Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Title: Hey Little Bird
Character(s)/Pairing: Marco, no pairing
Summary: The night of Whitebeard and Ace's funeral, Marco sets out to be a real pirate. Heavily involves Jockey Full of Bourbon Slightly songfic. Relatively angst. Wrote this ages back when explaining the song as being about modern piracy and the desire to run wild and do whatever reckless thing you want vs. the responsibilities of a family back home and trying to guard their backs. Clearly a Marco song.
Rating: R, violence, sex, nothing too descriptive though.
Disclaimer: One Piece is Oda's, Jockey Full of Bourbon is by Tom Waits though I recommend Moxy Fruvous' cover.
Word Count: 3472
Duty, responsibility. Life, death.
He was a pirate, what did he know of these things?
Nakama, family. Ah, those he understood.
On the sea where everyone could be an enemy, or if you were lucky, anyone could be a friend, nakama were the greatest treasure of all. Loyal for life, there even through death, best friends as close as family. Perhaps they even became your family. All that ever mattered.
Betrayal, death, anger, pain.
It shouldn't have happened. It was impossible. Like numbers that didn't add up and no matter how he went over it or from what angle, they couldn't be fixed. It was a chink in the chain, a knot in his sails he couldn't unravel, and the world was falling apart from it.
He was a pirate. Drunk in a bar, just like pirates were supposed to be. And he was thinking to himself, “Hey isn't this how it's supposed to be?” But he knew it wasn't. Felt all wrong. Thatch wasn't there drunk with him, Ace wasn't laughing, freckles dancing like the stars, and Pops... Pops wasn't there to chide his cheap choice of alcohol. None of it mattered, none of it meant anything. Being a pirate without family was virtually pointless. Good times weren't good without good company.
But hell, he wasn't drunk to have a good time. People didn't really get drunk for that. He was drunk so he would stop feeling like someone had ripped his heart out, dragged it through the gutter, fed it to a crocodile and then stomped on it. Because any feeling had to be better than that, right? He looked amazing, even if he felt like shit. Just came from his father and best friend's funeral and hadn't bothered to strip the suit and tie. That was ironic. He didn't know why he'd bothered to dress up. Ace never even wore a shirt and Pops loved that his sons liked to show off their tattoos, which Marco couldn't do dressed as he was.
It had seemed important at the time. He felt somber. Like a man who couldn't cry and yet carried the weight of hundreds on his shoulders. Oh wait, that might be because he was. Responsibility. That was why he couldn't join his father and best friends yet. Couldn't even contemplate the idea. He had promises to keep. Family to keep an eye on. There was a cheap little pistol in his sash he still wore under the dress jacket. He didn't know why he carried it around. It didn't work. And he never shot anyone. And in this downpour no one would even be afraid of it working.
It just made him feel secure. Like he really was a real pirate as much as he said.
A real pirate. What a joke. Was Pops a real pirate? The strongest man in the world. All he ever wanted was a family. Even the King of Pirates would be laughed at by supposedly the “real” pirates today. Hell, Marco had been among those doing their fair share of laughing even when he was alive. Marco wanted to find Shakkey and Silvers. Family. Home. But not so much pain there. They were hurting, but not in despair. And it wasn't his goddam responsibility to keep them going. But Silvers had to move in the world now. And Shakkey wouldn't stay.
When the hell would Red-Hair just go home and leave him alone? Duty.
He wanted to drown. Throw his head back in the rain and drown just to know how it felt. Yeah, he was drunk now.
Would Teach laugh? Probably. Fucking bastard. All his fault and Marco could do nothing but watch. He hadn't been able to stop Thatch's death, hadn't been able to stop Ace's capture, hadn't been able to stop Pops death, but oh how he wanted to. What had held him back? Duty. Responsibility. Loyalty. An oath. Some pirate he was. He couldn't protect the ones he loved and still had to mourn them when they passed so he could protect the rest.
