Archive of Our Own

Law is upstairs when he hears Mihawk yell:

               “Get that man the fuck out of my house!”

               Instinct moves him, because he’s barely ever heard the swordsman raise his voice, let alone yell. He’s never heard Mihawk so angry, nor so afraid. But the moment Law sees the intruder, he, too, is overcome with fear.

               Donquixote Doflamingo stands in the church vestibule like a sinner escaped from hell. Bold and triumphant and vengeful. His smile is wide and toothy and his bi-colour eyes as cold as ice. A myriad of emotions sweep through the twenty-five-year-old doctor—rage, regret, the want for retribution—but the fear of Doflamingo is too great. Like a coward, his feet make a hasty retreat, until he’s back upstairs, hiding in an alcove in the long gallery. From there, he sees Doflamingo and Crocodile make their own retreat across the lawn, back to the cottage, but it doesn’t fill him with relief. He won’t feel safe as long as he’s here; as long as he’s free; as long as he’s alive.

               He feels like a child when Smoker finds him: frightened, helpless. He feels like a fool when the sheriff says: “Law—?” and he flinches.

               “I’m going to kill that man,” he whispers, staring sightlessly out of the window.

               Smoker takes his shoulders and turns him away. “Look at me,” he orders, gentle but firm. Law does. “Do not put yourself in danger. Do not—” he says, squeezing Law when Law scoffs, pulls away, “—do anything you will regret.”

               Regret?

               Law’s mouth twists into the parody of a smile.

               Doflamingo murdered the only person Law has ever loved. There is nothing he regrets more than that.

               When Crocodile screams for help, Law rips himself free before Smoker can stop him. “Law!” he calls, giving chase, but Law won’t be stopped. If he does, Smoker will lock him safely somewhere until the excitement is over and he will have missed his chance—the only chance he’s likely to get—for revenge. So, he leaps down the stairs three at a time. He sprints through the church to the back-door and grabs the first thing he sees: a metal shovel.

               Smoker almost catches him then, but Law is faster, lighter on his feet.

               “Law, don’t—!”

               But Law has Doflamingo in his sights, now, and blinding hate has replaced fear. He raises the shovel to strike down his monster and doesn’t see the gun, until Crocodile shouts:

               “No!”

               Law hears the shot and then hits the ground.

Doctor?

               “Err, Doctor—?

               “Doctor Trafalgar—”

               A hand presses his shoulder and Law jerks violently awake. “Wha—?!”

               He blinks a painful bright light from his eyes, fist coiled white-knuckled around a fork in self-defence. When he sees the nurse he remembers that he is at the medical clinic where he works, in the village in which he lives, on an island far, far away from the sunny skies of Dressrosa. He remembers that he is a twenty-five-year-old surgeon, the only doctor in town, and not a frightened boy. Not a dying boy. Not a boy in hiding.

               “Doctor Trafalgar?” says the nurse in concern. He waits for Law to let go of the fork, which he does with caution. “The sheriff is here to see you.”

               Law’s heart leaps back into his throat. “The sheriff,” he repeats, still dazed.

               The nurse nods. “Yes, Doctor. Do you…” he hesitates; leans down to inspect Law, “…want me to tell him that you’re unavailable?”

               Yes, Law thinks, but says: “No.” He wipes a hand down his face and stands, leaving an untouched trey of cold cantina food on the table. Then he walks out without a word, finger-combing his hair and shoving up the sleeves of his wrinkled white coat. It exposes his tattoos, but he doesn’t care. If patients take issue with his tattoos, his piercings, his youth, they can drive one-hundred kilometres to see an older, more reputable but less skilled doctor in the city. If they want to get healed, however, they stay, because Doctor Trafalgar D. Water Law is the best: spotted blue-jeans, canary-yellow hoodie and all, and he doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone else—

               “You look awful,” says Smoker.

               Law’s jaw tightens in irritation, but it’s short-lived, quickly replaced by guilt.

               “What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes going automatically to the linen visible beneath Smoker’s coat. Will he need to change the bandage, or re-stitch the wound? God help him if it’s infected.

               Smoker says: “The trial is tomorrow.”

               Law deflates in on himself. “Oh.”

               “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. That you’ll be okay giving your testimony—”

               “I’ll be fine,” Law says sharply. “If that’s all…” He turns his back, feels a hand on his bicep. Big and warm and strong. Hands that grabbed him and threw him to the ground to protect him.

