Chapter 3: The Bottom of the Bottle
It’d been a week. At least that’s what he’d been told. 7 days and a handful of hours since the sun was smothered in the sky, casting his world into an umbral darkness so thick he thought he might suffocate.
He thought it’d been longer than that. He thought he’d have kept some sort of innate sense of time since the battle of Marineford. But hadn’t he already proven in the past that when the chips were down and a man was to tally out the time he spent shuffling about past what he deserved in this mortal coil, he simply couldn’t be assed to?
He couldn’t even do the adventure story cliche of tallies in a tree’s bark when he’d been stranded on a desolate island in shitsplat nowhere, could he? So why would he keep track of time now?
It’d been long enough for the ennui to soak in and far too recent to feel like it was worth the survival. That’s what it was at the end of the day.
‘Masked Deuce’ thunked his head on the galley table again, bottle of cheap marine rum balanced hanging between his fingers as his hand hung low near the floor. He’d been drinking nigh constantly since the massive man in the fur coat— Crocodile the Warlord?— Yeah, him…had dragged him off the rubble of Marineford and onto his stolen marine ship with the rest of his Impel Down escapees and a handful of minor crewmen of the Whitebeard fleet.
He’d tried to stay, after the utter uselessness he’d displayed during the execution, thinking that maybe if he let himself be run through by the cleanup crews scouring whatever Red Haired Shanks had left behind, at the very least he could be buried next to his captain.
Or more likely, in a mass grave. But it wasn’t like the affairs of the living were all that important to the dead.
Which tragically he was not despite valiant efforts to find death at the bottom of the bottle for three days straight.
There was a scraping on the floor, and a loud thunk against the table that called his attention dazedly back to reality. Someone had sat down across the table from him.
The man in the coat. Crocodile. He had a bottle with him.
“You want me to just throw you overboard, kid? Might hurt less than drinking a hole in your gut.”
He blearily blinked at him as he raised his head and readjusted his mask to try and make his features resolve. “I’d rather not take the risk of washing up on an island, thank you.”
“Not a gambling man, I see.” Crocodile snorted. “Gimme the bottle and I’ll give you another one, then.”
True to his word, he held the bottle he’d brought out to Deuce.
He happily grabbed the bottle with a trace of a smile on his face.
“Good to know there are still decent people in this world. Thanks Crocodile.” He let the empty one drop on the table as he shook his head. “…are you a gambling man?”
“It’s in my nature, like it or not,” the warlord said, snatching away the empty bottle and putting it aside. He crossed his arms on the table and seemed to be looking Deuce over.
It wouldn’t be a nice view. Deuce knew he looked like shit. He’d fought off too many waves of marines and sustained too many wounds to be a pretty sight. His long coat was tattered, his chest and arms visibly bandaged despite his protests that he’d be ‘fine’ without medical care—and his hair was a mess from all the drinking face down on tabletops. Hel, …he was sure the man could see the dark bags around his eyes even through the mask.
“Must make life interesting if nothin’ else.” He murmured as he raised the bottle to his lips— and nearly choked on it.
“…..”
It was water. Fucking water. You couldn’t drown your sorrows in fucking water unless you were drowning yourself.
“You son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Crocodile chuckled. He was laughing at him. He tapped the table. “Come on kid, don’t die without at least telling me why. Everybody’s busted up but you’re the only one here trying to ride the booze cruise down the river styx.”
Deuce watched him calmly take a cigar out of his coat pocket and put it in his mouth, before lighting it.
Deuce sighed sharply, before he raised the bottle to his lips and took several long glugs of water. The man dragged him out of Marineford. He couldn’t have known what he was doing when he did that. And it seemed he expected some sort of story in payment for saving his life.
Well. Stories were what Deuce did best.
“You don’t recognize me, then?” he asked in a low murmur. “I guess I never really got the kind of ‘wanted poster’ fame my Captain did.”
“Whitebeard?” Crocodile snorted. It was an ugly sound and it blazed the fire on the tip of his cigar.
