This is my second story for the OPbigbang event! This time I'm spreading some love to the fire crotches. Thank you to Bea for running this event, a huge ass eggtastic thanks to Sigrid for being my beta! I really appreciate it! Check out the most amazing art ever from my partner for this bb, atashiwatashi~ THANK YOU SARAH. I'll post links to it on my profile as soon as I have them! This first started out as a birthday fic for the hoe, so you - I know youre reading this - better enjoy it.

I.

"You must be one unlucky son of a gun."

Marco groaned, cradling his head with his hand, his eyes tightly shut. Fuck, that hurt; why did the minimum weight for text books seem to be a ton? It was bad enough on the rare occasion where a person accidentally dropped it on their foot and would never talk about it again, but being smacked in the head with one - fuck.

Had he passed out? He could feel himself already on the ground instead of his desk, but the air was hot and humid. They'd tried taking him outside? Had he been outside? Wait, he did know his own name right? It was better to double check.

"Hey, you alright? Blondie." For some reason, whoever it was hovering around felt the need to extend the nickname. They also had the nerve to prod at his cheek, as if that would answer their question.

Marco's hand shoved theirs away and gestured them off. "What happened, yoi?"

It wasn't like he didn't know, he remembered quite clearly the book coming straight for his head. Mostly it was the reason why that he wanted to know. Had it been an accident? Though, he highly doubted that for some reason considering it's angle. Who was the student who had done it, perhaps there was a reason he felt like taking his professor out?

"Well," the disembodied voice started, taking a deep breath in a universal signal that this was going to be good. "Some bastard came out of here like a bat outta hell, whipped his bottle around and smacked you right on your britches."

The country was strong in this one. "What?" Marco breathed in near disbelief, pulling himself up.

He didn't understand any of that. Well, no, he did, but that made no sense whatsoever. What kind of prank was this? He opened his eyes, glaring ahead unamused at this sort of tease, but his expression quickly shifted to one of confusion. This wasn't a student and this wasn't the university by any means.

For one, this man was shirtless, and, unless Marco had an earlier birthday he didn't know about coming up, he was pretty sure that he? didn't follow any sort of dress code. The man was grinning, bringing a mug to his mouth and gulping a few mouthfuls of something down. The professor was speechless. Half naked, wearing a cowboy hat that matched the accent, red beads and a gun on his hip- a gun?

The stranger must've seen Marco's body unintentionally tense, as his face softened and he indiscreetly sized Marco up. Then he gestured to the gun in the holster.

"Don't you worry about this. You've got bigger problems." He pointed at Marco's face. "That's gonna leave a mark."

What the hell was happening here? Marco shifted in his seat, hissing when his fingers brushed against the wood he where he was situated.

The wannabe Texas Ranger across from him just laughed. "Can't take you anywhere, can we?"

Irritated with his comments, Marco jerked his hand back to himself and looked away, his eyes widening at the sight. This was definitely no part of the campus. The sky was so blue ahead of them. It spanned and wrapped around a scenery of burnt orange and browns, scattered green plants and cacti, and mountains. Marco wasn't in Kansas anymore. The desert? How the hell was he in the desert?

He was up on his feet in moments, old wooden boards wailing under him as he moved to the end of the decked platform they were sheltered on, peeking around its corner. His heart raced. This was like - no it definitely was - identical to a western set from old movies, or pictures in cowboy books. There were scattered buildings built in a row, small alleyways in between them, dawning signs. From what Marco could read, squinting now that the sun was directly on him, a Trading post, Bank and Hotel among other things.

Stunned, he turned back around and stepped into the shade, his eyes hesitantly moving to see the swinging doors and the sign. So they were at a saloon? No. This made no sense. He was a professor at a university, not some cowboy. Why was he here suddenly? He didn't sign up for anything like this. Had he gone back in time? Damn, that just sounded stupid and embarrassing to even ponder.

