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“What happened in Dressrosa?”
Law groans and lets his head fall back against the couch. “Do we have to do this?”
Smoker gives him a look that is beyond unimpressed. “You showed up on my ship unannounced and half dead. The least you could do is give me some answers.”
Law matches his look with the dirtiest one he can muster, glowering from where he's sprawled gracelessly across the cushions. Bepo is sleeping in Smoker's bed now; Law had shambled him there earlier despite Smoker's protests, wanting to give him the best chance to recuperate. The fact that the mink hasn't woken once speaks to his level of exhaustion, and Law dreads to think what an experimental drug like that could do to his system if not properly monitored and followed up on.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing for a doctor to do on that front before Bepo wakes up.
Wrestling his wandering thoughts away from his best friend and patient, Law focuses on grousing. “I told you about Winner Island. Even that’s more than you need to know.”
Oddly enough, Law doesn’t regret it. Involving Smoker, that is. He probably should, and he does despise the weakness he was driven into showing, but all things considered… As questionable as his instinct to seek Smoker out at all was, and still is, it could have gone worse. The list of people Law would trust to even to just see him in such a state, much less help, is woefully short. At the very least his little whimsy has seen him and his only remaining crew member (and that mere thought is enough to send a jolt of pain clean through Law's ribcage) fed and medically cared for.
Smoker gnaws on his cigars, puffing thick clouds of off-white smoke. Even aside from the heavy smell of tobacco, which is something that has always soothed Law's nerves, the familiar irritation is comforting; much more so than it has any right to be. “I’m trying to help you, brat.”
“I didn’t–” Law cuts himself off. It dawns on him then that he did, in fact, ask. Involving Smoker was his own express decision, however impulsively made. Bepo certainly hadn't made it for him - hell, he hadn't so much as questioned it. And he hadn't been the one to bring the rumors, either: it had been an innocuous bit of conversation Law overheard, and his traitor brain had latched onto it. Pushed to his breaking point and beyond, he'd heard Smoker's name and only thought refuge.
Fuck.
Law huffs and crosses his arms, having successfully flustered himself. “It was in the papers, I’m sure you read about it,” he tries in an effort to distract either of them. Not that he actually expects it to work.
And sure enough, it doesn’t. Smoker’s look is somehow even more exasperated than before. “That didn’t work yesterday, and it’s not going to work today.”
Law shrugs. “Worth a try.” He sinks deeper into the couch cushions and into his borrowed shirt, morosely picking at the sleeves. It's one of Smoker's, and that shows: it's positively huge on Law, large enough to drown him as it hangs limply over his lean torso, nearly slipping off his shoulder. His hands hide easily in the too long sleeves, making them into a mockery of paws. “Fine. As soon as you tell me where you got those new scars.”
It's hard to miss the way Smoker’s eye twitches, a telltale sign that he’s been caught out and that he knows it, too. To his credit, he does try to sidestep. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Oh, but with pleasure. Law leans forward, lips twisted in a thin smile. “Those thin, straight lines slicing across your torso and face.” He gives each visible scar - of which there are many, courtesy of Smoker’s general aversion to wearing shirts - a pointed look. He can easily find the fading white marks even against Smoker’s pale skin, because he hasn't been able to not notice them since he arrived. Not when he knows exactly what they are and where they've come from; the question is why and when. “You know, it’s funny; you didn’t have those the last time we met.”
Smoker’s eye twitches again. He leans away, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”
It’s Law’s turn to look absolutely unimpressed. “That might work better if I didn’t have those exact same scars, White Hunter-ya.“
Scoffing, Smoker removes his cigars from his mouth. Reaching over to his desk, he sets them gently in the small ashtray there. “Don’t get cute with me.”
Well, if he wants to be that way about it. Evidently subtlety will get them nowhere, and two can play at that game. Law finally sits up straight and crosses his arms, chin raised as his eyes narrow. “When and more importantly why did you get into a fight with Doflamingo?”
He's not surprised when Smoker takes his sweet time answering. Because he will answer, Law knows it, Smoker knows it, so of course he's determined to at least be difficult about it. But let him. Law is content to wait him out.
The charged silence stretches on until Smoker's finished cigars finally burn out. Both of them watch the lazily curling smoke as it drifts up towards the ceiling until the thin strands fade and finally disappear. Smoker immediately cuts and lights new ones, his movements slow and deliberate, and Law can't help the way his eyes are drawn to the practiced motions like he hasn't seen them a thousand times. He's only able to tear his gaze away when Smoker gets the cigars in his mouth. Before his mind can wander any further, Law forcibly reminds himself that he has a point to make here; he can't get swept up in… whatever this thing is between them.
