Work Text:
Contrary to popular belief, having your father adopt any idiot he comes across does not automatically lead to peace and harmony as a thousand-strong crew. It takes work and conflict management and a lot of diplomacy to get the crew to be anything less than a powder keg. Then after that, it takes a lot of rumor quelling and faction-breaking and anger management classes and mediating conflicts and discipline and anger management and rules and consequences for breaking those rules and—
Marco is glad to be on the main ship. He doesn’t know how he’d manage a crew of his own, as one of Whitebeard’s subordinate captains.
Still. It feels like the water only ever stills when Whitebeard’s about to throw another boneheaded rookie in to disrupt it. And then everyone new goes to Marco to whine about how they don’t wanttttt another brother. And this brother is clearly too much of a handful. And can’t you talk to Pops, Marcooooo.
And Marco has to snap back that if he could ‘talk to Pops’ then no one would have joined the crew after he was twenty and a fight breaks out and Marco is told to go stand in the corner and take deep breaths while Pops lectures whoever it was on the meaning of family.
Whitebeard orders Ace onboard after Ace’s very short attempt at a fight. It’s Jozu who scoops the kid up, careful not to jostle him too much, but it’s Marco who has to temper protests from some of the younger crewmates.
“He tried to fight Pops.” Marco is informed by a young crewmember. Early twenties, Jozu’s division, talent for twin blades, the kid’s gotta be…. Toon Ives? That seems right. He used to sail with that other kid, the one Whitey Bay’s claimed as her new quartermaster.
“Who hasn’t?” Marco shoots back, “Didn’t your old captain try to poison him?”
“That was different!” Ives responds, but doesn’t specify how it was different exactly. “Anyway, the kid’s too young, and way too much trouble. You’ve seen his bounty!”
“The kid is young.” Marco agrees, “Which is why you’re going to treat him like a little brother, and let him make mistakes.”
Toon Ives glares sullenly at him, before remembering who, exactly, he’s glaring at. And remembering that Marco could crush him like a grape. Ives straightens up immediately and wipes the glare off his face, nodding in agreement and looking a little pale. Marco gives him a smile and a pat on the shoulder, back to being family, “Good. I’m sure you’ll make a great older brother.”
“But I don’t want another brother.” Ives tells him, insistently. As Marco walks away he lets out a low whine, “Marcoooo, can’t you talk to Pops?”
Marco ignores him. There’s a lot to prepare.
Pops isn’t known for kidnapping captains, but it does happen, did happen. It was more common before Whitebeard was an emperor, in that period before his reputation was one of steady victories and peaceful territories. A young upstart would try to target the man sailing with fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred vulnerabilities he called his sons, assuming Whitebeard would be weaker with his worry for them. Whitebeard put a lot of foolish men on their ass, back then. Jozu was one, once. So was Haruta, and Whitey Bay, and Namur, and Andre, and—
There were a lot. The older crewmembers know the drill.
There’s some shuffling around. Marco has to reduce a few subdivisions down to skeleton crews. The crew is a powder keg on a good day, but like hell is Marco going to let Portgas D. Ace be the thing that sets it off.
Marco takes it as a good sign when he sees that the food they’ve been leaving out has been eaten. He does not expect to walk into the mess to find Ace sitting in plain view, surrounded by dishes.
One of Thatch’s underlings (most of the division commanders have taken to calling them his Thatchlings) waves him discreetly over to the door of the Galley, in between darting out to set food out on the communal serving table.
Thatch tugs Marco inside the galley, clearly looking frazzled. “This is his twentieth serving, Marco,” he hisses. “He’s stressing my galley crew out. He hasn’t slowed down once and we’re still undecided on whether we should start making more.”
Marco peeks out from the Galley door to watch Ace tip a bowl of porridge back like it’s a shot. The Thatchlings have stopped setting food out on the communal tables and have just started delivering it directly to him.
“We might be looking at the second coming of Monkey D. Garp,” Thatch mutters. “I saw him eat a salami like it was a carrot. Just plain salami. No bread.”
Marco… has no idea what to say here. Thatch watches with him, as Ace inhales a plate of mini-sausages.
If Thatch were complaining, that would be something Marco could respond to, but he’s not. He’s just… bewildered. Marco’s a little bewildered too. It’s not unusual for people to have big appetites, but for Ace to go from cussing Pops out to be comfortable enough to eat his food out in the open is a pretty fast shift in opinion.
Ace picks up an omelet like it’s a sandwich and finishes it in a scant few bites. Thatch lets out a dismayed sound.
