Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The storm passes sometime during the night; dissipates into oblivion, like a careless thief. It leaves behind the remaining water it carried from the sea, where it sits heavy in the air, suffocating.

Despite the liters of water Mohji had shoved his way, the humidity and morning sun combined do absolutely nothing to help the small hangover when it finally hits him, each step ignites a cannon in his head and strikes the place where his neck meets his skull with an infuriating precision. He makes his way across the deck of the Big Top quickly, all but running to the safety of his stateroom to nurse his self-inflicted wounds in peace.

It is a fleeting hope, one that his first-mate is dead-set on keeping from him, apparently.

They had an illusionist on board, at one point in time. Found the man on Clockwork Island doing road-side shows in order to pay a significant gambling debt. It was Mohji who’d vouched for him, taking an interest to the slight of hand and that one time he’d made a rabbit come out of a hat. Buggy only said yes because there was some benefit for looting the audience that would stop a see his show.

Only problem was that when the magician wasn’t doing tricks, he had a nasty habit of appearing out of thin air, and it became an issue for Buggy because he’d sometimes — sometimes! — startle, causing his limbs to go flying wayward.

His first mate must’ve picked up some of that bastard’s worst habits, because Mohji appears out of no where now, hot on Buggy’s heel.

“Feeling better?” The little shit has the audacity to ask.

It takes an inordinate amount of self-restraint to not send Mohji over the rails, just like he’d done the illusionist. He settles for a warning glower, and trust that Mohji can feel the ice cracking beneath his feet from the weight of it.

The younger man just smirks, but doesn’t push it. Instead, he starts prattling about the damages that they’d sustained — all superficial — and nudges a flask into Buggy’s hand.

He hopes it’s alcohol, but expects that it is just more water.

It is a nice offering, none the less.

“Keep up,” he tells his first-mate without so much as slowing his pace; takes a greedy swig from the flask, anyway. Finds that he isn’t so disappointed for the water, even as he nearly chokes on it as he greedily chugs it down.

Dutiful as ever, Mohji matches Buggy’s quickened pace. Even at the expense of his shin once or twice as Buggy leads them in a beeline, straight through the worst of the havoc already being corrected on deck.

It shouldn’t have come has a surprise to find a fully awake and active crew, but it is.

What is slightly less surprising is that when they near the helm, it is Cabaji who is apparently the one delving out the orders. As Buggy’s proxy, surely, but there is something about the sight of it...

There is sweat on the other man’s brow, and his shirt had come undone probably more buttons than originally intended, showing off his firm stomach, all work-slick and red from a morning spent doing hard labor under the beating sun and...

Both of these things annoy him greatly, but he can’t fathom why.

He’s decides not to dwell on it. Decides in a moment of madness to leave it be — to let Cabaji boss the crew around so that Buggy himself can...

...

....

Well, he’s inspecting the damage, damn it!

Even though the extent of what the storm had dealt them was just a few overturned crates and barrels, an unfurled sail and some dislodged rigging...

It was by no means the worst beating the Big Top had ever taken while at port, and by no means the worst she could handle. Buggy’d made sure of that when he commissioned her; made sure she'd withstand the cruelties of the world, just like her sister before her, wherever Raleigh may have stashed her — because he refused to believe the Oro Jackson had sunk, like the many news articles had proclaimed she had, back when everything went to shit.

By some small mercy, the water is still below them now, smooth like glass without any wind to cause even the slightest ripple. It is a thing of deception, a ruse to the true fury that lurks underneath. A woman scorned, and all... Calypso didn't take kindly to thieves, and yet she suffered them endlessly. Buggy himself included, only he knew the truth: The peace of the bay was temporary. A silent warning. A thing to lull sailors into a false sense of calm.

Buggy can’t help but to shy away from the inspection in favor of pretending to analyze the side of the hull for damage, which turns out to be an even worse predicament than facing Mohji directly.

In the stillness of the sea, he catches the sight of his own wrecked reflection. His painted on smile is smudged all the way up to his cheek bones, a clear indication of sleep and too much drink. It looks pitiful. He looks pitiful, he decides. Worn and aged, just like the silver hairs that peak out from under his bandana; the same colors as the flecks that take up most of the blue of his eyes.

It's a warped perspective of the real thing, he knows, but even his skin looks pallid and pasty and gray.

He does not share in the Big Top’s fortitude. He has taken the world's hits fully, has worn them long after they were supposed to have healed. Scars on top of scars, compounded in their multitudes.

For a man who boast so much inner self-loathing, he is a vain man, none the less. So many years of being self-conscious of the things he carried within him — on him, in the guise as a nose — would do that, apparently.

The uneasiness grows in his stomach. Sends a chill down his spine, right to his toes. The Voice rumbles, much like a barely contained growl.

He pushes of the rails. Leaves the mess of his face in the reflection of the water. He’ll deal with it, later.

For now, he stomps onwards, Mohij trailing him a few paces behind as he resumes his damage report with a little more reservation and a little less breath, clearly struggling to keep pace.

They’re almost at the stern when Buggy catches sight of the harbor, more specifically the unmistakable sight of white and blue uniforms marching down the pier.

His feet stop short, as do his legs, but the rest of him moves to the farthest edge of the deck to get a closer look.

Mohji, bless him, narrowly collides with Buggy’s heels, if the swift burst of wind is any indication. Instead, there is a series of thumps from behind and a low moan and, when Buggy turns around, the other man is on all fours, on the ground.

“Get up, will you?” Buggy snaps. “Come see this.”

Mohji does what is asked, opting to crawl his way to the edge of the deck and uses the railing to heave himself up. Buggy can’t help but roll his eyes. “You’re with that damn animal too much.”

“Actually, quadrupedal movement is very beneficial. It requires a lot of balance and strength, and can even help develop mental coordination skills —”

He’s almost appreciative of Mohji’s ranting. It makes him forget about his headache and upset gut — lets him lean into his more violent urges. Makes him want to reach out and strangle —

“Are you done?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Yes?”

He’s not carrying a spyglass with him, so he has to rely on Mohji’s vision being greater than shit as he grabs his neck — don’tchokehimdon’tchokehim — and swivels his head in the direction of the docks. “Look at this, then.”

The younger man squints, and it makes Buggy feel marginally better about his own waning eyesight as he, too, strains to stare off into the distance. He almost thinks that Mohji can’t spot them, that maybe it is just a migraine induced hallucination, but then he lets out a groan, and Buggy sighs.

“Stopping for supplies, you think?” he asks, practically draping his whole upper half over the rail to get a closer look.

It’s a moot point now for Buggy, the little blurs are all one image, so he turns and leans his back against the railing.

He gave up smoking years ago, only really ever did it because Shanks had picked up the habit when they were kids, but he suddenly wished he had some rolling paper and tobacco on him, if only to preoccupy his hands. He settles for picking at his cuticles, biting the excess skin off.

Mohji’s on his tip-toes next to him still, and Buggy nearly yells at him for how far he’s he’s dangling his upper half and risking falling over, but then his first-mate says, “Oh,” followed by, “It’s bounty posters.” He finally returns to standing normally, looks over at Buggy and asks, “You think there’s been any update to yours?”

Buggy considers this for just as long as he thinks he needs to, if only to keep up appearances for Mohji’s benefit. He is not ignorant enough to think that their little uptick in luck was enough to raise the bounty on his head, not when he’d been terrorizing the East for twenty years and had only managed three million Berries.

“I am due for a new headshot, but no. I don’t think it’s mine that’s being updated.”

He turns back to catch sight of the duo creeping up the docks, close enough to the Big Top that it would’ve made him nervous, had they been back East.

As it is, they’re on the Grand Line, now, and there is relief in their low-man status.

So much so, in fact, that it gives him the confidence to something as brazen as to detach an ear and send it chasing the men below.

“— Stepping-stone town like this,” is what one of the uniformed men ends on gruffly, like he bothered more by their own presence here than any of the lingering pirates around.

“Exactly,” is what the other replies. “All this by-through traffic... Surely someone might recognize him.”

“If you’re banking on any of these folks to rat out another pirate, then you’re a bigger idiot that I initially thought.”

“Well, Black Beard —”

“Will you shut up?” Hisses the original Marine, and Buggy can hear the sound of a brief scuffle of feet, a pause, and then he can see the two little blurs conjoin into one.

