Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You ever wake up with that jolt in your chest, like your soul just remembered something your brain forgot?

Yeah, that was Ace this morning.

He sat up so fast he hit his head on the top bunk and nearly bit his tongue off. "Shit—what time is it?" He scrambled for his pocket watch, only to remember he left it in his jacket, which he left... somewhere. Great.

Ace threw on his uniform shirt—half-buttoned, wrinkled, definitely not regulation-ready—and shoved his boots on without socks. His Marine coat hung on the wall like it was mocking him. He grabbed it and barrelled out the door, down three flights of stairs, leapt over a poor Ensign carrying tea and made a mad sprint for the port.

He was supposed to be on the patrol ship bound for Soromi Island. Three hours ago.

"Lieutenant Commander Ace! Wait!" someone called after him. Too late. Ace was gone, kicking up dust like a damn storm.

The dock was half-empty by now, just a few merchant boats and a couple small fishing vessels swaying with the tide. No sign of his ship. Ace stood there panting like an idiot, hands on his knees, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

"Son of a—" Ace didn’t finish. He scanned the water, then the sky, then back to the water. No Navy ships in sight. Just one small fishing boat getting ready to leave.

Ace bolted toward it.

He glanced over his shoulder, a wide, reckless grin splitting his face. It was as if he knew you were watching.

Name's Portgas D. Ace.

It was the only thing he could say, the only thing that felt real when he woke up, the only solid piece of information in a head full of fog. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, or what had happened. Just… that name.

Then Monkey D. Garp found him. An old Marine, loud and boisterous, with hands that could crack coconuts. For some reason, he took Ace in. He trained him, pushed him and showed him the ropes. He gave Ace a life, a purpose. So, Ace became a Marine.

It wasn’t a choice he remembered making, but it felt right.

Wild, huh?

Ace wore the coat now. He answered to a Commodore who thought he was reckless (he wasn’t wrong) and he carried the rank of Lieutenant Commander in the Navy. Fastest promotion in the West Blue, or so they told him. Probably just meant he was the most trouble, honestly.

Ace didn’t follow every rule. He still couldn’t stand nobles. He lit things on fire when he was mad, which was often. There were no grand memories, no flashes of a forgotten life. Just the here and now.

But Ace was trying.

Trying to be better.

Trying to make this life mean something.

And right then, that meant catching a ride. Because of course he was late. Some things, Ace guessed, just stuck with you.

"Hey! Hey, wait—!" He skidded onto the planks, nearly twisting his ankle on a coil of rope. A blonde man on the boat turned, blinking at him like he’d just crawled out of the sea.

He was... weirdly tall. Built like a fighter, not a fisherman. Tan skin, sharp blue eyes and messy hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks, or perhaps had a permanent, odd shape, almost like… a pineapple. He had this lazy kind of calm on his face, like the world could end and he’d just shrug. It didn’t match the patched-up little vessel he was standing on at all.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice a little rough, but not unfriendly.

“I need a ride to Soromi Island,” Ace gasped, clutching his knees. “I missed my ship—I’m Marine, I swear—look, I don’t have time to explain, but it’s really important.”

He gave Ace this look. Not judgmental, just… watching. Like he was trying to decide what kind of person Ace was in three seconds flat. Ace felt his eyes flick over the half-buttoned shirt and scuffed boots.

“This isn’t a ferry,” he said slowly, lifting an eyebrow.

“I know! But you’ve got a boat and the wind’s good and I’ll pay you—hell, I’ll row if I have to, just—please.”

He hesitated. For a second, Ace thought he’d tell him to screw off. But something shifted in his expression. Not pity, exactly. More like... curiosity.

He sighed and reached for the rope, untying it with one hand. “Get in before I change my mind, yoi.”

Ace blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me regret it, yoi.”

Ace jumped onboard before he could. “You won’t! Promise.”

He smirked a little and shook his head. “You talk a lot, yoi.”

“Sorry, I just—ugh, I seriously owe you, Mr. Fisherman. My name's Ace. What’s your name?”

He looked at Ace for a beat, then turned to the rudder. “Call me Marco.”

Marco. Huh.

Chapter Text

Ace barely registered the name.

His focus was already shifting to the urgency of his situation. He was late. So late. The patrol ship was long gone, and his meeting on Soromi Island was in less than an hour.

Ace knew the typical travel time by boat; even with favourable winds, it was a good 45-minute trip. He chewed on his lip, a fresh wave of anxiety tightening his chest.

This fisherman, Marco, was his only hope.

Marco, meanwhile, seemed unconcerned. His gaze fixed on the open sea. A faint, ethereal blue flame flickered around Marco’s feet, then streamed backward, engulfing the small fishing boat’s stern. It was more like pure energy, propelling them forward with an impossible speed.

Ace’s jaw dropped.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, gripping the gunwale. The wind whipped his hair back, but he barely noticed. It was unbelievably cool. There was something about the sight, something about that vibrant, otherworldly blue, that felt… familiar.

A strange, fleeting warmth bloomed in Ace’s chest, a sensation he couldn't place but found oddly comforting. He stared, mesmerized, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

The journey was a blur. The coastline receded into a smudge, then sharpened into the distinctive cliffs of Soromi Island far sooner than Ace thought possible.

Marco skilfully brought the boat alongside a small, discreet dock. Ace scrambled off, his mind still reeling from the unexpected warp-speed travel.

Ten minutes.

They were ten minutes early. Ace blinked, then grinned widely at Marco, a rush of relief and genuine awe washing over him. "You are incredible!"

The boat glided into the dock.

“Thanks for the ride,” Ace said, hopping off. He turned back towards the boat, digging into his coat. “Here—seriously, take something for the trouble. I owe you.”

The fisherman was already adjusting the ropes, acting like dropping off a frantic Marine lieutenant commander was just a typical Tuesday. “Yoi,” he said, not even looking at Ace, his voice a low, even rumble. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What? No, come on,” Ace insisted, taking another step closer, holding out a few crumpled bills he'd managed to find. “I basically hijacked your boat. Let me pay.”

“I said no,” he replied, still calm.

“Are you sure?” Ace pressed, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. “Because I don’t like—”

A sudden, unexpected touch. His finger tapped Ace’s forehead.

It was a single, deliberate press against his skin, warm and lingering. As the man's finger touched him, a faint, almost imperceptible gentle flicker, like the briefest gasp of blue flame, seemed to dance around the contact point before vanishing.

It was light, almost tender, yet it felt like it stopped Ace's internal clock.

Ace's face flushed. His heart began to pound, a frantic drum against his ribs.

“Hey!”

What the hell was that for? Ace thought, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

The man smirked, his thumb brushing the spot like he was smoothing away an invisible crease.

“You’re gonna miss your mission, Marine. Go.” And then he turned. The guy didn’t even look back. The fishing boat, small and humble, began to drift from the dock.

Ace blinked. Once. Twice.

His forehead tingled.

“Ace!”

He turned and saw Lieutenant Malia jogging toward him, her short black ponytail bouncing as she caught up. She adjusted her glasses with one hand and shot him a glare. “You’re almost late. Again.”

“I know, I know,” Ace muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Long story. Got a ride from some weirdo fisherman. He wouldn’t take payment and then he flicked me. Who even does that?”

She glanced over at the boat just as it began to pull away. Her brows rose behind her lenses. “Wait. That guy?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

She looked at Ace like he’d just confessed to dating a Sea King. “You didn’t recognize him?”

“Recognize who?”

She jabbed her thumb toward the shrinking silhouette. “That’s Marco the Phoenix. First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.”

Ace stared at her.

Then back at the boat.

Then at her again.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you absolutely did.”

Ace insisted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Well, he said his name was Marco. And sure, the guy was weird, but my brain doesn’t automatically jump to First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. There are Marcos everywhere! It’s not like the name is copyrighted. How was I supposed to know?”

Then, he narrowed his eyes. “How did you know, anyway?”

She sighed, loudly and dramatically. Like she had just been burdened with explaining the concept of basic eyesight to a sea sponge.

“Alright, dumbass,” she said, stepping forward and raising one finger at a time. “Let’s start with the hair—wild blonde, feathery, looks like a pineapple. That wasn’t a clue?”

“It could’ve been anyone with hair. We’ve got new recruits who look like durians and tangerines.”

“Fine. Blue eyes. Clear as the damn sea. No? Still not ringing bells?”

Ace crossed his arms. “Lots of people have blue eyes.”

“Right. And lots of people casually glow blue when they touch the boat engine to light it up with flames.”

“…But that was cool! It was just a blue flame. For all I knew, it was some obscure blue-fire Devil Fruit, like a 'Blaze-Blaze Fruit, model: blueberry bonfire.' This is the Grand Line, Malia. Anything’s possible.”

“Oh, you mean the blue phoenix fire? The signature phoenix fire? From Marco the Phoenix? Yeah. Weird.”

Ace looked away. “That’s not conclusive.”

“Uh-huh. And a big-ass dark blue tattoo on his chest. Like, huge. You know, that cross and crescent moon moustache symbol, and it was hanging out of his open shirt like it was auditioning for a bounty poster.”

Ace paused. “…That’s what that was?”

She stopped and looked Ace dead in the eye. “How are you alive?”

“I thought it was a... stylized bird! Like a logo for his fish business or something! He had a fishing boat, Malia! What else was I supposed to think?”

“Ace.”

“I did!”

“Ace.”

“He had a boat!”

“He had Phoenix flames!”

Ace threw his hands up. “I was late! I wasn’t thinking about pirates, I was thinking about not getting court-martialled!”

Malia shook her head and slapped her forehead. “You, Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace, are the single most powerful dumbass I’ve ever met.”

Ace scowled. “Hey, I graduated top of my class in hand-to-hand.”

“And bottom in common sense! Honestly, it’s a miracle you haven’t accidentally arrested a Warlord for loitering.”

“I once did arrest a Vice Admiral by mistake!”

“Exactly!”

Ace groaned and dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it… that was really Marco the Phoenix. And I tried to pay Marco the Phoenix like he was my Uber.”

She was grinning now. “You were very polite about it though.”

“Do you think he knows who I am?”

“Probably not.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Chapter Text

Marco didn’t plan to give anyone a ride that day.

He’d just wanted a break from the crew's noise, the constant planning and the younger ones trying to prove themselves by starting drunken sword fights on deck.

So, he’d grabbed one of the small fishing boats at the edge of the port and told no one where he was going. A quiet day on the water. That was it.

What he got instead was a Marine.

A frantic, sweaty, half-dressed Marine with wild eyes, fire in his voice and an absolutely terrible sense of time management.

Marco hadn’t even planned to say yes. But there was something about the guy, like if he didn’t help him, the poor bastard would just try to swim to his destination and probably make it halfway before dying dramatically in a whirlpool.

So, Marco gave him a ride.

The man was like a startled rabbit, all jumpy and panicked, scrambling aboard. He told Marco his name. Ace.

Ace was shorter than Marco. His hair was black and messy, framing a face dusted with freckles. When he wasn't panicking, a surprisingly bright, almost adorable smile would break through, followed by a wide, earnest grin that somehow softened the desperate edge in his grey eyes. His voice was actually quite nice and pleasant. Marco figured they were probably around the same age, maybe a year or two in difference at most.

Marco told him his name, but he didn’t correct the whole “fisherman” thing. The First Division Commander didn’t say a word when the guy fumbled to offer him payment and looked like he might cry when Marco flicked him on the forehead.

It was only later, back aboard the Moby Dick, that Marco thought to bring it up.

“So,” he said over dinner, “I picked up a stray earlier.”

“Stray what?” Thatch asked, mid-bite of roast chicken. “Dog? Kid? Seagull?”

“Marine.”

The table went quiet for about three seconds before Izou choked on his drink.

“You what?”

Marco shrugged. “He begged me for a ride, said he missed his ship. He clearly had no idea who I was.”

Thatch leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Wait. You gave a Marine a ride? Without telling him who you were? Please tell me you used a fake name.”

“No, I used my real name. Marco.”

Thatch blinked, then slowly, a grin stretched across his face. “Oh, that’s beautiful. That’s even better!”

“He offered me money.”

“Did you take it?”

“I flicked him on the forehead, yoi.”

Everyone at the table broke into laughter.

Thatch wiped his eyes. “Oh my god, he’s gonna have an existential crisis when he figures it out.”

Marco smirked. “He already looked like he was barely holding it together.”

“You gonna find out who he is?” Thatch asked, chewing thoughtfully. “I mean, not every Marine talks to a random fisherman like they’re late for a duel.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “He was just desperate, yoi.”

“Hot?” Izou asked.

“…Not relevant,” Marco said blandly.

“Hot,” Thatch confirmed with a wink.

Later that evening, Marco found Thatch again on the lower deck. Thatch was halfway through a stack of stolen Navy logs, reports and bounties—his little side project.

“I think I found him,” Thatch said, tossing Marco a file.

He caught it.

Portgas D. Ace.

Lieutenant Commander. Marine branch: West Blue. Service time: 3 years.

Devil Fruit: Flame-Flame Fruit.

Notes: Personally trained by Vice Admiral Garp. Rapid advancement. Unconventional tactics. Disciplinary infractions: 7 minor, 1 major (fire damage to officer dorms).

Marco stared at the paper, then slowly sat down.

“Three years in the Marines, yoi, and he’s already a Lieutenant Commander,” Marco muttered. “Flame powers. Garp’s training.”

“He’s kind of a beast, huh?” Thatch grinned. “No wonder he looked like he was about to combust if he missed that mission.”

Marco leaned back against the rail, letting the breeze play with his hair. He remembered the man’s face. The way he’d bowed his head, panting, like the world was chasing him. The stubborn glint in his eyes.

“You gonna tell Pops?” Thatch asked.

Marco shook his head. “Not yet. He didn’t seem dangerous, yoi. Just… chaotic.”

Vista appeared behind them with a mug of sake. “So. We gonna keep calling him your secret marine boyfriend, or should we upgrade that to star-crossed rivals with unresolved tension?”

“I will throw you overboard.”

“Rude.”

Marco didn’t say it, but deep down, he was curious.

A fire user. Garp’s personal trainee.

A D.

Marco wasn’t sure what kind of Marine this Ace guy was, but something about him felt important.

Like they weren’t done crossing paths just yet.

Chapter Text

Ace’s original base was in the West Blue.

He'd spent his first couple of years as a Marine, rising through the ranks with Garp's guidance. However, a few months ago, Garp had pulled some strings, citing Ace's unique aptitude (read: chaotic energy and a knack for getting into trouble) and had him reassigned.

Now, Ace was stationed on a temporary posting in a smaller, lesser-known Marine branch on the edge of the Grand Line, not far from the New World entrance. His current mission was to observe a series of unusual weather patterns reported in the area. Soromi Island, where his meeting was, was just a short, 45-minute boat ride away.

Lunch was being served on the outdoor patio of the Marine station. They could overlook the sparkling, deceptively calm Grand Line waters. A few seagulls wheeled overhead. The air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and freshly cooked rice.

Ace, feeling ridiculously triumphant after making his meeting with ten minutes to spare, had just loaded his plate high and found a sunny spot at a large, communal table. However, the relaxed atmosphere was short-lived as his unexpected welcoming committee began to gather.

Ace had faced cannon fire, rogue storms and Garp's infamous training from hell. Still, none of it compared to the absolute annihilation of his dignity happening right now.

First, Malia appeared to his left, sliding into the seat beside him with her arms already crossed and her glasses glinting ominously. Then, Smoker, barely fifteen, baby-faced but already with more common sense than Ace had on his best day, sauntered up to his right, chewing on an unlit cigar, his expression a perfect blend of disbelief and second-hand embarrassment.

Bogard, Garp’s stoic right-hand man, simply materialized directly in front of Ace, arms folded, his eyebrow twitching in a way that screamed, ‘How are you this dumb?’

And then there was Garp.

Ace's adoptive father was sprawled on the floor, wheezing with laughter, rice crackers spraying from his mouth like shrapnel. Every time he tried to speak, another wave of laughter hit him, leaving him red-faced and gasping for air.

Malia cleared her throat. "Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace," she began, "would you like to explain to the class how you hijacked Marco the Phoenix’s boat and thought he was a fisherman?"

Ace groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "In my defence—"

"You don’t have a defence," Smoker cut in flatly, the unlit cigar bobbing between his teeth. "Even I know what the Whitebeard Pirates look like, and I’ve been here two months."

"He had a bucket," Ace protested. "And a—a fishing rod!"

Bogard sighed, long and suffering. "He’s literally on our most-wanted posters."

"I DON’T LOOK AT POSTERS!"

Garp, still wheezing, slammed a fist against the floor. "My boy—my boy—thought phoenix fire was a fishing lure—"

Ace lunged for the nearest shield, a decorative potted plant, his tray still clutched precariously in one hand, as Garp’s half-chewed crackers rained down in a starchy hailstorm.

Malia flicked a piece of rice off her uniform sleeve, her glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Mr. Garp, for the love of the sea, stop being so disgusting!" She turned her exasperated gaze to Ace. "And you? You're a walking disaster. I'm torn between laughing until I cry and just crying because you're actually a Lieutenant Commander."

Ace peeked over the edge of the plant. "My priority was getting to the meeting, not analysing civilian fishing vessels!" Ace countered, scrambling back to his feet. "He wasn't fighting anyone! He wasn't plundering! He was just there!"

Smoker stared at him, deadpan. "Buffoon."

"Buffoon who somehow landed a Lieutenant Commander rank."

"Tactical, observational disappointment. My personal honour is now in question simply by association."

Ace's mouth tightened into a frustrated line, but the enticing aroma of his meal finally won the internal battle. He carried his tray a few feet away and began to eat. He chewed angrily; eyes narrowed as he glared at his plate.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" he mumbled through a mouthful of rice. "I get it! I really do! Next time, I'll be more aware, okay? Just... stop."

Ace didn't need them to remind him. He usually noticed things. The shift in someone's weight, the tell-tale glint of a weapon, the subtle change in a person's demeanour that screamed 'pirate' or 'threat.' But with Marco, there had been nothing. No red flags. No prickle of unease. Instead, it was an odd, almost comforting feeling, like he was talking to someone he'd known for ages.

His past was a blank. Three years of trying, and nothing. Yet this pirate, Marco, had felt instantly familiar. Like... home. Was he someone Ace knew before? Had they met in a life he couldn't recall? Marco hadn't given any sign of recognition.

A warm, unsettling presence settled next to Ace. Garp, looking far too pleased with himself, leaned in. "Hard day, huh, son?" he croaked, barely suppressing a giggle. "Getting lectured by recruits and your own second-in-command... all because you thought a Yonko Commander was a fishing buddy."

"He looked like a fisherman!" Ace hissed, jabbing his folk at a piece of fish. "How many times do I have to say it?! It's not my fault he has a misleading aura!"

Garp burst into another fit of laughter. "That's a new one! Your observation skills are truly unique, Ace."

"They're fine!" Ace argued, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I just... I don't know what happened! It was a momentary lapse!"

“A moment that's going to live forever in Marine legend," Garp chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. "Speaking of legends," Garp continued, "did I ever tell you about the time I single-handedly took down a mountain bandit king who kept trying to steal my grandmother's donuts? He was a slippery one, that fellow."

Ace groaned, knowing this story. "Dad, please, not the donut bandit again. I have a headache."

Garp ignored him. "Anyway, after I punched him through three mountains..." His voice trailed off, a low snore rumbling in his chest. Garp's head lolled to the side.

Bogard barely blinked as Garp’s head hit the table. Typical. But then, a moment later, Ace himself, mid-glare, suddenly stiffened, then collapsed, his face landing squarely in his half-finished plate with a faint splat.

Bogard stared. Two of them. Simultaneously. It was almost poetic in its absurdity.

Logically, Bogard knew Ace was simply a kid Garp had found, an injured amnesiac three years prior whom Garp had somehow managed to turn into a Marine. There was no blood relation. Yet, Ace behaved exactly like Garp's long-lost, troublesome child.

Bogard, whose patience was clearly wearing thinner than an old uniform, pinched the bridge of his nose. "This," he stated, his voice devoid of all inflection, directed at no one in particular, "is going to be a long deployment."

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ace woke up to the sensation of a pillow smacking him square in the face.

"Get. Up." His roommate loomed over him, already dressed in his Marine uniform. "You begged me not to let you be late again. So, move."

Ace groaned, rubbing his face.

Right.

Yesterday’s humiliation was still fresh, and he had no intention of repeating it. For once, Ace had time. Time to shower, time to brush his teeth (mostly), time to comb his hair (sort of), and, after a brief battle with the iron, time to make his coat look almost presentable.

The room was surprisingly spacious for Marine quarters, with enough breathing room that it never felt cramped despite the two bunks. Sunlight, already bright at this hour, streamed in through a large window.

Ace’s lower bunk was cosy, draped with a soft, deep blue blanket. Tucked neatly against his pillow was a well-loved white stuffed rabbit, its button eyes seeming to gaze peacefully into the morning. He’d bought it on a whim from an antique shop, the owner simply stating that it was called Old Hag. Somehow, it just felt important, like it was always meant to be his.

On the small wooden desk by the window, a small, vibrant potted plant stood proudly, its green leaves a splash of life against the otherwise uniform surroundings.

This island, Whisperwind Isle, always had a gentle breeze. Rolling green hills and a huge banyan forest covered most of it.

Ace's Marine dorm wasn't some big, obvious building. It was tucked away in a natural harbour, practically hidden by the land and all that dense plant life. You wouldn't find any busy towns there, just a few small spots where artisans or hermits lived, blending right into the island. The constant soft rustle of leaves and the wind sighing through the rocks — that was where it got its name. It was a bit out of the way, but it was a good spot for the Marines, a quiet place to watch or resupply before heading into the New World.

He could have stayed in that comfortable bunk all morning, lost in the quiet of Whisperwind Isle, but Marine life called.

Ace even managed to grab breakfast, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth as he bolted out the door.

This time, he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

… …

The ship was gone.

Ace stood at the port, blinking. His assigned transport to Soromi Island, the one he’d double-checked the schedule for, was nowhere in sight.

"What the hell?" he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. Had he actually misread the schedule? Was the universe conspiring against him?

Then he saw him.

The fisherman.

No—Marco the Phoenix.

The man sat on the edge of his small boat, one leg bent with his arm resting on his knee, looking out at the sea. He held a fishing rod casually, as if he had all the time in the world.

