Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A loud, jarring crash yanks Ace back to consciousness.

His body jolts instinctively, but he can't flinch—not with his wrists chained to the cold stone wall behind him. Pain screams down his arms and side from the motion, and he bites down hard on a hiss. His breathing comes in shallow pants, shaky and too loud in the silence that follows the sound.

The cuffs are still there. Seastone. Heavy. Cold. Draining the life right out of him.

He slumps forward, forehead brushing his knees as he forces a few slow, steadying breaths through clenched teeth. Every inhale scrapes against bruised ribs. Every exhale brings the sting of defeat. His skin feels too hot and too cold all at once—feverish and clammy. He’s weak. Dizzy. The fire inside him is a quiet ember now, barely flickering under the weight of the cuffs. Without his powers, he feels exposed. Small. Human.

Ace opens his eyes slowly and takes in his surroundings. He’s back in the cell.

He doesn’t remember getting here. The last thing he recalls is screaming himself hoarse, trying to stand even as his legs gave out, still hoping someone—anyone—might believe him. Then… nothing. Darkness.

Someone must have carried him.

The thought makes his stomach twist. Carried like a prisoner. A threat. Like a traitor.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It still doesn’t feel real.

They were supposed to be his family. And yet, here he is—chained, injured, discarded like garbage.

Ace lifts his head and leans it back against the stone wall. The ceiling above him is dark and cracked. Dust floats through the still air. It smells like mold and old blood.

A family. That’s what they’d promised him. What Pops had promised him.

He wants to laugh. It comes out as a choked sound, a rasp swallowed by the silence.

His thoughts drift, unbidden, to Luffy.

His little brother should be sailing by now. Seventeen. Old enough to chase his dream, to see the world—free. Ace had planned to wait until the boy got his first bounty. He wanted to show it off to the crew with pride, to say, “Look, that’s my little brother.” He’d imagined their reactions—Thatch teasing, Marco raising an eyebrow in amusement, even Pops giving a rare smile.

But now…

Now he’s grateful he kept Luffy a secret. Only Marco and Thatch know his name, and even then—just the name. “Luffy.” No last name. No home port. Just a vague mention of East Blue, and that was it.

It isn’t much, but it’s a small, fragile shield between Luffy and the hell Ace is trapped in.

So long as they never connect the dots, his brother is safe.

Ace lets his head roll to the side, cheek brushing against the damp stone. His injuries ache. The ones from the fight, the ones from the aftermath. He doesn’t even know which hurts more anymore—his body or the gaping hole inside his chest.

The worst part is that it had started like any other day.

He hadn’t even been on duty. Just finished a night watch. He’d thought about grabbing a snack—something sweet, maybe a leftover dessert Thatch had saved for him. He’d passed by the kitchen and heard something. A noise from Thatch’s room. At first, he thought nothing of it. Called out. No answer.

So he opened the door and the world cracked.

Blood. So much blood.

Thatch was sprawled out on the floor, limbs twisted unnaturally, a knife buried deep between his shoulder blades. The puddle beneath him was too wide. Too red. Too final.

And beside him—Teach. Standing there, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just murdered a brother. Holding the half-eaten fruit that Thatch had found. That Thatch had dreamed of. Grinning.

Something inside Ace had snapped.

He doesn’t remember much of what he did after that—only the rage. The heat. His flames consuming the room as he attacked, as he struck the traitor down, as he screamed for help while trying to stop the bleeding. He remembers the feel of Thatch’s blood on his hands. The sound of his own voice—raw, broken.

Teach must have woken while Ace was distracted and slipped away. By the time help arrived, the bastard was gone, and Ace—covered in blood, surrounded by fire and smoke—looked like the villain.

They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t let him explain. Someone struck him from behind, hard. He didn’t even fight back. Couldn’t. Not while Thatch was dying.

They locked him up in this cell, clamped seastone around his wrists.

At first, he tried. He begged. Pleaded. Explained.

No one listened, not even Pops.

He remembers the betrayal in Whitebeard’s eyes, the coldness in his voice as he demanded to know where the fruit was and why he attacked Thatch and killed Teach. As he tried to break Ace down, tried to force a confession out of him like Ace was some common criminal.

Like he wasn’t his son. Like he never had been.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. He lost count. Only Izo comes to visit now. Only Izo still looks him in the eye. He doesn’t know if the other man believes him, not really—but at least he doesn’t look at Ace like he’s filth.

And then, as if everything wasn’t already in ruins, Whitebeard dropped another bomb.

He told the commanders who Ace’s father was.

And with that, the whispers began. The sideways glances. The venom. The paranoia.

As if that name had poisoned his very blood. Something broke inside him that day. He hasn’t been the same since.

Ace leans his head against the cold wall, fingers twitching with restless energy he doesn’t have. He keeps thinking of Luffy. Of a promise made with fire in his chest and conviction in his voice.

“I won’t die.” He’d meant it. Still does.

But now, with cracked lips and aching bones and the weight of betrayal pressing on his chest like a slab of iron, that promise feels more like a thread he's hanging from.

He knows he can’t stay. He knows what’ll happen if he does.

They’ll kill him. Not today, maybe. But someday soon. And the worst part is—it’ll be easy for them. No hesitation. No remorse.

Family, right?

Ace exhales a slow breath, eyes closing for just a moment. Then he opens them again, and there’s a new glint there. Determination. Desperation. He’ll escape. Find Teach. Drag him back if he has to—prove the truth, or die trying. Either way, he’s not dying here in chains.

Marco’s face flickers in his mind, and it almost stops him. That smile, that warmth, the rare softness in those eyes. His Marco.

But no—he can’t wait for him to come back. Marco will side with Pops. He’s too loyal. And maybe that hurts worst of all.

The door creaks open.

Ace tenses automatically, but then Izo steps inside, his silhouette framed in the dim light like a ghost in silks and quiet fury.

“Do you have news?” Ace asks, voice low, raspy with exhaustion.

Izo doesn’t speak at first. He closes the door behind him, movements careful. Then he shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “Pops is still as stubborn as a mule,” he says quietly. “And there’s no change with Thatch.”

Ace swallows, something bitter settling in the back of his throat. “I see,” he murmurs. “Thanks for trying.”

Without a word, Izo reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a small brass key. He steps forward and unlocks the door with a soft click.

“You need to leave,” he says as he kneels and undoes the shackles.

Ace freezes. “You’re… letting me go?”

Izo’s fingers falter for just a second, and then he sighs, exasperated and tired. “They’ll kill you if I don’t. And then what am I supposed to tell Thatch?” He hesitates, eyes dark. “What am I supposed to tell Marco when he returns from his mission? They’d never forgive me if I let you die.”

Ace’s heart stutters. He looks down at his hands, bruised and blistered. “Can you take a message?” he asks, voice barely audible.

Izo nods.

“Tell them… tell them I’m sorry. But next time we meet, I’ll be Whitebeard’s enemy. So it’s better if they forget about me. You, too…”

Izo’s jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t be so sure on that,” he says softly. “I’m thinking of leaving, too. Pops had no right to treat you the way he did. And I’m scared he’ll do it again—to someone else.”

Ace stares.

“But I’ll stay until Thatch wakes up. I want him to know what happened. What Pops did to you.” Izo’s voice wavers for a heartbeat. “Maybe… maybe he’ll come with me. We could open that sea restaurant he never shuts up about. The one he dreamed of since he heard about the Baratie.”

Ace laughs quietly—just once, breathless and sharp. His eyes sting. “He’d like that.”

Izo rises and pockets the key. Then, with careful precision, he kneels again and pulls a loose nail from a crack in the floorboards. He scratches up the lock, smudges it with grime and blood, makes it look like Ace picked it himself.

“Thanks, Izo,” Ace says, and it’s not enough. But it’s all he can say.

He doesn’t dare go near Marco’s room to get his hat and dagger. He misses them, but not enough to risk everything. Not enough to die for them.

He finds his striker where he left it—blessedly untouched—and grips it with shaking hands. His Paradise Log Pose is unsuited for the New world, but it’s the only thing he’s got. It’ll have to do.

The sea welcomes him like an old friend—or a patient predator.

He sails alone.

Hours blur together. Days, maybe. He doesn’t know anymore. Hunger gnaws at his stomach. Thirst burns in his throat. His wounds—untreated and raw—throb with every movement. Some are infected now. He can smell it. Fever curls through his limbs like smoke.

But he keeps going. He has to. For Luffy.

