Chapter Text
Bang.
Thud.
His bones rattle with the impact, then everything is cold at the edges and hot, blooming pain.
It doesn't end there.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
Words spoken; he can't recall them. Pink feathers, a blank expression, a smoking gun. Doffy.
Despite this loss, he won. He knows he did. Doffy leaves. He lies in the snow, smiling. Defeat tastes a lot like victory. They share the same dull iron tang.
The world grows numb and dark. All he's left with is the blood, the satisfaction, seasoned with a trace of regret--
-- and a ringing silence.
...
....
.....
... Consciousness comes to him... very, very slowly.
He couldn't tell you where the line between awake and not laid, really. He was drifting in a sensationless void for what could have been seconds or could have been years-- somewhere in his mind, he was pretty sure he was dead, and vaguely disappointed that the afterlife didn't seem to be much of anything in particular at all.
It was just... dark.
Kind of a whole lot of nothing. Which was nice in its own way, but also a little boring.
...
... At some point, it occurred to him to wonder why he was dead. The mission had been going well, hadn't it? Surely it wasn't that he'd been killed by some enemy of the Family, right? ... Did he get found out? That would be unfortunate-- but something about that answer simply didn't add up, either.
He was no braggart, but Rosinante knew he was good at his job. Tracks covered, contingency upon contingency... when it came to Doffy, one could never be too careful, and Rosinante still came pretty damn close to it.
No, if he'd been found out... it'd have to have been a purposeful play on his part. But why would he do that? There was nothing he could think of that would make him abandon his mission like that.
So what changed?
...
... There was something important. Something important that he died for-- that he was glad to die for.
Blood, satisfaction, ringing silence.
It was about that point that he realized that the ringing wasn't as silent as he'd thought.
No, past the haze of unsensation, something had started to beep.
...
... all he could muster about it was vague irritation.
Dead, and he still couldn't escape the sound of... of...
... medical equipment...?
... maybe he wasn't as dead as he'd thought. That didn't make sense either, though.
But... other sensations slowly returned, too. Who knew how long it took, but in bits and pieces, the proof that he was probably still alive came to him.
Voices, vague and murmuring.
The scratch of hospital sheets.
A bit of a chill in the air.
At last, something cuts through the dark, some sort of discomfort, and he realizes with some annoyance that the sun is in his eyes.
... Well. That's certainly one way to wake up a dead man. It sounds like a bad joke, honestly.
Hauling himself the last few feet out of the dark is a herculean effort, but he manages, and when at last Rosinante opens his eyes, it's to sun-lit white tile and the sound of the ocean through an open window.
He blinks. A seagull calls. He blinks again.
His thoughts, sluggish as they are, are spinning slowly around one thing:
Where the fuck am I?
...
Two things, actually, because he has no idea how he isn't dead. Or why he expected to be dead.
Wasn't he with the Family?
What happened?
...
Blood, satisfaction, ringing silence... something important.
He's not sure how long he just lies there, squinting at the ceiling and trying to puzzle through his current situation. The sun drifts out of his eyes and turns the brilliant orange of sunset as his thoughts dance out of reach. He doesn't really parse the time passing. It's like all that's happened was that his dark semi-purgatory had gained color to go with the rest of the sensations that had returned to him.
Then, finally, he is yanked out of his limbo by the door opening with a soft sigh, and the sound of a voice that his mind finally processes the words of.
"Evening, Rosi," his father says, quiet and half to himself by Rosinante's estimate. He sounds tired. "Sorry I'm late, the meeting ran long."
His father. Sengoku. Who just came from a meeting? And is... talking more at him than to him. He finally thinks to wonder just how long he was out.
But more pressingly, if Sengoku's here, then that must mean he's in Marineford, which-- that's--
Dangerous, some instinct in his brain supplies, and he has no idea why. Not supposed to be the case, is his next thought, and that one makes sense, at least.
The last thing he can properly remember, he was at Spider Miles. There's absolutely nothing he can recall to indicate either his mission's completion or, unthinkably, its failure. By all accounts, he should not be here. Rosinante grits his teeth, possessed by a frustrating jittery drive that he can't pinpoint the exact source of.
There was something important. Something that he needs to... needs to...
... needs to what?
Oblivious to his turmoil, Sengoku wanders closer, flipping through paperwork and still talking like he hasn't realized Rosinante was awake. "You know how it tends to be with those damn Warlords, though. If they even bother to show up, then they certainly have no heed for decorum, or anybody's-"
Whatever he'd been about to say next is bit off with a comedic choked noise as he finally looks at Rosinante, and sees the way he's looking up at him with wide eyes.