“What do you think he’d think about you blaspheming his name around town as a traitor of his own?”

“I’m not sure he’d care, honestly? Isn’t that the point of being a pirate — lying, cheating, stealing...”

“Then you are idiot. They’ve got this... Code of honor, or what have you.... He’d just add a target on his own back. Why do you think he’s even working with the military?”

Buggy is nearing the limit for how far he can stretch the control of his detached limb. They are at the farthest point on the deck, and Buggy almost crawls over the rail himself to get closer.

The Voice has been silent, which isn’t unusual after a night of drinking, but it is at the forefront of his mind, pressing itself into his consciousness now.

Don’t listen if you aren’t ready to hear, the Voice warns, and it is like a punch to his nervous system. His whole body freezes. His detached ear begins to float back, but it’s too late.

He isn’t ready, but, then again, he never is when the other shoe drops. He just... Goes.... And his whole life has he's spent chasing after it.

The blur of the two Marines shuffle together, like the one is pushing the other. “Why do you think?” is what is said. And then, “The son of the King of the Pirates —”

Buggy’s stomach drops. He leaves it behind, all but crawls over the railing and gripping the flagstaff as his anchor as he stretches forward.

One blur huffs to the other, moves farther down the pier, away from the Big Top.

He can feel Mohji grab at his wrist, holding him in case he slips. He’s also saying something, but he’s on the wrong side for his attached ear to hear, what with the open air beneath it and the sound of his own heart pounding.

The first Marine grunts. “ — Alleged son —”

“Alleged son,” the other agrees. “Whatever. Point is, the bounty on this kid’s head is more than either of us will make in a life time combined. The immunity and dissolvement of you know who’s own bounty is just an added bonus to his cut, if the kid turns out to be Gol D. Roger’s kid.”

“That’s a giant mistake, if you ask me —”

“ — Which no one would. Ever.”

“— Letting Black Beard of all people off the hook —”

“Didn’t I just tell you —”

Buggy doesn’t have a choice. He has to recall his ear, or else go chasing after it when it plopped uselessly to the ground.

But, not without first chasing after them with a hand — the burnt one — before they completely leave the sphere of his control.

He sneaks out one of the rolls in the burlap slung over the taller Marine’s shoulder, keeps his entire hand low to the boards and even lower to the ocean as he floats it back to him.

He pulls himself back together slowly, numbly.

Mohji has to help heft him back over the rails, asking, “What did they say?” repeatedly, to the point that it becomes a chant.

He slaps a hand across the younger man’s mouth.

He needs silence.

He needs to vomit.

He needs a drink.

He needs to see the image on the bounty, even though he’s more than certain he knows the face that will be there.

Buggy tries unrolls the parchment with the hand not clamped over Mohji’s face. He’s more than disconcerted to find that he’s shaking too much to get it open all the way on the first try.

When he does get the damn thing open, he nearly throws it overboard.

Mohji is on tip toes, peaking from behind Buggy’s back, trying desperately to say something, but his words are muffled. Instead, he makes a small little noise, not so unlike a wounded bird. It is more flattering that the shriek that emits from Buggy’s own mouth.

It is a clear day. One of those days that made the horizon stretch for leagues, almost like it never ended. The kind that could make one feel small, in comparison; that would give someone pause to contemplate their inexperience and weigh their luck.

“Might leave tomorrow,” he says, mainly to himself, but also partially to appease the Voice, just to ease the bitching he knew was about to come. And to Mohji, who wasn’t saying anything at all.

He rolls up the parchment quickly. Grips it in his hand firmly, and looks around, to see who else may have caught a glimpse.

When he turns back to Mohji is already staring at him, mouth agape like an air-starved fish.

Buggy nearly yells at him for such a stupid look, but he feels hollow. He feels like he’s floating, even though he’s in one piece and solid where he stands on the stern of his ship.

His head throbs and his stomach turns and, for a minute, he thinks, maybe, that the current is starting to churn again from beneath them: that Calypso's silent wrath was about to take form and smite them all.

It doesn't come.

The world stays still and even-keel, even as his mind spirals and forces him to turn away from the depths that threaten to drown him from several feet below his own feet.

There is no helping the fact that he’d entertained a child with the might of the Marine’s chasing after him, much less a merciless lunatic (and that’s just how Buggy remembered him as a kid. He was probably much worse, now).

There is no helping the revelation that said child might be fathered by his former captain.

He leaves Mohji standing there, waiting for guidance which is not prepared to give, what with his head spinning like it was.

He passes Cabaji on his way to his quarters, almost barrels into him, but is steadied by his second’s hand.

“OK there, Captain?” is what Cabaji asks, completely ignorant of the latest bit of horrific news, and it is clearly not the question meant to be answered.

And Buggy, well... He does what he does best. He panics. And all because he can’t stomach the idea of the truth.

The whole ordeal leaves left him slightly miserable and sullen, but that seemed to be the way of things, as of late: miserable and sullen and doubtful and beginning to form a nasty habit for experiencing things kin to remorse and regret, like some kind of sap. ...

There are also the other unpleasant feelings that could be perceived as deeper emotions — more damning — but he rather not think about those. Shouldn’t even be able to think about those things, really, not so displaced in time as they were, and therefore, he tells himself, he can’t.

He pushes Cabaji off of him without a word.

He fumbles for the tin box in his breast pocket, like it might ease the ache in his lungs, or be seem like the only thing that would actually allow him to breathe.

He can’t. He won’t.

And therefore...

He runs.

He hides.

☠️

It is well past noon by the time he masters the act of resolutely thinking about not thinking. Which is quite the accomplishment, considering the practically mirrored images that stare up at him from the floor, smirking. A trait passed down from father to son, apparently.

“Fuck you both,” he says to the disembodied heads, scooting his foot forwards to push them both farther away from him.

The bounty for Ace, it should come as no surprise, stays put, almost as if it is glued there, but Roger’s shoots upward, floating back down to earth and meters away from where it had previously been, right in the direction of Buggy’s own lap.

“Gah!”

He very nearly collides with the wall next to him in his haste-making, crawling on all fours to the middle of the room before pausing to make sure the cursed image of his former Captain hadn’t followed after him.

It doesn’t so much as shift with the breeze he must’ve stirred up, instead it comes down to rest in the spot he’d just abandoned, which is...

“Fucking creepy as hell, is what it is,” he tells poster Roger, who just smiles at him, like he was in on the whole joke.

Buggy huffs as he settles himself on his haunches.

The sudden movement makes the pins and needles in his ass shoot down to his toes, and he winces as the numbness slowly disappears, leaving in its place good old fashion pain.

It is the punishment for how long he’d spent sat on the floor and using his body as a physical barricade for anyone who tried to so much as creep in to check on him (which Mohji had, once, and only narrowly avoided the dagger that Buggy drove down into the planks where his first-mate’s foot had been seconds before).

He takes care when he finally pulls himself upright fully, almost having to separate the joints of his knees, but ultimately settling for keeping his body whole and solid. The ache in his muscles is a welcomed distraction, anyway.

Avoidance, The Voice corrects and...

Well, obviously.

The very idea that Gol D. Roger would father a child was...

Not very surprising, The Voice interjects.

Try very fucking surprising, he snips back, even as a tries to picture the old man with a kid on his shoulders, or tugging at his pant leg and finds that the imagining is more of a memory. Some of him as said kid, some as Shanks, and...

Fuck.

He eyes the poster of Roger again. It’s a flattering picture. Probably one of the only bounties that had gotten any true likeness of the man in question, and not just the idea of the King of the Pirates. He’s smirking, yes, but it’s his eyes...

Buggy realizes that he must be around the same age as Roger was when the original bounty was posted.

It was clearly from a time the famed pirate had been tickled by his own accomplishments. Maybe a little bit after when they’d they’d found Shanks in that damn treasure chest as a baby; maybe around when they’d dug Buggy out of his grave.

Beyond the laugh lines and crows feet, there was a self-satisfaction that could only be placed as pride.

And it was nearly two decades before Ace came along.

The famed King of the Pirates stares back up at him, laughter on his lips and contentment in his eyes, and the man hadn’t even had the chance to meet his own son.

And...

Fuck.....

He doesn’t cry, because that would put too much stock in inanimate voices; give too much credit to the the spirits that haunted him.

