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Zoro | The Navigator
“Zoro,” comes an uttering of the navigator’s name over Luffy’s delighted squealing. Only half a sigh it rings out in Nami’s tone, as if she had every intention of drawing Zoro’s attention with exasperation until her tongue refused to bear the weight of such a colossal undertaking, and instead her lips formed a sound as flat as the ocean, endlessly, dauntingly blue. Above where the captain and first mate sit, her curves and curls of tangerine are folded over the railing, bearing a fiery misfortune upon them. One hand presses into her cheek, distorting her frown into a squishiness of skin, boredom, and a reservation that she only ever inflicts upon Zoro, and the jade haired navigator winces at the sight of it – not across his expression, but in his body language, a hand twitching and a minute, readying tilt of his head.
“What,” he replies, a gruff acceptance of an error currently unknown to his mind. He is sure of his fault – Nami’s tone promises nothing else – so a predator rolls back its shoulders to meet her stormy gaze, its hair of sea greens and jades as sharp as hackles rising.
What is it this time? asks the tapping of fingernails against the stairs, the click of three devil sheaths across the wood.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Nami snaps, rolling her eyes in an almost – almost! – fond manner. Everything about their exchange screams of siblings squabbling, cats having a midnight spat, and the overwhelming volume of Luffy’s laughter only increases as his first two nakama stare it down across the deck.
“Bite me,” says Zoro.
And Nami’s victorious eyebrow waggle says, oh I will.
“How long until the log pose sets?” she asks then, moving her hand to wave it conversationally. It is an odd question, uttered in a tone unsuited for the verbal spar impending upon the Thousand Sunny, but ever diligent in matters concerning the sea, Zoro replies automatically, his tongue shaping the numbers of his very heart and soul.
“Two hours and twenty-three minutes,” he says, as if he has never been so sure of something before, as if there never could be any doubt in the way the winds blow and the seas churn in wait for their arrival.
“Astonishing,” Nami deadpans, as she always does, her tone free of its characteristic mockery. For the most part, Zoro is not one to be taken seriously (he would deny this fiercely), but his knack for navigation is something that even she can appreciate, as grudgingly as she can appreciate anything about him.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Zoro grumbles, leaning back across the stairs. Beside him, Luffy has quietened to an almost unimaginable degree, content to witness the verbal joust occurring across the deck and occasionally input a dramatic interpretation of their facial expressions. He is long-since used to their contests, and he recognises their desire to squabble and tease like the family (the nakama) that they are ever-slowly growing to be.
“Well,” Nami begins, twiddling a stray lock of hair about a finger. She gives her hair a considering look, as if it deserves the fire of her vexation more than Zoro’s lazy attitude. “I was merely wondering if you had made preparations for the next island. You’ve yet to consult me about the costs, you know.”
(“Oooooooh,” says Luffy in the background, because he clearly has an inkling as to what they are conversing about).
“Yeah,” the navigator replies, hastily continuing before Nami can interrupt with her usual smugness, “but you know I can’t map a route until the log pose sets. What’s the use of asking me now? Usopp and the blonde bastard are still out buying supplies.”
“Right,” Nami says, using a tone that would be an admittance of error for anybody else.
“…Right,” Zoro adds, echoing her in a slow, unsure manner as he stares at her feline swagger and the wicked, cat-like smile of innocence upon her face. He is missing a very large piece of the conversation, he is sure, and though it is likely to be his innate understanding of women, somehow Zoro imagines that there is something else that he has yet to comprehend.
Yet, relieved by Nami’s resulting silence, the navigator allows himself to drift out of the conversation, his mind and consciousness wandering to the dwelling of his dreams. The sense of victory hasn’t settled over him, but he achieved the last laugh, so to speak, and that counts for more than Zoro would ever admit – to the witch or anybody else.
“So Zoro,” Nami says then, cheerfully sweet, and his heart threatens to drop into his stomach to sizzle away in the acid of humiliation that he knows he is about to feel. “Where is your log pose?”
“What,” says Zoro, answered only by the lull of the waves enticing them into the harbour.
He says nothing else for a long while, but he is abruptly aware of how his arms are folded behind him, supporting his slumbering head with wrists free of resistance and light of the crystal weight that he has become accustomed to. In fact, he is unable to feel the presence of the log pose anywhere on his person – and it is a heavy presence at times, glass and metal and fantastical things spinning with their captain’s overwhelming will – and Zoro curses.
(Nami laughs).
“DAMMIT.”
Nami | The Shipwright
She has to give the little guy some credit – he’s cute, if not a bit strange, but she’s witnessed the world bowing before a complete buffoon in a straw hat, so a reindeer who talks in textbooks and hides as if his history haunts him doesn’t rank particularly high on the weird list.
“I’m a shipwright. I fix things,” Nami explains, speaking gently lest she spook him from where he is cowering – at the doorway, in full view, as if he hasn’t quite grasped the concept of being a prey animal.
(Or perhaps he understands it too well – perhaps it is all he’s ever known, vulnerable and alone and tiny as he is. Perhaps the concept of hiding has never really occurred to him).
“You… fix things?” Chopper repeats, the threatened bristles of his fur slowly relaxing at Nami’s smile. He squeaks, covering his mouth with two dainty hooves, and squashes his body back against the doorframe as if terrified that he has spoken out of line.
“Well, somebody has to,” Nami adds, casting her thoughts to Usopp’s horrified expression when Luffy had accidentally ripped up the decking of The Going Merry for the first time. “It gets a little bit rowdy, with a crew like ours.”
The reindeer blinks two big, babyish eyes, and wrinkles his button-blue nose. “What sort of things do you fix?” he asks, barely raising his voice to a whisper.
“Anything,” Nami replies, having assuming that shipwright would have been a big enough clue. Yet, gentle her voice remains, and her gaze is soft as she watches how the reindeer’s eyes widen in surprise – in hope, in a pain that he cannot hide. “Everything. Luffy is astoundingly effective at wrecking things, believe me.”