The blond's eyes shifted back to the half naked man stretching and pulling himself up like a cat that had just finished napping. This couldn't have been the past. Men didn't dress like that then, nor were they so physically polished. Not that this was the time to focus on that stuff, Marco.

The guy yawned, taking a step toward Marco and moving his thumb to rest at his belt line, close to the gun. "On a scale from one to ten, how not from around here are you exactly, blondie? You seem a little lost."

That was an understatement. If Marco really was in the past he shouldn't interact with people though should he? He could mess up the whole space and time - whatever the hell they say in science fiction shit, right?

"Don't beat yourself up about it, I get lost sometimes, this one time I was fixin to find-"

"What year is it?" Marco blurted out, not finding it in himself to feel bad about interrupting the guy's story.

The cowboy hesitated, caught off guard by his words, before scratching at the back of his neck. "Shit, I dunno. I just know which day's my birthday, and I count from there. Check the paper."

Marco ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't have time to go find a newspaper and verify it, dammit, he needed to know even the tiniest bit about what was happening here. Was he really in the past or was this one huge prank? Either way, it wasn't fun in the least bit. So, he would have to try and confirm this with a different method.

"Do you know what a television is, yoi?"

"A tele-what?" Perhaps he was just good at acting.

"A computer?"

For some reason the guy looked uncomfortable, parting his lips, but then deciding to wait a few more moments to gather his thoughts. "You're seeing double, ain't you?"

No, he wasn't crazy! He was fine, he was himself, he was just in the freaking Wild West . Well, wait, he was himself, wasn't he? Marco never turned to the closet window faster in his life, checking himself out in the slight reflection there. His eyes were still his own, he looked like himself, all his hair was there... But these weren't his clothes. Had someone dressed him when they decided to drop him into this sort of hell hole?

Marco took a step back, looking down at his chest and the unusual attire that clothed his body. His blood ran cold. What the hell was this? Quickly, he grabbed the two sides of his shirt, which had been ripped down the center and held it close over his exposed chest. It didn't work out however, since it wouldn't fit even if it hadn't been ruined. It wasn't that Marco was self conscious or anything like that, it was the fact not ten minutes had passed and here he was nearly just as half naked as the other guy.

The weather was just hot, that was it, it wasn't his face, certainly not when he turned to look back at the other guy, who was watching perplexed.

"You're a strange guy, aren't you?" A smile returned on his face and he gave a huff of a laugh. "What's your name anyway?"

Marco wasn't strange, this situation was strange. This guy was strange. The lack of clothes was strange. His hand had found its way back to his forehead where no doubt a small knot had formed, but he dragged it down over his face and sighed. Screw the space and time thing, if he ruined the future by talking to this guy, how stable was their future anyway.

"Marco," he answered him, not too enthusiastic about it, noticing how rough his hands seemed to be. The blond raised his chin at a snicker.

"Marco?" It was odd, hearing his name in such an accent, but he dismissed it. The other guy continued to grin in a childlike manner; it was a bit unsettling and not what Marco had been expecting, which made him wary. He also hadn't expected such nice teeth for this time in the past. "Polo."

Oh, come on. Like that wasn't the oldest tease in the book. He was a grown adult and this guy seemed old enough he should know that teases about that stupid game were immature. Which, was that stupid game even around in the old west? Was this really some guy messing around with him? He'd have to remember to look something stupid like this up when he got back home, if he ever did. That was something he definitely didn't want to think about just yet.

Awkwardly, because he figured he should probably at least come off as somewhat polite to the guy with a gun, he forced a half smile at that. Haha, yeah, funny stuff. It was hard to be too sarcastic even in his mind though, the other's smile was too genuine. So figuring he literally had nothing else to do but be clueless and otherwise alone in a different time period, he instead turned to face the guy more.

"You?"

