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Doflamingo is draped over an armchair, reading and drinking a rather excellent wine, when the den den rings. He considers ignoring it for a moment, but sighs and pulls it closer with a string. The den den looks rather alarmed, until he lifts the receiver and its expression melts into an impression of Gladius.
"What do you want?" Doflamingo says, brisk and sharp.
When he speaks, Gladius sounds unusually hesitant. "Young Master," he says, respectful and subdued. He hesitates. "Diamante wanted me to deliver a message. He may have a new lead on your brother."
Doflamingo goes still.
More than ten years, he's been looking for Rocinante. And in all that time, every trail had gone cold. False leads and dead ends; nothing but disappointment. He has never stopped looking-- he can't, that's his little brother-- but, deep down, he is certain that Rocinante is dead.
And yet, every time some new hint arises, a new trail to chase, he can't help but follow it, dying hope trailing in his wake.
"Tell me," he orders.
The den den tracks Gladius' frown. "There's a man who just got caught up in a fight at the bar-- Acacia's, down on 5th? Diamante says he fits the description."
Gladius is quite eagerly throwing Diamante under the ship. Doflamingo appreciates that. He likes to know who to blame when things go wrong. "A fight?"
"He managed to get on the wrong side of Shovel Anzu and the Six Graves Pirates," Gladius says. Doflamingo recognizes the name. It's a crew that's been making headlines in the North Blue recently. Anzu, their captain, has a bounty of sixty thousand berri. "I didn't see how the fight started, but--" There's a crash on the other end of the line, and Gladius laughs. "This guy can hold his own! I'm a little surprised, to tell you the truth. He doesn't look like much. He's tall though. Really tall."
It's as subtle a hint as Gladius ever gives. He's hesitant to take responsibility for the lead, but it seems like he might have his own suspicions about their mystery guy.
"Well, describe him, then," Doflamingo says. He sets the receiver to the side and pulls on his coat.
"Tall," Gladius repeats. "Blond. Young-- younger than you, probably, but older than me." There are muffled sounds on the other end of the line. "And gutsy, too. He just went out the window, but looks like Shovel and his crew are following."
"I'm going to deal with this myself," Doflamingo says. "You can keep enjoying your night off. Tell Diamante that if this pays off, he'll be rewarded." The threat of punishment if it doesn't goes unspoken.
"One more thing, Young Master," Gladius says quickly. "This guy, he doesn't seem to talk. Unless that's some sort of bluff."
"Hm," Doflamingo says, and hangs up. He kicks open the window to take Sky Path in the direction of the bar. He tries not to think on the way there, and fails.
It could be Rocinante. It could be. But the odds are against it, and dashed hopes hurt too much these days.
He should be numb to it, after all this time-- all these disappointments. Rocinante is dead, most likely. Buried in an unmarked grave on a rotten island. Or not buried at all, bones left to the animals, scattered forever.
Doflamingo doesn't believe in regrets. He knows exactly who to blame for everything that's gone wrong in his life, and someday they'll all burn for it. But he has one regret-- one blame that lies solely on his own shoulders-- and that's Rocinante. He should have held on to him, dragged him kicking and screaming from their worthless father's corpse if he had to. He was angry-- resentful. Couldn't understand what affection Rocinante could still hold for the man, after everything he'd done to them, everything he'd let the world do to them. He'd left him, then, a spiteful punishment for Rocinante's lingering love for a man Doflamingo had rightfully executed.
He's been left to regret it ever since.
Roci, his baby brother. Doflamingo was supposed to protect him; Mother said so.
He drops out of the sky, landing smoothly on the cold ground. There are shouts nearby, clatters and clashes, the telltale sounds of a fight. He follows them lazily, hands in his pockets.
Rounding the corner, he sees the Six Graves pirates, and one more person. Easy enough to identify him as the one he's supposed to be looking for. He really is tall: almost Doflamingo's height. And blond. And scrappy, from the looks of him. It doesn't seem like taking the window exit did him any favours. There are bleeding scratches up and down his arms, and he's still managed to get himself cornered by Anzu's crew.
Shovel Anzu himself is looking worse for wear. A bruise is growing on his forehead, dripping blood, and there's a long slash across his chest. His face is a stormcloud of fury as he lunges at the blond man with sword in hand.
