Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Law liked to think he kept a pretty tight operation. 

He started small. Straightened a few broken noses for guys who weren’t supposed to be fighting. Patched up stab wounds for guys who needed to keep a low profile. Fixing up people came naturally to him. He’d practiced most of it on himself. So even when men sneered at his age and his attitude, well, people can only be so picky when their other option is bleeding out on the floor. Eventually he built up enough of a reputation that he didn’t get treated as a kid anymore. The city even had a name for him: Surgeon of Death. 

The shitty apartments and dive bars that used to serve as his operating room were replaced with a singular location. Law got tired of hauling so much equipment around and ending up in places without running water or a table. Why should he chase patients around the city when people could come to him? Thus, he scrapped together the funds and Heart’s Butcher Shop was born. 

It was a real butcher shop. Law had been adamant that Bepo learn how to run a respectable business, and he had done that and then some. Bepo had a knack for customer service, was a thousand times more approachable than Law could ever be, and he actually seemed to enjoy it. It was lucky that it worked, because the butcher shop as a front provided Law with everything he needed: large tables, cold storage, biological waste disposal. Sure, his patients didn’t love the atmosphere, but they were in no position to complain. 

As the demand for Law’s services grew, he realized he could use a little more training than what his books and practical experience could provide. So with a few carefully forged documents and some opportunistic connections he put himself straight into medical school. It was hard, but mostly because Law got bored of pharmaceuticals and had more surgical experience than most of his instructors. After he got his degree, he worked a few days in a private clinic to keep up appearances (and steal supplies), spending the rest of his time at the butcher shop. 

Last year, Law struck a deal with the cops. They wanted to use his services. They liked to do extra “investigations” sometimes, and they’d rather not have every scrape and broken bone end up in police reports. Fine, Law agreed. He didn't mind keeping the cops close for his own business, because he made sure to avoid having anything else that might be useful to them. His policy was to never ask questions, so he wouldn't get stuck with any damning information people would take his head for. If the cops started snooping around Law's business, they'd only find out that he was in the dark on most things. Plus, he’d have immunity from the law as long as he stayed in his lane. So far they’d kept their word. 

So yeah, Law ran a pretty tight ship. 

Until a scrawny, dark-haired tornado came crashing into his front door. 

The bell rang from above the door, but it was accompanied by a hard thump on the glass. The kid– who was apparently illiterate– pushed hard on the door handle, frantically trying to force it open. He braced his hand on the glass– was that blood he just smeared on the window?– and pushed harder, this time putting his shoulder into it. 

“I’ll handle it,” growled Law. 

Bepo nodded curtly from behind the counter and did his best to distract the customers he was talking to, gesturing toward a windowed selection of cuts. 

Law stalked over to the door and pushed it. It would’ve smacked into the kids’ forehead if his reaction time had been any slower. 

“Sign says pull,” he stated. 

The kid stalled at the front door, staring upward with his mouth hanging open stupidly. His left hand covered his eye, and yes, that was blood on his fingers. The kid looked at Law, then at the counter, then tilted back to read the overhead sign. 

Then, the kid had the gall to look annoyed. “You’re not a doctor,” he said impudently. Without warning, he turned his head yelled, “SHANKS–” 

Law’s hand flew over the kid’s mouth. Did this kid know Shanks? King of the underground? That Shanks? 

And why was he bleeding?

Law whispered for him to shut up and marched him to the back of the store. He didn’t even try to make a comment to the customers, Bepo would have to make something up for this one. Luckily the kid didn’t make more of a scene than he already had. 

They went through the door that led into the back. There was a short, carpeted hallway with some offices attached. Then it opened up into a large, brick-walled room with a metal table in the center, a slicer and some hooks to the side. If the kid hadn’t just been screaming, Law may have stopped there, but instead decided this was a “straight-to-basement” situation. 

Law opened the door to a cramped set of stone stairs. The cold hit them immediately, but it was necessary for their storage, so the kid could deal. Meat hung from hooks on one side of the room. On the other, another large table, this one with a set of medical instruments next to it, a sink, and cabinets full of other supplies. 

“Whoa, are you a doctor for meat?” The kid asked, sounding way too excited about the possibility.

He couldn’t be serious. Law looked down at his curious, bright-eyed expression. Damn it all, he was serious. 

“Sit ,” Law demanded, pointing at the table. 

The kid frowned, but held his hands up and walked to the table. “Okay, okay,” he relented. Without using his hands, he sprung up onto the table and landed on top of it with a loud *clang.* The basement ceiling was thick, but not that thick. They definitely heard that upstairs. 

“So are you a doctor?” the kid asked, swinging his feet into the metal legs of the table. 

“I’m asking questions now,” Law snipped back. The kid shrugged, unbothered. Both by Law’s tone and the blood that was still running down his cheek. 

“Who sent you here?”

“Shanks did.” 

“Red-haired Shanks?” Law clarified. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

“I cut myself and he said there was a doctor here.” 

“You cut– ” 

No. Law took a breath. He’d come back to that one. “Can you pay?” 

Kid or no kid, Law didn’t stitch up people’s faces for free. 

“It’s on Shanks,” the kid answered confidently. 

“Does he know that?” Law asked. 

“Yeah, I got him,” said a voice from the staircase. Law startled, turning to find Red-haired Shanks leaning against the wall of his stairwell. He held a straw boater hat in his hand, spinning it idly with his fingers. A long dark coat draped over his shoulders. 

At least there was another adult here, but why did it have to be this one? 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he continued. “This is Luffy, I’m the one who yelled at him to get his ass in here. I didn’t think he’d take a shortcut under a moving train. ”

The kid, Luffy, rolled his eyes. “It was barely moving. I’ve jumped on way faster trains than that.”

Shanks laughed, apparently not as disturbed by the comment as Law was. Then he took the last two steps into the basement and approached the table. “So, can you fix him? I would’ve gone to a regular doctor but this has been on my list of places to check out. We were in the neighborhood.”

Law eyed him for a moment. People didn’t “check out” underground medical clinics, but the man had a disarmingly earnest face. Law turned his attention to Luffy’s cut, this time with a more focused eye. It was deep, but clean. Clearly fresh, with blood dripping off the kids’ cheek. Seven stitches, give or take a few. “I can do it for five.”

Shanks whistled. “You don't come cheap, do you?”

“I’m not a charity operation. And I don’t bargain.” Law said firmly. 

He was well aware of the power imbalance between himself and Shanks. He was established and respected, but not influential. He couldn’t scare the city council members or raise an army of thugs. If Shanks decided to make something go his way, he could do it. He probably had five different ways of making Law bend if he wanted this kid fixed up for free. But Law couldn’t acknowledge that. You didn’t make a name for yourself in the underworld by acting soft. 

“Eh,” Shanks shrugged. “Business is business. Just means Luffy won’t get any dinner tonight.”

“Shanks– ” Luffy complained, but Law stepped in front of him and ordered him to look up at the ceiling. He pulled gloves on and pressed at the area around the cut, gauging the depth of it more closely. The kid didn’t so much as flinch. He even looked a bit bored. 