“Oh,” Chopper breathes, something like awe in his tone. He stares at her for a long moment, taking in her pasty complexion and the sheen of sweat across her brow, and then drops his gaze to the floor, his cotton candy pink hat teetering atop his head.
He sniffs, once, and rubs his unusually blue nose.
He begins to say, “Can you fix…?” Only, he trails off, thinking better of it with a sad sort of laughter, regretful and bubbling with sobs.
Nami bites her lip and thinks of home, of tangerines and Arlong, of a debt she was in and a promise she had made (I can fix this, I can fix this!) and is glad for Chopper’s silence, in that moment, because she doesn’t have the heart to tell him no.
Usopp | The Cook
“Um, Usopp,” begins the newest, youngest, and arguably the cutest member of their crew, muttering so quietly into the rim of his tankard that Usopp almost doesn’t hear him over the whirring of the electric whisk. Compared to Chopper’s tiny hooves, the glass of orange juice is monstrously huge, and the reindeer puts its hyperbolic size to good use as he squashes his squeaking embarrassment into the glass, smothering his nose and fur into a blob of distorted colours and shape. Whatever else he mumbles is lost to the whisk’s unnecessary enthusiasm, but the cook, realising that he is being addressed, dutifully throws a deafening HUH? of confusion over his shoulder. Short curls of a raven’s misfortune bounce atop his head as he turns; habitually, Usopp tries to flatten them in vain, smudging flour and cake mix across the sweat line upon his forehead.
Ah, whoops, he thinks, cursing himself for the blunder. Displeasure interrupts the merry tune of his idle whistling and he frowns as he cleans his hands, smearing powdery handprints across his apron.
Better his apron than the counter, he supposes. His beloved Going Merry doesn’t deserve to be inflicted with a repeat of the last crew-wide “ghost hunt” when Luffy had interpreted his cook’s floury handprint as blatant evidence of a haunting.
(In all fairness, Usopp had played along).
(He says played along, but really, Luffy’s hysterical screaming had convinced him – the source of said evidence – of the ghost’s existence for about two seconds).
(Twenty minutes, but who was counting?)
If anything, Chopper seems to squish himself further into his drink at Usopp’s attention, an inevitable attempt to become one with the orange juice, lack of mortification and all. The stout twists of his horns give him away, two little trees waiting to grow into adolescence and reach up to the sky, but Usopp decides not to mention the blunder, just as he doesn’t mention the hot pink splodge of a hat that the reindeer tries to pass as a fashion statement.
“Aha, sorry Chopper,” he says then, taming the whisk to a more conversational level of noise. He sets it down and then scoops up a dollop of the batter with his finger, licking it clean because he can and he’s the chef, but mostly because Luffy and food make a dangerous combination and Usopp dares not get between them. “Did you say something? Is there something that I – the mighty and most magnificent Great Captain Usopp – can do for you?”
Chopper may blush as he tries to hide himself under the table, but it’s hard to tell with all his fur. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m sorry, thank you for the juice,” he replies, shaking his head frantically. A blur of bubblegum atop his head, his hat wobbles from side to side with his desperation, but it does little to hide the almost pleading expression in his eyes.
Usopp blinks, considers the reindeer’s frazzled appearance with a long, hard look, and then folds himself over the tabletop to scrutinise their newest crewmate, one hand planted firmly on his hip. Chopper squeals and shields his button blue nose with the tankard, but the cook curls himself around it and whispers – quite fiercely, it should be noted, for he is Captain Usopp and Captain Usopp looks after his crew:
“Is this about Sanji’s emergency food supply comment?”
“No!” Chopper insists, in much the same tone that one would usually cry yes! “I’m crew! I’m – I’m nakama! I know I’m not the emergency food supply!” he adds, waving his hooves in a way that is probably supposed to reassure Usopp. “…Am I?”
He glances from Usopp to the block of knives on the kitchen counter, his gaze fragmented by the sheer orange block still squashed against his face. This doesn’t change the fact that he is too cute to be a member of this motley crew, and Usopp’s sunny grin returns as Chopper bats his illegal gaze.
“Of course you’re not,” the cook assures, pushing the drink away to get a better look at the reindeer’s terrified expression. “Look at you, there’s hardly any meat on you. Captain Usopp has standards you know. I wouldn’t serve you to the crew even if we were starving. What sort of cook do you take me for? What would I even dish you up with? Peas?”
Most definitely not, says the confident puff of Usopp’s chest.
“Really?” Chopper whispers, awe catching in his throat and hiccupping out in a whiny, sob-like sound. (That’s not confidence, Chopper, Nami would say if she were here, pinching her nose in a dramatic display of distaste. It’s just testosterone).
“Really,” says Usopp, nodding frantically. Flour and batter splatter across the floor in the tiny raindrops of a chef’s favourite dream – or worst nightmare, depending on who is asked – but the cook cares more about the watery twinkle in Chopper’s eyes than the mess. “Would I lie to you?”
“No,” the reindeer breathes, because he clearly hasn’t actually met Usopp yet and doesn’t know any better.
“There. Happy now?” Usopp asks, bopping Chopper on the nose. It’s a motion that he cannot help and equally cannot explain, but the Devil Fruit user squirms and ducks away, hiding his nose with a childish noise of happiness. Chopper mumbles something, likely extremely rude, and Usopp laughs as he turns back to his half-completed biscuits.
Out of sight, Chopper nods, and then, almost as an afterthought, adds in a weirdly decisive murmur, “I don’t like peas.”
Usopp’s bold laughter rings out about the kitchen.
Sanji | The Doctor
“Well,” Sanji eventually says, after a long moment of staring at the medical tome before him. Idly, as he flicks through the excruciatingly short set of patient notes – a new set, a largely blank set scattered with question marks and incomplete hypotheses, records of a heart filled with theories in need of filing away amongst the others – he wonders if being unable to recognise the difference between his patient falling asleep and dropping dead reflects badly on his profession. “As far as I can tell, you’re as healthy as you can be considering your – ah.”