Finally, land—or something like it—appears on the horizon.

No. Not land. A ship.

Ace narrows his eyes, vision swimming. He tries to veer away, but then he recognizes the jolly roger.

Red Force. Shanks.

Relief crashes into him like a wave. He hadn’t been looking for the Red-Haired Pirate, but maybe… maybe this is okay. Shanks had called him a friend once. He’d meant it. Probably.

Ace doesn’t have the strength to second-guess himself. If he turns around now, he’ll drown. He knows it. His limbs tremble. His skin burns. His vision darkens at the edges.

Luffy’s face flashes before him. “I won’t die.”

He forces the striker forward.

Someone on the Red Force shouts.

Ace tries to lift a hand in greeting, but he’s too weak. The world tilts, and the last thing he hears is a splash and the sound of someone yelling his name.

Water closes over him.

Then—arms. Warm and strong. A grip under his shoulders, lifting, dragging him up.

Shanks.

Ace coughs weakly, barely conscious. “Don’t… don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he slurs, eyes half-lidded. “Especially not… Whitebeard.”

Shanks is yelling. Panicked. Calling for the ship doctor, already checking Ace’s wounds, his pulse, his breath.

But Ace doesn’t hear the rest.

Darkness takes him.

Chapter Text

Ace sighed and let his eyes follow the rise and fall of the waves, the moonlight casting a soft shimmer across the sea. Behind him, laughter and music spilled from the mess hall—voices raised in celebration, the clinking of mugs, the occasional cheer. Normally, he would’ve been right there in the middle of it, joking with Thatch, teasing Izo, maybe sitting near Marco if he felt bold enough. But not tonight. Not after what he’d overheard.

Marco’s voice echoed in his skull, sharp and cold in a way he couldn’t shake.

“Why do you ask? We both know there was no child, yoi.”
“Because said child was the reason for Baterilla. Why are you always so serious? It was a hypothetical question. I know there isn’t one. But can’t you pretend there was and it is somehow still alive? What would you do?”
“With how far the World Government is willing to go to erase Roger’s bloodline, it would not be good to be associated with them. You saw what they did to all those poor women at Baterilla. If they were one of us, it could be our ruin. Sooner or later we would be forced to go to war against the World Government. Pops isn’t getting younger, and depending on the situation I’m not sure we would win. While I wouldn’t actively try to hunt or kill them, I would wish them as far away from my family as possible. Which is why I think it’s a good thing they don’t exist.”

He clenched his jaw. It didn’t matter that Marco hadn’t known he was listening. It didn’t matter that the words weren’t aimed at him directly. They were still real. Still honest.

He always knew some people thought that way—hell, he sometimes thought it about himself—but hearing it spoken aloud, here of all places, on the Moby Dick where he had dared to hope he could belong… It cut deep. Deeper than he was ready for.

“I take it he turned you down?” came a voice from behind.

Ace didn’t have to look. He knew that voice. Thatch.

When he didn’t answer, Thatch plopped down beside him, the scent of sea salt and oil clinging to his clothes. “Shit,” he muttered, “I was so sure he was into you too. Was it the age thing? You want me to talk to him?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Ace murmured, still staring out over the water.

Thatch went quiet for a moment. “Then what are you so down about? Something happen?”

Ace gave a small, hollow nod. “I just… realized there’s no way he could possibly want me.”

Thatch tilted his head, confused. “And how exactly did you figure that?”

“He said it,” Ace whispered.

“But you just said you didn’t tell him?” Thatch frowned.

Ace flinched and finally looked at his friend, voice raw. “He didn’t say it to me. He was talking to Squard.”

Thatch blinked. “He told Squard he isn’t interested in you?”

Ace slowly shook his head. “No. They weren’t talking about… feelings. But…”

Thatch’s expression darkened in confusion. “You’re not making sense.”

Ace dropped his gaze to the floorboards. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them close. “He basically said I’m not welcome on the Moby… that it would’ve been better if I hadn’t been born.”

There was a beat of silence before Thatch surged to his feet, fury flaring in his eyes. “He said what?!”

Ace stood quickly and grabbed his arm. “Wait! What are you doing?”

“I’m going to beat some damn sense into that stupid turkey,” Thatch growled.

Ace tightened his grip, desperate. “Please don’t.”

“He had no right to say that!” Thatch barked.

“But he’s right!” Ace cried, voice breaking.

Thatch froze.

Ace hated how his voice trembled, but he pushed forward anyway. “Marco’s right. I’m not supposed to exist. I know that. I’ve always known that. It just… caught me off guard to hear it here. I thought—” He bit his lip, the words dying in his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it.”

But Thatch didn’t move. He stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. “You better listen, Portgas D. Ace—”

“It’s Gol D…” Ace cut in softly.

The anger drained from Thatch’s face. He blinked. “What?”

“My birth name,” Ace whispered. “It’s Gol D. Ace.”

Realization dawned slowly, followed by disbelief. “You’re…?”

“I’m the Pirate King’s bastard son.”

The words fell heavy between them. The ocean breeze didn’t seem quite as soft anymore.

After a long silence, Thatch asked, “Does Pops know?”

Ace nodded. “I told him a few weeks ago.”

Thatch let out a long sigh and sat down again. “Then I don’t see why it should matter…”

“It matters,” Ace replied. “I’m a danger to you. The World Government’s been after me since before I was born. They think I’m dead. But if they ever find out—” Ace didn’t need to finish his sentence. It was clear it would end badly, “Marco is right. It would be better if I left. Then nobody would get hurt…”

Thatch didn’t say anything at first, which was why Ace finally let go of his arm. The silence was deafening, but not unfamiliar—it had weight, meaning, judgment. So when Thatch turned and walked away, Ace didn’t stop him. Maybe he should’ve. Maybe if he had been faster, more certain, he could’ve prevented what came next.

But when he realized the cook was still heading toward the mess hall, something inside him stirred uneasily. That wasn’t the direction of quiet reflection or private rage. That was the direction of trouble.

Ace followed, heart hammering harder with every step. His gut told him that Thatch wasn’t done. That this wasn’t over. He picked up the pace.

The din of the party hit him like a wall as he stepped inside. Laughter, chatter, the clinking of glasses—normalcy, camaraderie. And then, slicing through it all:

“Commander Thatch, what’s for dessert?” someone called out, cheerful and oblivious.

“Peacock,” Thatch bit out, his voice like steel on stone. “Should be ready soon.”

Ace’s blood ran cold. That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t about food.

Everyone froze. The tension cracked through the air like lightning as eyes turned toward the fourth division commander. Thatch didn’t break stride. He moved through the crowd like a storm brewing at sea—unavoidable, inevitable.

Marco and Squard were still seated at the center table, surrounded by other commanders. They were laughing about something, drinking casually, and didn’t seem to notice the rapidly forming silence around them.

Thatch stopped right in front of them. He reached out, took Marco’s sake cup—and without a word, poured the entire thing over the phoenix’s blond head.

The mess hall erupted into stunned gasps. Even Marco looked shocked, jaw dropping as sake dripped down his face and into the collar of his shirt.

“Hey!” he cried out, startled, “What was that for, yoi?!”

“For being an ignorant bastard,” Thatch snarled, voice low and seething.

Before anyone could react, he grabbed Marco by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet like he weighed nothing at all. The chair clattered to the floor behind him as Thatch dragged him out of the mess hall.

Ace blinked. For a second he couldn’t move. Then instinct kicked in and he sprinted after them.

“Stop it!” he shouted as he caught up to them on the deck, the wind whipping at his hair.

But Thatch wasn’t done.

“Not before I beat some sense into that insensitive, thick-headed pigeon!” he roared.

And then he punched Marco.

Ace heard the impact—a solid, sickening crack—and saw Marco’s head jerk back. There was a flash of blood, then a flicker of blue fire. The wound vanished like it had never been there.

Ace didn’t think. He just moved. He threw himself between them, grabbing Thatch’s arm mid-swing, shoving him back with all the force he could muster.

“Enough already!” he snapped. “You’re exaggerating! It’s no big deal!”

Thatch looked at him, furious. The heat pouring off him rivaled Ace’s own flames.

“That pretentious peacock saying he doesn’t want you here and that you shouldn’t have been born is no big deal?!” he barked, disbelief in every syllable.

“What?” Marco shouted behind them. “I would never say something like that!”

Ace didn’t respond. He didn’t look at Marco. He stared only at Thatch, pleading without words, willing him to stop before this all went to hell.