The man seems disinterested, even irritated. He moves into the attack, smooth and purposeful even as the blade drags across his chest, red blooming across his shirt. His sacrifice has left Anzu open, though, and almost before Doflamingo realizes, the knife the man had been concealing in his uninjured hand is buried in Anzu's throat.
It's a vicious kill, instantly lethal. Anzu wheezes. Doflamingo watches his eyes widen and blood bubble in his mouth. The man pulls out the knife, and Anzu collapses, blood pooling fast on the ground. His crew look down at their boss, then up at the blond man in horror. The death of their captain has left them shaken, stunned. None of them move forward to take advantage of their opponent's injury.
Something like pride blooms in Doflamingo's chest. The man's attack has brought him forward, into better light, and now Doflamingo can see the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his strange, ever-so familiar eyes, red-brown.
He looks like Doflamingo. He looks like Rocinante.
Hope feels like victory. A grin spreads across Doflamingo's face.
Though the Six Graves pirates are left abruptly adrift, the man-- does Doflamingo dare call him Rocinante? Is that just tempting fate?-- isn't looking well. The wound across his chest is bleeding rapidly, his shirt already half-soaked. He's pale, jaw tight with pain, and he holds one arm awkwardly against his body. It must have been injured-- a broken collarbone, perhaps?
Whatever the case, Doflamingo has seen enough. He lashes out with his strings. There's a high, sharp sound in the air, almost like the whistle of arrows. Each member of the crew goes still, then drops. Some of them fall in pieces, cleanly sliced in half. The others' heads fall separate from their body. Doflamingo doesn't bother to admire the entrails spilled across cobblestone. He watches, instead, as Rocinante looks up, into the shadows, searching.
He steps out, and shock splashes across Rocinante's face. He raises his knife (there's a faint tremor in his arms. Is it pain or fear?) and takes a step back. Doflamingo raises his hands, though the gesture is more symbolic than genuine. He's never really unarmed, after all.
"Well, well," Doflamingo says smoothly. "When my man called to tell me he might have a lead on my baby brother's whereabouts, I truly didn't expect it to be you, Rocinante."
His brother lowers his knife slowly, with unconcealed suspicion. Doflamingo doesn't blame him, of course. He can hardly believe it himself. He's still not entirely convinced, not really. He'd only expected to kill another source of false hope today.
But those eyes-- their mother's eyes, looking out past a fringe of blond hair. They're colder than he'd remembered, tired and wary. That colour, though-- he's never found its match, save in the mirror.
He doesn't seem to talk, Gladius had said over the phone. The way Rocinante silently meets his gaze, as though he can see straight through sunglasses, Doflamingo suspects that there had been some truth to that warning.
Minding the hand holding a knife, Doflamingo walks closer to Rocinante, casually, as though he isn't resisting the urge to pick up his brother, his baby brother, lost for so long, and hide him away where nothing can ever touch him again. He's bleeding, and the mere sight of it is making Doflamingo wish he'd made the bastards who'd dared corner his brother suffer far longer.
Rocinante wears long sleeves, these days, but Doflamingo catches the wrist of his free hand in an iron grip and holds it up. The cuff slips down, revealing silver-pale scars around the wrists, familiar, familiar. Confirmation.
The eyes, perhaps they could be faked. The similarity, that's a better promise. Rocinante grew up to look more like Doflamingo than he ever could have guessed. But those old, old scars around the wrists, twin to Doflamingo's own-- that's all the proof he needs. This is Roci. He grins at his brother, all teeth.
"Finally, I've found you," he says. It's not relief he's feeling, no, it's... vindication, maybe. Or rage. Catharsis. Nothing ever should have taken away Roci, the last thing Doflamingo truly had of his old life-- the life that was rightfully his. The last of his family. He was always meant to have Rocinante at his side. This is just the world correcting its mistakes.
Roci looks at him with mingled distrust and hope. Doflamingo is tempted to take the knife from him, but decides that, no, Roci can't do much damage with it. Not to him, at least. He's smaller than Doflamingo, by at least a few inches. More slender, too, though there is certainly muscle in the arm under Doflamingo's hand. He has none of the baby-softness Doflamingo remembers left. Only the hardness of anyone left alone in this world.
He's still bleeding. Doflamingo could fix him here, or even use his Sky Path to get back to the base quickly, but if Roci still isn't sure that Doflamingo is who he claims to be, that's the fastest way to get a knife between the ribs.
