beyond the time

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

Nami used to fear it as a child—looking into the mirror and not seeing her mother’s dark eyes staring back at her. Not the slight cleft of her sister’s chin carved into her own (no matter how much she made fun of Nojiko for it). She never had to look far for what really anchored the three of them together, what bound them more than any blood ties or sentimentality or one guilty soldier.

She loved them with every last breath, and a legacy is not all blood and bone. The sparkle of Nami’s eyes, the pitch of her laugh when she’s particularly prideful—that’s all Bellemere.

[and besides—Nami doesn’t know what she’d do now if she looked in the mirror to see Bellemere staring back at her through her features]

Nami isn’t vain [she knows she’s a babe, there’s a difference], doesn’t examine her skin every night under a magnifying glass, will never stretch the skin of the corners of her eyes with her fingertips to check the elasticity.

Her skin is glowing, her body is gorgeous, her hair is lush—

There’s a glint there that is distinctly Not orange. Now the navigator does rush to the mirror, sunlight streaming in her hair, yes, like Sanji croons about, yes, but also—there’s a bristle-y, coarse silver strand on the crown of her hair.

Nami chokes back a sound between a howl of anguish and a peal of hysterical laughter, lets her chair be swept to the floor, stands, shaking before the mirror.

“They’ve done it….” The navigator and cat burglar utters softly. “They’ve finally done it.”

“Done what?” Pipes up the all too familiar, and curious, voice of her captain. Nami finally does let out a scream and nearly takes him out with an instinctive punch.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come in here?” She hisses right back, pushing her fingers through her hair Not in a manner to gain comfort for herself, okay. “You’re not allowed in here.”

Luffy digs his finger so far into his nose that Nami has an inkling where his brain went. “Wanted to know if you want some toast.”

The redhead perks up. Curious, despite herself. There is no Sanji twirling in here with any toast on a platter, so that in itself is strange. Nami lowers her arm, takes a shaking breath.

“That’s, thanks, but no I’m—”

“Good,” Luffy, as he does in all matters of life, barrels right on through, “cause the toaster blew up and now some stuff’s on fire.”

A telling, horrific scream cuts through the air like one of Sanji’s feet. Nami doesn’t have time for any more lamenting, but if she did, she’d blame them, once again, for these gray hairs.

If she’s fully gray by the time he’s Pirate king, she’s going to be the foxiest there is.