Work Text:
Nico Robin was trouble.
She had been trouble. And she would be trouble. Nami knew this as firmly as she knew they would encounter a light sheen of rain in about thirty minutes. Past present future. With a start of irritation, she realised that she had already started factoring the assassin into their future. And that just wouldn't do. She wasn't a fool like Usopp and Chopper, or a weirdo like Luffy. That whole "onee-sama" act with Crocodile's jewels was just that. An act, which she hoped Robin had bought into.
Not that she would hold out hope on that; it seemed like few things slipped past Miss All-Sunday. Perhaps even helping Luffy after his initial loss to Crocodile had been but a check off her "Get close to the Straw Hats then backstab them" list. Or "Saving my own ass". You couldn't rise to No.2 of Baroque Works without having layers upon layers of schemes and contingency schemes. All wrapped up like a nice, deadly present.
What hid under those nice, deadly layers of Nico Robin?
Oh, how she missed Vivi. Were she still here, Nami could march into their room, flop onto the bed, and start ranting about Robin. And Vivi would listen with that patient smile of hers, nodding animatedly along. They'd share a laugh over a few jokes here and there, and Nami would feel much better.
Now all that waited for her in her room (not a "theirs" anymore) was someone older, taller, and utterly unreadable. Robin had sculpted a weapon out of social politeness. A gleaming dagger so well polished that the harder you stared at it, trying to catch a glimpse of the wielder behind, the more you saw your own reflection staring back. Wide-eyed stupid.
Was Robin laughing?
Even her laughter was a politely manufactured thing. Pleasant, yes, but weightless. It irked Nami, but no intense emotion could burn for too long in face of that coolness. Perhaps that was what had rubbed her off the wrong way. From the moment Robin had emerged from the storeroom dressed in Nami's shirt (oh she was lucky it wasn’t one of her favourites, or, Miss All-Sunday or not, she’d have made her regret that. By siccing Zoro on her while hiding behind a mast, probably) the sheer casualness of her demeanor, speech, everything—all too unshakable.
Strutting about ex-enemies and demanding that Luffy take responsibility for her life—ready as she had been to give it up—it was so outrageous that were Nami an outsider looking in, she’d have whistled from begrudging admiration. But Nico Robin was in their midst now. And Nami didn't know how she was supposed to sleep in the same room as her tonight.
In the same bed.
Fuck, she'd have to make Usopp craft a new bed for her, lack of materials or not. Her sanity, no, her very life probably depended on that. Then again if she were killed in her sleep, there'd be no bigger "I told you so!!" to Luffy.
"Get to bed already. Robin isn't going to kill you in your sleep," Zoro grumbled as he stepped past her, heading for night watch.
"How do you know?"
He stopped, tilting his head back slightly so that the moonlight glinted off his eyes. And bared his teeth in a sharp grin. "Too easy."
Nami thought about throttling him. Remembered she had just meticulously done her nails. Thus, like a rational adult, decided against it. Though a parting insult was always necessary, of course.
"Screw you, moss ball! I haven’t forgotten about your ten thousand beri debt!"
She flung open the door to her room and stalked in, irritation dulling her nerves. If Robin was asleep already then that was just too bad. And if she had taken up even the slightest bit of more than half of the bed, then so help her—Robin hadn't taken up more than half of the bed. She wasn't even in it at all. Turning, she saw the assassin sitting in the chair by the table. No, sitting wasn't quite the right word.
Leaning slightly onto the backrest, long legs crossed together at an immaculate angle that Nami couldn't decide was accidental or purposeful (but for what purpose?), Robin looked like a panther curling about a pile of picked-white bones. The dark chill that ran right through Nami could be from nothing but apprehension. Nothing but.
"Anything the matter, Navigator-san?"
Softly, carrying an edge of amusement. Like she had anticipated her childishness regarding the bed, and thus deftly sidestepped any complaints she could fashion. Indeed Nami didn't know what to say. So she shot her a stink eye and threw herself onto the bed with a huff. Spreadeagle. Limbs straddling all sides. Gleefully, she thought she'd like to see how Robin planned to get in now. The softness lured her eyelids lower. And lower.
A blink.
"Hnfhf?"
She jerked awake, mumbling through a mouthful of bedsheet. And drool. Fuck, she hadn't plan on falling asleep. Where was Robin?
