A/N~ Okay, soooo I've had a mixed week this week XD
Amazing reviews, poor health, awesome inspiration bursts, no sleep, 3D2Y Special coming out in ENGLISH DUB (YAS) and no sleep XD So yeah, a mixed bag, but this one's finally coming out of the bag XD (...I suck at puns. Oh how I was i could draw power from Whitebeard and his legendary dad jokes.)
Anyways, here goes the next chapter! WARNING: Sensitive themes ahead. If you're triggered, please proceed with caution.
I OWN NOTHING. ALSO I'M NOT A DOCTOR, SO FORGIVE ANY INACCURACIES XD
Enjoy :)
Chapter 7
I still swear that we can reign
Like the kings and queens of better yesterdays.
Marco decides to poke his head through the door once an hour has come and gone. He looks across the steaming room at the kids.
They're still in the bathtub, quiet now, but for once the silence isn't a fearful one. Luffy's still playing with the bubbles, or what's left of them, but his slanted smile is lethargic; no doubt it's thanks to the water. Ace is no different, tiredly pouring water over Luffy's head and washing out the remnants of soapy bubbles in the younger boys' hair, gentle in his ministrations. Sabo is marginally better, though the riffraff from earlier (general lack of energy due to hunger, thirst, illness, god knows what else) leaves him slumping against the rim of the tub, droopy eyes observing his brothers.
Marco blinks. They…do know they're allowed to get out of the bath at any time, right? Or are they awaiting consent from Izo or Marco to do so before they fall asleep in the water?
The first commander shakes his head with a sigh, carefully shutting the door again. He leans against the wall, a finger tapping his chin. What should he do? What can he do, really? They're timorous but comfortable enough around Izo, appeased by his smiles and patient indulgence in their former playfulness. But the man isn't here. Marco is. And if the glares he keeps getting from Ace and the wary glimpses from Sabo are anything to go by, his presence isn't quite welcome yet. He wonders if it ever will be.
They need to get dressed and see to Whiskey soon, in case they really are (physically) sick…but keeping them awake as they are now seems cruel. But he also doesn't want to scare them. God, this is uncomfortably close to how one might treat wild animals, a notion that disgusts the phoenix horribly. Seriously, where the hell is Izo –?
"I'm back!"
"Jiminy Freakin' –!" Marco curses and spins on the spot, flailing gracelessly, finding a very pleased cross-dresser standing a foot behind him, a basket of neatly folded clothes in his arms, most of which are vibrant in color compared to the ugly brown and greys of the boys' former garments. He's all done up now, having made time (somehow) to freshen up in the hour he'd been away, his wet kimono replaced.
Izo smirks. "Gotcha."
Marco frowns, barely withholding a pout that would make Haruta proud. "Don't do that, yoi," he mutters.
"Oh, but it really is such fun," Izo chuckles, unrepentant. He's been hanging out with Thatch, clearly. Can't have that for much longer. "How are the boys?" Izo asks. "Are they done with their bath?"
"Still in it. I think they're waiting on one of us to tell them to get out, yoi," Marco replies, and Izo groans.
"Oh good lord," he sighs, shaking his head. "Figures that would happen. Best get them out before they drown themselves, then." He then nods down at his basket, grinning proudly. "Look, I've already got three adorable outfits ready for them to put on. More are on the way, of course; my men are hard at work as we speak."
Marco blinks, hard. He shouldn't be surprised, because this is Izo, but still – "All of your men?"
"Uh, yes?" Marco quickly decides he doesn't like the look his brother gives him, one that might imply he is an uncultured idiot. "You know as well as I that boys go through clothes like crazy, always getting into ridiculous shenanigans." Izo pauses, considering, and shrugs a shoulder. "Or maybe that's just you lot –"
"Oi."
