Chapter Text
Saturday, May 11, 12:30 PM
Marco leaned back, eyes watering at the ten stories of sunbathed marble. He heard the truck door slam and then Thatch was at his side and looking up as well, one hand scratching at the hairs under his white t-shirt and the other shading his squint, “You sure this is it?”
Marco didn’t bother to reply, knowing his grumbling cook would follow on his heels as he stepped through the revolving glass doors.
Decorative tiles etched out a demure swan beneath his sandals, water-drop patterns of blue and white dancing a dozen feet until they gave way to plush, soft blue carpet dotted with stately couches and chairs in grays and whites and blacks. The gilded front desk was banked on his left, gold edges gleaming where they bracketed gold-veined pearly marble. An artificial waterfall in the back of the room left a soft echo bouncing around the domed ceiling where hidden statuettes and reliefs lent an air of playful mystery to the otherwise austere room.
He sauntered toward the counter, gaze sweeping over the white-liveried attendant, the flat keyboard hinting at a well-concealed monitor, and had to admit the place lived up to its name. He slid his hands over the cool, slick stone and metal, one part of his mind racking up the wealth in the room even as another part simply enjoyed the atmosphere. As his hand came upon it, Marco casually picked up one of the business cards standing in a golden stand and flipped it over—another swan gilded the card. But if Haruta’s intel was right and you tilted it just so… There was also the blush of a flamingo on one leg in hidden outline.
This was the place.
“Good afternoon, sirs. Welcome to the Summer Swan. How can I help you today?”
Thatch leaned a tanned elbow on the counter and sank into it, eyes drifting through the wakes of the echoes flitting through the room. Marco eyed the mix of disgust and avarice on his cook’s face with concealed amusement. The Summer Swan was renowned for more than its atmosphere—reviews cited its delicacies with such high praise any chef would covet the opportunity to steal its secrets. Unfortunately, while Thatch would gladly sell his soul for cooking secrets, he was also known for his hatred of anything remotely civilized. The slight dip in the brunette’s shoulders betrayed his tiny sigh and he tilted his head toward the man behind the desk to smile sweetly, “We’re here to see your boss.”
Not a blink of those dust-colored eyes, not a twitch of straight brows, gaze steady, breath even, “I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to be more specific.” Interesting. Marco supposed even the front desk people would need to know how to control their reactions in a hotel catering to the rich and powerful. Slip-ups could be unforgivably fatal. The dark-haired man turned calmly to his screen, tight brown chestnut curls falling across his forehead as he turned his attention to the monitor tucked under the lip of the high counter, fingers tapping at the keyboard, “Would you be able to provide me with a name?” He glanced back up, expression specifically attentive without being either invasive or guarded, “I have the calendars for most of the staff here.” Dimples appeared with his softened smile, his face losing five years in the process, “If you have a scheduled meeting then I can make sure you get to the right office.”
Marco could admit to being impressed so far. And mildly entertained, wondering just how the employees were picked for their roles in this hotel. He tucked the golden business card back in its holder, a hint of a smile crinkling his eyes, “Donquixote Doflamingo.” He adjusted the collection of cards until they were straight again before smoothing his features back out and glancing up, “We don’t have an appointment.”
The concierge didn’t bother to look at his screen. He removed those well-manicured and bronzed hands from the keyboard and clasped them lightly in front of him, face carefully blank, “My apologies, sirs. Mr. Donquixote is currently unavailable.”
It was funny, everyone in the criminal underworld had certain phrases they used. For instance, for the Whitebeards, if one said ‘we should get a drink’, it really meant ‘we’re setting out to sea’. Each bar in the city referred to a specific island under Whitebeard’s protection. If the name of the bar was left out then it was a trip to one of the other Emperors’ islands and was better left undiscussed. But honestly, with the huge crew they had, the number of codes that could be used efficiently was limited.
Marco breathed in.
Doflamingo, on the other hand, ran a much leaner operation, and his codes were extensive. Haruta kept all of the other commanders briefed on them, just in case. ‘Currently engaged’, for example, meant the man was in the middle of a deal. ‘Occupied’, on the other hand, translated to handling police. ‘Working’ was location-dependent and meant enticing new clients, if not in one of his own businesses, or training new employees if he was. His employees were expected to know all of his codes by heart and were rigorously instructed to use them for their exact meanings and purposes.
So when this young man said Doflamingo was ‘unavailable’, he would know the context of that particular word. He would know it meant that Doflamingo was absolutely not to be disturbed, no matter the circumstances, because the man was personally handling his own black-market work, something he wouldn’t or couldn’t risk delegating.
Which, in Doflamingo’s case, almost always meant killing.
Saturday, May 11, 12:43 PM
Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she let loose a sigh at the third thump echoing down the hallway. If another one of those new drug dealers was here to attempt setting up shop again…
She smiled.
She wasn’t in a very charitable mood today.
She set one of the hotel’s heavy white pens down with deliberate slowness before she stood, gently removing her horn-rimmed glasses and leaving them on the teak desk as well. She smoothed her black leather skirt out, listening to the horrendous crack she could hear through the thick door, and stepped out of her office. Delicious cold was stealing through her veins, spiderwebs of frost shooting out from the pointed heels of her knee-high boots with every step and leaving the high-pile sky blue carpet with little cloud-like wisps of sparkling ice. The Young Master wouldn’t be pleased to come back to find his hotel trashed, but she could at least make ice sculptures of whoever was doing it. He’d show that delectably delighted smile that meant blood and mischief; a highlight to any day.
She opened the door, smile growing, snow already cascading from the ceiling—
—until it was met with fire.
So then. Not the drug dealers she’d been expecting.
Her gaze skimmed over the room, noting with displeasure the couch that had been thrown through the back wall to divert the waterfall into cascading over it and onto the carpet. She flicked a hand at it, not bothering to watch as the water slowly froze over, ice and snow accumulating around it.
No, her eyes were on the man with patches of neon blue flames spotting tan skin, a purple shirt, and gray capri pants. And then they were on the man wearing a t-shirt and jeans standing at the computer behind the front desk and her spine stiffened.
He wiggled his hips, light brown sweatshirt tied at his waist swaying as he squinted at the screen, “I’m not seeing anything yet.” He stared from beneath one raised brow, “You. Fancy professional lackey”—he tapped the screen with the back of his knuckle—“Why isn’t the big boss’s calendar on here? You’d think he’d at least let his emplo—shit! What the hell?” He grabbed the side of the flickering screen and shook it but it didn’t stop the machine from sputtering until it went black.
