Chapter Text
It happened all too fast, all too suddenly.
Buggy was sleeping peacefully inside the cabin when he heard footsteps, and without meaning to, he grabbed his dagger beneath the pillow and lunged at whoever snuck inside.
It was the boy from the band of thieves—Rosi, if Buggy remembered correctly.
"—I'm sorry— I just want to eat something—" the boy stammered, bangs brushed to the side, and Buggy could clearly see dark circles around his eyes. "Please don't hurt me!"
Buggy just realised he had the boy's neck around his fingers with a dagger pointed towards his cheek. One wrong move and the boy would be dead.
He had never hurt someone—well, at least intentionally. Both Buggy and Shanks had always hidden when another pirate attacked Oro Jackson, too young to fight and too young to know blood.
Buggy released his fingers, and the boy coughed as he turned to his side. He wheezed as he struggled to catch his breath.
Buggy felt bad. He scratched his cheeks and murmured. "So, do you still want to eat?"
It had been years since Doflamingo slept so soundly.
His mind still couldn't register anything that had happened last night, so he yawned as he cranked his neck—he had slept on a blanket he had never seen before. The blanket smelled nice, like fresh laundry. Rosinante, Pica, and Vergo were nowhere to be seen.
"Oh! Doffy!" Rosinante ran to him, lips glistening with something that looked like oil. "I was just about to wake you up."
Doflamingo rose and patted his shoulder. "Where's my coat?"
Rosinante bit his lips. "Well, you threw up on your coat last night, and Buggy just washed it."
Suddenly, a flood of memories washed over him. Last night, chest full of food, a boy with blue hair and a clown nose—.
"Fuck!" Doflamingo turned heavenward and saw smoke billowing from a location near the boat Vergo said yesterday.
He ran towards the smoke, while Rosinante almost stumbled behind him. Doflamingo will check whether his brother was poisoned or not later; now he has a more urgent matter.
How dare that clown embarrass him yesterday like that!
As Doflamingo was nearing the smoke, he smelled a stew. He hadn't smelled fresh food being made in this godforsaken island before, and the sight of Pica and Vergo eating so heathily didn't help either.
Doflamingo felt he was either dead or still dreaming.
"Oh, good, you are awake." The blue-haired boy noticed him, and he took a bowl, offering it to him. "Take your fill, I can make more."
Doflamingo wanted to lunge towards the clown, but his stomach was a traitor.
Buggy felt he ran a charity as he watched the thieves eat like they were at a banquet.
No—they weren't thieves. They were just hungry—well, they had the faces of thieves and acted like one. Buggy decided he didn't care as much as he poured the soup and gave it to Rosinante. All he had on the boat was food and clothes.
He had hidden the quilt and gold quite well, and Buggy doubted they could find it.
"Thank you," Rosinante murmured sheepishly as he took another bread from the plate on the ground.
Well, the bread was almost stale, and the stew he made was only a simple one; it was filled only with jerky and whatever Vergo found on this island. Pica helped Buggy with the fire, and Rosinante shredded the jerky.
"Another." Doflamingo, Rosinante's brother, contributed nothing yet ate like a king.
Buggy wanted to smack him, but he suppressed it. He poured him another as Pica finally burped.
"That was delicious," Pica commented, rubbing his stomach. "Thank you."
Buggy found himself smiling at that. When all of them lay on their back, he cleared his throat. "Okay, payback time."
Doflamingo was the first to react; he almost took something from his coat—to take a pistol there, Buggy was sure, forgetting the coat was wet and hung on a clothesline on his boat— when Buggy raised his hand. "I'm not asking for money. I just want to find someone."
Rosinante perked up, hand holding his brother's sleeve. "Who?"
"Did this person do something to you?" Pica looked at Doflamingo.
Doflamingo sat with his legs crossed, clearly disliking the idea of paying up. "Vergo knew everyone on this island. Just say who you want to find, and we will deliver you to their place. Consider this a payment for washing my coat."
"And for the food." Rosinante hastily added. Doflamingo looked at him crossly.
Buggy ignored Doflamingo and turned to Vergo, who had a piece of potato stuck on his cheek. "Do you know a person named Al here?"
Vergo had his mouth open, and for a moment, Buggy wasn't sure he was sleeping or daydreaming until Pica nudged him, and Vergo quickly said. "No one has a name like that in here."
"Are you sure?" Buggy raised his eyebrow.
He knew he might chase a ghost, but knowing and hearing the truth was a different matter altogether. It felt like a stone sat in his stomach.
Vergo nodded, and the stone felt heavier. "There was someone named Aldia, but he was a babe and died last year because of fever."
Buggy wanted to cry.
Buggy spent his day searching for Al.
He knocked every door he encountered, asking everyone he found and ran away when people looked at his slightly nicer clothes.
By the time he knew it, he had spent four days walking around this island; his feet sore and his heart wrung dry, so Buggy hid himself under the mound of garbage.
He felt like garbage anyway; it was a fitting place for him. Buggy had promised his mother he would find this Al. Banchina, Katiya, Montgomery, and Merry prayed for his success, a story of his adventure.
