Merry Christmas to Mac! This is super fricking late (I'm so sorry) as always, and I'm so sorry I somehow ended up writing... crack. That's it, I dunno what else to call it, it's just crack. I hope you enjoy and know you are loved, you blessing on earth you! Happy Holidays, one and all~
Title taken from "A Candle In The Window" by Alabama
-shira
Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece or am affiliated to its production in any way. All rights belong rightfully (ha!) to Oda-sensei.
There's a large house at the top of the hill, out past the city's edge, only really close enough to be seen as a pinprick of light from the closest home. Folks have avoided it for as long as they can remember, whispers of ghosts and witches and unholy beings chasing each other around and around like a Ferris wheel whenever it's brought up. But sometimes, only sometimes, a lost soul finds its way there and maybe it's desperation or an unnamed instinct or just the promise of warmth on a cold night, but they'll pause for a second to knock on a door that has always been open.
Marco has been around for a long, long while and in his experience, people will come and go like the tides—spending a few hours or a few years, but leaving nevertheless, to find something bigger than themselves. But some of them will also stay, constant as the crashing waves, choosing to make up a tiny bit of the family they've made for themselves.
He makes his way down to the ground floor, to the room at the end of the west wing, trying to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. He doesn't really want to admit it, but he probably needs that break Vista has been insisting he take since the holiday season began. Still, it isn't in him to shirk his responsibilities, so he'd kept at it no matter how rowdy his siblings had gotten and finally managed to pull through just before Christmas Eve hit.
Marco pauses outside a door bigger than most, takes a deep breath, and knocks. "Pops, all the preparations are complete, yoi. All that's left is—"
He pauses, dumbstruck, as his father turns to him with a look on his face like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Pops stares.
Marco stares back.
There's a long, long moment of staring, before Pops finally coughs a little to clear his throat.
"What is it, son?" He says, voice completely even, like his eldest hadn't just caught him in the middle of trying to pull on a Santa costume three sizes too small.
Marco clears his throat as well, and proceeds to report, like he wasn't still looking at his father—Edward Newgate, one of only four black robed sages in the world, honored general of the long-past Great War—half-dressed in bright red pants with shimmering fur and struggling to put on the coat which barely fell to his waist and would absolutely in no way possible fit across his chest.
"Everything has been prepared, Pops," Marco begins with his eyes averted because he really doesn't think this is part of the job description. "The trees been loaded with the gifts, all that's left is to find a backup plan for my second if I get sick like Thatch seems to think I will."
"Ahh. I have faith in you, my son, that you'll take better care of yourself, so we do not have to worry about you."
He can practically hear Pops smiling, and the trust in his father's voice, even if it is a backhanded kind of reproach, still warms Marco's chest after all these years. He looks up to smile back at him and,
"Oh god, I shouldn't have..."
"Hmm? What is it, Marco?" Pops is actually still trying to pull on that thrice-damned shirt.
Marco finally gives in to the situation and makes an exasperated sort of noise (the one Juzo once told him sounded kind of like a cross between a chicken squawking and a tire screeching, which it does not, by the way) and marched towards Pops with his hand held out demandingly.
"Just... Izo can fix that for you, give it here, yoi."
Amazingly enough, Pops seems like he doesn't quite want to hand it over, fingers hesitating as he futilely tries to close the bottom button. "Ah, well, no... it fit me fairly alright a year ago, son, it should be fine..."
"Pops—" Marco begins with a sigh, but he never gets to go on, because there's a distant sound of breaking glass and a soft thud like the sound a body makes when it hits the floor.
Both of them go into full alert, Marco already heading towards where the sound came from on silent feet, Pops only half a step behind him. The smell of gingerbread fills the halls as they get closer, and it isn't really surprising to find Thatch right outside the door to his kitchens.
He's not entirely sure of what to make of the helpless look the chef throws him, hands gesturing unhelpfully at whatever is going on in the kitchen. But then Thatch does a double-take and the blonde knows its the sight of Pops in his Santa costume that has horror sliding over his brother's face, but Marco is not going to touch that particular jar of worms until he's sorted out whatever this is.
He really didn't need this tonight.
Marco signals Thatch to fall back and finally steps into the scene of the crime himself. The kitchen is a catastrophe, flour and whatever powder the cooks had been using dusting every surface in sight, the pots and pans are on the floor as well, and there's a suspiciously large concoction on the table that's beyond recognition now which Marco assumes is Thatch's annual Christmas monstrosity.