Paper flops in his hands, drooping like the shadows under his eyes, days of exhaustion bruising onto his skin. His fringe hides the worst of his complexion, daffodil yellow against a pasty white, and as Sanji’s thought trails off to avoid offence, the textbook is freed from the venom in his glare.
Instead, he turns to face his patient, gauging how blunt he could possibly be.
“Your – um – unique circumstances,” is what Sanji settles on, certain in the deafening volume of the quotation marks; “unique circumstances” indeed.
Unfazed, the patient – Brook, the goddamn skeleton that has recently fallen for Luffy’s undeniable charm and joined the crew – replies with a happy little titter, his bones clinking together as if singing with his usual tune; yohohohoho, his ribs jingle, a musical cage of amusement. Teeth flash, blinding the infirmary with a smile larger than life, and though his face – his cranium, mandible, and the jagged slates of bone that accentuate the hollow nothingness of his eyes – is now incapable of forming the more complex of facial expressions, muscle forgone and skin long forgotten, Brook certainly seems delighted at the prospect of his health. He laughs with an exaggerated motion, swaying the Hallows Eve orange of his blazer collar side to side, and then plumps up his hair as if to check if it is still as outrageously impossible as the rest of him.
“I’m so very pleased to hear that, Sanji-san,” Brook chimes, yohohoing once again. “Although I have no ears to hear!”
The volume of his laughter doubles – his cackling, more like, but honestly, he doesn’t have the muscles to do either so what does it matter – and Sanji can only stare as the living skeleton bellows a phrase that will soon haunt The Thousand Sunny night and day:
“SKULL JOKE!”
A wounded groan – a pained groan; pained from the sheer oh god that Sanji silently screams – from across the room has Brook instantly slapping his hands over his mouth, bone grinding against bone in his haste. Occupying the infirmary’s sole bed, Zoro stirs into consciousness no further at the sound, but if Sanji thought that over-enthusiastic yelling would remedy the navigator’s slumber, he would have crammed the room full of meat and shoved Luffy inside hours ago.
Yet, convinced of his blunder, the newest crewmember apologises anyway, hands twitching as if etiquette demands he reach up to tip down his hat. “Oh my, forgive me Zoro-san, I didn’t mean to be so loud,” Brook says with his sing-song voice, his words slipping from an impossible tongue through impossible teeth, only to fall deaf to the other man in the room who should, for all intents and purposes, be stone-cold dead on the decking right now.
Despite not sharing in Brook’s luxury of having a Devil Fruit to save his skin (perhaps a poor choice of words, in retrospect: luxury suggests a benefit, and skin implies that Brook actually has any), Zoro’s knack for surviving sticky situations is almost superhuman. Although, considering it was recklessness and an untiring sense of loyalty (a fool’s loyalty; a fool’s goddamn, agonising, beautiful sense of loyalty) that laid Zoro out across the operation table, not having the ability to resurrect is probably for the best.
(He nearly threw one life away for Luffy – a second chance would only grant him a second way to die).
Granted, it is probably for the best in any case, and examining Brook’s skeletal body of terrors and angles cold with winter’s endless wind, death gnawing at his ribcage, a lingering thorax exposed, only reinforces Sanji’s belief that the dead should remain indisputably dead.
Doctors protect the living, safeguarding breath and wielding heartbeats in their hands. It’s his job to keep this motley crew alive, mismatched and misunderstood as they are. He will keep his nakama together, stitching wounds where he must and stitching hearts where he shouldn’t, a resolution to guard their dreams beating strong, but as Sanji discards all hope of a comprehensive set of notes for Brook, he can only wonder how he is supposed to protect a life already beyond death.
“Forget it,” he grumbles, waving one hand to dismiss Brook’s gracious apology. “Stupid idiot isn’t going to wake up to that.”
A shame – he rather wishes that Zoro would wake up. Not due to any real concern over his health, of course – although Sanji is a doctor so this is kind of a moot point. Rather, he desperately wants the crew to leave what remains of Thriller Bark as soon as possible, and setting sail becomes oddly challenging when the only person capable of using a log pose (and this is debatable, even for their navigator) is unconscious in the infirmary. Having the second strongest crew member on the ship simultaneously assume the role of the navigator was not one of the captain’s more brilliant ideas, but with said captain being Luffy, Sanji can’t say he is surprised.
(Honestly, the fact that it hasn’t backfired on them before is more surprising).
(Although, it’s not as if Luffy will ever agree to find another navigator anyway).
(Zoro’s an idiot, but even Sanji considers him an irreplaceable idiot).
“Ah, I see,” says Brook, and Sanji’s groan of disbelief isn’t enough to drown out the skeleton’s subsequent mutter of, “although I have no eyes to see!”
“Brook,” Sanji says, his sigh a warning promising pain. Doctor he may be, but as a pirate, he isn’t above kicking his crewmembers out of the infirmary. If they’re capable of driving him up the wall (through the wall and over the side of the ship in some circumstances), then they’re healthy enough to get their arses handed to them.
Miraculously, there is silence in response to his growl. For the first time, Sanji wonders if somebody on the ship is actually capable of learning something about the propriety of infirmaries.
(Excluding the beautiful Nami-san and Robin-san, of course. Their bedside manners are already something to be adored).
(Luffy’s on the other hand…)
However, this being Luffy’s ship filled with Luffy’s crew, the moment of respite soon passes. Sanji can only berate himself for ever hoping that his infirmary could achieve uninterrupted peace and quiet when a tiny whisper is muttered into the quiet –
“Skull joke.”
– and followed by an inevitable tinkle of a giggle from the skeleton clacking his knees together in the chair.
“My,” Brook adds after he has had his laugh, sing-songing a tune entirely oblivious to the daggers in Sanji’s glare. “I do think I’m going to enjoy being in this crew!”
