Work Text:
The first time Law hears the words, “I love you,” is
. . .
The first time Law hears the words “I love you,” he
Fuck.
Okay, one more time.
The first time Law hears the words, “I love
. . .
If he’s being honest, Law doesn't remember. The first time.
Logically, he knows it probably happened when he was a baby. Maybe his mother whispered it right after he was born. Maybe his father shouted it when he first started walking. Maybe they said it the first time he picked up a book, or said his first words, or maybe they even said it before he was born, when he couldn’t yet hear them. They must have said it dozens, maybe hundreds of times, and Law can’t remember a single one of them, can’t remember what it even sounded like, can barely recall Flevance’s particular variety of North Blue speech, its lively prosody replaced with the relative flatness of Spider Miles’.
Sometimes his medical journals will have articles on speech pathology: how to fix pronunciation – shift your tongue like this, reposition your jaw like that; how to remember forgotten words – ‘issues with lexical retrieval,’ they call it; how to communicate better – this one’s more for his crew than for him. He reads them all, takes notes, and he tries, he really, really does, but it’s not his area of expertise. He’s no historian or linguist. He’s not sure how to bring a dead language back, if you can even do such a thing.
. . .
He doesn’t remember their faces. Sometimes, he looks in the mirror and wonders. Tries to piece his parents’ faces together, as if the parts were greater than the sum of their whole. He wonders: Does he have his mother’s nose? Maybe her eyebrows? His father’s jaw? His lips? Whose hands do his resemble? How’d he end up so lanky? What would Lammy look like, all grown up, if she hadn’t
Sometimes he doesn’t want to remember. Because when he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see their smiles and bright eyes and soft hands; all he sees is dross and debris and dripping, drying blood on chests and faces; burning buildings and
He can’t remember his family’s faces, but he can map the spots all over their bodies, as if they were his own. The patches on his skin are still there, always will be. The mind may forget, but the body remembers.
Law thinks he will always remember.
. . .
The first time Law hears the words, “I love you,” Cora is smiling at him with that stupid fucking too-wide grin, and he’s covered in blood and dirt, and his makeup is smudged or runny, and his hands are shaking with the effort of holding the world’s least convincing peace sign, and he just says it like it’s nothing - no effort, no fanfare, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. To love Law. “Hey, Law. I love you!!” Like it’s everything. And Law feels himself laugh, giddy with exaltation, as he’s tucked away into the treasure chest – their little secret.
It doesn’t last. Obviously. It seems nothing ever does, for Law.
Law thinks there are some things the mind does not forget.
He hears gunshots in sudden noises. When it’s late, and he’s tired, running on too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep, any incidental creaking of the Polar Tang is at best unpleasant and at worst insomnia-inducing.
Colder nights have him scrounging for extra layers: undershirt, shirt, sweatshirt, thermal underwear, and two pairs of socks under his pants. He falls asleep under thick, wool blankets, and when he wakes up in the morning, they’re scattered on the floor of his room, and he’s sticky and sweaty, but at least he wasn’t fucking cold.
He doesn’t cry, not like before. No more screaming his throat ragged, his entire body writhing, until his chest hurts and his head pounds and he can’t breathe through the snot and the only tears he has left are drying on his face. Now his tears flow slowly, gasping breaths muffled under the palm of his hand as he counts one, two, three, four, four, three, two, one until he feels less like he’s choking on everything and more like he’s choking on nothing.
He doesn’t know. If the crew knows. How much they can piece together, if anything. Wonders if they notice when he flinches from loud noises or the cold, if they ever pass by his quarters at night and hear his shaky breathing through the walls, over the hum of the Tang.
. . .
The last time Law heard the words, “I love you,” was from Cora. Isn’t sure if he wants to hear them again, if he’s even ready for it, or if he ever will be. He doesn’t know what it would mean, if somebody said that. To him, of all people. Doesn’t know if he wants to find out.
The Heart Pirates don’t say it. Y’know . . . it. Their captain doesn’t say it, so why should they? And what kind of pirate crew goes around waxing poetic about how much they care about each other, anyway? That would just be weird.
They don’t say it. They hope they don’t have to. But sometimes, he just looks so . . .
“ . . . like shit,” Shachi says.
Bepo’s eyes narrow, resulting in a few preemptive chuckles. “Don’t say that - ‘world-weary’ is more accurate!”
“Nah, Shachi’s right: he looks like shit,” Penguin quips. “Who’s on breakfast duty? We’ve got, like . . . five minutes tops before he’s done with the post-breakdown shower.”
Someone slides a perfectly-brewed cup of hot coffee to Captain’s currently-empty seat. Another set of arms nudges over a bowl of fresh muesli. The Heart Pirates trade glances at each other, nod, before settling down with their own meals and drinks for the morning.
Finally, the door opens.
“ . . . you’re all up ear-”
They don’t wait for him to finish. “Good morning, Captain!” everyone cheers, waving their utensils. Immediately, he’s embarrassed, tilting his hat down over his eyes, which, as far as they’re concerned, is excellent. Ikkaku uses it as an opportunity to slide over and push him towards the table and his food.
The Heart Pirates don’t say anything. Just settle down and wait for their captain to collect himself and murmur ‘good morning' back as he pulls his hat back up and starts poking at the bowl. They chat quietly, keeping an eye or two or twenty out to make sure he doesn’t just drink his grossass black coffee, but also actually eats the damn muesli, and only then do they begin to scatter around the Tang, business as usual.
They don't know. If he knows. How much he can piece together, if anything. Wonder if he notices when the Tang runs a little warmer, when the food heaped on his plate towers a little higher. When they adjust their voices just a little softer on late nights or on rough seas, when Bepo’s hugs last a little – let’s be honest, a lot – longer. When Penguin and Shachi draw dumb doodles in his medical textbooks, and when Ikkaku makes his late-night coffees decaf. When Hakugan sits in the control room nodding along – as if he understands what’s going on – while Captain explains some medical thing. When they draw straws for Make Sure Captain Sleeps In His Bed and Not In the Library Duty, and when they pose like Sora, Warrior of the Sea.
The Heart Pirates don’t tell their captain, “I love you.” They think, by the time they’re done with him, they might not have to.