Plus, he spent the last few hours perfecting the art of not thinking about such things, and he would be damned if he lost his composure to Roger, corporal form or not.

He wonders, briefly, if Shanks knew about this. Wonders if Rayleigh did, too.

There is the chance that he is the last of Roger’s crew to know and that...

Buggy makes his way to the other side of the room, scooping up the bounties and makes quick work of folding them as flat and small as he could manage. He retrieves the tin from his inner pocket without thought, lays the posters inside, right on top of Shanks’ Vivre Card, which he pretends to not see (or care) that the corner is curled closer inward and significantly closer to the opposite edger than it had been the last time he checked.

He moves across the room off muscle memory, pulls the top drawer of his desk open thoughtlessly, and all but throws the tin inside without thinking of how it lands amongst the piles of expired docking slips and aged weather reports.

He goes to slam the the drawer shut without any more consideration, but his hands stalls as he makes the fatal error of looking down again, to the thing that carried the remnants of his past, and he chokes on the sentiment as it tries to tumble out of him, but instead leaves him spluttering.

He’d been a lost orphan, then he was found.

He’d had a family, and then he didn’t.

He had the closest thing he’d ever qualify as love, and then he let it go.

And, now...

...

....

He shuts the drawer.

He leaves the room, like a man heading to the gallows.

☠️

The sun is waning in the distance, but not yet hidden enough to lessen the day’s heat when he finally emerges from his seclusion.

The fact that no one has abandoned his now cursed ship boded well that news of their new friend’s bounty hadn’t gotten out yet. It was a testament for what a good first-mate Mohji was: loyal and patient and knew when to shut his fucking mouth...

He finds the lion tamer preoccupied with a knotted mess of a downhaul line, a few crew already working to get the thing untangled, unsuccessfully.

When Mohji catches sight of him, he does not look dumbfounded anymore. He wears a look of steadfast determination for the task at hand, mixed with a bit of confusion, which is understandable.

He also looks slightly scared as he looks down at the mess surrounding him, but that was to be expected.

It would be a nice distraction... To yell at the men fumbling with the rigging in their hands: To shout and stomp his feat and posture before them by yanking the coiled ball of pulleys and rope away and lament on their inexperience by snatching the mess away and howling with displeasure about having to do everything himself, just like his display this morning.

He should discipline them, but he doesn't.

He doesn’t have it in him to yell anymore, doesn’t have it in him to help, either. He just doesn’t have it in him, and that’s sort of the issue, isn’t it? He’s never had it in him to be or do much more than the absolute bare minimum, no matter how hard he tries. His efforts are in vain, because he just doesn’t...

...

He walks away from the scene without comment.

Sends his hands out to preoccupy themselves, save he bite every one of his finger nails down to the quick.

The helm is empty, most of the men settling below deck after a long day’s work.

He’ll join them, eventually, but for now he laments in the stillness of the water; the uptick in the breeze.

It is a red sun setting; a good sign for sailing tomorrow. 

The Voice hums, thoughtfully, like it is torn between two possibilities. 

He turns his attention to the horizon again; back to where dreams are born and, ultimately, die; the very same place where good fortune and bad originate, and where the blur of the sun now distorted the unmistakable white and blue of the Marine’s flag into something less like a bad omen and more like a poor choice in design.

The singular moored vessel is a tiny thing, by regular standards; practically laughable compared to the usual military vessels that sailed the Grand Line. An easy thing to miss, and even easier to ignore.

It wasn’t even as big as the ones that they’d send on patrols in the East, and definitely not something that could withstand open ocean on the other side of the sandbar protecting the little seaside port... Or even one of the smaller beasts that lurked there, for that matter.

The sight brings back the prickling feeling on the back of his neck and makes his skin crawl like a thousand sand-mites were infesting his clothes.

He turns back, heads towards the lower decks, but stops when he finds the the cluster of men still struggling with the rigging and sighs.

It takes only a few strides before he's towering over the group of them, but an immense amount of energy to take up the bundle of rope that Mohji lets go of easily.

“Almost had it,” his first-mate tells him, even as he struggles to disentangle himself.

“Yes. Nearly,” he lies to him, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Once Mohji is fully released from the binding, Buggy finds the section with the least among of give and tosses it to the deck. He proceeds to shake it once — twice — three times...

Once it dangles loose and limp, then, and only then, does it give it back to right-hand.

“The more you fight it the more it'll tangle,” he tells them through a horse voice, which he has to clear several times before he can confidently confirms his earlier statement to Mohji, a severity he usual reserves for moments of life and death in his eys — “Get this sorted. We sail out first thing tomorrow morning.”

The crew cheer around him, clearly ready for their next adventure, blissfully unaware of the danger they’re now in.

He adds as an after thought, one that came from a place of personal experience, “And don’t drink so heavily!”

And even if there is a chorus of aye-ayes around him as the men gather themselves to feast, he knows it is a command that will fall on deaf ears.

As the men depart, Mohji asks, “Alls well?” with a knowing edge to his voice.

Not for the first time, Buggy wonders if he can hear it, too. The dredges of the world.

If he can hear, too, a Voice nagging in his ear.

The same one that scoffs at the idea of something so simple and distant and hopeful as tomorrow.

Chapter Text

It is still and silent across the expanse of the ocean and village alike, save for the gentle lapping of water against the harbor pylons and the slow creak of mooring ropes shifting under the weight of the tide.

Darkness has cast its shroud over everything, rendering the world seemingly void of life.

But Buggy’s been watching it long enough that, every now and then, he catches a shadow moving in the corner out of his periphery — just when sleep begins to drag at his lids. Always at the edges. Always just far enough out of reach to vanish when he whips his head around, sharp and owl-like. Gone before he can refocus.

There’s been no real cause for alarm. Not yet. But the low, coiled threat in his gut doesn’t agree.

The silence is too complete. The air too still.

There’s an uneasiness as time drags on and Ace remains elusive.

Given the previous night’s - for lack of a better word - bonding between the two, Buggy would’ve been lead to believe that the loud-mouthed teen would’ve come swaggering back to the Big Top without a second thought. Yet...

Buggy can’t stop the flood of possibilities. Most of them far-fetched. Most of them stupid.

Captured? Doubtful — the Marine ship hasn’t moved since it dropped anchor earlier that day. No sails, no signal flags, no activity.

Maybe he found a ship willing to take him. But with his face plastered on half the walls in town — bold WANTED posters screaming DEAD OR ALIVE — that seemed unlikely, too.

No, most likely… the brat was laying low. Sensible, really.

But it was well past midnight. The port was quiet. The streets deserted. There’d be little risk in a lone figure walking the docks. Which begged the question—

Where the hell was he?

…Unless—

Unless Ace thought Buggy would turn him in.

A long silence stretches out. The thought just sits there in his mind.

Maybe the kid was waiting for Buggy to leave first. Maybe he didn’t trust him enough to come back.

Buggy’s jaw tightens.

In that case, waiting here would be useless. He’d have to leave his ship — go traipsing through the village in the dead of night, poking into alleys and overturning crates, scouring the places street rats tend to hole up.

Ridiculous. Utterly, completely ridiculous.

Because of course he wasn’t going to go do that.

…Right?

The moon is hidden behind thick rainclouds — not unusual for this time of year — and it's hard to tell just how far the sun is still sunken past the horizon.

It’s been a long time since Buggy had to pull an all-nighter on watch. Not since his early twenties, surely — and not since he cobbled together something that resembled a semi-competent crew. But his memory isn’t so far gone that he’s forgotten how miserable the task is. Unpleasant at best. Mind-numbing at worst.

Now, though? He’s half-tempted to rouse the entire crew and demand they set sail immediately, in the pitch black, just so he can finally go to bed.

He doesn’t even need the press of the Voice — that low, persistent bad-bad-bad-bad thrumming at the base of his skull — to know how stupid that would be. And not just because every time he glances toward the shore, the silhouette of that damn Marine vessel is still sitting there, anchored and unmoving.

There’s a time and a place for sailing blind at night — and this is neither.

Especially not with the distant, guttural groan of sea beasts waking to feed just beyond the shoals.

Buggy rises from his makeshift throne of coiled ropes and stacked crates — a seat with just enough height to watch the entire Big Top and the nearest docks in one sweep. His joints pop as he stretches. Then, one by one, he detaches his limbs from their sockets to relieve the lingering pressure. Each jolt clears the fog behind his eyes, but it’s not enough. The restlessness returns immediately, crawling up his spine like ants under his coat.