Chopper | The Archaeologist
Waves roll against The Thousand Sunny’s slumber, rocking the great ship into dreams. The night is quiet, a horizon untouched by dawn and dusk, clouds of darkness snuggling with the stars. There is a peace about the ship not often found, inhabited by misfits as it is, and it is likely this, rather than the sea’s tempesting lull, that draws the youngest crewman from his sleep.
Deep within a world not far from their own – their history, though fiction it may seem – Chopper had not intended to fall asleep. Wise words were meant to keep him awake, and awake he usually is, wide-eyed for information, ancient records and diaries of the past, but as he peels his fur from a weighty tome, nose wrinkling at the parchment smell, Chopper can only conclude that he lost more than his time to the stories of old.
He groans, the sound tugging his consciousness back to replace the sluggish fog of his mind. Hooves dig into his neck as he sits up, rubbing away a pain, and he yawns into the darkness of the room, the lamplights his only witness.
Blinking a bleary gaze around the library, he wonders what time it is. There is a clock somewhere, he is sure, endlessly ticking their journey away, but he can only make out fuzzy, gold-tinted shapes in the reaching haze of the desk-lamp. Deciding that it doesn’t really matter as he isn’t due for the night watch – is he? Surely someone would have woken him if so? – Chopper sweeps up the hairs he has shed across the book and then tries, yawning all the while, to stick them back amidst his chestnut mass of fur. It is a futile attempt, and one he had anticipated somewhere in his sleepy mind, but he still feels a twinge of guilt when he brushes the fur onto the floor.
I’ll clean in the morning, he promises to himself, heaving the textbook shut. The pages whoomph! together, compressing history against history into a squiggly blur of text, and from within the depths of the library somebody grunts into awakening, startled kneecaps crashing against a desk.
Chopper shrieks, knocking the lamp askew with a terrified flail of tiny hands and tiny feet. Light tumbles across the room, fire ricocheting against the gloomy angles of the night, and then smashes onto the floor with a short-lived, firework glow, shattering glass about the decking.
A grumbled Chopper? comes rumbling through the darkness, and Chopper squeals before recognising the groggy tone as the blend of exasperation and concern that only Zoro can achieve. The thump of a textbook against the floor follows the question, knowledge abandoned as the navigator heaves himself from his sleep, and Chopper cringes at the sound, ears twitching in the hope that the book doesn’t have any particular value.
Zoro’s subsequent, oh fuck, dashes that silent prayer.
From above, the hatch to the bathroom clanks open. Chopper squints as new light pours into the library, revealing the tomes and parchment scattered about the desk. The broken glass glints in the amber rush, and Zoro curses again as he strikes his head against the underside of the desk, dazed by the unexpected illumination of his blunder.
“Oh dear,” Robin chimes, stepping down the first few rungs of the ladder. A dressing gown is tied securely at her waist, and a towel is laid across her shoulders, soaked by the watery shine of her hair. “I do hope neither of you are hurt.”
“No, no, we’re fine,” Chopper frantically assures, realising that the lamp shattering must have attracted her attention. He squeaks as she re-latches the door and descends into the room, hot droplets of water dripping down her back. “I didn’t mean to disturb you! I was just – I mean – I’d been sleeping, but – were you having a bath? You didn’t have to –”
“Don’t worry,” Robin says, smiling in her pleasantly terrifying way. “It was about time I finished bathing anyway.”
Chopper nods, unable to find any words beyond another apology. It must be later than he thought, he realises, to have disturbed the bath that Robin usually takes after being relieved of her section of the night shift. Embarrassed, he rubs the back of his neck, but Robin’s tranquillity seems sincere, so he forces himself not to apologise again.
“Ah,” he says eventually, glancing between Robin’s awaiting smile and the bomb of textbooks and scrolls across the desk. She is tired, he notes, as he is, their bodies relaxing as the danger passes, and Chopper sighs, hoping it won’t take too long to clean up the mess.
“What you like some assistance?” Robin asks, and though Chopper swiftly blubbers through a denial, the many hands of her Devil Fruit ability still bloom to begin sweeping up the glass, the disembodied limbs sprouting like a miniature forest of skin and claws about him.
“Thank you,” Chopper breathes, watching her beautifully grotesque system busy itself with the broken lamp.
“It is of no concern,” Robin says. One of her extra hands reaches up and smooths a patch of fur on Chopper’s cheek, wiping away the scattering of sleep under his eyes. Her tittering laugh rings out when he squeals, cursing fondly at her. “You should take our navigator’s example and find someplace to rest. Dawn is not far off now.”
Chopper blinks, confused, and then follows the point of Robin’s finger to where the sea-green tips of their navigator’s shaggy hair can just be seen above the edge of the desk.
It seems, in the brief interlude of their conversation, that Zoro has fallen back asleep again.
“Zoro! You can’t sleep there!” Chopper chides, scurrying over to where the man is slumped against one of the desk-legs, left cheek and the hazardous scar across his eye squashed against the wood.
“Perhaps shouldn’t would be more accurate,” Robin corrects, gathering up the nautical charts that Zoro had been using as a pillow. “He does appear to be quite capable of sleeping there – as were you, as I recall.”
Chopper blushes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep – it’s just, the book was so interesting and I couldn’t put it down and –”
“Ssshh, you’re too loud,” Zoro rumbles, his voice a slur as he scrubs a hand across Chopper’s head, calming his apologetic rambling. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“That I did not,” Robin assures. “I was merely commenting on your hypocrisy, nothing more.”
“Oh, but…” says Chopper, slowly blinking wide, deer-like eyes at the Devil Fruit user. Her words are a web too dense with contradictions and hidden meanings for his sleepy brain to untangle, and so Chopper simply stares at her, as if his button-nosed innocence is enough to decrypt her smile.