Deuce choked on his water, sputtering sharply as he slammed the bottle back down.
“NO!”
Memories of the time on the Whitebeard crew flitted in his mind. Being shuffled and resigned into the man’s medical staff despite his constant attempts to escape from the life of a doctor— going right back to being ‘second best or worse’ to far superior healers than he could ever be, and the complicated, conflicting feelings about the man himself.
“I mean, I guess I was in his crew.” Deuce pointed his finger at him as his eyes blazed behind his mask. “But he wasn’t my captain!”
The scowl that had been on Crocodile’s face softened at his outburst, as if he was almost pleased by it. Or at the very least intrigued. He raised an eyebrow.
“…Ace, then?”
“Damn right, Ace!” Deuce fumbled for the bottle again. “I’m Masked Deuce!! Fire Fist Ace’s first mate and the first crewman of the Spade Pirates! And the reason I’m trying to die is so I can go JOIN the man and slap him upside the face for getting into this situation in the first place! In HELL! Because I miss him, dammit!”
He heard a low hiss of breath from the former warlord as his face grew… pained. He pointed at him with his infamous hook.
“Finish the water. Tell me the story. And if you still want it when you’re done, I’ll send you to your captain myself, so you can stop drinking all the damned booze.”
Deuce reached out and grabbed his shoulder across the small table. “You’re a kind man, Crocodile. A kind man who’ll have as much booze as he wants real soon.”
He fell back into the chair and grabbed the water bottle again to take a long sip.
“…where d’ya want me to start, Mr. Warlord? Because I can tell you I met Ace when we were both washed up on the same terrible, almost inescapable island with not a scrap of food or water.”
“That sounds like a good place to start,” he said, taking his cigar out of his mouth briefly and licking his teeth. “I’ve got all afternoon, and I am not a fan of spending it up on deck. So start at the beginning. I want to hear the tale. What was he to you?”
“At first?” Deuce laughed sharply. “He was a pain in my ass. Mr. ‘let’s build a boat together’, instantly deciding we were best friends despite the like, four times I told him to fuck off and let me starve. ”
His eyes softened as he tilted the water bottle back and forth. “I tried to kill him, and the idiot thought I was just bringing him supplies for his ship. He offered to split the only piece of food he had with me, 50/50. I knew then that he was the man I’d follow to the ends of the earth. My guiding sun, blazing before me and calling me onward to adventure.”
His heart skipped a beat before it fell into the pit of his stomach. He’d known almost instantly, during those first nights cuddled up to his too-warm body under the stars, that Ace was special to him. It was only years later that he found the words for his affections.
He shook his head. “Turns out the food he had was the fucking flame-flame fruit, and he’d bitten it first…”
Deuce launched into the whole sordid tale.
Even as drunk as he was, he was surprised with Crocodile’s reaction to the story. He listened attentively to every word. It seemed to make him nostalgic, or even happy at times. He laughed– more than once, with what seemed to be genuine amusement.
All of that stopped once he got to Whitebeard.
Deuce was halfway through the bottle of water by the time they’d hit the man who Ace had taken to calling ‘Pops’ like everyone else on the ship— like him too, once he felt browbeaten enough to accept his lot.
The story had up to then lifted his spirits…remembering the good times. The early years with the crew together, garnering infamy as Ace did whatever Ace damn well pleased.
Sabaody, the run ins with Isuka, the battle with the Vice Admiral and the trouble on Fish-man island.
It all came so easily to mind, the memories almost making Deuce feel like a person again as Crocodile enjoyed their trip down memory lane.
But just as it did for Crocodile, that fond reminiscence stopped when it came to Whitebeard. He’d told Crocodile about how Ace had intended on killing him— how he himself had been browbeaten into service as a doctor in his medical staff despite his attempts to distance himself from that skillset, a position that meant he rarely got to see his own captain while he was first resisting Whitebeard’s command…
And later fighting, giving everything he had for him as his 2nd division commander.
Crocodile looked sick to his stomach.