"– so I want to make sure they'll have plenty to spare, everything they might need during their stay. I heard tell that the next island we're docking at is a winter one, so I've set Kenga, Jules, O'Brien and a dozen others on prepping appropriate the winter wear; some boots, of course some fluffy scarves to match their coats – colour coordination is important, don't you dare fight me on this, you will lose – and maybe some woolly hats –"
Marco swiftly raises a hand to silence Izo before he can possibly go any further. His smile is bewildered, but no less sincere. "You're really going all out on these kids, aren't you?" he says, and lowers his hand to shove both in his pockets. He tils his head, his smile broadening. "You hardly do the same for any of us, yoi."
Izo regards his smile for a moment and then huffs, nose upturned. "Please, I do more for you ungrateful bastards than you realize," he grouses without heat. "Besides, they're children and our guests. Someone has to be a good host, and I'd like to think myself as such." He steps around Marco to enter the shower room, cheerfully announcing his presence to the boys.
Marco chuckles under his breath, trying and failing quite spectacularly not to feel like a hypocrite when he muses how taken the crew have already become by the three stowaways as he follows Izo inside.
0o0o0
Minutes later, the boys are following the commanders once more through the halls, dried off and fully clothed.
Despite his eccentrics, Marco must admit Izo really hadn't been lying about the new outfits; they fit near perfectly, transforming the trio completely from what they once were.
Sabo now dons a pair of black boots and knee-length shorts, royal blue to match his button-up, the sleeves rolled to the elbows and the buttons left unfastened on his own accord, revealing the black t-shirt underneath. Luffy tugs curiously at the hem of his new black tank top, giggling at the grinning monkey face printed on the front (and how the hell had they any time for that?), comfortable in the denim shorts and sandals which he seems to adore. Ace seems comfortable in his new combat boots, matching black cargo shorts that fall just short of the knee, fastened by a belt with an 'A' on the buckle. His tank top is a dark red, and Marco might have imagined the slight smile on his face upon reading the word 'fire' printed at the front. The smile is nowhere to be seen now, replaced with his default scowl as he shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling Marco's eyes on him.
The first mate is impressed, awed almost. Take away the hallowed cheeks and malnourished frames, they look like ordinary teenagers. And dammit, even with Sabo's down-turned eyes and nervous twitching and Ace's permanent frown…they're almost cute. The shy little smile Luffy sends his way certainly isn't doing his poor heart any favors, either.
"I'm a genius," Izo whispers over his shoulder, followed by a truly smug wink. Marco rolls his eyes, but he lets him have this. He's earned it.
Whiskey is waiting for them when they reach the infirmary, leaning against the door-frame with her arms crossed and a single brow raised at the commanders, the picture of beautiful impatience. "Took you long enough," she gripes.
Izo crosses his arms, trying and failing not to sulk petulantly. "Well sorry for wanting them to look nice," he mutters, turning his head away with an indignant sniff. Marco pats his shoulder, praying for patience. These two hardly ever see eye to eye, and only god knows why. Honestly, Marco can't bring himself to care.
Whiskey rolls her eyes heavenward at Izo's dramatics, but she's quick to smile down at the three boys. "Hello, boys," she says kindly (and good god is that a strange thing to hear from such a brash woman). "My name is Whiskey, and I'm the head nurse here aboard the Moby Dick. I'm just going to give you three a quick check-up to make sure you're okay, see if you've contracted any sort of illness or in case you have any medical conditions or allergies that the medical staff need to be made aware of for as long as you sail with us. Is that okay with you?"
Sabo glances up at her once only to duck his head back down in the next instant with a mumbled "Yes, ma'am." Ace's cheeks have a mild, but quite noticeable pink tint to the pale, freckled skin, and averting his gaze from her does little to hide it. Luffy offers the head nurse a bashful smile and a little wave, his other hand clasping Ace's sweaty palm.
(Marco wants to laugh so bad. But he does want Ace to like him, and would rather his head stay where it is and not incur the wrath of Whiskey. Her anger rivals Whitebeard's on a bad day.)
But Izo has no such inhibitions, and he snickers behind his hand. "So precious," he whispers to Marco, the first mate struggling to keep his silence and his smile as Whiskey beckons the boys inside, smiling all the while, ignoring the snorting pirates.