Smoker stretches his cigar-preparing for as long as humanly possible purely to be annoying. It's not until Law is about to let his impatience get the better of him and snap despite his resolve that Smoker finally relents. "Punk Hazard. Feathered bastard arrived before our ride did."
Law is not dumb. He'd guessed something along those lines; it's the only order of events that makes sense. It doesn't surprise him. And yet he can't help the way his insides frost over at the confirmation, his chest growing tight. Schooling his expression before it can give him away, he simply raises a brow. "What happened?"
Unable to hide his honest reactions as always, Smoker's eye twitches once more as his frown deepens. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, rolling the cigars in his mouth. "Well, he started by replacing those heads you stole from his subordinates."
Law is proud that he manages to keep his poker face despite the ice inside him spreading. "You're stalling."
Smoker grimaces at him, never happy to be called out. "What do you think happened? He was looking for you, and not too happy to find you already gone. Nearly killed five of my men. Injured a dozen others."
Law squashes the urge to shrink. He knows how much Smoker cares for his subordinates, despite the fact that he only ever complains about them. And even then, the affected growl the words come out as would be enough indication. Law understands, no matter how much he wants not to relate; the men of G-5 remind him all too much of his own crew. On Punk Hazard, it had only annoyed him, being more needless chaos he hadn’t asked for - as opposed to the Straw Hats, whom Law will grudgingly admit he did bring on himself - as well as kindling the homesickness he’d been so careful to smother for months. It brings a similar feeling now, though it’s more tinged with bitterness.
But Law's not at fault here. Hell, he'd done his best to provide a distraction. Even if said distraction had just made things worse.
Careful not to let any of that show, Law pushes. "And what reason did he, a Warlord, have to attack a damn vice admiral?"
Smoker is very deliberately not looking at Law as he chews on his cigars. "I told him I didn't know."
Law stares daggers into him. "And?"
Smoker huffs an irate cloud of smoke. It conveniently hides his face as he says, "and I may have taunted him about Vergo."
Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. Because this is Smoker, and it’s Vergo, and it’s Law, and it’s all the things between Smoker and Law that should never have been there to begin with, but once that ball had started rolling there was no stopping it, and here they are, both of them drowning. Law can feel his frayed patience snap like a fucking twig. "Were you looking to die?!"
Smoker clears some of his cloud with an exhale, just enough to make sure Law can see him scowling. If Law wasn’t so busy being consumed by every emotion on the face of the planet, he might note the confused edge to it. "Don't wanna hear that from the guy who went on to start a war with Kaidou."
Seething, Law finds it in himself to roll his eyes. "I won that war, thank you very much.” He drags his irate gaze over Smoker, zeroing in on every new thin line of scar tissue barely visible through the haze of tobacco between them. “Which is more than I can say for your scuffle.”
Smoker doesn’t say anything.
Law should let this go. He shouldn’t have pried into it to begin with, and he shouldn’t cling to it now. It should mean nothing to him at all. And ordinarily it might; but his skin still stings from the pull of gravity gone mad and his bones still feel the shocks of tremors conjured from thin air. His spirit still remembers the crushing helplessness when tangible darkness sapped his strength in a way no close brush with drowning or concentration of seastone ever has, and the rising panic at losing access to an integral part of him. The extra sense he’s come to trust and rely on to the point that it’s not just a power, but a natural extension of his very self, gone like it had never been there at all.
And the sounds of metal tearing and screeching, alarmed cries and shouts, bodies hitting the water. The sight of yellow paint scraping off as it was crushed and ripped apart and the splotches of white in the waves when boiler suit-clad figures were flung from their home.
The sensation of being seized and carried off, not fully comprehending but knowing he couldn’t, that he had to stay – but he’d been too weak. He’d been powerless, paralyzed, unable to even lift a finger against the strong arms stealing him away. He couldn’t even scream, feeling more useless than he’d been as a dying thirteen-year-old locked in a treasure chest. Blacking out like that, weakly squeezing his hands into fists as a white paw covered his nose and mouth for him and the salt of the ocean swallowed them whole.
Then waking up to a reality where he’d failed utterly and completely - as a brother, as a friend, as a captain.