“We… need to be welcoming.” Marco tries. Thatch looks over at him and instantly clocks how lost he looks, snorting.
“Good luck then, Mr. Welcoming Committee.” He says, slapping Marco on the back. He places a plate into Marco’s hands and shoves him gently out of the doors.
Marco makes eye contact with Ace before he approaches, just in case Ace spooks. Ace meets his eyes and keeps eating. Crunching his way through an apple, core and all. Marco makes a point of asking politely if he can eat next to Ace, and takes Ace’s food-filled grunt as an affirmative.
As soon as Marco sets his plate down, Ace reaches over to grab a strawberry off of it. He pops it into his mouth, barely bothering to chew. He doesn’t even watch Marco for a reaction. This isn’t a provocation, he just doesn’t care.
“That was mine,” Marco tells him, mind going blank.
“So?” Ace responds, mouth full of half-chewed food, “‘s not anymore.”
Then he reaches over to swipe Marco’s bread too.
“I want him gone.” Marco tells Thatch. “He ate off my plate.”
“Table manners is what gets you pissed off?” Thatch asks, raising an eyebrow. “He’s eaten through a quarter of our breakfast budget and shows no signs of stopping, but table manners is what gets you?”
“He’s rude, eats off my plate, has no social skills, and is trying to kill Pops,” Marco says, huffing. “I want him gone.”
Thatch, who has heard Marco rant about new brothers, laughs. “Marcoooooo, can’t you talk to Pops, Marcooooo.”
Ace only stops eating once, and that's when Whitebeard walks in. Unfortunately, a Thatchling has just put an entire cooked chicken on his lap and Ace looks like this might be the happiest he’s ever been, and so he can’t stand up to attack him. So Ace just points and says (with his mouth full), “Once I’m done you’re dead.”
Whitebeard gives him a fond look, eyes warm as he says “I better drink my coffee fast.” with a laugh. Every nurse in the mess hall turns to glare bitterly at him.
“Pops—” Marco starts to say, because his caffeine intake is a well-worn conversation.
“Oh, let him.” Ace interrupts (again, with his mouth full), “That old man is going to need every advantage he can get.”
Whitebeard smiles again, fond and warm-eyed.
“See, a good son allows his father some indulgences.”
“I’m not being a good son.” Ace responds, finally having swallowed his food. “I’m hoping you die of a caffeine induced heart attack while fighting me.”
“Hm,” Pops says, “Sounds to me like you need every advantage you can get.”
Ace pauses, looking first confused then embarrassed and angry. He grips the table and leaves scorch marks on the surface, and the smell of burnt furniture starts to slowly fill the room as Ace slowly begins to transition from human to living flame. The fat from the chicken he was making his way through begins to sizzle again.
Pops, too, turns from father into emperor. Indulgently straightening his back and moving to grip Murakumogiri’s handle. Spoiling his newest son by accepting the fight that’s rapidly approaching. Somewhere in the distance, Thatch starts yelling about no fights in the mess hall.
Ace manages, after discovering that lunch starts right after breakfast, and after discovering that he can face plant onto the sun-warmed planks of the upper deck and experience the most blessed cross between a food induced coma and an afternoon nap, to make another attempt on Whitebeard’s life.
It’s creative. Most people don’t directly charge at the strongest man in the world like they’re expecting to win a fist-fight.
“I don’t like him.” A nurse whispers to Marco, as they watch Ace slowly lose the fight against Pops.
“You don’t have to like him.” He responds.
Barely an hour later Marco finds her leaning over Ace and dabbing at his wounds with a cotton swab. He cracks a joke and she laughs, her smile genuine. Ace lights up at the attention.
Marco smears a burn paste across his father’s fingers. It’s just a little worse than a sunburn, but Pops is getting old. He heals slower now.
“He caught me when I was waking up from a nap.” Pops explains, an indulgent smile on his face, “Didn’t use armament fast enough.”
Marco wants to ask him to change his mind about Ace, but he knows that this early on, the suggestion wouldn’t be taken well. No one ever likes the new kid, not until it’s clear that there's no getting rid of him. Usually, not even until there's an even newer kid.
“I don’t like this.” Tate tells Marco, while Whitebeard is in earshot. She says this and not him, because if Pops protests she can use that to start lecturing him about burn care.
Whitebeard raises an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t comment.
Ace’s old crew slips away in the night. Which was expected. What isn’t expected is Ace showing up for breakfast in the morning without them.
Ace’s new strategy is incomprehensible to the crew, mostly because it looks like he’s tilting at windmills. Whitebeard is ever the indulgent father, dodging or gently parrying Ace’s strikes. Pops’ is trying rather hard not to injure him, which is made all the more difficult by Ace’s disregard for both of their continued survivals.