He starts pacing again.

First, the helm. Then the length of the main deck. Then to the stern and back again.

Technically, one of the Fuwas is on watch — stuck in the crow’s nest, supposedly keeping an eye out for them. But Buggy hasn’t heard so much as a peep in hours.

Not a whisper of movement. Not a head poking over the basket. Not even when Buggy stomps across the deck, loud enough to rattle the railings.

He spent a good chunk of time trying to bait some reaction — kicking barrels, knocking over a mop, clearing his throat loud enough to make some roosting gulls flee — but the nest stayed silent, just like the rest of the damn world.

Buggy makes a mental note: whichever idiot is up there is off night-watch duty for good. They'll be permanently reassigned to cleaning detail. Floor to ceiling. He’ll have Cabaji deal with it.

So much for a semi-competent crew.

And tonight, of all nights…

Mohji hadn’t needed much persuasion to keep his mouth shut about the bounty debacle earlier in the day, but Buggy had still pulled both his officers aside before dinner to fill Cabaji in on the situation.

The swordsman had listened without interruption as Buggy danced around any inconvenient truths, doing his best to explain their chance encounter with one of the World Government’s most wanted as being — at worst — a potential reason for their bounties to be reevaluated, and — at best — a reason to be flagged for scrutiny and surveillance.

Regardless, all three understood the implications.

They were already hard to miss — what with the colorful tents, the flamboyant sails, the fully grown lion lounging around like he ran the place — but none of them were ready to draw the wrong kind of attention. Not yet. Not while docked in unfamiliar waters. Not when there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide if things went tits up.

Cabaji, thankfully, had the sense to know that this wasn’t something the rest of the crew needed to hear.

He’d pointed a sharp, threatening finger at Mohji — and then, for good measure, at Richie, who was curled at the first mate’s feet — threatening them both that if either of them so much as sniffled at the mention of Ace or the Marines, he’d gut them.

“If you can’t act natural,” he’d said, “then pretend you’re sick. Take to your hammock and stay there until we’re a hundred leagues out from the coast.”

To Mohji’s credit (and Richie’s, who’d lazily snapped at Cabaji’s finger just for waving too close to his snout), he had taken offense to the implication that he’d fall apart.

Sure, he didn’t exactly have a record for grace under pressure, but he'd outgrown some of his softness since they entered the Grand Line, and that at least deserved some kind of recognition. Enough to protest, anyway — and protest he did, sparking an immediate squabble that Buggy was forced to physically wedge himself between.

Richie, naturally, had watched the whole thing with a wide yawn, as though the entire fight was just a game of palm not worth standing up for.

Once tempers cooled, they’d plotted a new heading — based on one of the old treasure maps they’d salvaged months back. It was small-time stuff, a trove hidden somewhere between Cactus Island and Fooshout. Probably nothing special, but steady payouts kept morale up, and they didn’t need any more risk right now.

It would also mark the furthest south the Big Top had gone in Paradise — and the furthest Buggy wanted to go for the moment. At least, until the currents shifted. Or a torn piece of paper curled the opposite way.

He pats at his coat, almost out of habit — looking for the tin.

His hand meets an empty pocket.

Right.

He’d tossed the thing in his desk drawer earlier — banishing it from his person like it was cursed.

A chill trickles down his spine, and he wants to blame it on the night breeze, but knows better. After carrying that familiar weight for months on end, his coat feels hollow without it. Like a limb gone missing.

Or worse — like a child reaching out for comfort, only to find his best friend gone.

In a sudden outburst of unease, frustration, and something perilously close to melancholy — an emotion he'd much rather channel into blind anger — Buggy kicks a nearby crate with the full force of his boot.

“Pah!”

It barely budges, weighed down with whatever-the-hell had been shoved inside. It does, however, do a number on his toes

He hops on his uninjured foot, cursing the moon, the sun, and every celestial body in a single sweeping breath. Teeth clenched, fists balled, he tries to stop the blood from boiling straight into his ears.

Just to make a point — to someone — he stomps a few more times, louder now, petty and spiteful in the face of his own pain.

Hands on hips, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, Buggy casts a glance upward toward the crow’s nest. Still as death. Silent as the grave.

“Oh, fuck this.”

He channels his pained rage into purpose, heading for the main mast. With a grunt, he plants a boot on the second rung of the ladder and begins the climb — dead set on giving the good-for-nothing watchman a beating to remember.

He pops his own head up first to give the poor bastard a scare, intent on strangling him the second the rest of his body arrives.

But halfway up, Buggy freezes.

Movement on shore catches his eye.

From this height, he sees what his ears can’t hear — and a flicker of light glints across the rooftops like a lure on a hook. Then another. And another.

Several sparks, short and sputtering — like someone trying to light a flame and failing.

He deftly sends a hand to pilfer the spyglass from the nest above, receiving no complaints from the dozing imp inside, and brings it to his own eye.

There — on one of the rooftops closest to the harbor. A weak flame flares up, fizzles out. Then again. Over and over, lazily, like whoever’s trying to start it either doesn’t care or doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But it’s a good vantage point.

Just far enough from the slips to avoid suspicion, just close enough to watch the dock traffic. A smart place to keep an eye on things — or to run, if running became necessary.

Unless, of course, you're an idiot who’s too preoccupied staring in the wrong direction to notice the real threat creeping in below.

Lanterns. Flickering, all lined in marching order.

Buggy pans the glass. There — more bodies moving in the distance, weaving through the narrow streets on the far side of the harbor, captured lights bobbing steadily in the practiced hands of the blue and white uniforms.

His pulse kicks up.

He snaps the telescopic glass back together, fisting it in his hand as he turns his head towards the bay, and the darkened navel ship too close by.

That’s the first problem.

Buggy hadn’t seen any more scouts come ashore since the afternoon — the last ones had left before dusk. That meant either more men had disembarked while he was in the mess or arguing below deck, or the town had been under patrol all night, and he hadn’t noticed.

Not a whisper. Not a shout. Not even the Voice in his skull offering a warning, or a damned cryptic riddle about danger or fate.

The second problem — the one he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge — is that if he can see Ace up on that roof…

Then the Marines probably can, too.

If even one watchman on that ship has a spyglass, or a halfway functional pair of eyes — if even one of those lanterns belongs to someone who knows what they're looking for — then Ace’s fire-starting stunt has already doomed him.

Buggy rejoins his body in one fluid snap and slides down the ladder like his limbs are greased, boots hitting the deck with a thud.

"Not my problem,” he mutters, half under his breath, already moving back toward the helm. If he’s going to be paranoid, he may as well do it with a view — keep an eye on the patrol, for his crew’s sake. Not the brat’s. Certainly not that.

Then the Voice hits him.

He can feel it shudder, grow —

Pressure blooms behind his eyes, sharp and sudden — and then a shrill, piercing wail rings through the core of his skull. A thought that isn’t his, but feels like it was ripped from the root of him.

Save him-save him-someone has to save him-help!

It’s a child’s voice. It's his voice. It’s no voice at all. It’s something deeper — a memory, a scar, an echo of things he swore he’d buried beneath a thousand leagues of sea and time.

He sees himself — small, fourteen, terrified — standing at the base of an execution platform, unwilling to watch but unable to look away as his Captain —

And then he’s not seeing at all.

It is not with his conscious doing, but Buggy flings himself to the side of the rails and retches into the sea.

He can’t hear anything besides the own childish pleas, echoed by the Voice.

His knees hit the deck. The world narrows to nothing more than noise and nausea, the high-pitched chant burrowing into his brain like a parasite.

He clamps his hands over his ears, but the Voice doesn’t need ears.

It lives in him.

You can save him this time, the Voice booms — louder than the rest, rising above the din of panic like a wave ready to crest.

It is a command as much as it is an imploring request.

“Shut up,” Buggy hisses, and then louder, faster, frenzied: “Shutupshutupshutup—!”

For all of the years the Voice has acted as a soothsayer, issuing whispers of warning and pragmatism, never before has the Voice forced his hand. Never before has it turned his gut inside out with his own pain.

Until now.

He’s back there — back in the plaza, back beneath the gallows — Gol D. Roger is just ahead of him, kneeling before a crowd of mixed company.

