Chapter Text
Law’s hit with the stench of day-old sweat and cheap booze as soon as he enters the bar.
His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light of the failing bulbs that dangle from the rafters. A quick glance around tells him that the lack of illumination is likely doing the place a favour: the dark green paint is peeling off the walls, revealing beneath it the once-white plaster that has turned a sickly shade of yellow from years’ worth of cigarette smoke. The wooden floorboards are covered in a sheen of spilled beer that makes his boots stick to the ground, and he’s pretty sure the reddish stains spattered across the bar stools are dried blood; a souvenir from the last brawl that no one had bothered to clean up.
Law tugs on the brim of his hat and trudges further into the cacophony of clinking glasses and drunken laughter. He stifles a groan when his ears pick up on the anodyne guitar track playing from an old jukebox in the corner.
What a fucking cliché.
Everything about this place is a reminder of why he doesn’t do bars.
It’s been all of two minutes and already his head hurts and he feels like he needs a shower to wash off the hopelessness that has settled into its foundation; the desperation that permeates the air. He has half a mind to turn around—the quick fuck he came here to find really isn’t worth the trouble.
It’s the bone-deep exhaustion of months of hunting down pirates for his growing collection of hearts that makes him stay. It’s the days that he can’t rest his eyes without seeing Flevance burning, and the nights that have him waking up screaming Cora’s name. It’s the cuts and bruises that litter his body from all the fights he wasn’t fit to fight. It’s the memory of biting Shachi’s head off over an honest mistake; and, most of all, it’s the disappointment in Bepo’s eyes when he cornered him in his quarters afterwards.
Law’s pretty sure this isn’t what his first mate had in mind when he told him to take a break. He knows, too, that it won’t fix anything—but he doesn’t need it to.
What he needs is simple: a reprieve from the incessant buzzing in his head, a way to dispel the doubts creeping in every time he stops long enough to think about what he’s done; what he’s about to do. He just wants his brain to be quiet for one night—and spending it in a stranger’s bed has proven a crude but reliable remedy in the past.
So here he is in a dive bar on the edge of Gartel Island, looking for someone to lose himself in; someone whose name he won’t bother asking for and whose face he’ll have forgotten come morning.
Law pushes further into the room, scanning it for a secluded space from where he can assess his options for the night. His eyes land on a booth in the far right corner that grants him a good view of both the counter and the door. It’s perfect—
Except for the part where it all turns into the beginning of a bad joke.
It goes something like this: a doctor walks into a bar and runs into a former patient of his. A patient whose existence had been but a rumour not long before his broken body had hit the deck of the Polar Tang. A patient whose life Law had saved against his better judgement, and against all the odds. A patient who had left in the dead of night before he’d had the chance to check for blood clots or infection or any of the myriad other risks of open-heart surgery.
Oh, there’s no mistaking the man hunched over the rickety table; not with his cowboy hat and the way he’s playing with a box of matches, the way he lights them without striking them.
Fire Fist Ace.
It’s been almost a year since Ace’s Irish exit. Law hadn’t been thrilled to find his cot empty less than two days after he had sewn his chest shut, but he’d had neither the time nor the patience to dwell on it then. He had plans to make, after all; kings to dethrone.
Now, seeing the contours of Ace’s face lit up by the tiny flames sprouting from the tips of his fingers, Law is unable to stop his feet from moving towards him.
That’s where the joke falls apart.
When Ace glances up at him, Law isn’t met with the death-defying grin he expected, nor the inexplicable warmth that had spilled over the edges of Ace’s wanted poster back when Law had first laid eyes on it; two years ago, before setting sail for the Grand Line. He’s a shadow of the man whose face had been plastered over every screen in Sabaody—and that’s saying something, considering the weeks he’d spent in Impel Down prior to his arrival at Marineford.
Ace looks haggard. The black, long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing hangs off his shoulders in a way that does nothing to hide how much weight he’s lost, how much muscle. It makes his skin look pallid, a far cry from the sun-kissed hue Law remembers from his operating table. His eyes have a sunken quality to them and the rings under them rival Law’s own—which is usually a sign that someone’s in dire need of medical attention.