Ace’s brain short-circuited.

Internal crisis protocol activated:

Option 1: Walk up like a normal person. Say thank you. Say sorry. Easy.

Option 2: Vanish into the nearest bush and reassess life choices.

Ace chose Option 2.

He dove into the foliage, crouching behind a cluster of shrubs. His heart pounded. What was he doing? He was a Marine lieutenant commander, not some skittish cadet!

A flower swayed in front of him. A decision flower!

Perfect.

He plucked it, muttering under his breath. "Tell him… don’t tell him… tell him… don’t—"

The last petal landed on tell him.

Ace exhaled. "...I have to tell Marco."

A voice, dry and amused, came from directly behind him.

"Tell me what?"

Ace jumped, nearly face-planting into the bush. He whirled around, scrambling to his feet, hastily adjusting his coat and hat like that would salvage his dignity.

Marco stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

Up close, he was—ugh—ridiculously tall. And unfairly handsome, with that stupid smirk and those sharp blue eyes and—

No. Focus.

 “Okay, look,” Ace said, trying not to sound like he was choking. “I wanted to say… sorry. For last time.”

Marco tilted his head.

Ace swallowed. “I didn’t know who you were, and I didn’t recognize you, and I treated you like some random fisherman and—” Ace sighed. “Even if I’m not a pirate, I know what pride means. And I disrespected yours. So, yeah. Sorry.”

Marco stared at him for a second. Then—

Flick.

His finger connected with Ace’s forehead, just like before.

"Hey?!" Ace yelped, swatting at his hand. “Why is that your thing?!”

“You’re easy to flick, yoi” Marco said with a shrug. “And dramatic.”

“I—What—You—!!”

Marco's expression remained calm. He simply waited for Ace's sputtering to subside, then leaned forward slightly. "You need to get to Soromi Island again?"

Ace blinked. "Yeah? But my ship’s not here. I must’ve messed up the schedule—"

Marco glanced out over the sea, the morning sun catching the gold of his hair. "I'm going that way."

Ace stared.

Marco looked back at him, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his lips. "Want a ride, yoi?"

Ace's brain caught fire. "Wait—again?! I can't just keep getting on a pirate's—fisherman's—your boat!"

"I'm offering, yoi."

"But that's—! I could arrest you!"

Marco smiled slowly, like someone watching a very small, confused rabbit. "Are you going to arrest me?"

Ace registered him then. Marco wore a simple white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway to reveal the distinctive blue tattoo stretching across his muscular chest. Loose, dark trousers and simple sandals completed the look.

The Pirate took a step closer. The Marine instinctively took one back.

Marco leaned in. Ace's breath hitch. His heart stuttered like a cannon with a wet fuse, doing a strange, frantic flutter against his ribs. Ace cleared his throat, suddenly finding the distant horizon intensely fascinating. He looked away. "...No."

Marco laughed, straightening up "Didn't think so, yoi."

His smile lingered for another moment before he turned, his casual stride already taking him back the way they'd come, down the gentle slope of the grassy bank towards the small, weathered jetty. It was just a simple wooden pier, really, with a few lines tied to sturdy posts and the usual scattering of gulls. His boat bobbed patiently at the end.

Marco climbed in with an easy, fluid movement.

Ace stood there, red-faced, furious and a little lightheaded.

"Are you getting in or not, Ace?" Marco called lazily, settling onto the boat's edge, seemingly content to wait all day.

Ace should refuse. He absolutely should. Marco was a pirate. Ace was a Marine, but his feet were already moving. He walked the few paces across the short grass, the soles of his boots thudding softly on the old timber planks of the dock. With a silent curse, Ace hauled himself over the side and into the small craft. The boat immediately picked up speed, slicing through the waves.

As the dock receded behind them, Ace folded his arms, glaring at the horizon, already resigning himself to two things. (1) Malia, Smoker and even Bogard were never, ever going to let him live this down. And (2) Ace’s life seemed to have just started a new arc straight out of one of Malia's cheesy light novels, with Marco as the uninvited, cool-but-irritating co-star.

Chapter Text

Morning on a Marine base was never quiet.

Ace stretched his shoulders and walked across the courtyard. The sea breeze was cold and fresh, but it didn’t hide the scent of gunpowder and salt in the air. Recruits were busy with their drills, and officers shouted commands from the training grounds. Even though the sun had just risen, the area was already lively. He liked it better that way.

No time to think. No time to linger. Just movement, purpose, the next mission. And no time to wonder why the docks had felt emptier than usual lately. Not that he’d been looking. It wasn’t like he expected to run into some cocky, blonde pirate every time he set foot near the water.

The guy had just happened to be there—twice.

That was it.

No reason for Ace to notice his absence now.

Ace snagged a still-warm meat bun from the mess hall on his way past, ignoring the way the cook scowled at him for skipping the line. He tossed a lazy salute in apology, already halfway out the door before the old man could scold him.

Breakfast in hand, he ducked into the operations office. His desk was exactly as he’d left it—coat slung over the chair, reports half-finished, a half-empty inkwell about to tip over if someone breathed too hard near it.

Ace dropped into his seat, propped his boots on the edge of the desk, and took a bite of the bun.

Another day, another mission log to write.

He’d rather be back in the field—chasing down smugglers, breaking up pirate brawls, hell, even hauling in drunk recruits causing trouble in town. Anything was better than this bureaucratic hell.

But no. The Marines loved their paperwork almost as much as they loved their rules.

Ace sat at his desk with his coat slung on the back of his chair, collar undone. His pen scratched across the mission report. A Den Den Mushi snored lightly on the desk beside him.

He was fast, reliable and a little unconventional. His instincts in the field were strong enough to get results where others hesitated.

That’s how Ace ended up as Lieutenant Commander so quickly, despite his age. He was still rough around the edges, but even the veterans on base had stopped questioning why he kept getting sent on operations most officers passed up.

Ace just got things done.

Even if he hated writing about it afterward.

Ace yawned as he finished the last sentence of his latest mission log. He stretched, rubbed the back of his neck. He reached for a small ball of yarn and a pair of needles on his desk. Carefully, he started knitting a loose scarf, eyes focused on his stitches.

That’s when the devil arrived.

Malia appeared, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face.

"So," she said, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "Have you seen your fisherman-slash-Uber driver again?"

Ace's brain short-circuited. Oh. Oh no. She said "your fisherman." Ace's mental gears ground to a halt as his face went nuclear.

Option 1: Correct her. "He's not MY fisherman!" (But that would sound defensive. And weird. Why would he assume that's what Malia meant? Was he overthinking? SHIT.)

Option 2: Play it cool. "Nope!" (Too cheerful. Suspicious. Abort.)

Option 3: Vomit words. "What? Who? Me? Never. Don't know what you're—" (WORSE.)

His eyes remained glued to his boots as he managed to choke out, "No."

"It’s been a week," Malia continued, stepping inside and perching on the edge of his desk. "I was starting to think you had a love life."

Ace shot her a glare. "I don’t want a love life. Especially not with a pirate."

Malia sighed dramatically. "Damn. And here I was, ready to be a bridesmaid."

Lieutenant Malia was key to Ace getting things done. Older than him, she understood his quirks and kept him focused. She anticipated problems and made sure their operations ran smoothly.

Malia was surprisingly sharp when it mattered, but also very funny with a known love for cheesy light novels that she devoured whenever she got the chance. He'd even been robbed into reading a few himself and found himself surprisingly invested.

And fine, maybe that's why the idea of him being the protagonist of some cheesy light novel, with that infuriating Marco as his "co-star," had even crossed his mind in the first place.

Ace blamed Malia entirely.

“Seriously?” Malia plopped into the chair across from Ace, chin in hand. “I thought he’d swing by again. Maybe with roses. Or a phoenix feather.”

Ace groaned, letting the needles hang, half-finished scarf dangling, before leaning back in his chair. “Can we not do this today?”

“I saw the way you looked at him, Ace. All starry-eyed.”

“I did not!”

“Oh please. You practically swooned.”

Before Ace could argue further, a low voice interrupted.

“Talking about your mystery boyfriend again?”

Ace turned to see Smoker strolling past, a stack of training manuals under one arm.

“Mystery boyfriend?”

Smoker shrugged. “You’ve got a type, apparently. Blondes with bird-themed nicknames.”

“I don’t—!” Ace began, but Smoker cut him off.

“You seeing him again or what?”

“No,” Ace said through clenched teeth. “And I’m fine with that.”

Smoker nodded solemnly. “Mm. Tragic. I really thought the third time would be the charm.”

Malia shook her head mournfully. "Wasted potential."

Ace’s eye twitched.

Smoker tilted his head, studying Ace. “You sure you're not hoping he’ll show up?”

Ace snapped, slamming the knitting down on the desk. “Why the hell would I hope that?!”

“Dunno. Maybe ‘cause you keep glaring at the docks like they personally offended you.”

As if! As IF Ace would just sit here staring at the docks like some... some...

Oh shit. Has Ace been staring at the docks?

“I glare at everything,” Ace shot back automatically.

“True,” Smoker conceded. “But you’ve been extra pissy this week.”

Ace scowled. “I’ve been busy.”

“Uh-huh.” Smoker took the unlit cigar out of his mouth, rolling it between his fingers. “Funny how ‘busy’ looks a lot like sulking.”

“Get out.”

 “Just saying. Deny it all you want, but the universe has a funny way of screwing with people who say shit like ‘I’m fine with that.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

"Means you just jinxed it." A small smirk played on Smoker’s lips as he walked out, the unlit cigar now tucked behind his ear.

Ace sighed, rubbing his temples. His gaze fell to the knitting on the desk. He was just about to pick up the needles again when he caught Malia's eye. She was already grinning, a silent, mocking challenge in her gaze.

"What?" Ace demanded, feeling his frustration rise again.

“Marco was kinda hot.”

Ace opened my mouth to yell (he was going to write a formal complaint about workplace harassment, he really was) when Bogard walked by, flipping through a file. “Lieutenant Commander.”

“Hi, Bogard.”

“Have you encountered Marco the Phoenix again?”

Ace exhaled slowly. “No, sir.”

“Shame,” he replied, voice flat. “He seemed very invested.”

Oh, for the love of the sea, not him too.

Ace pinched the bridge of his nose. This was getting ridiculous. Why did everyone want to know about Marco? Was there a memo Ace missed? Was the sight of a Marine catching rides with a known Pirate just too juicy a piece of irony for anyone to ignore?

“Not you too.”

The older man paused. “I’m just curious.”

“Why? You gonna ask him to sword spar or something?”

“No,” Bogard replied, deadpan. “But I think he might be interested in yours.”

Ace blinked. “...What?”

Bogard, the epitome of professionalism and quiet efficiency, just dropped a line like that? This was a new level of personal hell.

The man walked off without elaborating.

Malia clutched her stomach, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the chair. "Oh my God. Bogard just said that with a straight face! He's practically spelling it out for you, and you're still lost!"

"I don't know what you're all implying, but it's stupid," Ace grumbled, crossing his arms defensively. "He's just being nice!"

Malia's laughter died instantly. She stared at Ace like he'd just declared the sky was polka-dotted. "...Nice."

"Yeah! Nice! Not everyone has ulterior motives, Malia! Some people are just decent human beings who help stranded Marines out of the kindness of their hearts!"

"...You're serious."

"Dead serious! First time? Total accident! I didn't know he was a pirate - perfect misunderstanding!"

"And the second time?"

"I knew exactly who he was. He knew exactly who I was and still offered the ride! That's what we call character growth!"

Malia's eye twitched. "Ace. My dude. My sweet, summer child. People don't do 'character growth' for random Marines they've met twice."

"Exactly!" Ace nodded enthusiastically. "Which proves it was genuine kindness! No ulterior motives whatsoever!"

Malia opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. For the first time in recorded history, Malia was speechless.

Ace took this as victory. "See? Even you can't argue with that logic!"

Malia made a strangled noise and slowly banged her forehead against the desk.

Ace blinked. "You okay?"

"I'm going to throw myself into the sea," Malia mumbled into the wood.

"No, that's my line," Ace corrected cheerfully. Then paused. "Wait. Why am I saying that again?"

Just then, the Den Den Mushi crackled. Its eyes snapped open as Garp’s unmistakable voice bellowed out with a mouth half-full of rice crackers.

“ACE! Get off your ass!”

Ace sighed. “Sir.”

“I got a mission for you! Take a package to Little East Pier Station. Just a routine drop. One of those stations too small to wipe their own asses without help.”

“Understood. I’ll head out immediately.”

“And maybe if you run into your fisherman boyfriend, ask him out!”

There was a snort, a choke and the line cut off with a crunch.

Ace stared at the snail for a moment.

Malia lifted her head just enough to whisper. “Wow. When your dad’s in on the joke, you know it’s not dying anytime soon.”

Just then, a young Marine cadet appeared at the doorway, clutching a sealed brown package. "Lieutenant Commander Ace, sir! Package for Little East Pier Station, per Vice Admiral Garp's orders!"

Ace let out a frustrated sigh, pushing himself up from his chair and striding purposefully towards the cadet. He snatched the package, a scowl on his face, and tucked it under his arm, already turning towards the door.

“Bring us back a wedding invitation!” Malia called after him.

Chapter Text

The mission had been too easy.

Too simple, really.

Ace had taken the package to Little East Pier Station. It was a tiny outpost manned by two bored Marines who looked like they hadn’t seen action in years. Ace dropped the package off, signed the paperwork and left.

It was boring.

Ace had expected something—smugglers, a bar fight, maybe even a rogue seagull attack—but no. Nothing. Still, it got him out of the office, away from Malia’s relentless teasing, and, most importantly, away from any chance of running into certain pirates who had no business being on his mind.

(Not that he was thinking about Marco. He wasn’t.)

The day was already starting to fade into late afternoon, painting the sky in soft oranges. Now, walking back through the portside market, Ace scanned the stalls for something to bring back as a peace offering. Malia liked those stupid romance novels with the shirtless pirates on the cover (ironic, considering her job). Smoker would appreciate decent cigars, but at fifteen, he wasn't allowed to light them yet, which was a small blessing.

And Bogard—

Ace paused.

Why the hell was Bogard even at that tiny station?

The man was a legend—Garp’s right hand, a swordmaster, the kind of Marine who made rookies piss themselves just by looking at them. And yet, there he’d been, standing in the corner of that backwater outpost like some kind of shadowy guardian.

Was Dad making him babysit me?

Ace scowled. No way. Malia already did that, and Ace hated it.

(He didn’t need supervision. He was fine.)

Shaking his head, he grabbed a few things and turned to leave.

That’s when she appeared.

"OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD—ACE! ACE! IT’S YOU!"

Ace barely had time to register the voice before a hurricane of limbs and frantic energy slammed into him. A young woman—short, pink-haired, eyes wide with panic—grabbed his arms like he was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

"You—you—I can’t believe it! I was so worried, like, so worried, how was I gonna manage?! And then I looked up and—DO YOU BELIEVE IT?!—there you were! Like a sign! Like God himself pointed at you and went, ‘THAT ONE! THAT’S YOUR MIRACLE!’"

Ace blinked. "Uh."

"It’s me! Lina! From the undercover mission last month! The one where you pretended to be my brother so we could infiltrate that smuggling ring?!"

A vague memory surfaced—a dockside bar, fake IDs, Ace playing the role of overprotective sibling while Lina flirted with a smuggler for intel.

Lina wasn't a Marine, not officially. Ace knew her as a civilian asset, someone with an uncanny knack for picking up rumours and blending into any crowd. She’d worked odd jobs across the Grand Line like waitressing, bar tending, street performing, all while gathering intel for the right Marine contacts.

"Right," Ace said slowly. "You’re the one who almost blew our cover when I called you ‘sis.’"

"YES! THAT’S ME!" She shook him violently. "Ace, I need you. Like, need you. My sister is in labour right now—like, right right now—and my boss at The Salty Gull will literally murder me if I bail, but I have to go! And then I saw you and—" She clasped her hands together, eyes shimmering with tears. "It’s fate."

Ace took a step back. "No. Absolutely not."

"PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE—"

"I’m a Marine. On duty."

"But you’re off duty now!"

"That’s not how it—"

"Ace." She grabbed his hands, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do it for little orphan us."

Ace’s eye twitched.

"We aren’t orphans."

"We were for that mission!"

"That was fake!"

"BUT THE BOND WAS REAL!"

Ace groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

This was ridiculous.

But Lina was giving him puppy eyes. And she was vibrating with panic.

"I’ll name the baby after you," she whispered.

"No you won’t."

"I’ll consider it."

Ace barely had time to regret his life choices before Lina was dragging him down the street at a speed that suggested her sister might be giving birth inside the restaurant.

"Okay listen listen listen," she said, words tumbling out, "it's so easy, you're gonna love this. First thing—smile! Not like that, you look like you're about to arrest someone. Softer! Like you're happy to see them even when they're being complete assholes about substitutions. It's good to be a waiter!"

Ace opened his mouth but Lina was already spinning him toward the restaurant's back door.

"Second thing—the regulars. Table three is Mr. Hocks, he'll complain the soup is cold every time even when it's boiling. Just nod and say you'll tell the chef. Table seven is the Admiral's wife—she doesn't tip but we pretend she does because she knows people. It's good to be a waiter!"

They burst into a kitchen that smelled like fried fish and poor life decisions. A cook with a scar over one eye looked up from butchering something that might have been a tuna or possibly a small child.

"New guy?" he grunted.

"Just for tonight!" Lina chirped. She grabbed an apron and shoved it at Ace. "Oh! Almost forgot! If someone starts choking, don't panic—just do the Heimlich like I showed you during that undercover op. Remember? When I had to pretend to be—"

Ace didn't even let her finish the sentence. He knew exactly where that story was going, and it involved far too much collateral damage for a quiet night.

"I remember."

"Perfect! And if you see rats—"

"There are rats?"

"—just shoo them toward the alley. The cats'll get them. It's good to be a waiter!" She beamed like she hadn't just described a rodent genocide.

Ace stared blankly at the apron, then at the door. He barely had the energy to sigh. "Lina, I'm telling you, it would be so easy. I could just leave. Right now. And honestly, that sounds pretty good from where I'm standing."

Lina's smile didn't waver. "I do, but I also know you, Ace. You might grumble, but you always come through when someone really needs a hand."

Ace closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a look of utter resignation. "Fine," he sighed, jerking the apron into place around his waist. "Two hours. Not a minute more."

Lina kissed his cheek and vanished in a whirl of excited squealing, leaving Ace alone in a kitchen where the head cook was now sharpening his knives while maintaining eye contact.

… …

By the time Ace stumbled out of The Salty Gull, it was well past 9 PM.

Two hours.

That’s what he’d promised Lina. Two measly hours of playing waiter, dealing with cold soup complaints and discreetly ushering rats toward their feline executioners.

Somehow, those two hours had stretched into five.

Never again.

Lina owed him. Big time.

Ace’s feet ached. His uniform smelled like fried fish and vomit. And his patience had officially abandoned him somewhere between Table Seven’s passive-aggressive comments about his face and the third time he’d had to stop a drunk patron from attempting the Heimlich manoeuvre on a bread roll.

Now, standing on the dock of Whisperwind Isle under the dim glow of the streetlamps, all Ace wanted was a shower, a bed and possibly to never interact with another living soul again.

Which, of course, was when he appeared.

Marco the Phoenix—not-fisherman and Ace’s personal enigma—leaned casually against a tree near the dock, arms crossed, looking unfairly put together for someone who had no business being there.

Ace froze.

His first instinct was to dive into the nearest bush. (A habit he was not proud of, but one that had served him well in the past when avoiding awkward encounters.) His second instinct was to pretend he hadn’t seen Marco and power-walk straight to the Marine dormitory.

But it was too late.

Marco had already spotted him, that infuriating half-smirk tugging at his lips as he pushed off the tree and raised a hand in greeting.

“Yoi,” Marco called, voice far too amused for Ace’s current level of exhaustion. “Long shift?”

Ace just sighed. "You have no idea."

Marco's half-smirk softened. He stepped closer, his hand coming up, reaching for Ace's head. Ace stiffened, eyes wide for a fleeting moment, before Marco's fingers deftly plucked a small green leaf from his messy black hair.

"Got a leaf caught, yoi."

Ace's cheeks flushed crimson. He wanted to snap back, to argue, to make a furious point about personal space, but the words felt heavy, stuck somewhere behind his eyes. All Ace really wanted was to collapse into his bunk.

"Thanks," Ace mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "Look, I'm absolutely dead on my feet. It's a thirty-minute walk back to the dorm, and I just can't right now."

Ace sighed, already turning his body to start the long trek back. Just as he pushed off, a hand gently closed around his bicep, firm enough to halt him but not painful. Marco's hand slid away from Ace's arm as Ace turned to face him.

Marco’s mouth quirked. "Sorry I was gone last week, yoi. I had some business to take care of."

Ace blinked. Why was Marco telling him this? Why was he even apologizing? They weren’t—they weren’t anything. Just a weird Marine and a pirate who kept offering him rides for reasons Ace refused to examine too closely.

"It’s fine," Ace muttered, because voicing any of that felt like too much effort. "I gotta go."

Marco hummed, unfazed. "It’s late. Let me give you a ride, yoi."

Ace scowled. "I don’t need a boat to the dorms."

"Good," Marco said, grinning, "because I didn’t bring one, yoi."

Then, he stepped aside to reveal—

A bicycle.

Ace stared.

It was an old thing, clearly well-used, with a slightly rusted frame and a basket strapped to the front. It was also, without question, the most ridiculous thing Marco could have possibly produced.

Ace opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"What?"

Marco’s grin widened. "You’re tired. Let me take you home."

Ace’s face heated. This was—this was absurd. This was insane. This was—

…Kind of nice.

But he couldn’t just say that.

"You’re not worried about getting arrested?" Ace grumbled, crossing his arms. "The dorms are right there."

Marco leaned in, close enough that Ace could see the gold flecks in his eyes even in the dim light. "You won’t arrest me."

Ace huffed. "That was last time."

"And this time?"

Ace glared at the horizon, but the night was too dark to offer any escape. He exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him along with his breath.

Damn it all.

"...No."

Marco’s smile was downright smug as he swung onto the bicycle, steadying it with one foot on the ground. "Get on."

Ace hesitated—then gave in.

He climbed on behind Marco, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides.

"Hold on," Marco said, glancing over his shoulder.

