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Smoker expects it to be another quiet night.
He can hardly be blamed for that. It's barely been a week since he'd finally managed to bully his way out of the medical leave forced on him, and of course the minute he had, the seas had gone quiet. Maddeningly so. A week ago the entire world was bustling with earth-shattering events, and now the goddamn fish are making more noise than even the smallest pieces on the board. Even when they do get word on what's happening elsewhere - which is not nearly as often as Smoker would like - it's a big whopping nothing.
Until today. And of course, there’s nothing Smoker can do about it.
Tonight, he’s retreated to his quarters early, opting to have dinner there. Picking at his curry rather than actually eating it, he again curses the stretch of ocean he's been saddled with. They're in between islands on the open seas, miles away from any civilization: the closest lands to them should be Winner Island south-southwest and Aruma to the east, both more than a day away on favorable winds. (And the winds have not been favorable, in any sense of the word, nor do they show any signs of changing. It's why they're still here in the first place.)
So, stuck in the middle of actual nowhere where they barely get the News Coo at all let alone in a timely manner, Smoker has been, simply put, slowly going out of his fucking mind.
It's not just boredom, either. No, more than that, he's antsy. Giving up on the curry altogether, Smoker pushes the plate away and busies himself with lighting a pair of cigars. Fragrant smoke fills the room as he pulls on them and exhales, a comforting cloud curling around him.
Watching the massive shift in the power balance of the world while stuck in recovery had been hell, but this is worse. At least then things had been happening, and he could easily stay informed of them: the unwilling ignorance is easily the worst part now. The proverbial gear Trafalgar Law had made such a pretty speech about on Punk Hazard had well and truly broken, bringing the whole system to a screeching halt like a train crashing into the station. Doflamingo's fall, the Vinsmokes and all the madness on Whole Cake Island. Wano.
And now this.
Smoker shifts the cigars in his mouth and taps a finger on one of his crossed arms, unblinking gaze glued to the pair of news articles before him. One of them arrived in the morning, the other less than an hour before dinner, prompting his early retreat. He has read both half a dozen times by now, each read tightening his gut.
Not only did the brats of the Worst Generation completely shift the status quo of the New World (and beyond) in the biggest clash of pirates since Whitebeard's death, they don't seem to be content with re-electing only half of the Four Emperors. Oh, no. Never mind that the newest addition to that bunch, Straw Hat Luffy, is wreaking havoc on Egghead; Eustass Kid just clashed with Red Haired Shanks on the shores of Elbaf with no news as to the outcome, and Edward "Blackbeard" Teach has been sighted in the vicinity of Winner Island.
Winner Island, which is the third possible direction to take from Wano, and the direction Trafalgar Law's yellow submarine had been seen taking.
That article is nearly four days old, brought in by a very disoriented Coo the crew had to allow to rest on the ship and offer it a drink before it could take off again. Smoker had taken one look at the paper and excused himself, feeling a headache building and yearning to light a third cigar.
He does so now, the motions of cutting and lighting the thick stick of pure cancer soothing as always. The steady flow of nicotine doesn’t hurt, either, though the uncomfortable anticipation in his guts remains. Smoker barely gets it in his mouth alongside the two half-burned ones before his remaining expectations of another peaceful-yet-restless evening are completely shattered.
He feels it before anything else. Some sensations are just too unique to ever forget: like the agony of being sliced apart by razor-sharp strings so thin they’re invisible, or the strange feeling of waking up in a body not his own. Things that are hardly replicable without a very specific skill set. So, when the air around him thins and fills with bluish static, Smoker knows exactly what it is - has felt it enough times now that it doesn’t even register as a potential threat. (That is a fact he has staunchly refused to examine for roughly a year now, and has no plans to any time soon.) What he feels instead is a chemical rush so intense it nearly topples him over, a balm for the persistent ache that has lived behind his breastbone since Punk Hazard.
Smoker turns around in his chair just in time to catch two of his meditating rocks poof out of existence, replaced instead with…
A man and a polar bear.
