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Smoker had heard rumors about Trafalgar Law long before the Heart Pirates had drifted into the Grand Line– medical experiments, strikes on chemical facilities with ties to a certain pink-feathered warlord, and a sadistic streak reserved for only the worst of the worst. It was enough to keep the man’s wanted poster up on the board across from his desk with the other growing list of pains in the ass, like Monkey D. Luffy and the fucking traitor X Drake.
He didn't have the displeasure of meeting the brat in person until later on– summoned up to play glorified security guard to pirates he’d sooner see sunk into the closest blue than to play nice with them. Teeth gritted against lit cigars, he waved the Warlords in. Six bothered to show up on time and the heavy doors to the meeting room closed behind them with a groan.
“Who’s missing?” Smoker asked the marine posted next to him, who glanced back with a raised eyebrow. Maybe the pair had miscounted with the way some of them skulked through. Smoker could have easily missed one.
A laugh came from his co-worker, who shook their head. “Trafalgar is always late.” But right on cue, dressed in the deep blacks and bold yellows that the young pirate draped himself in like a warning, not unlike creatures flaunting their toxins, Law appeared. Smoker knew from the poster what he had looked like, but when those honey yellow eyes met his…he froze.
As then, pinned again under those gorgeous eyes months later, Smoker froze– his heart caught in his chest and jaw clenched reflexively as Law approached, wrapped in a spotted black coat and dark feathers, snow crunching under the stupid little boots he seemed to favor.
“You're late,” Smoker snapped, irritation bubbling up in hot waves– though if it was with himself or Law, he wasn't sure. Perhaps the anger was with himself for always coming when called, or maybe with Law for his mere existence.
“I'm always late, remember?” Law laughed. His words ran with the lilting accent of a place that no longer existed, “Maybe next time I’ll make you wait longer?”
“Brat.” It came as a snarl, low and deep, though there was no malice as he spoke. Smoker pushed himself off the rock he’d perched on to break the space between them. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't feel the dull ache in his chest when Law smiled or laughed, and yet….
The hesitation was all Law needed and he pressed himself against the marine. Smoker closed his arms around him, crushing Law’s impossibly thin body closer. Hands grasped the green ruff of Smoker’s jacket and pulled him down into an insistent kiss. Hungry and demanding as Law always was, teeth nipping at his lips, Smoker groaned under the attention.
“I think I would rather stay out here with you,” Law teased. His wound around Smoker like a cat’s before he settled down next to him. Behind them, the double doors to the meeting hall shook with a cacophony of voices. Law snickered, head tilting back to stare at the marine. “That's why I don't want to go in there,” Law wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue– a flash of gold caught Smoker’s eyes before it vanished just as quickly, “They give us the same shitty black coffee they give you and the snacks are bad. The only enjoyable parts are if Boa and Doflamingo get into a slap fight.”
“Why are you even telling me this?” Smoker grunted, crossing his arms as he tried to avoid Law’s gaze. All he wanted to do was return to his post and make sure his men hadn't managed to light the base, themselves, or both on fire.
“Because you don't want to be here either…” Law grinned as Smoker finally realized he was being appraised by a predator looking for a meal, “So let's leave. Besides, I'm a Shichibukai. You have to do what I say.”
Smoker had followed him then, sneaking off to parts of the base they weren't supposed to. Bored and indifferent to the politics hidden behind closed doors had been enough of a spur to adopt the alibi of supervising the other’s ambling curiosity. And while their excursion began as simple breaking and entering, it quickly shifted to far more entertaining activities.
Maybe it was why Smoker kept coming back for more—Law’s existence ran antithesis to the beliefs built on the back of government propaganda. Maybe it was why he agreed to these little meetings whenever they could. Something to break up the doldrums his new unwanted rank and status inflicted on him.
“Your place or mine?” Law teased, running fingers inked with his silly tattoos down the line of Smoker’s chest. He hummed softly, a quiet noise of contemplation that Smoker had found himself growing fond of. It meant the pirate was thinking, churning something in that clever brain of his that would no doubt prove interesting later.
“Mine.” It was the same answer every time. The prospect of being trapped on Law’s sub with his crew of jackals was off putting on the best of days, and the hovering threat of being made into the Warlord’s trophy pet or whatever it was Law planned to do with him even more so.
The same relaxed and smug grin flashed across Law’s face, the same one that had gotten Smoker to follow him all those months ago, “Your place it is then.”
The first time Smoker had seen Law’s tattoos, he had traced the spirals of ink multiple times as he contemplated what they reminded him of. Stationed once upon a time on a winter island, dotted with mountains, the locals had warned him about the leopards that lived there. Smoker had only seen one once, slinking off into the snow, its gray fur dappled with black rosettes.
The rosettes were what he had recalled as studied the patterns on Law’s skin. A leopard, yellow-eyed and cunning as he stalked his prey. The comparison didn't last long. Clever and distant as the pirate could be, the more time he spent in Law’s presence, the tattoos became less like a leopard’s spots and more akin to a tabby cat’s in Smoker’s eyes—a creature hell-bent on crawling over the one person who refused to give him attention.
Unfortunately much like with said cat, once Smoker caved there was no getting rid of him. Law slipped in and out his life as he pleased, pitching elicit meetings under the guise of more official business. A pirate with pedigree papers that stole his cigars from his mouth, his focus, and something else that had been quietly festering.
Smoker grunted as he felt the bed move, bitterly aware of space left open as Law stood up. He wanted to pull Law back into his bed, but he was already out of reach, pulling on his heavy black coat. He doubted Law would have allowed it, not with the way the young man seemed to be focused elsewhere, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
“If you hear a distress signal from Punk Hazard, don't answer it,” Law said, shoulders squaring, “Just do what you Marines are good at doing, ignore it. Pretend it doesn't exist.”
“The fuck I will,” Smoker retorted, his annoyance growing as Law went for the door of the cabin. Was that another of the brat’s little games– a dare thrown into his face as bait? He grunted and pushed himself from the bed, feet heavy on the ground.
“You will. I can do as I please, remember?” Law wielded his title like a sword, cleaving a space between them with his words. His eyes narrowed, head rising up in challenge, “I have no issue making sure you can't interfere. Do not answer the call.”
The words came as firmly as any slap would have. Smoker bristled, jaw set. He should have known better, should have trusted his better judgment instead of allowing himself to get tangled up with the Warlord– his departure announced with the slam of the door.
As the sick feeling of betrayal sunk into the pit of his gut, Smoker realized he had been right the first time. Trafalgar Law was a snow leopard and snow leopards didn't change their spots.