Ace swallowed—then let himself relax. He wrapped his arms around Marco’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Marco pushed off, and the bicycle rolled forward into the night.

Ace closed his eyes.

This was fine.

This was fine.

Ace's chin barely cleared Marco's shoulder, his arms stretching slightly to maintain his hold. Ace found himself tilting forward as they rounded a corner, his forehead accidentally bumping between Marco's shoulder blades. The pirate's back was solid as oak beneath his touch, the muscles shifting with each pedal stroke. Ace could feel the heat radiating through Marco's thin shirt.

The night air carried the sound of Marco's quiet breathing, deeper and slower than Ace's own. When Marco leaned into a turn, Ace had to shift with him, his arms instinctively tightening around that impossibly wide torso.

"Comfortable back there, yoi?"

“Peachy.”

Marco laughed, the sound low and annoyingly attractive, and Ace hated how his stomach did a stupid little flip in response.

At some point - maybe when they hit a particularly rough patch of road - Ace's hands had migrated from Marco's waist to clasp loosely at his stomach. He could feel the rise and fall of Marco's breathing beneath his palms, the steady rhythm of it.

Wait.

He'd never actually told Marco where he lived.

"Hey," Ace said, his voice muffled slightly against Marco's back. "Do you even know where you're going?"

The bicycle slowed to a stop beneath a flickering lamppost. Marco planted one long leg on the ground, the motion making the bike tilt slightly between his thighs. He turned to meet Ace's gaze, the lamplight catching in his blonde hair.

"No," Marco admitted. "I was hoping you'd tell me, yoi."

Ace swallowed.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Ace's fingers curled tighter in Marco's shirt.

"Take the next left."

Chapter Text

The bicycle wheels crunched to a stop outside the Marine dormitory, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet night. Ace slid off the seat, his legs stiff from the ride, and turned to face Marco who was still perched on that ridiculous bicycle, looking unfairly handsome in the dim glow of the porch light.

"Thanks," Ace muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. The words felt inadequate after...whatever this was. A pirate giving a Marine a bicycle ride home at night. The absurdity of it should have been laughable, but instead, something warm curled in Ace's chest.

He hesitated. The polite thing would be to invite Marco up—but it was late, and this was Marine housing and—

Before Ace could spiral further, Marco was now standing right in front of him, familiar fingers flicked against his forehead.

"Hey!" Ace swatted at Marco's hand. "I thought we were done with the forehead flicks."

Marco's lips quirked. "You were overthinking again." He tilted his head. "Do you have to go to Soromi Island tomorrow?"

Ace's mouth opened—then snapped shut. The last thing he needed was Marco showing up at dawn like some kind of persistent, golden-haired Uber service.

"No," Ace lied, too quickly. "No work tomorrow."

Marco raised an eyebrow. "What time are you leaving the dorm, then?"

"8 AM—wait." Ace groaned. "Shit."

Marco's smirk was downright smug.

Ace's temper flared. "Why the hell would you want to give me a ride anyway? I can walk."

"It's far, yoi," Marco countered. "I don't want you late again."

"The dorm has a shuttle bus," Ace shot back. "I'll get my roommate to—"

"It'll be crowded." Marco took half a step closer, close enough that Ace could see the way the porch light gilded his eyelashes. “I'd hate for you to overheat."

"Wha—that's—" Ace sputtered. "What the actual fuck, Marco! How I get to the docks is my business!"

Marco leaned forward. "But I'd prefer to take you."

Ace's face burned.

"You—" His voice cracked. "You can't just say things like that."

Marco blinked. "Why not?"

"Because!" Ace flailed, gesturing wildly between them. "You're you! And I'm me! And we don't know each other!”

Marco tilted his head, the movement achingly familiar by now. "Don't we? I know you. Portgas D. Ace. Twenty-two. Lieutenant Commander. Stationed temporarily at Soromi Island." Each fact dropped between them like a carefully placed stepping stone across a river Ace wasn't ready to cross.

Ace's throat worked. "...But I don't know you."

The smile Marco gave him could have powered whole islands. "What is my name?"

"Marco," Ace muttered, like the syllables burned his tongue.

"What is my Devil Fruit."

"It's a Mythical Zoan, the Phoenix one. The Bird-Bird Fruit, Model: Phoenix, right?" Ace's voice was flat, laced with pure annoyance at being forced to state the obvious.

"You've read my file." Marco leaned in, just enough that his shadow enveloped Ace. "You know I'm nineteen."

“Too damn young to be a Whitebeard commander," Ace grumbled automatically, then flushed when Marco's grin widened.

"I’ve been with Pops since I was fifteen, yoi. Four years of battles, navigation and keeping my idiotic siblings alive tends to earn you a spot."

Then, before Ace could protest, Marco continued.

"My favourite colour’s blue. My favourite fruit's pineapple. I hate rainy mornings but love storms at sea. The smell of gunpowder reminds me of—"

For a split second, the world tilted.

Ace's vision blurred at the edges, a fractured image flashing behind his eyes—a ship's deck, laughter, a shared meal—

Then it was gone.

He swallowed hard. What the hell was that?

Marco was watching him. "You alright, Ace?"

Ace didn't trust himself to answer.

Marco's left hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly along the inside of Ace's right wrist. "Hey." His voice had lost its teasing edge. "You're pale, yoi."

Ace jerked back like he'd been burned. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just—tired. And you're full of shit. Knowing random facts doesn't mean we know each other." Marco's left hand tightened just enough to keep him from pulling away completely, his thumb pressing gently against Ace's pulse point.

Marco hummed. "If you say so." He leaned in with his right hand coming up to cradle the side of Ace's face, his thumb stroking once along his cheekbone before his fingers slid back to tuck that stubborn strand of hair behind Ace's ear. His breath ghosted over Ace's skin as he murmured, "But you do know I'll be here at 7:30 tomorrow. Try not to dive headfirst into the nearest shrubbery when you see me, yoi."

Ace's breath hitched. "I— What? I never—!"

Marco's right hand lingered for a moment longer before withdrawing. His pinkie finger traced the curve of Ace's ear in one last fleeting touch. "Wear something warm." His left hand finally released Ace's wrist. "The wind's sharp at dawn, yoi."

Ace opened his mouth to protest, but the words died when Marco's right hand caught his, their fingers tangling briefly as Marco's thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles. Then Marco stepped back, swinging his left leg over his bike.

"Seven-thirty," he said, as if it were a foregone conclusion. As if Ace hadn't spent the last five minutes arguing.

Ace exhaled, shoulders slumping in defeat. "...I'll be late."

Marco's grin was blinding as he pushed off with his left hand while his right rose in a casual wave. "I'll wait."

And damn it all, Ace believed him.

He watched as Marco pedalled away, the bike's wheels cutting through the dark like a ship through calm waters. Only when the silhouette disappeared around the corner did Ace finally turn toward the dorm.

Something primal in Ace's chest ached to call him back. Not the Marco from tonight, but the Marco his body seemed to remember.

Ace’s right hand rose absently to his ear, fingertips touching the spot where Marco's breath had warmed his skin.

Seven-thirty.

Ace's mouth twitched.

Asshole.

Chapter Text

Malia wasn’t the nosy type.

Okay—she was absolutely the nosy type, but she preferred to call it situational awareness. As a lieutenant stationed at a base notorious for covert missions and weirder-than-average recruits, keeping tabs on things was practically a duty. Like brushing her hair by the window each night—not because the lighting was perfect, but because it offered a full view of the front gate.

And tonight?

Oh, tonight was worth it.

She’d just pulled her brush through the last stubborn tangle when the sound of bicycle wheels crunching to a stop had her freezing mid-stroke. She turned her head toward the window, half expecting a tipsy Ensign to be sneaking back in after curfew.

What she saw instead had her jaw dropping.

Ace. On the back of a bicycle, clinging to someone. A civilian? No. Too confident. Too familiar.

Oh—oh.

Golden hair, an annoyingly smug face, and that casual pirate aura that screamed I know you want me, but I'm pretending not to know you do.

Marco the Phoenix.

Her brush fell from her hand.

Holy mother of marine scandal, she thought, gripping the windowsill as she leaned forward like a cat spotting prey. That’s who gave him a ride?!

She squinted harder, watching the two men talk. Close. Closer. Way too close for anything Ace would classify as "neutral space."

Was that—was that a forehead flick? She nearly screamed.

Then Marco leaned in, and she watched Ace freeze like a deer in front of a Den Den light. There were gestures, familiar ones. A hand to the wrist. A touch to the face.

Malia sucked in a breath so sharp it might’ve created a vacuum in her room.

“Oh my god, they’re in a slow-burn romance novel.”

She could barely hear what was being said, but she didn’t need to. The body language screamed tension. Flustered Ace was visible even from up here, pacing and flapping his arms like a man arguing with fate. And Marco? That man had the smug, pirate-lover confidence of someone who had already written his name in Ace’s future and was just waiting for Ace to catch up.

And when Marco finally rode off, Ace stood there. Not moving. Just thinking. One hand lifted to his ear, soft, like something was still lingering there.

Malia slowly lowered her binoculars—the tiny ones she definitely didn’t keep in the drawer next to her shampoo. She didn’t move from her spot by the window for a solid minute.

Then she whispered, “They’re doomed.”

… …

Malia decided to say nothing for a week.

Not a single word. Not when she passed Marco wheeling his ridiculous old bike toward the dock. Not when she saw Ace stumble back into the dormitory at night with wind-tousled hair and a dazed expression. Not even when Marco waited for him by the gates every morning, leaning against a tree like some patient, sunlit ghost.

Nope.

She said nothing.

Instead, she observed. Quietly. Professionally. Like a responsible Marine officer with absolutely no personal investment in her best friend's increasingly suspicious “civilian assistance errands.”

Every morning and every night, the same ritual.

Marco arrived. Marco lingered. Marco left.

And Ace? Ace acted like it was normal to have a high-ranking pirate chauffeur him around twice daily like a lovesick escort pigeon.

Malia narrowed her eyes from her window perch, idly sipping tea.

Pirates are this free?

Was Marco simply that brilliant? Did he ace all his pirate duties so swiftly that Whitebeard just gave him an early dismissal slip for good behaviour? He probably conquered his morning pillaging quota by 5 AM, filed his plunder reports in triplicate and earned a gold star from Whitebeard. “Excellent work, son! Take the rest of the day off. Go flirt with your Marine sweetheart, just be back before dinner.”

Or maybe… maybe no one on Marco’s crew knew.

Just like no one on this base seemed to realize that the guy picking up Ace wasn’t some harmless island local with a nice face and a tragic fashion sense—it was Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. One of the most recognizable men on the seas.

Or… Ace’s dumbassery was contagious, and Marco had caught it.

Chapter Text

Tonight was no different.

From her window, Malia watched them again.

The same bike. The same smile. The same lingering moment where Ace paused just a little too long before saying goodnight. She couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to. The way Marco leaned in said everything. The way Ace lit up like a struck match said the rest.

She gave them two minutes.

Then she closed her book, took one last sip of her tea and stood.

Time for an intervention.

… …

She opened the door to Ace’s room to find her target curled up in bed like a war crime against dignity.

Ace—Lieutenant Commander, allegedly—was in full pyjamas, soft white cotton with a red collar and matching sleeve cuffs. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower, curling around his face. He was also hugging that cursed stuffed rabbit he refused to part with, Old Hag.

Malia hated that thing. It always stared at her. She was ninety percent sure it was sentient. But whatever.

She had bigger problems.

Three heads popped up from various beds as she entered. She didn’t even slow down.

“Out,” she said.

“Uh—” started one roommate.

“Now,” Malia said flatly.

They fled with military precision. The door clicked shut.

Ace blinked up at her from the cocoon of his blankets, his cheek mashed into the rabbit’s oversized head. “Why are you here? I already brushed my teeth.”

“I’m here,” Malia said, tossing her cargo dramatically onto his desk, “to save your sorry love-struck soul.”

Three thick novels hit the surface with a soft thump, their lurid, gorgeously illustrated covers glowing in the lamplight.

Ace sat up halfway, frowning. “Wait—are those your pirate-marine smut novels?!”

“Historical fiction,” she corrected.

“You wrote notes on them!”

“Educational,” Malia said, climbing onto his bed with terrifying purpose. “You need these. Each one explores the exact scenario you’re currently living through.”

Ace opened the first one and made a strangled sound. “You dog-eared the pages?!”

She plucked it out of his hands. “This one is about a duty-bound Marine falling for a pirate who keeps showing up at the docks at dawn to give him rides. Sound familiar?”

Ace turned bright red.

Malia pointed to the next. “This one? Pirate commander who keeps trying to prove he’s serious while the marine is too emotionally constipated to see it.”

Ace made a weak, horrified noise.

“And this,” she said, slapping the final book on top of Old Hag’s judgmental face, “is about a commanding officer who almost ruins everything because he’s convinced he shouldn’t care.”

Ace grabbed his pillow and screamed into it.

“Also,” Malia added casually, “I know it’s Marco.”

The pillow fell off his face. “You WHAT?!”

“I’m not blind,” she said. “Or stupid. The hair. The smugness. The immortal bird aura. Come on.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Ace hissed.

“I won’t,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, no one recognizes him. They think he’s just some guy who has a crush on you.”

“What the hell?!”

“People find it cute,” she said, shrugging. “Mostly the kitchen staff. Someone said they saw him bring you soup.”

Ace covered his face again. “Oh my god.”

Malia leaned back, satisfied. “Honestly, you two are giving volume three energy. That’s the one where the pirate flirts aggressively, and the marine short-circuits every time.”

“I am not short-circuiting!”

“You’re holding a rabbit named Old Hag and vibrating like a lit fuse.”

"Her name is Old Hag because that's what was on the tag at the antique shop where I found her!" Ace hissed, clutching the white rabbit closer. "And don't you dare disrespect her! She's not just some rabbit! She's... she's important. It's like I've known her forever, from another life or something."

"Okay, that's officially creepy. And weirdly specific for a rabbit," Malia replied, wrinkling her nose. "You're talking about that thing like it's your platonic soulmate."

Ace scoffed. "Creepy? You're the one with shelves full of books titled 'His Marine Obsession' and 'Pirate's Passionate Plunder'! And you make me go buy them!"

"Those are sophisticated literary works of art. They explore complex themes of forbidden love and inter-factional tension. And you're just jealous because you can't handle the raw passion."

"I can handle raw passion just fine! I'm a Marine! I just don't need it coming from a book with a shirtless guy on the cover!" Ace retorted. "Seriously, every time I walk into that bookstore, the cashier gives me looks. And the way she pronounces 'Admiral's Forbidden Fling' makes me want to spontaneously combust."

"That's because you get flustered and start sweating, you big baby. Just act like you're buying them for yourself," Malia deadpanned.

"I can't! Then everyone would think I'm the one with a thing for sweaty, ridiculously hot pirates with open vests! Besides, I'm already getting enough weird looks just being seen with you these days."

"Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means every time you walk around with that unnervingly serene expression and those 'don't-even-think-about-it' vibes, people think I'm your glorified bodyguard or something," Ace grumbled, adjusting Old Hag in his arms. "Seriously, you look like you're plotting a hostile takeover of the entire base with just a teacup and a polite smile. Nobody dares to even breathe wrong around you! I'm a Lieutenant Commander, not your intimidating aura's sidekick!"

"Perhaps if you radiated less 'just-rolled-out-of-a-barrel' energy, Lieutenant Commander, people wouldn't need me to add an air of refined authority."

Ace groaned. "You know, sometimes I think the only reason you're my best friend is because you need someone to traumatize with your questionable reading habits and then blame for my weirdness. It's like a free therapy session for you, at my expense!"

"Oh, Ace, you give yourself too much credit," Malia purred. "For therapy, I'd need someone who actually listens. You just stand there and get red." Then, mercifully, she relented. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop torturing you for now.”

Ace slumped down, muffling another dramatic noise into his blanket.

Malia watched him for a second, then frowned. “Wait… you did tell him tomorrow’s a day off, right?”

Silence.

Ace froze.

Then: “...Shit.”

Malia sighed deeply. “Of course.”

“He’s going to show up and I won’t be there—!”

“So? He’ll figure it out.”

“He'll just be standing around looking confused! He's probably got a schedule, important pirate stuff, you know? He can't just be wasting his time waiting for me! And what if he thinks I'm unreliable now? He'll be waiting around tomorrow for nothing!”

Malia blinked. “...You don’t want him to wait around?”

Ace sat bolt upright. “Of course not!”

She smirked. “Oh. You’re worried about him.”

“I’m worried about being a jerk!”

The smirk vanished.

Malia was this close to shaking him. How could someone so competent in battle be this dense about basic human interaction? Maybe she should've brought heavier books. Like Pirates & Marines for Dummies with a brick taped to it.

Her eye twitched. "Ace," she said slowly. "The man bikes you to work every day. He probably has Whitebeard's permission to use 'Picking Up Ace' as an official logbook entry."

"That's not—he doesn't—" Ace flailed, accidentally elbowing Old Hag off the bed. The rabbit landed upright, its lopsided grin now aimed directly at Malia’s ankles.

“You know what?” Malia grabbed her novels and stood. “I’m done. If Marco shows up tomorrow with breakfast and heart eyes, you can die of embarrassment without my commentary.” She kicked Old Hag aside with her boot (it felt solid) and yanked the door open.

“Wait—!” Ace scrambled after her.

“Nope.” She pointed at him, then at the rabbit. “You and your eldritch stuffed demon can figure it out.”

The door slammed shut.

Malia exhaled. Seven hells. At this rate, she’d need to requisition actual therapy books.

Chapter Text

Ace couldn’t sleep.

He’d tossed and turned for nearly an hour before giving up entirely. The springs groaned every time Peterson shifted, and Martinez was muttering in his sleep again—something about missing crates and the wrong kind of shellfish. Riveting.

He sat up, scrubbing a hand down his face. His room, though clearly military issue, had been softened by personal touches, transforming it into a surprisingly cosy and spacious haven amidst the ship's steel bulkheads. He reached under the bed, fingers brushing the old knitting basket shoved beside a box of cleaning rags. Next came Old Hag—his stuffed white rabbit—tucked against the wall where prying eyes wouldn't see.

He pulled both into his lap, stared at them for a moment, and sighed.

The rooftop. That was the only place that made any sense right now.

The dormitory’s old staircase creaked like it was tattling with every step, but he moved quiet and practiced. Ace noted with a small sense of pride that the steps were still spotless, just as he'd left them after his turn on the cleaning schedule last week. His internal clock told him it was around 2 AM. Outside, the pre-dawn sky was a smear of deep blues and greys, but even in summer, the island air was surprisingly sharp and clean.

He just settled in the corner, Old Hag in his lap, knitting basket beside him.

Knitting helped when his thoughts got too loud.

And tonight, they were a screaming crowd.

Marco was going to come in the morning.

Same as every day to wait down at the dormitory gate with his old bike and his ridiculous calm, ready to take Ace to the dock where his Marine ship left for Soromi Island. Then in the evening—like clockwork—Marco would be at the dock again, leaning against the rail with that quiet smile, waiting to take him home.

Except tomorrow was different.

Ace wasn’t going anywhere.

He groaned softly and let his head drop back against the wall.

He’d forgotten to tell Marco that it was a day off. And now, Marco was going to show up for nothing.

Well, not nothing. He'd be up early anyway, specifically to track down Marco at 7:30 AM and tell him he had a day off, apologize for not mentioning it yesterday. The last thing Ace wanted was for the boy to show up expecting him. But still. Ace hated the idea of someone waiting on him when he wasn’t even going to be there. Especially Marco. The guy never acted like it was a big deal, but maybe that made it worse. Like Ace’s carelessness didn’t even register. Like it didn’t matter.

And then there were those damn books.

Malia had just left them on his desk like a loaded weapon, three volumes of scandalous pirate-marine drama covered in gleaming illustrations and rogue shirtless men. He’d sworn he wouldn’t read them. Ever.

He might’ve skimmed the margin notes, though.

A lot of them were completely beside the point, but for some reason, they always made him blush. Except Ace had a flashback of Marco pulling a leaf out of his hair the other day and his brain short-circuited so hard he dropped his pen.

His fingers paused, then picked up speed again.

The scarf was almost finished now—sky blue, deep and soft. He hadn’t picked the colour for any reason at first, but the longer it grew, the more it looked like the colour of Marco’s phoenix flames. Not the bright, blazing part. The quiet outer edge. The gentle heat.

He didn’t know what he’d do with it.

Maybe give it to Marco.

Maybe burn it.

His hands stilled again, and the memory came back, uninvited.

A few mornings ago, riding on the back of Marco’s bike. The world was still half-asleep, dew on the leaves, the breeze sharp and fresh. Ace had tucked his head just behind Marco’s shoulder, and barely awake, muttered, “Don’t you get bored doing this?”

Marco had tilted his head slightly. “Doing what, yoi?”

“Picking me up. Dropping me off. It’s like—an hour of your day, man. That’s not nothing.”

There’d been a pause, then a quiet chuckle. “Better things than spending time with you? Doubt it, yoi.”

Ace had choked on his own breath. He’d tried again. “I mean, you're Whitebeard's First Commander. There has to be more to it than just... this.”

The light ahead had turned red. Marco had slowed, glanced over his shoulder with those bright, phoenix-blue eyes.

“Every minute with you matters, Ace.”

And just like that, the universe had tilted.

Ace felt his entire internal operating system seize up. A faint high-pitched whine that only he could hear reverberated in his skull. It was the sound of a million unspoken 'I told you so's from every romantic comedy ever, combined with the collective joyous shriek of everyone who'd ever shipped two idiots harder than they shipped themselves.

He was vaguely aware of his hands tightening on Marco's waist, not in a grab-on-for-dear-life way, but in a someone-please-tell-me-this-isn't-happening-but-also-don't-stop sort of grip. The memory still felt hot against his skin. His face burned just thinking about it. He tugged the scarf tighter in his hands, half-tempted to unravel the whole thing just for the satisfaction.

Nineteen, and already Marco had the kind of calm, unshakable charm that Ace had only ever seen in much older people. Charisma, Malia had called it. Or rather, rizz. She’d said the word like she was bestowing ancient knowledge.

Ace had rolled his eyes. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The scarf pooled in his lap, blue in the moonlight. A flicker of heat curled low in his chest, and then—

A flash. Not sight, not sound. Just sensation.

Fire.

Blue fire.