Robin laughs at the bemused scrutiny. “Do you need help with moving to the men’s quarters?” she asks, and Chopper merely blinks some more.
“Err,” he says, but when he turns back to address the navigator, the nature of Robin’s query becomes clear; Zoro’s head is slumped against the desk again, no doubt resting uncomfortably, with the strands of his thick, emerald hair tickling Chopper’s horn. “Ehh! Zoro!”
“I believe he said that there are storms afoot,” Robin says gently, cutting off Chopper’s attempt to rouse the snoring navigator. “He works hard.”
“Yeah…” Chopper says, pulling away. Zoro had not stirred at his urging, but he is glad now, relieved for the man’s knack for sleeping through everything and simultaneously nothing at all. Robin is right, as usual – while he had read the hours away with ancient captain’s journals and philosophical findings, Zoro had slaved over charts, logs, and all manners of equipment that Chopper doesn’t understand to navigate their ship safely on.
He is sure that Zoro will be up at the crack of dawn to continue his work, so it seems almost pointless to move him all the way to the men’s quarters now.
“I think…” Chopper says, a yawn interrupting his thoughts. He trails his gaze over to the sofas lining the room, rubbing his eyes all the while. Even through the darkness, the cushions and plump, spring fabric look inviting. “I think we’ll just sleep in here tonight. I can carry him with my Heavy Point. But thank you, Robin! You didn’t have to go out of your way…”
“Nonsense,” she replies, her Devil Fruit hands scattering in an explosion of cherry blossom. “I was already passing through. Do sleep well. Franky is on watch in the crow’s nest should you need anything.”
Chopper nods, wishing her goodnight in return. Down the ladder she continues, cherry blossoms dancing behind her, until only the sounds of Zoro’s snoring and the rush of the sea against the ship, two low, endless rhythms of sleep calling Chopper to finally rest his head are all that disturb the library’s midnight quiet.
The Sunny rocks on, encouraging dreams to find their way.
Robin | The Musician
Once the dinner rush has come and gone, the lounge of The Going Merry is often the calmest location upon the ship. Appetites appeased for the while, the only occupant of the little kitchen is usually the cook, muttering to himself about their stock or beginning the preparations for tomorrow’s meals. Sometimes another member of the crew companies him, and they chatter through the dishes, exchanging bouts of laughter and dollops of soapsuds as the evening rolls on.
Robin typically avoids the lounge at such times, waiting until peace has settled into the space before venturing in for her post-dinner coffee. She has not yet dwelled upon The Going Merry long enough for the cook to discern her routine, but she does not mind, perfectly capable of brewing a pot of coffee by herself. As such, the long-nosed cook expresses surprise when he finds her pottering about the kitchen one night, the boxes in his grasp nearly tumbling onto the wooden floors. Aware that his blocking the doorway prevents her from making a swift escape, Robin merely continues to stir her drink, offering a smile to the stuttering cook as he inches his way inside.
“Do you need any assistance?” she asks, certain that wariness will prompt him to say no, but feeling compelled to enquire anyway. Excluding the navigator – the first mate, she had realised, appreciating his distrust for the captain’s sake – the crew seem to be adjusting well to her presence. The doctor and the archaeologist were swayed easily enough, both full of love and second chances as they are, and the shipwright was simply overjoyed to have finally have “female company” on the ship. The cook, on the other hand, is something of a nervous mess, and so Robin tries to emit a welcoming air as he busies himself with the rations.
“Err, no, no thank you!” Usopp replies with a squeak, attempting to hide himself behind the wine rack. “I am – err, I mean – the Great Captain Usopp can handle a few boxes, that he can!”
He nods decisively, almost proudly, and Robin says nothing, merely smiling at his extravagant façade. Disheartened at her lack of reaction – or perhaps dismayed and somewhat uncomfortable? Threatened, maybe, exposed – Usopp seems to wilt, darting his gaze across the lounge as if it is not his space, as if it is a place that he needs to escape, and Robin brings the mug to her mouth, wondering if she should leave.
Yet, she finds herself remaining put despite her doubts, leaning up against the kitchen counter awaiting his next move.
“So, err,” he says eventually, astounding them both when he resumes the conversation with a mumble and a scratch of his nose. “You’re a musician, right?”
“I am,” Robin replies, perhaps a little too curtly when the cook nods hastily and then says nothing more. She sips the coffee, appreciating the taste but wondering how differently the cook would have made it, had he the chance.
“Do you have any particular interest in music?” she asks.
“Huh? Oh, well,” Usopp stammers, hovering around the pile of rations. He has procured a clipboard from the shelf, and is now jotting down whatever supplies he has added to the stock, but at her question he stops, wiggling the pen with an uneasy hand. He opens his mouth, no doubt to sprout some grand lie, but then seems to think better of it as he glances at her expectant expression.
“I used to play the flute, actually,” he admits. “But only a little bit.”
“The flute?”
“Pan flute, actually,” Usopp amends, laughing a nervous sound. “I thought they were cool. But I don’t have one anymore – it’s been a while. What – err – what can you play?”
“Most things,” Robin explains, her thoughts drifting to the more unconventional use of her Devil Fruit ability. “But I have a fondness for the B flat soprano clarinet. It is capable of such wonderful sounds.”
“I wanted to play a clarinet, once, but I didn’t have anybody to teach me how to,” Usopp says, rubbing the back of his neck as if he is ashamed to admit such a thing. Robin cannot imagine why – to be musical is such a delightful talent, and one that should be shared.
She sips her coffee. “Would you like to learn?” she asks after a moment spent considering the matter. A negative response will be understandable – he is not comfortable in her presence, and perhaps rightly so, but surely it doesn’t hurt to ask?
(This crew are so full of surprises, after all).
“You’d – teach me?” the cook stammers, dark eyebrows shooting up. He seems to startle in place, as if struck by white-hot electricity, and somehow manages to trip over a bag of potatoes.