Robin was still in the chair, intently reading a book held up by one hand, the other draped casually across her legs. It didn't seem like she had moved. It didn't seem like she had any plans of harming her. How… off-putting. Nami stared at her a little longer, no words stirring her tongue.
Blue eyes flickered up. The shadows falling onto them was what made her realise all lights in the room were out, save for a solitary candle on the table. Firelight danced across Robin's face, accentuating her features. Sharp to sharper still.
"Did I wake you?"
When she spoke, though, the edges were dulled ever so slightly. In the faintest upward twitch of her mouth and low tenor of her voice—oh, Nico Robin was trouble.
"Aren't you going to sleep?" Nami blurted out. Fuck, she hadn't plan on saying that either. What was wrong with her?
"I fear this book has me in a rather tight grip. Goodnight, Navigator-san."
The note of finality in her voice prompted Nami to leave it at that. She made to turn over, only then discovering the blanket pulled over herself. She didn't do this. A scowl tugged her lips down as she shifted into a more comfortable position—the twitch of Robin's left lower eyelid had given her away.
Just what was Robin playing at? Had she insisted she slept alone for her sake?
Well, if Robin thought she could get her to drop her guard by doing these things, then she was in for a rude awakening. Still, regardless of the motive, her actions didn't feel that bad. Not at all.
Dammit.
The next night, she entered to find Robin in the exact same position, albeit with a different book. This was a little ridiculous. Not that she doubted Robin could last another night without sleeping—in her mind Robin was largely capable of so many things—but her conscience wouldn’t allow it. Plopping down onto the bed, she glared at the older woman until she noticed. Which didn't take all that long.
"I'm only going to say this once, so listen clearly. I don't kick about in my sleep or anything, and the bed is actually just nice for two people. So get in already. Don't think I didn't notice you drinking an additional cup of coffee during breakfast."
Finishing, she turned over to her side. And waited. The thrill of speaking so boldly to Robin played her heart into allegro. Whatever happened next, she could not turn to look. Would not. To do so felt like losing again in a game she had already lost—just humiliating. The silence laughed on.
Then an almost inaudible thud of a book being placed down, a brief scrap of a chair pushed back, and soft footsteps padding across the wooden floor. A weight sank down beside her, a crinkling of sheets, before silence reigned again. Or not quite. Amazing how loud tension could sound, the muffled yells of her common sense. Curled up into her usual sleeping position, Nami felt anything but relaxed. Right beside her was a panther. Were the claws unsheathed, reaching for her even as she laid still like an idiot?
"Goodnight, Navigator-san."
The bed really was just nice for two; any smaller and Robin's breath would be right down her neck. She could no longer pinpoint the reason for the nameless shiver that coursed through her at that thought. Shock and unease and... something swirled together into a heated mess. But that sentence was like a flag of truce, a conclusion to whatever they had been engaged in. And as she found herself inexplicably relaxing, a final spike of annoyance twitched her brows before sleep claimed her.
She had almost come close to smiling when she’d heard Robin’s voice.
Nico Robin was synonymous with trouble.
Yet.
Yet she had done nothing of that sort in the past weeks. Even under Nami’s careful scrutiny—and scrutinise she did, eyes ever trailing the taller woman—there had been no reason to warrant her continuous suspicions. If anything, it was as though a book titled “How to be the perfect crew member” existed, and Robin had memorised it line by line, word by word.
She had the chance to witness a few happenings: Sanji seconds away from a painful face-plant after slipping while washing dishes, when tanned arms sprouted from the sink and stabilised him; Chopper excitedly rambling on about all the books he wanted to buy to a raptly listening Robin; Zoro tossing a sake bottle to Robin with a jerk of his head to indicate it was for her.
As for Nami, certain memories stuck firmer. Early mornings after her night watch, the fragrance of roasted beans would greet her as she entered the dining room. Robin off to one side nursing a book and a cup of coffee, and Sanji to another, lightly humming away as he prepared breakfast. It had taken her several long moments to find the word for the scene before her. Long moments where her heart fell into something like peace. Peace. That was it.
Diffused morning light fell lazily through the portholes, drifting together with the steam from Sanji’s cooking into a faintly warm haze. She thought that the same haze must have enveloped her heart. Robin looked up upon her entrance, met her eyes over the top of her book, and nodded in greeting. With a thankfully quiet exclamation, Sanji spun over and inquired after her requests for breakfast. She answered and took a seat opposite Robin, her eyes landing on her again out of a fast-formed habit.
