I was inspired by a picture I saw in Tumblr, and just had to write this. It's my first OP fic and the first fic in 3 years, so forgive me for any of the errors (especially grammar) throughout the story. I'm trying my best. ^^ Also, single inverted commas '...' are for speech, most italics are for thoughts.

I NO OWN ONE PIECE. *SOBS* This goes for ALL the chapters in this fic. Period.

Today… just really, REALLY wasn't his day.

He never wanted to drink, really. Bars were never his thing. He enjoyed buying a bottle of good wine or two, down it slowly to savour its taste in the darkness of his own kitchen, with silence as his ever loyal companion. That was how he preferred life, quiet and contemplating.

How Shanks managed to drag him to those noisy, crowded bars late at night, he could never understand. It's more or less a normal occurrence now for the man to randomly materialize out of nowhere - be it his home, his dojo, no matter how hard he hides himself he could never seem to escape his evil tentacles – and kidnap him to his impending doom or whine until the man consented. He would then be forced to sit through his ramblings (most of the time about two recently adopted sons, and he couldn't help the twinge of sympathy at the poor souls in his disastrous care), deal with his equally mad co-workers who would persuade him to joining their rambunctious activities (like participate in some undignified dance), and escape when Shanks finally got himself drunk. It was frustrating, to say the least. He didn't care if Shanks did it 'for his own good because he was so antisocial he scares most people away before even getting to know them', he just wanted to relax at home after a hard day's work and maybe, maybe play with his daughter Perona if she wasn't trying to make him wear a dress and take part in her ridiculous tea parties. You'd think at the age of ten, girls would have grown out of them, but no. Perona seemed to enjoy them the more she grew up, especially since her mother-

No, Mihawk shook his head. Now wasn't the time to dwell on this. Booze was supposed to make him forget, the booming music in the room was supposed to distract him, damnit! He took another swing of the bottle, gulping down the contents in one go. He banged the empty bottle on the counter, startling a nearby bartender. The man whimpered under his predatory glare. 'Another.'

The poor man nodded quickly in response and sprinted away like a chicken. Mihawk sighed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A sense of foreboding crept into his soul and planted deep roots at the base of his heart. Something bad was going to happen today. Whenever memories of her surfaced, it would no doubt bring bad luck. But today was a little different. It was as though something important was about to happen, like he was waiting for the start of a chain event to unfold…

'What's gotten you in such a bad mood today?'

Shanks. Not drunk. Now that's a record. How long has it been? An hour? Maybe two?

'That obvious?' No point in denying if he already knew. Shanks have an annoying habit of being perceptive of other people's feelings. Like a girl, he added as an afterthought. The trembling bartender returned with another bottle of wine, but ran away before Mihawk could pay for the booze. He shrugged, snatched his prize from the counter and started chugging it down.

'You've been drinking non-stop since we arrived.'

Mihawk lifted the bottle from his lips, could taste the lingering pang of alcohol on his tongue. 'I always drink when we come.'

'Not 4 bottles in an hour. Something's bothering you.' Damn, he's being persistent today. He cursed inwardly as he lowered the bottle.

'… I have a bad feeling,' he scowled. He didn't know how to describe it. The air around him… it felt out of place.

Shanks looked taken aback. 'Why, Mihawk! Don't let it keep your spirits down!' He looked down at the bottle of beer in his hand and shoved it at the brooding man. 'Here! You can have my beer today.' The red-haired idiot then slapped his back hard (Mihawk almost dropped the booze, damnit!) and skipped off to find more alcohol, laughing like a maniac all the way.

Mihawk drew his hand across his neatly-combed, black hair, trying his best to suppress the growing urge of drawing his sword and slicing the whole place into fine dust. After all, he always carried the heavy sword behind his back wherever he went. The throbbing head was no help whatsoever.

In the midst of day-dreaming about delicious ways of slicing his self-proclaimed red-haired friend up, he felt his phone vibrate. He drew them out of his pocket with a shuffle, and frowned at the number.

