Chapter Text
He had been flying for multiple days straight now. How many days? How many hours? That didn’t exactly matter at this point. Regardless of how much time had officially passed, it was enough to have his brain feel like he was trudging through thick mud. In the beginning he kept track but at this point all higher thought and functioning went to staying aloft.
Marco couldn't remember the last time he was this exhausted.
Actually, yes he could. It was last week, when Haruta jumped on Ace and he woke up and exploded into a bonfire so large he nearly burnt down the ship. Or was it when Vista got too drunk and challenged his own reflection on the water and nearly drowned? Come to think of it, Whitebeard arguing for finding Shanks or Garp to spar because he was bored was pretty up there too. Being a pirate may be an occupational hazard, but sometimes Marco felt his family really gave fate and fortune a run for their money. Like a never ending game of blackjack and poker, except none of them are even using the right cards, Ace is asleep face down on his deck, Izo used the edge of one to do his eyeliner, and everyone involved is cheating.
Marco paused midair. Either my devil fruit extends to my nerves, or they have stopped existing. Carefully shifting, he pulled Pops’ vivre card from where he had tucked it between his talons and sighed in relief when it tugged downward instead of forward. Thank god. His mind had been starting to turn to mud with how exhausted he was, thoughts slurred and slow. He had taken to gliding as much as possible on ocean winds, but he hadn’t passed over an island he could rest at for nearly the entire trip. With the Moby in sight he was only getting slower. The end was literally so close he could taste the sleep he was going to get.
Mind fuzzy, he absentmindedly dived. He was getting close enough to begin hearing his family talking on deck, but he didn't have enough energy to actually listen. I’m going to take a nap so long it’ll be a coma. I’m going to build a fucking nest out of blankets and pillows, lock the doors, and—
“—Shit, Marco!”
Marco’s eyes shot open in time to catch sight of Whitebeard’s back, way too close. Squawking, he threw his wings out, frantically scrabbling to slow down. Multiple people shouted in alarm and he vaguely registered that he accidentally smacked someone with a wing and froze in place, stuck between trying to stop or possibly bludgeoning his siblings. He hadn't realized just how close he had gotten nor how fast he was going, too involved in his daydreaming of taking a damn nap– oh my god—
Whitebeard’s eyes met his, just as surprised, and then Marco kind of lost track of what happened next. Gravity seemed to invert and he couldn't help the startled chirp that escaped him when all his momentum suddenly jerked around. His head spun. All he could really grasp at the moment was that he suddenly wasn’t moving forward.
Eventually, thing’s stopped spinning enough for him to pry a wing off his face from where they had been flung around and dazedly looked around. He could hear some people groaning around him, but no one sounded badly injured. He hadn't gotten hurt to heal either. Marco’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was actually rather comfortable, warm on all sides. His wings had folded inward some to avoid tripping people up but it definitely wasn't him who did it, considering how jelly like every limb felt now that he wasn’t flying. A quiet laugh made him jump and he finally looked up.
Whitebeard smiled down at him, one large eyebrow high on his face. “Good morning, son,” he rumbled teasingly.
Marco blinked once, twice.
Whitebeard looked him over, a tiny glint of worry entering his eyes when Marco didn't respond. “You alright, son?” He shifted to better check him over and Marco finally registered the heat around him as one of Whitebeard’s massive arms. He was effectively stuck in place, all momentum canceled.
Thatch broke the silence to burst out laughing.
“You— I can't believe you just caught him like that!” Marco just stared, unable to drag together the level of conscious awareness needed at the moment to puzzle out what the hell just happened. “You just— just whipped around, and the look on your face!” Thatch was near shaking with laughter, pointing at Marco as if watching the funniest thing in the world.
Ignoring Thatch howling, Marco slowly looked down.
He was completely off the floor. No part of him was touching it, not with the way Whitebeard had him. His talons were still open, angled to catch and grip and he carefully curled them in to avoid goring Pops. It was a fairly thoughtless move, considering they weren’t exactly anywhere near the man. Whitebeard had preemptively angled his body to face away from him, leaving his claws swinging far away from where they theoretically should have swung up in his canceling momentum and stabbed straight into the captain’s gut.
The other arm was still wrapped firmly around him, comfortable and warm, as familiar as it was when—
Marco blinked again. And again.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he finally hissed in disbelief, “I’m not a child!” He immediately began fighting to be let down, flapping his wings furiously. He could feel his face burning and flared up his flames in a useless attempt to hide them. He dissolved his talons back into feet in order to try and scrambled for a better foothold.
A part of him already knew from experience that no amount of struggling or tantrums was going to be enough to get Whitebeard to release him. He was proven right when Whitebeard only moved his free hand away from his legs in order to gently press his flailing wings back down against him. He flushed darkly at the idea of being squished into place like a misbehaving pigeon and wondered, briefly, if it was still too below him in his sleep-addled state to bite.
Whitebeard only chortled helplessly, barely needing to move at all to keep Marco in place with ease. “It’s been so long since I last got to hug my son like this,” he commented happily. “Won’t you humor an old man?”
Marco shrieked loudly in response, nearly drowned out by the explosive laughter around them. Thatch was almost screaming with it, and Ace had appeared on deck at some point, clearly having just been woken up by the noise.
“What’s going on?” Their youngest asked, visibly startled.
“Marcos feathers got ruffled,” Haruta giggled. Thatch was incomprehensible at this point.
“Can’t he just… fly away?”
“Not with my experience,” Whitebeard piped up proudly. He ignored Marco flailing in his arms and acted like he didn’t hear the shouts of “Pops, I swear” and “No! We don’t talk about that!” In order to gesture carefully at his first mate still wisely pinned in his arms. “I used to do this when Marco was still a baby bird.” He laughed loudly and Marco practically vibrated with it. “I guess it’s become muscle memory even after so long!”
Marco finally stopped struggling, sacrificing trying to escape to instead bring up his arms to shield his face. “It was a very long time ago,” he protested weakly. “You shouldn’t still be able to– Why do you even remember?” He glared when Whitebeard just chuckled at him. “Let me down pops, I just want to sleep.”
“Go ahead,” Whitebeard said. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
Marco scowled when the man made no move to put him down and just got another quieter laugh in response. “What? It really has been a long time Marco. Let me reminisce for a while.”
Giving up, Marco sighed loudly. He finally canceled out his powers in order to better slump against whitebeard, letting the man lift his hand up without dealing with a blue wing smacking him in the jaw.
“Wake me in an hour or two,” he paused, “three.”
“How about four?”
“Yes.”
Careful now not to laugh too loud, whitebeard sat down and made himself comfortable. He beckoned Ace and Thatch over when he saw the cook finally catching his breath and gestured for them to sit. A glance at Marco confirmed the zoan was out for the count near immediately after settling down.
“So,” he started, grinning mischievously. “You brats want to hear how I learned to do that?”