! And then he can skip all the frustrating confusion and just tell them what he wants to say!

On his bird days, obviously. He’ll still need his signs on human days but it’s still better than nothing.

He hops around and sings until he starts to get tired, and then he lands on the desk next to his newest piece of art. It’s a painting of the water outside the porthole, full of blues and yellows with a little black scribble in the bottom corner. Marco scrutinizes it, not liking the way the curves look more like a scribble than a letter.

(In his defense, it’s really really really hard to hold a pen in his talon and his beak is even harder, but Whitey Bay told him that a piece of art isn’t finished until the artist signs it and everyone was busy so he tried his best to finish his art himself.

Oh well. Whitey can fix it for him later.

For now, Marco settles himself on the desk and tries to think. How is he supposed to learn to talk?

He wishes he could ask his crew, but they’re all humans and they only know how humans learn to talk. It’s got to be different for birds so they definitely can’t help him. Hmmm.

He knows lots of words. He listens to the crew talk every day. But that’s not the same as him making a sound. Hmmmm. Maybe he can pick a word to say?

The raven liked to say ‘hi’ a lot. So maybe he can start with that!

Yeah, perfect! That’ll be easy!

Marco fluffs up his feathers and opens his beak and…

…immediately pulls himself back into a cocoon of feathers. Okay, so maybe it should be easy. But thinking about saying a human word and actually doing it are two different things.

He lets out an experimental trill, trying to hear how it sounds coming out. Very normal. Very bird. Not at all the sound he was trying to make.

Marco keeps trying. He tries making different sounds, sharp calls and short trills and quiet little peeps until he can figure out where they all come from. It takes a while, but he slowly figures out that he can soften one of the caws until it starts to sound like the captain when he clears his throat.

It’s almost the first sound of a ‘hi’ and that’s a good start!

Marco flares out his flames and preens, dizzy with the excitement of what he’s already learned.

He’s going to talk!

Time flies.

Between his exercises with Vista and Rakuyo and Whitey and the captain, helping Magora and Otterburn in the kitchens, and exploring the ship on his own, his human days pass quickly. And with Lima letting him watch his map charting in navigation, Whitey and the others reading to him, and all the practicing he does in his treasure room all by himself, the rest of the days go by in the blink of an eye.

With all that and the adventures they go on with every island they stop at, Marco loses track of time. Before he knows it, it’s been three months since the fateful day when Marco got his name back. There’s so much to do everyday, new things to learn and see, new rooms of the ship to explore, new crewmates to meet, and he’s just having so much fun.

He’s never been happier!

Marco walks past the mess hall the same way he does every human day. He knows that if he goes past the closed door and turns the corner, he’ll get to the kitchens where Magora will have a big pile of pineapple waiting for him.

But today he stops.

The closed door is open, just a tiny bit.

Marco realizes all of a sudden that he’s never even thought about going inside. Suddenly, he wonders what could be in there. And as soon as he wonders, he decides to go inside and see.

It’s big. It’s tall enough that even the captain would be able to stand comfortably, he could probably even do those silly exercises he likes to do out on deck. The floor feels kind of funny under his bare feet, squishy where the wood is usually solid. There’s lot of cabinets and closets along one of the walls, and he pulls one open to find all kinds of swords and stick looking things.

Marco eyes one of the shorter swords for a second, then closes the door again. Swords are for people, not birds. And these don’t look sharp at all.

The room is probably for practicing fighting then. That makes sense.

Marco turns around and finds a new crewmate watching him. He waves and the pirate waves back at him.

Marco doesn’t recognize him. He’s really short, with yellow hair and blue eyes and a dark blue shirt just like the one Marco likes to wear. He must be new.

‘What’s your name?’ Marco asks.

The pirate makes some weird finger motions. Marco frowns.

‘What’s your name?’

More weird stuff with his hands. Marco has no idea what he’s trying to sign.

‘Just say it,’ Marco signs but instead of answering, the mystery crewmate just does more fingers waving. Marco stares at him. He’s a lot shorter than the rest of the crew, even Whitey Bay and Vista who are the shortest people on the ship. Now that Marco’s looking at him, he also looks a lot littler than most of the crew is. He also looks unhappy, which isn’t fair because he’s the one that’s not answering Marco, if anyone gets to be annoyed it’s him!

‘Don’t leave!’ Marco signs, ignoring the messy signs the new crewmate tries to answer with, and turns around to go get the captain. Whitebeard has to be pried away from his chair but it’s not hard to convince him after he sees how annoyed Marco is. He also looks confused and for some reason didn’t know what Marco was talking about when he asked who the new crewmate was and why he didn’t tell Marco about him.