Marines surround him, their swords clean, polished, eager. They're green boys with trembling hands and bright blades that glint in the sun like they want to taste blood for the first time.

The crowd of onlookers shifts in varying forms of anticipation, but they do not utter a sound as Roger opens his mouth to relay his gallows speech and —

Then the memory shifts into nothingness, leaving just the two of them — Buggy and Roger.

Only their roles are reversed — Buggy kneels before his Captain this time. No longer a child, but feeling like one all the same, eyes fixed on Roger’s boots. He’s too afraid to look him in the face.

Tears sting his eyes. He wills them not to fall — a futile effort. They spill anyway, sliding down his cheeks in silent, hot streams.

Guilt coils tight in his chest. He can’t breathe properly around it.

Still, he doesn’t look up.

He can’t.

He won’t.

Then — a weight on his head. Light but firm. A hand. A large, familiar hand.

“You never outgrew your own bitterness, I see,” Roger says from above, voice warm but heavy, like it’s carrying more years than it should. He ruffles Buggy’s hair — pat-pat, then tousle — just like he used to, back before Buggy started wearing his hat everywhere to keep him from doing exactly this. “Always trying to be contrary, just to spite us all.”

The tears freeze in place, replaced by a cold, sharp fury.

Buggy’s lips curl into a snarl. He tries to glare up, but the hand holds him down — gently, annoyingly, like he’s a child being scolded. The condescension makes his blood boil.

“What kind of bullshit is that?” he snaps, eyes burning now with shame more than anger. The guilt curdles into disgust — not at Roger, but at himself for expecting anything else. Of course Roger would mock him. Of course he still saw Buggy as a tagalong. An errand boy. The weakest link. A shadow to Shanks’ blinding light. “I do exactly as I please!”

Roger makes a tsking sound above him. “Shanks always did what he thought was the right thing to do,” he says. “But you — you always set your course to go left, just for the sake of going left.”

Buggy wants to bite the damn hand. Wants to stab Roger in the foot, drag him back from the dead just to send him back to his grave himself.

“Fuck you, old man!”

Roger sighs -- heavy and deep and without any of the usual mirth he’d always carried.

“And yet,” he says, finally releasing his hold on Buggy.

Buggy’s head jerks up — too fast — and suddenly he’s looking Roger in the eye.

And that may be the worst part of it all...

Because Roger isn’t gaunt and gray like he was at the end. He’s big, and strong, and alive in a way no ghost should be. He looks like what all the factual accounts of him would lead one to believe he looked like — not like the cheesy wanted posters. Like he used to — before being on the run. Before the illness, and the cell and the chains.

And he’s smiling.

Not mockingly. Not smug.

It’s fond.

Which, honestly, it's damning.

Roger glances down at his right hand, rubbing slow circles into his palm — over the old, faded scar. Buggy’s eyes follow the movement, transfixed with morbid satisfaction.

Then, Roger crouches.

He drops low, eye to eye with Buggy.

“Two sides of the same coin, you boys are,” he says. “And neither one with a lick of sense.”

His expression shifts. Stern. That rare face he used to wear after someone nearly got themselves or someone else killed doing something unbelievably stupid.

“You’ll never find freedom,” Roger tells him, “if you don’t follow your heart.”

He says it like a man who knows what comes next. Like someone who’s watching his own legacy and is intent to not see it go up in flames.

He searches Buggy’s face for something — some sign that the words are landing.

Like maybe, this time, unlike all the rest, they will.

The wind picks up, brushing through his hair, and for a moment Buggy feels the warmth of the sun — which shouldn't be there, not in the middle of the night. He blinks.

Then, Roger is gone, and Buggy is alone, splayed like a rag doll on the deck of his own ship, looking up to the heavens shielded by clouds.

The docks return. Cold and dark and real. The hand on his head disappears like smoke, like it was never there.

Buggy’s head feels like its going to split as he drags himself back to slouch over the banister. He’s panting from the effort of keeping his own weight up, finding it impossible to use his paramecia to distance his head from his body.

The twinkling lanterns have barely moved along the shore, and Buggy wonders how long exactly his little episode had lasted.

Not long at all, the Voice supplies. There’s still time.

Despite Buggy wanting to, quite literally, lobotomize the part of his brain where the Voice must occupy, he immediately takes the cue to look for Ace, who is in the same position, tiny sparks cupped in his hands most likely to stay warm.

He feels like he has the after effects of a bad hangover, or a fever and therefore, yes, he feels a degree of spite in which he wished nothing more than the stupid kid suffer; get grabbed up by the World Government’s hounds and dragged off to a cell somewhere far away from him.

They’d all be better off for it, considering what a pain in the ass the Roger’s offspring had proven just from their brief interactions over the course of two days.

To imagine what he was like in prolonged company...

Probably not too much of a stretch of the imagination, considering one half of his parentage.

Buggy stands with his hands on his hips, his arms tucked to his chest. He’d like to let Ace get what he’s got coming to him, but, ultimately, he knows that that's what he wants.

It is with absolutely little thanks to either the Voice or Roger’s little haunting — thank you — that Buggy lets out a defeated sigh. Says, “Fuck me,” to the world at large, though it never seemed to mind doing just that time and time again without prompt and very little provocation.

He knows what he’s going to do, but — and this may be the part where Roger may be a little correct — it doesn’t make the defiance in him cooperate anymore than to drag his boots across the deck, forgetting the rest of himself along the way in pieces — a leg, a few fingers, his spleen.

Fine! He’s a little spiteful, okay? Live the life he has and then come and cast judgement, how about it?

By the time he’s on the gangplank, Buggy is nothing more than a few floating body parts being led by half of his right foot.

“Pull yourself together,” he attempts to order the rest of him, but his tongue is a few meters back.

And this is where Roger is absolutely correct — Buggy is not one for favors. Or niceties. Or, really, anything that puts anyone else first, and him or his pocket second.

It felt wrong to do the right thing. Abnormal — like sailing up a waterfall or learning how to control the Bara Bara no Mi.

He would have to sort that out, eventually. Or perhaps not. It wasn’t like he intended to change his life completely around, after this. Fuck Roger.

No — this was just a detour. A means to repay a debt owed to a dead man who insisted on haunting him. Afterwards, they’d go their separate ways, Ace none the wiser to any of it, and Buggy willfully compliant to forget — or else find an exorcist.

This is a new path, the Voice cryptically supplies, just as Buggy’s torso comes back into place, his other appendages not far behind.

Fuck you, too, okay? He seethes. Speak of contrary — the damn thing pushes him into some warped spirit realm to get a fucked up sort of pep talk, and now it's trying to make him second guess himself? He ignores that . Dismisses it before he can worry over the many other ways this hair-brained idea could go south. Takes a step forward, and nearly breathes a sigh of relief that it is the entirety of his weight pressing into his toes.

Because he’s not a good man.

Never claimed to be.

But he is a pirate.

And maybe — just maybe — he’s got enough heart left in him to do the right thing for once.

Even if it means going left.

Chapter Text

The dock groans beneath Buggy’s boots as he plants both feet on solid ground.

The sound makes him wince, then pause.

Behind him, the sea is still, before him the harbor stretches on undisturbed.

The Voice is mercifully quiet as they hold a collective breath.

Buggy sticks to the shadows, flinching at every crash of the tide, every snap of a sail in the wind. Paranoia has been his friend for many years, and it walks beside him now, guiding his steps —measured, soundless, barely audible even to his own ears.

Which, to be fair, his heart is currently pounding in his throat and echoing in his skull, making it hard to focus on much else, but, still...

He has to remind himself that this is easy work — Not even a rescue mission, per se, but just an in-and-out job: Warn the kid to stop screwing around with his parlor tricks and to move it along somewhere — anywhere — else. Get out.

Easy.

Simple.

Incredibly fucking stupi--

He reaches the mouth of the market before he thinks that he should’ve probably told Mohji or Cabaji where he was going. Should’ve left a note, at the very least.

It's too late. He’s closer to the target than to the Big Top. No use turning back.

He peers ahead, close enough now to catch the sporadic flicker of a warm glow being cast against the darkened roofline.

Buggy groans, low and guttural. Mutters to himself, “Idiot,” and then moves to step onto the main street and —

Immediately jerks to a halt—nearly colliding with one of the shadows he’d spotted earlier — before all but throwing himself behind a drying longboat.

