Chapter Text
Brown, lighter brown, off white, orange, green, different green, some kind of purple, which was mildly disconcerting, yellow—
Aha, there was a red. But was it the right red?
Marco’s long fingers closed around the glass jar, fluorescents sliding over the surface as he cracked the lid to get a whiff of—he jerked back, turning his sneeze into his shoulder before automatically inhaling his own scent from the rumpled purple cotton. Definitely a right red. He blinked, shaking his head briefly before snapping the lid back shut—tightly—and dumping the jar in the basket with the other one. Two more to go, according to Thatch’s sleep-deprived brain. Marco returned to scanning the orderly shelves through half-watering eyes, voices echoing from the staging area of the warehouse as the door to this storage room opened. The spices were tucked close enough to the wall that he didn’t see whoever had come in, though he could hear the absent cursing as they hunted for ingredients.
Ah, that bright orange one looked promising. It was bright orange, right? He blinked, rubbing his knuckles against his eye before squinting at it again. Probably bright orange. Might as well check it. Marco had to reach for this one, pressed against the shelves as he boosted himself onto his toes, conditioned air slipping along his waist as his shirt fell open—
—and a buzzing started on his thigh, rattling against the jar it was pressed to.
His fingers came to a rest on the glass as he glanced down on instinct. He had a moment of confusion, staring at the hand wrapped around the basket’s handle, and then he sighed and stepped back with only a bit of a wobble, setting the basket on the polished concrete as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
No caller ID?
Who would have this number who wasn’t a Whitebeard?
Unless… He had called Sabo’s Army contact. She had seemed rather unimpressed with them but maybe now Sabo was back there was something she needed? Assuming Sabo was back. But Ace and Luffy were back so Sabo was probably back. Right?
Marco pressed fingers to his temple with a sigh. He was reaching his limit. They’d been awake nearly two and a half days, which wasn’t the longest they’d ever gone, but… The clinking of several wine bottles had him shaking his head again. Right. Phone.
He leaned a shoulder and his head against one of the supports for the shelves, phone pressed to his free ear, “Who is this?”
“Ah, so nice to know I was right.”
Marco stilled, then slowly levered himself back to standing, fingers wrapping around the edge of a shelf, trying to push even a hint of warning past his weariness and not sure he succeeded, “What do you want?”
A pause in the collection of wine bottles, but then whichever cook it was resumed, though quieter. Marco’s lips twitched. Thatch and infecting his cooks with his nosiness. The other commander would be in here in thirty seconds flat once whoever it was got back to the kitchen. His fingers slid along the polished wood as he wandered a few steps forward, wondering if he could see who it was through the twelve-foot rows of shelves. The tight rows of fluorescents would make it easy, assuming he could line up the gaps between ingredients right.
The man on the other end of the phone sounded amused, “And here I thought you wanted to talk. Or was there another reason you decided to trash my hotel and assault my employees?”
Marco tapped his fingers against the shoulder-high shelf as he strolled, “And here I thought you were… unavailable.”
Doflamingo outright laughed, “Is that what you thought it was?” Something laced his laughter, some undercurrent… Marco pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to rub his temple again. Instead he continued trailing along the shelf, curious if he could prevent the cook from tattling to Thatch but less invested in that than ending this conversation, so he replied in a slightly tired version of his usual drawl, “You’re the one who picked your code words.”
The crime lord’s laughter trailed off and that undercurrent was still there, it was so damn familiar but Marco couldn’t put his finger on it, and then it slipped away again as the man’s amused baritone lilted with a hint of… something, “Is that your justification for attacking my hotel, then?”
Oh.
Marco paused, fingers halting mid-drum between two jars of honey, and slowly straightened, voice calming even as his mind shook itself back awake, “Is that a threat?” They hadn’t been the most careful with him… Which might have been a mistake. It was easy to stay out of his way, smooth and lean as he kept his operations, and so it was also easy to forget that while the man himself wasn’t anywhere near as big a threat as Whitebeard, he had more connections than anyone in the city.
Several of whom could hold their own with Whitebeard himself.
Marco clenched his jaw, pinching the bridge of his nose.
At the time, given the information they had, Marco had been more than willing to start a fight with him—had thought there was even a strong possibility it was a retaliating move in a war the other blond had already begun.
Now…
A low hum, and Marco could hear the neutrality that would not last beyond whatever answer he gave, “It’s a question.”
Voices swirled into the room as the door opened and closed, the cook no doubt bee-lining straight for Thatch. Who was not the best negotiator. Who usually exploded negotiations, actually.
Marco dragged his free hand down his face, taking a short moment to gather his thoughts. They could start a war with the man and probably win. The cost would be high, though. Oh so high. Whitebeard would back Marco, he would always back his family, but a war with Doflamingo was not something worth backing when there was—apparently—nothing to fight about.
Sixty hours awake was not the best state for this conversation, but he didn’t think it would wait.
Marco strolled back to the basket he’d left, sandals quiet as the air conditioner sighed awake again, cool breezes teasing over his skin and clothes before continuing on their way. He pushed the basket gently with his foot until it bumped the bottom shelf, bending to slip the folded list of spices from his capri pocket and tuck it in with the jars he’d already found, “It’s a fair question.”
A considering pause on the other end. Good. He needed to buy some time while his exhausted brain churned for the best way out. He didn’t want to start a war but he also didn’t—couldn’t—put himself in a position to admit fault because then he’d owe the man, and he knew his reputation. Favors to him were a noose: the more you tried to clear your debts, the tighter he tied them.