The burning that had abated over the night spent in Smoker’s arms returns in full force. It almost knocks the wind out of him when it hits, settling over him like it belongs there. And hell, maybe it does. It scorches his lungs, constricts his trachea, the uneasiness buzzing in his bones threatening to boil right over to panic because he can't breathe, he can't, he needs–
Biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, Law manages to halt the catastrophic meltdown threatening to overtake him. Smoker hasn't noticed yet, so Law draws a few deep breaths, hands fisting, and wills himself calm. “How did you survive?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Smoker shrug. “Kuzan.”
Law’s eyes snap to him, going wide. “Aokiji? What was he doing there?”
Smoker won’t look at him, resolutely staring at his desk. “Delivering a warning.”
“Huh.” Law chews on this, mind going a mile a minute. The wording there is very specific, implying that the former Admiral was looking for Smoker specifically. And had somehow known to come to Punk Hazard to find him. Which opens up some interesting possibilities, especially considering recent rumors - Law hadn’t put much stock in them, knowing better than to speculate, but now that it’s come up like this... he can’t help but wonder.
But that’s not important now. (Though Law is thankful for the brief distraction: he can’t spiral if his brain is occupied.) One question remains. He shakes his head and wets his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Smoker sighs, scrubbing a weary hand across his face. “You know why.”
Law does. He’d also rather die than have either of them say the words. Especially now, especially when he can still taste the words he’d spoken on the eve of his self-imposed exile to Punk Hazard, can still see the look Smoker had given him then. And again on Punk Hazard, those copper eyes hard, face unguarded. Both times that Smoker had tried to speak it into existence, but Law hadn’t let him, just like he never had before, and like he probably never will. This damned thing they have has always been carefully vague: shrouded in ambiguity so as to be freely deniable and hidden. And easily swept under the rug and forgotten like it never existed when one of them - inevitably - wanted it to end.
But Law had tried that, hadn’t he? He’d stated it in no uncertain terms, and Smoker had acquiesced, reluctant as he’d been. Law should have known something so indefinite couldn’t be just excised like that - because feelings aren’t surgery. And what they’re left with now is even more nebulous than it had been, precarious and delicate and entirely unresolved.
And here’s Smoker, the mulish foxhound, an insufferable busybody with about as much delicacy as a bull in a china shop, needing to decipher an issue that by definition can’t be deciphered, because he’s never been able to leave well enough alone. But Law can’t let him. Because putting a name to the mess of feelings between them would be going too far.
Making them too real.
Law swallows and looks away, arms crossed tight over his chest. He sinks into the couch again, chin pressed to his sternum. “Navy bastard.”
His only answer is a soft snort.
A silence stretches between them, the only sounds the ocean outside and Bepo’s soft snoring from Smoker’s bed. Law realizes he’s been unconsciously listening to it this entire time, ears straining as he anticipates a disruption in that steady rhythm. A gasp, a hiccup, anything. He’s poised to spring up and cross the room at the slightest sign of change, his entire body thrumming with the need to help, to be useful.
It’s making him feel like he’s nine years old again, spending every waking moment at Lami’s bedside.
With a deep breath, Law closes his eyes and tenses his shoulders, straining his muscles as hard as he can before he relaxes them all at once. The reset works well enough, coaxing his sympathetic nervous system out of overdrive. It does nothing for the baseline anxiety that lives in his bones, but at least it drags him out of his mental Flevance. If Smoker notices or understands his subtle motion, he doesn’t say anything. Law is grudgingly thankful; he’s already spent far too much time falling apart where Smoker can see.
That feeling passes quickly, because Smoker being Smoker, he of course has to go and ruin the moment anyway. “So. Dressrosa.”
Law groans and raises a hand to pull down his cap - and fumbles when it finds nothing. Huffing, he adjusts instead to run the hand through his hair. Damned muscle memory, kicking in when he least needs it. Denied what they wanted, his traitor hands twitch as they change tack, longing now for the familiar weight of a particular cursed blade, to twine his fingers in the red cord. But of course, that one is just as impossible. Law tries very hard to ignore both imprints, to not think about his hat and Kikoku. Forgotten somewhere in the sands of Winner Island, or perhaps on Hachinosu as Blackbeard’s trophies.
Along with his crew, most likely.
On second thought, talking about Dressrosa seems like a fairly decent distraction. Law sighs. “Fine. Dressrosa.”
Smoker definitely noticed his aborted habitual gesture and put two and two together, but mercifully doesn’t mention it. He only sets his finished cigars aside and crosses one leg over the other, an eyebrow raised expectantly.
