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Chapter Text

His Devil Fruit was capable of miracles, but it had its limits. Marco desperately needed sleep. It was the first moment of downtime he had in the week since Marineford sent his world into freefall.

He coordinated a retreat with assistance from Shanks. Ace and Strawhat Luffy were last seen loaded onto the Surgeon of Death’s ship. Haruta and part of his division were sent after them with the sputtering embers of Ace’s Vivre Card. He answered call after call from their remaining allies and territories as acting Captain. Spent a short eternity sewing up his dying brothers in the medbay. He had so much more to do, but his thoughts were turning to sludge and his heart skipped a beat now and then, soothed by short bursts of flame.

He couldn’t bring himself to move.

The heart monitor was drumming a steady beat beside him. For a little longer, Pops lived on. Missing a chunk of his skull and brain. They had to resuscitate him five times on the deck of the Mini Moby, but Marco didn’t have to say goodbye to his father on the single worst day of his life. He wasn’t ready then. He isn’t ready now. He will never be ready. 

How could there be the Whitebeard Pirates without Whitebeard? He knew he was doing a paltry job as a substitute. His remaining crewmates were safe enough, scattered across multiple Mini Mobys and allied ships making the trek back to the New World to lick their wounds. But sooner or later Marco was going to make the wrong choice and the circling seakings will pounce on that weakness and devour the rest of his family. 

He dreaded hearing back from Haruta. Marco was quick enough to save Ace from having his chest caved in by Akainu, but half his body was splattered by magma. If the Surgeon of Death hadn’t stepped in to take Ace and Strawhat, Marco would have been forced to choose between stabilizing Ace or turning back to help Pops with Teach. 

It would have been better if –

Wait, Teach stole Pops' Devil Fruit.

Pops didn’t have a Devil Fruit anymore.

The idea forming in Marco’s head was crazy and foolishly reckless. If he did this and failed, it would put his family in an even worse position. If he were to succeed . . . . .

Marco tore himself away from Pops' bedside before he could second-guess himself. It took longer than usual to walk to the map room. Marco took a roundabout route and tucked in his Haki to avoid the rest of the crew. Izo was the one to put his foot down and demand that Marco rest for at least four hours before coming back. He still would have caught on to Marco’s movements if he wasn’t so exhausted from picking up his slack after the battle. 

He pulled out the maps of Paradise and checked the routes he was in the middle of drawing when Izo threw him out earlier. There, the island Thatch mentioned an eternity ago in an attempt to tease him.

Who would be best to route there? It had to be a ship close enough to avoid suspicion. Jiru? No, his speed would be too risky to deal with. Blenheim? A good choice, the best he had. Blenheim preferred to rile up his opponents and wait for them to come to him. He won’t be fast enough to stop him and he’ll see the task through, no matter how much he hates it. 

It was a terrible thing to ask of Blenheim. He had always felt things far deeper than his brash exterior would imply. He often had the words Marco needed to hear when the responsibilities of being Whitebeard’s second in command were becoming too much. He could probably talk him out of this. Izo too. Marco will give neither of them the chance to.

Far too soon, he finished the course changes and watched the ink dry. Tomorrow he’ll announce the route to Sabaody in the morning meeting and relay the changes to their scattered fleet.

For the first time since he got word of Ace’s capture, Marco smiled. 

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Blenheim received an order from Marco to rendezvous at a small, unnamed island before they make the push to Sabaody. Despite the pallor of gloom over the 9th and 11th division members stuffed into this stolen marine vessel, everyone perked up at the thought of seeing the 1st Division Commander again. It boded well that Marco had the time to fly ahead of the Mini Moby and check over their wounded before the other ship’s arrival. Izo probably bullied Marco into taking a break to stretch his wings.

They’ll stop at one other island for supplies before the rendezvous. Marco requested fresh fruit, especially citrus, to restore their depleting stocks and this was the only tropical island on the way without a permanent settlement. 

“Hey Blenheim, can I ask a favor while you’re at it, yoi?”

“Of course Marco, just say the word.” 

“There’s a pretty rare variety of pineapples that grow on that island. Could you have your men grab every one you can find while they’re out gathering food? Found a recipe Thatch was saving for the next time we came across them, the sentimental idiot. Thought Pops would like to taste it after he wakes up.” 

If Marco’s voice sounded a bit choked up by the end, Blenheim wasn’t going to bring it up. He barely had a moment to himself to process his grief after they sailed away from Marineford; there was no way Marco had found time to do the same. They’ll find every damn pineapple on this island if that’s what Marco wants. And then when they’re all together again, he’s going to pull Marco aside to get drunk and mourn their dead. Well, Blenheim will get drunk. Alcohol doesn’t have an effect on Marco without seastone, but he likes to pretend to be drunk with the rest of them. He can’t get hangovers either, the bastard.  

Marco will hold out until then. He’s the most stubborn idiot in the entire crew and the only man worthy of taking on Pops' mantle. Marco said Pops will wake up and Blenheim believed him, but he saw how wounded his Captain was when they pulled him out of Marineford. His days as a captain are done and his life is nearing its end.

Pops may have wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, but he’ll just have to settle with passing on surrounded by his children in the sea that he loves.

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Marco landed in a swirl of feathers as they finished unloading their supplies at the rendezvous point. 

“Morning Marco, found everything you needed,” Blenheim said and slapped a nearby crate, “You weren’t kidding about those pineapples, couldn’t walk 10 feet without tripping over one.”

“That’s good, yoi. Thanks for everything, Blen.”

Something was wrong, Marco only got that look in his eyes when he was in pain. Had Pops gotten worse during the night?

“Got some news too sensitive to share over Den Den, let's head somewhere private after I take a look at the wounded,” Marco said before he could question him and ambled over to the stolen marine ship. Blenheim was forced to cool his heels outside their crowded medical bay while the oversized chicken got to work checking everyone over. 

“Did what I could,” Marco said when he came back out, adjusting one of his shirt cuffs, “No one’s in danger of dying right now, but we’ll need to keep an eye out for infections, yoi. We’ve got plenty of antibiotics back at the Mini Moby. You should get the worst cases transferred over when it docks.”

They discussed further personnel shuffling and supply levels while Marco led him off the ship and down the beach until the ship was out of sight.

“Spit it out,” Blenheim demanded when Marco jerked to a halt, “Is Pops ok? Did you get news about Ace?”

“Pops is as well as can be expected. We have him in a medical coma and his vitals have stabilized. Got word from Haruta before I left. He managed to link up with Trafalgar’s submarine. Ace and Strawhat are alive. They’re still unconscious and recovering at Amazon Lily because Ace’s little brother managed to woo Boa Hancock somehow.” 

Blenheim felt his spiraling thoughts stall. Boa Hancock in love with a man? Weirder things have happened, he supposed. He hated to think it, but Ace was safer presumed dead and hidden away on Amazon Lily until things stabilize. They need to focus on holding onto their territory and establishing Marco as their new captain without fighting off the marines, the other emperors looking to snap up more territory, and every enemy gunning for Roger’s legacy at the same time.

Marco chuckled at his expression, “Strawhat is really something. I thought Ace was exaggerating in his stories.”

It was a nice moment, reminiscent of many others, laughing over the antics of wild younger brothers. It didn’t last. Marco’s smile faded and Blenheim braced himself. It didn’t take future sight to know he wasn’t going to like what Marco was going to say next.

Marco stepped back towards the water and reached into his pocket, “I’m truly sorry to ask this of you, yoi.” He pulled out a wickedly sharp knife lined with seastone, “But I need you to do one last favor for me.”

________________________________________________________________

He will never forget the relieved smile on Ace’s face as he stood in front of his little brother to block Akainu’s fist, fully prepared to die. It was Marco that swooped in to save them after cutting off his hand to remove the seastone cuff shackling him.

Blenheim wasn't Marco, he was far too slow when it mattered. Marco had that same chilling relief on his face when he slid the knife oh so gently into his own heart and twisted. He was warm when Blenheim pulled him out of the surf and yanked the knife out.

Marco was a meticulous asshole with too many contingency plans. Blenheim ripped his stupid purple shirt off and found a sea stone bracelet on that same wrist Marco was fidgeting with earlier. With no time to lose he took the knife already soaked in Marco's blood and cut the hand off with a wet crack. It was simple for a man of Blenheim's strength. 

There was no more sea stone on his brother's body. Blenheim checked, over and over again, through blurry vision. There was no more sea stone, but no fire sparked to life around his sluggishly bleeding wounds. Marco’s breathing slowed and his chest grew cold and still. 

________________________________________________________________

Blenheim didn't remember boarding the Mini Moby or the route he took to Pops' medical room. Izo was probably seething on the deck after being brushed aside. That thought brought him none of its usual amusement. The object wrapped in his coat and cradled to his chest was too heavy, dragging his shoulders down into a defeated slump.

How was it that Marco weighed more in death? He should be light as a feather without his fire filling his frame, making him seem larger than life. That was the root of the problem, wasn’t it? Marco’s aura of invincibility was an illusion from the beginning to the end. He got so good at healing, they forgot he could be hurt. 

Blenheim bore the weight of his dead and dying brothers without breaking in Marineford. What's one more loss? Why did he feel so terribly old at this moment? Blenheim’s breath gasped and shuddered. 

He sagged onto his knees at some point. He needs to put Marco down and finish his brother’s final request. He knows this. He can't bear to face his Captain. Whitebeard will never accept the price of Marco’s life for his. He knows this.

Pops will have to, regardless of his shattered heart. 

Blenheim heaved himself to his feet and gently lowered Marco onto a Jozu-sized chair. The colorful Bird-Bird fruit, Model: Phoenix felt mockingly cheerful in the dim lighting of the medical room. He ripped a piece of flesh off and walked over to Pops' bed. Even an inch from meeting Davy Jones, Pops still looked like he could wrestle a sea king. Stubborn old man. 

It was easy to crush the fruit piece and place the pulp in Pops' mouth. He waited for a bit. Watched Pops' throat bob as he swallowed. 

Blue fire flared to life, bathing the room in soothing flames.

Pops sat up with a gasp, chest heaving. His face was joyful as he saw the blue fire. And then he paused. Breathed in deep. Grimaced at the taste in his mouth. Studied the glowing feathers lighting and winking out beneath vast expanses of bandages.

He looked at Blenheim, grief and denial twisting his features into someone unrecognizable.

“Son, where's Marco?”

“. . . . . “

“Blenheim?”

The words congealed in his throat. He turned and looked at the still lump on the bedside chair. He didn’t have to keep looking at Pops' face this way.

________________________________________________________________

Edward Newgate was no longer able to cause seaquakes with a thought or shake islands into powder. 

The waves still writhed and hissed under the weight of his Haki. Streaks of red lightning surrounded the ship, but never came close to harming a board on its deck. Izo hadn’t felt Pops' Conqueror's Haki this out of control in over a decade. 

He should have been happy that Pops was awake. He wasn’t. Marco showed him Pops' medical chart before he flew off to help Blenheim. Pops had a chunk of his head blown off and countless bullet wounds. His Haki should not be anywhere near this strong and steady. Not now, not ever again. 

Nothing this good happened to them without a catch. 

Perhaps this was Pops' death knell as he let out one final burst of Haki. But the conqueror's Haki kept going and going as Izo staggered his way below deck. The air grew unnaturally still and suffocating as he approached the medical wing. Vista made it there before him. He stood frozen in Pops' doorway, flickering blue light haloing his body. 

Was Marco in there? Izo hadn’t felt his Haki signature return with Blenheim’s group. That absolute neanderthal of a brother ignored him when he greeted him on the deck and walked away as Izo was about to ask about Marco's whereabouts. 

Izo elbowed Vista to the side. If Marco figured out how to evade Izo’s Observation Haki in the past day, Izo needed to know and gather more minions to keep an eye on him. Vista moved without a fight, staying oddly silent.

Pops was burning. Blue and gold feathers rippled to life and snuffed themselves out across his body. He held a grey bundle in his hands, familiar blonde hair peaking out. Fat tears streamed down his face and splattered to the floor while he bathed the bundle over and over again with healing fire. 

“You need to stop, Pops,” Blenheim’s tired voice called out, “He’s already gone.”

No, Izo refused to believe that. That empty lump in Pops' hands couldn’t be Marco. He reached into his sleeve and fumbled for the small case he kept on his person at all times. Inside, a neat row of twitching Vivre Card scraps. The fourth spot was empty. The first held a newly formed pile of ash.

Izo should have known something was wrong. Izo had made it his fucking job to make sure Marco was ok and functioning after Pops went down. He had been in the Den Den Mushi room, complaining to Haruta about idiot brothers overdoing it, while Marco was off dying because he never allowed himself to accept a reality without Pops in it. Blenheim waltzed past him with Marco’s corpse and he didn’t even notice. 

He’ll never be able to tell Marco that Ace woke up and was asking after him. 

Chapter Text

Ace set out to sea with the goal to become so famous no one would remember the name Gol D Roger, or die trying. He still wanted that, but he had something far more important now. 

His new dream was nurtured on a colossal ship shaped like a whale. 

That same ship splintered apart and sank in the waters of Marineford. 

Ace put himself in front of Akainu's fist because there was no world for Ace without Luffy in it. That should have been the end, right after Ace realized he wanted to live.

To go home. Get scolded by Marco for pranking the 12th Division again. Hear Pops' stories as they sit around a bonfire and eat sea king barbecue. Tell story after story about Luffy until Deuce tries to strangle him with his own hat cord. Keep his promise to Yamato to come back someday. 

To see Luffy reach Laugh Tale. 

Marco swooped in and took the hit with a cut-off shriek and a sickening squelch through his chest. Ace staggered back, splattered with bloody viscera and agonizing globs of lava. Jinbei grabbed him before he could fall, grimacing in pain at the drops of lava dripping onto his skin. As Jinbei turned to scoop Luffy over his shoulder and run towards the ships, Ace stared back at Marco. For a moment, he swore he could see the Gray Terminal burning all around them. Smoke choked his lungs and fire nipped at Marco’s heels. Sabo was no where to be found.

He blinked and the Gray Terminal was gone. An awful sound tore its way out of Marco’s throat as he gripped Akainu with haki-coated talons and flung him away. There was a chunk of scorched spine and muscle in Akainu’s hand. Marco healed up in a bright flourish of feathers, but that sound stuck with Ace through Jinbei’s mad dash to get him and Luffy to safety. He couldn’t bear to hear it again. The stench of charred meat clogged his nose.

Luffy was unnaturally still and quiet on Jinbei’s shoulder. Ace tried to reach for him, but he was at his limit. He didn't have the strength to move his arms. He heard Pops’s laugh in the distance and a clash of metal. The world turned blue for a split-second and the sky shifted above Jinbei’s head. Ace closed his eyes and knew no more. 

_________________________________________________________________________

He woke up to Luffy smothered in bandages and snoozing in a bed next to his. The walls were metal but it didn't look like a marine ship. The medical equipment was high quality but lacked the uniformity Marines were so fond of.  

It was slowly dawning on Ace that they actually got away. Luffy took a horrific amount of punishment at Marineford, but he also got noisier the healthier he was. Ace considered him for a few seconds. Yup, he was snoring loud enough to wake the dead and muttering about meat. He'll be ok and Ace will get the chance to apologize for almost breaking his promise. 

Sabo was going to claw his way out of the afterlife to beat his ass for almost leaving Luffy alone. 

Ace heard a scratching sound beneath Luffy’s snores. He turned his head and saw Haruta sitting on a plastic chair, writing in his logbook with an uncharacteristically blank face. Haruta could always tell when he was being watched. He immediately looked up with wide eyes. Ace braced for the tongue-lashing of his life. Or a punch to the face. Two warm arms embraced him, carefully avoiding the worst of his injuries. Oh. 

Haruta pulled back a little and smiled at him, misty eyed, “Good to see you up, Ace.” 

Ace was selfish. He should ask Haruta what happened after he passed out. Find out who died. Beg for forgiveness he didn't deserve. His right arm was strapped down too tightly to move. He slowly raised his left arm, grabbed onto Haruta, and buried his face in his brother's shoulder. 

Haruta held him and ran a hand through his hair while he sobbed and smeared snot on Haruta’s doublet. It was the first time since parting with Luffy in Alabasta that he felt completely at ease. Even longer since he'd seen his crew outside of a war.

In a few minutes he'll ask. Pester Haruta for word of Pops' condition. Was Marco ok? Did the Spades and his division members make it out? It was hard to pick out individuals in the melee, but he remembered seeing Skull and a flash of Deuce’s hair. 

He'll stay ignorant for a little longer, Luffy’s steady breathing and Haruta’s heartbeat easing the tension in his spine.

The smell of something bitter and charred lingered in the air.

______________________________________________________________________

Haruta put the White Den Den Mushi receiver down with a click. Vista kept his message brief, neither of them wanting to risk a longer transmission. 

It was telling that Izo wasn't the one to call this time.

He handed the White Den Den Mushi over to Pamelo, who cradled it in his arms like a well-spoiled cat, “Put Chalk back in his carrier and spread the word. I'll go talk to Ace.”

He needed to break the news to Ace as gently as possible or they were going to have to deal with a half-destroyed submarine and a pissed-off surgeon that steals limbs on a whim. That wasn't possible while wrestling with his own emotions, so he treated it like a mission. Shoved his horror and bittersweet joy into a box and tucked it away to be processed later.

There will be time after to wonder why Mar–to plan his division’s next steps. 

There was something off about the blonde revolutionary Haruta met a while back, but he would begrudgingly admit the man had useful tips for compartmentalizing. 

Haruta pinged Trafalgar’s submarine with his Observation Haki as he walked out onto the beach. Ace was right where he left him: glued to Luffy’s side. Jinbei was clustered near a few of the Heart Pirates in the mess. He didn't sense Rayleigh; he was sure to be lurking nearby. Haruta doubted his ability to find the wily old fox if he didn't want to be found.