Snow at just the right temperature, in just the right place… Ice wasn’t the only useful direction she could take it. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the tile just outside the door to the back offices, drawing two pairs of eyes to her before she said, “The First and Fourth Division Commanders of the Whitebeards. Can I help you two with something?”
Marco the Phoenix didn’t loosen the grip he had on poor Mateo’s throat, but he did lower the man so that he could set his toes on the floor. Barely. “We’re here to speak with Doflamingo.”
She relaxed her shoulders and gave them a gentle smile, “I’m afraid he’s unavaila—”
“Tell us where he is,” the Fourth Division Commander growled, stalking closer. She held his simmering gaze, using her peripherals to take stock of the swordsman’s thankfully weaponless state as he stepped close enough to nearly touch noses. His hiss smelled like sugar and buttercream. “What is he doing with Ace?”
She tried not to blink. Ace, Ace… Ah. Only one person she knew of by that name.
Things were beginning to make sense.
She held her ground, shifting her hips to stand more comfortably secure as she raised an unassuming smile to where he was towering over her, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding here.”
The Fourth Division Commander’s eyes narrowed, but it was Marco the Phoenix who drawled, “Then clear it up for us.”
Monet turned her head to consider him over the broad shoulder before her, then raised her eyes back to the swordsman’s, lips curving with a smile, “He’s unreachable.”
And just like that, it was like she’d snapped their strings loose. She watched the Fourth Division Commander make faces at her with that rugged jaw before he finally admitted, “I… Don’t know that one. Marco?”
There was a thump, a rasping breath, and a series of muffled coughs from behind him as the Phoenix strolled over, thumbs hooked in the teal sash at his waist. He stood next to the Fourth Division Commander and Monet didn’t miss that he stood on her only open side, though he was slouched like he didn’t have a care in the world. She also didn’t miss the way the sword-less swordsman leaned against the door frame she’d come through, leaving her a new opening—between the two of them.
Dangerous, these two. Their coordination was so natural.
She was finding herself increasingly grateful for the training she’d received from the Young Master for situations just like this. She caught Mateo’s eyes and let him search hers for a moment. He eventually nodded, rubbing at his throat with a wince before he buttoned his collar and resumed his station behind the counter. It gave the Whitebeard Commanders the time to trade a glance and then the Phoenix slid his lazy regard to her, “I don’t know it either.”
Monet shifted her hips and cocked her head, long mint waves slipping over her shoulder, “I find myself surprised. I thought it was rather basic vocabulary.” She watched the Fourth Division Commander’s growing scowl with a smirk and finally took pity on him, “We can’t reach him.” She flicked her gaze to the Phoenix, “We’re running on the protocol he left behind for when he’s not around.”
The First Division Commander continued stolidly, “What did he say the last time you spoke?”
She gave him a coy smile, “That he may become unreachable and we were to carry on normally until he returned.” She fluttered a hand in concession, seeing the question bubbling up, “He didn’t give us an estimate for how long that would be.”
The two grew quiet, the only sound in the airy room that of Mateo shutting the waterfall off from the control panel tucked underneath the counter.
But if they were done they would’ve left by now.
Snow and cold wouldn’t do, not with the Phoenix here. She doubted very much that it would even affect him. She hadn’t needed to try the other tools in her arsenal before and… Well, no time to practice like the present.
Monet leaned her shoulders back against the door frame behind her, linking her hands in the space behind her hips. The Young Master had always said the body could be a weapon in more ways than one, had demonstrated it himself when training her in those many ways, from combat to clothing. With her shoulder blades pinched this way, it left her chest open, made her look non-threatening, vulnerable—and desirable.
She took a breath, her green chiffon blouse draping to accentuate her flattering curves, pulling the eyes to where it was tucked into the waist of her pencil skirt, “Is there anything more I can help you two with?”
The Phoenix shifted, gaze holding on her face as he eased back on his heels. Then he swung around and ambled toward the door, black sandals squeaking softly, “That’s all, yoi. Thank you for your time.”
She looked at the Fourth Division Commander, watching innocently as he crossed his arms over his cotton t-shirt, squint traveling down and back up again before his scowl deepened and he shadowed his companion out of the building.
Hmm. She pulled herself from the wall and cocked her head. Had she done it wrong? They hadn’t seemed very put off by it… She shrugged and straightened, eyeing the destroyed lobby with quirked lips.
She’d have to ask the Young Master when he returned.
Saturday, May 11, 1:00 PM
“Marco, this can’t be a coincidence. He was planning on being unavailable”—he flailed—“unreachable, whatever. This was no crime of opportunity! If he warned his employees before Ace was arrested, then he’s definitely had this in the works for a while.” Thatch paused, hands hanging in the air, and then he rested his palms carefully on the sun-bleached blue hood of Marco’s truck and said over it, “You don’t think it has something to do with Ace’s, ah…” He shrugged and scratched at his goatee, eyes sliding to look at Marco sidelong, “Secret?”
Ace’s secret. The secret that shouldn’t have to be a secret. Who else knew about it, besides Whitebeard and a handful of trusted commanders? Ace would never say, and for someone so exuberantly loud he was impressively, unyieldingly silent on a number of topics.
Marco returned his attention to the present when Thatch started fidgeting. He cleared his throat as he opened the driver-side door and muttered as he ducked into the vehicle, “Let’s hope not.”
Thatch followed, dropping into the passenger seat and letting the door creak shut, “Well yeah, I hope not too.” He ran his hands over his thighs, calluses rasping over his jeans, fingers curling over his knees, “But what else could it be?”
Marco shook his head, staring blankly out the window. It needed to be something else. He slid his phone from his pocket and hit the number one on speed dial, raising it to his ear on autopilot.
“Hey, Pops, it’s me again… I was going to, but he’s not there… No, they said he was unreachable… Yeah, that would be great…” He leaned back, propping his elbow on the windowsill, “You’re asking me? I’d say River Bank, yoi. Do you think… Yes, that would help smooth our way.” He turned the key in the ignition, Baby Blue rumbling to life, “I’ll call you when we have another update, yoi.”
He hung up and dropped his phone in his pocket, backing out of the space in one smooth move and pulling from the tightly-packed lot.
Thatch was uncharacteristically still, staring out the window as they drove. Marco sensed more than he saw his cook as he pulled his phone out, likely trying to call their wayward brother, his brother, and their enemy’s brother yet again before he let his phone drop into his lap.
So Marco heard past the soothing purr of Baby Blue when Thatch muttered into the glass, “Ace, come on. I’m worried, man.”
Saturday, May 11, 1:52 PM
Thatch stared at the woman. And just kept staring.
Nope. He’d heard wrong. The acoustics did nothing to diminish the optimistic chimes and chatter around them.
