I had actually intended to write only one story, but as I was brainstorming on a piece of paper, the list of things I wanted to include grew longer and longer, and I knew by the end of the night that I would have to either turn it into one long story or write a series of oneshots. I'd never done the latter, and it sounded easier.
This is one of the things on the list...
(Beware of mild language.)
There are a lot of things that Smoker hates. He's just that kind of man. He is rarely happy unless he's chasing pirates—there's that thrill, that animal instinct for the hunt. That may be the one thing he truly loves; it's the cobbles under his boots, the adrenaline rush searing in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears like surf on a shore.
But the things he hates…yes, they are many. Pirates and crime, corrupt marines and stupid orders, and not getting his coffee in the morning. But one of the things highest on his blacklist, right above people screwing with his crew, is being helpless. Harmless. Superfluous. Oh, it grates at him. He avoids it if he can, and no one has disabled him in battle for years now.
But there was that one night…
He doesn't remember the date. He was sick, feverish as hell, hallucinating and burning as he swayed and staggered in the direction of the doctor's rooms.
He collapsed outside the door.
After that, there were delirious visions, things that didn't bear mentioning and indescribable horrors that he later forgot. There was blackness, and then the freezing burn of ice on his searing hot skin.
Smoker roared with the pain of it, the unbearable contrast, but when he tried to move, he found all his limbs kitten-weak and numb. It wasn't the cold—he wouldn't have let something like that stop him. It was…
"We put you in an ice bath, Captain," said the doctor's weary voice. "Clothes'n all, of course." Smoker, sweat shining on his scarlet face, barely managed to roll his head to the left for a good look at the man. Shadowed, sullen eyes stared back, unimpressed by Smoker's fearsome expression.
"Get…me…out…"
"Then your monster fever would kill you."
"Damn…you…"
"Whatever you say." The doctor was always ill and tired, pale-faced and stubbly. If Smoker had been the kind of person to comment on the irony of a sick doctor, he would have. As it was, he'd just accepted things for the way they were; it didn't concern him.
This, on the other hand, did. You couldn't just dump someone who'd eaten a Devil Fruit in a bath—and it burned, cold and hot at once. Yes, there was the weakness, and yes, it was humiliating, but the thing that normal people didn't understand, would never understand unless they took a bite themselves, was the fear.
It was paralyzing. It was disgustingly, inexorably unstoppable. It came with the package.
Smoker hated it.
Something he knows about the world, another thing he hates: pirates have terrible timing. Pirates have the worst timing in the world. They will always, always turn up when they were least needed.
They turned up then.
Their first inkling that something was wrong on deck was the distinct chiming noise of Lieutenant Sweetheart's Bell-bell abilities at work (a Marine who really leaves the enemies' heads ringing, hah, oh damn I'm still delirious).
"Hm," said the doctor, and stood, taking his pistols from where they lay on the floor and moving ponderously towards the door.
"Hey…!"
"Stay put, Captain. It's for your health."
"Bastard…come…ba…"
The world collapsed inwards and bats flew out of the walls. Smoker blinked, sweat trickling into his eyes, and everything righted itself. Above his head, the chaos of battle was a faint rustle, echoing down through the resonant wood of the ship's inner framework. He tried to raise his arms, struggled to shift the muscles of his back, fought and gasped and cursed and could not move. Occasionally, the hallucinations would start again, but as the fiery iciness seeped into his body, it was as though the fever had begun to pulse out of his body.
Heightened lucidity did nothing for his fury or that awful, disgusting fear. Smoker sulked in his anger and boxed it in, straining for any hint at the tide of the combat above. There was no doubt that his men would win—that was a given—but as captain, there was that basic need to fight, chase, and generally be involved. It was his responsibility to prevent as many casualties as was within his power, and besides that…
…well, he just had to be there. He was their captain, and whether they needed him there or not, that was his place.
Smoker gritted his teeth against the cold and pain, wishing fervently for nicotine. The least the doctor could have done was given him a cigar or two (or three). For a medic, the man had absolutely no sense of decency.
Faint sound of crashing, a thud, footsteps. Something told him this wasn't one of his men; Smoker strained at the inertia of submersion, one last desperate effort to free himself.