His two friendliest female division members were chatting up the Kuja warriors guarding the beach. Citrine kept her attention on the flustered woman shyly showing her one of the island’s many venomous snakes. Jenny glanced over in his direction and discreetly signed: All Clear. Orders?

He signed back: Continue Mission. Report at Dawn.

The Heart Pirate on watch, Shachi, gave him a nod as he boarded the submarine.The inside was clean and well maintained. It would be a shame to damage such a unique vessel. Haruta doubted the need to; Trafalgar had more common sense than most rookies. He still scouted out weak points on his first tour that would cripple the sub’s engine with the proper application of black powder charges, courtesy of Curiel’s merry band of explosive experts.  

It wouldn't do to slack off when an unaffiliated pirate captain had the life of one of Haruta’s little brothers in the palm of his hand. Literally. The Opi Opi Fruit was bullshit. It was a common pastime of his to complain about the many, many fruit users laughing in the face of logic to a completely unsympathetic Rakuyo and Ma–to Rakuyo. Trafalgar’s fruit was pretty far up that list, next to the Paw Paw Fruit. 

If Trafalgar tries to rat them out later, Haruta knows of a pink-obsessed underground broker that would be very interested in buying information on his weaknesses and movements. Their finances were in good shape but Blamenco would be overjoyed at more capital to spend on commissioning a new Moby Dick. 

“Come to check on your crewmate, Saber-ya?”

Speak of the Devil. Haruta smiled warmly at Trafalgar, “Good to see you, Doctor. I'm here to make sure Ace is behaving!  He’s only allowed two hours of brooding a day, Captain's Orders.”

Haruta noticed over the last few days that Trafalgar looked wildly uncomfortable the more cheerful he acted. And Haruta was feeling super fucking cheerful right now, why wouldn't he? Ace was alive! Pops was hypothetically immortal now. It only took the life of the first person to ever look at Haruta and see–

He smiled wider. Trafalgar’s eyebrows twitched as he visibly debated whether teleporting away from a Whitebeard Commander was an acceptable faux pas. 

After a long, awkward silence, Trafalgar sighed and asked, “Did you need anything else, Saber-ya? I’m scheduled to inspect our blood stores. Right now.”

“Yup! I’m also here to inform you we're leaving within the next few days. Let my crew know if you need anything before we set sail. We'd hate to be found lacking in aiding the Miracle Doctor that saved our precious brother.”

Trafalgar mumbled his agreement and shambled off like the undead corpse he resembled. His medical care was exceptional. It was looking like the explosives will be tucked away for another occasion. Shame. 

The medical bay wasn't much further. Haruta had a chunk of seastone, just in case.

______________________________________________________________________

Pops was nearby. Vista was incapable of not noticing, these days. The atmosphere grew heavier, like he was deep underwater. More concerningly, red sparks lazily winked to life around his captain like a swarm of fireflies. He was pretty sure Conqueror’s Haki wasn’t supposed to do that. It would be quite pretty if it had stopped at all since that terrible moment in Pops’ medical room. Hopefully Izou will shake some useful information out of Shanks. 

Chapter Text

Haruta froze in the doorway. Strawhat Luffy was awake, arm stretched out so he could latch onto Ace's uninjured hand. They both had puffy eyes.

Fuck.

“I can come back later,” Haruta said, glancing between them, “Just got off the Den Den with Vista.”

Ace scrubbed at his face, “It's fine Haruta, you might as well come in.”

Luffy tilted his head far enough to snap a normal person's neck, “Heart? That's a funny name. Did Traffy name his crew after you?” 

“Still need those ears of your checked, little brother? This is Haruta, 12th Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.”

Ace smiled so fondly when he looked at Luffy. It was strange to see their youngest commander in the context of an indulgent older brother. It suited him. 

A grin stretched unnaturally wide across Luffy's face, “Ah, you're one of Ace's nakama! Good to meet ya Hearty! You got any meat?”

Haruta could see the family resemblance.

“Sorry, no. Somebody didn't think to warn me you were both up.” Trafalgar you bastard.

Luffy slumped over in disappointment before jerking back up with a yelp as he pulled at his wounds. Ace looked torn between worry and mirth, settling on the second with a round of laughter at the pout on Luffy's face. 

It was nice to see Ace so relaxed. Whatever conversation they had before he walked in must have done him some good. After seeing him in Marineford, Haruta could say with confidence that Luffy was a reckless maniac, but one that cared for Ace with the intensity of a thousand suns. Haruta wished he had better news to share. He could wait, delay another day or two and still make it back before the Moby 3 convoy limps its way to the rendezvous. 

He won't. His ship will leave in the morning, without Ace. 

Haruta leveled a speculative glance at Luffy. He was energetic for someone out of a coma, but he had deep eye bags and his breathing was strained. He'll keep things light while Luffy is awake, he decided. 

While he was hesitating, Luffy and Ace started a well-worn argument about the best type of meat to eat raw. Luffy looked up, sensing his gaze. His eyes bored into Haruta like he was peering at the synapses wriggling in his brain. Creepy. 

Luffy sneezed and the moment was over. Ace blinked, having forgotten Haruta was there in his impassioned defense of tiger meat. He blushed and mumbled, “Sorry, it's so easy to get caught up in his pace.” 

That, Haruta could believe. He closed the door and leaned against it, “You both are hopeless. If you're going for something raw, fish is the best option bar none.”

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Luffy lost steam quickly. His eyes drooped to a close and he fell asleep mid-word. His hand still had a death grip on Ace’s wrist. Ace looked over at Haruta with a frown, “You can tell me what you didn't want to say in front of Luffy now. He sleeps like a rock.”

Haruta had been all smiles as he teased them, but his eyes were cold and distant. Ace had never seen an expression quite like it on Haruta’s face. It put him on edge. Haruta gestured at Luffy's hand, “We should pry him off first.”

Ace wanted to be offended that Haruta thought he might lose control of his devil fruit and hurt Luffy. Luffy, who was a patchwork of bandages and bruises because Ace was stupid enough to get captured. He wordlessly held out his wrist. It took them a few minutes of pulling and careful maneuvering to coax Luffy’s hand to latch onto a pillow and place it on his snoozing brother’s chest. 

Haruta sank into the chair at his bedside. “Before anything else, you should know I’ve been called back. Our ship leaves in the morning. I don’t say this lightly, I think you should remain on Amazon Lily. You need more time to heal and you're well hidden here. Boa Hancock is very invested in keeping you and Luffy safe, I’ve made sure of that.” 

Haruta glanced over to Luffy, leaving the other reason for him to stay unsaid. 

Ace couldn't hide the hurt in his expression. Haruta whacked him on the head.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You're thinking something stupid, stop it. I need to go back, but we're not abandoning you. I've got several of your men ready to pull a mutiny if I order them to leave with me tomorrow. I’m leaving my personal Den Den with them, the white Den Den, so you're not wiggling out of regular check-ins. And did you really think the Spades forgot about you?”

“You don't mean . . . .” 

Ace's eyes were getting watery. Haruta grinned mischievously, “I maaaay have slipped a piece of your Vivre Card to Deuce before we left Fishmen Island. I expect them here within the fortnight, they were healthy and hale when I saw them board the Moby 3.”

Every time he thought he hit the limit of his family’s care, they proved him wrong, like it was easy. Ace didn't deserve them, he never will. If having his bloodline revealed in front of the entire world wasn't enough for them to turn their backs on him, maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he was allowed to keep this. 

He still had a lot to answer for, a lot to make right. People that died so he could live. Family he wronged in his single-minded pursuit of Teach.

_________________

There was one person Haruta kept talking around during their conversation. Ace feared the worst. “Is Pops ok? You’ve been acting weird.”

“Pops is fine, he woke up earlier. I–We lost someone else today.”

It struck Ace right then, how tired Haruta looked. Shoulders bowed, hair greasy and limp, stress adding new lines to his face. He mentally went over the injured crewmates Haruta mentioned last time. It was a long list.

Haruta’s voice was slow and deliberate with the weight of a gavel strike, “It’s Marco. He’s gone.”

Ace froze. He couldn't believe it. Marco took a direct hit from Akainu and healed it up like it was nothing. There was no way he could be dead. Not now, not after they made it out. Ace’s last memory of him was that horrifying scream. 

Haruta would never lie about something like this. 

Haruta stared at his hands, “You have to understand, Ace. Pops is–was in far worse health than he let on. Tate estimated he had 6 months to live 3 years ago. He didn’t say it, but we all knew he was planning to stay behind in Marineford to cover our escape. It's nothing short of a miracle we managed to pull him out. They were able to stabilize him on the Moby 1, but with the wound to his head and his internal injuries, there was a high chance of him never waking up again.”

“But you said Pops was fine!” 

“He is, Marco healed him.”

“Healing someone wouldn't kill Marco, he’d pass out before it gets to that point. I’d know, I've seen it.”

He had, on a barren spike of obsidian jutting out of the sea. 9 of them scrunched together to give Marco room to work, watching rivulets of blood meander down grooves in the rock until they were washed away by the waves. The stink of offal on the breeze. 

“And why would it fix Pops now if Marco couldn’t do it before? It doesn't make any sense!”

“Because Marco didn't heal Pops with his fire. He gave him his fruit.”

Ace didn’t understand for a long moment. He didn’t want to understand. 

“You told me,” he said dully, “After I woke up. You told me Teach stole Pops’ fruit.”

Haruta’s composure cracked. His face twisted in pain.

It all came back to Teach didn't it? Ace felt heat flare up beneath his skin. His eyes stung. Every death, every tragedy from the moment Thatch found his fruit. Ace was hiding like a coward with Teach out there running fre–

Ace felt cold down to his bones. Haruta was holding a seastone bracelet against the scarred-over skin at his wrist. He never learned, did he? He didn't know how to handle his grief so he buried it in anger. He wanted to die for so long, he never learned how to run away. He couldn't blame Teach for everything. Not for his own choices. Not when he was so ready to repeat them. Haruta was right. He wasn't ready to go back. He'd just be a burden. He lost control of his fruit with Luffy in the room.

Marco would be so disappointed in him. 

___________________

Rayleigh was a bright spot in Haruta’s Haki, a little ways down the beach. He found him ankle-deep in the surf, expression pensive as he stared out to sea in the flickering light of the torches.

“You’re leaving awfully quick after all that effort to save him.”

Haruta thought he was emotionally spent after talking to Ace. He found he still had plenty of anger left as he glared at Rayleigh, spite moving his tongue, “Marco’s dead.”

Rayleigh’s head snapped around, shock plain on his face, “Marco? I thought he made it out of Marineford.”

“He did. Teach stole the Quake Quake fruit. He killed himself so Pops could eat his fruit.”

It didn’t make Haruta feel any better that Rayleigh looked genuinely sad, “I’m sorry kid, I didn’t know. Marco was a good man. It’s not much, but tell Newgate I’m staying to watch over the boys.”

Haruta wanted to make a biting comment about the last set of boys Rayleigh was responsible for. He didn’t. The Dark King was a powerful backer to have in Ace’s corner, best not to antagonize him further. He’ll encourage Ace to accept the free Haki training, but that's it. It's up to Rayleigh to try and build a connection with Pops’ son.

He left Rayleigh to his ghosts. He had one more stop to make before heading back to his ship. Jinbei needed to be informed.

It was a weight off to know Jinbei also planned to stay for a time; he could be trusted to run interference if Rayleigh pushed too hard with Ace. After Haruta ran out of words, Jinbei put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “I will watch out for them, you have my word. You can return to your captain without worries.” His grip tightened, “But tell Whitebeard this; I ask that he calls upon me when the time comes to kill that oathbreaker once and for all. I am and always will be an ally of the Whitebeard Pirates, wherever the waves lead you.”

___________________

The Same Night

Northwest of Marineford

Fossa fed the sleepy Den Den on his desk and leaned back with a sigh. Talking in code was frustrating on a good day. It was a pain in the ass with morphine fogging up his brain. Vista picked the perfect moment to be a cryptic bastard. The only message he got through their meandering conversation on lumber prices was “Get here faster. Top priority.” 

The Moby 3 lost half of her sails in the chaos of Marineford. She made it out ok, picking up several other allied ships slowed down by battle damage and an escort, but their course to link up with the rest of the fleet near Sabaody was sluggish at best. They weren't getting any more speed out of her unless they pulled wind dials out of their asses. 

Fossa debated heading to the mess to grab some grub, decided against it. He’d have to shove his way through a wall of bodies and at least 3 brawls to have any hope of getting food during the dinner rush. He switched directions and went out to the deserted deck, hunching over too-short crutches.

Atmos lounged in the aft crowsnest  and looked over one of his swords for nicks and scrapes, singing a popular South Blue sea shanty under his breath.  Fossa wrenched himself up through the trapdoor, swearing when he bumped his head on the railing.

He greeted Atmos with a grunt and sat down, carefully stretching out his leg. “Fucking Kizaru. Had Jiru and Marco on his ass and he still took the time to take a potshot at my bad knee.”

Atmos hummed and switched swords, “Did medical grant you permission to walk around on that?”

“Of course not. Lisa slapped a brace on my leg and told me she's running off to marry a Rear Admiral if I take a single step with it. Got crutches down on the deck. Used my arms for the climb.”

“Oh? I thought there was romance blooming between her and that junior navigator.”

Fossa laughed, “The day one of my daughters settles down is the day Captain sprouts wings and starts flying.”

Though Margaret talked an awful lot about sparring with that captain of hers on their monthly Den Den calls. Fossa would have to keep an eye on that. 

The conversation died soon after. Fossa leaned back against the rail, tired but unable to sleep. Atmos was tolerable company with the talent rarely seen on this crew of being able to shut the fuck up now and then, despite running the loudest division. 

The night was calm, not a cloud in sight. It was so peaceful it could almost be mistaken for one of the Blues if it weren't for the pulsing column of glowing mist swirling on the starboard side as they drifted by.

The navigators hemmed and hawed before agreeing that it would be safe if they kept their distance. That was enough for Fossa. He had many strengths. Predicting Grandline weather was not one of them and he was at peace with that.

He sat up a bit and squinted, “Hey Atmos, didn’t we have a schooner stationed on that side?”

“Indeed we did.”

“It's not there. Did the mist swallow it?”

Atmos raised up his sword and admired it in the lantern light, “I would hope not. The members of Division 2 did a marvelous job subduing the rest of the night watch before making off with it. It would be a tragedy to have that work go to waste.”

Fossa sluggishly stretched out his Observation Haki. There was a cluster of familiar signatures piled in the front crowsnest. He stared at Atmos, “What the fuck.”

“Come now,” Atmos chided, “Were you truly so dull to miss the former Spades plotting? I'm surprised it took them this long to work up the nerve. I made sure to stash extra supplies in the hold, else I fear they'll be left underequipped on the journey ahead.”

“You're being obtuse on purpose. Why–just why? Do they even know where they're going?”

Atmos grinned, “I believe Banshee was brandishing a Vivre Card fragment as they set sail. Davy Jones willing, they'll find their way back to their Commander.”

Fossa leaned back again with a huff, “You got me there. I bet Deuce got his grubby little mitts on a piece the moment Ace got his card made. Or Haruta slipped it to him before Marineford. I’m sure he expected this, damn schemer.”

If he strained his ears, he could make out muffled yelling.

“You gonna untie them?”

“Oh no, they went down far too easily. They’ll keep til next shift.”

The night stretched on. Fossa’s leg cramped up. He shifted around until he found a better spot to rest his knee. At this angle the mist was to his side and he was looking directly towards the Red Force. 

He tilted his head towards the other ship’s crowsnest. Yes, that was Lucky Roo with a leg of lamb looking directly at him with a wide grin.

Division 2 was full of idiots but at least they weren't stupid enough to provoke any of the Red-Hair Pirates on their way out. Shanks probably found it funny and threw them some booze mid-heist. He'd find it less amusing if he knew they were running off with a Vivre Card pointing to Ace.

Fossa and Atmos glanced at each other. What Shanks didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Or their ship.

Shanks can be Marco’s problem when they catch up to the rest of the fleet. He’s an expert at handling the Emperor when he's furious enough to cut an island in half.

Chapter Text

Vista spent the evening in the Den Den room, finishing Izou’s task of checking on their scattered fleet. The risk of their transmissions being overheard was a good excuse to avoid mentioning the events of the past day as he spoke with his fellow commanders and allied captains. They will learn the truth soon enough. He did not have that excuse with Haruta and his White Den Den. Or Shanks. 

Benn Beckman was too polite to call him full of shit. It was heavily implied by the side-eye faithfully replicated by the Den Den. That was fine, let him be frustrated at the run-around. Vista had to be perceptive at this level of swordsmanship. He knew how Shanks looked at Marco when he thought himself unobserved. He will not risk Red-Hair learning the truth until Pops is there to counteract his Haki. Fossa had no idea what fate Vista was sparing him from. 

Pops’ Haki flared up occasionally during the night, but it never died down completely. It felt restless, searching. Blenheim stopped by after midnight, looking haunted, “I got him to stop. Brought Marco to Hue. He took care of things.”

Undoubtedly. Hue had the dubious honor of being the highest ranked member of the 15th on the ship until Fossa’s eventual arrival. He was the one organizing burials for the vast majority who wished to be returned to the sea. There was an emptied-out auxiliary freezer for the few that wanted to be buried elsewhere. Vista wasn't sure which Marco would prefer. He clenched the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. He was observant, but not towards the right person. Not when it mattered. 

Blenheim was standing there like a puppet with its strings cut. He had dried blood and sand smeared on his skin and clothes. There was nothing he could do for Marco, nothing at all, but there was a brother right in front of him in need of aid. Vista herded him to the private commander washroom. It was not unheard of to see crewmates retreat into their heads after battle or other . . . . stressful situations. Blenheim came back to himself a little after Vista held his arm under the warm shower spray and needed no further prompting to begin stripping off his ruined clothes and stand under the flow of water. Vista went to go find him some new clothes. 