“Say that again?”
Her eyes flickered between him and Marco, “Uh, I’m sorry, sirs. The President is unavail—”
Thatch slammed his hand on the counter and the poor girl jumped. He flinched in response and lifted his hand off the counter, eyes shutting briefly as he took a breath and attempted to smile, “Hey, hey. My bad. Look…” He kept his palms up as he leaned closer, nose nearly touching the bars separating them, “We really need to talk to him. Can you get him on the phone, uh…” He scanned her name tag, “Gazala?”
Gazala leaned further back from the counter, the whites of her bronze eyes framed by the golden loops and swirls that helped protect the cage cashiers from violent players. She shook her head, hoops dancing at her earlobes, “I’m sorry, sir, he really can’t be reached—”
Her eyes widened and Thatch caught a flash of blue among the yellows and whites and reds and greens in constant procession from the slot machines. Normally he’d find them pretty, if distracting. Today? Downright irritating. Apparently, Marco thought so too, because his voice drifted over Thatch’s shoulder, that special bored drawl signaling the end of his patience, “I’m going up.”
Thatch twisted to watch him go, his friend’s steps unhurried but certain as he made his way to the sweeping stairs to their right, and whispered, “Uh-oh.” He placed a palm against the felt-topped counter, head hanging as if he was resigned rather than relieved. It wasn’t just him. And it was much, much easier to play the part when he no longer thought he might be overreacting. So he caught Gazala’s eyes and shrugged helplessly, “He’s unpredictable when he gets like this…” His gaze pulled back to the stairs and he shook his head and did his best to sound aggrieved, “Ahhh, you know, I’d better go make sure he doesn’t kill anyone.”
And then he was haring off after Marco, steps bouncing in time with the beeps and boops promising much and delivering little, glancing back once to catch sight of their hapless prey speaking low and urgent over the phone. He was smirking as he trotted up the stairs until he was on Marco’s heels, then he pounded a fist into his open palm, calluses rough against his scarred knuckles “So what’s first? Break some stuff? Steal some things?”
“Oh my, that sounds rather rambunctious.”
Marco slowed to a stop and Thatch peered around his shoulder, giving the woman standing at the top of the stairs the stink eye, immediately distrustful of anyone with a voice that calming. She caught him looking at her and tilted her head with a smile, white cowboy hat turning enough to allow light to drape over her otherwise shadowed features. A move fit for Izou.
Curse it all, he wasn’t supposed to like the enemy.
She held a hand out, “Ms. Sunday. I’m the Vice President.”
Thatch pouted at her hand—even that was pretty! Elegant, smooth. He inspected his own hands. They had charm, right? The cuts and burns gave them character.
Marco outright ignored her outstretched limb, “Where’s your boss, yoi?”
Her lips curved, the skin around her eyes crinkling as she withdrew her hand and crossed her arm over her stomach. She tucked her chin in her other palm, fingers splayed up her cheek beneath the straight sheet of her shiny shoulder-length black hair, “He’ll be on his way shortly. Your father called to request an audience.”
Thatch popped around Marco and leaned toward Ms. Sunday with a squint and a pointed finger, “Good. We’ve had enough with waiting.” He crossed his arms and raised his chin, impersonating Ace’s Fancypants Attitude, “Go ahead and take us to his office.”
Her eyes widened infinitesimally, revealing just a little bit more of the cerulean rings around her large pupils, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend your time on the floor?” She waved her hand at the games downstairs and finished with a hint of dismay, “He won’t be in for a few more hours.”
Thatch scrunched his eyes shut, every muscle in his face following suit, voice raising hopefully, “You did not just say that?” He peeked an eye open to find her pinky finger crossed over her smiling lips, eyes twinkling, and he dragged his hands down his face with a groan, “Ughhh. You did just say that.” He flung his hands in the air and yelled at the ceiling, “What did I do to deserve this?!” Ignoring the now-scrambling lookie-lous around them, he spun and pointed at Marco’s half-open mouth, “Don’t answer that!”
Marco turned his attention back to Ms. Sunday and dutifully asked instead, “What time does he get in?”
She smiled and inclined her head, “His day usually starts at six, but he’s agreed to come in early as a favor to your father.” She waved her hand, coat sleeve a white bar over her low-cut purple blouse, “I suspect he’ll be here around… Four?”
“Four?!”
Thatch held up two fingers and shook them. Emphatically. “That’s two hours away!” When all he received was amused silence he flung his arms out and whined, “What are we supposed to do in that time?”
Ms. Sunday gestured down the stairs again, smile definitely more pronounced, “We would never leave a guest at odds, Fourth Division Commander-san”—Oh, hey, he liked that. Was he allowed to like enemies if they had Izou’s flair and Ace’s politeness? Eh, didn’t matter. He liked her anyway—“If you return to Gazala at the cage you should find chips at your disposal. On the house, naturally.”
Thatch unbent slowly, stroking his goatee and murmuring, “Is that so?” He tapped his foot, eyeing her and then Marco, “Hmm?” He caught the words forming behind Marco’s eyes and spun to trot back down the stairs before he could voice them, slapping him on the back as he passed, “You do the grownup work, Marco! I’ll go be an irresponsible scamp on someone else’s dollar!”
He grinned to himself as Marco’s sigh was drowned out by the adventurous call of dings and jingles.
Saturday, May 11, 4:14 PM
Thatch smacked his arm with the back of his hand, “Marco! Marco, he’s here!” Marco turned from his count of which slot machines were primed for wins to find his cook pointing toward the entrance to the casino, the spot he’d been watching like a hawk since four o’clock rolled around. He caught sight of the dark-haired figure coming in from the sunlight just as Thatch shouted across the room, “Hey, grumpy man with the cigar!”
Marco hid his smile at Crocodile’s expression. The man spared them a glance, then hunched his shoulders and continued striding toward the stairs, fur-collared cloak flaring behind him.
“Here, all yours,” Thatch murmured absently, shoving his chips across the table to the gray-haired woman opposite him. She ogled the heap Thatch had amassed because they’d been given free rein and Ace was the only Whitebeard he’d met who could cheat and swindle better than Thatch. The abruptly wealthy player and the dealer both simply watched as Thatch hurried off after Crocodile, one hand snagging Marco’s sleeve and dragging him along with an annoyed, “Hurry up, Marco! He’s getting away!”