Robin smiles at his gobsmacked expression. “If you so wished.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she assures, adding slightly more firmly, “I am the musician on this ship, am I not?”
Usopp opens his mouth – then shuts it again, scratching his cheek with the pen lid. He stares at her, seemingly seconds away from scrutinising her with a squint, and then glances down at the clipboard as if it provides the answer.
“Well, yeah,” he mumbles, considering her slowly, but then his reservation lifts up into a smile, his mouth breaking open into a grin. “Yeah!” he blurts more confidently, nodding. “That’d be great! I’d – I’d love to. Thanks!”
And surprisingly pleased with his enthusiasm, Robin just laughs.
Franky | The Swordsman
“Oh my,” Robin says in her distinctly fond manner, dark eyes peering over the top of her sunglasses to where he steps out onto the deck. Although not entertained enough to put aside her current tome, a smile small and genuine does grace her perpetual pallor of apathy as the door leading into the depths of the Sunny crashes open, and Franky counts that as a win. “You have outdone yourself yet again, Franky.”
Standing there on the decking in all his mechanical, muscular glory, Franky seems to emit shining nuts and bolts of glee as he swings his the cutting-edge contraption over his head. “Ow! Robin, ladybro, what do you think? Isn’t this suuuuuuper?”
His latest creation is a masterpiece, if he could say so himself – and he will say so, at the top of his lungs, where everybody on the crew can hear his joy. Even if they do not agree – and oh, Franky is sure that some of them won’t – they will understand the pride he has in his work, his role upon this ship.
(“You should be our swordsman!” Luffy had declared that fateful date, and while Franky cannot deny that he hadn’t been adverse to the general notion, he had felt the need to clarify his profession before the captain got himself into a muddle.
“I’m a blacksmith, Strawhat-bro.”
“Nope!” had been Luffy’s instantaneous response, a childish rudeness obliterating any argument. “Swordsman!”
Franky had opened his mouth, and then shut it again in the face of the captain’s overwhelming grin. “Blacksmith,” he had insisted, although his resolve had weakened somewhat at the crew’s muttering and laughter. Empathetic whispering reached his ears, chuckling and grumbles of goddamn it Luffy, not again, and Franky could only wonder which of the crew had also been bestowed a role in which they did not belong.
He wouldn’t have been able to guess, if anybody had asked, but that was beside the principle of the matter.
“But you use a sword!” Luffy continued, pouting as if he was in any danger of losing this argument.
“Ow, that I do, but I forge –”
“Swordsman!”
“But –”
Then the captain’s smile had blinded him, brilliant and bold and having swallowed a sun, and Franky had figured that as long as he could still forge, then what did it matter if he still muttered blacksmith under his breath every time somebody asked?)
“Truly,” Robin says, laughing as he cranks his gigantic arms into his favourite pose. “Why don’t you gather the rest of the crew? I’m sure they’ll appreciate a demonstration.”
“What a suuuuuuuper idea, ladybro! I bet even Zoro-bro will be blown away by my genius!”
He uses blown away as a euphemism for traumatised, of course, because the two “swordsmen” on the ship have never quite seen eye-to-eye on Franky’s magnificent creations.
Really, Franky thinks, catching Robin’s knowing smile across the deck, Zoro-bro is only missing out.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have a few things to say,” the musician agrees, but the sickly sweetness to her words is lost to the hollering of dazzled male voices across the deck as Franky beckons the teenagers:
“OI STRAWHAT! CHECK THIS OUT.”
“WHOA! FRANKY, WHAT IS THAT?”
“Like it huh?”
“DOES IT SHOOT LASERS?”
“LASERS!” Usopp and Chopper chime in with overwhelmed squeals, following their captain’s scramble across the deck. They crowd around the swordsman, bouncing up and down in their varying degrees of flexibility; Chopper, wobbling atop his tiny hooves, Luffy, his rubber body unable to restrain his excitement, and Usopp, averagely in the middle, his eyes like stars and his hair frizzy and thick with glee.
“Hell YEAH it shoots lasers,” Franky bellows, craning his gaze around the Sunny to see who else is watching. On the upper deck, Nami has paused in her gardening, the watering can in her grasp dripping forgotten across her shoes, but Zoro appears not be to paying any attention, sprawled along one of the stairs as if it is the ideal place to nap. Franky is certain that the swordsman-cum-navigator is aware, and he grins, holding the colossal sword of metal and mechanics out before him.
“Here,” he says, turning the dial imbedded into the guard. It clicks and cranks, whirring like the docking system of the Sunny; whirring like its inspiration, ready to reveal its secrets. “Watch this.”
And then the sword changes, steel sliding against steel, cogs and gears turning effortlessly, a smooth transition into an impossible size, morphing, reforming into something larger, something greater and refined –
Something, as Franky is quite pleased to note, that is capable of firing a shockwave and bringing the future Pirate King, Monkey D. Luffy, to his knees.
“IT’S. SO. AWESOME!” the captain shouts, cackling wildly as the monstrous beam rips through the Sunny’s peaceful air and tears the ocean in two. “MAKE ME ONE. MAKE ME TWO.”
Franky howls with laughter. “I knew you’d like it!” he says, adopting his prideful pose. “SUUUUUUUUUUUPER~!”
“Suuuuuuuper~!” the teenagers echo, falling over themselves in exhilaration.
Nobody notices a set of Robin’s hands swiftly covering Zoro’s sight.
Brook | The Sniper
“Keep the captain in your sight – that’s all you had to do!” the Baby Den Den Mushi shrieks, its bubblegum pink body wobbling with Nami’s fury. It sits just a foot from the sleek, purple precision of a sniper rifle barrel, but if the presence of the calculated danger distresses it, it gives no indication as Nami rants on. “You’re a sniper, how hard can it be?”
