Title: Facial Faux Pas

Word Count: 3300ish

Summary: Ace has been a meticulous groomer for as long as the Whitebeards have known him. After being out for a week with an injury, Marco discovers why.

Notes: Can be read on it's own or seen as same part of a universe all my little one-shots seem to take place in. Marco / Ace, established pairing.

Facial Faux Pas

Marco breathed an internal sigh of relief when the Moby Dick came into view. The battle with the squad of marines that had stumbled over them restocking on a nearby island had gone on longer than expected. Only his and Ace's divisions had been there to do damage control while Thatch had his division move out with their supplies.

It should have been an easy battle, but apparently the navy was getting more generous with the kairoseki and several Marine squad leaders had coated weapons. Marco had watched, horrified, as Ace took a coated metal staff to the side of the head and instantly hit the ground, blood pouring down in an alarming stream. Thatch had grabbed him before fleeing with him to the supply boat, and as much as Marco wanted to follow his partner, his job was to help to bring the confrontation to an end and get his brothers safely away.

That had been several hours ago. The Moby had set sail for safety reasons, so his and Ace's divisions had a longer journey to make. Thankfully the seas were calm, the winds helpfully pushing their paddle-boats in the direction they needed to go. Under these conditions, Marco could have flown to the Moby in less than two hours, arriving with energy to spare, but he would never leave his brothers behind.

Loyalty could sometimes be very irksome.

But the ship was now in sight and as he looked down, several of the men waved at him to go on, knowing the Phoenix needed to see his mate and make sure the other commander was okay. They didn't need their hands held right up to the rope ladder anyway. Marco let out a grateful trill, and began a steady downward glide on the gentle winds, aiming for the deck with the stairs that led to the infirmary. Thatch's men knew the routine regarding unloading the supplies as that was Fourth Division's duty, and so the pompadour'd pirate's first priority would have been getting Ace medical attention.

Marco twitched his feathers irately. As if the fire-brand needed another concussion.

He switched to his human form just before he hit the deck, landing in a forceful stride that kept him moving towards the stairs and corridor beyond that led to Medical. Pushing open the infirmary doors, he immediately spotted Thatch hovering over Marco's why-yes-I'm-injured-yet-again partner while Whiskey shone a light into Ace's eyes. Marco made his way there, pausing just long enough to clap a hand on a shoulder here, or murmur words of encouragement there – Ace had not been the only Moby member to require treatment that day.

He finally reached Ace's bed, and he sidled up next to Whiskey, making sure to keep out of her way. Being a nuisance was the fastest way to get kicked out of medical, irregardless of his status of First Mate and the Division One Commander. "How is he, Whiskey?"

The Head Nurse didn't look away from her in-depth examination of the young man's eyes. "He took a really nasty hit to the temple," she said after a moment, flicking the light off. "I don't like the looks of his pupils. Being a logia, his powers should have helped heal him by now, but-"

"I told her about the sea stone on the end of the weapon," Thatch said, adding in his two bellie. "That marine hit him so hard, she actually had to clean pieces of kairoseki out of his head. There might be another piece still inside the wound."

Marco clenched his fists at Thatch's words. Simply killing that overbearing peacock of a Marine had not been enough, obviously.

"One of the girls is bringing around the portable x-ray," Whiskey said calmly. "We'll take a look and see how his noggin's doing, and I'll let you know. In the meantime, I assume you will be giving reports to Pops, yes?"

Despite the tone and the obvious question mark at the end of her words, what she had said was a statement, not a question. Thatch knew it in the way he straightened and gave her a nervous salute. "Yes, ma~am." Disobeying even the unspoken orders was the second fastest way of being booted out of the infirmary.

Marco shrugged and sat back on a neighbouring bed. The phoenix in him was screeching to protect his mate and as far as he was concerned, the phoenix took priority over even the All-Mighty Whiskey. "I'll keep out of the way," was all he said.

Whiskey shot him a vicious glare but it eventually softened, and she kicked his shin with her rubber-soled nursing shoe. "Don't get in the way," was all she eventually said, and Marco watched with satisfaction as Thatch was summarily dispatched from Medical, whining about why Division One commanders got special privileges and he didn't.

