As always- all kudos to my beta, APCCP Mattemo.
Tashigi cracked her eyes open, then groaned as a familiar feeling seemed to pour in with the flickering light. Her body felt as though it had been run through a laundry wringer and someone was pounding on her head like a signal drum. She was also half-naked, rolled in blankets, and sleeping on the ground. Right off hand, she also couldn't remember where she was. Oh yes — she knew this feeling.
"Damn it all to hell, anyhow. Why is it I never learn my lesson?" She asked herself rhetorically.
"What lesson?"
That definitely wasn't herself answering. She rolled into a sitting position, painfully, clutched the blankets to her naked chest and squinted into the dark, across a flaring fire. She knew the voice, but she couldn't place it, right at the moment.
"The lesson to stop drinking the cheap grog before I pass out. And how not to get hangovers — I really need to work on that one."
She felt the sod around herself, then squinted at the darkened ground. "Where are we, anyway? And where are my glasses? I didn't break them again, did I?" Her voice was traversing octaves, increasingly panicked. "And where's Shigure?"
The man — her shore-leave partner, perhaps — stood up and skirted the fire to where she sat. She had a feeling she was forgetting something important, but her head's pounding was preventing her from thinking, really. "Act like you remember his name, idiot." She started mentally tallying the other officers on the ship, trying to remember who she'd been assigned with this time — and why they'd been drinking so much.
He moved in front of her, silhouetted against the fire, and pressed her katana into her outstretched hand — he was obviously familiar with her priorities — then her glasses.
"I don't think it's drinking you, ah, need to blame..." He trailed off as she fumbled her glasses on, wincing with the movement.
She gasped as she looked at him, recollection flooding in on her. "Roronoa Zoro!"
She skittered backwards desperately, putting some space between them, and leapt into stance, drawing Shigure from its scabbard smoothly.
Or, at least, that's what she meant to do. Instead she got tangled in the enveloping blankets and slammed her head backwards into the tree she'd tied the lean-to off on, in what she would swear was the exact same spot she'd hit earlier.
"Fuck!" She moaned, dropping her katana to clutch at her poor beleaguered head.
The pirate stepped forward, a hand outstretched. "Oi, are you okay?" He actually sounded concerned. She almost hated him, in that instant, for being that human.
"No, I'm not okay, asshole!" The hand fell, and he backed a step, seemingly considering her.
Tashigi took a few deep breaths, calming and centering herself, and let go of the pointless anger. She'd defeated herself, after all, it was no fault of his. Should she hold it against him that he had been the catalyst? Or that he was a decent enough person to stay and help an injured enemy in the midst of the wilderness? She dropped her hands — from a bandage he must have applied for her — and ventured an apologetic half-smile. Basic courtesy was the least she could do. And she would do it too, damn it, even if it killed her.
"Sorry." As his tense expression faded, she felt the bump cautiously and ventured a prognosis from long experience. "It's just a headache. I'll be fine in a few hours. Like I said, it's really no worse than a hangover."
He settled back onto the log-seat that she'd dragged to the fire, seemingly accepting her explanation — her apology. Which was good, because it was the only one he was going to get.
She attempted to settle back more comfortably against the trunk, pulling her knees to her chest to disguise her hands as she buttoned her jacket. It was all well and good to go bare chested in a battle, maybe, but during civilized conversation it was another thing altogether. If sitting at a fire across from a pirate was civilized. Regardless, she wasn't going to sit her with her chest open to the air. It was getting cold, and the air smelt of rain.
Obviously his eyesight was well up to piercing the cloudy night to see her actions, for he shifted his gaze to the surrounding darkness, allowing her a modicum of dignity by pretending not to notice. It was more polite than she would have believed him. Although he'd been nice enough when they first met, she guessed. Right up until he started being a sexist-pirate-bastard, that is. She squashed the now standard stab of jealous anger at the thought of his skills.
Tashigi jumped a little when he cleared his throat, then, directed to the woods he was staring at, it seemed — "I, ah, didn't think you cussed."
She finished the buttoning and looked over at him, now curious. "I'm a marine." Then, at his shrug, "But no, I try not to. It's unbecoming. Courtesy costs nothing and is priceless, my mother always said."
Reminded, (reprimanded?) by the memory, she used the tree to climb to her feet, then bowed low to his stunned stare. "Thank you for your care."
He looked back into the darkness, blushing again. She got the feeling he wasn't used to apologies, or thanks.