The yellow-haired human is still in the room when Marco drags the captain inside and points.

Newgate lets out a huff of laughter and uses a massive finger to mess up Marco’s hair.

“That’s a mirror, Marco,” the captain says gently in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh, “It’s just your reflection. There’s you and me, see?”

Sure enough, the captain is standing next the new crewmate, absolutely enormous next to the tiny yellow-haired person.

Marco’s mouth goes dry as the captain’s words sink in. He drops the captain’s hand and steps forward. In a single instant, the floor drops out from under him and the pit in his stomach swallows everything and leaves nothing behind but a spike of dread. All the fun and excitement and curiosity are vanish like they were never there. He just feels sick and cold from the top of his head down to his feet.

The boy in the mirror steps forward with him.

He takes in the yellow hair and blue eyes and the nose and ears and mouth and legs and fingers and bare toes.

It’s him in the mirror.

It’s not a new crewmate.

It’s him.

He’s…

…human.

Chapter Text

“Marco, it’s alright!”

The captain’s voice is rough and hurried and too loud, but it’s the way the man shakes him that wakes him up. He blinks up at the man in dazed confusion.

Whitebeard hesitates.

He blinks again.

He’s too tired and he doesn’t understand why the captain just woke him up and he just wants to go back to sleep.

“Are you alright?” the man asks carefully as he stares down at him with too-wide eyes.

It’s too much work to answer, so he just curls back up into a ball of feathers and closes his eyes again.

“You’re safe, I’ve got you, it’s not real—”

He wakes up abruptly and this time he’s in the captain’s hands, heavy thumbs dragging down his back. Everything feels gross and heavy and it’s too much work to do more than let out a protesting chirp. He’s so tired. Why does the captain keep waking him up?

He just wants to sleep but he’s even more tired than when he went to bed.

The captain doesn’t wake him up again. But when he wakes up, there’s something off in his chest, like his heart isn’t sitting right, and his feathers feel like they’re crawling with a thousand tiny bugs.

It’s too open.

He’s safe here, he knows that the captain will keep him safe no matter what, but he doesn’t feel safe. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

He’s been acting like a human.

It’s wrong. He knows better.

He knows he has a human body. Even if he didn’t want to have it, his promise to the captain to use the horrible dice made it impossible to pretend that he didn’t have it. But he’d gotten used to it, made it clear that even if he wasn’t shaped like a bird, he still was one.

Even the crew that kept trying to convince him of all the great things people could do had accepted it. He knew they were trying as hard as they could to come up with bird things for him to do on the days the dice made him change, and if he’d just been born a human from the start, he would’ve loved to do those things.

And there’s a big part of him that wishes he could do them anyways. He loves shiny things, it’s been so hard to resist the temptation to let Vista and Kinga and the other fighters teach him to swing a shiny sword around. But birds don’t do that.

That’s the whole problem.

Because he could pretend before. He’d gotten so caught up in the excitement of being able to do bird things on his people days that he’d forgotten.

It doesn’t matter if they’re things birds can do.

The boy in the mirror was a human.

Marco was a human.

His tiny stomach revolts but he hasn’t managed to choke anything down since yesterday, so nothing comes up. His body thrums with panic, his feathers blazing with the memory of electric shocks.

He’s not safe here.

The captain promised to protect him, but he can’t protect him from this. He’d gotten so wrapped up in his freedom and his new family and all the fun adventures that he’d gone too far. He’d made the captain a promise, because he looked so sad and he’d begged him, but it wasn’t until he’d seen himself in the mirror that he realized just how wrong the promise was.

He hasn’t just been changing shape.

He’s been human.

Terror blazes down his spine and the feeling of eyes watching him intensifies. He’s not safe, that scary Marine might have let the captain chase him off, but he knows how much the White Robes hate losing their treasure. He’s a prize, their prize, and when they find out what he’s been turning into, that he’s been human…

He’s burning, his golden flames the only thing keeping him alive because there’s no way for air to make it inside his body.

He needs to hide.

He needs his cage.

It’s the only place he’s safe, the only place that they won’t hurt him. But his cage is gone. His captain destroyed it and told him he could never go back.

The storage rooms deep in the belly of the ship are dark and quiet, which is good because it means he’s alone, and alone is safer, but it’s not enough. He keeps going, looking through every single room until he finds something.

He doesn’t know where he is anymore, he’s never been this deep in the ship before. On this level, the room sways with every crest and wake of the ocean, and everything that isn’t secured slides back and forth. It’s down here that he finally sees what he’s looking for; a long rake leaning against the wall by a big stack of crates.

The space behind the rake is tiny, but so is he. He squeezes himself behind it until he’s in the tiny triangle between the metal prongs of the rake and the corner of the room. There’s just enough space for him to sit upright, but he has to keep his wings pulled in tight.