Peace? An utterly strange concept to be associated with the woman before her. But it fit well. In this moment—Robin blowing gently before taking a sip of her coffee, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration—harsher labels like “dangerous” fell flat. She bit back a sigh. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had been on guard around Robin. Definitely not when Robin had asked for the salt and she had passed it over with a—oh gods—smile.
It was time to throw in the towel. Giving up wasn’t her style, but she also was smarter than to continue fighting a lost battle. Besides, if even Zoro had relaxed his guard, surely she could be excused for the same?
Fuck, just who was she justifying herself to?
Her subsequent plummet to normalcy could almost be funny. Catching her voice lightening when she turned to speak to Robin over dinner, even going as far as leaning in to better catch her reply over Luffy and Usopp’s squabbling, her only mental reaction was a wry shrug. With the departure of Vivi, having another woman crew member was actually very welcomed.
Especially when said member had a god-given face, a voice that reminded her of dusk—the stifling moment that hung between ends and beginnings, the time of possibilities dyed purplish orange—and a body—oh fine. She’d admit it. Robin was drop-dead gorgeous. (She cackled, wondering how many unfortunate souls had that same thought for their last before meeting their fate at Robin’s hands, slender yet strong hands that could—)
Oh, what was wrong with her?
Mid-laugh with Usopp, something pulled her gaze to Robin’s usual spot on deck, and to the woman herself. A merry breeze giggled with black hair, inviting it into a dance. Robin exhaled as she placed her book down and glanced over at the sea beneath, one hand keeping her hair away from her face. Like she had planned it beforehand with the very elements, the last evening rays fell onto her, illuminating the small smile hanging on her lips.
It was such a normal sight, yet Nami's chest caved in, bone fragments and snapped tendons raining down to crush her very lungs and heart. No excavation rescues would be coming in the immediate future, but her next breath didn't matter much right now. Robin turned her head, following the flight of a seagull. And so saw (caught?) Nami looking at her.
Nothing mattered much right now, save for the knowledge that she was—momentarily, for two crests of the waves, maybe—the sole captor of Robin's attention. She could not decide which was more confounding: that her pulse had quickened even before Robin looked at her, or that perhaps she had been waiting for Robin to look at her all along?
Trouble, indeed.
In their room at night, though, getting into bed to the reassuring sounds of Robin’s movements beside her, she allowed herself what she didn’t on that second night.
“Goodnight, Robin.”
And smiled.
“Navigator-san, here. Cook-san called them his ‘Blue Lagoon of Love’.”
The creak of the floorboards closest to Nami was the only indication of Robin’s approach. She snorted at that name as she accepted her drink.
“And what did you say to that?”
An amused sigh was Robin’s only reply. Taking a sip, the refreshingly tangy flavour made Nami smack her lips appreciatively. The sun’s heat was a pleasant weight on her skin, the drink’s chill pooling about in her stomach—this was the life. They had survived the ascent and descent from Skypiea (how many ships could boast of that? How many navigators??), and kicked a god’s ass (okay so Luffy did, but she was sure she helped too). Most importantly, they were so filthy rich.
She almost drooled just thinking of all that gold in the storeroom, and hastily licked her lips. The smug grin remained, bordering on a carnivorous smirk. Of course most of it would be first spent on getting Merry fixed up. Set aside 10% of the remainder for the boys to fight over among themselves; another 10% for Robin. Then—oh crap her drool—she would have enough to raid the shops to her content. Twice over.
Today's sky would be clear through the night with plenty of moonlight to navigate by. The cooperative winds steadily pushed them onwards. In short, she was free of all worldly worries right now.
Almost.
Fuck, there was actually a downside to lazing about: meddlesome thoughts came creeping back. Thoughts like Robin in an admiral’s neat white coat back in G-8, shades hiding flashes of mischief, had looked exceptionally good. In the sky, the first time Robin’s flower limbs had touched her to help her along, the warmth had shocked her. Somehow, she had expected them to be cold. Like Robin? No, she couldn't say that anymore—
Dammit. There she went again, falling down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. What was she chasing after? How emotions other than calm would look on Robin's face? The colour of Robin’s soul?
She exhaled, rubbing her brows to get them to smooth out. There was no point fretting over this. Like time, she ever moved forward. She could ever move forward. Things fell into place in their own time. Her current friendship with Robin was enjoyable enough, so why muddy the waters?