               “I’ll take you home.”

               Law knocks Smoker’s hand away. “I’m working.”

               “It’s past midnight.”

               “It’s overtime.”

               “You need to sleep. When was the last time you slept, Law? When was the last time you ate?”

               Law makes a noncommittal sound. Smoker changes tact:

               “You can’t work like this, you’re exhausted. Your patients deserve better. Let me take you home.”

               For a moment, Law is stubborn, moody, difficult for the sake of his pride. He chews on his lip. Then he says: “My bike is—”

               “I’ll drive,” Smoker cuts in. His tone is nonnegotiable. “All you have to do is hold on.”

               So, Law does. He slides onto the motorbike behind Smoker, then slides his arms around him. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead between the sheriff’s wide shoulder-blades as the machine growls to life. He gets scolded for not bringing a helmet, but doesn’t acknowledge it. He should care. He’s a surgeon; he knows better than most the danger of head injuries, but he feels restless and reckless and can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he lets the roar of the wind and the burning scent of motor oil drown out the world and lull him to calm until the ride is over.

               Law lives in a yellow cottage at the edge of the valley, tucked into a grove of towering pines. It has a kitchen-lounge, a washroom, and a loft, where his bedroom is. It’s small, but Law likes it. He doesn’t need a lot of space; has always preferred the safety of walls and the feeling of being closed-in. Smoker looks big inside it, though. His height and his breadth impose upon the crowded space with the easy arrogance of someone who has never been afraid of his surroundings.

               “Do you want to eat?” he asks.

               “No.”

               “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

               Law tenses. Smoker says:

               “He’s not allowed to speak to you—”

               “Like not being allowed has ever stopped that man from doing anything!” Law snaps.

               “He won’t speak to you,” Smoker corrects. “He won’t touch you. He can’t hurt you, okay? I won’t let him.”

               “You—“ Law hates the catch in his voice. “You’re going to be there?”

               “Yes. I’m testifying, too. He shot me.”

               Law nods, swallows, licks his lips. He shifts his weight and the silence goes on for too long. Then he says:

               “You can go, now.”

               Smoker hesitates. “Do you want me to go?”

               Yes.

               Obviously yes, so why can’t he say it?

               “Law—?”

               “Do whatever you want,” Law says petulantly, turning his back and moving into the kitchen. He doesn’t want anything to eat, he just needs to do something with his hands, so he fills the kettle and sets it to boil.

               “Law, look at me.”

               A tight, twisted pain in his chest. “I can’t.”

               “Why?”

               “Because every time I look at you, now, I see him.”

               “Doflamingo?”

               Law shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut to shut out the memory. “Rosinante. When Doflamingo pointed that gun at me, and you… It’s like it was happening all over again. Rosinante died, because of me—”

               “I’m not dead,” says Smoker’s deep, solid voice behind him. “I’m not dead, because you saved me. Because you’re not that frightened child anymore. You’re a surgeon, a brave man. The man Rosinante wanted you to be—”

               “Rosinante’s dead!” Law yells, whipping around. He’s glaring, now, amber eyes alight with tears of self-hate, deep-seeded guilt, and helpless fatigue. “Do you think that’s what he wanted?”

               “He wanted you safe, Law. That’s all he cared about. That’s why he did it, so that you could live.”

               “How would you know? You weren’t there! No one was there!”

               One tear falls, then another. It’s been so long since he’s cried that he can’t make himself stop. He’s lived with the trauma of that terrible night and the weight of Rosinante for so long, because no one was there to save him. No one, except for Law. And Law didn’t.

               “It should’ve been me,” he says in a soft, shaking whisper. He wraps his arms around himself. “He should’ve shot me, then… and now.”

               “No—”

               “It’s always my fault. You could’ve died, like he did. And it would’ve been all my fault.”

               “Stop,” says Smoker sternly, taking Law by the biceps. He squeezes him to prove his point. “Doflamingo is to blame for everything that’s happened, then and now. Rosinante protected you, because he loved you. And I protected you, because…”

               He cuts himself off, uncertain. Law finally lifts his gaze.

               “Because it’s your job—?”