Izou thinks this kind of reckless single-mindedness is a mark of a swordsman. “He who is not ready to die, must not attempt to kill another.”
Vista, on the other hand, just thinks the kid has a death wish. He tuts over the lack of strategy.
Most of the damage done is absorbed by the ship—to the displeasure of their shipwrights.
“Your crew’s gone.” Marco tells Ace, when he comes slinking around for a disinfectant for the small cuts littering his back. (He’d splintered the deck, falling straight into the hold.) He’s used his devil fruit to burn the splinters left in and under his skin, but the cuts remain. Curiously, he turned his devil fruit off when he slammed through the ship. He knows how much damage fire can do.
“Good.” Ace tells Marco, “The only reason they were here is because of me. I shouldn’t be dragging them down like that.”
Point for deathwish, Marco thinks. “When we picked you up, they insisted on following you aboard.” Marco reminds him, “They didn’t want to sail without you.”
“They’ll be fine.” Ace rolls his eyes at Marco’s concern. “They can handle New World weather.”
“You didn’t go with them.” Marco points out.
“They don’t need me to.” Ace responds, “Deuce is with them. I’ll catch up once I’ve killed Whitebeard.”
Marco doesn’t quite snap at him, but he’s still more curt than he should be, handing Ace the disinfectant.
Marco and Tate have their heads bent over the month's medical expenses when Rakuyo kicks the door down and carries a soaking wet Ace inside.
Ace, with a heaviness to his limbs, looks deeply miserable in Rakuyo’s arms.
“Do not put him on the beds.” Tate says immediately, “He’ll soak into the mattress and it’s going to mold.”
“He’s a patient, he gets a bed.” Marco argues, but Tate gives him a long glare.
This is a well worn argument. They have a few waterproof surgical tables, but most of the time, the wettest medical emergencies take place in the field, and so the infirmary is instead packed with soft, plush beds… which absorb moisture like a sponge.
Pops won't let them change the mattresses to something more practical, because every attempt to change things results in everyone complaining at him about how uncomfortable the new beds are, and Pops is a sucker who hates practicality. It’s up to Tate and Marco to sort the beds out. Marco thinks everyone, soaked or not, should get a bed in the interest of non-discrimination. Tate thinks that Marco can start making that call when he’s the one responsible for changing the sheets and hauling the mattresses out to dry.
“Saltwater doesn’t mold things.” Ace responds, having trouble speaking clearly. “It’s got salt in it. Freshwater molds things.”
“Is that so?” Rakuyo humors him, gently lowering Ace onto the planks of the infirmary. Ace’s arm is limp, thrown over Rakuyo’s shoulder to make him more comfortable to carry, but Marco can see his fingers curl in an attempt to keep holding on to Rakuyo. “You know a lot.”
“Yeah.” Ace responds, wheezing a little now that his back is on the floor. “I’m kind of an expert.”
“I think he’s got bruised ribs.” Rakuyo tells Tate and Marco, as they kneel on either side of Ace. “Probably a concussion too. Pops knocked him overboard by accident and Namur had to jump in after him. His speech is slurring, and it’s getting worse.”
Ace’s fingers keep twitching. His whole arm is trying to curl in on itself in short bursts. Marco frowns at it while Tate shines a light into Ace’s eyes.
“His pupils look fine” Tate confirms, “There could be a lasting effect from the sea? Maybe he got salt water in a cavity somewhere and it’s still affecting him.”
“I’m gonna throw up.” Ace’s speech is slurred, and he closes his eyes, “I fucking hate the ocean.”
“No, that’s not it.” Rakuyo tells them, “He’s still able to use his devil fruit. In fact, I think he’s having a hard time not using it. He singed my arm hair off the first time I picked him up.”
“I said sorry.” Ace whines. His arm jerks towards himself again. “Can I get off the floor?”
“He’s twitching.” Marco tells her, before he gently takes Ace’s arm and stretches it back out. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see a rash forming.
“I fell on a jellyfish.” Ace mumbles, which explains it. “When I was knocked overboard. It was huge. Pink.”
Rakuyo starts laughing at him.
“I’ll get the vinegar.” Tate says, promptly getting up to do just that, leaving Marco to finish checking Ace’s condition.
“I don’t want anything with vinegar in it.” Ace tells Marco, “I seriously feel like I’m going to throw up.”
Marco thinks for a moment about explaining that the vinegar is there to neutralise the jellyfish’s stingers, but Ace lets out a miserable whine and Marco settles for “Do not throw up.”