"Wasn't a problem," he muttered, shrugging. Then, "I had to cut up one of your blankets for bandages, though. And I, um, ate some of your dinner." He faced her again, seemingly daring her to criticize.
"That's fine." There were plenty of the blankets anyway. She hesitated, then decided that she was in no condition to fight him anyway. And he'd helped her when he hadn't to do anything but leave her to die — it would not have even been his fault.
"I have some alcohol, though it's fairly cheap stuff, mostly for sanitation. And an aid-kit with some antiseptic powder. I could... I mean, I'll bind your wound if you'll do the same for me." She continued in a rush, embarrassed and somehow desperate. "The back of the head — I can't reach there really well."
He hesitated, perhaps as uncomfortable with the situation as she was, then shrugged again — obviously a favorite expression.
"Just let me get in my pack." Retrieving it, she moved toward his seat on the far side of the fire, hesitating only slightly to lay her Shigure out of easy reach on the blanket pile, a gesture of trust. She only hoped that he would not realize how much it cost her.
The wine, as it turned out, was more paint thinner than beverage. Zoro knew now why she'd said she brought it for disinfectant. None the less, he gulped some down as she used a cloth soaked in the stuff to scrub out the scratch on his arm, and not gently either. He was damned if he'd complain, though, and horrid tasting alcohol was at least strong enough to take the edge off the ache. She finished scrubbing the wound to her — obviously too strict — standards, then sprinkled some burning powder on it before wrapping it in bandages taken from the kit.
He flexed the arm cautiously as the marine backed away from him, testing how tight the dressing was while watching her surreptitiously. She set a kettle on a tripod over the fire, filling it with some sort of grain mixture and water in seemingly equal portions. Then she busied herself breaking some branches into kindling, bringing the fire up to lick at the bottom of the kettle.
She'd carefully put her katana down out of reach, but she still moved cautiously, obviously at the edge of what she thought her reflexes could handle, should he draw. He approved, really. You could never be too careful, even while at a truce. Personally, he preferred to just never let his weapons leave his side in the first place, but he guessed she meant some sort of peace or apology or some weird shit by leaving it there, or whatever. He'd probably never understand what women were thinking.
Stifling a laugh as he watched the marine stumble her way to the bank of the pool, he reached into his haramaki and pulled out his bandana, cleaned in the selfsame cold stream water. He attempted to tie it around his arm; it just fit, even shortened as it was, and covered most of the bandage. With any luck his mates would never even notice; not that they were incredibly observant under any circumstances. Still, he found himself disinclined to consider explaining the wound. It just wouldn't come out right, he was sure.
The sky rumbled lowly and a colder wind swept the clearing. Rain was coming, and soon, he'd guess, though he was not the weather-witch to pinpoint the second. The marine kept moving, readying her camp for the storm, pushing the loosely tied bandages out of her face again and again. He sighed, recognizing make work when he saw it, and gestured.
"I need that stuff if I'm supposed to fix your head."
She started at his voice — they had been silent for a good quarter-hour; then shrugged, seemingly to herself, before bringing the aid-kit and wine back over to the log where he sat. She barely hesitated before sitting on the ground in front of him, presenting him with the back of her head.
He picked up the hot water soaked rag and waited while she took a long swig of the grog, setting it back down with a shudder. He began untangling the blanket strips from around her head, eventually cursing and pulling the entire lot off her head in a tangled mess. She hissed as the fabric ripped away from the dried blood on the wound, then made no more noises as he set about cleaning the blood away. Strong. Most of his mates would have been whining by now; even the stupid cook — if there were any women there to hear him and take pity.
She cleared her throat as he worked, then spoke up. "Why are you a pirate, anyway?"
"What?" He stopped, surprised, then resumed as she waved her hands about in front of her.
"I'm making conversation. It's just..." She paused as he took a blood-stiffened hair knot near the wound, and tried to comb it out with his fingers. He tried to keep his movements as gentle as he could. No need to make it any worse. "You were a bounty hunter before, right? Although, that's not any bett- I mean, not that..." She trailed off again.
He shrugged, though she obviously could not see him with her back to him, and dipped the rag into the water in the shallow bowl again. "Luffy asked me to be."
She almost turned to face him, before he tapped on her head, meaningfully. She turned back away from him, but continued her question. "He just asked? That's it? 'Hey, you wanna be a murdering pirate?' 'Sure, why not, sounds great!' You must be joking." Her voice was incredulous, and he had to stifle a snicker for her "Luffy" impression.
He considered explaining, but decided it was an involved story, one that someone who didn't know Luffy would probably not understand. "I've never murdered anyone."
