Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Baterilla was a normal island village with one unusual resident. At the top of the highest cliff stood a house where Portgas D. Rouge waited to give birth. She sat by the window, watching the sea while her son from the future chopped firewood outside.

Portgas D. Ace, or now, Portgas D. Stray, had arrived three months ago.

He told her everything.

About Roger’s execution. About the world’s hatred. About how Rouge would die after giving birth, and how Garp would take her baby away to be raised by mountain bandits in East Blue. About the anger that festered inside him, the years he spent believing he should never have been born.

Stray told her how, as a child, he would sneak into bars just to ask drunk men one question: “What if Roger had a son?” And when they spat curses, when they said such a child deserved to die, he would nod to himself, because it only proved what he already knew.

Rouge remembered that night. Not the words, not the explanations, just her son, this boy who had lived and died and somehow come back to her, sobbing into her lap like the child he never got to be and screaming that he was sorry, so sorry for wasting the life she'd fought to give him.

Nineteen years old. A lifetime of rage and grief spilling out of him.

Rouge hadn’t cried when he told her. She had simply held him, running fingers through his tangled hair, humming lullabies to a son who'd come back to her far too broken.

My son. My brave, beautiful son.

That was the moment she'd truly understood - she would have these few stolen months to love him properly.

Stray had thrown himself into helping in every way he could, like he was trying to earn every second he’d been given. He cooked breakfast each morning—badly, at first, until Rouge gently guided him through chopping herbs and not burning the porridge.

He swept the little house so often she sometimes had to hide the broom to get him to rest. When she napped, he read aloud from old sea journals or newspapers, sometimes even her own worn books, making up voices for each character just to make her laugh. Other times, he’d sit with her in silence, tracing idle circles on her wrist or simply resting nearby, as if the act of being close could hold the world at bay.

She could still see the ghost of that broken boy in him sometimes. In the way he hesitated before smiling, in the way he sometimes touched his stomach where the hole from Akainu’s fist should have been. But he was healing. Slowly. And every time he called her “Mom” without flinching, every time he laughed at something stupid, every time he pressed his ear to her belly just to listen to his younger self kick, Rouge felt like she was stitching together something that had been torn apart long before she ever had the chance to hold it.

.....

Rouge told Stray about her first ship. It was a rickety thing held together with rope and a stubborn will. She told him about the time her crew tried to outdrink a Mink and ended up hung from the mast in shame, and about storms and sea kings and maps scrawled on napkins.

Rouge spoke of the stars and of the places she and her friends had chased just to say they’d been there.

Stray listened with the hungry silence of someone who’d never had these kinds of memories handed down to him. Every so often, he’d ask something small, what was your ship’s name, what colour was the sail, who told the worst jokes, and she’d smile and answer.

Rouge told Stray how Roger and she met. It was a mess of smoke and swagger.

Roger had bargained for her life with nothing but a smile and a sword. He made her laugh. He would always pick the loudest tavern and the softest spot beside her at night.

She talked about how Roger cried when she told him she was pregnant. He had picked out books and toys and painted the nursery himself (badly). She said Roger had wanted to teach the baby to navigate by the stars, while she insisted the baby would learn to fight after he could read.

.....

Rouge shifted in her chair, wincing as the weight of her stomach pulled at her aching back. Twenty months. Twenty months of carrying, of hiding, of pressing her hands to her belly and whispering, Hold on, my love, just a little longer.

A blanket settled over her shoulders.

"You’re supposed to be resting," came the familiar grumble.

She didn’t need to look up to know the expression on his face—that stubborn set of his jaw, the way his brows pinched together when he was worried.

Rouge tugged the blanket tighter around herself and smiled. "Since when do you mother me, Stray?"

He scowled—but it was half-hearted, the way all his protests were these days. "Mom, you’re gonna catch a cold, and then what? I’m not delivering a baby and playing nurse."

"You’d figure it out," she said lightly.

He huffed, but she didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped to her stomach, lingering there with something unbearably tender.

The baby kicked.

Stray reached out without thinking, pressing his palm against the swell. Another kick, stronger this time, and his face did something complicated, like he was trying to swallow down a sob.

"Hey," he whispered, voice rough. "None of that. You’re gonna wear Mom out."

Rouge watched him, her chest aching.

He’d taken to talking to her belly like this, telling stories and warnings and nonsense as if the baby could hear him. As if he was already his brother’s keeper.

(She wondered, sometimes, if he was trying to make up for lost time. If this was his way of saying all the things he’d never gotten to say to his own mother.)

"You spoil him," she murmured.

Stray snorted. "Someone’s gotta. Kid’s gonna have the worst temper if you’re the only one influencing him."

"Oh? And you’re the picture of patience?"

He grinned, that sharp, bright thing that was all Roger, and opened his mouth to retort, but Rouge gasped as a sudden, sharp pain lanced through her abdomen.

Stray went rigid. "Mom?"

She pressed a hand to her stomach, breathing through the contraction. "It’s fine," she managed. "Just… ah… just practice."

Stray flinched, like he wanted to do something, anything, but didn’t know what. His hand hovered in the air before settling on the back of the chair, gripping it tight.

"You sure?" he asked, quieter this time. “I mean... it felt like a real one.”

Rouge nodded through clenched teeth, then exhaled slowly. "They've been like that all week. Stronger now, but not... not yet."

He hesitated. Not in panic, he’d stopped panicking after the first few times, but in that way of his, like he was turning over a thought he’d held back too long.

"You don’t have to keep doing this," he said gently. "Holding on like this. If it’s too much, I mean… there’s time to do it safely. We could..."

Rouge looked at him. And Stray stopped talking.

“I’ve held him this long,” she said, soft but certain. “I can hold him a little longer.”

For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. But then his eyes dropped, and all that stubborn tension in his shoulders eased. He gave her a little nod, then crouched beside her, his cheek resting carefully against the side of her belly.

“Okay,” he murmured, half to her, half to the baby. “Okay. Guess that settles it.”

And just like that, the storm passed.

He stayed there for a long moment, quiet, warm, steady—and when he spoke again, it was lighter.

"Alright, Ace,” he said with a little smile. "You’re not allowed to eat raw meat off the ground. I don’t care how hungry you are. And if you ever meet a guy named Dadan, uh, no, wait. If you meet a lady named Dadan—"

Rouge raised a brow. "Lady?"

"Technicality," Stray said with a smirk, then kept going. "If you meet her, be nice, but maybe don’t steal from her pantry. I learned that one the hard way."

Rouge laughed, tired and real. And Stray just kept going, easy and bright, like the weight had never been there at all.

"And you’re gonna meet a kid named Luffy. He’s annoying and loud. He eats everything. He’ll drive you nuts. But... stick with him, okay? He’s worth it. And Sabo… Sabo’s gonna act like he’s smarter than both of you, but he’s not. Not really."

Rouge didn’t interrupt. She just watched him, this boy of hers with the firelight dancing in his eyes.

"I once tried to fish with my bare hands and ended up falling into the river. Sabo laughed so hard he forgot to pull me out. Luffy cried the whole time because he thought I was eaten by a crocodile." He grinned. "I bet you’ll do something just as stupid."

Rouge chuckled under her breath.

“Here’s lesson number one: Don’t eat anything Luffy hands you unless you want your tongue to swell. I made that mistake one day. I couldn’t talk for two days. It was peaceful. Sabo said it was the best week of his life.”

He snuck a glance up at her then, like he was checking if she was still listening. She was. Every word. His smile softened. "Y’know, I used to think there was something wrong with me. Like I was born broken. But they… they made it all make sense. The three of us in that little clearing, swearing to be brothers... it was the first time I thought maybe I could be something."

Rouge brushed a hand through his hair again, like she had that first night. He closed his eyes at the touch.

"Even when I messed up, they never gave up on me. Luffy especially. That idiot would’ve chased me into the afterlife if I hadn’t... well. He almost did, didn’t he?"

Rouge didn’t answer. She just held him closer.

Stray let out a soft breath. “I hope you meet them too. I hope you get all the things I didn’t. The sun, the sea, stupid friends and freedom. And when you fall, ‘cause you will, trust me, you’ll get up. And keep going.”

Outside, the wind rattled the old shutters again. Rain was coming.

The sky was still only half-shadowed, the faintest blush of night beginning to stretch overhead. The sun hadn’t gone fully yet, but already the world felt like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Stray laughed as he spoke, telling the baby about a time Luffy had accidentally punched a bear in the nose because it looked at him funny. About the week he and Sabo tried to build a raft and ended up sinking it within minutes. About the first time he ever felt proud to be alive.

Rouge listened to all of it with her eyes half-closed. It was warm in the room, and her body ached, and her heart ached even more.

She had to believe she could hold on just a little longer.

She hoped it would be before sunrise.

She hoped, with everything she had left, that her child would be born while she was still there to hold him. That the first arms to welcome him would be hers, not shaking with grief but full of light. But if she couldn’t, if the dawn came and she was already gone, then at least... at least he would still have him.

Stray.

Ace.

Her son, twice over.

She felt the ticking of time in every breath. Every stir of wind through the shutters. The rain had begun, light and steady. And her heart... her heart cracked open, slow and silent.

She didn’t say anything or point out how the air felt thinner now, how the pressure in her body was growing sharper, deeper, more real with every passing moment.

There wasn’t enough time. She knew it, but oh, how she wanted there to be. She wanted another hour like this. Just one. To keep listening. To let him keep talking. To memorize the sound of his laugh, the curve of his nose, the way he gestured with his hands when he got too into a story. To stay here, in this impossible miracle of a moment, with her grown-up son leaning against her like he belonged there. Because he did.

She wanted to tell him a hundred things. Maybe a thousand. But all of them were too big for words, too heavy to speak aloud. So instead, she just let her hand find his again and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Rouge closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to let go.

Not yet.

Not when everything felt so whole for the first time.

