Chapter Text
Oh, Jean Bart knows they all have their scars - their scars, their secrets, he’s seen some of them even in his short time with the crew while the captain and his few public companions lick their wounds after Sabaody. He’s all-too aware of how quietly bruised and damaged all of them are, because rarely do happy people become pirates.
It’s hard, though, to accept that very little of his secrets are his own, and he’s a little resentful of his own scars being so apparent, so visible, not easy to hide below the fabric of sleeves like the entourage can. It’s hardly as though the Heart Pirates aren’t aware of his situation, of what he’s been through, but he’d like it to be at least a little less obvious. It rankles.
“I can’t make these go away,” Trafalgar Law says. He sounds a little apologetic and he speaks much quieter, now that they’re in relative privacy, away from the eyes of outsiders. The watchful gaze of two of his crew doesn’t seem to be a deterrent of any kind, and he turns Jean Bart’s large hands over between his own, small and icy cold as they are. Trafalgar’s fingers are long, bony, and a little crooked, he observes dimly, in whatever part of himself is still aware of these things, trying to find something to focus on besides the intense consideration of the deep cuts and existing scars around the circumference of his wrists. “I could find a way to make them fade, probably, but getting them to go away is - it isn’t my area. Not unless you want me to take out the tissue itself, but that could… go poorly.”
Disappointing. Unsurprising, really, but disappointing nonetheless.
Jean Bart says nothing, but he knows the way his hands tense as though he wants to pull them away doesn’t go unnoticed by any in the room.The redhead and his friend say nothing, though, silent observers, slumped against the wall. There are bruises across the redhead’s cheek, and the one whose hat reads ‘Penguin’ is keeping his weight off his left foot in a way that screams of at least a sprain.
“I’m sorry,” Trafalgar says. The worst part is that it sounds genuine - really - and the pale blue of his Devil Fruit powers feels like a cool breeze as he lets it spread out over the room. ‘Penguin’ pulls a face at it, likely due to the dark circles already lingering under his captain’s eyes and the fact that a power like this is undoubtedly stamina-based, but says nothing. “Let me - I’ll take care of these bruises for now, like I said I would. Clean things up a little. Shachi, will you - no, actually, not you. Who’s around?”
The redhead - Shachi, which is certainly a name and a half, and Jean Bart’s sure he’ll find time to laugh about it later - tilts his head to one side.
“I can go and find Uni,” he says. “He was with Hakugan during everything, so he’s in decent shape.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere,” Trafalgar says flatly, “but we haven’t got much choice. Fine. See what he can do.”
“Am I missing something?” Jean Bart finds himself asking without any real or conscious input from his brain at all.
“Not much,” Trafalgar says, a pot of some kind of cream in his hand that he’s now unscrewing the lid of, a sharp and cold smell - minty - escaping as he does. “I’m just going to see about finding you a place to sleep for the night, or about how we can sort something suitable. We’ll get some food in you, too.”
Kindness doesn’t fit with the character Trafalgar was seemingly attempting to portray at Sabaody, his sly, sleazy grin and biting quips all speaking of a man with little to no respect or care for anything who only keeps people around or seeks them out if they can be of use to him; but kindness is what this is, having seen someone in need and thinking only of how he could help, of offering him a place in his home, among the people he trusts with his life, his safety.
“Thank you,” Jean Bart says, reeling, and he pretends not to see the tiny smile playing at the corners of Trafalgar’s lips.
Penguin has a scar circling his arm, just below the elbow, jagged and uneven enough that it looks like a burn. Shachi has one that splits his stomach nearly in two, dark and clearly deep. Hakugan has scarring across much of his face, hidden behind the ever-smiling mask he wears. Ikkaku has a long-healed burn at the back of her neck, hidden behind her long, thick hair. Uni hides his behind his bandanna, but they’re there, twisted and deep things at the corners of his mouth. Clione’s are mostly on his hands, burnt and cut in places that might not be where Jean Bart would expect to see them on a chef, but there they are. As for Bepo - well, it’s hard to say, exactly, but he’s sure they’re there.
He could go through the list, name every crew member and their most obvious scars. It’s easy to do when you’ve met them, and can put a name to the smiling, laughing faces.
Jean Bart has scars around his wrists, ankles, and throat, along with the diagonal one across his forehead, from one eyebrow to the other.
He’d been close to losing his sight with that one, if he remembers correctly, and he knows for certain that his memory of the red film of blood over his eyes had been real. The doctor on his crew had clicked his tongue and hovered, going slowly so as to ensure that every stitch he made on the thing was perfectly neat. It’s unremarkable, now, but he’s proud of it nonetheless, in stark contrast to every other lingering mark. It might be strange to think of it fondly, but he does.
The marks from the shackles aren’t something he would say that he’s ashamed of, exactly, but they have a heavy weight to them even now. More than anything they are uncomfortable, even if nobody comments on them, if the various members of the Heart Pirates are willing to turn a blind eye to the horrors he’s gone through rather than push him to talk about them.
“It’s ‘cause everyone’s got things they’d rather keep to themselves,” Hakugan says one day, leaning against the railing of the main outside deck of the Polar Tang, glancing back over his shoulder to where Jean Bart sits cross-legged, the late afternoon sun warm as it descends toward the horizon. “You do it subconsciously, too. Everyone’s noticed that you don’t ask where their scars come from even though it’s not fair to you that we all know what you’ve been through. You’d be justified.”
Jean Bart sniffs. “I’m not about to trespass on the captain’s hospitality like that. I’d rather not overstep.”
Hakugan snickers, turning around and looping his arms over the railing. His eyes are dark but startlingly warm without the mask hiding them, catching some of the warmth from the sun. He’s a lot younger than Jean Bart thought he was, too, with how much trust Trafalgar puts in him to be able to maneuver the ship the way he does. It’s fascinating, how he seems so unbothered by the baring of his face he takes so much care to hide to a person he doesn’t know that well, or even hardly at all - everyone else on the crew has been there for years, and Jean Bart feels like an outsider. He lingers on the outskirts, still, despite all the conversations he finds himself invited and dragged into.
Maybe he should just up and ask what everyone’s story is. He’s curious, certainly, and it’s largely the lingering sense that he should be silent at all times that’s helping him hold his tongue.
“Why did you join this crew?” he asks instead of any of the other questions floating around his head. Hakugan laughs again, but there’s something else to it, this time. Something quieter, colder, bitter.
“Lots of people from North Blue become pirates,” he says. “And Law - was kind, when he didn’t have to be. It’s the first choice I made that I’ve never regretted.”
Trafalgar Law saves the life of a man he’s had barely one conversation with and didn’t hesitate once in doing so. The wound on Strawhat Luffy’s chest is red and angry still, for now, raw skin and jagged edges barely held together by sutures, but Jean Bart knows as well as anyone else that it’s going to leave a large and unmissable scar.
“Not my best work,” Trafalgar says. “It’s uneven.”
“He’s alive,” Shachi says, brushing hair from his forehead and back under his hat as he sets it back on his head. “I think that counts for something, Law.”
The captain looks troubled, still, and it’s hard to reconcile the man who just saved a life solely because he could with the image that’s created by the newspapers Jean Bart has been reading lately. A man as cruel as they claim wouldn’t do something so kind as that, wouldn’t go out of his way and put himself - even briefly - in danger so he could help.
He’s a damn good captain, Jean Bart thinks as he rubs the slow-healing marks at his wrists, disturbing the new, still-shiny skin. A damn good captain, and an even better man.