It was about as straightforward as stitches could be. Straight cut, flat area of the face, no joints or hair. He opened his cabinets to get his other supplies– needle, thread, Dakin’s, clean rag– laying everything out neatly on the counter. 

“You don’t want to know what happened?” Shanks asked. 

Law threaded the needle, dipped the rag in the solution. “I don’t ask questions,” he stated firmly, the way he had hundreds of times before. It was his creed in this job, recited probably a thousand times. He didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t want stories. No explanations, no reasons, no excuses. If he started knowing things, people would be out for his head. He didn’t even want names. First names, at most. His plausible deniability kept him alive, and kept the whole thing marketable. People came to him when they needed to keep a secret.

“Fair enough,” Shanks shrugged, “but this is a good one–”

Luffy scrunched his face in protest, which was stupid, because Law was holding a needle right in front of it. “Kid. Hold still or this needle ends up in your eye instead of your skin.”

Shanks laughed, “Better listen to him, Luffy. Hah! What a glare. I think this is the longest I’ve seen you sit still.” 

Luffy opened his mouth and Law drove the needle through his cheek. “No talking,” he ordered.

Luffy clamped his mouth shut in an obvious pout. Brat. 

The kid was a handful, but Law had to admit his curiosity was piqued. Why was this gangly, unruly child running around with Shanks? He had never been the type to involve kids in his business. And why was Luffy jumping on trains and, apparently, more pain tolerant than most of the grown men who came through Law’s door?

Shanks, unprompted, decided to fill him bit. “Luffy here decided it’d be a good idea to stab himself in the eye, right kid?”

Luffy shot a look, “That’s because–” 

“Talking, ” Law warned, pulling another stitch through and tightening it.

Shanks laughed again at Luffy’s expense. “This is great. Luffy, you should get stitches more often, maybe you’ll learn to shut your trap once in a while.” Shanks leaned back on the cabinets, speaking more directly to Law now. “Anyway, this kid wants to move out west with me. Course I told him no, and that he can come find me when he’s a man and then maybe we’ll talk. So what does he do?” Shanks grinned, “He finds a knife and stabs himself in the eye with it! Tells me that makes him a man now.”

Law cracked a smile, partly because it was an idiotic story and party because it’d piss the kid off. He was rewarded with a deepening frown on Luffy’s face. “Has he hit his head before too?” Law asked. 

“Hah! Wouldn’t be surprised with this one.” Shanks reached out and playfully patted Luffy’s shoulder, shaking him a bit. Law had a needle through the kid’s face, but Luffy was too busy sending a death glare to Shanks to notice how the skin pulled.

Law finished up the stitches, even quicker than normal since the kid barely seemed to feel any of it. He cleaned the cut, bandaged it. “I need to take the stitches out in a week. That’s another two, now or later.” 

“I won’t be here,” Luffy argued, hopping off the table. 

“Sorry, kid, you gotta get stitches out so I guess you can’t come with us.” Shanks stuck his tongue out– an unsettling expression on a grown man who’s most certainly killed people– and reached in his pocket for his wallet. He placed an even ten in Law’s palm.

“That’s–”

“I won’t be here next time,” Shanks said, motioning for Luffy to go up the stairs. “He’ll be staying with someone else–”

“Shanks, I wanna buy some meat!” Luffy interrupted as he passed by.

“Yeah, yeah, I know–” Shanks said, pushing him on the back, “Go figure out what you want.” Then, to Law, “He’ll be with his brother, most likely, but Ace isn’t that much older so, who knows? Might be a handful.”

Law looked at the large sum of money in his palm and listened to Luffy shouting questions at Bepo upstairs. He wasn’t sure it was worth it. 

“Tell him to come through the back next time,” Law decided. 

“I’ll tell him,” Shanks promised. “Nice meeting you, Law.” Then he waved a hand casually and went to argue with Luffy about how much money he was allowed to spend. Law found out from Bepo later that that amount was a lot. Spoiled kid. Well, he wouldn’t expect one of the most infamous people in the country to be short on cash. 

Law breathed out when he finally heard the shop door close, pausing the useless cleaning he was occupying himself with. He had already put away his supplies and updated his inventory sheet, and there was no real reason to continue alphabetizing his medicine cabinet. The most useful ones would end up on the bottom shelf anyway. He shut the glass door and ventured upstairs to check in with Bepo. It was the end of the day, and Bepo was untying his apron and hanging it on a hook. He had a wide, round face and a friendly smile, accented by a thick beard. “Did you have fun down there?” he asked. 

“Absolutely not. Insufferable shit. He’s going to ruin my business.” Law eyed at the glass door. “Did you–”

“Yeah, yeah, I already got the blood.” Bepo waved a hand walked out from behind the counter. “This is why we’re a butcher shop. Plus,” Bepo tilted his head vaguely to the counter. “The customers didn’t think much of him. They called him an ‘unschooled youth’ or something.”

“That’s… fine. I guess.” 

“I like him,” Bepo decided, hands on his hips. 

Law grimaced. “What’s to like?”

“He’s got spunk,” Bepo answered confidently. 

“Spunk?” Law echoed, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t fair. You like everyone.” 

“So? I’m allowed to like people.” He tossed an arm over Law’s shoulders and squeezed. “You weren’t a joy to be around at that age either.”

Law rolled his eyes, but failed to suppress a smile. “I wasn’t like that. ”

“No,” Bepo said, releasing him. But then a hand landed heavily on Law’s head, mussing his hat. “You were much creepier.”

“Not my fault–” Law shoved Bepo’s arm away and straightened himself. ‘Creepy’ was one way of describing the violent, 13-year-old disaster that Law had been after leaving Doflamingo. It was probably underselling him. 

“Oh, what did Shanks want?” Bepo asked, changing the subject, “Did he ask you anything?” His voice was casual, but the question itself was more serious. It wasn’t good to have someone like Shanks showing up unannounced. That usually meant you had pissed someone off, or someone was going to piss you off. In this case, though, Shanks didn’t seem like he was there to make trouble. And Law had heard the rumor he was taking off for the west– a more vast and lawless land than the middle of the country, and Shanks confirmed it himself. 

“He didn’t ask anything,” Law answered, rubbing his neck with his fingers. It was the end of the day, and he felt like laying down. He tried to keep his workdays short, given that almost anyone could come ringing his back door bell in the middle of the night. He didn’t have the energy or motivation to overthink the Shanks situation. “We can take his word for it unless something else happens. He did say he wanted to see the place.” 

“‘See the place?’ I didn’t know we were a tourist trap,” Bepo quipped. 

“We better not be,” Law replied, cringing at the thought of it. “Whatever, let’s close up.” He walked to the front to lock the door and turn the sign around. “Oh, as a warning, the kid’s coming back in a week with his brother. I told him to use the back door, and if he tries the front again I’m locking him out.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Bepo affirmed, and finished counting out the register. 

***

A week later, Law heard a loud *thunk* on the store’s glass, accompanied by some yelling. His office only had a narrow view of the front window, but he could guess what was coming his way. 

“Bepo —“ Law warned. 

“They’re going around!” Bepo answered, sounding mildly impressed, even though there was only one single instruction they had to follow. 

Law got up and walked to the back door. He opened it and found a familiar face underneath Shanks’ boater hat, which was pouting. 