Phoenix flames.

The thought struck like lightning—sudden, vivid and uninvited. His hands froze. He stared at the yarn, then at the sky. Something about the word clawed at the inside of his ribs.

He lay back on the cold tiles, pulling Old Hag to his chest. The stuffed rabbit was old and threadbare, but she was real. Solid. Familiar. More so than anything else lately.

He stared up at the stars. Let the stillness take him.

Something about Marco felt... wrong. Or maybe too right. Like he fit into a space Ace hadn’t realized was empty. Every time they were close, it sparked this dull ache. Not desire. Not just that. Something older. Something deeper.

Familiarity without memory.

Recognition without context.

He didn’t know if it meant anything. He didn’t know if Marco felt it too. But lately, Ace had started to wonder if they’d known each other before and somehow, both of them had forgotten. It didn’t make sense, but neither did the way Marco looked at him like he knew him. Like he’d been looking for him.

And Ace...

Ace just wanted to know. If any of it was real. If he’d meant something, once. If maybe—just maybe—he still did.

He fell asleep under the stars, arms curled around Old Hag, and dreams dancing behind his eyelids like embers in a forgotten fire.

Chapter Text

Ace had no idea how he’d made it back to bed.

One moment, he was spiralling into an existential crisis on the dormitory roof, the next, his brain apparently decided the floor was too hard and cold for a Marine Lieutenant Commander, and poof, he was in his bunk. Even his knitting basket managed to reappear under his bed. Clearly, his sleep-deprived brain was still surprisingly efficient at asset recovery.

He’d slept like a log from then on, a heavy, dreamless slumber. Today was his day off, a rare luxury. No alarms, no demanding duties, no rigid schedule.

However, Ace still woke up with the ingrained precision of a Marine.

Not a minute later than usual, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. After a quick, bracing shower and he brushed his teeth. He pulled on a soft, cream-colored hooded sweatshirt. Over that, he layered his favourite denim vest, a well-worn, slightly faded piece with chest pockets, leaving it unbuttoned. He completed the look with black jeans.

Ace spent some nice time relaxing in his comfortable and roomy room. He carefully watered the small potted plants on his windowsill, checking their new growth. His roommates had already departed. They were off to their various posts.

But then, a tiny, annoying pebble rolled into the smooth expanse of his contentment. A nagging sensation. Like a word on the tip of his tongue, only far more pervasive. He was forgetting something.

Okay, Ace, think. What's important?

Had he left his locker unlocked again? No, Peterson would have yelled about it by now. Did he forget to submit that quarter-two supply requisition? Probably not, he'd rushed it through yesterday.

Or what if… he’d forgotten to report that giant Sea King he saw lurking near Soromi Island’s dock yesterday, and now it was currently attempting to steal the base's fresh water supply?

Marine priorities, Ace! Marine priorities!

He was definitely forgetting something important, something significant, but he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint what it was.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ace frowned.

The sound was polite. Too polite for his roommates who usually just walked in if they'd forgotten something. And definitely too polite for Malia, who, despite claiming to be a polite person, apparently reserved that quality for everyone but her best friend.

So, if it wasn't them... who on earth was at his door?

His brow furrowed deeper. He adjusted Old Hag, his stuffed rabbit, clutched still to his chest, and went to open the door.

Maybe it was landlord-related? Yes, Marines still had to pay their dormitory rent. Did he forget this month's rent? Or the water bill? Mrs. Etnia was relentless about the water bill.

He opened the door.

Standing there, beaming like the morning sun, was Mrs. Winnie, the head of the kitchen staff, a woman whose culinary skills were only matched by her boundless, slightly terrifying, cheerfulness. And behind her…

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

Marco the Phoenix. Marco, the nineteen-year-old pirate, Whitebeard's First Commander, standing casually in the Marine dormitory hallway, looking utterly smug, his blue eyes sparkling. He wore an open beige flannel over a simple dark t-shirt, his usual messy blond hair catching the light from the hallway, somehow looking perfectly at ease in a place he absolutely shouldn't be.

"Oh, good morning, Lieutenant Commander Ace!" Mrs. Winnie chirped, oblivious to Ace's internal meltdown. "I saw this nice young man waiting by the gate for quite a while, and I remembered him picking you up on his bicycle before, so I just thought I'd invite him in! Didn't want him standing out in the September sun, did we?"

Ace's mouth hung open.

Inside his head, a thousand alarms blared. Mrs. Winnie, you cannot just take any stranger, let alone a PIRATE, and especially in the Marine territory or dormitory! Do you know what kind of court-martial this is? Do you know who this is?! But all that came out was an awkward, strained smile. "Ah, thank you, Mrs. Winnie," he managed, his voice unnaturally high. "That was... very kind of you." He then pivoted, practically dragging Marco inside with a frantic gesture. "Come in, come in!"

Ace practically dove towards his bunk, frantically yanking his sheets straight. He smoothed the blanket, fluffed his pillow and made his bed with a speed and precision that would make any mentor proud.

Marco's eyes drifted to the stuffed rabbit, then back to Ace's mortified expression. "Skipped your marine duty already, did you, Ace?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"No! Today's my day off!" Ace blurted out, then the missing puzzle piece slammed into place. "Shit!" he exclaimed, his shoulders slumping. "I forgot to tell you! I was going to get up early, like always, to tell you, but I overslept, and I completely forgot! I am so, so sorry, Marco!" He started rummaging frantically around his bedside table. "Do you want some of my emergency ration chocolate? I have these really good dried mangoes! Or... or a handful of my Lucky Charms? I can pour you a bowl right now!"

Marco simply reached out and flicked Ace's forehead. At this point, Ace had already stopped complaining or pointing out the forehead-flicking habit. It was just a given.

"I see," Marco said, his gaze lingering on Ace's still-flushed face.

Ace looked utterly miserable, genuinely ashamed of himself. He’d made Marco, a busy pirate First Commander, a man who probably had far more important things to do than act as Ace's personal, twice-daily Uber driver, wait. It was unacceptable.

Marco let out a soft sigh. "It's alright, yoi," he said, and the unexpected tenderness in his voice made Ace's ears burn all over again.

"Here," Marco said, pulling a small piece of parchment and a charcoal stick from his pocket. He quickly scrawled a series of numbers onto it. "This is my private number. That way, a situation like today won't happen again." He paused, then tilted his head slightly. "And I'll also need yours, yoi."

Ace stared at the numbers.

A private number. Marco's private number.

An image of Malia's smug grin popped into his head, followed by an equally unsettling sensation that he was being observed. Like invisible cheerleaders were performing a silent. This is it! This is the part where the tension builds!

Ace felt a warmth bloom in his chest again. He swallowed, a bit flustered, but without hesitation, he pulled out a small, dog-eared notebook from his own pocket. He quickly scribbled his own private number onto a fresh page, then tore it out and handed it to Marco, who, to Ace's surprise, meticulously folded it and tucked it into a different pocket.

Marco’s gaze swept over the dormitory room. "Nice place, yoi," he remarked, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "Never been in a Marine dorm before."

Ace, now significantly calmer (and marginally less red), perked up. "Oh! Uh—want a tour?"

Marco’s mouth quirked. "Sure."

Ace launched into an animated rundown—"That’s Martinez’ bunk, he snores like a Sea King. That’s Peterson’s side, he’s obsessed with this shitty soap opera—"—before stopping proudly in front of his windowsill. "And these are my guys."

Three small pots sat in a row, each housing a spindly plant with a handwritten label. Spud (he’s a potato), Lil’ Carrot and Benedict Cumberleaf.

Marco stared. "…You named them."

"Obviously," Ace said, poking Benedict’s lone leaf. "They’ve got personalities. Spud’s dramatic, Carrot’s a fighter and Ben here’s just vibing."

Marco’s laugh was warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Then Marco’s gaze landed on the pile of books beside Ace’s bed.

For the first time since they’d met, Marco the Phoenix looked genuinely thrown. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as he read the titles aloud. "Sails & Handcuffs… The Commander’s Compass…" He tilted his head. "How to Lose a Marine in 10 Days?"

Ace’s soul left his body. "THOSE AREN’T MINE!" he yelped, lunging to sweep the novels under his bed. "They’re Malia’s! My best friend! She—she’s into weird—I don’t—ugh!"

Ace's mind raced. He recalled her leaving a few volumes on his desk last night. But ‘How to Lose a Marine in 10 Days’ and ‘Sails & Handcuffs’ and ‘The Commander’s Compass’? The only explanation was that Malia had snuck back into his room and re-stocked his desk.

“She thinks they're 'educational' or whatever—"

"…Educational," Marco repeated faintly.

Ace groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Forget it. Just—what were you saying about today?"

Marco blinked rapidly, as if resetting his brain. "Right. Your day off." He cleared his throat, visibly wrestling his expression back under control. "There's... a place. On the cliffs. Good view. We could... go. Together."

Ace tilted his head.

Marco was acting weird.

"Like a date?" Ace asked, testing the words.

The effect was instant. Marco's composure cracked just for a second. "If you want it to be," he said carefully, but his fingers were tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh.

Ace's lips twitched, then stretched into a wide, genuine grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah. That sounds great."

… …

This was divine intervention.

From Malia’s strategic vantage point behind a potted fern, she watched as Mrs. Winnie—saint, legend, unwitting agent of chaos—delivered Marco the goddamn Phoenix directly to Ace’s doorstep like he was a DoorDash order of hot pirate boyfriend.

Malia’s soul left her body.

"Mrs. Winnie," she whispered, clutching the fern for support, "You’ve rewritten the laws of physics. You’ve looked fate in the eye and said ‘I’ll handle the shipping.’"

She slipped away before the second-hand embarrassment could actually kill her, already planning how to casually mention this at Ace's next performance review.

Chapter Text

Something was off about Marco.

Not in the way a man might notice a loose floorboard or a flickering lantern—no, this was the kind of off that settled in the air like the quiet before a storm. Subtle. Unsettling.

Newgate had known his son long enough to recognize the signs.

It hit Newgate.

Marco was finally, truly, gone for someone.

But Edward Newgate wasn’t the type to meddle in his sons’ love lives. He’d seen enough romance dramas unfold across the deck of the Moby Dick to know when to sit back and let the fireworks explode in their own time. He’d watched flings fizzle, slow burns simmer, and more than one bold confession crash and burn like a poorly timed cannonball. He offered hugs, sake and the occasional axe if someone got their heart broken.

But this time, something was… different.

Two weeks ago, Marco returned from one of his solo trips with an odd spark in his eyes. He’d recounted, with unusual enthusiasm, the tale of a young Marine Lieutenant Commander who had mistaken him for a fisherman of all things and asked for a ride to another island.

Then, it started with a bicycle.

A bicycle.

Marco. Bought a bicycle.

At first, Newgate thought it was a prank. Some crew-wide inside joke, like the time Vista told everyone they were switching to tofu because it “improved sword discipline.” But no. Marco had wheeled the thing on board himself, cool as you please, and parked it next to the galley like it was part of the ship now. It even had a basket.

When asked, Marco just said, “It’s for an investment,” in that vague way he used when he was absolutely hiding something.

The crew, naturally, exploded with theories.

“He’s opening a courier service,” Thatch insisted.

“He’s becoming a personal trainer for leg day,” Vista added.

“I think it’s a metaphor,” said Izou, sipping tea, as if that cleared anything up.

Newgate had stayed quiet. Watching. Observing. Because Marco wasn’t just wheeling around a bicycle. He was also, suddenly, very busy. Not in a bad way. Just… curiously efficient.

He finished his paperwork earlier than usual. He cleaned his room. He replaced his coat buttons, polished his boots and always looked like he was getting ready to go somewhere.

And every day, just before sunrise, he left.

He came back before nightfall. Never late. Never dishevelled. Just quietly content.

Too quietly.

Eventually, Newgate called him in.

Marco arrived in his usual manner - calm, composed, eyebrows already raised in suspicion because he knew his old man didn’t call people in for no reason.

“You wanted to see me, Pops?”

Newgate nodded, motioning for him to sit on one of the massive crates doubling as chairs in his cabin. “Sit down, son. We need to talk about… the bicycle.”

Marco blinked. “I see.”

“That’s not a normal thing for you to buy.”

Marco folded his arms. “And?”

Newgate raised a hand. “I’m not judging. I’ve seen men fall in love and start gardening. That was fine. Some of them even grew radishes. Good ones.”

“…Yoi?”

“My point is,” Newgate said, powering through, “I’m not saying the bicycle is bad. But I am saying it feels like something happened. Something involving you… and a young Marine Lieutenant Commander.”

Marco paused.

Then he gave the tiniest smile. Not smug. Not defensive. Just… quietly amused.

“I see the crew’s been talking.”

“They didn’t have to. You glow every time his name comes up. You think I don’t notice that?” Newgate narrowed his eyes. “Portgas D. Ace.”

There was a long pause.

Marco let out a slow breath. “I’ve been… seeing him. Not like that—not officially. But I’ve been giving him rides. On the bicycle.”

“You ride into a Marine base?”

“No, no,” Marco said quickly. “I stop at the dormitory gate. He meets me there. Nobody thinks I’m a pirate, yoi. They think I’m a local fisherman. One of the guards even called me a 'dependable boyfriend.' I think it’s the flannel shirt.”

Newgate stared. “You wore a flannel shirt?”

“It helps sell the look, yoi.”

Newgate rubbed his temples. “Son. I love you. And I believe in you. But you are literally one of the most recognizable pirates on the Grand Line.”

“Apparently not when I’m wearing beige.”

Newgate let out a slow rumble of disbelief. “And this boy. This… Marine.”

Marco looked down for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. "He's got this fire, even when he's trying to pretend he doesn't care. He's surprisingly kind, in the quietest ways. And he's the only one who can make a simple bike ride feel like the most important part of my day, yoi."

Newgate was quiet for a beat. Then he leaned back with a sigh, a small smile forming under his moustache. “You really like him.”

Marco shrugged. “I don’t know what it is, Pops. But… he feels important. Even if it’s nothing. Even if it ends tomorrow. I want to be there while it lasts, yoi.”

The ship rocked slightly, waves lapping gently against the hull, and Newgate looked out one of the small round windows. For all his gruffness, his old bones had a soft spot for things like this. For first crushes and shy confessions and bicycles bought for love.

“Well,” he said finally, “I don’t trust the Marines. But I trust you. And if you’re risking your neck for someone… I’ll keep the ship close.”

Marco stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “Thanks, Pops.”

“But next time you go to his dormitory, at least take a disguise better than flannel. Put on a hat. Or a fake moustache.”

Marco smirked. “Noted, yoi.”

As Marco left the cabin, Newgate glanced again at the photo Thatch had slipped into his logbook.

Portgas D. Ace.

Something about that smile… That face…

It would come to him eventually. The sea always revealed its secrets.

But for now?

Let the boy ride his bicycle.

Chapter Text

The world had rules.

Marines didn't fraternize with pirates. They certainly didn't let them tuck hair behind their ears with calloused fingers that had sunk battleships. Didn't memorize the way their laughter sounded at dusk, warm and quiet like sunlight through old glass.

Of course Malia, Smoker and Bogard talked about it.

Ace and the pirate.

They’d seen the signs from the beginning.

It was ridiculous. It was cinematic. It was cute.

So they teased. They poked. They prodded. They watched Ace squirm, because they loved him, and watching him squirm was its own reward.

Ace was hers—her friend, her brother in arms, the idiot who'd once fought three lieutenants over someone insulting her hair. Marco was... something else. A man who traded his commander's coat for a fisherman's shirt. A man who finished pillaging by dawn just to make time for bike rides.

Malia had seen the way they looked at each other.

Ace with that stubborn, bewildered fondness, Marco with a quiet intensity that bordered on devotion. It was like watching two stars orbiting each other, caught in a pull neither could resist. A slow burn. A love story written in secret footnotes and intercepted glances.

What if that was real? What happened then?

Would Ace have to choose? Would his oath demand he pick between his love for Marco and the duty he swore to uphold? Would simply loving Marco be seen as a betrayal of everything he stood for?

Malia wrestled with these thoughts.

Because no one dared to say it out loud. But she felt it—that gut-wrenching clash between duty and heart.

"Duty means doing the things your heart may well regret," Malia's mentor had told her. Therefore, Malia was a Marine. Loyal, by the book (mostly), strong and feared. She upheld order. She protected what mattered.

But she also believed in love.

Ace.

God, that boy.

He arrived like a burst of wild firecrackers on a quiet street—loud, impossible to anticipate and utterly captivating. He saluted wrong for weeks. He handed out nicknames like candy, set his reports on fire (accidentally), and threw his arms around people who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else, somehow leaving them just a little less stiff than before. But he cared. Fiercely. Without shame.

What if regret didn’t have to be the price of justice?

What if loyalty could mean choosing people, not just rules?

What if being a good Marine didn’t have to mean being heartless?

Sometimes, justice was a boy with a lost name, learning to be good in a world that told him he wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes, it was a pirate showing up at the front gate because no one told him love had rules. Sometimes, it was the Marine who sees all of this and didn't raise an alarm.

And then there was the ongoing, mind-boggling mystery.

How was it humanly possible that no one recognized Marco the Phoenix? Malia had read enough of those terrible romance novels where the female lead wears a moustache and glasses to "disguise" herself as a boy, despite her rather prominent chest almost hitting the male lead in the face, and everyone falls for it.

But Marco? He wore a beige flannel and, like, covered his tattoos. That was it. And suddenly, he was just "the local fisherman with a crush on Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace."

Malia’s internal scream was a mix of "ARE YOU ALL KIDDING ME?!" and "THANK THE GODS FOR YOUR UTTER BLINDNESS!" She wouldn't complain, of course. This was just too good. Besides, she suspected a few weren't truly fooled but were simply enjoying the show, especially Ace's roommates, who she swore were taking bets.

But this wasn't just funny anymore.

It was important. A different kind of loyalty was at stake. Because she looked at Ace—dumb, sweet, stubborn Ace—and thought… Ace deserves to be loved without consequence. And she looked at Marco and thought… Maybe he’s not what the reports say. Maybe he’s more.

She looked at herself in the mirror that morning, black curlers still in, robe askew, a spoon in her cereal and a whole plan already forming, and thought, "Fine. If no one else will protect this story, I will."

So she made the call to Mrs. Winnie. Grabbed Lina by the collar before the poor woman could even finish her shift at the Salty Gull. And wrote it in permanent marker on the inside of her notebook.

Rosé Rovers. No rank. No rules. Just heart.

They weren’t heroes. They weren’t rebels. They were just three women who understood what it meant to watch something fragile grow. To choose kindness without asking permission. To watch over love—not because it was convenient, but because it was right.

There would be consequences. Malia knew that. She’d seen the world turn cold for far less. But if they ever came for Ace, if they ever tried to turn love into a weapon—well.

They wouldn’t be alone.

They’d have tea, cookies, backup plans and matching jackets. And a pirate who waited at the gate like he belonged. And a boy who looked at someone and didn’t care about uniforms, or titles, or what came after.

Malia believed in that.

In a different kind of justice. In a louder kind of love.

Let the world come. She was ready.

They all were.

… …

"Lower, Malia! You're practically waving a flag!"

Lina hissed, shoving Malia's head deeper behind the towering pot of ferns.

Malia squinted through the leaves. Was this really the same potted plant that usually sat innocently in the dormitory hallway? Anyway, it was convenient, a little too green, and definitely bigger than she remembered.

"It's a sign!" Lina whispered fiercely, as if reading Malia’s mind. "This pot was destined to hide us! Pure fate!"

Mrs. Winnie merely adjusted her spectacles. "Quiet, girls. Lina's intel was precise."

And precise it was. Thanks to Lina's uncanny ability to ‘overhear’ conversations from three floors away, they knew the plan - Marco was taking Ace to a cliffside with a beautiful view. But first, they’d stroll through the town, hitting up the morning market.

"Mission parameters?" Malia whispered, trying to make eye contact with Mrs. Winnie through a gap in the foliage.

Mrs. Winnie gave a sly smile. "Watch. Learn. And, if the opportunity arises... gather any potentially embarrassing photographic evidence."

Lina snorted. "And maybe ensure our boy doesn't trip over his own feet from being too flustered. It's written in the stars that they have a perfect first market date, I just know it!"

Malia grinned, nudging Lina. "Or that Marco doesn't accidentally set off any Marine alarms with his sheer pirate aura."

They waited. And then, there they were. Ace, looking entirely too bright for a Friday morning, and Marco, somehow managing to look both casual and utterly out of place.

Malia’s eyes immediately latched onto the height difference – Marco, a good head and a half taller than Ace. Classic romance novel trope, she thought, a thrill running through her. Tall protector and his fiery slightly shorter charge.

Perfection!

Marco would lean down, his face softening as Ace pointed at something, and Ace would look up, a small smile curving his lips. Malia felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest. This was it. This was the good stuff.

Ace, at one point, laughed at something Marco said, and then, oh gods, he did the ear tuck. That tell-tale gesture where he'd reach up, tug at his ear and look away, a shy blush creeping up his neck, but the smile never quite left his face.

"Ugh, it's getting so crowded," Lina mumbled, though her eyes were glued to the scene. Then, her eyes widened. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Holding hands! Holding hands! Holding hands!" she started chanting, a low, frantic hum.

And then, it happened. As they squeezed past a particularly busy stall, Marco's hand subtly reached out, finding Ace's, their fingers lacing together with a natural ease that made Malia's breath hitch.

"Fudge me sideways with a Devil Fruit!" Malia practically whimpered, her voice a strained whisper. "This is everything! The raw, unfiltered, main-pairing-worthy goodness! I’m going to need a medic, my fangirl heart just spontaneously combusted!" Lina just squeezed her arm tighter, equally undone.

"Sweetest Berry of the Four Seas!" Lina practically yelled. "If this doesn't guarantee a happily ever after, I'm marching straight to the registry office and making sure my nephew's middle name is 'Portgas-D-Never-Give-Up-On-Love'!"

Malia flung herself at Lina, wrapping her in a fierce, giddy hug. They bounced together, two bobbleheads of pure excitement, their shared elation radiating from behind the fern.

"Girls," Mrs. Winnie's calm voice cut through, though an amused crinkle appeared around her eyes. "Composure. We are Marines, even in covert operations." Her gaze swept past Ace and Marco, settling on a discreet group near a vibrant flower stall.

