Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Law knows it the moment he wakes up that morning.

The thing about having come as close to death as he has is that death holds grudges. It’s as possessive as a certain pink-feathered would-be god and jealously hounds what it’s marked. And Law, being a doctor as well as a survivor, has had ample time and opportunity to garner more than his share of its ire.

Because naturally, a substance like Amber Lead wouldn't be content to just destroy his people, his homeland, and try to do the same to him; nor would it settle for simply haunting his nightmares. No, all Amber Lead ever knew was how to take. And even the ultimate devil fruit had its limits. Despite the miraculous power of the Ope Ope fruit, and his faltering self-surgery at thirteen years old, Law had been surviving on sheer force of will and Cora-san's stubborn, contagious hope for over two weeks by the time he managed it. His already frail, not even fully grown body had been pushed to its limit and over. So while he'd managed to remove the poison from his system - and eventually all traces of it, in subsequent operations - the damage it had already done was extensive. Even equipped with his current knowledge and abilities, another thirteen years later, Law doubts there's much more he could've done.

So, he knows the moment awareness comes to him: it's going to be one of those days.

Law groans through the thick haze of weariness and tries to roll over from where his arm is pinched between his body and the mattress, but his limbs feel heavy as though they’re filled with lead (ha). The attempt at movement jostles his arm enough to cause pins and needles though, and he grimaces. Trying to flex his fingers to ease it only causes shocks to radiate up through his shoulder to the rest of his body, starting a vicious cycle of cramps all over.

Active Amber Lead Syndrome is insidious, but so are the aftereffects, Law has found. The overwhelming fatigue is uncomfortably familiar and never gets easier, no matter how many times he’s experienced it. It’s not unlike the feeling that follows being exposed to seastone or bodily submersion. What sets it apart is the undercurrent of torment: pain cascades over his mind and body, surging sometimes and other times subsiding to almost nothing. But the ebb and flow is viciously erratic in its patterns, lulling him into confidence before ripping him apart again.

Through that tide Law tries to force his groggy brain through the motions of self-triage, identifying and assessing symptoms, but it's so very hard. (Which, he knows, is a symptom in itself.)

He has no idea what time it is or how long he spends in the fogged up state of half awake (and wishing he wasn’t) before a knock on his door pierces through his awareness. Law grimaces again, forcing himself bodily to roll over, and the sound that leaves him is definitely not a pathetic whine of pain. His vision swims when he finally manages to crack his eyes open, and he thanks the seas that they’re still underwater and the light that filters in from the porthole is muted, painting everything a dim blue.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time, and every impact of knuckle to metal is a spike of pain through his skull. Law screws his eyes shut and regrets it immediately, because that, too, aggravates the pulsing agony within and around his cranium. He must let a sound out then, because a muffled voice joins the next knock, the rap much lighter and quieter than the ones before. 

“Captain?”

Law musters his strength to produce what he hopes is a noncommittal grunt, but with the humming in his ears it’s hard to tell. There’s a clear pause behind the door, and the voice speaks again.

“I’m coming in, Captain.”

Law doesn’t bother to acknowledge that one.

True enough, his door opens, slowly. Law buries his head in the pillow to shield against the light coming from the hallway. Thankfully, his visitor knows enough to slip in as soon as they can fit through the crack and then shut it, careful to not let the door bump or creak. 

"Captain?" They ask in a low voice, and Law forces himself to turn his head enough to crack open one eye and look at them. 

Him. 

"B'po," Law mumbles, swallowing hard against the swollen sandpaper feel in his mouth. 

Law's best friend is looking at him with concern, small button eyes full of gentleness. The familiarity of them eases some of Law's tension, though there's little they can do for his pain.

"One of those days?" Bepo asks, careful to keep his voice quiet and even, because he knows.

His presence - and the promise of it - gives Law the strength to push up from the bed enough to flip himself over, groaning as he lies back against the pillow. He doesn't have to bother with answering the question, because Bepo has always been eerily in tune with Law and his idiosyncrasies: the polar bear has already begun gathering extra pillows and helps prop Law against them, knowing exactly which points of his body to cushion and support to make him as comfortable as possible. When he's done, he moves back and fishes a journal from the drawers of Law's desk. 

The journal is Law's personal patient record - specifically his chronic symptom log. He'd started (finally) keeping it a few years after the original four Hearts had set out to sea, once he'd finally admitted that Amber Lead had left him with more than lifelong mental trauma. And while Law himself might, and probably would be, the only person ever to suffer from Post-Amber Lead Syndrome, he couldn't deny the value in still documenting it. His parents had always preached that any research and discovery that helped even one person was no less valuable than that which would help thousands - and his crew had (after long, arduous years of twisting his arm) managed to convince him that the rule still applied even if that one person was himself. 

(And sometimes Law even entertained the thought of eventually publishing his records or formulating a proper paper on them. On the off chance that the syndrome ever resurfaced, or just as a giant middle finger to the World Government. But that's all it ever would be: an entertaining thought.)

Bepo thumbs through the journal to a blank page and uncaps a pen in preparation. He then looks up at Law, hesitant for the first time since he entered the room. "Are you up for this?"

Law jerks his head in a terse nod, steeling himself against the twinge that follows. "Prompt me."

When he'd started, Law always tried to manage on his own. But like with most things he tried to keep the other three out of, Bepo, Shachi and Penguin had caught on and put a stop to it. And Law had to admit having another set of hands and eyes when he was so impaired was incredibly useful; if he just tried to make notes afterward, he'd undoubtedly miss something, or misjudge the severity. It was much better to get the details while they were still fresh.

Plus, always listing everything that was wrong during any particular episode helped the others take better care of him. (Though they obviously put more weight on that point than Law thought necessary.)

Bepo nods in return and peers at the cheat sheets attached to the journal. "Vision?"

"Blurry." Law wets his lips, or tries to, at any rate. He suddenly regrets not asking Bepo for a glass of water first, but on the other hand, just the thought of having liquid sloshing around his hollow insides pushes his nausea to the forefront. "Light sensitivity."

Bepo scribbles. "Hearing?"

Law grimaces. "Yes."

Bepo looks up, a little exasperated. "Law."

Law groans. "Fine. Tinnitus." He screws his eyes shut, trying to think. "Hyperacusis. Probably vertigo." He's really not too keen to test that.

Bepo hums. Law grits his teeth against the faint scratching of pen against paper. "Neuromuscular?" 

"Pain." As if it isn't obvious.

"What kind?"

Law curses his past self for being so thorough with the instructions. "Aching." He thinks for a bit, then amends himself. "Throbbing." 

"Everywhere?" Bepo confirms, and makes a note when Law nods. "Intensity?"

A scale from one to ten has never been harder to recall. "Eight?" Law makes to shift, and aborts the movement with another grimace, mumbling, "make that nine." It’s a bad one, alright.

"Do you want a break?" Bepo asks, and even without looking, Law can tell he's already putting the writing implements down, ready to fuss. Law quickly shakes his head, entirely too vigorously, but the sound of movement stops. But he needs this done and over with, breaks will just needlessly prolong his misery before they can start easing it.