If he ignores the long pole at the top, the metal prongs look enough like the bars of his cage that he can start to breathe again. The mind-numbing terror slowly starts to recede; it’s not his cage but it’s as close as he can get.

He’s not human. He’s a bird. And he knows where birds belong.

After a while of swaying gently back and forth, the Moby hits a huge wave and everything in the store room jerks violently. He hits the wall hard enough that everything goes dark. When his fire wakes him up again, something is different.

The crates that were sitting by the rake moved; instead of being next to the wall, they’re now a few inches forward. Instead of leaning against the wall, the handle of the rake is now wedged against the shelves, keeping the crates from moving any farther. The gap that he squeezed through to get behind it is gone. As small as he is, he’ll never fit back through it.

And his best shove against the metal proves that the crates jammed against the front of the rake are far too heavy for him to move. The rake is protecting him from being crushed against the wall—which is good because he hates being crushed—but it’s also wedged too tightly against the shelves for him to be able to wriggle back out.

He’s trapped.

The sheer relief that crashes over him is dizzying, all the terror and tightness in the pit of his stomach that’s been building and building and building suddenly goes away all at once.

He bites the bars of his new cage, no longer just pretend, and remembers the calm, peaceful, right life inside his cage back in the White Place.

He’s a prize and he’s meant to be in a cage.

All the exhaustion from restless nights hits him, and he settles back into his plumage. With a sleepy burble, he closes his eyes.

Effortless sleep whisks him away.

His captain is more upset than he’s ever seen him in his life. He’s too stunned by the terror in the man’s eyes to protest when his new cage is ripped away and he’s snatched up by trembling hands.

“Never, ever do that again,” his captain orders when he’s finally composed enough to speak. His body burns with healing fire because he’s too sick to breathe and even with the captain holding him, even though he knows nothing will hurt him, he’s not safe. He’ll never be safe. Not after what he’s done. “That’s an order, Marco.”

The crew watches him like a hawk for days after and he doesn’t think they’re trying to scare him but there are eyes on him everywhere he goes and every second of the day and the growing ball of fear in his chest just gets bigger and bigger.

He tries his best to shove it down, to make it fit inside the box but everywhere he goes, the ship is full of reminders.

Birds don’t read books. They don’t look at pictures or sit and listen to the humans tell stories. They don’t make art or sign their names or hold pencils in their beaks or talons. They don’t eat human food, cooked in shiny pots and pans and filled with spices and tangy sauces. And they don’t turn into people, with fleshy fingers and stringy yellow hair.

He wants his cage. He tries hiding in his special hiding place but even his treasures terrify him. He’s a treasure. Treasures don’t keep treasures of their own. He’s meant to be kept, not keep.

Everything makes him sick. He sticks as close to he can to his captain’s shoulder and he tries to remember how safe he used to feel on top of the man who saved him from the White Robes. But every time he starts to relax, the terror doesn’t stay away for long.

He wakes up feeling exhausted. Again. Sleep is supposed to make him feel less tired but it’s not working right anymore. He doesn’t like it; he feels bad if he sleeps and he feels bad if he stays awake and he’s tired of feeling so bad all the time, he just wants things to go back to how they’re supposed to be but there’s no cage for him to go back to and his captain is already so upset that the idea of breaking his promise makes him even sicker than having to stay out in the open.

The room is empty. It was rare that the captain woke up before him but now waking up is as hard as falling asleep and he misses the sunrise but by the time he wakes up, the sun has been up and shining for hours. His captain has long-since left him behind.

He ruffles his feathers and picks at a crumpled feather with his peak, pulling and pecking at it until flames rise up to heal the blood because he hasn’t rolled the dice in seven days and his captain is going to make him roll them the second he’s on deck.

The longer he preens, the longer it is before he has to face his promise. He can’t. He has to. He promised. The captain made him promise. But he doesn’t know what to do, he can’t let his captain down but he can’t lie to himself anymore. He should have known better when he made that promise. He doesn’t know how he ever believed that changing shape could be okay. He’s a bird and he has to be a bird and he can’t change back again any more than he can break his word to his captain.

He digs at his feathers and picks out the bristles until he’s just pecking away at bare skin and every motion hurts because he’s exhausted and food has been impossible to swallow down and his fire is just as tired as he is.

In a way, it’s comforting. He just wants things to go back to how they were and this is how he used to feel. Tired and small inside his cage, left alone to wait until he’s big enough to return to the White Place.

He preens for as long as he can but eventually his feathers are growing back slower than he can pluck them out and blood seeps out faster than his fire can burn it away and stalling any longer somehow feels worse than facing his fate.