               The sheriff slowly shakes his head. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, as if he’s made a decision, and raises a hand to cup the young doctor’s cheek. The rough pad of his thumb catches a tear and rubs it away, eyes soft as melted chocolate as he looks at his charge. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but doesn’t need to.

               Law leans up and kisses him, hard and a little off-balance. He coils his fists in the sheriff’s jacket to anchor himself, and says: “Stay with me tonight.”

               Smoker replies by reaching behind Law and turning off the stove. Then he pulls Law into his arms and kisses him again.

Law wakes slowly the next morning, surfacing from a long, deep slumber, feeling more rested—and a little sore—than he has in years. The space beside him is empty, but he can hear careless footsteps clomping across the floor below, so he stretches languidly, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and slides out of bed.

               “Morning,” says Smoker, putting a brown-paper bag down in front of Law at the kitchen table.

               Law eyes the bag, then the sheriff, whose pale skin is flushed pink and whose paler hair is wind-swept. He’s wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and smells like tobacco and sweat.

               “Did you walk to the village?” Law asks, pawing at the bag. Inside is a jam-filled pastry.

               “Jogged,” Smoker corrects. “Had to go in and get my truck, anyway. We can’t take your bike to the city.”

               Law glances at the clock. It’s only eight a.m. “How long have you been up?”

               “Since five. I’m going to use your shower.”

               Smoker grabs a duffle-bag and closes the washroom door behind him. Law stares for a second, wondering at the sheriff’s casual adoption of Law’s home as his own, but realizes he prefers it over the formal politeness of a guest. Sighing, he sinks further into the big duvet he’s wrapped in and bites into the flaky, buttery, strawberry goodness of breakfast. The cottage is quiet, except for the whoosh of running water, yet he finds his calm receding by the second. He begins to think of the day ahead of him, of the courthouse and talking in front of all those people; of laying bare his trauma and his shame for the world to see; of having to face him. More than anything, he wants to crawl back into bed and take Smoker with him. He wants to forget about his past and not have to worry about the present or fear for the future. He thinks of the anxiety medication he keeps in the cupboard and how he’s a secret hypocrite, prescribing it to others but never taking it, himself, even though he knows—clinically—it will help. He doesn’t take it, because a part of him is afraid to stop feeling this way. Because if he stops, he might forget. He might lose the anger that’s been fuelling him for over a decade, and then what will he have? Nothing, and no one.

               The shower stops and the washroom door creaks open, revealing Smoker in a puff of white steam: shirtless and glistening.

               Law stands up and lets the duvet fall to the floor.

               “What’re you—”

               He pushes Smoker back into the washroom, back into the shower, flips the switch back on, and kisses him.

What time do we have to be at the courthouse?”

               “Not until two, but if you get dressed, we can go in early.”

               “I am dressed.”

               Smoker surveys Law from head-to-toe—long-sleeve t-shirt and threadbare jeans—and shakes his head. “No.”

               “No—?”

               Smoker sighs. He, himself, is wearing dark, formal dress, snow-white parka notwithstanding. “You can’t take the stand looking like a teenage delinquent.”

               Law crosses his arms. “I was a teenage delinquent.”

               “Law—”

               “I’m there to testify against a fucking murderer. What does it matter how I look?”

               “It matters,” says Smoker soberly. “There’s only going to be one trial. This will be your one shot to take down Doflamingo. My testimony and Crocodile’s will probably be enough to lock him up for life, but you are the only person who can get justice for Rosinante. You are the only witness to Doflamingo’s greatest crime.”

               “Pft, no pressure,” Law mutters, but it comes out weak.

               Smoker says: “It shouldn’t matter what you look like, but it will. Don’t risk the jury’s opinion of you based on your outfit. You must own a suit; you’re a doctor.”

               “Well, I don’t.”

               “Not even a—”

               “No.”

               Smoker drags a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’ll just have to borrow one then.”

               Law snorts. “You and I aren’t exactly the same size,” he says, stepping into the bigger man’s shadow to prove his point.

               “No, we’re not,” Smoker agrees. His eyes narrow as he looks at Law, surveying his figure; not in displeasure, but in thought. “But there is someone who’s exactly your size.”

               Law’s arms fall to his sides. “What? Who—”

               “Get in the truck.”

Dracule Mihawk stares at them like he doesn’t understand the question. As if this is the strangest of all the requests made of him in the past two years.

               “You want… to borrow… my clothes?”

