Chapter Text
Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, was currently losing a war. It wasn’t a war against the Marines, nor was it a skirmish with a rival Yonko crew. It was a war against a towering, seemingly self-replicating mountain of paperwork, and his only ammunition was a lukewarm pot of pitch-black coffee.
The grandfather clock in the corner of his spacious office ticked rhythmically, announcing that it was three in the afternoon. To Marco, time had lost all meaning approximately fourteen hours ago.
He leaned back in his heavy leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. With a quiet sigh, a flicker of brilliant, azure-and-gold flames manifested around his shoulders. The Phoenix flames didn't burn, they offered a soothing, restorative warmth that seeped into his aching muscles. It was a crutch, he knew that. Without the mythical Zoan fruit constantly patching up his cellular fatigue and pumping his body with unnatural stamina, he would have collapsed from sheer exhaustion days ago.
But as the eldest brother of a crew consisting of hundreds of rambunctious, chaos-prone pirates, collapsing simply wasn't on his schedule.
There were budgets to approve, Thatch was requesting an outrageous amount of Sea King meat for the upcoming banquet. There were damage reports to file, Haruta and Ace had apparently engaged in a "friendly" sparring match that had somehow resulted in the destruction of the starboard railing. Again. And then there were the medical logs. As the ship's primary doctor, Marco took the health of his siblings incredibly seriously. He was the First Commander, it was his job to carry the weight so Pops didn't have to.
Marco reached for his mug, bringing the dark, bitter liquid to his lips. It was his third pot of the day, and the caffeine was currently the only thing anchoring his soul to his physical body.
"If you drink one more drop of that toxic sludge, I am personally going to throw your coffee maker into the Grand Line."
The heavy oak door of his office swung open, not with a knock, but with the familiar, dramatic flair that could only belong to one person.
Izou stepped into the room, his kimono immaculate, his makeup flawless, and his expression radiating sheer disapproval. Right behind him, carrying a covered basket and grinning like a man who had just won the lottery, was Thatch.
"We knocked," Thatch lied cheerfully, kicking the door shut behind him. "You just didn't hear us over the sound of your own brain cells dying from overwork."
Marco didn't even flinch. He just offered a long, long-suffering sigh. These two had been his best friends for years. They knew his habits, his tells, and most importantly, they knew exactly how to bypass the 'Do Not Disturb' sign he had explicitly hung on his door. They had a terrible, wonderful habit of invading his space just to ensure he didn't turn into a permanent fixture of his desk.
"I'm busy, yoi," Marco mumbled, gesturing lazily with his pen toward the stacks of paper. "Some of us have to make sure this ship doesn't sink under the weight of our own crew's property damage. Speaking of which, Thatch, your spice budget is ridiculous."
"Spices are the essence of life, Marco!" Thatch defended, setting his woven basket down on the small coffee table in the center of the office. "Besides, we didn't come here to talk about saffron and cumin. We came here an intervention."
Izou glided across the room, elegantly swatting a stack of casualty reports out of the way before perching on the edge of Marco's desk. "He's right. You look terrible, Marco. Your bags have bags. Pops was asking about you this morning at breakfast. You know he worries when you skip meals."
Marco felt a twinge of guilt. Pops loved all his sons fiercely, and while the massive captain rarely voiced his worries out loud to avoid making them feel smothered, Marco knew his father's silent, perceptive gaze missed nothing. Pops knew Marco was running himself into the ground.
"I'll eat dinner with everyone tonight," Marco promised, rubbing his temples. "I just need to finish the medical inventories. We stopped at that island this morning to restock, and I need to catalog—"
"Ah! Speaking of the island!" Thatch interrupted, his eyes lighting up. He practically vibrated with excitement as he hovered over the basket he had brought in. "When I went to the market to get those essential spices you were just complaining about, I ventured into the back alleys. And, well... I found some souvenirs."
Marco paused, his pen halting halfway across a page. He looked at Thatch. He looked at the basket. The basket, he suddenly realized, was vibrating slightly.
"Thatch," Marco started, his voice dropping into his dangerous, warning tone. "Please tell me you did not buy illegal weaponry, stolen artifacts, or cursed fruit."
"What? No! Have a little faith in me!" Thatch gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "I brought back treasure. Well, living treasure. Sort of."
Izou sighed, pulling a beautifully painted fan from his sash and opening it with a snap. "Prepare yourself, Marco. He wouldn't let me look inside on the way up here. He said it required a 'medical professional'."
Before Marco could demand an explanation, Thatch reached down and pulled the blanket back from the basket.
From inside came a pathetic, raspy little mew.
Marco stood up, his fatigue momentarily forgotten, and walked around his desk. Inside the basket, huddled together on a scrap of burlap, were two of the scrawniest, dirtiest kittens Marco had ever seen in his life.
One was a pure white furball, or at least, it would be white once the mud and grime were washed out of its coat. It lay limply against the side of the basket, its breathing shallow, offering another tiny squeak as the light hit its eyes.
The other was a sandy, golden-brown color, with darker stripes faintly visible under the dirt. Unlike its companion, this kitten wasn't lying down. Despite being practically skin and bones, the sand-colored kitten stood on wobbly legs, its fur puffed up to make itself look twice its actual size, and let out a surprisingly loud, venomous hiss at Thatch.
"Thatch..." Marco dragged a hand down his face. "You brought strays onto the Moby Dick."
"Look at them, Marco!" Thatch pleaded, his usual jovial demeanor melting into genuine concern. "They were in a cardboard box behind a butcher's shop in the pouring rain. The white one barely opened its eyes. I couldn't just leave them there to die! You're a doctor. A great doctor! A magical healing bird doctor! You have to fix them."
