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He lets the Straw Hats escape. Again.
Not just the Straw Hats, of course. The Revolutionary Army, the other members of the Worst Generation, countless scoundrels, the Surgeon of Death…
Not his proudest moment, truth be told, but that was the only way. He worked alongside those people to bring down Bullet, and he would not have been able to do it without them. Smoker knows to show appreciation when it’s due.
He has a Buster Call to stop. This takes precedence over anything else.
“Get out of here.”
This is the last thing he says to the members of the temporary alliance before turning himself into a cloud of smoke and rushing toward the nearest marine ship.
He doesn’t look back. He assumes the pirates are smart enough not to defy him.
He assumes correctly.
As he relays his message to one of the officers, several pirate ships make their way to sea. The Revolutionaries are with them, using some sort of fire trick to aid their escape.
Smoker can’t be bothered to watch the whole thing unfold—not with an army of Navy battleships on the horizon. He urges the younger Marine to keep calling Akainu until the bastard bothers to do his damn job and pick up.
The Navy ships are only minutes from the island, in perfect firing range. And the island is still full of people.
When Sakazuki’s rough voice finally echoes from the transponder snail, Smoker takes his leave—he heads back to the island to start looking for survivors, assuming that Akainu has no other choice but to stop the attack now that Bullet has been defeated.
This time, he assumes incorrectly.
The moment he steps back on the island, his own transponder snail comes alive, and Sakazuki’s voice fills his ears again.
“Did you really think that I would let you pull the same shit again?”
Smoker clenches his teeth on the cigars. Damn that prick. He’s really going to give him a lecture now.
“I don’t know what you mean. Did you get my message?” he asks, trying—and failing—to sound calm. “You need to call off the Buster Call. The Straw Hat defeated Bullet—”
“You and that fucking Straw Hat,” Akainu snarls. “I’m sick of hearing about you two in the same sentence.”
Smoker has never been close to an active volcano, but he assumes this is what it would sound like. He doesn’t flinch, even when Akainu slams his fist onto the desk.
“First Alabasta, then Punk Hazard, and today Delta Island. Do you think I’m stupid, Vice Admiral?”
Pulling rank now, are we?
“Again, I don’t know what you’re implying, Fleet Admiral, and quite frankly I don’t care. Cancel the Buster Call or—”
Something breaks in Akainu’s office. Or maybe it’s the sound of fire, devouring the furniture.
“Or what? You’ll ask Straw Hat for help? How long have you been working with him?!”
“Has that magma of yours fried your brain?!” Smoker roars, not giving a shit about formalities anymore. “I don’t work with anyone or for anyone. I act on my own. Now that we’ve got that out of the way—cancel the goddamn Buster Call. There are still people here. Marines—”
“And pirates.”
Now Smoker slams his fist into the nearest rock. His fingers are coated with haki, and the rock shatters.
“We don’t have time for—”
“The Marines knew the risk,” Sakazuki continues, suddenly sounding more composed. It’s just a facade—Smoker knows that. Perhaps Sengoku told him to calm down.
And maybe Smoker should try to calm down, too. He looks at the sea, at the wall of Marine ships descending on the island.
“Listen, if you have a problem with me, we can settle it later. Right now, help me save our men. It’s not too late—”
“They knew what they were getting into.”
“Akainu, I swear to—Call off the Buster Call!”
“This time there’s no Kuzan to save your ass, White Hunter. You’ve been a rabid dog since the day I met you. Maybe it’s time to put you down.”
“There are hundreds of people here! This is mass murder! Akainu! Akainu, answer me!”
The sound the transponder snail makes informs him that the connection is over. Smoker almost crushes the thing in his hands.
Shit. Fuck.
How much time is left? Probably no more than five minutes. From the shore, he can see the Marines readying the cannons on the ships. There’s only one thing he can do.
He flies to the place where some of the officers are buried under rubble. Using his smoke, he moves the debris and pulls several of them out. They’re injured, but conscious. He doesn’t just tell them—he yells at them to swim as far from the island as they’re able to—before throwing them into the water.
Four.
He repeats the scenario several times, with Marines and pirates alike, for once using clouds of smoke to free them instead of trapping them like rats.
Three.
“There’s no time left, get away from here!” he keeps barking, offering no other explanation before hurling every person he finds into the sea.
Two.
He doesn’t know if they can swim—or swim well—but he’d rather give them a chance than let them die here and now.
One.
The Buster Call officially begins, the first cannonballs striking the shore. Smoker turns almost completely into smoke to avoid the blasts. He’s still digging through the rubble, wondering how long he can keep this up. Theoretically, his fruit makes him immune to conventional weapons.
But the Buster Call isn’t conventional. It leaves nothing behind—no people, no houses, no land. The island will be obliterated. Smoker considers his chances of staying in smoke form long enough to reach another island. If he wants to survive, he should be conserving his strength. Delta is in the middle of nowhere.
Instead of following his own advice, Smoker keeps looking for victims. He knows he hasn’t reached them all. More must be buried in the rubble. Some are likely already dead—if not because of Bullet, then because the Buster Call is now in full swing.