“Hey little bird, fly away home,” someone sang as they cleaned out for the night. “Your house is on fire and your children are alone.”
Well wasn't that just a message to him. Too bad Marco didn't want to listen.
Blackbeard would laugh. And use his new “friends” to laugh with him. They were definitely the biggest idiots in all of this. If Blackbeard betrayed Pops, killed Thatch, turned over Ace, there wasn't a soul in all of existence he wouldn't betray. What did they think made them so special? That they were more valuable? Ha. That he loved them more? Ha. That they were strong enough so it wouldn't matter? Ha.
“Sixteen men on a dead man's chest,” Marco sang into the wet air, moving along now that he was being followed. What a great perk of his father dying. Every goddam MORON in the world thought the easiest way to fame was to kill one of Whitebeard's famous sons while he wasn't around to avenge them. Seems those idiots all forgot that Whitebeard's sons became famous through their own strength, not just his. Oh well, he wouldn't mind actually killing someone. Like a real pirate. Release some of the pent up frustration and rage. The fear and hate threatening to boil over. “And I've been drinking from a broken cup.”
Yup, Blackbeard would betray them all. No doubt about that. And Marco had to look out for his own.
“Two pairs of pants and a mohair vest,” Good old true pirate attire. The ragged gear of the poor idiots who just wore whatever they stole off some laundry line and could never seem to be bothered to clean it. And here Marco was in a suit. Some pirate.
“I'm full of bourbon and I can't stand up.” He waited until he had them somewhere easy that they wouldn't be able to escape and then lashed out. Broke some necks, cracked some ribs, brained one guy on a pile of bricks. Messy, but Marco kept clear of the gore. He was still in his funeral suit after all. Bad enough it was raining, blood was a bitch to get out and Izou would fuss at him.
The phoenix casually walked out of the alley like absolutely nothing had happened, and continued on whistling to himself. Hey little bird, fly away home. No thanks, he wasn't in the mood right now. His family could take care of themselves for a night. They had to.
He had a broken bottle now and bloody knife. So much for the rest of the bourbon, he'd have to get another one. And clean the knife while he was at it. He was going to back in the alley, but he'd just been too messy with that one guy. Shame really. His ears perked at the sounds of marines - probably finding out about those dead bodies now. Pity. And now wanting to arrest him for it.
Killing marines was never worth it. Hm, killing only pirates? That probably didn't make him a real pirate either. Not like any of the shichibukai ever gave a damn about it.
Which was a reminder. He was in the area, might as well do it now. Fucking business as usual. Okay, sometimes he liked the pirate business. It was a living. Family. Life. Nakama. Responsibility. But checking up on Doflamingo was not something anyone with brains wanted to do. Whether they were marines, other shichibukai, slavers, or anyone at all. Unfortunately it was just that; someone had to, and Marco was the only one who could. Good thing the fedora kept his distinctive haircut discreet. Still, it was unlikely that Doflamingo hadn't at least heard that the phoenix was in the area. Oh well, Marco didn't want to fight. Just make sure the pink bastard was busy long enough so the Whitebeard pirates could start throwing up some defenses in Fishman Island.
And those were plans Marco had going even before Pops died. It was a war he knew eventually would come. And pretending he could wait back then would have meant he wouldn't be able to handle it now in his grief. Good thing Marco usually could think well when he wasn't drunk.
Doflamingo owned a seedy little dive. Strangely flamboyant and dark and with puppets for entertainment. Disturbing. And like him. There were pink neon lights mixed with black lights and the whole thing was meant to creep out your average non-pirate. Real pirates liked it or some shit. Actually, Marco already knew that like him, real pirates just didn't give a damn. Because real pirates just needed someplace they could keep an eye on each other and still manage to get drunk off their asses. Because real pirates, like Marco, didn't want to feel whatever other fucking crap they were dealing with on any given day of the week. Huh, maybe Marco was turning into a real pirate after all.