“Drop it,” he said coldly, voice shaking from something too raw to name.

Thatch stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “He had no right to say something like that! Why are you defending him?”

“Would someone please explain what the fuck is going on here?” Marco growled, frustration leaking into his voice. “You know I care about Ace! There’s no way I would say something like this! I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, yoi!”

“A misunderstanding, you say?” Thatch growled, eyes narrowing. “If you’re so sure about that, then you shouldn’t have a problem repeating your conversation with Squard.”

Marco inhaled sharply and swiped the remaining sake off his forehead. He looked more bewildered than angry now.

“We were talking about Baterilla,” he said slowly. “And what happened there twenty years ago.”

“Baterilla?” Thatch echoed, the rage in his voice softening into confusion. “I’ve never heard about that before.”

Ace exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy as if the air had weight. He stared ahead, not really seeing the deck anymore. His voice came out quieter than usual, not a whisper, but lacking the usual heat it carried. “It’s an island in South Blue. After he disbanded his crew and before he turned himself in to the Marines, Gol D. Roger lived there for several months. He wasn’t acting like a pirate anymore—more like a husband. Maybe even a father. So after his death, the World Government searched the island for any signs of his child. They killed… a lot of people. Women. Infants. Anyone who might’ve been hiding something.”

Thatch looked up sharply, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “He turned himself in?”

The question pulled them sideways for a moment, but Ace could feel Marco watching him—closer, more precise. When he finally spoke, the phoenix’s voice was even, but there was something beneath it. Something like suspicion. “I wasn’t expecting you to know about that,” Marco said. “The World Government tried really hard to bury that part. I heard there aren’t even records. And I thought you were from East Blue.”

Chapter Text

Ace shook his head, jaw tightening. Every muscle in his body wanted to run, to lie, to change the subject, to laugh it off—but he knew neither of them would let him leave without answers. Not this time.

He hated this part, hated how it scraped against the inside of his chest like glass. How it made him feel like he was unraveling in front of them. Still, slowly, he spoke. “I was raised in East Blue, yeah. But I was born in South Blue. On Baterilla. Right after the World Government left.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Marco’s eyes narrowed. Ace could see the gears turning behind them, fast and sharp. He watched Marco connect the island, the timeline, his conversation with Squard, and Thatch’s angry accusation from earlier.

Then it hit.

Marco’s expression cracked. His eyes widened. He went pale, lips parting slightly. “Impossible…”

Ace didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not when everything inside him wanted to hide. He kept his gaze steady, forced a weak, bitter smile to his lips. “Still think this is just a misunderstanding?”

Marco didn’t answer. Thatch stayed quiet, too. The silence was suffocating.

Ace swallowed hard and pressed on. “Before his execution, my birth father asked someone he trusted to protect me and my mom. To hide us. But Baterilla was already being watched. Every ship in and out was logged. Marines were stationed on the island. She didn’t have many options. So… she did the only thing she could.”

He paused, teeth clenching for a moment.

“She prolonged the pregnancy. Somehow. Made it look like I couldn’t possibly be his kid. It was dangerous, but it worked. They stopped looking. And she… she held on for as long as she could.”

Marco moved before he spoke—just a fraction, his mouth opening, his brow drawing in. “But then she—”

“Died,” Ace finished quietly, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Right after naming me.”

He let that hang in the air, heavy and cold.

“My name was supposed to be Gol D. Ace. But the family that took me in—they changed it. Gave me her surname instead. There was no proof tying her to Roger. No one would look for a son born too late, with the wrong name.”

He laughed then. It wasn’t happy. More like a breath forced into the shape of laughter. “And it worked. The Marines never found me.”

His gaze drifted to Marco. He didn’t know what he expected—anger, rejection, maybe even fear—but Marco didn’t move. He just stared at him with wide eyes, his expression unreadable now. Still stunned. Like his brain had shut down and was still trying to reboot.

Ace would have made a joke about finally rendering the First Division Commander speechless—hell, he’d been trying to do that since day one—but the words caught in his throat.

Because he felt like crying.

He’d let himself believe, just a little. That this ship could be home. That these people could be family. But now that the truth was out, all he could feel was that creeping cold he knew too well.

He wanted to say something else—anything—to break the silence.

But he couldn’t.

Not when the weight of his bloodline sat between them like a sword unsheathed.

“I guess that’s it then…” Ace muttered quietly after what felt like an eternity of silence. The words hung in the air, barely more than a breath, but heavy enough to shake the foundation of everything he’d built aboard this ship.

His chest felt hollow. Raw. He stared at the floor like it might open up and swallow him, and maybe that would’ve been easier than this. Easier than turning his back on everything he’d come to love—no, not love, that was too fragile a word. Everything he’d come to need.

It would hurt to leave. Gods, it would kill him. But what else could he do?

He wasn’t welcome here. Not anymore. Maybe he never had been.

Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d never joined the Whitebeards. If he’d kept sailing alone, burning through islands like a comet destined to burn out. Then he wouldn’t have met Marco. Wouldn’t have fallen for him. Wouldn’t be standing here now, heart split open and still bleeding.

Slowly, he turned and began walking past Marco, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“Where are you going?” Thatch’s voice cut through the thick silence like a blade.

Ace paused, his back still turned. He didn’t want them to see his face. “Packing my things,” he said simply. “I’ll be gone before nightfall.”

“You’re leaving?” Thatch sounded hollow, like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

Ace glanced back at the cook just for a moment. His steps didn’t slow. “Sorry, Thatch. It might be selfish, but I don’t want to stay where it’s clear I’m not welcome.”

“You’re not serious!” Thatch stepped forward, his voice sharp with disbelief. “Who cares what that stupid, overgrown news coo thinks?!”

Ace shook his head slowly, the weight in his chest pressing down harder. “It’s not just Marco,” he said, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Everyone reacts like that. It’s either fear or fury. They look at me and see him. You and Pops… you’re the exceptions.”

He wanted to scream. Twenty years. Twenty years since Roger had died, and the man still managed to ruin everything he touched—including the son he never even met.

“Pops knows?” Marco’s voice was quiet, nearly lost to the sea breeze.

Ace nodded without looking at him. “Yeah. Tell him he was wrong, by the way. It does matter whose blood runs through my veins.”

“Wait.” Marco’s voice cracked. Then footsteps. Then hands—firm, warm—gripping his shoulders, halting him mid-step.

Ace turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. His voice was cold, sharp like flint. “What? Changed your mind about wanting to kill me yourself?”

Marco’s eyes widened, horror flashing across his face. “What? Ace, no! I could never hurt you!”

“Then let me go.” It came out flat. Final.

Marco didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened like he was afraid Ace would disappear the second he blinked. “Don’t go, please,” he said, voice strained. “I’ll do anything. Just… don’t leave.”

Ace tried to shrug him off, but the phoenix clung to him with that desperate, unshakable strength. “I’ll make it up to you,” Marco begged.

Ace scoffed. “How?” His tone was brittle, breaking in places he couldn’t hide. “You made yourself very clear when you spoke to Squard. You think saying that fixes it? That I can just un-hear it? You can’t just expect me to forget what you said and act like nothing happened!”

Marco flinched like the words had slapped him. And maybe they had. He looked like he was falling apart, feathers plucked one by one.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I spoke without thinking. I was stupid, didn’t think—I don’t know. But I didn’t mean it. I know I can’t take it back. I’m not asking you to forget. I just… I need to know what I can do to make this right. Please, tell me what I can do to make you stay.”

Ace stared at him for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable. “What about the others?” he asked bitterly. “What if they don’t want me in their crew? What if they tell me to leave?”

“They won’t,” Marco said, voice unwavering. “But if they do… then I’ll go with you.”

Ace blinked, not sure he’d heard right. “…What?”

“I mean it.” The phoenix’s voice dropped to something lower, more certain, like a vow whispered between waves. “No matter what, I’ll always be on your side.”

The words hit Ace like a punch straight to the chest. His breath caught. His lungs burned. His heart ached.

He wanted to believe him. Desperately. He needed to believe him.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not after what Marco had said.

Ace lowered his gaze, unsure if it was shame or fury clawing at his throat. “You don’t mean that,” he muttered. “You’re just saying that so I stay.”

“I’m not,” Marco said, stepping closer. “I love you.”

Ace stared at him, stunned. His mind scrambled to make sense of the words, convinced he had misheard. He felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest.

“What?” he breathed, barely more than a gasp.