“After all that. After all that the old man beat your captain into line.” He looked far away, and he was clutching Deuce’s empty bottle like he was wishing it was full. “You ever find out what happened? Really?”
Deuce murmured into the water, tipping it back to combat the growing pain behind his eyes and the heat of tears that he held back as best he could.
“Not really. I’ve got an inkling, and I’ve got the story I was told.”
“Tell me.” Crocodile leaned forward, as attentive to this as he was to the early story, even if the look on his face couldn’t have been further from before.
Deuce met Crocodile’s eyes. He didn’t know him well, but something about him told Deuce that he was as good a man as a pirate could get.
He rubbed at his eyes and began to spin the story again. This time from their voyage with the pirate Whitebeard. He told him of Ace’s passion and fire when they were younger. HIs cry that he’d be greater than his father ever was… ‘something greater than the king of the pirates‘ he’d said, lighting a fire in Deuce’s own heart.
Only when they challenged Whitebeard— they’d lost.
His invincible captain was taken down by the Emperor of the Sea, and even as he refused to bow and become ‘one of his sons’, Whitebeard took his crew captive and absorbed them into his own.
Deuce could only watch as indomitable Ace , the man he loved and respected more than anyone, fought and refused at every turn until something in him broke.
Maybe it was his complicated feelings about his father and his lineage— something Whitebeard or his loyal men said to finally break through his resistance and ambition.
Maybe it was the long imprisonment and the constant defeats.
But Deuce’s guess was simple.
Whitebeard broke down his captain’s will bit by bit and lured Ace in with the promise of a place to belong. Ace had always suffered for his father’s name after all, always faced hate and distrust from anyone who learned it. Whitebeard seemed to know the right buttons to push.
“Oh he knows the right buttons to push,” Crocodile muttered darkly. “I watched it happen again and again back in my day. He spins it like he’s doing them a favor. Always has. Like he’s a god gathering the lost to his flock. Bloody fucking tyrant.”
Deuce saw Crocodile’s fingers tighten on the bottle he was still holding— so tight that the bottle suddenly popped and shattered in his hand. Croc just grimaced, and his fingers dissolved into sand.
Deuce winced and the in offer of ‘do you need me to patch that up for you’ died in his throat as the man’s hand dissolved.
“…oh, sand.” He shook it off enough to hiss a soft breath of air through his teeth. “…you knew him, huh? Whitebeard. Were you on his crew when you were younger or something, Crocodile?”
He looked at the mostly empty bottle of water with a glower. “…you aren’t alone in thinking he’s a fucking tyrant, that’s for sure. It’s because of him and his ‘honor’ that Ace got into that trouble with ‘Blackbeard’ in the first place.”
Crocodile looked at the door to the galley for a moment and then he looked back at Deuce and closed his eyes. “Yeah I’ll fucking bet it was.” He took a breath. “The old man was my father. And no, I don’t mean like all the poor fucking crew boys he took on. So I know better than anybody what kind of tyrant he is. Was. Ha.”
That took Deuce aback. He nearly dropped the water bottle with a start. “…Edward Newgate. Whitebeard— was your father?”
“To my great misfortune,” Crocodile growled. He swept the shards of glass off the table and into the trash with a swirl like a small sandstorm.
“You poor bastard…” Deuce murmured.
He’d been like all the others, after a time. He’d been so inundated with the man’s presence that he started to feel that same obedient loyalty that seemed to infect everyone around him. He’d worked as his doctor, he’d given up his dreams. He’d resigned himself to seeing less and less of Ace.
And it was all because of the ‘tyrant’ Whitebeard’s presence.
“I know what it’s like to have a tyrant father, so you have my sympathies.”
Crocodile’s hand turned back into flesh and blood and he reached across the table, putting it on top of Deuce’s.
“And you’ve got mine, kid,” he grumbled. He squeezed his fingers for a moment before letting go, and taking a long puff of his cigar. “So your captain Ace suffered on account of his own father’s name. And the old man used it against him. Of course he did. Of course he fucking did.”