“Why can’t we get meat now ?” Luffy whined. 

“That’s not what we’re here for,” scolded the man behind him. “And you only get meat if you cooperate. That’s the deal.”

Luffy groaned and walked through the door. He continued down the steps, not bothering to acknowledge Law in the slightest.

“Hi. Uhh—“ said the man— Ace , if Shanks was accurate. He had jet-black hair, long enough that it hung down from under his hat, waving in front of his freckled face. His eyes were dark, but warm, or— they would have been, except at that moment his expression changed–

He craned his neck to squint past Law, “ Luffy— you little shit,” he yelled, “You can’t just ignore people when you’re grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy, I’m hungry,” complained a voice from downstairs. 

“It’s rude, Luffy.”

“He didn’t say hi to me.” Luffy countered.

Ace shut his eyes, lifting his hat and running a hand back through his hair. He dropped the argument, signaled by the deep breath he took. He looked back to Law, a crooked smile exposing his teeth, “After you fix him up I’m gonna kill him.”

Law grinned. He had imagined a larger, more obnoxious Luffy as his older brother, but that didn’t seem to be the case, and Law wasn’t even sure that was possible. “This’ll be short,” Law said helpfully. And, hopefully. 

Ace nodded, peering down the stairs into the relative darkness, like he was waiting for something to crash or pop out. Then he refocused, holding out a hand. “Oh, I’m Ace,” he said, then tilted his chin toward the stairs where Luffy had disappeared. “That thing’s brother.”

“I heard,” Law said, returning the handshake. “I’m Law.” Then he opened the door wider, kicking it with his heel. “You can head down,” he directed. Ace went, and Law followed behind. 

Law was accustomed to assessing people as they descended his stairs. He always sent people down first, in part so he could do this. He could judge a person’s state from the way they navigated the dark, narrow staircase. Drunk. Dizzy. Limping. The other reason he sent people down first was because he didn’t trust ninety percent of the people who came through that door. Law didn’t like having his back to them. If someone got smart they could knock him down the stairs and ransack the shop for cash, and Law would like to avoid any shenanigans. 

Ace was fine, physically, so Law occupied himself with other observations. Ace’s clothes were nice, but not at all new. There was a mended seam along Ace’s elbow, fraying toward the bottom of his pants. They were either hand-me-downs or just overworn— probably the latter since they seemed to fit him so well. His hands peeked out of his white shirt sleeves at just the right length. The cuffed hem of his pants fell loosely at his ankle. His shoes were clean, but scuffed so heavily along the bottom that Law was surprised the soles held on. 

Speaking of scuffed shoes, they found Luffy sitting on the table, swinging his legs impatiently and showing off the dirt coating the leather over his feet. He pointed to his face, challenging Law with a glare.

“I said I could take this out myself, but Ace wouldn’t let me.” 

Ace rolled his eyes, “Luf, Shanks already paid for Law to do it. And then we—“

“Who?” 

“Shanks?” 

“No,” Luffy replied. Then he looked at Law, his face scrunched like he’d eaten something moldy. “Your name is Law? Are you a cop?”

“Luffy—“ Ace warned. 

“What?” Luffy asked, annoyed. 

“I’m not,” Law answered evenly. “It’s a nickname.” 

“For what, Law-yer?” Luffy mused, elongating the word to keep the whole word ‘law’ in it. 

Ace pushed the kid on the arm. “Luffy, your last name is Monkey,“ he said. “You have no room to talk.”

Monkey ? Was he serious? This was why Law didn’t like knowing names. There was only one other “Monkey” he knew of, and that person was on the East coast running a game against the politicians there. Law didn’t know the details, just that it was terrifyingly ambitious, and that he was gaining quite a following. He didn’t know Dragon had relatives here, or rather, any relatives at all. Ace made it sound like he didn’t share the last name. Half brothers then? The name ‘Monkey’ was uncommon, but the kid couldn’t be that close to Dragon, could he? Nobody had ever mentioned Dragon having a family, but if he did, it might make sense for them to end up half a country away. Family had to be a liability for a man like Dragon. 

“Yeah,” Luffy snarked, “Well you’re—“

Ace clapped a hand over Luffy’s mouth. It wasn’t mean, but there was enough aggression to it for Law to notice it wasn’t playful either. Ace’s face looked stricken for a moment, “Luffy, we talked about this.”

He was serious. To Law’s surprise, Luffy quieted down. The kid wasn’t completely immune to nuance, then. 

There was a beat of silence. Law readied his supplies, and was about to say something on the topic of Luffy’s face, but he underestimated the kid’s ability to derail every interaction.

“How many of these meat lumps are people?”

Law turned to face him, one of his gloves half on. Luffy pointed at the gambrel hooks across the room, looking serious. Moron. If he took a second he could see none of them were even close to human-shaped. Also, if he thought Law was dangling human remains from the ceiling, why the hell was he so calm about it?

“All of them,” Law said in mock seriousness. “And they got that way by not sitting still and shutting up while they were on my table.” 

Luffy crossed his arms. “You’re no fun.”

”They don’t pay me to be fun,” Law said, “Now hold still.” 

Law grabbed his scissors and started snipping the knots, pulling out each one with tweezers. Luffy, for his part, had learned the rules here, and managed to stay quiet the whole time without any reminders. A whole ninety seconds or so. Someone get this kid an award. 

“Alright, you’re done,” Law announced unceremoniously. There was a scar underneath Luffy’s eye, but it was a thin, clean line. Luffy reached up and felt it curiously. 

“I’m like Shanks now!” he said, putting his hat back on. 

Shanks had three long scar lines that clawed across his left eye like he’d gotten in a fight with a tiger. Luffy’s little cut was… not that. 

 “Sure,” said Law. “Anyway—“ he looked at Ace, “His fee is covered, so you can go. I don’t need to see him again.”

Luffy hopped off the table and darted up the stairs, yelling something about the meat he wanted. After a string of footsteps, they heard the beginning of a muffled conversation with Bepo. 

Ace didn’t follow him immediately. He hovered, hands in his pockets, watching Law put things in cabinets. He either wanted something from Law, or he was enjoying a moment of silence away from his tornado of a brother. Or both. 

“I thought you’d be older,” Ace commented.

Small talk was not on Law’s list of things that Ace could possibly want. Also, he hated it. 

“Well, I’m not,” he said, shutting a cabinet.

“Shanks said you’ve been doing this for ten years,” Ace mused, looking curiously around the room. “Are you a real doctor?”

“Yeah,” Law affirmed. 

“So, you started at like—“

“Sixteen.” Law finished. “I wasn’t a doctor then, officially, I went to school later.” He took a few steps toward a shelf in the back and grabbed his inventory clipboard off of it. “Look, I have things to do, so—“

He heard a soft thump behind his back. He turned, and Ace was sitting on his surgical table, hands flattened against it like he was shopping for a new couch. Law scowled, but continued with his inventory, hoping Ace might take the hint. 

“Where’d you get the nickname?” Ace asked.

Ace’s relationship to Luffy was becoming more apparent. They were both persistent like flies, though Ace was even-tempered and much easier to be around. 

