Marco honestly hadn't been too surprised the first time Newgate asked him. Even as powerful and level-headed as he was, Newgate was still a single man trying to sail a ship on unforgiving waters. If he bothered to think about it, asking him made perfect sense. Now that he could read, and words came to him more easily, and his body no longer burned at anything but will, he made what he supposed was an ideal crewmate. He had been there, helping, from the beginning, after all.

So no, he wasn't surprised. But that didn't mean he was excited about it.

"Oh, of course," he said, and when he caught sight of the incredulous expression the words earned him he bared his teeth as widely as his face could. It paled, as always, in comparison to the human's. Always too awkward, stretched on his face like his skin was being pulled on. Never quite fitting. "Of course not. What we have is temporary, remember?" The words were so light, so teasing, almost– and yet something chilled and bitter writhed in the base of his throat. Like a stone lodged in his airways, choking and cruel. "You'll all die, and I will go on as I always have."

What he had, here, was frivolous. It was born of boredom and a childish, naive, stupid desire to not be alone. Why waste his time pretending that wasn't the truth?

(He would not let himself pretend. He had crossed so many lines already, staying the way he did. Getting attached the way he did. Nothing would ever have been easy again, the way it was before. The same emptiness was unachievable. Too far from his reach, bogged down in the warm weights of affection and human relationships and… and…

No, he would not join them. He was living on borrowed time as it was. This was a final threshold he would not allow himself to touch.)

Newgate didn't look satisfied with that. Marco didn't care. He just continued to pull that smile on his face, until the captain was far out of sight.

This was for the best. Marco wasn't going to change his mind. It would do Newgate well to hurry up and accept that.

"You've gotten really close to the crew, you know. Does this mean you'll be staying?"

"Vista seems to be getting used to everyone! He was a good pick, you've always had such a keen eye, Marco. It would be so useful if you decided to just stay here and keep picking new crewmates!"

"You look better rested today, Marco! I told you that some real sleep would do you some good. Now that you've had some time to sleep on it, would you like to join my crew?"

"Thatch has taken to you very strongly. He'll be really upset when you leave too, I bet. You should just stay here, Marco. What's a couple years out a millennium, with people who love you?"

Marco should have known better than to think Newgate was the sort of human to give up.

No amount of rejection, refusal, insults, teasing– there wasn't anything he hadn't said that had yet managed to dissuade the pirate. He was only lucky their little "game" had been kept from the eyes of the rest of the crew. Marco wasn't sure he'd stay sane if hundreds of humans were all trying to climb all over him.

It wasn't as if any of Newgate's arguments were sound either. Yes, Marco was fond of the crew. How could he not? Many of them he personally chose– all of them, actually. Not a single foot was stepped onto their ship without his express approval, whether it be by a nod or a name. Newgate had always seemed to harbor a keen eye for even the most subtle of expressions Marco made, and never missed a new crewmate the phoenix bore any interest for. Yes, Marco knew he was already considered part of the crew by… most people. His bounty poster declared him a whitebeard regardless of what he thought, and he wasn't about to spend his time to go and politely tell the government that no, thank you, you got my affiliations wrong, would you please fix that?

Most of the crew themselves thought he was a Whitebeard. According to some of the deck hands (and of course it had to be the greenhorns, the newbies, the cabin boys that told him before they could realize they weren't supposed to––) "first mate" was supposed to be a title, of sorts.

Marco had no idea how he had missed that.

Not that he knew what it actually meant besides gathering that it was a title. Everyone seemed determined to keep him in the dark, somehow– he wasn't sure if they were even trying. Asking at that point was just needlessly awkward; he didn't need to know what it meant. It was just one word.

Yes, Marco checked… nearly every box, for an official crew member of the Whitebeards. Did that matter to him? Of course not. He and Newgate knew what he truly was and that was all that mattered in the end. There was nothing, bar his attention, that identified him as a Whitebeard. It wasn't as if he had a sign on his chest saying he was even a pirate, after all– humans were all just presumptuous and nosy. He had been mistaken as Newgate's parrot more than once, and it was starting to get old. Especially now that he knew what a parrot was.

