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“So.”
Mr. 9 suppressed a grimace at the sound of his own voice, his usual eloquence diminished in the wake of sheer bewilderment and a heavy dose of abject exhaustion. He hardly knew which way was up anymore. Who could blame him? Escaping the innards of a whale only to nearly have his face caved in by a former associate in a matter of days would rattle anyone.
At his side, Miss Wednesday - Vivi, Mr. 9 reminded himself with a disbelieving snort - huffed a sigh, fingers tangling loosely over the ship’s railing.
“So,” she echoed, a trace of exasperated resignation in her tone. She sounded as flummoxed as he felt, though she looked a great deal more put together in the harsh light of the new dawn, her face free of both blemishes and blood even if her eyes were still damp from the tears she’d shed throughout the night.
Mr. 9’s stomach curdled, recalling her wail as their former cohorts had dispatched of Mr. 8 and the expression of stunned, stricken grief that had painted her face ever since.
It pained him to admit it, but were it not for the Straw Hats’ intervention, the two of them would have undoubtedly met a similar fate, blasted into bits by Mr. 5’s nose cannons or ground into paste beneath Miss Valentine’s heels.
Mr. 9 shook the thought from his head. Miss All Sunday’s untimely visit notwithstanding, they were as safe as they could currently hope to be from the wrath of Baroque Works. He needn’t burden his mind with ghastly visions of what their former colleagues would do to them upon capture, not when there were other, more pressing matters to attend to - like teasing his partner, for one, and driving that stricken glaze from her eyes.
“Nefertari Vivi,” he drawled, each syllable of her name falling from his lips in an exaggerated flourish. Her true name, he reiterated to himself, and despite his lingering shock at her deceit, Mr. 9 found himself unable to quell the hot flash of satisfaction in his gut at the reminder that her identity - a frontier agent’s most closely guarded secret - was no longer a mystery to him. “Princess of Alabasta,” he tacked on her title with a low whistle, ignoring the sharp stinging of his split lip. “Who would have thought?”
Vivi’s lips parted on a half-hearted laugh. “No one, we’d hoped.” Her gaze flickered to his, and Mr. 9 was gladdened to see a hint of amusement among the depths of her grief. “That was rather the point, Mr. 9.”
Mr. 9 dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Still,” he mused, pillowing his cheek in the bowl of his palm and regarding her with studious intent. “I’m just not certain I see it.”
A slim blue brow rose in question. “See what?”
“You know - ” Mr. 9 waved a lazy hand down the length of her form. “You, hailing from royalty.”
Vivi huffed, half-laugh and half-scoff. “Apologies for leaving my crown at home,” she returned glibly, and Mr. 9 grinned. He had always enjoyed her biting sarcasm. “It was rather heavy, you see. And a little too conspicuous for my liking.” She gave him a similar once-over and added, “Besides, mine isn’t nearly as impressive as yours.”
“Well, of course,” Mr. 9 sniffed haughtily, lips twitching as Vivi rolled her eyes. He plucked the object in question from his head, even though he’d always felt a touch too vulnerable - too exposed - without its familiar weight nestled atop his crown, and gestured her closer with a curl of his pinkie.
Vivi arched a brow. “You can’t be serious.”
“Just for argument’s sake,” he reasoned, along with another, more pointed, beckoning of his pinkie.
Vivi’s gaze lingered heavily upon his face for a moment before she sighed, twisting away from the ship’s railing and presenting her bowed head with all the solemn dignity of the royalty he now knew she was. “Go on then.”
Despite himself, and despite this particular bout of inanity being entirely his idea, the gesture brought Mr. 9 up short. They had had their share of mishaps over the course of their partnership, though nothing as fraught as that business with the whale, but even then, Miss Wednesday had remained level-headed, unflappable, certain that they would find their way out of the bowels of the beast despite the passing of many hours and the slow, creeping dissolution of their ship beneath their feet. Mr. 9 had rarely ever seen her lose her nerve, and never had he witnessed her display even a hint of vulnerability.
Perhaps that had been a front, he mused, knowing what he knew now of her true identity and her and Igaram’s infiltration into Baroque Works, but facade or no, the girl had worn it like a second skin. Like a shield. Mr. 9 had little qualm in admitting that he had often found himself deferring to her in acts of crisis because of it - that quiet determination that she’d worn about her shoulders like armor.
She was wearing it now, despite the threat of Baroque Works on their tails, despite her grief.
And yet she had ducked her head, azure hair spilling over her shoulder, just to tolerate his silly whim.