"Okay." Bepo sounds unsure, but doesn't push it. "What else? Neuromuscular," he adds as a reminder.

"Weakness." With no small effort, Law raises his arm at the elbow, bracing the point on the mattress and holding his hand in the air. He squints to see the shape of it in the muted lighting. "Tremor."

And like that, they continue down the list. Abdominal (nausea), respiratory (none, mercifully), cognitive (and now that’s a long and difficult list), and so on. Law absently notices Bepo jumping over some items, and after they're done with the questioning, the bear gets up to give Law a quick examination to fill them out. Skin, heart rate, reflexes, all the things that are better measured by him than Law's painstaking self-assessment. Law zones out for most of it, only to startle back to reality when Bepo pulls the covers over him.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, and is gone before Law has the chance to blink his eyes into focus. Similarly, by the time he blinks again, Bepo is back, pushing through the door holding a tray.

"I let Shachi and Penguin know," the bear says as he sets the tray down on the bedside table. "And they'll tell the others to leave you be today."

Law would nod if he wasn't so wrung out. He makes the effort to produce some sort of noise, and that seems to be enough.

Bepo raises a glass of water with a questioning look, and Law allows himself to be helped. The liquid is cool, but not overly cold: just enough to be soothing on his parched mouth and throat, but not uncomfortably felt as it travels down his esophagus. Law drinks hungrily, but Bepo paces him, the two ever in sync. With the first glass empty, Bepo sets it down and holds out medication. Law squints at the pills, but doesn't bother with real scrutiny: even without the cheat sheets, Bepo is a decent nurse in his own right. And what’s more, he’s been here since the very start. Sometimes Law feels like his friend knows what he needs better than Law - the actual doctor - himself. 

Law allows the bear to administer the drugs and help him gulp down another glass of water (from the corner of his eye, Law can tell there's even a third one on the tray. And they have the nerve to call Law over-prepared), then help make him comfortable in his nest of pillows and blankets.

"There's food for when you're able to eat, too." Bepo lifts a plate of fruit and rice balls so Law doesn't have to strain to see. Law doesn't argue; while he had definitely seen Bepo dutifully mark down nausea and no appetite in the log, it wouldn't be the first time he'd managed a bite or two once the drugs kicked in or he'd managed a bout of sleep.

Law clears his throat. "Thank you, Bepo." His voice still comes out as a pathetic croak, but at least speaking doesn’t feel like trying to burrow through the Red Line.

The mink smiles, all hope and warmth. "Do you need anything else?"

Law shakes his head minutely, the movement already easier and less jarring than before. Whether that’s real or imagined improvement, he can’t tell. It makes no difference anyhow.

"I'll check up on you often," Bepo promises. Law snorts in a way that is little more than a slightly harsher exhale through his nose.

"You have a ship to run," he admonishes, softening it with his best attempt at a smile. He knows it must be a pretty poor example of one, but it seems good enough for Bepo: the bear stands up straight and salutes him.

"Aye-aye, captain!"

And Law's ears don't even protest the sound.

Chapter Text

It happens, because of course it does, on the Thousand Sunny.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve expected it. The chances are always higher after heavy physical stress, and the beating Vergo had given him - his heart - on Punk Hazard would certainly qualify. Not that that makes it any less of a problem: even discounting the fact that they're maybe two, three days out from Dressrosa, and Law has none of his usual safeguards and support structures available to him, just the moment where his condition dares to rear its ugly head is unusually precarious. 

As a rule, Law sleeps very little. He always has, but since sending the Tang ahead to Zou even that amount has been whittled down to almost nothing. There was simply so much to do, Law would always tell himself, and on Punk Hazard he was in enemy territory. When he wasn't working himself to exhaustion, he'd preferred to meditate in place of sleeping: still in a state of awareness to respond to any threat, while allowing his body some reprieve. (And on Punk Hazard, he had been able to help himself to Caesar's rather impressive stash of medications and treatments. They would get Law through the worst of Amber Lead's legacy, while he hid himself away in the remotest corners of the island he'd had months to scout and evaluate as he recuperated.)

Coming to the Sunny, he'd seen no reason to change his habits. Despite being - at least in theory - among allies, it was hard to let his guard down around the Straw Hats. Law was acutely aware they outnumbered him nine to one, and even with his martial prowess and Devil Fruit he'd be hard pressed with them as enemies. It is, after all, part of the reason he'd proposed an alliance to begin with: trying to take this particular crew on, especially alone, would undoubtedly end in his loss.

So on the Sunny, when Law had to rest, he'd just try to retreat to the quietest spot he could find, until it inevitably stopped being quiet on the arrival of one or more of the ship's actual crew. Or, in an even worse scenario, didn't, which had Law finding himself sharing a space with Nico Robin or the musical skeleton (a medical marvel Law would have loved to examine clinically under any other circumstances) or even Roronoa Zoro, on occasion, with no idea and no way to tell how long he'd been doing so without noticing. Letting his guard down was one thing; completely failing to register a potential threat - nay, just something happening - was another.

There are three things Law had failed to consider, however.

One: the ship was a much more confined space than an entire, albeit hazardous, island. And though it was impressive how much the Straw Hats and their carpenter had managed to cram into it, it held way fewer easily overlooked nooks and crannies than the cutting-edge scientific facilities of Punk Hazard.

Two: the time he had on the ship was much shorter than the long months infiltrating Joker's operation. Law had initially considered that a blessing - the less time he had to spend with the Straw Hats, the fewer chances for anything inconvenient to happen, and the less time before he could finally rest (in one way or another). But it also turned out to be less time to identify and evaluate safe spaces or opportunities.

Three: even if for Law their alliance was purely for convenience, Straw Hat and his crew seemed to have different ideas. For some God-forsaken reason. 

So it is that the morning the White City decides it's time to remind him of its existence and their shared past again, Law is in an uncommonly unfortunate position.

Despite the shortness of the time he'd been on the ship and his chosen habits, Law already had clear favorite places. One of them, and the one above all, being the fantastical aquarium bar below the galley. It's there that he gravitates whenever he has a chance and senses the others are occupied elsewhere. Law couldn't say why; perhaps it's the eternally dimmed lighting that soothes his nerves, or the chance to just lose himself in watching the captured fish and their habitat. 

(Maybe it reminds him of the scenery he'd often see opening up beyond the Tang’s portholes.) 

Or maybe it's that Law, despite being a Devil Fruit user, has always felt the most comfortable when entirely surrounded by water. Not against his skin, obviously, as standing water sapped him of his strength the same as any other anvil, but he had been the captain of a submersible for ten years. When he looked out a window, he more often than not expected to see water rather than sky.

And with his greatest threat being a self-proclaimed ruler of the skies, where better to hide and bide his time than under the waves?

The previous evening, Law had retreated to that room well after everyone but the watch had gone to sleep. Caesar had been confined to the brig for the nights; the child Momonosuke allowed in the women's quarters, much to many of the men’s chagrin; and the samurai - Kin'emon - had claimed a spot on the floor in the men's quarters. 

(They had asked, that first night, where Law intended to sleep, if he wanted a similar arrangement; he hadn't answered. And no one asked again.) 