She remembered all the things she’d dreamed of teaching this child. The toys Roger had brought back, clumsily carved and painted. The lullabies she’d sung under her breath when no one was listening. The stories they’d imagined, of pirate ships and open skies, of wild laughter and a home full of noise and love.

Stray would give him all of that.

He would.

She didn’t need him to promise.

Rouge’s chest pulled tight. Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the unbearable weight of love. There was no space in the world for it. Not enough hours, not enough words, but she hoped—God, she hoped—he felt it anyway.

"Ace," she said softly.

Rouge knew what he called himself now, Stray, like some cast-off thing that had never belonged. But he wasn’t that. He was her son. Her Ace. No amount of death, time, or heartbreak could take that name from him. So when she said it, she said it like a truth carved into stone like a vow.

He glanced at her, then smiled like nothing was wrong at all.

“Keep going,” she said. “Tell him another one.”

Chapter Text

Marco woke with a gasp, his body jerking upright before his mind had fully caught up. His last memory was fire a storm of it, swallowing the sky, the deck of his ship buckling under heat and force. Then…water. Drifting. Darkness.

He blinked, taking in his surroundings. He was in a bed soft but firm, the blankets warm and smelling faintly of soap. The room was small but cosy, painted a light blue, with childish drawings tacked to the walls. A basket of toys sat in the corner, next to a little pink cupboard topped with a few worn teddy bears. Above it, a mirror shaped like a cloud reflected the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains.

A child’s bedroom.

Marco frowned. He pushed the blankets aside, relieved to find his wounds bandaged neatly, his body sore but intact. His coat and boots were missing, replaced with loose cotton pants and a plain shirt that definitely weren’t his.

Where the hell am I?

He stood, testing his balance, then moved toward the door. When he opened it, he nearly tripped over the small figure sitting cross-legged on the floor just outside.

A child.

Black hair, round cheeks dusted with freckles, big grey eyes that blinked up at him in surprise. The kid was wearing some kind of fluffy jumpsuit—white with a hood that had rabbit ears flopping over his forehead. It was…ridiculously cute. Absurdly so. Marco, veteran of a hundred battles, conqueror of the Grand Line, felt his chest tighten dangerously at the sight.

What the fuck.

The kid’s face lit up like the sun. "You up!" he cheered, scrambling to his feet with a bounce. He held up a piece of paper covered in crayon scribbles. "I dwaw you! See? You sweepin’!"

Marco stared. The drawing was, objectively, a mess of yellow and orange lines. But the kid looked so proud that Marco couldn’t help but nod. “...Nice.”

The kid beamed.

Marco took a slow breath. “Who are you?”

"I Ace!" the toddler announced, puffing out his chest. Then, without pausing, he launched into an explanation so rapid and cheerful Marco’s brain short-circuited. "I find you on da beach! You all wet an’ sweepy an’ I go get Sta’y—dat’s my big bwuvver—an’ he cawwy you here an’ fix you boo-boos an’ you get my bed ‘cause it da comfy-est an’ I wait fo-eva fo’ you wake up so we pway—"

Marco held up a hand. “Wait.”

Ace stopped mid-breath, tilting his head.

Marco processed.

This three-year-old found him unconscious on a beach.

The kid’s older brother, Stay? - brought him here.

He’d been out for three days.

This child had volunteered his own bed for a stranger.

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. What kind of family is this?

“Where’s your brother now, yoi?” Marco asked carefully.

Ace’s entire face lit up again. "He go market! Fo’ New Yeaw pawty! We gonna have so much foods—dey gonna be meat an’ cake an’ fwoots an’—"

Marco’s eye twitched. “He left you alone? With me?”

Ace blinked, confused. "But you Macco da Fee-nee-tik! Fwom da Whitebed Pi’ates!" He nodded sagely. "Sta’y say you good guy. You hewp him one time. So we twust you!"

Marco opened his mouth. Closed it.

First… Macco da Fee-nee-tik. Holy hell.

Second… The Whitebeard Pirates had a reputation, sure, but civilians, especially kids, shouldn’t be this casual around them.

Third… Who the fuck is Stay, and why does he trust me with his toddler brother?!

Ace grabbed Marco’s hand, tugging. "C’mon! Sta’y say if you wake up, I gotta take you kitchen. You gotta eat! An’ dink! An’ den we pway!"

Marco let himself be dragged, too baffled to resist. This kid was either the most trusting child in the world, or his brother was the most reckless guardian. Maybe both. At one point, Ace held his arms up, tiny fingers wiggling impatiently. Marco understood immediately. This kid wanted to be carried.

He bent down and lifted the toddler with ease. Ace was just the right weight, not too light, not too heavy, a healthy little bundle of energy. The boy smelled like cotton candy and lavender, a strangely comforting combination.

"Kitchen!" Ace commanded, pointing down the hallway.

When they arrived, Ace squirmed until Marco set him down, then immediately went to work. The kid pulled out a chair for Marco with surprising strength, patting the seat like a tiny host.

Damn. This kid’s got manners.

Marco sat, watching as Ace toddled over to a low cupboard and rummaged around before pulling out a small, brightly coloured plastic cup, the kind made for tiny hands. Without hesitation, Ace dragged a step stool to the sink, climbed up and stretched to reach the tap. Water splashed everywhere as he filled the cup, half of it spilling down his sleeves and onto the floor by the time he turned around.

Marco instinctively moved to help, but Ace shot him a stern look. "No! You sit! You west!"

Marco froze.

Ace wobbled toward him, both hands clutching the now-half-full cup, his face set in fierce concentration. Water dribbled down his wrists, but he didn’t seem to care. When he reached Marco, he stretched his arms out, offering the cup with a proud grin.

"Here!"

Marco took it carefully. "Thanks, kid."

He brought the cup to his lips, but before he could drink, Ace gasped and grabbed his wrist. "No! Slowwy!"

Marco blinked. "...Slowly, yoi?"

Ace nodded seriously. "Or you get sick."

Marco wasn’t sure where that logic came from, but he obeyed, sipping the water at a pace that seemed to satisfy the toddler. The water wasn’t cold or hot—just warm, like it had been sitting out for a bit. Comforting.

When he finished, Ace studied him with an oddly professional expression, his tiny hands on his hips. "How you feel? Stomach hurt? Head owie?"

Marco, despite himself, answered honestly. "I feel okay. Just a little tired."

Ace nodded, looking satisfied. "Good! Now you can eat!" He pointed at the fridge. "Soup in dere. You heat it. I not ‘wowed to touch hot stuff."

Marco arched a brow but stood, crossing to the fridge. Inside, he found a small pot of soup, chunks of winter vegetables, tender meat and a rich, savoury broth. He pulled it out and set it on the stove to warm.

As he waited, he glanced back at Ace, who had climbed onto the kitchen table and was now swinging his legs. "Why’d you ask me all those questions earlier?"

Ace’s face lit up like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. "Big bwuvver say! You gotta ask if people okay befowe dey eat! If dey drink water too fast, dey get sick! If dey eat when dey stomach hurt, dey fwo up!" He mimed vomiting with dramatic sound effects. "An’ den you gotta cwean it, an’ dat’s gross."

Marco stared.

That was…weirdly medically sound advice for a toddler to know.

Before Marco could question further, the soup began to simmer. He poured a portion into a bowl and carried it back to the table. Ace, still seated in his own chair, immediately perked up—then, with great ceremony, patted Marco’s thigh like he was testing a mattress.

Marco paused. "You…want to sit here?"

Ace nodded vigorously. "So I see you eat! Make sure you not choke!"

Marco exhaled, amused. This kid. But he couldn’t say no to those big grey eyes. He hooked his hands under Ace’s arms and lifted him onto his lap, adjusting the toddler’s weight so he wouldn’t elbow the soup bowl. Ace immediately wiggled into place, his back pressed against Marco’s chest, then craned his neck to watch as Marco took the first spoonful.

The soup was delicious—rich, perfectly seasoned, the kind of meal that warmed you from the inside out. Marco hummed in approval, and Ace grinned like he’d personally cooked it himself.

"Sta’y make it! He say winter veggies make you stwong!" Ace poked Marco’s arm. "You gonna get suuuuper stwong!"

Marco chuckled. "Yeah?"

Ace nodded sagely. "Den you not fall in ocean no more."

Marco’s spoon froze mid-air.

Oh.

This kid really thought he’d just…fallen in the ocean. Like it was some silly accident.

Marco opened his mouth to correct him - No, kid, it was a mission gone wrong, but stopped. What was the point? Ace wouldn’t understand and the details didn’t matter. Instead, Marco just ruffled the toddler’s hair. "Something like that."

Ace nodded, satisfied, and pointed at the soup. "Now eat all of it. Den mo’ water!"

Marco snorted but obeyed, finishing the bowl under Ace’s watchful gaze. True to his word, the toddler wriggled off Marco’s lap the second the spoon clinked against empty porcelain, fetched another cup of water (with marginally less spillage this time), and demanded Marco drink it slowwy again.

"You sit now," Ace instructed, pushing Marco back into the chair when he tried to stand. "No lie down afta eat! Big bwuvver say you get sick."

Marco arched a brow. "Your brother’s got a lot of rules, huh?"

Ace beamed, as if this was the greatest compliment. "Sta’y know evwything."

Before Marco could ask more, Ace scampered off, returning with a thick notebook crammed with crayon drawings. He climbed back onto Marco’s lap, without permission this time, and flipped it open.

"Look! Dis me an’ Sta’y!"

The pages were a riot of colour and stick figures. A tall, lanky form labelled "Big brother" appeared repeatedly, often with orange scribbles around his hands (Fire Devil Fruit? Marco mused). There were scenes of them cooking, playing and even one where the stick-figure Ace was bundled in blankets. Marco’s chest tightened. The drawings were simple, but the love in them was palpable. Whoever this "Sta’y" was, he’d clearly poured his whole soul into raising this kid.

"See?" Ace jabbed a finger at a particularly chaotic page titled "BEST DAY EVER". "We go beach an’ find so many shells an’ Sta’y say I can keep dem all—"

Marco listened, nodding along as Ace babbled, but his mind was elsewhere.