"But..." She sounded like she still wanted to argue.
Grabbing the oilcloth packet of antiseptic powder, he forestalled her questions with one of his own. "What about you? Why are you a marine?"
He held a clean gauze pad to the gash — not really bleeding anymore — and started wrapping the bandages; more carefully this time, when he was not working on someone lying down at the end of his reach. Zoro was not really sure why he was asking, except that she had started it.
She answered him as she got to her feet, checking the security of the wrapping just as he had the one on his arm. "I... Loguetown was pretty crazy, when I was a kid. When the pirates..." She trailed off and dropped her hands from her head, seeming to find the bandages secure. She moved to the kettle, lifted the lid and stirred. No discernible smell cut through the smell of rain in the air — obviously, she was not a cook, either.
He was beginning to wonder if she was going to answer or if he should just leave when thunder rumbled overhead, much louder this time. He looked up at the sky involuntarily, though it was too dark to see anything. As glanced back at the marine, he realized she was looking at him oddly. As he met her gaze she looked away, settling on the ground on the far side of the fire; in reach of her weapon this time, he noticed. When she finally spoke again, he almost started.
"It got pretty bad, sometimes." She waved a hand, seeming dismissive. "Learning the sword helped a lot. But it wasn't until Commodore Smoker — until the real marines — that it got better. They helped so much, I just knew..." She gestured, formlessly.
For some reason, the story irritated him. "So what about the sword?" He indicated her katana. "I thought you were a swordsman; you said..." He trailed off, unsure what point he was trying to make.
She looked at the sword, following his gesture, and her fingers twitched — an instinctive desire for the weapon in hand that he knew well. "Shigure, it's beautiful. They are all very beautiful."
He exhaled through his nose. Was she purposely missing the point? "No, not the sword sword. I mean, the Way — being stronger and, and..." He slashed his hand through the air, even more annoyed. This was ridiculously stupid.
"I know the Way needs strength. And you can't help anyone else if you aren't strong enough, either." She looked back over at him again with that strange look. "If I get stronger, strong enough... Then it won't make a difference what crazy powers they all have. I'll be able to help everyone live better — the people and the swords." The clouds above them rumbled again, as if to punctuate her words.
Zoro barely felt cold gust of wind that followed, prompting her to get up and move her blankets further under her lean-to. His blood felt hot, and he stood as she did. It was ridiculous. It was more like Vivi, or... he spoke before he realized the words had left his mouth.
"So, what — you think you get strong, then you can sail around stealing swords and telling people how to live?"
She turned, in the midst of straightening something under the tarp, her jaw dropping. "Excuse me?"
The insult came out of no where, rooting her to the spot for a moment. Her knuckles turned white on the sheath of her katana. How dare he!
"Marines are nothing like pirates. And to, to make sure good people can live without being afraid to be near the shore is not 'telling them how to live!' " She gestured with her left hand. "And freeing the swords from some asshole, who uses them for... For killing and raping and..."
"So if they're an asshole they don't deserve a sword, no matter how strong they are, or what they've done? Or, what, who gets to decide who are good people? You?" He snorted derisively.
She resisted the urge to draw the sword and shove it down his throat — it would probably get lodged between his toes, the way his foot was in his mouth. He didn't even seem to have a reason! One moment, normal conversation — the next, twisting her words, attacking her. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but you had better turn around and walk away, Roronoa."
He laughed. Laughed! At her! She switched her sheath to her left hand, slid her foot forward a bit.
"You aren't even strong enough to make me leave, and you want to be strong to 'help people?' " His right hand dropped to rest on the katana at his hip.
"Being strong isn't the end all and be all. How would a stupid pirate even understand anyway?" She turned, slightly, raising her right hand until it hovered at the level of her waist.
Her answer seemed to make him even more angry, crazily out of proportion with her words. "You are nothing alike!"
"Huh?" She managed, nonplussed. Maybe she'd heard him wrong? What did he mean, she was…
"You are just some damned, idiotic, marine know-it-all bitch who thinks..." His litany brought the anger back all in a flash, like gunpowder in a hot skillet. This was the last straw. She drew Shigure, determined to cut him into pirate chum for the sharks.
Which, in hindsight, was incredibly stupid. She had suffered a head injury and had lost some blood; and even on her best day, she probably wasn't a match for him, much as she hated to admit it. And she was definitely not on her best day anymore.
Although her blade cleared the scabbard before his did, he was the one that came leaping over the fire; the flickering light making a grotesque mask of his face and glowing along the edge of his katana as it swept toward her.