"I treat pirates with gunshot wounds and scurvy, yoi," Marco deadpanned, though his hands were already reaching out toward the basket. "I am not a veterinarian."
"Flesh is flesh, feathers are feathers, fur is fur," Izou chimed in helpfully, peering over Marco's shoulder. His gaze softened at the sight of the white kitten. "Oh, the poor little things. Look how thin they are."
Marco gently extended a hand toward the basket. "Alright, let me see—"
Swab!
"Ow! You little shit!" Marco yanked his hand back, staring in shock at the three bright red scratch marks now decorating his knuckles.
The sand-colored kitten stood at the front of the basket, one tiny paw raised like a prize fighter, hissing with the fury of a creature ten times its size. Its golden eyes glared at Marco with absolute, unadulterated defiance. It was a tiny ball of pure, concentrated rage.
Thatch burst out laughing. "Oh, he's got spirit! I like him."
"He's a menace," Marco grumbled. He let his Phoenix flames briefly wash over his knuckles, the scratches knitting themselves back together instantly in a swirl of blue fire. "Fine. Bring them down to the infirmary. I’m not getting flea-bitten in my own office."
Twenty minutes later, the sterile, white-tiled infirmary of the Moby Dick had been transformed into a makeshift pet salon.
Marco had rolled up the sleeves of his purple shirt and donned a pair of heavy rubber gloves, a precaution he deemed absolutely necessary after the sand-colored gremlin had tried to bite his thumb off during the initial physical exam.
Thatch and Izou had been conscripted as veterinary assistants. Izou was currently holding a warm, damp towel, gently wiping the mud away from the white kitten. The little creature was incredibly docile, practically melting into Izou's elegant hands. As the grime washed away, a pristine, snow-white coat was revealed. The kitten closed its eyes and began to emit a soft, rattling purr, nuzzling into the silk of Izou's sleeve.
"Well, aren't you just a perfect little lady," Izou cooed, his usual sharp demeanor completely vanishing. He looked up at Marco. "She's very sweet. Malnourished, but sweet."
"Give her some of the nutrient paste I mixed, just a little at a time," Marco instructed, keeping his focus firmly on the metal basin in front of him.
His patient was not so sweet.
"Hold him still, Thatch!" Marco barked over the sound of furious, demonic screeching.
"I'm trying! He's like a slippery little eel!" Thatch yelled, using two thick towels to pin the sand-colored kitten down while Marco tried to apply a medicinal flea-wash to its back.
The kitten was twisting, kicking, and spitting fire. For a creature that barely weighed a pound, it fought with the ferocity of a seasoned New World pirate. It managed to wriggle one back leg free and immediately kicked soapy water directly into Marco's face.
Marco slowly blinked the suds out of his eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath. "If you do not cease your rebellion, tiny beast, I will feed you to a Sea King."
The kitten responded by hissing loudly and biting the edge of the towel.
"You know," a new, entirely too cheerful voice echoed from the doorway of the infirmary. "I heard a bunch of screaming and thought maybe Thatch had finally poisoned someone with his cooking. But this? This is much better."
Marco didn't even have to turn around to recognize the voice. He wiped the soap off his forehead with the back of his wrist. "We are busy, Ace. Come back when I am not fighting for my life against a dust bunny."
Portgas D. Ace, the Second Division Commander, leaned against the doorframe, a massive grin splitting his freckled face. He was covered in sawdust, likely from his earlier incident with the starboard railing and Haruta, but he looked utterly delighted by the chaotic scene before him.
Haruta poked their head out from behind Ace's legs, their eyes going wide. "Are those cats?! Did Thatch actually bring back the cats?!"
"I told you I was going to!" Thatch beamed, struggling to keep his grip on the sandy terror.
Ace walked into the room, his boots clicking softly against the tiles. He bypassed Izou and the white kitten, his attention entirely captivated by the miniature war happening at Marco's basin. He leaned over the metal sink, completely ignoring the splashing water.
"Wow," Ace laughed, resting his chin on his hands as he observed the furious kitten. "He really hates you, Marco."
"He hates everything, yoi," Marco corrected, finally managing to scrub the last of the medicinal soap into the kitten's fur. "He is entirely composed of spite and sharp edges."
Ace tilted his head, locking eyes with the wet, trembling, sandy kitten. For a brief second, the kitten stopped thrashing. It stared up at the teenager with the orange hat, its tiny nose twitching. It let out one small, questioning mew, before immediately going back to trying to murder Thatch's thumb.
Marco watched the interaction, a sudden, vivid memory flashing through his mind.
He remembered a furious, feral teenager, chained to the deck of the Moby Dick, biting, fighting, and spitting venom at anyone who dared to come near him, a kid who thought the whole world was his enemy, lashing out because he was too scared and too proud to accept help.
Marco looked from the wildly thrashing, golden-eyed kitten, up to the grinning, freckled face of the fire user beside him.
The resemblance in sheer, stubborn, ill-tempered attitude was uncanny.
"You know," Marco said softly, a genuine, fond smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. He caught Ace's eye. "He actually reminds me of someone when they first joined the crew."
Ace blinked, oblivious. "Really? Who?"
Thatch burst into a fit of laughter, nearly dropping the towel. Izou chuckled elegantly from across the room. Haruta snickered by the door.
"No one," Marco sighed, his chest feeling a little lighter despite the chaos. He reached for a fresh, dry towel. "Just... help me dry him off before he gives himself a heart attack."
Outside the infirmary, hidden in the shadows of the corridor, a massive figure stood leaning on a towering bisento.
He had come down to check on his First Commander, worried that Marco was pushing himself too hard again. But hearing the relaxed, genuine banter between his sons, Pops smiled warmly beneath his grand mustache.
Perhaps these two tiny, unexpected stowaways were exactly the kind of medicine his overworked bird needed.