Law huffs. “Well, to start with, thanks to the damn Admiral you sent to Green Bit, I ended up having to run around an overgrown jungle dodging strings and meteors, so thanks for that.” He doesn’t bother trying to keep the irritation from his voice. It’s not hard at all, effortlessly recalling the disbelieving terror he’d felt, lugging around a shackled gas cloud pretending to be a man and burning up precious energy just to keep that one step ahead. Thank the seas he’d had the foresight to hide Caesar’s heart before his body gave out.
Smoker snorts. “I didn’t send him. I just reported your little slip-up.”
By the way, I’m heading to Green Bit.
A slip indeed, a morsel of information dropped subtly enough to have plausible deniability. They’d both known it for it was, of course: a silent plea for help. Because if things had gone according to plan, if Doflamingo hadn’t had all those cards stuffed up his sleeves to help him completely outplay Law’s carefully crafted schemes, the Navy showing up would have been just as much trouble to the Donquixote family as it had been for Law. A back-up he desperately needed… and trusted Smoker to deliver.
But Law can’t admit to it. That was the whole point of the masquerade. He scoffs. “My compliments to Sakazuki then. You can tell him to go fuck himself.”
Smoker can’t bite back his laugh in time, and Law pretends the sound doesn’t calm his frayed nerves. But as soon as it appeared, Smoker’s mirth vanishes, replaced with a contemplative frown. “So what happened? Your plans don’t usually fall apart that badly.”
Ignoring the probably unintended compliment, Law looks away. “I… miscalculated.”
It’s not enough for Smoker, because it wouldn’t be enough for Law either. Law grits his teeth, feeling Smoker’s eyes on him and resolutely not meeting them. “There was more to Joker than I assumed. It cost me.”
Vergo was right, is what he doesn’t say, but he knows Smoker catches the sentiment. He’d heard the words too, after all. And Law’s ignorance of Doflamingo’s past had nearly been the end of him, just like the late vice admiral predicted. He’d been too caught up in his emotions to remember the monster of his nightmares wasn’t just a faceless, formless boogieman, but a living, breathing person with a life and a past.
Law closes his eyes, dropping his head back against the couch. “He played me. Had the news report his resignation, as per my demands to return Caesar to him, then pulled strings to call it a mistake.”
He doesn’t need to look to know Smoker’s eyebrows are courting his hairline. It’s clear enough from the small, almost imperceptible pause, and the tone of his voice when he says, “Some guy, to be able to do that.”
Law can’t help but laugh. Trust Smoker to put it in the simplest possible terms. “Yeah.”
But he’s not about to explain the complicated history that ties together the Donquixotes, Dressrosa, and Trafalgar Law, so he forges on without giving Smoker time to ask any questions. “Then Fujitora showed up. And with Joker still a good little Warlord while I had violated the agreement by allying with Straw Hat-ya...”
“Two on one.” Smoker rubs the bridge of his nose. “Damn.”
“Mhm.” Law cracks one eye open and aims a wry look at Smoker. “I barely got Caesar and half of Straw Hat-ya’s crew away in time.” Looking away again, Law starts flexing his hands, rhythmically squeezing them into fists and relaxing them again. No use putting it off, he supposes. “That’s when Joker shot me.” He gives a clipped laugh. “Well, the first time he shot me. He ended up doing that quite a lot.”
He’s not sure what he expects. Some sort of reaction. Maybe a growl, or at least a flash of anger. None comes, and Law tilts his head to properly frown at Smoker. All he has for Law is a shrug. “I patched you up, remember? I already saw. And I figured you didn’t just get perforated by some random mook.”
Law purses his lips and looks away, tamping down the pressure building in his chest. “Anyway,” he continues, “I’m not sure what happened. I passed out and woke up to find myself in seastone cuffs. Took a while to get them off, but Straw Hat-ya and I eventually confronted Joker again.”
He knows he’s skipping a considerable amount, but he has no desire to recount the humiliating experience of being carried around Dressrosa like a sack of potatoes, nor to reveal the level of obsession both he and Doflamingo have for each other. That’s not the part Smoker wants to know about, anyway. And if Smoker notices the glossing over, he doesn’t interrupt: he’s smart enough to figure out it’s for his benefit as well, not just Law clinging to his privacy.
Law exhales slowly, struggling to keep his voice steady as he continues. “We got separated. Trebol was there too.” He swallows. “I was still exhausted, and Doflamingo… he’d barely fought by that point.”
He hesitates, and in the effortless way Law has never understood but appreciates all the same, Smoker is completely in tune with him. Wordlessly, he gets up and crosses the few steps over to the couch, nudging Law until he makes room for Smoker to sit beside him. Law huffs but doesn’t stop him, even when Smoker slips an arm behind him and pulls him close. It’s easy enough to just allow it and rest his head where it naturally falls on Smoker’s shoulder, arms crossed over his chest to hide his still flexing hands.