Still, Law should kick him out. “Ask someone else. The whole city knows the story.” Law picked up a pen and started counting some supplies that he had behind glass. He didn’t have to do this now, but maybe if he looked busy enough Ace would leave.

“I did,” Ace answered, undeterred. “Is it true?”

Law took a breath. To be honest, he didn’t like thinking about the circumstances around his nickname. He liked to do his job well, and that meant ending up with alive patients rather than corpses. The guy he’d seen had a stab wound to the chest, puncturing the heart. There was a local legend in the area— which was a true story— about a surgeon who had patched up someone’s coronary artery the same way you’d close up any other nick. The surgeon was a genius for managing it, but that patient was also lucky. Most stabs to the chest were dead on arrival, and no amount of surgical skill could remedy that. Such was the case with Law’s patient, whose last few breaths were more blood than air, and taken in the front entryway of the shop.

That was six years ago. 

All this time, and he still couldn’t get people to use the right door. 

A few weeks after, when an early Spring thawed out the city, a couple corpses were found, their hearts replaced with pig hearts. None of them looked anything like the guy Law had treated, and he had a guess at where they came from, but the public didn’t know about the University’s surgical research, or his charismatic, utterly depraved co-student who knew a little too much about medical cannibalism, including how high a price a human body could fetch you.

The city was in the dark on that, and Law wasn’t about to snitch, so they blamed him instead, the moody, closed off surgical intern who also owned a butcher shop. And— if you were in the know— who also failed to fix up some guy’s shredded heart a few weeks back, so maybe he got a little creative with possible treatments. He had to admit, it wasn’t even the wildest rumor in the city. The shop name didn’t help. 

Law didn’t share the whole story with Ace. Strangely, the rumors were good for business, even if people thought he was creepy. They kept people from trying to cross him. “Depends,” replied Law after opening up a cabinet and studying his clipboard. “Which version did you hear?” 

“That you replaced your own heart with a pig heart. And that you practiced on dead people to figure out how,” Ace said.

“My heart?” Law echoed. “That one’s new. Who told you that?” 

“Luffy,” Ace answered.

Figures. The kid seemed prone to embellishment.

“He also heard some guy’s heart exploded because he walked in here.” 

“Closer, actually.” The visual of the guy spouting blood all the way from his nose to the gouged-out part of his chest flashed in Law’s memory. “Exploded” wasn’t an inaccurate description.

“You don’t really seem like a creep,” Ace concluded. How he came to that? Law didn’t know. It wasn’t the usual reaction to hearing that someone kicked the bucket fifteen feet up.

“Good to know,” Law replied. He finished writing a line on his clipboard and then tucked it under his arm. He lifted his head and faced Ace directly, crossing his arms. “Look, is there something you want? If you’re going to ask me something, then ask.”

Ace grinned sheepishly, pulling a hand behind his neck. “Yeah. Um. Sorry for stalling, I had to decide if I liked you or not.”

“And?” 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Ace raised his eyebrows.

Law wasn’t sure what to make of that. He felt exposed. If people praised Law, it was usually because he— not to sound like a cliche— saved their life.  Ace had decided on something else, and Law didn’t really know what.

“Do you sell medicine?” Ace asked.

Oh, so he didn’t seem like a snitch. Good to know. “I don’t deal drugs. If that’s what you want—“

“No, not like that,” Ace corrected. “Do you have anything for sleep?”

Huh. “Medicine” was almost always a code word for drugs. A lot of people assumed Law would sell the ones out of his medicine cabinet, but, no. Law didn’t need heat on this place for drug trafficking in addition to everything else. 

Sleep medicine though? Also not his thing. Pharmaceuticals bored him, and a lot of them were bunk anyway. He should just say that, but Ace watched him hopefully. He did look… tired. Not in the way Law always looked tired, bags under his eyes and his hair a mess— there was a reason he wore a hat. Tired like an actor finishing a show. Something about Ace’s breezy personality felt a bit… performed. 

Or maybe Law was making assumptions. Ace might not even be asking for himself, he realized. “You or the kid?” 

“Luffy,” Ace answered. “Ever since we moved here he sleeps like shit. We sleep in the same room, so he’s driving me nuts, actually.”

Well, that answers that. They were both sleep-deprived then. For Luffy, it made sense in a different way. He was chaotic. Easily distracted. A bit moody. Though that could also be his personality. 

“Why’d you move?” Law asked. 

The warmth drained from Ace’s face, leaving a hard exterior. He stilled. “Why’s that matter?” he said. 

Okay, the move was off-limits, then. Law raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t need details. Just, was it stressful?”

Ace stared blankly past Law, eyes unfocused. “Yeah.” 

“How long ago?” 

“A month,” Ace replied. 

Law nodded. “To answer your question, Verona is what people get for sleep. Barbital. But I don’t have any, and I also wouldn’t get him any.”

Ace snapped back to attention. “Why?” 

“It’s too strong, and he seems like the kind of kid who’d try to overdose on it.” Law held up his hands, ready for a protest. “Not on purpose, but—“

Ace laughed, the warmth returning to his face. “No, you’re right,” he said, “I don’t trust him either. He gets into everything. A few years ago I caught him trying to drink a can of paint because it looked like ice cream.” 

Law couldn’t say he was surprised. 

“The other thing— I’d give him three months. Sleep takes time to adjust.” Law spoke from experience, though Ace didn’t need to know that. Law had been about Luffy’s age when he showed up in the city and started working under Doflamingo. He hardly slept, but it did get marginally better after some time.

Later on it went to shit again, and had never recovered, but Ace didn’t need to know that either. He had taken about every sleep supplement you could find, and most of them were a waste of shelf space. 

Law thought of something and pulled open his glass medicine cabinet. The light glinted off the glass bottles, throwing off an array of colors like a Christmas display. He grabbed one of the larger ones and checked the label on it. 

“If you want,” Law said, “you could try this if you’re really struggling. See if it helps.”

He handed the bottle to Ace. It had a picture of a man about to beat down a skeleton. Luffy might like that.

Ace took it and turned it in his hand. “What does it do?”

“Nothing,” replied Law with a grin. Ace frowned. “Someone gave it to me to sell for him, but I’m not a goddamn corner store. It’s a scam. Snake oil. Well, almost entirely water, actually. People drink it by the jug and nothing happens. But, if Luffy thinks it helps—“

Ace smiled. “You’re saying I should trick him into sleeping?” 

Law closed his cabinet. “If you pay me next time maybe I’ll come up with something better.” 

Ace hopped off the table. He was closer to Law now, and Law could make out the constellations of freckles on his face. Ace rubbed a hand behind his head, looking apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to string all this on, I only—“

“Sure you didn’t,” Law mocked. “It’s fine. Shanks overpaid because he said you’d be a hassle. At least you didn’t use a knife.”

“Ooh,” Ace said, flashing a smile. “Maybe I’ll do that if he gets the flu.”

“Funny .” Law said. Then Luffy yelled from upstairs, something about meat, with Ace’s name attached to the end. 

“You better get up there,” Law nodded at the stairs. “Any longer and I’ll have Bepo charge a babysitting fee.”