He always did better with a straightforward goal to accomplish. It will be much worse when the rest of the fleet links up with them and Vista’s workload lessens in turn. There will be many more sleepless nights in his future. He’ll spend them sharpening and polishing his weapons. His family needs time to mourn and time to rest, but when that period is over, he will be ready.

There, a laundry room. He searched through piles of haphazardly folded clothes until he found some that looked around Blenheim’s size. He would share some of his own but the rest of his wardrobe was at the bottom of the ocean in his rooms on the Moby Dick and Moby 2.

He made his way back to Blenheim, Pops an ever present beacon to his Haki. Blenheim was out of the shower, wrapped up in a towel. His skin was red and irritated, from excess scrubbing no doubt. Vista said nothing. They went to the room he claimed on the first night after Marineford and passed a bottle of whisky back and forth until Blenheim passed out from exhaustion. Vista made himself comfortable on a chair and set to meditating until morning.

______________________

It was a little after dawn. Blenheim slept on. Pops' Haki was faint and despondent now. An improvement? Vista couldn't say. He had no frame of reference for a wound of this magnitude to his Captain's heart. Marco was ruthless when moved to act. 

He headed to the mess for breakfast. His steps faltered slightly as he took in the Haki signature growing closer. Izou, good. Vista had been worried he would isolate himself with his guilt for longer. Thatch had always been the best at knowing when to give Izou space and when to push. It was days like this when Vista felt his dear friend’s absence the most keenly.

He pushed open the doors. His first instinct was to flee, he battered it down. It was worse than he thought. Izou sat by Tate, both subdued and nursing coffees. His makeup was impeccable, his hair twisted into an elaborate style. There were at least eight layers to his outfit and elegant jewelry of gold and turquoise pinned into his hair. His dignity would not be found lacking amongst royalty. 

No wonder the members of the 16th Division were on the opposite side of the room, eating as quickly as possible before scuttling off to their posts. 

Vista was made of sterner stuff. He grabbed a tray and sat next to Tate with a nod instead of his usual boisterous greeting. It was important to scout out one’s opponent before making a decisive move. Izou was a jewel-toned viper, still and coiled up to strike at the unwary. He understood to an extent, but Izou was too distraught under his mask of frigid composure to direct his rage at the deserving. He will turn it on an innocent bystander and consequently, himself when the anger fades. 

He felt a subtle pulse of Haki directed at him from across the room. Vista slid his eyes over as he dug into his oatmeal. It was Kepler, Izou’s third-in-command. He remained after his division members fled. Kepler never took his eyes off of the book he was reading. His fingers flicked through the signs: Divert, enemy, s-p-i-d-e-r. 

Oh. Oohoho. 

Vista turned to Tate, “I must say, I will be quite relieved when Curiel and Blamenco arrive. It should be today if the wind holds.”

Tate gave him an unimpressed look over the rim of her coffee, but was willing to see how this played out, “Can't say I'm ever happy to be within a hundred feet of that walking health-hazard.”

“Not to worry! Andre will be there to keep him in line. I believe Blamenco mentioned his presence, alongside Happygun and Squard’s group.”

Izou was no longer pretending to ignore them. Hook, line, and sinker. His eyes were narrow and poisonous, “Squard. I thought he was delayed until tomorrow.”

“They came across a lucky westward waterfall current and caught up to Curiel’s group. I was planning to greet them today.”

“No need. I'll handle them personally.” 

Izou put down his coffee and prowled out of the room with a smoothness at odds with his stiffly embroidered garments. Kepler gave Vista a thumbs up before turning the page. Vista would usually feel bad for throwing Squard to the wolves. Squard usually refrained from stabbing his own Emperor in the middle of a war. After marine manipulations, no less. Captain forgave him, so Vista will restrain from gutting him on the spot at their next meeting. That was his sole concession to the man that he had once held in high esteem.

Tate looked amused despite herself. “He's on the warpath now. I should warn Marc–” Her voice trailed off. They were both quiet for a long time after that.

______________________

There was a well-worn perch near Whitebeard’s desk. It saw several updates over the years as Marco grew. Whitebeard remembered when he was tiny enough to perch on a single pinky finger in his fluffy zoan form. Marco was terribly skittish in those days, more bird than human after years in captivity. His very first treasure. 

His family would grow and grow over the years, but there was a special place in his heart for that small child that looked at him like he hung the moon.

How loathsome to outlive that child. 

Whitebeard went to Marineford knowing he was going to die. It felt like fate whispering in his ear. It was a fitting ending for a man such as him, dying to see his youngest son fly free. His children knew it too. He made sure to take the time to speak with as many as he could between preparations for the attack. He had lived a full life; he would die without regrets.

Whitebeard fell, and he woke up anew. Held the corpse of his son and felt something alien spring to life in his chest. He was wrong before. The dying had nothing but regrets. He cradled Marco’s empty shell and poured wave after wave of healing fire inside with shanking hands. His son’s body was a cracked vessel; the fire spilled back out and dissipated. His Conqueror's Haki responded by lashing out. It searched for a target to level his fury at, but there was nothing but the wind and the waves, the world itself. For he would be truly dead and gone before he turned his power on his own children.

He felt Vista and Izou’s Haki nearby for a time. Blenheim took Marco from him after his healing flames faltered to a stop. Whitebeard did not stop him, he wanted to. He could not remember a time his Conqueror’s was this difficult to suppress. Fitful sparks winked in and out around him, crimson plumes of will that recognized absence and sought to fill that void. Normally he would tire and his Haki would return to its kennel.

Normally he was fighting against the ravages of time, his lungs at quarter capacity and sickness eating at his organs. Some days it seemed all that was standing between him and death was will alone. He wished to watch his children grow a little longer, shelter them under his wings until he had no strength left, and so he lived another day. Again and again. 

He felt stronger than he ever had before. Decades of pain erased in an instant, his body overflowing with energy. His eyes were keen, new avian instincts clamouring in his head. It was wrong, so terribly wrong. He wanted to fly, claw off this too-healthy skin to reveal the lie underneath. Marco’s fire in place of the body that had carried him to the shore of Marineford and no further. It would change nothing. 

Marco’s perch was gone with the rest of the possessions in Whitebeard's room after the destruction of the Moby Dick. Marco had made a space for himself there over the years. Paperwork, dog-eared books, bags of dried fruit and sunflower seeds hidden behind his Bisento stand, a compartment of childhood memories. He transformed into his zoan form to hide his embarrassment when he found out that Whitebeard kept the collection of smooth rocks and trinkets proudly gifted to him by a child determined to “earn” his keep. Everyone knows the shinier the item the more its value! Jozu said so.

A part of him was glad those possessions were resting on the seabed where he didn’t have to look at them. His Conqueror's Haki knew better. His heart will ache far worse in their absence. 

Whitebeard flexed the tendons in his hand, watching feathers flutter into being. They were more gold than blue, but the colors were still Marco's. He despised the sight of them. A gift unwanted. A poor substitute. It will be all that is left of his son, soon enough. 

Whitebeard’s bones no longer ached. Gone were the liver spots and swollen joints. He felt so very old. You’d find this dreadfully ironic, wouldn’t you, Roger?

Marco would want to be buried on land. A watery grave brought no comfort to a creature of the sky such as him. Whitebeard will lay him to rest on the cliffs overlooking Sphinx in a grave not meant for him.

Later, when the time is right, he will hold a second funeral ceremony from the almost-forgotten traditions of his home village. They weren't always a quiet farming community; their ancestors were raiders of a very particular stripe. There were caves under the cliffs where adventurous children could still find crumbling runes carved into the rock and human bones fused into spiraling shapes in the walls. Elder Juniper dedicated her life to preserving the macabre stories and traditions from that time.

He remembered one she told to a curious circle of children one warm summer evening. A man betrayed and slain by his brother, his corpse dumped in an unmarked grave without the proper ceremony to guide his soul to Davy Jones. The brother was bound and brought before the village elders when his deceit was discovered. They built a proper funerary raft for the dead man, lashing his betrayer to it with ropes and hammering spikes through his joints. He was left out there in the sun until on the verge of death from dehydration. They doused his body with oil and a fire was lit as the raft was untied from the dock, a beacon for that lost soul to find his way to the afterlife. 

Whitebeard wasn't a devotee of the old ways. He'll make this one exception. His son was a phoenix to the end; he deserved fire in his send off. Juniper's granddaughter took up her work after her passing. She will be delighted at the opportunity to see such an old rite brought to life.

He transformed his legs, examining the wickedly sharp talons. Teach sought his destruction in Marineford. He remained ignorant that he accomplished something far worse. Whitebeard will educate him, one last lesson from a father to his son.

The morning sun rose. Vista lingered outside the door. Whitebeard had neglected his children for long enough; it was time to tend to the living. He undid the transformation. His knees no longer popped when he rose from his chair. 

______________________

Curiel tinkered with a damaged scope while the other commanders and allied captains filed into the meeting room on the Moby 1. Vista, Izou, Blenheim, Blamenco, and a battered-looking Jozu joined him at the table. Squard’s First Mate was here in his place. Odd. Curiel opened his mouth to ask. Andre and Blamenco glared at him. He went back to his tinkering. 

Pops entered last. It was enough to still his hands. Pops looked . . . . . young. No scars, skin smooth, wrinkles gone like he had been plucked from a twenty year-old bounty poster. He desperately wanted to ask if there was blonde fuzz growing beneath his cap. No, now was not the time to sate his curiosity. Haruta called him hopeless at reading emotional states through Observation Haki. He was accurate in his assessment. Curiel didn't need that skill to notice the storm brewing around his Captain. That was a new behavior shown by Pops’ Haki. He made a mental note to pick Izou's brain later. He was the main point of contact with Red-Hair with Marco gone. 

Part of him still didn't believe it. Maybe it would make more sense if he went to the make-shift morgue to see for himself. He didn't think so. It wasn't a matter so simply resolved. Curiel knew how Marco worked. It would be impossible not to after so many years of working side by side. Pops set the destination and Marco charted the course to get there. He avoided unnecessary risks and fixed a thousand little issues to keep things running as smoothly as possible.  Cautious and reliable, an exemplary First Mate.

Marco never gambled if he had any other choice. It was always Pops and other commanders introducing risks and him doing his best to mitigate them. He was not selfish, not in the way required to be a Captain. He did not go off course. He did not ignore Captain's Orders.

Pops would never allow any of his crew to trade their lives for him. It was an ironclad rule. And Marco would never risk the possibility of his Devil Fruit failing to sprout up among the fruit Blenheim collected, leaving them down another leader. It made no sense.

He died and the bet paid off. Curiel examined their past interactions in a new light. What had he missed? Where was the fundamental misunderstanding of Marco's character? They were never the closest, but they had a good working relationship. They were friends.

One small interaction stuck out in his head. It was during a victory celebration, they had just defeated a pirate crew with a weird balloon gimmick. Ace had the seat of honor next to Pops after taking down the enemy captain. He wasn't in the mood for crowds that night, so he wandered off from the cluster of bonfires where Thatch oversaw mountains of sea king meat sizzling on portable grills. He found Marco further inland, laying in a meadow of crystalline flowers, stargazing. 

Curiel joined him. The flowers were a bit uncomfortable but the night sky was vibrant. He wondered if Marco would let him improve his telescope later, it was getting rather old at this point.

Marco's voice was quiet, “I've met the mayor of this island before. He said I look the same.”

“I don't recall this island? Was it when you were out on patrol?”

“No, it was decades ago, before you joined the crew, yoi.” 

Marco had a fantastic memory. Curiel wondered if the healing from his fruit also helped memory recall by keeping the brain in tip-top health. It was fascinating to think about, but far out of his realm of expertise. 

“Hey Curiel. If you could live forever, would you want to?”

The answer was obvious, “Of course! I have far too many ideas to ever build everything I want to in this lifetime. Speaking of that, you should really consider my proposal again. I really think I can make a workable trigger for those talons of yours. Imagine the creative angles you could hit with a bazooka while in full Phoenix form!”

Marco laughed and murmured something too low for him to make out. That was ok, Curiel knew he’d wear him down someday. It was a travesty how much of this crew focused exclusively on melee combat. 

It felt so obvious with the benefit of hindsight and Pops sitting across from him, looking almost unchanged from their first meeting. The Phoenix Fruit healed aging like any other affliction. He wished he had turned the question back on Marco that night. What would his response be? Would knowing make anything better? One thought refused to die. 

Would Marco be long dead if Pops never ate a Devil Fruit at all?

The meeting ended. Curiel paid little attention; he had too many thoughts swirling in his head. He’ll get the highlights from Blamenco later. Besides, their next destination was obvious. No one wanted to linger at this island for much longer, not with Marco’s blood staining the sand. They’ll pick up a few more stragglers and stick to the original plan. Might as well start the process of getting their ships coated while Fossa’s group limps onward. 

Curiel never did get Marco to agree to test out his prototype.

______________________

It was well known that to go to Fishman Island from Paradise, you first had to stop at Sabaody to get your ship coated. That wasn’t completely right. You had to get your ship coated at a place with yarukiman mangrove resin, and the Whitebeard Pirates knew of another place to find it on this side of the Grand Line. 

Of the closest islands to Sabaody, Oregano Island was the smallest and least frequented. It had a sleepy village of fishermen and not much else. They didn’t fly Whitebeard’s flag openly, but they had an understanding. Every now and then a Whitebeard ship would come by and attune their log pose to the island. They’d disembark and barter for fish with supplies of far greater value, chat with the locals for a while, ask about any trouble finding its way to their community, and spend money at the bar. When they departed, it was in the same direction. Due east without the slightest deviation. If any marines were to come by, none did, they would find the villagers had a terrible memory for pirate flags, what a shame. 

When a ship left Oregano Island and headed east towards Sabaody and the Red Line, the log pose would gain a slight wobble near the edge of its magnetic field. Experienced navigators could use the wobble to track down the source of the interference: a lone yarukiman mangrove tree with a meteorite cradled in its branches. The meteorite had a small magnetic field of its own, too small to be treated as an island proper by the log pose. No one was sure why it was growing this far away from the rest of the grove; it was a minor miracle that Fossa stumbled upon it in the first place. A coating station was built, nestled in its branches for the times they wished to keep their movements in Paradise covert from the prying eyes in Sabaody. 

As the main fighting force of the Whitebeard pirates sailed towards Marineford, a few ships split off to Oregano Island. They didn’t bother popping their resin bubbles. They circled the island, waited for their log pose to reset, and were gone without a ripple. Coaters, shipwrights, and medics waited anxiously with their supplies ready at the coating station as the first two weeks dragged on. There was a strict Den Den-blackout. If no one came within the month, they were to submerge and return to Fishman Island. 

They had fighters with them, those too injured or inexperienced to bring to a war. Jackal was one of the few exceptions. Commander Blenheim charged him with leading the men guarding the Lonely Mangrove and he knew it was an important job. Sabaody had too high a risk of a marine ambush with the main force weakened. They needed this station secured for their retreat. It was a hard pill to swallow. He was sitting here doing nothing while his brothers fought and perished without him. 

Each day he spread his observation Haki wide until he faltered from exhaustion. Jackal’s range was among the best in the fleet; the reason he was chosen for this. Mizuki covered the night watch. She was among the deadliest snipers from the 16th, a moot point with her shattered shoulder immobilized in a sling.

Finally, several pings on the edge of his senses. He shouted a warning to the men below and pulled out his spy glass. The minutes dragged on, the lead ship sailed into view. Marine blue. His heart dropped. 

There was a high pitched ringing in his ear. They needed to leave; they can't possibly take on a marine fleet. How did they even find this place?

He opened his mouth to sho–

His mouth clamped shut.

Whitebeard's flag waved proudly from the main mast and he could make out the familiar shape of a Mini Moby behind the lead ship. The crew made it out of Marineford! He ordered the runners standing by to spread the word as cheers rang out on deck. It wouldn't be long now. Jackal hoped to see Blenheim alive and in high spirits. They made it out of those Government Dogs’ trap!

Chapter Text

Namur was as graceful as ever as he cut through the water towards the dock. He was less so during the climb up, favoring his injured leg. Kingdew was there, inspecting an oversized clipboard, “How's her hull looking?”

“She'll hold up for the trip back. Tell Rush I recommend a proper stint in a dry dock after. The trip to Fishman Island is gonna put a great deal of stress on the patches.”

Kingdew nodded and made a note of it. The sheer amount of ice, lava, and cannon fire flung around Marineford left none of their remaining ships untouched. The ships of their Allied Captains were hit the worst, after the Moby Dick itself. A few were currently in the process of being emptied and scuttled, too damaged to make it a single island further. It was nothing short of a miracle that Brew and Baggaley’s ships limped all the way here with keels one good nudge away from total collapse. 

A miracle, or the stubbornness of their Klabautermanns. He specialized more in Armament Haki than in Observation, but he had developed a bit of a sense for them over his long career as a shipwright. He wasn't sure about Baggaley, but Brew had to know. There was a deep grief etched in his face as he made the order. He was not one to prolong the suffering of a comrade. 

Kingdew only saw the Moby’s Klabautermann a few times over the years – a tall figure with a gray wool coat and cap pulled low over their face, lantern in one hand and a harpoon in the other. The first time was during a hurricane so terrible he thought the world must be ending. They stood firmly planted on the deck, face indistinct outside of the reassuring smile reminiscent of Pops’. 

The last time was in Marineford. Kingdew almost overlooked the lonely figure on the shore as Rush’s ship pulled away, leaning on that old harpoon for support as they watched the Moby Dick burn. Their head turned as if to look at him. Slowly, they set their lantern on the ground and raised an arm in farewell. It was too far to make out details, but his memory filled in the gap where that grin should be. 

He kept them in his sight as long as he could, eyes blurry. They faded from view before Shanks split the island in twain. Kingdew was grateful for that much. 