Marco eyed the basket one last time before turning, wondering where he was even going. Outside was a bust, way too many people coming in and out of the food warehouse. The staging area was no good for the same reason. He couldn’t hold off on talking forever, though.
He paused at the door. “Will you hold for a moment?”
Another hum, curious this time, a good sign, “For a moment.”
Marco slapped the mute button and opened the door, stepping into the main warehouse.
The hustle and bustle wasn’t terrible at this hour, even with Thatch’s impromptu feast for Ace after declaring the takeout from Hideki’s “subpar on every level, what kind of man would I be if I let my friends eat this garbage?” Which had worked out, as Luffy had inhaled most of it before Ace even noticed and then booked it for who knew where. Ace cursed his brother until he was red in the face while they sweat in the heat of his anger, and then he’d dragged Thatch to Baby Blue’s spot on the curb and squeezed all three of them in.
Marco didn’t think Thatch had originally been planning on a full-blown feast, but he got one word out about fetching some pigs to roast and the rest of the Whitebeard kitchen staff took it from there. Off Marco had been sent with a hastily scrawled list of spices for a rub before Thatch was hip deep in running his kitchen. Most of the ingredients had been fetched before they started, which meant most of the staff was helping prepare the dishes, but as always there were the half dozen last-minute fetches to run and the necessary staff was jogging to and from different storage rooms.
He let the door to Dry Goods 2 shut behind him, strolling along the curve of the wall to his right as he tracked the other Whitebeards. He could go unnoticed when it suited him, and it definitely suited him right now. He kept his pace slow, calm and assured as he passed the door to Fridge 2 and turned down the hallway directly next to it. He tucked his phone in his pocket to grab the heavy handle with both hands and turned, mist cascading from the opening edges as he swung the thick metal door to the Freezer open and slipped inside. Hopefully no one would look for him here… It wasn’t like it was hard to figure out, between fire and healing, but it wasn’t like he and Ace advertised this had become their favorite hiding spot whenever one of them needed a few moments alone.
He shut the door and slipped his phone back out, little flares of neon blue and gold flames flickering over his skin as his fruit kept him warm and un-frostbitten as he stared at the screen with the blocked ID. He hadn’t hung up yet. That was good. Hopefully. Marco took one deep, ice-cold breath, and then unmuted and raised the phone back to his ear, “Are you still there?”
Just a hum in response.
Marco ran his free hand through his hair, strands oily and cold between his fingers as he dropped into the negotiating voice he’d been using since he’d originally become First Mate. He’d been told by those who had the experience that it made him sound remarkably like a Marine Admiral. Or a disappointed father. He wasn’t sure which worked better, but it was what he had, so, “You can’t be telling me you think it’s unreasonable for us to believe you may have sprung a trap on Ace, when he vanished with your brother and you couldn’t be reached.”
Doflamingo didn’t say anything for a moment and Marco could hear the creak of a chair, the sigh of leather, and a quiet grunt of—pain, that’s what that undercurrent had been! He couldn’t possibly have been injured by Ace, could he? Blues curse it, would that make this easier or harder?
The man replied evenly, no hint of pain in his voice now, “Not an entirely unreasonable assumption.”
Okay. Okay. Good. That neutrality earlier was willing to be brought around to not starting a fight. Marco could work with that. And it didn’t sound like Doflamingo was taking the pain into consideration, so maybe it wasn’t from Ace after all… Marco closed his eyes, setting that thought aside. He’d include it in his calculations if and when it became an issue. He didn’t have the spare brain power for anything else.
He crossed his free arm over his bare chest, fingers hooking in the piled cotton in the bend of his other elbow, “We left when your manager cleared up the misunderstanding.”
Another hum, absently thoughtful, “Mm, she did mention that.” Marco could hear the drum of fingers in a way that made him think the man must be tapping the back of his phone, “The timing would seem condemning, I suppose. Though I am curious…”
Marco waited, his own thumb tapping his bicep as the deadening cold battled with his sparks of flame, recessed lights not drowning out the blues and golds as easily as the free-hanging ones in the other storerooms.
And he sounded it, too, “… What made you think Crocodile would know anything?”
Marco’s brow twitched, though he smoothed it back out quickly, “He’s your most frequent business partner. If you were going to start something with Whitebeard…”
Doflamingo gave an amused huff, “I see. How very… logical of you.”
That… Wasn’t foreboding at all, was it.
Marco felt prickling along his skin entirely apart from the frosty mist drifting around him.
Had Doflamingo been trying to start something with them?
How in the depths of hell was he supposed to ask without starting something himself?
“Well, then.” The drumming stopped, voice lilting up again and… and… smug? Was he teasing Marco? “Are you satisfied now that I’ve left him unharmed?”
Marco opened his mouth to reply and nothing came out. What a question. Ten minutes ago he would’ve said yes. Just now, though, his cognitive functions were short-circuiting as they ran through everything they’d gathered on him since Saturday. No one in their world had known what he was up to over the weekend. They’d claimed he was unreachable, but what if that had been a lie? What if he had been planning something and their stunt at the Summer Swan had warned him to back off?
Or Rosinante had been planning something, and Doflamingo stopped him?
Haruta was certain, certain, the cop was a good one. Marco trusted the Sixteenth Division Commander’s instincts. Okay. That possibility was a no-go unless otherwise reopened. But… what the hell kind of good cop chased down, arrested, and then kidnapped a Whitebeard in Kaidou’s territory by himself?