Ace casts a final look over his shoulder to see if either commander is following. Marco doesn't take it personally when the boy looks the slightest bit relieved before moseying after his brothers.
Whiskey shuts the door behind them and pins the commanders with a stern look; the sunny smile is long gone, but her frown is not unkind. "Normally, Marco, I'd be more than willing to let you in to help with this sort of thing," she says, "but right now I can't have anyone of a higher rank hanging around any longer than necessary. They're incredibly nervous as it is, and I need them calm; your presence might give the impression they're being guarded, and not in a manner that induces a sense of security. I trust the room is finished and ready for them to occupy?" She turns to Izo, who nods once. "Good. I'll have June escort them there once I'm done and report to the commanders' room. If they're willing, I'll share what I've learned. In the meantime –"
"Scram," Izo and Marco harmonize with rueful smiles. "We get it, yoi. I'll have Rakuyo get his tools set for those cuffs once you give the all clear," Marco adds. With a nod to the first mate, Whiskey slips back into the infirmary, shutting the door with finality.
In the lingering hush of the empty hallway, the two commanders trade a look. With the boys free from their care, Marco…well, almost feels at a loss as of what to do now. He won't deny that he's become somewhat attached to the brats, though they've shown no signs of reciprocating, distrustful of his every move like deer in an open meadow.
(Perhaps it's the phoenix in him, vehemently objecting the idea of leaving such helpless…hatchlings (good god) on their own, even when said 'hatchlings' are not wholly without defences, even with a woman he trusts with his life. He politely tells her to shut the hell up and calm down.)
"Well," Izo sighs, shattering the silence at last as he spins on his heel, "I believe I'll go check on the progress my men are making with the boys' clothes in the interim." He glances at Marco over his shoulder, and Marco quickly decides he doesn't like the shape of the cross-dresser's smile. "I trust you'll be updating Pops…or are you gonna give in to mother nature and make a nest out here 'til the boys come out?"
Marco does not pout, but it's a very close thing. "Shut up, yoi."
Izo only laughs as he walks away, disappearing down the hall with a flashy swish of his robes, and Marco watches him go; despite the playful jeers (something he's no stranger too, as a brother and as a carrier of his devil fruit) he does linger by the door a moment longer, frowning. Part of him wants to risk Whiskey's fury and go in, to see for himself that the boys are alright…and maybe to prepare the nurse for what she might see.
(Slavery leaves more than mere mental scars. And though Whiskey has seen countless wounds, some so horrible it churns even Marco's gut with repugnance at the thought…he wonders if she can handle seeing anything of the kind on the body of a child. Whitebeard barely could, years ago, and an island had suffered his wrath for it.)
His inner phoenix croons and hisses at him as he ultimately turns away and heads for the main deck, leaving the infirmary behind. They'll be fine. Whiskey will take care of them. You worry too much, phoenix.
(He really might have to go break something to appease her at this rate. A chair might do.)
0o0o0
Barely two hours later, Whiskey is storming into the commanders meeting room with a dark look on her face that has everyone, even captain Whitebeard himself, tense up with worry as they clear a path for her. She has a file clenched in one hand and a bottle of her namesake in the other, already half empty, which she slams down on the table after taking a mighty belt of it.
The fact that Pops, for once, withholds making a remark the irony of a nurse chugging alcohol when he shouldn't be speaks volumes.
Marco shares a glance with Thatch, and the two pirates are in perfect accord. Something's wrong.
Whitebeard gives the woman a moment to compose herself before he speaks. "What's the news, my daughter?" he asks. There's no pity in his rumbling voice, she doesn't need it. But the warmth is there as always, warring with concern both for the woman he considers his own and their new young charges.
Eventually, the nurse heaves a sigh and rakes a hand through her hair, undoing the neat bun, meeting the gazes of the gathered commanders their captain. "…before I begin," she says, her voice low and carrying a dangerous, nigh bloodthirsty undertone that is rare from one who endeavors to heal, "is it too late for us to turn back and kill every single heartless bastard in that castle on that godforsaken island?"