This brother, whoever he was, had clearly trained Ace in first aid, nutrition, even post-meal care like some kind of tiny field medic. And yet he’d left said toddler alone with a stranger.

What kind of man trusts Whitebeard Pirates this much?

Ace yawned mid-sentence, his energy finally flagging. He slumped against Marco, the notebook slipping from his grasp. "Mm…now nap time…"

Marco sighed but shifted to cradle the drowsy toddler properly. "Yeah, yeah. Nap time."

Marco rose, carefully lifting the sleeping toddler into his arms. He carried Ace through the quiet halls, heading towards the familiar bedroom. Gently, Marco lowered Ace onto the soft bed and pulled the covers up.

Ace’s eyelids fluttered, his tiny fingers clutching weakly at Marco’s sleeve as he fought against sleep. "Nap…" he mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness. "You too…"

Marco gently pried the chubby fingers loose. "I’ll nap later. Gotta keep watch, yeah?"

Ace frowned, his grey eyes suddenly clearer than they’d been moments ago. "But Sta’y says…sleep is…impor’ant…" His words slurred, but his grip tightened stubbornly.

Marco softened. "Tell you what, I’ll stay right here until you’re asleep. Then I’ll go rest on the couch. Deal, yoi?"

Ace studied him with startling intensity for a three-year-old, then finally nodded. "…Okay." His fingers uncurled, and Marco tucked the blanket snugly around him, brushing the wild black hair from his forehead.

"G’night, Ace."

"Not night," Ace yawned, already half-gone. "Just nap…"

By the time Marco reached the door, the toddler’s breathing had evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.

The living room was a shrine to a childhood Marco had never had.

Photos lined the walls in haphazard frames, Ace as a newborn swaddled in yellow, Ace laughing joyously as he splashed on a sandy beach. Another captured him mid-giggle with cake smeared across his cheeks. And in every single one, him - a lanky young man with the same wild black hair and freckles, always angled toward the camera like he couldn’t bear to look away from the kid for even the shutter’s click.

Marco stepped closer. The brother, Sta’y, Ace called him, was tall, broad shoulders, and his grin never changed. In one, he was sprawled on grass with baby Ace balanced on his stomach, both of them wearing matching orange cowboy hats. In another, he was mid-swing, tossing a shrieking Ace into the air like it was nothing.

The photo that made Marco pause was near the end - a woman with pink-blond hair and a hibiscus tucked behind her ear, seated in a sunlit garden. She cradled an infant against her chest, her smile soft and exhausted. Beside her, Sta’y, younger, maybe nineteen, knelt with his chin propped on her shoulder, his fingers brushing the baby’s tiny fist.

Portgas D. Rouge, the caption read in neat script. And her boys.

“That’s our mother.”

Marco twitched. He hadn’t heard footsteps, hadn’t sensed anything, but when he turned, there the man was - Sta’y in the flesh, grinning like Marco was an old friend who’d just told a particularly good joke.

Up close, he was as young as Marco expected, maybe now twenty-one, a head shorter than Marco’s own lanky frame, dressed in a rumpled white hoodie and black shorts. His freckles were darker than Ace’s, his grey eyes brighter, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

Marco blinked. He should’ve been startled. He should’ve been wary. But the guy radiated such easy warmth that all Marco managed was a nod at the photo. For a long moment, Marco just stared. Then he jerked his chin toward the photo. "You and Ace look like her."

Sta’y’s smile didn’t waver. "Yeah. Lucky us."

Silence.

Marco crossed his arms. "Yoi... you’re the guy who left a three-year-old alone with a stranger."

Sta’y laughed. "Not a stranger. You."

And there it was again. That trust. That certainty. Like Sta’y knew things he shouldn’t. Marco narrowed his eyes. "We’ve met before?"

Sta’y’s grin turned crooked. "Something like that."

.....

A few years ago.

The house was too quiet now.

Stray stood in the doorway of Rouge's bedroom. His fingers curled tight around the wooden frame. The morning light spilled across her empty bed, illuminating the indentation on the pillow where her head had last rested. The sheets were still rumpled from when she'd pulled him close that final night, whispering against his hair that she wasn't tired, that she just wanted to watch the sunrise with him one more time.

He hadn't understood. Not then.

The scent of her lingered in the air - sea salt and hibiscus, the faint medicinal tang of the herbs she'd been taking for the pain. Stray breathed it in until his lungs ached, until the burn behind his eyes threatened to spill over.

She'd hidden it so well. All of it. The way her hands shook when she thought he wasn't looking. The way she'd started sitting more, letting him take over chores she could have easily done herself. The way she'd memorized every inch of his face like she was afraid she'd forget.

"We'll go to the shore tomorrow," she'd promised that last evening, her voice light even as her fingers trembled in his. "Just you and Ace and me… and the sunrise."

But there had been no tomorrow. Only Garp's heavy hand on his shoulder at dawn, only the old Marine's gruff voice saying she'd gone peacefully in her sleep, only the terrible, yawning silence where her laughter should have been.

Stray stepped forward and pressed his palm to the pillow, the fabric still holding the ghost of her warmth. He'd been so angry at the world for taking her when he'd only just gotten her back. But now, standing in the hollow space she'd left behind, all that remained was the love - vast and endless and with nowhere left to go.

In the next room, baby Ace gurgled in his crib, blissfully unaware of the woman who had loved him enough to defy death itself. Stray wiped his face with his sleeve and went to him.

The pillow would stay unmade. The chair by the window where she'd sat to watch the sea would stay empty. And Stray would keep living, keep loving, keep remembering - because that was all he had left to give her.

The grave was simple. Just a smooth slab of grey stone, nestled between the roots of a young plum tree.

Portgas D. Rouge

Beloved Mother

Stray adjusted the sleeping bundle in the crook of his left arm before running his right fingers over the carved letters. The stone was cool under his touch, the edges sharp. He'd chosen it himself, hauled it up the hill with Garp's help and spent hours chiselling the words one-handed while cradling newborn Ace against his chest, the old man watching in silence.

Rouge had deserved more than an unmarked grave. She’d deserved decades, not a single moment with her sons.

Stray swallowed hard. The wind rustled the petals of the flowers he’d planted, hibiscus, her favourite, and for a second, he could almost hear her voice.

"You don’t have to promise me anything, Stray. He’s yours as much as mine."

His throat burned. Behind him, Garp cleared his throat. "You gonna stand there all day, or are we heading to Dawn?"

Stray didn’t turn. "Give me a minute."

Garp grunted but didn’t argue. The old Marine had been…weirdly accepting of all this. Maybe it was the way Rouge had smiled when she introduced Stary as her son. Maybe it was the way Stray had held newborn Ace like he’d die before letting go. Either way, Garp hadn’t asked questions. Just clapped Stray on the shoulder and said, "Alright, grandson number two. Let’s get you settled."

Stray knelt, pressing his forehead to the stone.

I’ll take care of him, Mom. I’ll make sure he never—

But no. She wouldn’t have wanted promises. She’d just wanted him to live.

He stood, brushing dirt from his knees with one hand while cradling Ace with the other, and turned to where Garp waited at the edge of the clearing. The old man's eyes dropped to the bundle in Stray's arms, to the way the infant's face peeked out from the blanket, peaceful in complete trust of the brother who held him.

"Ready?" Garp asked.

Stray took one last look at the grave. A plum blossom drifted down, catching in Ace's dark hair before sliding off to rest on the yellow fabric. He brushed it away with a finger, then pulled the blanket up to shield the baby's face from the wind.

"Yeah," he said, shifting Ace just slightly higher against his shoulder. "Let's go home."

.....

The cottage in Foosha Village was small but sturdy, with a fireplace already crackling when they arrived. Garp had arranged everything, crib, clothes, even a stack of children’s books.

Ace - Stray - took the baby from Garp’s arms, cradling him carefully. Ace yawned, tiny fingers curling around Stray’s thumb.

"He’s got Roger’s nose," Garp said, apropos of nothing.

Stray snorted. "He’s got Mom’s nose."

Garp grinned. "And Roger’s eyebrows."

"What?"

"Kidding." The old man laughed, then sobered. "He’s gonna be trouble, this one. Breaking hearts left and right."

Stray rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He’d spent the rest of the day listening to Garp’s nonsense, how Ace would be a fine Marine, how he’d catch all the pirates, how Stray had better shape up if he wanted to keep up with his little brother. Stray hadn’t revealed about the truth, the future and Marineford. He hadn’t mentioned Luffy. He hadn’t mentioned the war or the fire or the hole in his chest. Some things were better left unsaid.

At sunset, Garp clapped him on the back hard enough to bruise.

"Alright, brats. I’ll be back when this one’s walking. Don’t slack off!"

Stray kicked him out. "Yeah, yeah. Get lost, old man."

Garp’s laughter echoed down the path to the docks.

Alone at last, Stray looked down at the baby in his arms.

"Just you and me, firecracker," he murmured.

Ace gurgled, blinking up at him with wide grey eyes.

Stray smiled.

We’ll do better this time.

Chapter Text

"You found me on the beach," Marco repeated, watching Stray's face for any tells. The younger man just nodded, stirring honey into his tea with frustrating calm.

"Sunrise. Ace spotted you first." A ghost of a smile. "Nearly tripped over you trying to chase seagulls."

There should have been more to it. Some explanation for why Stray looked at Marco like he already knew him, why his hands lingered a second too long when checking bandages, why his voice softened whenever he said "Whitebeard Pirates" like it was something precious. But Stray just sipped his tea, offering nothing else.

The silence left Marco with an odd ache in his chest—not from his wounds, but something like he'd forgotten something important.

…..

A crayon snapped in Ace's fist as he scribbled violently across the page. "This is you," he declared, shoving the drawing at Marco. The stick figure had yellow hair and what might've been pineapple-shaped flames coming out of its head.

"Flattering," Marco deadpanned.