“Fine, I’ll go,” Ace said lightly. “Thanks again, Law.”

He waved a hand, went up the stairs, and then, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Ace and Luffy came back the next week.

Law sat in the back office, where, from his desk, he could see a sliver of the front door and— if someone was there— whoever was browsing the floor-to-ceiling shelf of seasonings that lived along the left side wall. It was easier for him to see customers than for customers to see him, a lucky feature of the store’s layout. With various meats dangling over the counter from a large metal rig, stacks of flour bags and dried beans, and sawdust swept over the floor, the view from the front of the store was busier than Law’s, which was half-obstructed by the unadorned hallway wall. 

Today, Ace was visible in that narrow opening, reaching up and inspecting the label on a glass bottle. He shook it, admiring the contents. Law tried to decide if he looked tired, which, no, if he had to guess. But it was sunny outside and the large front window faced westward, meaning the shop was brightest at this time of day and cast in a warm orangish hue. Ace glowed in the light, his jet-black hair tamped down to dark brown. He looked calm. Relaxed. Not tired. 

Law forced his eyes back to the book open on his desk. What was he thinking? He was a doctor, not a psychic, and no amount of staring could tell him if someone was tired or not, not unless they were actively falling asleep. Law himself looked chronically tired, and he had long stopped correcting people for saying he should sleep more. Which, most of the time they were right, because he generally slept like shit. It’s just that sleeping well never made him look any better. 

In any case, he wasn’t getting paid to think about Ace and Luffy’s sleep schedule, so.  

Bepo asked a question from behind the counter, and Ace disappeared from view. 

The next week, Ace and Luffy came back, again at 3:00, which seemed to be on Luffy’s way home from school. He had his school books with him. Ace had two glass soda bottles: one that he sipped at and another, empty, that Luffy presumably finished already. Ace started a conversation with Bepo about a market across town and Luffy– immediately bored of food prices and growing seasons– made swirling tracks in the sawdust, scraping his shoes along the wooden floor. 

When Ace and Luffy came a week later, it rained. They came in late. Ace came in with Luffy tucked under an umbrella, but the kid shot off the second they reached the door. Ace closed the umbrella, shook it out over the sidewalk, then slumped back against the door as it shut. He closed his eyes, ran his hand through his hair, pulling dark, wet strands away from his face. 

Luffy yelled his name, and Ace’s eyes shot open. He smiled suddenly, but he didn't look any less… whatever he was. 

Tired. 

Ace recovered the next week. The weather was sunnier, but colder, and the pair came in through the door, pink-cheeked and braced against the wind. Ace’s freckles stood out. Luffy’s hair made him look like he had just been electrocuted. Bepo asked about their weekend plans, and Ace said he was asked to look at the boiler for the place they were living, the Bowhead Hotel. Interesting. The Bowhead was run by a man called Thatch who was part of Whitebeard's group. If Ace and Luffy lived there long term and were doing maintenance for the place, it was a good bet that they were involved with Whitebeard somehow. 

Law had never met Whitebeard. His men looked up to him like a loving father (weird) and his enemies complained that he was a hardass (there were worse things). He had a habit of collecting people, and now had a battalion of young men working for him who were fiercely loyal. 

A little too loyal, Law thought. What could he be doing that deserved that much devotion? He was a man, not a god. 

Then again, what would Law know? He worked for a raging psychopath as a teenager, and– judging by the fact that Law would happily murder his ass, given the chance– he couldn’t really relate. 

In any case, if Ace and Luffy were involved with Whitebeard, it wasn’t the worst thing. He didn’t let his people get in petty fights or get addicted to morphine. Whitebeard’s men rarely ended up on Law’s table. There was a rumor that they weren’t even allowed to gamble at their own speakeasies. Fucking boy scouts, really. 

Whatever. It didn’t matter to Law what Ace and Luffy did. 

Law went back to his paperwork, but was interrupted a short time later by Bepo in his doorway. He stood there silently, until Law was forced to stop his writing and acknowledge him. 

“What do you need?” he asked dryly, holding his gaze on the open journal in front of him.

“You could talk to them,” Bepo said plainly.

“Talk to who?” Law responded, writing a note about scalpel sizes for himself later. 

“Ace and Luffy.”

“About what?” Law did his best to sound bored and look busy, but Bepo was hard to discourage. 

“Anything, ” Bepo urged, stepping further into the room. “Isn’t it better than eavesdropping all the time?”

“I’m not—“ 

Bepo folded his arms, like Law was being scolded. “It’s the only time you’re dead silent back here. Otherwise you’re flipping papers around and scribbling.”

Bepo had a truly exceptional sense of hearing, like he was some kind of animal. It was an unfair advantage, and Law didn’t like it being used against him. He looked up from his papers and glared.

Unfortunately, Bepo wasn’t susceptible to Law’s scowling. He continued, “I know you keep a distance from your customers—“

“Patients,” Law corrected. 

“Okay, patients. But Ace and Luffy are really the shop’s customers now.” 

“Oh good,” said Law, “I don’t talk to any of the other shop customers either.”

“You also don’t eavesdrop on the other customers.” 

Law huffed defiantly. “The other customers didn’t bring Red-Haired Shanks into my basement.” He put his pen down flat on the desk and rolled it under his fingers. “And they’re with Whitebeard. I’m not going near that.”

“We don’t know that for sure.“

“You think they are, too,” Law pressed, narrowing his eyes. Bepo did a small shrug, glancing to the side. Law continued, “I’m not taking risks with Whitebeard. He’s been wonderfully indifferent to us and we’re keeping it that way. Whatever you’re trying to do here,” Law waved a hand, “It’s not going to work.” He leaned back heavily in his chair, pausing a moment before adding, as a punishment: “Honestly, you should also watch what you say around them. No asking questions.”

Bepo sighed, looking forlornly toward the front, beady eyes hurt and subdued. “Yeah, fine. I get it.” He slumped his shoulders sadly.

Bastard. He was trying to make Law feel guilty, but it was so overplayed Law could laugh at him. It wasn’t going to work.

“Stop moping and take the trash out, you’re making it smell in here.”

“Alright, Law. Have a good night.” Bepo stepped away from the door, waving a short goodbye and heading out the back.

Law groaned. Bepo wasn’t pushy, but he had a way of worming his ideas into Law’s head. It was the sincerity that made them stick. He always had a good-intentioned agenda, wanted to make people's lives better or whatever-the-hell. For Law, that meant nudging him in the direction of other people like a nervous mother telling her kid to make friends on the playground. But he wasn’t a child anymore, and he had all the friends he needed.

It wasn’t going to work.

Law tried to continue being productive, but he was distracted, and it was already late anyway, so he abandoned his notes, slid his journal to a corner of his desk, and retreated to his upstairs apartment. 

The next week, a girl around Luffy’s age tagged along with them. She had orange hair and opinions, bursting through the door in the middle of yelling at Luffy for his ‘kick the can’ strategy. Apparently him charging full speed at the first person he spotted wasn't working well. Figures. She carried books too, but hers were different from Luffy's. 