June wheeled the bulky x-ray machine over. It was essentially a box bolted to a platform on wheels, with a console full of buttons on one side, and an extendable arm with a small dark screen on the other. Marco couldn't work the thing if his life depended on it, but he had seen the machine in use many times, for many subordinates, and had never had an issue with it before. This day however, for some reason his inner Phoenix was ruffling its mental feathers inside his head as it was pulled towards his mate. Marco rolled his eyes and told the Phoenix to calm the hell down.

Whiskey stepped back so the younger nurse could lock it into position at the head of the bed and plug it in. July, June's twin sister, brought over a lead-filled leather apron that she carefully draped over Ace's motionless body, before stepping back out of range.

Whiskey, having put on her own, pulled the x-ray arm out and maneuvered it into position next to Ace's head. She gave Marco a wry look, but didn't bother telling to move back. Any radiation heading his way would be instantly blocked by the Phoenix's healing powers. Instead, she turned to ensure her apprentices were far enough away, before pressing a few buttons on the machine.

Marco watched as she took a series of x-rays from various angles before turning the machine off and pushing it against the wall. She opened up the side panel and pulled out the six negatives, still inside their protective coverings, and handed them to the twins. "Go get these developed. Rush 'em, and don't let Curiel whine about first come, first served. Ace comes before Kingdew's still life's."

Marco managed a small grin at that. None of their brothers would ever put anything before a crew mate's life. Whiskey's over-warnings and sarcasm were her way of venting her worries and concerns.

"Marco, come here and help me bandage his head for now," she said briskly, yanking the apron off Ace. "We'll reassess what else needs to be done once I get those x-rays back. For now, I want to keep the wound clean."

The first division commander knew better than to argue with her, and hopped off the bed.

o0o

It had been just under a week since Ace had been knocked unconscious. Marco had become a regular daily presence in the infirmary, trading barbs with Whiskey in an effort to relieve both of them of their tension. Ace's head was healing well, the small fractures revealed by the x-rays sealing themselves remarkably clean and quick, and their had been no additional shards of sea stone found inside the wound. That was something to be grateful for.

"It was still a bad hit," she told a somber Whitebeard at a commander's meeting several days after the incident. "It will take him some time to wake up from this." But he will, she didn't say. Marco knew it. Whiskey was worse than a dog with a bone with her patient's, and she wouldn't let Ace go without a fight. Neither would he.

There had been many visitors to the infirmary once Whiskey declared it was okay. Ace's division got priority – most of them had been witness to the hit that had taken their commander down and wanted some reassurance that the fiery teen was still alive. All of the commanders had visited at least twice; Haruta showed up like clockwork twice a day, and Thatch brought Marco's meals personally when the Phoenix didn't feel like leaving. Kingdew had decided it was his job to bring a daily report to Oyaji about Ace's progress, never mind that Whiskey gave him an actual, medically-sound one each morning. Izou was a frequent visitor as well, but it was mainly to bring clothing changes for Marco, and fresh, soft bed-wear for Ace.

It was about time for the first round of visitors that morning, Whiskey having just officially opened the infirmary doors (which were never actually locked, but she had put out the 'visitors permitted' sign).

"He's looking better today," said a voice behind Marco.

Marco nodded in response, not moving his eyes from his work. June and July had shown him a few stretches and exercises he could do to help Ace maintain muscle tone and decrease the possibility of bedsores from lying in bed for so long. He was gently flexing Ace's extended arm, linking his fingers with Ace's to press a kiss to his brat's knuckles before lowering the appendage back to the bed.

Rakuyo pulled a stool up to plop himself into. Macy was not at his side, the living weapon having been forbidden from the infirmary ever since it had eaten a bandaging station (1) and subsequently spent hours throwing up wet bundles of wraps and pads for people to step on. He watched Marco work for a second before leaning forward to stare closely at Ace's face.

He hummed thoughtfully.

Marco gave him a side-long look. "Yes?"

"Just thinking... for some reason, the brat reminds me of something... someone..."

Marco blinked, and stared down at Ace's face. He didn't quite get what Rakuyo was going for. He tried to view Ace through different eyes, but it was remarkably difficult. Ace looked like Ace to him. Same black hair framing cheekbones that could cut glass, same pattern of freckles tracking from one side of his face, over the slope of his nose, and across the other, same pouty lips, lax and slightly parted in sleep...