“Of course he did,” Deuce’s voice broke as his hand shifted under Crocodile’s. “And suddenly Ace wasn’t shooting to be greater than the Pirate King. He was talking about how he was going to make ‘Pops’ the king instead.”
He waved his other hand in the air. “His ambitions? Up in fucking smoke. Everything for Whitebeard. So I followed him, like I always did, and he ran off to avenge Whitebeard’s honor and for what? To be dragged into a big trap meant to humiliate and kill him and the old man at the same time. And now he’s gone, and I couldn’t even do shit to save him!”
“Fucking hell,” Crocodile hissed, thumping his hook on the table. “No wonder you’ve been drinking yourself to death. I feel nauseous just thinking about it. How many ambitions did the old man crush? Your poor fucking captain…”
He seemed to stand up in his chair for a moment before sinking back down into it with a thump.
“I loved him,” Deuce murmured as he let his head hit the table again. “I swore I’d follow him to the ends of the earth, ever since the day he smiled at me on that damned island. In the end I couldn’t even follow him to the grave.”
He pressed his hands to his face. “Whitebeard crushed everything. And then he just up and died right alongside Ace as a fucking hero.”
“It’s rotten down to the core, the whole circumstance,” Crocodile grumbled. “Down to the core. Your captain deserved better. You, too.”
Deuce groaned softly into his hands. “…Ace deserved the world…no, a better world than this one. But we didn’t get that.”
“Dealt a bad hand. Faced a bad opponent.” Crocodile looked away. “He did the same thing to me and my first mate, you know. When I came back to try to kill him. Crushed the crew.Tried to bring me back into the fold.”
Deuce finally peeled his hands away to look up at him, sympathetic pain panging in his chest. “…he did?”
“He sure fucking did,” Crocodile growled, hunkering low over the table now, shoulders slumped and shaking his head. His look was far away. “Crushed us under his fucking heel. Took my hand. Tried to get us to join up. Only thing separating us from you and your captain was my experience. I already knew the bastard. So I fucking ran.”
There was emotion thick and heavy in his voice, raw and hard to identify. Anger, certainly. Bitterness, without a doubt.
Deuce hissed sharply through his teeth. It was a familiar story, unsettlingly familiar with the way it mirrored his own. Only Crocodile was the man’s blood, and he still tried to drag him into service just like any of his other ‘sons’.
He felt the heavy emotion in sympathy with his own, his eyes slightly downcast as he grimaced. “You knew what would happen if you stayed. That makes sense…did your first mate escape, or was he dragged down like I was?”
“You know the warlord Mihawk? Ol’ Hawk-eyes?” he asked. It seemed a strange change of subject.
“Of course I do,” Deuce laughed. “The ‘world’s strongest swordsman’, right? I heard horror stories about him while sailing the seas…and I guess I saw they were true the other day. The man’s a terror.”
“Yeah. He almost killed one of my guys,” Croc grumbled out. He paused for a moment and said, “That’s my first mate. Mihawk.”
“………..” Deuce rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re kiddin’ me. No way, I mean, two warlords from the same crew is nuts, right?”
Not to mention he’d imagined someone like him, a passable adventurer and decent fighter with an eye for strategy and good sense. Not the Haki master who sliced ships in twain, who all the world whispered was probably some kind of vampire or half-demon.
Suddenly he felt like a pretty lame first mate.
“We weren’t crew any more. Not after Whitebeard was done with us,” Crocodile said, shaking his head. He had a far away look in his dark eyes, all trace of guile and craft replaced with ache and longing.”Mihawk got his invitation on strength of ‘world’s greatest swordsman’. We’ve barely seen one another in fifteen years.”
“….fuck.” Deuce grimaced and finished off the bottle of water before he said anything else. In that, they were similar. It wasn’t as long, of course, but when Ace had taken up Whitebeard’s flag on his back, he saw less and less of him. Always stuck tending to the ailing Whitebeard as his ‘doc’,while Ace adventured for another man’s glory.
“I’m sorry, Sir Crocodile,” he grimaced. “Whitebeard seems to have a way of destroying crews, and the Navy certainly does too. I imagine it’s been difficult.”