“I’m gonna.” Ace responds. “Could you at least take me outside so I can throw up on Whitebeard?”
Rakuyo starts laughing harder as Marco sighs. Ace takes that as a no, and starts struggling to sit up on his own. Marco grabs his arm to prevent him from standing. It has the unfortunate side effect of leaving Ace in the perfect position to throw up right in Marco’s lap. Which he does. He does throw up right in Marco’s lap.
This is hardly the first time Marco’s been thrown up on, and he makes a point of not holding anyone’s illness or condition against them. He knows this is something Ace had no control over. Marco’s a doctor, he’s not bothered by being vomited on.
…But it doesn’t exactly improve his opinion of Ace either. Especially not when Rakuyo finds it so funny, and Ace doesn’t even apologise. Not that he should apologise! If he tried to, Marco would tell him that there was nothing to apologise for. ...But most people at least make an attempt to apologise. Instead, Ace just looks at Marco’s lap, and lays back down without a fight.
Tate returns with the bottle of vinegar. “We should really start keeping a bottle with our medical supplies.” She announces, uncorking the bottle, “You would not believe how stingy Thatch was.”
She glances at Marco’s lap.
“Good aim.” She tells Ace.
“Thank you.” Ace says, eyes closed where he’s laying on the floor.
It really doesn’t improve his opinion of Ace.
“What’cha looking at, Pops?” Haruta asks, as Whitebeard squints down at a file.
“A gift from my youngest.” Pops responds, indulgent. Marco glances at Ace, who’s passed out in the rigging. He got tangled a few hours ago and gave up on escaping. Vista had promised to free Ace if he gave up on his assassination attempts, and Ace had stubbornly refused.
They all know he could use fire to burn himself free. It’s curious he hasn’t tried yet.
Nevertheless, Ace is not exactly in the mood or mindset to be sending Pops gifts.
Marco pitches himself over the side of the Moby for the extra air, gliding up to catch the sea-breeze.
Namur watches him from further up the deck, always ready to jump in after him, just as a safety precaution, but Marco knows his own body better than anyone else, and further, he knows the sea. The winds are his territory.
It’s incredibly simple to harness their power and coast gently to land on his Pops’ shoulders, glancing down to read whatever file or letter Ace has deemed to be worthy of a gift.
“Nosy.” Pops mutters, when Marco lands, but he raises the paper so Marco can see.
Ace has written; Whitebeard. I will not rest until you are defeated. Consider this letter a threat on your life. From, Ace. And next to it has drawn a picture of himself burning Whitebeard. There’s an impressive amount of color used.
Marco glances at the rigging where Ace is asleep. So much for not resting.
“He handed you this?”
“He made a paper envelope and had Thatch do it.” Pops says, warmly, “I’m thinking of having it framed.”
“Was this before or after he got stuck in the rigging?”
“We have a temporary truce, until Ace gets out of the rigging.” Whitebeard says, chuckling to himself, “What a little idiot.”
Whitebeard looks a little too fond of the kid, still smiling down at the drawing. The pen has been pressed too hard into the paper, and in places it looks weakened from the amount of ink used to color the flames.
“I think he was excited to use art supplies.” Blamenco tells Marco, from the arm of Pops’s chair. “He made a point of wasting ink on purpose. I think he thinks it's more expensive than it actually is.”
“He’s artistic!” Pops says, still smiling down at the drawing. “Look at the way he drew the flames, so creative.”
“He’s an adult.” Marco reminds him, “He could put more effort into drawing his death threat.”
“It’s the first drawing he’s made me!” Pops laughs, Then he turns to look at Marco, (Marco has to dodge his mustache from swiping him off his shoulder.) “I have all your old drawings too.”
“From when I was ten.” Marco tells him, “Ace’s age makes all of this less charming.”
“How old is he, anyway?” Whitebeard muses, “Haruta can’t figure it out. Shakky’s positive he’s nineteen, maybe twenty, but the marines think he’s still seventeen.”
“How should I know?” Marco grumbles.
Haruta swoops in to distract Pops with a long winding story about just what so-and-so said about Kaidou, and Shanks, and Big Mom, and what they’ve been spotted doing, and when that's done, Thatch comes jogging up to bat his eyelashes while he asks for a budget increase for the food.
“I just want to take care of my littlest brother….” Thatch says, impressively teary eyed, "but he eats like a maniac, and I'm scared there won't be enough for everyone..."
“I admire your commitment to stretching the budget.” Pops responds, not budging.