He made a promise.

He can’t break a promise to his captain. The captain is counting on him and he promised he would do his… his human days.

His days spent being human.

The captain is waiting for him on deck.

Marco hides under the washing machine in the spot where he used to keep his coins and socks. Calling them that doesn’t make him sick. A treasure can’t keep their own treasures.

The pirates try everything they can to get him to come out. He stays hidden away in the darkness underneath the big machine. He can hear them muttering to each other, can hear the worry in Whitey’s voice and the uncertainty in Vista’s and the fragility in every encouragement Rakuyo feeds him. He’s scaring them.

He doesn’t want to scare them.

But he can’t come out. Because if he comes out, he’ll have to roll the dice and then he’ll have to—

“Why don’t we take a break from the dice for a little while?” Whitebeard asks. It’s been hours and hours and hours and even though Marco knows they can’t reach him under here, he can’t relax. It’s too open on the sides and he can feel phantom fingers closing around him in every direction. He can’t stay there. He’s not safe.

Leaving isn’t safe either.

He wants his cage but his cage is gone forever and he can’t remember why that was ever something he wanted.

“I mean it, Marco,” the captain says even louder, “No more dice for now.”

It’s about a week later (a week where Marco barely leaves the safety of his captain’s shoulder and tries to get his feet back under him) when the crews lands on an island and runs into old friends.

“Well hello there, my little friend! What a treat to see you again!” Roger booms in that ear-shakingly loud voice of his, beaming at him with a sunny smile that makes everything feel okay as he raises the hand Marco is perched on to get a better look at him. Marco stares at the other captain in awe, wondering how someone so much smaller than his captain can still feel so big.

Suddenly, all he can think about is the first time he met the other captain.

“And who’s this?!” Roger demands, staring at him in delight.

“We picked him up a few months ago,” Newgate answers, rubbing one giant finger down his back.

“What an incredible little creature you are,” Roger says, face alight with wonder. This pirate has good taste.

Roger lets out a boisterous laugh.

“I’m glad you think so!” he booms, “Now if only Rayleigh thought the same.”

“Who are you talking to?” Newgate asks.

“Why, your little phoenix friend, of course. He says I have good taste. He’s right, too.”

“You can understand him?!” his captain demands in shock. He’s not sure why the pirate is so surprised; it’s not like Newgate has ever had any trouble understanding him.

“I can. And he seems to think you can understand him just fine.”

Wait. This pirate can understand him? But he’s not saying anything.

“I suppose it’s not exactly like I can hear you, it’s more than I can hear your intentions. It’s tricky with some animals, but your thoughts are impressively clear. You’re quite a special little one. The last phoenixes I met weren’t nearly so friendly.”

“You’ve met other phoenixes?” Whitebeard asks, sounding astonished. Roger nods grandly.

“Now that was an adventure! It was a strange little island, shrouded in a cursed fog—thought Rayleigh was going to throw me overboard for sailing us straight into it! HAH!”

But the captain isn’t listening. The man is still staring down at him in wonder.

“Roger, would you…”

“Translate for you? Of course, anything you like.”

It doesn’t take long for his captain to ask the question that’s been eating away at him, staring at him with too-big eyes.

“Are you happy with us? If Roger is to be believed, there may be other phoenixes out there. We can try to find them, to bring you back to your home if you want. I only want for you to be happy but all I can do is guess and—”

He doesn’t even have time to think of an answer before they’re interrupted.

“Edward,” Roger says firmly, scooping him up and reaching up to place him in his captain’s palm. He trills and the plumes on top of his head flare blue and gold and he snuggles in to the massive, warm, and calloused hand, “He’s exactly where he wants to be.”

Roger laughs so hard it must make his belly ache and reaches right into his flames to scratch Marco’s feathers.

“If you think Newgate is big, just wait until you meet some giants! They’ll make him look like an ant!” Roger exclaims brightly.

There are people bigger than his captain? No, no way. Roger is just making fun of him, he’s not going to fall for it.

“You think I’d lie to you? You wound me, my little friend!” Roger booms. He only says things really loudly. “That I do! Now, I hear you’ve had an exciting couple of months.”

They have been!

Marco flaps out his wings and chirps, excited by Roger’s bold presence that makes everything feel free and exciting. There’s Tate and Atmos and so many other new friends, and his treasure stash and his new room and his name and all the adventures and—

– a boy in the mirror.

All the joy drains out of him like water down a drain and the familiar pressure crushes his lungs all over again. He pulls his wings in and sits back on his perch, vaguely aware that he’s squeezing Roger’s fingers as tightly as he can.