“I love you,” Marco repeated, more sure this time. “I know you don’t feel the same, and I promise I’ll never push. I just… I needed you to know. But please—don’t leave.”

Ace’s heart pounded. He wanted to believe him. He ached to believe him.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. There was no way Marco could love him.

Not like that. Not truly. Maybe he cared in some distant, pitying way. Maybe it was guilt. But love? That wasn’t possible.

Ace’s jaw clenched. His fists trembled at his sides. “Nobody loves the son of a monster.”

Marco didn’t stop. “I love you, Ace,” he said again, softer now, like he could soothe the fire raging in him with his voice alone. “Not because of who your father was. Not in spite of it. I love you.”

“Stop saying that,” Ace muttered, but it came out broken, weak, pleading even.

Marco only stepped closer, still holding his shoulders. “You’re not him. You never were. You’re better than any of us. Kind, strong, stubborn—hell, reckless. But you care more than anyone I know. And I—” His voice cracked. “I love you.”

Ace stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving.

He didn’t know what made him do it—maybe exhaustion, maybe hope—but something in him cracked open. Maybe he just couldn’t fight anymore. Maybe he didn’t want to.

So he turned in Marco’s grip, slowly, deliberately, until they were face to face.

He searched Marco’s eyes, looking for a lie, for hesitation. But there was only warmth. Only sincerity.

And slowly, hesitantly, Ace leaned forward. Just a little. Just enough to test if this was real.

For a moment, Marco didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.

Ace’s heart sank. He started to pull back, already bracing for the shame—

But Marco surged forward, closing the gap in a heartbeat, and pressed his lips gently against Ace’s.

It was soft. Almost reverent. Like Marco was afraid that if he pushed too hard, Ace would vanish.

Ace’s eyes fluttered closed. His breath hitched. The warmth blooming in his chest felt dangerous, addicting. He clung to it for a moment longer than he meant to.

Then a loud cheer startled them both. “Finally!” Thatch whooped from the hallway, grinning like he’d just won the jackpot.

Ace flushed, turning away slightly, but Marco laughed—actually laughed—and didn’t let go of him.

“But Ace…” the phoenix said gently, brushing a thumb over Ace’s jaw, “whoever told you Roger was a monster… they were lying to you.”

Ace froze.

Marco didn’t rush him. He just stepped back, letting Thatch come closer.

“I hated him,” Ace murmured, barely audible. “for ruining my life before it even started.”

“You only ever knew what the world wanted you to believe ,” Thatch said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “But. The truth is… Roger was a pain in the ass, but he was a good man.”

“Yeah,” Marco added. “He laughed too loud, made terrible jokes, and made everyone around him crazy—but he didn’t deserve the World Government dragging his name through the mud like that.”

“He wasn’t a monster,” Thatch said firmly.

Ace’s throat closed up. Something inside him shifted—unwillingly, slowly—but it shifted.

Maybe the hate didn’t vanish right then and there, but it loosened its grip just a little. And in its place, something softer began to bloom. Uncertainty. Grief. Maybe… hope.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. But for the first time in years, he let himself imagine that maybe Roger hadn’t been a monster.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t one either.

Chapter Text

When Ace wakes up, the world is wrong. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar—wooden beams stained a deep, honeyed brown, gently swaying with the rhythm of a ship at sea. There’s no noise. No shouting. No familiar crewmates. No Marco.

His body aches—sharp, throbbing, and dull all at once. Bandages wind around his arms, his chest. His throat is dry, too dry, like he’s swallowed ash.

Then he sees the red hair.

Shanks sits beside the bed, his one remaining hand resting loosely on his knee. His expression is unreadable but not cold—worried, maybe. Waiting.

Ace stiffens. His mind, still fogged with exhaustion, stirs in confusion. Why is Shanks here?

He tries to sit up. His body protests. Pain flares bright and immediate, but Shanks leans forward and steadies him with gentle hands, helping him shift against the pillows.

“Here,” Shanks says, offering a glass of water.

Ace hesitates, then takes it with trembling fingers. He sips slowly, careful not to upset his stomach. There’s a bitterness in the water—medicine, no doubt—but he’s too tired to care. His eyes flicker over the room, the ship, the unfamiliar faces passing outside the door. His brain lags behind.

He lowers the glass eventually. The silence stretches.

Shanks breaks it.

“This was a close call,” the redhead says, voice low but steady. “Some of your wounds were badly infected. You had a high fever. If you’d gotten here even half a day later, you probably wouldn’t have made it.”

Ace blinks slowly, trying to make the words land.

“You’ve been unconscious for nearly three days. How do you feel?”

He considers the question. His body aches, his skin feels tight and fever-warmed, and his head is still foggy with exhaustion. “Numb,” he says at last. His voice is hoarse.

He glances at Shanks, eyes still half-lidded, full of questions. “Where… where am I? What happened?”

“Not completely awake yet, huh?” Shanks chuckles, light but not mocking. “You fainted in front of my ship, Firecracker. Pretty dramatic entrance, I gotta say. Were you looking for me?”

Ace frowns. He tries to think. Tries to remember. The last few days are a blur of pain, anger, desperation.

“I’m not sure…” he mumbles.

Shanks leans back slightly. “You asked me not to inform your crew. Has something happened?”

Ace freezes. It hits all at once. The memories. The shouting. The chains. The blood. The cold of the brig.

His eyes widen as panic claws its way up his throat. He jerks his gaze back to Shanks, heart pounding. “Did you tell anyone?” he asks, voice sharp, urgent. “About me being here?”

Shanks lifts a hand in calm reassurance. “Only my crew knows, and I told them to keep it quiet. You’ve got my word.”

Ace exhales. The breath shudders out of him, relief laced with exhaustion.

“I take it you remember now?” Shanks asks gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Ace doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops to the bed sheets. He stares at the creases, the folds, like they might give him the words he’s missing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Shanks.

Can he trust him? Will the yonko drag him back? Turn him over like a lost package? Would this escape mean nothing?

“Firecracker…” Shanks sighs, his voice softer now, almost tired. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. Why don’t you want me to inform your captain? You were tortured. You nearly died. I know you haven’t been with him for long, but even you should know that he’ll go after the ones who hurt his crew. For what happened to you he’d kill the offenders.”

Ace doesn’t lift his gaze. Doesn’t move. “Then he would have to commit suicide,” he says, barely above a whisper.

The words hang in the air like a blade. Shanks jerks back, shock twisting his face. “What?”

Ace finally looks up, but his eyes are hollow. “Are you going to hand me back?” he asks, voice empty, a ghost of what it used to be.

Shanks doesn’t answer right away. He’s still reeling. “Can you repeat who you said did this to you?” the redhead asks at last. “I think I just misheard.”

“You heard correctly,” Ace replies, his voice louder now, more certain. His throat burns with it. “Whitebeard’s accusing me of killing a crewmember and attacking a fellow division commander. Said I wanted to steal his devil fruit and run.”

Shanks’s brow furrows. “Did you do it?”

Ace shakes his head. “It was Teach. He attacked Thatch. I tried to tell Whitebeard, but he didn’t want to listen. He wouldn’t even hear me.”

“I see,” Shanks murmurs, leaning back, thoughtful now. Something shifts in his expression—something grim.

Ace swallows hard. “Are you going to hand me back?” he asks again.

Shanks meets his gaze, and the answer comes without hesitation. “Why would I do that?” he says, as if the very idea is absurd. “I might be on friendly terms with him, but I’m not his ally. I don’t owe him a damn thing.”

He shrugs, almost lazily, but there’s steel in his tone. “Besides, if I handed you back and something happened to you… I’d never be able to look Luffy in the eyes again. Not to mention my former captain.”

Shanks smiles faintly, but there’s no humor in it—only a flicker of haunted memory. “No matter how impossible it should be for him right now, he would find a way to tear me into pieces. He’s killed better men than me for less.”

“Thank you…” Ace murmurs, the words quiet but sincere. It’s all he can manage at first, the weight of everything still heavy on his chest.

But then Shanks’s earlier words catch up to him—fully register. His breath stills. His eyes widen, heart stuttering painfully in his chest. “Wait—did you just say…?”

Shanks blinks at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Ace swallows. He knows. He knows. The realization prickles down his spine like a chill. “You… how do you know about my relation to that man?”

Shanks sighs quietly, like he’s been expecting this moment but dreading it all the same. “Matchstick…” he says, soft but firm. “Roger was like a father to me. I sailed under him from the time I was a kid. There’s no way I wouldn’t recognize the similarities. I always suspected you were his son… though I wasn’t sure until a few months ago.”