No one winces, rears back or gawks at her like they might've done had they been ignorant. Instead, every head turns to the captain sitting at the head of the table. The man is penitent as he shakes his head. "I'm afraid so," he says. Whiskey looks livid, ready to argue, until Whitebeard raises a placating hand. "But that doesn't mean we don't have allies sailing nearby that will have no reservations on paying them a surprise visit."
Marco has never been a bloodthirsty man, by nature or nurture. But this comes close enough, and the grin he shares with Thatch and Blenheim is a dark, near feral thing that appeases his enraged phoenix within. The other thirteen commanders are no different, a breath away from brandishing their weapons it seems. Regarding each of them a moment longer, Whiskey nods once, satisfied for now.
The mood quickly shifts when the nurse lays down the file and opens it, plucking a single sheet laden with scrawl that Marco can't hope to decipher. "I've scribbled down some notes for each of the boys and their conditions," she says, all professional calm under the eyes of the commanders and the caring gaze of their father as they all lean forward. "Mental stability and obvious signs of undernourishment aside – I'll give you the nutrition plan in a moment, Thatch – here's what I have. Bear in mind that I've asked for their explicit consent to share this with all of you and you alone…though something tells me they wouldn't have refused whether I asked or not…"
Whitebeard nods. "Understood. Nothing you share with us shall leave this room." The unspoken warning in his grim tone is clear, and as one the commanders nod, giving the nurse their full attention.
With that, Whiskey continues. "They all have brands on the center of their backs. It's the symbol of the King, some lowlife bastard named Serge. Luffy, age twelve and seven months, has faint scars around his neck, possibly left behind by a collar of some kind, signs of strangulation, and multiple bruises on his knees, forearms and elbows. Scars from whips and canes are healing, but might be permanent. No allergies aside from dust, really."
The aura of the room shifts the moment Whiskey mentioned the brands – Marco's skin crawls at the reminder of what those brands mean, what they do to a person's head for years, and that's if they escape and live to tell the tale – but now, the killing intent fills the room, thick and heavy that one might choke should they enter without warning.
Undeterred, Whiskey picks up the second sheet. "Sabo, age fifteen and nine months, has third degree burn scars on the left side of his face; he can still see through the left eye just fine, thankfully. He also sustains multiple bruises along his back, arms, legs and chest, belt scars on his back just above the brand…too close to his neck for comfort. He's allergic to feathers, but that's minor in nature." She sets that paper down, and hesitates to pick up the other, one with a paperclip attaching a picture Marco can't quite see from his standing.
Anger burns in her eyes, hotter than any flame, as she picks up the file and reads it aloud. "Ace is fifteen and eleven months, sixteen on January first. Ace's injuries are similar; whippings, bruising left behind from chains, irritated skin from what I suspect might be from jewellery and makeup of sorts."
Marco frowns. "Jewellery and makeup, yoi?"
Whiskey turns to him. "From what he was willing to share with me, he was one of the Kings' prized performers," she says. Her scowl is a cavernous, dark thing. "Apparently, he was a dancer."
A few heads tilt, some bows furrowing, mutters floating among the gathered commanders. "A dancer?" Jozu echoes, sharing understandably bewildered glances with Atmos and Curiel.
But Izo huffs through his nose and crosses his arms. "That explains a few things," he says. All eyes fall on him. "He's thin, but he's got a better build than Sabo or Luffy do, leaner if anything. It makes sense they'd have kept him in better shape if he performed on a stage. No one wants to see a half-starved, exhausted dancer after all." Painted lips draw downward, wrath in the dark eyes that bore holes into the wooden table. Beside him, Haruta links their arms, lacing their fingers and squeezing tight. Izo squeezes back, grateful.
"If you think that's bad," Whiskey plucks the photograph off the sheet and sets it in the center of the table, "look at this. Medical records are strictly confidential, as are pictures. But in this case, I've asked Ace for explicit permission to show this to you. He's…sensitive about this."