“Yohohohoho!” Brook sings, risking a glance at the Den Den Mushi’s glower. Two bulbous, unimpressed eyes stare back at him and he laughs, the sound shaking him all the way down to his toes. The rifle, however, remains perfectly still despite the merry clattering of bones, the telescopic sight enduring its overseeing gaze. “Do forgive me, Nami-san. I promise to keep my eyes from straying from now on, although –”
“Oh god,” Sanji mumbles from some distance, his sigh crackling down the communications line. Adopting the doctor’s expression for a second, the Den Den Mushi seems to deflate, slumping into Sanji’s perpetual slouch of battle-ready boots and cigarette sighs.
“– I have no eyes to stray!”
“Brook,” Sanji hisses, the word a warning through his lips, an arctic name smouldering in the ashes of his tongue.
“SKULL JOK –!”
“SSSHH! You’re a sniper!”
“Oh yes,” Brook chimes, hiding a chortle behind his hand. Teeth rattle together, chinking over the sound of Sanji’s vexation reverberating through the Den Den Mushi. “Sometimes I do forget.”
“How can you possibly –?”
An explosion detonates across the island, quaking the sky’s peaceful blues and creams. Birds flock into the open air, screeching warnings through the forest, feathers singed with a narrow escape fumbling into flight. There is a curse from the Baby Den Den Mushi, its blubbery features contorting to produce Sanji’s yelp, and then it seems to shiver, the doctor’s subsequent shout of Oi, Usopp! nearly indiscernible through the crackle of the Den Den Mushi’s radio waves.
“Brook!” Nami shouts over the communications, her urgency exploding into the conversation as smoke begins to rise up from the town, a smog volcanic and black pouring into the sky. “What’s going on over there? Can you see anything?”
“A moment, please,” the sharpshooter replies, trailing his scope through the streets. A flicker of gold across the rooftops reveals Sanji’s good-health, movement followed swiftly by Usopp’s darker tones of greens and browns, his trousers torn along one side and his curly hair bobbing as they flee. Brook doesn’t follow them, instead pinpointing the street from which they have escaped, honing in the scope for when their enemy appears.
“My, my,” he says eventually, his tone smooth and calm when addressing the Den Den Mushi. Nami is quiet on the other end, but Brook is sure of her mind’s calculation and the way she grips her weapon, awaiting the fates of their nakama. “There is a lady wearing a rather lovely pair of polka dot tights by the bakery – I do wonder if I could get a closer look to see her –”
“BROOK.”
“What?” the Baby Den Den Mushi adds, harsh with masculinity as its features widen into glee, signalling Sanji’s return to the discussion. “A beautiful damsel is wandering these streets by herself?” he chimes, emitting a wobbling noise of longing down the line. “Maybe I should –”
“SANJI. Don’t make me come over there.”
Sanji makes another noise, this time a lower-pitched, almost wounded warble. “Please accept my humblest apologies, my radiant Nami-san!”
“Men. Sheesh. Brook, locate the captain or so help me –”
“I will try my best!” says the skeleton, giggling over the sound of her threat. “Yohohohoho!”
With one final sigh, Nami’s voice trails away, leaving Brook’s Den Den Mushi to relax into Sanji’s distinctive posture.
The two men say nothing for a moment, thoroughly chided by her exasperation and unsure of her impending return, but Brook does not mind the quiet. As a sniper, he is used to the silence of far off, unreachable places, but he is glad for the Den Den Mushi all of the same, even if it does nothing but watch him with Sanji’s perpetual frown.
Eventually there is a click of a lighter and a short, addicted cough, and then Sanji’s voice lifts back into the conversation, hardly reaching a whisper: “Polka-dot, you said? What colour were they?”
Brook laughs, his smile as dazzling-white as bone, but before he can grace the doctor with a more thorough description, Nami’s bellowing voice detonates down the line:
“I HEARD THAT.”
(+1) Luffy | The Captain
“So,” says the innkeeper, an endearingly plump woman who had hardly glimpsed at the Strawhat Pirate crew from behind her great hairdo of curls before rightly deeming them misfits and finding the space to house them. “You’re pirates, huh?”
She hands him a mug filled to the brim with chocolate bubbles and steam, and warns him of the temperature. Luffy thanks her enthusiastically, recalling Nami’s warning to be well behaved (do not eat these people out of house and home, do you hear me, Luffy? she had growled, looming over him with a spanner, and though Luffy doesn’t listen to most advice, he definitely listens to her spanner), and restrains himself from swallowing the drink, porcelain and all.
“Yep!” he says to the innkeeper’s question, bobbing his head in agreement. Straw scratches into the back of his neck at the motion, but Luffy has long-since grown used to the sensation, taking comfort in his hat’s reassurance. “I’m going to be the Pirate King!”
“Ah,” says the woman, smiling rounded cheeks of rose at him. “That lot are yours, then?”
She motions upwards with her crown of curly fire, gesturing vaguely to the room where his crew are sleeping. Despite assuring him that they had the funds for multiple rooms, Nami hadn’t sounded particularly enthused by the idea of everybody sleeping apart. Unanimous agreement had been instantaneous, happy squealings and grumbled complaints of deception abound, and so they had settled on only one room in the end. Most surprisingly, the innkeeper had hardly batted at eyelash at the request, and has said nothing still despite witnessing the group of nine fall about each other as they crammed themselves into the small space.
“They’re my nakama,” Luffy says simply, and though he does not articulate a more illustrative answer, leaving the they’re my crew and the they’re mine unsaid, the woman nods her understanding.
“Drink your cocoa while it’s still hot,” she says, tidying up her apron. For a second, she seems to reach towards him, hands twitching as if to ruffle his hair, but she refrains from stepping closer to where he is seated on the porch, watching the sea roll by. “Once you’re done with the mug, just leave it on the bar. And don’t forget breakfast in the morning.”