Saturday, May 11, 4:20 PM
Crocodile leaned back in his chair, fingers curling in and out of a fist at the end of the armrest as he stared at the two Whitebeards taking up space in his office. The Phoenix had taken a seat on one of the low-backed crimson sofas like a civilized person, as suited his station as second in command to an Emperor. The Fourth Division Commander, on the other hand, was pacing between the end of the coffee table and the door, from the bank of windows to Crocodile’s left to the bank of windows to Crocodile’s right, hands linked behind his back and fussing with the hood of the brown sweatshirt tied there. When he wasn’t in the middle of one of his spurts of wild gesticulation, that was.
“—and then Sengoku wasn’t there forever and we had to wait again. And then,” he halted, a merciful end to the squealing of his boots on the freshly polished cream tile. But Crocodile’s eyes snapped to the heavy black boot the man then braced on the end of the coffee table. And his eyes remained there as the Whitebeard pointed at him, “We went to see your partner and he wasn’t there either! So tell me, Mr. Fancy Pants: where is Doflamingo? What did he do with Ace?”
Crocodile waited for the commander to remove his foot from the wood before he raised his gaze back to the man’s face, but then the Whitebeard bounced onto the free couch opposite his superior and stretched across it, heels kicked up on the armrest closest to Crocodile. The man tucked his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles, then bent his feet apart to view Crocodile in between his boots, “Well? We know he’s been planning this for a while.” He extracted a hand to make air quotes, “He told his people he’d be ‘unreachable’ before Ace went missing.” He tucked his hand away with a wiggle before jerking his chin, “‘Fess up.”
Crocodile didn’t say a word. His eyes coasted to the First Division Commander as the man waved a hand and said into the muffling acoustics of the room, “Crocodile-san, we really don’t care what he’s doing, yoi, just where he’s doing it.”
Honestly, why did all the roaches come out of the woodwork when Doflamingo wasn’t around? He leaned forward, tapping his cigar against the ashtray. Was it because the blond normally shielded him from it? He placed the roll back between his teeth and breathed it in. Or did the man cause it?
He blew the smoke toward the ceiling and lifted his lip in distaste. It was probably both. As per usual. As Doflamingo was fond of reminding him, ‘why say ‘or’ when it can be ‘and’?’
He sighed and placed his elbows on the desk, linking his fingers around his hook and stroking his thumb over the golden sheath as he grumbled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The two did nothing so obvious as trade looks, but there was a charge in the dust swirling through the sunlight slanting over Crocodile’s shoulders. He slid his thumbnail beneath the edge of the sheath on his hook.
The Fourth Division Commander sat up, one foot on the floor and the other tucked under his bent knee, arm draped along the spine of the couch and white shirt flushed with the first hint of a smoky orange sunset, “Look, we don’t even need to know about his plans.” Imagine that. He sounded sincere. “Give us Ace back and we’ll walk away like nothing happened.”
Crocodile’s mouth quirked to the side and he let his arms fall to rest on the desk, tilting his chin back, “I didn’t think the two of them knew each other.” Not that Doflamingo told him everything. But plans to start a war with an Emperor probably ranked on that list.
But only probably.
He shook his head and rumbled, “I’m not aware of any plans regarding Fire Fist Ace.”
The Fourth Division Commander’s knee started bouncing and the Phoenix lifted his hand, plum elbow digging into the scarlet microfiber of the armrest, “Have you talked to Doflamingo lately?”
He breathed in his cigar, leather sighing as he leaned back. He’d wonder if this was a scheme if Ms. Sunday hadn’t already confirmed their whereabouts throughout the day. He glanced at where the Fourth Division Commander was staring intently at the couch cushion and sighed smoke through his nose, “We were supposed to meet Friday night but he rescheduled.”
The Phoenix stared past his subordinate and out the window behind him, eyes distant and seemingly undistracted by Fourth Division Commander’s fidgeting. Crocodile itched to engulf the fingers picking at the stitching in the couch cushion in sand but tamped it down as the Phoenix asked, “When did you last actually speak to him?”
Crocodile barely lifted his hand far enough off the desk to wave vaguely, “Thursday night, when he called to reschedule.”
The Fourth Division Commander suddenly piped up, twitchy fingers and bouncing knee finally stilling as he turned his attention to Crocodile, “What were you doing yesterday between nine and ten PM?”
His nose wrinkled with confusion, pulling at the scar tissue across his face, and he stared at the commander, but the man simply held his gaze steadily. He huffed. What had he been doing last night?
At the casino by six, working the books until dinner at eight, and then…
He wiggled the end of his cigar with his tongue and said, “I was on the Gray Line.”
The auburn-haired one straightened like a prairie dog, eyes searching, “Whoa, wait, what stops did you pass?”
Crocodile sighed through his nose, debating tossing them out just because, then tapped his finger on the desk with each grumbled name, “Coconut Street, Animal Cracker Court, Venison Drive, Hyena Lane, Lion’s Den Row—” He stopped as the Whitebeard suddenly pointed and yelled, “Yes! That one! You should’ve seen Ace on that bus!” He hopped in his seat like a child, “He was complaining about his brother taking the car!”
Crocodile frowned, “Fire Fist Ace was on that bus?” He hummed to himself, finger tapping. All he’d seen were some of Big Mom’s goons, Kaidou’s thugs, some old lady dressed like a rock star, a couple of kids being harrasse… His finger paused mid-tap, face smoothing.
The commander was digging frantically in his pocket, and then he leaped to his feet and hurried to Crocodile’s desk, laying his phone on the wood with a thunk, “These two? Did you see them?”
Crocodile leaned over to take a look at the notorious commander in a trim black suit and deep red shirt. Hm. He’d never seen him with a shirt on, but he supposed… “I guess that is Fire Fist, isn’t it?” He swiped to the next photo, an even younger dark-haired goofball in a black suit and a purple shirt. Some nobody, probably. He didn’t look familiar. He swiped back to Fire Fist’s picture and tapped it, “They were quiet. I remember thinking it was odd when they got off at Lion’s Den Row dressed like that.” He raised his head in time to catch the urgent look the Fourth Division Commander threw toward his superior, and then the Phoenix was asking, “Why were you on the bus, Crocodile-san? That seems like an odd transportation choice for someone of your status.”
Crocodile smirked, sliding the phone back toward the Whitebeard hovering over his desk as he said to the other one, “None of your business, chickling. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say I didn’t bother your boy.”
Another shift in the air and the Fourth Division Commander scowled and opened his mouth to say something and oh, was Crocodile ready for it, favor to Whitebeard or not. But the other one muttered with warning, “Thatch.”
Thatch pressed his lips together and snatched his phone off the desk, then spun and walked toward the door, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaning his shoulder against the wall.
The Phoenix leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, shocking Crocodile with a tone betraying mild unease, “You’re certain you don’t know of any plans Doflamingo has? Any at all?” He glanced back at his subordinate, drawing Crocodile’s gaze to the expression on Thatch’s face.