Three figures seemed to be observing with an intensity that went beyond casual market-watching. One, with a striking, distinctive topknot and a kimono-like patterned shirt, adjusted a pair of sunglasses. Another, a broad-shouldered man with a prominent moustache that curled at the ends like a finely groomed sword, casually lifted a potted plant, as if inspecting it, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere. A third, with a relaxed, almost lazy posture, seemed to be munching on a pastry, his unmistakable pompadour somewhat flattened under a baseball cap. His gaze was sharp and directed right at Ace and Marco.

Mrs. Winnie’s smile faded.

This mission just got a whole lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

Thatch wasn’t jealous. No, absolutely not.

He was invested.

There was a difference.

When your normally unflappable, perpetually-bored-looking older brother started disappearing every morning with vague excuses and a very suspicious skip in his step, Thatch did what any responsible brother would do. Gather a recon team. A small one. Just him, Vista and Izou. The stealthiest nosy bastards on the Moby Dick.

Marco would vanish before dawn like some sort of blonde bat, always with a vague, half-distracted "Back by sundown, yoi." No details, no elaboration. Just a glint in his eyes that said “I’m definitely not about to do something romantically stupid, please ignore me.”

Which, of course, was a lie.

Everyone on the Moby Dick noticed. You’d have to be blind not to. Or dead. And even the dead would’ve raised an eyebrow. According to his sources (aka, gossip), Marco was ‘escorting’ a Marine lieutenant commander.

And apparently? Hot.

So when Marco came back late one evening, still dazed and faintly smiling like someone who’d just stumbled out of a particularly romantic fever dream, Thatch decided it was time to follow the trail.

That trail led them to an island notorious for housing a major Marine dormitory facility. Not exactly a subtle rendezvous point, but Marco apparently wasn't going for subtle these days.

"Alright, listen up," Thatch whispered, crouched behind a fruit stall with a suspiciously large pineapple display (fate had a sense of humour). "Our target is Marco and his mystery marine. Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace. Objective: Gather intel. Determine threat level. And most importantly—find out why Marco looks like he’s been hit by a Love-Love Beam every time he mentions him."

Izou adjusted his sunglasses, unimpressed. "You do realize if Marco catches us, he will actually murder you."

"That’s why we’re not getting caught," Thatch said, grinning.

Vista stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "And if the marine catches us?"

"That’s why we brought you, Vista. You’re the most respectable-looking one here."

Vista sighed.

And then, there they were.

Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace and Marco.

Thatch blinked and blinked again.

Because...

Holy Mother of Moby Dick.

Thatch was no romantic, but even he had to admit. They looked ridiculous. The kind of ridiculous that made people write poems. The kind that made shopkeepers pause, sigh softly, and lower prices just because young love should never be taxed.

Ace was animated, pointing at things with unfiltered enthusiasm, hair wild, freckles catching the sun. Marco walked beside him like the ocean followed the moon—steadily, quietly pulled along, eyes never straying far from the smaller man at his side.

Somewhere between the herb stand and the flower stall, Marco had reached out, fingers sliding into Ace’s with a smoothness that said this wasn’t the first time. Their hands fit together like puzzle pieces long forgotten but now rediscovered in perfect condition.

"Alright, I’ve seen enough," Izou muttered, turning away. "This is private. They’re disgustingly happy. Let’s leave before I start rooting for wedding bells."

“No argument here,” Vista agreed.

"Absolutely not," Thatch hissed. "We need to see where they’re going next! What if it’s a romantic cliffside confession—?!"

But before he could finish, a new problem emerged.

Three women, one elderly with terrifying spectacles, one with wild curls and a manic grin, and one who looked like she could bench-press a Sea King, were also spying on Marco and Ace.

And then they noticed them.

"YOU!" The spectacled woman pointed accusingly. "Why are you lurking after our Ace and his pirate?!"

The woman with short pink hair cracked her knuckles, a glint in her eyes. "Are you stalkers? Because I will end you."

The woman with black hair pulled into a neat ponytail gasped. "Wait—those are Whitebeard Pirates! That's the Fourth Commander, the elegant one, and the one with the great moustache!"

A beat.

The spectacled woman's and the pink-haired woman's expressions instantly flipped from murderous to delighted. Their faces, just moments ago set in protective fury, now radiated a shared, almost giddy excitement.

"Ohhhh!" The spectacled woman clasped her hands together. "You’re his brothers!"

The pink-haired woman beamed. "You’re here to spy on their date too?! SAME!"

Thatch blinked. "Uh—"

The pink-haired woman practically bounced on the balls of her feet. "Allow me to introduce the A-Team of emotional support! I'm Lina, a civilian troubleshooter, currently dabbling in high-stakes Marine-adjacent ops!" She gestured grandly. "This is Lieutenant Malia, our resident brainiac and romance-trope expert—she's normally way less unhinged, honest. And the undisputed tactical genius, Mrs. Winnie, our head kitchen staff. Together, we are the Rosé Rovers! We were destined to protect this ship, uh, relationship! It's all about fate, you know?"

Thatch stared.

He whipped his head towards Izou, who had subtly adjusted his sunglasses, but not before Thatch caught the sheer, magnificent disbelief widening his eyes. Vista, usually the picture of unflappable calm, simply stared straight ahead, his moustache twitching faintly, as if considering whether reality had just broken.

The silence from the three of them was louder than any cannon fire.

Malia grabbed his arm. "We have to have tea together. Right now. I have so many questions about Marco’s childhood."

… …

Thatch liked them.

The three women, chaotic, nosy, sharp-eyed and unapologetically meddlesome, fit in alarmingly well. Lina, with her cheerful energy and the way she poked questions like a curious baby sea otter; Malia, who talked like she’d downed six espressos and felt every grain of sugar; and Mrs. Winnie, cool and composed like a Marine strategist with a secret past in theatre.

They were funny. Bold. Protective.

And watching them bubble and chatter about Marco and “their Ace” only made the warmth in his chest grow. They cared about Ace. That alone earned them Thatch’s approval.

He sipped his tea, lemon, with just enough honey to remind him of home, and let the sound of the café’s lazy morning fill in the gaps of conversation.

Marco was happy.

That was what mattered.

Thatch had watched his brother walk a hard road for years. Always steady, always strong, always the first to offer a hand—but rarely the one to reach for something of his own.

And now, here he was, walking beside someone who made him light. That’s what it looked like. Like Marco wasn’t just with Ace—he was orbiting him.

It made Thatch’s chest warm.

Still… something tugged at him. A thread he couldn’t quite unravel.

Ace.

There was something about him.

It wasn’t just the freckles, or the way his hair flopped perfectly despite gravity, weather, and whatever chaos he’d clearly woken up into that morning. It wasn’t the grin, either—that easy, wild grin that always made Thatch feel like they were seconds away from a prank.

It was familiarity.

Not in the "I’ve seen you around" way, but in the "I know you from somewhere I can’t place" way. Maybe it was the freckles. Maybe it was the way his grin tilted, sharp and warm at the same time. Thatch had stared at Ace’s Marine poster a few times (purely for reconnaissance purposes, obviously), but this felt… deeper.

Had he met someone like him before? A brother? A cousin? A—

His thoughts cut off as they passed a bounty board.

Gol D. Roger.

Frozen in ink and paper, that same sharp grin, those same damn grey eyes—

Thatch’s breath hitched.

No.

No way.

But the resemblance was uncanny. The shape of the eyes, the curve of the jaw—if Roger had been younger, brighter, happier—

"Hey, Thatch, you good?" Lina nudged him, frowning.

Thatch blinked, forcing a grin. "Yeah, yeah. Just thought I saw someone I knew."

But his mind was racing.

Ace.

Gol D. Ace.

…Was that even possible?

(And if it was—what did that mean?)

… …

“WAIT.”

Everyone jumped.

“WAIT. WAITWAITWAITWAIT.” Lina stood so fast her chair clattered to the ground behind her. She pointed across the square with the ferocity of someone uncovering a government-level scandal.

They all followed her trembling finger.

The bounty board. Gol D. Roger’s wanted poster, slightly sun-bleached, but still plastered front and centre like it had been for the last twenty years.

Lina sprinted.

Thatch blinked as Lina physically ripped the poster off the board, holding it aloft like a pirate queen claiming her treasure. She power-walked back, out of breath and wild-eyed, flopping the paper dramatically across their table.

“Do you see it?! LOOK AT HIS FACE. LOOK. AT. HIS. FACE.”

Malia leaned in, curious. Then froze. “Oh my god.”

Mrs. Winnie peered over her glasses. Her brow furrowed.

“It’s Ace.” Lina hissed, eyes wide. “It’s Pirate Daddy Ace. In an older font.”

“I’ve walked past this poster every day for the last three years,” Malia said faintly. “It’s on the front board at base. It’s in the mess hall. It’s in the elevator on every floor.”

“I’ve eaten sandwiches under this man’s face,” Lina said, near breathless. “And somehow I’ve never noticed? Never??”

“Same eyes,” Vista murmured, arms crossed as he tilted his head at the image. “Same cheekbones, even.”

“And that chin,” Izou added, sipping calmly from his tea.

“Still,” Thatch said, though his eyes didn’t leave the poster, “there are other explanations. Right? A cousin. A nephew.”

Lina looked like she might explode. “Or. OR. Hear me out. Secret love child.”

Everyone groaned.

“No, really!” Lina slapped both hands on the table. “It’s the only explanation that makes narrative sense! What if Roger didn’t know? Maybe the mom kept it secret! Maybe Ace was sent away for his safety and something went wrong! Then boom! House fire, memory loss, dramatic adoption—destiny!”

It had been just moments ago when Malia shared the unsettling truth with the Whitebeard commanders. Ace's past—no memories, a mystery island, and Garp of all people adopting him. Thatch had felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He’d seen Izou's eyes widen and Vista's steady hand twitch as if reaching for a sword not there.

This was more than just Marco being smitten. This was a whole new level of 'things that could go horribly wrong.' His brother was unknowingly orbiting a ticking time bomb. But despite the mounting dread, a very pirate part of Thatch's brain was screaming, 'This is fascinating! Don't look away!'

And now, Lina wasn't helping his blood pressure.

Izou blinked. “You’ve put too much thought into this.”

“I’ve put exactly enough thought into this,” Lina retorted, scribbling notes on the back of a napkin.

Izou tapped a finger on the table. “Our Pops and Roger... they’ve met more than a few times. Friendly rivals. If anyone might know something, it’s him.”

“And Roger’s still out there,” Vista added. “Last we heard, he was deep in the New World. Said he was chasing something big.”

Thatch’s eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. “Next time we run into Roger’s crew... we’ll ask.”

“Subtly,” Izou warned.

“Discreetly,” Vista agreed.

“Wildly and with dramatic flair,” Lina corrected. No one acknowledged her.

Mrs. Winnie folded her hands. “And we’ll keep digging from the Marine side. I have clearance to the archives. Malia and Lina can start with personnel records.”

“I’ll break into the restricted server if I have to,” Lina muttered, now halfway through sketching a “Roger Family Tree” on a placemat. “My loyalty lies with the truth.”

Malia nodded solemnly. “We owe it to Ace. He deserves to know if he has family. Even if that family might be the legendary Gol D. Roger.”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then Thatch grinned. “I gotta admit,” he said, eyes bright, “this is way more exciting than our last shore leave.”

Vista raised a brow. “Last time was a pie-eating contest that ended in a sword duel.”

“Exactly.”

Izou smirked. “I’m in.”

Malia pushed her tea aside and rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s get to work.”

Lina pumped her fists. “Yes! New mission unlocked! Operation: Paternity Puzzle!”

“I’m begging you,” Vista said, rubbing his temples with a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t ever utter that phrase in public, for the sake of all our reputations.”

“I already designed us a logo!” Lina declared, scribbling it onto the napkin like it was law.

Thatch leaned over. “Is that a moustache on a baby?”

“It’s symbolic,” Lina said proudly.

Izou downed the rest of his drink in one go. "Between the Marine uniforms and that," he gestured to the napkin with distaste, "we're all going to end up in Impel Down for insubordination and bad taste."

Mrs. Winnie gently but firmly placed her empty teacup down. "Nonsense," she stated, her gaze steady as she looked between Izou and the poster. "We are going to get answers."

Chapter Text

The path through the forest was a quiet, dappled tunnel, sunlight filtering through the canopy to paint shifting patterns on the ground. Marco’s world had narrowed to the warm, calloused palm pressed against his own and the animated voice of the man walking beside him.

Ace’s hand was a live wire in his. Marco held it with a steady certainty, his thumb occasionally stroking the back of Ace’s hand. Ace, for his part, swung their joined hands lightly between them as he talked.

"—and then I was promoted to Lieutenant Commander, which mostly means I'm in charge of weather observation. I also do a lot of odd jobs, like running errands for a crazy Vice Admiral and giving tours to visiting dignitaries. It’s not exactly the most exciting duty, but it’s a good way to learn the ropes of the Marine life. It's kind of like I'm a permanent intern, but with a rank and a uniform."

Ace laughed, the sound bright and clear. His cream-coloured sweatshirt was soft under Marco’s fingers where he’d pushed the sleeve up his forearm. The well-worn denim vest, unbuttoned, shifted with his movements, and Marco found his eyes tracing the familiar fade of the fabric, the way it seemed to mould to Ace’s form.

He listened with a soft smile as Ace detailed the inner workings of the Marine dormitory with the fond exasperation of someone talking about family. Marco answered Ace’s questions about life on the Moby, describing the chaos of a pirate festival and the way the sea looked at dawn from the crow’s nest.

“It sounds… free,” Ace said after a moment, his tone thoughtful, but not judgmental.

“It is, yoi,” Marco replied, his voice low. “But it has its own rules. Its own weight.” His thumb traced a circle on Ace’s knuckles. “It’s not so different from your justice, in the end. Just a different path.”

Ace fell silent for a few steps, considering this. The only sounds were the crunch of their boots on the path and the distant call of birds. The air grew cooler, carrying the salty tang of the sea.

Then, the trees thinned, and the world opened up.

They stepped out onto a flat, grassy cliff that overlooked the endless blue. The ocean stretched to the horizon, a vast, shimmering expanse under the afternoon sun. The wind was stronger here, whipping at their clothes and tugging playfully at the hood of Ace’s sweatshirt. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks in a constant, rhythmic roar.

Ace dropped Marco’s hand, but only to take a few steps toward the edge. "I won't say it looks better with you here," he said. "The view's the same. But I'm glad I'm not looking at it alone today."

Marco came to stand next to Ace at the cliff's edge. He gently took Ace's hand once more, his thumb stroking the back of it as he looked out at the sea. "It's a good place to be."

The view was staggering, but the true spectacle was the man beside of him. The sea wind moulded the soft cream fabric of his sweatshirt to his back, outlining the strength of his shoulders, and played with the loose strands of his dark hair. The sun caught the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, making them stand out like tiny constellations. His grey eyes were now still and deep, reflecting the immense blue of the ocean. He was beautiful, a living portrait of fierce, joyful life against the backdrop of eternity.

Marco thought of the absurd luck of their first meeting. A wrong assumption, a simple fishing boat, a conversation that could have ended with a polite refusal. A slight change in the wind, a different current, a moment’s hesitation and this… this would never have existed. 

He had lived for decades, seen wonders and horrors, and had settled into a patient, steady boredom with the world. Then this Marine had blazed into his life and made him feel like Marco was discovering colour for the first time.

Ace turned to him then, and his grin returned, softer now, meant only for Marco. The wind ruffled his hair and the fabric of his vest. “So, are you going to kiss me now or what?"

Marco snorted. "Are you always this impatient, yoi?"

"Only when I'm waiting for something I want," Ace replied, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "And besides, this is just the next step. We've been seeing each other every day for weeks. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

"I was hoping you'd notice," Marco admitted softly. "But a man can dream, can't he?"

Ace let out a soft laugh before closing the small distance between them, wrapping his arms around Marco's neck. Marco's hands instinctively found their home on Ace's waist, pulling him closer. Ace's smile was bright and genuine as he looked up. "I wasn't dreaming, you know."

Marco smiled in return. He leaned down, gently pressing his forehead against Ace's. He could feel the warmth of Ace’s skin, the faint scent of salt and woodsmoke that always seemed to cling to him.

The divisions of the world—Marine, pirate, right, wrong—they were irrelevant against the simple, staggering truth of this connection. Marco saw the same certainty reflected in Ace’s eyes. There were no doubts there. No fears about rank or allegiance. There was only the cliff, the sea and the two of them.

Ace’s grin softened. “You know, my best friend, Malia, is always reading those sappy romance novels. She’d probably say we’re doing this all out of order.”

Marco raised an eyebrow, curious where this was going. “Oh? What’s the proper order, yoi?”

“I don’t know. More pining, I think,” Ace said, his gaze drifting back to the horizon before returning to Marco. “The proper order involves us almost dying a few times, a big misunderstanding, a dramatic rescue and then a kiss. This feels kinda straightforward for a novel.”

“Life rarely follows a plot,” Marco replied. “Sometimes the best things are straightforward.”

“Yeah, but she’d call this a ‘narrative shortcut.’ She’d say the readers need a payoff. That we’ve been dancing around it for weeks.”

“And what do you think?”

"I think the best part of any story is the part where the hero gets what he wants. And I'm pretty sure what I want is a kiss."

Marco couldn’t resist. He leaned back just an inch, a fond, teasing smile on his lips. “Are you really trying to follow a script, yoi?”

“I’m just playing my part as the hero. You’re the one who was supposed to fall for it, weren't you?”

"I suppose you're right, yoi. I fell for it." Chuckling, Marco hooked a finger under Ace’s chin, tilting his face back up. “Forget the novels,” he said. He cradled Ace’s jaw, his touch feather-light. “This is our story. And I think it’s time.”

Ace let out a soft laugh, pulling Marco's head down a bit more with his hands. “Time for what?”

Marco leaned in, closing the space between them until their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. “I’m going to kiss you now, Ace.”

A brilliant, sun-bright grin broke across Ace’s face. “Hell yeah!”

Chapter Text

“Hell yeah!”

It was the only invitation Marco needed. His hands slid from Ace’s waist up the strong line of his back, pulling him flush against him. He leaned down the final inch.

The first brush of his lips against Ace’s was softer than sea foam. It was a question, a test of the fragile reality they were building. Ace’s lips were warm and slightly chapped from the wind, and they yielded under his with a quiet sigh that Marco felt more than heard. One of Marco’s hands came up to cradle the back of Ace’s head, his fingers tangling in the dark, wind-swept hair.

It was Ace who deepened it, his grip on Marco’s neck tightening, pulling him down as if he were afraid Marco might vanish. The kiss shifted from soft exploration to something more desperate. It tasted of salt air and the sweet, unique flavour that was purely Ace.

It was perfect.

And then, it wasn't.

Ace went rigid in his arms. A sharp, choked gasp broke from him against Marco’s mouth. He tore away, stumbling back a step, his eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying blankness.

“Ace?” Marco’s voice was laced with immediate concern. He reached for him, but Ace flinched away, his hands coming up to clutch at his own head.

Marco froze. He didn’t understand. One moment, Ace was melting into him, and the next, he was a statue of pure, unadulterated shock. A low, pained sound escaped Ace’s throat, and then the tears came. Not just a few, but a flood, streaming down his face in silent, relentless tracks. He was shaking, his entire body trembling with a violence that seemed to come from his very soul.

“Marco…?” The name was a ragged, broken thing, torn from a throat tight with tears. “Marco?”

“I’m here, Ace. I’m right here, yoi,” Marco said, his voice low and steady, though confusion and worry churned violently within him. He didn’t understand what was happening, only the acute distress radiating from the man in front of him. He carefully closed the distance again, not grabbing, but offering a steady presence. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Ace squeezed his eyes shut, more tears escaping. He looked completely disoriented, lost in a pain Marco couldn’t see or comprehend. “It… it hurts…” he gasped, though the pain was clearly not from any physical wound Marco could see.

Marco’s medical training snapped into focus, overriding his personal shock. His eyes quickly scanned Ace for any sign of physical injury—a head wound from a fall he hadn’t seen, a seizure’s aftermath—but found nothing.

“I need you to try and breathe with me, Ace. Can you do that? In… and out, yoi.” He demonstrated a slow, deep breath, his own rising and falling chest a guide for Ace to follow.

He kept one hand firmly on Ace’s shoulder while the other came up to gently wipe the tears from his cheeks with his thumb. He watched Ace’s face closely, checking for any sign of recognition or focus.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "You're here with me. Nothing else can touch you here, yoi." He leaned his forehead gently against Ace's and repeated the breathing cycle, hoping the rhythm would pull Ace back from the edge of whatever abyss he was staring into.

After a long moment, when Ace’s breathing had finally begun to even out, though it still hitched with residual sobs, Marco spoke again.

“Let me take you back,” Marco urged gently, his hand moving from Ace’s face to hover near his arm. “You need to rest. We can go to the nurse’s room in your dorm.”

“No!” The word was sharp, desperate. Ace’s eyes flew open, panicked at the suggestion. He shook his head violently. “No. Please. Just… a moment. Just… stay.” He drew in a shuddering breath, visibly trying to pull himself together. “I’m okay. Really. It was just… a lot, all at once. I’m fine now.”

“You are very clearly not fine, yoi,” Marco said, his voice soft, but insistent. He cupped Ace’s cheek, his thumb stroking away a fresh tear. “You’re shaking.”

“I will be,” Ace insisted, leaning into the touch.

Marco nodded, his worry a palpable thing in the air between them. “Okay. We stay.”

But the tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming. Ace leaned into Marco’s touch, his body still wracked with silent, shuddering tremors.

“I’m okay,” Ace whispered. “I’m… I’m really okay.” He didn’t try to explain. He just stepped forward and collapsed against Marco’s chest, burying his face in the fabric of his shirt, his arms wrapping tightly around his waist as if he were the only oasis in a scorched wasteland.

He held on, and Marco could feel the dampness of his tears seeping through his shirt. "I know this is, like, a total cliché moment. It's cheesy, and a little pathetic, and I'm probably going to regret this later, but for now... I'm just happy," he mumbled into Marco’s chest, his voice thick and muffled. “So stupidly happy.”

Marco held him just as tightly, one hand splayed across his back, the other cradling the back of his head. He was deeply concerned, utterly confused, but he offered the only thing he could: a safe harbour. He stayed silent, just holding Ace, trying to pour every ounce of steadiness he possessed into the man shaking in his arms.