               Law feels like a boy standing on Mihawk’s doorstep and his cheeks heat in reply. Smoker says: “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

               “Of course not!” says Shanks cheerfully, opening the door wide. “Come on in. I think you’re about the same size as Mihawk. He’s got loads of nice things you can borrow. Right, darlin’?”

               “You want to borrow my clothes,” Mihawk repeats, staring at them in consternation. He glances helplessly at Shanks, as if he needs guidance navigating such an unfamiliar social convention.

               “Err… look, if it’s weird I really don’t have to—”

               “Yeah, they’re the same,” Smoker cuts in, pushing Law inside; making his shoes slide across the threshold.

               “Upstairs, second corridor, third door on your right,” Shanks directs, waving to the colossal staircase. That’s when Mihawk snaps out of his stupor.

               “Wait—Shanks! Don’t just send people up into my wardrobe!”

               Shanks blinks. “What’s the problem?”

               “The problem…” says Crocodile, sauntering in; he claps Shanks on the shoulder, “is that you married a diva disguised as a swordsman. What have you got up there you don’t want us to see, Hawk-Eyes?”

               Mihawk’s gold eyes cut to Crocodile, glaring, then slice back to Law. “Fine,” he huffs. “But I’m not letting you rifle through my things unsupervised. I’ll find you something, myself.”

               That said, the swordsman stalks off upstairs and Smoker propels Law forward to follow. He’s never been in Mihawk’s bedroom before, of course, and he feels foolish for having to do so, now. As he enters, he possesses none of his characteristic confidence and, instead, finds himself standing meekly in the middle of a large, sober space, whose sophisticated design is undermined by Shanks’ socks and tartan underpants flung haphazardly over the bedding.

               “I can’t believe you don’t own a suit,” Mihawk grumbles, half-buried in the closet. “You’re a surgeon.”

               Law clenches his fists. “Why does everyone keep fixating on that? Yes, I’m a fucking surgeon! Do you know what I spend most of my waking hours in? Scrubs!”

               Mihawk remerges holding perfectly pressed garments in black and white and gives Law a reprimanding look, which Law doesn’t acknowledge. Instead, he takes the clothes into the en suite to change.

               “Should I be worried that you’re taking a suspiciously long time to get dressed—?” Mihawk calls after several minutes.

               Law elbows the door open with a growl, frustrated and dishevelled. “There’s too many layers,” he complains, knotting and unknotting a black silk tie.

               “It’s a shirt and trousers,” says Mihawk scornfully. “Perhaps it’s the buttons throwing you off.”

               Law glares: tie untied, cuffs unbuttoned, collar standing stiff against his jaw.

               “How do you not know how to put on clothes? You’re twenty-five—”

               “Oh, I’m sorry!” Law snaps, losing his temper. “Living on the run from a fucking psychopath who wanted to fucking murder us, Rosinante never actually got around to teaching me how to tie a fucking tie. Funny, that, isn’t it? That shopping for formal dress wasn’t our fucking priority.”

               Mihawk rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

               “Pft!”

               “What?”

               “Pot calling the kettle black much—?”

               Mihawk ignores him. “Remind me, how old were you when he was killed?”

               “Thirteen.”

               “Hmm.”

               Law can’t interpret that hmm, but a moment later Mihawk is standing in front of him.

               “Stop tugging and fidgeting and hold still,” he orders, slapping—tapping, really—Law’s hands away. Then he readjusts the lengths of silk at Law’s neck and begins to fold and loop it together.

               Smoker was right, he realizes. Standing so close together, he can see that Mihawk is a few centimeters taller, but otherwise they have the same lean figure. And—if he’s honest with himself—the expensive clothes feel really nice. The shade is sophisticated, the fit compliments his height, and the fabric is crisp and whisper-soft against his skin. He wouldn’t have a clue how to put such an outfit together, himself, nor what questions to ask a shopkeeper, or tailor, or whomever wealthy people buy clothes from. It makes him feel young, like he always does in this house, in the vicinity of these people, but this time he can’t rely on his medical expertise to defend his pride.

               “You’re afraid,” says Mihawk suddenly. He flattens the perfectly tied tie against Law’s chest, then folds down his collar.

               Law swallows. “Only an idiot wouldn’t fear Doflamingo.”