Wanting to enjoy the rare serenity and silence, Law had claimed a seat on the edge of the crescent-shaped bench (it had the benefit of being a relative blind spot, as it was right next to the door, and also within reach of it). He’d rested Kikoku by the wall, turned his back on the door, and let himself get lost in the underwater scenery surrounding him.

It's there that he now wakes, having at some point slipped to unconsciousness - and, it seems, sideways to lie on the cushioned seat, curled up with his knees pulled up to his chest.

Which gets him to the first problem of his predicament. Because, as usual, Law can tell what's coming the moment his brain sees fit to stir. Even only half awake, the first waves of familiar pain and malaise are hard to miss. And he realizes with dull horror the consequences of having slept not in a bed, but on a cold and narrow bench - however cushioned - without any support for his neck.

As soon as he finishes that thought, those consequences roar to life.

Law makes the mistake of twitching in his alarm and his whole frame goes rigid. A soft and high-pitched whine rises from the back of his throat as he screws his eyes shut against the piercing pain that begins in his neck and radiates outward. He momentarily forgets to breathe as he tries to reason or remember what he needs to do to stop it, but his brain is all static. Even the thought of movement nauseates him, but he's all too aware that with every second his muscles strain like this he comes closer to even more painful cramps, and why can't he think, he just needs a second to think–-

His muscles decide his course of action for him and Law groans, vision whiting out.

When he comes back to, he's rolled off the bench - not gently, fresh blooming pain on his left side tells him - and now rests on the floor, bracing on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor. His shoulders still shake with exertion and involuntary spasms. But the cool tiling is doing an admirable job of clearing his head; after a moment of just slumping bonelessly and simply breathing, Law dares to try for movement again.

It's agonizing, as it always is, but awareness of the second problem of his situation - the fact that, at any moment, any one of the Straw Hats could walk in and see him in this addled state, and what a mess that would be - pushes Law to grit his teeth and bear it. He drags himself upright and braces his back against the bench, shuffling momentarily as he tries to decide whether to pull his knees to his chest or stretch his legs out. He ends up doing both - one on each side - and begins to let his head fall back to rest on the cushions. Not even halfway down his muscles again cramp and he hisses, very slowly raising his head back upright and then going the other direction, letting it hang with his chin seeking his chest. The stretch against the crick in his neck pulls his shoulders painfully taut, but the burning is vaguely satisfying.

Not for the first time since separating from his crew, Law wishes for his symptom logbook. But it's safely tucked in his desk drawer on the Polar Tang, likely thousands of miles away: it would've been too dangerous to carry something like that while skulking about right under Doflamingo's nose. Had Law done that, he’d reasoned, he might as well have strutted up to his nemesis and handed him a folder neatly labeled 'Guide to Trafalgar Law's Various Weaknesses' . 

And more than the logbook and the security of its clear-cut plans and instructions written down by a mind unimpeded by acute pain, Law wishes for his crew. For Bepo's soft fur and button eyes, for Penguin's jokes and easy attitude, for Shachi's soft seriousness and determination. For their quiet understanding and support as they’d prompt Law according to his own instructions and build a nest around his ailing body and fuss until he’d shoo them away with a withering remark and the ghost of a smile.

The memories of his friends have a sobering effect. Law drags himself from the depths of his endless self-pity and focuses. Self-assessment without aid is difficult through the brain fog, but underneath all the pain and trauma and asperity he is a doctor. It makes no difference that the patient is himself.

(It shouldn't, anyway, as his friends are always quick to remind him.)

Completely engrossed in his task of mentally mapping himself, Law doesn't realize he's no longer alone until a hand touches his shoulder.

He immediately startles and jerks back, a broken sort of groan punching out of him at the spike of pain it elicits. His visitor recoils similarly, and as the white again recedes it feels like someone has turned sound back on: Law hadn’t even noticed the hum building in his ears and muting the world around him.

"--scared the hell out of me, what kind of goddamn…"

Law tries to focus his eyes and his gaze lands on a head full of yellow hair. Cora-san? His addled brain (very unhelpfully) supplies, but Law shakes the thought away. Donquixote Rosinante is thirteen years dead and buried, and Law is on his way to avenge him. He has no time for pain-induced hallucinations. He takes a deep breath, and when he looks again, it's just the Straw Hats' cook he sees, the oddly curled eyebrow crunched in a deep frown.

"Hey, you all there?" Black Leg very obviously stops just short of waving a hand in front of Law's eyes, but the intention is clear. Even the ghost of the gesture has Law gritting his teeth.

"Black Leg-ya," he forces out, resentful of the way his voice cracks.

"Yeah, me. Wanna tell me what this is about?" The cook gestures vaguely at Law. 

Law contemplates just shambling himself out and hiding somewhere for a while, but historically, his Rooms haven't been the most stable during his episodes. That, and he somehow doubts Black Leg would let it rest. Worse, that might even prompt him to involve the others, which is the last thing Law needs.

"Nothing." He doesn't need to look to know Black Leg isn't buying it, so he continues without giving him a chance to cut in. "What are you doing here?"

Black Leg jerks a thumb in the direction of the aquarium, brow still deeply furrowed in what Law refuses to see as worry. "Told you. I went to grab some ingredients for breakfast and saw you all bunched up down here." His one visible eye flickers as he looks Law up and down. "Didn't look too comfortable."

Ah yes, the cook’s daily morning swim for ingredients. Another thing Law forgot to account for. (In his defense, he hadn’t meant to remain long enough to be seen here at all.)

On one hand, Law can appreciate him not directly launching into assumptions or probing questions. On the other…

"Nothing for you to worry about," he grits out. He makes to push himself up, palm flat to the ground, but immediately gives up with a wince. He can feel Black Leg's unimpressed look. God damn it all.

"Yyeaaah. Sure." Against all expectations, rather than get closer, Black Leg starts walking. Law looks up in surprise, doubtful his luck would be so good that the man might just… give up. And he's right: the cook simply crosses the room to sit on the other end of the crescent, crossing one leg over the other and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket. "Mind if I smoke?"

Law gives a one-armed shrug, bracing against the jolt. He feels a modicum of pride when he manages to control his expression. Black Leg pulls out his lighter and lights up, seemingly in no hurry: he takes his time pulling from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a low whistling sound. 

Law can't decide if that projected serenity irks him or not.

Silence stretches between them until Black Leg levels Law with a look he can't quite decipher the meaning of. "So." He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "I reckon you don't wanna talk about it, and that's fine. None of my business."

Law glowers silently. He doesn't know where this is going, and not knowing makes him antsy. (The pain making waves through his body is not helping.)

Black Leg continues, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring him. "And I know to you this whole alliance business is just pragmatic - nah, scratch that, probably an inconvenience." He casts another look at Law as if looking for confirmation. Ordinarily Law would have no problem admitting the cook is right, but now, he stays silent on principle. Petulantly not giving an inch. 

Black Leg isn't deterred. "Thing is." He pinches the cigarette between his index and middle fingers and leans forward towards the mast in the center of the room to knock some ash into the ashtray placed there. "You can think that, and that's all fine and dandy."