Thatch deflates in what is maybe 20% actual disappointment, and 80% theatrics. Pops finds it funny whenever a crewmate throws a tantrum, but Thatch has figured out he can get Pops to cave by hour two of dramatic moping. Kingdew, who can see the writing on the wall and doesn’t want dinner to be late again, scoops Thatch up and tosses him over his shoulder.
“Pops, stop antagonizing the kitchen crew, they're stretched thin enough already.” He says, in a rare show of inter-division solidarity. Marco knows his birthday is later this week, and he wants Thatch to make his favorites. “What would we do if poor Thatch had a nervous breakdown?”
Thatch wails dramatically from where he’s draped over Kingdew’s shoulder. Kingdew sighs, equally as dramatic.
“Marco, make them cut it out.” Pops mutters. “Aren’t you the one who’s always up in arms about the budget? Something about mattresses?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marco says, evenly “Actually, this sounds like a perfectly reasonable request. I bet they’ve even filed the right paperwork for it.”
“Paperwork,” Pops scoffs, “Good one.”
Thatch has, of course, filed the paperwork for it. All of the commanders fill out the proper paperwork, and have for years. Whitebeard is always surprised by that, even though he should learn to expect it at this point.
“Bunch of snot-nosed brats, the lot of you,” Pops mutters under his breath, while he checks and double checks the paperwork. Thatch and Kingdew high five as they make their way to the kitchens. Marco waits patiently on his shoulder. Pops will hand the paperwork off to him, when he’s signed off. He always does.
He stamps the papers with his seal of approval, and then shuffles in Ace’s threatening letter so quickly it’s like he doesn’t want Marco to notice.
“One last thing, Marco.” Whitebeard says, as he lifts the papers up to where Marco is waiting, perched on his shoulder. “Untangle Ace from the rigging, alright? He’s going to wake up with a crick in his neck, and he’ll get cold, sleeping in the air like that.”
“Do I have to?” Marco asks, about to leverage just how much he does around the ship.
Pops gives him a disappointed look.
Ace cusses him out while Marco detangles him from the rigging. When it’s done Ace thanks him very politely, but Marco isn’t charmed.
“Stop sending my father death threats.” Marco tells him.
“How else is he going to know I’m going to kill him?” Ace responds, yawning. “Can you help me up to the crows nest? I want to do a sneak attack.”
They stop at an island, ready to let Ace get off and leave them behind. His crew are out there, likely tracking the ship somewhat. He needs to stop and lick his wounds somewhere else. Surely, Marco prays, he’s going to go running for the hills.
Ace doesn’t leave the deck, napping on the railing like he isn’t one rough wave away from falling in and drowning.
“There’s a lot of traffic here.” Marco points out. “You could probably catch a ship off the island. Get some reinforcements. Come back later.”
“Nice try.” Ace says, not opening his eyes, “but I'm not leaving until I kill your father.”
Ace then pulls his hat down over his face. Marco briefly allows himself to imagine shoving him off the railing and into the sea.
“Oh I see how it is.” Whitey Bay says, “When you don’t want someone to join we all have to agree with you, but when I didn’t want Namur, it was all, ‘Ohhh Whitey Bay just be a good big sister… give him a chanceeee. It would make Pops happyyyyy.”
“What the hell?” Namur says, closer than either Marco or Whitey Bay expected him to be, “You didn’t want me to join?”
Instead of being embarrassed or apologetic, Whitey Bay just jabs a finger in his direction.
“You. Are annoying.” She tells him bluntly, “You were back then and you are right now.”
“I am not annoying.” Namur responds, almost comedically offended by this, but Whitey Bay is already waving him off.
“Scram, Marco and I have important things to talk about.” Whitey Bay makes a ‘shoo’ing gesture with her hands.
“Like hell you do. You were just standing around and complaining a few seconds ago.” Namur retorts, “I invited you to my birthday party that year! I thought you liked me!”
“You were annoying and I’m not sorry for saying it.”
“She did like you.” Marco says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She just complained because you showing up meant she wasn’t the baby of the crew anymore.”
“I just can’t believe you didn’t want me to join the crew.” Namur says, with a disbelieving tone.
“You didn’t want Kingdew to join.” Marco reminds him.
“That was different.” Namur responds, without specifying how it was different.
“Marco, my son.” Whitebeard says, while Marco is bent over him checking that tonight’s medical equipment is set up right. “What’s this I’m hearing about you not liking Ace?”
“I know what you’re about to say,” Marco says, “and I swear, this is different.”
“Everyone on this crew is family.” Whitebeard says, sternly. “I don’t care how annoying, how idiotic, or how dangerous they are. I love each and every one of my sons, equally.”