They transitioned to arguing about what to buy. The girl was persuasive, and by the end of the conversation had talked Bepo out of a sample (not hard) and convinced Luffy to buy what she wanted, so that she could keep the change and buy Luffy something even more expensive next time. Liar. She goaded him with empty promises, hyping him up with the possibilities, not an ounce of remorse in her voice. 

Who was this kid? 

They ordered, and Law heard the cash register open with a clang. Some coins slid out, and then: “Mister, isn’t that the little coin? I thought I got the big one back, right?” 

Law leaned over saw the girl with her hand stuck out, a nickel in the center of her palm.

“Sorry, young lady,” said Bepo, “must’ve been in the wrong slot.” Law heard the sound of another coin sliding out of the register. 

Good lord. 

Law stood up from his desk and stalked to the front. The girl snapped her hand closed as Bepo dropped a quarter in her palm. Bepo slid a nickel into the register, looking surprised at Law’s appearance. Or really, he put a nickel in the register, because Bepo never gave her a nickel in the first place. 

Law knew the trick, which required equal amounts of slight of hand and confidence. You had to swap a larger coin out with a nickel in the palm of your hand, convincingly enough so that whatever dolt behind the register really thought they gave you the wrong one. Law could do the swap, but, especially as a sickly, hollow-eyed, ten-year-old being raised (poorly) by Doflamingo, he couldn’t get anyone to believe a word out of his mouth. 

Law pointed at the girl. “You. Pockets.”

For a second, the girl’s facade flickered, but she quickly regained her composure, smiling devilishly. She buried one of her hands in her pocket, flicking her fingers so that the coins jingled. 

“Who are you?” she asked, like Law had just barged into her bedroom instead of walking into his own store. 

“Pockets.” Law repeated, flicking up his fingers in an impatient gesture. 

“I don’t have to listen to you,” she almost laughed, still with her fingers fidgeting with her prize. She was taunting him. Challenging him. Seeing if he was serious. 

Law’s fingers closed in a fist, and he dropped his arm slightly. He wasn't joking, but he wasn't serious enough to wrestle a child to the ground for a quarter. She caught on to his wavering, must’ve seen it in his expression, and the corner of her mouth raised in victory. 

“Why are you all grumpy?” Luffy asked Law, pulling a dissatisfied frown at him. 

“She stole my quarter,” Law accused.

Luffy’s eyes lit up. “Whoa! Did you? How'd you do it?” 

The girl shrugged, making eye contact with Law. Shameless. 

“I have to go,” she said casually, watching Law over her shoulder as she turned. “See ya later, Luffy.” She waved a hand, and disappeared out the door. 

The bell rang as it closed.

“Bepo—“ Law groaned.  

“How was I supposed to know?” he countered defensively. “Are you sure she even—“ 

“Yes,” Law interrupted. “That’s coming out of your paycheck, and you better not fall for it again.” 

Law stalked back to his office, sitting at his desk with his head leaned back, rubbing the heel of his palms into his eyes.

A short time later, he heard a knock at the door. It wasn’t closed, and Law opened his eyes to find Ace standing across from him, holding his hat between his fingers. 

“About that—” he started, smiling cautiously and pointing a thumb toward the counter, “I didn’t know— I just met her, and she asked to walk home with Luffy, so uhh. Sorry she robbed you.” 

Law laughed, and Ace hesitantly reciprocated. 

“Not your fault,” Law said. “But you should watch out for that one, she’s scary. How old is she?” 

“A grade ahead of Luffy.” 

Law nodded. “She talked him out of his change, too. She runs a better grift than most of the career criminals I’ve seen.” 

“How’d you know she was lying?” 

“Oh,” said Law, scratching behind his head. “I used to do the same trick when I was her age. Sucked at it. I don’t look trustworthy.”

“Even as a kid?” Ace questioned. 

“Especially as a kid.”

Ace hummed, looking over Law appraisingly. “I mostly pickpocketed,” he offered. “You only needed charisma if you got caught.”

Law considered Ace’s breezy personality. His honest face. The way he spoke, smooth and clear. “You seem like you could pull it off.” 

Ace’s cheeks went pinkish beneath his freckles. Law hadn’t meant it as a compliment, more of an observation, but it was, wasn’t it?

Either way, it was true. 

Ace cleared his throat. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t get along with most people.” 

Law tapped his pen on his desk. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. He couldn’t imagine Ace being hard to get along with. He was polite. Seemed responsible. Was he that different as a kid? 

Law wanted to ask, but stopped himself. There were things Ace didn’t talk about, and Law didn’t like picking around other people’s business.

To be safe, he changed the subject. “Oh—” Law said, “How’s your sleep?” He tilted his head toward the front of the store where Luffy was hanging out. 

Ace’s face went dark, jaw set in a hard line. “It’s fine,” he answered shortly. 

Now, what was wrong with that? Law must’ve looked confused, because Ace’s face softened and he backpedaled. “Oh, Luffy. Yeah, he’s fine. He’s adjusted, now, I think. Thanks.” 

Law flicked his pen around his knuckle. He had meant “your” in the plural, because Luffy’s sleep problem had also been Ace’s sleep problem, but, well, fuck him for having a good memory. At least the kid wouldn't be coming back to see him. 

“Right,” said Law, settling back into his chair and wrapping up the conversation. “Well, I have to—“

Law trailed off as Ace, ignoring him, stepped over to Law’s bookshelf, tipping his head back to see the highest shelves. Most people were relieved to stop talking when someone had overstepped. Law was being merciful by acting busy. It wasn’t even acting, he was busy. Ace either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He ran his fingers over the medical textbooks, notebooks, and a series of folded, annotated diagrams, admiring them. 

“Have you read all these?” Ace asked Law over his shoulder. Uninvited, he pulled a book off the shelf and flipped it open, a large one with a dark red cover and a thumb index. 

Law scanned his shelf. “The textbooks I have. Some of those are reference books, like that one, so I don't read the whole thing through.”

Ace turned a page. “At least it has pictures,” he commented. “Oh, gross, nevermind.”

“What is it?” Law asked, standing up and walking over to him. Law wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he could be lured in if it was about something he was interested in. Ace held the book out flat so Law could see. The page he held open had an illustration of cracking, yellow skin lesions clustered around a child’s mouth. 

“Oh, school sores?” Law leaned over the book, looking more closely. “The drawing is a bit—“

“School ?” Ace echoed, looking stricken. “It’s a school thing?”

“It’s not that bad,” Law explained. The drawing was the worst-case scenario version of it, which did look pretty gross. Maybe reference books sold better when they had jumpscare illustrations instead of normal ones. “If you’re worried about Luffy, he’s a little old for this. It’s usually with younger kids, and it goes away pretty quick. But you can tell him to keep his hands to himself.”

“I tell him that anyway,” Ace commented. Then he tilted the book toward him again, inspecting the illustration like it might jump off the page and bite him. “So you’ve seen this before?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “In real life?” 

“Once in a while,” Law answered. “I don’t see many kids in here. When I work in the clinic I see more, but I stick to surgery if I can help it.”

“You have a real doctor job too?”

Law huffed out a laugh. If anything, his basement clinic required more medical knowledge than the clinic, which got a bit repetitive. He saw the point, though. “Yeah.” He answered. “I’m at the clinic on Efferden three days a week.”