After a long while, the tears slowed to a damp patch on Marco’s shirt. Ace finally drew back, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He looked up at Marco, and a slow, real smile spread across his face, breath-taking in its sincerity despite the tear tracks.

He looped his arms around Marco’s neck, pulling himself up slightly. The grin that followed was pure, unadulterated Ace, a sun breaking through the storm.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice still a little hoarse, but filled with warmth. He gently touched the damp spot on Marco’s shirt from his tears. “Guess I had… a lot of lost time to make up for all at once.”

He didn’t let Marco speak.

“I thought my story was over, the last page was written and it was a terrible ending. But it wasn’t. It was just a really, really bad chapter.” He drew back, cradling Marco’s face. “This is the new volume. Our volume. And it’s so much better. You’re so much better. You have no idea.”

Marco was bewildered, trying to piece together the cryptic, heartfelt confession. “Ace, what—

“It’s nothing!” Ace interrupted, shaking his head and offering a wobbly smile. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft, apologetic kisses to Marco’s jaw. “Ignore me. I’m babbling. It’s just… a side effect. Of the migraine. Yeah. A really brutal one. Makes my brain all… timey-wimey.” He nuzzled into Marco’s neck. “I’ll be okay. I just need… a distraction. A really good one.”

He pulled back to look Marco in the eye. “Your kisses are a great distraction. The best medicine, actually. Think you could prescribe me one? Or ten?”

Marco looked down at the man in his arms—a chaotic, beautiful, confusing storm of tears and joy and bizarre metaphors. What in the world have I gotten myself into? The thought was fond, despite his lingering concern.

He sighed, a soft, surrendering sound. “You are going to be the death of me, yoi,” he said, but his hands were gentle as they pulled Ace closer. “But alright. Let’s see about that prescription.” And he leaned down, silencing any more confusing explanations with a long, tender kiss.

Chapter Text

Malia hummed to herself, meticulously polishing her already spotless desk in her room. A giddy, anticipatory energy fizzed in her veins. Any minute now, the door would burst open and Ace would tumble in, a whirlwind of excited gestures and blushing cheeks, ready to spill every last detail of his cliffside date with a certain blonde pirate.

She’d already planned it.

The second he confirmed it was officially, romantically, disgustingly on, she was breaking out the secret stash of sparkling cider she’d been saving and the emergency "Happily Ever After" box she'd stocked with a bottle of glitter, a ring pop and a playlist of every power ballad ever written.

She could already picture it: Ace, flustered and happy, showing her some ridiculously romantic trinket Marco had given him. Maybe even a promise ring. Her mind leaped ahead, sketching out bridesmaid dresses—something elegant, maybe an asymmetrical neckline—and her speech as the Best Woman. She’d have to threaten Marco properly, of course. A Whitebeard Commander or not, he’d have to understand the sacred duty of making Portgas D. Ace happy.

The door creaked open.

Malia spun, a wide grin already on her face. “So? How many times did he—?”

The grin died.

Ace stood in the doorway, but he wasn’t the radiant, blushing man she’d imagined. His eyes were raw, swollen and red-rimmed. Tear tracks had carved clean lines through the dust on his cheeks, and his whole body seemed to sag with exhaustion that went far beyond a long day.

He looked… shattered.

Ice flooded Malia’s veins. Her happy fantasies of weddings and speeches vaporized, replaced by a cold fury.

“That bastard!”

She surged to her feet. Her chair screeched back. “What did he do? I’ll kill him! I don’t care if he’s a Phoenix, I’ll pluck every last feather! I'll report him to Fleet Admiral Sengoku and Vice Admiral Garp for unauthorized fraternization and conduct unbecoming of a pirate! I'll charge him with emotional terrorism and see him on the front page of the Marine papers with a list of his crimes against your heart! I’ll get a giant slingshot and send him straight to Impel Down myself!”

“Malia, no!” Ace’s voice was hoarse, but firm. He held up a hand, stepping fully inside and closing the door. “It’s not… it’s not what you think.”

“It IS what I think, you idiot!” Malia shrieked, her voice shaking with rage. She tore open her closet, kicking a pile of uniform boots aside as she searched for something—anything—to use as a weapon. “I don't care that he's a pirate! I don’t care if he’s on a wanted poster with a billion-berry bounty! I would have put a bounty on my own head and joined his crew just to make sure he was treating you right! But this… you’re here, and he broke you, and THAT is a crime against humanity! I’m calling the girls! We will storm the Grand Line if we have to! MRS. WINNIE! LINA! WE HAVE A PINEAPPLE TO PLUCK!”

Ace lunged forward, trying to grab her by the shoulders.

“Malia, stop! Just listen to me for one second!” His plea was swallowed by the sudden slam of the door as it burst open again. Standing there were Mrs. Winnie, the dorm's head of kitchen staff, with a formidable ladle in hand. Lina was right behind her, brandishing a rolling pin like a club.

“We heard shouting! Do we need to mobilize the Rosé Rovers?” Lina shouted, pointing her rolling pin like a weapon.

“Point us at the problem, Lieutenant Malia!” Mrs. Winnie commanded, gripping her ladle.

“It’s that bastard pirate! Marco! He broke Ace’s heart! He’s probably not even that far! We can still catch him if we hurry!”

Lina's eyes narrowed. "Tell me where to aim, Malia. I've been practicing my fastball."

Mrs. Winnie’s grip tightened on her ladle. "He’ll regret it. A man who makes our Lieutenant Commander Ace cry doesn't deserve a bounty; he deserves a solid paddling from a seasoned Marine cook."

“I saw his brothers on the way back from the market, we can grab one of them as a hostage! That Vista guy, he was huge and easy to spot!” Lina proposed.

“EVERYONE CALM DOWN!” Ace's voice cut through the air like a cannonball, loud and sharp. The sheer force of his command, a rarely-heard Lieutenant Commander Ace voice, made all three women freeze. His face was a mixture of pain and exasperation. “Close the door, all of you. Now. I’m telling you to stand down, and you will sit and you will listen to me.”

The air was thick silence.

The women quietly closed the door. Malia, Lina and Mrs. Winnie each took a seat, their weapons of choice still clutched in their hands. They watched Ace, whose stormy face and trembling shoulders told them he was on the verge of breaking down. He looked so vulnerable, so hurt.

“Don’t you worry, Ace,” Malia began, her voice unusually soft. “Marco is a pirate. It’s their nature to run and leave things in their wake. You deserve so much better.”

“There’s a reason we call them criminals,” Lina chimed in, leaning forward. “They can’t be trusted.”

“You’re a good boy, Lieutenant Commander Ace,” Mrs. Winnie said. “Don’t protect him. Let us handle this.”

Ace squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders shook with a silent, frustrated sob, a sound that made the three women exchange worried glances.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he muttered, shaking his head. “This is what happens when you don't use your words. Everyone just jumps to the worst possible conclusion.” Then, Ace simply extended his left hand. The fluorescent lights of the dorm room caught on a single, shining silver band. A simple, elegant ring sat nestled on his fourth finger.

The Lieutenant Commander managed a watery, shaky smile. “Actually… we’re… we’re dating. It’s official.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, chaos.

Lina whooped, tossing the rolling pin in the air and tackling Ace in a fierce hug. "You absolute idiot! We thought he broke your heart! Why didn't you just say so?"

"I tried!" Ace wheezed, pushing her off. "I was literally trying to tell you, but everyone kept cutting me off!"

Malia, who had been staring at the ring in a state of shock, finally burst into a grin. "Well, you could have just shown us the ring, you dummy! We are still going on a crusade! A celebratory one!"

"I'm not going on a crusade with you!" Ace yelled.

"We're going to celebrate!" Mrs. Winnie declared, her severe expression melting into a warm, knowing smile. "Come on, Miss Lina, help me get the good glasses. I'm sure Lieutenant Commander Ace wouldn't mind a proper toast!" She turned and headed for the door, Lina already chattering a mile a minute about potential wedding planning.

Ace just sighed, but a genuine smile finally broke through his exhaustion. He brought his hand up, turning the simple silver band on his finger, his eyes tracing the line of it. He watched the light catch the metal, a small, private smile playing on his lips, the kind that made his freckles stand out.

Ace wasn't crying anymore; he was just... basking.

He looked up, expecting to see Malia smiling. Instead, he found her watching him with an unnerving, neutral expression.

Malia took a step forward, her voice low and quiet. "So," she began, her eyes unwavering. "What's the other half of the story?"

Ace blinked, his smile faltering. "What?"

"I know what your happy cry looks like," she said, gesturing to his puffy face. "This is not that. There's something else. You've been on a roller coaster of emotion, and not all of it was good. So, tell me, what happened?"

Ace's mouth opened and then closed again. He looked away, his eyes darting to the floor. "Nothing. I'm just… exhausted, is all. It's been a long day."

"Ace," Malia insisted gently. "You know you can tell me anything. I’m not going to yell or go after him. Just… tell me the truth."

Just as Ace was about to speak, the door creaked open again. Mrs. Winnie and Lina stood in the doorway, armed with a tray of glasses and a bottle of sparkling cider, their smiles already on their faces. They paused, however, the celebratory mood evaporating as they took in the tense scene.

Ace’s eyes found hers. “Malia? Can I… talk to you for a moment? Alone?”

Malia nodded mutely. Ace turned to the two women in the doorway, his exhausted smile returning for a brief second. “Sorry, Mrs. Winnie, Lina. We’re just going to go up to the rooftop for a bit. We’ll be back soon.”

He waited for them to step aside, then led Malia out of the room. The celebratory chaos of the past few minutes was left behind as they made their way to the roof, a place where they could have a moment of peace. Malia looked at her best friend. Ace looked so young, and so, so old at the same time.

The rooftop was just as Malia expected—bare and well-kept. A few low lights illuminated a small garden and a simple wooden bench tucked into a corner. They walked over and sat down, huddling together against the growing chill. The view was breath-taking. The endless, dark expanse of the sea was broken only by the shimmering lights of distant ships and the beacon of a lighthouse.

The silence between them broken only by the soft, rhythmic rush of the waves far below.

“My memories,” Ace said. “They’re back. All of them.”

And then he told her. The story spilled out of him in a low, broken monotone. A childhood shadowed by a monstrous legacy. Gol D. Roger. Setting sail to prove his own worth. Finding a family, a real one, with Whitebeard. The betrayal of Teach. The hell of Impel Down. The chaos of Marineford. The searing, final pain of a magma fist through his chest, the sound of his little brother’s scream echoing in his ears as everything went black.

Dying.

Then… waking up.

Empty.

A blank slate found by Garp.

Malia listened, her hand clamped over her mouth, her own tears falling silently. The scale of it was too enormous to comprehend. The trauma was a physical weight in the room. This was a lifetime of pain and a horrific death, all crashing down on him at once.

“Oh, Ace,” she finally breathed. She moved to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shaking shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He leaned into her, a fresh wave of silent tears soaking into her shirt. They sat like that for a long time. Finally, Malia wiped her own eyes. “Okay,” she said, her voice firming. “Okay. This… this changes everything. And nothing.”

Ace looked at her, confused.

“Your past… it’s yours,” she said gently. “But it is the past. You died, Ace. That life is over. This one is yours now. And we need to protect it.”

He sniffled, pulling back slightly. "I... I don't know what to do with it. My head feels like it's a room with two different sets of furniture. The old memories feel so real, so important. My brothers… Luffy… Sabo… but so do these. Everything here. You. Lina. Mrs. Winnie. Marco. The Marines. I've spent all this time building this life, this… this person, and now I just feel like a ghost." He wiped a tear with the back of his hand.

"Then we'll find a way to merge the furniture," she said. "We'll build a room that makes sense for you. One with both sets of memories."

Malia took a deep breath, her mind already racing, slotting pieces into place. “A story that fits the timeline, just in case anyone ever digs too deep.” She paused, thinking. “You are Portgas D. Ace. Your father was Gol D. Roger, a fact the man himself never knew. Your mother… we’ll say she was a woman with a similar name. Portgas, like you. It’s not common, but it’s possible. It explains the name, it explains the resemblance and it severs the direct link to any known history. You were hidden away for your safety, there was an accident, you lost your memories. Garp found you. End of story.”

Ace stared at her. "Is this... is this what you meant before?" he asked. "You said 'this changes everything, and nothing'. You meant that my past is my past, but this life is still mine to live?" He looked down at the ring on his finger, his thumb tracing the smooth metal. "So I can still be a Marine. I can still be with Marco. I can have both?"

"You can have it all," Malia confirmed. "We're not erasing the past; we're just making it fit. You're a man with a future, Ace. You're not going to be defined by a past that died with you."

“You’d do that?” he asked, his voice rough. “Keep this secret?”

“It’s your secret,” Malia said, squeezing his shoulder. “And you’re my best friend. So yes. We’ll box it up, and we’ll put it away. You have a lot to work through. A lot. But you don’t have to do it alone. And you don’t have to let it define you. Not anymore.”

Ace let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his frame finally easing a fraction. He offered her a real, though tired, smile. “Okay.”

… …

Malia kicked the door to her room open.

“We’re home! And we are celebrating!” she announced.

Inside, Mrs. Winnie was setting a truly magnificent spread on the low table—spicy meat skewers, a mountain of roasted potatoes and a decadent chocolate cake that was Ace’s absolute favourite. Lina was already pouring three generous glasses of something strong and fizzy.

“Well?” Lina demanded, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Don’t leave us in suspense! How was the kiss? On a scale of ‘polite peck’ to ‘life-altering event,’ give us the details!”

Ace, who had been pulled into the room by Malia, was still looking a little shell-shocked from his emotional ordeal on the roof, but a genuine, if wobbly, smile touched his lips. “It was… good. Really good.”

“Good?” Malia scoffed, handing him a full glass. “He’s being modest. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. It was a ‘paragraph of metaphors’ level kiss, I’m sure of it.” She clinked her glass against his. “To Ace, no longer single!”

“To Ace!” Lina and Mrs. Winnie cheered in unison.

They drank, and for a moment, it was just four friends in a warm, crowded room, the smell of good food and the sound of easy laughter filling the air. Ace took a long drink, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he looked at the feast.

“Mrs. Winnie, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“Nonsense, dear,” the older woman said, patting his arm affectionately. “Every new romance deserves a proper send-off.”

Malia watched him, her heart full. He was here. He was safe. He was happy. And he knew the truth.

“Speaking of proper send-offs,” Malia said. She lowered her voice dramatically. “You’ll never guess what else we’re celebrating.”

Lina leaned forward, instantly intrigued. “Did Marco also confess his undying love? Propose? Both?”

“Better,” Malia said, her eyes locked on Ace. “Our boy here got his memories back.”

The room went silent. Lina’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Winnie’s hand flew to her chest, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Ace froze, a potato skewer halfway to his mouth.

“He remembers everything,” Malia continued. “You remember our conversation with Marco’s brothers earlier? Our suspicions about Ace’s origin? Well, guys… we were right. Ace is really Gol D. Roger’s secret love child.”

The reactions were immediate. Lina let out a choked squeak, her glass tipping precariously. Mrs. Winnie gasped, “Oh, my dear boy…”

“His mother raised him and didn’t tell Roger,” Malia pressed on, giving Ace a reassuring nod to continue. “But then they had an accident. She died, and Ace was badly injured. That’s when Garp found him.”

“Oh, Ace,” Mrs. Winnie breathed out, her eyes glistening with tears. She moved around the table to pull him into a tight, motherly hug. “You poor, brave thing. I’m so sorry. But we are so, so glad you’re okay. And that you’re here with us now.”

Lina finally found her voice. “That’s… that’s so much. Are you… are you okay?”

Ace, looking slightly overwhelmed by the sudden attention and affection, managed a small, sincere smile from within Mrs. Winnie’s embrace. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Glad to be here too. No need to be sorry,” he added, his voice soft. “My mum… she was very sick anyway. It all happened really fast. I’m just… glad Dad found me. And to have you guys.”

Mrs. Winnie finally released him, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. Lina raised her glass again, her expression fierce. “Well, then. To Ace! And to his amazing mother!”

“To Ace!” they all chorused again.

Then Lina’s eyes went wide again. “Oh. Oh, crap.” She turned to Malia, then to Mrs. Winnie. “What do we do about… you know. Operation: Paternity Puzzle?”

Ace blinked, lowering his glass. “Operation: what now?”

The three women froze.

“Ah,” Malia said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Right. That.”

“We, uh… may have already started investigating your origins,” Lina admitted sheepishly. “With Marco’s brothers.”

Ace’s eyebrows shot up. “You… what?”

“It was before we knew!” Malia rushed to explain. “We just wanted to help you find your family! It all started when Lina had an… epiphany. She saw Gol D. Roger’s wanted poster and nearly had a heart attack because the man looks exactly like you, just with a moustache. She showed us, and we all saw it. The eyes, the jaw, everything.”

Lina nodded vigorously, her earlier excitement returning. “It was undeniable! So I said it—the only thing that made sense. That you had to be his secret love child. A son he never knew he had! We had to know for sure, so we recruited Thatch, Vista and Izou to help us dig from the pirate side while we looked on the Marine side.”

Ace stared at them. Then, to their immense relief, a slow grin spread across his face, followed by a disbelieving chuckle. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You guys are unbelievable.” He looked at each of them. “You started a cross-faction conspiracy to find out who my dad was?”

“In our defence,” Lina said, pointing a finger at him, “it was a really compelling theory. And we even have a logo.”

“So what’s the plan now? Do you tell them to stand down?” Ace asked.

Malia shared a look with Mrs. Winnie and Lina.

“We tell them you got your memories back,” Malia said simply. “That’s the truth. We can say you remember your life before the accident now, and that the case is closed. We don’t have to give them any details you don’t want them to have.”

Ace seemed relieved by this. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s keep it between us.” He bit his lip, a new worry surfacing. “But… what about Dad? Garp. Do I tell him I remember my real parents?”

The three women exchanged a glance.

“That’s a bigger question,” Mrs. Winnie said gently. “There are pros and cons.”

“Pro: he’s your dad. He’d want to know you’re healing,” Lina offered.

“Con: it might be painful for him, or he might worry about how it changes things between you,” Malia countered.

“Ultimately,” Mrs. Winnie said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “That decision is yours and yours alone, dear. We will support you either way.”

“We close the case with the Whitebeards,” Malia affirmed. “And we figure out Garp together, when you’re ready.”

Lina pumped her fist. “Mission accomplished.”

Ace looked around at his friends—his fierce, brilliant and chaotic family—and his smile was brighter than the sun. “Yeah,” he said. “Mission accomplished.”

Chapter Text

The words had been playing on a loop in Garp’s head for two months.

‘Dad… I remember who my parents were.’

It had been a quiet confession, offered over a shared bag of rice crackers on the deck of Garp’s ship. Ace had been fidgeting, uncharacteristically nervous, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

‘My mother raised me alone.’

Garp had just grunted, stuffing another cracker in his mouth to buy time, his heart doing a strange, heavy thump against his ribs. He’d known this day might come, but he’d never truly prepared for it. He’d known. Of course. He’d seen the ghost of his greatest rival in the boy’s fierce grin from the moment he’d found him, broken and bleeding on that godforsaken shore. The doctors had said he wouldn’t make it. Garp had told them to make him make it. He hadn’t known why then, only that the thought of this strange boy dying had felt like a personal, unbearable failure.

‘She told me that my father was Gol D. Roger.’

Ace had looked at him then, his grey eyes wide.

Garp had done the only thing he could. He’d reached out and ruffled Ace’s black hair. ‘So what?’ he’d grunted. ‘That’s got nothin’ to do with the price of tea in the East Blue. You’re my son. That’s the only blood that matters.’ The overwhelming relief on Ace’s face had been worth every complicated emotion churning in Garp’s gut.

He’d adopted Ace within a week of finding him. The boy had just… fit. Called him ‘Dad’ like it was the most natural thing in the world, and something in Garp’s old, battle-weary heart had slot into place. So this is it, he’d thought, a bemused smile on his face. This is the feeling. It was a feeling he’d missed almost entirely with his own biological son, Monkey D. Dragon, who had chosen a path of revolutionary chaos instead of… well, instead of sharing rice crackers.

And now Ace was dating that Phoenix boy, Marco. A pirate.

Garp sighed, running a hand over his face. But the kid was a good one, from a good crew. Whitebeard was a stubborn old fool, but he had honour. As long as Marco didn’t try to sway Ace from his duty—and Ace seemed more dedicated to the Marines than ever—Garp would give them his gruff blessing.

Happiness was a rare enough commodity in this world.

But the other matter… Roger.

A son he never knew. It sounded so… human. So unlike the legendary, infuriating figure who had been the constant thorn in Garp’s side for decades. Where was the man now? Last Garp heard, they were chasing a myth again. Something about a sky island that only appeared under a winter moon. Roger had that look in his eye the last time they’d crossed paths, the one that said he was following a tune only he could hear. His crew would be with him, the loyal fools, sailing into impossible weather on a captain’s whim.

It was December. They usually shared a drink around this time, a clandestine meeting of rivals who respected each other more than they’d ever admit. This year, Garp had a hell of a topic to discuss over sake.

His mind made up, Garp found his ship docking at the modest Marine base where Ace was stationed. He didn’t announce himself, preferring to observe first.

And the sight that greeted him was exactly what he expected.

Ace was sitting on a low wall in a sunny courtyard, surrounded by his little squad. That sharp-eyed girl, Malia, was laughing at something. Bogard, Garp’s own steadfast right hand, was standing nearby, a rare, almost imperceptible softness in his eyes as he watched Ace. The boy had taken to Bogard’s sword training like a natural, and Bogard, though he’d never say it aloud, adored him. Even that spiky-haired, rebellious junior, Smoker, was there, trying and failing to look disinterested.

And Ace… Ace was knitting. A half-finished, lopsided red bonnet was in his hands.

Garp’s chest tightened. The kid was making those stupid hats for everyone. He’d already made one for that ragged stuffed rabbit he carried everywhere, and had proudly presented Garp with a bright red one he was expected to wear in public.

This was what mattered. This peace. This family Ace had built for himself.

“Heh!” Garp boomed, finally making his presence known.

Ace’s head snapped up, a brilliant, surprised smile breaking across his face. “Dad!”

The others jumped to attention, but Garp waved them off. He strode over and clapped Ace on the shoulder, making him wobble. “Still making those ugly things, I see!”