They stare at each other.
"... oh," Sengoku says, surprise written into every line of his face-- and there are more of them than he remembers, his father more wrinkled and graying at the edges than the last time Rosinante was here. "... you're awake," he finishes lamely. Like he's still too in shock to remember what he's supposed to do.
The moment hangs suspended between them for a few more breaths.
"Oh, Blues, you're awake!" Sengoku drops the paperwork without heed, letting it unceremoniously scatter and flutter to the floor as he practically dives for the call button. Rosinante startles, but can't do much more than jolt and blink. "Are you-- How are you...?"
He's so clearly frazzled, with an utter lack of composure that is downright strange to see on Sengoku of all people. Even when Rosinante was small, he always managed to be at least somewhat put together, but now it's like he's completely abandoned it, dismissed as unimportant. Instead of what he might've expected-- a relieved greeting, a calm explanation, the worry that's been lurking under Sengoku's voice for four years-- he hovers his hands unsurely, looking at him like... like Rosinante was fragile, a look he hasn't seen on the man since he was 8 years old and silent with the ghost of a gunshot still ringing in his ears.
... well, now he's got seven, so he supposes it isn't entirely unwarranted.
That thought gives him pause.
Blood. His, and seven gunshots. Someone stands over him.
It sends a shiver down his spine. Rosinante opens his mouth, but the door opens again.
"Good evening, Admiral, Commander." The nurse greets cheerfully as she trots over with a glass of water. There's a straw in it. Sengoku takes it from her so that she can adjust the bed, and soon Rosinante's propped up enough to drink. "Small sips, now."
Damn, they were quick on the uptake. Rosinante tracks her with his eyes as she putters around checking things-- all the stuff they have hooked up to him, the IV, the heart monitor. After he's finished with the water and Sengoku sets it to the side with a little thunk, he clears his throat, glancing between the two of them as they both look at him. He still sounds like hell when he speaks, though, voice scraping painfully out of his throat as he winces. "Where..."
Sengoku blinks, like it had just occurred to him that Rosinante would have no reasonable way to know for sure where he was. "Ah. You're in the hospital at Marineford, Rosi."
So I was right. But why...
He can still feel that baffling thrum of adrenaline telling him that he's in danger, by being here, in Marineford. He has no clue as to why that would be the case... but, Rosinante hasn't survived as long as he has in his line of work by ignoring his instincts. He's certainly not about to start now.
Besides, if it is nothing, then he'd have been cautious for no reason and no harm would be done; but if he gets careless when he really shouldn't have been...
Well. Better safe than sorry.
So he steels himself, and, fresh out of purgatory, gets to work.
For all the drama of it, it really doesn't take a lot. The best lies are set in truth, after all. He lets his shoulders relax, lets his gaze wander across the room. Lets the wariness fade, replaces it with his best shot at composure, keeps the confusion. Drops and trades emotions like cards from a deck. After all, he already has all he needs in hand, at least in regards to those. "Marineford?" He rasps. "But I wasn't-- how did I..."
Sengoku narrows his eyes. Glances at the nurse, who, catching his look, nods and turns to leave the room.
"I'll be back soon with the doctor," she says, and then levels a stern look at Sengoku. "Don't push him too hard."
At his acknowledging-- if dismissive-- nod, the door slides shut, and it's just the two of them. Sengoku sighs, and sinks into the nearby chair, looking at him with an odd expression. He takes a moment to scoop up the nearly-forgotten papers he’d dropped earlier and set them aside, on the table next to the empty glass; then turns that strange look back upon him. It takes Rosinante a second to realize that he just looks bone-deep exhausted.
"Right. Alright. What do you remember?"
Rosinante pauses. Thinks.
"Spider Miles...? ... no, that's..." Not right. But then... "Where was I...? There was--"
Blood. Satisfaction.
Silence.
"-- snow. There was snow."
Sengoku sits back, looking at him evaluatingly. "You don't remember."
Rosinante shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut. All it does is make him aware of a burgeoning headache. "It's-- all fuzzy."
All he has is those vague impressions and weird terrors. A buzzing dread makes itself known, lingering in the back of his mind. How much time had he lost? How long has it been? Anxiety steals up his spine, compounding the bizarre fear that’s had a hold of him since he realized he was in Marineford. What if I’m too late? What if it’s been too long? What if it didn’t-- what if-- what...
His own fears are ghosts to him, intangibly there and ill-defined. Unprovable. He tamps down on the urge to growl.
