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If Nami had to live a life that wasn’t one as a pirate, she’d have shot herself long back in Cocoyashi.
Vastless blue wasn’t a part of the glamorous sceneries she fantasized about as a child, the ones she fervently prayed for under thin covers she wished were silk. Regardless of where the Thousand Sunny takes them, she still feels at home wherever the sun shines, reminded of tropical weather and competing with Nojiko to see who can throw a rock the farthest into the ocean.
The same sun that watched her work under Arlong, all by herself, to working with her newfound family (a family that gives her stress migraines that could kill a small child). Sun that Bell-mère basked under with a newspaper in her down time, stretched out like a cat, on the floor by the big window in the kitchen (she’d let Nami sit beside her with her maps, wrapping an arm around Nami’s waist, and they’d soak up the warmth of the sun’s love until it disappeared under the horizon).
However long gone she’s been, Bell-mère lives; hasn’t aged a single day in Nami’s memory. At the same time, she remains dead as can be, her grave a stone cold piece of evidence. They’re all too alike, she and her mother. Her quick temper gets her face scrunched up in anger the same way Bell-mère would squint and glare at her or Nojiko when they squabbled with each other; her proud stance adopted from the way Bell-mère stood without fear in front of Arlong’s rifle; her most genuine smile an exact copy of Bell-mère’s, mischief etched into the curves of her lips and smile lines etched into fair skin.
They’re two sides of the same coin. Bell-mère’s legacy is unapologetically a pirate, and, if anything, Nami owes no debt to anyone— even in death. She would’ve never followed ‘just’ and ‘righteous’ path for nothing but a memory of a loved one. She knows Bell-mère saw the foolishness of the system— and she wouldn’t feed into it.
Even so, she looks into the teary doe eyes of a Marine as Tashigi cries: “So please, I’m begging you… let me take care of the children!”
She has no power or intimidating aura that radiates the safety that Marines promise. And yet, Nami is completely reassured.
Doe eyes, pleading earnestly. Pure and steadfast in good. Kind in a way that she hadn’t seen from any Marine but the best there ever was.
The weather in Punk Hazard, strange as it may be, blows just the right direction and the memories of it all leaves her unsteady on her feet. Determination in Tashigi’s eyes reminds her of her happiest years, of the time her mother, stubborn as an ox, refused to love her with anything less than all she had. “You didn’t come from my womb,” Bell-mère whispered to her one night, crouching by her bed when she thought Nami was asleep. “But you’ll never escape being my daughter.” The hand that stroked her back; graceful with the mastery of fine motor skills that come with age, the one that traced her circles on her spine with her middle finger in the way she knew would calm Nami instantly, offered nothing but motherly love to her. The words Bell-mère uttered with the condescending cadence of “I know what’s best for you,” tasted bitter in her mouth, but now only tastes like truth, like divine destiny; mother and daughter, regardless of stormy nights or pirates or anything that would keep the two apart. Nami had kept her face turned away, buried in bed sheets heavy with the fragrance of the sun that dried them and the cologne that Bell-mère dutifully applied every morning, even though it had always been disguised by dirt and sweat after she finished working in the orange grove (“Even I like to feel pretty sometimes. You like smelling it too!”) and it became a scent so unforgettable she’d recognize it like a bloodhound recognizes deer.
“Your… perfume,” Nami catches herself saying.
Tashigi looks a little miffed at the sudden change of topic. “Cologne; but yes, what about it?” (She can almost hear Bell-mère, chiding, “Cologne, Nami. Isn’t this sage so much nicer than a vanilla or a cupcake perfume?”)
“It’s lovely.” She says it so softly it surprises herself, letting some uptight Marine see such a buried part of herself. She says it, hoping Tashigi won’t catch onto whatever hidden emotions have attached themselves to those two uttered words. “S-Suit’s a beautiful girl like you perfectly,” Nami recovers, charisma to the max to cover her blunders and winking in what she thinks is a confident manner. A half-assed attempt at disguising the weakness, the double meaning behind her slip of the tongue, even if a part of her wants to spill her guts out to the soft-hearted woman standing before her.
Oblivious, Tashigi blushes. “Thank you… Wait— I meant— Please! The children. Please?” Nami can’t help the grin that tugs at her lips.
“Go ahead,” she sighs, and waves her hand nonchalantly. “As long as you take care of them. I wouldn’t want them near Luffy anyways— who knows what strange things he’d teach them.” Tashigi, whether or not she meant it, returns the grateful smile and god, the way her eyes crinkle and the strangely endearing way she fumbles with her glasses to scrub her tears away has Nami’s heart skipping a beat. Her years spent around the worst of the worst have taught her that good people are rare to come across— and she longs to cling onto those people, the people that “do the right thing” for the sake of making right by everyone.
Even as snow stings every inch of exposed skin, Nami can hardly feel the cold as her gaze lingers on Tashigi's demure quirk of her lips. An unwavering stare as she wonders what otherworldly powers are at work, breaking down her protective walls of resolve.
Home is only an arms length away from her.