Chapter Text
Marco greets him at the railing of the Moby Dick, throwing a rope ladder over the side. He cocks his head towards the deck, and from the remains of what had once been a mighty fine Marine vessel, Buggy sighs.
Alvida is rubbing at her wrists, the skin an angry pink from the cuffs that had sat there, but is otherwise unscathed. Mohji and Cabaji stand shoulder to shoulder, rivalry entirely forgotten, as they crane their necks up towards the imposing ship of an Emperor.
His crew is tired, their ship is miles away, and although it feels like swallowing a lump of dry hair, hitching a ride with the Moby Dick is the smart decision at this moment.
“Alright, listen up Buggy pirates!” Buggy keeps one gloved hand on the rope ladder, fist tight as the woven hemp bites into white cloth. The sting of it is a welcome distraction from the shitshow that is about to come his way. “We’ll be getting a ride back to the Big Top with the Whitebeards, so behave. ”
Half of his crew are green in the face. The other half look like they have swallowed an entire bag of lemons, given their pursed lips and squinting brows. Alvida, for all that she complains and gripes, slaps Buggy’s hand away from the rope ladder and crawls up first.
Her lips pull back in a snarl as she looks down at Buggy, her white teeth glinting. “I better be getting the full story later, you hear me?”
“Alright, alright, just move it already, will you?” He pushes at her bare feet and in return she plants the heel of her left foot smack dab in his nose. “Why you–!” A steady stream of expletives follow them up the ladder and over the railing, landing feet first.
The majority of the Whitebeards are out on the deck of the Moby Dick, or so Buggy assumes. There is hardly enough room to take a step forward, and quite a few have their hands resting on the weapons hanging at their sides.
“Knock it off,” says Marco, still perched on the railing next to the rope ladder. “They’re our guests. For now. Blu–”
Conveniently for Marco, the flaming turkey happens to be out of punching range.
Conveniently for Buggy, his hands are detachable.
His fist separates from his wrist with a pop, and Buggy puts his entire weight into it. His fist smacks against Marco’s arm and the first mate lets out a squawk. He wobbles in place, clawed feet clutching onto the railing. Talons dig into smooth wood.
Alvida’s skin is pale as a sheet, eyes bugging out of her skull.
The Whitebeards no longer just have their hands on their weapons – most have drawn them now. Swords, guns, and fists are all pointed in Buggy’s general direction.
Marco tilts his head, rubbing at his arm. “What was that for-yoi?”
“You being you. Now can it, or I’ll make it a black eye next!”
Throwing his head back, the first mate waves off the bristling Whitebeards. “I guess growing up didn’t mellow you out-yoi.”
“And you still look like a turkey leg–”
Alvida slaps her hand over his mouth and grabs him by the neck. She presses him down into a stiff bow, her own form dropping into a curtsy. The palm of her hand tastes like cheap soap, grime, and three days spent in the brig.
Buggy rears back, hacking and spitting.
“We’re very happy to be here. Thank you so much for your hospitality. It’s much appreciated despite what this brute might say.” She slaps him over the back of the head. Her hair, despite the oil and dirt, still curls and bounces as she tilts her head and flashes the Whitebeards with a smile.
Just the slightest upturn of her lips and half of the weapons get dropped.
Seas, this is going to be the absolute worst, isn’t it?
***
The Moby Dick isn’t dissimilar to the Big Top.
The two days that the Buggy Pirates have spent here, has shown that much.
The day to day life runs just about the same, if not for the difference in scale. The kitchen crew works in shifts of morning, lunch and dinner. Whoever is on lookout through the night or morning doesn’t get to drink booze the night before. If someone has a problem, it gets worked out and squashed real fucking fast.
It is jokes and petty quarrels and…
Seas, it is a family through and through, and Buggy hates it.
The laughing faces of the crew has his stomach turning and the acid in his mouth is as rancid as the bottom of a beer bottle. Slightly bubbly, but more than anything, it is bitter. Buggy keeps to the corners, clinging to some semblance of privacy, out of sight and mind of most Whitebeards.
His own men have no such reservations.
Mohji and Vista are in full swing, throwing swords across the deck as Richie bounces through the crowd. His great big bottom wiggles, and with a roar the lion takes off, pelting through Whitebeards and Buggy pirates alike, bowling them over in his quest to fetch the damn swords back.
