Work Text:
“Sail ahoy!” Someone hangs half off the flag top mast in a somewhat death defying stunt that would have worried lesser men. For Marco and the rest of the Whitebeard crew, it is a rather regular occurrence that has since lost the anxiety inducing worry and instead been replaced with increasingly dumb backflips and stunts to ‘spice up the performance,’ as Thatch says.
Marco loves his family, but he does not love this side of them.
Izou, radiant as ever, merely lifts an eyebrow at the crewmember who indeed attempts a backflip down from the mast and gets his foot caught in the rigging. “Good attempt,” he calls, clicking his tongue. “But work on that finish, Lawrence. That was a sad two out of ten - Jozu would have been more elegant than that!”
It is a testament to his (forcefully) learned patience that Marco only rolls his eyes and waits for Lawrence to untie himself from the rigging and land in a heap of tangled limbs at their feet. He should probably admonish him and check him over - do his duties as first mate and doctor.
However, Marco also knows that his brothers and sisters have cotton permanently stuck in their ears and any attempt to get them to stop their ridiculous contest will be met with childish whines and complaints to Pops.
Pulling Lawrence to his feet, Marco blinks at him and waits. Then blinks some more. “The sail?” He inquires when the silence stretches on for a second too long - goodness gracious, is he the only one onboard who remembers they are supposed to be feared pirates? “Who’s on their way, Lawrence?”
“Oh! The Red Force is approaching.”
All activity halts on the deck of the Moby Dick.
“Say what now?” Cries Thatch, panicked sweat already dripping down his brow. There is a picnic spread out on the deck, but not nearly enough to feed another Emperor and his crew. No doubt the chef is already anticipating the absolute slaughter of his cupboards, and the untimely death of the recently stocked liquor cabinet.
Marco claps his hands together and all eyes turn to him. “Alright, step on it people. Izou, fetch Pops - Thatch, if I don’t see another three tables of food I can’t guarantee Red Hair’s crew won’t eat the furniture when they’re drunk enough. Jozu–”
The other commander stomps past him. “On it,” he says. “Get the extra sake from the cellar. No need to tell me, I know the drill.”
The first mate can’t escape the exasperated sigh that leaves him. Having any other Emperor approaching would mean preparing for war, or even possibly a marine intervention on top of it. Shanks is… well, he’s Shanks, and therefore the first assumption should always be one consisting of booze and partying. And unholy amounts of confetti from Thatch, Haruta and even Yassop, if the man is in the mood for a prank or two.
Undoubtedly, this will spell another headache for Marco in less than an hour from now - and not the fun, alcohol induced one.
***
It does not occur to Marco that this is the first time Shanks has visited since the Spade Pirates officially joined their crew.
To be fair, running interference between two half-drunk crews, bordering on the ‘epically wasted’ (Shank’s words. Sea forbid Marco ever speaking such words willingly, urgh), is a task and a half in itself.
He should not be blamed for forgetting such a tiny detail. Especially not with the former Spade Pirates squirreled away in the hull and working on some much dreaded, but very needed paperwork.
Out of sight, out of mind, as Vista says.
It does not even cross his mind until he is two margaritas deep and Thatch is glancing at the Red Force moored next to them. “Hey, since we just got Ace to stop trying to kill Pops - do you think he’ll try to take Red Haired Shank’s head instead?”
Marco promptly spills his drink all over himself. “Fuck.” Fuck, fuck, fuck . Why did he not think of that? Holy –
Pops’ loud laughter of “Gurarara!” and Shank’s answering chuckle are familiar sounds in the white noise that invades Marco’s mind. It does not stop goosebumps from breaking out on his skin, or halt the trickle of cold sweat that slides down his back.
“Oh boy,” says Izou, and throws back the entirety of a sugary cocktail before promptly grabbing a second one. It goes down just as smoothly as the first one. “Should we start a betting pool? How many minutes until the first assassination attempt?”
Somehow, Izou’s lipstick is still not smudged even the tiniest bit - on any other given day, Marco might have finally grown the balls to ask for the other commander’s makeup secrets, but at the moment he is a bit too occupied trying to not shit a brick.
“Am I the only one worried about this, potentially, leading to an all out war between two Emperors? Scratch that, am I the only one who cares about living? ” Marco is getting too old for this shit, that is for sure.