He slept in fits and starts the first night after, giving up long before dawn. Namur was snoring up a storm in a nearby hammock, the gashes on his leg cleaned and packed with gauze. Kingdew greeted the night watch and ventured out to the foredeck, picking up and lighting a lantern left on a nearby barrel. 

There was a little whale etched into the familiar metalwork. He fumbled at the handle and almost dropped it. His Haki reached out. Hints of emotion stuck to it like gossamer webs. Affection. Concern. Sorrow. Acceptance. May the wind be at your back till we meet again.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He knew the Moby inside and out, was there for every step of her construction. She still managed to surprise him, after everything. He didn’t know how long he stood cradling that lantern, and the precious feelings it carried, close. All too soon, he heard one of the nightwatch approaching. He felt too wretched for company, so he moved below deck. 

Sleep continued to evade him, but there was still one thing he could accomplish, away from his men and his tools. In the pre-dawn darkness, Kingdew scoured the map room on Rush’s ship for spare paper and drawing tools with Moby’s lantern as his sole light. He remained hunched over the draft table, paper blank until light streamed through the portholes. 

He drew up the plans for a new ship years ago. Made changes here and there as his family grew. No ship, however sturdy, was guaranteed to last in the treacherous waters of the Grand Line. The figurehead was left blank in every iteration. It felt wrong to draw in the cheerful blue whale of the Moby Dick, but nothing else felt right. No Klabautermann was capable of outliving the ship that gave it life, Kingdew knew this well. Even if he were to use identical blueprints and materials, any Klabautermann born would be a completely new spirit. 

No, even with Moby at the bottom of the sea, he couldn't bring himself to replace her, not yet. Despite his wishes, he will have to, all too soon. He placed the paper and ink back in their drawers and neatened up the table. Soon, but not today. He'll reunite with his surviving array of shipwrights first. They’ll have ideas for modifications to make the next ship sturdier, particularly against extreme temperature changes. Akainu and Aokiji had a lot to answer for. He lost some of his best men in that killing zone formed by Aokiji’s ice; it was the Whitebeard Pirates’ way to repay a debt ten-fold. 

Those plans were sent to the backburner when Rush’s ship limped to the Mangrove Station and Kingdew saw the full extent of the damage to the fleet. His division had their work cut out for them in getting the fleet repaired and prepped for the dive to Fishman Island. There was little time to rest; one miscalculation and they could lose another shipful of men to the harsh currents enroute. Namur’s division was working just as hard beside them, handling the underwater repairs despite most of them recovering with brutal burns from the boiling water when fucking Akainu started flinging lava into the bay.

Moby’s lantern never left his belt as the repairs and the days blurred together. Later, when their new ship takes shape, he'll find a place for it. The Moby sailed her last voyage, but they could take a small piece of her to see the future with them.

“Now isn't that a sight for sore eyes?”

Kingdew shook off his bout of melancholy and turned to see what Namur was looking at. “Well I'll be damned. They made it here before Haruta.”

“Told you!” Namur gave him a toothy grin, “You better pay up, I had my bet placed on them arriving before sunset.”

The ship that drifted closer to the docks was in bad shape, Kingdew could already tell that much. There were odd punctures peppering the side of its hull and the mainmast had a rough assortment of patches and repairs holding it together. 

It stopped beside Rush’s ship; there were two figures by the prow. He folded his arms and bellowed, “You couldn't have waited a day more? I was enjoying the peace and quiet without you mucking up the place!”

“FUCK YOU!” Rakuyo yelled back, eloquent as ever, “If I had to spend a day more with this sorry lot, I'd throw myself into the sea and save them the trouble!”

Jiru rolled his eyes from his seat atop the figurehead, “I will admit my division’s sailing methods are a tad unorthodox, but here we are, safe and sound.”

“UNORTHODOX? YOU TAUNTED A SEA KING INTO SMACKING THE SHIP OVER A WHIRLPOOL.”

“It was calculated, would’ve taken too long navigating around.”

“IT ALMOST BIT THE SHIP IN HALF!” Rakuyo leaped to the dock below, face ruddy. He grabbed Namur by the shoulders and said in a frantic tone, “You tell Marco, if he puts me back on a ship with that maniac, I won’t be held responsible for what happens after.”

Shit, they didn’t know yet. Namur sent him a panicked look over Rakuyo’s shoulder as Jiru jumped down. Kingdew eyed the damaged ships and wooden docks around them. It wasn’t the best place to break the news. Rakuyo was short-tempered on the best of days and Jiru would be the reigning king of collateral damage if Ace and Curiel weren’t on the crew. Best to move this elsewhere. 

A voice spoke up behind him, “I’ll handle it.” It was Jozu, finally rid of his bandages. He neatly wrangled Rakuyo and Jiru, the two of them still bickering as he dragged them out of sight towards the Moby 1. 

Namur let out a relieved breath, “I take back everything I’ve said about Jozu. His timing is flawless.” 

It really was. Kingdew had to spread the word to several groups of Allied Captains that arrived that morning. Some of those ships had members of the First Division on board. He was getting tired of being the bearer of bad news.

He stretched his shoulders and picked up his tool bag, “We still have three more ships to inspect before dusk, let’s get to it.”

Their work would not end at nightfall, but there would be time to grab food and have a little rest before they continued onto the next batch of ships. 

______________________

Kingdew was more than a little ashamed at his own reaction when Vista pulled him aside into one of the Moby 1’s sparring rooms and told him of Marco’s death. He understood the reason why Vista and Izou hid it during their Den Den calls. It didn’t stop the rage boiling inside him as he decked the other man across the face. Vista didn’t bother dodging, blocking the strike with his Haki. 

He followed it up with a kick that sent Vista crashing into the far wall. That was enough for him to stand and take up a fighting stance, fists clenched, “I’m not going to apologize, my friend. We couldn’t risk it getting out.” 

They made the right call. He knew that even as he circled the other commander, looking for an opening. Every punch was blocked or deflected. Vista was paying close attention now and Kingdew was sloppy, unfocused. It made him even angrier. “I know, I know you did everything you could to keep the rest of the crew safe, but why didn’t you do anything to stop Marco? He’s your crewmate too, or did you write it off as an acceptable sacrifice? You, Izou, and Jozu were right there and no one did anything!” 

The next punch broke Vista’s nose with a crunch of cartilage. He staggered back with a stricken look on his face, “Do you truly think so lowly of me? That I would stand aside and let him go through with it?”

He went too far. Kingdew felt the rage drain out of him, leaving emptiness behind. He lowered his fists. “No, I don’t. Forgive me.” He wanted to stay angry at Vista, to blame everyone aboard the Moby 1 for not noticing and Blenheim for not being strong enough to subdue him. It was easier than being angry at a dead man. “I never thought he would want this. I should have, he wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No he wasn’t,” Vista said, resigned, “We all knew how hard he would take Pops’ death. I never—I thought he would bury himself in his duties to cope, like he always does. It seemed best to focus on lightening his load and give him space to come to terms with the situation. Foolish, I know.”

Kingdew sighed and sat down, pulling out a bottle of booze, “So nobody saw it coming, turns out there's plenty of blame to go around. Just don't carry it all by yourself.” He took a swig, grimaced, and patted the ground next to him, “Oh that's foul, come help me finish this. Swiped it from Rush's stock.”

Vista popped his nose back into place and joined him on the ground, taking a tentative sip, “That's atrocious.”

“It really is. Now that I’m done making an ass of myself, how's Blenheim doing?”

“Bad. He's taken charge of perimeter defense. Tate slipped tranquilizers to his division because he just won't stop.”

“No wonder they got along so well, workaholics the both of them. Damn, that was cold of Marco.” Kingdew took another sip, “At least Ace was far away from that mess, kid's got to be fucked up after everything.”

“He always had a great deal of admiration for Marco, I'm afraid he'll shoulder this guilt along with the rest. Haruta reported him to be in good hands before he departed Amazon Lily, but I worry for our youngest.”

“Hell of a secret he was hiding. Gol D Ace. Portgas has a better ring to it, don't you think?”

Vista snorted, “The next person to calm him Gol D Ace in front of Captain is getting turned into a red smear on the ground.”

“It’s that bad?”

“You haven't seen him yet.” Vista took a large swig, eyes pinched, “His temper’s hanging on by a thread. First enemy he sees, he's going to snap. The Marines better pray they don't stumble on our location.”

“I’d like to s—”

The door to the sparring room creaked open. Jozu stood there, a neat stack of paper in his hands, looking concerningly gaunt, “Am I interrupting? I have the latest casualty reports.” 

Vista waved him in, “Here's as good a place as any to look them over, was just filling Kingdew in.” 

Jozu nodded and joined them on the floor, lowering himself carefully. 

“Should you be out of medical? You look like shit.” 

“I fear I've already spent far too long in bed, there's much to be done.” Jozu left it at that, passing the reports around with a face carved from stone. They spent a long while looking them over, bottle empty between them. Name after name with “confirmed dead” or “missing” next to them. A lucky few would be blotted out from the list as the last waves of crewmates arrived. 

Jozu had thick bandages circling his waist. Kingdew remembered him getting carried out of Marineford and wondered. His diamond body could take a great deal of punishment, but everyone was pushed past their limits in the battle. Did he hear the news while bedbound in medical, long after Marco's body went cold? 

He didn't ask, turning to the next report instead. It was the list for his own division. He was too sober for this. There wasn't enough booze in the fleet to let him forget the row of names, written in Jozu’s precise handwriting. 

All good men, dead for Teach's ambitions. A part of him resented Ace for being the fuse that set off the war. It was pointless. Teach would have found another way if Ace didn't take the bait. His blood made him an attractive target for the marines, but everyone knew Whitebeard would show up to Marineford for any of his crew.

In another life it could have been Kingdew up there on the stand. Sengoku wasn't picky with his sacrificial pawns.

______________________

Whitebeard coaxed the Den Den Mushi from its shell. It was a tiny thing, dwarfed in the middle of his palm. It wasn’t his usual, the White Den Den he once shared with Marco was too injured to make calls without risking its recovery. A few brave fools from Haruta’s division went back into the Moby Dick as it was sinking and carried out as many Den Den as they could. All the snails that survived were left with severe burns and damaged lungs. 

He didn’t need a White Den Den for this, Haruta’s report to Vista before he departed from Amazon Lily was clear. It was time for a call long overdo.

Puru-puru-puru-puru

Click

The Den Den took on a familiar appearance as a voice came over the receiver, “Pops, is that you?!”

“Gurarara, good to hear your voice, Deuce. Could you grab Ace for me? I have a few things I need to say to that brat.”

Chapter Text

The Den Den had that distinctive white moustache and a neutral frown. Deuce gave Ace an encouraging thumbs up before shutting the door behind him.

He desperately wanted to be anywhere else. He was at fault for all of the deaths at Marineford. Pops forgave him then, but that was before they counted all the loses. Before Marco. Where was the limit of a parent’s love? He didn’t know, he never had one before. If he was about to find it, he’d rather remain ignorant, tucked away from the rest of the world for a little longer. 

He stayed, gripping the edge of the table tightly. Ignorance never did him any good in the end. Jimbei was right, he needed to know or it would continue eating him up inside. 

Ace’s hand trembled as he picked up the receiver, “Hi Pops.”

There was a deep inhale of air over the Den Den, and then it broke into a wide grin, “Ace! It’s good to hear your voice. Deuce filled me in a little, I’m glad you’re ok, son.”

What could he do against that? Harsh sobs tore through his chest. Pops made it seem so easy, like his blood and his mistakes meant nothing. Him, Haruta, the Spades, everyone was so happy he was alive.

“T-Thank you,” he choked out, “Thank you for loving me.” 

“Always,” His father's voice was steady and warm, “You don't need to thank me, you brat. Just concentrate on taking good care of yourself from now on, you hear me?” 

It wasn't long ago that he wondered if it was good he had been born. When he knelt on the execution stand, he thought he had his answer. 

“I will,” he promised, meaning it for the very first time, “I have too much to live for now, I can't waste this second chance.” The one Marco gave him, warding off death one final time. 

“Good, stay as long as you need, but I expect frequent updates! Deuce will keep you on track, I gave him special instructions. And when you're ready to face the world again, come home.”

He wanted that more than anything, but, “Everyone knows now. I’ll bring danger to the crew.” More than he already had. Garp made it extremely clear how many people still bore grudges against Roger. He couldn’t bear another Marineford, not when it was almost his family’s tomb. Luffy was born under a lucky star, that was the only explanation for how he managed to survive challenging all of the admirals at the same time. 

“You’re 40 years too early to be worrying about us, brat. The crew’s always in danger, that’s the life of a pirate. If everyone wants your destruction, we’ll fight the whole world.” The Den Den made a wheezing sound, red sparks fizzing out of its mouth, “And son, if it comes to that? I’m confident we won’t lose.”

The words were absurd, they almost died against the might of the marines less than a month ago. And yet, with the sheer pressure extending over the Den Den, he could believe it, a little. “I can’t promise not to worry, Pops. That’s what family does, right? But I’ll get strong, so strong that I’ll never be a burden again.” 

The Den Den drooped in relief as the pressure eased and red sparks stopped leaking out. Pops hummed, contemplative, “You’re accepting Rayleigh’s offer of training.”

Ace felt a flash of panic, “That doesn’t mean I see Roger as my dad now, I still hate his guts. You’re the only father I have!”

“Gurarara! No need to worry son, I understand. It would be foolish to reject his offer. He’s an old coot but he’s one of the best Haki teachers there is. Learn more about Roger, or don’t. It’s your choice.”

Rayleigh was persistent, popping up as soon as the Spades’ backs were turned. He gave them a wide berth; Ace still wasn’t sure what Banshee did to have the old man wince whenever she was nearby. She refused to answer, keeping silent with a smug smile any time he asked. Kotatsu was easier. The cat acted cute until he was within striking distance and then went for the eyes. 

Luffy completely ignored the cold war happening around him over the last few days, greeting Rayleigh cheerfully and pestering the Spades for stories when he found out they were Ace’s old crew. Of course Luffy knew Rayleigh from somewhere, he should stop being surprised at his little brother’s ability to make friends wherever he goes. 

That was the main reason he gave Rayleigh a chance, a small one. Luffy was a good judge of character, and he owed the old man for helping his brother out. He drew the line at hearing any stories about Roger, he was sick of hearing the name, but Rayleigh was surprisingly tolerable when he was focusing on teaching. It didn’t mean he liked the man, but he’d make use of him, just like Haruta advised. Getting stronger was more important than his pride. He refused to be helpless ever again. 

Pops continued talking while too many thoughts swirled around his mind, giving updates on the rest of the crew. His division had high casualties from their place in the thick of the fighting. People he saw everyday, that trusted him to lead them despite being half their age. 

He remembered those nerve-wracking days after he officially joined the crew, trying to find his place. He was rotated through different divisions, trying out different roles and learning how the crew functioned together. A large part of him hoped to end up in the 1st. Marco was patient with him from the beginning, making time to get to know him despite his busy schedule. He was the one to ask him what he really wanted after another failed attempt at killing Pops. The first to congratulate him with a knowing smile when he got his tattoo. He wondered at the time if this was what it was like to have an older brother. 

He didn’t end up in the 1st. It was hard to be disappointed after getting to know the 2nd. They welcomed him with open arms where other divisions were more leery. He was never shamed for not knowing something, instead they sat him down and taught him the things he never learned as a kid. How to read better, what all the different types of soap were for, proper fighting forms to refine his years of street brawling. 

He discovered a real love of navigation, shamelessly pestering Marco for lessons that he put to good use. The 2nd was the scouting division, so everyone had to have a passing knowledge. It let him go out on expeditions often, tagging along on patrols as he learned the sea routes of their territory. The Spades followed him, stubborn to the end. What did he do to earn such loyalty? 

Before, Ace thought the only way to be truly free was to be a Captain. He was while leading the Spades, but with it came the increasing pressure of holding their lives in his hands. When he rushed ahead, they got hurt as they scrambled to catch up. One moment of recklessness could mean the death of all of them. It should have, when he challenged Whitebeard. 

He knew better now. As a commander, he had responsibility over an entire division, but he also had senior division members supporting him and giving counsel when he stumbled. The other commanders teased and heckled him, but they also took time to show him the ropes and walk him through the intricate logistics that kept the fleet running smoothly. 

The Marines were fools to think he was after the Pirate King’s crown. Luffy could have it, he had no need for the One Piece – unless Pops decided he wanted the crown for himself. 

That freedom of being sheltered under Whitebeard’s protection was a heady brew, but it came at a steep cost. He was tucked away on Amazon Lily, unable to witness his mens’ burials, as a commander ought to. On his return, there will be people missing, bunks emptied, and roles left unfilled. He will be resented; any who hate him for his choices will be well within their rights to do so. 

Ace’s life was not his own, not completely. That was true the moment Luffy hung on and refused to let go. He could have avoided so much heartache if he learned that lesson back then. Absolute freedom requires nothing to tie you down, so it was forever out of his reach. Cutting these precious ties with his own hands would be worse than death, so he has to live on. 

He has to live on, no matter what. 

His hand ached a little from holding the Den Den receiver for so long. It was the uninjured one, but his entire body felt weighed down like the seastone never came off. Pops trailed off, finishing his update on the other commanders. It worried him a little that Haruta hadn’t arrived at the Mangrove yet, but he might have gotten caught up in a storm. He wasn’t late yet. 

It was time to stop delaying, he needed to say this now, “Pops, call me back when it’s time to hunt down Teach. I won’t fight him, not unless you want me to, but I need to be there. I’m at fault for chasing him on my own, but so is he. He’s responsible for Thatch, for Marco, for everything. I can’t sit back again and watch my division fight without me.” Ace’s voice grew quiet, “I can’t sit back, but that’s what got us into this mess in the first place. If I’m wrong to do so, if I’ll only be a burden, I swear to not leave this island until the war is over. I’ll follow your lead, Captain.” 