To call it a fight would only be a salve to her pride. However much she had improved, he seemed to have gone twice as far. His first blow brought Shigure, still coming into guard, far out of line, and his second blow knocked her stumbling backward into a large tree, hanging on to her sword only with an effort of both hands, tingling from the force of his swings. She desperately tried to get back into stance as his blade blurred in again, but instead, Shigure tumbled from her — now numb — grip. As his sword flashed in toward her neck she didn't even have time to close her eyes.
Which meant she saw perfectly as a simple twitch of his wrist buried his blade effortlessly — at least six inches into the hardwood of the tree she'd been backed up against, deferring the killing blow. Again.
She started trembling in pure, animal anger. Not again with the pity! How dare he! She glared at him, opened her mouth to denounce his sexism... And with a deafening crack, the sky opened above them.
The rain was not quite ice cold, but it seemed to quench the flames of his anger. He stared at the woman in front of him, not quite understanding how this had even come about.
So she wasn't like Kuina. So what? She was some totally different person, who just resembled her. That was it. The only thing they had in common was being female swordsmen and some sort of crazy persecution complex about being a girl — like he had anything to do with that. Thunder crashed again, as if to punctuate his thoughts. The marine was glaring at him, defiant, an expression he'd never seen on Kuina, and like the lightning, it hit him. It didn't matter. Really. She wasn't the same at all.
He opened his mouth to say something — to apologize, to explain. And he met her eyes again, and just like that, as if it had been waiting for that moment, everything changed. Suddenly, it felt like, even though he was at the end of an outstretched katana, he was too close to her. He tightened his grip, to pull his sword from the tree... And she advanced.
She didn't take a step or anything. It was like... Like she swayed forward, her body moving with the wind, except when the gust passed, she was closer to him. He realized he was breathing fast, though he wasn't angry any more, or winded; he was abruptly aware, as he hadn't even been when she was under the falls, that she was a woman. He was so used to ignoring that about people.
She moved forward another half a step, standing even with his outstretched hand, and tilted her head, studying him, it seemed. The firelight reflected off of the water beading on her glasses, and he wondered if she could even see through all of it — he couldn't.
He noticed she was trembling slightly, and abruptly realized he was as well; his pulse thundering in his ears, "Go, go, go, go!"
And he knew he needed to. Something was changing here that could never go back, if he didn't go now. Nothing he could fight, it was time to flee. He shifted his weight, then stopped — as if frozen — as she slowly lifted an arm. Her hand stopped, hovering above his wrist, and he could swear he could feel heat there, though she wasn't touching him.
She tilted her head a little more, and with the changing angle, he could see her eyes again. They seemed dark, darker than he remembered, and he didn't recognize... Didn't know if he wanted to recognize the decision that seemed to rest there. He tore his eyes from her face, looking at the slim hand above his left arm, waiting in some sort of limbo for something…
In a split second, over the course of a million years; in three shaking deep breaths she took two more of the swaying, almost dancing movements. Her hand skimmed his arm as she advanced, still not really touching him; now she was standing right in front of him — her pale hand seeming to glow in the darkness before his chest. His heart was pounding centimeters from her fingers; adrenaline flooding his body. She raised her head, captured his gaze. And stood there, in front of him, unmoving.
He realized, abruptly, in the hissing of the rain, that she was giving him a chance to flee. The enemy, the change before him, was not something he could defeat, so she was honorably allowing him to go. He could run, now; right now, or he could accept it. He should run. Just pull the Wadou Ichimonji from the tree — head into the dark woods surrounding them. It wasn't as if a little rain was going to kill him. He could find the ship in the morning — or they would find him.
And if he did, then then next time that he met the marine, he would still be the same pirate, and he — and his mates — would run, laughing, the same, as ever, as always.
She — Tashigi — still waited, in the rain, before him; not running. And so, slowly, with almost a sense of the inevitable, he moved forward those last few miles or inches between them and lowered his head.
Final chapter soon. (For a given value of soon.) Successfully edited to put off the smut editing again! Yay! (I'm so lazy. -laugh-) Actually, this story has developed a lot more plot by my changing the smut pacing. So it's probably good practice.
The argument — it seems forced. The Kuina thing is kinda a bitch to deal with, but I don't think you can write just ignoring it. And the alternative of making Tashigi some sort of stand-in for a dead twelve-year-old is sick. Feh. I tried, at least, and my loyal Mattemo suggested nothing better.