Shaking his head, Thatch gives a half-assed sort of shrug. “Honestly, Shanks is probably more likely to laugh it off than literally any other visitor. Then again, his temper can be a bit, uh, vicious and we all know Ace can be… intense.”
“Aw,” says Izou, patting Thatch’s shoulder. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
It is not a nice way of putting it. Considering how adamant Ace had been in trying to remove Pops’ head from his shoulders, there is no way the freckled teenager will accept a beer and a drunken hug instead of a proper duel from another Emperor.
“Should I just lock the door to the hull?” He blames his suggestion on the alcohol, but none of the people present can boast a low-alcohol tolerance, and Izou’s pout reveals as much.
“How long have you been wanting to do that? Not that I’m necessarily opposed to the idea. Thatch can improve it with some lubed up door handles and thumbtacks on the doorstep if you want to go all out.”
Thatch barks a laugh and smacks his knee in unadulterated glee. “I like your thinking, Izou! You sure you don’t wanna join the pranksters? Me and Haruta would gladly have you.”
Izou’s wrinkling nose shouldn’t be so cute, but there’s just something about a man in makeup capable of busting your kneecaps that makes half-drunk Marco think aw, that’s my brother.
He doesn’t pinch his cheeks - Marco is sure that would undoubtedly mean waking up without any kneecaps come morning - but he does give his brother a side hug. “All in favour of locking the door, say aye.”
“Aye!” Yells Izou with a grin.
Thatch gives a whispered, but nonetheless enthusiastic “Aye!” while pulling a bottle of cooking oil out of a pocket in his apron, and lunging for the door handle. He makes it about three steps before the door swings open and their newest brother steps out on deck, papers in hand and nose buried in complicated forms.
“Hey, Marco, what does syndication mean–”
There is no hiding the absolute cacophony of noise that those baboons of partying crewmates are letting out. Whoops and yells and screams of chug, chug, chug.
Ace stops and gapes. “You’re having a party without me?!”
Always the best big brother, Thatch drops the bottle of cooking oil and points to the first mate. “Marco wanted to lock you in!”
Oh, who was Marco kidding, Thatch would throw him under the bus for a pack of peanuts if Ace asked him.
Not that he could blame him, Marco would give Thatch up for less than that.
“Technically,” states Izou. “We all agreed to it.”
Ace, for all of his recently shed distrust, only frowns and shoots them all a look like they are the stupid ones. “But, why though?”
The million beli question.
Marco thinks of the different ways he could angle this. We didn’t want you to worry, Shanks is harmless once you get to know him. We didn’t think you’d want to join a big party with another crew so soon.
What he can’t say is we’re worried you’re going to try and murder the Emperor who just came to drink all of our booze and eat our food - don’t kill him, maybe, pretty please?
What he can say is this; “Uh - the paperwork is important.”
Granted it is not his best work and Marco wonders whether those margaritas hadn’t been doubled or even tripled in strength.
He would not put it past anyone on this ship to spike the booze with more booze, because the Red Haired Pirates have just about three shared brain cells among them all, and Benn Beckman owns two of them.
Ace, for what it is worth, does not buy his crap excuse either. “Okay,” he says. “And what’s the real reason?” His booted foot is tapping against the wooden deck in a steady tap, tap, tap that has Marco hypnotized.
His eyes also zero in on the sharp knife that never leaves Ace’s waist and Marco heaves a sigh like the universe itself has dealt him the worst possible hand. “Look, we have guests and we weren’t sure how well received they’d be given your… way of greeting Pops when you first got on the Moby.”
Ace cocks his head, as if he is not quite following what Marco is getting at.
The first mate has his mouth open to elaborate when he is very much interrupted by a drunk Lucky Roux and a lamb shank is shoved in his mouth instead.
For what it is worth, Ace gapes at the newcomer for all of a second before Lucky Roux spots him and stares back in return.
“You–”
“You!”
Oh no. It is going to be a massacre.
An absolute blood bath.
This is where Marco will die, on the deck of the Moby Dick and choking on a piece of meat. This is not what he signed up for.
“Hey, hey! Everyone!” Lucky Roux screams next to Marco’s ear. “Ace is here! Whooo!” He throws a second lamb shank at Ace - the freckled teenager snaps it out of the air with his teeth like an animal. How he does not choke on it, the phoenix will never know.
From the other end of the deck, Marco hears Shanks scream back; “Ace? Ace! Get your ass up here and have a drink with us!”
