Chapter Text
Chapter 43
Jinbei recognises the straw hat immediately.
He's seen it in newspapers, wanted posters, and in person—enough times to place it and its owner.
But last he'd checked, the owner was an incredibly infamous, often day drunk Emperor of the Sea with a missing arm, who was god-knew-where in Paradise on the way to East Blue. Not a little human boy, sitting on a bench near an ice cream parlour in Coral Hill.
Jinbei stops in the middle of the street, arms folded, and regards the child a few feet ahead of him. Little slip of a little man, barely that, dressed in cut-off shorts, flip-flops and a bright yellow hoodie that almost swallows him up, the sleeves flopping over his wrists even rolled up twice over. The familiar straw hat tips low over his eyes, hiding part of what Jinbei can already tell is a face damp with recent tears. There's a mullish frown that has no right to sit the way it does on such a young face.
Human sailors of all sorts are a semi-regular occurrence here, with Fishman Island sitting right between Sabaody and the New World, so the sight of one shouldn't surprise Jinbei. But one so young... that is surprising. And a little worrisome.
A glance around the immediate area tells Jinbei that the boy is well and truly alone—no group of friends glancing back to make sure he's still there, no harried parent or other guardian looking frantically around for their lost boy.
Unless...
Jinbei knows Edward Newgate and, for some reason, Garp the Fist have been docked here since yesterday. And he'd heard some of what happened concerning a marine bulldozing several Whitebeard pirates over in a mad chase to the Sea Forest. Perhaps this boy belongs to one of them?
Then again, he doesn't dress like any Marine cadet Jinbei has ever seen. A pirate may be more likely, but there's no Jolly Roger on the boy's clothes or body that Jinbei can see, and wouldn't someone have been about by now to retrieve him?
Edward's crew are a close-knit bunch, more a family than anything Jinbei has ever seen among seafaring criminals. Every member is Edward's beloved child in his eyes. Surely they'd have noticed if a literal child went missing off their ship.
And then, of course, there's that hat...
Jinbei can't help it. He's curious.
He's moving before he can second-guess himself, standing before the boy. He clears his throat. “Excuse me, young man. Are you quite alright?”
Jinbei won't deny that he's taken off guard by the big, brown eyes peering from under the brim of the too-big straw hat as the boy lifts his head. Troubled and damp, but bright as the sun above the sea.
He also won't deny the old pang in his chest when the boy fails to mask a flinch at the sight of Jinbei. One would think he'd be used to it by now.
The little one eventually shakes himself from his stupor—literally, a full-body shiver—swiping an arm harshly across his face to dry the stray tears. “Y-Y-Yeah,” he replies with a sniff. “I'm... I'm g-good. Am I in the w-w-way? I... I c-can move if y'want.”
Ignoring the second pang, Jinbei sits down on the cobbled ground, crossing his legs, putting them closer to eye-level. “No, it's no trouble at all. This is a public space, so you may sit where you please,” he says. “And I apologise if I frightened you. I saw you across the street and noticed that you seemed upset. I truly mean you no harm.”
The boy blinks. His brows furrow, lips downturned in confusion. “'M not s-scared of you,” he says.
Jinbei raises a single brow. “Your stuttering tells me otherwise.”
The boy's frown turns thunderous, eyes flashing, cheeks bright red. Jinbei, despite himself, rears back, suddenly grateful that looks can't kill; he'd be dead twice over now.
“B-B-Bastard! 'M not s-s-stutterin' 'cos I'm af-f-fraid!” the boy cries, balled fists trembling on his lap where he clenches the hem of his hoodie. “I only just... started t-talkin' again like... two days ago! Took a lot of hard... w-w-work! Not s-s-scared of you or anybody!”
… oh.
Well. That's... incredibly concerning. But also none of Jinbei's business. For now.
Jinbei gathers himself and clears his throat. “I see. Please forgive my thoughtless blunder,” he says as the boy gets his breath back, worked up and, to Jinbei's shame, embarrassed as he glares daggers into the Fishman. “Though I hope you understand why I assumed. Most humans find my people... unnerving, to put it gently. Young ones especially.”