The latter lands on the floor in a white-and-orange heap of fur and tattered boiler suit with a truly pathetic whine, and the former… doesn’t manage much better. There’s a grunt as he materializes inches above the bear and a small oomph as he lands on top of it and rolls off. With that already undignified performance, he too ends up on the floor in a pile of scrawny limbs sticking out every which way.
And that's about all Smoker can take at once. Burying the feelings of relief and gladness that seeing the stupid spotted denim and golden eyes awaken in him, Smoker screws his eyes shut. With a long-suffering sigh, he scrubs a weary hand across his face. "What, in the name of the Four Blues, are you doing here?"
"Hello to you too, White Chase-ya," Trafalgar Law sneers in reply.
Smoker removes his hand to level him with his most unimpressed glare, only to have it quickly wiped off his face by unadulterated concern.
Law looks like shit.
And that's putting it mildly. It's hardly the first time either of them sees the other hurt, but Smoker finds himself distinctly reminded of Punk Hazard; Vergo's cold and casual torture of Law was definitely a new extreme, even for them. There's a reason it has haunted Smoker's nightmares for weeks now. And the only reason the doctor looks any better now than back then is because he's not actively screaming in agony. He's dressed in a ratty tank top that's absolutely saturated with blood and dirt, as are his trademark jeans. The bags under his eyes look more like bruises than ever and there's dried blood on his skin and in his hair, despite the fact that he's dripping with seawater, drenching Smoker's carpet. A quick glance at the bear confirms that it’s no better off - though both of them at least have bandages peeking out from under their soiled clothes, and Smoker can see no fresh red blooming anywhere.
That observation does not alleviate his worry nearly enough.
"Fucking hell," he says, still processing the definitely new, jagged scar circling Law's right bicep, and the fact that there is no trace of either the spotted, fluffy hat, nor the cursed nodachi he knows Law would rather throw himself overboard than willingly part with. (Looking at this scene, a part of Smoker wonders if that isn't exactly what happened.)
Law huffs, curiously - worryingly - having remained sitting, and arranges his frankly ridiculously long and skinny limbs into a cross-legged position, hunching forward. "Yeah."
"What the fuck happened?" Smoker asks, looking between the two of them. The bear - a mink, Law’s navigator, Smoker remembers, though the name escapes him - has wrangled himself upright as well, sitting on his knees in a strangely subdued position. He looks just about ready to keel over right then and there, head drooping as he leans heavily against Law at his side. Smoker doesn't miss the way Law trembles under the strain, sagging progressively lower, but is clearly unwilling to give up any of the physical contact shared between them.
Somewhat predictably, there is no answer to his question. Law only bites his lip and looks away, the usually warm amber of his eyes cold and hollow. As he slides out of his seat, Smoker decides it’s a color he really doesn’t like. Especially on Law.
"I'm gonna get some medical supplies, and you best have some sort of story for me by the time I get back, brat," he informs the haunted pair, hiding the genuine concern under his usual layers of gruffness with practiced ease.
He lingers for several beats, giving Law ample time to respond, to come at him with a snarky, huffy retort. It never comes, and Smoker's gut tightens in unease.
None of his crew question him when he marches into the sickbay and pilfers its supplies, though Tashigi gives him a long and sharply curious look as he's on his way back. All Smoker has for her in return is a minute shake of his head - a silent not now, later - and doesn't stay to see her lips thin into a line even as she gives a terse nod of acknowledgement.
By the time Smoker gets back, the bear has shifted to lie on the floor, by all accounts out cold. Law himself has slumped sideways against him, temple pressed to the slowly rising and falling chest, his eyes half lidded. They blink open when Smoker enters the cabin, watching like a hawk as he shuts and locks the door behind him.
Smoker stops there for a moment, hesitating for the first time. Law looks– small. It’s not a word Smoker would normally associate with him, in any capacity. Hell, it’s not a word he wants to associate with Law. And despite his obvious exhaustion, there's tension in that wiry frame, a flightiness that reminds Smoker of a wild animal. It's a sight he’s only seen once or twice before, one he'd long forgotten, but faced with it again like this–
The flutter in Smoker's chest is not unlike getting his heart literally punched out by those clever, tattooed hands.
Shaking his head to clear it, Smoker steps up to the pair and sits, setting down his bounty. "C'mon. At the very least, those bandages need changing."