“You knew?” Ace’s voice spikes with disbelief. “The whole time?”

Shanks only shrugs. “Not the whole time. I wasn’t completely certain. You don’t use his name, and when we first met you introduced yourself as Luffy’s brother, not my captain’s son. I figured you didn’t want it known.”

Ace bites the inside of his cheek, hard. Of course he didn’t. His father’s legacy is a curse—a stain on his bloodline he’s spent a lifetime trying to scrub clean. But still…

“I admit I’m curious, though,” Shanks continues, casual as ever but watching him closely. “How you ended up as Luffy’s brother. And your age… If I’m right, you were born a year and three months after Roger’s execution.”

Ace nods, because that part, at least, he’s always known would come up eventually. “He asked Garp to look after me,” he says slowly, carefully. “And my mother. To protect us from the World Government. But Baterilla was already under surveillance. My mom… she held me inside her for almost two years. To hide the timing.”

The look on Shanks’s face turns sharply sober.

“She died right after naming me,” Ace continues, his voice quieter now, flat and brittle at the edges. “Originally, my name was supposed to be Gol D. Ace, but Gramps decided it would be safer if I took her name instead. Nobody would think to look for a son that was born a year too late and carried the wrong surname.” A humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “Guess that didn’t include you.”

The silence that settles isn’t uncomfortable, but it is heavy. Shanks doesn’t speak, just nods, and something like understanding passes between them.

A knock on the door cuts the moment.

Benn Beckman peeks inside, his expression cool but tinged with something mildly exasperated. “Sorry to disturb you, Captain, but our guest is refusing to eat. Again.”

Shanks groans. Not angry—just weary. “Of course he is.”

Still, beneath the irritation, Ace sees it clearly now: worry. Real and raw and settled deep in Shanks’s brow. The redhead glances at him, something almost hopeful in his eyes. “Do you feel up to a little walk?”

Ace hesitates. His legs still ache. His ribs pull uncomfortably with each breath. But he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. Not now. “I think so…” he says, uncertain.

Shanks smiles, already rising to his feet. “Would you terribly mind bringing our other guest his dinner? He hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and if anyone can get through to him, it’s probably you.”

Ace blinks, surprised. “Me?”

“Before we ran into you, we were actually heading to Whitebeard,” Shanks adds with a smirk. “To ask if we could borrow you for a few days.”

Ace huffs a soft laugh. “Sure,” he says. After everything… it’s the least he can do. He’s faced worse than a cranky guest skipping meals. He raised Luffy, didn’t he? There can’t possibly be anyone more stubborn than that little menace.

Five minutes later, Ace stands in front of a closed cabin door, tray balanced in his hands, steam curling from the bowl on top.

He knocks once.

No answer.

He knocks again, louder.

Still nothing.

With a sigh, he pushes the door open and steps carefully into the room.

The man in the bed doesn’t move. Thin, pale, black-haired. A moustache rests above a hollow mouth. His cheeks are sunken, skin paper-thin. His back is slouched and his eyes—grey, dulled—are fixed on some invisible point beyond the blanket.

Something tugs at the edge of Ace’s memory. Familiar, in a way that makes his stomach turn, though he can’t place it.

“I already told your crewmember I’m not hungry, Shanks,” the man rasps, voice brittle with disuse.

“I’m not Shanks,” Ace replies, stepping further in, careful not to spill the broth. The warmth of the tray seeps into his palms.

The man lifts his head. Their eyes meet. And suddenly Ace can’t move.

There’s no emotion in the man’s face. No will to live. It’s like staring at someone already dead.

Ace forces his limbs forward, setting the tray gently on the bedside table. “Bon appétit,” he says.

“I’m not hungry,” the man repeats, just as hollow.

Ace doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts the bowl, offers the spoon. “Eat.”

The man doesn’t move. Just studies him in silence, eyes scanning every line of his face like they’re looking for something buried deep. “I don’t remember seeing you before,” he says finally. “What’s your name, kid?”

Ace frowns. He’s no longer used to people not recognizing him. “It’s impolite to ask someone’s name without introducing yourself first.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then: “Gol D. Roger.”

Ace stops breathing. His throat closes, and for a second, the room tilts sideways. “You’re dead,” he whispers. It spills out before he can stop it.

And it can’t be him. It shouldn’t be him.

He feels like the ground’s vanished beneath his feet.

If this had happened even a year ago, Ace would have attacked him without hesitation, weak or not. But now, after Marco and Thatch… after the stories, the quiet admissions, the things they never had to tell him but did anyway—most of his hate has faded into something more complicated. Something quieter. More painful.

He’s never once imagined this moment. To meet the man who reached the end of the Grand Line. Who found the One Piece. Who shaped an entire era with his death.

Who apparently didn’t die at all.

Roger exhales slowly, almost a whisper. “I wish I was.”

Ace swallows. His mouth feels dry. His hands are trembling again.

“So,” Roger says, quieter now. “What’s your name?”

Chapter Text

Everyone knows the story.

The Pirate King was executed twenty-two years ago. Beheaded in front of a roaring crowd, his final words setting the world ablaze with the promise of the legendary treasure. Ace has lived with the aftermath of those words every fucking day of his life. So the man sitting in that bed can’t be real. Can’t be him.

Logic screams this has to be an imposter. A delusional old man with a similar face and too many years behind his eyes. A ghost of a legend long buried.

Ace stares at him. He feels no spark of recognition, no overwhelming instinct confirming the truth—not yet. Just that gnawing, unsettling ache in his gut, that hot weight behind his ribs that’s not fire but something worse. Doubt. Hope. He doesn’t know.

There’s an easy way to test this—to give his name. But he finds himself clenching his jaw, reluctant. Like speaking it aloud will rip open something too raw. So instead of answering, he carefully puts the bowl and spoon back on the tray like they’re suddenly too fragile in his hands.

“I’ll be back in a few,” he mutters, voice tightly leashed. “Be a good Pirate King and eat your food.”

He doesn’t wait for a reaction. He spins on his heel, strides out of the room, and shuts the door behind him with a careful click.

Then he hollers, loud enough to rattle the hallway: “SHANKS! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

There’s a loud crash and the clatter of boots thudding against wood.

Ace doesn’t wait. He turns right back around and pushes the door open again. The tray’s still untouched. That bowl hasn’t moved an inch. His fists clench. “Didn’t I tell you to eat?”

The man—Roger?—looks up, dull gray eyes heavy. “I have questions.”

“I don’t care,” Ace snaps, voice razor-sharp. “Eat.”

“I want answers first.”

Ace throws his arms up. “I’m not answering anything before you eat your fucking dinner!”

The door opens again, and Shanks steps into the room, slightly winded, grin already forming. But Ace ignores him. He doesn’t spare the red-haired Yonko a glance.

Instead, he locks eyes with the man in the bed and levels him with the flattest, most unimpressed expression in his arsenal. The one that used to make Luffy instantly shut up and the one that could send pirates twice his size running when he was still in Whitebeard’s second division.

He crosses his arms. “I have a younger brother that is the most stubborn person in this universe, whom I raised on my own for 7 years.” He snorts. “No matter what you come up with, you won’t outperform him.”

Ace takes a step closer, pointing to the tray. “So you might as well save us the time and stop being an impolite, inconsiderate bastard and eat your food. Because before the end of today, everything on that tray is going in your stomach. I don’t care if I have to spoon-feed you.”

The man blinks slowly. “Spoon-feed?”

“If you’re going to act like a toddler, I will treat you like one,” Ace retorts, deadpan.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, with a slow, almost reluctant movement, the man picks up the bowl, grips the spoon and finally starts to eat.

Ace exhales through his nose, tension leaking out of his shoulders—only for Shanks to start chuckling from where he’s leaning against the wall like this is all just a joke to him.

“Well done,” the redhead says cheerfully. “You’ve got the touch, firecracker.”

Ace turns, eyebrow twitching, hand already rising to point at the bedridden man. “Explain.”

Shanks laughs, full-bellied and unapologetic. “Dahahahaha! That’s the Pirate King, of course. You didn’t recognize him right away?”

“Believe it or not, I figured that part out!” Ace growls, exasperated. “What I want to know is why the fuck he’s alive! Alive, and here, and very much not beheaded like every history book says!”

Shanks grins, completely unbothered. “Aren’t you happy to see him?”