Stray snorted, reaching over to wipe blue crayon off Ace's cheek. "He draws everyone like that. Last week I was a ‘fire man' with—"

"Fire hair!" Ace interrupted, flailing his arms. "Like this—" He knocked over the crayon box. Marco expected scolding. Instead, Stray just pinched Ace's nose. "Little shit."

"Butthole breath!" Ace shot back gleefully.

Stray gasped in mock outrage. "Where'd you learn that?!"

"You!"

The easy affection between them was...strange. Not the performative kind nobles used, nor the roughhousing Marco saw among pirates. Just Stray's playful shoves always calculated to avoid actually toppling the toddler, Ace's insults delivered while clinging to his brother's sleeve.

Eventually, the crayon drawing stopped, and it was late afternoon. Sunlight came through the kitchen window. Stray was busy cooking, and the sound of him chopping vegetables blended with Ace talking. Marco sat at the table, just watching Stray. He saw how relaxed Stray's shoulders got when he cooked, and that his rolled-up sleeves showed freckles on his forearms, the same kind Ace had on his nose.

Ace, now bored with colouring, had taken to "helping" by handing Stray random utensils. "Big spoon!" he announced, thrusting a ladle at his brother's hip.

Stray accepted the offering, using it to stir the pot one-handed while the other arm kept Ace from climbing the cabinets. A smile naturally spread across Marco's face. He just watched their natural flow in the kitchen.

As shadows lengthened across the floorboards, Stray finally shooed Ace toward the table. "Go bother Marco. I'm banning you from the danger zone."

"Danger zone!" Ace parroted delightedly, scampering to Marco with flour handprints on his overalls. He paused, studying Marco's face with sudden seriousness. "You happy now?"

The question caught Marco off guard. He realized his shoulders had lost their usual tension, his fingers no longer checking reflexively for absent weapons. "Yeah," he murmured, brushing flour from Ace's hair. "I am."

Ace beamed before promptly climbing onto Marco's lap, declaring, "Good. Now you're my chair," just as Stray brought the food to the table. The stew steamed between them, rich with herbs and chunks of tender meat.

Ace’s little feet kicked absently against Marco's shins. "I help you pick carrots," he informed Marco solemnly. "'Cause you hurt."

Stray snorted. "He means he'll steal all your carrots."

"No! I share!" To demonstrate, he plucked a single carrot slice from Marco's bowl and ate it with exaggerated care. "See?"

Marco laughed. The kid's logic was impeccable.

Stray shook his head, but his eyes were soft as he reached over to wipe broth from Ace's chin. "You’re real generous, Ace."

Ace beamed, then promptly stole another carrot.

Across the table, Stray rolled his eyes. "That's not sharing. That's theft." He speared a piece of meat from his own plate and held it out. "Here, firecracker. This is sharing."

Ace obediently leaned forward, mouth opening like a baby bird—only to jerk back at the last second when Stray pretended to eat it himself. The resulting pout could have powered a ship across the Calm Belt.

"Mean!" Ace huffed, crossing his arms.

Stray laughed, finally offering the bite properly. Marco watched the exchange with amusement. There was something mesmerizing about how easily Stray navigated Ace's moods. Teasing just enough to make the toddler giggle, but never crossing into genuine upset.

Then Ace turned those big grey eyes on Marco again. Without breaking eye contact, he reached over and plucked another carrot from Marco's bowl.

"Okay, now you're just robbing me," Marco said, though he made no move to stop him.

Ace chewed thoughtfully before pointing at Marco's spoon. "You eat now."

Marco obliged, taking a bite of stew. Ace's sticky fingers were poking his cheek the moment Marco swallowed,

"No," the toddler corrected, shaking his head. He grabbed Marco's spoon and clumsily scooped up some mashed potatoes. "Like this."

Stray choked on his water. "Oh my god. He's trying to mother you."

Ace ignored him, holding the overloaded spoon toward Marco's mouth with both hands. "Open! Or no heal!"

Marco should have refused. He was a grown man, a Whitebeard Pirate commander, perfectly capable of feeding himself. But something about Ace's determined expression and Stray's barely-contained laughter made him lean forward obediently. The potatoes were warm and slightly smashed from Ace's enthusiastic scooping, but Marco ate them without complaint.

"Happy?" he asked, wiping his mouth.

Ace beamed, then immediately turned to Stray. "Your turn!"

Stray made a show of considering it. "Hmm. Do I get a magic heal if I eat it?"

"Yes."

"Better make it a big bite, then."

Ace dutifully piled the spoon high, then somehow managed to smear half of it on Stray's cheek in his enthusiasm.

Stray gasped. "Assault. By my own brother."

Ace giggled wildly as Stray grabbed him, blowing raspberries against his neck. "Noooo! Pwease! I sowwy!"

The resulting mess, potato on cheeks and Ace's triumphant giggles, left Marco with a strange warmth in his chest. It felt suspiciously like home.

…..

Stray waved away Marco's offer to help with the clattering dishes. "Nah. You've got a more important job," he said, drying his hands on a towel, then turned to them.

Ace, who had been clinging to Marco’s leg like a tiny barnacle, perked up. "What job?"

Stray grinned, sharp and mischievous, before lunging. Ace shrieked with laughter as his brother scooped him up, dangled him upside down for a brief, dizzying second and then tossed him straight into Marco’s arms.

"Bath time," Stray declared. "And you’re on toddler-wrangling duty."

Ace immediately latched onto Marco’s neck, vibrating with excitement. "Bubbles! Ducks! Bubbles!"

Marco barely had time to process before the kid was dragging him down the hall, tiny hands tugging at his shirt. Behind them, Stray called out, "Don’t let him flood the bathroom again!"

Marco had expected resistance. Most kids hated baths—or at least that’s what his crewmates with children always complained about.

Ace, apparently, was not most kids.

The second the water started running, the toddler was stripping off his clothes with alarming efficiency, tossing them haphazardly across the floor. "In! In!" he demanded, bouncing on his toes.

Marco sighed and reached for the temperature knob. "Hold on, Ace, we gotta—"

"BUBBLES!" Ace interrupted, shoving a bottle of soap into Marco’s hands.

Five minutes later, the tub was more foam than water, and Ace was submerged up to his chin in suds, a fleet of rubber ducks bobbing around him. He looked triumphant.

Marco, now damp up to his elbows, resigned himself to his fate.

…..

"Scrubby time!" Ace announced, holding up a pair of exfoliating gloves like they were sacred relics.

Marco blinked. "Yoi?"

Ace wiggled the gloves insistently. "For you. Big bwuvver says I can’t use ‘em ‘cause baby skin is del-i-cate." He said the word carefully, like he was proud of remembering it.

Marco opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it. The kid’s expression was determined.

"...Fine."

Ace cheered and immediately went to work, scrubbing at Marco’s back with all the finesse of a tiny, overenthusiastic deckhand. It was painful.

"You’re supposed to exfoliate, yoi. Not flay," Marco muttered.

Ace paused. "Huh?"

"Never mind."

After the bath, Ace toddled over to a neatly folded stack of clothes on the counter.

"Here!" He shoved a bundle at Marco. "For you!"

Marco unfolded them, a soft cotton shirt and loose linen pants. They were his size. He stared. "...How did your brother know?"

Ace shrugged. "Sta’y knows evwything."

Marco filed that away for later.

After dressing in the bathroom, Marco helped Ace into his pyjamas. "Alright, let's get that hair dry," Marco said, lifting him. Ace immediately pointed towards a bedroom. "This is your room now! I'm sleeping with big bwuvver!" he declared, pointing to another room. Marco brought Ace inside, seating him on the edge of the dresser.

The commander ran the towel gently over Ace’s damp hair, the soft curls springing back stubbornly no matter how much he tried to smooth them. The boy hummed contentedly, swinging his legs.

"You and your brother," Marco mused, more to himself than to the toddler, "look so familiar. Like I’ve seen you somewhere before."

Ace tilted his head, water droplets flicking onto Marco’s shirt. "Hmm. Maybe ‘cause of Papa?"

Marco paused. "Your…papa?"

Ace nodded, utterly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Yeah! Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King!"

The towel slipped from Marco’s fingers.

Ace kept talking, oblivious to Marco’s frozen shock. "Big bwuvver says Papa didn’t know ‘bout him, but then Mama had me, and Sta’y took care of me after Mama died. Grandpa took us here ‘cause he was Papa’s friend."

Marco’s mind reeled. Gol D. Roger’s sons. The Pirate King, executed before the world, had left behind two children, one a toddler who shouldn’t exist by normal timelines, the other a young man who carried himself like he’d lived decades longer than his body suggested.

Ace frowned at Marco’s silence. "You okay? You look weird."

Marco opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat felt too tight.

Ace, ever perceptive, patted Marco’s arm. "It’s okay. Sta’y says it’s not my fault. Or his. Or even Papa’s, really." He scrunched his nose, recalling the words with impressive clarity for a three-year-old. "Big bwuvver used to be so mad at Papa. Said…said he hated that evwyone will only see Pirate King’s sons as bad. Sta’y wanted to be strong enough to protect me. And if he was wanted, it was ‘cause of him, not ‘cause of Papa."

The words settled like stones in Marco’s chest.

Ace swung his legs faster. "But then Sta’y came back to help Mama with me, and he stopped being mad! Mama said no promises, but he promised me he wouldn’t waste time being angry. Because love is bigger. So he loves me extra hard every day so I know." He beamed, utterly certain. "And I do know!"

Marco didn’t realize he’d moved until his arms were already wrapping around Ace, pulling the toddler against his chest. The boy smelled like lavender soap and innocence, his tiny heartbeat a steady rhythm against Marco’s own racing pulse.

Ace wiggled but didn’t pull away. "Macco? You crying?"

Marco swallowed hard. "No," he lied, voice rough.

Ace pulled back just enough to squint at him. "Liar," he declared, then, with devastating simplicity, wiped Marco’s cheek with his sleeve. "It’s okay. Sta’y cries sometimes too. But only when he thinks I’m asleep."