The contact is nice, but the tension Law holds in his body doesn’t abate. It can’t, not with one big question still unanswered. Smoker, direct as always, doesn’t hesitate to ask it. “And the arm?”
Law doesn’t even notice his own hand moving to his bicep and squeezing, not until Smoker catches it and laces their fingers together. Law looks away and swallows, but allows that, too, pretending he doesn’t immediately cling to the hand like a lifeline. “He– cut it off.”
The hand holding his squeezes, hard enough for Law’s fingers to go numb. “What?”
Law shrugs in a vain effort to brush it off, knowing already that it won’t work. “Another miscalculation. He had me by the arms. And without my hands…” He couldn’t use his devil fruit. Not that he’d been thinking clearly enough for that at the time.
To Law’s mild surprise, Smoker scoffs. “Not that. I meant, it’s clearly not cut off now.”
Ah. “A devil fruit,” He answers simply. “Two, in fact, as I’m told. One to sew it back on and one to promote regeneration.” Pity, really; he’d have liked to meet the Tontatta princess, see her power firsthand. Having it used on him while he was busy being unconscious just wasn’t the same, even if the results were fascinating enough.
“Huh.” Smoker seems to roll this around on his tongue before accepting it. “All right then.”
Law rolls his eyes, more worn out than he wants to admit. Luckily, it’s easy enough to hide it under the guise of snarking. “Happy now?”
Smoker turns to look at him, face pinched like he’s trying to puzzle Law out. It’s foreboding, but before Law can stop him, Smoker speaks. “Are you?”
At once, Law’s mouth goes dry. That’s the question, isn’t it? One he’s steadfastly refused to answer for well over a month. He hadn’t answered it when the small voice in his head (that sounds suspiciously like Cora-san) asked it on Dressrosa, not when Bepo (between long overdue naps sprawled on his stomach) asked it on Zou, not when Nico Robin (with that annoying knowing glint in her eye) brought it up on the voyage to Wano.
Not when Luffy asked it during the party aboard the Yonta Maria, when Law had finally extricated himself from Zoro’s stranglehold and retreated to the stern, watching Dressrosa shrink in the horizon. Nor when he did so again when the celebrations in Wano dragged on for days, catching Law in between banquets, uncharacteristically somber as he sat and swayed next to Law on the solitary cliffside.
He’s not sure he’s ready to answer it now, either.
Smoker knows him too well, because he doesn’t push, and honestly, that should bother Law much more than it does. When Law’s tongue-tied silence stretches on, Smoker just sighs, the hand not still twined with Law’s coming to gently brush through his uncovered hair. Law finds himself melting into that touch, taut muscles finally relaxing. As he uncoils from the tight loops his anxiety has twisted him in, exhaustion follows. It makes it all too easy to justify slumping against Smoker and going boneless, as do the gentle touches over his scalp, behind his ear, and the reassuring hand still squeezing his.
It’s a nice moment. Entirely too reminiscent of their early days, back when most touches were hesitant, softness harshly met with resistance on both sides. When Smoker’s inclination to freely give affection only wound Law up tighter, his own desire to receive it fighting his best attempts at squashing it. Every interaction had to be a fight, before or during or after - all three, more often than not. It had been exhausting, sure, but that was also by design: worn out, Law got more pliable, and Smoker was always the more willing of them to let things slide.
And it had worked. For as long as Law had let it, anyway.
The nostalgia doesn’t last long, because Smoker is still Smoker. “So what are you planning now?”
Law shuts his eyes and slumps further, shamelessly letting Smoker support all of his weight. Smoker doesn’t seem to mind, because when has he ever, leaning back himself to prop Law against his chest more comfortably. Law also has no complaints, because he’s always had a fondness for Smoker’s muscled chest, and the steady heartbeat against his back is as wonderfully grounding as always. “What makes you think I’m planning anything?”
Smoker snorts, his warm breath tickling Law’s scalp. “Because you always are.”
Well, maybe so. Law flicks the hand resting on his shoulder, sprawling on top of Smoker much like he does with Bepo. "I know what you're doing. We talked about this."
Smoker huffs. The breath blows Law's messy bangs in his face. "You talked, I barely got in a word edgewise."
Law hums, finally retrieving his hand, untangling it from Smoker’s where they've slid to, right near Law’s right hip. Smoker is reluctant to let go, but allows it after one last indulgent squeeze. "But you already agreed."