"It's the facial hair," Rakuyo said, sounding a bit distant as he worked through his memories. "You know he's so fastidious about never appearing with any."

Marco blinked again and stared at the thin layer of dark hair sprouting across Ace's upper lip and beginning to darken his jawline. "Huh." Rakuyo was right. Ace abhorred the idea of having any facial hair whatsoever, and was borderline fanatical about shaving every morning, and checking every night, as thought he couldn't even bear to sleep knowing there was a chance of him waking up with more than a five-o'clock shadow, even though Ace had the slowest growing hair on board. Poor Fossa had to shave twice a day – failure to shave would ensure him with a beard down to his knees in less than a month."I honestly didn't notice."

"Well, you've been worried about a different part of his head," Rakuyo kidded him, patting his shoulder. "But seriously, doesn't he strike you as someone familiar? If it was a bit more like... not Pop's, but say, Vista's?"

Familiar? Vista? The Phoenix stared at the faint beginnings of what would become a moustache if left alone, and imagined it darkening. Lengthening. Curling... ?

Something was suddenly poking at the back of his mind.

"Not Vista though," Rakuyo chuckled. "Someone else..."

No. Not Vista. Someone else. Someone Marco suddenly remembered vividly. Someone who also had dark hair, a strong jawline, a smile that stretched beyond what a normal mouth could...

And a moustache. Thick, dark, the ends curling up from constantly being twirled around a finger...

And a rumour... Marco's eyes flashed to Ace's freckles and was reminded of someone else all of a sudden. A woman, whose praises were being sung to his captain by-

Marco inhaled shakily, and stood up.

Rakuyo watched him. "Marco?"

"I'm going to get his shaving kit," Marco said calmly, heart thudding in his chest. "If Ace knew I'd let him go this long without grooming, he'd pluck me bald."

The mace-flinger laughed at that. "Too right, mate. He'd be beyond pissed." He stood up as well. "Well, maybe it'll come to me later. I'mma go see a chef about a plateful of rice balls. Want me to bring you something?"

Marco shook his head, smiling. "No, thanks. I'll come up myself after I clean Ace up a little."

"Later, Marco."

Marco breathed a sigh of relief as Rakuyo ambled out of the infirmary, hearing the excited clanking of his living weapon as it rejoined its master. He strode quickly out of the infirmary and turned down the hall, towards the steps that would lead to his and Ace's room in the commander's barracks.

Commanders were blessed with their own private bathrooms. Though small, they contained the basics and afforded commanders more privacy which was a blessing when Marco was stuck watching Ace exit the steamy shower stall, tanned skin red, and dripping wet with a tiny towel wrapped low on his hips. Those were the times Marco couldn't help but tackle him back inside for a second cleansing, the size of the shower be damned (though it was slightly embarrassing to have to have Fossa come in to repair the shower railing again, or to ask Izo to replace a torn curtain. He will say nothing about putting holes into the walls themselves, since it never happened as far as he is concerned. Never. Happened).

Ace's razor and shaving cream were on the sink where he'd left them the morning of their mission, and he gathered them up. He didn't need to bring a towel – the infirmary was full of them. He tucked them all into a small bag and headed back towards the infirmary.

o0o

Marco was just finishing, the final pull of the razor up the underside of Ace's vulnerable throat when a small laugh caught his attention. He looked over to see Thatch's head thrust through the door. "You can come all the way in, you know."

"I know! I'm just looking for that she-demon," Thatch hissed, eyes scanning left and right. "Apparently I'm due for a flu-shot and my personal beliefs have no say in the matter."

"The last time you got the flu, the fourth division went on strike and we had a war in the cafeteria," Marco said calmly, gently wiping Ace's face free of the shaving cream. "Whiskey had to deal with the most ridiculous casualties I'd ever heard of – what other crew can boast of having arms broken by frozen vegetables, or being cut by carrots used as daggers?"

"It was Pops' fault," Thatch grumbled, sidling inside and plopping down on the spare chair. "He started it by hurling those mashed potatoes at third division."

"No. Pops knocked out third division by hurling mashed potatoes so hard they caused concussions. It was mashed potatoes, Thatch. Mashed!"

"Pops was sorry later. But in all fairness, I got a taste of those potatoes myself and they were far too garlicky. And Jozu deserved some payback after that strike."