The battle with Bullet has worn him out, but he’s still surprised when a small stone manages to nick him in the forehead. A cannonball must have hit a nearby rock formation. The Marines are raining hell on the island, and Smoker’s chances of reaching another one on his own look less and less promising.
The noise… The noise is more overwhelming than he anticipated.
“What are you still doing here?”
Smoker blinks. His feet touched the ground only for a brief moment, but someone grabbed his wrist—someone with the power of haki. Smoker looks down and sees Trafalgar Law, who definitely shouldn’t be on the island anymore.
The former Warlord has the audacity to look pissed. There’s clear discontent in his eyes, hidden underneath his fluffy hat. Smoker can feel the blood from his forehead staining the rest of his face.
“What are YOU doing here?!”
“Same as you. Playing a hero,” Law hisses.
Before Smoker can tell him to shove that attitude up his ass, a familiar buzz of energy surrounds him from head to toe.
“Room,” Law says, raising two fingers.
“Don’t you fucking dare, my men are still—”
“Shambles.”
The next thing Smoker knows, he’s lying on a bunk in a cabin he’s never seen before. The space is almost pedantically clean and claustrophobically small. Law didn’t move him to any Navy ship, that much is certain.
There’s something off about the pressure in the cabin, something different about the taste of the air. Even though Smoker hasn’t experienced it before, he’s pretty certain about his whereabouts—he’s underwater. On Trafalgar Law’s submarine.
His cigars are gone. As is the jitte.
But his forehead is healed.
Smoker grits his teeth and gets up. The shelf above the bunk is filled with books, and there are more stacked on a tiny desk in the corner. The cabin is so small it only takes him three steps to reach the door. It’s unlocked, and soon Smoker finds himself in a narrow corridor.
The submarine’s hum fills his ears.
There’s a porthole right in front of him, showing nothing but the dark expanse of the unknown. Smoker takes a deep breath. He doesn’t enjoy being underwater. Like any sane person who can’t swim, probably.
Trafalgar Law must have had a really good reason for choosing this thing for his ship.
“Admiring the view?”
Speak of the devil.
Smoker turns to Law with the angriest snarl he can muster. The pirate leans against a wall, his arms and ankles crossed in a casual display.
“What the hell, Trafalgar? What did you do to me?”
Law’s eyebrows disappear under the brim of his hat. He’s wearing a black shirt, unbuttoned, and he’s unarmed.
“What did I do to you? I saved your life, for starters.”
“You sacrificed my men, that’s what you did. I was trying to—”
“You were running on literal fumes when I got to you. You passed out the moment I teleported us. The Navy sacrificed your men. Your boss.”
“Sakazuki is not my boss.”
“Not anymore, I guess. He sacrificed you too.”
Yeah, well. There’s no disputing that. Smoker got fired in a rather spectacular way. Law must see that he’s gotten under his skin, because he smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Cheeky little bastard.
“Where’s my weapon? And cigars?”
“The jitte is stored safely. I don’t want you walking around, poking me with a sea prism stone. And you can’t smoke here.”
It’s like a slap to the face.
“You must be shitting me.”
“It’s bad for your health anyway.”
“I’m a smoke man.”
“Yeah. Not a tobacco man.”
With that, Law turns and heads back wherever he came from, leaving Smoker to do—yeah, what exactly is he supposed to do now?
“Law,” he calls out, and the pirate stops in his tracks. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Don’t think too much about it.” Law waves his hand in the air. “I was repaying a debt.”
“When will we resurface?”
“Are you in a hurry?” Law’s voice echoes in the corridor. “Akainu isn’t waiting for you with his arms open, you know. It’s not like you have anywhere to return to.”
***
A polar bear. There’s a polar bear in the command area.
“I really need those cigars right now.”
“Out of the question.”
Law introduces Smoker to the members of his crew. The polar bear is a Mink, of course—and a navigator. Bepo. His little black eyes are fixed on Smoker, and Smoker doesn’t know who’s more surprised by the other’s presence.
“Law, it’s a Marine,” Bepo whispers once everyone else leaves.
“You don’t have to whisper. It’s not exactly a secret,” Smoker says in his usual gruff voice.
He still wears the Navy coat, the word JUSTICE printed on its back. It feels heavier than usual.
Bepo looks ready to pull out a crucifix and banish him back to hell.
“Ex-Marine, Bepo,” Law replies softly, flipping through some papers. “He helped me and Straw Hat on Delta Island. Got… discharged for his trouble.”
Bepo drops his gaze, shuffles his feet a little. He looks so anxious, Smoker almost wants to apologize for existing. When he speaks up again, Smoker snorts:
“Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Who would’ve thought he’d find himself at the end of one of his favorite sayings.
“Your crew doesn’t like me,” he tells Law later.
For lack of better things to do, he’s been following Law around all day like a dog. He’s been staring at him a lot, too. Law is a peculiar man—tall and slender, with something almost catlike about the way he moves, his hips swaying slightly. Even his steps are quiet.
If Law feels his eyes on him, he doesn’t mention it.