A tiny, colorful bird. Did Marco look tiny? Was he dwarfed, in Whitebeard's hands? He was bigger than Thatch, even through the brat's growth spurt. His talons were big enough to puncture a grown man like paper. Were humans just stupid? He wasn't even in full-phoenix form at the moment, sitting on the edge of the railing as he was. The size of his wings and talons alone tended to be enough to make most marines do a double-take before they risked attacking him, especially considering he was near always just watching when they were attacked. No point getting up unless someone needed help, after all. His humans didn't need to be babied.

Another blade sliced through Marcos' left wing, tearing straight through the flames and snagging into where his humerus should have been and he scowled. "You are very annoying," He hissed to the marine, sliding off the rail. "I am trying to think." A kick sent the human screaming over the side of the ship.

Maybe humans were just stupid.

Huffing quietly, Marco trotted away from his seat to go and check on the others. His section of the deck was mostly clear of marines, considering most of them had flocked to the heavier hitters of the crew– Jozu, Newgate, and Vista looked perfectly happy brutalizing their share of opponents.

He let them be, passing with a wave to Vista just to watch how the humans laugh trailed off a little awkwardly. Even weeks after they had picked him up, the other seemed more than a little unnerved by Marco. It was Thatch all over again. Marco was surprised to realize he found that amusing, at first, but now it was just a treat to milk that wariness as much as possible. Maybe it was a bit sadistic, but making others uncomfortable was kind of funny.

(At least, it was when it was his little group of humans. Marines and strangers being uncomfortable around him was nothing new. Wary eyes, careful steps… that was just how it always was. He honestly wasn't sure why it bothered him so little, to have his motley little crew do the same.

Something about it just felt a little different. Maybe it was because he wasn't anticipating a knife to his gut– despite that a knife to the gut was exactly how he met two of them. Sometimes your humans stabbing you was just life, he supposed– though Newgate, Jozu, and Bay never seemed very happy about it. Neither did Thatch, though Marco was trying not to think about that. He didn't want to admit he was avoiding the teenager, after their… fight? He had started flying up the mast as soon as they made eye contact. The irony, unfairly, was not lost on him.)

Another bullet slammed through Marco's chest and he stumbled for a moment, wincing as he felt the familiar pain of one of his ribs shattering. It only made him pause a moment, humming absentmindedly as he ripped the mental out of the wound, disinterestedly watching blue lick at his bloodied fingers. Bullet wounds are always so messy. It was cleaner now than how guns used to be, at least– and nowhere as messy as something bigger, like explosives. Healing from such blunt force trauma was always so dizzying.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't even look up at the sound of rapid footsteps until there was something cold clamped tight around his wrist.

The nausea was immediate. Disorienting enough to make him stumble. His face twisted in confusion, snapping down to stare at the unassuming hand-cuff locked onto him. It almost felt like the material was sucking all the energy out of him, numbness spreading from where it made contact with his skin to his entire body.

"Marco? You alright, son?" Whitebeard called from across the deck. He had looked up the moment Marco's demeanor had shifted. He swung hard, knocking another handful of marines overboard before steadily making his way over to the phoenix. "Marco!"

His hearing was starting to muffle. Eyesight going fuzzy in a familiar way as his hands became less and less recognizable. Marco couldn't feel them. They weren't his. "What?" He asked, and the words sounded strange to his ears. "N...Newgate?"

A distant whistle of steel, next to his ear. Marco couldn't focus.

He could focus, however, on how he was suddenly on the floor. Gasping aloud as if breaking the surface of the water, he gaped up at the familiar slope of Whitebeard's broad back. There was a snapping sound. A sharp crack, a splatter– liquid hit Marco's hands and knees and he scrambled back, only managing to slip and stumble over the substance with heavy limbs. "W–What–– Newgate–?"

"Not you too," he heard, hissing behind him, and Marco strained to look up at Bay's face swimming before him. "Goddamn it, Newgate, I don't need to deal with more injuries from sacrificial idiots–"

Sacrificial? Marco's head was spinning. What does she mean– I-I don't know what happened– "B-Bay?" He tried. His voice still sounded like he had swallowed a handful of cotton. "Bay? What… What…?"