Abruptly, the boy's anger falls away, shoulders uncurling, fists loosening. “... you t-thought I was s-scared a'you 'cause—'cause you're a Fishman?” he asks. At Jinbei's silent nod, he scoffs. “That's dumb.”
Jinbei starts. Stares. “Oh? Is that so?”
With a firm nod that dislodges the straw hat from his head to hang against his back by the string, the boy says, “You ain't done n-nothin' for m-me to be s-scared of. You're just a d-dude. A b-big fish dude, b-but still a dude.”
And at that—a simple reply to a senseless feud spanning decades, however ineloquently put—Jinbei can't help but chuckle. “Well, I am no mere 'dude' as you say, but you have my gratitude. And you're right, the whole ordeal between our species is quite foolish when you dig to the root of it all. Unfortunately, that is the world we live in, though I wish more people were as open-minded as you.”
The boy only shrugs and sits back against the bench. He doesn't take his eyes off Jinbei. Not afraid, of course, little spitfire that he is. Just watching.
Jinbei changes the subject. “Now, if I may, what are you doing here all by yourself?” he asks.
The boy squints at him. “Why? You a cop?”
“Ha! Hardly! Just a concerned citizen. If you'd rather not tell me, that's fine. But I cannot in good conscience leave a young one like yourself out on the street. I can personally escort you to the nearest officer who can help you find your parents if you'd like.”
But the boy shakes his head and says plainly, “Don't g-got any.”
“... oh.”
“And I a-ain't goin' back to t-to the... the old man right now. O-or Gramps.”
Old man? Gramps?
Jinbei nods slowly. “I see,” he says, though he really, really doesn't. “May I ask why?”
Pulling absently on his fingers, the boy finally averts his gaze to his lap. His expression sours slightly, as if he's deep in thought about something he'd really rather not be thinking about. “... argued,” he says in a small voice that Jinbei thinks, oddly, doesn't suit him.
The boy blinks stubbornly, eyes shining. “'s dumb,” he says. One hand harshly signs the last word like an afterthought, a reflex. “B-But I don't w-wanna go back yet...”
Ah. A family dispute. Jinbei is more than familiar with those, in a way. His chest still aches when he thinks of Arlong and Tiger.
He watches the boy for a moment, watches him close in on himself again with hunched shoulders and tightly crossed arms, and thinks.
It really isn't any of his business. And most would have left it at that and moved on already, wishing the boy good luck. But whatever it was that had compelled Jinbei to approach at all now bids him to stay. Can't for the life of him fathom why, but his intuition has very rarely led him astray.
And really, what's the harm in helping another young, troubled soul?
Mind made up, Jinbei rises to his feet. The boy's eyes snap up to him at his movement, wide and alert but not alarmed. Jinbei smiles. “Tell you what. How about I buy you an ice cream from that parlour over there,” he says, smiling wider when the boy visibly perks up at the mention of food, “and if you're willing, you can talk to me about what's been bothering you.”
His smile dipping, the boy blinks at him owlishly. "For real? Why?"
Jinbei offers his hand and says, “Sometimes when life's problems are too great for you to carry alone, a listening ear may be just what you need to lighten the load. And I've been told I'm a good listener. Still, you are more than free to refuse. I am a stranger, after all.”
Silently, the boy looks at the webbed hand before him. Then he meets Jinbei's eyes and stares. Long and hard enough for anyone else to feel uncomfortable. Or intimidated, Jinbei thinks, recalling the boy's temper.
And the slight flare of his aura, bright and strong despite the small, gangly body housing it.
Not one to be cowed by anything or anyone, Jinbei doesn't look away or take back his hand, meeting the boy's stare evenly. Willing and secretly eager to pass whatever test this human child has laid before him.
When the boy's face breaks into a brilliant smile, Jinbei knows that he's passed with flying colours.
