Work Text:
The lunch bell had barely rung when the doctors' lounge of the Cardiology Department at Massachusetts General Hospital filled with the complex mingling scents of disinfectant, coffee, and various meals. The doctors and nurses, having worked through a busy morning, could finally catch their breath and fill their empty stomachs.
Law carried his now-legendary dark blue insulated lunch bag to his usual corner spot. The bag's subtle geometric patterns glowed dimly under the fluorescent lights. The soft sound of the zipper, as always, drew several glances from nearby colleagues.
He opened the lid, revealing the carefully arranged contents. Today's main course was low-temperature slow-cooked Angus beef short ribs, perfectly pink, with evenly distributed marbling visible on the cut surface. Beside it were asparagus spears sautéed in butter and herbs until lightly charred at the edges, and a small mound of mashed potatoes sprinkled with black truffle shavings. The insulated compartment held a clear yet fragrant vegetable broth. In another small section were hand-formed rice balls coated with sesame seeds-clearly a backup meal, prepared in case his afternoon surgery ran long and he didn't have time for a proper dinner. A thermos held perfectly warmed tea.
The meal was simple in appearance yet carried the precision and layered flavors of a high-end restaurant kitchen, instantly outshining the microwave-heated lunches and hospital cafeteria trays.
"Dr. Trafalgar, today's lunch is making me jealous again," joked Dr. Johnson, a passing resident, who was holding a rather sad-looking sandwich.
Law, who was cutting into the short rib with the provided utensils, merely looked up and gave a slight nod in acknowledgment.
"Jealous is an understatement," said Lisa, a senior nurse brewing coffee nearby. She leaned in closer, her eyes shining as she looked at the perfect plating and colors in Law's lunchbox. "This is a work of art! Every time I see it, I feel like Dr. Trafalgar isn't eating lunch-he's conducting some kind of advanced nutritional replenishment ritual."
"Exactly," chimed in Mary, a young intern who had just taken a bite of her apple. "At this level, I'd believe it was takeout from a three-Michelin-star restaurant. Dr. Law, what kind of genius chef do you have at home? Can you share? Is it expensive?"
These questions and exclamations had played out countless times since Law started bringing this lunch bag to work. At first, he tried to brush it off with vague mentions of "family." But after Shanks happened to drop by the hospital one day to bring him a forgotten phone charger-and happened to run into several of Law's colleagues while casually brushing the hair from Law's forehead and telling him to finish all his lunch-the identity of Dr. Trafalgar's mysterious chef boyfriend spread through the hospital grapevine.
Law put a piece of the juicy beef in his mouth. The meat was tender, the timing perfect, the flavors of the spices infused just right. He chewed slowly, feeling the warmth and energy the food brought him. Faced with his colleagues' curious or envious glances, he had long since moved from slight embarrassment to complete familiarity.
Hearing Mary's question, he swallowed his food, took a sip of his warm tea, and answered in his usual flat tone:
"My boyfriend made it. He doesn't do takeout, and he doesn't accept reservations."
Even though they had already suspected the answer, hearing it stated so directly by the man himself still made the surrounding colleagues wear expressions that said, "Just as we thought, but we're still envious."
"So it really is a boyfriend..." Mary marveled softly. "Every time I see how much care went into this lunch, I can feel all the love. Dr. Trafalgar, your boyfriend is so good to you."
Nurse Lisa was more direct, grinning mischievously. "Good to you? He's treating you like a national treasure! Look at this nutritional balance, this plating, these ingredients... If my husband put in half this much effort, I'd laugh in my sleep."
Dr. Johnson bit into his dry sandwich and sighed. "Sigh. Comparing is hopeless. My wife was on night shift last night, so today I get this. Dr. Trafalgar, does your boyfriend need any more friends? Ones who can treat illnesses and write medical charts?"
A wave of good-natured laughter rippled through the lounge. The corner of Law's mouth twitched upward almost imperceptibly, then flattened again. He didn't join in the teasing. He just focused on eating his lunch. He knew these conversations happened almost daily. His colleagues meant no harm-they were simply curious about his extraordinarily luxurious lunch and the mysterious chef boyfriend behind it.
He had also long since grown accustomed to the fact that the food didn't just taste good-it carried Shanks's meticulous care and deep love. Every menu was tailored to his workload, the season, and even the smallest preferences he might have mentioned in passing. The notes on the Post-its had evolved from "Remember to finish it all" to more specific messages like "Today has your favorite fish" or "Come home early."
This feeling of being cherished, of being valued in the most tangible way, had initially been overwhelming. Now, it had become the most solid, warmest part of his busy internship life.
"Oh, by the way, Dr. Trafalgar," Lisa said, lowering her voice with a hint of gossipy amusement, "last time your boyfriend came to pick you up from work, I saw him from across the parking lot. He's even more... commanding in person than the rumors say. And the way he looks at you... it's different." She gestured with her hands. "How do I put it... it's very focused, very gentle, but also very powerful."
Law was eating his asparagus. His movement paused almost imperceptibly, and the tips of his ears quietly turned a faint, almost invisible pink. He didn't respond, just gave a vague grunt.
"Wow, Lisa, you saw him? Tell us more!" Mary immediately leaned in with interest.
"It's nothing, really. I just got the feeling they're very close." Lisa, knowing when to stop with a colleague's private life, smiled and changed the subject. "Anyway, Dr. Trafalgar, enjoy your love-filled lunch. Those of us eating cafeteria food will just have to imagine how good it tastes."
Law finished the last of his rice balls in a few bites and packed away his utensils. The insulated bag was returned to its original state, like a treasure chest filled with secrets and warmth. He stood up, nodded to his colleagues, and walked to the sink to wash his dishes.
Behind him, he could still hear faint murmurs.
"Nothing to do but envy..."
"See? This is why finding a partner who can cook is so important."
"The key isn't whether they can cook-it's whether they have the heart for it..."
Law turned on the faucet, watching the water rinse his lunchbox. He thought of Shanks in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous little whale apron, his expression focused as he handled ingredients. He thought of how Shanks would droop his head like a disappointed big dog when a new recipe failed. How, despite being busy with his own work, he always managed to prepare these lunches on time, with endless variety.
After washing, he dried the lunchbox carefully and put it back in the insulated bag. He had a surgery to assist in the afternoon, and would probably stay late writing progress notes. But for now, his stomach was warm with good food, and his heart was equally warm with a steady sense of security.
He picked up the insulated bag and walked back to his locker to put it away. As his fingertips brushed the bag's fine texture, he could almost feel the warmth and care the person who prepared it had left behind.
Work continued, but this exclusive, silent support was like a little sun he carried with him, always ready to dispel exhaustion and gloom.
And the legend of "Dr. Trafalgar's mysteriously talented chef boyfriend" would surely continue to circulate through the hospital, accompanied by the tempting lunch aroma every noon.
Law thought, maybe that was exactly what Shanks wanted. To announce his presence in the most direct, most undeniable way. To ensure that his little doctor, no matter where he was or when, would never be shortchanged.
The approach might be a bit too showy. But the feeling was not bad at all.