The giant pink Doflamingo was entertaining in the back room. It wasn't easy to prove, and Marco wasn't even going to attempt getting close enough to eavesdrop, he just needed to know the man was still there right now, several islands away from where he'd be more dangerous to Marco's family. Besides, from the look of things, he still had some shichibukai bullshit to finish up with. At least Blackbeard's general constant series of betrayals fucked up things for the enemies of the world too. Score one for that.
Marco grabbed another bottle of bourbon and quickly began downing it while he moved. He caught the attention of a pretty woman and as he exited, she followed and made her move. Oh, he was suspicious all right. She had to be a spy from Doflamingo at the minimum. But in a drunken, angst ridden haze that didn't want to deal with Shanks or even his own crew, the idea of sending back one of Doflamingo's women thoroughly fucked by a Whitebeard commander seemed just delightfully fun.
That was the “real” pirate in him. The part of him that said fuck off to responsibility or obligations or morals, and just said yes to any good time that existed. Besides, if she was one of Doflamingo's women, there was no telling what she might slip up. Could be useful. So much for ignoring plans and never thinking ahead. Oh well, that was why Marco had lived longer than most “real” pirates. It was his curse.
He let her lead him to her place, on the outskirts of the city where even the city lights were growing dim. It was a nice sort of seaside cottage. Even had a garden to boot. Strange, but Marco didn't give a damn. He was avoiding feeling the pain of loss. Heart-wrenching, stomach grinding, cut down to the bone, and let you get chewed up by an organ grinder pain. Something out of the ordinary was good. No memories attached, nothing to spark reminders of those lost.
She didn't even wait until they got inside, just kissed him sweetly, savoring the bourbon taste and then far more hungrily, threw her legs around his waist and practically tackled him to the ground. Vaguely, he realized grass stains might be as bad as blood, but he'd already downed more bourbon and didn't feel like standing up. She was practically going wild on him, sucking on earlobes and neck and frantic to ignore the tie and get to the buttons. A wild thing. He liked that. He nudged her hips down against his own, getting hard fast at the prospect of what was to come and arched into the hungry mouth and almost vicious teeth.
Fuck, it felt good. And definitely too good to be true on a night like this. A light flickered on from the cottage, and Marco internally groaned. Of course there would be a catch. He pushed her up, already knowing what was to come, and blocked an incoming swing from a baseball bat with his forearm. Her husband was a big guy, but probably not much more than a bouncer as far as fighting went. And certainly not the guy's fault he married a slut. Probably Marco's fault for even thinking about it. Well, maybe his fault. His ears caught the woman's squealing about how she didn't know he was home, and this had never happened before and Marco wasn't sure, but he vaguely suspected he heard the word “rape” in there.
Oh well, time to run anyway. Marco gave the guy a light punch in the stomach, more to punish her than him and darted away until he could slip into phoenix form without being noticed. Such a pain. Definitely not worth it. Was that how it was with real pirates? Or would they have known to take the woman to some sleazy hotel instead of getting involved in her freaky rescue kink? Pity. Marco didn't really know, and he wasn't about to ask any of his crewmates. At least he'd know for next time. Unless he was smart and just avoided a next time entirely. But that wasn't a real piratical thing to do. And Marco? He was pirate. A real one. For the most part.
There was a nice tall abandoned mast with the best Crow's Nest in it, out on a ship at sea. Okay, that meant he was in the Moby Dick again, but it was somewhere he could sit and finish the goddam bottle. And if he didn't want to be disturbed, he didn't have to come down. And now he could ease his incessant fears about the ship catching fire and burning down and all his little idiots being well idiots, without him. The ship was somber. No partying for a change, but on a night like tonight, who would? Too wet for cards outdoors, so even those who mourned with a smile would be inside. And that worked for Marco. It was peaceful, and high, and quiet.
And making him think all about the fallen heroes all the fuck over again.