Ace considered that, glancing up at the bookshelf and then back to Law. “You really like it that much?” 

“Yeah,” said Law, and really meant it. 

There were a lot of reasons. He was good at it. It was interesting. Challenging. He worked with people, which could be annoying, but it wasn't like being a waiter or a porter who had to keep people happy and act polite.

Apart from those reasons, he also had a more personal reason for enjoying it. One that he didn't talk about. At this point in his life, Law’s memories of his family were faded, half-formed sounds and images. He lost them young, and, for a long time, tried not to remember them. But when he looked down at his hands— picking up medicine bottles, pulling on gloves, holding a scalpel— he saw his father’s hands in full clarity. Especially as he got older and they lost their adolescent smoothness. Law was an attentive child, and he wondered how many hours he spent carefully following his father’s movements. Law had the same mannerisms, tapping on things or making adjustments to his grip. 

Law found himself staring at his hands. He looked up to find Ace staring back, dark eyes attentive. Ace was a magnetic person, had a natural charisma, even if he didn't see it himself. It wasn't just that he was attractive, which, he was. Law wasn't blind. But anyone could be attractive.

Not everyone could pin you down with a stare, refocusing like a telescope until you were the only thing left unblurred, caught plainly in the center of the lens. 

Law swallowed. "It’s fun,” he explained.

Ace eyed him skeptically. “Oh yeah? Maybe I should try it sometime.”

Law snorted, “Please don’t.”

“Come on, how hard can it be?” Ace joked, holding the book up and flipping the pages.  “Let’s see… gl– gloss. Gloss-ecto-mee. Glossectomy. That’s a surgery, right?”

“It is,” Law confirmed. 

“I’ll get the next one,” Ace declared with a wry smile, patting his hand on Law's shoulder. 

Law scrunched his face disapprovingly at Ace's hand, prompting him to pull it back. Then he slid his eyes to Ace, the corner of his mouth cracked in a smile. “You sure that's the one you want?” Law asked dryly. “Why don't you tell me what you do for that one. ” 

Ace laughed nervously, hiding his face behind the book. “Oh, um. Easy.” He paused, taking a second to find his spot in the page again. “You just… cut the… cut the tongue out?” Ace dropped the book to his chin, looking mildly horrified. “What, are you just torturing people now? That’s like… medieval .”

Law curled his lips, exposing his teeth. “I didn’t say it was fun for patients.”

Ace huffed out a laugh, light and airy. His dark eyes played across Law’s face. Despite everything Law said to Bepo about keeping their distance, Ace didn't make that easy. He was too comfortable. Too easy to talk to. 

Too fun to mess with. 

Law snaked his hand under the bottom edge of the book, pulling it down. “Do you want to know where your knife starts, for cutting out a tongue?”

Ace’s eyes dodged to the side before landing back on Law with a worried, tilted expression. “It’s not– not the mouth?”

Law shook his head and poked at the base of Ace’s neck with his free hand. “Here.” Then he slid his finger upward and back, watching a pinkish line appear on Ace’s skin. He stopped just under Ace’s ear. “To here.”

Ace raised his eyebrows disbelievingly at Law. “That much for a tongue? You’d cut my whole head off. Are you sure you’re a surgeon and not an executioner?”

“Hey,” Law said, snatching the book out of Ace’s grip and reaching around him to slide it back in place. “I’m the one with the books, remember?” 

Ace opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a call from the front.

“ACE— “ Luffy yelled. Footsteps. Law moved back behind his desk as Luffy appeared in the doorway. “We have to come Sunday, Bepo said there’s turkeys.”

Ace spun to face him. “Turkeys? What do you want with a turkey?”

“Come on, I wanna eat it,” Luffy whined, pulling at Ace’s jacket. 

“Kid. I don’t know how to cook a turkey.” He shoved Luffy’s arm off and caught his face in his palm, extending his arm to keep Luffy at a distance. Luffy spun his arms to try to grab at him. 

“So? We can ask Sanji,” Luffy argued. 

"Sanji?" Ace asked skeptically, "The twelve-year-old?"

"He's a better cook than you are," Luffy whined. 

"That's... not a high bar," Ace said. 

"Well, he's a lot better than you."

"Okay, okay," Ace stooped and grabbed Luffy by the shoulders. "We'll talk about it later, but no promises."

Luffy smiled widely at that, seeming to think that was a good sign. 

"I said no promises," Ace stated, pointing a finger in Luffy's face. 

"Okay!" Luffy spun around and went to the front to report to Bepo. 

"So..." Law said, "See you Sunday?"

Ace laughed, "Shut up, I could still say no."

Law nodded to the front. "Bepo could give you instructions for it, if you want."

"Yeah, yeah, he'd probably come over and cook it himself if Luffy begged him enough. Little shit." Ace backed up, placing his hand on the doorframe. "Well, we've done enough damage for today. See you later, Law." 

Ace disappeared out the doorway and collected Luffy from the front. 

Law dropped heavily into his chair and waited for Bepo to come back and gloat. 

Chapter Text

Sunday was cloudy. It was the kind of day where it never got fully bright, and the morning slipped into the afternoon into the evening. The store was buy- it usually was on Sundays- and Law left his office a few times to help out Bepo. They both knew he didn't really need to, but it did speed things up, and otherwise Law would be sitting around in his upstairs apartment anyway. Maybe it was unhealthy, basically living in two of his three possible workplaces and constantly being on call, but it wasn't in Law's nature to be idle. He needed to be doing something. 

By the time Ace and Luffy showed up, the sky was starting to darken again. The delivery with the turkeys came that morning, but they hadn't had time to sort anything, so it all ended up stacked in the ice well downstairs. 

A lot of people shopped on Sunday, making the store busier than Ace and Luffy were used to. Luffy started yelling for Bepo when he came in, but Ace cut him off by yanking on his collar. Luffy threw a stink eye, but otherwise complied.

Law stood up and walked to the end of the counter. Ace met him there, directing Luffy over with a hand clamped on his shoulder. Luffy hardly noticed Law, and instead watched Bepo at the register. 

“Bepo!” he called.

“Wait, Luffy,” Ace scolded. “He’s busy.” 

Bepo, mid-conversation with an older couple buying a ham, winked at Luffy. 

Luffy grinned and tried to bolt behind the counter, but Ace caught him by the collar. Luffy choked, then whined up at Ace, “He said I can go over.”

“Did not,” argued Ace. 

“Did too," Luffy argued back, standing up taller to challenge him. 

“Did not.”

“Did— see ?” Luffy's eyes lit up as Bepo finished with the couple and waved him over. Luffy ran up and pulled a list from his pocket, holding it up to Bepo and naming things off. Ace sighed and stuck his hand in his pocket. 

Law leaned on the wall, smirking. 

“Shut up, I know,” Ace said.

“Sounds like you’re making a feast,” Law commented.

“I am not making anything,” Ace corrected. “When Luffy gets an idea, everyone has to know about it, including the hotel chef and his kid. They gave him the grocery list. And some extra money.”

“That’s convenient.” 

“Very,” Ace agreed. “I suck at this whole ‘raising a child’ thing.”