Oh, curse it all. Marco’s fingers tightened on his bicep and he took a subconscious step forward, wishing he sounded more threatening and less incredulous, “Did you plan it all?”
And Marco could detect that undercurrent of pain creeping back in but he also thought it entirely possible the man was crying from mirth, he was laughing so hard.
And then Doflamingo ended the call.
Marco lowered his phone slowly, staring at the dark screen like it might bite.
Son of a bitch.
She hiked a manicured brow, heavy white door whispering shut behind her as she stepped inside, his cologne already wreathing the office as he doubled over, “You’re certainly in a good mood.”
He stood across the room from her, in the narrow space between the little lounge area and the south-eastern wall of windows looking out on the gardens in front of the hotel. The sconces bracketing the double doors she’d just entered and lining the one normal wall to her left were all set low, lending a soft orange burnish to the unusually shadowed office. Burbling echoed out of the corner to her right, gem-encrusted marble fountain forever running, the peaceful sound trickling behind the desk sitting parallel to the wall of windows on the right until it hit the little bar counter tucked where the two window walls met in the far right corner from her. An unfinished game was scattered over the billiards table to her left, smooth balls gleaming on white felt where they caught streaks of dim light, polished elm cue propped against the side of the table where he’d apparently abandoned it.
The Young Master turned to glance sideways at her, crisp white sleeves rolled to his elbows and mostly-bared forearm braced on the glass in front of him as he laughed breathlessly, crystal tumbler tapping lightly as his drink wavered in his grip. The white leather couch hid him from mid-hips down as he stepped back to lean against its spine, phone hanging limply from his other hand. The lounge area looked untouched otherwise, couch cushions facing her as plump as the housekeeping staff liked to leave them, the velvet on the backs and sides she could see of the two armchairs smoothed in a uniform direction. Her eyes slid to the marble-topped desk on the right half of the room, the crooked notebook on top the only disturbed spot aside from the pool table.
Her lips quirked. Both work and play tonight? Interesting.
Monet wandered to the right and set her purse down on the nearest corner of his desk, watching him slip his phone into the pocket of what looked like the hint of red pants as he waved her off, tucking his chin into his shaking shoulder and sagging more of his weight on the spine of the couch, trying to get control of himself. She found herself snorting at his snickering: she hadn’t seen him this giddy in years, not since he’d made Crocodile blush from toes to crown entirely on accident on their first job together. At least he had more clothes on this time, even if his shirt was completely unbuttoned. So very picky about the fabrics that touched his skin for someone she’d once had to cajole into getting less caked in blood anytime he worked a job himself.
She dropped her office keys back into her small purse with a jingle, eyes flicking to where he was strolling out from behind the couch to reveal he was wearing shorts. He really was relaxed, wasn’t he? And still choking out snickers as he strolled to the little bar counter in the far right corner. Whatever had happened this weekend must have been good. She slid her fingers over the sunflower decorating the front of her bag, fake petals soft before she dropped her hand and traded it for tracing one of the cool gold veins within the marble as she followed it around to the page of coded notes he’d written so far. It took her a moment to translate, turning the high back of his white leather chair so it was out of her way as she curled her hands over the golden lip of the desk and leaned in to read.
‘Any Whitebeard?’ was crossed out and ‘Just Ace’ was written above it in precise letters. This was followed by ‘Monet - secure - expedite’ and a list of names and catering positions—something to do with whatever he’d been doing over the weekend, perhaps? He rarely fast-tracked work like that, especially not if he wanted both background checks and insurance; expediting always meant threats instead of blackmail or bribes, as it was the only option that was both fast and would hold. But it lacked that poisoned honey aspect he always preferred, something he strove so hard to maintain a reputation for… She tapped a white-painted nail against the letters. Odd.
She heard him pop a cork, not sure if she wanted to call those laughs or something else as they were overcast by the pour of liquid into glass. Really, when was the last time she’d heard him giggle? And yet it was the term that came to mind.
Her report on the damages to the front lobby yesterday was sitting beside the slim black notebook, and she could see the tallies and vendors for replacement furniture below the list of caterers in his sharp hand. Most of them she already knew, had done contract work for them in the past, but she saw a few new ones in there: little boutiques and more recent start-ups, some she vaguely recognized and some completely new. He was always generous when in a mood like this, so that much wasn’t terribly unusual. But what was…
She brushed her finger over the tilted words in the top-left corner of the page, notebook paper slick beneath her skin, wondering what ‘bus - him? how?’ was about. The second question was underlined twice and repeatedly circled.
Monet pursed her lips, brow furrowing faintly.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen him do that…
The ever-present scent of pollen and night he carried everywhere he went mixed with vetiver and vanilla, myrrh and cinnamon and a half-dozen other scents from his cologne, the whole concoction washing over her shoulder abruptly. She felt his heat at her back, a wine-glass appearing around her arm to hover in his open palm as he balanced the stem between two fingers and held it out for her. His baritone rumbled warmly, breath close enough to feel it brush the strands loosened from her messy bun over her bare collarbone, “And how was your day?”
She slipped the glass from his fingers and cast a sidelong glance to find his amused grin comfortably close as he sat against the edge of his desk, left hand curled loosely around the lip and head cocked with avian curiosity.
Well. Despite whatever concern he clearly had about that ‘bus’ note, he really was in a good mood.
She tapped her glass against the tumbler in his right before settling herself on the arm of his unoccupied desk chair, gold metal pleasantly cool against her thigh through the thin barrier of her marigold sundress, “Delightful, though apparently not quite as delightful as yours.” She crossed her legs, cotton tickling the back of her calf where it draped, and smirked over the lip of her glass as she swept her gaze over him, “Is this the effect of just today, or the whole weekend?”
