Chapter 3: Accepting the Impossible

April 26th

The halls belowdecks were relatively spacious for a pirate ship—they had many larger than average crewmembers—but even so, Thatch's raised voice made Marco wince.

"Calm down-yoi," he said. "He wasn't in his right mind."

Thatch cut in front of Marco and crossed his arms, making it clear that he wasn't going to let Marco brush him off and keep walking. "He said I shouldn't be alive. The first full sentence he says while conscious and it's that!"

"He was barely coherent. I'll admit, I want to think he'll be better soon, but he's hysterical at best, and we have to remember that this is only the second time he's been conscious for more than a minute. You heard Kisha; he's delirious. If you'll excuse me, I need to tell Pops—"

"Marco. He said I shouldn't be alive. And he wasn't being threatening or mean, he said it like a fact. He was just stating fact."

Sighing, Marco stepped around Thatch. "I know, I was there. It bothers me too, but there's nothing we can do now but wait and hope he's lucid the next time-yoi. We'll get an explanation then—if he even remembers any of this."

Thatch threw a glance back at Ace's temporary room. "I'm gonna stay nearby just in case he starts thrashing again and the nurses need help."

Marco nodded and kept walking. He wanted to have Thatch's faith in Ace's recovery, but his optimism was tempered by experience. No one, no matter how young, no matter how promising, was immortal. Not even his own mythical devil fruit granted him that much when faced with the might of the ocean.

He spared a glance back at the door where Thatch lingered. The room beyond was one of a handful of private recovery spaces. Although situated near to the infirmary, the private rooms were for patients who would best recover alone. The infirmary, down the hall and far larger, had been packed for days following the incident, filled to the brim with pirates sporting serious burns and others who were attacked by reappearing sea kings while attempting to repair the ship.

Speaking of those repairs, Marco needed to check in with Blamenco to see how they were progressing. The last timetable that had crossed his desk had not been optimistic; a full third of the ship had been nearly burned through and they didn't have enough spare lumber to repair it all or even get it to the point where it would probably hold up against a New World storm or surprise attack. Blamenco and the other shipwrights in his division had been doing what they could, but a lack of material wasn't easily remedied. They had sent one of their paddle ships out to a nearby island for supplies, but that ship, even if its journey went smoothly, wasn't due to return for at least another week.

In all, it was too long spent stuck in one place. Each additional day they remained ratcheted up the tension on the ship another notch.

Ace didn't know where he was. At least, not in any big picture kind of way. He knew he was on a bed in a small room, one he maybe recognized from some foggy part of his brain that wasn't still stuttering over the fact that he was awake at all. It was dark—no lamps burning, no light at all save for what came from a window to his right.

The real problems arose when he tried to remember how he'd gotten here, and for the life of him he couldn't bring anything to mind. The last thing he remembered was darkness and burning.

He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, the thin sheets sliding down and revealing the bandages binding his chest. He let out a slight hiss through his teeth when the extent of his injuries made itself known. Well, what he assumed to be the extent; the wounds were mostly healed now, but there was more scar tissue rippling over his chest than actual skin based on what the bandages didn't cover. How long had he been out?

That scar tissue formed an indistinct shape, and when he gingerly poked it, he winced at the phantom flares of pain.

He blinked and saw Akainu's fist emerging from his stomach, smelled his own flesh burning away, and gagged while his balance rocked. He tightened his core to stay steady, but that just made his chest hurt more, and for a minute, he warred with himself to get his body under control. Involuntary tears leaked from his eyes while he shook, but eventually, the episode passed.

"Fuck," he whispered, still shivering even though the worst of it was over. What the hell was that?

Swallowing the faint taste of bile, he scraped his thoughts together and turned his attention to the room if only to avoid another episode. For the second time, he got the feeling that he should know this place or at least recognize its general construction.

Footsteps came from outside and he tensed. He tried to call up his flames twice before he realized that he couldn't. Only then registering the peculiar drain on his energy, he glanced down to where he could feel the source and saw a sea stone bracelet clamped over one of his wrists. Inwardly, he panicked, seeing that the thing had a keyhole and he didn't have a key. As the door opened, though, he schooled his expression into something neutral. If the marines had grabbed him…

A woman in a pink nurse outfit with brown hair done in an intricate braid and a belt of syringes hanging from her hips entered the room, a clipboard held in one hand. She was humming under her breath, a pen held between her teeth while she dragged a cart of food in with the other hand. Ace watched her wrestle with the door, his mind gradually making the necessary connections until—

"Tasuka?"