His disguise, if you can call it that, is lazy, too. His tattoos are hidden beneath the threadbare material of his shirt and his hair has grown long enough to fall over his shoulders in dull, messy waves, but he’s still wearing his signature hat and a string of red beads around his neck.
He is, of course, also quite literally playing with fire.
Even if he weren’t, Law couldn’t mistake the heat emanating from his body for anyone else’s; the sensation is seared into his memory from the hours upon hours he spent with his hands buried inside the man’s chest.
Recognition sparks in Ace’s eyes at the sight of Law. He drops the box of matches and leans back against the worn leather of the booth, resting his elbows on the head roll.
“Trafalgar Law,” Ace drawls. He tips his hat at Law with a small, crooked smile that belies his gaunt cheeks and the ashen colour of his skin, “Of all the gin joints on all the islands in all the New World—you here to steal my heart?”
Law grits his teeth. Ace’s meaning isn’t subtle. And news travels fast—if Ace knows what the Heart Pirates have been up to, it’s only a matter of time until others will, too. It means he’s going to have to speed up his plan. It also means he really shouldn’t have come here; he has work to do.
He glares at Ace, “No.”
“Ouch,” Ace clutches his chest as though wounded by Law’s dismissal. His palm rests over where, less than a year ago, Akainu’s fist had punched a hole clean through his chest; shattering four of his ribs and grazing his heart. Law has its exact position memorised—half an inch further to the left and Ace would have been beyond saving. He watches Ace’s bloodshot eyes follow his as he, too, makes the connection. He drops his hand and the shrug that follows carries none of the nonchalance he tries to imbue it with, “You could at least pretend you’re interested, y’know.”
“I had your heart, in case you forgot,” Law says, sliding into the seat across from him before he can think better of it. He carefully places Kikoku behind him, its hilt within easy reach. With his chin resting on his folded hands, he studies Ace’s face, “I returned it to you. In much better condition than I found it, I might add.”
“Right,” Ace huffs a hollow laugh and casts his eyes towards the bottom of his glass. He swirls the remnants of his drink around and his voice takes on a more somber tone, “About that—I guess I never thanked you for what you did, huh.”
“You did not.”
Ace had left a note—a mess of scraggly, uneven letters that betrayed his lack of practice. He’d applied too much pressure, puncturing the torn-off page from one of Law’s medical note books with the dots of his i’s, and the mistakes he’d made had almost outnumbered the words he’d written.
Thank you for saving my little brother’s life. I owe you.
That’s all it had said.
His brother’s life; no mention of his own.
Law doesn’t give a shit that Ace hadn’t thanked him in person. Had their roles been reversed, Law doesn’t know that he would have stayed either. Besides, it’s not like Law had saved him out of the goodness of his heart—he’d saved him because Ace had been a challenge and Law, in all his time as a doctor and as a pirate, has never been able to resist a challenge.
It was the contents of the note that left Law with a bitter taste in his mouth; the truth revealed by what had gone unsaid.
“Well, uh,” Ace swallows, but he still doesn’t meet Law’s eyes, “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry I didn’t... stick around to tell you at the time. I swear I was taught better manners than that.”
“That’s funny,” Law raises an eyebrow, “I heard you have a bit of a reputation for dining and dashing.”
Ace laughs at that, a real, hearty laugh that loosens something in Law’s chest that it has no right to touch. He leans across the table and winks, “Sounds like someone’s done their research. Should I be flattered?”
His crooked smile is back and Law wishes he didn’t care enough to notice that this time, it almost reaches his eyes; and this time, there’s a hint of colour in his cheeks, a first sign that the fire inside him is still burning.
He makes a point of crossing his arms and leaning as far back as he can, putting some distance between himself and the other man, “I make it a habit to know whose lives I save. In case that decision comes back to bite me.”