The confession shattered what little composure Marco had left. He pressed his forehead to Ace’s, breathing through the ache in his ribs that had nothing to do with his injuries.

"Yoi," Marco managed, "looks like you've got a really good brother there."

The toddler’s face lit up. "The bestest!"

…..

The living room of the small cottage was lit by the flickering fire in the hearth. Long shadows fell across the wooden floors because of the flames. The fire crackled softly, pushing back the cold evening air coming through the windows. A single oil lamp on the low table added its soft light to the fire's orange glow, making the room feel cosy and sleepy.

Ace was curled up in Marco’s lap, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of Marco’s shirt as he listened to the end of the story. His eyes were wide, reflecting the firelight.

“And then Pops lifted the whole ship—” Marco began.

“With one hand?!” Ace gasped, bouncing slightly.

Marco chuckled. “With one hand.”

Ace twisted around, looking excitedly at Stray, who had just stepped into the room, his hair still damp from his shower. The firelight caught the droplets clinging to his skin, turning them to gold. He wore loose sleep pants and a well-worn shirt.

“Sta’y! Macco’s Pops was Papa’s rival! And fwiend!” Ace announced, as if this were breaking news.

Stray didn’t even blink. He just smirked, rubbing a towel over his hair before tossing it aside. “Yeah, I know,” he said, voice warm with amusement.

Marco watched him. Ace’s big brother sank onto the rug in front of the hearth, stretching his legs out with a sigh. Ace didn’t hesitate. He wriggled out of Marco’s lap and launched himself at Stray, who caught him effortlessly, pulling him into his arms with familiarity.

Stray blew a raspberry against Ace’s cheek, and the toddler shrieked with laughter, the sound bright and clear in the quiet room. Marco couldn’t help but smile. There was something infectious about Ace’s joy, something that made the air feel lighter.

Then Ace, still giggling, decided to retell Marco’s story, with embellishments.

“And then the old man punched the big mean sea king, but the sea king was nice actually, so they shared meat and juice and then Pops said—”

Stray burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking as Ace proudly butchered the tale. Marco, meanwhile, looked vaguely traumatized.

“That’s not how it happened,” Marco interjected weakly.

“It’s better this way,” Stray said, grinning as Ace nodded sagely. “More drama.”

Marco opened his mouth to protest, but the words died when Stray leaned back against the couch. The firelight caught the curve of his smile, the freckles dusted across his nose, His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

Oh.

Something warm and unnameable curled in Marco’s ribs.

Ace, oblivious, clambered onto Stray’s chest, babbling about how he would be even stronger than Whitebeard and Roger combined. Stray humoured him, nodding along while his fingers idly combed through the toddler’s wild hair.

“You’ll have to beat me first,” Stray teased.

“Nooo,” Ace whined, flopping dramatically onto his brother. “You’re cheating!”

Stray’s laugh was bright, unrestrained, and Marco realized, with a jolt, that he wanted to hear it forever.

…..

The fire crackled softly as Stray carefully gathered the sleeping toddler into his arms. Ace barely stirred, his little face smashed against his brother's shoulder, one chubby hand still loosely clutching the fabric of Stray's shirt.

"Shhh," Stray murmured when Marco moved to stand. "Stay. I'll just put him down and be right back."

Marco nodded, watching as Stray carried Ace down the dimly lit hallway. The cottage was quiet. Marco could just make out Stray's low voice singing a lullaby before a door clicked shut with barely a sound.

Marco’s elbows rested on his knees. The fingers steepled together as he stared into the dying flames. His mind raced, trying to piece together memories that didn’t exist, trying to recall a moment where the Whitebeards might have crossed paths with Stray.

When? Where?

The creak of the floorboards made him glance up. Stray padded back into the room, his steps quiet, his silhouette outlined by the soft light. He ran a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from his shower, before sinking onto the sofa beside Marco, close enough that their arms brushed.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Marco turned slightly, studying Stray’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks in the dim light. “You said the Whitebeards helped you before,” he started carefully. “But I don’t remember you.”

Stray didn’t look at him. Instead, he leaned back against the cushions, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “It was a long time ago,” he said simply. “Your crew helped a lot of people. I doubt you remember all of them.”

Plausible. Marco frowned. But…

“Where was it?” he pressed.

Stray shrugged. “Some island. Doesn’t matter now.” His lips quirked into a small smile. “Point is, you did. And I never forgot.”

The answer was vague, but there was no lie in it. Marco could feel that. Stray wasn’t hiding anything, not in the way liars did. He was just… selective. And yet, Marco couldn’t shake the nagging sense that there was more.

But before he could push further, his thoughts derailed entirely, because Stray shifted beside him, stretching his arms above his head with a quiet sigh, the fabric of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.

Marco’s throat went dry.

Oh.

It hit him like a tidal wave. Marco’s pulse jumped when Stray laughed. His chest tightened when Stray ruffled Ace’s hair, his breath caught now at something as simple as skin.

I like him.

Not just as a person. Not just as someone admirable.

I like him.

The realization didn’t panic him. It didn’t send him spiralling. It just… settled. Warm. Certain. And then, because Marco’s brain-to-mouth filter had apparently short-circuited, he blurted out:

“You and Ace… I still think you look more like your mother than Roger.”

Stray froze.

For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still. Then, slowly, Stray turned to face him. His cheeks were tinged pink, his lips parted slightly in surprise. And then he laughed. Bright, unrestrained, his shoulders shaking with it.

Marco stared, utterly captivated.

Yeah. I’m falling hard.

…..

Golden light filtered through the thin curtains when Marco stirred. For a disoriented moment, he forgot where he was, until a weight settled on his stomach.

"Macco breathing."

The toddler's face hovered inches above his own. Before Marco could respond, Ace plopped down onto his chest with a giggle, tiny fingers poking at the bandages peeking beneath his shirt.

"All better now?"

Outside, seabirds cried over the distant crash of waves, a sound that usually called him to the sea, but today just made him tighten his grip around the child.

Marco had planned to leave at dawn.

He hadn't.

Now, as afternoon sun warmed the wooden floors, he stood by the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. Stray leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him with that same quiet understanding that both comforted and unnerved Marco.

Ace was nowhere to be seen.

"I told him," Stray said softly, answering Marco's unspoken question. "He...needed a minute."

Marco's chest tightened. He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—when small, hurried footsteps pattered down the hall.

Ace skidded to a stop in front of Marco, his face suspiciously red around the eyes, his breaths coming in little hiccups. He clutched something behind his back, his tiny shoulders squared with determination.

"You...you leaving."

Marco crouched to his level. "Yeah."

Ace's lips trembled. For a terrifying second, Marco thought the kid might cry. Then, with a sniffle, Ace thrust his arms forward, revealing a worn, floppy-eared stuffed rabbit. Its fur was matted from years of love, one button eye hanging by a thread.

"This is Old Hag," Ace announced solemnly.

Marco blinked. "Old Hag, yoi?"

Ace nodded, utterly serious. "She's my bestest friend. But you're my friend too, so...so… you take her. So you don't forget me."

Marco's throat closed. "Ace, I can't—"

"Yes!" Ace stomped his foot, tears finally spilling over. "Sta'y says… says friends protect each other! And Old Hag protects me, so now she'll protect you!"

Over Ace's head, Marco met Stray's gaze. The younger man's eyes were bright. "Take it," Stray murmured. "Or he'll scream."

Marco swallowed hard and carefully tucked the rabbit into his bag.

"Thank you, Ace."

Ace scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, then launched himself at Marco, tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a crushing hug. Marco held him tight, committing to memory the feel of the toddler's wild hair against his cheek, the way he smelled like sunshine and stubbornness.

When Ace pulled back, he grabbed Marco's hand, dragging him to the couch. "Sit! I gotta tell you Old Hag's story!"

Marco obeyed, letting the toddler clamber onto his lap. Stray settled beside them, his shoulder brushing Marco's.

"Old Hag lived on a super scary island. Bad people came all the time to steal stuff. And...and no one helped them." His tiny brows furrowed, repeating words clearly memorized from Stray. "They had to fight all by themselves. But then!" Ace bounced suddenly. "A giant came on a big ship! And he said—" Ace deepened his voice in a terrible imitation of Whitebeard's rumble, "'Little rabbit, you don't gotta fight alone no more!'"

Stray's hand tightened on the couch cushion beside Marco.

"The giant had lots of friends," Ace continued, counting on his fingers. "Big sisters who fixed boo-boos, and uncles who told jokes, and… and everyone loved Old Hag even when she was grumpy!" He hugged the rabbit fiercely. "The giant said family isn't just blood. it's when people choose to love you forever."

Marco's throat burned.

Ace peered up at Marco, suddenly shy. "Old Hag was really brave. But the giant was braver. He let her be soft sometimes." He thrust the rabbit forward. "So you gotta take her. So you remember being soft is okay too."

Marco reached out with trembling hands, accepting the worn toy. Its fur was damp from Ace's tears.

…..

The wind whipped across the cliffs of Foosha Village. Marco adjusted the strap of his makeshift bag, a simple cloth bundle holding some provisions and, of course, Old Hag the rabbit, as he stood facing Stray and Ace.

Ace was perched on Stray’s hip, his small arms wrapped tightly around his brother’s neck, his face still a little red from earlier tears. But he wasn’t crying now. He just watched Marco with those big, serious grey eyes, as if memorizing every detail.

Marco exhaled, then reached up to the thin cord around his neck. Tied to it was a simple silver ring, worn smooth from years against his skin. He tugged it free, the metal warm from his body heat.

Stray raised an eyebrow as Marco stepped closer. "What’s this?"

Marco didn’t answer. Instead, he took Stray’s free hand, the one not holding Ace, and slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. The ring had once belonged to his mother, a simple thing she'd worn until her last breath. When Marco set sail with Whitebeard, he'd threaded it onto a cord, keeping it close as a reminder of where he came from.

Stray blinked. Then his lips curled into a dry smirk. "You proposing, pineapple?"

Marco’s lazy grin was answer enough.