He lurched. Hands settled warm and steady on his back, his arm; carefully keeping his shackled wrist stretched out. "It's fine, Marco," Jozu murmured, picking him up easily, "Come on. We need to get the seastone off of you."

Marco had no idea what seastone was. He had never heard of it before– but it had sea in the name, and stonefor the cuff– "Cut," He forced out, clawing weakly at Jozu's arm. "Get– Cut it off." There was no response. He wiggled a little, trying to get his feet to cooperate and touch the floor. He needed a sword. Needed– "Vista," Where was he– "Vista!"

"I-I'm here."

Vista had a sword. Had just gotten a new one– Marco was well aware of exactly how sharp it was. The human still owed him for stabbing him, didn't he? Wasn't that how humans worked– "Cut them off." Silence followed his order. Stifling and infuriating– Marco could feel his brow twitch. The longer the quiet stretched, the more he seethed, chest filling with boiling heat like a summer storm– "Cut them off, Vista."

"I– I am not going to–"

This is not the time. I need to know what happened (Where is Whitebeard, Where is Newgate– ) and you will not help me. I will heal. I will heal, I will always heal, I will–

"Cut them the fuck off, Vista!" Marco snarled, finally kicking out of Jozu's grip. "It will grow back– I need– Get them off of me." He reached for the sword, for that sharp flash of metal that blinded him when he stumbled– "If you will not, then I will do it myself–"

A hand gripped tight, tighter than the cuff, around his forearm. Marco's vision was still clearing, still struggling to focus– but the pained rage in Jozu's face was startlingly clear. It froze Marco in place. Left all three of them standing still, amidst the last of the unconscious marines, tense and quiet.

"...It will heal," Jozu eventually said. He pulled Marco back towards him, ignoring his momentary struggle to carefully hold his cuffed arm out. "Vista."

Vista's eyes bugged out. His hand shook around his blade. "You can't be serious. One of them has to have a key, we can–"

Marco didn't care about that. It didn't matter. It was just a hand, just a wrist– that was so much less important, hysterically less important–

(Where the fuck is Whitebeard? Where is Newgate? What happened to my Captain?)

"Cut it off," He snapped, and Vista squeezed his eyes shut and swung.

The pain wasn't clean. Without quiet, or muted, unlike everything else– it roared through him clearer than his own voice. Splintering through his nerves like searing hot lashes of ice, the familiar stretch of sinew tearing and skin flaying open–

Jozu carefully let his arm go, shifting to let the phoenix lean against his side. Marco breathed out slowly as the agony settled into something more manageable.

"I can't believe I've cut you up twice," Vista murmured, sounding sick, "Bay is going to kill us," and Marco groaned loudly.

Jozu wouldn't let him go enough to stand on his own feet even as his breathing steadied with every second passing. With the seastone gone, it was slightly easier to process what was going on around him. "Newgate," He muttered, and could feel it through his whole body when Jozu hummed in agreement. The noise that had initially surrounded them was gone. Marco hadn't been paying attention before, but whatever marines might have been left had already escaped– their ship swaying off into the distance. Marco wasn't sad to see them go.

The next he blinked, and Jozu was pulling him into Bay's makeshift little medical cabin, Vista trailing awkwardly behind them. Bay blocked most of his view. She was busy grumbling over some machine, thumping it over the top with her fist when it beeped shrilly at her– and then Marco was freezing, as Thatch popped up from the other side of the largest cot they had with a face full of thunder.

"Marco!" He shouted. Bay didn't even pay him a glance as he darted past her. "What the hell happened to you?!"

"I'm fine–" An empty IV bag smacked against the wall next to the door.

Bay hadn't even moved to glare at him. "I swear to God, if you say you're fine instead of telling me what's wrong with you I'll kill you myself." To his chagrin, Thatch only nodded furiously.

Vista raised his hand, partially ducking behind Jozu. "I uh. I cut his arm off."

Bay finally looked up. "What."

"I–" Another empty IV bag. Marco's heart rate picked up at the sight of it. Humans weren't supposed to need a lot of those, were they?

"Bring him here," She snapped.