Sengoku draws his attention back with a sigh. “We were afraid that would happen,” he admits, and Rosinante blinks at him. “The doctor said it’s not uncommon for memories to be... lost, between such a near-death experience and the resulting coma.”
“Coma?” Rosinante blanches. No wonder Sengoku’d been so surprised to see him awake. He finally asks, almost afraid to know the answer, “How long has it been?”
His father suddenly looks somehow both pained and awkward. It’s probably only years of practice at keeping his composure that allowed him to meet Rosinante’s eyes when he answers: “Six months.”
He chokes. "Six months?!"
That's bad. Even more than the usual bad, that's-- something important has been left for six months--
Sengoku looks at him with sympathy, albeit oblivious to the deeper reason to his reaction. "You... you were very nearly lost to us, Rosi," he says, soft and halting, and it stops Rosinante in his tracks. "It's a miracle you survived in the first place, and another that you woke up. A third that you seem to remember as much as you do, even. You mentioned Spider Miles?"
Rosinante takes a breath-- six months is bad, but not nearly as bad as it could’ve been-- then nods, slowly. “That’s... the last clear memory, yes. Then it just...” Well, it cuts, like a bad transition. The shore of Spider Miles in the spring, the sea breeze crisp, one of the few chances he could have to steal away and just relax for a breath or two-- and then he blinked, and there was the cold, and the snow, and the nothing.
His father sighs, and mutters something under his breath, before composing himself once more and sitting up. “Right. Well, we do have what investigations revealed; and scant as it may be, it is more than likely more than what you have. Would you rather I tell you now, or should we--”
Rosinante cuts him off. “Now.” He looks at him with a vague desperation that he doesn't have to fake. "Please. I don't-- how did..."
He doesn't think he could go however long the waiting period may become, wondering what he could be told about what happened to him, wondering if there were any clues for this unsettling feeling.
Sengoku softens, but the look in his eyes is both focused and distant, and there’s an uncomfortable twist to his frown.
"Tsuru found you on Minion Island," he says, voice pinched to match his expression. "You were... in a bad way."
Well, he'd gathered as much by waking up out of a six month coma . But... "Minion Island? Why... it's abandoned, isn't it?"
Sengoku shakes his head. "It was, until the Barrels Pirates set up there." Rosinante frowns, but says nothing, so he continues. "The same day you were found, there was to be an exchange. The Barrels had the Ope Ope no Mi, and the Marines were buying it from them." Sengoku's expression twists. "Unfortunately, things went... poorly. About as poorly as they could have, actually. When Tsuru arrived, the Barrels were all slaughtered, the Ope Ope nowhere to be found, the Donquixote Family was leaving, and you were--"
Blood.
"Seven bullets," Rosinante murmurs, voice haunted as he cuts his father off. Sengoku winces, then pauses, peering at him curiously.
“You remember that?”
Rosinante turns it over in his mind for a moment. Pink feathers and a carefully neutral expression-- anything his brother might have been feeling concealed behind his shades. “... yeah. I was-- Doflamingo shot me.”
Something bitter crosses over his father’s face. “We had assumed as much. So your cover was blown on Minion, in some way.”
“Seems so.” Rosinante presses his hand to his mouth. “But how?”
“Who’s to say?” Sengoku sounds tired, apprehensive. “If you don’t know, I doubt we’ll find out. I don’t think Doflamingo would exactly be eager to explain the details.”
Rosinante's fear spikes at the idea that his brother might somehow find out he was alive, and it must show on his face, because Sengoku gives him a sympathetic look.
Clearing his throat, Rosinante glances away briefly, trying to redirect. “Isn’t there-- my reports, wouldn’t there have been some sort of clue? Something to indicate that things were about to go...” He makes a loose gesture, almost accidentally knocking over the IV stand, which his father catches and rights seemingly without thinking about it.
Instead, Sengoku blinks, and stares at him, just shy of blank-faced. “Rosinante, you went dark about six months before Minion. You didn’t give an explanation, either, just said you wouldn’t be able to contact me very often for the foreseeable future. The few reports you made after that... there was nothing to indicate anything of what was going on. Just updates to let me know you were still alive.”
Ah. “...... That’s... inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient is an understatement. Moreso that you don’t remember any of that.” Sengoku frowns. "What season was it, last you recall?"
At least this is something he knows. "Spring. April, I think."
Sengoku nods slowly, still frowning. "Yes, that was about when you went dark."
"And then Minion was..."
"October."
So he lost six months to fuzzy memories, and another six to purgatory, adrift and asleep.