“Oh, Ace.” the Den Den faithfully mimicked the agony twisting Pops’ features, “You were never a burden, not to me. How could you be? Watching you grow has been one of my life’s greatest joys. I promise, you will not be left behind when the time comes to give Teach his due. The 2nd Division needs its Commander, Captain’s Orders.” 

How could he still have tears left? He curled in on himself, rubbing clumsily at his eyes with his bandaged arm. Large patches of it were numb and covered in skin grafts. Dr. Trafalgar said he might get more feeling back as things heal, but the biggest worry was his hand, tightly immobilized with bandages and plaster. He may never regain sensation in his fingers. Shanks lost a whole arm and was capable of standing toe-to-toe with legends. If his worst fear was realized, he had one good fist left to do the job. That would have to be enough. 

Ace lowered his arm and smiled wetly, “Aye aye, Captain. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, son. You were right before, you’re not going to fight Teach. I have a different task for you.” Whitebeard’s voice was measured and unnaturally calm, “I will see to him personally.”

______________________

Law kept himself composed as he picked up the Den Den receiver. It was an odd variety, did albino Den Den Mushi exist? No, now was not the time to get distracted. He couldn't afford to show weakness in front of a Whitebeard Commander. Firefist was easy, he kept to the professional distance of a doctor and meticulous politeness. Swift-Saber Haruta was much more difficult. His smile reminded him of Doflamingo, threat cloaked in silk; Law was glad to see him go. 

He didn’t know who it would be on the Den Den, Masked Deuce didn’t say. There was nothing in his face indicating danger, but he didn’t leave the room after dialing the number, Den Den angled so Law couldn’t make out the digits. The Den Den morphed, no new colors appearing on its shell. It grew thick eyelashes, long hair, and cold eyes. 

“Captain Trafalgar. I am Izou, 16th Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. Captain has given me leave to negotiate on his behalf. Tell me, what boon do you want for saving our crewmate?”

No word on who the current Captain was. Whitebeard or Marco the Phoenix? Which would be better for him? He dared not ask. The less he knew the better when he left this island. 

“I saved the life of your precious brother, I ask you to kill one person in return, a life for a life.”

Izou’s expression didn’t change, “Who?”

“Doflamingo Donquixote. A Warlord shouldn’t be a problem for an Emperor’s fleet.” He hid his nerves under a biting tone. Too rude and he risked offending the Whitebeard Pirates enough to lose negotiating power. Too passive and they’d walk right over him. 

It couldn’t be as easy as pointing the Whitebeards at Doflamingo like a loaded gun. They wouldn’t risk messing with Kaido’s operations while in the middle of stabilizing their empire. They had to know about the connection between Joker and Kaido. Asking gave too much away, but Law couldn’t not ask. Not when there was the slimmest of chances. When the commander refuses, he can shift to requesting—

“Very well,” Izou smiled thinly, “We can’t promise immediate results, we have some housecleaning to do, but afterwards it can be arranged. Tell me, did you want him killed as soon as our resources free up or when you can be there personally to witness it? If you aren’t sure, Deuce will be leaving my personal Den Den number with you to coordinate further.”

There was a high pitched ringing sound in his ears. Everything felt slightly fuzzy. “There–I want to be there.” 

“Noted. Is that all? Ace is very important to us, we can’t have people saying we didn’t give the proper dues to the miracle doctor that risked his life for our brother. New captains are always short on cash. We’ll send a lump sum of berri to you when you make your way to the New World.”

Implying that they could track him down, no matter which path he took out of Fishman Island. He didn’t care, he had no intention of betraying them. He stifled a fit of hysterical laughter. Betraying them was the last thing on his mind. He zoned out a bit as they wrapped up the details. After all those years of planning, of training to get stronger, just like that? 

He envied Ace, what must it be like to have so many monsters protecting him? He certainly didn’t save him because he cared for a man he never met. Law told his crew that it was on a whim, but it was more than that. Seeing those fools dying in the bloody dirt of Marineford for the sake of one person, it pissed him off. Corazon was the biggest fool of them all, but he succeeded in the end. How much worse would it have been if Law succumbed to Amber Lead on that same day, leaving his sacrifice meaningless? 

Deuce handed him a slip of paper at some point. He roused from his stupor in front of Bepo, no memory of returning to the Polar Tang. 

“You ok, Captain?”

Of course, why wouldn’t he be? Why, why? Oh, Bepo had his hand in the pocket with the sedatives, he needed to act like a normal person long enough to get back to his room and freak out without an intervention.

He hoped Whitebeard survived. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing the colossal Emperor crush Doflamingo’s head like a grape. It wouldn’t happen that way, there was no way he would see to it personally, but a man could dream. 

______________________

Haruta narrowed his eyes, surveying the busy market. The ship he took in his search for Ace was small and unmarked, perfect for going incognito. It was risky to stop by a large port on his way to link up with the rest of the fleet, but he needed to get his finger on the pulse of current events before his return. He and his small crew of division members were all disguised, spreading out to hear rumors and gather the latest newspaper editions and bounty posters. His Haki was suppressed to match that of the mundane fishermen he was dressed as.

There were eyes watching him, nevertheless. Haruta could not risk flaring his Haki to search for the watcher, there were marines in port. He stopped at a fruit stall, pretending to examine the first fruit he saw while he considered his options. It was a pineapple, he dropped it as if burned and turned to look at the grapefruit instead. 

There was no way to know what faction his watcher was a part of without confronting them and he couldn’t risk leading an unknown back to the fleet. Getting captured was not an option, he knew too much. He was not one to break under interrogation, but Cipher Pol had other methods of extracting information. Haruta purchased the grapefruit in his hand and walked towards a sidestreet. His division members knew what to do if he didn’t return before the allotted time was over. 

He needed to spring the trap. Kill or be killed. His favorite sword was left on the ship, too recognizable to bring along. As he turned into an empty alley, he reached under his cloak and put his hand on the handle of the whipsword wrapped around his waist. 

Some things could be felt, with or without Haki – he was no longer alone. He leaped forwards, ducking under a strike and twisting to face his pursuer. Dark clothes, goggles and a mask concealing their face, hat brim pulled low. They wielded a pipe, unusual weapon choice. It reminded him of something, a memory itched at the back of his mind. He readied his whipsword, muscles deceptively relaxed. 

Chapter Text

Their first meeting was not one of his finest moments. Shank's jaw went slack at the sight of a gleaming firebird gliding lazy circles around Whitebeard's ship as it approached. He tripped and almost fell out of the crowsnest, saved by Buggy yanking him back. 

He didn't take his eyes off those flickering flames during the entirety of Buggy’s shrill lecture. The firebird circled a few more times before landing somewhere behind Whitebeard's massive form, gone from sight. 

Shanks spent the meeting between Captain and Whitebeard looking for a hint of fire. They were probably a Devil Fruit user; he got Buggy to help him search.

“What about him?” Buggy pointed at a boy sitting on a barrel, lazily watching the meeting, hands behind his head, “I didn't get a good look, but his hair looks a little like the big feathers on the bird’s head.”

The older boy looked over curiously, as if he noticed their attention. He gave them a wave before turning to chat with a crewmate four times his height. 

What did most of the Whitebeard Pirates eat to get that tall? Captain said Shanks would grow if he ate all his vegetables, but at this rate he would never be taller than Brogy. 

They pestered Rayleigh later as Whitebeard and Roger wandered onto the nearby island for a fight and the two crews began mingling on the beach. He answered their questions with an air of exasperation. No, Whitebeard didn't eat mutant carrots to get that big. Yes, his cabin boy turned into a firebird sometimes, it was called a Phoenix. His name was Marco, they should go introduce themselves and leave Rayleigh in peace. He was insistent about that last part.

Shanks dragged Buggy over to where Marco was sitting with a mug of ale. They introduced themselves and Marco tilted his head, “You're the boy that almost fell off the mast. Are you ok, yoi?”

Shanks blushed crimson, mortified.

______________________

They met now and then over the next year. Marco would keep them company during fights, he wasn't allowed to join in either. Shanks liked to think they were friends. Buggy even warmed up to him after he showed them a neat knife trick and never, ever mentioned Buggy's nose.

Swords were cooler, but when he told them that, Marco got a mischievous grin on his face and asked to borrow Shank's practice sword. He then proceeded to swallow the blade down to the hilt, bowing to his horrified audience. 

Buggy shrieked. Shanks yelled for a doctor, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Rayleigh and Jozu paused, glancing over. Jozu sighed, giving Marco a stern look, “We talked about this. No more copying circus performers.”

He had never seen that disgruntled look on Marco’s face before. He rolled his eyes and pulled the sword back out, “I don't see the big deal. I didn't even nick my intestine this time.” He turned to Shanks and Buggy, giving them a sheepish look, “Sorry, I forgot to tell you guys, I have healing powers. You don't need to worry about me getting hurt.”

“That only makes us worry more, you brat!” Jozu yelled. 

Rayleigh was pale beside him, “Remind me to never complain about the stunts pulled by my cabin boys.”

Rayleigh was a liar, he continued to nag every time Shanks and Buggy found anything exciting to do. 

______________________

Time passed and Marco was allowed to join the crew in fights. Shanks was horribly jealous. He was getting decent with the sword and Rayleigh said his Haki progress was really good!

Marco immediately dove at Rayleigh, half transformed and talons extended. Rayleigh batted him away, sending him crashing through several trees. He jumped up again and launched himself back at Rayleigh, fire burning his injuries away.

It was so cool.

Shanks was not jealous he didn't have a devil fruit like that, no way. Roger was the strongest fighter to ever live and he did it with Haki and swordsmanship alone!

. . . . . Maybe he could convince Marco to take him flying sometime?

Buggy bonked his head on the tree they were watching from, “Why can't I ever meet anyone normal?”

______________________

Marco ended up teaching them a few more knife tricks that he picked up from a crewmate, far away from Jozu's watchful eyes. None dangerous to the same extent as sword swallowing, mostly some sleight of hand that Buggy took to like a fish to water. 

The next time Shanks sparred with Marco, he had a premonition. Marco impaled, blood dripping from his mouth while he stood there smiling, making no effort to remove the knife. He felt queasy, hands clammy where they gripped the sword handle. 

How unnatural, no longer remembering how to be afraid of pain. 

Marco kicked his ass, embarrassingly fast. The moment was gone. He got to his feet, determined to win the second round. He didn't. The third round passed much the same.

______________________

The Edd War came and went. 

Whitebeard stopped by after the crew was healed up. Marco didn't join the fighting this time, gliding over to where Shanks and Buggy sat huddled in the crowsnest. There was a knowing in his eyes as he sat across from them, drawing them into embarrassing story after story about his crewmates. It helped drown out the sound of swords clanging and men fighting. Dying? No, not this time. 

Buggy flinched and covered his ears at the feeling of Roger and Whitebeard's Conqueror's Haki clashing in the distance. Bright feathers sprouted across Marco's arms, drawing his attention back.

Marco smiled ruefully, “This isn't the most useful trick, but I've been practicing.”

He had a look of deep concentration on his face. Slowly the feathers on his arms rippled until they were all blue, not a wisp of yellow in sight. Then a bit of yellow fire sprouted at his wrist. It grew, forming the rough shape of a snake that slithered down his arm. “Takes a lot of work to force the colors to change like that, but it's fun to try when there's nothing else to do, yoi.”

The snake climbed across his shoulder, coiling around his other arm. Buggy was enthralled, eyes shining, “Can you make other shapes? Have you tried more colors?!”

The snake morphed into a skull and crossbones in answer. “I've tried, but I think I'm stuck with two colors. Too bad, would be cool to make purple flames.”

Buggy demanded shape after shape. Marco did his best to oblige, creating the saddest looking news coo known to man. “How are you this bad at drawing birds? It looks like a lopsided beetle.” 

Shanks squinted, yeah he could see it. Marco let go of his concentration, feathers changing back to their normal mix of blue and yellow. There was an embarrassed flush to his ears, it made Buggy cackle.

There was a cold in his chest that was difficult to drive away, ever since the Edd War. It was gone for a time, replaced by warmth as he laughed with Buggy at Marco’s flustered protests. He jumped when Rayleigh called for them, fight long over. 

Marco found him again after dinner, sympathy plain on his face. “Sometimes they forget what it's like to be young and half your opponent’s size. They should know better, but they don't. You should talk to Roger. If not for your sake, then do it for Buggy’s.”

He left that night with the rest of the Whitebeard Pirates, taking the soothing warmth of his fire with him.

Shanks hovered outside his Captain's door the next night. He hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep in weeks, either he or Buggy would jolt awake with nightmares. He wanted to be seen as a full member of the crew, not a weak child. He felt like one, more than ever. 

Roger opened the door as he gathered his courage to knock, “Shanks, did you need something?”

Shanks and Buggy slept in a pile of blankets on Roger's bed that night. Roger dragged his chair in front of the door and fell asleep there, snoring up a storm. He was sure to get a crick in his neck by morning. For the first time since the Edd War, they had no dreams, safe from anything that could hurt them. 

There was not a place in the world safer than by their Captain's side. That, he believed whole-heartedly. Shanks learned the truth of things years later as spears plunged into Roger’s back, Buggy trembling at his side. 

Marco found him a week later. Alone, drowning himself in cheap ale. He paid off his tab, dragging him to an inn nearby. “Got here as soon as I could, the news got to us late. We were off looking for the burning sea.”

Shanks didn't want to hear any more. He shoved Marco’s supporting arm away and staggered to one of the inn room beds. He didn't want to know what adventure the Whitebeard Pirates went on, oblivious to his world crumbling down. 

Why did Marco get to keep his dad? His crew? What was so wrong with Shanks that Buggy would leave without another word?

He screamed at Marco, insulting his brothers, Whitebeard, anything to make the man leave. Marco weathered it all, eyes pinched. Always mindful, that same damn sympathy shining through. What good was sympathy in the wake of his loss?

He left a slip of paper on the desk, “Our Den Den number. You're always welcome to stop by.” 

Shanks ripped it up, “I'm not joining your crew.”

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m not asking you to.”

“Good, then we're done here. The door’s that way.”

Shanks refused to look up and see what expression Marco was making. It was better this way. He heard the scrape of Marco’s sandals across the floor. A long moment of silence by the door.

“There isn’t an expiration date on the offer, come visit when you hit the Grand Line.”

With those words lingering between them, he was gone. 

Shanks turned over, covering his face with his arm. The next morning, he found a bag of berri under his pillow. 

A month later he met Ben Beckman and took his first steps as a captain of a crew of two. Shanks sat down to inspect his hat for damage as they sailed off from Loguetown. It was his last piece of Captain, he needed to take good care of it. There was a lump under his hatband. He pulled it out, a slip of paper with a Den Den number and a tiny Vivre Card scrap folded inside.  

______________________

Shanks pulled the Vivre Card out now and then over the years. It lit on fire often, never lasting long before healing up, good as new. The Den Den number was memorized and tucked out of sight. He never could bring himself to dial it. They were probably out of his range anyways, in the far reaches of the New World. There was a pile of bounty posters in one of his drawers. Every one of Marco's joined the growing pile.

He sailed to Paradise and back again to East Blue.

It would be a while until his task was finished, he set his course towards Dawn Island to resupply. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw a flickering light approaching swiftly. He had to be dreaming. 

Benn gaped from his spot next to the railing. “What's a Whitebeard Commander doing in East Blue?”

Shanks would love to know that too. 

Marco approached, hovering slightly above the railing, “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

He wasn't prepared for this. Not here, not now. He hid his panic under a lazy smile, “Granted, you're pretty far from your usual stomping grounds.”

Marco landed lightly on the deck, exchanging his wings for human arms. He looked similar to his latest bounty poster, a bit broader around the shoulders. 

“Wasn’t my choice to fly out this far, Pops wanted something delivered,” he patted the pack slung on his back, “Thought I was imagining things when I saw your flag, Weren't you in Paradise now, yoi?”

Shanks shoved down the part of him that was preening at the idea of Marco following his progress as a pirate. “I was. We're here for an errand, same as you.” 

Things were awkward like they never had been before that day in Loguetown. They were traveling in opposite directions, Marco will fly off again and that will be the end of it. Shanks destroyed this friendship with his own two hands in a fit of pique and grief. 

He opened his mouth again, “If you're not in too much of a rush, why don't you stay for a drink? We picked up some good rum at our last stop.”

Marco agreed readily, like there wasn't a decade of silence laying fallow between them. Benn sent him a look across the deck that meant he wasn't wiggling out of an interrogation later. 

Soon they were sitting with cups in hand and Marco weaved the tale of Big Mom's latest disaster of a tea party to Shank’s nosy crew. He expertly put them at ease till they forgot the size of his bounty and started joining in with their own stories. 

Lucky Roux piped up with their disastrous first trip over Reverse Mountain. Marco chuckled, a wide grin on his face and eyes bright with mirth. He looked handsome.

Shanks took a large swig of rum. Maybe if he drank enough he could blackout and forget the thought that just ran through his head. 

It didn't help. He was all too sober as Marco said his goodbyes. He flew off as suddenly as he appeared, swallowed up in the distant horizon. He was never something for Shanks to keep.

Shanks laid on his bed that night, staring up at the lantern light scattered across his ceiling. If the thought was just a passing fancy it would be easy to extinguish from his mind. He couldn't lie to himself, not in the quiet solitude before dawn. When he saw Marco there, slipping in between his men with a natural ease like he'd always been there, Shanks wanted. 

He wanted that thoughtfulness, that care aimed at him all the time. Marco was the only person who didn't leave without a second thought, who held out a hand, even when Shanks was too much of a coward to take it. There was a new Den Den number on his desk, Marco’s personal one. 

It wasn’t love, but it could be some day, if nurtured. It was affection and the greedy desire for more. Shanks lost everyone eventually, but maybe a Phoenix could survive him.