Jozu immediately deposited Marco into the chair by the desk, grabbing onto his arm to stop him when he lunged forward at the sight of Newgate. "You–" Marco was almost reeling with how poisonous his tone was. "Let go, I am not injured, I need to– I–" His breath rushed out of him when Jozu's other hand snapped up to slam him back down into his seat.

Bay huffed loudly. "Keep him there, Jozu. He shouldn't be moving even if he isn't bleeding out on my floor again."

"...Easier… Said than done…"

Marco grit his teeth, practically spitting with fury when Jozu grabbed onto his ankle just in time to avoid being gored. "Goddammit, Marco, of all the times to actually put up a fight–" Wings burst into being and Jozu snapped. "–Stop it!" he roared. Composure cracking, he picked Marco up and bodily wrestled him into a hug, tightly pinning the phoenix down against his front. Marco hissed and thrashed, but there was no leverage to latch onto– every movement only stalling more and more as the bodily contact shocked his body still. "That's it, calm down." An almost confused chirp escaped his throat. Jozu carefully shifted to pat his back, steady, calloused palms rubbing circles that bled warmth through the thin fabric directly into Marco's bones. Goosebumps trailed down his arms stemming from that single point of touch.

A hesitant nudge. A tap to his feathers, flinching back when they sank below Marco's skin. Marco stared when smaller hands delicately grabbed his hand. The expression Thatch wore made him hurt . "Is he… Are you okay now?" He asked quietly. Marco slowly, shakily relaxed his muscles, unsure when he had gotten so tense. "Please don't be mad at us."

A dark, coiling snake wound tight around Marco's throat. Hot and deep, like trying to breathe in steam.

( Oh, he realized, I am ashamed. )

It was uncomfortable. Pulled unnaturally warm, unnaturally tight–– His skin lit up, limbs shrinking down into feathers and fire. Jozu barely needed to shift to accommodate the change and just tightened his grip a little, allowing Marco to curl his talons around his diamond-patterned wrist for stability. Thatch was forced to release his hand– now a clump of bright blue primaries, and instead buried his fingers into the smaller coverts near his shoulders.

The touch was oddly soothing. Warm where skin brushed against where his own should have laid. Warm where fingers carefully gripped and combed through his plumage. Thatch had never tried to touch him, not when he knew Marco was all-too-aware of him. Not when he could be caught. Not so carefully, so confusingly gentle in a way that made Marco's stomach turn and flutter weirdly against the dread still clogging his arteries––

So much, all at once. It was almost overwhelming.

"...You can let me go," He said. Whether it was to Thatch or Jozu or both– it didn't matter.

"I don't think I will." Jozu moved to sit in the chair Marco had been in with his first-mate still in his arms. His grip refused to even loosen, expression not twitching as he calmly settled Marco in his lap. Thatch silently stepped closer to keep a hand pinned to Marco's back, stroking him gently.

Neither budged.

Bay stepped in front of them, her hands on her hips. "If you're done," She said, "I'll tell you how he's doing." Jozu immediately tightened his grip when Marco craned his neck forward and Bay raised an eyebrow. "You don't need to move, Marco. I can just tell you, and you can come over after, okay?" Her voice had done something weird– fluctuating into a softer tone that Marco recognized but could not identify. "You can see him after. I promise."

Humans promised lots of things. Believing in them never got him anywhere.

Thatch's fingers tightened around his feathers. He didn't move.

Bay took it as a sign to continue. Shoulders slumping, she turned to the machine she had been scanning over when they came in. "These are his vitals. See that spiky little line, Marco? That's a heartbeat." Marco just stared and she rolled her eyes. "It's just a recording, I didn't put his heart in the machine. I told you organs aren't supposed to be outside the body, remember? We can't just grow a new one instantly." Her finger traced the rhythmic little bumps, watching until Marco's eyes began to follow their pattern. "It's all the same. Steady. Stable. That means he's fine."

She finally pulled back, stepping back towards the cot– Jozu held him fast, but all that Marco did was shrink in on himself at the sight of Newgate. His captain wasn't conscious. His face pale, his skin pale– broad chest white with bandages.