Law continues to eye him warily for a good thirty seconds, and an impatient man as he is, Smoker has half a mind to just force him. Then Law nods, some of the tension melting away as he reaches to tug his soiled top off and unceremoniously chucks it off to the side. With that out of the way, Smoker can finally get a real idea of the state he’s in - and he does not like what he sees.
The heavily tattooed expanse of Law’s torso is almost completely covered in clearly makeshift bandages, wet and dirty in a way that's practically married to infection rather than just courting it. It smells like sickness, too, acrid sweetness mixed with the pungent tang of iron. Smoker wrinkles his nose in distaste and gets up again, fetching a washbasin and cloth. He sets them down by Law, pleased that the man has already begun the disgusting process of peeling the mess off of himself. (Smoker makes a mental note to burn the clothes Law came in with, and disinfect every inch he's touched for good measure. The bear, too. No way that’s sanitary in any shape or form.)
The slow unwrapping reveals lots of superficial cuts, but only a few deeper gashes. Even they are still shallow enough that Smoker feels confident in saying they won't need stitches, just a good disinfectant bath. Judging by Law's subtly labored breathing, he suspects most of the bindings were for ribs, anyway. The extensive, ugly bruising and the way he spasms in pain when Smoker's hands lightly brush over them definitely suggests at least bruised bones, probably worse. Smoker sincerely hopes the man has checked himself for internal contusions as well, because like hell Smoker can diagnose shit like that, and he can’t very well drag his own medic in here to check on a Worst Generation stowaway.
As he helps Law clean off the muck and grime, he tries not to look at the obviously new scars hidden under the black and blue of tattoos and fresher injuries. Pretends not to notice the thin white lines that are mirrored on Smoker’s own body, or the punctures of healed-over gunshot wounds. It's much harder than it has any right to be to force himself to not map the planes of that lean torso and all the changes to it, but somehow he swallows the questions he has about the jagged stitch marks on Law’s arm, silences the voice that demands to know about Dressrosa and Wano.
Smoker doesn't stop at doing bare first aid, either, because he simply doesn't do half measures. By the time he deems them done, he's had Law give up his jeans as well, helped clean him up as best they can without a proper bath, and sacrificed some of his old civvies to give him something to wear. They're absolutely too big for him, making him look even scrawnier than his lean physique actually is. Smoker definitely doesn’t have to work overtime to keep his stupid feelings under control. Not at all.
Most impressively, there's not even a hint of complaint from Law during the entire process, and that if anything sets Smoker's teeth on edge.
As soon as Smoker releases him, Law turns to the polar bear. With rare softness, he gently shakes the mink until the beady eyes blink open. "Hey, Bepo."
"Captain," 'Bepo' answers blearily.
Law smiles. Smoker's stomach gives a traitorous lurch at the sight. "Hey. Can you help take off your suit? Let me take a look at your injuries."
Bepo opens his mouth as if to protest - an expression Smoker is familiar with, having worn it many times himself - but it then seems to register that Law has cleaned up and changed clothes. The bear snaps his mouth shut and nods, wrestling himself upright, and begins the arduous process of peeling off the torn remains of his clothes.
Watching the two of them, quietly conversing with their heads pressed close together, touches gentle and companionable, Smoker is struck by an intense feeling of wrongness. Like he's intruding on something private. Suddenly flustered, he turns away, first grabbing the washbasin to change the water for them, then busying himself with looking for anything suitable for the mink to wear. Tall as Smoker is, even he has nothing on an actual fucking polar bear, but like hell he’s going to let said bear stumble around his cabin naked if he can help it. Plus, he doesn’t know how easily minks get cold, furry as they are. Or if it’s different when said mink is injured. Not that Smoker cares about that, of course. Not for pesky pirates. But he’s already gone this far and clothed Law, he might as well do the same for his companion. Plus, Law would doubtlessly complain if Smoker didn’t at least try. Maybe if nothing else they can fashion something out of a sheet or a blanket and make do.
After several minutes, he actually manages to locate an old yukata that he's reasonably confident will fit. And then–
Then he finds himself with nothing to do except wait and fidget.
