This was just a nakama/angst thing, but I guess it could be read as romance. If you use a microscope.

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She was drunk.

At least, he thought she was, if the way her speech was slurred, the red tinge brushed over her cheeks, the way her eyes were not quite focused, and the way she was slowly slipping off her barstool was any indication.

And he was getting there.

That much he was sure of. He was far more relaxed than anyone with a bounty as high his had any right to be, and the barstool he was seated on seemed oddly unstable. The far wall also seemed slightly blurry, but maybe that was just him...

She was drunk.
And he was getting there.

Apparently, he thought to himself. Apparently her tolerance for alcohol wasn't quite as high as his. They both had a higher tolerance than anyone on the crew, but they'd never actually bothered to put to the test their respective limits. And apparently his alcohol tolerance was higher than hers. Or maybe it was just that he was so much bigger than her, but he wasn't going to bother with that train of thought.

She was drunk.
And he was getting there.

But what else was there to do, after all? Pick up where they'd left off before they'd joined the crew? He couldn't. He snorted, chuckling quietly at the thought of walking into the local marine office with some pansy-ass criminal with minimal bounty, and getting jumped by the resident Navy officers. And he doubted that she would want to go back to robbing pirates, after all. And with her bounty, and that fiery head of hair, she'd be recognized instantly. They were rather famous, after all. Not it had done them any good, in then end.

She was drunk.
And he was getting there.

There wasn't anything else to do, for the remainder of the Straw-Hat pirates, except get drunk and hope that somehow they'd find the rest of the crew, free and unharmed. Their ship was gone, their crew – their family – was gone, and two of the most wanted pirates in the Grand Line were all that was left. He snorted. Two wanted, drunk, pirates who didn't really get along, even on their best days.

She was drunk.
And he was getting there.

He reached for another glass of port as she slid off the barstool and hit the floor with a thump, not even bothering to pull her skirt back down. He stared at that for a moment, as though he'd never seen a woman's undergarments before, ignoring the whistles and catcalls that rang through the smoky air in the bar, before standing up. He'd been intending to help her to her feet, but instead he wobbled as the room seemed to spin slightly, and had to steady himself against the bar for a moment. It didn't help much. As soon as he bent over to try and pull her to her feet, he lost his balance completely and did a face-plant right next to her, his rump sticking into the air in a most undignified manner. Not that he cared anymore. Not that he cared much about anything anymore.

She was drunk.

And apparently so was he.

He managed to roll over onto his back and she collapsed across him, the ridiculous amount of wine, scotch and whatever else she'd managed to get her hands on finally taking its toll as she slipped into unconsciousness, with him following not far behind, a gentle blackness relieving the pounding roaring beat in his skull.

They were both drunk beyond belief.

And with any luck, they won't remember tonight, or anything, at all.

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Much thanks to dandy wonderous for her support.
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