"He's fine," Bay said again, "So you don't need to worry so much, okay?"

Worry? He was never worried. Marco hadn't worried in years. He barely even understood what worry felt like anymore. That made no sense. That was nothing but a stupid, useless condolence, something to distract, to confuse– He chirped in alarm when Jozu abruptly stood, carefully putting him down on the chair Bay had been using at Newgate's bedside...

His eyes were open. Still golden and gooey, unbelievably soft around the edges in a way Marco was beginning to think was his only real expression. "Hello, son," He rumbled, and Marco felt the little trilling coo build in his throat without his consent. Broad, familiar, warm, warm, warm hands reached for him and Marco was left blinking, confused when his own hands had moved to take them. He hadn't even registered his own shift. The door clicked shut behind him, quiet and muffled to his ears. "How are you feeling?"

Are you trying to make a joke out of me, my captain?

All at once, he was furious.

"Why did you do it?" Marco eventually hissed, and for a brief, intense moment hated himself for it. But he couldn't stop. Not now, not with the words finally struggling free of his throat. "you knew I would heal. You know I would not die, because I have never been able—" he cut himself off, almost choking on his fear. Whitebeard's entire body, his face, his hands, the curve of his massive back— had all shifted with Marco's words in a way that left him unreasonably uncomfortable.

( Scared, he knew, and hated himself all the more for it.)

"...You were hurt for nothing. I just want to understand why."

Even he didn't know everything. Millennia to see didn't mean he understood— just that he was there. Just that he knew. Just that he remembered, and remembered, and remembered, and was unable to connect any of it to pieces that made sense; because after a certain point you don't care to make sense of anything anymore.

Marco had been alive so long that caring had taken a backseat. Empathy shrugged on a coat, waved goodbye, and drowned in the ocean— and he had been bereft of the ability to understand others long before he stopped trying to talk to them—

"You needed to know that I would," Whitebeard rumbled, And Marco finally realized his twisted expression was fear. "It was not for nothing. You are not nothing, Marco. I will always come when you need me, my son. Even if you refuse to think you do."

Marco's face shattered.

Whitebeard instantly moved to sit up, reaching for Marco like a flower facing the sun. Instinctively responding to his first mate's pain. It took Marco practically climbing into his bed to stop him. He barely stilled when Marco slowly leaned forward, pressing his cheek tightly to a warm hand.

His breathing was just slightly shaky. Just a little. Just enough to be undeniable, shuddering out of his lungs like a chill.

"I will never leave," he promised, nearly choking on it, "I— I will never leave your side again if it is what you want. I'll stay, I'll stay— " that hand shifted, moving to hold Marco instead of being held and Marco bit down on a helpless little sob at how the touch warmed his skin, calloused palms so impossibly gentle where they cradled him.

Newgate's eyes were so soft. Soft at the corners, where the skin folded into delicate little crow's feet. Soft where his brow loosened and smile lines creased. "That's not what I want, son," he murmured, and Marco had no idea how such a powerful man could ever be so unendingly warm .

I have no idea what you want. If it is not for me to stay, and not for me to go, what am I supposed to do for you?

"T-then I'll— learn." He'd figure something out. He'd make himself indispensable, make himself useful. Turn his ancient bones and blood into something meaningful again, if it meant— "I'll talk to Bay. I'll learn how to heal others, too, and I'll, I can—" stop you from bleeding, if you insist on being cut. If I cannot stop you. If this is all I can do, for you, I'll do it. I'll do it. I'll do anything.

For the first time in millennia, tears burned uncomfortably and strange and he shut his eyes tightly. Like a child desperate not to see the dark. It only squeezed them out, sending them trailing down to salt Newgate's palm; yet the man never flinched nor made to move away. It all only made something in Marco's chest pull tight and painful. Spilling more tears, as if he was leaking. He couldn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

"Don't do this again," Marco whispered.

Newgate's fingers were so kind, against his skin. "No promises."

"You want me to teach you?" Bay's face finally unfroze, seeming to unthaw from its shock as she spoke. "Marco, you're immortal and self-healing. Is this about–"

Don't say it. "Yes," He quickly blurted out. Her face shadowed and he rushed to continue, his limbs feeling more awkward than they had in months flailing to reassure her. "I– want to be able to help. I can only heal me."