Smoker goes quiet, and Law thinks that's that. Evidently, he's underestimating Smoker's stubbornness, because as soon as Law gets comfortable, he speaks up again. "You're heading to Hachinosu."
Law lets exasperation freely color the sigh he lets out. He absolutely does not have the patience to fight about this, and he's not willing to negotiate, either. "I'm not warning you again, White Hunter-ya. Drop it."
Naturally, Smoker didn’t get the memo. He pushes on heedless of Law’s threats, unwilling as ever to give up. The hand on Law's shoulder starts drumming an even rhythm. "I'll take you there."
Law jerks away, extricating himself from Smoker's hold with far more force than necessary, pushing up and off of him. Ordinarily, he'd cut the bastard in half, but without Kikoku on hand it's just too much effort to bother, so he settles for glaring as murderously as he can. "Like hell you will!"
To his credit, Smoker is not thrown by the violent reaction, nor does he fight it. He lets go easily enough and doesn't chase after Law. He doesn’t even recoil from his furious glare, just answers it with an even look. "Calm down. It's not just for you."
'Just' implies that it is, in fact, partly for him, and that is a problem in Law's book. It’s one thing to allow this softness behind closed doors, with just the two of them; what Smoker is doing is taking it too far. People like the two of them aren’t meant to be anything. Can’t be anything, out on the seas - and before Punk Hazard, they’d agreed on that.
Now? Law isn’t so sure.
Still, the words pique just enough of his curiosity that his anger ebbs. "What do you mean?"
Smoker sits up slowly, eyes never leaving Law’s or blinking. When he speaks, it’s clear he’s weighing each of his words very carefully. "It means I might have business there anyway, and you could take advantage of that."
Take advantage. Hah. Law narrows his eyes. “If you’re making up some harebrained scheme to justify an offensive…”
Smoker makes his exasperation known by breathing a cloud of smoke in Law’s face. “Give me some credit, brat."
"With your track record?" Law huffs a breath to disperse the smoke, aiming an unimpressed glare right back at Smoker. "You have to know how this sounds. What is it, then?"
Smoker shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and falling short by a considerable margin. "Classified is what it is. I got a call earlier. That's all you're getting."
Face pinched, Law scrutinizes him, frustrated when Smoker just meets his gaze levelly, unwilling to give an inch. With a huff, Law braces his knee on the cushion next to Smoker’s thigh and slings his other leg over his lap, sitting up on his knees to straddle him. Smoker instinctively grabs him by the waist to steady him, but makes no move to stop him or push him off, so Law leans in close and frames his scruffy face in both hands. "What's your game, old man?"
Smoker puffs another cloud of smoke at him, but this time the gesture is undeniably affectionate. "No game."
"Yeah, I don't buy that." Law soothes a thumb over Smoker’s jawline. The salt and pepper stubble there is pleasantly rough; he hadn’t realized how much he missed it. Coupled with the smoke swirling around them, there’s no denying the tenderness between them. The thought has goosebumps breaking out all over Law’s skin.
Smoker sneers, but there’s no bite to it. “Tough shit.”
Law purses his lips. “You have to give me something, Smoker.”
They both know that’s not strictly true. Law is no stranger to making plans with only vague information and adjusting for unknowns. Smoker still does him the kindness of obliging him. “Blackbeard has a junior officer captive. There’s a rescue offensive planned.”
“Huh.” Law’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not something he expected, but Smoker is not wrong: he can work with it. Use it, even. He fixes his gaze on Smoker’s hairline, lips screwed to one side as he contemplates. While it’s true he could make a decent plan just knowing there’s a Marine troop descending on the island and use that as a distraction, rescue operation specifically suggests they might try to rely on stealth. And while ordinarily Law wouldn’t think twice about throwing some Navy goons under the boat… Well. He needs details. “Who’s on it?”
Smoker pinches his side, and Law immediately answers by swatting the offending hand and throwing him a pissy glare. Smoker clicks his tongue. “I’m already giving you way more than you have any business knowing.”
“Smoker.” It’s always been all too easy to use the man’s real name against him, to wield it as a weapon. Something about it just gets under Smoker’s skin, and Law has no qualms about using that to his advantage. The look he gets confirms as much. “Who?”
Smoker knows he’s lost, but thunders a displeased growl just because. After wasting seconds gritting his teeth, both of them fully aware that it’s just for show, he caves. “Garp.”