She dropped the clipboard and her gaze shot up to meet Ace's. The pen fell from her mouth, but she managed to fumble and catch it. "You're awake," she said, then frowned at herself for the unnecessary comment. She cleared her throat. "How long have you been up?"

Ace relaxed against his pillow, relieved at the sight of a familiar face no matter how weird it was. Hadn't the Moby Dick been destroyed? Was he on a different ship in the fleet? They did all look pretty similar on the inside, and it was possible that Tasuka had been moved to a different ship in preparation for the attack on Marineford. He was just comforted to see that she was okay. "A few minutes. I never knew you were the humming type. Were you really that happy to see me?"

She dragged the cart all the way over to him and lightly whacked him over the head with her recovered clipboard. "Brat. I must be better at my job than I thought, since I brought extra food today. Don't eat it all at once, though. You'll get sick and the food will go to waste, and what did I just say?"

Ace paused in the middle of reaching for another spoonful of broth, a chunk of bread already in his mouth. "Mmph?"

Tasuka growled something under her breath and jammed the bread farther into his mouth, making him choke until he managed to swallow.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"No." Her expression softened. "It's just…it's good to see you awake." That softness vanished as soon as it had appeared. "But seriously, slow down or I'll force you to. I have some new sedative formulas from the last island we stopped at and haven't gotten the chance to test them out yet."

"Slowing down," Ace said instantly.

"That's what I thought." Tasuka flipped through the pages on her clipboard. "So, how are you feeling? Any pain?"

"Aches. Sitting up hurt."

"Of course it did. Your organs were practically vaporized. It's a miracle you—" she cut herself off, pursed her lips, and sighed. "Just aches? Nothing sharp? Have you noticed any bleeding?"

A miracle. Even with that weird bout of vertigo earlier, it hadn't sunk in. He'd…really been dying. Really said his last words, or what he'd thought would be his last words. It felt so surreal. "I don't think so."

"I'm going to lean you forward a bit so I can look at your back. Stop me if you feel anything out of the ordinary."

"Right."

He let himself be handled like a figurine that could break at any moment—he'd never known Tasuka could be this gentle—and closed his eyes against what felt like dull glass shards grinding against each other in his chest. Tasuka's ministrations were quick, but even so, when she let him rest against the pillows again, he was clammy with a new layer of sweat.

"The good news is you haven't reopened anything, and I couldn't feel any indications of internal bleeding. But," she looked him dead in the eye, "you need to be very careful, okay? The moment you think anything is getting worse, you let one of us know. The very moment, got it?"

"Right." He stared at her while she wrote more things on her clipboard. Everything was moving too fast and too slow. "Tas, wh—"

"Told you not to call me that."

"—what about Luffy?"

Her pen's scratching against the page ceased. "Your brother?"

"Yeah. Is he okay?"

She wasn't looking at him. Why wasn't she looking at him? "Your brother, last you told me, had just gotten his first bounty poster. I doubt he's gotten into too much trouble in the East Blue."

That wasn't a funny joke. "He was right there, and he was a wreck. You picked him up too, right? Treated him too?"

Her pen still wasn't moving, and neither was she. "The only person who was in any danger was you, Ace."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The sea stone bracelet burned like ice against his wrist and grew colder the more agitated he got. "Tas, he was a mess! He was—he went against all three admirals at once, I saw him, he needed help!"

She finally moved, setting her clipboard and pen down on the cart. "Ace, I need you to calm down."

"Calm down?" His heart hammered against his ribs and each beat sent lances of pain through his core. They were talking past each other and he couldn't understand why. Despite himself, despite all that Tas had done for him as one of the fleet's nurses, he failed to hold back a darker tone from his voice. "I can't do that when you won't tell me what happened to him?"

Tas caught it and gave him a warning look. "Nothing happened to your brother that I know of. I'm sure he's fine. I'm not saying this to mess with you. As far as I know," she stressed each syllable, holding his gaze in a deadlock, "your brother is fine. At least believe that I believe that." She pursed her lips. "Look, I'm going to change your bandages and then let the two mother hens know that you're awake. You talk to them a lot more than you do to me; I'm sure they can do a better job of answering your questions. So please, calm down. You'll only aggravate your injuries by getting worked up. Do you really want to give me an excuse to use one of my new formulas?"

He gaped at her. Why did it seem like none of his words were actually landing? She had to have seen what happened; Whitebeard's whole fleet had been there.

Heedless of his confusion, Tasuka eased him forward again and began unwinding the bandages around his chest. With how quiet she was, his anxiety couldn't find anything to react to, and so it slowly retreated.