He peeks over the the hull hoping that his reaction was over dramatic, but is immediately let down. This time the shadow has mass. It’s real. Worse, it’s holding what looks disturbingly like a sharpened broom handle gripped like a lance.

The hooded figure doesn’t spot him—holyshitthankfuck—as it slinks by, scanning the area with a lazy sweep, like it’s looking for something -- someone.

A contained whistle echoes farther down the street, and Buggy very nearly screams. The hooded figure jumps, startled, twisting its body toward the sound.

Then comes the flicker of a lantern—too close—joined shortly after by the steady slap of boots on the cobblestones. But that’s not the worst of it...

The worst is the source of the shout: a body, leaned over the edge of a flat-roofed building nearby, whispering something urgent to the group below.

Luckily, Buggy isn’t the only one panicking—the prowler bolts in the opposite direction, disappearing once again into the darkness.

Buggy would very much like to do the same. Instead, he swears under his breath, breaks himself into pieces, and flings his disassembled form across the street—bouncing limbs scrambling toward the nearest alleyway, feet following seconds later.

He’s not even fully reassembled before he’s hauling ass away from the oncoming troops.

Panic blinds him for a beat—muddles the already unfamiliar streets together, makes the landmarks blur. He takes a wrong turn and finds himself in front of a row of shuttered merchant tents and not the limewashed building where Ace is supposed to be.

When he finally finds what he thinks is the right building amongst the other similarly weather worn facades, he realizes that there is no easy way up the thing besides a bare wall with a window a solid eight feet up.

He stares up at it. Then down at the soft bulge pressing over his belt.

Thing was, captaining a pirate crew entailed a great deal more paperwork than actual labor, sometimes. And Buggy liked to feast...

He’s not as nimble as a nineteen-year-old, okay? He carries a bit more weight around the middle now, and he has absolutely no practical reason to go scaling the sides of buildings anymore — not when he could just send one of his lackeys, instead.

He’s not weak — his flexibility’s still decent and he’s confident that he could sail a ship (even one as large as the Big Top, thanks) with just his paramecia — but he’s aging, dammit. He’s got gray hairs!

Buggy sighs.

His knees already hurt just thinking about it.

You just have to get your feet close enough to the top, The Voice reminds him.

And...

That’s true, actually...

If the roof’s twenty feet up, he only needs to reach halfway. From there, he can send some of himself up. Cursed Devil Fruit perks, and all.

He checks his surroundings once more, only finding another adjoining building to the one in question, which provides only similar problems and no solutions.

A glance around nets him nothing more than a rain water barrel that would get him another four feet in height, but that’s about it.

Time is of the essence, and he can hear muffled voices closing in and —

“Screw this,” he mutters, draining the barrel enough to roll it directly under the window, flipping it bottom up. He props a knee against the top to test its strength, and when it doesn’t immediately budge, he leverages himself the rest of the way up.

He climbs up, wedging his feet on the narrow ledge before hoisting himself the rest of the way. It's a little awkward and a lot undignified, but he manages to get his toes planted on— well, not solid ground, but something solid enough — then, he attempts to dislodge his head, and almost loses his balance as he knocks the wall in his excitement when it works.

“Screw gravity, too,” he mutters to no one. “If this isn’t the most flashy way to save someone’s ass...”

He sends his head up, along with a knife-bearing hand, just in case.

Luckily, Ace is right over his body's current precarious position.

His first thought is murderous intent, but then he looks at the boy and --

Ace looks smaller without his large rimmed hat on his head, and his shoulders sag without anyone to boast ego in front of, making him appear tired — maybe even afraid, if Buggy knew him better..

The tiny sparks that he holds delicately between his palms ignite, catching on nothing more than the air around it. Ace only holds the little flame for a moment before he lets it extinguish itself, then does it again.

Buggy watches the cycle of creation and death a few more times before he’s had enough of the melancholy. With a flick of his wrist, he shoots off his index and thumb to snub out the growing embers.

Ace’s head snaps up. Their eyes meet.

The kid doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, an infuriating grin greeting him with minor confusion bordering on amusement..

“Hey, old man,” he says. “You could’ve just knocked.”

Buggy’s not in the mood for jokes. His toes are burning from the effort of keeping himself planted on the window ledge, and his hand is raw from gripping the bare limestone since he hasn’t had time to procure another pair of gloves.

“Listen, you little cretin,” he hisses. “You need to light a fire under your ass and change locations. There’s a patrol heading this way, and in case you missed it, they’re looking for you.”

Buggy doesn’t know what kind of reaction he had been expecting — resistance, maybe? Indignation? Thanks? — but it certainly hadn’t been for Ace to burst out laughing.

Buggy slaps the daggered hand over his mouth. Ace doesn’t even blink at the blade right next to his eyes, instead just shoos it away, like it’s nothing more than an annoying fly.

“Uh, yeah,” Ace says, shrugging. “Whole island’s crawling. Showdown’s coming either way.” He raises a brow. “Unless you’re offering a better solution?”

“I’m not harboring a fugitive on my ship, idiot. I’ve got a bounty too!”

Ace’s turns sincere as he asks, genuinely curious. “Yeah? How much?”

Buggy bristles. He can feel his face heat up. “Enough to get arrested!”

Ace nods thoughtfully, but thankfully doesn’t push the issue. “Color me impressed, Captain. I should’ve figured someone in your... “ he cranes his neck to eye the underside of Buggy’s floating head. “Unique position would carry a bounty, too.”

Buggy huffs and nearly crosses his arms, but remembers that one is not with him right now. “Okay, enough talking. More moving—specifically, more running away. Like, a lot more. Starting now. You first.” He gestures with the knife to the open air over the roof, then realizes how that looks and quickly amends, forcing a smile. “Please.”

Ace, to Buggy’s immense relief, doesn’t argue. Instead, he repositions his legs until he's somewhere between a kneel and a crouch. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Buggy wants to shed a tear. This had turned out to be easy! As long as the kid keeps moving, he’ll be fine. Get him off the island before first light—maybe get him to sneak himself onto a fishing boat, or hell, steal one if he has to.

Ace shuffles to the edge of the roof, looks down, then nudges Buggy’s floating arm.

“You’re going to have to move all of — well, you’re going to have to move,” he says, pointing at Buggy’s scattered limbs which are all clinging helplessly to the side of the wall.

Buggy grumbles but reassembles himself with careful precision, slowly descending back onto the barrel below, and then to actual solid ground.

It’s not that he’s afraid of heights, it’s just the whole idea of being disassembled where he can’t see it. An ear here — a hand there? Fine. But his lower half exposed to for anyone to creep up behind him? Or, when it's too far out of his reach to control? That shit makes him uneasy. He kind of wants to hug himself once he’s fully pulled back together.

Ace, with all the agility and ease of youth, doesn’t need the barrel at all. He gets his footing on the window’s ledge, then leaps down to the cobbled street below.

“You know,” Ace says, grinning again, “it would’ve been easier to break in and use the inside entrance. The building’s empty.”

Buggy deadpans because... well... he hadn’t even considered that. Probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference anyway — something about being in close quarters, trapped inside, didn’t sit right with him. Like not being able to see his feet.

“Then why were you on the damn roof?” He shrilly whispers, anyway.

“Better view.”

Buggy’s eye twitches. Something pops back into alignment in his spine. He turns to go. “Find a boat. Wait it out ‘til morning. Stay near the docks in case you need to bolt, but don’t corner yourself and for the love of everything good — stop setting things on fire!”

Ace splutters. “Wait, you’re seriously leaving me like this?”

Buggy slows his pace, then stops. He doesn’t turn around, unable to bear to be tricked by the shadow of his former captain into doing anything else as foolhardy as he is currently doing. He isn’t a dumb man, damnit! but now stood here, the truth of such a seemingly inconsequential tether between them limply held in his grasp, fully within his control to pull on it, or let it go...

Not for the first time, he thinks of Shanks and wonders if he knows of Ace’s existence — if the crew knows — if they have bonds. In all likelihood, Buggy is keenly aware that he is perhaps the last to know. It certainly wouldn’t be the first secret he’d been kept in the dark on.

Maybe Ace doesn’t even know. Or maybe he does—and hates them for it.