“They don’t trust you. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, either way, I’d appreciate it if you could drop me off on some island. An inhabited one, preferably.”
Law grabs a book from a shelf and approaches him, eyes slightly squinted, searching. They’re in the ship’s library, and the back of Smoker’s knees hits a comfortable-looking sofa as Law steps even closer.
“And then what, White Hunter?”
“What is it to you?” Smoker growls, feeling out of his depth.
Law frowns.
“Stop asking stupid questions.”
“I’m genuinely confused.”
Law shakes his head before heading out of the library.
“Why didn’t you tell Doflamingo where I was going?”
Smoker almost misses a step.
“What?”
“Why did you pick a fight with him?” Law asks sharply, and Smoker picks up his pace to keep up with the pirate’s long legs.
“How do you—” He stops himself. Screw that. “Because I don’t work with fucking criminals, that’s why. I wasn’t going to make his job easier.”
“You worked with me. More than once now.”
They reach the cabin Smoker woke up in before he’s ready to answer that. He doesn’t like to lie. Lying is a waste of time. He wants to give Law an honest answer.
“That’s different. You… You’re different.”
Law places the book he took from the library on the desk and approaches Smoker. He’s one confident bastard.
“I’m different?” Law tilts his head, studying Smoker from up close. “How so?"
Smoker grits his teeth and bares them in a snarl. Maybe those people calling him a dog are onto something. Maybe, by seeing a cat in Law, he’s onto something too. Maybe they’re destined to piss each other off.
“What happened to Delta Island?” he asks instead.
“It was destroyed,” Law replies without missing a beat.
“How many died?”
“Hard to tell.” Law doesn’t blink, which is infuriating. “It’s what the Navy does best. Kill people and cover it up.”
Smoker clenches his fists, making his gloves creak in protest. Law once told him there were many things he didn’t see. Smoker took that to heart. He tried to keep his eyes open. He tried to learn more—with varying results. That’s the only reason he doesn’t bite back now. He knows the Marines have blood on their hands.
“Am I… dead too?”
“Yes.”
Shit. Tashigi. Hina. Knowing them, they didn’t take that well. Smoker wonders what will happen to them now.
“Oi, White Hunter. Pay attention to me.”
Law twists his fingers in the material of Smoker’s coat. If Smoker didn’t know any better, he’d say Law is pouting.
“Whose cabin is this?”
“Mine.”
“Why am I here?”
Law rolls his eyes and takes off his hat. His spiky black hair is slightly flat, so he brushes it with his fingers.
“Because I want you to, obviously.”
Let’s get one thing straight: Smoker is often a man of very few words. He doesn’t like beating around the bush. He abhors small talk. And he really sucks at talking about feelings—something that clearly is about to happen.
Perhaps Law recognizes the blank look Smoker is giving him, because he takes matters into his own hands—starting with removing the gloves from Smoker’s hands.
Fuck. Smoker is the older one. Most probably the more experienced one, too. And yet he lets Trafalgar Law do whatever he wants. The material of the gloves rolls off his fingers slowly, and Law takes his sweet time caressing Smoker’s palms with his thumbs.
It shouldn’t be so erotic—and perhaps it wouldn’t be if Law’s gaze weren’t traveling between Smoker’s eyes and lips. And if Smoker weren’t doing the exact same thing.
“You said I’m different from a criminal. How am I different?” Law murmurs, looking at Smoker from under his eyelashes.
Law’s thumbs graze over Smoker’s wrists. He must feel that Smoker’s pulse is far from normal.
“I think you’re a good person,” Smoker replies after what feels like millennia, but his voice is steady.
Law smiles, clearly content with his words. He lets go of Smoker and takes off his jacket, revealing his tattooed arms—and a very ugly scar circling one of them.
It looks fresh. It looks painful.
Smoker stares at it so intently that Law has to tap him on the nose to bring him back to reality.
“At ease, soldier. It’s not going to fall off.”
Anymore hangs unspoken in the air, and Smoker grits his teeth so hard it almost hurts. He’s honestly surprised by the wave of emotions he’s experiencing in Law’s presence—by their strength.
Law keeps looking up at him with a small smile, his head slightly tilted back to allow for better eye contact. Smoker has to fight the urge to reach out and run his fingers through the pirate’s hair.
“You can be anyone now, White Hunter,” Law purrs, not beating the cat allegations in the slightest.
For some reason, Smoker thinks back to their meeting on Punk Hazard—how easily Law toyed with him, how he wrapped him around his finger, how he sought Smoker out and seemed to find comfort in his presence after everything. He wore a similar cheeky smile then, but now Smoker knows there’s nothing malicious behind it.
His brain supplies him with the image of a small black cat rubbing itself against his leg.
“You can reinvent yourself, you know?” As if reading his mind, Law places his hand on Smoker’s chest—right over the heart he once stole.
Smoker licks his lips, putting his hand on the small of Law’s back in reply. Gently.
“I can’t smoke in here.”
“Oh?” Law’s smile widens. “I can give you something else to do with that mouth.”
It starts with a kiss.