Perona… Isn't she supposed to be asleep at this time? He pressed the call button and breathed. 'What is it?'

'Daddyyyyyyyy! There's a kid outside the door! I know you've told me not to let strangers in but he was hurt so I brought him in and dressed his wounds but I think he's running a fever cause his temperature's high but I'm not really sure so can you please, please COME HOME NOW?' His daughter's shrill voice sliced at his eardrums and he felt a vein throbbing in his forehead. Coupled with a drunk yelling behind him, Mihawk had the overwhelming urge to just scream. But shouting at his daughter when he could detect that siren of panic in her voice wasn't a very good idea, so he settled with a deep breath instead.

'Calm down, Perona.' The girl sniffled at the end of the line in response, and Mihawk felt the alarm rising in his throat. Perona does not cry on a whim like other girls do. 'Now tell me again: why did you let a stranger into the house?'

'I didn't mean to!' she wailed. 'He was a kid and he was unconscious! And- and he was burned all over the place, and since it was raining outside and it was cold I just let him in and- and-' There was a pause. 'Just come home already! I don't know what to do, sheesh!' she screamed.

Dread swept over the man like a wave, and Mihawk turned to Ben, who was trying to wrestle a bottle of Vodka from Shanks' grip. 'Make sure the idiot gets home safely. I'm going now.'

Ben's smiling face morphed into a somber expression. 'Something up?'

Mihawk nodded, and didn't wait to elaborate as he strode out of the bar and into the parking lot, the on-going rain soaking his favourite shirt. He silently cursed. Why today of all days, at all times, did it have to rain? He clutched onto his cell phone tightly.

'How are his injuries?'

A sniff. 'Well, he's got a lot of cuts on his arms and legs, but I've wrapped those up, including the burns on them. But- but- there's a lot of swelling on his torso, and he's having trouble breathing and he keeps wheezing and-'

Broken ribs. That alone was serious enough. 'Tilt his chin up to keep him breathing, Perona,' he barked. 'Then place a cold, wet towel on his forehead. I'm on the way home now. If anything happens, call me.' He snapped his phone shut, got into his car, start up the engines and was out of the compound and into the main road in a matter of seconds, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian on the sidewalk (well, it wasn't HIS fault he didn't see a black guy dressed in black walking in the black shadows of the night) who was now hurling curses at him. It didn't matter that he's driving well past the speed limit, or that he had drove past four red lights in a go or that he almost crashed straight into an oncoming truck that could've ended his life right there and then.

What mattered was that there was a kid potentially dying in his house, and as far as he was concerned, no one else would be dying in his home, not under his watch, not unless if it was him.

xXxXxXxXxXx

It took him seven minutes to complete an otherwise fifteen minute journey, and by the time the keys were found and the door kicked open, his heart was pounding heavily in his chest and his hawk-eyes blazing with murderous fury. Seven minutes was enough to kill a man, much less a child.

'Daddy!' Mihawk found his daughter kneeling before the living room sofa sniffling, and rushed towards them. Perona stood up immediately as her father kneeled before the kid, trying to hold back her tears.

The first thing that struck Mihawk was the short, almost-spiky green hair the child had. Granted, he had a daughter with glaring pink hair, but that wasn't the point.

What is with my dumb luck with kids with weird hair? He grumbled in his head while swiftly inspecting the wounds, prodding at the ribs below swollen skin. 3 broken ribs, one left, two at the right. That probably explains why the kid was breathing irregularly, but other than a broken leg and severe bruising on his neck (someone could've strangled him), the burns across his whole torso, decorated by various cuts littering across his tiny chest, the man couldn't find any more serious wounds on the child. He did, however, notice the flushed face and the abnormally high temperature on the child's forehead. That might need some watching over, he frowned. Reaching for the first aid kit on the ground, Mihawk pulled out a clean roll of bandages. 'Perona. Prepare a bucket of warm water and some clean towels, and take them to my room. And get some pills for his fever.' The girl nodded and skittered away.