"Get to the point," Law interrupts, almost startled by his own haggard tone. He sounds like he hasn't slept for a week, or like someone has piled a metric ton of rocks on his chest. (Or a couple dozen bodies. He suppresses a shudder at the memory and quickly shuts it out.)

Black Leg leans back and points at him with his cigarette. "Point is. Luffy doesn't think like that."

He says it like it should mean something. Law can only blink, too tired and in too much pain to muster proper confusion.

Black Leg whistles out one last time and snuffs his cigarette out in the tray. "I told you before. 'Alliance' to Luffy means something entirely different than it does to you." He lets out a long-suffering sigh. "The guy's a simpleton, but you gotta admit there's something compelling about the way his brain works."

Law bites on his tongue to keep from voicing some choice opinions at that, and forces himself to patiently wait for the promised point. He has a feeling that if he doesn’t hold his tongue, Black Leg is going to drag it out just to spite him.

"But regardless of what you think, to our captain, you're now a friend." The smirk that pulls at the cook's lips sounds alarm bells in Law's head. "And sorry to be the one to break the news to you, but that's for life."

Once again Law is left blinking stupidly, the information working its way through layers of pain and fatigue. It takes his groggy brain a moment to sort through it and grasp the implication hidden there. For the warning sirens to start making sense. Once it finally registers, Law balks. 

"What."

Black Leg, the bastard, has the nerve to snicker. "Betcha didn't factor that in, huh, Mr. Warlord?"

Law is not stupid. On some level he already knew. He just didn't want to admit it. After all, one other reason for his proposal of alliance was for that specific reason: Straw Hat's uncanny ability to make friends wherever he goes. The strange gravity centered around him, pulling people into his orbit. Prancing through life causing ripples that would become earthquakes, and somehow, somehow, always coming out on top. Working his miracles, big and small. 

Calling up one storm after another.

Law shakes his head to get out of his thoughts, and hisses when his head reminds him exactly why he shouldn't do that. That at least seems to bring Black Leg back down from his told-you-so high, the atmosphere in the room sobering somewhat.

"Hey." It’s said surprisingly gently, and against his better judgment, Law looks up to meet the man’s eye. "It's clear that you're not alright. And I'm not gonna ask why; you can keep your damn secrets, I don't care." The cook pushes up from his seat. "But Luffy would kill me if I left you here like this, so."

What the hell does that have to do with me? Law wants to sneer, but this interaction - the whole cursed morning - has completely wrung him out. It’s not often that Trafalgar Law would give up without a good, long argument, but it’s probably not even six o’clock, the ghosts of Flevance are singing in his bones, and every minute on this ship takes him closer to the man whose shadow has loomed over him for well over a decade. Maybe he's within his right to not pick this particular battle.

Black Leg approaches him, offering a hand. "C'mon. What d'ya need?"

Law can't even muster up a proper glare at the hand. Swallowing, he holds up one of his own, not to take it but in a gesture of rejection. "Not moving." His eyes dart around the room, noting the light streaming in from the little window on the door: the sun is up. He looks back to Black Leg just in time to cut in before the man can start berating him for not cooperating. "Dim light only."

Black Leg narrows his eye, torn between accepting the answer at face value and calling Law's bluff. Law ignores him, preoccupied with struggling to calculate how much he can give up. Every instinct he has is cautioning him against revealing too much, because that’s the only way he’s survived thus far in life. Conceal his true name, cover the white spots, dive deep in his submarine and surface only when necessary. Doubt everyone, don’t make friends, trust only that everyone has an ulterior motive. 

The problem is, he’s struggling to see one in anything any of the Straw Hats do.

In the end, he decides to throw caution to the wind, because fuck it. "Peace and quiet. And pain relievers." 

(He stops short of requesting pillows. He has some dignity left to preserve.)

Black Leg chews on his words for a minute before nodding. Law briefly wonders where such understanding can come from. "Gotcha. This light good?"

Law inches his chin in a nod. Black Leg returns it.

"Alright. I'll keep the others out for a bit." He points to the center mast, and Law's tired eyes try to follow the line he’s indicating. "Service elevator right there, connects to the kitchen. It's gonna make a ding when it comes up, can't help it, but I'm sure it won't kill you."

Law absorbs only about eighty percent of all of the intended message, if he's to be honest. "Right."

"I'll send something up. Okay if I get Chopper for the meds?"

Law considers refusing, because the blue-nosed reindeer reminds him too much of Bepo; in that he will undoubtedly fret. But he can’t well expect the cook to be able to just steal from the ship’s medical supplies and not have to explain it eventually, making the secrecy moot anyway. Lord knows Law watches the Tang's supplies like a hawk. But that doesn’t mean Law has to like it, so he doesn’t bother disguising his grudging tone when he assents. Then the doctor in the back of his mind pipes up, telling him to stop being such a shit patient, so belatedly he adds: "tell Tony-ya it's for a migraine." 

It's a half-truth at best, but easier to explain.

He sees Black Leg nod from the corner of his eye. "Got it. Gonna rapid-fire you some questions now."

Law doesn't have it in him to fight or question the man anymore, though he does raise an eyebrow. He gives a noncommittal hum, which Black Leg takes as consent.

"Hot or cold drink?"

"Not hot." Doesn’t exactly answer the question, but Black Leg seems to decide he can work with it.

"Food?"

Law grimaces. "No."

He hears a huff, and isn't entirely sure if it's a laugh or a sigh. It reminds Law of the exasperation his non-answers would always raise in his three oldest friends, and a new pang arises in his chest - if he were inclined to lie to himself, he might blame it on the savagery Vergo put his heart through not long ago. But here, surrounded by underwater scenery that could (and has) so easily fool him into thinking he’s still aboard the Polar Tang, Law finds that he doesn’t have the energy to.

"Plain and mild, then. Need a hot or cold compress?"

"No."

"Ear plugs?"

Law actually pauses to think about that. Mercifully, sounds don't seem to be a prominent problem this particular episode. In all likelihood blocking his ear canals might just make him feel worse. "No."

"Pain level?"

That catches him off guard, even though it’s the one question he should’ve expected to hear. Law starts, eyes snapping to Black Leg. "What?"

The cook doesn't seem perturbed. "Pain intensity. Scale of one to ten. You must know it? Chopper makes us do it all the time." 

Law tamps down the sarcastic response because of course he knows it, and instead closes his eyes to think. After feeling himself for a moment - and being continuously surprised by Black Leg's patience: the man hasn’t so much as given him an impatient glance - he leans back against the bench, gritting his teeth against the stretch in his spine. "Six to seven."

Law determinedly doesn't look when Black Leg gives him one more good once-over, and tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of being appraised. Like a bug in a petri dish. Or a particularly troublesome stain on some precious fabric. Luckily, whatever it is the cook’s looking for, he appears to find it.

"Okay." Black Leg turns on his heel and reaches for the doorknob. "Sit tight."

"Black Leg-ya."