"Ace," she said, a peculiar tone to her voice, "do you know how you wound up here?"

His brows furrowed. Was this some kind of trick question?

Apparently, his silence was enough of an answer. "You exploded." She spread the fingers of her left hand with a quiet pop noise. "Just, boom. Everyone I treated for burns told the same story. It was like your devil fruit went out of control, and when you were pulled from the water, you were already two steps from death."

"I exploded," he repeated numbly. His scars pulsed as Tasuka removed the last of the bandages. "What?"

"We were all hoping you'd know." She spread a salve over his ruined skin that smelled like grass and felt like frost.

In a looser part of his mind, one that hadn't quite anchored itself to the moment, he realized that, if the scars on his chest were this bad, then the ones on his back were even worse. His tattoo had to be ruined.

"We've all heard the stories about novice devil fruit users having trouble with their abilities," she continued, "but you're a veteran, aren't you?" She wiped the excess salve off with a towel and pulled a new roll of bandages from the cabinet next to his bed. "Does that sound like what happened to you? Things going out of control?"

His jaw worked but nothing came out. At the end, he'd barely had the strength to whisper, much less call up an inferno strong enough to damage nearby ships. After a glance up at his face, Tasuka paused her rewrapping and handed Ace a glass of water off the cart. "Take your time. You've been out for a while; I'm not trying to interrogate you here."

"How long have I been out?" he tried instead of answering her question.

"Two weeks."

Two weeks. Two weeks.

Nothing was adding up. This looked like the Moby Dick, but he'd watched the whole fleet go up in flames under Admiral Akainu's attacks. Tasuka said he'd exploded, but all of his strength had been gone. She didn't even know anything about Luffy's fate even though Ace had passed out in his brother's arms.

"All done," Tasuka declared. She put the remaining bandages back and stood. "Keep that glass if you're still thirsty. I'm going to let them know you're up. If they give you too much trouble, just tell me." She patted her syringes. "It's not just the injured who sometimes need to calm down."

Just like the last one, her threat felt strangely hollow. She'd never been this careful around him before. Before he could comment on that, she tossed her braid over one shoulder and left, taking everything she'd brought in with her.

The ensuing silence didn't last; muffled voices came from outside, and then the door was thrown open with a loud bang that made Ace wince. Someone strode through, backlit by the much brighter light in the hallway. Another figure slipped in and closed the door before lighting the two lamps on the walls, forcing Ace to squint for a second while his eyes adjusted. He hadn't even realized Tasuka was treating him in the dark; the light from the window had been enough.

"Ace, finally! Tas says you're feeling a lot better. That true?"

The voice was familiar. It stirred up old feelings in Ace's chest, ones that had been buried under the despair of Impel Down and Marineford. Confusion, more confusion, swirled through his brain.

He stared, and stared, and stared. He didn't dare blink, couldn't. If he did, then the image of Thatch alive and well before him would disappear and he didn't think he could take something like that right now. He could see Marco talking to Tasuka in the doorway but couldn't process the words because Thatch was right. There.

Was he hallucinating? Was this Tasuka's doing? Did she give him something when he wasn't looking? What was that salve she'd used?

Ace felt the hysteria he'd been shoving down bubbling up again and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drive it back.

Footsteps.

"Ace?" A hand on his shoulder. Gentle. Warm. Familiar.

Thatch.

Ace drew into himself and tried to get away from the gut-wrenching hallucination in front of him. Focusing on it would only make things worse when he came back to reality. Maybe this whole thing was just a dream; maybe Tasuka not understanding what had really happened was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe he hadn't actually woken up at all.

The hand left his shoulder, and though Ace felt terribly cold without it, he didn't let it show.

"Ace, tell me what's wrong."

He bit his lip, trying to stop the tears that still rose at the memory of his voice. He brought his hands up to cover his face. "I can't do this right now," he whispered into his palms. Get it together.

"Talk to me, please."

Maybe he'd finally gone insane. It wouldn't be that much of a surprise, really.

"Buddy, come on. I'll leave if you want me to, but you're awake for the first time in weeks. Sue me for being a little worried about you."

Someone else—Marco—scoffed. Apparently he was done with Tasuka. "A little worried? You've worn a rut in the hallway outside."

"What is it with you two and acting like worry isn't normal?"

"Your level of it isn't."

Ace, for his part, was having difficulty breathing. He pulled his hands away from his face to get some air, but it didn't help. They were talking to each other. Was he hallucinating Thatch and Marco? That was new. Or—

No, he wasn't. There was no way.