"Come back with me," Doflamingo offers, a choice that is no choice at all. "That slice looks bad. I can stitch it for you."
Roci looks down, apparently surprised, as if he'd forgotten about it, then sighs silently and sheaths his knife. He gives Doflamingo a sarcastic little lead the way gesture. He can't talk, Doflamingo is sure now. Can't or won't, and there's no difference at the moment. The seething, furious rage at the thought his brother injured badly enough to destroy his voice, or frightened enough to silence it, is enough to keep Doflamingo warm on the cold walk back to base. Diamante and the others are staying out, going to a different bar, so it's just Roci and Doflamingo. There's no need to make mindless chatter, and anything Roci wants to say, he can't.
When Roci stumbles, tripping over flat ground, Doflamingo catches him with a hand under the arm. That hasn't changed either, it would seem. Roci was always clumsy as a kid.
The base is never quiet, except in the early hours of the morning, but at least some of the crew has gone to bed, or out for the night. Judging from the way that he ducks his head, Doflamingo guesses that Roci is nervous about this unfamiliar environment-- or maybe he's still shy. Throwing an arm over Roci's shoulders, Doflamingo pulls him closer (noting, as he does, the way that Roci is shivering. Spider Miles is never a warm town, but at night the air turns positively frigid, and Roci isn't wearing a coat. Doflamingo will have to remember that). Vergo, sitting in the living room going over account books, looks up at them, curious, but doesn't say anything. The crew knows not to interrupt Doflamingo's business.
Roci follows Doflamingo to his rooms, the door shut behind them for some privacy. "Alright," Doflamingo says. "Let me see the damage. Shirt off." He turns away, looking for something to mop up the blood.
There's a double knock on the desk beside him, and Doflamingo looks over at Roci, who gestures at a pen and pad of paper on the table beside him, with a question in the tilt of his head. "Go ahead," Doflamingo says, suddenly desperately curious to know what his brother wants to say.
Roci picks up the pen and then hesitates, looking over at Doflamingo. He scrawls something. Doffy-- Prove it's you?
The childhood nickname is another piece of evidence for Doflamingo to tuck away. "You don't believe me."
Tapping the pen twice, thoughtfully, Roci writes again. I believe you're you. I just don't trust belief.
Smart. Cynical. His baby brother has grown up into a survivor. Doflamingo hadn't quite believed it would happen-- didn't believe that Rocinante would live long enough to be calloused by the world. "What do you want me to tell you? When you were five, you broke a priceless vase and didn't have the sense to blame it on the slaves. Mother was too amused by your honesty to punish you, but you still cried about it for an hour. Do you remember that?"
Roci's eyebrows raise. Vaguely. I think I liked the birds painted on it.
"Proof enough for you?" Doflamingo says. He gestures at the armchair near the window. "You're bleeding on the carpet, baby brother. Let me stitch you up."
Sheepishly, Roci takes the pen and paper and sits down, unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it away from the wound. He winces at the dried blood pulls at the edges of the slice, making it ooze. The scars dappling Roci's chest are no better than Doflamingo had expected, but perhaps not worse than he'd feared. His brother hasn't had the luxury of a powerful Devil Fruit to keep him safe.
Perhaps Doflamingo can't hide the anger on his face at the sight, because Roci looks up at him, suddenly wary. Doflamingo steps back, away to the bathroom to get a cloth to clean up the blood, and a bottle of alcohol for the pain.
When he comes back, Roci has taken the shirt off entirely, and is scowling at the tear in the fabric. "I'll buy you a new one," Doflamingo says. "Tell me, where have you been all these years?" He leans forward to wipe blood away from the wound.
Soundlessly, Roci flinches at the touch. Then he shrugs, not meeting Doflamingo's eyes. He writes, I couldn't wait for you. Too dangerous. I had to get out. It's a messy scrawl. Doflamingo wonders if his handwriting is always so poor, or if his injured arm is the dominant one. He can't remember if Rocinante is left-handed or not.
"And after that?"
Roci shakes his head, deliberately setting down the pen.
Doflamingo can think of a few ways a boy might have survived alone for so long. None of them are kind. If any of his guesses are close to the truth, then it's no wonder Roci doesn't want to admit it.