Ace glares at him, then slowly lifts his hand, thumb and forefinger held apart with the tiniest of gaps. “I am this close to burning every last bottle of sake on this ship.”

Shanks gasps like Ace just threatened to kill his firstborn. “You wouldn’t!”

Ace’s fingers ignite with lazy, golden flames. “Try me.”

“Alright, alright!” Shanks raises his hand in surrender, backing up a step with exaggerated caution. “I’ll tell you everything. Just—just don’t touch the sake, okay?”

Ace crosses his arms again, tapping his foot impatiently as Shanks launches into the explanation.

“Toki sent him forward. Twenty-one years into the future,” the Yonko says, tone dropping a little, finally serious. “After the execution was set, Reyleigh and Crocus planned it together with her. She used her power to send him ahead… to this time.”

Ace’s stomach drops. He blinks. “Why?”

“He was sick,” Shanks explains. “You know that. Terminal. But Crocus couldn’t stop the clock. Not really. The idea was that maybe the future would have answers. And it worked, in the 21 years he had been gone Crocus found the cure. Roger was with him for a while. But he wouldn’t cooperate. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t speak. So I figured, maybe meeting you could slap some life back into him…”

Ace exhales, slow and shaky, the tension that’s been holding him upright finally slipping. His body starts to sway without permission, vision tilting. The edges of the room blur.

“You okay, lad?” Roger’s voice cuts in, rough with concern.

Ace doesn’t have the strength to answer before Shanks is there, quicker than expected, one strong hand catching his elbow. His grip is firm but careful, like Ace might shatter.

“Oi, careful!” Shanks mutters. “You need to lie down? Should I get the doctor?”

Ace hates this. The fussing. The way his body betrays him. The fact that his legs feel like jelly and his head is spinning like he just fought a sea king underwater. Before he can protest, Shanks has already maneuvered him onto the bed—the same bed Roger is resting in.

“You just woke up,” Shanks mutters, all scolding and worry, checking his temperature with the back of his hand like a nursemaid. “I shouldn’t have asked you. There’s no way you’re healed enough to be out of bed. But Roger…”

“What do you want from me?” Ace asks, sharp and tired, slicing through the redhead’s ramble.

Shanks blinks. “Huh?”

“If it’s just babysitting your former captain, making sure he eats and doesn’t off himself, I can do it,” Ace mutters, rubbing at his eyes. He leans against the headboard, half-slouched, aware of Roger’s curious stare on him but refusing to meet it. “I owe you. And it’s not like I can leave, anyway. Not while I’m injured. Not without a plan that doesn’t suck.”

Shanks frowns. “You don’t owe me, matchstick.”

Ace’s jaw tightens. He lifts his head and glares. “Of course I do!”

For a moment he forgets Roger’s still in the room. Forgets he has an audience. He sits up straighter, fire flickering at his fingertips—not because he’s angry, but because he’s overwhelmed, and fire is the only thing that feels steady.

“You lost your dominant arm saving my little brother’s life,” Ace says, voice rising. “You warned me there might be a traitor in Whitebeard’s crew—so I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t tell them about Lu. That means they can’t get to him. Because while they know I have a little brother somewhere in the East blue, they don’t know his name, his age, or anything else. He’s safe because of you.”

Ace’s breathing picks up. He doesn’t care that it’s too loud. “And now you’re hiding me from Whitebeard,” Ace spits, “knowing damn well what that could lead to. You’d go to war for me, and you’re still standing there acting like I don’t owe you anything?”

Shanks lets the silence stretch. Then, quietly, he sits down next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush. There’s no pressure in it—just presence.

“I already explained this,” Shanks says, voice gentler than usual. “I’m not helping you because I expect something in return. I’m doing it because you’re my friend. And that’s what friends do.”

Ace looks away, jaw clenched.

“If you don’t want to spend time with Roger,” Shanks continues, “no one’s going to force you. All I ask is that you talk to him. Just for a minute. Maybe two. Just long enough to get it through that thick skull of his that he should stop trying to starve himself.”

A loud ahem cuts through the moment.

Chapter Text

Both Ace and Shanks snap around and shout at the exact same time. “Eat your fucking dinner!”

Roger clears his throat again, then lifts the tray in triumph. “I’ve finished.”

Ace blinks. Sure enough, the bowl is empty. Roger even holds the spoon up like proof.

Shanks immediately reaches out to take the tray and places it carefully on the bedside table.

Then Roger turns his full attention on Ace. “So Shanks is hiding you from Whitebeard?” he asks, like they weren’t just yelling at him seconds ago. “Why?”

Ace opens his mouth, but Shanks beats him to it.

“Because Whitebeard nearly tortured him to death,” the redhead says, tone flat, “and is now hunting him down.”

Roger’s face twists in confusion. “Whitebeard did? Why? What did you do?”

Ace grits his teeth. “Nothing.” He meets the man’s eyes, daring him to doubt it. “He’s wrongly accusing me of killing a crewmember and trying to kill a fellow division commander. Over a devil fruit.”

Roger blinks. “You’re… one of his commanders? But you don’t look older than twenty.”

“Former division commander,” Ace mutters. “And don’t sound so surprised. I am that strong.”

The words come out hollow. He doesn't feel strong anymore—just tired.

“I don’t even know why he gave me that position,” Ace continues, slumping back against the headboard. “There were older, more experienced people around. People he trusted. I guess I was just a shiny new toy. A trophy.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound bitter. But it does.

Shanks is silent for a moment. Then, with a small frown, he looks to Roger. “I never thought about it like that. I didn’t take Whitebeard for the grudge-holding type. You reckon this has something to do with Oden?”

Ace raises an eyebrow. “Oden? Kozuki Oden? The rightful Shogun of Wano?”

Shanks nods slowly. “He was Whitebeard’s Second Division Commander. Until Roger… well, ‘borrowed’ him. Kind of stole him. Not really, since he came willingly, but—”

“You know Oden? Did you meet him?” Roger cuts in, watching Ace intently.

Ace blinks. “No, he’s dead. Kaido executed him eighteen years ago. His daughter, Yamato, told me about him. She’s… kind of a fan.”

He scratches the back of his head, uncomfortable. “I didn’t know Oden had anything to do with the Whitebeards. I didn’t even know he was a division commander. Would’ve explained a lot. Like why Whitebeard stalked me for months and was so fucking persistent about me joining.”

He leans back again, eyes half-lidded. The fatigue is starting to drag at him again, heavier than before.

“What does me stealing Oden have to do with Whitebeard targeting you?” Roger asks, brows furrowing, voice lined with confusion. “Who are you?”

Ace frowns, his gaze flickering between the two men. There’s a tremor in his gut—not fear, but something heavier. Dread. Hesitation. The urge to run and disappear all over again. “You really don’t know?” he asks slowly. “Shanks didn’t tell you?”

Roger shakes his head, deliberate and confused. “Was he supposed to?”

Shanks glares at his former captain, arms crossed over his chest like he's holding something in. “I would’ve,” he says tightly, “if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the moment I did, you’d ditch us all to go hunting for the firecracker.”

“I would have—?” Roger starts, baffled, mouth half-open like the answer’s just out of reach.

Ace doesn’t let him finish. “I’ve been here for three days. In the room next to this one,” he says flatly. “His health doesn’t seem so bad he wouldn’t have survived that trip.”

Shanks raises an eyebrow. “You asked me not to tell anyone you were here, remember?”

Ace groans, dragging a hand through his hair. Shanks couldn’t have known he only meant any Whitebeards, or people that would inform his former captain, not everyone.

Roger, meanwhile, watches them both with a strange, patient expression. Quiet, thoughtful. He tilts his head, squinting a little at Ace. “So, I’m supposed to know you,” he says slowly, eyes never leaving the fire-user’s face.

Ace freezes. The air feels too still. The weight of those words hangs over him like a hammer waiting to fall. He doesn’t know what to say. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

How do you tell your not-dead father you’re his son? Would he be angry about his mother? After all Rouge had died for him…

He never gets the chance to fumble through it.

“He’s your son,” Shanks says into the silence, the words falling like thunder.

Roger stares at him. Eyes wide. Shock etched into every line of his face. “Ace?” he whispers, voice cracking like the name is something sacred.

Ace swallows and nods. It’s too late to take anything back now.

“Gol D. Ace?” Roger asks again, and this time there’s something almost hopeful in his voice, a desperate, fragile thread.