“I see,” Ace concedes, and the sharp, calculating glint in his eyes is an unnecessary reminder not to underestimate him; not to let himself be taken in by his jovial attitude. Law’s heard plenty of stories about people who did, and he doesn’t care to join their ranks. Ace, to his credit, tilts his head and regards him with the same degree of caution, “That brings me back to my earlier question: are you here to clean up your mess, Law?”
Law lets the question hang between them for a moment. He has no intention of hurting Ace, nor does he plan to add his heart to his collection. In truth, even in Ace’s current state, he’s not so sure he could. He thinks, deep down, Ace is smart enough to know all that, too, but Law has learned a long time ago that it doesn’t pay to show his hand too soon.
In the end, however, it takes one look at the other man for his decision to be made; at the dark, purple shadows beneath his eyes and the bloodied tips of his fingers where he’s bitten his nails down to the quick. Law is many things but, contrary to his reputation, cruel isn’t one of them.
Besides, he’s not in the mood to play games tonight. He doesn’t have the energy for it. So he shakes his head, “I already told you I wasn’t. I had no idea you’d be here.”
“Okay, good—that’s good,” Ace nods, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He rests his chin in his open palm and frowns at Law, curiosity replacing caution, “So… If you don’t mind me asking, what does bring you here if it isn’t yours truly?”
Law could lie, of course—the truth is none of Ace’s business and he doesn’t owe him an explanation. He doesn’t owe him anything, really. Even if he did, he paid his dues and then some when he spent the better part of a week repairing the guy’s right atrium and rebuilding over a hundred thousand capillaries from his mangled tissue.
He doesn’t lie. Instead, he ignores the part of his brain that tells him this is a bad idea and opts for a shrug, “What brings anyone to a place like this, in the middle of the night? Take an educated guess.”
“Hmm… I don’t see a drink in your hand—and to tell you the truth, the drinks here are kinda shit,” Ace raises his glass at Law and drains it of its remaining liquid. He lets his eyes wander over Law’s face, down the exposed skin of his neck and chest. He lingers for a moment on the swirls of ink on Law’s chest before looking back up at him from under his lashes, “So I’m guessing it’s company you’re after.”
It’s not a question. Law inclines his head anyway.
Ace hums, and the corners of his mouth twitch. Dark eyes study Law’s as if searching for something. When he finds it, he extends his leg until his bare ankle rests against Law’s under the table, “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
Law weighs his options. He surveys the room and its swaying patrons, imagines the whispers of slurred innuendo in his ear if he went home with one of them, the insipid compliments about his tattoos that he’s heard a million times before; their hot, wet breath on his neck. Then, he looks back at Ace, who’s smiling at him with the complete conviction of someone who knows that Law won’t find anyone more interesting than him in this bar.
If Law’s honest, he doubts he would if he searched the entire island, but he decides to keep that part to himself.
“I’m good,” he replies, but he pulls his leg away from Ace’s burning touch.
“Lucky me, I guess,” Ace winks at him, unbothered, it seems, by Law’s refusal to let himself be pulled into his orbit, “In that case, let me get you one of those terrible drinks. What’s your poison?”
“Gin’s fine.”
“You got it,” Ace slides out of the booth and taps his fingers on the edge of the table, “Be right back.”
Law watches Ace’s retreating back as he saunters over to the bar. He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders in a futile attempt to release some of the tension that’s been building ever since he realised just whose doorstep fate had delivered him to.
Ace, it turns out, is an impossible man to take his eyes off. There’s a magnetism to his movements; their inherent gracefulness and its contrast to the power that simmers beneath. Law finds himself drawn to the incongruence of it all: the easy confidence with which Ace leans over the counter and makes the bartender laugh at his joke, and the nervous energy that has him bouncing his knee as he waits for their drinks to be served; the frantic edge to his flirtation, and the genuine, boundless warmth that radiates off of him as though he doesn’t know any other way to exist in the world.