Cabaji is thoroughly engrossed in a conversation with Haruta at one of the long tables laden with food. Honey marinated ham glints in the sunlight, there are trays upon trays of buttered potatoes, and all of it is smothered in enough gravy to feed an army or four.
Neither Cabaji or Haruta touch the food.
Cabaji is far too busy making coins disappear with all the flourish of a seasoned showman. A quick flick of his hand and the coin vanishes out of sight. Haruta gasps, and is far, far too awed by a coin trick of all things, considering all of the things that they must have seen lurking in the New World.
Nevertheless, Buggy isn’t about to take their fun away from them.
Even though he does want to spoil the fun for Alvida, just to see her blow a gasket.
For some inexplicable reason, or maybe the universe just hates Buggy that much, Alvida has wormed her way as close to Edward Newgate’s chair as humanly possible. Close enough, in fact, to be able to rest her feet on the arm of it – but she refrains. He sees the second she considers it. The light pursing of her lips and the crease on her forehead grows just a tad more furrowed.
Even without Whitebeard’s massive presence, touching it would be a death sentence.
Around her, waiting on her hand and foot, are at least twenty infatuated Whitebeard pirates. Lower ranked, judging by the fact that Buggy doesn’t recognize a single face, but their hearts are just about ready to leap out of their goddamn throats. Their cheeks are flushed pink, their voices pitched high and airy.
They are a minute or two short of actually salivating at her feet.
It is a nauseatingly sick display of her prowess in manipulation and turning even the sourest of situations into something sweet. Or at least turning heads her way.
The fondness in Buggy’s chest is a nauseating thing, and he nearly heaves over the side of the railing. (She isn’t even part of his crew, not fully, but damn if he isn’t proud of her.)
His men blend nicely with the Whitebeards. The ringing laughter on the deck is loud in his ears, and the grip on his mug of beer tightens. Beneath the white gloves, the skin of his hand grows a stark white. From the edge of his wrist, right at the cuff of his gloves, several veins poke out. Saturated and protruding.
Every second spent on the deck of the Moby Dick is a second too long.
A gust of strong wind knocks the mug from his hand and sends it careening over the wooden boards, spilling the last remnants of beer. His hair whips against his cheeks, a strand making its way into his mouth, and Buggy spits it back out.
The blue hair comes out red, thin lines of red lipstick missing from his mouth as he runs his tongue over his teeth. “Goddammit!”
“Why the long face-yoi?” Leaning against the railing with a smile on his face is Marco. The man huffs, a lick of blue flames still curled around his arms as they change from flame and into hands. He cocks his head. “Not enjoying the party?”
“I was,” says Buggy. His lips give the smallest of twitches, and he stamps down the urge to return Marco’s smile. “Then you showed up.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll live.”
Marco laughs. A great clucking sound from the deepest parts of his chest. He shakes, and his arms once again turn into that of his phoenix form. “I’m on watch duty and wanted to ask if you’d care to join.” A single beat of his wings is all it takes to get up in the air. “But I take it that’s a no-yoi.”
Buggy splutters.
The Whitebeard pirate is halfway up the mast to the crow’s nest when Buggy finds his words again and shakes a clenched fist in Marco’s direction. “Maybe if you weren’t such a steaming pile of birdshit, I’d enjoy your company!”
Several of the Whitebeards screech, the loud noise causing Richie to curl up and paw at his ears, a whine rumbling low in his chest. “You can’t talk to Marco like that!” Someone yells. Several others cry hear, hear, nodding their heads like good little puppets. “Pops has let you stay on his ship as a guest, but you better treat our brother with respect!”
No one brandishes a weapon in Buggy’s general direction, but the clenched jaws and curling fists suggest that they won’t need to shoot a bullet his way in order to hurt him.
From up high in the crow’s nest, the loud, clucking chuckle of a man-turned-bird rings out.
“And you still laugh like a damn chicken!” Buggy calls up, cupping his hands around his mouth, hoping it will carry his voice across the whole damn deck. He gives the mast of the crow’s nest a well-earned kick with his boot as well, just because he can. He would feel a lot better if he could plant a foot in Marco’s head, but it serves to take the edge off of his stress levels.
Nothing about the Moby Dick has changed.