“Sure!” the kid chirps. He takes Jinbei's hand and lets him pull him to his feet and lead the way to the parlour. He doesn't immediately let go, opting to swing their joined hands together. “Y-You're pretty cool, big fish d-dude!”
Jinbei finds himself wholly endeared, a chuckle rumbling from his warmed chest. “Thank you. But while 'big fish dude' is nice, my official title is First Son of the Sea. But you can call me Jinbei.”
The boy laughs. It's a wonderful sound.
“T-That's cool! I'm Luffy! Nice to meet ya, Jinbei!”
~0o0o0~
Garp will be the first to admit that he has a nasty temper on a good day, something he has learned over the years to curb for his own sake if nothing else. Being constantly angry at the state of the world, its leaders and villains in every form they take is detrimental to your health.
But nothing and no one can ever inspire the same rage he feels as his own goddamn family.
Who do those snot-nosed brats think they are, running off on the Whitebeard's again? And in different directions no less! They'll have to scour the whole bloody island for them at this rate, which will take all damn day, and they still need to have a proper, uninterrupted conversation about this New World business!
Ugh. What a mess. And for once, he can't even blame it on the pirates.
Because in Edward's defence, the topic was equal parts sudden and long overdue—almost too late—and heavy besides. Probably wouldn't have gone any better if Garp had been there to add his piece. If anything, it would've come to physical blows and a fine chance of Garp being gleefully ripped to pieces by each of Whitebeard's Commanders, in order, before what's left of him is tossed into the open sea.
Oh well. There's little use dwelling on all that now. They can salvage this. He just needs to find the brats first.
A younger Garp might've been able to hunt them down all by himself and be back in time for Elevenses. But he'll privately admit that he appreciates the help of Edward's 'eldest'. The bird will cover more ground than Garp can, and is less likely to send the kids scrambling like maniacs for the nearest boat.
Which is why Garp needs to put a lid on his aforementioned temper quickly, homing in on his middle grandson in the Mermaid Lagoon.
It takes the better part of half an hour to scale the slippery rocks and jutting corals without bashing his face in. But it takes no time at all to follow the sound of tinkling laughter to a small group of young mermaids. And in their midst is the stammering, hilariously flustered mess that is Sabo.
“Come on~!” one of them croons, red-haired and with a smiling face full of freckles, gently but insistently tugging on Sabo's wrist from the water. “Just a little swim? I promise we don't bite!”
“Yeah, it'll be fun!” another giggles.
“You looked so sad and lonely before. We can cheer you up!”
“Come play with us for a little while, cutie~!”
“Unless you can't swim? You're not a devil fruit eater, are you?”
Sabo swallows hard before replying, red from the roots of his hair all the way down his neck. “A-Ah, no!” he squeaks, much to the girls' unbridled delight as they coo and titter some more. “I-I'm just—not really in the mood to get wet, that's all. I don't have any towels or spare clothes and—”
“Oh, never mind all that.” The redhead tugs again, but stops when Sabo teeters, unsteady, too close to the edge. “You can bask with us! The sun's not as hot all the way down here, but you'll dry off just as quickly. Come onnn, just for a little bit?”
“Or if you don't wanna swim,” an older lady calls from the corals, “you can always sing with us? You look like you have a lovely voice, young man.”
Another delighted chorus of laughter. Shoulders hunched to his burning ears, the poor lad looks like he's ready to combust on the spot, tugging his hat over his eyes with the hand not currently held hostage. “Ladies, please...”
Garp can't help himself. Pissed off as he was, he laughs now.
Ah, the joys of youth. And thank god for whoever decided not to have Sabo take after either of his blood relatives.
Garp had met the Outlooks in person, briefly, to discuss their hiring of slavers and the subsequent kidnapping of their eldest son, and damn were they ugly. Inside and out. He'd had half a mind to make them unrecognisable after the interview, but hadn't fancied the mountain of paperwork it would take to cover it up as an 'accident'.