He flashed a boyish grin and answered with nothing more than a blown kiss that had her laughing and shoving a hand in his face. She could feel the grin under her palm as he let her shove him off the corner of his desk and he slid gracefully to his feet with a little wave of his free fingers. But there was something about the way he was moving… So as he wandered a circuit between the south-western window wall and the back of the chair she was perched on, likely on his way back to the lounge area, she brought him to a halt by slipping her free hand to tug his unbuttoned white shirt open a little more. And of course she’d been right. She raised a brow, whistling lowly, “Who managed to put that on you?”
He chuckled, as entirely unperturbed by the shiny welt dragged from nearly his hip to his collarbone up the left side of his chest as he’d always been of his own injuries, deadly or not. He turned to display it more clearly in the soft lighting with a wiggle of his brows, “He’s coming along nicely, isn’t he?”
Both her own brows jumped, eyes flicking up to his glasses as she let his shirt slide back out of her fingers, “Not baby Law?”
His grin slid into a wide smirk and he waved his hand along the full length of his wound, “Kid’s been practicing.”
She snorted, clucking her tongue as she bent to work the buckles loose on her chunky heels one-handed, “Doesn’t he know better than to leave marks? You look like someone tried to roast you over a spit.”
He barked a laugh, leaning a muscled forearm on the tall back of the white desk chair as he watched her slip her foot from the wide white straps, wiggling her toes with a relieved sigh as he murmured through his grin, “Best not tell him that. I rather think he’d like the comparison, and then where would we be?”
She hummed, tossing a sly smirk up at him from beneath the cascade of her rapidly escaping bun as she rubbed her free hand over the marks lacing her feet, “As long as it’s not your face, Young Master.” She left off the marks to reach up and gently pinch his cheek, “Can’t go ruining your money-maker, you know.”
He pulled away and stuck his tongue out at her because he was actually a child, shoving off the chairback with enough force to rock her on its arm as he continued his original path around the back of his desk and to the lounge area with a dramatic sigh, “I thought you’d care.”
She stood, using the desk chair one last time to stabilize as she flexed her toes in the thick sky blue carpet, rolling one ankle at a time before she followed him at a sedate pace, “I thought you’d be a gentleman.”
He paused beside the nearest gray armchair, glancing back to cock one thin blond brow over the line of his lens, and she raised one right back, “What? I thought we were sharing our delusions.”
It got her a grin that crinkled what skin she could see around his glasses with shadows before he plopped into the velvet armchair with a satisfied hum, his back to the rest of the office. She trailed her hand over the downy gray velvet behind his head as she passed and gusted a sigh of her own as she curled onto the puffy white leather couch across from him, back to the south-eastern window wall and the front gardens of the hotel. How unusual of him to put his back to the door. Perhaps he really was relaxed. Except…
She settled her cheekbone on her loosely coiled fist, left elbow digging into the armrest as she balanced her wine glass on her stacked knees, “To what do I owe the pleasure, hmm?” She flicked her eyes pointedly over his unbuttoned white shirt, his red Bermuda shorts, the welt on his torso, “Not that you don’t do casual at work, but this is informal even for a Sunday night.” Being half-dressed for a beach or a club was one thing. Being half-dressed at his fancy hotel catering to nobles?
He leaned his head on the back of his gray chair, tipping those red glasses toward the faintly illuminated ceiling as he hummed through his smile, “Is wanting to see you not pleasure enough?”
She huffed, fingers spinning the stem of her glass slowly over the folds of her dress, shifting her knees until they were tucked more comfortably near the armrest, toes of both feet wedged in the crease between her seat cushion and the middle one. The occasional spontaneous invitation was nothing new, especially when it involved drinks, but… She eyed where the fiery lamplight spilled over his throat, bled over the curve of muscles and bone, glistened across the shiny raw skin up his ribs. The looseness in his hips suggested he’d be sprawled on the couch fast asleep already if she weren’t here, his feet shoved far enough under the black marble coffee table between them that his shins bumped the edge. There was something, though. Something…
Like, say, the barely touched dark rum he’d poured, the too-tight grip on the tumbler in his right hand. The way his thumb traced over crystal-carved swans and the standing tendons cutting sharp shadows along his wrist. There was always a tell, no matter how well someone trained their body. Especially if you knew them well.
She sipped at her drink, favorite Merlot a song on her tongue.
Monet knew him better than anyone in the world. Better, even, than he knew himself.
Oh, boy.
She heaved a long sigh, uncurling her legs to extend out straight, propping her heels in the middle of the slim table between them. She crossed her ankles, dress spilling over her knees to drape in the gap between the table and the couch. This would take some time, given the depths to which he was burying whatever it was. She let her gaze fall over him again, lips pursing. Monet was not looking for a long night and an even longer morning.
Quick and dirty it was.
He was an adult, he could take it.
She took another sip before gesturing with her glass, “Out with it.”
He drew to stillness, something gentle, but she was pleased to note his fingers go so taut she thought he was in danger of shattering his glass. His voice betrayed not a hint of it, maintaining the light curiosity he’d been aiming for since she walked in as he replied to the ceiling, “Out with what?”