“Up til a few days ago it was bad enough that I was ready to die.” Crocodile turned and gave him a significant look. “One of my guys came to spring me from lockup you know. Before they got me to Impel Down. I sent her away.”
Deuce looked up to meet his eyes. “…you sent her away from a surefire escape from the prison thought to be worse than hell?”
He nodded and ashed his cigar on the table before taking another puff. “Yep.”
“Well that certainly brings home your emotional state, Crocodile.” Deuce laughed weakly, “I can relate.”
“Yeah, I thought you might be able to. Your whole story— yeah, we got a lot of common ground, kid.”
“Never thought I’d have a lot of common ground with a former Warlord of the Sea,” Deuce joked, though his heart wasn’t in it. He pushed the bottle, now empty, off to the side to lean on the table. “Hey, though…you’re out of Impel Down now. Maybe things’ll turn around for you. Your first mate’s still alive, after all.”
Crocodile took a long, ragged breath and sighed. “He’s waiting for someone to kill him so he can pass on the ‘world’s greatest swordsman title, that’s all. But… I’ve got a hell of a lot more fire in me now than I did last week. I’ve been thinking, maybe good things are still possible.”
“…..” Deuce was once again briefly speechless.
Once more the yawning gap between him and the first mates of others opened between him. He was outclassed even in depression. That’s some next-level advanced depression, he thought as he blinked dully at Crocodile, compared to ‘kill me so I can pass on my title and die in peace’, just wanting to drink yourself to death was average.
“Wow…” he said out loud, before he passed over that little tidbit to give him a smile. “Maybe they are, for you at least, Sir Crocodile. Won’t hurt to try, right?”
That made Crocodile laugh, and he knocked his hook against the table again. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid. It’ll absolutely hurt to try. Probably hurt like hell. You want me to share the one lesson I learned in the last 14 years?”
Deuce rubbed his neck. “Yeah…alright. Is it how to button your shirt one handed?”
He instantly regretted the jab when it came out of his mouth. Crocodile was one of the strongest pirates around, at least in Paradise and possibly beyond. Deuce was a first mate without a captain.
Crocodile stared at him for a long moment, and then he laughed again. “There’s a mouth on you, kid. Whatever you lost, you still got that.”
Deuce laughed with him, well aware that he’s started to visibly sweat. “Hahah! Well. Ace’s ghost would probably be jeering at me from the afterlife if I lost that, sir. B-but please. I wanna hear it.”
“What I learned over 14 years as a government dog, pushing everyone away from me and trying to change the world all by myself—” Crocodile smiled a long, broad, thin smile and gestured at him with his hook. “It’s that being numb is a hell of a lot worse than hurting.”
“….” Deuce fell quiet for a moment, as he turned that over in his mind. Crocodile was a man who had been a pirate since Deuce was a kid, living a life he didn’t care to remember, a wealth of experience in a way.
“I’ll try to remember that, sir.” Deuce gave him a small smile. “You don’t need to toss me overboard, alright?”
“Good,” he nodded firmly at him. “I know you’re gonna be hurting for a long time.”
He had that right. Deuce knew this wound would never heal. It didn’t matter how many years passed— he’d always feel the burning loss of Ace in his heart. He smiled weakly at him. “Long as I have to. At least long enough to make it to his grave, wherever Shanks buries him.”
“Good man.” Crocodile stood heavily and thumped around the table, putting his hand on Deuce’s shoulder. “I don’t know what your captain would have wanted for you, but if you keep going, maybe you can do something for him, or for yourself, before you go his way.”
Deuce looked up at him with a thin smile.
“…you’re right. At the very least I gotta do something, right?” He chuckled a little under his breath. “Thanks, Sir Crocodile. Thanks for making sure I didn’t slip into the abyss just yet.”
“If I don’t get to miserably go yet, neither should you, eh? I’ll check up on you.”
Deuce raised the empty bottle to the man with a nod. “I’ll be sure to regale you with a story when you do, Crocodile.”