“I’m your first division commander.” Marco points out.
“Your rank is not an indication of how much I love you, it’s an indication of how much responsibility you have. How much of a role model I want you to be to my other sons. They look up to you. I can still say this: I’m very disappointed in you Marco.”
Marco deflates. “Pops. I know that we’re family, but can you blame me for not wanting another little brother?” He says in his own defense, “Everyone has someone they didn’t want joining.”
“Not me.” Pops responds. Marco could point out that that’s because Pops is the one to pick who joins the crew or not, but he doesn’t need to, since he isn’t actually an exception to the rule.
“You didn’t want Oden to join!” Marco retorts.
Pops’ face scrunches up, “That was different.” He says, without specifying how it was different.
“Ace.” Izou says, holding a piece of cloth out to him. Ace raises his middle finger and sets it alight—or it becomes flame, one of the two. Izou carefully sets the corner of the cloth on fire and then frantically puts it out when it catches a little faster than expected.
“Cotton.” Izou announces. “Less heat, please. I just need the fabric to catch.”
“There’s got to be an easier way to tell what’s what.” Ace huffs. “This isn’t like some weird bonding attempt to convert me to be a part of your crew, is it? I promise I’ll burn your weird fabric squares without an excuse.”
“Most of the time fabric comes with a label telling you what it’s made of.” Izou explains, “This came from a marine ship, though.”
“This?” Ace says, lifting a square of deep blue fabric up to the light. “Doesn’t look like the stuff they use to make the uniforms.”
“The marines chased a pirate crew right into our waters. Little Oars Jr. caught them on their way out.” Izou explains, “They had seized the pirate’s loot, so we collected the loot as a toll for getting caught.”
“Sounds like you’re training the marines to get sneakier.” Ace jokes, almost cracking a smile. Izou smiles right back.
“Does it take a lot of training?” Ace mumbles, “Being able to tell what’s what.”
“Not at all.” Izou responds, “Guess what you’re holding.”
Ace regards the deep blue square of fabric in his hands, rubbing it in between his fingers. “Feels fancy. Silk?”
“Let’s see.” Izou says, before lighting the square on fire. Marco is too far away to see what exactly the burning square of fabric tells them, but Izou announces “Rayon, Silk will burn slower, and self extinguish.”
Ace picks up another square. “Cotton,” he guesses, before lighting it.
“Linen.” Izou responds, “It took longer to ignite.”
Thatch, on his smoke break, wanders over to the section of railing Marco is perched on, joining him in blatantly observing Ace and Izou interact.
“Think Izou’s going to be the one who gets him to cave?” Thatch asks. Marco knows better. There’s a stubbornness in Ace that means that these shenanigans are going to last far longer than they should.
Thatch is by no means a new crew member of the Whitebeard Pirates, but for the longest time he was very firmly off the ship when new crewmates were being introduced. Too loyal to ever let Pops be disrespected without a fight, and too close to the food to make it a non-issue. Thatch wasn’t brought on board kicking and screaming like some of them, his ship hit the New World and made one hell of an impressive sprint for Whitebeard's territories.
His skill as a chef had unintentionally attracted the attention of Big Mom, and his skill as a gossip meant he’d somehow heard of Big Mom’s eye on him before she’d even made her move. He’d cried as he begged Whitebeard to save him from his fate in her kitchens. He’s never quite understood how someone could look at Whitebeard and see an enemy instead of a father.
“Did you know he’s been to Wano?” Marco says instead.
Thatch raises an eyebrow. “Wano-Wano? Like, Izou-Wano? Oden-Wano?”
“Do you know any other Wano?” Marco responds, dryly. “He and Izou were talking about the fashion there. Apparently he knows how to weave a hat, and is quite proud of it too.”
“Pretty gutsy, going to Wano.” Thatch says, with a bit of disbelief in his tone. “Then again, the kid seems to be all guts. Challenging Pops to fights like that.”
“I don’t think it’s guts.” Blamenco chimes in. He’s stepping out for his smoke break, joining Marco and Thatch at the rail, “I think he’s just stupid.”
“What about canvas?” Ace asks Izou, eyeing the sails, “If I were to say, light a huge square of canvas alight…”
Izou narrows his eyes. Ace gives him a charming grin.
“Pops, our sails are fire-proof, right?” Thatch calls out, gesturing to Ace, who’s entire upper half is a mild flame.
“Put it out, son.” Whitebeard says, still bleary from his mid-afternoon nap. When Ace’s flames only grow stronger, he gives him an annoyed look, “Marco, If you burn those sails again, you’re paying for them.”