But his silence, unspoken, unwritten, only makes the rage lurking behind Doflamingo's facade of calm burn hotter. If Roci won't tell him what happened, then Doflamingo can't go out and kill every single damned human who dared lay a hand on his little brother. A whole lifetime of useless, fetid rats, protected only by Roci's silence.
He has to be patient. Rocinante can't hide his years apart forever. He'll talk eventually.
"Here," Doflamingo says, tapping the bottle against Roci's hands. Picking it up, Roci looks at the label and looks up at him, a little skeptical. Doflamingo is pretty sure that the expression is because this is a very pricey bottle of whiskey: not exactly the sort of thing to waste as a painkiller. "Only the best for my brother," he tells Roci with a smirk. Shrugging, Roci takes a swig, and settles back in the chair.
Doflamingo spreads strings between his fingers. Normally, he wouldn't bother giving anyone a warning before stitching them up but-- well, normally, he wouldn't use his strings on anyone but himself. And Roci is so jumpy that it's probably best to let him know what's going to happen before he starts.
Sure enough, Roci narrows his eyes at the fine strings, almost invisible except where the light hits them. But he takes another sip from the bottle and sets it aside, watchful eyes waiting. Doflamingo doesn't need to get too close in order to stitch the wound. He can sit back and watch his strings pull together the edges of skin, tying the tiniest of knots between stitches. The wound is deep and long-- deep enough that Doflamigo can see flashes of white bone. That, he can't fix, but Roci isn't moving like anything is broken.
"You're a vicious one, aren't you?" he says, reaching out to wipe away a drop of blood spilling out of the wound. "I saw you kill that man."
Roci reaches out to pick up the pen again, then hesitates, and his hand drops. He shrugs. His mouth is downturned, whether from the stitches or something else, Doflamingo doesn't know him well enough to say. This realization, that he can't read his brother's face where once Roci was an open book, is irritating. He pulls a knot tight too quickly, just to see recognizable pain cross Roci's face. Doflamingo reaches out to touch his brother's hand, to soothe. There are scars across his fingers too, now that he's looking for them.
"Good," he says. "I'm glad. You've kept yourself safe, all this time."
The twist of Roci's lips is scornful, doubting.
"You're alive," Doflamingo affirms. There is wonder in the words. "I had my doubts, after all this time, but you're alive." Tying off a final stitch, Doflamingo runs a hand across the stitched wound, gently. "I should have known you could survive. You're a Donquixote." He looks up to meet his brother's eyes. They're impenetrable, deep as the sea and twice as cold. Doflamingo is so proud. "You're my brother."
Roci meets his gaze, but he still looks unconvinced. Reaching out for his pen and paper, he breaks the eye contact. Do you have bandages?
Something has happened to Roci, to make him so uncertain. He doesn't understand what a gift his mere presence is. That's a failure of those around him, Doflamingo knows. How could they ever realize who was in their presence? How could they fear and respect Roci as they should? Fools, not to see what was right in front of them, but it is unsurprising. As always, humans are blind to divinity.
He cannot undo the past, much as he wishes, but Doflamingo is here now. He can protect Roci now. Too late, perhaps, when Roci is so clearly capable of protecting himself, but Doflamingo can do it better.
There's a first aid kit, on the bookshelf, left there by one of the Executives. Doflamingo can't recall ever opening it, but he offers it to Roci now, and watches as he begins to pick through the kit.
"I will never let you bleed again," he swears. "I'll punish anyone who ever hurts you."
Once more, Roci meets his eyes. But his gaze is steadier now, more focused. Perhaps this was the right thing to say-- the right promise to make, to keep Roci by his side. He will not let him leave again, and already he begins to pick through plans to bring Roci into the family, to give him a place to belong.
Rather than trying to bandage the wound himself, with an injured arm, Roci holds the bandages out to Doflamingo. Help? he mouths, tilting his head to the side.
With a grin, Doflamingo takes the bandages. "Of course, Roci."
---
Doffy bandages the wound on Rocinante's chest, then sets to work on the scratches on his arms, picking out shards of glass with his hair-thin strings. Through it all, Rocinante stays still and quiet. Silent.
Doffy looks up to meet his eyes, and Rocinante manages a smile. In the reflection of Doffy's glasses, it almost looks genuine.
Doflamingo smiles back.