Could Buggy return to Syrup Village and bring an empty story? He wanted to make them proud of him, of what he had accomplished; he couldn't imagine their reactions if they knew Buggy had failed.
(You are always a failure, anyway. The voice in his head whispered. People wouldn't be too surprised when they heard, right?
Shut up. Buggy wanted to scream.
Well, your old crew knew you were a failure, anyway. The voice was persistent, and its cold voice crept into his heart. That was why they left you in the first place, remember?
SHUT UP .
Oh, poor clown. You could never amount to anything, you know that, right? It was better to stop now. You, of all people, would know how much you are worth.
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP !)
"What a funny sight, a clown moping in a dump," Doflamingo's voice was calling behind him, and Buggy kept hugging his knees. "I should bring Rosi to see this. I bet he would laugh so hard he pissed himself."
"Leave me alone," Buggy growled. Almost considering hitting Doflamingo just once.
Doflamingo and his crew were constant companions for the last four days, always bringing meat for him to cook. Buggy could only cook a simple meal, and most of the food they ate was stew.
All of them seemed to like it, but Trebol—the last member of Doflamingo's crew— disliked him for a reason Buggy couldn't comprehend. But, well, Trebol was a creep, so Buggy dismissed him.
"Why do you persistently want to find this person, anyway?" He sat beside him.
Buggy had never said the reason he wanted to found Al. He just said he needed to. But he was at his wits' end.
"It was the last thing my mother asked of me." He let out a shaky breath, shoulders almost trembled. "I just—I don't know. She died when I was so young, I couldn't even remember her face or voice anymore. This Al might be the only one who knew my mother."
The dam was broken, and Buggy was rambling. Doflamingo was the last person he thought would understand, but no one was here, and they weren't that close anyway. After Buggy left this island, they might not see each other, so he let his feelings out.
"One night we ate together and she sang to me, and the next morning she was just—gone. I know nothing of her; what kind of flowers did she like—or if she liked flowers at all." Buggy hit his head against his knees. "She came to me in dreams, you know. And still, I couldn't remember her; her smiles, her nose, her eyes. Everything was a blank, and all I knew was that she had blonde hair. She sacrificed everything for me, and I couldn't even know her name—because all I knew was that she was my mother for four years."
His knees were damp, and Buggy felt that his nose was clogged. Buggy looked up and saw Doflamingo just sitting still beside him, looking up at the evening sky.
Buggy poured his heart out; he could at least pretend to care.
He rubbed his eyes quickly.
"You could ask Trebol," Doflamingo finally said. "He was older, so he might know something."
"He was a creep." Buggy wiped his nose. "And he didn't like me."
Doflamingo turned to him. "He will if I tell him to."
It was the most helpful he had been since Buggy stepped onto this island.
"No one with that name here as far as I knew," Trebol huffed as he inhaled the stew.
At this point, Buggy didn't care anymore.
"But," Trebol munched with his mouth open. It was disgusting. "If you give me a location, I might find this person. Doffy asked me specifically, I wouldn't dare to disobey."
Buggy thought for a second—he didn't want to show them the denden number. Of all of them here, he trusted Rosinante more, but he was clumsy and useless. In the end, he gave Trebol the coordination he had written with Katiya and Banchina.
Trebol studied the paper and raised his brow. "You came to the wrong island."
Buggy almost leaned after hearing that. "That can't be. It was the island that the coordination gave. I can't be reading the map wrong."
Trebol was munching away again. "The island on the coordinates had moved."
"How could that be?" Rosinante asked, placing his bowl on the ground beside the fire. "Islands don't move on their own, right?"
"You are right, Rosi," Trebol gulped down. "There was a massive earthquake, like, twelve years ago, and Downs moved a little. The original island was moved away. It wasn't like everyone could go there, anyway."
"What do you mean?" Doflamingo finally found his voice. He hadn't talked much since the evening.
"Well," Trebol drawled. "That island wasn't that far from here originally, and many people thought that place was greener, and they tried to go there, but no one could. They either drowned or washed ashore, back to this island."
"Is that the witch's island?" Pica tilted his head.
"I thought that was just a myth," Vergo added. His bowl attached itself to his cheek. Buggy had to wonder how.
"It wasn't a myth." Trebol burped. "That island is always shrouded in fog, and you can only see it when the moon is full."
Buggy turned his head heavenward. The moon was full, shining, and inviting.
"You could at least leave your boat here," Vergo criticised. "If you died, I could have your clothes."
Buggy smacked his shoulder. "If I die, I will haunt you."
Doflamingo clicked his tongue, hands on his pocket. "If you didn't die, my crew could always use a clown."
"In your dream, you bird fucker." With a laugh, Buggy set sail in the direction Trebol gave him. He just needed to sail straight.
Trebol said the island wasn't that far away, but it took Buggy almost three hours to see the island. Just as that creep said, the island was shrouded in fog, but as Buggy came closer, the fog dissipated, and all Buggy could see was light.
It was still nighttime, just past midnight, seeing the stars still shone brightly above him, but the island was so bright—it felt like the island didn't know night all its life.