“They’re not ugly! They’re practical!” Ace retorted, but he was still grinning.

Garp nodded to Bogard. “I’m taking a few days of leave. You’re in charge of my duties.”

Bogard simply nodded, understanding passing between them in a single glance. He knew Garp better than anyone. He knew this sudden leave had everything to do with the boy happily knitting a red hat next to them.

Garp looked back at Ace, who was watching him.

"What?" Ace asked.

Garp just grunted. "Your knitting is making me hungry. Figured I'd take a break." He settled onto the low wall beside Ace, his large presence immediately making the group shift to give him space. He pulled a pouch of crackers from his pocket and offered one to his son. Ace accepted it, and they sat there for a moment, just being.

"Is there something you want to tell me, old man?" he asked. "You don't just show up to say hi."

"What's there to tell?" Garp said, feigning innocence. "Can't a man visit his son and make sure he's not wasting his time with… knitting?"

Ace just laughed. "I'm a good Marine, you can't trick me. You have something on your mind."

"I'm here because I'm a doting father!" Garp said loudly, as if he were trying to convince himself. "I haven't seen you in a full twenty-four hours! I've been a wreck without you!"

Ace rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to convince me not to make you wear the knitted hat in public?"

Garp gasped, placing a hand over his heart. "How could you even suggest such a thing! I'm going to wear that hat with pride! It's the most magnificent piece of clothing I have ever owned! It's a work of art!"

Ace just chuckled and went back to his knitting, accepting the answer for what it was.

The silence between them was easy.

Garp looked at Ace's half-finished hat. "You're getting faster."

Ace's fingers worked the needles rhythmically. "Yeah, I've had some downtime between missions. It's been pretty quiet around here. Just the usual patrols and the occasional bounty to track down. Nothing a Lieutenant Commander can't handle."

Garp nodded. "Good. Stay out of trouble." His gaze swept over the small group before looking back at Ace. He watched his son's brow furrow in concentration as he counted a difficult stitch.

Garp rose to his feet, a signal that his visit was coming to an end.

Ace looked up, his movements slowing. "Already leaving, old man?"

Garp gave a loud, hearty laugh. "Duty calls!" He reached out and ruffled Ace's hair. "You take care of yourself, you hear?" he said. He gave a nod to the others. "You too, all of you! Stay out of trouble!"

Bogard gave a simple, silent salute. "Sir."

Malia gave a cheerful wave. "Safe travels, Vice Admiral Garp!" she called.

Smoker, for his part, just gave a quick nod of his head, still chewing on his unlit cigar.

The Vice Admiral took two steps before stopping again.

"Actually, Ace. Walk with me."

… …

Garp looped a heavy, affectionate arm around Ace's shoulders, steering him away from the eavesdropping squad and toward a quieter path along the edge of the courtyard. Ace tucked his knitting under his arm, falling into step easily.

"You know," Garp started. "I see that idiot from time to time. Roger. We usually share a drink. It's December. He'll be looking for one soon." He gave Ace's shoulder a squeeze. "If you wanted... I could tell him. It's your call."

Ace was quiet for a moment, staring at the cobblestones beneath their feet. "Nah," he said finally, looking up at Garp. "Don't tell him. It doesn't matter who he was. He wasn't the one who found me, who brought me home, who taught me how to be a Marine... how to be a son. You're my dad. That's all there is to it.”

Garp’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He let out a loud, emotional sigh. “You damn brat,” he grumbled.

Ace leaned into Garp's side. A small, almost mischievous smile touched his lips. “Let the old man find out for himself. It'd be funnier that way. You can just mess with him a little."

Garp barked out a laugh. "Heh! That's my boy." He pulled Ace a little closer. "You didn't get your tactical mind from him; I'll tell you that much. And you certainly didn't get his lack of common sense. Must've gotten your good looks from your mother, too. And your terrible, terrible knitting."

"It's not terrible!" Ace protested, holding up the red bonnet. "It's even! See?!"

"Looks like a sea urchin caught in a fishing net," Garp retorted fondly. "I said it was a work of art, and I meant it. You've got an eye for… well, for something. This hat is a beautiful, ugly thing. And I’m going to wear it all the time and I’m going to be so proud of it that I’ll fight anyone who says it isn't the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.”

Ace didn't say anything, but a wide, genuine grin spread across his face, lighting up his freckles. He shifted the bag of his knitting supplies to his other shoulder as he leaned into Garp's side."So when are you leaving?" he asked, changing the subject. "And where are you even going to look for him?"

"Soon. And no idea," Garp shrugged. "He's chasing some winter moon sky island nonsense. I'll just sail toward the gossip and the chaos. He's not hard to find if you listen for the trouble."

"Okay," Ace said, nodding. Then he stopped walking, a thought striking him. "Wait. Tonight. Before you go. I have something for you to give them. Well, for Shanks and Buggy. The cabin boys."

Garp raised a bushy eyebrow. "Oh? You're sending presents to pirates now, Marine?"

Ace's blush returned, but he stood his ground. "They're not just pirates. They're... I don't know. If he knew..." He trailed off, the concept too strange to finish. "...They'd be like younger brothers, or something. It's weird. Just come by my room and take them."

Garp's laughter echoed through the courtyard again, full of pure delight. He ruffled Ace's hair fiercely, messing up the black locks. "Fine, fine. I'll be your delivery seagull. But they'd better not be as ugly as mine!"

"They're not bonnets," Ace corrected, finally batting Garp's hand away with a huff. "They're little knitted figures. They're adorable, and you'll see. I’ve been working on them all week. And I'm their biggest fan."

They walked back to the others, Garp's arm still slung around Ace's shoulders. He spent a few more minutes there, sharing a few more jabs and laughs before his expression turned purposeful. With a final nod to Bogard and a rough clap on Ace's back, he turned to leave.

“Oh, and Ace?” Garp called over his shoulder. “Bring that fisherman boyfriend of yours home for dinner soon. I want to make sure his intentions are honourable.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Ace’s face flushed a spectacular shade of red. Malia choked on her own spit, descending into a fit of coughing giggles. Smoker looked vaguely ill. Bogard let out a quiet, long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Garp laughed, a great, rolling thunderclap of sound, and kept walking.

He had a pirate to find.

… …

The sun was warm on the back of Shanks’ neck as he ambled down the dusty main street of the sleepy port town. Beside him, Buggy was practically vibrating with excitement, his nose twitching as he pointed at every other stall.

“Ooh, look! Sparkly rocks!” Buggy hissed, tugging on Shanks’ sleeve.

“They’re just glass, Buggy,” Shanks sighed, though he was smiling. Shore leave was always an adventure with him. Their pockets were full of Berries from their last share, and the world was full of cheap, shiny things to buy.

“I don’t care, they’re blue,” Buggy declared, already veering toward the stall. “I could use them in my new cannonball juggling act!”

Shanks was about to suggest that adding glitter to explosives was probably a bad idea when a shadow fell over them. A very large, very familiar shadow. Then, a massive hand closed around the scruff of each of their shirts, and suddenly the ground vanished from under their feet. They dangled in the air like a pair of scandalized kittens.

“Well, well,” a voice boomed, shaking them slightly. “If it isn’t Roger’s two smallest nuisances. The vermin that scurry around his boots.”

Shanks and Buggy twisted in the iron grip, coming face-to-face with the grinning, terrifying visage of Marine Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.

“HEY! Let us go, you old fossil!” Buggy shrieked, kicking his legs wildly.

“Yeah! Put us down!” Shanks yelled, trying to sound braver than he felt. His heart was hammering against his ribs. “The Captain’ll hear about this! He’ll punch your lights out!”

“Your face is a footstool!” Buggy added.

A few of their crewmates, who had been browsing a few stalls down, turned at the commotion. One of the veterans, Gaban, dropped his bag of fruit. “Garp! What in the seven seas are you doing? Put our cabin boys down!”

Garp just laughed. “I will! When they tell me where their mangy, good-for-nothing, sea-king-bait of a captain is hiding!”

“We’ll never talk!” Shanks yelled, though it was hard to look defiant while swinging gently in the breeze.

“Yeah! We’d rather die!” Buggy squeaked, immediately contradicting himself by adding, “Please don’t kill us!”

Just then, Silvers Rayleigh appeared from a side alley, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He took in the scene with a look of profound exhaustion. “Garp. Must you manhandle the children?”

“They started it,” Garp said cheerfully, giving them another little shake.

Rayleigh sighed. “Just come on. He’s at the usual place. And for the love of all that is holy, stop terrorizing the deckhands.”

Garp, still holding a squirming Shanks and Buggy, followed Rayleigh to a dim, noisy tavern near the docks. The place went quiet for a second as the massive Marine ducked through the doorway, then the chatter resumed when they saw Rayleigh with him.

In the corner, holding court with a tankard of ale, was Gol D. Roger. He looked up, a wide grin splitting his face. “Garp! Here to buy me a drink?”

Garp finally unceremoniously dumped Shanks and Buggy into two empty chairs. They landed in a heap, scrambling to sit up straight and look dignified, which was impossible given the circumstances.

“Nope. Here to give these two something,” Garp grunted. He rummaged in a pocket and pulled out two… things. They were crocheted dolls. One had red yarn for hair and a lopsided smile. The other had a blue yarn nose and one eye significantly higher than the other. He shoved them into the boys’ hands.

“My kid made ‘em,” Garp said, a note of bizarre pride in his voice. “Said to give ‘em to Roger’s ‘annoying little red and blue barnacles’ if I saw you. He thought you could use a little morale boost. Wanted you to have these so you don’t forget your number one fan. Now try not to cry, it’s embarrassing.”

Shanks and Buggy stared at the misshapen dolls. They were the ugliest, most wonderful things they had ever seen. A gift? From Garp’s son?

“I… thanks?” Shanks said, utterly bewildered.

Buggy was holding it carefully in both hands, staring at the red yarn nose.

Around them, the crew erupted into coos and teasing laughter.

“Aww, the cabin boys have an admirer!”

“Look at ‘em! They’re all flustered!”

“Sign an autograph for your fan, kids!”

Shanks, now blushing furiously, hugged the doll to his chest as if to protect it from the good-natured ribbing. Buggy, however, puffed out his chest, holding his doll up for everyone to see.

Garp ignored them and pointed a thick finger at Roger. “You. Me. A drink. Alone. Your flea-circus crew can stay here.”

The Roger Pirates erupted in mock offense.

“Flea-circus!”

“Who you callin’ a flea, you overgrown—”

Roger just laughed and waved them off, standing up and clapping Garp on the shoulder. “You heard the man! Private party! Shanks, Buggy, guard the door. Don’t let any of these clowns eavesdrop.”

There was no door. The two men just moved to a quieter table in the back. Shanks and Buggy, clutching their new dolls, slid off their chairs and pretended to be very interested in a game of dice, inching close enough to hear. They heard the usual stuff at first. Boasting about fights, complaining about the World Government, the dumb things their crews had done recently.

Then Garp’s voice got a little lower, a little more serious.

“Hey, Roger. Weird question. You ever… you know. Knock a woman up?”

The entire main table of pirates, who were very obviously eavesdropping, collectively spat out their drinks. There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a roaring wave of laughter.

“WHAT?!” Crocus choked out, wiping ale from his beard.

"GARP, YOU DOG!" someone yelled.

“Is that why you’re here, Garp? For dating advice?” someone else howled.

Roger just smirked, leaning back. "Why? You need pointers? It's not that hard, I can draw you a diagram."

The laughter died down as they realized Garp wasn't laughing along. He was just watching Roger, his expression unreadably serious. The air grew thick. Shanks saw Rayleigh's posture shift almost imperceptibly, ready for anything.

Then Garp snorted, and the tension broke.

"Nah! Just confirming you're as much of a reprobate as I always thought!"

The crew erupted again. Shanks and Buggy exchanged a wide-eyed glance.

Adults are so weird.

Garp took a long swig of his drink. “But seriously. Hypothetically. If you did. And she had the kid. Raised him all on her own, never said a word to you. Then she passed on, and the kid was left with nothing… what would you do?”

Roger leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin. He looked thoughtful. “Huh. A kid, huh? Well… I’d want to know, I suppose. Even if it was too late. I’d be sorry I missed it. Sorry I wasn’t there for them.” He grinned, a bit sadly. “Guess I’d hope they turned out okay. That they were strong.”

Garp was quiet for a minute, just nodding. He finished his drink and stood up. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He turned to leave, then paused, as if remembering one last thing. “Hey, Roger. That woman you were always mooning over. Does she ever have any family? A sister? A cousin?”

Roger blinked, surprised by the non-sequitur. "Rouge? What's she got to do with—? I think she mentioned a cousin once. Somewhere in the South Blue. Never met her. Why?"

Garp just nodded again, a look of finality on his face. “Oh. That makes sense. Okay. Thanks for the drink.”

And with that, the Marine Vice Admiral strode out of the bar. He paused only to ruffle Shanks’ and Buggy’s hair with enough force to make their teeth rattle, and then he was gone, leaving a tavern full of deeply confused pirates in his wake.

Shanks looked down at the crooked doll in his hands, then at Buggy, who looked just as lost.

“What was that about?” Buggy asked.

Shanks just shook his head, clutching the doll a little tighter. “I have no idea.”

… …

The evening sun bled orange through the window of Malia’s dorm room, casting long shadows across the floor. A soft, twangy country song crackled from an old radio on the bedside table.

Ace was sprawled on the floor, a bright green face mask drying on his skin and two cucumber slices perched precariously over his eyes. Malia was stretched out on her bed, engrossed in a thick paperback with a swooning couple on the cover.

For a long time, the only sounds were the music, the turning page and the distant shouts of cadets on the evening drill grounds.

“He visited me today,” Ace said, his voice muffled slightly by the mask and cucumbers.

Malia didn’t look up from her book. “Marco? Obviously. You have that post-kiss glow. It’s obnoxious. I swear, the two of you are going to spontaneously combust into a cloud of heart-eyes one of these days. Have some consideration for the single, lonely hearts in this dorm.”

“I'll try,” Ace said, a dreamy sigh in his voice that made Malia want to throw her book at him.

She looked up, her expression a mix of weary exasperation and fondness. "I'm literally your number one fan, Ace, but I can't keep living through your corny love story. I need a break. Please, for the love of all that is sane, tell me what you actually talked about besides how much you adore each other for two hours.”

“Probably,” Ace said, a small, secret smile playing on his lips under the mask. “And it was only an hour and a half.” He paused, the smile widening. “But I finally set a date. For taking him to meet Dad.” He shifted, one cucumber slide threatening to tumble into his hair. “Next week.”

"Wow," Malia said. "Please tell me you’re going to prepare him for this."

Ace chuckled. "For what? For Dad to give him a hug? He'll be fine."

Malia let out a long-suffering sigh, a slight smile on her face, and picked up her book again.

The room fell into a quiet calm.

He shifted, one cucumber slide threatening to tumble into his hair. He cleared his throat. "I was just thinking... with my new memories... the old ones are still there, you know? In the other life, Garp… he took me with him. After my mother died. He left me with these mountain bandits. He was my grandpa. Grumpy, absent, but… mine.”

Malia set her book down, giving him her full attention. “And now he’s ‘Dad.’ Does that feel strange?”

Ace was quiet for a moment. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I keep thinking it should feel strange. I try to make it feel strange, to pick at it. But it doesn’t. It just feels… like breathing, which just makes me question it more.”

Malia hummed, a thoughtful sound. She sat up, crossing her legs. “Okay. Hypothetical. What if… all of this… your old life, your new life… what if it was a story?”

Ace lifted a cucumber slice to peer at her with one grey eye. “What?”

“What if it was a huge, famous story? Created by some… I dunno, some genius, joy-loving storyteller. And in that story, your infamous, rubbery, meat-obsessed brother Luffy—who, by the way, sounds like the main character of literally any shonen anime and manga ever—was the star.”

Ace let out a snort, the face mask cracking slightly around his mouth. “He would be. He’s got that kind of vibe.”

“So, if Luffy is the main character in this epic tale we’re hypothetically in, then of course there would be alternate versions. Spinoffs. Alternate Universes. People would write endless stories about him. What if he was a marine? What if he was a baker? What if he was reborn as Garp’s actual second son?”

Ace stared at her.

“So,” Malia concluded with a shrug, picking her book back up. “In the grand, chaotic scheme of infinite possibilities dreamed up by fans of a story that doesn’t exist… is it really so weird that in this version, Portgas D. Ace gets to have Garp as his dad?”

Ace thought of Luffy. His ridiculous, wonderful, impossible brother who believed in dreams harder than anyone. The image of Luffy as the star of some crazy popular story was so perfectly, hilariously right that it made his chest ache.

A slow, real smile spread across his face, cracking the green mask even more. He started to laugh. “Yeah,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye before it could ruin the mask. “If that knucklehead is the main character, then someone out there must have thought I deserved a better ending.” He looked at his hands, the hands that were now free of ash and chains. “This is one hell of a fix-it fic.”

Chapter Text

The sun was a dull bronze coin behind a veil of sea haze, a typical morning for an island perched on the edge of the world. Soromi Island was a sentinel at the threshold where the water held its breath before the plunge. Portgas D. Rouge appreciated the limbo. It was far enough from the core Marine powers to avoid scrutiny, yet close enough to the action to hear its distant rumble. Just her, the winding coastal path and the three groaning sacks of trouble she was dragging towards the local Marine outpost.

Bounty hunting was a lonely job with small rewards. Soon, Beri would be holding her bag of loot. She looked forward to a hot meal and a quiet room at the inn by the port. It was a simple, honest life and it allowed her thoughts to wander to things less… simple.

Like a certain infuriatingly charismatic, sea-obsessed man.

Three years.

It had been three years since that wild night at Loguetown. He’d been full of reckless energy, defending a bartender’s honour over a spilled drink, and somehow, she’d been caught in his storm. She was annoyed at first, then surprised by his charm and finally, curious. They fought side by side like old friends, and afterward, he bought her a drink with a playful smile. Gol D. Roger was a force of nature and lately, she wondered what it would be like to dance in his rain.

He made his affections as clear as a cloudless sky. It was in the way he remembered her favourite rum, the way his boisterous laughter would soften when she spoke, the way he'd postpone his crew's departure for days just on the chance she might show up. For a man who laughed in the face of Admirals, he looked genuinely nervous every time he asked her, once again, to sail with him. He was trying to give her the world, when all she'd ever wanted was a quiet corner of it.

Rouge shook her head, the ghost of his laughter fading. Fantasies were for evenings by the fire, not for afternoons delivering scum to justice.

The Marine base was a modest, efficient-looking compound. The guards eyed her and her trussed-up bounties with professional apathy and waved her through. The bounty office smelled of cheap ink and starch. A young female officer—Ensign Val, according her nameplate—looked up from her paperwork, her expression one of bureaucratic boredom.

It lasted for a second.

Then her eyes locked onto Rouge’s face. The boredom evaporated, replaced by a flicker of shock, then intense, panicked calculation. Her gaze darted from Rouge’s pink-blonde hair to the freckles dusting her cheeks, then back to her eyes. The officer’s spine straightened so fast Rouge heard a faint pop.

“The bounty office is open, isn't it?” Rouge asked.

“Ma’am!” the ensign barked, leaping to her feet as if Admiral Sengoku himself had walked in. “Of course! My apologies! Please, come in!” She practically vaulted over the desk, grabbing a rug from a nearby corner and unrolling it with a flourish in front of Rouge's boots. "Mind your step, ma'am! The floor can be quite dusty."

Rouge blinked. “I’m just here to collect on these three.”

“Immediately! The paperwork will be processed with utmost priority!” Val scurried from behind the desk. “Corporal! The prisoners! Now! And see to it their paperwork is flawless!” She turned back to Rouge. “Please, ma’am, you must be weary. Have a seat. Some tea? We have biscuits.”

Before Rouge could form a refusal, a fine porcelain cup of steaming tea was in her hands. A moment later, a small plate of biscuits appeared on the desk. The service was so unnervingly efficient that Rouge simply nodded her thanks. She took a sip. It was surprisingly excellent tea.

Her eyes fell on the biscuits. Simple, rustic shortbread, but studded with familiar, crimson flecks. She picked one up and took a cautious bite. Fire. Smoky, sweet and intensely, wonderfully familiar. Ghost pepper.

“These are… incredible,” she said, holding the half-eaten biscuit aloft. “Ghost pepper shortbread. Where did you get these?”

Ensign Val looked like she’d just received a medal. "They're a personal recipe of Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace, ma'am. He's quite fond of the heat, though they're a bit much for most of the crew." She paused, then added politely, “I’m so glad you appreciate them, Miss…?”

“Rouge. Portgas D. Rouge,” she said absently. “The Lieutenant Commander… he bakes?”

Ensign Val’s eyes lit up. The name ‘Portgas’ seemed to confirm everything she’d already decided in her head. “Oh, yes! Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace is full of surprises! He’s our youngest officer at that rank, only twenty-two. A prodigy! Trained personally by Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp himself.”

Portgas D. Ace.

The tea cup in Rouge’s hand felt suddenly very heavy.

Portgas. D.

“Is that so?” Rouge managed.

This was all the encouragement Ensign Val needed. She launched into a glowing, admiring monologue. “Oh, yes! He’s incredibly strong and has a great sense of justice. We adore him, and the children in the village practically worship him. He can be a bit hot-tempered and scary when he’s angry, but he has the biggest heart. He’s a bit quirky, of course—he has these bouts of narcolepsy, though they’ve gotten much better. And he’s best friends with Lieutenant Malia, they’re inseparable…”

Rouge listened. She was captivated by the portrait of this young man. Portgas D. Ace. If there were a living male relative carrying the name, he'd be unknown to her, separated by decades or distance. Could he be a distant cousin, a thread she'd lost track of? Or perhaps the son of someone whose line she thought was dead? It was an extraordinary chance, yet here it was.

Another officer arrived with a heavy bag of Beri. Rouge accepted it numbly. Tied to the drawstring was a small, clumsily knitted keychain in the shape of a rabbit. It was lopsided but full of character.

“Ah, that’s from the Lieutenant Commander too,” Ensign Val explained cheerfully. “He’s a bit obsessed with knitting. He decided to donate his little creations as a bonus for successful bounty claimants. To ‘spread a little handmade joy,’ he said.”

A marine who baked ghost pepper biscuits, who knitted animal keychains and who shared her name.