There is still a scratch mark on the mizzenmast from when Marco had showed off his armament Haki skills to a younger Shanks and Buggy. Tiny, jagged lines that blend in with the wooden grain, unless one knows where to look.
Buggy knows where to look.
The rigging is new, and so are the sails, but those are the only new things that he can spot, glancing around the deck of Whitebeard’s ship. He hasn’t been down into the hull yet, but Buggy is willing to bet Shanks’ remaining arm that nothing there has changed. Marco’s room will be in the same hallway that it has always been in.
On the walls will be pictures of people both alive and long gone.
A smiling Toki and Oden, holding Momonosuke and Hiyori in their arms. Lost brothers and sisters, laughing, not knowing that one of them would one day stick a knife in their back and twist. There might even be a picture of them and Roger–
(Marco was just like Shanks and him, back then.
A stupid, naive kid getting in over his head, with a crew like family.
It stung then, and it still stings even now. How come Marco got to keep it? Weren’t they in the same boat? Their fathers in the same generation? How come Marco got to keep his father when Shanks and Buggy had to watch theirs get killed and their family split apart.
None of it is fair.
None of it is Marco’s fault.
It doesn’t stop the barbed roots of jealousy from digging deep into Buggy’s body and curling around his throat in a stranglehold. There is a reason why he hasn’t visited Marco since his days on the Oro Jackson.
Jealousy is a fickle, foul friend.)
“Are you really going to let him disrespect you like that, Marco?!” A man cries, the Whitebeard jolly roger on his cheek contorting with every word coming out of his mouth. “You and Pops have both been nothing but lenient with him, and all he does is complain and bad mouth the entire crew!”
Buggy throws his head back in a laugh. “I’ll badmouth you as much as I fucking please. I’ll even do it to Whitebeard’s face. Then maybe the old man will get his shit together and go pick up his wayward son before anything worse happens because of Teach–”
The clucking laughter in the crow’s nest has tapered off.
The yelling Whitebeards are silent now, too, glancing at something behind Buggy.
Something big enough to cast a shadow half the length of the entire deck, and Buggy swallows. He takes a breath, curls his hands into fists, and wills his knees to stop shaking. Whirling on his feet, Buggy stands face to face with Whitebeard himself.
Edward Newgate, in the flesh.
Roger’s ghost must be laughing his ass off, watching this whole situation escalate far beyond anything Buggy has the hopes of solving unscathed. Whitebeard might have tolerated his antics out of courtesy for their shared past, but Buggy knows where the metaphorical line is drawn. It still doesn’t stop him from leaping over it, both feet first and arms flailing.
“You’re an idiot.” Says Buggy, before Whitebeard can get a word out.
A collective gasp rings out across the deck, from both Whitebeards and his own crew. Alvida folds in on herself in her seat, eyes darting between Buggy and Whitebeard.
Newgate raises an eyebrow.
But the dam has been broken, and words come flooding out. “You’re a massive idiot, and if you think I won’t call you out on it, then you don’t know me at all. I might be a coward, but you’re worse than me for letting Ace run off in the first place!”
And really Newgate should have known better. About Teach, about letting Ace run off – about letting Buggy run his damn mouth in plain sight of both of their crews. The man might be an Emperor, but Buggy has always been an insolent, little brat.
Not even Roger’s death could purge that trait.
“Buggy the Clown,” says Whitebeard. He doesn’t even have a weapon in his hand, nor a drink. He doesn’t cross his arms, or raise his voice. It is simultaneously the calmest and most horrific way someone has ever said Buggy’s name.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise and his mouth is a dry wad of cotton. But Buggy is a performer, and so he lifts one eyebrow in Whitebeard’s direction and scoffs. He grabs at his own forearms, and his shaking hands find something to cling onto.
Nothing to see here, says his posture. What’s an Emperor even to do in the face of Buggy the Clown?
Newgate slaps a great big hand onto Buggy’s shoulder, clapping him once, twice. Each hit is a slab of cement on his poor shoulder, but the clown stays standing. His knees only buckle once, and the smile on his face remains a thin, wavering line.
“Gurararara!” A tear gets stuck in the wrinkled skin around the old man’s eyes, and he raises one finger to flick it away from his crow’s feet. “You’ve still got some spunk in you. Come, come, let’s talk a bit more inside, why don’t we?”