“I’m sure it must have been a shock,” Roger says, one calloused but comforting hand running down his back. It’s not the way his captain pets him, but it still feels good. Roger isn’t part of his crew but he still feels safe. He’s a pirate, just like Whitebeard, and he’s always been kind. “Discovering that you were more than you ever imagined being.”

Why would he ever imagine being a human?

Because he’s not a human. He’s a bird.

He has to be a bird.

The boy in the mirror, that’s not… that’s not him. It isn’t. It can’t be.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Marco,” Roger is quiet for the first time since Marco has known him, “Freedom isn’t easy. It’s one of the greatest cruelties in this life, that we have to fight so hard for things that should never have been taken away.”

Marco looks up at him and squawks.

He’s not afraid! And he knows he’s free, his captain told him he’s been free since he took him out of his cage.

Roger’s finger stops under his chin and gently scratches at the fiery feathers.

“Your captain took you out of one cage,” Roger tells him, “But that wasn’t the only way they kept you, was it?”

He shivers. His feathers hurt like when the White Robes and the suits ripped them out. Roger’s wrong, he is free, his captain promised he never has to go back no matter who they send after him. Everything is great now. He’s done turning back, done with those stupid dice, because he’s not human and he’s put up with that dumb stuff for long enough. He isn’t human.

He can’t be human.

End of story.

“You can’t be human?” Roger asks seriously, his eyebrows raised as high up as they will go. He looks back at Roger, staring at him solemnly, relieved that someone can understand him clearly. He can’t.

Roger nods.

“But if you could… and just hear me out, pretend that everything was different and there was some way you could… would you want to be?”

Marco blinks in surprise. Well, of course he would want to if he could, there’s so many awesome things humans can do like read and write and fight and climb and play and sail and cook and smile and laugh, who wouldn’t want to be human if they could? If everything was different, if he’d just been born a human from the beginning, he would love being a human.

But it isn’t different. He can’t be.

He’s a bird. And he’s done pretending he could ever be anything else.

The boy in the mirror, with his tuft of blond hair and bright blue eyes and wiggly pink fingers, and that open, friendly curiosity on his face, stares back at him in his own mind. Something slimy and dark seizes his chest, his stomach twisting over and over and that pressure that tries to crush his chest is back and his heart starts beating faster and suddenly he can’t stand not knowing where his captain is.

Roger’s hands cup him tightly to the man’s chest and fingers stroke down his feathers.

“Not to worry, Marco, everything will be alright. I’m sure of it.”

He wishes he could believe in anything the way Roger does. But the days pass by so slowly and he just… he can’t.

The dice are gone. His captain hasn’t tried to make him roll them since the last time and part of Marco misses them. He doesn’t know how he did it for so long, switching back and forth and staying in that… that human body for days.

How did he not realize it sooner?

Why does he miss it?

Why couldn’t he have just been born a human in the first place?

They keep trying. Every few days, either the captain or the nurses or his crewmates will try to convince him to change back—just for a bite, just for a quick checkup, just for a second.

“Just one bite,” the captain coaxes, running his hand along Marco’s back.

“It’s your favorite,” Magora adds with a smile that doesn’t do a good job hiding her fear.

It is his favorite.

And he wants it.

He’s so hungry.

The gnawing pit is back.

He can’t eat enough to keep it away.

He’s starving and he knows how to fix it.

Just one bite.

He can do it.

Just one bite.

With the captain’s hand on his back and all the crew around him, watching with worried smiles and encouragement that borders on desperate, Marco takes a deep breath. A breath. It’s shallow. But air goes into his lungs and that feels like a win.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, his body shifts and the captain’s hands shift with him and he’s being held close and protected and he grabs onto Whitebeard’s sleeves and closes his eyes. Magora presses the spoon to his mouth and he opens it, letting her slip the mouthful of curry inside.

Familiar flavors explode on his tongue and he digs his fingers into the sleeves and tries to swallow it down. He loves this curry. It’s his favorite. All he has to do is take one bite—

Of human food.

As a human.

Marco’s stomach flips over and he throws up all over Whitebeard’s hands.

“It’s okay, Marco, it’s not your fault,” the captain reassures him when everything has been cleaned up and they’ve retreated to the privacy of the captain’s cabin. He chirps anxiously, his flames flaring gold for a brief second before dying back down.

Of course it’s his fault. He knows better but he still did it anyways, he never should have made that promise to the captain in the first place.

He can’t be a human.

He can’t.

Whitey’s voice is nice. He doesn’t remember her singing to him before. She sings to him all the time now. Her palms are warm and her fingers are soft as they run through his feathers. She pours birdseed straight into her hands and praises every bite he takes.

He misses when she was mean to him.