With another sigh, Marco pinches the edge of his nose and takes a step inside.
There's a sudden growling from underneath the table that keeps him from taking another one. He pauses and pulls his hand away from his face to make eye contact with whatever is down there. A rabid dog, maybe?
Behind him Thatch is making wild gestures and mouthing something at him that he can't really make out from the corner of his eye, but Marco was going to ignore him anyway, so he crouches down to get a better look at it instead. He's not really expecting whatever it is to come barreling at him and nearly bite his goddamn arm off.
And so the first and eldest son of Whitebeard finds himself scrambling back in an undignified manner only to find himself bumping up against Pops' legs where he stood in the doorway.
Marco blinks at his assaulter, and finds his assaulter is blinking right back at him. Or, well, he supposes his assaulter is more or less gawking at Pops rather than Marco himself.
He couldn't really blame the kid, all things considered.
What Marco had assumed was some kind of rabid animal turns out to be a teenage boy, rough around the edges, packets of food stuffed into his raggedy pockets like his life depended on it. Judging by the state of his clothes, and that he's in a threadbare shirt in the middle of winter, Marco's going to go ahead and assume that's exactly the case.
There's a soft rumble of laughter behind him and Marco can already tell that Pops likes this kid. This is going to be a long night.
o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Edward Newgate likes children.
Beyond that, he loves his family. And as a father, it is a given that he loves his children. And what Newgate never once believed, something that he knows others would beg to differ, is that his family is big enough now. That had never been the point.
He'd been after the same things as everyone else once—wealth, power, glory, fame. But it hadn't given him what he'd been so desperately searching for after all those many years of searching. So he'd founded this place in his later years, a resting place for the weary and the lost; and if they found a home with him and the family they never had before (much as he'd never had one himself), then all the better. He'd accept them all with open arms.
"Hello, brat," Newgate addresses this child, the one whose eyes scream of such desperate anger even as they beg for salvation. "What do you think you're doing, raiding my home and stealing from my table on such a night like this?"
The boy pulls himself up to stand, obviously alarmed by the threat in front of him, and they get another good look at his ragtag figure. Black hair falls past his shoulders in a messy wave, clearly chopped off with a knife or something equally unsuitable; his skin is dark with freckles in stark contrast against pale grey eyes. He's obviously underfed, but Newgate likes that he seems to be ballsy enough, considering he manages to sneer at them like there isn't still chocolate syrup on his face from where he'd obviously tried to eat the cake while stealing food.
Newgate's heart is soft and this boy's jagged edges have already wormed their way into it.
"What's a thief's business got to do with you anyway, old man?" The brat spits, the same way all the overconfident brats say it.
There's a pause and Newgate sneaks a look at his eldest to find an unimpressed face. He doesn't bother to hide his smile at all, though.
"Gurararara! I suppose you're right, brat. It wouldn't be my business at all."
Newgate pauses, for effect, of course, before continuing, "It wouldn't be my business at all, except that you decided to steal from my house."
They all spot the boy stiffen at the threatening tone, but there's barely enough time for him to start growling at them again before Newgate sweeps him up into the air and sets him easily on the table, Thatch immediately tying his hands behind his back with the Santa hat Newgate had dropped hurrying inside.
Marco is already there, picking the food from the boy's pockets and setting them on the counter by the other end of the room.
"Oi, no! That's mine, goddammit!" The brat yells.
Thatch simply raises an eyebrow at him and whistles a jaunty tune, tugging to make sure the knot is tight beefore sauntering over to face the kid. "Really? S'far as I can tell, it's ours, innit?"
He tries to bite him too, unsurprisingly, but Thatch only laughs at him and sticks a licorice wand into his mouth. The brat makes some noises of protest but swallows the thing in two bites anyway.
Newgate is pleased that Thatch seems to like the boy, and as he watches Marco walk over to a knocked down chair and pull it up to sit on, the elder knows he's also already been won over.
"So, kid. What's your name?" Marco says in a bored voice. "And why the hell are you stealing food from us when you could just ask, yoi?"
"I don't know why I need to tell you—HEY!"