Days like this would keep coming. She would have all the time she liked to muse over these feelings. To bask in Robin’s quiet presence, the peace settling onto her skin and into bones. The world’s promises stretched out before her like a fluttering sail, unfurling longer and wider.
There was time still.
There was no time. For her, for Robin, for them—they had desperately run out of time.
Dashing down station stairs slicked wet, Nami had been so sure she would slip and break her neck. What she wasn’t sure was whether that pain could measure up to the one she was feeling right now. Deep within herself. An internal wound she couldn’t see, tearing further with every pulse.
Very cruel of fate to allow her a good view of the sea train’s rear carriages as it pulled out of the station, hurtling into the sea. And inside it, Robin. She wondered if she had heard her. If her voice, at the very least, had reached her. Nami's arm length was 70cm. If she leaned as far as gravity and human anatomy allowed, flinging her fingers out, it might be 90cm. Robin was several kilometers away, getting further still with every frothing wave.
Utterly unreachable.
This was no departure. This could not be called one. A departure could be teary and messy, but even through tears there were smiles. Not this. This masks and subterfuge, cloaks and shadows, a lie to save them from the world. Robin in Iceberg’s office, the five feet gap between them feeling more like the ends of the sea where things plunged into and disappeared forever, had cut such a solitary figure from old pain that Nami’s throat had clamped up.
Robin's dagger had ever been pointing inwards.
Now this was what they had come to. A glorified metal box going to a faraway place, unfinished matters snaring time’s steps, oblivion waiting under a sobbing sky—oh, Robin, this was like a funeral at sea.
No one wanted this. No one was better off from this. To think that they could give up one of their own for a reason as shallow as saving their own hides—the intricacies of the human heart would always trample right past the clear-cut boundaries of reasoning, Robin. Surely she had read books on psychology or something. Surely such a boneheaded plan could not have been validated by a scholar like her.
Anger welled up within Nami, its flames licking as high as Aqua Laguna’s waves. Just like Robin to piss her off then conveniently escape. What CP-9? What Judicial Island where pirates go to die? Did Robin think she’d be unreachable there, past the edge of common sense?
How dare she vanish like that, taking the ruined remains of Nami’s lungs and heart and organs all along with her. (Excavation efforts never did start, given her perpetual shortness of breath around Robin.) There was only one Cat Burglar, and she most certainly did not nab what was already hers. Though she did wish she were skilled enough to spirit away everything Robin possessed, and would come to possess: her yesterdays and todays and tomorrows. (This was to say she wanted Robin in her future. This was to say the outline of Robin's body had long been sewed into her unfurling sail. This was to say she wanted Robin.)
But that was a matter for later. First, she would have to hammer into Robin’s bones just who did the steal-and-run around here.
Fleeing like that was unfair. It was almost cowardly. It was—
A chill crashed into her, snuffing out any smoking embers of indignation.
It was like that of a terrified child. And a child could ever flee.
The Straw Hats, one and all, were all no strangers to hardships. But through it all there had been hope. Chopper’s experiments with Doctor Hiriluk, her talks with Nojiko in the brightness of her house, a brightness that battered away her crushing fate momentarily—tiny orbs of happiness to be carefully stored away and marvelled upon later.
Robin never had that once in twenty years.
Even if Arlong had been stringing Nami along from the very beginning, she had believed in salvation. Had clawed her way towards it, piling lies onto half-truths as bloodied hands desperately shovelled. And had curled up tight around her dream, hiding it from Arlong's razor-sharp nose and sharper sense of smell. Dreams, the fuel of living. The crew fed off theirs like fire off gasoline, burning brighter and stronger.
But for Robin, oh, dreams, what long dead things. The world didn’t allow for her very existence, what more for dreams?
Robin had never believed she would be saved.
Perhaps in the crew, she had found a spot of warmth that fended off the rattling chains. Perhaps she had allowed herself, briefest of moments, to entertain delusions of a better future. A future as boldly coloured as her present. But, pragmatic to her core, she would have been counting down the days. Bitterly, silently.
Unlike Nami. How laughably wrong she had been: they never had the luxury of time. That would never be allowed for pirates like them, shattered individuals healing alongside each other. The world snapped relentlessly at their heels, hot on Robin’s trail of blood. Her own blood. Robin knew that, of course. Like how she knew herself as a cursed thing—a carrion of misfortune spreading rot wherever she went.