“Marco, please,” Kinga is the one to try this time, “You have to keep trying, okay? We need you to keep trying, please—”

Marco’s heart seizes in his chest and his talons wrap even more tightly around his perch as he shrinks back from his crewmate.

“Look, Captain is afraid to push you, but it’s getting dangerous. You can’t stay like that forever, it’s hurting you,” Kinga pleads. His flames burn higher—he doesn’t remember the last time they were out completely—and he can’t help but look over to where Whitebeard is huddled up with Whiskey and Tate and the other nurses. They all look upset.

His captain’s face looks pinched and he knows his friend well enough to see how tired and worried he looks. Marco’s chest tightens again and his flames burn hotter because his chest is too tight to breathe now.

He’s breaking his promise.

The captain needs him but Marco keeps letting him down.

He doesn’t want to break his promise. He doesn’t want to make his captain scared. He doesn’t want to be scared. He doesn't want to be hungry anymore. He doesn’t want to be sick anymore. He doesn’t want—

He can’t be human.

It’s not until the captain’s hands scoop him up, Whitebeard suddenly standing there when he was on the other side of the deck mere seconds ago, that he realizes how badly he’s shaking.

His chest hurts. His head hurts. His stomach never stops hurting. He hasn’t changed back in weeks, he’s been right this whole time, he should feel better, right? He shouldn’t feel so wrong, he’s being good, he’s a bird just like he’s supposed to be so why???

Marco looks up at his captain and opens his beak but nothing comes out.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, wordless terror clawing up his throat, his heart beating so fast that the world is dark and gray and dizzy. Something heavy pins him down, like fingers curling around him and he scrambles back in blinding terror. Running makes it worse. He knows it does but he doesn’t care, he can’t just hold still and let them rip and tear and crush and pain blooms down his side as he crashes into the door. There’s no cage bars to squeeze through this time, but those bars were never enough to hold him if he really wanted out. Splinters dig into his fingers as he claws for the door, sprinting out of the room and down the long, twisting hallways he knows would be blinding white in the morning sun.

He runs and runs and runs, terror in his throat, the mark on the center of his back burning with the knowledge that every step he takes will only make it worse when he’s caught. There’s voices behind him, lights starting to flicker on and he knows the countdown has started. He’s out of time and he didn’t make it anywhere near far enough.

He never does.

Panic swells in his chest, terrified tears filling his eyes and he can’t cry because that will only make them find him faster. It’s too late to stop now, even if it would make any difference at all. The longer he runs, the longer he has until they catch him and that’s all he has.

Silent tears run down his face as he scrambles down fuzzily familiar hallways and nearly falls all the way down a staircase and through a door he knows will be empty. He slams the door shut behind him, fumbling for the heavy lock but it’s too high up and he can’t reach it and he stumbles backwards in horror because even if it’s not locked he’s just trapped himself in a corner and there’s nowhere for him to go and—

He turns around and comes face to face with himself.

He’s human.

Nausea rockets through his stomach and up his throat and he doubles over, grabbing at the thin fabric of his pants and fighting through the terror to reach for the power in his chest. He pulls desperately, yanking on the transformation that fights against him like it always does because running is bad but being like this is unforgivable and the next thing he knows, he’s curled up in the rafters where he can pretend they’ll never find him. But they will. They always do.

“MARCO!”

A powerful voice bellows down the hall. He can’t move. They’re coming. They’re coming and they’ve already found him and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his head in his feathers and pressing himself against the wood, shrinking as far back as he can.

Memory shatters as the door flies open and a giant storms into the room, chest heaving with panic. Newgate stops at the sight of the empty room before the massive head snaps up and big, worried eyes find where he’s hidden himself away.

“Marco,” the pirate breathes in relief.

He was just dreaming. It wasn’t real.

He’s not in the white place anymore. He’s on the Moby Dick, he’s home, and he’s safe. No one will hurt him here.

He knows that but he’s still shaking, terrified and nauseous and so afraid and he doesn’t move, not even when the massive pirate crosses the room and settles down on the ground, perfectly positioned where he can see the man while the man can’t see him.

The pirate doesn’t try to reach for him, even if it would be a simple matter for the giant to pull him down. He’s grateful. He doesn’t want to be touched, not by anyone, not even by his fath… he doesn’t want it.

“It wasn’t real,” the pirate says, voice quiet but firm and steady. He wants to believe it. But even if it wasn’t real this time, it still hurts. He’s still afraid. He wants… he just wants… he can’t…. “You’re safe, Marco. I promise. Nothing will hurt you here.”

He buries his head deeper in his feathers, flames curling up around him protectively.

Whitebeard is quiet for a long time. The massive ship rocks and sways around them, the gentle sway up and down comforting in the silence.

