Chapter Text
Nobody really looks for physical copies of reference books these days, but it's still not a good reason to keep them on the very top shelf, especially in a bookstore this close to a university. Tall as he may be, Law isn't that fucking tall. He can just barely see the spine of the book, even as wide and large as it is. He steps back, debates climbing the damn bookshelf, and starts reconsidering whether he actually needs the book. He definitely wants it, though—
"Which one?" says a faintly hoarse baritone from behind him.
"Essentials of Toxicology," Law says absently. Then he flinches as a long arm reaches over him, snagging the book with ease. He spins around and finds himself looking up at a broad chest, and then even further up at a vaguely familiar face ringed with blond curls. The man jumps, seeming equally startled.
The book slips from his hand and nails Law in the forehead.
"I'm so sorry," the blond man mumbles for the sixth time.
"At least it wasn't an encyclopedia," Law says, still holding the bag of ice to his head. "I'm just glad I'm not bleeding."
The man had apologized multiple times already, paid for the book, and quietly but firmly insisted on buying him a drink from the little coffee bar in the bookstore as well. Law had done his damnedest to turn him down, happy enough to have the book in reach and still be conscious, but he'd ended up conceding and getting a black coffee. Pretty good coffee, too. He's surprised that this place had stayed off his radar all this time.
Privately, Law's also shocked that the man had been so ready to shell out four-hundred-and-some-odd beri just for an apology. He'll admit that he's not above splurging on books, but there's a distinct difference between used two-beri paperbacks and half a month's rent. He had anticipated having to haggle for the book, maybe getting it on a long-term loan in the best case scenario.
Law studies the blond man more closely. The man is still faintly red, nursing his own coffee, part of his face hidden behind a massive hand. He's tall, ridiculously so, looking distinctly out of place on the coffee bar's mismatched little chairs. Older than Law, almost middle-aged. He's got on a woolen turtleneck even in this balmy spring weather, long-sleeved and loose and decidedly plain for someone with four hundred beri to drop, but Law had seen the build of his chest and arms when he'd reached for the book. There's a certain way he holds himself that wouldn't be possible otherwise, postured but unassuming, almost blending into the background despite his height.
The familiarity clicks.
"Aren't you in the psychiatry department?"
The man looks up, expression clearing a little. "I knew I recognized you. Med student?"
"MD-PhD, yeah."
"Hard work."
"Having a one-track mind makes things easier," Law says vaguely, setting down the bag of ice. He's wracking his brain for names, thinking back to his psych rotation. A professor? Resident psychiatrist, maybe? The man had always been on his way to or from something whenever Law saw him, a worn leather messenger bag over his shoulder, but on the rare occasion that people did talk to him...
"It's...Corazón, right?"
The man stills. Then he huffs a short breath and holds out a hand. "Rosinante. But you can call me that."
"Law." He shakes the offered hand. "Thanks again for getting the book. Are you sure you don't want me to pay you back at some point?"
"Yes," Corazón—Rosinante—says, flushing a little again. "It's a good book anyway. Worth the money."
"Is it?" Law looks down at the title. "What—"
"Oh," Corazón says suddenly, glancing at his watch. He lurches to his feet, nearly tripping over his chair as he does so. "Seminar. I really am sorry about dropping the book."
"Don't worry about it," Law begins, but the man is already halfway across the store, loping toward the entrance.
Law looks at the book again. Essentials of Toxicology.
Interesting.
Rosinante comes across the med student a few weeks later as he cuts through a building on the medical campus. He'd never really seen Law around before, he realizes now, only during his psych rotation and then once or twice in passing. Law had definitely made an impression on him though—prominent tattoos, piercings, and oddly familiar marks on his skin that looked almost like vitiligo. And then on top of all that, a strange golden-eyed intensity that kept most of his peers away and had the overseeing faculty members joking about how they'd hate to have Law as their psychiatrist.
(Although, to be fair, Rosinante isn't the most approachable person either.)