"Oh, it's Ace, yeah?" Thatch calls to them delightedly, dancing out of reach of the kid's chompers after he'd snuck a peek at the tattoo on the kid's lft arm. "Yep, that means it's Ace alright."
"Ace, then," Marco continues, ignoring their antics like the big brother that he is. "Same question."
The brat shoots them all a distrustful look and sniffs, like they're the children for not knowing how cruel the world can be and Newgate has to stifle his laugh, knowing he would make this one his son soon enough.
"Like hell I'd trust food you gave me. This is a wizard's house, isn't it?" Ace spits the word 'wizard' like it's a curse and there's something dark and ugly there that isn't Newgate's concern but he's sure there's a way to heal that gaping wound.
Marco pointedly looks at the food he'd reclaimed from Ace's pockets, and the brat flushes, muttering something about that being a different matter. His eldest looks to Newgate for cues on how to go on, and he smiles and waves both of his sons to the side as a signal to let him handle it.
"That's enough, brat. I am indeed a wizard, and any problems you have with me, you take it up with me," he tells the boy in all seriousness, before waving Thatch towards the kitchen counter.
The chef goes ahead and begins packing the food Ace had already taken once, putting them in proper containers for travel and the like, before Newgate continues. "However, if it is a simple meal you wish, there is no need to destroy my property for it. Simply ask for it and we have no intention of withholding that which we can easily spare."
Ace seems like he's about to make some kind of protest but is stopped by Marco cutting his hands free (Newgate tries not to mourn the loss of his hat) and Thatch placing multiple takeout boxes in his hands, along with a clean one that contains a triple chocolate cake he'd taken from the refrigerator.
The boy seems at a loss for words.
Newgate watches him carefully, deciding to tread carefully lest he drive the boy away completely. Ace looks up at him, down at the food in his arms, and back again over and over. Newgate simply smiles and steps away from the doorway, Thatch and Marco immediately following suit. Ace hesitantly steps out of the door, watching them carefully the whole while before suddenly bolting for the front door.
His two sons move to follow the brat, and Newgate lets them, following them as far as the entryway. He's more than a little surprised to find that Ace has stalled there, frozen by the half open door and letting the snow seep in.
Without looking back at them, he starts to speak, voice soft and barely audible against the howl of the wind. "There's... I mean, I have... brothers. Two of them. Even if I'm not welcome here anymore, since I stole from you and all, could they... that is, would you kindly take them in one day if they need it?"
There's a shaking in his voice that speaks of pride and love and weakness and strength all in one, and Newgate's heart breaks a little bit inside. He wishes this boy to stay, now more than ever, but now that he knows there are another two brats out there in the piercing cold, it seems he'll have to wait until they come to him themselves.
"I'm afraid you are mistaken," Newgate tells his newest son (although Ace doesn't know it yet), and Ace flinches almost imperceptibly before nodding and moving to leave.
"You are mistaken," Newgate repeats, louder this time and full of as much warmth as he can give it, hoping it will reach this brat. "Because you are more than welcome yourself, my son. As are your brothers, whenever you wish it. Even if it is only for a warm meal or a place to sleep, do not hesitate to bring yourselves before me."
Thatch gives a little cheer of agreement as he returns, completely out of breath, with warm clothes all packed in a bag that he hands to Ace with a huge grin on his face. Marco has a soft smile on his face, and Newgate's heart is full to bursting at the kindness his sons have grown up with.
Perhaps he can teach these new ones the same.
Ace doesn't look at them again as he gives a swift nod and slips into the cold night. Newgate doesn't worry for he knows he'll be back, hopefully with those brothers of his in tow.
There, in that large house at the top of the hill, out past the city's edge, Newgate kept at least one light on at night hoping it might serve a guide for those who were a long way from home. But sometimes, only sometimes, a lost soul finds its way there and maybe it's desperation or an unnamed instinct or just the promise of warmth on a cold night, but they'll pause for a second to knock on a door that Newgate has and always will keep open. One day, he hopes that Ace and his family will be the ones to knock on that door.
Satisfied, Newgate turns to head back to his room, but is stopped by a threatening growl.
He turns back, wondering if Ace has returned already, only to find his eldest son advancing on him with a menacing look on his face and a hand held out again like a silent order.
"So... uhh..." Thatch's nervous voice is the only sound to break Newgate and Marco's silent showdown. "I hate to ruin the mood or anything, but what the hell are you wearing, Pops?"