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Deuce was tired. It was his fourth or fifth all nighter in a row in the med bay on the Moby Dick after the war, and the injured kept fucking coming in.
The worst of them had been treated by now, thankfully. Haruta and their division had been in charge of triage, and he would have to buy the whole division something nice after this shitshow was over, because they had done an excellent job. The patients that Deuce and the other members of the first division were treating now were minor injuries, stab wounds that weren’t too deep that they were bleeding out, but deep enough to need stitches.
If the him from years ago, when he started practising medicine, saw him refer to stab wounds that needed stitches as minor injuries, he was pretty sure younger him would have a heart attack.
But he had to keep helping. With Whitebeard gone, the crew was like a chicken without it’s head, and the first division was the only thing keeping people somewhat stable and sane.
Marco waved at him as he walked deeper into the med bay, into-
He shook his head, and refocused on the stitches on one of the poor fourth division members, who hadn’t even been out in the fight. They had just accidentally been attacked by another crewmate in the kitchen, who had thought they were a marine because of the white chef’s coat.
“All done.” He tenderly applied some antiseptic cream the the wound, and covered it up with gauze and an adhesive bandage. “Take it easy, no moving heavy objects, twisting, or getting into fights.”
“Got it doc. Listen, the other fourth division members and I, we just wanted to let you know that we’re hoping that-”
“Stop. I know, and it’ll be… okay. Go get some rest Tip, okay?” He smiled as genuinely as he could as the chef put his shirt back on.
“Alright doc. There’ll be some hot drinks comin’ round for all the doctors and nurses soon, keep an eye out.” They pat him on the shoulder and walked out of the small curtained area that had become his workspace for the time being.
“Next!” He yelled out, and got out the disinfectant. He was in for another long night.
“Hey. Hey. Hey!”
Deuce was startled awake. There was half-dried drool coating his cheek and chin, and his neck was ridiculously sore. As he blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes, he realised where he had fallen asleep.
Still in his workspace, a half empty and cold coffee cup sitting next to his arm, and one Marco the Phoenix in front of him.
“Whuh?” Deuce said eloquently.
“The Surgeon of Death is back yoi , says he’s got news, c’mon.” Marco raised an eyebrow at Deuce’s sleepy confused expression. “How long have you been asleep here?”
“Last person I remember seeing was Laney from the eighth division?” He stretched his arms, wincing at the uncomfortable twinge it sent through his muscles.
“Blues, that was at least two days ago yoi .” The first division commander shook his head.
“Didn’t you guys look for me?” Deuce stood up shakily, and Marco quickly took his arm to stabilise the younger doctor.
“We thought you had gone back to your cabin, and didn’t want to disturb you yoi .” Marco sighed as he walked Deuce deeper into the med bay. “I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, with everything yoi .”
Deuce didn’t respond, and allowed Marco to support him for another few steps before he awkwardly disentangled their arms. He knew that the older man was probably looking at him with a sad expression, so he kept his face straight ahead and continued to walk.
Eventually they reached the last area of the med bay. The surgery rooms. Trafalgar Law, the Surgeon of Death, was leaning next to one of the double doors, flicking through a clipboard and scribbling notes.
Deuce’s shoe squeaked against the linoleum that had a very suspicious blood stain on it, and Law’s head shot up. He looked worse than Deuce probably had when he woke up. There were dark, dark circles under his eyes, and his neat goatee had descended into a mess of stubble.
“Phoenix-ya, Deuce-ya.” Law tucked the clipboard under his arm, grabbing his long sword from where it had been resting next to him. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”
“Is he awake?” Deuce asked, and immediately kicked himself. Law would have led with that if it was the case!
“Not right now. He woke up briefly when I came in earlier, but I suspect it was only due to my scan.” The surgeon sighed, and used his elbow to open the door slightly. “Now good news, or bad news?”
“Bad.” Marco said before Deuce could say anything else.
“It’ll be a very long and very painful recovery.” Law walked into the surgery room, and the pair of doctors hurried in behind him.
The room was almost offensively white, save for some more blood stains that no one had bothered to clean up yet. There was only one bed in this room, hidden behind curtains. There were sounds of various medical devices radiating out from the small cubicle, and Deuce resisted the urge to slam his hands over his ears. It was overstimulating as hell, and the idea of what lay on that bed, obscured by the curtain, made him want to either rush over and cry over the bed, or run desperately out of the room to cry.
He had to remain somewhat professional though. Trafalgar Law was doing them an unimaginable favour, and any hope they might have for an alliance in the future relied on this communication with the pirate captain.
“And the good news?” Marco asked, popping Deuce’s thought bubble.
“He’ll recover.” Law sat in one of the chairs haphazardly placed around the room, passing the clipboard he was engrossed in earlier to Marco. “Everything I have on his surgery, methods I used, estimated recovery times, plans, are in that.”
“Thank you yoi” He flicked through the pages briefly, and his eyes widened. “You-”
“I know what I did.” The captain’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You can protest my methods of organ harvesting, or you can have a dead second division commander.”
Deuce risked a glance at the page Marco was on, and winced slightly.
“They weren’t alive, were they?"
“Of course not.” Law scoffed. “I’m not a butcher, despite what the Marines say.”
A beat of silence followed, and Deuce couldn’t help but look at the hidden bed once again.
“You can go see him, if you want. He’s stable.” He leaned back in the chair comfortably. “I’ll be sticking around for another day or two to ensure he remains that way. If you have no complaints, Phoenix-ya. This is your ship after all.”
“We can arrange some accommodation for you yoi. Would you-”
Whatever Marco was saying faded into background noise as Deuce stepped closer and closer to the curtains. His hands were trembling, he noticed. From his nerves, and from the lack of adequate nutrition over the past days of treating patients non-stop.
Pulling the curtain aside was the same as ripping a bandaid off.
And there he was.
It felt unnatural seeing his captain, for that is what he was always going to be, so still. Even when he slept, or collapsed in a narcolepsy episode, he was moving. A twitch of his hand, the constant moving of his chest, up and down, up and down, with his breathing.
But he was too still here. A machine was breathing for him, and his chest was moving minutely, encased in bandages. His tan skin was pale, and there were too many tubes coming in and out of him to count.
Deuce rubbed at his eyes harshly. If he was awake, he wouldn’t want him to be crying.
Hell, he could practically imagine what would happen if he was awake.
He would walk in, sit next to his bed, tear up a bit.
And Ace would turn to face him and smile, that beautiful smile that lit up rooms, and made him feel like nothing bad could ever happen again.
He would say something like;
“What’s the big deal Deu? Mad that another man got to do surgery on me before you did?” And laugh, while he would try and stop Ace from tearing his stitches.
And he would kiss his captain, his stupid self-sacrificing captain and say;
"N ever do anything that stupid again”
But Ace was still asleep. And Deuce began to cry.