"Marco…"

I need you to do this. I need to do this. "Please," He asked quietly. She straightened up out of her crouch and he couldn't help the way his eyes darted down to the bags at her feet. They had been packed for days now, before the last attack– "I know it's a lot."

Bay was still frowning at him. Still staring, unblinking, eyes hooded– but there was no malice or irritation yet. Negativity, yes, but Marco had no way to gauge what exactly it was meant for. "It is a lot. You know It's about time I leave. I never wanted to be a pirate, I can't stay here forever."

Marco knew. He was in the same situation himself; of course he knew. There was nothing he was more aware of, at the moment, except for Newgate's ragged breathing, or the phantom feeling of blood under his fingernails– "Please."

If you teach me, you can leave. Without worrying, because we– I can tell you do. Even I can see it, and you know that. But give me this, this one thing, and I–

Bay's finger prodded at his chest, nails sharp for how she had carefully filed them back. "I'll stay," She agreed, maybe too easily, "but if you're going to be a doctor, you better be ready to be a brilliant one. I'm not here to waste time."

You never have been. Did you finally fool yourself into thinking any of this as time wasted?

"Thank you," He said instead, and Bay turned to unpack her first duffel bag.

"Hey, on the bright side, maybe a background in medicine will give you that propensity to not getting stabbed and ripped to shreds that you seem to be lacking."

"I'm not sure if that is funny, yet."

"...Marco, you're gonna kill me one of these days."

"Hey, Marco," Whitebeard began, and Marco was already tilting his head up like a flower towards the sun. Waiting with eyes so electric blue, hands still and steady and open. "Will you join my crew?"

Blond brows furrowed in confusion, making Marco's usual expression scrunch up. "Join your–? Pops, I've been here for years."

He had, and Whitebeard hadn't forgotten a single one. Even if he turned old and senile, he refused to ever forget any of his children– even those centuries older than him. Marco had been there nearly from the start, hadn't he? Always by his side. Always with him, always there, and yet–

"You never did give me a straight answer. A thousand "I'll think about it"'s and a billion "Maybe"'s, but I've yet to hear the words, son." Yet to actually have Marco recognize the position he had always had, since the very beginning. The first mate, the older brother, the eldest brother– Whitebeard's first, and yet Marco had never stopped to say it. "Marco, will you join my crew?"

He already had, hadn't he? Marco had been there for over a decade. He checked. He always checked, now. A whole box of used little calendars stacked neatly away under his bed.

So why were the words still stuck in his throat?

"I don't understand," he finally managed. "You told me before you didn't want me to stay." That it wasn't what he wanted. But Newgate asked Marco to join, and wasn't that asking him to stay? Was it not the same? How had he screwed up— "you told me you didn't want me to stay."

"I want you to be free, Marco. As all pirates are. Go where you will, as you have always done. All I ask is that when you've had enough of flying, or staring at nothing, or refusing to eat or sleep—"

"—I'll come home," Marco rushed out. The words sounded terrified, escaping him, rushed and frenzied in a way that he couldn't connect with his voice, with his brain— "I'll come home, then. Where else would I go but here?" Nowhere. There was nowhere else. There was only an empty expanse of ocean that would ever greet him with arms so open. But the ocean was cold as it was blue, dark as it was draining— the depths could only take from him. He was beginning to realize that wasn't a gift, anymore— wasn't what he wanted. Not now that he had tasted warmth again. Not now that he had felt a touch not aiming to hurt him. Not with the way fingers rubbed warm under the feathers at his cheeks, ruffled his hair, patted his back and shoulders in those brief little human acknowledgments he never knew he craved—

Where else was there to go, but to the man who taught him how to be alive again to be able to grieve?

His mouth opened and closed for a moment as if trying to pry it loose. "What can I—" he swallowed thickly. "What can I do to convince you?"

If words aren't enough. If staying isn't enough. What do you need from me?

How do I tell you I'll never leave you again?