Mihawk sighed in the blissful silence as he wrapped the boy. It felt out of place, to say the least. Was it fate that drove this child to his doorstep? Who was this child? Why was he so beaten up? The annoyance and worry he's suppressed all night transformed into icy rage at those who would harm this child. This boy couldn't be any older than Perona!

But deep in his heart an enormous blanket of intense relief draped over him upon checking that there were no other life threatening wounds on the boy, and that he was still breathing. The boy was not coughing up blood, so he was sure the broken ribs did not puncture any internal organs. So all that was left to take care was the fever. He was thankful.

Nobody was dying tonight.

After finishing with the ribs, Mihawk rewarded himself a moment of satisfaction at his work before moving on to the left leg. He heard the loud sloshing of a tap from the bathroom upstairs cease and smiled. The bandages on the boy's arms were nicely wrapped, secure and not too tight, not bad for a 10 year old's work under his tutelage. She would definitely demand something for her good job later. His smile vanished immediately at that thought.

He picked the boy up into his arms and, careful not to jog his injuries, carried him up the stairs into his room. Perona helped dry the boy and fit him into one of her pyjamas (he was grateful it came with pants, but cringed at the sight frills and pink teddy bears on them) whilst he dried his hair. By the time the boy was settled comfortably beneath the covers, the clock by his bedside blinked 2:05am.

Mihawk ran a hand through his face and pondered at the situation. He was stuck taking care of a sick, injured kid with green hair. If Shanks found out, his hard-earned reputation would be ruined forever. The tall man turned to his daughter. 'Go get some sleep. You did good tonight.'

Apparently she took it as a cue to demand a reward. 'So can I not go to school tomorrow? It's so late!' Mihawk gave her a stern look, but Perona stubbornly glared at him. It took but a few seconds glance of if-you'd-been-here-you-would-have-dealt-with-him-and-I-wouldn't-have-woken-up-so-it's-clearly-your-fault look, Mihawk gave.

'Fine,' he sighed. 'But you'll be helping tomorrow.' Oh boy will he need it.

Perona shrieked with happiness, jumped and tackled him in a hug. 'Thank you thank you thank you thank you THANK YOU!' With that she dashed out of the room, leaving Mihawk blinking in the centre of the room, lost and confused. He sighed, and snagged a wooden chair from the corner of the room and sat down, folding his arms with calculating coldness as he gazed at the child. Even in unconsciousness the boy sported a pained frown on his face. From the moonlight drifting across the room, he could see the boy's dark skin, probably tanned. Thoughts raced across his mind. Who was this boy? How did he end up in this state? Did he have a family? A home? What should he do with him?

A voice shattered his train of thoughts and Mihawk stared at the door, golden eyes shimmering like a hawk. 'Oh,' Perona came stumbling in. His eyes widened in surprise at the object in her hands. 'He came with this.' On her hands balanced a long, white blade, sleek and beautiful, calming and dangerous. Her handle gleamed with silver, fine, intricate patterns crisscrossing against each other in a flurry of perfect symmetry. The seppa of the blade dazzled with gold, its saya a perfect white. Mihawk lifted the sword delicately from Perona's arms, which she took as a cue to leave. He balanced the blade precariously with his fingertips, lifting it slowly to his chest, and in one fluid motion, drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade came away smoothly with a ring, shining brilliantly in the darkness of night. There was no doubt about it.

This was Wado Ichimonji. One of the twenty one O Wazamono Grade Swords. A Meito. A blade last seen from Koshiro years back when they were opponents. He could never forget the stunning grace held by this katana.

He resheathed the sword, and narrowed his eyes at the green-haired boy lying on the bed.

… Who was he, indeed.

I love you, you love me. We are happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you just review me too? ;D