He had to get out of there. Even Sabaody with the goddam nobles and slavers and lack of Shakkey and Silvers would be better than this. He took off in a human dive off the crow's nest, feeling all the bone-chilling rush of danger and “oh shit deck don't crash!” but he couldn't let it last more than a few seconds. It was a peaceful thrilling little rush at first, and then before he could even smash the deck into splinters, all the painful little reminds of the daredevil wildfire of his crew came crashing in on him. Ace loved pulling stupid stunts like that. And Marco loved him for it.
A loud phoenix cry of loss and mourning ripped through him, tearing through the sky and signifying to his crew he was there even though he'd been hiding out. It was all right though, because Marco was flying off again, soaring through the damn wet drizzle and heading towards the most piratical place in the world, someplace Marco could never call home. Sabaody; it was.
Sabaody Archipelago, a fake island made out of floating trees with everything the Grand Line was hidden in its bowels. Slavery, sick-minded royalty, old legends, ships, goods, con artists, hotels, shopping, even an amusement park. It was where every pirate had to stop in order to go through Fishman Island to get to the New World. It was too much a tempest for any one power to control; pirates, marines, bounty hunters, even the tenryuubito. So instead it housed everyone until they moved on after getting sick of the place.
He wasn't sure where he'd landed right away. It's not like he went to Sabaody that often. Even when he did, it was usually in the company of friends. Still, it wasn't that hard to find the pirate and bounty hunter sections of the island. They were filled with sleaze and all the cheap thrills for men on their last bit of relatively dry land before sailing underwater to the New World. Booze was plentiful, but any more bourbon and Marco rather doubted he'd be able to fly straight and with the drizzle it was too risky. He was pent up, from what the married woman started and hadn't bothered to finish. It really was a pity Shakkey and Silvers weren't around or he could have used their pity to swing a threesome. Nevertheless, it was Sabaody, the vice capital of the world and if all he wanted was a drunken one-night stand to forget the rest of the night, that wouldn't be too hard to fulfill.
The sheets were yellow, and he was trying not think too much about how either they were that old or bought yellow in advance for the purpose of hiding age stains. The sex lasted just under an hour in the dark, which, all things considered, he felt wasn't too bad under the circumstances given that he was drunk off his ass and only just met her. He vaguely took in details about her throaty moans and red painted fingernails, but for the most part didn't care to remember her. The room cost him ten thousand berri for the night and she stole his wallet to boot, but it hardly mattered.
There was a hole inside him that just wouldn't fill. Like ever since Teach ate that accursed devil fruit the black hole was sucking up the heart and soul of his crew. First Thatch and his smile and laugh, next Ace the baby brother wildfire, and then their father and captain. Who next? Or maybe all the survivors had little black holes in each of their hearts, eating away from the inside out until it stole them completely. Marco really needed to kill that bastard before anymore were lost, but he wouldn't make the same mistakes as Ace and the rest. He wouldn't go it alone however much he wanted to.
Completely filled with dark murderous thoughts, wounded depression and unbidden rage, Marco felt far more like he was black inside than blue. But then, it was a rather appropriate feeling for a pirate. Black, dark, hate, lonely, longing. He didn't feel like staying in the dirty room and instead set out to steal himself a new wallet. It didn't take too long in a place like this; even with drizzling rain still coming down. After a quick check in at a few bars for information he flew back to the Moby Dick, still whistling the song to himself.
In the end a pirate's view of fun was never going to win over his bird's eye view of responsibility and duty to family. With Pops gone they were going to look up to Marco as a sort of eldest brother, at least for a little while. He didn't want it, but that's how it was going to be. And besides; it was the only thing fueling his blue flames against the black hole inside. The only thing keeping him sane in the storm of things gone terribly terribly wrong. He wouldn't leave them alone. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing a real pirate would do; sticking to responsibility rather than impulsive rebellion, but that's how Marco was. And anyone who thought he wasn't a real pirate, would have said the same about his Pops which meant they weren't just wrong, they were stupid besides.
“Cheers,” Marco muttered to no one, sitting in his usual place on the deck next to where the shadows of his father and two best friends were missing.