Ace, ever observant, gasped. "You kiss now too?" He slapped his hands over his eyes dramatically. "I close eyes! You kiss!"

Stray groaned. "You little sh—"

Marco just chuckled, ruffling Ace’s wild hair before leaning in to press a kiss to the toddler’s forehead. "Be good, Ace."

Ace peeked through his fingers. "You come back?"

Marco didn’t promise. He couldn’t. Not when the sea was unpredictable, not when the world was vast, but he squeezed Stray’s hand, the one now wearing his ring, and said, "We’ll see."

They stood there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at their clothes, the waves crashing below. Then, just as Marco turned to leave, Stray caught his wrist.

Marco glanced back, just in time for Stray to lean up and press a quick, firm kiss to his cheek.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Stray murmured, his smirk sharpening. "Might have some competition soon."

Marco’s grin widened. The sky burned gold as the commander stepped to the cliff’s edge, the sun dipping low over the sea. He could still feel the ghost of Stray’s lips on his skin. Maybe in another life, they had met. Maybe in another world, their paths hadn’t been drawn apart so soon.

Flames wreathed Marco’s shoulders as his phoenix form ignited, blue and brilliant against the dusk. Behind him, Ace’s awed gasp carried on the wind, tiny hands clapping together.

One last look.

Stray stood tall, the setting sun painting him in fire and shadow, Ace balanced on his hip. The silver band gleamed on his finger, catching the light like a promise. With a beat of fiery wings, Marco launched into the sky. The sea stretched endlessly before him, vast and waiting.

…..

The rabbit had become something of a legend aboard the Moby Dick.

It sat on Marco's desk, perched atop a stack of unpaid invoices like some shabby royalty. Its remaining button eye gleamed in the lamplight, threadbare fur brushed smooth from seven years of absent-minded petting whenever Marco reviewed reports.

"Oy, Marco!" Thatch kicked open the cabin door, balancing three sake bottles and a plate of onigiri. "I had a vision about our lucky charm. We should - augh!" A well-aimed logbook sent Thatch stumbling backward.

"No shrines," Marco said without looking up. "No altars. No festivals."

"That rabbit's got better survival rates than half our crew!" Thatch protested, dodging another flying ledger. "It's clearly magical—"

A commotion in the hall cut him off. Haruta's voice, high with excitement, echoed down the corridor. "—burned ten Marine outpost to the ground and stole their flagpole—!"

The navigator burst in, waving a fresh bounty poster like a victory flag. "New rookie making waves! They're calling him Firestorm Stray"

Marco's pen snapped.

The poster stared back at him.

Portgas D. Stray. Captain of the Ember Pirates.

The artist had captured him mid-laugh, flames curling around his shoulders like living things. Marco’s thumb lingered on the smudged ink where Stray's fingers curled around the hilt of his knife, the ring catching the light.

"Thatch," Marco said, very calmly.

"Yeah?"

"Get out."

The door slammed shut behind his sputtering brother. Marco leaned forward, elbows on the desk, Old Hag the rabbit staring judgmentally at him from the paperwork.

"Seven crewmembers?"

"Yup," Haruta added, oblivious to Marco's sudden stillness. "Three of 'em are cabin boys." He squinted at the description. "One's got a creepy-ass grin, another wears a straw hat, and the blonde one keeps whacking Marines with a metal pipe."

Something warm and terrible unfurled in Marco's chest. He stared at the poster until the edges curled from his grip.

Ember Pirates.

Cheeky bastard.

Chapter Text

Thatch would die for Old Hag the rabbit.

This was not hyperbole. He'd drafted seven separate wills (all notarized by Haruta) bequeathing his entire spice collection to the one-eyed stuffed animal currently judging him from Marco's desk.

"Look," Thatch whispered, pressing his forehead against the doorframe of Marco's office. "I know we've had our differences—"

Old Hag's remaining button eye gleamed under the lamplight.

"—but if you could just vouch for me today. A wink. A twitch. Anything."

The rabbit said nothing. The rabbit always said nothing. This only strengthened Thatch's faith. It started small. Marco had returned from that mysterious three-week disappearance seven years ago, looking more relaxed than Thatch had ever seen him. And then, one day, the damn rabbit appeared on his desk like some kind of furry paperweight.

Then the coincidences started happening.

Crewmates who accidentally locked eyes with Old Hag before a mission came back unscathed. Opponents in friendly spars froze mid-fight, staring at the rabbit like it had whispered the secrets of the universe to them. One guy even claimed the damn thing winked at him.

Thatch didn't believe in magic, but he did believe in free booze, and if rubbing Old Hag's remaining button eye before a raid meant he'd find an extra cask of rum, well. He wasn't above it.

The cult grew. Crewmates left offerings, sake, meat and a Marine captain's hat. Thatch had walked in on Haruta bowing to the thing. Pops, the absolute legend, had taken to balancing Old Hag on his head like some kind of fuzzy crown, far out of reach of his "children."

And Marco acted like none of it was happening.

The memory faded, and Thatch was back in the present. The sounds of his surroundings pulled him away from the past. Behind him, Izou cleared his throat. "Are you...praying to the demon toy again?"

"That's blasphemy," Thatch hissed, whirling around. "And I told you to wear the ceremonial robes!"

Izou, dressed in his usual impeccable kimono, pinched the bridge of his nose. "The robes were burned after the 'Great Sake Incident.' Along with your so-called 'sacred texts.'"

"That was arson," Thatch muttered. "Pure jealousy from the non-believers."

Izou opened his mouth—likely to deliver another scathing remark about "healthy coping mechanisms"—when the office door swung open.

Marco stood there.

Thatch's brain short-circuited.

His brother, his usually lazy, perpetually slouching brother, was dressed in dark fitted slacks and a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal the edge of his tattoo. His hair was actually brushed, for fuck's sake.

"Are you..." Thatch's voice cracked. "...wearing cologne?"

Marco ignored him. "Come back in thirty minutes. Bring your CV, yoi."

Thatch blinked. "...My what?"

Izou explained helpfully. "Your curriculum vitae. It’s a summary of your skills and accomplishments."

"Why the hell would I—"

"Because," Izou said sweetly, "someone like you would need every advantage. Might I suggest leading with 'Son of the Strongest Man in the World'?"

…..

Thatch had expected many things when he barged back into Marco's office without a CV. Being greeted by the sight of his brother looking like some romance novel CEO was not one of them.

Marco sat behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose, fingers steepled. Old Hag loomed at his left, her one good eye gleaming with judgment. Sunlight streamed through the porthole behind him, casting his silhouette in gold. It was obscene.

"You're my best friend," Marco said without preamble.

Thatch blinked. "...Yeah?"

"And my brother."

"That's usually how families work."

Marco pulled out a sheet of paper. "Year 1502. You single-handedly stole a Marine battleship's entire liquor supply."

Thatch grinned. "Hell yeah, I did."

"Year 1504. You convinced an entire Marine squadron we were 'friendly traveling chefs.'"

"They believed me!"

"Year 1506. You successfully babysat Haruta for an entire week without setting anything on fire."

Thatch paused. "...Where is this going?"

Marco removed his glasses. Leaned forward. Fixed Thatch with a look that sent ice down his spine.

"Do you like children?"

The question was so absurd, Thatch answered without thinking. "I would die for children."

Marco smiled. It was the same lazy, amused smile he always wore. And then he said, "Good. You're on babysitting duty in ten minutes."

Thatch's brain short-circuited. "WHAT."

…..

The tropical sun beat down on Thatch's back as he scrambled up from the sandy beach, spitting out a mouthful of grit. Above him, Marco hovered in phoenix form, blue flames licking at the cloudless sky like some kind of traitorous, feathery bastard.

"Marco! Wait just a damn minute—!" Thatch lunged, managing to grab hold of Marco's left talon. "You can't just - augh!"

Marco shifted back to human form mid-air with an elegant twist, sending Thatch tumbling back onto the sand. Marco landed with all the grace of a beached tuna.

The commander straightened his cuffs (since when did Marco care about wrinkled sleeves?) before crouching down to meet Thatch's eye level. His stupidly handsome face was the picture of calm, but there was a glint in his eyes that screamed I'm enjoying this too much.

"Yoi," Marco said, as if that explained anything. Then, with the casualness of someone discussing the weather, "I'm dating their brother."

Thatch's brain stuttered.

"His crew usually handles babysitting, but they're occupied today." Marco patted Thatch's shoulder like he was a skittish horse. "You'll like them, yoi. They're sweet."

Sweet.

Marco was dating someone. A pirate. With three demonic-looking siblings. And now Thatch was being sacrificed to them on the altar of Marco's love life.

"That's - you can't just… what the actual fu—"

The explosion cut him off.

Thatch whirled toward the tree line just in time to see a plume of smoke rise above the palms. The ensuing silence was worse. It was the kind of quiet that usually preceded absolute chaos.

Marco stood, brushing non-existent sand from his stupidly well-tailored pants. "There they are, yoi."

Thatch barely had time to process the sheer audacity of that statement before Marco transformed back into his phoenix form in a burst of flames. The resulting backdraft sent Thatch's hat flying.

"MARCO YOU SON OF A—" But the phoenix was already a distant speck against the blue sky, leaving Thatch alone on an island with three unknown horrors. The rustling of leaves was his only warning. Thatch turned slowly, every survival instinct he possessed screaming at him to run.

Three children emerged from the foliage. The tallest had wild black hair and a face full of freckles, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. The blonde one twirled a metal pipe like it was a damn baton, his top hat slightly singed at the brim. The smallest (god help him) wore a straw hat and a smile that promised absolute anarchy.

And their mouths. A thick, dark liquid stained their chins, dripping onto their clothes in viscous streaks.

Thatch's stomach dropped. It had to be blood. The freckled one licked his lips, revealing shockingly white teeth.

Thatch's vision tunnelled. The last coherent thought he had before his knees gave out was, I'm going to haunt Marco so hard.

…..