The stranger averted his eyes suspiciously, his hand moving to adjust how he wore his hat. That secretive, huh? Or was that just something people in the Wild West did, keep to themselves even with information such as their names? No, that didn't make any sense at all. The freckled guy did have a gun after all… Was he an outlaw? Well, it wasn't like Marco looked like some sort of sheriff, he didn't have a shirt that could close. Damn, Marco knew how to pick people to stick with, didn't he?

"I'm," The guy paused in his words, pressing his lips together in contemplation, "Portgas."

Marco raised his eyebrow. Why did that sound very, very, familiar? Portagas. It fit so well with what was happening and the Wild West. His brain was sent back to his normal time, just remembering some time when Thatch cornered him in the library for his weekly find and fan boy session. Portgas… and something to do with playing cards.

"Portgas... Ace?"

The guy's eyes widened, surprised. "Oi," His voice was still stuttery it seemed. "What did you say?"

Marco was a bit startled he remembered and had blurted it out himself. Usually things that Thatch had told him tended to go in through one ear and out the other without really sticking, including any history articles about old wanted criminals. But this one, he could remember since, for some reason, the name had always stuck out to him. Portgas Ace. No, that still wasn't right, it was missing something.

"Portgas D Ace?"

Ace was slack jawed, but he shut his mouth and his eyes narrowed. "You ain't as dumb as you look… How do you know that name?"

He wasn't aware he looked dumb. Marco scowled, sighing. Alright, well, if he remembered the guy's name and he was an outlaw with a gun, he needed to approach this calm and rationally. It would really suck if after confirming he was in the Wild West with a famous westerner, he was so quickly shot down. Thatch would never forgive him for not fully enjoying the experience or something along those lines.

The blond gave a half shrug. "I must've overheard it somewhere. Why?" He met his stare. He didn't mean to provoke the guy with the weapon, but at the same time he really wanted to send the message that he knew. Marco just had a bad habit of being a 'as a matter of fact I do know' guy. "Was it a secret, yoi?"

Ace's eyes didn't lose any suspicion just yet, but his shoulders relaxed - as did his hand that may or may not have been going toward his holster. Unexpectedly, his grin returned.

"You know, I think you and me are going to get along just fine."

Marco tensed slightly, watching as Ace moved forward, purposely letting his shoulder and arm bump into his. Crap, why did he feel like he just signed his own Wild West death certificate?

"Come on. Let's go for a walk."

An execution walk, great. Marco turned, watching Ace step off the deck and onto the sand, apprehension crawling up his spine. Unwanted, his mind drifted back to the words of one of his students, Yolo. You only live once. In his mind it was the most modern phrase that probably summed up the Wild West pretty damn well; who was he not to partake?

He stepped down, covering his eyes now that he was fully exposed to the sun. Damn, as expected heat was a big factor around here. Where Ace was leading him through, Marco wasn't sure. He knew he wouldn't, but he really didn't recognize anything familiar about this place to help him map where this town could've been, but, considering the hills and mountains in the distance on both sides, he got the eerie feeling there was a reason, as if they were going for hidden.

The town in itself seemed pretty bare, having only a few main buildings down this road and some others spread out, but it had its handful of people. Some avoided staring at them all together, others greeted Ace in their own country slang. Marco just watched, bewildered. He was turning his head so much it would be sore the next day. Everything was so authentic, so historic. Thatch was going to cry when he heard about this.

"Oi! Thatch! Come out, we have company." Ace was laughing.

What the hell? Had he read his mind? How in the hell did he know Thatch? Unless, that son of a bitch was back in time as well. If he found some kind of genie lamp and decided to drag him back to the Wild West with him, Marco was going to probably kill him, that was for sure.

"Thatch?" he breathed out, his mind trying to think. "Thatch is here?"

Ace looked back at him with his eyebrow raised. "You know Thatch? Well, that explains it then."

The cowboy turned back to the building, cuffing his hands around his mouth to give another hollar. But before he could get in a second yell, the doors squeaked, flying outward from the force of someone's palm.

"Will you stop hollerin' like a pig?" Thatch growled.