"You," he said, the word slipping out of his mouth before he realized that he didn't want to say what followed. Instantly, he felt their gazes on him. Thatch's gaze. "You're—that's not…" He couldn't breathe, his chest was on fire, and his wrist was coated in ice. "That's not possible, it's not—"

"Ace. Open your eyes. What's not possible?" Thatch stepped forward, his footsteps all too loud on the wooden floorboards. Ace shook his head, remembering smoke and ash and screams and fire and burning in his chest and a brother that shouldn't be here—

"Get away!" Ace shouted, his whole body tensing as he tried to block out memories of Marineford, only for agony to roar up from his chest. He cried out and curled in on himself as pain and truth crashed down on him. He hadn't passed out. He'd died. He'd died in Luffy's arms.

What was this? Was this the afterlife? No, it couldn't be. He'd died at Marineford, but there was something deep in his mind now that declared with complete and resounding certainty that he was alive. Ace latched onto that feeling for all he was worth while the waves of pain receded. If he didn't, he'd go mad. If he hadn't already.

And suddenly there were hands on his shoulders again, a grip strong enough to break Ace out of his thoughts and make him look up and open his eyes out of sheer reflex. He blinked, taking a moment to process that Thatch was way too close and then he yelped, jerking away and slamming the back of his head into the wall. He grabbed it and groaned in pain.

"Why would you do that?"

"Ace," Marco said from over Thatch's shoulder, "look at me. Thatch, give him some space to breathe." His half-lidded eyes were boring into Ace's. "I don't know what's going through your head right now, but Thatch and I are real. Flesh-and-blood real, and we're not going anywhere."

Slowly, Ace focused on the first division commander instead of Thatch, who had stepped back to the end of his bed.

Ace had died, but now he was alive, and so was Thatch, and no one was talking about Marineford even though Ace had the injuries to prove it happened. Something…something big was going on. Whatever it was, it wasn't just something from his mind. He swallowed and let his hands fall from his head.

"Can you accept that?" Marco asked. Hesitantly, Ace nodded.

And now that he wasn't caught up in himself, he could smell the sea salt on the air and taste it on his tongue. He could feel the gentle rocking of the ship, the cloth of the thin sheets on the thinner mattress rubbing against his skin. He could hear the slap of waves on the hull and the muffled calls of pirates on the deck. It all felt real. As real as Thatch's hand had been on his shoulder.

"Well, glad that's over with," Thatch declared, clapping his hands together. "Marco, what's the ruling?"

Marco's eyes stayed on Ace. Measuring. "He can go as long as he doesn't strain himself."

Ace glanced between them. "What?"

Marco cocked an eyebrow. "Do you want to stay in here? I seem to recall you being eager to leave the infirmary wing every time you got yourself hurt."

"Of course he doesn't," Thatch said, holding out a hand. "Come on, we can at least make sure you get to your room without keeling over. Kisha would have our heads if we let you go alone. Hell, I'd deliver mine myself."

Ace took that hand on reflex more than anything, and he must have done a very bad job of hiding his reaction when that hand turned out to be as solid as his own, because Thatch all but yanked him up. Ace hissed in pain.

"Sorry, sorry. You were doing the zoning-out thing again. Can you believe that the last time you were conscious, you couldn't even look at me? It was rude, you know. Terribly offensive. I ate all the pudding I made for you to feel better, just so you know."

"Pudding?" Ace repeated dumbly.

"Yes, pudding. Good stuff, by the way. Some of my best work. Shame you couldn't have any, being unconscious and all." As he talked, he steered Ace towards the door with one arm keeping Ace upright while Ace's head swam. In that muddled mess of thoughts came an idea so insane, so absurd, that he nearly dismissed it out of hand. But the more Thatch rambled and the farther they trekked through the Moby Dick, the more traction it gained.

"—and if Jeremy could just keep his damned apron from bursting into flames every other minute like some kind of ten-year-old roasting marshmallows at a bonfire, today would be going swimmingly—"

"Thatch."

The fourth division commander stopped instantly, giving Ace a confused look.

"Sorry. I just…what's the date?"

"The date," Thatch said slowly, drawing out each word. "April twenty-fourth, I think."

"No, it's not," Marco said from behind him. "It's the twenty-sixth."

"What's the year?"

Both of them blinked at him in surprise before Thatch drew away with a gasp of shock. Ace staggered back against the wall without his support, eyes wide. "What, what is it?"

"They said amnesia was unlikely!" Thatch bemoaned, completely ignoring the flat stare he was getting from Marco. "Oh, you poor boy! Don't worry, I can teach you everything, starting with how to do division paperwork! Why, I even have some blank forms lying around my office that we can use for practice."

