Ladies' Night
Nami raised her glass and swirled the brandy into a slow, circling tide.
"So peaceful," she said.
Through the curved glass' refraction, there was only Robin, cheek in her hand, sitting across the small table. No snoring Zoro, no simpering Sanji, no Luffy and Usopp and Chopper cavorting with chopsticks in their noses—not tonight.
The crew's latest addition, Franky, had been the final blow in Nami's ongoing seige war against testosterone. When Luffy knocked her over on the way to breakfast, he looked so hapless she forgave him; Sanji twice brought her sweets and lemonade as an excuse for ogling, but the lemonade was delicious; Usopp and Chopper used lunch as an occasion for a food fight, but Chopper apologized with aspirin and hot towels for her neck; but in the afternoon, when an explosion of tar, wingnuts, and cola exploded all down Sunny's decks and across her newspaper, Nami decreed in a huff that when they made port that night, the boys could do as they liked, but they were to leave the ladies alone. And, so as to prevent the obvious cajolery, particularly Sanji.
Luckily, the port in question was big enough for a respectable wine bar in addition to the typical sailor's pub. It wasn't a large establishment, and the red-papered walls were streaked black by decades of candle smoke, but the cellar had proven excellent; two empty bottles stood on the table now, and Robin's smile had passed through serenity and into the beatific.
Nami tipped back the cup, and the last of the liquor burned down her throat.
"I can't think around them sometimes," she said.
"Ah. But sometimes, that's good," Robin said. "Not thinking."
Nami smiled. "True."
The night was nearly spent. Theirs was one of three tables remaining. By the window, a young group, maybe artists or students, laughed over the dregs of a cheap vintage and scrounging up coins to pay their bill; in another corner, a few older men sat enclosed in a shroud of cigar smoke.
"It's a luxury," Nami said, suppressing a hiccup. "Not thinking is a luxury. I don't think any of the others can understand that. Sure, we all have our little tragedies, but you and me—we know what it's like to grow up like that. Living off your wits, everybody against you for so long, and if you let your guard down even a minute, it's all finished. Dead." She splayed her fingers. "It's hard to stop living them—the lives of a thief and a refugee."
"Or of a slave."
"Oh… no, I was never that."
Robin sipped her brandy, but did not drop her gaze.
It was Nami who looked down first. "Well, mm. At any rate, you're not the first one of us to betray him. That's all I wanted to say." She set down the cup. "I was."
"I know."
Nami sat back, shocked. "You do?"
Robin's eyes were laughing. "Cook-san told me. Really, that man isn't quite as foolish as he acts."
Nami grinned. "Oh, yes he is. Didn't anyone fill you in on what happened to Califa?"
As the students finally gave in to the evening and tramped past them in a half-drunken daze, she refilled the older woman's glass one more time.
xXxXxXxXx
Two blocks away at the Scurvy Scalawag, the cook in question was sinking over his mug of beer. "Mellorine?" he moped, sipped the beer, and belched; then said, softer, "Mellorine…"
"Sanji! Really…" Usopp sighed. "If you're so desperate, there are women right over there, look—women!"
Sanji raised his head, the ends of his hair dripping foam. There were, indeed, three women in the corner. One was even under fifty. Unfortunately, she was also over six feet tall, and had a rather suspicious bulge.
Sanji averted his eyes. "Mellorine," he said, mournfully.
"Yosh!" This was Luffy, banging his tankard onto the table beside Zoro. "Enough drinking. Let's get Nami and Robin and go back to the ship."
Sanji was up like a gunshot, grabbing for his jacket.
"Wait, wait—Sanji, I'll go get them," Usopp put his hand on the other man's arm. "You remember Nami said not you, particularly."
"That hardly seems fair. I'm not the one who ruined her newspaper."
Zoro rolled his eyes. "Keep it in your pants, love-cook. Oi, Luffy—one more round?"
"Ten minutes. I'll be back with them, I promise." Usopp grinned. "Order an extra three."
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. The houses to the east, up the hill, were silhouetted against a blue that deepened up to the black canopy of the stars, stretching over and back, all the way down to the westward cove where the Sunny was docked. Usopp whistled as his boots clacked on the cobblestones. Franky wasn't such a bad sort, after all; he took some getting used to, but the compulsive urges of inveterate tinkerers were not to be denied, and they had already begun collaborating on a few projects, here and there. The only question was whether to introduce him to dials—or should that particular weapon remain part of Captain Usopp's personal bag of tricks? After all, he didn't have many dials to spare. And Franky hardly needed them… the thought of what he might make of a jet dial was entirely too terrifying. Or perhaps just technologically incompatible.
Instinctively, Usopp stopped whistling and leaned against the nearest building. The wine bar was the next door down, but something about the thumping noises inside didn't sit right—he turned to face the wall, bent over, an inconspicuous drunk. Someone was coming out. There was a thick odor of cigars—and a faint one of flowers.
"Two, three hundred—and thank you for the service."
A bar bill? It was awfully high…
"Shht! This doesn't get back to me, remember? That crew has some scary guys."
"Heh. What affair is that of mine?"
Usopp stole a glance. The man was old, but well-muscled, and his arm bore the scarred remains of a tattooed anchor. A marine deserter, probably. His arm also, for that matter, bore a large burlap sack.
Usopp turned his head back too quickly. The man had seen him look; now more of them were coming out. The sack was too large for Nami. Robin? A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he sagged away from it, doing his best impression of jelly. Hissatsu ketchup boshi! Hissatsu ketchup boshi!
"You—what are you doing here?"
"He ain't one of them," said another man. "Ain't on the posters. He's probably one of them students as left earlier." Behind them, he could hear the clacking of the key—the barkeeper was locking up. Only four, then. Only four? What was he, crazy?
Usopp fumbled at his pants. "Wuzzah?" he mumbled. "Omyunna… izzat Solly?"
"What did you see?"
"Oh, fer—Grimes, the kid ain't see'd anything, and he just peed on my shoe."
The other two laughed as the old sailor backhanded Usopp. He fell down, letting his eyes half close. There were two burlap sacks.
"Better just knock him out then," said Grimes. "Just in case."
The kick took him in the jaw—no Sanji, but there was power there. His stomach lurched at the pain of it, and he remembered that he had been drinking, quite heavily. He had to stay awake. But don't tense up, don't clutch your fingernails into your arms—play dead, stay awake, play dead—
"Hurry up. Tide shifts in twenty minutes." The voices were receding. "Who'd think two broads could take that much laudanum sitting up?"
"That's no broad, that's Nico Robin, man. Nico Robin."
"Seventy-nine million!" sang out the second man.
"Eighty!"
Then the sky reached down for him, and he blacked out.