And it's no wonder. Not even Marco can withhold the horrified gasp that tears his throat and that of his fellow pirates at the horror he sees.
Ace also has a brand, a diamond-like shape with a bold 'S' in the center burned into the skin. But you can barely see it behind the absolute mess of the teenagers' back. There are discolorations that are black and nauseating green, a multitude of lash marks, burns…it's a miracle the boy is even standing at this rate, let alone walking and, according to Pops, fighting.
Marco has been in countless battles in his time as a pirate, seen countless, unspeakable things of what this world has to offer, what it throws at your feet without a word of warning; bodies in the remnants of a war or plague on islands forsaken by the government, his own brothers and sisters lost in confrontation whose deaths haunt him to this very day. But this…this is a boy, a fifteen-year-old child, and –
It's too close, too close –
(He understands, now, Ace's caution around them in the showers, Whiskey's rage. And he doubts this is even the worst of it, if he was a 'performer'…)
Call him a coward if you will, but he can't bear to look at the photo any longer. He takes a step back, breathing deep, measured. Get it together. Control yourself.
He's not the only one; Izo's hand flies to slap over his mouth as he turns away, shoulders trembling like he's about to be ill. Haruta whispers reassurances in his ear, holding tight to his arm, though his own hands twitch and clench against the fabrics of Izo's robes; he's itching for his blades, to tear into something, anything. Even their most seasoned commanders rear back, some grind their teeth, others curse ferociously under their breaths.
Amid all of this, Pops is completely silent, staring at the photo of Ace's mangled back. Not even the first mate can decrypt the old man's expression.
Then Thatch staggers, incredibly pale. Only Marco's swift reflexes save him from falling over completely as he shakes, staring at the photo with wide eyes. "Oh god…I…I slapped him on the back," he gasps, shaking his head, dazed and utterly horrified. "L-Last night…I was drunk, and I thought – I had no idea –"
He faces his first commander, eyes shining, shame so deep it must shake his very bones. "I hit him, Marco. Holy mother of god on high…he must hate me…"
(The burning desire to destroy is almost too much for Marco to bear, and the phoenix within sings her haunting melody of reckoning. It's all the blond can do to keep her at bay, keep himself from flying back to that island and burning it to the ground.)
"Mother of god," Curiel curses, fists quaking. "What the hell did those bastards do to this kid? The other two don't look nearly this bad!"
"Did he…have to dance like that, too?" Namur croaks, looking green in the face. Fishmen don't bruise the way humans do; though they bleed like any creature, their scales don't discolor or harden. Marco can imagine this isn't a pretty sight for him, not that his human siblings fare much better. "They…they can't have –"
"I'm sure they'd have figured something out, maybe covered his back while he was on stage," Whiskey says, and in contrast to her fellow shipmates, her voice is even; not at all dispassionate, but her anger has quelled (only slightly) amid her sibling's shock and growing ire. "They don't trust me enough to tell me any more than what I've told you, but it's enough. More than enough, really. I've asked June to take them to their room for now. They're exhausted, hungry, and need every kind of help one can think of."
"And that is what we shall give them," Whitebeard rumbles, standing to his full, imposing height. Marco can see now that his father's eyes are a hurricane, untameable, waiting to unleash hell upon anything that dares stumble into its path. He can feel his aura, barely suppressing what might render their even strongest commanders unconscious. The anger of a father is a powerful thing, after all.
(Whether they're a part of the crew or not, Ace, Sabo and Luffy are now under Whitebeard's protection. There's an unspoken rule among pirates; you harm anyone under Whitebeard's care, you've signed your own death warrant.
It's clear now, what fate of that supposed 'king' Serge has in store, having incurred the wrath of Edward Newgate.)
"For now," the captain continues, "I believe it best that they're fed and freed from the seastone. Rehabilitation can come later, once they're well rested." The storm abates after a moment, the pressing aura lifting, so he can offer Whiskey a proud smile. "Thank you, Whiskey. I know it wasn't easy, nor was is it at all pleasant to hear, but you've done well."