When the boat stopped, Buggy disembarked and felt the cold water and soft sand under his feet. The water was crystal clear blue, and the wind gently caressed his cheeks.
His eyes were already puffed since evening, but without knowing why, Buggy felt his tears come unbiddenly; the air smelled sweet—honeysuckle, the first rain in the evening, home.
Buggy hunched over his back, tears streaming down his cheeks as he laughed—hard, wholeheartedly, happy.
"Mom, I'm here." Buggy held his necklace, breath hitched. "I'm home, Mom."
Buggy didn't know how much time he spent there, his body half-drenched from seawater, and his forehead never left the sand, but the soft crunch of footsteps on the sand made him look up.
In front of him stood a young woman; her black hair was tousled by the wind, and her eyes held a sadness that Buggy almost could taste. "Hello, little seastar. I have missed you so."
The woman led her towards the forest to a small cottage Buggy knew too well.
It was the same cottage where he and his mother lived.
Everything was the same; the kitchen, the dark brown wooden walls with a single door, a few small round windows and a thatched straw roof. The only difference was that a small crib was placed beside the bed.
"I know you had so many questions, little seastar," the woman said as she sat on the chair. Buggy settled himself across from her. "Ask me, and I will answer it."
"Are you Al?" was the first thing he asked.
She chuckled, and a wave of nostalgia washed over her. "My name is Marjorie, but your mother had a lisp, and she called me Al to oversimplify it."
Buggy bit his inner cheeks, couldn't even believe what he had heard. He had been searching for her for so long, and had her sitting here, in the house that looked similar to his felt—unreal. "Do you—"
Buggy had a list of everything he wanted to ask when he found Al, but now, everything was forgotten. He couldn't even know where to ask.
"You must be hungry," Al bounced slightly on her toes, words tumbling out too fast. "I made some stew—shellfish, I hope you don't mind it. I gathered some yesterday, and foolish me always prepared a portion too much; a habit, I think."
She worked fast, and in no time, Buggy had a bowl of stew—again. He was still full, but rejecting her felt wrong, so Buggy took a spoonful and ate it.
His eyes shimmered as he tasted the stew. "It tasted like mom used to make."
"Veda learnt it from me," She hesitated, breath stalling at her lips. "She would always follow behind me and nag, asking me to teach her. She was persistent, you know."
Al's eyes lingered on the space where he'd sat, as if she saw someone else sitting and eating her food. "Is that my mother's name? Veda?"
The name felt foreign in his tongue, and Buggy wanted to get it right.
"Aye," she touched her fingers. "I'm sorry, it had been too long since I talked to another person—"
"Can you tell me about her?" Buggy almost hesitated. "I assume you know more than I do."
"Of course!" Al almost sounded too excited. "Where to begin—uh, Veda and I have lived on this island since we were children. She loves to sleep under the tree and swim; sometimes she falls asleep while floating on the sea. I was afraid the wave would take her, but Veda always knew where the tide turned—"
Buggy didn't know his mother loved to swim, but he had long since forgotten the stew and listened to Al's stories as if his life depended on it. He wouldn't—couldn't miss anything.
"She had amazing aim—we discovered it when Veda tried to catch a bird when she was five, and then that person used her abilities—" She opened her mouth, closed it, then bit her lips. "Do you know you looked so much like her, little seastar?"
There was something she hid, but Buggy didn't know her, and he still wanted to hear more about his mother. "Did I?"
Al rose and walked towards him, knelt and cupped his cheek with both hands, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Like two peas in a pod."
She turned and took something from the cupboard behind her. A frame was carefully hidden under her clothes, and she gave it to Buggy.
It was a scene he knew well. Buggy dreamed it only once, but he knew it by heart; a young girl sat in a garden full of wildflowers in purples, blues, oranges, reds, and whites. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in gentle waves, as if dancing in the breeze, as she gently rocked a bundle in her arms.
The babe had a round red nose, bright blue hair, ruddy cheeks, and a trail of tears, while the girl smiled into the camera; the girl had clear blue eyes with freckles scattered around her nose and cheeks. Ladybugs were everywhere in this picture.
"You were around two months old when we took the picture," Al explained. "Veda almost named you Ladybugs, you know. She loved them; they bring good luck, she always says. And she wanted you to have luck all of your life."
Buggy traced the picture, trying to burn mother's face to his memory so he would never forget it. He sucked his breath.
"You must be tired, Buggy." Al's voice was soft, and she felt so far away. "Feel free to use the bed, I will moor your boat."
With a pat on his shoulder, Al left.
His mother was so young, so beautiful, and so kind.
He hugged the frame tightly, never wanting to let go. His heart felt tight, and Buggy was crying again.
There were so many things he wanted to ask Al.
Why didn't she go with them? Why didn't she save mother? Did she love mother? What happened to them, to mother? If Buggy never returned to the house, will Buggy never know about mother, about Al?
Why did she let mother die?
It kept playing inside his head until it hurt, and Buggy had to drag himself to the bed, sleeping while holding the frame close to his heart.
(Little Buggy and his mother, Veda. This picture was commissioned, please don't use it without permission❤️❤️)