He doesn't interfere with Law's diligent care of his friend, recognising that an actual doctor is much better suited for that than him - and, perhaps more than that, Smoker sees the pair's obvious need for one another. For the safety of a familiar face after… whatever the hell it is that they've been through.
Thinking back to the news article, Smoker has a sinking feeling that he might already know.
When the mink's treatment is over and he's laid out on Smoker's couch, clad in the yukata and snoring away, whatever brain chemicals have kept Law going finally give out. With a quick exhale, he slumps, essentially collapsing, and Smoker reacts on instinct. Before he knows it, he’s diving forward, ready to catch the scrawny brat before he hits the floor, to hold him upright. He only barely manages to wrap an arm around bony shoulders before Law huffs and pushes him away. "I'm fine."
Smoker very much wants to disagree, but thinks better of it. He swallows the sharp words creeping on his tongue and backs off, pushing himself back to his feet. Law pays him no mind, only keeps looking at Bepo, his face a mixture of emotions. It occurs to Smoker that this might be the most expressive he’s ever seen Law. The unrestricted display of emotion is so raw, so honest, it looks alien on a man usually so carefully controlled. It makes him look both much older than he actually is, his face pale and haggard with way too many lines, and much younger, eyes huge and wavering and his mouth twisted in a distressed frown.
It looks wrong.
"He saved me, you know," Law murmurs, words quiet and brittle. "Swam us here all the way from Winner Island."
Well, that answers that question. Heart pounding, Smoker crouches again in front of him, bowing low to get eye level with the hunched figure. "Law."
Law turns away from the polar bear, finally meeting Smoker’s gaze. The gold of his eyes is still the same dull and lifeless shade as when he arrived, and yeah, Smoker still doesn’t like it. He swallows against the tightness in his chest. "What the hell happened?"
Law sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Drink?"
They end up sitting on Smoker's bed, because there's a two-and-a-half meter goddamn polar bear taking up the couch, with absolutely overfilled glasses of whiskey in hand. Law gets through a good two thirds of his before he's ready to talk.
"I'm sure Morgans already reported it," he starts, face dark as he stares into the depths of his glass like it has personally offended him. His voice is low, hoarse with sea-salt and fatigue.
Smoker scoffs and sends a plume of smoke to fetch the two World Economy News Papers still sitting on his desk. He unceremoniously drops them on the bed between them, text facing Law. "Stretch of ocean like this, we're lucky to get the coo more than twice a week. These arrived today."
Law takes in the headlines, blinks, and promptly drains his glass. Smoker really can't fault him.
"Talk to me, Law." It comes out much gentler than either of them is ready to acknowledge, so they don't.
"What good will that do?" Law snaps, but there's no real bite to it. His tone is the same resigned one it’s been since he shambled himself and his navigator in, uncomfortably flat compared to his usual rich timbre. He thrusts out his glass, ice clinking, and Smoker refills it without complaint. Law takes another gulp as soon as he can, shoulders slumping. "He was waiting for us. For any of us, he said - he figured one of us would take that route from Wano."
"Ambush?" Smoker asks. The bitter laugh Law answers with makes his skin crawl.
"Suppose that's what it was, yes. And we sailed right into it." He flashes a wry, mirthless smile. "They forced us to surface and fight. My crew–"
Law chokes on the words and Smoker very nearly reaches out, almost places a steadying hand on his shoulder. But he stops himself in time, reminding himself that Law pushed him away earlier. Thus, it likely wouldn't be welcome now, either, just like it hasn’t been in a good while. Instead, Smoker simply forces himself to watch as Law drains his second glass of whiskey and struggles to pull himself together.
"I don't know what happened," he concludes roughly once he wrestles his voice under control again. The tone is one of finality and defeat the likes of which Smoker has never heard from him before. "I lost. I did everything I could and more, and it wasn't enough." He flexes his free hand unconsciously, clenching it into a fist and relaxing again, again, again, to a comfortably familiar rhythm. The same nervous tic he’s had since Smoker first met him. "We - the two of us - only got out because Bepo went Sulong. I told him to go back, but…"
But he wouldn't, obviously. Smoker has to commend the mink: it takes a certain kind of courage to retreat the way he did, to admit when it's time to cut your losses. It definitely takes guts to do so against direct orders from your captain. And from what Smoker can tell - even discounting his admittedly biased personal opinion - it was the right decision.