The cook stops, turning back to give Law a quizzical look. Law wets his lips, suddenly self-conscious. He weighs his words carefully before speaking them - a rather large part of him wants to ask why? but he has a distinct feeling that would only bring them around in circles and give Law nothing their earlier conversation hadn’t already covered. Another part, the insatiably curious side of him, wants to know how the man knows all he does: no one, in Law's experience, has that good of a grasp on helping someone if they don't have some kind of personal experience. A family member? A crew member? The man himself, even? But that is in no way Law’s business to know. The least he can do is return Black Leg’s discretion.

More questions arise within him the longer he thinks about it, so in the end, Law settles for simple. 

"Thank you."

Black Leg - Sanji, Law recalls - blinks. The corners of his mouth tug upward. "Think nothing of it."

(True to the cook's word, no one disturbs Law until hours later, well after he's made good use of both the drugs and nourishment sent up to him and even managed to doze off for minutes at a time. Even then it's just little Tony-ya, meekly knocking and peering in to ask if the supplies helped, if he needs anything, if he wants a proper examination. 

Law declines him, of course; but he finds that, strangely, no part of him protests the care offered.)

Chapter Text

The only thing surprising about this time is how long it takes to happen.

Law supposes he should be grateful. He had spent the entire voyage from Dressrosa to Zou tense and hyperaware of himself, recognising that he was due for another episode sooner rather than later after all the abuse Doflamingo had just put him through. And if he'd had to suffer the indignity of a flare-up while stuck on that deplorable ship (Law refuses to even think about its awful, awful name) with its woefully inept crew, he might have jumped overboard and ended his torment right then and there. 

He may also have been prescribing himself slightly more analgesics than strictly necessary. But with no other doctor around to provide a second opinion, he was well within his rights to. (Admittedly, that had been a hell of a gamble on Law’s part, as it turned out that the Barto Club had neither a doctor nor a properly stocked infirmary. With no way to know how far Zou was, he ran a real risk of running out of the supplies pilfered from Dressrosa before he could get back to his own ship. But damn if it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.)

By some miracle, his body had held out until Zou. Law had felt the first stirrings of it only on the way up the elephant’s leg, with the way his thighs strained to hold onto the draconic abomination conjured by the garish samurai, and the way Kikoku had become steadily heavier in his grip. When Bepo had jumped and clung to him upon their reunion, Law’s knees had threatened to give out - though no small part of it was relief; the tension that had accumulated for months finally draining from his body.

So it’s no surprise when it comes. What’s more unusual is the way it actually begins. Normally, Law would be asleep - and suspiciously dreamless. (He used to find that a blessing when he was younger, until he learned better.) He would wake up slowly, sluggishly, the full brunt of the episode hitting him in waves. This time, though…

This time, he’s fully awake. The reunion with his crew is a double-edged sword: the immediate comfort and happiness that signals to his body that it’s safe, that he’s home, is indescribable. Law ducks his head against the pressure building behind his eyelids as his crew swarms him, each wanting to make up for the long months apart. Seeing Doflamingo beaten and then bound had been a weight off his shoulders, his plans thirteen years in the making finally realized. But he’d still been restless, single-minded drive for vengeance replaced by a tug in his chest. That tug had buzzed inside him like a swarm of bees, pulling him forward the same way the piece of Bepo’s vivre card tried to slowly crawl back to its larger whole. And here, surrounded by the twenty people chosen by him - and who, in turn, have chosen him - the pull abates. When it goes, it threatens to take all of Law’s strength with it, to leave him a boneless puddle to be cuddled by Bepo. And that sounds so tempting.

But he can’t.

Pushing through the weariness gnawing his bones, Law forces himself to lead his crew through the Whale Forest and meet with the Straw Hats and the Mink tribe once more, following first the distinct imprint of Straw Hat’s Voice, and then the unmistakable sound of his actual voice. His crew complains about his lackadaisical introduction of them, and Law brushes it off under the guise of it being nonessential. (He catches Penguin giving him a long look at that, and expertly pretends he doesn’t see it.)

The irritation that flares at the news of Black Leg’s… defection? Kidnapping? Brings with it a fire that burns out quickly and morphs into the all-too familiar caustic ache. It spreads under his skin, forming invisible cracks like delicate spider web, the promise of misery seeping through to his bones. Cat Viper’s demands for a party are a welcome distraction, allowing Law just the chance he needs to quietly slip away from the commotion. 

(The irony that it is one of the endless parties that seem to spontaneously manifest around the Straw Hat crew in an absolutely infuriating way that allows Law his escape is not lost on him.)

The discomfort of simply existing in his skin steadily grows as Law heads back to where his crew had shown him their lodgings. By the time he reaches there, he’s actively stumbling, unabashedly using Kikoku as a walking stick, his vision partially blotting out with every other step. It occurs to him that he will regret not finding more painkillers before keeling over in the nearest cot, but the thought, along with his consciousness, evaporates as soon as his head hits the bedding.

He’s right, of course.

Law comes to with a start and a whimper. He’s vaguely aware of movement in his periphery, but the pain that was barely an inkling before has sharpened to something akin to active torture. For a moment he’s certain that the last week has been a dream, that when he opens his eyes, he’s going to find himself chained to the Heart seat and face to face with red-tinted shades and a leer that haunts his nightmares.

It is perhaps fortunate then that he can’t seem to open his eyes. The familiar stirrings of bubbling panic start in the pit of his stomach, but the voice that greets him - even piercing as it is in his affected ears - helps him slacken the muscles poised for flight. He can’t quite make out the words, but the pitch and cadence is unmistakably Shachi. And that means safety.

Law makes an unidentifiable noise to indicate he’s aware, but is unable to discern the reaction it gets. Shachi must understand, though, as Law knows he would: gentle hands pull the covers over Law up to his chin and pile some more pillows around him, supporting his aching joints in all the right ways. The comforting presence of one of his oldest friends stays, steady and vigilant until Law slips into blissful unawareness once more.

Over what Law assumes must be the next few hours, he keeps drifting between blessed darkness and agonizing wakefulness. Sometimes he has company: occasionally Law feels fingers passing through his hair, and once or twice unknown hands coax him upright and a glass of cool water is placed on his lips. Law’s throat feels like it’s closed up, barely enough room there to breathe, but he forces down a gulp or two before his helper allows him to lie down again. He’s not sure if he’s spoken to during that time; the world is muddied, nothing but distant humming in his ears. At any rate, Law never makes an effort to communicate back, beyond involuntary grunts and gasps, and no more is demanded of him.

The next time he’s properly aware, the environment around him is finally more in focus. Although Law can’t honestly say he’s thrilled about that, as he registers the sounds of urgent whispering. It slams against his consciousness and he grimaces at the harsh hissing and the way it tears through his frayed nerves. He wants nothing more than to bury his head in the pillow and shut his ears - and hopefully pass out again while he’s at it - but he might as well be tied down with seastone. Moving is out of the question. 

"Oh, captain."

The voices quiet. Law cracks open one eye, straining to focus on anything further than his nose. His gaze hones in on colors: the large white outline of a Polar Tand boiler suit. The blurry details of their jolly roger on the chest. Red hair and a pointy hat.

Law swallows, entirely too aware of his tongue in his mouth. "Shachi."

It's barely more than a croak, but his friend's blurry face lights up all the same. "Hey, cap."