Mr. 9 felt a lump in his throat, and swallowed. He suddenly felt terribly out of his depth.
Noticing his bout of inattention, Vivi’s warm brown eyes flickered up to meet his. “Well?”
Mr. 9 coughed, shaking himself free of his stupor and carefully placing his crown atop Vivi’s head. Inexplicably, he found himself embarrassed by its poor condition, its usual impeccable surface marred by scratches and abrasions courtesy of the thrashing he’d taken by that brute of a swordsman. Even with its imperfections, however, Mr. 9 could scarcely deny how fitting it looked nestled atop Vivi’s azure hair.
“And now?” Vivi ventured, tilting her head and planting her hands on her hips. Whatever expression he was wearing made her lips quirk. “I could show you my curtsy, if it would help.”
Mr. 9 huffed a laugh - a rather tremulous one, to his ears - and shook his head. “There will be no need for that, Your Highness.”
Vivi made a face. “Don’t you start with that,” she warned, reaching up to retrieve his crown and passing it back. “Just Vivi will suffice.”
“Just Vivi it is,” Mr. 9 acquiesced, feeling a little more sure-footed with his crown back where it belonged - though Vivi had worn it well, he couldn’t help but to admit, a flush rising in his cheeks.
He almost thought Vivi had caught it by the way her lip curled, a secretive gleam in her eye.
“What?” he asked, playing at nonchalance.
“It’s nothing, honestly,” Vivi insisted, leaning back against the railing. The breeze caught in her hair and billowed silken strands against her cheeks. “It’s just… nice, I suppose, to hear you call me by my name. My actual name.”
There it was again, that burst of satisfaction settling hotly in his gut. Mr. 9 swallowed against its pull and copied her pose, murmuring, “Yes, well. Maybe one day you’ll be fortunate enough to earn mine. If either of us last long enough, that is.”
Vivi’s lips thinned. She didn’t ask what he meant - they both could feel the weight of Baroque Works bearing down upon their necks, and while they were safe for now aboard the Straw Hats’ ship, they couldn’t outrun the likes of Mr. 5 or Miss Valentine forever. Even now, the pair was probably in hot pursuit. Mr. 9 could see the same conclusion settling like stone across Vivi’s face.
Eventually, though, she steeled herself and met his gaze, her voice deliberately light. Guarded. “You needn’t stick around, you know,” she ventured carefully. “Once we reach the next island I was planning on bartering for passage to Alabasta and well… I wouldn’t take it personally if you decided it was best we go our separate ways.”
Mr. 9 scoffed. The very idea of abandoning his partner to the wrath of Baroque Works was laughable, not to mention a moot point, now that he had been branded a traitor alongside her. “You know just as well as I that our illustrious Mr. 0 will stop at nothing to raze traitors like us to the ground,” he quipped. Betrayal meant failure in the eyes of Baroque Works, and failure meant death. It was policy. He sighed and allowed his head to tilt back, crown clinging precariously to his nest of hair. “No, my dear Miss - Vivi, I’m afraid it makes very little difference where I go from here on out. I’m as good as dead regardless.”
Vivi’s shoulder bumped against his, her eyes warm. Grateful. “Not on my watch,” she promised, and Mr. 9 flushed, knowing that she meant it.
A commotion on the lower deck drew both their attention to the loud-mouthed sharpshooter and the stretchy Captain, the pair of them enthusiastically trying to wrangle a bevy of freshly caught fish into their baskets. At the sight of their antics, Mr. 9’s expression soured and Vivi snorted.
It was good to hear her laugh, he thought. It was good to make her laugh. Not even the Straw Hats had managed that yet.
“Come along then, Mr. 9,” she offered, holding out her arm and gesturing to the deck below, where the boisterous duo had been joined by yet another crew mate - one whose familiar head of moss-green hair set Mr. 9’s teeth right on edge. “Let’s go make nice.”
Mr. 9 opened his mouth to protest, only to falter as Vivi hooked her arm through his and tugged him into her side, gaze warm but firm. Mr. 9 deflated. There was no denying her when she was in this kind of mood.
“If we must,” he sighed, ignoring the flutter in his chest at the warmth of his partner’s shoulder tucked against his own and the gentle curve of her smile whenever he settled into step beside her. He would do much of anything, Mr. 9 realized, if only Vivi would ask it of him; he would hold his tongue against the barbs he longed to sling at the ruffian who had bested him and all of his men. He would face the wrath of Baroque Works. He would set sail to Alabasta. He would do it all, and more, because Vivi was his partner.
And that’s what partners were for.