Chapter Text
The Spade Pirates had gotten better.
Ace could say that with confidence now—not the blind bravado he’d once mistaken for certainty, but the quieter kind that settled into your bones after you survived long enough to earn it.
They were stronger. Sharper. More coordinated. Their ship bore the marks of real battles now: patched planks, reinforced rails, scorch marks that hadn’t quite sanded out no matter how hard someone tried. The ship beneath his feet wasn’t the Spadille—that one had burned long ago—but the replacement had earned its place the hard way, plank by plank, until it felt just as much like home.
Their name carried weight in ports that had once barely glanced their way, and Ace’s bounty had climbed high enough that Skull had started complaining loudly about how inconvenient it was to be worth that much money.
“Do you know how hard it is to enjoy a drink when everyone keeps staring at us like they’re mentally calculating our worth?” Skull grumbled, leaning back against a crate as they unloaded supplies.
“They’re admiring us,” Banshee said brightly. “It’s the natural result of excellence.”
“They’re admiring him,” Skull shot back, jerking a thumb toward Ace. “You and I are just collateral damage.”
Ace laughed, easy and unguarded, the sound carrying over the dock. “You’re both overthinking it. If anyone’s staring, it’s because Skull’s shirt is inside out again.”
Skull looked down. “…Son of a—”
Banshee dissolved into laughter.
Ace grinned, warmth blooming in his chest as he watched them. This—this—was what he’d fought for. Not power. Not recognition.
Just this loose, living thing they’d built together, held together by trust and shared danger and a stubborn refusal to sink.
They’d taken down a minor slaver ring two islands back, routed a mercenary crew that had been terrorizing trade routes, and left behind enough grateful townsfolk that the Spades’ reputation had begun to shift. Less reckless rookies, more rising threat. Ace had felt it in the way other captains watched him now—careful, measuring.
He was proud of them. Quietly so.
“Captain.”
Ace turned at the sound of Deuce’s voice and immediately found himself staring down a clipboard like it was a weapon.
“You’re blocking the inventory count,” Deuce said flatly. “Again.”
Ace blinked. “I am?”
“Yes. You are standing directly in front of the medical supplies.”
“Oh.” Ace shuffled a step to the side. Then another. “…Better?”
Deuce sighed, long-suffering and fond all at once. “You know, most captains delegate.”
“Most captains don’t trust their first mate to tell them when they’re being annoying,” Ace shot back, flashing a grin.
“I tell you constantly.”
“And I listen selectively.”
Skull snorted. “He’s grown, though. Remember when he fell off the ship 3 times in a row because he kept trying to look over the railing and somehow lost his balance 'because the wind was targeting him'?”
“That was one time,” Ace protested.
“That was every time,” Banshee corrected.
Ace raised his hands in surrender, laughter still clinging to him. He felt… good. Lighter than he had in a long while. The past was still there—he didn’t think it would ever not be—but it no longer felt like something actively dragging him under.
Even that—even Whitebeard—had settled into something bearable.
He didn’t know if he’d ever forgive the months of pressure, the isolation, the way choice had been slowly and deliberately eroded until joining had felt inevitable. That kind of thing didn’t vanish just because apologies were offered or terms were renegotiated.
But they were on speaking terms now. Careful ones. Distant. Ace had made his boundaries clear, and for once, they’d been respected. It wasn’t peace, exactly—but it was no longer war.
That was enough.
“Captain!” someone called from further down the dock. “The portmaster says we’ve got clearance through tomorrow morning.”
Ace nodded, already shifting into motion.
“Good. Make sure we’re stocked by sundown. I don’t want to linger.”
Deuce shot him a look. “You just said you weren’t in the way.”
Ace grinned again and stepped back another pace.
That was when he saw the hat.
It was ridiculous—dark black, tilted just so, topped with bright blue goggles that caught the sun when the man turned his head. It stood out against the muted tones of the port like it had no business being there.
Ace’s feet stopped moving.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with an easy confidence Ace recognized in his bones. Blond hair caught the light, curling out from beneath the brim as he laughed at something said by a man beside him.
Ace’s chest tightened.
That’s what Sabo probably would’ve looked like.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and immediate, so suddenly stealing the breath from his lungs before he could stop it.
Grown. Alive.
Ace looked away so fast it almost hurt, heat flooding his face at the sheer audacity of his own mind. He dragged in a breath, then another, grounding himself in the sounds of the dock—the shouts, the creak of wood, the familiar voices of his crew.
Grief was a liar. He knew that. It wore familiar faces and whispered impossibilities when you weren’t watching closely enough.
He told himself that was all this was.
Still, his hands trembled faintly at his sides.
“Captain?” Deuce asked, quieter this time.
“You alright?”
Ace forced a smile, one he’d practiced enough that it came easily. “Yeah. Just—thought I saw someone I knew.”
Deuce studied him for a moment longer than strictly necessary, then nodded. “We’ll be done soon.”
Ace nodded back and moved, deliberately, into the flow of work. He focused on the weight of crates, the rhythm of orders given and followed, the solid presence of the Spades around him.
He didn’t look back.
__________________________________________
Across the dock, Sabo frowned.
He wasn’t sure why the sight of the man turning away bothered him. He’d clocked the stare immediately—too intense to be accidental—but instead of the usual prickle of suspicion, there’d been something else in it.
Grief.
Sabo shifted his grip on the satchel at his side, unease settling low in his gut. He told himself it was nothing. Ports were full of strange looks and stranger people.
Still, as he continued on his way, he couldn’t shake the thought that there was something deeply wrong about the expression he’d seen on the stranger’s face.
Like it belonged to someone who had already lost him.