[ Once again, he's stricken dumb and frozen in place by the vehemence in her tone; she's not angry, not at him, which is confusing and surprising. Even years later, it muddles the lessons inside of him — the comfort of the Whitebeard pirates and their love already a distant thing he'd spend more time being lost to than ever having ( by killing them in piles and heaps and droves just because they wouldn't let him GO; by dying, insulting all their hard work and mocking their devotion and loyalty forever — ), and the way some people were just hardwired to care.

What can she do, though?

The question sits tense and sickly inside of him, a kernel of resentment that he's done his best not to taunt or feed: why does he have to feel this way? Why was he brought back, if only to feel like this? To have to think about how miserable his end was, how miserable his life was save for a few shining moments where he'd been happy and loved and free. What was it worth, if this is what he has now? A foreign world he can't chase his dreams in, can't see his brother in, has to imagine that — if he wins, if he goes back... won't he just be dead again? And if so, what's the point? ]

I don't, [ he sounds smaller, younger. A twenty-year old kid who'd already died violently and is trying to outrun everything that that means. ] Know. I don't know.

[ His mouth quivers, momentarily. The bravado's a lie, apparently. ]

I guess, we could be friends? Until whatever happens, happens? That'd be nice. I don't really... have anything else I could ask for.