That stops everything in its tracks.
As one, everyone on the deck turns to look towards Marco. Ace even snuffs his flames out.
Marco feels like someone’s dunked a bucket of water over his head.
“Ace.” Whitebeard corrects, a half second later, “I had meant to say Ace.”
Deuce shows up again. With the Spade pirate’s ship. In broad daylight. He looks like he’s geared up for a fight. Notably, he has a small group of retired Whitebeards with him, old crew members that were sailing with them as far back as Oden’s time. Most of them have been retired since Gol D. Roger’s execution, unwilling to keep up with the recklessness required to make it through the new Golden Era.
“Emperor Whitebeard.” Deuce of the Spade Pirates says, with a half-bow. It’s a lot more respect than Ace has ever given him. There’s a cool steel behind his gaze. “I’m Deuce of the Spade pirates.”
“I’m aware.” Whitebeard responds leisurely. Marco watches a tremor run up Deuce's spine. It’s tough, standing before an emperor like this.
“You—you have my captain, which makes me acting captain in his absence.” Deuce recites, sounding like he’s reading off of a script. “And in his absence, I have recruited several more crew members, most of which you should recognize, as they have previously sailed with you.”
Marco moves from his perch on the topmast, flying down to settle on Pops’ shoulder. Deuce flinches at the sudden noise and movement. There’s a tremor in his hands.
“I am… I am officially challenging you to a Davy Back fight, as the acting captain of the Spade Pirates.” Deuce continues, once he realises Marco’s just there to watch. “Your former crew members, in exchange for my captain.”
“Most Davy Back challengers don’t specify who they plan on taking.” Marco points out.
“I just figured since Whiteb—Emperor Whitebeard— is so fond of his sons… this would assure him I didn’t plan on taking anyone else?”
Whitebeard hums, and the deck quiets.
“No.” Whitebeard delivers his verdict.
“No?” Deuce echos, a little high pitched.
“I don’t gamble on my sons.” Whitebeard responds.
The old crew burst out laughing. The oldest goes to clap Deuce on the shoulders. “Told you it wouldn’t work, mini-Captain. But the spine on you almost had me doubting myself!”
Deuce lets out a long, frustrated noise, almost sounding horrified.
“You did good!” Another one says, lifting Deuce right up into a hug, “Look at you! That was a good showing against an emperor.”
“This means we’re going to have to fight an emperor's crew, you know.” Deuce says, likely meaning for it to be quieter. “Your former crewmates.”
“Pssh, never mind that.” Says the last one, ruffling Deuce’s hair. “I’ve fought with everyone over everything at some point. We’ll give it all we got!”
Then he points at Marco. “You still owe me fifteen Berri from seven years ago!”
Ace emerges from below decks, as if he can sense a brawl is happening. He just barely misses the tail end of it, but he zeros in on his second-in-command, who’s escaped fairly unscathed.
“Deuce!” Ace exclaims, grinning so widely his newly healed lip splits again. “You’re here!”
“Oh my god.” Deuce responds, sounding horrified. Ace is incredibly battered. “What the hell have they been doing to you?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.” Ace responds with a roll of his eyes, but he’s still grinning wide as he slings an arm around Deuces shoulder and starts to lead him across the deck. He looks excited, young, “I’m close to beating him, I can feel it. And with you here, you can help me analyze my approach. And we can hang out after when I’m in the infirmary!”
Deuce stops so suddenly that Ace, weakened by weeks of fights, actually stumbles into him.
“Ace.” Deuce says slowly. “Captain.”
Ace glances at him, “Deuce.” He says, with a fond and goofy grin.
“Ace.” Deuce says, grabbing the front of Ace’s open shirt. “Are you. Still. Trying to kill Whitebeard?”
“Obviously?” Ace responds.
Deuce lifts Ace clean off the ground, but Ace doesn’t seem too worried. Mostly amused.
“ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?” Deuce yells.
“Well, no.”
“IT’S BEEN TWO MONTHS. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DYING FOR TWO MONTHS. I THOUGHT THEY WERE TORTURING YOU OR STARVING YOU.” Deuce shakes him as he yells, Ace lets him and looks mostly unbothered, “AND NOW I FIND THAT YOU’VE JUST HAD FREE REIGN OF THE ENTIRE SHIP AND ARE STILL TRYING TO KILL WHITEBEARD.”
“Not free reign, they don’t give me access to the fridge.”
“DID YOU THINK OF THE CREW? AT ALL?”
“Course I did!” Ace responds, “You had them. I wasn’t worried for a second.”