The grip on his shoulder grows firmer, and Buggy stops breathing.
There are gasps from the crowd of onlookers. The musicians have paused their playing. The bow of a viola halts halfway through and the long, dragging moan of the low note is the keening of a dying man.
Or maybe it is the sound of Buggy’s soul leaving his body through his asshole.
***
For all that the Moby Dick is an enormous construction capable of taking on even the most brutal New World weather, the inside is still not built tall enough for a man like Whitebeard. The Emperor hunches his back through every door frame, the top of his hair grazing the roof when the floor slopes up.
Buggy walks four steps behind. His strides are long and quick, in comparison to Newgate’s slow, meandering gait. Even now, as an adult, Buggy barely reaches the man’s hip.
Strangely enough, the curving hallways are devoid of crew. Both his own, and Whitebeards.
Perhaps the sound of Whitebeard’s boots against the floorboards are enough of a warning for everyone to scatter. Even so, Buggy would have greatly appreciated an audience for his upcoming demise at Whitebeard’s hands.
(He has always been mouthy. That is half of who he is, but he is no longer a kid staying on the Moby under the protective Jolly Roger of his Captain. Now it is just Buggy with a Jolly Roger of his own and a reputation that instills little to no fear in anyone who hears his name.)
Whitebeard might not be as lenient as he was way back then.
Buggy can’t even blame him for it, if that turns out to be the case.
“So,” the Emperor clears his throat. “You sure still like to run your mouth, don’t you, Blue.” It isn’t a question. Just a statement thrown into the air, and Buggy sees it for the olive branch that it is.
If he plays his cards right, he might still live to see tomorrow.
“It’s Buggy now. I know you’re probably going senile in your old age, but try and remember that tidbit.” He crosses his arms for good measure and scowls. Whitebeard merely barks a laugh.
Grinning, the Emperor raises an eyebrow at Buggy. “Well then, Buggy, care to tell me why you think you can mouth off in front of my crew and expect there to be no consequences? You’re a rival captain now, and only a handful of the people out there have seen you as a snot nosed little brat whose voice broke on every second word.”
He doesn’t have a bisento in hand, but his words might as well be a sharp edged weapon nestled against the hollow of Buggy’s throat. The gulp is audible as the clown swallows down a lump. He is still four steps behind the other man, panting as he tries to keep up the pace.
Another three steps and he cuts off Whitebeard in the middle of the hallway. Buggy takes a deep breath, all the way down in his stomach as his eyebrows tuck together in a frown. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not behaving like an idiot.”
“Buggy–”
“ No. If Shanks or I had pulled something as stupid as hunting down a traitor on our own, Captain would have descended on our asses so fast we wouldn’t have had time to fucking blink. Why the hell aren’t you doing the same?” Why didn’t you help Oden, either? He doesn’t say, because not even Buggy is that cruel.
Whitebeard looks down at him, an exhale riding on his breath and far more tired than Buggy has ever seen the man be. There are wrinkles cascading down his neck, liver spots dotting the back of his hand, a slight quiver in his arm as he puts it around Buggy’s shoulder.
(Seas, Whitebeard is dying too, isn’t he?)
“Ace is… different from most of my other children. Teach was in his division, and he feels responsible for hunting down the traitor. He thrives far better under free reigns, and I fear he might never forgive me if I drag him back.” Whitebeard’s smile is a crooked thing.
Buggy stares.
And stares.
And stares.
He throws Whitebeard’s arm off of his shoulder. “Is that it?! Some goddamn inane sense of pride and responsibility, and you don’t want to step on his feet, in case he gets mad at you? Are you–” He throws his hands in the air before running them both through the length of his hair. It tangles and he tugs, but still he pulls until knots of it fall from between his fingers, fluttering to the floor.
“ Are you actually stupid?! ” For anyone else, calling an Emperor thick to their face would likely result in a swift death. But Buggy’s blood is rushing in his ears, and his brain to mouth filter has long since dissolved in the face of Whitebeard’s sheer stupidity.
Now it is Whitebeard who crosses his arms and leans back. His eyes dart to either side of the hallway, but it is still eerily devoid of any life aside from them. “Come on now. You and I both know that Ace has had a particularly hard time growing up, considering his family.”