One thing stands out to him though. Smoker runs the numbers in his head and frowns. "It's the first quarter. Full moon isn't for another week."
Law smiles at that, a shriveled, joyless little quirk of his lips. "Tony-ya's doing, I believe. The Straw Hats' doctor,'' he clarifies, surmising (correctly, not that Smoker will ever admit to it) that Smoker might not remember. "It was an experimental drug they were both quite excited for on Wano. Seems it was a success, but it takes a heavy toll." He glances back at the sleeping mink, eyes softening just slightly, before they go dark again. "I suppose I should count myself lucky, huh."
Ok, yeah, none of that. Smoker can tell where Law’s traitorous thoughts are spiraling, even without the way his tone absolutely drips with acid aimed inward. Smoker won’t be having any of that. He scoffs. "Look at you, tying yourself in knots. Didn't know you were such a worrywart."
It's definitely a lie, but it breaks Law out of his head. His eyes flicker to Smoker briefly, then away. When he quietly contemplates his third glass of whiskey, Smoker takes it as an invitation to continue. "Your crew's tough, Trafalgar. Made it all the way to the New World, challenged and beat two of the Emperors. You know that’s no small feat. If you didn't see any of them bite it for sure, you can bet they'll be back with you soon enough. Hell, they’re probably looking for you already, chasing after you with that garish little tin can of yours."
Smoker realizes his mistake only a second too late. Law recoils like Smoker had physically struck him, and suddenly the pieces of the puzzle slot into place and lock firmly. The picture they paint is truly nightmarish. All the little details suddenly make sense: the swimming and seawater, the lack of the hat and Kikoku, the uncharacteristic brittleness. How it’s been even harder than usual to get him to offer any explanation. It's clear enough that Smoker doesn't need confirmation, but Law gives it to him anyway.
"They sunk the Tang, Smoker," he whispers, and his voice breaks on Smoker's name.
Smoker has never been one to delude himself. He won't pretend he has any idea of what Law is going through. Despite having had command of his own warship for over two years now, it's not like he's really a captain of one. The ships have come and gone, each built to standard, soulless and impassive. His crew changes constantly, too, marines getting swapped around and transferred: only Tashigi is constant, in no small part due to the string-pulling Smoker does to keep it that way. The most personalization he has ever done on a ship - aside from the vain addition of his name on the sail of his first and the custom paint-job Hina had challenged him to order - is clearing a corner for his meditative stone stacking, and, on one memorable occasion, bringing a cactus gifted by Hina to sit on his desk. (Tashigi had named it Mr. Grumpy. It sunk along with his second ship, the Emerald Star, nine months ago.)
The Polar Tang had been Law's for ten years. It was his first and only ship as captain: he had sailed on it since he was sixteen. Every little piece of it down to the smallest rivet was custom, meticulously maintained by his team of engineers. He had built a home of it to his exact specifications and the crew he surrounded himself with was hand-picked, close-knit as a family.
Smoker knows all this. There are no words to fix that kind of heartbreak, least of all spoken by someone like him, who cannot hope to relate.
So he doesn't.
Instead, he gently coaxes the still full glass out of Law's trembling hand and pulls him close. Law gives in easily, crumpling against Smoker with a shaky breath. Smoker sends their glasses away on a few tendrils of smoke, then wraps his other arm around Law as well, allowing him to hide his face in Smoker’s chest. Law immediately sags in his hold, all but collapsing, shaking with silent sobs. The high walls that normally surround him on all sides now lie in ruins, crushed by the weight of pain and grief. Smoker has long wanted to see beyond those walls, hooked by the small glimpses he'd sometimes been allowed, but not like this. Not with Law forced into a corner and beaten down.