It was Thatch, but at the same time it wasn't. The Thatch back home could've been a fanboy of cowboys all he wanted to be, but when it came to an authentic accent he couldn't even when he tried. He didn't see his friend as weak, but something about this one gave off an aura of authenticity and gruff, stereotypical of the Wild West.

So what did that mean? Was this one of Thatch's super old ancestors? How in the hell did the name Thatch stick around long enough to be used in the future as well? Was it... reincarnation? Either way, the small pit of hope that had been brewing with Marco dwindled. So much for hoping somewhere there was a genie wish that could get him back home.

Like a child, Ace laughed and climbed up onto the place's platform, waving Marco over when he stood.

"Hey, have you met this guy?" It was odd, but already it seemed like Ace was proud with his weird guy find. "Listen to how he talks. Say something."

Marco blinked. Ah, the life of being a sideshow.

"Yoi?"

Thatch's eyebrows raised. "Neat." So blunt. "Come on, let's get a drink."

Was this even real? Marco was rubbing at the sore spot on his head again. All of this seemed so weird and didn't make sense. He appeared out of nowhere in a Wild West town and, suddenly, he was friends with some guy he remembered to be an outlaw - there was a copy of his real best friend here, and they were okay with him, as a strange new guy, enough to invite him in for drinks.

He had to be in a coma. It was a realistic explanation. He was on a bed somewhere, wires and tubes hooked up to his face while Thatch hovered over reading history books no doubt.

Well, a drink was a drink, and Marco could use one. This was the Wild West so him declining the offer could easily come across as something suspicious. Especially when he mistakenly already let on he knew who Ace was and, now, Thatch.

Quietly, opting to just continue observing for the time being and remaining quiet as to not reveal he was from the future, he followed the two of them in, trying not to sneeze when he did. Sand and dust everywhere, a real historic experience. At least this saloon seemed well taken care of, only a few chairs at the scattered tables unbalanced. Not that they were going there, not when an authentic bar was in reach.

Thatch slid behind the bar quick to grab his rag to clean some glasses while Ace and Marco sat. Marco still felt a little out of his own skin, but he remained composed, taking the drink that was offered, staring down at it's liquid.

"So where's this one from?" Was that supposed to sound like Marco wasn't the first guy for Ace to bring home?

Both sets of eyes moved onto Marco, the professor meeting them with his blank expression. There went his plan of remaining mostly silent and hoping they didn't question much. But of course, how could that have worked out for him when unintentionally he'd become like a new toy?

"I'm from…" He restated the question at first, swallowing thickly. He could probably say anything and get away with it. "I'm from... Disney Land." It was the first thing to come to mind, alright?

Marco was actually glad no one from his time was around to know how lame of an answer that was, but if it worked and they believed it; who was he to say anything else? He watched the two men exchange glances.

Thatch spoke first, clearing his throat. "Oh. Ive heard of that place. Haven't you, Ace?"

Ace furrowed his brows, nodding his head while he set his hat off to the side. "Uh, yeah, of course." His voice went lower, a total lie. "That's where they grow those one things..."

"Pineapples?" Thatch chimed in.

"Yeah, those things with the, you know," Ace brought his hand up toward his head, gesturing to something sprouting there. His hand slowly stopped, his eyes meeting Marcos. "...You know. Yeah." Cough.

Marco's teeth were clenched. First the sass about his name, now the pineapple tease. Coma dream, it had to be. Marco was so tempted to ask him to explain further, enjoy the slight red on the stranger's cheeks at how odd the conversation went so quickly, but, instead, he went to experimenting this drink.

Ace turned away from him then, seeming to want to do the same, and sipped at his own glass and focused on? his friend.

"So, Thatch, you been spreading my name around town again?" Ace cheeks were out slightly, like a pouting child.

Thatch shook his head, his pompadour slightly bobbing as he did. "No, why do you ask?"

Getting his handy, dandy, hitchhiker's thumb out, Ace gestured to Marco. "He knew my name and says he knows you, so I was wonderin'."