Those feelings would take time to strangle on the vine. He stepped onto the dock of Windmill Village, determined to find more alcohol and a distraction. His plans were derailed immediately by a kid with a smile as wide as Roger’s. 

Shanks left the East Blue down an arm and his hat. It was well worth it, Luffy will take the world by storm someday, bringing change in his wake. A worthy successor to Roger. 

Knowing that did not make adapting to the loss of an arm pleasant. Hongo did his best to clean up the wound and trim back the nerves, but the stump ached and cramped as he stumbled his way through his normal routine. Tasks that should be easy became arduous and frustrating. Phantom pain kept him up in the middle of the night. Limejuice altered his clothes to be easier to tie one-handed and the rest of the crew all found little ways to help out. He didn’t deserve them.

He’ll have to change his fighting style without the option of a two-handed grip, lean further into his Haki mastery to compensate. Weakness was not a luxury on the high seas, not with his crew depending on him. 

It was difficult to share his troubles with them, even Benn, at times like this. He stared at the Den Den on his desk. Marco was never someone who needed him to be strong. He was older, more experienced, with a cloak of self-assurance that a younger Shanks sought to emulate.

“You should call him.” Benn was standing in the doorway, looking unimpressed, “You’ve been glaring at the poor Den Den all week. He wouldn’t have given you his number if he didn’t want to hear from you, what’s the harm?”

The harm was getting further entangled in this web of emotions. Of getting used to having him at all and getting greedy for more. Shanks really wanted to hear his voice again; he folded like a tower of cards and dialed in the number after Benn left the room. 

The Den Den’s eyes drooped half-closed and it grew a plume of spiky blonde hair.

“I lost my arm last week.”

That wasn’t the best opener. The Den Den’s eyes grew wide and bewildered, “Shanks? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, got an arm bitten off by a sea king while saving a kid. You said you finished up your medical apprenticeship, right? Thought I’d get a second opinion.”

“My second opinion is that you’re an idiot, but that’s nothing new. You sound pained, how’s the stump healing? Did your doctor trim back the bone and nerves properly?”

“Yeah he did, had to cut a lot off. Wasn’t a clean amputation, Hongo will be sending the sea king a strongly worded letter later for making his job harder. No infection so far.”

“Good, where are you? Still in East Blue? Haven’t seen you pop back up on the bounty boards.”

“Yeah, we’re heading back to Paradise now, just waiting for me to recover enough to use Conqueror’s reliably in the Calm Belt.” 

“You still have my Vivre Card, right?”

It was Shank’s turn to be confused, “Yes, it’s here.”

“Let me know when you enter the Calm Belt, I’ll meet you halfway. There’s an island I like to rest at when making the trip to East Blue, yoi.”

“Marco.”

“I’m near Sabaody right now, almost finished with some business. I’ll send the rest on ahead to Fishman Island and swing by.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t call to drag you all the way over here. Hongo’s done a fine job.”

“I know,” Marco’s tone was steady, “I want to. This is the first time I hear from you in months and you open up with an amputation, of course I’m going to worry. And there’s something I can do to help with the pain if I’m there in person.”

“Ok then, fine. You’re as stubborn as ever.”

“I knew you would see things my way. Don’t dive into any more sea king mouths before I get there.”

Marco was far too smug when he got his way, it was painfully endearing. The call ended and Shanks covered his eyes with his remaining hand. He was such a fool. 

He was just as smug in person. He and Hongo got on like a house on fire, of course they did. They ganged up on him immediately. Several sessions of Phoenix fire soothed the pain in his stump to a mild twinge, damn him. There was a non-zero chance he gave his Den Den number to Hongo so they could gossip about him later. 

Marco departed once he was satisfied he had done as much as he could. Shanks stopped him before he could launch himself into the air, “Wait, before you go!”

He turned back, head tilted to the side, “What is it?”

There were too many things Shanks wanted to say. He said none of them, blurting out, “Join my crew!”

Marco raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “If this is a ploy to get more healing out of me, I’m sorry to tell you my fire’s done all it can for your arm. Later, don’t be a stranger, yoi.”

It was for the best that he took it as a joke—Shanks didn’t mean to say it. He knew what the answer would be long before he knew he wanted to ask the question. Marco displayed his loyalty on his chest for the world to see. 

______________________

The years spun on, Shank’s crew gained more and more infamy as they made the plunge into the New World. He kept up his calls with Marco, rebuilding their friendship until the ghosts of the past no longer hung so heavy between them. He was content with what he had.

Sometimes they met in person when Marco's duties brought him nearby. They sparred, evenly matched in a way they never were as children. It was exhilarating to stand on the same level after chasing in his wake for so long. He was afraid of what it would mean to be the victor. Would it sour their dynamic, long established?

Shanks won his first spar, breathing heavily, Marco sprawled out on the ground with Shank's sword to his neck. The world stilled for a brief instant. Shanks sheathed his sword and offered a hand. Marco took it, staggering to his feet. 

He laughed, a joyful sound, and slung an arm around Shank's shoulder, “You got me good there! Rang my head like a bell with that pommel strike. Tell me what was that move with your Conqueror's, haven't seen Pops do anything like it . . . .” 

They wandered back to the rest of Shank's crew on the beach, dirt and debris smeared into their skin. Marco had splinters in his hair and Shanks bore friction burns from getting dragged across the sandy beach by careful talons and flung over the ridge. 

Marco treated him much the same, easy acceptance as Shanks began winning more and more of their spars. It was if the notion never crossed his mind to be ashamed or jealous at being overtaken. He was happy for Shanks, and that was that.

Shanks was maybe more than a little in love. It creeped up on him through the years with every interaction, every smile aimed solely at him. He failed miserably and immediately at distancing himself and now he was paying the price. He held on, unable to close that final gap but unwilling to let go. 

______________________

It was surreal to board the Moby Dick. Whitebeard looked so much older, his crew larger than ever. There were some faces he recognized, others long gone. Marco remained an unaging constant, untouched by the ravages of time. 

Both crews mingled together, booze flowing freely. Shanks asked the question again, he couldn’t help himself. “So when are you going to join my crew, Marco? We’ve got an opening for a doctor now that Hongo tragically expired.”

“I can still go on,” Hongo rasped, reaching for another mug, “I won’t be defeated by the likes of him.”

Thatch sat across from him, finishing off his 15th mug of beer with relish, “Ha! Big words, keep that mug down and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Marco took a sip of his own, “Betrayal from your own Captain, are you going to sit there and take that Hongo?”

“Of course not!” He swayed alarmingly, but managed to drink the next mug without falling over, “He’s not getting a lick of my hangover remedy when we wake up tomorrow! Doctor’s Orders.”

Everyone around laughed, cheering the two of them on. Marco never looked happier than when he was surrounded by his family. He sat between Shanks and Whitebeard, nursing the same drink he’d held for the last hour while he watched the antics of his crew. Whitebeard’s booming laugh was the loudest, but he had a canny gleam in his eye when he looked at Shanks. He saw what Marco was oblivious to. 

Whitebeard said nothing and turned to listen to a slurred story from Jiru, content to remain neutral. Shanks wondered if the Emperor would remain so if he decided to push.

______________________

He found out in a way he didn’t foresee. Defeating Shiki elevated him to Emperor status, bringing a new level of influence with it.

The next meeting with Whitebeard was as equals. They drank and shared stories as they had before. This was a man that knew him as a gangly kid trailing after Roger. He didn’t see him as a kid now, a new wariness towards the man he had become. It was both acknowledgement and warning. 

Things came to a head the next time Shanks asked Marco to join his crew, a long ingrained dance at this point. Whitebeard glared at him, frigid and unmoving. The crew around them mirrored him, hostility plain. His fruitless advances were fine when he was a friendly, if unaffiliated, Captain, but they were unacceptable as an Emperor. 

A First Mate can never have divided loyalties, doubly so the right-hand man of an Emperor. And, more importantly, Whitebeard would never allow something of his to be stolen by a rival, especially not his first son. 

Shanks backed off, message received. Marco seemed slightly puzzled, before getting distracted by Haruta appearing at his elbow to lead him away with questions about the upcoming financial reports. 

Shanks gained the power and influence he needed for his goals and lost something that was never his. He visited the Whitebeard Pirates rarely after he gained his new status. They slowly relaxed around him, but never to the same extent as before.

He never stopped his calls with Marco; he was allowed this one indulgence. It would have been easier if Marco shared that same cautious distance with the rest of his crew. Without that, Shanks could not bear to create it himself.

______________________

Shanks drummed his fingers on his desk. Marco stopped calling after the first week following Marineford. It was always Vista or Izou, carefully watching their words despite knowing he had a White Den Den. 

They provided updates on Luffy and Ace without a fight, but clammed up when Shanks bluntly asked for Marco and Whitebeard's statuses. Always “Marco's busy” or “Captain’s indisposed”. Neither made any effort to hide their deflecting. Vista sounded too tired to bother and Izou showed nothing at all through his emotionless cadence.

Marco never avoided him like this before. It was Shanks who did so each time, ever the coward. What did it mean? Was Whitebeard dead? It was the reasonable assumption, no mortal man had any business surviving what he went through. Marco had to be heart-broken, burying himself in his duties and his grief.

It was reasonable, but something felt off the longer they sailed on. Shanks was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle, he could feel it. Yasopp and Lucky Roux yielded no further information after striking up a few friendly interrogations with Atmos and Fossa. Atmos was a skilled dissembler behind his amiable facade. Fossa hid nothing, frustration and confusion evident the longer they fished for word on his brother’s status. 

Shanks yearned to pull ahead and leave the battle-scarred ships slowing him down, but he gave his word of honor to see them safely to their destination. An isolated mangrove tree, how peculiar. He dimly remembered a conversation years ago after losing his arm. Marco mentioned a mission near Sabaody, moving the conversation along quickly. 

Was he setting up this coating station in the moment Shanks grew the courage to call? It was not strange to have secrets between them, a natural consequence of loyalty to different flags. And yet, their presence stung like they never had before. Did Marco know that Ace was Roger's son this whole time? Shanks hated that he was unsure. 

A tiny, selfish corner of his heart hoped Marco would refuse to step up as captain, that the Whitebeard Pirates would dissolve with their Emperor’s death. Maybe, just maybe Marco would say yes with nothing binding him anymore.

It was a ugly notion. He was ashamed to entertain the thought at all. Marco was happiest with his crew, always turning to them like a flower towards the sun. Shanks would do his best to see that preserved. 

His best might not be enough. Teach had a long time to plan, and he had his own responsibilities to look after.

A knock on the door. Benn poked his head in, “Got the morning call. Blamenco this time. Don't ask me what that means, he was as vague as the other commanders.”

“Thanks, Benn.” He continued drumming his fingers on the desk, restless, “Ask Atmos how those repairs on the Moby 3 are going, we're late as it is.” 

Benn nodded, dependable as ever, “Will do, Captain.”

Shanks stood up after Benn took his leave, unwilling to sit alone with his thoughts any longer. Maybe Roux needed help with lunch prep.

He paused, hand brushing over the drawer that held his collection of bounty posters. Marco's Vivre Card and that old strip of paper were both tucked inside. 

Maybe, when the dust settles after everything, it was time to come clean to Marco. For better or for worse, he deserved to know. 

If he had opened the drawer, he would have found a small pile of ash scattered across Marco’s topmost bounty poster. He didn't, and so he continued cradling that small ember of hope for a little longer. 

Chapter Text

The sun was dipping low, close to touching the sea. Meryl adjusted the sails for the eighth time that hour. If sunset arrived without sight of Haruta, they were under orders to cast off. 

Bellows came out on deck a few minutes later, “Any sign of him?”

Meryl shook his head, untying and retying the rope in front of him.

“I have the course set, your orders?”

His hands stilled on the rope, “He’s not late yet. We leave at sunset, no sooner.”

“. . . Meryl.”

He turned, seeing red. How dare Bellows doubt Commander Haruta? What did he know, he wasn't even a 12th division mem—

The vitriol died before it could leave his lips.

Bellows was so proud to be personally chosen by Commander Marco for this mission, despite being one of the youngest navigators in the 1st. He had a quiet competence to him in the course of his duties that usually made him seem far older. There was none of that now. He looked his age—an uncertain 18 year-old who’d only just learned the true extent of the ocean’s cruelty. 

The commanders were powerful, far more than Meryl will ever be. He was fine with that, his skillset lay in other areas. Their strength was such that it was easy to forget they bled the same as any man. The 1st Division had it the worst. They saw their commander take mortal wounds again and again and shrug them off like they were the most minor of inconveniences. 

Marco was hands-on with teaching the rookies, carving time out of his busy schedule each week to teach them the little intricacies of understanding and predicting Grandline weather. Bellows was far from the first trainee to develop a sort of hero-worship for him. He will be among the last, him and Ace. It was amusing those first few months to watch their newest commander follow Marco around like a lost duckling until he found his own footing. Those days felt so far away now. 

In his opinion, of all the roles Marco held in his long tenure on the crew, the role of teacher was the one that suited him the most. He was good with kids, excellent at reigning in reckless rookies and getting them to listen. People will mourn the Commander, the First Mate, the Immortal Phoenix. Meryl was going to miss the man that looked at a younger Meryl, guilty and bloodstained, and patiently walked him through the steps of applying a tourniquet so he’d know what to do the next time. He never forgot that lesson. He couldn’t afford to, theirs was a life that always stood on a knife’s edge. 

“I’ll do what needs to be done, don’t you worry. Until then, get over here.” He held out the rope in his hand to the young navigator, "You could use more practice on your knots.”

Ten minutes of knot-tying later, they saw a figure approaching on the docks. Meryl felt the tension leave his spine. They didn't have to abandon another crewmate today.

He squinted, what was that lump over Haruta's shoulder? It was wrapped in the cloak he wore to town, looking awfully human-sized . . . . . 

______________________

Haruta frowned at the man slumped over in the chair across from him, wrists and ankles shackled in sea stone. He was blonde, old burn scars on his face and neck. “You can stop playing dead now, I didn't hit you that hard.”

The man made a big show of waking up, yawning and stretching as much as the chains would allow, “I don't know what you're talking about, that was a solid blow.”

Hartua smiled at him, sickly sweet, “Care to explain why you threw that fight, revolutionary?”

The man returned his smile, completely at ease, “So you do remember me! This reminds me a lot of our first meeting, don’t you think?”

Not in the slightest. Their first meeting ended in a mess of confusion and panic as they worked together to escape a collapsing underground prison while chained together. They were a highly effective team under pressure. Haruta despised how similar this man was to him. A mask with happiness painted on. It got under his skin, made him want to rip and tear until he found something real underneath. If there was anything; it took a certain type to excel at espionage. 

“I think that you should start explaining why you attacked me, if you plan on leaving here intact.”

“I had to make sure it was really you, of course,” the man shrugged, chains rattling, “Your disguise is pretty good, took me a bit to place where I’d seen someone move like that.”

“So you attacked me while my back was turned? What if I was some hapless fisherman after all?”

The man gave him a knowing look, “No mundane person would notice me watching them without their Observation active. Even fewer would lead me away from a crowd of people to bait me into an ambush.”

“Why all of this? What does the Revolutionary Army want?”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Revolution today. This is strictly personal.”

“Forgive me for not believing you. Odd time to come knocking, it's politer to call ahead you know.”

“Not at all, I’m here for Ace. I need to speak with him.”

“Absolutely not,” He spoke without hesitation. Ace was fragile after Marineford. The last thing he needed was someone like the snake coiled in front of Haruta whispering in his ear.

“So you do have a way to contact him, that’s good, makes this easier. I suppose I should put my cards on the table or we’ll never get anywhere.” The first crack in his mask, a moment of seriousness, “Ace is my brother, I would very much like to see for myself that he’s ok.”

“Try again, you’re a little blonde to be Strawhat.”

He laughed, “The other brother, that straw hat never suited me half as well as it did Luffy.”

“Funny, Ace never mentioned you,” And Ace never shut up about Luffy. It was as irritating as it was endearing.

“He wouldn’t.” Grief on the Revolutionary's face. Real or fake, which was it? “Ace believes me to be dead. I only remembered our connection after seeing the news of Marineford. Had a case of amnesia you see, came with these lovely burn scars.”

Haruta folded his arms, unimpressed, “Amnesia, you’re really going with that?”

“Call up Ace, it’ll be easy to prove.” 

The revolutionary was confident, too confident. If he wanted to sell the lie, he would have come up with something more believable. 

Haruta couldn’t afford to let down his guard against an opponent like this. He cautiously approached with a cloth gag, “Fine, I’ll play along. Are you going to behave?”

“Your fingers are safe from me, for now.”

That had to be good enough, Haruta secured the gag, double-checking the cuffs and chains keeping the man secure. He approached the room’s sole table and the Den Den resting on it, peacefully chewing on its dinner. A few moments to punch in the number. 

Skull answered after a few rings.

“Get Ace, I don't care what he's doing, this is important.”

It took a few minutes for Skull to fetch him. Haruta waited in silence, keeping the revolutionary in his peripheral vision. 

The snail morphed into a mimicry of Ace's tired expression. The man twitched at the sight. Interesting. “Haruta! Heard you're not back yet, did something happen?”

“Yes, I need your help. Tell me, do you have a brother other than Luffy?”

“Yeah, I did. He died when we were kids.” There was thick confusion coloring Ace’s words.

“What was his name, can you describe him?”

“His name was Sabo. He was blonde, liked to wear these stupid napkins around his neck and a top hat. What's this about anyways? ”

A brother named Sabo.

Son of a bitch. The man—Revolutionary Chief of Staff Sabo—was grinning at him the best he could around the gag. Haruta resisted the urge to slam his head on the table. Dragon’s number two was sitting in front of him. There was no way he could kill him without it getting back to the RA. 

“What I'm about to tell you isn't a joke, I promise. I ran into someone today claiming to be your brother newly recovered from amnesia. He matches up with your description of him. I need you to talk to him, ask him something only Sabo would know.” 