“It’s... Portgas,” Ace says quietly. His chest aches. He stares at the wall because he can’t bear to see the hurt—or worse, disappointment—in the man’s face. “I go by my mother’s name. But yeah...”

He doesn’t explain why. He can’t. The truth would crush the man—used to hate you, used to curse your name, used to wish I wasn’t born.

Ace doesn’t feel that way anymore. And that’s enough. It has to be enough.

“Portgas D. Ace,” Roger says without missing a beat. There’s no protest, no wounded pride, just a soft echo of the name like he’s trying it on. Then he reaches out, grabs Ace by the shoulder, and pulls him into a hug.

Ace’s first instinct is to pull away. The arms around him are weak, barely more than bones and skin. He could break this embrace like twigs.

But he doesn’t. Because there’s a wet patch forming on his shoulder. Because Roger is shaking.

Ace freezes. Then, slowly, cautiously—like he’s not sure if it’ll shatter him—he wraps his arms around the man who’s supposed to be dead. The man who is supposed to be a legend. The man who is, somehow, his father.

Luffy has made him used to this—spontaneous hugs that don’t ask permission, that demand comfort and offer it in return. So Ace holds on.

“You’re alive,” Roger breathes, voice thick. “You’re alive. Garp really did it…”

“Yeah,” Ace says, hoarse. “He hid me in a forest on an island in East Blue. I stayed there until I ran away at seventeen to become a pirate. Gramps is… really not happy about that. So I’ve kind of been avoiding him ever since.”

Roger lets out a shaky laugh, half-sob. “Sounds like Garp, alright.”

There’s a pause.

“Didn’t you say something about a brother?” Roger asks. “Lu?”

“Luffy,” Ace says, and this time the smile comes easy. His heart twists with warmth. “Monkey D. Luffy.”

Roger stares at him, mouth falling open. “He’s...?”

“Garp’s biological grandson,” Ace says, pride slipping into his voice. “My little brother in everything but blood. And he’s gonna take your title someday.”

Roger huffs out a breath, wiping his face. “I see.”

Ace hesitates. His throat tightens. “Are you… angry?” he asks, so quietly it barely counts as a whisper. “About Mom?”

There’s a pause. A deep breath.

Roger doesn’t answer at first, just wraps his arms tighter around his son. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, but sure. “No,” he says. “I’m sad she’s gone. But I’m not angry.”

He pulls back, just enough to look Ace in the eyes. “She gave her life to protect you. And… you’re here. You’re alive. She’d be so proud.”

Ace’s breath catches. And this time, when the tears prick at the corners of his eyes, he doesn’t stop them.

Chapter Text

Ace doesn’t flinch at the sight of the cautery needle.

He sits with his back bared, shoulders tense. The tattoo on his back—Whitebeard’s mark—still stretches proudly across his spine. It used to mean something. Now it feels like a brand he never asked for.

He’s keeping the tattoo on his arm. The one that’s still real. The one with the ‘S’ crossed out, a tribute to his dead brother.

But this one? He wants it gone.

“Stop turning into fire,” Hongo warns, not unkindly. The doctor has already tried three times, and each time, Ace’s body flickers—fire licking over his skin before the needle can sink in. He doesn’t even mean to do it. It’s instinct. Pain = burn = protect. His logia powers react before he can think.

“Sorry,” Ace mutters through gritted teeth, eyes fixed straight ahead. His hands clench the edge of the cot.

“You do that one more time and I’m putting the shackle on,” Hongo says, already pulling something out of a drawer with practiced exasperation.

“I said I’m sorry,” Ace growls, though the guilt is already twisting low in his gut. He hates this. Hates being so twitchy. Hates how the very idea of this mark on his back makes him want to tear his own skin off.

Hongo gives him a flat look. And then—click—Ace jerks as cool metal locks around his wrist.

Seastone.

His whole body slumps instantly, like the strength is drained right out of him. He tries to push back up, but it’s like moving through molasses. Every muscle feels wrong—too heavy, too dull. It’s not pain exactly, but he still hates it.

More than anything, he hates how familiar it is.

The last time he felt this helpless, he was shackled in a dark cell below deck, blood drying on his face, ribs cracked from being kicked into silence. Traitor, they’d called him. Liar. Murderer. And nobody—not one of them—believed him. Except for Izo.

Ace breathes hard through his nose, trying to keep the memories down, but his hands are already trembling. He digs his nails into his palm to ground himself. It’s not the same. You’re not there anymore. You’re safe.

Roger must notice, because suddenly, his voice cuts through the tension. It’s quieter than usual. Gentle. A bit uncertain, like he’s trying not to make it worse. “Did I ever tell you about Rouge?”

Ace stiffens. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t stop him either.

Roger takes the silence as permission. “She was a quiet woman,” the Pirate King says, like he’s remembering something that lives in his bones. “But strong. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her. She had this sort of... stillness. The kind that made you feel like, no matter what storm you were caught in, she wouldn’t move.”

Ace’s breath catches. The shackle is still there. So is the needle. But he focuses on the voice. Just the voice.

“I met her on Baterilla,” Roger continues. “Wasn’t even supposed to be there that long. But then I saw her standing at the harbor, waiting for the tide to turn. She had a basket of fruit, and she offered me an apple. I hadn’t even said hello yet.”

Ace almost snorts. What kind of women would offer food to a scruffy pirate captain just because the tide was out?

“She knew who I was,” Roger adds, and his voice is soft now, like it’s wrapped in something fragile. “Didn’t care. Said my name didn’t scare her. Said it sounded like thunder, but thunder can’t hurt you unless you let it. She was like that. Always saying strange, smart things like they were simple truths.”

Hongo murmurs something about holding still. The pain is there again, sharp and deliberate, but Ace grits his teeth and doesn’t phase out this time.

“Why are you telling me this?” he mutters, his voice rough.

Roger doesn’t answer right away.

“Because you looked like you needed to hear it,” he says finally. “And I wanted you to know… she didn’t just die for you, Ace. She loved you. Before she ever saw you. Before you ever cried or smiled. She loved you with her whole soul. Every second she carried you, she chose you. And she never regretted it.”

Ace blinks hard. He can’t wipe his eyes. Not with Hongo hunched over his back, wiping blood and ink away like he’s erasing a past that never belonged to him.

He stares at the floor. The sting doesn’t stop.

Ace grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. There's the sear of cauterization as Hongo works another section of ink off his skin. The fire logia doesn’t know how much longer he can sit still without combusting out of spite.

The seastone presses cold and steady against his wrist.

You chose this, he tells himself. You walked in here and said, “I want it gone.” So sit still and take it.

Roger is still talking. Not constantly—he pauses often, like he's unsure if he should keep going—but Ace doesn’t tell him to shut up.

“You used to kick,” Roger says, a quiet chuckle in his voice. “All the time. Rouge said you’d fight even in the womb. Especially when I talked to you. I’d put my hand on her belly and say, ‘Oi, I’m your old man,’ and you’d sock me like you knew what it meant.”

Ace exhales, just short of a laugh. He can’t picture that. Not really. But the image of Rouge scolding her stomach because her unborn son was picking fights feels... weirdly right.

“She said it meant you’d be stubborn,” Roger continues. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Ace huffs. “She didn’t even know the half of it.”

Hongo snorts, but doesn’t lift his gaze from Ace’s back. “You twitch one more time, I’m sedating you.”

“Just try it,” Ace mumbles, more out of habit than threat. He couldn’t light a candle with this damn shackle on. He’s exhausted. But the pain helps keep him present. So he leans into it.

He remembers the day he got the tattoo. He remembers standing with Marco, Thatch, a couple others, feeling like maybe—maybe—he’d finally done something worth belonging. He remembers how proud they looked. How proud he felt, until the mark started to mean lies and betrayal and bloody hands that weren’t his.

And now? Now it’s almost gone.

Another section burns off under Hongo’s steady hand. The doctor works without flourish, slow but efficient. He doesn’t say much unless he has to, but Ace can tell he’s being careful. Not kind, necessarily—Ace doubts Hongo is ever gentle on purpose—but not cruel either.

There’s something almost… respectful in the way he handles the process.

Roger’s voice softens. “She waited a long time for you. More than a year. I wasn’t there when you were born. I didn’t get to see her hold you. But I know she must’ve smiled. I know she would’ve kissed you and told you that you were the bravest little firefly the sea had ever seen.”

Ace swallows hard. The pain is starting to blur now. Not from lessening—he’s pretty sure his skin is raw and angry—but because his head feels far away. Fuzzy around the edges. Like everything’s happening in slow motion and all the air in the room is heavy.