Oh for the love of—Crocodile rubbed his forehead, doubting it would help but grumbling anyway, “He’s opening a nightclub next week?”
Saturday, May 11, 5:25 PM
“So.” Thatch started ticking off on his sunset-gilded fingers, “We can’t find Ace. We can’t find the cop who arrested him. We can’t find that cop’s crime lord brother. And that cop’s crime lord brother’s business partner didn’t share anything we didn’t already know.” He wiggled his fingers, “Did I miss anything?”
Marco lengthened his stride until he was pacing his cook through the dense rows of vehicles in the River Bank’s North Lot, “We can’t find Luffy. We can’t find—”
He halted mid-stride. Then he looked at Thatch and they said in unison, “Sabo.”
Thatch’s phone magically appeared in his hand and Marco felt anticipation welling as his cook dialed and raised the little device next to his ear—
“DAMMIT!”
He reared his arm back as if to throw it, then halted at the last second, face scrunched as he took a heavy breath through his nose.
Marco turned to face him, senses keeping track of the gamblers giving them a wide berth as he asked with deceptive calmness, “Disconnected, yoi?”
Thatch waved his phone in the air, a tight smile on his face as he chuckled mirthlessly, “Back to square one.” He sighed, back bending and shoulders drooping as he trudged onward, staring glumly at his combat boots scuffing the asphalt.
Marco watched him go, fingers sliding around the edges of the phone in his pocket as the stiffening breeze teased at his clothes. There was one contact…
He pulled his phone out and dialed, tired of waiting, wondering if she would even bother to pick up as it rang, and rang again, and a third time—
“Who is this?”
He let out a breath, “Marco the Phoenix.” Thatch shot him a strange look over his shoulder and mouthed ‘who are you talking to?’, but Marco ignored him as he continued, “With the—”
“The Whitebeards, yeah, I know. Why are you calling? How did you get this number?”
“I got it from Sabo, yoi. It’s about him, actually. Is he with you?”
Thatch trotted back to him, miming a phone next to his ear and mouthing again, ‘who is it?’
There was a muffled curse on the other end of the phone and then the woman replied curtly, “No.”
Marco hesitated, eyes on Thatch’s hopeful gaze, “Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
Her tone of voice… “Can you call him, yoi?”
She sounded distracted as she replied, “No. His phone is disconnected.” There was some scuffling on the other end and he thought he heard ‘sit back down, I’m not done with you’, but he couldn’t be sure between dodging Thatch’s grab for the phone and the wind snatching her voice away.
He slid his free hand in the pocket of his capri pants and relaxed until he was slouching, trotting a few steps back before twisting away from his cook’s grabby hands. “You don’t seem concerned by that.”
He gave a dead-eyed stare to the man with the beri sign tattooed on his face who was looking a little too curious. The man ducked toward the casino, Marco’s stare on his hunching shoulders.
She snorted, “Happens all the time.”
He pulled his attention back, eyeing the other passersby. Not exactly the answer he’d been expecting. It probably should’ve been comforting to know it happened all the time, but for some reason, it really wasn’t.
His fingers curled on empty air as the phone was snatched out of his hand from behind. Ace was teaching Thatch too many bad habits. He turned to look over his shoulder as Thatch shielded the phone from the wind between their bodies and smacked the speaker button to rattle off, “Did Sabo come back from dinner last night? The Donquixotes took Ace. Do you know where Rosinante is? Or Doflamingo?”
“Wha—Who—Oh, whatever,” the woman grumbled. She sighed impatiently, “No, no, and no. Are we done now?”
Marco turned around fully and leaned over the phone, “You don’t really seem concerned about that either, yoi. It doesn’t worry you that Doflamingo might have Sabo?”
Another snort, and then the snick of a pocket knife opening and she replied absently, “We know where the Donquixotes live.”
Thatch’s eyes widened and he nearly shouted, “Can you give us the address?”
It drew some eyes but Marco’s gaze had them hurrying along. He probably should’ve picked a better venue for this call. Too late now.
Besides, he thought she might be smirking as she replied, “Nope. I’m not in a sharing mood.” A crack this time, then a thunk and she finished, “And you know what, don’t call this number again.”
She hung up.
Not one to be deterred when information was so close he could taste it, Thatch scowled and hit redial. The speaker immediately blared in a pleasant voice, “We are sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected…”
Marco couldn’t decide whether to laugh with or terrorize Sabo the next time he saw him. Maybe he’d just decide in the moment.
Thatch simply stared.
“Are you kidding me?!”
Saturday, May 11, 6:11 PM
“Yeah, we’re heading back now, yoi.” He glanced at where Thatch was rolling the window up and down, making faces in the growing darkness of the glass and mouthing, ‘don’t call this number again’. Marco turned his eyes back to the lamp-lit road, ignoring the rising and falling of the wind’s cooling caresses circulating through the truck, “I don’t think so, yoi. I was planning on organizing some patrols when I got back, just in case. There hasn’t been—”
Thatch’s phone started ringing. Marco half-watched as he cursed and slouched, fishing around his jeans for it, then pulled it out with a triumphant, “Hah!” His eyes hit the screen and the cook literally started bouncing in his seat and hissing, “Marco! Marco! It’s Luffy!” He reached out a hand and started slapping his arm, “Hang up, quick! Pull over!”
Marco turned onto a side street and pulled to a stop next to the curb beneath a busted lamp, “—Sorry, Pops, do you mind if I call you back later? We’re going to check one more thing out… Thanks, yoi.”
Thatch took the call on speakerphone as soon as Marco hung up, blue light lining the cabin’s felted roof.
They both chorused, “Luffy!”
“Who is this?”
Thatch’s face fell, “Wha—Who is this?” His scowl deepened, “Why are you calling from Luffy’s phone?”
The man sounded imminently bored. “He left it here last night and the witch said it’s been ringing all day, so I figured I’d find out why he’s got twenty-two missed calls from this number.”
Marco leaned one arm on the top of the steering wheel and turned to face Thatch and the phone better, “We’re friends, yoi. Is Luffy there?”
The man grunted in understanding but said, “No, Luffy’s not here.”
Thatch rolled his eyes with a huff, “Did he come back from dinner last night?”
“He was at a dinner?”
Thatch squinted at the phone, then held it toward Marco in disbelief. Marco pursed his lips, “Is Ace there?”
“Dunno. Hang on.” His voice turned away from the phone and they heard him bellow, “Is Ace here?” There were muffled voices in the background and then he said into the phone, “Doesn’t seem like it.”
Thatch covered his face with a hand.