Munching away, Ace throws Marco a look that he can’t quite decipher. By the confused and wounded noises coming from Thatch and Izou, they can’t quite make it out either.
It is either this lamb shank tastes great or something along the lines of why are you all acting so weird? Marco wants to say it is the latter, but with Ace one can never know. It might even be both.
It’s probably both, isn’t it?
Ace slinks past them, paperwork left behind in his haste and Marco has half a mind to pick it up for him. Lucky Roux finally lets go of the death grip on his shoulders, only to bound over to Ace like an overly excited puppy and smack him on the back with a large hand. Judging by the soft oof from the teenager, Lucky Roux is not holding his strength back.
“So,” says Roux, smacking his lips and plucking at a piece of lamb skin stuck between his front teeth. “Take old man Whitebeard’s head yet?”
Honestly, it should be threatening coming from a rival Emperor’s crew - but Lucky Roux is grinning and sounding so utterly sarcastic, like he can barely hold back a laugh.
Ace chokes on air and, perhaps for the first time since Marco has welcomed their newest little brother onboard, blushes . Full blown red tomato, his freckles nearly hidden by the sudden change of pallor in his skin.
Izou whips open a fan and tries to hide an utterly curious glance that is equal parts astonishment and absolute worry at the familiarity between the two pirates.
Ace damn near swallows the bone of the lamb shank before seemingly thinking better of it, tossing it over the side of the railing before he can choke on it. With a jerk of his thumb and a splutter, he gestures to the large tattoo on his back.
“Didn’t so much take his head as, well…” He trails off, bare shoulders shrugging.
The whole interaction from Ace appearing on deck to this weird (dare he say friendly) exchange happens in the span of what can not be more than two minutes, tops.
That is not nearly enough time for Marco to process what he is seeing, and neither does it appear to be enough time for his brothers, either.
Tousling his otherwise perfectly coiffed pompadour, Thatch glances from Ace, to Lucky Roux, and back again. “You, uh, know each other, Ace?”
With a slap to the back and a guffaw, Lucky Roux nearly sends Ace toppling over the railing. “Sure we do! The kid knows how to drink and party, that’s for sure!”
Which is… news to most of them. Ace might have gotten a tattoo, but that is a far cry from joining in on the festivities. Instead, he usually remained on the fringe of it all, with the former Spade Pirates throwing what could technically count as their own party amidst the Whitebeards.
It is a habit they have been trying to break their newest siblings out of, and here Lucky Roux is, telling them Ace is a proper party animal in his own right.
There is no helping the small bubbles of jealousy that springs forth in Marco’s chest. He is old enough to not act childish, but it does not stop the thoughts of is it just us he doesn’t like? Did we do something to scare him off? Why has Ace shown them but not us ?
Thatch must be thinking along the same lines, if the furrowing of his brow is anything to go by. “You’ve partied before?” There is a wobble to his lips, like the thought of Ace partying with another Emperor’s crew is just about the biggest betrayal the freckled teen could have committed.
How did they go from worrying about Ace stabbing Red Haired Shanks to, well, this? This slow and steady jealousy that is humming beneath their skin.
Izou, too, is wrinkling his nose and Marco knows those perfectly manicured nails are twitching to grab hold of his silk kimono and bunch the fabric.
He doesn’t though, because Izou would rather be shot by a marine rookie than willingly ruin the fabric of his favourite garment.
Marco is not above it, though, and while he crosses his arms with an unimpressed eyebrow at all this new information being thrown their way, his nails dig into the skin of his forearm with enough strength to draw a small trickle of blood.
It isn’t fair, he thinks. They didn’t sit with Ace through sleepless nights to win his trust. They didn’t have to lure him with food just to get him to even look at them. They didn’t even have to try for Ace’s trust .
Or so it seems, at the very least.
“Ace! Where are you?” Shanks’ voice carries on the wind, the slurred call of a drunk who can’t find his friend. Ace’s head snaps in the direction of the call and he briefly looks back at Marco, Thatch and Izou with nothing more than a small dip of his head and a smile curled on his lips.
“Excuse me, I should get to Shanks before he tracks me down and trips over air.” Ace laughs, sounding - of all things - fond of the drunken manchild. He dogs Lucky Roux’s steps across the deck of the Moby Dick and leaves the trio staring after them as they are swallowed by the mingling crew.