She stroked the side of her glass with a hum. That bad, huh? He didn’t offer anything else, though she could see the tension working its way up his arm. She barely held back a snort. Fine. Any pain from this point forward was his own fault. So she slouched lower, lower, dress hiking up her thighs… until she could slide her foot alllll the way across the slim black coffee table… and shove his hairy leg with her snow-cold toes, “Very well, Young Master, I’ll go first. Did you watch the security footage from Saturday yet?”
His leg jerked at the freezing touch, shin knocking the edge of the table with a dull thng, but the only other concession he gave was a wordless grunt.
She rolled her eyes, dragging herself back up to sitting and tugging the tie out of her hair with her left hand until mint green waves cascaded over her shoulder. She balanced her glass precariously in her lap, rounded edge leaning against her stomach as she picked tangled strands free of her hair tie. She smiled lightly as she dropped the loose strands over the edge of the armrest, leaving them to pile on the floor in the way she knew irritated him to no end, “Do we need to talk about using words?”
Monet smirked at his surprised snort as he lifted his head, rolling upright to prop his chin in his palm and smile prettily, lifting his drink to his lips, “No, ma’am.” Ah, good. He wasn’t totally out of it. He shifted his left elbow on the armrest, little movement rippling up into his chin and shoulder and out into his torso. It traveled all the way into his right hand, lifting his tumbler to his lips to take a thoughtful sip of the nearly black alcohol before he gestured magnanimously with it, “Please, continue. What about the security footage on Saturday?”
She slipped the hair tie over her left wrist, running her fingers through her hair absently as she rescued her tipping glass from her lap with her right and took another sip herself. The wines at the tasting that afternoon had been decent, the Zinfandel she might even call good, but nothing beat their long-standing favorite he always kept in stock. And maybe nostalgia gave it an edge the others could never hope to match, of a couple of stupid teenagers who’d known only pain suddenly discovering the taste of freedom, but no matter how much they grew up, she couldn’t find it in herself to trade it for anything else. Not so long as their freedoms remained hard-fought and hard-won.
She glanced down at the maroon liquid, darkened to a nearly blood red in the dim lighting. Look at her, getting maudlin over a little bit of wine. Blues, she was only twenty-four and it already felt like an eternity. Was she getting old?
Monet shook it off with a wiggle, nestling into the couch and draping her left wrist over the armrest as she swung her attention back to the issue at hand, “Near the end, when I was speaking to the First and Fourth Division Commanders.” She waved her glass, fingers of her other hand flicking where they hung, “I could’ve sworn I’d practiced seduction enough, so what went wrong?”
How odd. Turned out startled was a good look on him, especially in this low lighting. She raised her glass back to her lips, letting the wine slip over her tongue. There was something sweetly innocent in that expression on him, like a fluffy baby bir—she coughed, managed not to inhale her drink, and cleared her throat. Maybe this last pour really had been too much, though she wasn’t sorry for it. What gold! She just needed to save that one for an appropriately embarrassing moment, which was definitely not now. Maybe in front of his mother? His mortification whenever the woman pinched his cheeks was always worth the payback later.
But it would lose its punch without an audience, and she didn’t like to contemplate the payback she’d get if they were alone.
Yes. Definitely better not to mention it now.
He, thankfully, did not seem to have caught it, as he was far too busy choking all on his own, gagging on an unexpected laugh, “You—” He bit his lips shut, shoulders jumping with another snort, “You didn’t—” He cleared his throat and she could see his snapping diaphragm ripple with shadows even though he managed to mostly keep it out of his voice, “It—” He shook his head and her eyes narrowed at what she could’ve sworn was a squeak, but he’d looked away, at the windows to his right, as he coughed twice and tried to move on, “You seduced—”
He rolled his lips back between his teeth, and that was quite enough.
She threw a snowball right into his smug, aristocratic cheek.
He flinched, finally letting his laughter go as he leaned back, raising his left hand to cover his dumb chuckling face as she pelted two more snowballs at him.
He only stopped with a yelp when she aimed for his crotch.
She was indescribably pleased when he took a snowball straight to the glasses, hands too busy covering his tumbler and something else, and he let it melt down his scrunched face as he hunched his shoulders, “Truce, truce!”
She took a sip of her wine, another snowball swirling into her left palm as she quirked a brow, “Why should I, when I have all the advantage?”
Ah, there he was. There was the man she’d grown up with, the one who never said no to a fight. Snowmelt dripped into the groove of the sinister smirk creeping up into his cheeks and he purred, “Do you?”
The brush of hair-fine thread around her wrists and ankles had her smirking in return, snowball melting away to nothing. She wiggled her slick empty fingers at him, wiping her hand lightly on her hip to dry it on her dress as the threatening threads vanished in return. She settled her left hand in her lap, raising her right to hide behind her glass, lips pressed to stop herself from laughing as he continued to protect his family jewels, “Don’t keep a girl waiting, Young Master.” She waved her glass blithely, “Do continue.” Monet smiled innocently, batting her lashes, “What were you saying?”
He lifted a single palm as if talking down a rabid animal, “It was a compliment.” He watched her for a moment and, at her very benevolent gesture to continue, leaned cautiously back into his chair with a wry grin. His entire front was vaguely damp, hands flicking droplets before he cupped the base of his tumbler on the gray velvet between his splayed legs, “I only have one question: did they say anything before they left?”
Monet hummed, hair sliding over her bicep as she tilted her head and considered, “The Phoenix thanked me for my time.” Her lips twitched, eyes flicking to the quiet burble of the fountain in the far corner she could see over Doffy’s right shoulder, “The Fourth Division Commander didn’t say anything but he was very… grumpy.”
