Short and sweet? (Sorry.)

Marco jolts awake at the first shriek that pierces the dead of night, causing him to nearly tumble off the side of the bed. Thankfully, he catches himself on the bedside table before he slams to the floor and manages to push himself up without hurting anything. Marco lets out a groan as Arlo continues crying. The books and nurses both warned him plenty about this stage of his son's development, but he had foolishly believed his son would be the one baby that slept like a perfect angel.

So, of course, Marco's kid ends up having a set of iron lungs.

"Marco." Ace's pitiful whine is muffled under his pillow. "It's your turn."

Marco turns to glare at his mate (it's been "his turn" for the past week!) and Ace catches stealing his pillow. Ace put it over the other, hoping the double protection will block out Arlo's sobs. Marco lets out an exasperated sigh and walks over to the cradle a foot away from their bed. Inside lays Arlo, his blanket thrown from his tiny body. His tiny hands are clenched in fists raised above his head. Marco's heart twinges at the sight—that universal heartbreak all fathers have when they see their child crying. He is quick to take the crying baby in his arms, cooing and bouncing him gently. Marco walks them over to the balcony overlooking Whitebeard's bay, the only entrance to the island not protected by harsh waves and jagged rocks. The calm sea breeze ruffles his hair and brings the poignant scent of salt with it.

"Hey, sunshine," Marco says softly, rubbing Arlo's small back. His back is nearly the same size as Marco's palm—he will probably never get over how small his son is. "What's wrong, huh? Did you have a bad dream?"

Arlo lets out a choked sob in response, his tiny fist clenched tightly.

Marco shushes him, placing a kiss on his dark locks. "You're safe now. Nothing can hurt you when I'm around."

The words seem to work as Arlo's crying becomes quieter. They calm to a soft whimper; the poor baby isn't trying to cough up his lungs anymore.

"That's my boy." Marco smiles, giving his son a fond look. "See? Everything's all right."

The phoenix looks out onto the bay, the moon reflecting off the surface of the rippling waves. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; nothing calms him more than the sea. His love for the ocean was only discovered in this century when he met Whitebeard; Gods, he regrets never leaving his nest up in the mountains. The sky was no doubt his home, but the sea was his escape.

"One day, when you're older," Marco whispers to his sniffling son, "I'll show you the entire ocean. We'll visit other islands and countries and have adventures. I'll teach you everything I know so you'll be wiser than me and I'll teach you how to defend yourself so you'll be stronger than me. We'll set sail when you're seventeen; I figure that's a good age. It's when your dad first went out to sea, and your Uncle Straw Hat. (You'll meet him someday, sunshine, I promise.) Then maybe you'll love the ocean as much as I do."

Arlo nuzzles in Marco's shoulder, rubbing his snot all over.

Marco just chuckles, rubbing the back of Arlo's head. "The sea has brought me wonderful things, you know. She brought me a father, and a huge, caring family. She brought me lifelong friends that I will cherish for as long as I live. She brought me a loving mate that I never thought I would fine." Marco touches his forehead to Arlo. "And she brought me the one gift I can never repay. She brought me you, little one, and for that, I am eternally grateful."

Marco grins at the soft coo Arlo lets out; finally he is asleep again. Marco turns back into the bedroom and places the baby gently back into his cradle, giving him one last stroke on his head before returning to his own bed.

Marco can hear Ace's snoring from under the two pillows and decides to lessen his mate's chance of suffocating in his sleep. He takes his pillow back and settles down under the sheets, giving Arlo's cradle one last look before closing his eyes.