(Fucking what? Garp? Gosh darn Straw Hat? Growing up with those morons might cause idiocy by proxy alone, but how does it fit together with this shit?)
“Seas know the boy can barely stand to hear Roger’s name in a conversation–”
“Why the hell would Roger’s name come up?” Buggy snorts.
In front of his eyes, Whitebeard’s pallid skin grows even paler. His mouth snaps shut so hard that his mustache quivers in the aftershocks. “Ah,” he whispers. “I thought Ace might have told you himself when you met him.”
Buggy leans back against the hallway wall. Cold seeps through his jacket. Outside the scuttle, the sun beats down hard on the roiling waves. It should be warm inside, but Buggy has never felt colder. “Told me what?”
The waves lap against the hull of the ship, and each hollow slap of it is loud in the ensuing silence. Whitebeard says nothing.
“Edward, what was he supposed to have told me?”
Part of him already knows. Has drawn red string through every strange fact or interaction that he has had with Ace. The picture it forms is fragmented, the colors washed out, but Buggy sees it clear as day.
“Fucking hell, he’s Captain’s kid, isn’t he?”
The world ceases spinning on its axis. Outside, the waves grow limp and quiet.
Ace.
The name that Captain would have given his son, if he had one. If Rouge had survived. If the marines hadn’t shoved two spears into his back and let his head roll off of the scaffolding in Loguetown.
“Buggy?” Whitebeard takes a step forward, as the clown takes one backwards. The wall digs into his spine, ice-cold and unforgiving. He is going to throw up. “Buggy, I’m sorry, I thought you knew–”
He takes off, one hand on the wall as he tries to breathe.
Somewhere behind him, a booming voice calls his name, but it is muffled.
Spit sits thick and heavy in his mouth, coagulating as he swallows again and again to no avail. The air in his lungs is too much, too fast (not enough) – expanding and pulling and drowning. He stumbles, feet catching on himself and he falls forward. His hand finds purchase on a metal handle, his forehead coming to rest against the wooden grain of a door. The handle turns beneath his hand, the edges of his vision fussy.
(Is that his hand? Did he turn the handle? He can’t feel anything.)
He is going to throw up.
Ace is Captain’s kid and Ace is after Teach and Teach is going to kill–
The tip of his fingers are twitching, and his eyes do the same. Quick, sporadic blinks, and in the uneven dark, he spots a table and a chair. But most importantly, there is a Den Den on the desk, nibbling at a piece of cabbage.
It is large, the shell sturdy, and it might just reach the New World. It has to. It needs to.
Purupurupuru.
Gatcha–
The voice answering isn’t Shanks’. He must have left it on the deck of the Red Force again, and Buggy doesn’t have time for this shit.
“This is the Red Force, how can I help you–”
“I need to talk to Shanks. Now.”
“Who is this? ”
“Your fucking conscience– argh! Just put Shanks on the line, would you?!”
“Look I don’t know who you think you are, but the Chief is a little busy–”
Judging by the pained expression on the Den Den’s face, Buggy is approximately four seconds away from squeezing the life out of the poor thing. His nails dig into the curve of its shell, and Buggy draws in a deep breath. He hisses it out through clenched teeth.
“Your Chief is about to get a whole lot busier once he hears what I have to say. Either hand me over, or tell him that you denied a call from Blue.” The childhood nickname hangs in the air. It should be illegal for him to use it like that, spoken in a tucked away corner of a ship where they spent most of their childhood either play-fighting with Marco or having a sleepover.
Like Buggy is nine years old again, wondering which pole is the coldest.
Like Captain and Rogue’s child isn’t about to be murdered by Marshall D. Teach.
“...”
(At any moment now, Rayleigh is going to throw the door open to the cabin and call them both out for dinner or scold them for picking a fight again and–)
Something shuffles on the other side of the line. Clothes, maybe, or a cigarette being shaken loose from its carton. They don’t have time for this. For all that Buggy knows, Ace is already six feet under, bones offered up to the ocean and his head put on display in some Marine base.
“This is Shanks, what do you want?”
“It’s me. Sit down, shut up, and don’t pass out.”
“What–”
“Ace is Captain and Rogue’s kid. Whitebeard fucking knew and he didn’t tell us. Just kept it a secret like we didn’t have a right to know that we have family out there who needed us! ” Tears spill over his cheeks on their own accord.