“Thanks lady!” Luffy says, calling after her retreating figure. He offers a little wave that she doesn’t see, but her laughter suggests a sixth sense known only to mothers; eyes in the back of their heads and ears all around. Pottering back into the inn, she leaves the captain to his thoughts; grand thoughts, happy thoughts filled with the call of adventure, and the most simplest of pleasures – his crew, their safety, tucked away beneath blankets and gangly, misplaced limbs, and the feel of the salty breeze through his hair, the words of Raftel calling him from far away.
It is only once Luffy is sure that the innkeeper has gone that he chugs down the cocoa, swallowing the toffee swirls and chocolate pieces with noisy slurps of merriment. It tastes like a hug in a cup, warm and thick and oozing with love, and Luffy licks his lips, eyeing the bottom of the porcelain for any remaining flecks. There aren’t any, and he pouts, half-tempted to devour the cup just in case, but before he can set his idea into motion, a gruff call of Oi, Luffy rises up from the doorway, rescuing the crockery from his hungry stare.
The captain turns instantaneously, beckoned by his navigator’s question, and launches a grin worthy of rivalling the sun at Zoro’s flat tone. Beneath a permanent bed-head hairdo of churning sea greens and blues, Zoro’s expression is level, neither questioning nor urging his captain. Yet, he has chosen to don the inn’s provided nightgown to address his captain – a subtle indication that the rest of the crew are already settling down for sleep, and a suggestion for Luffy to do the same. The gown is beyond huge; easily two sizes too large even for Zoro, and there is no doubt in Luffy’s mind that he could get lost in it, just as he is sure that Zoro has already been subject to a round of Sanji’s “navigate yourself out of that one” jokes . The gown is a beautiful thing, delicate stitching of turquoise against a soft lilac glow, and though Luffy had heard Nami’s shrieking laughter earlier that night, he is not to know the nature of the joke, just had hadn’t heard her breathless it’s – it’s a maternity gown! when the innkeeper had presented the clothing with a fumbling apology.
Zoro, as ever, hardly seems fazed by the mocking, although if he has come to his captain for a respite from the laughter, then he has certainly come to the wrong place as Luffy cracks a grin, helpless not to smile at his first mate’s bizarre flowery-gown-and-three-devil-swords combination.
Laugh all you want, says Zoro’s glower. I wasn’t going anywhere without them.
Luffy doesn’t laugh, but he has to shove a fist into his mouth to smother his attempt.
“You gonna sleep tonight or what?” Zoro says after a moment, letting the captain have his fun. “The others are waiting for you.”
He says this as if he isn’t, himself, waiting for the captain, but Luffy doesn’t call him out on it. Rather, the Devil Fruit user merely springs to his feet and bounds over to his first mate, wielding the coffee mug like a hammer in precarious hands and a smile like a blade. Zoro is impassive as Luffy prattles on about the kind old lady-innkeeper-person who gave me cocoa and how it tasted really great, but not as great as Usopp’s ‘cause nothing beats Usopp’s ‘cause Usopp is the best cook EVER, but he does dutifully remove the cup from his captain’s hazardous grasp and return it to the counter. Luffy doesn’t notice, dancing about the inn with the exaggerated motions of a child, his hands tugging on Zoro’s nightgown to maintain his attention.
There’s no need, they both know, for Zoro is nothing if not entrapped by the bouncy bubble of captivation that defines the captain, but Luffy drags the navigator up the stairs anyway, as if he worries that Zoro will lose his way if there is more than a step between them.
There is only one bed in their room, but the crew seem unperturbed by this, each having found their space amidst the awkward limbs of one another. Calls of there you are! and about time you got here! rise up when Luffy ambles in, and he laughs freely, bobbing across the room with extended, inhuman strides. Nami (and thus Robin) has claimed the bed, leaving everybody else to shuffle about the floor. Curled in the only armchair is Brook, although with his bones and painful angles, and not to mention his massive hairdo, curled is a debatable term, but his sword is propped up against the armrest and he seems quite content to lie there, chatting away with Franky. At the foot of the bed, Usopp seems to have already drifted off against Sanji’s shoulder, mumbling through dreams of adventure and long, merry days, so the doctor is wearing an expression of a sigh stuck into place, a resignation of being slept on for the night. Unpeeling himself from the captain, Zoro returns Sanji’s glare with a laugh as he treks over to where Chopper has made a den with his haramaki and coat. He settles down with the reindeer, keeping the door in sight, and then shoots Luffy a questioning look, motioning to the gap in the middle of the room.
It is Luffy-sized and Luffy-shaped, surrounded by nakama on all sides.
Luffy flops into it instantly, grinning as if the stars have fallen and exploded into his soul, and there is movement all around him as his nakama gravity towards his fiery sun of a smile.
“Lights out then?” Franky asks, once the crew have successfully buried their captain under pillows and blankets, smothering him with downy affection and patchwork kisses. They are not nine entities anymore, but rather, one great mass of dreams and aspirations huddling together, their breaths sharing laughter in the gaps between their souls.
From somewhere beneath the blanket fort, Luffy answers with a muffled confirmation, wiggling to make himself comfortable. He is warm and cosy, and there is laughter all around, and there is no place he would rather be.
“I do believe that was a yes,” Brook notes from the other side of the room, and Franky laughs as he flicks off the bedside light, metal limbs clanging in the darkness.
There is another minute of quiet mutter as everybody settles down to sleep, and eventually Luffy manages to poke his head out from beneath the quilts, heaving a happy, gasping breath as he does.
“Goodnight everyone!” he chimes, flopping his arms over the pillows and dragging the fabrics closer to his chest. He thinks he accidentally grabs Sanji as he does, but the doctor has already become a pillow for this evening, so Luffy is sure he won’t mind joining the larger pile of blankets on the floor.
Goodnight captain, in various forms, rings back at him, and Luffy grins.
“Dream of meat!” he blurts, giggling madly, and then quite promptly drops off to sleep, as if waiting to wish his crew sweet dreams had been the only thing keeping him awake.
(Perhaps this is not so surprising).
(The captain of such a crew can only be the queerest of them all).