Both Marco and Ace sat up straight, Thatch's hand coming down forcefully on his own bar, rag still in his fingers. Quickly, Marco looked at his face, wondering if such a harmless comment was enough to piss the barkeep off, but wasn't expecting him to be… excited?

"Well butter my butt and call me biscuit." If Marco wasn't choking because of the slam on the table, he was choking now from the pure 'wtf' of what had just been said. "Why didn't you say so?"

No seriously, what had he just said? Butter his butt- call him a biscuit? Something was very off from what was happening here and what he thought he knew about the Wild West. Now that he thought about it, Ace had said some unusual things a little earlier, hadn't he… Marco wasn't dumb, he knew stupid lame sayings a lot of people back in his town used, but surely that kind of crap wasn't real? Right?

A hand collided with his back, surging him a bit forward and out of his coughing fit. Marco was slightly thankful, sending Ace a nod for it, but still bewildered none the less.

"I'm sorry," His voice was a bit raspy. "What did you say?"

Thatch tilted his head slightly. "Why didn't you say so?"

No- well, he meant the other part, but it was probably for the best something such as that didn't get repeated.

"Well, I think I was mistaken, yoi." Definitely mistaken, he couldn't pay the real Thatch twenty bucks to say something like that. "I just know someone with the same name."

Ace huffed, for what reason Marco wasn't sure. Was that funny?

"Look's like there's another Thatch on your stomping grounds."

Thatch sighed, setting down another glass he'd dried. "Can't be having that. Bring him here, I'll fight for the name."

Did people in the past really fight over such stupid things like having the same name? Well, it made sense if someone was trying to make a name for themselves that having the same as another would cause trouble, but still.

"If he doesn't snore, I think I'll take my chances with the other one." A very familiar voice rang from the side. Both Thatch and Ace looked over, but Marco needed a minute.

Of course, if there was a Thatch ancestor that somehow here, why wouldn't there be an Izo one? It didn't make sense in anyway, because how could they be together in the past enough to multiply enough to even be in the future, but there was a reason Marco didn't go into the field of genetics, nor was he going to focus too much on it. He need only brace himself for what he was about to witness, because this had to be good.

Oh, and it was. Marco wished he had a camera so bad to capture this moment. Thatch back home had wanted to get Izo into this kind of costume more than one occasion, and Izo had claimed he'd rather die, yet here he was in full western female attire, corset and flowing ruffles all the way down. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise the blond in the least if he was about to be told Izo was the prettiest woman in the town.

He just couldn't help it, really, he couldn't. Until this point, Marco really wanted to seem composed and cool about whatever was coming in this time adventure, but after seeing what looked like his friends in western attire- starting to bicker in their shared saloon of some sort - he couldn't help the laughter that escaped his lips, even when he tried to cover his mouth. It didn't help when Thatch moved closer to Izo to confront the stupid thing he'd said, and Izo met him at height to make his point. They were so alike to the real thing, but so different at the same time.

Quickly, because they noticed, all eyes went to him, probably wondering what was so funny. Basically, it wouldn't be safe to take drinks around here unless he wanted it to come out of his nose, Marco was finding out.

"Who is this guy?" Izo stepped closer, his boots clacking as he walked, his hands lifting up the skirt of his dress oh so elegantly. "Ace, what did I tell you about bringing your stray cats back here?"

Ace stretched in a way Marco shouldn't have glanced over to look, considering he just had to look away with heated cheeks. The freckled man lowered his arms, moving instead to sprawl them over the bar, his eyes going into a sort of puppy mode in Izo's direction.

"Come on, Izo, he ain't a cat, he's my new pal." Ace smirked. "Marco from the land of Pineapples."

"Pineapples, huh?" At some point, from some place, Izo had retrieved a fan and clenched it in his hand. He was carefully studying Marco, which made the professor glad he came equipped in the right wardrobe. "I can see it."