It didn't work. The infirmary door's handle twitched, clicked, and then clattered to the floor as a warhammer splintered through the wood. The pirate, dressed all in red and carrying a knife in one hand and the hammer in his other, instantly spotted Smoker, fully clothed in the broad metal washtub of ice.
The knife twitched—his arm was bleeding heavily, flesh opened wide near the shoulder. Smoker felt a moment's fierce pride in his men before the imminent threat of death came limping towards him, leering unpleasantly. The Marine captain scowled, staring, waiting for the outcome, one way or the—
BANG
A hole opened in the pirate's forehead, followed a moment later by a thick line of blood, which spattered the already stained infirmary floor. Then the corpse crumpled ungracefully to the ground, and the doctor was visible, pistol still raised. He looked from the dead man to Smoker, then back again.
Then he said, "You look better."
"Hnnnnn," said Smoker. Words were having difficulty clawing their way out of his throat, but his eyes conveyed what his mouth couldn't.
"You want to fight. Are you suicidal?"
Glare.
"You could die."
Curled lip, snarl.
"I'm tired of arguing," said the doctor, and shoved heavily at the edge of the tub with one foot. It toppled onto one side, sending ice water spreading over the wooden floorboards. Smoker's forehead smacked into floor, his body left awkwardly twisted as it had fallen, his limbs still regaining feeling…
…But the fear was gone. His fingers twitched, his legs flexed…smoke wisped from his shoulders, and though the cigars in his jacket holsters were soaked (to his mounting wrath), the doctor always had a cheap cardboard box of self-rolls by his office.
Better than nothing.
The White Chase went to kick ass.
Of course the victory that night was theirs, and of course Smoker managed to recover from the mysterious illness in record time, but the point still stands, and always will until the day he dies.
Smoker hates to be helpless.
I should probably be titling these so that they act as separate stories... Oh, well.
My art teacher once had a fever this high, complete with hallucinations. Devil Fruit user in an ice bath! I just had to include it. Realistically, of course, one probably wouldn't recover that fast, and even if they did, they would probably be incapacitated for quite a while afterward.
Well, Smoker is special. Smoker is a superbeast. Smoker doesn't care about debilitating, life-threatening fevers! So there!
You know something? I have the best reviewers ever. It's great to have you.
REPLIES
Aoihand: Thanks! Nrrr, yes, Smoker/Ace/Anything male and sexy is disturbingly and rampantly popular. This is silly, because, as you say, he "gets shit done". ;) He has no time for romance! There is Justice to be meted out!
Amethyst Turtle: You...there...what...Amethyst... I am not worthy. I'm still trying to get over Aoihand! Seriously! XD
*ahem* That done with (don't be creeped out), glad you like it! Some days it feels like my writing always turns out with a flashback feel to it, but at least it worked for that one. Of course, he'll join the Marines eventually-in my fantasy-world Loguetown, anyway-but yes, I feel he would be much happier as an independent agent. Every time I see him, I have these aneurysms of awesome overload...
Liashi, FNA Sora: Ah, thank you! I have a penchant for trying to work out what parts of characters' lives caused their personalities to develop the way they did. I figure he lived in Loguetown because he saw the execution as a 12-year-old, and after that, the place would have been a bottleneck of pirates heading for the Grand Line...not a nurturing environment. (Theory rant...)
So yeah. :D I'm sure there are other fics like this out there somewhere...maybe someone'll notice this one and think, Hey, he does need more attention! ...That's what I hope, anyway. Probably in vain.
MissDilemma: Thanks! Yeah, he RAWX.
Kiarra-Chan: :D Thanks! I have to say, regardless of whether his past was anything like this, I really really really want some canon backstory for Smoker. And I'm glad you want to hear more, because I'd be very much obliged to write more. ;) Enjoy! (I hope.)
Zexion's Somebody: Thanks, you're welcome, and yes, we really do need more Smoker. (And more cowbell, haha...ha...heh... Just pretend that isn't there...)
penniless1: ...Sure! XD You make me happy. Hopefully length and plausibility will hold up throughout however many chapters end up here. On another note, that does makes sense, now you mention it...it would explain part of why his pirate-catching methods are so reliable. Elsewhere, of course, it's just his natural badassery. ;D
Phalanx: Thanks! Yeah, the idea is he hasn't quite dropped his street punk ways since becoming a Marine-thus the insubordination and court martials and whatnot. XD