Marco scratched at his hair, “You don’t seem worried that Luffy never came back from dinner, yoi.”
Pure confusion this time. “Why would we be?”
Thatch dragged his hand down his face, eyes rolling upward beseechingly, and then he took a deep breath and said in a surprisingly calm voice, “Is there anyone else we can talk to about this?”
The man grumbled, “This is so troublesome. I told her she should’ve done it herself to begin with…” There was the thud of boots and the click of something else with every step, then more muffled voices and a woman finally bit out, “What do you want?”
Marco traded a glance with Thatch, then he drawled, “We were wondering if you might know where Luffy—”
“Luffy! That idiot! I told him to be here this morning because I was going to surprise him with a visit to some old friends of his but noooo.” She took a breath and Marco started to interrupt, but she just rolled on, “No, he had to go to that stupid dinner and I have no doubt he drank too much and stayed up way too late and got involved in something ridiculous and won’t make it back today, which is a shame because they aren’t in town for very long. Honestly! You men are useless!”
“Hey!”
“YOU’RE DOUBLE USELESS, ZORO!” She huffed and muttered, “And we were all looking forward to it, too. Imbecile. And you! Stop calling his phone, it’s driving me nuts! Bad enough that he left it so we can’t call him, but I don’t need to listen to it mock me for the rest of the night either. And if you see him, tell him he’d better get his butt back here quick!”
She hung up.
The two Whitebeards both stared at the black screen for several minutes in silence.
A whimper emitted from Thatch’s throat and he smacked the phone against his forehead. Marco gave in and patted his pompadour but it merely earned him a hopeless laugh.
So he turned the wheel, pulling them back onto the street as Thatch sank into a heap in the seat next to him.
Saturday, May 11, 7:19 PM
Marco turned the key, hearing the muted click of the lock disengaging, and he opened the plain brown door with a curious, “Hello?”
He paused and waited but… As expected, no answer.
He sighed and opened the door the rest of the way, letting Thatch walk past him as he dragged the key out of the deadbolt. The cook shuffled into the darkened living room and flopped on the couch, body striped by the lone nearby streetlamp slotting through the blinds. Marco could see him staring around blankly, probably letting his eyes adjust as he fished all over the cushions. He let the door swing shut, turning to face it, hand already flipping the lock. A flash of bluish light and the blare of a commercial told him Thatch had found the remote. Marco ran his thumb over the cool metal catch under his palm, turning to survey the empty house.
He flipped the lock back open.
Marco shambled into the kitchen and trailed his finger over the tan counters as he passed them, seeing Sabo’s touch in the well-organized setup; everything from the battered nineties toaster tucked in a corner to the bright pink apron with looping letters spelling ‘Queen of the Kitchen’ and hanging from a skull magnet on the side of the fridge. He trailed to a stop at the sink, fingertips brushing the chipped laminate bordering the stainless steel as he stared out the window. It was an average neighborhood, one of many ubiquitous streets lined with cookie-cutter two-bedrooms, lawns just big enough to look nice without requiring much in the way of maintenance, and one-car driveways. He’d been surprised when Ace showed it to them the first time. A Whitebeard commander living in suburbia? But then he’d said Sabo picked it out.
Spies.
He turned to face the rest of the small kitchen, his shadow an outline on the standalone island and two bar seats Whitebeard had gifted them for ‘bringing the family together before meals too.’ It was as bare as the counters, showing no signs anyone had been here since they’d left for dinner last night. If nothing else, at least it was consistent with the information they’d gathered over the last… What, twenty-two hours?
Marco rubbed his eyes. Felt like much longer.
His gaze flicked up to the arch leading back to the living room as the light and sound of the TV cut off. Some sounds of movements and Thatch shuffled in with a grunt and maneuvered around the island to root through the fridge on the other side, gathering various vegetables into his arms. He kicked the door shut with his heel and crowded Marco out of the way, setting the food on the counter and then turning around and hunting for something else. Marco plucked the cutting board out of its hiding spot between the coffee machine and the toaster and held it out, Thatch grunting in appreciation as he took it. Thatch slid a blade free of the knife block which had been his house-warming gift to the trio of brothers and flipped the canned light over the sink on.
Marco drifted into the living room and surveyed the available seating.
Snik.
The couch, the giant beanbag in front of the double windows, the desk squeezed in the back corner of the room by the overstuffed bookcase.
Snik.
His eyes flicked up to the shadowed ceiling as it echoed again.
Snik.
He turned his back on the room and returned to the kitchen, sliding into one of the stools butting up against the island, body angled to keep both the front door and the window over the sink with a view of the driveway in sight.
He checked his phone and sighed at the lack of notifications. They’d gone back to headquarters and sure, they’d coordinated patrols and yes, of course he trusted his family. But Pops had shot down his idea of doing flyovers of the city, citing concerns about Marco driving himself too hard when they still had no concrete indication Ace was even in danger.
So his and Thatch’s only job was to sit at the brothers’ house and wait. And despite how tired he was from staying up for two days, he still would’ve preferred flying.
Waiting was harder.
Sunday, May 12, 5:58 PM
Thatch shoved the plate across the island until it bumped into Marco’s elbow, and then he watched as the blond’s fork wandered toward the plate. His gaze was still clearly on the window above the sink, two rectangles revealing a short hop of green, a river of black occasioned by shiny boxes on wheels as suburbians returned from whatever suburbians did on Sundays, and a glaringly empty stretch of cracked pavement claiming to be a driveway. Thatch watched the aimless stainless steel utensil skid lightly over the brown-speckled beige island until—tink—it found the porcelain! Land-ho! Dig for the treasure, mateys, there’s bound to be gold on a deserted islan—
Neptune save him, he was going mad. But Marco finally managed to skewer a mushroom via his random stabbing—not a talent to be scoffed at—and then shoved it into his mouth and Thatch found himself marginally pleased by the happy noise that came from his friend’s throat. Keeping himself occupied by making sure Marco stayed fed wasn’t a bad way to pass the time, especially when they both continued to find sleep elusive.
This wasn’t like Ace.
Thatch drooped, settling his chin on his crossed forearms, eyes tracing the hundreds of scuffs he could see now that he was practically kissing the counter. He exhaled hard through his nose, watching the moisture condense briefly over the sandy sea dotted with little geometric rocks of reddish-brown and granite gray and obsidian and his misty white wave covered up the scuffs before slowly fading away. It actually kinda looked more like snow than water… And throwing snowballs at Ace always made him complain that it ‘wasn’t fair to the snowball, what did it ever do to you?’ His eyes flicked up. Still empty. The house’s shadow nearly reached the sidewalk now. He sighed.