Law cries silently for a good long while. Smoker can feel the warm wetness where Law’s face is pressed against his ribs, but he doesn’t mind. He holds Law until the quivering abates, carding one large hand through black hair. He gently works his fingers through tangles, brushing sea salt out until the coarse texture softens to something more familiar - not quite silky, but soft in his calloused fingers. Eventually Law's breathing slows, going from stuttering gasps to deep inhales and exhales. He keeps leaning heavily against Smoker, making no move to shift in any direction, or, more surprisingly, even to push him away. (Though Smoker is ready to write that off as simple exhaustion.) And then Smoker holds him for a moment longer, unwilling to pass up the chance to just be close like this. Who knows when he’ll get another, if ever. Minutes pass as Smoker listens to the steady breaths of the man in his arms and the soft snuffles from the couch.
But as much as he wants to keep doing that, they can't stay like this forever. With that thought, Smoker sighs and squeezes Law’s shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. "Law."
For what feels like the longest ten seconds of his life, Smoker thinks - maybe even hopes - Law might have fallen asleep. Then he shifts, breathing a questioning huff. Smoker releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and pauses, trying to wrangle all the thoughts buzzing around in his head. There are so many things he wants to say, but he needs to figure out which of them to say first.
He settles on a question. "Why did you come here?"
Law tenses and for a terrifying moment Smoker is sure the man will push him away. Then he sags again, deflating like Straw Hat's stupid balloon form. "I don't know," he says, voice small, fragile. Smoker is caught off guard by the honesty in the wavering words; he can count the times he’s heard that tone on the fingers of one hand. "We heard your ship was patrolling the area, and so–"
Law cuts off. Smoker can picture him biting his lip, the way he does when he’s having one of his silent internal debates. And try as he might, Smoker can’t quite bring himself to hate how easily he recalls that image, nor the flicker of warmth that sparks in his core.
"I wasn't thinking," Law finally finishes, feeble and clipped.
Smoker mulls this over for a good minute, taking his time to sort through the tidal wave of emotions welling up inside him. Unconsciously, he starts smoothing one hand over Law’s back, only noticing when the body in his arms shivers as a shaky breath escapes Law in a rush. Smoker stutters in his motions for only a second before resuming, tightening his hold. Pleased at the way Law relaxes against him, Smoker exhales a faint plume of smoke. "You know I can't be helping pirates,” he begins slowly.
This time, Law really does make to move away, heaving a sigh. "I know. I–"
"That," Smoker interrupts him, tightening his grasp just enough to keep him there, "does not mean I won't help you."
Law stills. A beat, another, and then he's moving again, more insistently this time. He pushes Smoker until he can get his head unearthed from his chest and looks up, pointedly arching one brow. "The hell, White Hunter-ya?"
That is the question, isn’t it. Too bad Smoker doesn't have the answer. For lack of anything better, he shrugs.
Law narrows his eyes. "Smoker–"
"For fuck's sake, Trafalgar," Smoker growls, the thin thread of his notoriously short temper finally snapping. He knows all too well the route Law's train of thought is taking and he’s intent on stopping it in its tracks. "Not everything is give and take. Would it kill you to accept help for once in your damn life?"
Law snaps his mouth shut, swallowing whatever words of protest he had ready on his tongue. A whole host of emotions flickers in his bloodshot eyes, too fast to make them all out - Smoker thinks he sees surprise, confusion, exasperation, even a hint of distress. Finally, they settle on irritation, familiar enough in their heat that Smoker finds himself soothed. Curiously, Law ducks his head right after and mumbles something into Smoker's chest. (He thinks he hears the name 'Straw Hat' and decides he doesn’t really want to know.)
That irritation fades as quickly as it arrived: it melts away into uncertainty, making Law slump.
"Why?"
The question is a whisper, oddly fragile in the same way his admission about the Tang had been. It immediately washes away Smoker's own ire, leaving only the fierce the need to be here, to hold him, keep him safe--
Smoker brushes a hand over the side of Law's head, gently scratching behind his ear and coming to rest there. As he idly thumbs the double rings that glint in gold, Law’s eyes slip closed. Smoker swallows the lump in his throat, trying very hard not to be undone by flutter of Law’s lashes or the way he leans into the touch, still as starved for it as ever. Despite himself, Smoker can't help the way that reaction emboldens him: he knows it's treacherous at best, but it still makes him hopeful. Encouraged, Smoker decides to forgo their usual veneer. Instead, he lays all his cards on the table, matching the vulnerability Law has been cornered into showing as best he can.