Something undeniable. Something whitebeard— something no one could forget or disregard. Prominent, unignorable— something that branded him, that claimed him as a Whitebeard beyond bounty posters and presence.

The thought used to terrify him.

An old threat, one he never forgot. One That has been acted out on him, time and time again, before draining chains and rooms wet enough to wrinkle his feet. Smoldering hot and terrible. Unforgettable, over and over—

But Marco could not be afraid. If he looked, he knew he would find nothing. Nothing on his skin, nothing in his mind— a decade of being unfailingly gentle wasn't so easily denied.

"Can I get a tattoo?" He breathed out, and the words awoke something almost overwhelmingly, startlingly excited in him.

Whitebeard blinked, taken aback. "A— you want a tattoo?" He stared when Marco nodded furiously. "May I ask why?"

Not a single trace of fear in his body. Barely a twinge of phantom pain, centered between his shoulder blades. "If you won't believe me, then I'll just show you. It won't come off. Not if we do it right, and that will be proof." Predictably, Whitebeard's face closed off and Marco held his ground, jaw set. "This is what I want."

"You want this?"

"I have never wanted anything more."

"You will be branded for life, Marco. It will never come off, even when we are all long gone."

"Good."

"Marco..." they were at an impasse, and Marco wasn't about to do something foolish like back down. Not when he had an answer. Not when he had a goal. Not when he could have a reminder— not a brand, never a brand— one that would tell everyone, including Whitebeard, who and what he was. A reminder of how he was undeniably human. A reminder of how he was alive to love and be loved.

"I want this, Newgate. More than anything."

Please let me do this. For both of us.

The fire in his eyes was brighter and hotter than his flames could ever hope to be, and all of Whitebeard's resistance crumbled to ash under it.

"Alright. You're a grown man, after all, who am I to stop you?" Despite the lingering hesitation, the disbelief, the captain's tone was lifting with something excited. Something heady, warm with pride that soaked into Marco's bones and settled. "We can start searching for a tattoo shop immediately."

Immediately. Immediately.

Marco's face moved before his brain could, and then Whitebeard's hand snapped out, nearly crashing into the wall in his attempt to steady himself as his eldest, most aloof son smiled so brightly at him. "Thank you, Pops!"

He scurried off, unable to wipe the look off his face. It was surprisingly natural to pull, even as rusty as he was— unwavering even as his crewmates leaped out of his way with eyes wide when he charged past for the navigation room.

He had a parlor to track down.

Whitebeard, still standing in place, watched Marco disappear down below deck. He didn't move until he heard footsteps clamoring up to him. Barry blinking out of his shock, he looked down to meet several wide eyes of his sons.

(At their front, Thatch looked positively giddy .)

"Pops," Jozu started, voice cutting above the noise, and Whitebeard straightened up to properly face his son. "Marco just smiled."

He did, didn't he. He hadn't just imagined it.

A grin of his own split his face, so wide it was nearly painful. "He really did! I'm very proud." Jozu, his second son, still so composed and calm— nodded and smiled at him and whitebeard's chest tightened.

"Get the booze out!" He boomed. His heart was going to explode at this rate, he should call Bay over, from wherever in the GrandLine she was now— "we're going to party!"

Two boys were currently staring at him. Technically, this was nothing new– but the twin expressions of sheer awe and delight was one Marco was beginning to be resigned to never acclimating to.

"So, Marco the Phoenix, I presume," Gold Roger grinned at him, flashing nearly all his teeth. Yet his broad hands didn't stray to his gun, nor a sword. Beyond the pressure of haki, there was no immediate danger. "How's the old man?"

Marco couldn't help but smile back, raising his wings high above his head. "He's on his way. I'm the hello." He kicked off the railing, soaring up the mast with a single, powerful flap, and chuckled the whole way as Roger's crew spilled, laughing and chortling with excitement, onto the deck below him.

"Damn Whitebeards," Roger cackled, absolutely no edge to his voice, and Marco opened his beak and sang. Content to bide his time, spiraling past bullets and playful swipes of swords to sweep random pirates off their feet.

The warmth of being called one of Newgate's hadn't yet seemed to fade, even years after he got his mark. He was starting to think it never would.

He liked that.