You can't call out for Marco on the Whitebeard ship. It's impossible with the jokesters aboard. Example:
You huff, twirling in your spot on the deck of the Moby Dick, eyes scanning faces again. The thought that, if you just look you'll find your favorite, loving bird in the crowd.
But no, he isn't here, at least at far as you know. So, you do the one thing you know that will get him here just from sheer annoyance.
The punishment would be worth it after all.
Everyone dissolves into laughter, even you can't stop a giggle or two from slipping out.
A tired sigh cuts through it all, and rising out from the belly of the ship a wash rag in hand, Marco.
The bags under his eyes look exaggerated in the light, his skin paler than usual from working on the patients from the recent attack. Pirates and Marines alike thinking they could actually challenge and win against the Whitebeard Pirates.
But his eyes find yours, crinkling with a sweetness reserved only for you. "You needed me?"
Ace cuts in before you can answer, his fire dancing on his shoulder from his excitement. "You fell for it again!" He claps Marco on the back, "They should call you more often, it's hilarious!"
"And a tired joke. I swear you're just a five-year-old in a twenty-year-old body." Marco shakes his head. "Now, Little Flame," His nickname for you warms your chest, "What do you need?"
"Oh, nothing to serious, just a checkup on my arm. I think it's broken." You use your working arm to hold up the limp one. Blood is dripping from deep cuts all over it, and it slumps lower than it should where your shoulder and arm connect.
The crew falls silent a second time, wide eyes and worry filling the air.
Marco explodes into his half-phoenix form, barreling towards you. "What!!"