“Almost done,” Hongo says, and Ace thinks thank god.

He forces his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t want to pass out. Doesn’t want this to happen while he’s unconscious. This was his decision, damn it. He wants to feel it. Wants to earn every second of being rid of that symbol.

“I thought I hated you,” Ace mutters, surprising himself. His voice is hoarse. Dry. “For a long time. I thought… if you hadn’t met her, maybe she would’ve lived.”

There’s a silence behind him.

Then, Roger says, “I used to wonder the same thing.”

That throws him. “What?”

“I used to wonder if it would’ve been better if I hadn’t fallen in love with her. If she hadn’t carried you. If she could’ve lived a little longer. Had a quiet life. No pirates. No marines. Just peace.”

Ace says nothing. Because yeah. That’s exactly what he used to wish, too.

“But then I remember,” Roger says quietly, “what kind of woman Rouge was. And I know—know—she wouldn’t trade one minute of her life with you for anything in the world.”

The last bit of ink is burned away. Hongo finally steps back. “It’s done.”

Ace blinks, lifting his head. Sweat drips down his neck, and his back hurts—raw and angry, the skin peeled and seared in patches, bandages already being prepped. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to see the scarring. He doesn’t care.

The brand is gone.

For a long time, he just breathes.

Hongo removes the shackle, and the moment it’s off, the world slams back into focus. His fire flares—not out of control, but enough to spark at his fingertips, a little hiss of energy that makes his spine stop aching.

He doesn’t phase. Doesn’t run.

Roger is watching him, but not judging. Just seeing him. Like he’s waiting to ask, how do you feel?

Ace flexes his fingers. The room smells like antiseptic and ash. His back is a battlefield, and he’s exhausted. But for the first time in a long, long while he doesn’t feel branded. Just scarred.

Chapter Text

“…and then the punch missed me, hit the tree behind me, bounced back and hit Lu in the face again.” Ace’s grin is wide, his eyes alight with laughter. “The little idiot fell down the ravine, rolled right into the river, and got swallowed whole by one of the alligators there. So I had to jump after him and cut him out of the gators belly the second time that day. And it was only noon.”

Roger is wheezing, clutching his stomach, his face turning red from laughing so hard. “Are you—are you serious?!”

Ace nods with mock solemnity, though his smirk doesn’t fade. “One would think being made of rubber would make animals not want to eat him, but apparently, Luffy tastes like adventure.”

The room is warm with laughter—Ace hasn’t felt this light in a long time. Talking about Luffy always makes the weight in his chest loosen a little. Roger’s joy doesn’t feel fake, either. It feels… familiar. Like how Sabo used to laugh when Ace exaggerated their stories. Like Thatch, teasing and easygoing.

Then the door creaks open.

Shanks steps in, sandals scuffing the wooden floor. His grin mirrors theirs for a second as he catches the tail end of the story, laughing under his breath. “Gods, that kid hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Don’t think he ever will,” Ace mutters, fond.

But the redhead’s amusement fades fast. “Roger… you have a guest.”

Roger’s brow furrows. “A guest?”

Before Ace can ask, a presence enters the room behind Shanks—calm, cold, and heavy with the kind of aura that makes people shut up instinctively. And then the man steps into the light.

Tall. Sharp eyes. A cloak draped across his shoulders, face marked with the crest Ace has seen on posters more than once. He knows that face.

Monkey D. Dragon.

Ace’s blood turns hot.

Shanks speaks fast, clearly trying to keep things civil. “He heard… rumors. About our guest.” His eyes flick to Ace, then back to Roger. “He wanted to confirm if they’re true. And I’d rather not piss off the revolutionaries, so—”

But Ace isn’t listening anymore. He’s on his feet, muscles coiled tight. It’s not even a decision. He just moves. And then his fist connects with Dragon’s face with a sickening crunch.

The revolutionary crashes through the wall like a cannonball, splinters flying. Silence hits the room as hard as the impact.

Roger and Shanks stand frozen, mouths agape.

“…what?” Roger breathes.

Then, in a blur, Dragon is back.

One haki covered hand clamps around Ace’s throat and slams him hard against the wall. The fire logia doesn’t even flinch, though pain blooms at the base of his skull.

“Fire Fist Ace,” Dragon says, voice like ice over steel. “Traitor of the Whitebeard Pirates. What business do you have with me?”

Before Ace can answer, there’s a scrape of steel. Roger’s blade is at Dragon’s throat. Shanks’s rapier follows an instant later.

“Let him go,” they hiss in unison, no trace of humor in either voice.

Ace breathes evenly, despite the pressure on his windpipe. His hands stay at his sides—loose, unafraid. His eyes meet Dragon’s with steady defiance.

“It’s alright,” he says, voice strained but sure. “He won’t hurt me. Not over something as inconsequential as that punch.”

Dragon raises a brow. “Oh?”

Ace’s lips curve into a cocky grin. “Otherwise Luffy would be really, really angry at him.”

The grip on his neck tightens.

“Are you threatening me?” Dragon asks, voice dangerously low.

“Nope,” Ace answers smoothly. “Just stating facts. Besides, you deserved it.”

For a moment, nothing moves. Dragon’s eyes narrow, as if weighing something. Then, finally, he exhales through his nose and releases him.

Ace stumbles slightly as his boots hit the ground, rubbing his neck but otherwise unfazed.

Roger and Shanks lower their weapons—barely. Neither takes their eyes off Dragon, tension still crackling like a live wire between them.

The revolutionary doesn’t look at either of them. Instead, he studies Ace.

“What’s your relation to Luffy?” he asks, voice quiet but firm. “How do you even know about him?”

“Huh?” Ace frowns, blinking. “You don’t know?”

There’s genuine confusion on Dragon’s face, and Ace feels something cold settle in his chest. “Wow,” he mutters. “You’re an even worse father than I thought.”

Dragon’s expression darkens.

Ace shrugs, folding his arms. “Parents usually at least know who’s raising their kid.”

“I gave Luffy to my father.”

“Oh, that explains it,” Ace says, voice thick with sarcasm. “The shitty old geezer showed up one day and dropped Lu with me. ‘Hi Ace, this is Luffy, my grandson. Get along. Bye.’ Then I was stuck with a little crybaby that followed me everywhere and refused to leave me alone.”

Shanks blinks rapidly. “Wait—wait!” he nearly shouts. “Anchor is Dragon’s son?! When I met him in Foosha, he told me he didn’t have any family. Just his grandpa, who was always away!”

“Yeah,” Ace mutters. “That’s because Luffy doesn’t know. Gramps thought it’d be better if no one told him. And judging by how this bastard acts, I agree.”

Shanks pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not because Anchor’s a terrible liar?”

Ace smirks. “It’s been ten years and he still hasn’t told anyone about my father. He might not know how to lie, but he’s stubborn. He’d rather die than talk. Torture wouldn’t crack him.”

There’s a beat.

Dragon’s eyes narrow again. “Your father?” he asks, carefully.

Ace doesn’t see any reason to hide it, so he jabs a thumb toward the man still standing beside Shanks.

Dragon shows no real reaction to the declaration that Roger—Gol D Roger—is his father. Just a flicker in his eyes, like surprise barely touching the surface before it’s buried beneath something colder, something measured.

“Did you,” Dragon asks, voice even, “really raise Luffy?”

Ace scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “The shitty old geezer didn’t even have the decency to teach Lu not to get eaten by every fucking beast he came across.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, in a voice far too calm, Dragon asks, “Luffy got eaten by the animals?”

Ace gives him a look like are you serious? “Yes. Repeatedly.”

Dragon tilts his head slightly, the shadow of something like disbelief crossing his face. “How often is… ‘repeatedly’?”

Ace shrugs, too tired to embellish. “Several times a week. And if he wasn’t getting swallowed whole by crocodiles or snakes or wild boars, he was falling into the damn river. Or the fucking ocean.”

Dragon raises an eyebrow. “I take it he can’t swim?”

Ace lets out a sharp laugh. “Ate a Devil Fruit and became a hammer.”

“…A Devil Fruit?” Dragon echoes, frowning. “In East Blue?”

“His fault.“ Ace jerks his thumb toward Shanks, who’s watching the conversation unfold with a mix of dread and curiosity. “But I suppose it’s a good thing. The stupid fruit saved Lu’s live more times than I can count. Even if it took him years to get some resemblance of control over his powers.”