               “Not of Doflamingo,” says Mihawk, still focused on smoothing Law’s collar, the cut of his shoulders. “You’re afraid of testifying. Why?”

               “I’m not afraid, it’s just… This may shock you, but giving speeches in front of large crowds of strangers is not my day-to-day normal. Not while I’m talking about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Not while he’s looking at me…”

               Finally, Mihawk looks at him. “If you don’t do it, no one will.”

               “I know, but—”

               “There is no but. You either do it, or you don’t. You win,” says Mihawk with feeling, “or you lose. There is no consolation prize.”

               Mihawk’s eyes are molten gold; Law’s are solid amber. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, before the latter nods, galvanized by a scolding or pep-talk or both.

               “You know...” he says hesitantly, lifting his arm when bidden so that Mihawk can button his cuffs. “You have just as much right to testify against Doflamingo as Smoker and Crocodile.”

               “Hmm, perhaps.”

               “You must hate him at least as much as Crocodile does, probably more.”

               “I do.”

               “Then, are you going to—?”

               “No.”

               “Why not?”

               Mihawk let’s go of Law’s right wrist and takes the left. He buttons the cuff, then tugs down on the sleeve. Law thinks he’s not going to answer, but eventually he does.

               “A long time ago, I lost a part of myself to Doflamingo that I can never get back. I would rather die than lose my reputation to him, too. This is your fight, Law. Not mine.”

               “But you’re coming to the trial—aren’t you?”

               Law doesn’t know why, but the thought of Mihawk being there; of Shanks and Crocodile and Smoker makes him feel stronger, more stable. Like, maybe he doesn’t have to face all of his monsters alone.

               “Oh, yes,” Mihawk confirms. He gives one last tug on Law’s sleeve to straighten it, then steps back to survey his work. Satisfied, he smiles. A vicious, vindictive smile that makes his eyes glow like fire.

               “Nothing,” he says seriously, “will bring me more joy then watching you utterly and completely destroy that man.”

Oh, wow!” Shanks smiles as Law descends the stairs. “Law, that looks so good on you! Crocodile, get the camera.”

               Law blushes and snaps: “We’re going to a murder trial, not the fucking prom!”

               Crocodile walks in—sans camera—wearing a long, fur-trimmed coat. “The car is waiting outside.”

               “What car?” says Mihawk.

               “I ordered a car to take us to the city.”

               “You owe me rent! Where the hell did you get money to order a car?”

               “I ordered it,” Crocodile repeats. “Shanks paid for it.”

               Mihawk’s ire ignites. “I paid for it, you mean.”

               “That’s what I said.”

               Law sighs, already tired. “There is something seriously wrong with you people.”

               “Yes,” says Shanks flippantly. “But it’s the something that makes us interesting.”

               Law shakes his head and the argument is lost to him as he follows Smoker outside to where a long, black car awaits.

               “Well—?” he asks, expecting more commentary, but Smoker merely stares. “Is this suitable, then?” He drags a hand from shoulder to hip, putting emphasis on annoyance.

               “It’s fine. Good. It looks good.”

               Monosyllables don’t become most people, but on the sheriff it works. Especially when he opens the door and holds it, giving courtesy to Law. The doctor’s stomach flutters a little at that, so he glowers and grumbles: “Still not the fucking prom,” before sliding inside.

               It takes an hour to reach the city, and another hour to reach the courthouse, because: traffic. It reminds Law why he moved to the rural village in the first place, witness protection notwithstanding. He hates the noise and speed and blinding brightness of the city and always has, but Crocodile breathes in the close, dry air with a smile, as if he has dearly missed the scent of motor exhaust and the sound of car horns. Shanks watches the world flash by like a dog on an annual outing, eyes alight and interested, but Mihawk—to Law’s secret relief—looks positively ill. If Law had to guess the swordsman’s worst nightmare, it would be stuck in a crowded, enclosed space for two hours in stop-and-go traffic, while a parade of street-sellers jump back-and-forth between vehicles loudly hocking their wares: everything from souvenirs to sizzling meat.

               “Close the window,” he says, rubbing his temples.

               “Eh? But I want to see what they’ve got—”

               “Close the fucking window, Shanks.”

               Law, too, is grateful for the tinted glass and muted sound, and is no less relieved to reach their destination. However, as soon as he steps out of the car, he wants to shrink back into it.