With a curious hum, Law thinks on it for a good long while. Monkey D. Garp isn’t a decorated Navy hero for nothing, and his entire family is infamous. Law knows Luffy’s craziness firsthand, and if the grandfather is even remotely like that, well, he almost feels sorry for Blackbeard. Almost. Then he remembers the unrepentant sound of his laugh when the Hearts scattered in the sea among the broken pieces of the Tang. The distant echo of ze ha ha from his memory makes his skin crawl and kindles the rage he’d thought he was finally rid of after Doflamingo’s fall, and any sympathy he could have evaporates.
But this is good. More than good: someone like Garp will definitely not take the stealthy approach, and can in fact be counted on to cause just the ideal level of chaos. He’s exactly the kind of loose cannon who’d attack the Pirate Paradise head on. No, predicting Garp is not something Law has to wonder about. What’s more curious is what kind of subordinate could be in trouble to prompt a supposedly retired hero to make a move like that, especially because Law sincerely doubts it’s sanctioned. Sakazuki would certainly never allow it, if he knows the man at all.
However, he’s more than pushed his luck; Smoker won’t give him any more no matter how hard he tries. And Law doesn't want to make him, anyway. He will just have to make do with this, and what he remembers from Rocky Port.
And he’ll have to trust Garp to keep his Marines alive. That’s going to be the difficult part.
Smoker breaks him out of his reverie. “You can use the chaos as cover,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down Law’s sides in a way that has him melting again. “Find your crew, commandeer a ship and abscond.”
Trust Smoker to make it sound easy. Law bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth. “And you?”
Smoker shrugs, which does not inspire confidence. Distracted by the echo of Ikkaku and Hakugan screaming as the ship flooded and broke apart around them, Law doesn’t hide that thought well enough. Smoker scowls at him, raising a hand to muss his hair. “I’ll be fine.”
The unexpected touch at least jolts Law out of the creeping memory threatening him. He shakes the hand off with a disgusted noise and lies through his teeth. “I’m not worried.”
Smoker almost has the good grace not to comment, but then he goes and snorts anyway. Law cuffs him on the ear for it, and bastard that he is, Smoker just looks smug. Law has to huff harshly through his nose just to suppress his urge to smile, lest he give Smoker the satisfaction of seeing how at ease he can still make Law feel. The projected crabbiness quickly sobers him up, too, and he schools his features into a frown. “And if they’re not there?”
“Then you find out where they are.” The look in Smoker's eyes has an immediate calming effect, but Law needs more. Swallowing hard, he lets his trembling hands slide down from Smoker’s shoulders to his chest, quickly finding what he seeks. The steady beat is there, easy as always to focus on. Momentarily mesmerized by it as he is, Law nearly misses Smoker’s next words. "At the very least, you'll find out if Blackbeard caught up with them. It's the best place for you to start."
Of course it is. Law doesn't actually need Smoker to tell him any of this; it's all calculations he'd finished the minute the shock and grief eased the death grip they had on him. He’d known what they needed to do almost as soon as he’d woken up that first time, hidden away on a nearby islet and awkwardly patched up by Bepo. The plan had started forming when the mink filled him in, slowly molded into shape by the whispered rumors of disquieted townspeople, and solidified when they reached Smoker’s ship.
Smoker also knows that. But he doesn't mind giving his reassurance; eagerly leaps at the chance, even. Which may be why Law offered it - he’ll never admit it, but the way Smoker just eats up any and all opportunities to dote is ridiculously endearing. It's also ridiculously exhausting, trying to fend off that sweetness and keep from leaving any openings for Smoker to take advantage of, even with as much practice as Law's had. But with the last few days crashing down on him, he can't find it in himself to care enough to deny either of them.
Because the truth is, he likes the way Smoker insists on caring for him. For all that he complains about it, anyone who has managed to get close to Law knows just how starved for attention he is. Smoker had caught on early, seeing all of Law's badgering and provocation for the pleas they were. And he's just as relentless as the three original Hearts. Combined.
All at once, the fight seeps out of Law. It leaves him slumping against Smoker again, and he puts up no resistance when strong arms essentially scoop him up and gather him against that strong heartbeat. He sinks into the embrace, curling up with his nose pressed into the crook of Smoker’s neck. Cradled there, warm and comfortable, it’s almost too simple to come to a decision.
"How long to reach Hachinosu?" Law mumbles against Smoker’s skin.
"Three days, give or take." Smoker starts petting his hair again, rough fingers carding through the eternal tangles. Occasionally, his calloused fingers scratch right behind Law’s ears, and he doesn’t even bother trying to hide the way he melts. Hell, Smoker could probably make him purr, if he wanted to.
Law closes his eyes, drawing a steadying breath. "All right."