He can’t deny the flutter in his stomach when Ace looks back over his shoulder and smirks at him, unsurprised to catch Law staring. Law doesn’t avert his gaze, and Ace’s smirk just grows wider. Ace, in turn, doesn’t spare a glance for anyone else as he walks back to their booth; makes a point of showing Law that he, too, has his undivided attention.
“Here you go,” Ace brushes his hand against Law’s when he places his drink in front of him; a deliberate touch, unburdened by the pretence of happenstance. He meets Law’s unimpressed glare with a wink and slides, uninvited, into the seat next to him. Up close, the pallor of his skin is even more apparent. It makes the constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks look painted on.
Ace inclines his glass towards Law’s in a silent toast before lifting it to his lips. Law follows suit, unable to stop himself from pulling a face at the sharp, medicinal burn in his throat. Ace chuckles, and leans in to whisper a conspiratorial, “Told ya.”
It doesn’t escape Law’s notice that, when Ace puts down his glass, the level of the amber liquid in it remains unchanged. His breath, now that he thinks about it, doesn’t smell of alcohol either. He hadn’t taken too close a look at the drink Ace had been nursing earlier—the one he’d downed in a perfect performance of someone drowning his sorrows, surreptitiously swiping the glass off the table on his return to the bar—but something tells him that what he’d assumed to be vodka or gin might, in fact, have been water.
He wonders whether Ace’s choice to forego alcohol is a conscious refusal to cloud his judgment, an effort to preserve his reaction time in the event of an attack—or if there’s something more to it. It’s a wise decision, in any case, given his status as one of the most wanted men in the New World. What has Law concerned is the fact that Ace is pretending otherwise, that he’s letting him believe he’s at least two drinks deep; loose-limbed, a little tipsy.
Easy.
Pliant.
It does nothing to dispel Law’s impression that there’s something wrong with this whole picture.
“How long have you been here?” Law asks, his voice roughened; from the gin or from the way Ace’s thigh is pressed against his, he isn’t sure.
“An hour or so, maybe two. I was about to leave,” Ace’s mouth twists into that by now familiar half-smile of his, its irrefutable charm tainted by the cracked corners of his mouth, “But then you walked in. And now I’m glad I didn’t.”
“I meant on this island,” Law clarifies, even if he’s certain that Ace knew full well what he was asking.
“A while,” Ace shrugs, unwilling, by the looks of it, to impart information about the timeline of his whereabouts after he stole off the Polar Tang at Amazon Lily. He pretends to take another sip of his drink and Law pretends he doesn’t notice the way his hand is shaking, “How ‘bout you?”
“Just got here. We had some business in the Mogaro Kingdom and we’re headed to Applenine Island next,” Law volunteers.
He isn’t too fond of the idea of revealing where he’s been or where he’s headed to either—no matter how unlikely it is for someone like Ace, with the seaking-sized target on his back, to wield that information against him. He hopes the other man recognises his admission for what it is: a token of trust in his discretion, and an unspoken promise to return the favour.
“Heart-stealing business?”
“Nice try,” Law huffs a laugh and turns towards Ace, unable to hide a small smile of his own at the sheer nerve of him, “We’re not talking about that.”
“Fair enough,” Ace concedes, undeterred. He picks up one of the matches he’d discarded earlier and rolls it over his knuckles as one would a coin, “Tell me then—is this what you usually do to unwind?”
“What, this?” Law gestures at their decrepit surroundings and lets out a snort, “Fuck, no. I hate places like this. Too much noise—makes it difficult to think.”
“That so?” Ace hums, lighting the match with a flick of his thumb. He holds it up between them and his eyes dance in the firelight for a breath or two before he blows it out; breaking the illusion of vivacity cast by the orange glow. His face is shrouded in tendrils of smoke that unfurl into a grey haze, smudging the lines restless days and sleepless nights have etched into his skin.
A warm, calloused hand wraps around Law’s. He turns to speak, but the words catch in his throat when parted lips graze his neck, his jaw, the shell of his ear, “In that case, I got a room upstairs—if you wanna, y’know, get out of here.”