Ace wiped the last of the strawberry jam from his mouth with his sleeve, eyeing the unconscious man sprawled across the beach. Sabo licked the remnants of their stolen snack from his fingers, while Luffy had somehow smeared it across his cheeks like war paint.

"...think we broke him?" Ace poked Thatch's cheek with a sticky finger.

"That's impossible, Ace. Marco said he's Whitebeard's fourth division commander."

Ace knelt with all the gravity of a field surgeon. "Sabo. Stethoscope."

Sabo tipped his hat, producing the instrument like a magician. Ace pressed it to Thatch's chest with unnecessary force.

"Pulse 72," Ace announced.

Luffy nodded, already drawing numbers in the sand with his finger, added a little doodle of a heart beside it. Sabo handed over a magnifying glass and flashlight. Ace leaned in, nearly poking Thatch's eye out. "They're round. And squishy."

"Pupils reactive," Sabo confirmed.

"I drew his liver!" Luffy cheered.

Thatch made a small, pathetic noise. The children exchanged glances before Ace nodded decisively. "Shock protocol. Blankets and hot water bag."

Sabo produced a hot water bottle from inside his top hat while Ace stripped off Thatch's own jacket. Luffy wrapped a bandage around Thatch's index finger, the one with the tiny knife cut from last night's dinner prep. Ace and Sabo adjusted the hot water bag beneath Thatch’s head like a pillow. Sabo grabbed the man’s white coat and flung it over him like a blanket.

“He’s fine,” Ace announced, flopping down next to him with a satisfied sigh. “We fixed him.”

“Nap time,” Luffy mumbled, already curling up on the other side, head pillowed on Thatch’s arm.

Sabo yawned, eyes already fluttering. “Only twenty minutes.”

“Set a sand timer,” Ace mumbled, but no one moved.

…..

Apparently, it wasn’t blood.

The “horrific” substance smeared across the kids’ mouths and chins, what had sent Thatch hurtling into unconsciousness with all the grace of a ship capsizing, was nothing more than strawberry jam.

Thatch had barely managed to sit upright before the trio descended on him again, beaming with pride and utterly unfazed by his earlier collapse. The youngest had shouted something like, “We fixed you!” and the freckled boy nodded solemnly as if personally responsible for his recovery. The blonde boy had offered him a water bottle like it was a peace offering.

Once Thatch’s pulse stopped racing, the cook properly introduced himself and got the same from them - Ace, Sabo and Luffy. A few minutes into talking, it became clear, these weren’t just kids. They were tiny whirlwinds packed in sunburnt skin and scuffed boots, with the kind of magnetic chaos that only seemed to intensify the longer one stood near them.

Marco hadn’t warned him about this. Oh, sure, the phoenix had said they were “sweet” and “fun,” but he’d failed to mention that they were also dramatic with a capital D. Ace was already recounting a tale about flooding an entire island with edible glitter. According to Ace, it had seemed like a great idea until Luffy started licking trees, and then the wildlife panicked and staged a mass exodus.

“We got grounded,” Sabo said flatly, like that was the obvious end to that ecological tragedy. “Three whole days.”

Thatch couldn’t deny that the three of them were strong, agile in the way trained fighters usually were, and weirdly observant for their age. They climbed, tracked, threw and leapt with precision that didn’t match their size or years. But what worried him more wasn’t what might happen to the kids, but what might happen because of them.

They had a “playground,” they said. The word was misleading.

Thatch expected sticks and maybe a rope swing. What he got was a clearing in the forest that looked like a stage set for chaos, logs arranged in semi-circles, crates half-covered with old cloth, a tree stump with what looked like a handmade flag. And in the centre, a rock that had been painted with the words:

“THE PLAYGROUND OF GREAT AND TRAGIC ADVENTURES.”

That should have been the warning.

“We’re not allowed to fight,” Ace said casually, as they dragged him, literally dragged him, toward the clearing. “Even if our brother isn’t here, he’ll know.”

Thatch raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying Marco’s boyfriend will magically know if you throw a punch?”

“He will,” the three of them said in unison. The way they said it, so sure, so resigned, Thatch believed them.

And since fighting was off the table, they were going to “play pirates.” Each of them was the captain of their own crew, and Thatch, the lone newcomer, was now the hot commodity. It was a casting battle, each child throwing at him the most dramatic, oddly specific roles imaginable. These were not mere make-believe games. These were entire plotlines!

Sabo went first. “You’re my mother,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “You arrive in the rain with a check for fifty million berries and demand I come home because I’m a noble and not meant for pirate life.”

Thatch blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say mother?”

“Lady Windermere. Disgraced heiress of the North Blue. You’ve come to bribe me, your long-lost son, to abandon piracy." He thrust a leaf into Thatch’s hand. "Then you faint from the scandal."

Thatch stared at the leaf. "Kid, what the hell are you reading—"

Before Thatch could fully process that Freudian masterpiece, Ace shoved Sabo aside.

“Forget that. You’re a Whitebeard pirate who got captured,” Ace began, voice hushed like this was classified information. “The Marines plan to execute you at Marineford. But I come to save you… as Whitebeard.” Ace dramatically pulled a banana from somewhere and stuck it over his mouth.

Thatch stared. “Ace, you do realize Whitebeard’s beard isn’t—”

“Banana!” Luffy shouted, also trying to bite said banana off Ace’s face.

Thatch gave up. The banana beard was now canon.

Luffy’s pitch was perhaps the most abstract. He walked right up to Thatch, pointed, and declared, “You’re my meat.”

Thatch paused. “I’m what now?”

“My meat!” Luffy repeated, then beamed. “And we go on an adventure! Until someone tries to eat you and I beat them up!”

That... somehow made the most sense out of the three.

Thatch sighed, already bracing for whatever was coming next.

“Alright, which nightmare am I starring in first?”

…..

By late afternoon, Thatch had come to three realizations. The ASL brothers could hunt, forage and start a fire with terrifying efficiency for children their age. They ate like starving wolves. And… they adored talking about their big brother.

Thatch poked at the small campfire he’d built, roasting the fish Ace had caught and the vegetables Sabo had gathered. Luffy, meanwhile, had contributed by "scaring the food into submission," which apparently meant chasing a wild boar until it tripped over its own feet.

"So," Thatch said, flipping a fillet, "your brother. Stray, right?"

Ace’s eyes lit up like he’d been waiting for this exact question. "Stray and I found Marco seven years ago on the beach," he said around a mouthful of fish. "Stray patched him up, and Marco stayed with us for a few days."

Ace grinned, bright and cheeky. “Then he gave Stray a ring. On the cliff. Like a storybook.”

“Wait, what?” Thatch sat up straighter.

Sabo jumped in, clearly enjoying the retelling. “It wasn’t like a marriage ring. Just a promise. But still, kind of romantic, I guess. They didn’t see each other for years after that. But a few months ago, Marco came to visit us on the ship. They went on a date. Then another. Then they made it official.”

Thatch’s brain short-circuited. Marco? The man who once slept through a cannonball hitting his bedroom wall? Thatch had known Marco had feelings, but the capacity for something as dramatic and romantic as cliffside promise rings was something he never, in a million years, would have predicted from the usually unflappable phoenix.

Luffy, who’d taken a bite of something crunchy and maybe burned, jumped in enthusiastically. “After Shanks left, I told Gramps I was gonna be Pirate King, and Gramps got mad, so he dropped me at Stray’s house!” He laughed like it was a fond memory and not emotional abandonment.

“Stray got fed up with Gramps trying to turn us into Marines,” Ace added, not sounding particularly bothered. “So he said screw it, and we set sail.”

Sabo nodded proudly. “There’s seven of us. Stray’s the captain. Us three are his crew, well, cabin boys, technically. Then there’s the others.”

“Who are…?” Thatch prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Ferrero!” Luffy said, mouth full. “He’s super strong. Like, scary strong. He punches trees to get fruit down. And he’s always yelling at us to wear shoes.”

“Then there’s Sizzie,” Sabo added. “She’s our navigator-slash-medic. Very organized. She’s why we haven’t blown up yet.”

“And Ruelle,” Ace finished. “Our sniper. She’s quiet. She trained in a monastery once and still meditates in the crow’s nest sometimes.”

“Where are they now?” Thatch asked, half-dreading the answer.

“They had errands,” Sabo said with a shrug. “Ruelle’s trading with some traveling merchants. Sizzie’s gathering medical herbs. Ferrero’s building a water filter. They’re busy.”

“Which means you’re stuck with us,” Ace added proudly, popping a berry into his mouth.

“Lucky me,” Thatch said under his breath. He took a long, slow sip from his canteen and then asked, “So where’s your brother now?”

Ace tilted his head like it was obvious. “Fishman Island. I think. He wanted to spar with Jinbe.”

“Jinbe? The Jinbe?”

“Yup,” Ace said. “Marco said he’d take Stray to meet him, since Jinbe’s an ally of Whitebeard and all. They’re on a date too.”

Thatch groaned. “Of course they are.”

Sabo perked up. “Did you know Fishman Island has an entire underwater forest? It glows. I read it in a book.”

Luffy ignored him, making gagging sounds. “They’re probably kissing! Bleh!”

Ace reached across the log and flicked Luffy’s forehead. “You don’t understand. They’re in love. That’s what people do when they’re in love.”

“Still gross,” Luffy grumbled, rubbing his head.

Thatch watched, fascinated, as the three dissolved into bickering, Ace defending romance with surprising fervour, Sabo playing mediator and Luffy insisting that meat was the only love anyone ever needed.

…..

The spar with Jinbe had been intense but exhilarating.

Stray burned through the last round with a sharp, grounded focus, surprising even himself when the match tipped his way. Jinbe was gracious in defeat, clapping Stray’s shoulder with respect and inviting him to visit again for a rematch.

“You dressed up for a spar?” Stray teased, lips tugged into a half-smile, tilting his head to get a better look at Marco. “Or did you know I was going to win and wanted to look pretty next to me?”