Character(s)/Pairing: Marco, no pairing
Summary: The night of Whitebeard and Ace's funeral, Marco sets out to be a real pirate. Heavily involves Jockey Full of Bourbon Slightly songfic. Relatively angst. Wrote this ages back when explaining the song as being about modern piracy and the desire to run wild and do whatever reckless thing you want vs. the responsibilities of a family back home and trying to guard their backs. Clearly a Marco song.
Rating: R, violence, sex, nothing too descriptive though.
Disclaimer: One Piece is Oda's, Jockey Full of Bourbon is by Tom Waits though I recommend Moxy Fruvous' cover.
Word Count: 3472
Duty, responsibility. Life, death.
He was a pirate, what did he know of these things?
Nakama, family. Ah, those he understood.
On the sea where everyone could be an enemy, or if you were lucky, anyone could be a friend, nakama were the greatest treasure of all. Loyal for life, there even through death, best friends as close as family. Perhaps they even became your family. All that ever mattered.
Betrayal, death, anger, pain.
It shouldn't have happened. It was impossible. Like numbers that didn't add up and no matter how he went over it or from what angle, they couldn't be fixed. It was a chink in the chain, a knot in his sails he couldn't unravel, and the world was falling apart from it.
He was a pirate. Drunk in a bar, just like pirates were supposed to be. And he was thinking to himself, “Hey isn't this how it's supposed to be?” But he knew it wasn't. Felt all wrong. Thatch wasn't there drunk with him, Ace wasn't laughing, freckles dancing like the stars, and Pops... Pops wasn't there to chide his cheap choice of alcohol. None of it mattered, none of it meant anything. Being a pirate without family was virtually pointless. Good times weren't good without good company.
But hell, he wasn't drunk to have a good time. People didn't really get drunk for that. He was drunk so he would stop feeling like someone had ripped his heart out, dragged it through the gutter, fed it to a crocodile and then stomped on it. Because any feeling had to be better than that, right? He looked amazing, even if he felt like shit. Just came from his father and best friend's funeral and hadn't bothered to strip the suit and tie. That was ironic. He didn't know why he'd bothered to dress up. Ace never even wore a shirt and Pops loved that his sons liked to show off their tattoos, which Marco couldn't do dressed as he was.
It had seemed important at the time. He felt somber. Like a man who couldn't cry and yet carried the weight of hundreds on his shoulders. Oh wait, that might be because he was. Responsibility. That was why he couldn't join his father and best friends yet. Couldn't even contemplate the idea. He had promises to keep. Family to keep an eye on. There was a cheap little pistol in his sash he still wore under the dress jacket. He didn't know why he carried it around. It didn't work. And he never shot anyone. And in this downpour no one would even be afraid of it working.
It just made him feel secure. Like he really was a real pirate as much as he said.
A real pirate. What a joke. Was Pops a real pirate? The strongest man in the world. All he ever wanted was a family. Even the King of Pirates would be laughed at by supposedly the “real” pirates today. Hell, Marco had been among those doing their fair share of laughing even when he was alive. Marco wanted to find Shakkey and Silvers. Family. Home. But not so much pain there. They were hurting, but not in despair. And it wasn't his goddam responsibility to keep them going. But Silvers had to move in the world now. And Shakkey wouldn't stay.
When the hell would Red-Hair just go home and leave him alone? Duty.
He wanted to drown. Throw his head back in the rain and drown just to know how it felt. Yeah, he was drunk now.
Would Teach laugh? Probably. Fucking bastard. All his fault and Marco could do nothing but watch. He hadn't been able to stop Thatch's death, hadn't been able to stop Ace's capture, hadn't been able to stop Pops death, but oh how he wanted to. What had held him back? Duty. Responsibility. Loyalty. An oath. Some pirate he was. He couldn't protect the ones he loved and still had to mourn them when they passed so he could protect the rest.
“Hey little bird, fly away home,” someone sang as they cleaned out for the night. “Your house is on fire and your children are alone.”