He lifted his head, stretching his arms over the counter and arching his back with a groan, eyes closed. So of course that was when Marco chose to slide the empty plate into his hands. He stood on autopilot and took the ten-inch chipped-to-hell blue disc to the sink and stared at the already washed dishes. That had been the last of the food. Maybe they could get one of the others to do a grocery run and drop them off here? He frowned. They better be staying fed without him. It wasn’t like he was the only cook, not for a group that size, but the others tended to slack off when he wasn’t around.
He flipped the water on and picked absently at the dried sauce left on the plate with his fingernails, eyeing the sleek sedan rolling sedately down the street. One of their neighbors had nice taste. That car had to have cost at least half a million beri, probably more if those tinted windows were as bulletproof as they looked. Thatch stopped scrubbing, eyes narrowing. Who in suburbia would have a car like that?
And why was it pulling into the driveway…?
And then he had slammed the front door open because the man getting out of the driver’s seat was unfamiliar. Thatch grabbed handfuls of the guy’s blue t-shirt and pinned him against the car with wet hands, glaring into gray eyes as he snarled, “Who are you? What have you done with Ace?”
Cold, slender fingers wrapped around his wrists and then thumbs dug between the tendons on the underside, but he just clenched his teeth against the pain and pushed closer until they were goatee to goatee, “Who are you?”
The man clucked his tongue, “Who the hell are you?” He shifted his feet, maneuvering his body to make use of his position against the car for even more leverage than his height already gave him, “Why do you think I’ve done something with Ace?”
“I suggest you answer the question,” Marco muttered from behind him with a flare of blue. The dark-haired man only narrowed his eyes suspiciously and Thatch secured his grip, trying to keep him pinned. Whoever he was, he’d not only seen combat, but he’d also seen Devil Fruits. Being slammed against a car and threatened wasn’t making him panic the way it would a civilian.
This was Not Good.
Those gray eyes flicked between the two of them and the man’s goatee twisted with a scowl, “Ace is fine.” He dug his thumbs deeper between the tendons and Thatch felt his fingers spasm and loosen from the pain. The taller man merely sounded annoyed as he continued, “Why do you think I’ve done something?”
Thatch was about to answer, but his eyes cut over the roof of the car as the passenger door opened and he saw shaggy dark hair and tanned skin and the sun coming over the house illuminated half of the gigantic tattoo of the Whitebeard insignia on his back.
And then Ace spun and Thatch had never been so relieved to see that freckled face locked in a glower.
“Hey! What are you doing? Leave Law alone!”
Sunday, May 12, 6:03 PM
“Ace! Are you okay?” Marco was on the other side of the car in half a beat, ignoring the glare as he scanned the twenty-year-old crown to booted toes. “Are you hurt?”
“Wha—”
He left Thatch to handle the stranger. Marco was busy grabbing their missing commander by the shoulders and turning him. Relief mounted with every unharmed patch of skin, though he paused at the sight of his shorts. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Ace wear white.
“Mar—”
He looped his fingers around Ace’s wrists and lifted his arms, turning them in the disappearing light. No bruises or rashes he’d expect to see from too-tight cuffs. A quick inspection of his shadowed ankles confirmed the same there. Wherever he’d been, he hadn’t been restrained.
“Quit it!” Ace yanked his fully functional and uninjured arms back and crossed them over his shirtless chest as he turned that sunlit frown up at Marco, “What are you doing at my house?”
Marco rocked back on his heels and gestured at Ace, “You went missing. We’ve been worried. The whole crew is out looking for you, Ace.”
The hint of a blush creeping up Ace’s cheeks was unexpected. As were the rolling eyes, “What? That’s—” He flapped his arms, “That’s ridiculous! Why would you—I wasn’t even—”
Why was he so flustered?
The car door to the back seat opened, laughter emanating from inside as Luffy clambered out, also in unfamiliar clothes. Tank top and shorts were normal but the material was higher quality than he’d ever seen any of the brothers wearing. And neither of them were wearing what they’d left the house in two nights ago, despite not having returned home since. When had they changed? Why had they changed?
Admittedly, it didn’t much matter at the moment because they were here and for all intents and purposes appeared to be acting mostly normal. Marco watched with growing ease as Ace reached out to shove Luffy’s head and then mumbled at his little brother’s bouncing noggin, “Oh, shut up, you.”
“Ace! You’re okay?” Thatch grinned, then slammed the stranger against the car with his forearm and gave him the stink eye, “Did this guy do anything to you?”
Sunday, May 12, 6:08 PM
Law scowled up at the man. This weekend had not started out well, and that vein had continued for far too long already. Forty-five minutes of something approaching normalcy and now this? He eyed the man’s pompadoured head, wondering how it would look mounted on the hood of his car. The idea held increasing appeal.
Ace groaned and came around the car, elbowing the auburn-haired man in the stomach as he inserted himself between them, “Get off of him!”
“Hey!” the red-head squawked, stepping back to avoid getting another elbow to the gut while also peeking over Ace’s shoulder to keep glaring at Law. “Did he kidnap you? Who are you? How do you know Ace?”
Ace threw another elbow back while using his other hand to reach around Law and pop the car door open. “Law, you should probably go. Just—” He scowled, blush creeping up his ears in a way Law was all-too-familiar with experiencing, “Just don’t discuss this with anyone, please? Ever?”
His eyes ran over the two strangers, noted the quirk of the aggressive ginger’s stance hinting an old knee injury had never healed right, the curiously perfect health of the Devil Fruit user. Definitely Whitebeards, given the tattoo blazoned across the blond’s chest. And they both looked vaguely familiar but he’d admittedly been lax regarding intimate knowledge of the crews outside the territories he frequented. A mistake he’d have to remedy immediately.
He turned his attention back to Ace, smirk twitching at the palm his new friend had planted squarely in the redhead’s face, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
Ace rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at his captive, “Yes, I know these two idiots—”
“Hey!”
Ace mule kicked him (in the bum knee, to Law’s immense satisfaction) and finished over his yelp, “—so I’ll be fine.” He placed his now-free hand on Law’s shoulder and Law let himself be gently pushed back into the car, gaze roving over the stoic blond as Ace’s eyes flicked that way, “But you should get out of here because you might not be.”
His suspicions of their relative threat levels now confirmed, Law committed every feature of the two half-shadowed figures to memory as Ace shut the door and tapped the roof of his car in signal. Law just shook his head as he backed out of the driveway and pulled away, glancing at the group in his rear-view until he turned off the street.
It appeared he wasn’t the only one surrounded by insanity.
Sunday, May 12, 6:15 PM
Ace waited until Law was safely around the bend before he tipped his head back with a mighty sigh. His skin tickled where the shadows hit it, which was now everywhere below the nape of his neck.