Izou snaps his fan closed with a harsh thump. “That’s not fair,” he says. “How the hell does Ace even know Shanks? I sure didn’t come across any articles about Fire Fist Ace challenging Red Haired Shanks for a fight…”
“Neither did I.” Thatch picks at the hem of his apron, eyes on the ground.
“Me neither, yoi.” Marco can’t help but huff. “But maybe we should count ourselves lucky that he isn’t trying to kill Red Hair.”
Thatch is quiet for a second. “Yet.” He tacks on, just to be an annoying little shit. “We all know how, uh, clingy Shanks can get once him and Pops are a few barrels in. Ace might get a little stabby prone when that happens.”
Nodding assent, Izou helpfully adds; “Not to mention there is a fifty-fifty chance Ace is either an aggressive drunk or a sleepy drunk. It might even be both.”
Those two really enjoy making Marco’s blood pressure spike, don’t they?
He heaves a sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ll go keep an eye on our favourite hot-head, okay?”
Marco is not one for babysitting, but if that is what it takes to avoid a potential drunken brawl leading to severe repercussions down the line, well, he supposes he can be relegated to babysitting for just one night.
***
Marco takes it back.
Babysitting would be easier than whatever the heck is currently happening.
It didn’t take long to catch up to Ace, and therefore come face to face with the living menace and current bane of Marco’s existence, Red Haired Shanks.
The older man is chugging a mug of beer faster than what should be humanly possible, Ace casually sitting next to him, leaning against him and stealing sips from Pop’s sake cup.
And then Shanks spots Marco, face lighting up with joy.
Oh no.
“Marco!” The Emperor yells, face splitting with an overexaggerated grin that settles on his ugly mug. “You should join my crew!”
“No thanks.” It is nearly a customary greeting at this point, but it does not make Marco hate the interaction any less. Pops, his beloved father, does nothing but lean back in his towering chair and give a loud gurarara at their antics.
Pops pats the chair of his arm. “Come join us, son, there’s plenty of drink to go around.” There is a gleam in Pops’ eyes that suggest it is not so much a choice as it is a demand. His father’s gaze flickers over to Shanks and Ace, sitting shoulder to shoulder and fighting over the same mug.
Good, at least Marco is not the only one who finds the whole thing highly suspicious.
Ace bats at Shanks’ grabby hands, elbowing the Emperor in the face and sending the other man flat on his back as he sprawls on the deck. “Oh! That reminds me!” Calls the Emperor from the floor. “Yassopp, you owe me and Ben some beli! Told ya’ the kid would end up joining the old man in the end!”
His sharp, barking laughter drowns out Ace’s undignified shriek. “You bet on me?!”
Shanks ruffles Ace’s hair in a gesture that should have made the freckled teen at least threaten to remove his one remaining hand, but merely causes him to groan and hide his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you.”
“You better believe it - and you just made me a richer man!”
Ace bats at the hand on his head but there is no anger to the gesture.
Marco dares to glance up at his Pops and finds the man wearing a frown. “I take it you’ve met my new son a few times, then, Red Hair?” The small smile on his face does not nothing to hide the curiosity of his question, but thankfully none here dare to take offense at Pops’ rather blunt question.
“Nah,” says Shanks, shoving Ace’s face into the mug of beer he is drinking from. “Just once.”
That… was not what Marco was expecting to hear. One interaction for this level of trust? Sure, Red Hair is charismatic on a good day and downright infuriating on a bad one, but nothing Shanks could say or do should have warranted the ease with which he simply… lounges around with Ace.
“Just once?” Pops echoes with a lilt to his lips. It makes his mustache jump and Ace giggles.
“Yeah, but like, I had to go see him first, ya’ know?” Their youngest slurs. And no, Marco certainly did not know, thank you very much. Drunk Ace appears to be neither aggressive nor overly sleepy, but rather just as clingy as Shanks.
“Yeah,” he continues on through a burp. “‘Cause Makino taught me manners so I could thank him when I met him. So of course I had to go meet ‘im… first…”
Ace’s sentence tapers off into a snore as he faceplants on the deck. At least three of their siblings in the nearby vicinity make a move to go and grab Ace, but Red Hair beats them to it. He tugs the freckled teen upright and tucks him under his remaining arm, keeping him somewhat steady.
His eyes do not leave Ace’s face, and Shanks’ perpetual grin is replaced with something a lot softer. He turns to Pops and gives a brief nod at his fellow Emperor. “Thank you for giving him a chance. He’s a good kid.”