Well wasn't that just a message to him. Too bad Marco didn't want to listen.
Blackbeard would laugh. And use his new “friends” to laugh with him. They were definitely the biggest idiots in all of this. If Blackbeard betrayed Pops, killed Thatch, turned over Ace, there wasn't a soul in all of existence he wouldn't betray. What did they think made them so special? That they were more valuable? Ha. That he loved them more? Ha. That they were strong enough so it wouldn't matter? Ha.
“Sixteen men on a dead man's chest,” Marco sang into the wet air, moving along now that he was being followed. What a great perk of his father dying. Every goddam MORON in the world thought the easiest way to fame was to kill one of Whitebeard's famous sons while he wasn't around to avenge them. Seems those idiots all forgot that Whitebeard's sons became famous through their own strength, not just his. Oh well, he wouldn't mind actually killing someone. Like a real pirate. Release some of the pent up frustration and rage. The fear and hate threatening to boil over. “And I've been drinking from a broken cup.”
Yup, Blackbeard would betray them all. No doubt about that. And Marco had to look out for his own.
“Two pairs of pants and a mohair vest,” Good old true pirate attire. The ragged gear of the poor idiots who just wore whatever they stole off some laundry line and could never seem to be bothered to clean it. And here Marco was in a suit. Some pirate.
“I'm full of bourbon and I can't stand up.” He waited until he had them somewhere easy that they wouldn't be able to escape and then lashed out. Broke some necks, cracked some ribs, brained one guy on a pile of bricks. Messy, but Marco kept clear of the gore. He was still in his funeral suit after all. Bad enough it was raining, blood was a bitch to get out and Izou would fuss at him.
The phoenix casually walked out of the alley like absolutely nothing had happened, and continued on whistling to himself. Hey little bird, fly away home. No thanks, he wasn't in the mood right now. His family could take care of themselves for a night. They had to.
He had a broken bottle now and bloody knife. So much for the rest of the bourbon, he'd have to get another one. And clean the knife while he was at it. He was going to back in the alley, but he'd just been too messy with that one guy. Shame really. His ears perked at the sounds of marines - probably finding out about those dead bodies now. Pity. And now wanting to arrest him for it.
Killing marines was never worth it. Hm, killing only pirates? That probably didn't make him a real pirate either. Not like any of the shichibukai ever gave a damn about it.
Which was a reminder. He was in the area, might as well do it now. Fucking business as usual. Okay, sometimes he liked the pirate business. It was a living. Family. Life. Nakama. Responsibility. But checking up on Doflamingo was not something anyone with brains wanted to do. Whether they were marines, other shichibukai, slavers, or anyone at all. Unfortunately it was just that; someone had to, and Marco was the only one who could. Good thing the fedora kept his distinctive haircut discreet. Still, it was unlikely that Doflamingo hadn't at least heard that the phoenix was in the area. Oh well, Marco didn't want to fight. Just make sure the pink bastard was busy long enough so the Whitebeard pirates could start throwing up some defenses in Fishman Island.
And those were plans Marco had going even before Pops died. It was a war he knew eventually would come. And pretending he could wait back then would have meant he wouldn't be able to handle it now in his grief. Good thing Marco usually could think well when he wasn't drunk.
Doflamingo owned a seedy little dive. Strangely flamboyant and dark and with puppets for entertainment. Disturbing. And like him. There were pink neon lights mixed with black lights and the whole thing was meant to creep out your average non-pirate. Real pirates liked it or some shit. Actually, Marco already knew that like him, real pirates just didn't give a damn. Because real pirates just needed someplace they could keep an eye on each other and still manage to get drunk off their asses. Because real pirates, like Marco, didn't want to feel whatever other fucking crap they were dealing with on any given day of the week. Huh, maybe Marco was turning into a real pirate after all.