"Because I care," Smoker tells him, a deep rumble from his chest that he knows Law can feel as well as hear. Sure enough, he shivers, melting against Smoker ever so slightly, and Smoker continues. "Don't get me wrong. You're an absolute menace, and a pain in my ass, not to mention how little I approve of your methods at the best of times - or just most of the shit you do in general--" Law huffs a laugh at that, a sudden breath he can't stifle in time, which further spurs Smoker on. "But I care. You know I do."
Law ducks his head, another helpless breath of laughter bubbling out of him. "Yeah. Yeah, you're an idiot like that."
He looks up in a way he would usually do from under the brim of his fluffy hat, face angled slightly down, golden eyes rolled up, and Smoker can see him biting his lip. Recognising it means Law is deliberating, Smoker gives him the time and space, reduced once again to simply waiting for a decision. He tries not to cling in the meanwhile like this is the last time he gets to hold the man, even though it may well be.
(But then, couldn't any time be that, with people like the two of them?)
Finally, Law sighs, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. We can't stay here."
Smoker's stomach drops. "Law–"
"Think about it, Smoker," Law insists, fisting a hand in Smoker's shirt and tugging him forward like he's trying to make sure he has Smoker's full attention. "What could you do? You can't take a navy ship to chase after an Emperor, much less openly for my sake or at my side. Even if you did find my crew, your only option would be to arrest them, assuming you even could. Not to mention our presence here would - will - be noticed sooner or later, and that second-of-command of yours won't let it slide forever.” He clicks his tongue in obvious distaste. “And don't even get me started on your men."
Smoker grits his teeth, head fuzzy as his logic wars with his emotions, as it often does. Law notices, and shakes his head again. "It's best if we leave, Smoker."
But Law doesn't pull away. He stays right where he is, bracketed by Smoker’s arms, chin defiantly raised. All he does is relax the hand clenched in the fabric of Smoker's shirt and almost unconsciously tries to smooth it out. His eyes are much clearer now than when he arrived, still rimmed red but no longer glazed and lifeless: the familiar spark that had always called to Smoker is back, not yet the bright flame he remembers, but embers ready to reignite.
Captivated as Smoker is by that look, it takes him a moment to recognize what it means. When he does, he bristles, because this is an age-old grievance. It is also one of the things, if not the thing, that has drawn Smoker in from the start, certain and inevitable as a vessel caught in a whirlpool.
The little bastard is trying to protect him.
Smoker tamps down his groan of frustration and tilts Law's chin up to press their foreheads together. "I can take care of myself, brat."
Law closes his eyes and leans into him, not at all bothered at getting called out. The sound he produces is somewhere between a hum and a sigh. "So can I."
Smoker almost throws out a snide retort, but bites it back at the last second. He has no desire to be cruel, not when Law has already been flayed open and is barely keeping it together. Instead, he lets out a deep, deep sigh, and follows Law's lead in closing his eyes. Never let it be said he's not willing to compromise. "Fine. But you're staying until we make port."
Law jerks back, practically radiating indignation, so Smoker curls his fingers into his hair to keep him in place and glares into the molten gold. "Your mink needs to rest, you're both injured, have no transport, and you can't swim." He presses their heads closer together when Law opens his mouth to argue, almost to the point of pain. "And you know full well taking a dinghy to New World waters is suicide in your current situation, so don't even think about stealing one."
Law grits his teeth, baring them in a snarl. Smoker is not intimidated; on the contrary, he’s only too happy to see such a normal, familiar reaction. Proof that the man he knows still perseveres, ready to rise despite the pain and tragedy piled on top of him.
But Law still doesn't seem convinced, so Smoker pulls a card he hadn't necessarily wanted to. "C'mon, Law. Your friend there didn't drag you out at the risk of his own life only for you to throw yours away."
Law's eyes flash, and Smoker holds his breath. He tells himself it's a calculated risk: either this will cause Law to cave, or push him away for good, but so would not saying anything. It’s a risk he has to take. Seconds pass with neither of them blinking, Law waging a quiet war within himself and Smoker, as always, unable to do anything.