His laughter cuts through the tittering din of the mermaids, and the older lady's smile turns cat-like when she turns and spots him. “Oh? And who's the silver fox over there?” she hums, then lifts her arm to wave, her black and white tail swishing in slow excitement atop her coral perch. “Hello, handsome~! Would you like a swim?”
Her younger friends giggle some more, but Sabo stiffens like a rabbit caught in a hawk's claws. He turns, notices Garp standing not ten feet away, and stares.
It's impolite, but Garp ignores the ladies and meets Sabo's stare evenly. Hands by his side, calm and unthreatening, he says, “Hey, kid. Can we talk?”
Reclaiming his captured hand, Sabo carefully sheds his black coat, boots, gloves and hat, folds and sets them in a neat pile by the edge, and dives into the water.
“HEY!” Garp bellows after the brat as he swims desperately away, all thoughts of temper-toning immediately down the drain. The mermaids shrieking with glee certainly don't help. “GET BACK HERE, BRAT!”
Said brat surfaces long enough to shout a dramatic “Never!” before diving back below. Garp snarls, grinding his teeth.
The following five minutes are a game of cat and mouse—or rather cat and fish—as Garp tries and fails to traverse the slick corals and stones while Sabo effortlessly slips out of reach, aided by the mermaids who have decided to make a game of it.
If his lineage hadn't soundly killed the idea, it wouldn't surprise Garp if Sabo were secretly half merman. He definitely takes to the water like one.
After a whole ten minutes, Garp is close to admitting defeat. As long as he keeps roaring and chasing the boy like he's going to kick him straight back to Goa, Sabo will keep swimming away until Garp relents, or Sabo himself drowns. Whichever comes first.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Garp stomps away. Two minutes later, he returns with a makeshift fishing rod and a big-ass wooden hook.
The mermaids gawp at him from the water, one or two warily edging away from the manically grinning vice admiral.
“Pardon me, ladies!” he says as he winds up for a perfect cast. “I'm going grandson fishing!”
He lets the line fly, the hook splashing into the water right above a circle of bubbles. It quickly goes taut, and Garp reels in his catch with a yank.
There's violent splashing and gurgled screaming as the hook catches the collar of Sabo's shirt and pulls him across the lagoon. The brat fights and struggles the whole way until he's finally hauled out of the water. Dangling, dripping wet and glaring at Garp like a scruffed pup, he looks miserable and pathetic.
Fighting a laugh tooth and nail, Garp raises a brow and asks, “Ready to talk now, brat?”
Sabo spits a stream of water in his face. Garp doesn't flinch beyond blinking sea salt out of his eyes.
“Fine,” Sabo grunts.
Garp grins.
~0o0o0~
Marco half curses himself for taking this long to locate their fire brat.
The kid thinks he's slick, and in some ways, he is. The young trio did manage to evade every single member of the crew for a full night upon arrival on the Moby (and a few hours beforehand on a much smaller ship full of Haki users). And Ace did give them the slip back on Sabaody, even if most of them were drunk off their asses or nursing impressive hangovers at the time.
But he's still young, and, like most of Marco's siblings, a creature of habit with a very predictable pattern. Because when Ace wants to be alone, he gets away. Far away. As far as he physically can. Like the boys' shared quarters on the Moby or, more worryingly, to the farthest Groves in Sabaody.
… or crouched in a little hovel in the hallway, where he can hurt himself with no one the wiser until he returns, smiling, with his arms wrapped in bandages and blame it on training.
Marco's not stupid. He can smell blood a mile off, and he can track its origin just as easily.
It's another uncomfortable conversation they're going to have, one he's already brought up with Pops shortly after the scare at the Groves, but that's later. When Ace is well and truly theirs, mark and all.
That discomfiting thought is what pushes Marco to fly faster towards the Sea Forest.
We can salvage this. We have to, for their sake. Even if it'll hurt like hell for a little while...