The giant pink Doflamingo was entertaining in the back room. It wasn't easy to prove, and Marco wasn't even going to attempt getting close enough to eavesdrop, he just needed to know the man was still there right now, several islands away from where he'd be more dangerous to Marco's family. Besides, from the look of things, he still had some shichibukai bullshit to finish up with. At least Blackbeard's general constant series of betrayals fucked up things for the enemies of the world too. Score one for that.
Marco grabbed another bottle of bourbon and quickly began downing it while he moved. He caught the attention of a pretty woman and as he exited, she followed and made her move. Oh, he was suspicious all right. She had to be a spy from Doflamingo at the minimum. But in a drunken, angst ridden haze that didn't want to deal with Shanks or even his own crew, the idea of sending back one of Doflamingo's women thoroughly fucked by a Whitebeard commander seemed just delightfully fun.
That was the “real” pirate in him. The part of him that said fuck off to responsibility or obligations or morals, and just said yes to any good time that existed. Besides, if she was one of Doflamingo's women, there was no telling what she might slip up. Could be useful. So much for ignoring plans and never thinking ahead. Oh well, that was why Marco had lived longer than most “real” pirates. It was his curse.
He let her lead him to her place, on the outskirts of the city where even the city lights were growing dim. It was a nice sort of seaside cottage. Even had a garden to boot. Strange, but Marco didn't give a damn. He was avoiding feeling the pain of loss. Heart-wrenching, stomach grinding, cut down to the bone, and let you get chewed up by an organ grinder pain. Something out of the ordinary was good. No memories attached, nothing to spark reminders of those lost.
She didn't even wait until they got inside, just kissed him sweetly, savoring the bourbon taste and then far more hungrily, threw her legs around his waist and practically tackled him to the ground. Vaguely, he realized grass stains might be as bad as blood, but he'd already downed more bourbon and didn't feel like standing up. She was practically going wild on him, sucking on earlobes and neck and frantic to ignore the tie and get to the buttons. A wild thing. He liked that. He nudged her hips down against his own, getting hard fast at the prospect of what was to come and arched into the hungry mouth and almost vicious teeth.
Fuck, it felt good. And definitely too good to be true on a night like this. A light flickered on from the cottage, and Marco internally groaned. Of course there would be a catch. He pushed her up, already knowing what was to come, and blocked an incoming swing from a baseball bat with his forearm. Her husband was a big guy, but probably not much more than a bouncer as far as fighting went. And certainly not the guy's fault he married a slut. Probably Marco's fault for even thinking about it. Well, maybe his fault. His ears caught the woman's squealing about how she didn't know he was home, and this had never happened before and Marco wasn't sure, but he vaguely suspected he heard the word “rape” in there.
Oh well, time to run anyway. Marco gave the guy a light punch in the stomach, more to punish her than him and darted away until he could slip into phoenix form without being noticed. Such a pain. Definitely not worth it. Was that how it was with real pirates? Or would they have known to take the woman to some sleazy hotel instead of getting involved in her freaky rescue kink? Pity. Marco didn't really know, and he wasn't about to ask any of his crewmates. At least he'd know for next time. Unless he was smart and just avoided a next time entirely. But that wasn't a real piratical thing to do. And Marco? He was pirate. A real one. For the most part.
There was a nice tall abandoned mast with the best Crow's Nest in it, out on a ship at sea. Okay, that meant he was in the Moby Dick again, but it was somewhere he could sit and finish the goddam bottle. And if he didn't want to be disturbed, he didn't have to come down. And now he could ease his incessant fears about the ship catching fire and burning down and all his little idiots being well idiots, without him. The ship was somber. No partying for a change, but on a night like tonight, who would? Too wet for cards outdoors, so even those who mourned with a smile would be inside. And that worked for Marco. It was peaceful, and high, and quiet.
And making him think all about the fallen heroes all the fuck over again.