Whiskey's smile is a weary thing, but it's spades better than the alternative. "Thanks, Pops. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with my bed and this bottle," she raises her namesake and gives it a little shake, earning a chuckle from the commanders; the mood has lifted somewhat, more so when she gathers the papers, hiding the mangled spine of the fifteen-year-old from their sight at last.
Thatch lets out a shaky breath, sagging against Marco as he swipes a hand over his sweaty brow. There's guilt in his eyes, and Marco knows it won't go away until he's found a means to redeem himself, whether his actions were accidental or not.
Whiskey turns to Thatch. "First things first, I'd feel better knowing they've eaten something before they rest. As far as I'm aware they've had nothing since yesterday – Luffy apologizes for the apples, by the way," she says, smirking when Thatch – and everyone else in the room, Whitebeard included – blink hard and gawp.
"W-Wait, what?" Thatch squawks, jabbing a thumb at the door at his back, "you mean – Luffy? That tiny, little, baby-faced – he –?!"
"Eyup. Explains the vomit, though. Kid can't handle so much at once and made himself sick." She hands Thatch several sheets of paper, which he takes with a bit of fumbling. "Here's the nutrition plan. Follow it to the letter and they should be fine within the next few weeks to move onto bigger portions. As for their injuries, I've already had them cleaned and bandaged. Ace's…bruises, if you can really call them that, are repairable; serious bruising can cause complications, and further bleeding and excess fluid may accumulate, causing a hard, fluctuating lump or swelling hematoma, but we caught it early, luckily. This," she taps the sheets in Thatch's hand as he scans it briefly, "should help with all that, and more. And not to inflate your ego any more than it is, but I trust you're the best man for the job, Thatch."
Eyes go wide all around, and Marco fights a laugh as Thatch splutters. Whiskey giving Thatch a genuine compliment? Inconceivable! Nevertheless, it does wonders for the chef's mood as he seems to quite literally light up with a hearty salute befitting of a navy officer than a pirate. "You got it, Whiskey!" he chimes. "Won't let you down, no ma'am!"
Whiskey snorts, a very unladylike sound, as she heads for the door. "I'm not nearly drunk enough to listen to any of that crap," she tosses over her shoulder, slipping through the door to a chorus of teasing laughter from the commanders.
Whitebeard grins. "On that note, you're all dismissed," he announces. As the others make their way out, the old captain pauses to regard his eldest. "Marco, you said you and Rakuyo have business to take care of?" he asks.
Marco nods, bumping his shoulder against Thatch's to usher him out of the room along with Rakuyo; he'll join them in a bit, they know, and so they leave with a brief farewell to Pops. "I'll be joining them to see to the brats one more time, yoi," he replies. "Rakuyo's gonna get those cuffs off for them. Might be a big step in earning their trust, and hopefully getting them to stay long enough to heal up." He arches a brow at his father, and though he has an inkling of the answer, he goes ahead and asks, "What're you gonna do in the meantime, Pops?"
The grin he receives in reply from the veteran pirate could freeze even the boiling blood in Admiral Akainu's veins. "I believe," Whitebeard says slowly, "I have a call to make. Whitey Bay was last seen patrolling those waters if I recall. Let's hope she doesn't mind making a brief stop at Garnet Island."
Marco grins back.
(It's little moments like this that remind Marco (not that he needs to be reminded, really) of why he loves his captain and father, why he'll gladly follow him to the depths of hell and back. Even if it means leveling an entire castle and its inhabitants.
It might seem needlessly cruel, heartless even. The Marines may call it savage, a typical 'pirate' act of viciousness against an otherwise harmless kingdom in Paradise. But the Whitebeard's, despite their standing among certain islands that bear their flag, even among other pirates that cross their path, are not saints. Not even close.
The first commander only wishes he could see that little hellhole burn first-hand.)
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