Oh, look at that! That was her favorite grin on him, confident and amused and a little bit proud. A rare occurrence these days. His baseline had shifted to something sharp and irritable since New Year’s and she had yet to find out why; it wasn’t like he hadn’t run into roadblocks opening a business before, so she didn’t think it was the new club’s fault. He wasn’t overly invested in Crocodile’s plans for the Reverie vote, either, too secure in his ability to terrorize the Celestials into giving him what he wanted to care about something as trivial as the new warlord system they were considering. As far as the books were concerned, all their other operations were slick as dolphin skin, even that new deal with Caesar. There hadn’t been anything else new or annoying on their plates this year that she could recall.
She watched him sketch a little bow in his seat. So if it wasn’t any new business then perhaps…
Monet blinked the thought away. She hadn’t thought it would come this early in his career, but she’d been preparing for it since he asked her to help him all those years ago. She’d be ready whenever he was, if this was in fact the sound of the first dominoes falling.
Doffy raised his head from his little bow, grin cocky as he raised his glass in a toast, “Flustering Whitebeard Commanders with nothing but your feminine wiles. You’ve come far, my pupil.”
Flustering, huh? They hadn’t seemed particularly flustered to her. Though she supposed they had left, and with no further questions or information, to boot.
Hmm.
It didn’t look the same as when she tormented Rosinante, but she couldn’t deny that the reaction to flee had been familiar. Probably not what most people aimed for with seductive tactics, but why break what was clearly working to her advantage? She waved a hand in the noble way she’d watched their clients do all afternoon as wine loosened their postures, looking down her nose at him, “Did you expect anything less? Just who do you think I am?”
His grin eased, “My right hand.”
She raised a brow, “And your left.”
He tipped his head in concession, “And my left. And most of my appendages, if we’re going for a complete picture. Though speaking of…” He ran both thumbs over the lip of his tumbler, the tension he was hiding now spidering up his arms and tightening his abdomen, “How is Mateo? It was Mateo I watched getting choked, wasn’t it?”
‘Round and ‘round he goes, where he stops, nobody knows. Except, you know, she did, because he was going to crush that tumbler between his steel-strong fingers well before he was willing to talk about why. Monet let her gaze linger on hands that would be bloodied by glass shards before the end of the night for a long moment before deliberately rolling it up his chest and neck until she got to crimson glasses, “He’s doing well. The medical costs were fairly low for an encounter with an Emperor’s First Mate.” She gave a one-sided shrug, off-the-shoulder strap of her dress stretching across her bicep, and set her glass on her cotton-covered thigh so she could spin the stem of it between her fingers again, “He wisely counts himself lucky.”
Doffy hummed, muscles in his jaw standing out as he shifted slightly to glance out the windows behind her, tension creeping up all the way into his collarbone, “Lucky indeed.” His lenses reflected the fairy lights scattered in the gardens lining the drive up to the front of the hotel, voice growing absent as he gazed at who knew what among the flowering and fruiting trees, “When’s the last time we reviewed our comp rate?”
His thighs were growing stiff, quads rigid past the hem of his shorts. Maybe he’d talk about it after all, if this continued, no shattered glass required.
She could hope.
The lights flickered over his glasses as he glanced at the dismissive wrist she barely lifted off her leg, “Recently enough that I don’t feel a need to adjust the rate yet.”
He hummed again, rubbing his left hand carelessly along his chin before dropping it into his palm, elbow braced on the velvet armrest as his fingers curled in front of his mouth. Monet sank back into the cool cream leather behind her, tension bleeding from her shoulders, and considered him. Wondered where this tension would’ve gone if she hadn’t come by. Somewhere bloody, probably, and not in a good way, so she took the opening he probably didn’t even consciously realize he was giving her.
“Tell me.”
The shadows of his throat rolled in an abrupt swallow. It was several silent moments during which Monet thought he was going to keep ignoring her, but then two fingers flicked off the tumbler nestled on the cushion between his legs. The wild flapping of paper preceded the notebook from his desk landing on the table between them, slick black cover caught propped partially open on her still-outstretched calves.
She didn’t even glance at it, eyes glued to his glasses, hushed voice clear in the silence, “I saw it earlier.”
The only response was the ripple of the fountain in the far corner past his desk, water cascading from one pool of carved swans to the next over reaching marble roots, green and blue and yellow gemstones winking with refracted light. Something about this silence felt… old, and familiar, in a way that had her pulse quickening even as it thickened into sludge. The kind that whispered the futility of any attempt at self-preservation when they lived in a world that used up kids like they once were.
His baritone was husky with the exhaustion he’d been pretending he didn’t have, muffled and low behind his curled fingers, “One guess on who was reportedly on the Gray Line Friday night.”
She could feel the crinkle building in her forehead. Why would she know anyone on the Gray Line? Granted, Crocodile had been on it Friday night, which she was unapologetically reminded of when he called to bitch at her last night about the Whitebeards, but Doffy wouldn’t have underlined and circled a ‘how’ for someone he already knew the plans of. And this—this feeling coming off him, her reaction to it felt almost rusty, felt old like it was from a lifetime ago—
Him.
The first question in that note had said nothing but him.
Shit.
She could tell the temperature in the room dropped by the goosebumps she watched bloom over every exposed inch of his skin, though he didn’t twitch. She didn’t, either. No, Monet sat frozen as the snow piled in her veins. Caught between one moment and the next, because the only him they shared was one who was never supposed to set foot on this island again.
One she often wished they’d been capable of killing eleven years ago.