Ace isn't upset enough for... that, Marco thinks (hopes). He's just angry. Scratch that, he's well and truly pissed off. Rightly so, admittedly. If anything, the kid's distance (and intentional separation from his brothers) is probably so he can let loose a few fire blasts or level some trees without risking lives or property damage.
But that's not what Marco sees when he finally catches up to the boy.
Hovering above the corals, just out of sight and detection, Marco watches as Ace dances in the small clearing. His eyes are shut, his hat resting on a nearby rock jutting out of the sand, his expression a picture of calm. There's no fire, not even a spark off his shoulders or fingertips. Just him among the trees, the sand and the floating creatures swimming beyond the protective barrier.
Huh.
Landing on a branch of a tree just outside the imaginary stage, Marco's wings vanish with a whisper of flames, and he crosses his arms, watching Ace move.
His first performance before the crew, and the second for his slack-jawed, begrudgingly proud grandfather, were rapid and energetic, full of cheek, flare and literal fire to dazzle and entertain. Here, Ace's movements are much slower, fluid—almost gentle, like sea-foam kissing the shore. Marco might compare it to a ballet as the boy twirls and leaps, arms spread like wings...
Ace told them that a friend of his—a young girl, a slave just like them, an Amazonian—had taught him how to dance. How to fight. This isn't anything like that. It's not 'flashy' enough for a pompous King's standards, not 'daring' or... 'exciting' enough. The last thought makes Marco shiver in disgust.
This is a dance, pure and simple. A dance for two, Marco thinks sadly, watching as Ace flinches for a split second, a blink and you miss it error—as if he were waiting for another to step in beside him, a cue never missed until now.
Perhaps this was something he and his friend had practised in secret. A performance just for them. Something they could own in a place where nothing belongs to you and you belonged to someone.
Marco feels suddenly like he's intruding, watching something very, very personal. He should leave, maybe, at least until he's finished, or avert his eyes.
He's about to do just that when Ace spins in Marco's direction, eyes still shut, and bows low with his arms spread.
Marco stills, holding his breath.
Ace holds the bow for several beats before rising, dropping his arms and taking a deep, steadying breath. He opens his eyes and stares directly at Marco. He cocks a brow.
Shit. He knew I was watching the whole time.
Feeling equal parts proud and like a little kid caught with a cookie jar, Marco clears his throat. “Sorry, yoi,” he says, his voice suddenly loud in the otherwise peaceful silence of the forest. He fights a wince. “I didn't mean to intrude.”
“You weren't,” Ace says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Would've stopped or called you out on your shit if you were. It's alright.”
His tone betrays nothing, but Marco can't feel any trace of anger or betrayal from him. If anything, there's only mild annoyance, but Marco supposes that's valid. He did come out here to be alone, yet here Marco is.
That, and, well... He's probably guessed why Marco's here at all.
Sure enough: “You wanna talk about it, don't you?” the teen drones flatly.
Marco can't help but smile, slanted and rueful. “I'd like to, yoi. But if you need more time to cool off, or you really can't stand the sight of me or any of us right now, feel free to tell me to screw off, and I will. I'll take no offence, promise.”
Ace jerks his head at that, surprise and guilt clear on his freckled face. “No, it's—it's not that I can't stand you, no, that's not... it's just...” He turns his head away, rubbing the back of his neck, one foot kicking the sand. He sighs roughly through his nose, brows knitted. “I just... I ...”
Oh, kiddo...
With a sigh of his own, Marco leaps down from the branch, landing soundlessly in a crouch. He crosses the distance between him and the struggling teen and drapes an arm around Ace's shoulders. His heart leaps gladly when Ace doesn't pull away. “Ace. Talk to me, yoi. Tell me what's been going on in that brilliant head of yours since you left. I promise we can work through it together.”
Head down, Ace bites his lip hard.
Marco gives him a light squeeze. “Talk to me. Please, little brother.”
Ace's mouth twitches upward, fighting against a full-blown smile. He sways into Marco, and finally, he relents. “... okay.”
Marco smiles. Maybe they can salvage this. Even if it'll hurt like hell.