Marco snorted. "Naturally. That's why his mature and responsible reply to that was to tip over the table and order the men he had still awake to use their plates as shields."

"You sound like the most epic food fight of all time was a bad thing," Thatch complained, obligingly handing over Ace's aftershave and tossing the used towel Marco handed him into the bin nearby.

"If you hadn't been bedridden with the flu, the entire debacle would never have happened. Your hatred of wasted food would have nipped it in the bud." Marco paused, considering. "Then again, maybe it wouldn't have."

They smiled at each other. "How's he doing?" Thatch asked, after a minute. "He plan on waking up any time soon?"

Marco smiled briefly. "Whiskey said the swelling's gone down and his logia powers are fantastic at healing small fractures. She's expecting him to wake up any time, really."

"Really?" Thatch grinned widely. "That's awesome!"

"Isn't it?" came a dark-sounding voice from behind them. "It's almost as awesome as Thatch coming for his flu shot peacefully!"

Thatch's head dropped. "Shit."

"Now, now," Whiskey said cheerfully, latching onto his arm with a grip Marco knew from experience was nearly impossible to avoid. Whiskey's mastery over armament haki was so refined she had to actually concentrate to let it show in a visible black – usually it stayed invisible, a sign of true mastery. Thatch's own haki could probably break the grip, but not without breaking a few of Whiskey's fingers, and possibly his own arm at the same time. "Let us not disturb the sick and the healing, hmmm?"

Thatch squawked as he was dragged away, and Marco chuckled, turning his attention back to Ace, running his fingers along his lover's jawline to check the silky smoothness.

"Good job," croaked a tired voice.

Marco's eyes flew to Ace's and was rewarded with the long-awaited shine of silver as his eyes cracked open a few millimetres. "Ace!"

"Hey babe," Ace rasped. "...'ow long 'as it been?"

"A week tomorrow, love," Marco murmured, gripping Ace's fingers and bringing them up to press another kiss into the knuckle. "I was almost starting to get worried."

"Sorry," he sighed. "So tired..."

Another squawk came from behind them, and Ace's eyes forced themselves to open slightly wider.

"Just Thatch getting his flu-shot," Marco said softly. "He came in to visit you and got snagged by Whiskey."

"Poooooorrrrr..." Ace's voice trailed off into a huge yawn. "...bastard. Was 'opin' we'd 'ave another foo' figh'..."

Marco leaned down and pecked a swift but gentle kiss on Ac's lips and just stared at him for a minute, wondering if he should give the thoughts in his head a voice. Ace's appearance could just be a coincidence, and wasn't Ace too young anyway? But D's were mysterious and Ace did have an uncanny resemblance...

Marco shook his head, pressed another kiss to Ace's forehead and decided if there was a secret there, it was Ace's, and only Ace could decide when the time was right to reveal it. He'd just have to make sure Ace knew he was loved when he did. "Whiskey needs to take a look at you."

He stood up and turned to get Whiskey, only stopping when a weak grip latched onto his fingers. He looked down, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yes?"

"Love you," Ace murmured, eyes foggy. He was clearly going to fall back to sleep any second now.

Marco smiled, strongly this time. "Love you too."

Ace could keep his secrets. Phoenix's were incredibly patient creatures, after all.

end

Feedback loved, worshipped and adored! You guys are amazingly encouraging. This snippet was started about two years ago and just saw itself being finished this evening. A few encouraging comments recently received on TYD and LaJtWBP spurred me on to finish this. Next up on my list is the final chapter of the failed prank fic, and then finally, work on the last third remaining of the next chapter of TYD. Feedback works people. It really does.

(1) Bandaging station – I don't know what else to call it. The last few times I've been to the hospital, the rooms I've received treatment in always contained a vertical shelving unit made of transparent plastic and labelled with everything needed to bandage anything from a paper cut to a jagged wound; cloths, band aids of all sizes, cotton balls, disinfectants, gauze, hooked clips, ties, scissors, flexible tubing, unopened vials, packaged syringes, sterile needles etc, etc. There are similar units for other wounds (like broken bones have a shelving unit all to themselves with various cast-making apparatus's etc) stacked beside them.

In this case, Macy made a beeline straight for the bandages and happily gulped them down before crunching the shelving unit itself, thus making Whiskey the first woman in history to threaten to strangle an iron mace to death.