They have met Captain’s kid. Both of them. And neither of them knew.
It is a travesty. A goddamn joke is what it is, and if Shanks and Whitebeard don’t get their shit together soon, Ace is going to be dead regardless of the blood in his veins.
“I– What? I don’t understand–”
“I know this is a lot, Shanks, I know, okay?” He has known for less than five minutes. Years and years of regret, all of a sudden undone with one careless sentence from Whitebeard’s lips. “We can process all of this later. Right now, we need to focus on what we can do to get him back safe and sound. Seas, Shanks, Teach is going to murder him. ”
“No,” says Shanks, voice barely above a whisper. “We won’t let him. We– I’ll talk to Whitebeard, we need to team up. And call your contacts. All of them. East Blue, Paradise, New World, I don’t care. If Teach so much as breathes near any of your informants I want to know.”
“I’ve already called–”
“Call them again. Someone must have heard something. They have to.”
On another day, Buggy might have bitten Shanks’ head off for cutting him off like that. For insinuating that Buggy hasn’t already tried contacting every single fisherman, bar maid, or dock worker for information back when they thought Ace was just Anchor’s brother.
On any other day, Buggy would have hung up.
But today is not like any other day, so Buggy hugs the Den Den closer to his chest and sobs into the receiver. “Okay. I’ll try again. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”
It is the only thing he can do.
Just like that day in Loguetown, with the rain pouring down on them and Buggy’s entire existence splintering, all he can do is watch. Words can only get them so far, but Shanks will fight this time, if need be.
A small change, but it might just be enough to stop it from happening again.
Shanks hangs up first this time. A click, and then the line is silent.
Buggy heaves a deep breath and picks up the receiver again. He calls and calls and calls until–
***
It is Izou who finds him, hours later, hunched over a sleeping Den Den.
“So this is where you were hiding.” The man says, slipping inside the cabin and closing the door behind him with the jab of an elbow. “I know I said my door was always open, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
Buggy blinks. Once, twice. He rubs the bridge of his nose, smacking his dry lips together. “What?”
Izou cocks his head at the pictures lining the walls, one painted fingernail pointing at the collection of framed photos all over the desk that Buggy sits at. Some are of Marco; both old and new throughout various stages in life, and some are of Izou with other people.
Laughing. Smiling. Happy.
“You recognize most of them, don’t you?” Izou smiles.
“Some,” says Buggy, getting out of the chair. His butt is numb, his legs are tingling, and when he rolls his neck, the crack it unleashes is far too loud. “Haven’t seen them around the Moby Dick, though.”
“Most have moved on. Some retired. Some went on to become captains under Pop’s flag. Some… some have passed away.”
Izou’s eyes have a shine to them. A wet sheen, just shy of actual tears. He flicks his fan open and the edge of it comes up to cover the lower half of his face.
Closing his eyes, Buggy takes a breath. The dull roar of the people bustling around on deck and in the hallways might as well have been the crew of the Oro Jackson. Then he opens his eyes again, and the walls are marked with Newgate’s Jolly Roger.
“You stayed, though.” Says Buggy.
“I did.”
“Why?”
The fan flicks shut. It is the crack of a bullet in the space between them. No longer hidden by the paper fan, Izou’s face is a dark mess. His brows are pulled low, nose wrinkling and the smile on his face slips away. His lipstick, while immaculate, is a bloody heart worn on the outside of his skin.
He opens his mouth, splitting the heart in two, then closes it again. Then he says, “It was Lord Oden’s home, even if only for a while. I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave.”
Buggy scoffs, hands clutching at his forearms. The skin pulls tight, the fabric of his shirt burning fine lines into his flesh. “The Oro Jackson was his home, too. Fat load of good that did us, huh? None of you ever bothered to check up on the crew after the Captain died.”
The words fly out of his mouth, unbidden and unwanted. But they have been said now, and taking them back would only make things worse. Like this, Izou’s indignation will undoubtedly lead to a fist fight, and the pain of getting a kick right in the spleen might just give Buggy the wakeup call he needs.
Except it doesn’t happen.