Marco bristles. “He’s our brother. Of course he’s a good kid.”
“Easy, son,” says Pops, resting a placating hand on Marco’s shoulder before he can burst into flames. He wants to, though, Marco really wants to. Ace is theirs. Their crewmate, their brother, son, friend.
“That son of mine caused quite a lot of trouble when he first came aboard, but we’re glad to have him. He’s family.” Pops’ voice is lower than usual, no doubt trying not to wake the sleeping Ace.
It might as well be a futile effort, for all the yelling and cheering around them.
Still, it is a nice gesture, and one Shanks seems to appreciate if his smile is anything to go by.
“Good,” the Emperor grins. “He could use some more of that.” He sips the bottom dregs of his beer, pouting into the mug when there is clearly nothing left but soggy foam.
Ace gives a particularly loud snore and jerks awake, eyes flying open as he snorts. “Huh, what–”
“You fell asleep, yoi.” It does not take a genius to find out what had happened, but Marco figures he might as well throw his little brother a proverbial bone. Ace’s hat has slid down his face, leaving half of his hair squished against Shanks and now it remains upright even as runs a hand through those dark locks.
For someone who tried to kill Pops and is known to be a fierce warrior of the sea, there is something undeniably soft about a grumbling and half-asleep Ace.
Shanks must think the same, for all that the man is smiling at Fire Fist.
“Ha, you look just like Luffy when he fell asleep at the bar in a puddle of juice. I swear Makino tried to comb it out of his hair for days, but it just refused to let go.” Shanks can barely get the words out through his muffled peals of laughter.
Marco can’t recall hearing about a ‘Luffy’ on the Red Haired Pirates crew, but it might as well be some new guy. Except… except Ace is wrinkling his nose and readjusting his hat in that jittery way that means he is equally as amused as he is embarrassed.
He grunts a quiet shut up and steals the beer mug from Shanks’ hand, throwing it back to chug whatever remains in the mug. Judging by the disgust that follows, there is still nothing left in the mug except for warm foam that has to be absolutely foul by now.
“You should’a seen him! I swear Anchor was pissed for days, but I just couldn’t stop laughing. He was scowling and yelling and stomping his lil’ feet and I couldn’t help it! Benn did hit me over the head when I started laughing every time someone just mentioned juice.” Shanks is slapping his knee, clearly content letting Ace have his way with the empty mug, even as the freckled team leans back and chucks it into the unsuspecting crowd.
There is a short yell of hey from someone who could have been Haruta, or maybe Jozu, but it is enough confirmation that Ace at least managed to hit something.
Marco hopes it was a Red Haired Pirate.
“Yeah, well,” Ace begins, fumbling for words and tugging on the fabric of his shorts. “You should have seen the time I had to pull him out of an alligator. For the third time. In the same day.”
Oh?
Marco squints, his Pops frowning as the two of them look at the two drunken sods across from them in a new light.
“You have a mutual acquaintance, yoi?” Okay, Marco is beyond done with whatever little inside joke Ace and Shanks have going on - there hasn’t been shed any blood or been any complaining about drunkards. Which suggests that whatever the hell happened that one time they met, it must have been quite significant.
And clearly this ‘Luffy’ or ‘Anchor’ had something to do with it.
Shanks leers at Marco, his grin sharp enough to cut the growing irritation sifting through the air. “Oh yeah, Anchor’s a good friend of mine.” His one hand comes up to rub the stump of his shoulder, eyes shifting to Whitebeard.
“I told you I made a bet when I lost my arm - a bet on the future. Well, turns out the little munchkin I had placed my bet on just so happens to be Ace’s little brother.”
Wait, did– did Marco hear that right?
“So imagine my surprise when I’m getting piss drunk in a cave - on a mountain no less! - in the New World, when this rookie comes strolling in,” Shanks is grinning so wide it must be hurting his cheeks, but it does not dim in the slightest as he continues. “I’m sitting there, thinking ‘oh shit, this rookie is gonna’ fight me but I’m way too drunk to bother’ and then– then! He bows and says thank you! ”
Oh, Ace is full-on blushing now, no doubt about it. His ears are flushing red. Nose and cheeks speckled with freckles and splotches of crimson. “Yeah, well, you saved Lu’s life. ‘Course I had to thank you!”
And isn’t that just… way more information than Marco’s brain can handle right now.