Marco didn’t answer, just gave a low hum as if weighing the accusation. Stray stood on his toes, hand resting against Marco’s chest, and kissed him lightly under the jaw.

Marco’s lips curved faintly.

They walked hand in hand through the quiet streets, ducking in and out of small shops where Stray lingered over bright-coloured candy, handmade knives and little trinkets carved from coral. Marco didn’t rush him, letting their fingers stay loosely intertwined. At one shop, Stray picked up a tiny toy bird with mechanical wings and spun it between his fingers.

“Maybe I’ll bring this back for Luffy. Or eat it in front of him and pretend it was chocolate.”

Marco raised a brow. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it,” Stray shot back, already setting it on the counter.

He turned to Marco with a grin, then reached up and pulled him down by the collar before stealing a slow, warm kiss that made Marco’s hand tighten briefly at his waist.

The fishman shopkeeper, a large, kindly-looking individual with scales glinting on his cheeks, cleared his throat. Stray and Marco broke apart without a hint of embarrassment, their expressions unbothered. The shopkeeper accepted the payment, counted out the change with practiced ease and placed the mechanical bird carefully into a small, decorative wrapping bag. He handed it over with a strained smile.

As soon as the bell above the door jingled, signalling the couple's departure, the shopkeeper sighed heavily. He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, old-fashioned Den Den Mushi. Its shell was a muted blue.

"Mom?" he whimpered into it, tears already welling in his large eyes. "Why am I still single?"

…..

The calm didn't last.

They were barely three steps out of the shop, hand in hand, Stray still grinning about the toy he definitely wasn’t going to share with Luffy, when it hit them. A wave of something, not Haki, not sound, not heat, but a pulse. It was heavy and wrong.

Stray staggered mid-step, his whole body going rigid.

Marco felt it too.

Stray’s head snapped toward the sea. His jaw tensed. “Ace.”

And that was all it took. Stray didn’t wait for anything else. One hand blazed with the flickering, wild colour of his flame, blue, grey and orange, and the other grabbed Marco’s arm. A flash of fire enveloped them both, and then they were gone, tearing through space itself in a streak of burning light.

…..

On the Moby Dick

It all happened too fast.

Thatch’s body hit the deck with a sickening thud, blood staining the polished wood under him. The crew barely had time to process the scream, Ace’s scream, before Teach had his arm around the boy’s chest, the other hand gripping the fruit. The Dark-Dark Fruit. The reason for it all.

“Stay back!” Teach barked, voice darker than anyone had ever heard it. “I’ll gut him, I swear. You come one step closer—he dies.”

The world froze.

Thatch groaned weakly where he lay. The rest of the crew was still recovering from shock, blades half-drawn, pistols lowered, not quite believing their eyes. Ace trembled in Teach’s hold, hands still wrapped around the devil fruit he’d been moments away from biting. His fingers twitched.

And then it happened.

Heat.

It was alive. Wild. The air itself shimmered as Ace’s body burst into a swirling bloom of flame, blue at the core, grey threading through like smoke, and red laced like blood. The man screamed, his grip loosening as the heat licked up his arm, blistering skin. Ace hit the ground, the Dark-Dark Fruit tumbled from his fingers, rolling harmlessly across the wood. Marco was diving from above, a blazing phoenix, his talons slamming into Teach and sending him crashing through a crate.

Teach groaned, pushing himself up, only to freeze as a shadow fell over him. The man stood between him and Ace, his flames coiled tight around his fists, his eyes burning. Behind him, Sabo had already pulled Ace and Luffy close, his arms wrapped around them.

“You,” Stray said softly, “are done.”

The crew turned, slowly, to face the threat. Teach coughed, blood on his lips, scrambling to his feet. “You don’t understand,” he snarled. “That fruit… it’s mine. I waited years for it—”

“YOU BASTARD!”

“YOU STABBED YOUR BROTHER!”

“YOU TRIED TO KILL A CHILD!”

And then came the heaviest voice of all.

“Enough.”

Whitebeard stepped forward, bisento in hand, casting a long shadow across the deck. His gaze was on Teach, sharp, old and full of a pain no one could fake. “You stabbed your brother.” A step forward. The ship trembled. “You threatened a child.” Another step. Teach scrambled back. “You betrayed this family.” The air itself seemed to still. “You are no son of mine.”

Teach laughed bitterly. “I was never your son. I just needed the fruit.”

The Whitebeard Pirates didn’t yell. They didn’t rage. But the look in their eyes, the slow drawing of weapons, the shift of feet and stance, those were louder than any battle cry. Marco stood tall beside Stray, his flame still lit, expression unreadable.

The punishment was swift.

By the time it was over, Teach would never harm anyone again.

And as the crew gathered around Thatch, alive, thanks to Marco’s quick healing, Stray dropped to his knees, pulling Ace, Sabo and Luffy into his arms. Ace trembled against him, his small frame shaking with adrenaline and fear.

“Stray…”

“Shh.” Stray pressed his forehead against Ace’s, his voice raw. “I’ve got you.”

…..

Thatch groaned as consciousness returned to him in slow, syrupy waves. The sharp scent of antiseptic and the familiar creak of the Moby Dick’s infirmary told him where he was before he even opened his eyes. His stomach ached, but it was a dull, distant thing, Marco’s healing had clearly done its job.

He blinked up at the ceiling, then turned his head, only to be met with the sight of Marco lounging in a chair beside his bed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper in hand.

“Oh good, you’re alive,” Marco said without looking up. “Would’ve been a pain to break in a new Fourth Division Commander.”

Thatch wheezed out a laugh, then immediately regretted it as his stitches protested. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

Marco smirked. “So I’ve been told.”

Thatch exhaled, wincing as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His memory was a little hazy, but the important bits were there, Teach’s betrayal, the knife, Ace in danger, then—

Fire.

Blue, grey and red.

Thatch’s eyes snapped to Marco. “The kids—?”

“Fine,” Marco said, finally setting the paper aside. “Ace got a scare, but Stray got to him in time.”

“Stray,” Thatch repeated, the name settling in his mind like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Stray. The mysterious older brother of the ASL trio, the captain of the Ember Pirates, the man who had somehow tamed Marco the Phoenix.

A slow grin spread across Thatch’s face. “So. When do I get to meet this boyfriend of yours? I think I deserve that much after getting stabbed, don’t you think?”

Marco opened his mouth, probably to say something infuriatingly dismissive, when something small and rubbery launched itself at Thatch’s bed with a wail.

“THATCHYYYYY!”

Thatch barely had time to register the blur of straw hat and overalls before Luffy collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a death grip. The boy was sobbing uncontrollably, snot and tears smearing into Thatch’s bandages.

“Oi—oi—Luffy, kid, I’m fine—” Thatch tried, patting his back awkwardly.

Then, a hand reached out, grabbing Luffy by the back of his overalls and yanking him up like a misbehaving kitten.

“What did I say about jumping on injured people?”

Thatch looked up.

The man was tall, lean but wiry with muscle, his sharp features a near mirror of Ace’s, just older, more defined. A tattered orange cowboy hat sat low over his eyes, casting shadows across his face. His white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing scars and ink, and beneath it, a black turtleneck hugged his frame. Combat boots, black shorts, and an air of don’t-test-me completed the look.

Luffy, still dangling from Stray’s grip, hiccupped. “B-But Stray, I missed Thatchy—”

Stray’s expression softened, just a fraction, before he sighed and set Luffy down. He leaned in, whispering something into the boy’s ear. Luffy nodded seriously, wiping his nose with his sleeve before turning back to Thatch.

This time, when Luffy hugged him, it was gentle—careful, like Thatch was made of glass.

Thatch’s heart melted.

Then, movement at the door.

Ace and Sabo stood there, practically vibrating with the effort of not sprinting into the room. Marco had a hand fisted in the back of both their collars, holding them in place. Thatch shot Marco a betrayed look.

“You monster. Let them go. I love children. I said I would die for them! Let them hug me to death!”

Stray snorted, crossing his arms. “You just got stabbed. They’re not tackling you.”

Marco released his grip. Ace and Sabo didn’t run, but it was a near thing. They skidded to a stop beside Thatch’s bed, then, mimicking Luffy, wrapped their arms around him with careful, deliberate gentleness.

Thatch could’ve cried.

Over their heads, he caught sight of Pops standing in the doorway, a fond smile on his face. And perched on Whitebeard’s head was Old Hag, the one-eyed, threadbare stuffed rabbit given to Marco years ago. The crew’s unofficial lucky charm stared at Thatch with its single, beady eye.

And then…

Old Hag winked.

Thatch’s breath caught.

No. Way.

His mind short-circuited.

Old Hag winked at me. Old Hag, the sacred guardian of the Moby Dick, the one who had survived being thrown into the ocean three times and still came back drier than Marco’s sense of humour, just winked at me.

Thatch’s soul ascended. Old Hag, you’re my new god! I knew it! My prayers have been answered! This is proof! Divine intervention! Thatch must’ve made a face, because Stray raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Thatch, still staring at Old Hag in reverent awe, whispered, “I’ve been blessed.”

Marco followed his gaze, then sighed. “Thatch, it’s a stuffed animal.”

“BLASPHEMY!” Thatch gasped, clutching his chest. “Old Hag is clearly a higher being! She winked at me! That’s a sign!”

Stray looked at Marco. “Is he always like this?”

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately.”

Thatch, undeterred, clasped his hands together in prayer. “Old Hag, I vow to build you a shrine. A big one. With offerings of rum and meat—”

Luffy’s head snapped up. “Meat?!”

“—sacrificial meat,” Thatch amended quickly.

Ace and Sabo exchanged glances.

“...Should we be worried?” Sabo muttered.

Ace shrugged. “Nah. This seems normal for him.”

Pops chuckled, shaking his head as he turned to leave, Old Hag still perched regally atop his crown. Thatch watched them go, his heart full. Stray sighed, ruffling Luffy’s hair. Thatch grinned, leaning back into the pillows as the ASL brothers clung to him.

Worth it. All of it.