Izou tenses for only a moment, and then he slumps as though his strings have been cut. The lilt of his lips turns soft. His eyes widen, shoulders sagging low and–
It is all wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Why are you looking at me like that?! Get mad, yell at me!” Buggy’s hand grabs a picture frame on the desk, curling his fingers around the sharp edges of the wood and chucks it. It smashes against the wall, glass splintering into a million tiny shards that fall at their feet. Buggy huffs, chest pounding. He runs a hand through his hair, down his face.
His glove comes away wet.
Lines of red makeup and specks of tears.
When did he start crying?
(Did he ever stop?)
“Punch me, just– anything but that goddamn pity on your face!”
“Sometimes I forget how young you were when you lost him.” Izou takes a step forward. Buggy takes one step back in turn, but the cabin is small, and Buggy is so goddamn tired. The cabin sits in silence, broken only by Buggy’s sniffles and the gentle scrape of Izou’s shoes. Then there is a pair of strong arms around Buggy, a warm chest pressing against his own, and the two of them are kids again.
On the floor, amidst broken shards of glass, is a photo.
Of Rayleigh, Roger, Oden and Edward Newgate.
They are smiling, arms slung over shoulders and worst of all, Buggy can hear their laughs ringing in his ears. Seas, he really needs to get off of this goddamn boat before he dissolves into a puddle of childhood trauma and tears.
He blows his nose into Izou’s shirt and clears his throat. “How long until you can drop us off?”
Izou laughs, running his hands through Buggy’s tangled hair. “Soon–”
–purupurupuru.
They both still. It is instinctual, the way that both of them draw a sharp breath each.
On Izou’s desk is the Den Den, shell vibrating and tiny mouth open as it rings and rings. Buggy untangles himself, every step on the hardwood floor sending jolting spikes up through his feet.
It could be for Izou. It could be a wrong number. It could be–
Gatcha.
“Hello? This better be the right number, I was told to ring this one.”
Buggy swallows. “Who is this?”
“Buggy?” The woman on the other end exhales. It is a soft, long sound. Like someone blowing out smoke from a cigarette. “It’s Zala. I heard you’re looking for a lost Whitebeard Commander. Well, I reached out to some contacts and–”
Izou is next to Buggy in the span of a breath, pen and paper in his hands. He writes down everything; Warlord deals, a captured Commander, the coordinates of a Marine vessel transporting a high profile prisoner. They might not be connected, it might just be a coincidence, but it is the best thing he has heard all week.
He doesn’t ask her how she got the information, and she doesn’t volunteer it. Even spies have spies, and Buggy can respect that.
Half an hour later, when Buggy hangs up and the Den Den settles in for a well-deserved nap, Izou looks at him.
“Are we sure this information is correct?” He bites his lip hard enough that a drop of red spills over the edge. His hands are covered in smudged lead. A thin, gray strip of it runs all the way down his jawline. “Can we trust her?”
“Call Shanks,” is all that Buggy says. “And get ready to wage war with the marines. They won’t dare raise a hand against two Emperors.”
***
They don’t get a ride back to the Big Top.
They get a ride to the nearest island.
“But why couldn’t they take us the whole way?” Mohji flops face down into Richie’s fur, huffing out a sigh. “And we were getting along so well! Well, most of us. No offense, captain.”
Buggy waves him off. From their place on the dock, the Moby Dick is a slow, white whale moving away from their direction. “It’s fine,” he says. “They have places to be, and we didn’t need their help anyway.”
“But–”
“Pack up and let’s go!”
He gives a short, sharp whistle and the crew scatters. There are enough fishing vessels docked at the small port, so it won’t be difficult to find someone willing to sell. Then they can get back to the Big Top. Back to the Den Den snoozing away inside of his captain’s quarters.
Back to waiting for yet another call.
(For Shanks to tell him that Ace is safe. For their Captain’s kid to be alive, alive, alive– )
Alvida bumps her bony shoulder into his. “When you said you had people everywhere, even on the Grand Line, I can’t believe you meant the Whitebeards. To think you had an Emperor’s crew in your little network all this time.”
“...”
“Why are you quiet? When you said you had people here, you meant the Whitebeards, right?” Alvida gulps. A droplet of sweat drips down from her browline, dragging a line across her foundation. “You meant the Whitebeards, right? ”
“Sure.”
“Buggy, I swear–”