Truth is, there is no telling what reaction would be had from confronting this kid with Buggy’s own discoveries.

The Voice, ever helpful in its vague, cryptic nonsense, chimes in. Reminds him, It doesn’t matter.

There is a pause. A breath. A birth and a death and a second coming before the Voice, in all of its theatrical bullshit, says, You already know what you’ll do.

And if that isn’t the biggest load of shit he’s heard... Noncorporal spiritual being, or otherwise.

“Fuck,” Buggy mutters.

His heart isn’t made for this. It’s cold, it skips beats, it doesn’t guide him.

And yet...

He turns. Glares at the ghost of Roger’s face, plastered across a body twenty years past its prime. He stands next to this kid — the product of Roger’s years on the run — and, despite himself, can’t help but feel the dark, bitter connection.

Ace exhales slowly, makes an attempt at breaking the silence by saying, “I believe there may be some mutual benefit in you granting me passage on your ship.”

It’s stiff. Formal. A last-ditch bluff wrapped in borrowed diplomacy. It is a hell of a thing, knowing when the jig is up.

Buggy hears the cracks in his voice. The weariness behind the act.

He also notes, distantly, that Ace speaks in a different rhythm than Roger. Softer vowels. A southern curl to his consonants. No lazy lisp typical of the East.

Buggy can’t help but be grateful for this small distinction. It helps separate Ace from the ghost of Roger, if only a little.

Also unlike Roger, Ace is clearly not made of the same patience.

Whereas Roger could wait out a battle-hungry enemy the very way he could wait out a child’s tantrum, Ace all but bounces in front of him with anticipation, his proffered words dangling between them, waiting to be grasped.

It is a vexation that Buggy himself is intimately familiar with — plagued by the same restlessness that was forever lost on the likes of Roger, or even Rayleigh.

“I see five hundred million reasons and a nearby fleet why there’s not,” Buggy says bluntly, still avoiding his gaze. He can’t. He doesn’t trust what his face might reveal — what he might, seas forbid, say.

Once upon a time, Roger had tried to get him to wait out his anger. To count his breaths until they evened out; to pinch the fatty part of his palm in an attempt to redirect some of the ire towards the physical pain.

Sometimes, Buggy thinks back to those early days — of Roger’s calm tones and Rayleigh’s barely concealed annoyance at all of his antics and outbursts. How, in the worst moments, Roger would simply walk away and let Buggy throw himself into fits of rage to the point of destruction, sometimes ending with injury to no one but himself at the end.

But he always came back. Or, more often, it was Rayleigh who’d show up afterward, bringing the tools for Buggy to fix whatever he’d broken, sure, but he still came back. And they’d sit there while Buggy fumed and cleaned up and bandaged himself, not saying a word the entire time. Not until Buggy spoke first. Until he apologized, which always felt worse than the splinters in his skin.

He can hear the cracks in the younger man’s voice now as he says, deep and guttural and more of an imitation of a man than true as he tries to joke his way out of this ordeal. “You haven't even let me proposition you yet.”

Buggy closes his eyes now. Breathes.

In and out once, twice —

He lets the memories fade. They don’t have time for them, anyway.

He makes the fatal mistake of blinking. Just a short burst in which he sees Roger’s lopsided grin, smirking at him.

He resigns himself to the fact that, yeah, he knows what he’s going to do already. It’s simple and necessary and quite possibly the most morally sound thing Buggy has contemplated doing in a very, very long time.

He never mastered patience. He never got the hang of apologizing, either. Buggy’s always been a lost cause. Maybe Roger and Rayleigh knew it. Maybe that’s why they stayed quiet; why they’d given up on him, too, just like everyone else.

But maybe, just this once, he can be decent.

Thing was, no one told him he had to be nice about it.

Buggy squeezes his eyes firmly shut, to the point that little twinkling stars start to dance behind his lids, followed by consultations, then —

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice sharp. “I don’t care if you swim off this island and drown. I don’t care about your sob story or whatever tragic mess brought you here. Honestly, I’d prefer to know a hell of a lot less about you than I already do.”

He straightens to his full height, pretends that he doesn’t see the teen’s mouth twitch up again in that annoying smirk, even as he points a finger at him, warning.

All his frustration escapes in a sharp exhale through his nose. “I’ll get you off this island, but that’s it. We’re done after that. Got it? Don’t bother—”

The smirk vanishes from Ace’s face.

He shouts something, lurching forward—

But it's too late.

A jolt snaps Buggy around, right into the snarling face of a man with rotting teeth and what has to be a death wish. He’s holding what looks like a failed attempt at forging a broadsword, wielding it like he’s never held a weapon in his life.

“Oh, that bounty’s mine now!”

The stench of smoke hits before the panic does. By then, Ace is already in motion—body smoldering, heat rolling off him in waves as he rushes past Buggy, slamming into the man’s gut just a moment later. The blade clatters to the cobblestones with a sickening screech of metal-on-stone.

Buggy might’ve felt some commiseration at the flailing man, but there was the small matter of not being arrested to worry about. No time to spare on pity, and all.

Without thinking, he lunges forward, yanking Ace off the now-screaming man. The smell of scorched cloth and skin rises between them.

“Very demure,” Buggy says dryly. “Excellent use of discretion,” he adds as he grabs a now bare (but still very hot shitshitshit!) shoulder, hauling the kid forward before shoving him ahead. “Has no one ever taught you how to disarm someone without setting them on fire?”

“I panicked!” Ace protests, his hand (which, yeah, that was also still incredibly hot, thanks) — catching Buggy’s forearm.

Buggy swears and flinches from the multiple stings, shaking himself free. His eyes scan the alley. Two exits, max. The rooftops were a no-go unless Ace feels like playing human transport for Buggy’s feet, but there relationship is not quite at the point of him betting his life on that trust exercise

Then, something else moves into the narrow space, and Buggy recognizes the same cloaked man from earlier as he takes in the sight before them, make-shift lance poised and ready for his brain to catch up to what’s happening.

It never does.

Buggy lands his detached fist square in the wanna-be bounty hunter’s nose, causing the man to shriek, dropping the pole in his hands to catch the blood spilling from his face. Buggy doesn’t waste a second, picking the wooden stick up and turning it against its former wielder, whacking him on the back of the head.

Buggy himself is momentarily taken aback because - holyfuck — it’s been a while since he felt a proper fight buzz. The adrenaline is... not entirely unpleasant.

“That,” he says, breathless but smug, “is how you’re supposed to do it.”

The moment is short-lived. Behind them, the sharp clatter of uniformed boots echo down the alley, drawing closer, fast.

No time for small victories, then.

“Move!” He shoves Ace toward the alley’s far end, feet already pounding pavement ahead of them.

Even when he had the might of pirating legends behind him, Buggy’s first instinct had always been self-preservation. A proud coward. Run first, fight rarely, and burn bridges behind him like party favors.

Ace, of course, apparently has the opposite philosophy.

“We can take them!” he says, pulling himself free from Buggy’s crowding limbs, despite the sound of orders being given with little discretion and from a too close distance.

Buggy doesn’t slow as he nears the fork in the path ahead. “If you want a ride off this island, run. NOW.”

A whisper in his head again: Left.

There is no need for a response — He’s already peeling off in that direction.

He can hear Ace — or, what he hopes is Ace — behind him, and is only momentarily relieved that he had followed instead of waiting to duke it out.

Buggy splits his torso and hips to accommodate a clothesline in-between the empty space of his midsection, and doesn't bother to so much as turn around to make sure the kid had the wherewithal to duck.

“We could’ve handled that!” Ace yells again as he catches up, closing in on Buggy’s heels.

“By all means,” Buggy pants. “Go bask in the glory of the smoldering idiot you left back there.”

His lungs are burning, knees aching. Apparently, his body is no longer built for this crap. He stumbles over a crate, nearly flattens a sleeping cat, which runs off yowling in the opposite direction.

“They're after you, anyway.”

“And I could've taken them!”

They round another corner. Ace pulls ahead. Buggy makes a mental note to reevaluate his cardio, if they survive this.

“Sincerest apologies for trying to keep us both alive,” he says between huffs. “A truly stupid and dimwitted mistake that I'll be sure never to make again.”

They break into a wide plaza. Four alleyways branch like veins. Buggy heads for the center—open, well-lit, fewer shadows —

The footfalls abruptly die behind him, and Buggy can’t help but to check over his shoulder.