There was heavy silence over the Den Den as Haruta went over to untie Sabo’s gag. Sabo paid him little mind, eyes glued to the snail.

“. . . . . . What did we drink that night, the one we became brothers?”

______________________

Sabo rarely thought about his missing memories after the first few years, poking at the empty spaces in his mind now and then like a child wiggling a loose tooth. If he had any family that survived the Goa fire, they were long gone. All he was left with was an all-encompassing dread around open flames. 

That was a weakness that could not be kept if he were to be sent out in the field someday. He was exposed to fire again and again during his training until he stopped freezing up at the warmth curling across his burn scars. It became familiar, a twisted sort of comfort that made his hands shake despite his best efforts. He knew fire inside and out, it could do nothing to surprise him anymore. 

It wasn't fire that seared through his mind at the sight of Firefist Ace, front and center in the newspaper spread. 

Splinters in his fingers from building the treehouse. Luffy eating a crocodile whole. Ace, covered in bruises. Lonely nights in a too-large house. A world on fire. Bitterness, joy, awe, guilt, too many emotions to parse through. Love, enough to fill his shriveled heart. Terror at the ship dwarfing his tiny raft. Pain and darkness. 

Sabo collapsed under the weight of too many memories all at once. He woke up days later in the ship infirmary, Koala sitting vigil in the corner.

He broke every promise he made to Ace and Luffy, living in blissful ignorance of who he had abandoned. It was years later, they had long mourned him and moved on. It would be best to remain dead, what good would it do to appear before them now? That conviction crumbled the moment Koala showed him the recording of Marineford.

He needed to see they were ok with his own two eyes. His reckless, idiotic brothers. Even if they hated him for leaving them, if he was unrecognizable from the boy they once loved after fashioning himself into a tool for the Revolution. 

That sentiment led him on a wild goosechase after the Whitebeard Fleet. To bet that he could convince Haruta to hear him out. To do the one thing that he never did outside of headquarters. 

“. . . . . . What did we drink that night, the one we became brothers?”

Sabo stripped away all of his layers of artifice and deception, and told the truth plainly, “It was the sake we nicked from Dandan’s stash. Tasted awful, I swore to never have it again after.” His smile was impossible to maintain. “I broke that promise, I didn't remember making it when I woke up after my ship got blown up. Got picked up by the Revolutionaries, they took me in when they realized I didn't have a single memory rattling around my head.“

“. . . . . . .”

Sabo grew tenser and tenser the longer the silence stretched. Then a low, scratchy voice, “It's him.”

Haruta let out a long, exasperated sigh and moved to unlock his cuffs. Sabo’s composure was gone, stripped away by the sound of Ace's voice, far deeper than when they were kids. He couldn't hide his confusion as Haruta finished undoing the chains. The Whitebeard Commander pocketed the seastone cuffs and moved to sit in the only other chair in the room.

Sabo didn't, why would Haruta—

“That's it?” He blurted out, “You know I’m a spy. It’s been a decade since he’s seen me. You can’t possibly trust me to have good intentions! Why take off the cuffs?”

“You had cuffs on him? Haruta!”

Haruta ignored Ace squawking over the Den Den, rolling his eyes at Sabo as if to say ‘Look at what I have to deal with all the time’. He propped his head in his hand, the one Sabo would have broken if Haruta had been any slower at pulling his wrist out of the way of his pipe. “I was wrong before, I can see the family resemblance now.”

Sabo gaped at him. The longer this conversation went on, the less things made sense. Haruta’s relaxed stance looked real now instead of feigned. 

He continued, “Why would I keep you locked up? Now that Ace has confirmed your relationship, that makes you family, of a sort. And since you’re Ace’s dear, dear brother I can surmise that Dragon has no ill intentions towards the last surviving member of Gol D Roger’s bloodline, right?” 

Ace snorted derisively, “Of course not, Sabo hasn’t tried to kill me since we were eight. And he’s the one who kept telling me I don’t have to be ashamed of my shitty father!”

He sounded so confident, like there was not a shred of doubt in his mind. Sabo clenched his fists, “I abandoned you that day. I left you and Luffy behind. How can–how can you still think well of me?” Ace didn’t know the type of person he had grown into. The things he’d done with no remorse.

“Now I know you have brain damage, we got your letter. I’m going to kick your ass for pulling a stunt like that.” Ace’s voice got choked up, “Dandan cried, she never cries.”

“I’m sorry.” It was far too little too late, but he didn’t have anything else to offer. He was lying to himself before, he couldn’t bear for them to hate him. 

Ace laughed bitterly, “We’re quite the pair aren’t we? I should be the one apologizing. You left to protect us. I almost got Luffy killed because of my pride.” 

“So he’s . . . . “

“He’s gonna be fine. He spent half the morning getting chased around by Kotatsu for stealing his fish—oh you wouldn’t know Kotatsu, I’ll introduce him and the rest of the Spades when you get here!” 

He could hear the bright smile in Ace’s voice when he mentioned his crewmates. Was it as wide as the rare moments Ace was truly happy when they were kids? Sabo couldn’t tell, his vision was growing too blurry to make out the expression faithfully mimicked by the Den Den. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried from anything other than pain. He couldn’t stop after he started, how was it possible to feel this much at once?

The words were difficult to get out between his sobs, “Ok—I’d like that.”

Ace sniffled, “Why are you crying, I’m the one that should be crying, asshole.”

“Sorry.”

“If you get amnesia again Luffy’s never letting you out of his sight. He’s gonna tie you to the mast of his ship so you don’t miss him becoming Pirate King.”

Sabo nodded helplessly. 

For all his grueling training in Observation Haki and paranoid awareness of his surroundings, he didn’t notice Haruta leave the room and quietly shut the door behind him. 

______________________

Meryl was waiting out in the hallway, “Is everything alright, Commander?”

Haruta stifled the urge to sigh again. “Yes, delay our departure until my . . . . guest finishes his call.”

All that energy worrying and plotting Sabo’s demise, wasted. As soon as the call finishes, he’ll have to tell him Ace’s location or Ace and Luffy will wander off from Amazon Lily in a harebrained quest to find their long-lost brother. If Ace had any other high-profile relatives, Haruta would love to know. Nothing would surprise him at this point. What was next? A Celestial Dragon twin separated at birth? Garp? 

Wait, Garp was Luffy’s grandfather. Luffy’s grandfather who stood guard on Ace’s execution stand. Luffy’s grandfather who did awfully little to contribute to the fight at Marineford.

“Meryl.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Remove Garp from the list for the time being, I need to interrogate Ace before we add him back on.”

______________________

Sabo was unceremoniously dumped onto the dock as soon as he emerged, eyes puffy. Haruta gave him the location, it was up to him to make his own way to Amazon Lily. If he were an optimistic man, he’d think that was the last he’d see of the revolutionary. Life was seldom so kind. 

He was happy for Ace, he truly was, but really? Really? Of all the people to swear brotherhood with. Pirates weren’t known for being great people, sure, but members of the RA had the reputation for being unstable lunatics. The only thing keeping his blood pressure down was imagining Sabo becoming Rayleigh’s problem to deal with. 

He turned to face his gathered crewmates and gave the order to set sail. They turned their course to follow the Vivre Card in Haruta’s possession. No more stops until they reached the fleet. 

The weather was peaceful the whole way, save for a brisk northerly wind that quickened their pace. They saw the distinct shape of the mangrove a day earlier than projected. A small mercy after the last month of disasters. 

The fleet’s formation looked stranger and stranger as he approached, he grabbed a spyglass and took a closer look. Almost none of the ships were anchored at the docks. The few that were had large swarms of shipwrights and sailors working frantically on their hulls. The rest were positioned in large clusters on the far side of the mangrove. There was nothing back there, the station’s permanent structures were clustered by the docks.

That couldn’t be efficient, there were still ships left uncoated. What in the world was Kingdew thinking? 

Chapter Text

Kingdew worked through the night, repairing the ships with the heaviest hull damage. It had to be enough, morning would bring Shanks to their doorstep. He remained skeptical that Red-Hair would attack them, but Vista was very insistent they not leave things to chance. Pops agreed, giving the order to evacuate the Coating Station and move the fleet away from the mangrove before heading into a meeting to go over the details of Haruta’s intel gathering trip with Izou. 

He finished reinforcing Kinga’s ship at dawn. The repairs were sloppy compared to his usual standard, but they would hold if the waves became turbulent. Last call went out for anyone still on the island to evacuate; Kinga loaded up Kingdew’s men and equipment before sailing off to join the fleet anchored at the edge of sight. 

They refused to sail further away from the mangrove, the lot of them. After coming so close to losing Pops, no one wanted to wait too far away to intercede. Not that Pops would let them, he was firm in ordering no one to interrupt if his meeting with Shanks turned violent. 

Kingdew stayed behind on the docks, checking for any forgotten tools or equipment before heading towards Blamenco’s Haki signature. He was forced to climb one of the mangrove’s huge branches, Blamenco was perched near the top, next to Vista and Izou. It had an excellent view of the approach to the docks. Izou was setting up his longest ranged gun—no seastone bullets this time. If it came down to a fight, there was no point using them against the Red-Hair crew. 

Vista glanced up from sharpening a saber, giving him a tense nod. The yellow bruises on his face were almost completely faded. Kingdew never did get around to asking about that. His nose didn’t get injured at Marineford. 

Jiru waved from a branch further down. He and Blenheim flanked Curiel and his arsenal of explosive weaponry. They may have been barred from joining in on Pops’ fight, but they will ensure that the Red-Hair officers do the same. 

He doubted that Benn Beckman would give the order. Both crews were experienced in staying the hell away when monsters such as their Captains let loose. He liked the other man, he couldn’t guarantee his survival if he tried to get between Pops and his opponent on a day like today. 

They all felt it when Pops stepped onto the docks. Kingdew made himself comfortable. There was nothing to do now but wait. 

______________________

They felt it long before the mangrove came into view. Yasopp was the first, head snapping unerringly towards something unseen. 

Benn reached for a match, “Strong Haki for a dead man.” Stronger than Whitebeard felt at Marineford, he didn’t say. 

Shanks rose from his chair, moving to stand at the bow. The familiar smell of tobacco drifted over as Benn exhaled. Hongo came from below deck, medical bag at his hip, and leaned against the foremast. Lucky Roux sat on a nearby barrel with a leg of ham, joined by Bonk Punch and Monster. One by one, all of his officers joined him at the front of the ship as the island-sized mangrove tree drifted into sight through the morning mist, save for Yasopp perched atop the crowsnest. 

One man waited for them on the docks. 

It was a scene out of the past; Shanks half-expected to turn and see Roger standing beside him. Whitebeard looked younger than ever, the wear and tear of decades on the high seas erased along with his scars. He had a severe expression at odds with his miraculous survival, usual grin nowhere to be seen. It was more jarring than the large chunk missing from his moustache. 

Shanks could never forget the feeling of Whitebeard’s Conqueror’s Haki. It was wrapped closely around him, shifting fitfully like the currents in the deep. Whitebeard was too sick to manifest it in Marineford. It was impossible as the rest of him, but Haki didn’t lie. This was no trick or illusion.

A healing Devil Fruit? Were there any that also restored one’s youth?

There were a few Haki signatures watching them from the higher branches of the mangrove. Commanders, all of them. The rest of Whitebeard’s forces were gathered in ships clustered further away from the mangrove. Marco was nowhere to be found, no matter how much he strained his Haki. 

If Whitebeard had access to such a fruit, he would have used it earlier. It couldn’t be the perennial youth operation, could it? The Surgeon of Death was supposed to be on Amazon Lily with Luffy and Ace. 

The Red Force bumped gently against the dock. Shanks locked eyes with Whitebeard and was struck with a sudden, terrible intuition. He gripped Gryphon’s handle and leapt. Shrill voices cried out in alarm. Whitebeard caught his strike in a Haki-coated hand. It didn’t matter, there was a small drop of red on the tip of his sword. A trivial wound to men such as them. It was enough.

Yellow fire burst to life, burning away the cut until smooth skin remained. 

Shanks jerked his sword out of Whitebeard’s grasp, staggering back a step. His foot brushed the edge of the pier.  

Nonono—he wasn’t. Marco wouldn’t.

His Conqueror’s Haki unfurled around him, volatile and writhing like the jaws of a hungry sea king. Wind tugged restlessly at his cape. Overlapping voices shouting. Staccato thumps of bodies collapsing to the ground. Shanks ignored all of them, vision tunneling onto Whitebeard’s face. His words were slow and deceptively mild, “Where is he?” 

Whitebeard clenched his eyes shut. His voice held a quiet desolation,  “Gone.”

Shanks’ Haki ramped up higher and higher. Whitebeard’s flared out to match his, the weight of an entire ocean brought down on his head. The dock rattled and shook under the weight of their combined Haki. Shanks remained unbowed beneath the pressure that could crush a lesser man into a coppery paste. The pressure that Marco always navigated with ease, like it was the gentlest breeze. He raised his sword once more, lighting crackling along the length of the blade. “What. Have. You. Done.”

Whitebeard’s eyes snapped open. “Red-Hair,” He rumbled in warning, sparks gathering around him, bathing him in streaks of crimson light.

Shanks was in no state to heed that warning. He could not stop, not now. The wooden boards shattered beneath him as he lunged forward, sword raised in an overhead strike. Whitebeard moved with a swiftness that always took the inexperienced off guard, unsheathing his bisento from his back and meeting Gryphon with a harsh shriek of metal. The morning mist dissipated, blown away by the force of their clash. 

The pier crumbled. They jumped apart at the same moment. Shanks touched down on another pier for a fraction of a second, sinking it with the force of his leap. Whitebeard met him midair. Their blades failed to connect, the Color of the Supreme King a tangible weight between them. 

Gravity tugged them back down once more.  

Each clash and missed strike led them closer to the mangrove as large swathes of the dock collapsed into the choppy sea. While his thoughts drowned in waves of white-hot grief, the part of him forged in decades of battle coldly analyzed Whitebeard’s altered fighting style. He had less range without his Quake Quake Fruit, but he made up for it with sheer aggression and explosive Haki. 

Shanks ducked under a stab that cut the sea in twain behind him, rocking the Red Force and Moby 3 as those conscious struggled to move the ships away from the fight. Whitebeard didn’t fight like this in any of their previous bouts. Memories from long ago filled his mind. This was not the aging Emperor that Shanks had sparred with over the years. This was Edward Newgate, The Strongest Man In The World, in his prime. Roger’s rival. 

The man that Marco put on a pedestal above all others.

“He was willing to do anything for you, anything at all. And now he has.” Shank’s lips curled into a snarl as they pitted their strength against each other, “Was that the plan all along? Was his devotion not enough? You had to take his life as well.” 

Rage billowed from Whitebeard, painting the sea red. Those without Observation Haki would be able to feel it, the emotion was so thick in the air. It tasted coppery on Shank’s tongue. What right did Whitebeard have to be angry when he was the one who failed so utterly? Whitebeard roared, setting off a blast of Haki that shattered the boards beneath their feet and continued down until it left fractures in the seabed. Shanks felt the crack of ribs giving out as he was blown backwards, crashing into one of the mangrove’s thick roots. 

The last portion of the dock crumbled into the restless sea. Shanks climbed atop the root, ignoring the agony in his chest as Whitebeard’s shadow swallowed him. He would not stop until he saw Newgate bleed. 

______________________

Atmos had a short moment to drink in the sight of his Captain, hale and healthy, before it all went to hell.

Red lightning burst to life around Shanks and exploded outwards, sending the men around Atmos crumpling to the deck. He coated his legs in Armament and braced against the rail. Shrieking gusts of wind battered the sails. Fossa flung his crutches to the side and lunged to catch his daughter as she collapsed. The ship rocked in time with the turbulent Haki swirling thickly in the air. 

That fire that healed Pops, it looked like—-

Pops released his tight grip on his Conqueror’s, clashing with Shank’s and lessening the crushing weight demanding that Atmos kneel. He ran to the helm on shaky legs. Their helmsman was on the ground, struggling to rise. Atmos pulled him to his feet and roared, “Turn her around, we won’t survive this close!” The 1st Division Member nodded grimly and staggered back to the wheel. 

A colossal wave of force split the sea mere feet from the starboard hull, plunging the ship downward for one heart-stopping moment before water rushed into the newly formed fissure. Atmos dove off the side after a member of Rakuyo’s division that fell from the crowsnest. He grabbed the unconscious man’s arm in an iron grip before he could slip beneath the waves and paddled back towards the Moby 3.

Another Haki signature fell into the water. Before Atmos could turn back for them, someone else dove in. It was Hongo, pale but determined as he surfaced with Atmos’ crewmate supported in his arms. They swam together to the heaving side of the ship as shockwave after shockwave tossed them like bits of flotsam in the midst of a hurricane. 

Atmos hooked an arm around the bottom rung of a rope ladder moments before a howling column of red split the clouds and sent him careening into the side of the ship. A crushing pressure around his ankle—Hongo, looking half-drowned. The sea hissed and spit as it tried to drag them under, gleaming crimson with the Color of the Supreme King. He gritted his teeth and clung on, blood dripping into his eyes. 

The sea slowly settled. The column of Haki faded and the pressure in the air lessened. Hongo released his grip on Atmos’ ankle. Atmos heaved his crewmate over his shoulder and started climbing. Hands were waiting at the top to pull him over the railing. He dropped to the deck, chest heaving. 

Hongo climbed over the rail shortly after, coughing up a lung before turning to inspect his unconscious patient. His voice was raspy, “I'd appreciate you giving a 10 second warning if you plan to attack me.”

Fossa’s voice rang across the deck, “Don’t be stupid. No one’s doing anything but turning this ship around until we get orders from Captain.”

“Wonderful, I’ll tell Yasopp we have a ceasefire.” Hongo gave a quick thumbs up in the direction of the Red Force, attention fixed on expelling water from his patient’s lungs. 