Ace has a little brother? Who somehow endeared himself to Red Haired Shanks, a goddamn Emperor, who then proceeded to save the aforementioned kid’s life?
Thankfully - at least for what remains of Marco’s quickly dwindling sanity - Pops breaks into the conversation again.
“Guarara, then it would seem I owe you thanks as well, brat. Any brother of a son of mine is part of the family - so thank you for saving him.” He dips his head low for nothing more than a brief second. Even then, the sight of an Emperor like Pops doing so is telling enough.
Shanks nods back with that stupid grin back on his face.
From anyone else, it would have been blatant disrespect. From Shanks, that is just the sort of behaviour any of them expect from him at this point. There is no point in getting angry, and if Shanks really did save Ace’s little brother, then Marco owes him thanks as well.
It is through gritted teeth and a near shattering hold on the armrest of Pops’ chair, but Marco manages to find his words again. “What Pops said - thank you for saving Ace’s little brother.”
Urgh, it hurts to even think of those words in regards to Red Hair, let alone say them.
Shanks smirks, the utter bastard. “You’re welcome! I’ll take Marco as my payment for services well rendered, everyone good with that?”
And there it is, goddammit, he never gives up, does he?
Pops latches one large hand back on Marco’s shoulder and gives a light snort. “I’m afraid not, you’ll have to settle for the booze and a decent party.”
“Oh well, worth a shot.”
No, no it was not.
“Say, do you think your younger brother would be willing to join us? Any family of yours is our family, too, son.” Pops says it so casually. Like offering some unknown East Blue brat a spot with the Whitebeard Pirates is a common occurrence.
Ace ceases all movement, as does Shanks. Then they glance at Pops, then each other, before promptly bursting into the loudest fit of giggles Marco has heard all night. Shanks is banging his hand on the deck of the Moby Dick and Ace is practically howling while he clutches his stomach.
Pops says nothing, just waits for the two idiots to regain some semblance of breathing.
Their youngest brother wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and takes a deep breath. “Oh man, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.” Shanks nods along, still in the throes of laughter. “I’m flattered, I really am, Pops - but Luffy won’t be joining this crew. He’s going to be a Captain in his own right.”
Shanks slaps him on the shoulder and the two share a look before they both turn back to Pops. “Because he’s gonna’ be the Pirate King!” They yell in unison, as though there can be no other option to the question than this.
It sends them back into another giggle fit, chortling in a pile of limbs on the deck.
“Honestly, if Anchor is sailing with any Emperor it should definitely be me, but you’ll see for yourself one day. There’s no way that kid is going to settle for anything less than the biggest adventure and the title of Pirate King. That’s just who he is.”
“Yeah, when Lu’ sets sail in a few years the Grand Line won’t know what hit it! He’ll be the Pirate King, you mark my words!” Ace chimes in. There is something about his smile, just like with Shanks’, that simply reeks of absolute confidence in that statement.
Like it is a universal truth, and anyone who opposes it is out of their mind.
Shanks and Ace trade Luffy stories in the company of the mingling crew, and with Marco and Pops listening in with increasing disturbance and worry for little Luffy’s head. (And whatever damage it must have sustained as they grew up. East Blue does not sound so weak when Ace starts talking about giant animals, mountain bandits and a horrifying grandfather.)
Each story grows more and more outrageous as the two pirates try to one-up each other, and eventually it devolves into a light brawl that nearly knocks Beckman off his feet.
“Gurarara! I’ll look forward to hearing about the brat’s exploits when he begins his journey.”
Marco might join Pops for that.
Looking at Ace elbowing Shanks in the ribs is immensely satisfying, and it is not until Shanks leans in to literally bite Ace’s hat and drag it off his head that something occurs to Marco.
There had been many rumours abound when Shanks had returned to the Grand Line and missing an arm, but… not a whole lot of people had cared about the missing straw hat on his head. It had been odd, given that Marco knows exactly where that hat had come from, but now… Now he is pretty sure said hat is firmly situated on the head of Ace’s little brother.
A crown for a prince, until he becomes a king in his own right.
Hiding a smile behind his sleeve, Marco thinks that perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad if Shanks came by for a drinking party more often, if seeing Ace this happy and relaxed is the result of it.
Shanks takes that moment to hurl another mug of something at the first division commander’s head. “Marco, join my crew already, ya’ burnt chicken!”
No, scratch that.
Fuck Shanks.