“Ace! Who was that? Are you really okay? Where were you?”
He frowned, still facing the sky. They’d sent the whole crew looking for him? It had only been two days! He shot a quick glare at Thatch, then turned and stomped into the house, Luffy watching him with a wide grin and his fists on his hips like he was about to burst into one of his Shanks-like (and maybe even Crappy Geezer-like) fits of laughter. Ace shook his head but couldn’t quite prevent his lips from beginning to curve up.
“Ace! What happened? Why didn’t you come back yesterday?”
Ah, there was his scowl. He knew it wouldn’t go far. He strode into the kitchen, pleased when the door banged into the wall the way Sabo always hated. That’s what he got for taking the car twice this weekend. He headed straight for their crappy old fridge, pretty sure there were still some leftovers from Friday afternoon in there. He was starving.
He opened the fridge.
And stared.
Nope.
He tried blinking, because the light in their fridge had been out for ages and maybe he was just missing it. But nothing was different when he opened his eyes again.
Nope.
Ace took a deep breath through his nose.
“Ace, we—”
“Thatch.”
Thatch paused and his damn tone perked right up, “Yeah?”
Ace opened the door further, stepping out of the way so Thatch could see inside, cold air drifting to mist around his ankles as he said through clenched teeth, “Why. Is this. EMPTY?!”
Thatch’s mouth popped into an ‘O’ and he slid his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, eyes darting guiltily to the sink. Ace followed his gaze and let heat roil off of him at the heap of dishes, the sudden scent of exquisite food finally hitting his nose. Got cozy, did they? He returned his narrowed gaze to his traitorous friend in time to catch Thatch tossing his coward’s grin at Ace as he tried and failed to backpedal nonchalantly, “Well, you see, we were waiting for you here—” He flinched when Ace slammed the fridge door shut and bellowed over him, “MARCO!”
Marco was just strolling in the front door with a still-grinning Luffy at his side, “Yes?”
Ace approached until he was staring up at the taller man, then held his hand out with a frown, “Give me your card. You’re paying for takeout.” Marco stared at his hand for a moment and Ace didn’t care because it was dinner or his two completely overreacting hell bats were getting kicked out. So he twitched his fingers in a ‘come here’ motion before growling, “Hand it over.” And Marco knew what he wasn’t saying because Marco always knew, and Ace knew he knew because Marco shrugged and slid his hand from his pocket, dropping the heavy Whitebeard credit card into Ace’s palm.
He shut his fist around it like someone was going to steal it and then he shot a wicked grin at his little brother, “Dinner’s on him tonight, Lu. We can get whatever we want!”
Ace caught the flash of amused resignation on Marco’s face and felt his shit-eating grin widen. The weekend had been fun, sure, but this was more his speed.
Luffy immediately trotted closer, already bouncing on his toes, “Oh! I want those potstickers from Hideki’s!”
Thatch reached forward, “Wait, can you just answer—”
“—And that one roll of sushi, the one with the eel—”
“Ace, wait, it’s just a quick question—”
“—and two orders of that beef thing, and…”
Ace gleefully took down the list, ignoring Thatch until the man quieted and resorted to staring grumpily at the counter. After adding his own choices, their order covered nearly ninety-five percent of the meals the place offered. Ace eyed the black metal card, then shrugged. Might as well go for broke. So he plopped onto the stool next to a moping Thatch and cracked open Sabo’s shabby laptop to place their order. It wasn’t until he flipped the card back to Marco that Thatch lifted his head and continued as if there had been no interruption.
“You got arrested, Ace! Where did the dirty cop take you? Why couldn’t we reach your phone?”
He cocked his head, hair brushing at his eyebrows. His phone? He patted the pocket of the borrowed white gym shorts, noticing absently that they had a blue navy symbol on them. He grinned. He’d have to return them eventually but maybe he’d draw over the logo first. But before he got to that, he needed to find his phone. Luffy had given it back after the bus ride, right? Oh, yep, there it was.
Luffy’s voice said from his other side, elbows on the island and cheeks squished on his fists, “You mean silent guy?”
Thatch leaned over the counter to stare at Luffy in confusion and Ace spun on his stool to face his brother, working to retrieve his phone from his pocket. The shorts had twisted funny and he was having a hard time. Lu grinned, eyes twinkling as he said, “He was only dirty the first night. He took a bath on Saturday!”
Ace rolled his eyes, not even needing to look to smack Luffy in the back of the head. The dolt chuckled and Ace shook his head, pulling out his phone and hitting the home button. He frowned when the screen stayed black and he pressed the button a couple more times, then tossed it on the counter and pointed, “Anyway, my phone’s dead, that’s why you couldn’t reach me.” He turned to Thatch and raised a brow, “Happy?”
But the stupid cook was pointing at Luffy, eyes narrowed, “So you were with Rosinante!” He lowered his voice and asked urgently, “Was Doflamingo there?”
Ace was about to answer when Luffy piped up, “Oooh! Mingo was fun!”
He sighed and shook his head, raising his hands in surrender. Apparently this interrogation no longer required his input. He slid off his stool and headed for the cabinet by the sink. Maybe there was some cereal or something left? At this point, he’d eat anything. Luffy had done a number on him earlier. He’d have to get him back for that soon.
Thatch scooted over to Ace’s seat so he could be closer to Luffy and asked eagerly, “So? What happened?”
Ace had to dig to find the single lonely, dusty protein bar in the far reaches of the cabinet. Grabbing it, he turned to face them again and leaned his hips back against the counter next to Marco as he peeled the wrapper and took a bite. And nearly whimpered. Oh, sweet, delicious, stale snack. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He took another bite at his stomach’s emphatic agreement.
Luffy frowned, rubbing his chin and humming thoughtfully to himself. Ace could see it coming in the growing furrow on his baby brother’s face and was unsurprised when he rubbed at the back of his head, “Ehhh, it’s too hard to explain.” Lu sighed, but what Ace did not see coming was him finishing with all of the convincing childlike innocence he could muster (which was not an insignificant amount), “Oh, but there was a headless zombie!”
Ace choked on his bar, Marco slapping his back to help him get the piece lodged in his throat out. He managed to cough it out and look up through watering eyes in time to see Luffy strolling toward the bedrooms in the back of the house, soft snickers bouncing between walls and ceiling as if their home was in on the joke.
Thatch turned to Ace, eyes wide and jaw hanging because he knew as well as Ace did that Lu was a terrible liar, which meant headless zombie had been the truth and—“Seriously, what the hell happened?!”
Ace burst out laughing.