Hair of the Dog
To call Okajima Rokuro a masochist was neither insulting him, nor stating anything that he didn’t already know. He understood that much, at least. Most people who found themselves unhappy with their work quit that job. Rock became a pirate in the South Seas. He didn’t pretend it was rational.
Their myriad clients would have him believe that masochism was an inherently Japanese trait. At least, that was the impression that he got during the many business deals he negotiated; Dutch told him once that he seemed to put their clients at ease, but Rock understood, and was okay with, being the butt of everyone’s joke for however long the meeting was.
“What’s the difference between a Jap and a dog?” a particularly drunken patron slurred once. There was a knowing roar of laughter as soon as the question left his mouth, as if they’d all heard the joke before, so Rock never heard the answer to that.
“I’m not a dog,” Rock mumbled later, after everyone else had left, and he and Revy were alone with the half-empty bottle of rum.
Revy just started to laugh uproariously all over again, taking a long, loving swig from the bottle. She didn’t find the joke particularly funny. She’d only started to laugh when she saw his poleaxed expression.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if they were insulting you,” Rock retorted. Childish, he knew, but he was too tipsy to act mature.
“Do you see anyone insulting me?” Revy smirked, moving uncomfortably close to him with that lack of boundary awareness she possessed in spades. “It’s because you make that pathetic face all the time. Like a fuckin’ puppy who wants to be kicked.”
Thankfully, Benny chose that moment to enter and break the tension. “What’s going on?” he asked conversationally.
“Rock likes pain,” Revy explained, leaning back again.
Benny cocked his head to one side, regarding Rock with casual concern. “That doesn’t sound healthy,” he said matter-of-factly. And that was all they said on the subject.
Whatever else he blamed his country for, Rock didn’t try to pin his shortcomings on Japan.
Rock forced himself out of bed far too late the next afternoon, his head pounding with all the alcohol he’d drowned that insipid joke in. After he forced enough coffee down his throat to allow him to see straight, he noted that Dutch was absent, and Benny was shut up in his room, most likely working. Working on what, Rock never asked – the explanation would make his headache worse.
Revy appeared to still be in her room. And, considering that she out-drank him by a full bottle the previous evening, Rock preferred to let her stay that way.
Then he caught a glance at his watch.
… we’re supposed to meet Dutch in an hour, Rock realized, biting his lip. His head begun to pound fiercely; even his hangover seemed to realize what he had to do.
Steeling himself, he knocked lightly on Revy’s door. No response, but he’d figured that.
Another knock, harder this time. Nothing.
He practically banged on the door with his fists. The noise he heard in response could have been a muffled curse, but it could have been the ship, creaking in the water.
He opened Revy’s door.
Rock approached the bed, where the woman lay, sprawled out face-down like a murder victim. “Ummm… R-Revy?” he attempted gently.
She didn’t so much as twitch. He tentatively moved closer, the more active part of his imagination worrying about death by alcohol poisoning. “Revy?”
The incoherent growl that followed was definitely a sign of life, but Rock’s relief was diluted by sheer terror. “S-Sorry to bother you,” he continued, his hands raised in a defensive gesture.
“Then don’t,” she snapped, her voice muffled by the pillow.
Rock lost his stutter in his growing annoyance, crossing his arms across his chest like a harried mother. “I wouldn’t,” he said, “but Dutch wants us at the Yellow Flag in an hour—”
He heard the telltale click under her pillow even before she yanked out the handgun, pointing it dead at his forehead without so much as lifting her head. It was very clear Revy-speak for ‘Unless you have a very good reason for why I should be awake, get out.’
Quickly weighing Dutch’s wrath against death, Rock stumbled backwards and out the door, annoyance quickly overtaking fear now. This is why I hate alcohol, he thought bitterly, looking around as if the solution to his problem was just lying around on the ship somewhere.
Eyeing the nearly empty rum bottle that still lay on the table, Rock sighed, pinching the neck of the bottle between his thumb and middle finger as he picked it up. He never liked the idea of the problem being the solution, but doing things he didn’t like was becoming a standard at the Lagoon Company.
Stomping back into the room, he thrust the bottle towards her, frowning deeply. “Here,” he said shortly. And suddenly, before he realized what he was saying, he kept going. “But don’t expect me to cover for you again. It’s your own fault, and you should take some responsibility—”
Showing no signs of her earlier grogginess, she sat straight up, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him onto the bed, straddling his hips with her knees and effectively pinning him to the bed. He opened her mouth to ask what she was doing, but his words trailed off in a choke – her hands were wrapped tightly around his tie.
“Take some responsibility, huh?” She smirked down at him, yanking the tie off and tossing it aside. “Okay, Mother.”
“Revy,” he finally managed, now that he could breathe again. “What—”
“Every single day, this white-collar yuppie business suit bullshit,” she mumbled, almost to herself, as she undid the buttons on his shirt. “See if I’m nice enough to buy you any new clothes again…”
“Revy,” he said, more firmly this time. “Get off me.”
Looking down at him with a raised eyebrow, she snorted, very succinctly letting him know what she thought of that idea. She grabbed him by the hair, pushed his head upwards, and jammed her lips against his.
Revy kissed like she drank: there was a hungry, greedy desperation to it, like she was trying to suck out every last drop. One hand firmly gripped his hair, and the other traveled downwards, undoing his belt buckle. He might have made a “Two-Hands Revy” joke, but his brain seemed to have completely stopped functioning.
When the thought even occurred to him to reciprocate, his hands twitching in the direction of her body, she suddenly stopped, swung her leg over him, and jumped to her feet.
“Much better.” Revy cracked her neck and stretched, a wide cat’s grin across her face. She glanced back at him, in all his disheveled, half-naked glory, and reached forward, snatching the white button-down shirt and tossing it to the floor. “Wear the Aloha shirt, or I’ll take it off again.” And with that, she sauntered out the door.
Rock simply lay on her bed for a moment, trying to process everything that had just happened. Then slowly, shakily, he got off the bed, bent down to pick up his shirt, and put it back on.
“Revy? It’s almost time t… oh.” Benny blinked as he peered around the doorframe. “Rock? What’re you doing?”
“… I like pain,” Rock groaned, looking around on the floor for his belt.
“Oh.” Benny nodded slowly, considering. “… well, as long as you’re happy,” he mused, wandering off to find his other crewmate.
‘Happy’ wasn’t the right word, maybe. But as he re-tied his tie, Rock realized he’d found another reason to never, ever wear that Aloha shirt.