She swallowed. Inhaled for four. Held for four. Exhaled for four. She opened her mouth, found her tongue too dry, swallowed and tried again, “Ho…” No. No, he’d underlined and circled ‘how?’, which meant he didn’t yet know, meant asking was useless. She sucked down a mouthful of wine, tasted nothing but ash where once she tasted freedom, and switched hands to plant the glass firmly on the squishy armrest on her left. She refused to let her fingers waver like her voice threatened to as she followed a different line of questioning, “Why now?”
He shifted, deliberate and measured and so very controlled as he set his swan-wreathed crystal on the shiny obsidian marble between them with a muted clnk before leaning back again, taut fingers laced over his bare abdomen. He stroked one thumb over the joint of another and she was disconcerted to recognize it as the movement he’d taught her for dislocating her thumb to slip out of cuffs, “He was harassing some people, looking for information. Seemed interested in parties.” The muscles in his jaw feathered, “Mine, I suspect.”
“But—” She bit the words off, chin twitching until she was staring out the wall of windows to her left, past his desk. ‘But how did he even get here’ didn’t have an answer, she already knew that. She scrubbed up her face with her right hand, fingers tangling in her hair and staying there. Why come looking now? And why on the Gray Line, of all places? He’d poked and prodded at Doffy’s barriers for eleven damn years, unable to find anyone willing to grant him access or passage to the island, let alone the city. So why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone?
She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly through her nose. No, she’d always known he wouldn’t. Always known it would come to this, even if she really just wished he’d died before it did. Doffy was a once-in-a-lifetime combination: a talented, ambitious, ruthless carrier of Conqueror’s Haki who happened to be willing to use all the hidden knowledge of the Celestials tucked inside his head to get what he wanted. What monster wouldn’t want that kind of power devoted to his every wish? Monet flicked half-lidded eyes sidelong, peeking between the curl of her bicep and forearm at the power in question, and pursed her lips.
Mister ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ looked about as good as she felt.
She loosed her hair with a rough sigh, knocking back the rest of her wine before she set the empty glass on the table beside his unfinished rum and unopened notebook so she could cross her arms. She thumped back into the couch cushion with a whoosh of air, chin dipped as she began the arduous task of getting a grip for both their sakes, because they’d always stabilized each other where he was involved.
Her friend had traded trying to hide the tension in his muscles for brandishing it like a weapon instead, a rictus of a grin cutting into his cheeks and light tone at odds with the scoffed words, “So glad we got to talk about this.”
Monet scowled and held her peace, orange eyes scanning. Her instincts had been right, this did feel familiar, all the rash violence of their teenage years. But she wasn’t playing this shit show of a game a second time; once had already been one time too many. She leaned forward, narrow-eyed and baring her teeth in what anyone other than the two of them might call a smile, “Oh, were you not going to share? Looking to forget me again so soon, I wonder?”
His grin melted into pursed lips, shadows jumping as he clenched his teeth, but Monet gave him no time to respond because she needed to expel the acid fear eating up her spine, “Perhaps they’ll make me without hands this time. You see, I don’t think they’ll make the same mistake twice, not after discovering just what toys can do when left unsupervised.”
She watched the fingers he’d laced over his abs try to clench into fists and had to admit she was a little proud when he didn’t say anything. The man was clueless about how most normal human relationships worked but she’d be the first to admit he was a quick study with excellent instincts. She leaned back again with a huff, fingers digging into her biceps, and frowned, “How did you hear about it before I did, anyway?” It was no secret that everyone preferred working with her over him, regardless of which side of the business they stood on. Well… except one. Had he heard it from Rosinante?
His chest visibly rose and fell twice before he rasped, “From a guest.” The corner of his lip twitched, some of the sharpness oozing from his features, “I rather think you’d have liked them and their stories. The man he described—”
She raised a hand, halting him, “I’m sorry, did you just say described?”
Bless it all, there was the fluffy baby bird look again. She smothered the extremely hysterical laugh clawing up her throat as he opened his mouth and paused for a moment as if waiting for a momma bird’s food before he finished hesitantly, “… Yes?”
Monet stared at him, rewinding the conversation and—nope, yep, he had, hadn’t he. Reportedly. Reportedly on the Gray Line. She felt cold swirling in her veins for entirely different reasons now, nearly singing, “Young Master.”
His jaw snapped shut and he didn’t quite stiffen but she could tell those instincts of his had picked up on something because his only response was a wary, “Hmm?”
She smiled, batting her lashes, “When did you confirm it was him?”
He went still and she knew it, she knew it. She fucking knew it, that little—
He flailed beneath the heap of snow she dropped on him, pouring it on faster than he could clear it as he barked a muffled, “Oi!”
She stood, toes curling in the thick blue carpet as she smoothed her dress out over her hips and thighs and said over his snarling, “I’m going home, where I am going to go to bed, and where I will do this thing called ‘sleeping’.” She phased, letting a chunk of flung snow pass through her suddenly snowy left shoulder to hit the glass behind her with a wet slap, “And when I am done sleeping it will be morning, and when it is morning I will come back here. And when I come back here, Young Master…” She ended her little snowstorm on him, fists on her hips and brow raising as he lurched to his feet, dripping and puffing, to loom at her from the other side of the heavy pile that supposedly had a coffee table under it.
She smiled, reaching out to pat his freezing cheek over the little hill and finish evenly, “When I come back here, Young Master, I expect you to behave like the man you’ve worked so hard to build a reputation as, and approach this like any other enemy we’ve picked a fight with.” She gripped his chin and shook lightly, gaze softening with her voice but not any less reproving for it, “Understood?”