Three days. That’s both too long and not long enough, but it will have to do. Bepo will have time to shake off the rumble ball’s aftereffects, and both him and Law get a chance to recuperate. They won’t be nearly healed, but it’s better than nothing. Law can also use the time to formulate a proper plan of attack - one that won’t get anyone killed like rushing in blindly would.
Even any pesky Marines.
“Hey.” Smoker nudges him and Law breathes a questioning hum. “Your mink gonna see fit to wake up sometime?”
Law jabs him in the chest with one spindly finger without looking up. “His name is Bepo.” He bites his lip, ears straining to hear the sleepy noises where his friend is still asleep. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly, eyes downcast. The words come without resistance: it barely occurs to him to hold back at all, effortlessly settling into the pattern of honesty they’ve established between them, foreign as it is. “Like I said, it was an experimental drug. I don’t know if they had a chance to test it. As I understand, it was based on the substance Tony-ya uses to control his Zoan forms, adapted for mink physiology. I don’t doubt it’s as safe as he could make it, but–”
Smoker squeezes his shoulder, halting his torrent of words. “You wanna go to him?”
Law shakes his head. “Nothing for me to do until he wakes up. The best thing for him right now is to rest.”
Clicking his tongue, Smoker nudges him again, more pointedly this time. “Same goes for you.”
Law glances up, lips quirked in a smile that he means to be disarming. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Smoker doesn’t fall for it. He just scoffs at Law, but goes back to his idle petting, which Law finds much more agreeable. “I can hear you thinking, brat.”
“I can rest and think at the same time,” Law declares. But Smoker is right, much as Law is loath to admit it. His body could use the boost that only comes from real sleep. He can still feel every blow dealt to him by Blackbeard and his crew when he so much as twitches: the generic painkillers Smoker provided were barely enough to take the edge off. And despite the unusually restful night he had, even he can’t just shake off the fatigue resulting from such extreme stress, both physical and mental. Not to mention the overuse of his Devil Fruit. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more his body starts demanding his attention.
Smoker knows: he learned Law’s tells long ago. He snorts, ruffling Law’s hair again in the way he knows Law loathes just to get him grumbling. “Just go to sleep, Law.”
Law shakes his hand off, huffing more at the loss of the indulgent touch than anything else. “You don’t need to stay, you know,” he sneers, if only to keep up appearances.
Smoker looks at him for a moment, eyes unreadable. It registers as suspicious immediately, a distinct twinge in his gut that signals trouble. It has Law’s slowly unraveling brain kicking into overdrive, mind bristling even as his body stays relaxed, but he wastes too much time trying to puzzle it out. By the time he catches on, it’s too late.
“No,” Smoker says. “But I want to.”
It’s not often that Trafalgar Law finds himself speechless. And while it’s not the first time he’s rendered so by Smoker’s damn earnestness, it catches him off guard just the same.
Law has never known what to do with the simple devotion Smoker displays so easily, even though the intensity he brings to everything he does is definitely what drew Law in in the first place. It’s easy to forget the man’s nature, what with the way he looks; that the gruff and intimidating exterior hides enduring kindness. It’s no wonder he was drawn to the concept of Justice, the chance to help people. Law supposes he can relate: he may not be conventionally trained or own a medical license, but he’s hardly the Surgeon of Death the papers make him out to be.
It’s the thoughtfulness that trips him up. The way Smoker doesn’t hesitate to care, how readily he takes Law’s needs and feelings into consideration like it’s second nature. How he doesn’t have to remind himself to be compassionate, because it’s all instinct.
Law has no idea what his face is doing, but he doesn’t doubt it’s a lot of things Smoker doesn’t need to see, so he’s quick to duck his head and bury it in Smoker’s collarbone. “Whatever. Suit yourself, old man.”
His voice comes out as a croak, far too faint to convince either of them, but Smoker has mercy on him. The only sign that he noticed is the slight tightening of his arms around Law as he props his chin on top of his head, rumbling a soft laugh that Law can feel as well as hear.
But this is fine. Law can pretend he’s just too tired to fight back against Smoker’s torrent of affection, tell himself that it’s just easier to allow it. And he can soak it all up under the guise of resting for the coming fight, while Smoker gets to exercise the damn mother hen instinct that he will always deny having. Not like Law can stop him from doing what he wants, anyway.
And if Smoker decides he’d rather shirk his duties and hold Law for a bit longer, well.
Maybe Law can deal with that.
(wonderful art by the lovely tinta--branca, thank u so much darling i have no words for how this makes me feel fr)