               The courthouse is an austere building with ornate columns and a brick façade. It sits at the summit of one-hundred steps, looming above the street in deep disapproval. Law doesn’t want to climb those steps; doesn’t want to face what awaits him inside. The others walk on ahead—Crocodile complaining about the steep climb; Shanks dancing up backwards (weirdly impressive)—but Law can’t bring himself to move. Suddenly, he’s cold and he’s queasy and he can’t stand up in front of all those people and talk about what Doflamingo did, he just can’t—

               Smoker’s hand squeezes his shoulder. Then it slides to his back and gives a small push, urging him to move, to climb, to go forward.

               And he does. They do, because Smoker walks beside him, matching him step-by-step despite Law’s sluggish pace. A sturdy, silent shield that Law has unwittingly been relying on for longer than he realized.

               One step, then two, and soon he’s reached the courthouse doors, where Mihawk, Shanks, and Crocodile wait in deferential silence. The city sounds fade away and all Law can hear is the blood pounding in his ears. He’s scared, but…

               I have to open those doors.

               No one else is going to do it for him.

               No one else is going to speak for him.

               No one else is going to avenge Donquixote Rosinante.

               Trafalgar Law cannot live lost in a memory forever. Soon—today—in thirty-five minutes, in fact:

               I have to go forward.

Six hours later, court is adjourned. Donquixote Doflamingo is charged with the murder of his brother, Rosinante, and sentenced to life imprisonment, and Doctor Trafalgar D. Water Law feels like he can breathe again after twelve long years.

               “You okay?” Smoker asks, as they step out into a hazy evening.

               Law nods slowly, uncertainly. “Yeah. I think so. A part of me is relieved, but… another part can’t believe it’s actually over.”

               “Well, it is. You did it,” says Smoker, clapping Law on the shoulder. Law nods again and smiles a little, until the sheriff adds: “Probably need a shit-ton of therapy, though.”

               Law gives him a shove, but doesn’t disagree. Instead, he says: “I’m hungry.”

               Smoker stretches his arms overhead, cracking his neck. “No shit. You’ve eaten half a pastry in the last forty-eight hours. There’s a food-truck around the block that makes a mean sausage.”

               Law cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he says sarcastically, “because that’s what every man wants: to suck phallic-shaped meat in the face of the bloke he fancies.”

               Smoker snorts, lips pulling into a smile that looks severe on his wolfish face, but it’s… weirdly nice. Like, yes, maybe Law is a bit of a gloomy, nihilistic guy, but at least he can make this other grumpy, nihilistic guy laugh. And it feels nice.

               “Do you?”

               “What?”

               It’s Smoker's turn to cock an eyebrow. “Fancy me?”

               Law crosses his arms. “We had sex, didn’t we?”

               “Yeah, but sex can be just sex.”

               “I guess…”

               “What?”

               Law shakes his head and turns away in dismissal; in disappointment. He’s already felt too much today.

               Then Smoker says: “That wasn’t a rejection, you know. I just didn’t realize you felt that way about me.”

               “Should I not? You as good as told me you fancy me. You started it,” Law says childishly, then grimaces when he realizes it.

               “Well, sure,” says Smoker, rolling his shoulders in a show of such casualness that it betrays his nerves. “But I never expected you to feel the same.”

               Law turns and faces Smoker, guarded but hopeful. “Why not?”

               Another shrug. “Sex is one thing, especially when you’re feeling low. A moment of weakness, maybe. You’re so…” He wobbles his hand in an undefined way.

               Law frowns. “Are you calling me crazy?”

               “Maybe a little,” Smoker teases. “But no, I was more going for… mysterious. Private, like. Basically,” he says firmly, because Law’s lips are pinched together, now, suppressing mocking laughter. “I thought you’d probably want someone your own age.”

               “Oh, come off it, Grandpa. You’re only ten years older than me. And no,” says Law firmly. “If you must know, everyone my age is a complete moron and always has been. I’ve never fucked anyone my age. I’ve never even had friends my age. Actually…” he hesitates, feels the weight of his words, “…I’ve never had friends, full stop.”

               It’s a sad thought, really. Law never realized how sad until, now. But Smoker doesn’t give it time to manifest.

               “You’re wrong,” he says simply. “You have friends. Good friends. They’re just all forty.”