It’s clumsy, too fast and too direct; a shadow, no doubt, of the finesse the man beside him is capable of.
Still, the promise in Ace’s voice sends shivers down Law’s spine.
On the surface, at least, this is exactly what Law came here looking for. He hadn’t given much thought to the kind of person he wanted to spend the night with, too focused on the what to bother with the who or the how—but Ace is gorgeous, and witty; bold in his recognition of the effect he has on people yet unassuming in his pursuit of them. Strong, too, teetering on the edge of dangerous in a way that never fails to command Law’s attention.
It isn’t difficult to imagine Ace’s sweat-slick body beneath him, tangled in the sheets, to picture his pitch-black hair fanned out on the pillow; his mouth open, his eyes squeezed shut, his neck covered in marks left by Law’s teeth. He can hear Ace whispering his name amidst a litany of little gasps, can feel Ace’s nails digging into his shoulders, his legs wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him in. He can see himself tracing the freckles on Ace’s chest, singeing the tip of his tongue on the heat of the other man’s skin—on the large, misshapen scar that, until now, had been the only tether between them.
But therein lies the problem: Ace isn’t a stranger, not in any of the ways that count.
His face, that much Law knows with a staggering sense of clarity, isn’t one he’s likely to forget. Not the enigmatic smile of his first wanted poster; not the lifeless mask that he found pressed against the cold, hard steel of the Polar Tang’s hull; not even, he thinks, the pale, off-kilter version that greeted him tonight.
Casual was never on the table with someone whose life he had once saved.
None of that changes the fact that Law’s fingers are itching to run through Ace’s hair and disentangle the knots in his inky waves; that his mouth is begging to kiss the taste of undrunk rum off his chapped lips.
His cheeks burn with the knowledge that their history alone would not be enough to stop him from taking what Ace is so blatantly offering. It’s not the lack of subtlety in his approach either, nor misplaced pride at the prospect of serving as a distraction from whatever it is that’s keeping the other man up at night. Law doesn’t mind being someone’s distraction—he prefers it that way, really. It’s easier when neither party expects to be anything other than a warm body, a temporary fix to a permanent problem.
No—it’s something about the haunted look in Ace’s eyes, and his inability to stay still long enough to sell his performance of carefreeness, of ease.
It’s his flagrant play at drunkenness, and the underlying assumption that his impaired state would entice Law to take advantage.
It’s the note he’d left on Law’s desk a year ago: the utter disregard for himself that he’d scribbled between the lines and that, now, colours every one of his words, every one of his touches; past, present and promised.
Law had never met Ace before Marineford, and the week he’d spent unconscious on his operating table did little to change the simple fact of their unfamiliarity with one another. He has no baseline to compare Ace’s behaviour to, to put the artificiality of his smile and the aberration in his movements into context. All he’s got is his intuition, shaped by years of following the trail of destruction left in Doflamingo’s wake then sharpened on the dangers of the open sea—
He’s seen the difference between desire and desperation. He knows how to tell appetite from hunger, can spot the signs of someone hurtling towards their breaking point—and he has no interest in being a catalyst.
He won’t be taking Ace up on an offer he isn’t in the right state of mind to make. It’s a line Law won’t cross; least of all for a cheap thrill, a meaningless indulgence that would only paper over the cracks of his own afflictions for a week or two. What he doesn’t have as clean—as rational—an explanation for is why he’s nevertheless chosen to stay; why he’s letting Ace believe that he might.
Maybe it’s because he remembers all too well what it feels like to be the one left behind; to exist in a world in which you get to live and someone you love doesn’t. Because he’s no stranger to the crushing guilt of feeling responsible for their death; of knowing they saved you and you didn’t save them back. Because he understands the need for punishment, and the compulsion to dole it out yourself if the universe won’t do it for you.
Or maybe it’s much simpler than that.
After all, what good did it do to save Ace if he’s just going to let him drown now?
So Law leans in close, until his flushed cheek brushes Ace’s, and whispers back, “Lead the way.”