He had to get out of there. Even Sabaody with the goddam nobles and slavers and lack of Shakkey and Silvers would be better than this. He took off in a human dive off the crow's nest, feeling all the bone-chilling rush of danger and “oh shit deck don't crash!” but he couldn't let it last more than a few seconds. It was a peaceful thrilling little rush at first, and then before he could even smash the deck into splinters, all the painful little reminds of the daredevil wildfire of his crew came crashing in on him. Ace loved pulling stupid stunts like that. And Marco loved him for it.
A loud phoenix cry of loss and mourning ripped through him, tearing through the sky and signifying to his crew he was there even though he'd been hiding out. It was all right though, because Marco was flying off again, soaring through the damn wet drizzle and heading towards the most piratical place in the world, someplace Marco could never call home. Sabaody; it was.
Sabaody Archipelago, a fake island made out of floating trees with everything the Grand Line was hidden in its bowels. Slavery, sick-minded royalty, old legends, ships, goods, con artists, hotels, shopping, even an amusement park. It was where every pirate had to stop in order to go through Fishman Island to get to the New World. It was too much a tempest for any one power to control; pirates, marines, bounty hunters, even the tenryuubito. So instead it housed everyone until they moved on after getting sick of the place.
He wasn't sure where he'd landed right away. It's not like he went to Sabaody that often. Even when he did, it was usually in the company of friends. Still, it wasn't that hard to find the pirate and bounty hunter sections of the island. They were filled with sleaze and all the cheap thrills for men on their last bit of relatively dry land before sailing underwater to the New World. Booze was plentiful, but any more bourbon and Marco rather doubted he'd be able to fly straight and with the drizzle it was too risky. He was pent up, from what the married woman started and hadn't bothered to finish. It really was a pity Shakkey and Silvers weren't around or he could have used their pity to swing a threesome. Nevertheless, it was Sabaody, the vice capital of the world and if all he wanted was a drunken one-night stand to forget the rest of the night, that wouldn't be too hard to fulfill.
The sheets were yellow, and he was trying not think too much about how either they were that old or bought yellow in advance for the purpose of hiding age stains. The sex lasted just under an hour in the dark, which, all things considered, he felt wasn't too bad under the circumstances given that he was drunk off his ass and only just met her. He vaguely took in details about her throaty moans and red painted fingernails, but for the most part didn't care to remember her. The room cost him ten thousand berri for the night and she stole his wallet to boot, but it hardly mattered.
There was a hole inside him that just wouldn't fill. Like ever since Teach ate that accursed devil fruit the black hole was sucking up the heart and soul of his crew. First Thatch and his smile and laugh, next Ace the baby brother wildfire, and then their father and captain. Who next? Or maybe all the survivors had little black holes in each of their hearts, eating away from the inside out until it stole them completely. Marco really needed to kill that bastard before anymore were lost, but he wouldn't make the same mistakes as Ace and the rest. He wouldn't go it alone however much he wanted to.
Completely filled with dark murderous thoughts, wounded depression and unbidden rage, Marco felt far more like he was black inside than blue. But then, it was a rather appropriate feeling for a pirate. Black, dark, hate, lonely, longing. He didn't feel like staying in the dirty room and instead set out to steal himself a new wallet. It didn't take too long in a place like this; even with drizzling rain still coming down. After a quick check in at a few bars for information he flew back to the Moby Dick, still whistling the song to himself.
In the end a pirate's view of fun was never going to win over his bird's eye view of responsibility and duty to family. With Pops gone they were going to look up to Marco as a sort of eldest brother, at least for a little while. He didn't want it, but that's how it was going to be. And besides; it was the only thing fueling his blue flames against the black hole inside. The only thing keeping him sane in the storm of things gone terribly terribly wrong. He wouldn't leave them alone. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing a real pirate would do; sticking to responsibility rather than impulsive rebellion, but that's how Marco was. And anyone who thought he wasn't a real pirate, would have said the same about his Pops which meant they weren't just wrong, they were stupid besides.
“Cheers,” Marco muttered to no one, sitting in his usual place on the deck next to where the shadows of his father and two best friends were missing.