Atmos tilted his head over. Yasopp’s gun tracked him precisely through the turbulence rocking both of their ships. Fantastic.

______________________

Shanks had enough endurance to fight for days—he had before. And yet, he found himself gasping for breath, lungs burning. Salt stung at his eyes. There were rivulets of liquid dripping from the hole in Newgate’s shoulder. Feathers sprouted around the wound, gently closing it. Neither of them moved, attention unwavering on the flickering feathers until the last inch of skin was sewn shut. There were small tufts of blue among the yellow flames, beautiful as the last time he laid eyes on them. A loathsome imitation.

The world stilled, the eye of the storm. He tensed his blood-soaked leg. Gryphon blazed with incandescent will. 

______________________

The Moby 3 was fully turned away, building as much distance as they could. 

“They moved to the mangrove, lost sight of them. That last blast almost got Curiel, Jiru dragged him out of the way” Fossa reported from his place at the aft. His daughter was awake once more, checking over an injured crewmate that fell from the rigging, with blood-shot eyes from burst blood vessels. “Namur met up with Izou’s group. Looks like they’re evacuating into the water before that section of the mangrove comes down.”

It felt too early to relax with Conqueror’s Haki hanging heavy in the air. 

“Brace yourselves!” Hongo’s voice, high and panicked. Atmos wasted no time throwing himself over his weaker crewmates, no one could miss the build up of energy in the distance—Shanks. 

A gleaming star, blinding in its luster. 

“OH FUCK—”

______________________

For the briefest moment, Shanks imagined another voice overlaid with his.

“Divine Departure."

Whitebeard was swallowed up in a pillar of radiance. It continued onward, ripping through the mangrove until it disintegrated the clouds on the far horizon.

Nothing remained except the blue of the boiling sea. Nothing but Edward Newgate, hanging above the water with his bisento pierced through a branch just outside the path of destruction. He pushed off of it, slamming into the ground on one of the few remaining patches of stable roots surrounding them. 

Shanks could see his pulsating organs, nestled among pitted muscle and blackened bone. The smell of cooked meat and ozone lingered in the air. Phoenix fire scorched him with its gentle light, he desperately wanted to retreat. He stayed, watching bones pop back into place with a sickening squelch. Muscles regained their healthy hue, woven together with complex webs of veins and sinew. Skin spread across his torso, hiding his beating heart from sight. 

Whole once more. Feathers lingered, as if giving Whitebeard a final embrace before they dissipated into nothingness. Cold again. 

His cloak of Conqueror’s Haki faltered as he lost grip on his rage. What was the point? Nothing he did to Whitebeard mattered. Even now, Marco was protecting his Captain from beyond the grave—from Shanks. 

His hand slackened on Gyphon’s hilt. “You didn’t deserve him, Newgate.” 

No injury from Marineford could make Whitebeard flinch the way he did at Shanks’ words. 

“You were his Captain, you should have known.” 

He expected Whitebeard to try and gut him. The other Emperor looked tempted, before ultimately sticking his bisento in the ground and lowering himself onto a gnarled root next to the deep chasm cleaving through half of the mangrove’s surface. His Haki withdrew, wrapping tightly around him once more. “You’re right, I should’ve. I failed him, Shanks. My son died believing his life was worth less than mine." He stared at nothing, eyes ancient with the weight of years past, and countless to come. 

Shanks sheathed his sword and leashed his Haki until it was barely a whisper. Sharp pain flared in his chest as he lowered himself to the ground, carefully stretching out his bad leg. All that was missing was a dish of sake between them to make it a mockery of their usual meetings. 

“Why didn’t you switch to that butterknife of yours? You never visit without seastone on your belt.”

Oh, he thought about it, a way to permanently douse those flames if he managed to slip his dagger between Whitebeard’s ribs before he recovered. “Marco died to give you that fruit, how could I make his sacrifice meaningless?” More importantly, Marco would never forgive him if he killed his father. “Why did you stop? You’ve killed men for less.”

Whitebeard’s face softened from harsh lines into something pensive. “My reasoning is much the same—for Marco’s sake. If you accuse me of killing my own son a second time, I will not show such restraint again.” For Marco’s sake? He couldn’t mea—"Besides, we have a common enemy. I failed him, but Teach handed him the knife. I will have my pound of flesh.” He spoke with the conviction of a seer, unmoved by the flare of Haki Shanks was too slow to suppress. It stilled Benn’s steady Haki signature in his cautious approach. 

There were few people Shanks wanted dead more than Teach. Now, more than ever. He lowered his head, eyes shadowed. “And then what?” 

Newgate’s mouth stretched into a grin, but his eyes burned with bitter frost, “Then I go down the list. They should have finished the job when they had the chance. I won’t give them another.” His make-shift chair splintered apart when he dug his hands a little too harshly into the bark. 

“The other Emperors won’t stay still.” 

Newgate dusted the splinters off of his torn coat, grumbling and heaving himself to his feet, “Those two never learned to constrain their greed. They’ve run amok for too long, haven’t they?”

“. . . . . . . .” 

“Think about it.” He grabbed the handle of his bisento and propped it on his shoulder. “I’ve made mistakes over the years, too many to count. The worst of them was contenting myself with the status quo until I grew too old to shatter it with my own two hands. No more.”

He strode away from Shanks through the path of fallen branches and debris. A pause. He called over his shoulder, “And no more of that talk of passing the torch onto the next generation, you’re not even forty you damn brat.”

Shanks clenched his hands, keeping a steely grip on his roiling Haki. It was futile to try and hide anything from Whitebeard, he was too perceptive, but he was usually better at lying to himself. 

So many years of planning and waiting. People left behind. Events nudged along. A Devil Fruit snatched from the World Government’s hands. Luffy with his straw hat and endless optimism. Luffy, who almost died so many times in Marineford. 

He still believed, with all his heart, in that reckless kid who never learned how to quit. In the plan given to him by Roger so long ago to herald in the dawn. And yet, he hesitated, looking at the devastation around him. Half of a living island gone without a trace. Clouds shredded and blown apart. His fury made manifest. 

He threw away all his dreams to see Roger’s wish fulfilled. What was one more? A galleon-sized portion of the mangrove fell into the sea with a booming crash. 

How much could he take before something snapped? Or had it already happened, too far away for him to hear the sound of a heartbeat stuttering to a stop?

Chapter Text

“. . . . He didn't block . . . “

“Eh?” Jiru didn’t look up from where he was examining the charred edge of his tunic.

Curiel kept his binoculars fixed through the tangle of branches, “Pops, he didn't put up Armament before Red-Hair’s blast. It must have–”

Blenheim snatched the binoculars from his hands. Flickering light in the charred clearing. He let out a shaky exhale. “Pops’ fine. Mar—His fire’s taking care of it.”

Curiel dug out a second pair of binoculars from his coat pocket, focusing back in on his Captain’s rapidly healing torso. “As I was saying, that must have pierced through him completely. Was he testing out his regeneration? I suppose there’s nothing superior to field testing, but not what I’d recommend for a first trial . . . . “

A test? He doubted it. Blenheim remembered well the feeling of Phoenix fire. Marco used it to get him back on his feet in a long-ago engagement against Katakuri and Oven. Mellow warmth that lingered long after Marco was gone, off rescuing Thatch from a flood of mochi after he stopped to bicker with Katakuri on the best way to proof donut dough. 

He wished he was at the right angle to see Pops’ face. Would it have the same mixture of revulsion and longing it held that night when he realized the fire sprouting from his hands was the last piece of his son remaining? 

Jiru’s voice grew shrill, “Wait, wait. Pops tanked the blast that destroyed half an island without any Haki?”

“Without reinforcing his body, to be precise. His cloak of Conqueror’s blunted some of the impact. The blast cleaved through a layer of cumulus clouds, extraordinary. How high would that be? 5,000 feet? I wonder—”

“That doesn’t make sense. Sure you didn’t see wrong?”

Curiel let out an offended noise, “Who do you take me for? Ace? I had my Observation Haki trained on him the whole time. Red-Hair provided a great deal of interference, but I’m sure of it. You should have been able to tell, even if your Observation is lacking.”

“I’m sorry, I was a little busy saving your life. Next time I’ll leave you behind to get killed by a homicidal Emperor, you steaming pile of horseshit.”

“Enough,” Blenheim ordered, “Beckman, 4 o’clock.”

Curiel yanked his bazooka into position and Jiru crouched at the edge of the branch, lance at the ready. 

“Only if he passes over the ravine.” 

Neither needed the reminder. No one wanted to be the one to spark an unnecessary fight with Red-Hair’s crew. The mangrove couldn’t take much more.

A sudden flare of Haki from Shanks. Beckman froze. Blenheim kept his binoculars fixed on the scene of Pops and Red-Hair talking. 

Pops shouldered his polearm and began navigating his way through the wreckage. The fight was over, then. “Let Beckmen through, Pops’ on his way here.”

______________________

Conqueror’s Haki no longer saturated the air, but it was far from quiet. There was the occasional splash as chunks from the mangrove crashed into the water. Creaks and groans of wood pushed too far. Orders yelled between the ships of the fleet as they cautiously approached the tattered fringes of the living island. The Red Force kept its distance after closing in just long enough for Hongo to hop back over. 

A loud series of thumps on the deck of the Moby 3. Atmos looked over.

Vista's water-logged moustache made a heroic effort to maintain its shape before giving up and wilting like a flower denied sunlight. Izou was beside him, looking like a drowned rat as he attempted to wring the water out of his kimono. Blamenco reached into one of his pockets for a medical kit and began cleaning the lacerations across his shoulder as Namur and Kingdew heaved themselves onto the deck of the Moby 3, soaking the boards with more seawater. 

Atmos and Fossa exchanged grim glances. Answers, finally. Answers they no longer needed after Pops’ display. Atmos saw clearly, he was sure of it. Blue and yellow. 

______________________

Hours after the clash that shook the mangrove down to its foundations, they gathered in the mess hall of the Moby 1. Pops was already there when Jozu arrived, talking quietly with Izou and Haruta by his oversized chair. His coat was in tatters from his duel with Red-Hair.

Jozu took a seat further down, giving a nod of greeting to Whitey Bay and Kinga. One by one, everyone arrived. 13 Commanders and over 40 Allied Captains in one room. He wished Ace could be here, even over Den Den, but he was not surprised at the absence. It would take time before Ace was ready to face them. Until then, Jozu would oversee the 2nd Division in his stead. 

The meeting began with status reports from the newly arrived ships. Supplies were tallied, damage reported, and Fossa handed over the list of confirmed deaths on their long journey out of Marineford. 

Namur and Kingdew were next, reporting on the health of the mangrove. Roughly a fifth of its surface was producing resin bubbles properly. Divers were out painstakingly checking the roots for damage and marked off sections to cut. Most of the above-water growth would need to be pruned to give the mangrove the best chance of bouncing back, so Kingdew's division and an army of volunteers were setting up a temporary floating dock alongside the healthiest portion to continue the coating process without disturbing the pruners. Once the last ship was coated, they would be ready to depart.

At the end of Kingdew’s report, the room grew quiet. Rush was the one to speak up, “It's all well and good our course to Fishman Island is set, but what of after? Our enemies won’t sit idle.”

“No they won't,” Namur said, “Not like Teach was being subtle with that name. Blackbeard, really? It's only a matter of time before he makes a bid for our territory.” 

Izou nodded, “Teach is the biggest threat on our return. He knows too much. The way we operate, our weakness. We need to kill him before he gathers any more strength.”

“A difficult proposition,” Atmos mused, “Considering how thoroughly he outmaneuvered us, time and time again. He had years to plan our downfall, we cannot underestimate him again.”

“Captain almost killed him while on the verge of death, there’s no way he would win in a straightforward fight now, but that’s the problem isn’t it?” Haruta smiled angrily, “Teach is a coward. What do you think will happen if we show up at Fishman Island with Pops at full strength? He'll slink off and amass more power from the shadows. After everything he's done, do we really think he's stupid enough to fight head on?” 

Rakuyo laughed, “After he almost pissed himself in Marineford? He'll keep half of the world between him and Captain the moment he gets wind of his survival.”

“There must be a way to pin him down,” Whitey Bay’s voice was as frigid as a winter storm, “We need to change our approach.”

“I agree.” Izou glanced at Whitebeard before turning to address the room, “We need to lure Teach into seeking us out. Right now the whole world is waiting for word of Pop’s death and Marco’s ascension to Captain. Let’s give them exactly that.”

Pandemonium struck the room. Dozens of voices shouted over each other. Whitebeard remained silent, watching the cacophony with a neutral expression.

“--ou dishonor his memory!” 

“Are we to stoop to such tri–”

“If this is enough to corner him, I'll–”

“--should strike them directly.”

“--no way we could possibly do su—.”

“Marco would never stand for–”

Jozu slammed his fist on the table and bellowed, “ENOUGH!” 

Ringing silence. He rose to his feet, ignoring the strain on his stitches. “I will hear no more of people putting words into a dead man’s mouth. Izou. Explain.”

Izou was completely unfazed at the glares boring into him. “Think about it, we can use Teach’s knowledge against him. We pretend the fleet’s fracturing after Pop’s death, that Marco’s losing his grip on the reins, and he’s sure to smell blood in the water. What better way to lure him into a trap than by having him think he’s the one setting up an ambush?”

Atmos’s forehead crinkled in thought. “So we feign weakness and invite him to come for Pops’ Emperor title. I see the logic, but this plan comes with a great deal of risk. We would have to keep the ruse up till the very moment the trap snaps shut. To sell it properly, we would have to temporarily concede territory.” 

“We're losing territory no matter what we do here.” Blamenco pointed out, “Big Mom and Kaido have to be eyeing our islands as we speak. We can't be everywhere at once; we need time to recuperate.”

Fossa leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar, “Shit, beats chasing him around the Blues, or wherever the fuck he slunk off to after Marineford. What’s the worst that happens? He catches wind of it partway and runs for the hills? At least he has less of a headstart this way.”

Vista grimaced, “This does not sit right with me–parading around as if Marco’s still alive and well. We would have to show sightings of him as proof of his captaincy.” 

Jozu nodded, “Nor with I. And yet, I cannot think of a better way. We do not have the luxury of choice after Marineford. Tell me, does anyone else have a better plan?”

Silence. From where he was sitting, he could see the muscles in Blenheim’s back clench themselves into knots. He turned towards the head of the room. “Then I have this to ask—Captain, what do you think about all this?”

Whitebeard rose to his feet, Bisento left leaning against his chair. “This plan is not new to me, Izou proposed it after Haruta returned with his findings. I disliked it then, as I do now. Marco deserves his rest.” He closed his eyes. “And yet, he and the rest of my fallen children cry out for vengeance.”

With those words, feathers sprung to life across his body. Bright fire flared around him. Jozu turned his gaze away, blinking spots out of his eyes. 

Pops was the largest of their crew. He stood even taller now with a colossal body formed of yellow fire, save for wisps of blue here and there. Jozu felt a pang in his chest at the lack of a tall crest of feathers on his head. Instead, a light blue moustache formed above his beak. It should have looked ridiculous; he felt no mirth. There was nothing funny about the sight of his little brother’s Zoan form warped and twisted to fit too-broad shoulders.

Marco was among the shortest of their crew. His Zoan form reflected that, built for speed and outmaneuvering larger opponents with a lazy grace. Pops’ transformation held none of that sleekness. If he were to spread his wings, they had to be more than 60 feet across. He loomed above them, a dense mass of flames that brought the room to sweltering temperatures. Had Marco’s fire ever burned that hot? 

Glowing blue eyes surveyed the room. “Let the world remain ignorant a little longer. Teach will be the first to know what he has wrought.”

Fossa sneered around the cigar clenched between his teeth, “Let it be the last thing he sees.” 

Behind him, Kinga drew his sword in a salute, “Here, here! Let none of us rest till we send him straight to Davy Jones!” 

Agreements and cheers rang out across the room, joined by the scrape of chairs as those sitting leaped to their feet. Weapons were pulled from their sheaths and raised into the air. Jozu joined in with a clenched fist, coated with a diamond sheen.  

______________________

Ideas were passed back and forth, plans proposed. Tempers were high, a few arguments came close to blows. Jozu felt a Marco-shaped absence at those times; he was skillful at defusing the tension between feuding Captains and soothing ruffled tempers. Haruta filled in that gap, unable to fully mask the sharpness in his smile. 

Pops presided over it all, no longer in his Zoan form. An occasional ripple of fire spread across his shoulders before dissipating—Jozu wasn’t sure if he noticed. It was far better than the unstable Conqueror’s that trailed in his Captain’s wake over the last few weeks like a ghost peering over his shoulder with blood-red eyes. His Haki was tucked away ever since his fight with Shanks, sinking into the depths until it was called on once more.

Eventually the meeting drew to a close. Assignments were passed out, routes planned after their stop at Fishman island. A plan was taking shape, rough for the moment, but there would be time to refine it on the journey. 

“There is one more thing we must address. A person barred from this meeting”

If Jozu hadn’t known what his Captain was talking about, Izou’s venomous expression would have tipped him off.

“I have already forgiven him, but Squard betrayed far more than me in his foolishness.” Whitebeard sighed, grief in the lines of his face, “I will not stand for his death, I have lost enough children, but he must be punished. As those wronged, I call on you to decide his punishment. I will stand with the majority.”

“He deserves death,” Vista said immediately, heavy condemnation in his voice, “If I cannot have his head, the hand that raised a sword against his Emperor will have to suffice.”

The room broke into arguments once more. Jozu began to rise, prepared to bring the room to order. He hesitated for a moment, noticing a strange look on Haruta’s face. Pensive and removed from the volatile emotions erupting among their gathered allies. Haruta only got like that when he was too far into his scheming to pay attention to his expression.

Jozu quieted down the room and returned to his seat, easing the pressure off of his stitches. He kept a close eye on Haruta, waiting for him to make his move.