Law closes his eye in silent thanks for Shachi's perceptiveness. Law has never needed to ask the man to lower his voice when he gets like this, or for anything else for that matter. Somehow, Shachi just always knows. The soft and familiar rumble of his voice coils comfortably around Law, and while it has no soothing effect other than the mental, it at least doesn't aggravate his sensitive ears.

But Shachi hasn't been whispering to himself. With no small effort Law wrenches his eyes open and finds the other figure, the one he'd overlooked in favor of the familiar white. He registers a pinprick of blue against fluffy beige, a halo of baby blue… then the silhouette of a pink coat.

Law recoils despite himself, screwing his eyes shut and curling in on himself with a groan. Shachi lets out a sound of alarm that goes right through Law like a bolt of lightning, white-hot and sudden. It only causes him to tense further, muscles straining first against a nonexistent threat, then in an attempt to keep further pain at bay.

Mercifully, no one touches him, two anxious figures only hovering by him while Law rides out the wave. They understand there's little they can do; the best thing is to wait.

"Tony-ya," Law finally acknowledges with a sharp inhale once the seizure lets up. His voice comes out a strained gasp.

"Hey, Tra-guy," comes the meek reply. Law flinches when the shrill tone vibrates in his teeth. It's not the tiny doctor's fault, not really: he's doing his best to soften it. Unfortunately, the reindeer’s pitch just happens to be the exact frequency that manages to drill into Law’s head, clean through his cranium and into the soft tissue of his brain. He feels like what the ground of Dressrosa had looked like after the war, deep gashes gouged into it by the slowly advancing birdcage, and just the mental image leaves him hollowed and weak.

Shachi leans down to murmur something in Tony’s ear, causing him to perk up in understanding. He leans right back up, cupping his hooved hands around Shachi’s ear and whispering intently. Law tries and fails to suppress his shudder at the sharp S’s that sneak out, staunchly ignoring the guilty glance he gets.

Shachi nods along until Tony pulls back, straightening his spine. Law flickers his gaze back up to him, meeting the eyes he can’t see but knows are there behind the dark shades.

Shachi somehow manages to clear his throat quietly enough that Law barely registers the twinge. “Uh, Chop… Doctor Chopper here needs to know what you’ve been dosing yourself.” Pause. Apparently thinking Law doesn’t understand (which is honestly not a bad assumption at this second, he has to grudgingly admit), he quickly clarifies, “Pain meds, that is. On the way here.”

Law blinks slowly, resisting the urge to just keep his lids closed rather than open them again. He thinks he should be able to follow the logic of that question to its source, so it’s a testament to how bad this one is that for the life of him, he can’t figure it out. He hums, focusing his wandering eyes on Shachi again. “Why?”

Tony inhales sharply and immediately claps a hoof over his mouth, looking alarmed. Shachi’s shoulders tense just slightly, but when Law doesn’t give an excessive reaction, only a discontented show of teeth, manages to relax again. “Well, we couldn’t really give you anything - for the pain, I mean. We didn’t wanna accidentally overdose you.”

Ah. Yeah, that makes sense. Law can feel the doctor part of his brain slowly waking up, pushing through with practiced ease to put aside distractions and tackle the problem at hand. But not enough that he could answer off the top of his head. 

He goes to move his arm, grimacing at both the weight and the dull ache. The intensity and clear location of it confuses him momentarily before he realizes it’s the one Doflamingo had cut off not a week ago. Before he can wonder too much about it or push himself to do something stupid, Shachi reaches out to stop him, steady hand feather-light where it lands on his shoulder. “Hey. What d’ya need?”

Law stills, slumping slightly in relief he doesn’t bother to disguise. The effortless way Shachi is perfectly in tune with him has an almost tranquilizing effect. He manages to nod in a direction that’s honestly more of an educated guess, seeing as he’s barely aware of which direction is up at the moment. “Bag.”

Shachi hums in understanding, rising from his seat to find Law’s bag wherever he’d tossed it before heading back out to confer with Straw Hat. That takes him beyond Law’s narrowed line of sight, so Law focuses on the only other thing there is to focus on. 

Tony Tony Chopper. The reindeer man is in his tiny form, turned away from Law and perching on the very edge of his seat. He’s looking anxiously in the direction that the rustling sound of Shachi’s searching is coming from. There’s really no other way to describe it than hovering, and Law is not at all sure how he feels about that, even though the attention isn’t directly on his person at the moment. He’s distinctly reminded of the more worrywart tendencies of his allied crew, and being the target of that on any level raises his hackles like little else.

There’s a victorious sound that’s quickly muffled, though unfortunately not before it bites its sharp teeth into Law. He somehow manages to shake the pained reaction before Shachi returns, looking sheepish (because of course he’d know, even without Law giving it away) but carrying the pouch Law had stored his pilfered remedies in. He empties it on the bed easily in Law’s reach and gives Law a look with an unspoken question, which Law luckily has enough presence of mind to understand.

He twitches his arm again experimentally, but quickly decides against that course of action. Instead he inclines his chin at the host of packets and bottles. “Read.”

Shachi dutifully starts picking them up one by one and peering at the labels, stammering around some of the more difficult names, but valiantly forging on. Law hums his answers, finding that the most agreeable method of communication right now.

He determinedly does not look at Tony and the faces he’s undoubtedly making.

Once they manage to pick out the correct bottles, Law forces his uncooperative tongue to work and croak out numbers. He can feel Tony’s judgment, the little reindeer practically vibrating in his seat with indignation. Mercifully, he keeps quiet, and once again Law is infinitely thankful for Shachi’s keen understanding and clear communication. The last thing Law needs is an incensed reindeer giving him a lecture on medical malpractice.

Shachi gathers the supplies back into the pouch and Tony snatches it, his jerky movements clearly indicating how he feels about all this. He hops off the chair and his hooves hit the floor with a dull thud that, of course, burrows straight into Law’s spine. Tony gives Law another guilty glance and Shachi startles when he suddenly morphs into his much larger and humanoid form. Despite everything, Law finds himself appreciating it, having dreaded the clack-clack of hooves and much preferring than the tap-tap of bare toes when Tony crosses the room.

Shachi gives a sour grimace once they have more privacy and leans in closer to Law, his voice barely more than a mumble. "Sorry, captain, he saw me leave to come check on you and somehow caught on. I tried to tell him I had it under control."

Law taps the bedding with his fingers and Shachi reaches to place his hand there, allowing tattooed digits to pat his skin lightly. "Mm. Not your fault."

Shachi looks like he respectfully disagrees, but swallows his grievances. "How are you feeling?"

Law aims a dull look at him. "Guess."

The corners of Shachi's lips quirk upward momentarily. It’s reassuring, and Law knows his own eyes are similarly soft, but he's in too much pain to care. With only the two of them here, it doesn't matter either way. But seriousness descends back on his friend's face entirely too soon.

"You pushed yourself too hard again," he mumbles. It tries, and fails, to be accusing. Law would flinch at the resignation in his tone if he wasn't afraid the muscle movement involved might start a chain reaction. 