               Law frowns, then looks down at the street and the long, black car waiting there. He sees Dracule Mihawk and Sir Crocodile arguing about where to go for supper; sees Mihawk’s hand wrapped around Red-Hair Shanks’ wrist to prevent him wandering off; hears their raised voices and Crocodile insisting that he knows the best places to eat in the city, while Mihawk unabashedly doubts his judgement in all things, and—very slowly—a cautious optimism starts to replace the cold numbness that’s lived so long inside of him.

               “You know,” says Law, looking back at Smoker, “you’re not so far away from forty, yourself, Sheriff.”

               “Yeah. But I’ve got the hot, young boyfriend. Don’t I—?” he adds in uncertainty.

               Law lets him panic for a moment, then leans up and kisses the sheriff’s lips. “Yeah. Maybe, you do. If you buy him a sausage.”

The first thing Law does when he gets home is call the medical clinic to tell them to clear his calendar.

               “I’m taking vacation,” he says, and gets a long, uncertain silence in reply.

               “You’re taking vacation—?”

               “Yes.”

               “You.”

               “Yes.”

               “Are taking… vacation? Are you sure? You’re not sick, are you, Doctor?”

               “No, I’m just not coming in to work.”

               “For how long?”

               “I don’t know. Two weeks, maybe three, maybe four. I don’t know. I called Marco; he’ll take my patients. The point is, I’m not coming in.”

               “Okay, Doctor Trafalgar. Um… I hope you’re well.”

               Law smiles into the receiver. He’s smiled so much today. It’s weird.

               “I am.”

               Then he hangs up and pulls Smoker up into the loft, into his bed, into himself, and never has he felt so full—figuratively and literally—in his entire life. His body and heart and soul all feel stretched beyond what he ever thought he could endure, back when he was cold and afraid and alone, back when shadows made him jump, but he knows now that he can endure it, because he has endured it, because he is, and it feels like happiness. Like coming back to life.

               A week of, ahem, bedrest later, Law and Smoker are sitting at the small breakfast table. Law is shower-warm on the outside and coffee-warm on the inside and absently munching toast when a shrill car horn sounds from the road. Law looks at Smoker, who folds down a corner of the newspaper enough to shrug. When the horn is followed by a crisp knock at the door, the sheriff gives his suspicious boyfriend a better answer it, it’s your house look that pushes Law into begrudging action.

               “What do you want?” he asks Crocodile, who’s standing on his step.

               Crocodile’s smile is positively reptilian. “It’s come to our attention that you don’t own formal clothing. Or…” he adds, eyeing Law’s ragged jeans and hoodie, “…any nice clothing at all.”

               “We—?”

               Law lifts onto his toes to look over Crocodile’s shoulder and sees Mihawk’s black thunderbird waiting on the side of the road. The tinted driver’s window is rolled down and the impatient swordsman stares back. Law blinks from one man to the other, and all he can say is: “What?”

               “Every respectable man over the age of eighteen should have a suit,” says Crocodile, as if he’s an authority on the subject. “So, we’re taking you to get one.”

               “What? I don’t have time for—”

               “Yes, you do. You’re on vacation.”

               Law shoots a betrayed look at Smoker, who merely shrugs. He’s still holding the newspaper, but he’s doing a poor imitation of reading it, now.

               “Get your coat,” Crocodile orders, already in retreat. “We’re taking you to Criminal Line for a suit, and then maybe to Doskoi Panda and JKS to supplement the rest of your, err… wardrobe. And we’re doing Baratie for dinner, so tell your boyfriend not to worry. We’ll have you back by curfew, I promise. Hurry up.”

               Helpless, Law looks at Smoker—who’s smiling now, the bastard—then back to Crocodile and Mihawk.

               “Crocodile, wait! I’m not—!” he calls, but is interrupted by Mihawk’s impatient:

               “Get in the fucking car, loser! We’re going shopping!”

               And that, it seems, is that.

               Smoker walks up behind Law and wraps his coat around his shoulders. “Go on,” he says, kissing Law’s neck. “Your friends are waiting.”

               Law doesn’t turn around, because he doesn’t want Smoker to see his pursed lips, the brief film that covers his eyes, or how hard it is to keep from smiling; from looking happy.

               Instead, he leans up and gives his boyfriend a proper kiss goodbye, then walks out and gets into the car.

THE END

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