Cold, Izo, that was cold.

"So what brings you to these parts then, Marco from Pineapple Land?"

Seriously, that wasn't going to become a thing was it? Great, he could come up with some bogus place to be from, but he hadn't thought up a nice reason why he was here. Honestly, he wished someone else could let him in to why he had to be here.

"I just like to travel, is all." Simple enough right?

Izo looked like he had more to say; if he was as perceptive as the one in modern times, he could most likely sense there was more to the story, but he stayed quiet, moving to look back at Thatch. They lowered their tones, but Marco could still pick out some key words here and there, finding their conversation to be about stock and other saloon related things. To Marco's humor, he just imagined it instead to be some sort of discussion on whether or not Izo would be getting a stage or not to perform on.

There was a nudging to his arm that pulled his attention away finally, and Marco looked to Ace, whose face had calmed. It was so weird, how they all just seemed to shrug off the fact he was a stranger and let him come and drink with them like it was nothing and they were now friends. Was this what people referred to as southern hospitality?

"So you really just overheard my name somewhere?" It couldn't have been too hard to believe, right? "You didn't learn it from anybody? Just so we're on the same page."

Well, he did learn it from someone, but if he started explaining that to Ace, Marco was pretty sure their hospitality would turn into pity because he'd look insane. Besides it was probably better, for the space and time thing, not to let anyone somewhat famous here, like Portgas D. Ace, their future. It would just screw stuff up and change the past which, if movies were correct, was a no go.

Marco nodded. "You wouldn't believe the stuff you overhear in places, yoi." Instant regret. He wouldn't ask what kind of things, right? Marco could play the part, but coming up with so much stuff on the spot was a bit tiring.

Ace opened his mouth, acting like he'd actually ask, but then his jaw clamped shut. His eyes drooped and he almost seemed like he might sneeze, the way they were rolling back, but instead - to Marco's surprise - his body slumped over to the side in the direction of the bar, and he fell against it like a rock, limp.

Marco nearly knocked his seat over how fast he stood up. The first thing that came to his mind, poison? Had Ace been poisoned and just died? What the hell was that? But wait, didn't he drink the same thing? His eyes moved to Thatch and Izo, not sure if he should be relieved they weren't wearing wicked 'yes we did it' grins about all of this.

In fact, they seemed weirdly calm.

"Don't worry yourself about that, Marco." Thatch lightly patted his pompadour before walking back behind the bar near where Ace was, slummed. "He does this all the time, just falls asleep."

Izo flicked his wrist and opened up his fan, using it to give himself a mild breeze in the heat. "It's a great party trick." How sarcastic.

Hesitantly, Marco took a step forward, staring at the way Ace's cheek had flattened against the bar's surface. He was going to look toward his exposed chest again - to check if he was breathing, dammit, not for pleasure - but a loud snore was all that was needed to confirm that he was actually sleeping. How crazy was that, he should really see a doctor to get that checked out. Well, that is, if doctors in this time could even diagnose such a thing.

"Marco, be a dear," Izo purred so casually, apparently he was one of the gang now. "Take him and drop him on a bed upstairs."

So this place was what, a half hotel half saloon? Or was that just their own personal home? Either way, Marco wasn't sure how comfortable he was picking up Ace to take him up there. The part of his brain he really wished would just shut off was focused strongly on whether or not he'd be sticky to the touch.

"Wait," Thatch saved him temporarily. "You don't have a place to stay either, do ya? You're free to the other bed. First room on the right."

Nevermind, they were still going to make him lug Ace's ass up there. At least he had a place to stay his first night in Wild West hell. Carefully, seeing as it would get strange if he didn't at least try, Marco moved in close to the sleeping cowboy and took one of his arms. Instead of picking him up bridal style, which would've been more comfortable, he pulled his arm up and across his shoulders and began to drag. Thatch and Izo weren't questioning it, so he decided not to either.

"Ya'll come back down a little later." Izo gave the blond a wink.