He knows Shachi is right. The entire crew had indicated as much, during their brief catch-up earlier, though Law had done his best to deftly steer the conversation - and attention - away from all that. He hadn’t been, and still isn’t, too keen to discuss the details of his ordeal. Not yet. So now, he defiantly lifts his chin, standing by that decision.

Shachi sighs. "I don't wanna yell at you." He casts a look over Law's form, crumpled in the bed and buried in a nest of pillows and blankets. Law briefly wonders how he must look; if it’s even a fraction of as pathetic as he feels, well, he can hardly blame Shachi. Then the eyes behind dark lenses slide back to Law's face, and Shachi attempts a smile. "Well. Yet."

Law scoffs. "Well thank you for your boundless magnanimity."

It's a wonder his mouth manages to form that word without stuttering. It's probably a good sign.

"I'm the best, I know." Shachi leans back with a grin, now easy and genuine.

They share a moment, quiet and companionable. Law lets his eyes slip closed and just… basks in it. He’ll always deny having favorites among his crew, especially between the first three, but he knows Shachi is without a doubt his first pick for a nurse when he’s bedridden. Every single one of the Hearts has the know-how, of course, and Law would gladly trust any one of them with his life, but there’s no denying that Shachi’s unobtrusive concern and uncanny acumen for Law’s moods and needs is, at times, even better than Bepo’s. (Mostly because the Mink, much as Law loves the big lug, is an even worse ball of anxiety when it comes to worrying about his friends than Law is.)

Nice as it is, it’s not long before the soft tap-tap of Tony's feet starts up again and scuttles closer. Law opens his eyes to see him hand Sachi a tray and get back in his chair, morphing as he does so the rickety thing barely creaks. It’s rather impressive, actually. Back in his hybrid form, the tiny doctor glances between Law and Shachi, hesitantly opening his mouth and then closing it again. With the grogginess of sleep mostly abated, Law is feeling bold, so he gives a small nod.

"Go on, Tony-ya. Although I would appreciate it if you held off lecturing me until I can at least sit up on my own." The surprising ease of the words is encouraging, and Law punctuates them with a wry smile.

Shachi stifles a snort while a twinge of pink colors Tony's cheeks. He gives a small cough, gesturing to the tray. "I-I measured out a combination that should take the edge off." He valiantly tries to lower his voice, attempting to modulate a less shrill tone. He almost succeeds, too, and maybe it’s Law’s addled brain, or his weakness for cute and fluffy things, but he feels a surge of something soft within him. "And I mixed up some Birdie Kingdom herbs."

Ah. Law has been meaning to pick his little colleague's brain about those, actually. He'd initially assumed the herb garden by the mikan trees and the sniper's strange plants belonged to the Straw Hats' cook, but even upon learning of the Birdie Kingdom, he hadn't had enough time to truly ask about it.

Law hums his appreciation and allows the two of them to help him sit up. He even manages to mostly keep his groans inside, shoved down along with the budding nausea. He forces his arms to move enough to take and chug the medication himself, but has to let Shachi help him down the herbal drink. It's not bitter or particularly unpleasant: just weird, and the way the slightly viscous liquid crawls down his throat to his stomach is decidedly unsettling. Law gags on it, but doesn't get a chance to retch before Shachi has forced a soothing glassful of water down after it, effectively quelling the reflex.

Thoroughly exhausted from just that effort, Law sinks back into his nest. He lets out a pained sigh when he finally manages to settle, the torment plaguing his body subsiding to a dull ache. Slowly, carefully, he inclines his head. "Thank you."

Shachi gives him a thumbs up and a grin, and Tony… well. Tony blushes, for starters, the same way Law knows he does when he's pleased and about to pretend he isn't. But instead of the huffed denial and strange dance that Law expects, the reindeer looks conflicted. Chewing his lip, eyes flitting over Law's supine form. Thinking so loud that it wouldn't surprise Law if those antlers started rotating like cogs in a machine.

"Hey, Law," he begins, and Law finds himself hoping that the jolt of surprise at the usage of his actual name was more painful. 

Shachi, like the traitor he is, has already started backing away, muttering something about the party. Law casts him a murderous glance over Tony's shoulder, but that does not save him from being left alone with his junior, who is practically vibrating with anxiety. Law sighs, resigning himself to whatever is to come. (A lecture, he expects.) "Yes?"

Encouraged that Law seems coherent enough to have a conversation now, or maybe just that he's not twitching in pain every two seconds, Tony looks at him with big, shining doe eyes. He takes a deep breath. "Why did you hide away?"

Law squishes the urge to scrub a hand across his face, managing to convince himself it would only needlessly aggravate both his wounds and the chronic pain. It’s not too hard, considering it’s probably true. "You should've listened to Shachi, Tony-ya. It was under control."

It is, evidently, the wrong thing to say.

Law is not prepared for the thump of hooves against wood, nor the exclamation that hits like a gunshot. The combined force of them very nearly knocks him out, the sharp and jagged shock forcing the air from his lungs sure as a kick to the diaphragm. Even as his vision whites out, somehow, he registers the message clear as day.

“No it wasn’t!”

When Law comes back to, the reindeer is back in his chair, looking sheepish and even more worried than before. He’s fidgeting like he wants to touch Law, soothe him, but is distinctly aware that wouldn’t actually help. Law doesn’t bother hiding his grimace.

“Sorry,” Tony mumbles, looking and sounding entirely too much like another furry creature Law spends too much time with. “I didn’t mean to… But!” 

There’s a flash of something hot in his eyes, something that Law doesn’t like the look of at all. He huffs and closes his eyes, mentally bracing for another accidental strike. Still, he’d be remiss not to try. “Can this really not wait?”

His voice is far feebler than he’s comfortable with, but the benefit of that is that at least it gives Tony some pause. He looks hesitant, then makes up his mind again and shakes his head. “You didn’t need to hide, Tra-guy. Aren’t we allies?”

The nickname slides off Law like water. He doesn’t know how he feels about being so used to it. Hell, he thinks he might even prefer it, because the Straw Hats seem intent on using his actual name only in conversations Law really doesn’t want to have. 

He determinedly doesn’t look at Tony. “It’s not related to our alliance, Tony-ya.”

“Your health is!” The reindeer insists, remembering at the last moment to lower his voice. Law still shows his teeth to indicate how he feels about it. Surprisingly enough, it doesn’t deter Tony. “Robin told me what happened on Dressrosa. I could’ve…”

“This isn’t about Dressrosa,” Law grits out, with much more vehemence than he means. The rage that bubbles up right under his skin feels somehow alien, different from the usual endless furor that he’s used to. And that, more than anything, aggravates him. He wants to be angry. He wants to close off and be left alone, push everyone away and stew in his misery, but once again the straw-hatted menace and his ilk are getting under his skin and forcing him to confront thoughts and feelings he’s buried long ago and done so for a reason.

And somehow, faced with Law’s anger, shadow though as it is, Tony still doesn’t even flinch.

“I know.”

Law blinks up at him, taken aback. With how jittery the other doctor has been with him - and in general - Law would expect him to cower and flee in terror, or at the very least defer to him. Tony is skittish now, that’s for sure, but not because he’s intimidated or afraid. While the rest of his fuzzy brain is busy puzzling that out, the doctor part of him helpfully pipes up. It’s because you’re a patient.