“Is he… here?” Rouge asked, her curiosity overwhelming her.

“Yes! He’s just finished a tour for the local schoolchildren. They’re out on the training grounds doing some exercises. I can show you, if you like?”

Rouge nodded, following the chatty ensign out of the office and across the courtyard. Val continued her commentary, now venturing into more personal territory.

"…and he’s been absolutely radiant lately! It’s all thanks to his boyfriend, you see. He’s a local fisherman—which is a bit odd for a Marine officer, but it’s just the most precious thing! Tall, incredibly handsome and so fiercely loyal. He waits for Lieutenant Commander Portgas by the docks every day on his bicycle, rain or shine. Honestly, the dedication! I'm telling you, Miss Portgas, their love is the stuff of legends on this base!”

They arrived at the edge of the training ground. A group of laughing children was attempting basic calisthenics under the watchful eye of a few marines. Ensign Val pointed.

“There he is.”

The world stopped.

Rouge’s breath caught in her throat.

The young man was crouched down, helping a small boy adjust his stance. He was smiling, saying something that made the child giggle. He turned his head slightly to call an instruction to another marine.

And Rouge saw him. The sharp, straight nose. The strong jaw, currently softened by a grin. The exact shape of his eyes, grey instead of her green, but set in the same configuration. And across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks…

Freckles.

Her hand rose unconsciously to touch the identical pattern on her own face. It was like seeing a ghost. A male, darker-haired reflection of herself.

“Oh, I know it's a lot, ma'am, seeing your family after so long,” Ensign Val said, mistaking Rouge’s stunned paralysis for emotional overwhelm. “But it's a blessing! Vice Admiral Garp found Lieutenant Commander Portgas about five years ago, pulled him right out of the wreckage of a massive wildfire in the South Blue. He woke up a blank slate. He lost everything. No records, no memories, no family to claim him. So, the Vice Admiral took him in, but seeing you here just confirms it—he's not alone anymore!”

Every word was a hammer blow.

South Blue. Five years ago. Fire. No one.

Portgas D. Ace. The clues—the biscuits, the knitting, the name, the freckles, the location—weren’t clues anymore. They were facts, slamming together into a single, earth-shattering truth.

Rouge’s cousin. Her sweet, gentle cousin who lived near Hargeon and who had written to her, just over twenty-two years ago about an unexpected pregnancy. A letter Rouge, young and restless, had meant to answer, but never did. They’d lost touch. She’d heard… nothing. Assumed… everything was fine.

She stared at the young man—Ace—her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The world narrowed to the sight of him, alive and vibrant and here. Then, the bag of Beri felt like a lead weight in her hand. The knitted rabbit was clutched in her white-knuckled fist.

This was her nephew.

Ensign Val suddenly snapped to attention. “I must return to my post! It was an honour to assist you, ma’am!” And with that, she scurried away, leaving Rouge alone with her world-shattering revelation.

Rouge stood frozen for a full three seconds. Then, the professional bounty hunter’s instincts were completely overwritten by a tidal wave of sheer, unadulterated panic. She dove behind the nearest large oak tree, pressing her back against the rough bark.

Okay. Okay. Assess the situation. That’s him. That’s… the boy. My nephew. Probably. Almost definitely. Oh, seas.

She peeled away from the tree trunk just enough to peer out. This wasn’t enough. She needed a closer look. She needed details. She cupped her hands over her eyes, forming binoculars. Then, she watched him. Portgas D. Ace.

He was letting a little girl hang from his arm like a monkey, his laughter booming across the field even as his feet were planted firm. She saw the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Her cousin’s smile. She saw him ruffle the hair of a boy who’d tripped, his expression impossibly kind. Her own father’s kindness. She saw the focused intensity on his face as he explained something to a group of older children, and the way he suddenly, mid-sentence, swayed on his feet before shaking his head with a grin and continuing. The narcolepsy. It was all true.

She had to talk to him.

She slid back behind the tree.

Okay. Do I go? Do I not go? This is insane. I can’t just walk up to a Marine Lieutenant Commander and say ‘hello, I think I’m your long-lost aunt.’

She needed a system. A decision-making protocol. Her eyes scanned the ground and landed on a lone, somewhat bedraggled daisy. Perfect. She plucked it and sat down right there in the dirt, back against the tree, ignoring the absurdity of it all.

“Go talk to him,” she whispered, plucking a petal.

“Don’t go talk to him.” Pluck.

“Go.” Pluck.

“Don’t.” Pluck.

The last petal came away in her fingers. “Don’t.”

“Dammit!” she hissed, glaring at the denuded stem. Disappointment washed over her. It was a sign. She shouldn’t, but since when did Portgas D. Rouge listen to signs? Or botany? So, she ripped the flower’s head clean off the stem, leaving herself with a tiny, yellow-centred “go” button.

“Hah! I knew it! I’m going to talk to him!”

“Going to talk to whom?”

The voice came from directly behind her. Rouge yelped and shot to her feet, spinning around. She’d been so engrossed in her floral arbitration she’d lost all situational awareness.

A young woman stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised over the rim of her glasses. She had a short, practical black ponytail and the crisp uniform of a Marine Lieutenant. Her expression was a fascinating mix of amusement and intense curiosity.

Rouge, her brain-to-mouth filter utterly shattered by adrenaline, replied absently, “Going to talk with that boy who could totally be my nephew I never knew I had—” She stopped. Her brain caught up. Her eyes widened. Oh, hell.

The Lieutenant’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Who are you?”

“Portgas D. Rouge. Swordmaster. Bounty Hunter,” Rouge said, her voice regaining some of its usual steel. “And you?”

“Malia. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Commander Portgas D. Ace’s best friend.” Malia’s gaze was unnervingly sharp. “Now. Start over. What did you mean by that?”

Trapped, and seeing no way out, but the truth, Rouge sighed. “I have a cousin who lived near Hargeon, in the South Blue. We lost touch… over twenty years ago. Last I heard, she was pregnant. And he,” Rouge nodded towards Ace, “was found in the South Blue, after a fire, with no family. He has my freckles. He bakes our family’s favourite ghost pepper biscuits. The math… isn’t hard.”

Malia stared at her. A series of expressions flickered across her face too quickly to identify: shock, disbelief, dawning comprehension and finally, something that looked like sheer, unbridled glee. She muttered something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like, “Oh, this is a lucky situation.”

Rouge had no idea why a potential family reunion would be considered ‘lucky,’ but she was in too deep to question it. “Look, I have no proof. But I’m… I’m really sure. I just… I’d like to talk to him. Alone. Can you… help me?”

Malia’s face broke into a brilliant, slightly terrifying smile. She put a firm hand on Rouge’s shoulder. “Say no more. We can help you.”

Rouge felt a wave of relief. “Thank you. I… thank you. But… we?”

Malia’s smile widened. “We’re the Rosé Rovers. No rank. No rules. Just heart.”

Before Rouge could process what that meant, two more figures seemed to materialize from the shadows behind nearby trees. Another female Marine, her face a roadmap of fine wrinkles and sun-weathered skin, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled severely back into a low knot, and a third girl who looked like she could bench-press a sea king.

In a move so synchronized it had to be practiced, the three women struck a pose. One hand on a hip, the other flung out towards the sky, one leg bent. Rouge half-expected a glittery tiara to appear on Malia’s head. They held the pose for a beat longer than was comfortable before relaxing.

Rouge could only stare, her mouth slightly agape. She had come to collect a bounty. She had found a nephew. And now she was apparently being recruited into a magical girl squad within the Marines.

Her life had officially left the rails entirely. And she found she didn’t hate it.

… …

Malia’s room was neat, organized and smelled faintly of gun oil and citrus. The precise tidiness of the space offered no comfort or connection to the chaos roiling in Rouge's chest. She stood by the window, her arms crossed, trying to look like a composed bounty hunter and not a woman whose entire understanding of reality was about to be put through a blender.

The door opened and Ace stepped inside. Malia gave Rouge a sharp, meaningful nod before closing the door, leaving them alone.

He looked… nervous, but not confused. His gaze locked onto hers. The colour was entirely foreign to the Portgas line, yet the shape was undeniably familiar. Grey. Roger’s colour. the man Malia had just revealed to be Ace's father.

“So,” Rouge started. “Malia said you… knew who I was?” It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all she had.

Ace shook his head, his smile turning a little sad. “Not exactly. But… I guessed who you might be the second I saw you hiding behind that tree.”

Rouge felt her face heat. “You saw that?”

“It was kinda hard to miss.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You look exactly like I always pictured a family member would.”

The easy familiarity with which he spoke, despite never having met her, sent a chill down her spine. It was the look of someone who had been waiting for a missing piece to arrive.

“Ace,” Rouge began, falling back on her prepared script. “I think… I have reason to believe that my cousin in the South Blue… that you might be her son. My nephew.”

Ace was silent for a long moment, just looking at her. The smile faded from his face, replaced by a profound sadness that seemed too old for his young features. He took a shaky breath. “You did have a cousin,” he said softly. “But I’m not her son.”

He looked down at his feet, his shoulders slumping. “I… I don’t know how to say this so it makes sense. It doesn’t make sense. But it’s the truth.” He looked up, and his eyes were glistening. “I died.”

The words hung in the air, nonsensical and terrifying.

“I came from… another time. A future. A really bad one.” His voice cracked. “In that future… you were my mother. Portgas D. Rouge. You held me for just a few hours. You gave me my name. And then… you died.”

Rouge’s breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth.

He kept going, the words now tumbling out in a torrent of pain and memory. “My father was Gol D. Roger. The World Government executed him publicly. They called him the Pirate King because he found a treasure, the One Piece, and it started a Great Pirate Era. A really messy, violent one.” He was crying openly now, tears tracing paths through his freckles. “Gramps—Garp—took me in. In that life, he was my grandpa. I grew up in the East Blue with two other boys. Luffy and Sabo. My sworn brothers. We drank sake and promised we’d be free.”

He told her about becoming a pirate, about seeking a place to belong, about finding it with Whitebeard. He spoke of family and pride, and then his voice broke completely as he spoke of betrayal, of a war, of pride and fury and a catastrophic, stupid mistake that cost so many lives.

“I was so stupid,” he sobbed, wrapping his arms around himself. “So angry. I got people killed. I got… I got myself killed. But I didn’t… I didn’t die for nothing. At the very end… I protected my dumb little brother. I got to do that, at least.”

He finally looked up at her. “And then I woke up. Here. Five years ago. Injured. In the South Blue. And Gramps—Dad—found me. And I got a second chance. A redo.”

Rouge didn’t interrupt. She didn’t question. She just absorbed every word, every painful, impossible detail. And she believed him. Not because it made logical sense, but because when she looked at him—this boy, this man, this son from a future that would never be—her heart knew him. The fierce, terrifying fondness she’d felt in the courtyard wasn’t for a nephew. It was the primal, instant love of a mother seeing her child for the first time.

Her child. Her son.

The best day of her life was also the saddest story she’d ever heard, but he was here. He was alive. And he had a second chance.

“Oh, my boy,” she whispered, her own tears finally falling. She crossed the room and didn’t hesitate. She pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly, cradling his head against her shoulder as he shook with sobs. “My beautiful, brave, stupid boy. You’re here. You’re here now.”

She held him for a long time, letting him cry out twenty-two years of grief and guilt and loneliness. She whispered nonsense, soothing words, her hand rubbing circles on his back. Her son. Her Ace.

When his sobs finally subsided into hiccups, he pulled back, looking embarrassed. He pulled a hand free from the cuff of his loose dark blue long-sleeve shirt to scrub quickly at his tear tracks. His expression made the formidable Lieutenant Commander look exactly like the adorable child he'd never gotten to be. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Rouge said, her voice firm even through her tears. She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the tear tracks. “You listen to me. That past is a tragedy. But it’s not your present. You have your redo. You have Garp as your doting dad. You have your friends. Your stable career. And you have me. You have me now, and I am not going anywhere. I just found you.”

Ace gave her a wobbly, real smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He took a deep, steadying breath. “I… I haven’t told Dad. Garp. The whole truth. He just thinks… he thinks I’m Roger’s secret kid. That Roger knocked up some woman related to you, and that’s why I have the name and the freckles.”

Rouge blinked. Then she let out a loud, undignified snort. “Oh, that is so believable. That is exactly the kind of mess that man would leave behind.” She shook her head in amused disbelief. “That friend of yours, Malia… she’s a genius. And the universe must love this story, because I totally bought it! If I didn’t know… I would have 100% believed Roger got my cousin pregnant and just sailed off without a word.”

Ace laughed, a wet, genuine sound. “Right?”

“I would have hunted Roger down,” Rouge said, her eyes sparkling with sudden, mischievous fury. “I would have stormed onto his ship and slapped him silly for dishonouring my family like that.”

Their laughter filled the room, a release of unbearable tension. Then, they fell into a comfortable silence, just looking at each other, mother and son, separated by time and death and reunited by a miracle. Rouge had taken the single easy chair, and Ace was cross-legged on the floor near her feet.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Rouge’s face. Ace saw it.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he said.

Rouge reached down, her fingers threading lightly through his hair. “Oh, I’m not just thinking about it,” she declared, a slow smile stretching her lips. “I’m thinking about that smack in the head Roger deserves for the life you did have. He may not have left me pregnant yet, but he already signed the death warrant for your future. It's a massive debt.” She cracked her knuckles. “I get to be the furious, wronged cousin who gets to punch him once for every tear you shed in your timeline. It’s a retroactive beating. And I intend to enjoy it.”

Ace’s grin matched hers. “You’d really do it?”

 “Ace,” she said, her voice full of deadly seriousness. “I am going to find that man, and I am going to slap him into next week for knocking up a woman he’s never met and leaving his son fatherless. He’s already guilty of your future pain; all we have to do is invent the specifics for the present. It will be the most deserved, factually incorrect accusation of his life.”

Rouge leaned forward, then her expression turned grim. "And you have every right to punch me next, kid. Don't think for a second I don't know that. Roger's guilty of reckless abandonment, but I'm guilty of necessary abandonment. It still adds up to the same thing for you—growing up alone." Her eyes held his, accepting her failure. "We're both failures. But you’re the one who fixed it. You crossed the years and the seas and dragged me back into your life. I’m just the failure who finally gets to take responsibility."

Ace smiled, a genuine, warm look of acceptance. "Then let's make sure the failures do a better job this time." And for the first time since he’d been given this second chance, Ace felt an old, bitter knot of anger towards the ghost of his father finally begin to loosen. This was better than any revenge he could have ever planned.

His mother was going to slap Gol D. Roger for him. It was perfect.

… …

Ace decided that this was it. This was the peak. The absolute summit of his second chance. He had Garp, a dad who ruffled his hair and threatened to throw him into the sea with a proud glint in his eye. He had a squad that felt like brothers and sisters, especially Malia, who had somehow organized his entire life into a well-oiled machine. He had a purpose that didn’t leave him waking up in a cold sweat.

And now. Now he had a mother.

Rouge had, true to her word, not gone anywhere. She’d taken a room at the portside inn on Whisperwind Isle and had become a permanent fixture on Soromi Island. Malia, the terrifying genius that she was, had effortlessly spun a new cover story: Rouge was, in fact, Ace’s long-lost aunt who had tragically just learned of her cousin’s death and had come to find her nephew. And upon finding him, she’d decided to stay and be the family he never had. She’d even “adopted” him legally to make it official.

The entire base had collectively swooned. It was the most heart-warming story they’d ever heard. Ensign Val had cried. Bogard had offered Rouge a rare, respectful nod. Sometimes Ace wondered if everyone in this timeline was just… softer. Or maybe he’d just been too hardened, before, to see the softness. He didn’t complain. Not even a little.

Which brought him to today. His day off. The sun was warm, the sky was clear and his boyfriend was here.

“I don’t understand why you’re so nervous,” Ace said, gripping the handlebars of the bicycle with intense concentration. “I’m a Marine Lieutenant Commander. I can apprehend criminals, command a squad and knit a mean sweater. How hard can riding a bicycle be?”

Marco, sitting stiffly on the back rack, his arms wrapped tightly around Ace’s waist in a death grip, made a strangled noise. “Those things are not related, yoi! Apprehending criminals does not translate to balance! And for the record, I’ve faced sea kings, Navy Admirals and your father’s iron fist without blinking. This… this is different.”

The bicycle wobbled precariously as Ace turned to look over his shoulder. “Why? It’s just two wheels!”

“Eyes on the road!” Marco yelped, squeezing tighter. “It’s different because on a ship, I’m in control! On the back of this… this death trap, my life is in the hands of a man who falls asleep mid-sentence!”

“I’m getting better at that!” Ace protested, righting their course with a jerky motion that made Marco swear under his breath. “And you’re a big, strong pirate! The Whitebeard Pirates’ First Division Commander! You can fly! You have regenerative blue flames!”

“I can’t regenerate if we slam into a tree and my head pops off like a cork, yoi!”

Ace laughed, the sound bright and carefree. He pedalled harder, enjoying the wind in his hair and the solid, warm presence of Marco pressed against his back, even if that presence was currently vibrating with terror. He weaved a little, just to hear Marco’s indignant gasp.

It was, of course, a mistake.

The front wheel hit a rock, the handlebars jerked violently and with a dual cry of “I TOLD YOU!” and “WHOOP!”, they veered off the path and tumbled into a soft, thankfully grassy ditch. There was a tangle of limbs, a groan from Marco and the sound of the bicycle wheel spinning lazily in the air.

Ace lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky, and started laughing. He laughed until his sides hurt, until tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

Marco sat up, brushing grass and dignity off his clothes. He shot Ace a withering look that was completely undermined by the fondness in his eyes. “You’re a menace.” He stood up, retrieved the bicycle and leaned it carefully against a nearby tree.

He then walked back and stood over Ace, who was still giggling on the ground. Marco shook his head, a small smile finally breaking through his exasperation. He offered a hand. “Come on, you idiot.”

Ace looked at the offered hand, then up at Marco’s face, softened by the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. His laughter subsided into a warm, happy smile. Instead of taking the hand to get up, he grabbed it and yanked, hard.

Marco, caught completely off guard, tumbled down on top of him with an “Oof!” Before he could complain, Ace’s arms were around his neck, pulling him down into a proper embrace.

“See?” Ace murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of Marco’s neck. “Soft landing. Told you it’d be fine.”

Marco sighed. He relaxed into the hold, shifting so his weight wasn’t fully on Ace and he could wrap his own arms around him. “There is no reasoning with you, yoi,” he complained softly into Ace’s hair.

They had settled onto their sides on the low, soft grass, Ace curled securely into Marco's front, his face tucked against Marco's collarbone. They lay like that for a while, comfortable and quiet in their grassy nest. Ace snuggled closer, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“So,” Ace said. “You survived last night.”

Marco’s body gave a slight, reflexive shudder. “Barely, yoi. I’m convinced my Haki has permanently improved just from being in his presence for two hours.”

“Oh, come on,” Ace laughed, tilting his head back to see Marco's face. “It wasn’t that bad. He only threatened you… what, three times?”

“Four,” Marco corrected, his tone dry as bone. “The one about using my phoenix feathers to stuff a new battleship’s pillow was particularly creative.”

“He was on his best behaviour! He was just being… affectionate. In his own Garp-way.”

“His version of affection includes trying to recruit me into the Marines no less than five times,” Marco said, raising an eyebrow. “He offered me my own battleship if I ‘dumped the pirate nonsense and made an honest man’ of myself, yoi.”

Ace snorted. “A Garp-approved future involves a lot of battleships, apparently.”

A wide, slow smile spread across Marco’s face. “He did, however, seem genuinely impressed that I could keep up with his ‘Worthy of My Ace’ punches. I think that’s the highest compliment a man can receive from Monkey D. Garp.”

Ace’s grin was brilliant. “Told you he likes you.”

Marco chuckled. He was quiet for another moment, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Ace’s back. “Speaking of family… mine wants to meet you.”

The words were casual, but they sent a tiny, unexpected jolt through Ace. His mind flashed to another family. To a massive ship, the smell of salt and medicine, the sound of raucous laughter. To a giant of a man with a crescent-shaped moustache, whose proudest title was simply ‘Pops’. A title that wasn’t his anymore. A family that, in this life, didn’t know him. A love that was still there, a ghost in his heart, but had no place in this sunny, peaceful world.

He was quiet for a beat too long.

Marco pulled back slightly, looking down at him with a hint of concern. “Ace? You okay?”

This peace was a choice, but not necessarily a permanent one. Sometimes, the weight of the uniform felt like a cage. Ace remembered the wind in his sails, the lack of rules, the sheer, unadulterated freedom of being a pirate.

He wanted that again, deeply and fiercely.

In his first life, he’d been so desperate to prove he was his own man, to make the world see Ace and not just the ghost of Gol D. Roger. He’d thought the only path was to become a bigger, brighter star in the same sky—to be a king whose fame would eclipse his father’s. He’d craved a family, and Whitebeard had given him one, showing him the difference between a man who collected treasure and a man who collected sons.

Now, he understood that true freedom was about building a life so full of its own light that the shadow simply couldn't reach. He was no longer the boy trying to scream his worth into a storm. He was a man who had found his worth quietly, in the trust of his squad, the love of his boyfriend and the fierce, unwavering presence of Monkey D. Garp and Portgas D. Rouge.

And speaking of Rouge…

The ultimate symbol of his freedom was coming soon. He didn’t have to confront the ghost of his father himself. He didn't have to fight that battle. His mother was going to do it for him. She was going to storm onto the Oro Jackson and slap the living daylights out of Gol D. Roger for the crime of a future that would now never happen. It was the most perfect, absurd and cathartic revenge he could ever imagine.

So, Ace would wait. He would play the part a little longer, using his Marine access to build a private file on mythical Zoan fruits and compile a list of rare medicinal herbs. He was just gathering the tools he'd need to ensure that when he finally hoisted his own flag again, it would be with a clean conscience, a healed heart and a future where he was free not from his father's name, but from caring about it at all.

Ace shoved the memory down, locking it away in the box where he kept all the things from before. He gave Marco his brightest, most convincing smile. “Yeah. ‘Course. Nothing. Just thinking.” He snuggled back into Marco’s arms. “Okay, sure. Tell me when, and we’ll go.”

He focused on the feel of Marco holding him, on the warmth of the sun, on the sound of the leaves rustling overhead. This was his family now. This was his life. And he was perfectly present in it.

He would stay present in it.