“It breaks my heart to see you so afraid,” Whitebeard says quietly and he knows exactly what kind of expression would be on the man’s face if he could just pull his head out of his feathers and look. But he can’t. He can’t stop shaking either. “All I want is for you to be happy. Truly happy. If being human only causes you distress, then I promise, you’ll never have to turn back again. We will do everything we can to keep you healthy, but if that isn’t possible…

“If that isn’t possible, then at least we can make sure you are comfortable and loved and…”

The pirate trails off. He can’t even hear the words, not really. His feathers hurt, aching right down to where the ends meet his skin and his fire burns hotter like it knows what kind of pain is coming. He forces the flames back, braces for the pain because he knows better than to fight back. It just makes it worse.

“Tell me… is it truly so bad to be human?”

He doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that his heartbeat slowed enough for him to actually hear the words. Maybe it’s the lingering confusion from his nightmare, the fresh terror of seeing his real face in the mirror. Maybe it’s the memory of cruel fingers wrapping around his entire body, clamping down and squeezing until his fragile ribs shatter and his feeble organs burst and his fire steals every last bit of strength to burn him back together and keep him alive by sheer power that shouldn’t still be possible after so many times. Maybe it’s the reminder that crushing was never as bad as the rough grip that yanked out feathers by the handful in an endless cycle that didn’t even give him the comfort of knowing he might not wake up the next time.

Maybe it’s all of it.

Because all of a sudden, the box inside his chest bursts.

He’s five years old again.

He doesn’t know if his parents are dead or if they’ve been taken too or even if they’re still safe and sound on their home island. He’s been kidnapped and sold and bought by the men in dark suits that he’ll learn are the entourage of a Celestial Dragon who want him for his Devil Fruit. They chain him up and throw him in a dark cell with a hundred other sobbing, terrified, desperate people, and when they finally drag him out, they shove him to the ground and stand on his arms and legs so he can’t move and press burning iron into his back. He screams harder than he’s ever screamed in his life, the stench of burning meat assaulting his nose, and but after his fire heals him there’s no relief. More men in suits gather around to hold him still while the man in a bloodstained apron drives a nail through his back that saps all the energy out of his body even as fresh pain explodes where the nail punctures through his lung and nobody cares that he’s screaming and terrified and he can’t get enough air. The man above him just grumbles about “making sure it takes this time.” Then they brand him again. All he remembers is blissful darkness when he passes out. He wakes up being dragged by his useless arms to an empty white room by a group of men in black suits and at first, he’s relieved when they take all the chains off and pry the nail out of him. His fire blazes to life, healing everything until he finally feels the chill sweeping through the empty room. His shivers, bare feet on the freezing cold floor, vulnerable and naked while the men in suits loom over him. One of them grabs him by the shoulder and wrenches him around, then there are bare hands on his back, poking and prodding at his new scar before one of them says “it’s about time they got it to stick, his holiness is sick of waiting.” Without another word, one of them drops something on the ground and the hands holding him shove him towards a tiny cage that’s a fraction of his size.

He doesn’t understand.

 When it clicks, the whole world stops in a way that makes every horrible thing since he was stolen from his island pale in comparison.

They want him inside it.

He tells them he can’t and it’s too small and they hit him and yell at him to change into a bird. He starts crying because he’s scared and he wants to go home and they just hit him again and shove him and keep yelling to get inside the cage. He cries and begs and they shock him and hit him and yell at him to shut up because he’s not a person, he’s a bird and birds don’t talk. He’s the property of the Celestial Dragons and it’s a crime to make them wait. To shut up and do what he’s told. He sobs incoherently and begs them not to make him go in the cage because it’s so small and he’s so scared and eventually his powers kick in and he turns into a bird and tries to soar away towards the open window but it was a trap and he’s grabbed out of the air with a fist around his throat and they rip feathers out in big handfuls and birds can’t scream but he shrieks and struggles but they just throw him to the ground hard enough to snap his hollow bones. His fire heals him and the men tower over him and order him to get in the cage. He turns back into a person because he can’t help it and they just kick him and shock him and yell “dumb fucking bird, get in your damn cage already” and by the end he’s a little bird lying on the ground and looking up in terror. One of the suits grabs him and he freezes, his entire body quaking in horror as the cruel hand grips his feathers again and the suit stops.

“Oh? You don’t want me to pull these out?” he asks coldly. The little bird just shakes. The man smiles cruelly, showing all his teeth, “Then you’d better be a good little birdie and get in your cage.”