Tony shuffles on his chair nervously, glancing away. “It’s the same thing that happened on the Sunny, right?” He looks up to affirm it, and - correctly - takes Law’s silence as confirmation. “A chronic condition?”

Law hates being read like an open book, but with the realization of Tony’s angle, the situation has shifted enough for his medical brain to gain the upper hand. He can deal with a doctor-patient interaction, reversed as the roles are from his usual. He jerks his head in a grudging nod, narrowing his eyes at the jolt of pain it causes, but keeping his noises inside.

Tony is quiet for a moment, just long enough for a vain hope to grow within Law that he might leave it at that. But he supposes the reindeer wouldn’t be a Straw Hat if he gave up that easily, so it doesn’t really surprise Law when he takes another deep breath, jaw set in stubborn determination. “I can help.”

Law couldn’t stop the harsh snort that punches out of him if he tried. The strain of it has Law screwing his eyes shut against the stars he’s seeing, so he doesn’t catch the half affronted, half exasperated, and vaguely despairing expression on his colleague’s face. Once he collects himself, Law breathes out a steadying exhale, forcing the manic energy from his voice. “No offense, Tony-ya, but I’ve been dealing with this for thirteen years.” Longer than the reindeer has been alive, maybe. Almost as long, for sure. “If I haven’t found a remedy in that time, with my powers, I sincerely doubt there’s very much you could do.”

The words feel cold on his tongue, and yet not stern enough. Law doesn’t open his eyes, certain that Tony is making some sort of hurt and damnably cute face; he’s much like Bepo that way, when faced with harsh truths. But he refuses to feel guilty for speaking nothing but facts, and standing up for himself. It’s not like he is actually Tony’s patient, no matter what the other thinks. And who cares if he doesn’t have a proper remedy; his condition is hardly curable. He’s managed thus far, hasn’t he?

It surprises him when instead of sniffling, or any other sound of upset, he hears a steady sigh. “Maybe that’s the problem, Tra-guy.”

Law snaps his eyes open to see a strangely collected Tony Tony Chopper looking down at him, with something somber in his eyes. In the face of that, there’s little he can do except stare.

“Remember how, after Punk Hazard, I asked about your moniker?” 

Law does. Just as soon as they’d set sail and Law had explained his plan, in between bouts of freaking out, the little doctor had pulled him aside and started drilling him with endless questions. About where he’d studied, about his power, about all sorts of actually interesting medical know-how that had swept Law right up, despite the looming, pink-tinted shadow of Dressrosa. After Tony’s initial apprehension at how Law had treated the kids, they had quickly grown to have mutual respect for each other. 

Among the topics of their sporadic, but fruitful, discussions had been expertise. Tony had his herbs and epidemiology, while Law preferred scalpels and anatomy.

“So the Surgeon of Death thing isn’t made up?” Tony had asked with something akin to awe. Law remembers shrugging and admitting to it.

Again, Tony takes his silence as assent. The little doctor takes another deep breath. “W-well, n… no offense, Tr– Law, but you’re a surgeon.”

Law blinks. The skin under Tony’s soft fur is heated, glowing a distinct pink. He looks simultaneously terrified and determined, bottom lip almost wobbling as he stares Law down, hooved hands fidgeting nervously.  He's clearly expecting reprimand, or some sort of pushback. It’s… 

Well, frankly, it’s adorable. Disarmingly so.

When Law doesn’t start yelling, or simply bisect and shamble him away, Tony gains a boost of confidence. His lips purse into a tight line and he continues. “A-and besides! If you’ve been at it alone for thirteen years, well, you need fresh eyes!”

Two heads are better than one, his mother’s voice whispers in Law’s ear. He shivers, unable to anchor himself as he slips into the welcoming haze of memory. He’s seven, and sneaking out of bed to find his parents hunched over research in his father’s study. Heads pressed together, soft brown hair against coarse black, so deeply lost in discussion that Law could have walked right up to them or banged on the door and he thinks they might not have noticed. The same, excited glint in both their eyes; the deep, almost black brown shared between his father and his sister, and the honey gold of his mother’s that Law sees every time he looks in the mirror.

He’s nine, and he wakes up at Lami’s bedside, groggy and worried and immediately looking to find any way to help her. Briefly confused when she’s deep asleep, breath labored but even, then realizing what woke him wasn’t her at all. Straining to hear the whispered discussions in the next room over, desperately looking for a cure for the white spots and the fever. His parents trying to keep their voices soft and even, to hide their worry and agitation, to protect Law and Lami from the harsh reality.

He’s ten, and amongst blood and gunshots, he finds his father’s research splattered with his mother’s blood. All their hard work obscured by fire and tears, endless efforts over many, many months made naught by a single soldier and the boundless hatred of the world government.

Both their eyes empty and glassy, faces distorted voids because Law can no longer recall them in any detail.

“..aw?”

Law jolts back to reality with a gasp, wincing at the dizzy wave of pain and nausea that washes over him. Cold sweat has started crawling up on his skin, and his hands are fisted in the sheets hard enough to pulse with pain, the right one radiating up his arms to the jagged sutures circling his bicep. He feels bile rise in his throat, and tastes the ghost of coppery tang on his tongue.

He's not sure which is worse: this episode itself, or nearly falling into a flashback during.

Tony is looking at him nervously, and with far more gentleness than Law is comfortable receiving. Before he can tell him off, Tony clambers out of his seat, conscious of his hooves and the reaction it prompted earlier, and awkwardly pats the covers near Law’s arm.

“We can talk when you’re a bit better,” he graciously allows. Law would be ashamed of the relief that makes him feel if it wasn’t so overwhelmingly sweet. “I’ll mix up some salves for your injuries too, okay?”

Law doesn’t miss the worried glance Tony gives his right arm. He makes a mental note to make sure Nico-ya knows exactly how he feels about her disclosing his personal business to others, no matter how good her intentions or how necessary she finds it. Though he can’t deny the prospect of Tony’s offer is appealing: he’s seen firsthand the results of some of those herbal remedies. He’s feeling the effects of one now, after all, the soothing waves caused by whatever was in his drink slowly washing over his heavy limbs.

Drowsy as it’s starting to make him - as well as the adrenaline crash, he suspects - Law nearly misses when Tony shifts to humanoid form and starts tiptoeing away. Despite his large size, the straining creaks of the floorboards are the only sound he makes. 

Law shakes his head to banish some of the grogginess. “Tony-ya.”

Tony turns back far too quickly, something hopeful on his face. Law swallows and pushes on. “Thank you. I’ll… think on it.”

Tony blinks a few times before a smile spreads on his face. It’s almost blinding in its hopefulness and delight. Rather than burden Law with his voice though, he only nods enthusiastically, for which Law finds himself being grateful. To his credit, at least the reindeer is quick to pick up on things and accommodate them.

Tony is barely out the door before Law slips back under, eagerly welcoming the blissful darkness that envelops him.

(When he wakes later, in much less pain and able to think clearly again, he can’t find it in himself to protest the eagerly offered remedies and suggestions brought forward by an excited little reindeer.)