This time, Marco rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to mess with him. He clearly remembers you."

"So you say. Ace, the year's 1522." Then he glanced at Marco. "Right?"

"Yeah."

"There you go."

And suddenly the wall was the only thing keeping Ace on his feet. He waved away Thatch and Marco's worried looks, muttering, "I'm fine."

He wasn't, though. That insane theory was now the only possible reality. Marco and Thatch were real, he'd already established that, and they weren't the type to play a prank like this on him, not when they'd been so worried. Ace glanced down, eyeing the new scar tissue on his chest that was vaguely shaped in the form of a magma fist. Marinefordhad happened. He wasn't crazy. It hadn't been a dream.

Or a nightmare.

Ace let out a deep, shuddering breath, forcing his muscles to relax and the nausea from looking at his scar to recede. Somehow, he'd gone back in time. That was the only fact his mind could focus on. Hell, that was Thatch standing a few steps away; alive. Breathing. Without a bloody hole in his back.

He had to think. Had to plan. He was getting a second chance, though he didn't know why because he hadn't done anything to deserve it. He could save Thatch, could avoid Marineford, could keep Luffy from doing something goddamned stupid—

"Ace?" Marco again. "Are you sure you're okay? If you're not feeling well, we can take you back—"

"No, I'm fine," Ace said, standing upright and offering them a small grin. From their skeptical looks, Ace judged that he didn't pull it off very well, but he could work on that later. "I'm just…tired. Yeah. Tired."

"You were unconscious for two straight weeks."

Ace shot Thatch a dry look. "Unconscious isn't the same as asleep."

"He should know; he spends more time sleeping than carrying out his duties as a commander-yoi."

"Oh, give it up already," Thatch replied. "You know I'll get it done. Just let me fuss first."

"I'm fine, honest," Ace said, stepping away from the wall. "See?" He stumbled, and Thatch caught him.

"Yeah, not fine," Thatch said. "I'll take you to your room, you rest up, and then you get dinner from the chef. Personally. You should be honored."

"I'm sure he is, Thatch, but you need to coordinate dinner for the rest of the crew," Marco said, gently easing Ace away from the other man and slinging Ace's arm over his shoulder to give support. Ace muttered that he could handle himself just fine but didn't make any move to take his arm back. "I'll ensure he makes it so you don't feel the need to behead yourself."

Though Thatch clearly wanted to disagree, he sighed instead. "Right as always. I'll find some time to swing by your room later, Ace."

Ace managed a tired smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

"If you need anything, just call," Marco said, indicating the baby Den Den Mushi on Ace's desk.

"You really don't need to worry so much," Ace said awkwardly. Having the first division commander practically dote on him like this was…new. And strange. He and Marco were close, sure, but not to this extent. "I can take care of myself."

Marco gave Ace a measured look that pointedly drifted to the bracelet still around Ace's wrist. Though he had given Ace a key to remove it whenever he wanted, Marco had made it clear he was worried about Ace's powers going out of control again.

Ace waved that braceleted arm to force Marco's eyes back over to his face. "I'll be fine. Really."

Though his lips thinned, Marco nodded and left without another word.

The moment he was gone, Ace's bravado evaporated. He shifted on his bed like that would do anything to ease the burning in his chest. That salve was acting as a numbing agent, but it could only go so deep. Every breath he took fought against a vice, and the more he pushed against it, the worse it hurt. There was nothing he could do to stop it, no position he could find that made it better. The food he'd eaten earlier rested uneasily in his stomach, and Ace knew that he was going to disappoint Thatch when he brought dinner.

Those were all short-term problems, though. His pain would fade and his wounds would heal. He had to focus on the bigger picture, and that meant turning his thoughts to the future.

If it was April, then he had two months. Two months until that raid, two months until Blackbeard—

His scars pulsed. Even if it was Akainu who had dealt the killing blow, that traitor was the one who'd set it all in motion. All that blood was on his hands—what wasn't on Ace's for failing to stop the knife, at least. Ace took the deepest breath he could manage and then stood. A few shaky steps took him to his desk, where he sank into the chair and waited for the headrush to subside. When he could see straight again, he rifled through the drawers. He didn't remember exactly where everything was—he didn't have much to his name to begin with—but there were only so many options where a notebook and pen could be.

The empty pages stared up at him. Once, he'd thought about writing a journal to honor Sabo's memory, but he had never been able to find the words.

Here, an even greater purpose spurred him onward. He spun the pen on his fingers and then brought it to the page.