That takes the wind right out of Deuce’s sails.
“I wasn’t—”
“Deuce, if I didn’t trust you with them, I’d have rushed back.” Ace tells him, clapping the guy's shoulder. “But I do, and therefore I can properly focus my time on killing Whitebeard.”
Deuce looks horrified.
“So what you’re saying is it’s my fault.” Deuce says. “You didn’t have to worry about the crew, so you stayed.”
Ace tilts his head to the side.
Deuce turns to Whitebeard, who’s been watching this like a cat watches mice.
Deuce bows, “Emperor Whitebeard, sir.”
Ace’s entire attitude changes on a dime, going from warm to icy in a second. He tries his hardest to haul Deuce upright by the collar of his shirt, as he hisses “Don’t you dare apologise on my behalf, Deuce.”
“With your permission, I would like to stay.”
Both Ace and Whitebeard freeze at that. Then Whitebeard tips his head back and lets out a long, loud laugh. In some sort of pseudo-reverse-hostage situation, it looks like Deuce is staying.
They don’t have to worry about leaving convenient places to sleep anymore. Ace has a permanent bed in the corner of the infirmary. Pops has been careful, as the attempts climb higher and more reckless, but even Whitebeard can be startled sometimes. Ace’s skin is more bruised than tan, these days. There have been no fractures, yet. But Ace had torn his rotator cuff on his dominant arm and refuses to rest it. Marco’s worried that he’s concussed as well. His reaction time has been slowing, recently.
He wakes at odd hours, roams the ship like a ghost, until he finally tuckers himself out to go back to sleep.
Ace drops down from the rigging at dusk, and catches Pops by surprise. Pops responds by smacking him up nearly the length of the entire ship. Ace slows his fall with a blast of fire that, thankfully, does not set the planks alight.
He struggles to get up, with both the rotator cuff injury and the severe bruising on his chest. Marco can see from here that they’ve just had their first fractures from Ace. His ribs are broken.
“Pops!” Marco says sharply, glaring.
“He caught me by surprise!” Whitebeard defends, “He’s getting better at that, you know.”
From across the ship, Ace is still struggling to rise. His shoulders can’t take his weight, hands slipping several times as his arms give out on him. But even with his face pressed into the planks the grin on his face is wide and victorious.
Marco finds Whitebeard comfortably settled in the infirmary, all the nurses around him working in complete silence, signing at each other and Whitebeard whenever they need to say something. Whitebeard is in an uncomfortable little hospital chair, sitting next to where Ace is resting.
“This is the fifty-third fight.” Marco tells him. “Have you considered—”
Approximately thirty of his sisters and nurses shush him all at once, exaggeratedly gesturing towards where Ace is sleeping afterwards. Marco can tell that Pops is trying not to laugh out loud at him. He doesn’t glare at his sisters, even though he knows they enjoyed shushing him like that.
He’s not good at sign language. Still, he’s a medic and there was a real panic a few years ago that Pops might be losing his hearing with age—a panic that turned out to be unwarranted, Pops was just ignoring stuff he didn’t want to hear—so Marco’s fluent, he’s just slow and with a very obvious and clumsy ‘accent.’
“This is the fifty-third fight.” Marco signs, Pops lets out a clearly fake yawn, leans back, and makes a point of shutting his eyes.
Marco puts himself in the corner so he can count to ten before he does anything irrational. His sisters don’t bother to quiet their snickers.
Marco is in the middle of drafting a very mean letter to his beloved captain, when Ace starts to stir, letting out a wounded sound.
“You’re alright.” Whitebeard says quietly, “No harm will come to you here.”
Ace’s eyes crack open, and he struggles to turn his head towards Whitebeard. With how out of it he looks, he must still be reeling from the effects of the pain medication. His entire face scrunches up just so he can frown. “W…why?” He rasps out. It’s clear he means why are you here? And not Why did you throw me fifty meters up the deck of the Moby after I tried to cave your skull in. Marco gets up to get him a glass of water.
“You’re injured.” Whitebeard says, “I thought I would make your next attempt more convenient, so you didn’t have to move much.”
Ace gives him a weirdly charming grin, still tired and hopped up on pain medication. He moves to grab onto Pops’ hand, wraps his hand around one of his fingers, makes a very determined face like he’s going to start his next murder attempt right then and there… and drifts back to sleep, expression melting into peaceful neutrality.
Pops looks at the hand wrapped around his finger with such affection, glancing up at Marco to check if he’s seeing it too.
Marco presses a palm to his forehead, not that it does much. It’s over.
They are never ever getting rid of Portgas D. Ace.