Ace is stopped a few meters away.

Buggy skids to a halt. “What now?”

Ace shifts his weight, frustration working his jaw, like he’s just had a realization. He jerks a thumb back towards the way they’d just come. “Why’d you come looking for me?”

Buggy blinks. Echoes: “What?”

“How come you did — Come to find me? Warn me?” He looks Buggy dead in the eye as he questions, “You came out here and risked your own neck — alone, I might add — knowing I was being hunted down, even thought you didn't have to... What’s down that alley, huh? Your crew? You gonna turn me in yourself, or something?”

His chest heaves from the run, but it’s not just the sprint that leaves him breathless.

He hears the accusation—and it pisses him off to the point that it physically hurts. More than it should. More than he has any reason to justify —

That’s not true, The Voice tells him. All knowing. All mocking.

This is all your doing. Because he’s a bastard. No, quite literally — you and his old man conspiring against me..., he responds, defiantly.

His silence must read all wrong, because Ace’s face twists in disgust. “You really are just a self-interested pirate, aren’t you, old man?”

“Stop calling me that,” he snaps, voice sharp with panic and something dangerously close to guilt. He steps forward, jabbing a finger at Ace.

Something in him cracks at the accusation and he takes several steps forward, not really intent on getting in striking distance of Ace, but close enough that he can see the hurt defiance behind the kid’s eyes and —

And damn it all—

He’s not good with this sort of crap as a general rule — the whole ‘oh, no, you’ve betrayed me’ shtick that leaves people surprised, despite the clear warning label that comes with interacting with literal thieves and murderers and piracy.

But when he’s being falsely accused...

“You don’t know a thing about me. But remember this—I’m not a snitch. I hate the World Government. Your bounty? Sure, tempting. But I’ve got my own problems without waving the price on my own damn head in front of those shit-idiots.”

He stands toe-to-toe with him, and goddammit, the kid's taller by an inch or two.

He pops his ankles free of his boots just to reclaim some dignity.

“Let me make this perfectly clear in case my many previous attempts didn’t take: I’m not your friend. Not your ally. I’m a stranger you owe a debt to — and I collect debts. You get me?"

He glares, dares Ace to interrupt him.

Then, quieter, more measured: "I’ll told you I’d get you off this shitty island, and that’s what I’ll do. But don’t think that I won’t come to collect what you owe me first chance I can. Got it? This isn’t a charity."

He waits a breath — two. They’re wasting precious time, but Ace doesn't budge. Arms crossed, steady.

"You didn’t answer my question."

Buggy wants to scream —

"And I don’t have to!" His voice is raw now, shooting up an octave and cracking at the edge of something he can’t name. “Shit, you really are dense, aren't you?" He throws his hands in the air as he starts to pace. "You don’t have a lot of choices here! It’s my ship, my crew, my rules. You asked for this, so that means you’re under my protection and by extension, my mercy. You’d do well to not forget that."

Ace holds the glare for a moment. Studies him.

Then, slowly, that damn smirk curls his lip, like he’d been testing him this entire time, all mistrust evaporating into thin air, like it never even existed.“I would never, Captain Buggy.”

Children. Honestly. Buggy doesn’t know why Roger even took him and Shanks in — moreover, he cannot possibly fathom how they didn’t throw them overboard.

Patience, The Voice supplies and —

“Buggy...”

His name echoes from an alley to the right, repeated like someone chewing on the sound. “Now why does that name sound familiar?”

Two blue-and-white Marine uniforms step into view. The smaller one is fumbling with a battered-looking binder, its pages jutting out at odd angles like it’s barely held together.

“Um… uh… hang on a sec—I’ve got the—” He flips wildly, then lands on a page. He holds it out to his partner, jabbing a finger at the entry.

They’re young—probably around Ace’s age. It is another infuriating realization that the World Government gives zero shits as to who they send off into the pits of the world to do their bidding.

The shorter one has thick glasses and strawberry-pink hair that pokes from beneath his Marine cap. The taller Marine looks more delicate than dangerous, all soft lines and poised posture, though he’s got some muscle on him. Still, if they had to fight it out, Buggy’s going for the lesser evil.

The blond one hums. “Right—Buggy the Clown, East Blue. Three million berry bounty,” he recites like a line from a textbook. He squints into the shadows where Buggy and Ace stand, squinting. “Is the nose real?”

Ace elbows Buggy in the ribs, grinning. He mouths, Three million?

Buggy wants to stab someone, but refrains. Opting instead for his most deadly scowl.

The blond Marine starts to circle, steps practiced and precise—probably had some formal sword training.

Yeah, Buggy decides, Ace is definitely going to be handling that one.

The fledgling marine purses his lips, eyeing them up and down. “Seems you've taken quite a few steps down the rung with your current company, Fire Fist,” is the idle remark.

It is Buggy’s turn to gaff. “Now, wait a damn second —”

Ace, who has been quiet for most of the interaction, cuts in mid-rant like they’re debating lunch options instead of potential incarceration. Smoke curls from his hands.

“So, are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way?”

The blond shrugs. “Depends on you, honestly.” He yanks the binder from Pink, who scowls and elbows him with surprising force. Blond ignores it, scans the page, and gives them a half-shrug, half-warning.

“Dead or alive, both of you. That’s what it says.” He whistles, then glances at Pink again. “Combined bounty: 553 million berries. Quite a sum, indeed. I might even receiving recognition from this.”

“We,” Pink says pointedly, annoyed. He takes a step in front of his companion, who rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Koby. We. So sorry,” Blondie drawls.

Koby steps forward, trying to summon some kind of official presence—though it lands more like borrowed confidence. He holds up a pair of seastone cuffs, glinting in the light. He looks at the pair in front of him, then to a place just beyond their heads, like he couldn’t bear to meet their eyes.

“It... would be best if you just turned yourself—uh, yourselves—in. Peacefully.”

Buggy lifts his hands in a mock gesture of innocence, eyes darting between the two Marines.

“Yeah… see, about that — It’s not really me you’re after, right? You’ve already got your golden goose here.” He jerks a thumb at Ace. “Why drag along one more mouth to feed on your... uh... prison ship?”

“Seriously?” Ace snaps, disbelieving.

Buggy turns back to him, shrugs. “I have a crew to think about!”

“Oh, so much for the help then!” Ace snaps. “I could’ve handled this just fine without your involvement!”

“I said I’d give you passage! I didn’t say I’d get arrested on your behalf! You’re the one dumb enough to—”

The bolt hits before he finishes.

It sinks into his left shoulder—close to the heart, maybe. Not deep enough to be lethal, but enough.

His left side goes instantly numb. The connection to his Bara Bara no Mi snaps like a string pulled too tight.

Buggy stumbles, air punched from his lungs. “Oh, fantastic,” he mutters bitterly.

Ace chokes on a gasp beside him, clutching his ribs, pain carved across his face.

Another dart, seastone-tipped, embedded deep.

No jokes this time. No smug retorts.

“This is your fault,” Ace growls, dropping to one knee. Sparks flicker from his hands, then die. Nothing catches. Nothing burns.

Buggy doesn't bother replying. He can't. His limbs give out, and he crashes to the cobblestones like a puppet with its strings cut. The ground is cold, rough against his cheek, but even that sensation begins to slip away.

His vision blurs at the edges. His tongue feels foreign in his mouth, heavy, useless.

There’s no point in trying to speak—not when his body is shutting down piece by piece, clearly the effects of more than just sea-stone on the bolt lodged into his skin — and what an odd sensation that was — how many years had it been since he’d felt the pierce of his own flesh? — how long since —

And, besides, what could he say?

He followed the advice of the damned haunt of a man long since decayed — followed a disembodied Voice that only he could hear — followed his gut, like the fool he always swore he wasn’t.

And now—arrested. For the first time in his life.

Somewhere deep, a distant thought flickers — What would Roger think?

The sound of boots echoes down the street, a rising storm of iron and order. Ace is still shouting, his voice growing thinner— but it's not because he's stopped yelling. It’s because Buggy is slipping away, his mind unraveling into some quieter place.

Darker.

His mind unwinds into silence.

Something distant laughs — a harsh, empty sound. No hatred. No glee.

Just mockery.

Just truth.

And then—

Nothing.