Like how the world had scorched away an eight-year-old child, innocence and laughter and all, in hellfire and pistol cracks, then made her ashes answer for its own crimes. No wonder Robin had grown to believe she was beyond hope. And, bone-weary, had submitted to the world one last time.
Well that was going to change. These misguided beliefs, those venomous "truths" she had lived her life by; Nami was going to smash right through them. Because what hid under those nice, deadly layers of Nico Robin, was simply a child with a dream of knowing the world's history.
Oh, how she had misread Robin. Her unshakable demeanour was merely a result of having made peace with dying. As for her manufactured laughter—
Twenty years on, Robin was still learning how to really laugh.
Nami took in a shuddering breath, smiting her rage at the world into something sharp and brutal. Something enough to smash right through Enies Lobby, and to Robin. Dammit. Not that she could blame Robin for underestimating Luffy—she had been the same—but still.
You don’t have to make yourself alone anymore, Robin.
The first time Nami relaxed enough to truly see Robin was when the smoky remnants of Enies Lobby were already out of sight. In battle, her vision had narrowed down to a three mile field, systematically organising shapes into friends and foes. Now she allowed relief to widen her vision, looking on at Chopper attentively tending to Robin's wounds: gunpowder-smeared cuts, purple pulsing bruises, and angry red imprints of shackles still visible around her wrists. But she was alive. Alive and just three strides away.
In a different world where things had gone terribly wrong, Nami would be looking at an empty space now. But it was alright here. Here on the deck of Merry, who they thought would never sail again, beyond the ravenous jaws of the world, things fell into place at last. So she let go of her Clima-Tact, shaky fingers disassembling and pocketing the parts.
All the while never letting Robin out of her sight. As though she would then vanish. As though this was a bad end after all. Patting one last gauze into place, Chopper told Robin in his best stern voice to refrain from strenuous activities. Eyes crinkling, she promised she wouldn't, and stood in a fluid motion, dusting off her shirt. Then turned and looked at Nami.
So many sentences leapt up Nami’s throat, fighting for control of her tongue. On the Puffing Tom's mad dash, she had been thinking of what to say to Robin when they met again (failure couldn't even be considered). Maybe she should start off with a tongue-lashing about how dumb Robin was, then ease into expressions of relief. Or maybe the other way around?
But now that the moment was here, she found that she simply could not speak. Before eyes the colour of eternal glaciers, she conversely felt a warmth building within her. Robin's mouth parted to say something. And suddenly Nami knew what it would be. And knew she didn't want to hear it. Robin, always perceiving her existence as a burden, would say something stupid like "thank you for saving me". She didn't want thanks. She hadn't barged into Enies Lobby with the intention of dismantling that damned structure, brick by brick, for a thanks from her.
She had just wanted Robin back.
So she took three strides. Found herself the closest to Robin she had ever purposely been (in their bed wasn't counted). And crushed her in a hug. Arms jerked against hers, before remaining shock-stiff. A quivering breath. A pause; even the waves dare not tip-toe past. She didn’t know what she’d do if Robin kept frozen like that.
Then, achingly slow, tendon by tendon, Robin relaxed against her. Several slow breaths that tickled her hair. And finally Robin leaned into her, arms lifting—hesitant at first, then all at once—to wrap around her waist just as tightly. She didn't know who was trembling. Who should be trembling.
Robin smelled like a battlefield, stinging dust and luck's touch and death's waltz. She smelled like sun-soaked afternoons and breeze-cooled evenings and tension-loud nights.
Nico Robin smelled like home. And Nami was no longer surprised by her own thoughts. An inhale of breath above her, a flexing of throat—miniscule movements she was acutely aware of—as Robin spoke.
“I’m very glad to finally see you again, Nami.”
It took her several dazed moments to figure out the anomaly in that deceptively simple sentence. Then she felt like her own Thunderbolt Tempo had struck her. Robin had just called her by her name. Not “Navigator-san”, not an extension of her dagger. Understanding flooded her—so that was why she still felt the faintest prick of discomfort when she heard “Navigator-san”. To be addressed so distantly even after they had fought side by side. Even after she had considered them friends already.
Because, all along, she had wanted Robin to look at her. She had wanted Robin to say her name. Simple, groundbreaking truths.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Did I say your name wrongly? I’ve been practicing it for awhile now, but—”
“Say it again,” she demanded, looking up to see a rather flustered Robin. Who stilled, before realisation relaxed her stance, and complied softly.