He’s tossed on the ground next to the tiny cage and he’s so afraid and he doesn’t want them to hurt him anymore so he slowly drags himself the few steps it takes to get inside, shattered wing dragging along the ground because he’s so tired and the tiny bit of fire he has left is weakly crawling up his spine, ripped skin still bleeding where the clumps of feathers haven’t grown back in yet. When he’s finally in, the suit picks up the cage, door still open, and leans in close.

“Now listen up. You’re the property of his holiness, Saint Elrond. If you ever disobey him, make any attempt to hurt him, or so much as think about escaping that cage, I’ll make losing a few feathers feel like paradise in comparison. Do you understand me?”

The little bird stares at the man in terror, too petrified to move. The man laughs, his awful teeth clacking together, and then he shuts the door and locks him inside his new cage.

Forever.

Sounds he didn’t even know he could make come ripping out of his throat, fingers clawing at his hair and arms and any part of him he can reach as tears sting at his eyes and pour down his face and he screams louder because there’s so much trying to get out all at once and it all hurts so badly he wants it to kill him and he’s been so alone and so afraid for so long and—

Gentle fingers wrap around him, coaxing him into a warm palm until he’s cradled in Whitebeard’s hand and pulled tight against the man’s chest.

“Oh, my son,” the captain says in a sturdy voice, full of grief and pain and absolute fury that wraps around him like a blanket, “I promise you, I will never let them hurt you ever again.”

Marco just screams, choking on the tears filling his mouth and throat and grabs onto whatever of his father’s warmth he can reach. He screams until his voice gives out and then he cries huge, wracking sobs that shake his entire body and he cries and cries and cries and he can’t stop.

His father just holds him. Hugs him tight and strokes gently down his back and shares his son’s grief.

“They will never touch you again. You will never go back. You’re safe. You’re home. I promise.”

Marco wakes up early the next morning and he feels different. Empty.

Well, empty isn’t exactly right. He feels tired still from yesterday but he feels lighter somehow. Like there was all this stuff making him heavy that’s just not there anymore. Especially when he looks at his captain, who’s still fast asleep and snoring like he’s trying to take the whole ship down with him. He’s not afraid anymore. 

(Marco only barely remembers his parents, but he’s sure that they’d be happy he’s got a new Pops taking care of him now.)

He looks at the dark clouds and churning sea outside the porthole and frowns because the angle isn’t what he was expecting. He sits up and looks down and feels stupid for not realizing sooner as he stares down at his hands.

His human hands.

It doesn’t scare him right now. The churning, sick feeling in his chest is gone, almost like it all came out of him yesterday. He knows what the bad feeling is now. It’s all the pain and fear that the suits and white robes did to him. It felt wrong because they told him it was wrong. But they can’t tell him what to do anymore. They can’t hurt him. Pops and the rest of the crew won’t let them.

Marco looks down at his hands and he wonders.

He slides carefully off the bed and drops lightly onto the floor. His human legs and knees are strong enough to catch him when he lands and it doesn’t even hurt. Marco quietly crosses the room and pulls the door open just enough to slip through.

Marco wanders into the hallway and down the main stairs, staring curiously at his fingers and toes and the way his bare feet land on the wooden floor. His human feet carry him down the hallway. He pushes the door open to his room, and for the first time, he thinks about the fact that the crew gave him his own room.

Still thinking, Marco sits down at the desk, in his human chair, and reaches for the pencil and a piece of paper and one of the map books Lima left for him.

It’s easier to hold a pencil in his hand than in his talon.

Marco takes the map book and opens it to the index. There’s so many letters on the page and it makes him a little dizzy, but he just takes his time scanning through it for the ones he wants. He knows what some of the words mean, and he knows what sounds the letters make, but he can’t remember how to make them. One by one, he finds the letters he wants and slowly, carefully, painstakingly traces them onto the blank paper.

It takes him a lot of tries until he has something that looks right. The lines are small and hard to draw but he knows he’ll get better with more practice.

And he will practice. He can practice as much as he wants. He can learn whatever he wants. Nobody gets to make him stop.

Pops is on deck when he wanders out to go find him. He looks tired, the set on his shoulders is uneasy, but he does his best not to let it show.

“There you are,” his father smiles kindly, sliding over to make room for Marco to climb up next to him on the chair. Instead of doing that, Marco holds up the folded piece of paper with both hands.

“What’s this?” Pops asks, taking the paper carefully and squinting down at it. The captain gasps. “Marco, did you make this?”

Marco nods nervously.

“You did a wonderful job,” Pops praises, and Marco preens under the attention. It took him hours, but he finally made the letters look how he wanted. The paper is covered in mistakes and scratches but there at the bottom is M-A-R-C-O, spelled out as clear as he could make it.

That’s him. He’s Marco.

Marco the Phoenix.

He's Marco the Human, too.