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Franky hadn’t expected the departure to be so painful. It’s not as if separation is anything new to him – leaving his family behind on Water 7 had been painful on multiple fronts, the three days he’d spent flying across the world had been so heart wrenchingly painful that he’d refused to put on more clothes when he landed so the numbing cold could distract him from the emotional pain – but it’s not any easier this time. So many things got easier with time and repetition – the modifications, the science, the battleships, the connections. The disconnection never got easier. Reskinning his entire body hurt less than this. If he could save himself this pain, he’d do it twenty times over.
The two of you are on the gangplank connecting the dock on Sabaody to the small ship you and he had built – a metal behemoth of a Battle Franky, running on a hyper efficient battery charged by concentrated cola. It’s an impressive little tank, large enough to handle far more than your skeleton crew, small enough for you and Kitton and Gramps to handle as you head home to Karakiri. It’s a piece of him he’s leaving behind – less than you deserve, he thinks, but you’re so grateful for it that the humble words always catch in his throat. If he were a different man, he would simply stay with you, send a message to everyone like Luffy had and continue along studying in the abandoned lab with you until he’d uncovered every single one of Vegapunk’s secrets. But neither of you want that, not in this world, not with both of your dreams on the line, and so it’s time, too soon, far too soon, for him to go.
Two years being so little time when he’s had far less with his nakama seems absurd, but the contradiction doesn’t make the ache lessen in this moment. You’d made the pain of being ripped away from his crew so suddenly dull; it was easier when you were there every morning with a new notebook you’d found or a new trinket to reverse engineer, studying Vegapunk’s unfinished blueprints with him, on a large table with two colas, making each day that he got closer to the reunion he so desperately craved that much easier to get through – except each day he was closer to his return was another day with you over. He hadn’t meant to fall in love – he hadn’t ever meant to focus on anything but building something better for the Sunny, truly formidable machines worthy of the king of the pirates. He hadn’t even realized his heart was breaking until you made a countdown calendar for his final month. You’d been so excited for him, modifying his final packing list and quadruple checking the functionality of the icebreaker drill before you all set out. Each day ended with the excited crossing off of another day on the giant calendar, and it chipped away at his heart like you’d personally driven a diamond tipped chisel into his metal chest. One less day until he reunited with his nakama. One more day with you over and gone.
He pulls his hand from yours – not the big metal thing, but the little one whose fingers intertwine so perfectly with yours, a hand explicitly engineered to fit in yours when his primary hands grew too large with weaponry for even a finger to fit in your palm – and flashes you a winning smile, dropping his sunglasses over his eyes. It’s not quite enough, and he turns away before you can see the tears on his face. He’s no good at hiding them, he’s never been one to hide his sorrow, but he doesn’t want this to be a sad occasion, and when you tug him back to face you, he feels his chest tighten a little too much when he sees the matching tears on your eyes and your matching smile.
“I’ll look for you in the papers.” You whisper, your voice cracking with emotion as you beam up at him, your smile radiant even as your shoulders are shaking from the weight of having to say goodbye. “Make sure they get good photos of you for your new bounty poster, so I can see how you’re doing.” Your fingers are tightly clenched in the fabric of his shirt, one you’d fitted for him after one too many incidents had burnt his shirt to tatters. It was fireproof, waterproof, laser proof, and explosion proof. The buttons were purely decorative, and the armholes stretched around his new forearms and shoulders. It was the perfect outfit to go back to pirating in.
“No problem – the newspaper is going to get the most super angles of my upgraded bod!” Franky poses, his forearms slamming together with a satisfying clunk, and you release your grip on him, taking a tiny step backwards as you stare up at him. He’s watching you so carefully through the tint of his glasses, mesmerized as you fold your hands behind your back and study him the way you did when you were trying to comprehend something, the exact same way you’d copied down Vegapunk’s notes onto whiteboard and stared at them as if focus were the true solution to comprehension. He doesn’t move until you do, until you’ve had your fill, your memory presumably full of this final glimpse of him – maybe the last one you’ll ever have.
The Grand Line was treacherous, even when it was tame – the combination of Agua Laguna hitting his home island every year and being run over by a sea train had taught him that long before he’d ever tangled with CP-9 or Warlords or an honest to goodness Admiral. The New World would only be more so. He thought of how Brook had spent fifty years separated from anyone who cared about him, how he still hadn’t made it back to see his whale friend, and swallowed thickly. It could easily be just as long, even longer before he saw you again. He opens his mouth, the offer half formed before you purse your lips, arms crossing tightly over your chest.
“I won’t hear it, Franky. I’m no pirate.” Your smile is crooked, eyes shimmering with mischief and even more tears. He remembers the same crooked smile when he’d asked if you were going to get in trouble with the Marines for helping him explore. You’d flashed him that cheeky little smile and told him that you’d just tell everyone that you were trying to get rid of the Burning Beast of Baldimore, and then you’d laughed so hard at your own lie that you’d snorted.
“You’ll just have to make Karakiri part of your victory lap, once your captain becomes King of the Pirates.” He nods dumbly as you continue, your voice getting stronger, determined to see this through to the end with at least a little bit of poise. “Get going, you have a ship to get up and running.”
Franky swallows again, then wraps you up in a great big hug, a final squeeze before he strides away quickly, relinquishing his attachment, willing his excitement to reunite with his crew and his ship and his dream to occupy his mind.
“You better bring the Sunny back in one piece! I want a full tour when you come back!” You call after him, and he doesn’t look back, giving you a thumbs up as he trudges through the trees. The cool moss beneath his feet thins and becomes dirt, then packed dirt, and only when he reaches the paved dirt that will lead him to Shakky’s bar does he stop. His fists are clenched by his side, his face is streaked with tears, but he resists the urge to turn back, to get one last look – he knows he’s too far, and it will do him no good, that you’ve pulled up the gangplank and sailed away, that he’ll only see you again when you’ve both reached your dreams. With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head and wipes the tears from his eyes, ready to resume his adventure.