“Nami.”
Recently, in fleeting moments of delusion (or clarity?) Nami had wondered just how her name would sound like from those lovely lips. Reality was far more brilliant. The low timbre of Robin’s voice wrapped words in dark intrigue, or tender fondness in this case, before delivering them. Increasing their potency tenfold. In those two syllables that marked out her existence, Nami felt… found. Like she had been born and lived just to hear her name spoken by Robin.
She freed a hand and clasped the collars of Robin’s jacket, jerking her down.
“Don’t you dare call me ‘Navigator-san’ again.”
Surprise widened Robin’s eyes as they flickered down, noting the perilously small space between their faces. Widened some more. Another void of stillness, like even time held its breath. Wide-eyed anticipation; on the cusp of a new era.
And then Robin laughed. Really, really laughed. Unrestrained, unfiltered, every exhale an expression of joy and wonder. The dulcet tones strummed on Nami’s heartstrings. The thing she had been looking for through countless rabbit holes: Robin's happiness. And now that she had found it, she knew she was irrevocably changed.
“Understood, Nami.”
“Do you still hate it when I call you Navigator-san?”
Opening half-closed eyes, it was awhile before her vision focused on Robin in the dark. Who had propped herself up with one hand, sweat-damp hair swept back, as she looked on expectantly. The seriousness and twinge of worry in her voice made Nami sigh affectionately, reaching for her free hand. Maintaining eye contact all the while, she brought it up to her lips and pressed a light kiss to the fingers, a smirk wriggling free at the slight dilation of blue pupils.
“I never hated it, just to be clear. Merely dislike.”
An eyebrow lifted, unsatisfied. "To digress a little, why didn't you tell me?"
"Even back in the Davy Back Fight, then the most carefree I had seen you, you gave off the feeling you'd vanish anytime. Like phantom petals. Especially when we were on Sky Island. Up amongst the clouds, if you were to drift off, where else would you end up in?"
She ran her thumb over the small scar on Robin's third knuckle once, twice (phantoms couldn't be scar-marked—impressions of life), before continuing. "So I didn't dare say anything. For fear of being the wind that finally scattered you."
Slender fingers curled around hers firmly, reassurances and apologies swimming behind Robin's eyes. Nami shot her a quick grin. "But enough about that gloomy past. Back to the main point, is this because you call me that sometimes while in… throes of pleasure?"
Robin snorted at that, but nodded. Laughter bubbled out of Nami as she kissed her fingers again, firmer and longer. And again. Then went as far as to take in one down to its first joint, before releasing with a small 'pop'. A light sheen of sweat now coated Robin's palm, to her delight.
"I don't mind. It's not like you don't say my name normally," she mumbled, her breath hot against similarly flushed skin. "And I'll admit, it's somehow quite a turn-on, the way you moan it."
For her final mischief, her tongue darted out, and, very slowly, licked the length of Robin's middle finger, and topped it off with a kiss. Content with her work, she glanced up. And hissed a sharp inhale at the look on Robin's face. A dark chill ran right down to her core. Delightful surprise and eager anticipation swirled into a heated mess. Oh the panther's claws were unsheathed alright, purring in mock warning.
"I see. That's a relief to hear. By the way, I know it's getting late, but would you be up for another round, Na-vi-ga-tor-san?"
Quite some time later, pleasantly spent and completely satisfied, Nami grumbled jokingly to herself that Robin was a filthy good liar. One round? More like three. And Robin had been rather merciless, though she had probably brought that upon herself. Then her gaze was pulled back to Robin's sleeping form, and to their still intertwined hands. She chuckled silently at her younger self's stupidity.
Nico Robin was trouble. This fact was as certain as the New World's sea was uncertain. A killer body (she would never stop making these assassin puns) and a biting sense of humour, she could be nothing but that. What Nami's two-years-ago-self had failed to realise was that Robin was exactly the kind of trouble she needed. (And since when did pirates avoid trouble?)
Because her name, when gasped by a writhing Robin beneath—lips bitten in a futile attempt at silence, pale skin deliciously marked red, half-lidded eyes the depthless cores of maelstroms—sounded like this: a breathless beseeching, a wordless worship, an echoing eternity and beyond.
It sounded like love.