Damn. Rosinante has always had rotten luck, but this is a new level. A whole year, and he can only hope to get half of it back. Not to mention that the key to why he lost the second half lies within the missing first.
If he could just remember. But trying to hold onto those few fleeting sensations he does have is like trying to clench his fist around sand, or like chasing fog, if either of those things also caused a migraine.
He sighs. This is going to be a whole thing, he already knows.
When he looks back to Sengoku, he finds he’s being watched with an inscrutable expression, something between concern, disbelief, and relief.
He’d noticed it earlier, but in this moment, Sengoku really looks the part of all his years. There’s dark bruises behind his glasses that speak to sleepless nights, and the furrow between his brow has deepened tremendously since the last time they’d seen each other face-to-face. Frown lines make a centerpiece accented by a myriad of other markers of age-- smaller wrinkles around his eyes, the speckled gray in his hair.
Four years does a lot to change a person, huh?
His father closes his eyes for a prolonged moment, letting out a shuddering sigh that sags his shoulders, like it took a physical weight with it on the exhale. When he opens them again, he takes Rosinante’s hand, and opens his mouth to say something--
Then the door slides open, and they both whip their heads over to see the nurse had come back with a woman who was, presumably, the doctor.
“Evening, Admiral, Commander Rosinante!” She greets, just as cheerful as the nurse had been earlier. Too cheerful for how late it is, in Rosinante’s mildly-irritated opinion. “Give me juuust a moment to get some things set up, then we can start.”
As the doctor crosses the room to the little desk set off to the side, Rosinante looks back to his father and blinks at him. “What were you about to say?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t wait.” Another pause. Then, softly, “... I’m glad you woke up, Rosinante.”
Sengoku lets go of his hand, then, and gets to his feet. He collects the paperwork left on the stand, and gives Rosinante one last lingering look of disbelief, raw around the edges. Like he doesn’t want to leave the room. Like he’s afraid that if he turns his back, it’ll turn out to not have been real after all, and Rosinante will still be adrift in the void.
Lost to them.
Somewhat amused, but moreso guilty to see the man in such a state, Rosinante takes pity on his poor father. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”
Sengoku nods jerkily. “... Yes. I’ll come back later. You’ll be... yes. Later.”
With halting steps, he leaves, sliding the door quietly shut behind him. It's silent for a long moment.
The doctor claps her hands. “So! Let’s begin with an evaluation, shall we?”
From there, it doesn’t actually take that long for Rosinante to find himself alone again, though he still wishes it was quicker. He’d already been feeling drained from his conversation with Sengoku, and after the grilling he received from the doctor, he felt ready to sleep for another six months.
Yet, sleep continued to evade him, as his mind whirled with contradictory feelings and missing information. Questions, that all seemed to start with the word why.
So to begin with, Rosinante lays back, stares at a ceiling now dark with night’s fall, and does what he does best: his job.
He falls back on compartmentalization. Best to lay out the objective facts as he knows them, to help pinpoint the gaps in his knowledge. So he makes a mental list.
He went dark in April last year. Gave no explanation, and what few updates he did send didn’t give any more information.
Six months later, he got shot seven times by Doflamingo on Minion Island. Safe to guess his cover was blown somehow. (Blood. Satisfaction. Ringing silence. And something important. Memories like ghosts on the wind, dancing out of reach.)
(He failed his mission. Why?)
He was in a coma for another six, so it’s April again. (He’s twenty-six now. Almost twenty-seven.)
He’s in Marineford.
Being in Marineford has some deeper, basal part of him politely insisting that he’s in mortal danger. He doesn’t know why. He can probably safely assume it’s because of something that happened in his AWOL period.
... And, bafflingly, some part of him knows that it's not just him in danger.
He wants to ignore it. Wants to shut it out, let it remain missing, but--
But--
He knows something. He can't remember it right now, but deep in his bones, Rosinante knows that he knows something that those overseeing Marine operations would kill to keep quiet. Something that they, in all likelihood, have killed to keep quiet.
...
He can admit it, at least to himself: he’s confused, and frustrated, and fucking terrified.
He’s gone from the hell of the Family, through purgatory, waking at last into what should have, comparatively, been paradise-- someplace finally safe -- but feels more like a mirror reflection of the precarious place he'd been in before; only done up in shiny silver and blue, this time.
Marineford was safe. It was home. It’s been home, for most of his life. It should have been safe.
He doesn’t think it is. He really, really doesn’t.
Alone in his room in a hell that's pretending not to be, Rosinante sits, and thinks, incongruous against himself:
How the hell am I going to get out of here?