He chose to scowl.
Monet sighed and patted his cold cheek again, stepping around the heap he’d flung to the floor and furniture surrounding him to head for the desk. Still the same pouty soul he’d been when he was fifteen. The world around them was vastly different and yet nothing had changed, clearly. Oh, how lonely it was to be the only one who recognized what an absolute child he was sometimes. Oh, no, big bad Donquixote Doflamingo was the poster boy of the criminal underworld, sexy and suave and powerful, he always got what he wanted no matter who he had to hurt. Never mind that he threw temper tantrums like a three year old. Why had she agreed to run his businesses for him, again? Blues, he’d been so nervous when he’d asked—
She got halfway to the desk before his arm was wrapping around her to bar her way, and then she was blinking as she was spun and tugged against a slick, freezing collarbone, his chin plopping against her crown and dripping clothes pressing against her sides.
Her hands raised to rest against his back on reflex, cotton squelching beneath her palms, and she sighed in defeat as his arms tightened cautiously.
Perhaps some things had changed.
And he had been nervous when he’d asked, all those years ago. They’d been so damn young, too, and no one knew her like he did. How could she have said no?
She twisted her head, resting her cheek against his chilly shoulder so her nose wasn’t smashed into his neck, breath murmuring over the now-translucent white shirt hugging his skin, “I’m not going to break, you know.”
Monet could feel his hesitance, intimately aware of the thoughts running through his brain, all the ways he knew just how frail humans were because he’d spent a lifetime training his body to exploit that very fact. Then slowly his grip strengthened, muscles stiff and hard and tight, and the ephemeral thing turned into a real hug. His chest expanded with a surprised sigh as he pulled her in and she did not, in fact, break. She did feel her bones creak. Quite a lot, actually. She might even be bruised and sore in the morning. But to hell with complaining, not when she could feel the angry fear bleeding out of him.
She rubbed his back, letting her hands warm back to a human normal in an absent response to the shivers she could feel him trying to hide. Ah, how she loved the cold. And oh, how he did not. She sighed breezily, pressing more of her weight against him in a promise that they were both still real and living and free, “What would you do without me.”
He snorted, words ticklish where his throat vibrated against the shell of her ear as he completed the back and forth they’d repeated to each other for over a decade, “Be a much bloodier mess.”
She squeezed once, tight, before stepping back, amused at the awkward embarrassment of a man she was certain had never initiated a hug before in his life and was surprised to find himself reluctant to end it. Her fingers brushed his ice-cold chin, turning his face so she could get a look at his pink-dusted nose and cheeks, his scowl renewing as he growled, “What?”
What a fool. What an absolute fool, her friend, and she loved him for it. Best friends were better than siblings. At least, better than her sibling. She couldn’t really speak to Rosinante… She kept the bitterness off her face as she smirked, shaking his chin lightly before she turned back around and finished her trek to the desk. She was grateful she hadn’t worn white, as her dress was soaked through in several places, especially along her sides where his unbuttoned shirt had pressed, but she couldn’t really find it in her to care.
His grumble followed her, cold droplets flicking against her back as he shook his limp hair out, “What?”
Monet slid her purse from the marble desk, dipping around the back to sweep her heels off the floor before she headed for the door, unable to help herself from teasing, “Over a decade and you still manage to ruin my clothes.”
He drew up beside her, pouting in true toddler fashion as he wrung out the hem of his shirt on their way through her attached office, “You ruined mine first.”
She tossed a smirk sidelong, “You deserved it.”
He stuck his tongue out, waddling as he wrung his shorts out all over the hallway carpet, and then he was using two fingers to pull his sodden phone out of his pocket. He frowned at the dark screen, holding the door to the lobby open and flapping the bricked device in her face as she stepped under his arm, “Are you happy now?”
She dragged a finger over the electrical burn on his chest and chirped over his furious hissing, “I am now!”
So he was glowering as they passed the front desk, her bare feet slapping quietly on the marble as his waterlogged loafers squeaked horrendously. He braced a cold-pinkened hand on the gold-lipped front desk as he snapped at the receptionist for some packages. Monet smirked behind his back, winking when she caught the young woman’s eyes and mouthing ‘grumpy’, jerking her head at him. The pretty freckled ginger was too well-trained to let anything show on her face while dealing with him, but Monet caught the little amused smile when Doffy turned away from her with grudging thanks. She waved goodnight to the girl as their very mature boss herded Monet through the rotating glass doors with irritating jabs between her ribs.
She slapped his stiff fingers away when they were outside, flexing her bare feet over the smooth, cool concrete with a sigh, “What?”
He shoved three packages in her arms, little slips with addresses tucked beneath the twine wrapped around the brown paper. She frowned as she shuffled through them, recognizing all three addresses for entirely different reasons, “What is this?”
Monet glanced up at his smug tone, “Oh, just some clothes I need you to deliver tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes, “Clothes?”
His grin was all fake innocence and entirely suspicious in the bright lights of the covered drive just in front of the hotel doors, “From my party on Friday. They left them behind.”
Those ‘guests’ she probably would’ve liked? She pursed her lips, drawing out slowly, “If they left their clothes…”
He hummed encouragingly.
She jiggled the soft packages, “… then how’d they get home?”
Monet watched the wickedness bloom across his face in slow delight. Then he wiggled his brows and turned on his heel, laughing over his shoulder as he walked away.
“They ran!”