Finally, Law deflates. "Fine. Fine. Have it your way."
And then, because what would Trafalgar Law be without the capriciousness and irrationality, he kisses Smoker.
There's the briefest moment of hesitation, a second where Law's eyes flicker down to Smoker's lips. Another where he first inches his chin up, then twitches back. Smoker watches, frozen, as the tip of his tongue peeks out to wet his lips.
And then, all at once, Law surges.
Smoker lets out a surprised noise, but his body responds even before his mind fully catches up. The movements come so easily, like no time has passed at all. He tangles his fingers in black hair and hooks his other arm around Law's waist, pulling him close, right where he fits perfectly against Smoker’s larger bulk. Law sighs into the kiss and his skinny arms come to wrap around Smoker's neck, weedy body curving to press against his. Smoker holds back a sigh of his own, caught off guard by how good, how right this still feels. How the easy closeness soothes the perpetual restlessness that lives somewhere inside him, quieting the buzzing in his bones that drives him to work long hours and compels him to always act. He’d forgotten how it feels to be free of it.
It's a slow kiss, unusually tender for them, full of indulgence. On any other day it might bother Smoker, make him withdraw and grouse in his struggle to deal with emotions he is very much unused to. Softness like this simply isn’t their way. Never has been.
Today… today he chooses not to care.
Law pulls away first, but it's barely an inch, close enough that they're still sharing breath. Before Smoker can say anything, Law bumps their noses together and presses another soft kiss on his lips. "Don't."
Smoker arches a brow at him. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.” Law nuzzles his nose against Smoker’s, shameless in his demands for affection. Which tells Smoker just how far gone he is, because Law only ever gets this clingy when he’s drowsy, either falling asleep or just waking up.
Smoker smothers his fond chuckle before it can escape him and ruin his carefully projected irate aura. “Since when can you read minds?”
Law snorts, thin lips curling into a smile Smoker can clearly feel against his own. “When it’s you? Always.”
Smoker scoffs even as he steals a kiss of his own. "Damn pirate."
The genuine, if stunted snicker that wrings from Law is sheer music to Smoker's ears. Law's hands are in Smoker's hair now, idly petting the slicked-back white strands. Loath as Smoker is to deprive either of them of that, he suspects Law is going to pass out on him any minute now: he's clearly well past his limit, ready to crash from all the exertion. Smoker sighs and claims one more languid kiss before pulling Law down. He tucks Law's head under his own chin so he can rest it on top of the mop of messy black hair. Law huffs, but surprisingly doesn't complain, especially once Smoker resumes his earlier petting and starts rubbing soothing circles on his back.
Held tight in Smoker’s arms, ear pressed to his chest where he can feel as well as hear the steady beat of his heart, Law drifts off. He slowly goes boneless, slumping his full weight into Smoker’s embrace, until deep, even breaths confirm that he's finally given in to sleep. Smoker waits a few minutes then, just listening to that steady rhythm of slow inhales and exhales. When he’s confident it won’t wake Law, he eases them both down onto the bed, slowly, carefully, never loosening his hold. Law's long legs tangle with his and he sighs in his sleep, but seems undisturbed by the movement.
This, too, is a rare treat - or more like was. One that Smoker's missed more than he cares to admit. He doubts he’ll get another chance: once Law wakes, he’ll no doubt go back to giving him the cold shoulder. Smoker figures he might as well enjoy this while it lasts.
Law is right, though. There is very little Smoker can do for him, and just having him on board for more than a night is risky as is. He's not fool enough to think that Tashigi never knew, or at least suspected, either. Maybe she'd let it slide for a day or two, but her sense of justice would eventually drive her to act. And Smoker can't fault her for that; it's half the reason he keeps her around, after all.
But Smoker is nothing if not bullheaded, and the former Warlord sleepily curling up against him in search of his warmth is damn good motivation.
Besides. It will be at least another day before they can make port. That's ample time to come up with something. Mind made up, Smoker settles down as comfortably as he can, content to serve as space heater for as long as Law needs.
And if he seems all too eager to take advantage of any and every chance to touch and hold Law, well.
Maybe nobody needs to know.