Law nests in one of the study nooks, laptop and various notebooks and reference materials ringed around him, a pair of glasses balanced on the end of his nose. He goes to push them up, and...the poor kid's still got a hint of a bruise on his forehead. Rosinante's about to hurry past, face starting to burn as he remembers the incident, when Law glances up, does a double take, and waves. Rosinante sighs internally.
"Hey, Corazón," Law calls, straightening. "Do you have some time?"
Rosinante stiffens at the nickname, especially coming from an unfamiliar voice, but he did give the kid permission to use it. It's his own fault after all.
"A bit," he says reluctantly, walking over. "How's your head?"
Law clears one of the chairs next to him and gestures to the seat. "It got a few good laughs out of my cohorts. They all thought I'd run into a pillar reading."
Rosinante scoots around the table and sits gingerly, trying his best to not disturb the mess of papers. "Have you?"
"Run into a pillar? Only once," Law says. He shuts his laptop and pulls his glasses off. "I've been hoping to see you around. I wanted to talk to you."
Two sentences that Rosinante had never heard before, at least not in any positive context. He gives Law a questioning look.
Law taps one of the books in response. It's opened to a chapter near the middle, but Rosinante recognizes it on sight.
"Metal poisoning?" he asks, followed immediately by, "I'm sorry again..."
Law waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. You said this was a good book? Sounds like you've read this part."
"One of the best I've found." Rosinante keeps his eyes fixed on the page. It's the introductory portion of this particular section, with blurbs about the elements discussed. Vanadium. Mercury. Cadmium, underlined and notated with spidery cursive. He pointedly ignores the next metal on the page.
"What makes you say that?"
"I think it's well-written."
"How?" Law presses.
Rosinante's used to interrogations, but not this kind. "What do you mean?"
"I'm curious," says Law plainly. "Not a lot of people have favorite reference books."
Hm. Rosinante hesitates for a moment before he leans forward, tracing a line of text. "It's an excellent example of scientific writing. Like here. The citations are concise, perfect amount of relevant background included even for an intro. The organization is excellent too. The way each subsection is structured provides a thorough overview of each toxin."
And why are you so interested, soldier?
He's expecting confusion, suspicion, maybe mockery. But when Rosinante finally glances up, Law is nodding along and even seems a little…satisfied? "That's what I was thinking, how each compound's given context before going into the pathophysiological mechanisms. Makes my research way easier, especially for finding new references. It really is a good book."
Rosinante looks at the kid, all earnest golden gaze and tattoos and piercings and the scruffiness that comes with spending too much time with one's nose in a book, and concludes that he's some odd new species of punk-dweeb.
At the same time, though, something small in Rosinante's heart warms.
"Did you do toxicology for your PhD?"
"Kind of." Law runs tattooed fingers—"DEATH"? Really?—along the cramped print and figures. "What does clinical psych have to do with toxicology?"
"Overmedication and chronic toxicity," Rosinante says, and Law looks back up with a gleam in his eyes, even more intense than usual.
"Is that so," he says, almost to himself. Then he grins, sharp-toothed. "I think we should talk more. I've got questions about your work."
Rosinante scans the rest of the mess that Law has sprawled out on the table. Cardiology. Cerebrovascular disease. Conditions of the parasympathetic nervous system. Cytotoxins. What the hell is this kid studying? He has to admit: he's intrigued despite himself.
That small part of him also reminds him that he hasn't spoken with anybody outside of his department since he started his degree.
He shakes out his watch. "I'm booked today. Some other time?"
Law pulls a pad of heart-shaped sticky notes toward himself and scribbles something down with the pen he'd had tucked behind an ear.
"Text me?" he says, peeling the note off and holding it out. T. Law, it reads, with a number and an email address. Rosinante takes it and tucks it inside his wallet before getting to his feet.
"I will," Rosinante says.
"Later, Cora," the kid says, grinning again.
Cora. Rosinante finds he doesn't mind that.