The thought of trying to wrangle Luffy into a routine for a single hour made Law shudder, much less having that responsibility day-in and day-out. Did he really think he sucked at it? Ace’s face didn’t reveal much, and maybe other people would laugh, or brush it off, but the statement struck Law as too absurd to ignore. ”No you don’t,” Law said, matter-of-factly. 

Ace watched him for a moment, a bit bewildered. Then, he recovered, "Thanks,” he said, “but you haven’t seen me cook.”

“Come on,” Law pushed off the wall, “I’ll show you what we have.”

Law led Ace downstairs, past his table in the basement and all the way to the back, where he pulled open a heavy wooden door that led to the ice well. 

The space was small for two people, but much bigger than any icebox. They used it to stock up for the winter months, when their supply from the ranch dwindled. They stacked ice blocks along the back wall and covered them over with hay, giving the room a barn-like ambiance. Shelves lined the right hand wall, and wooden crates went on the left. 

Law didn’t like being in the ice well. It was cold, and he didn’t like the cold. It was also dark. He waved a hand until it found the pull chain for the single lightbulb that swung overhead. 

“It’s cold.” Ace said.

“What’d you expect?” 

Law slid the heavy wooden lid off a crate and leaned it against the wall. They hadn’t labeled anything yet, and they also just got some other meat and produce, so he wasn’t quite sure which crates to open. This one was all chicken. He slid the lid back on.

“Hey—“ said Ace softly.

“It’s not in that one, hold on.” Law opened another box, but that one was all vegetables. He leaned over to put the lid back. 

“Law—“ Ace said, his voice whisper-thin. 

That wasn’t normal. Law stood up, concerned. He turned around, just in time to hear a light mmph and catch Ace’s head falling onto his shoulder. Ace slumped, and Law grabbed at him, struggling to keep them both upright. 

“Hey— HEY,” Law yelled. 

Ace was warm and heavy against him, more dense than he would have guessed, which was unfortunate, because Law wasn’t sure how long he could keep them upright. He tried adjusting his grip and Ace’s weight nearly pitched them into a wall, proving that he was– as Law had guessed– fully unconscious. 

“Ace–” Law stepped back, bracing his heel on the wooden crate behind him. He had looked fine, hadn’t he? “Ace, what the fuck did you do?”

Law gave up on standing, and he needed to see what was going on, anyway. He awkwardly slid Ace to the floor, arms around his waist like the worst ballroom dancer to ever live. Halfway down to the floor, Law slid one hand up behind his head, making sure it didn’t smack the edge of a wooden crate or the hard dirt floor.

“Hey, come on,” Law tapped his shoulder and watched for the rise and fall of his chest. Ace was breathing fine. Pulse was fine. What, did he just pass out? Why?

Law felt around his skull, feeling no obvious bumps or bleeding. Law stood up and rushed to his glass cabinet, pulling the smelling salts off the top shelf. He uncorked the bottle, immediately inverting it over a rag from the counter. He smelled the rag, checking the strength, and winced at the astringency. 

Back in the ice well, Ace was in the same position, unmoving. Law crouched down to his side and held the rag up to his nose. If he woke up, Law could figure that out from there. If he didn’t wake up, then, they were in trouble. Cardiac arrest was off the table. The rest of the not-waking-up list included apoplexy, seizure, low blood sugar, dehydration, an overdose. Was that everything? He wasn’t acting like he was on anything, had no reason to be dehydrated—

Was that movement? Law stared at Ace’s face. Then he reached for his wrist, checking his pulse again, which was fine. The bulb in here was dim, and Law’s own shadow got in the way, making it hard to see. Should they move? It was cold, and all of Law’s supplies were in the other room. Law was about to drag him out of the ice well when Ace’s eyelashes fluttered. 

Thank god, “Ace, wake up,” he said urgently, hands on Ace’s shoulders. 

Ace blinked back at him. “Who… where?” Ace said, lifting his head off the ground. “Let–” Ace swallowed, flattened his palms against the dirt. His face twisted out of stupor into cold anger. “Let go of me. Where’s Luffy?”

Law did immediately. Ace pushed himself up into a sitting position, sliding a few inches backward into the corner, looking like a captured animal. Law needed to keep him calm. He had taken more than one punch from disoriented patients of his. His clientele were no strangers to violence, and especially prone to lashing out when they didn’t know what the fuck was going on. 

“You passed out, Ace, but you’re fine. You’re in–” Law stopped himself, thinking it might be a bad idea to remind Ace that he was in Law’s underground meat cooler, surrounded by animal carcasses. “Luffy’s upstairs,” he said instead. 

“Luffy…” Ace echoed. “Shit.”

Ace pulled his knees up, sliding his shoes in the dirt. He dragged his fingers through his hair and dropped his head between his knees. Was he dizzy? “How long was I out?”

“Only a few minutes,” Law answered.

“And Luffy doesn’t know?”

Law wasn’t sure why that mattered, but, “No.”

Ace breathed a sigh of relief, his back rising and falling. “Don’t tell him.”

Law frowned. Thought about it. “I’m not promising that,” he said. 

Ace peered up at him from behind his arms, looking betrayed. His breathing had steadied somewhat, but now it picked up again. “Why not?” Ace demanded.

“I don’t want to,” Law said without thinking. God, he sounded childish. He was shooting from the hip, not entirely sure what would come out of his mouth next. He rarely acted on gut instinct, but something about this didn’t sit right. It was weird. Usually—no, always— he was fine with keeping people’s secrets. He didn’t mind holding onto whatever shit people got themselves into— infidelity, drug addictions, attempted poisonings. But now that it was Ace, passing out in his basement… 

“Isn’t that your whole deal?” Ace steamed. “You let a thousand other slimeballs walk in and out of here without saying a word, but you have to rat me out?” 

“Yeah,” Law agreed. 

“Why?” 

Good question. “I don’t know yet,” Law offered uselessly. 

“What kind of answer is that?” 

Another excellent question. “I don’t know.”

Ace pushed off the crate behind him and descended on Law, pushing him into the stack of ice blocks and tightening both his fists into Law’s jacket. “Law, stop fucking with me. You can’t tell Luffy.”

Law put up no resistance. Physically, at least. He wasn’t trying to get his skull cracked open on an ice block today. He silently narrowed his eyes at Ace, though, making it clear that he wasn’t agreeing to anything. Ace opened his mouth to say something, but Law interrupted him. 

“What is it?” He asked firmly. 

“That’s not the point,” Ace argued. “Promise you won’t tell him. He can’t—“

“You know what it is,” Law stated. “So tell me.”

Law held his eye contact, and watched the anger in Ace’s expression slip into cold fear. Law was right. He did know. And whatever it was, Ace had deemed it bad enough to keep it from Luffy. He looked down, took a shaky breath. Ace’s voice sounded hollow, having lost its edge. “Sleeping sickness,” he admitted.

Fucking hell. “No, it’s not,” Law snapped back.

Ace’s eyes flicked upward, anger boiling back into place. “What the hell would you know about it?”

Law could strangle him. “I’m a doctor. ”

“So? You’re not… you don’t even…” Ace sputtered for words, twisting his fists into Law’s shirt, “Why else would I be falling asleep?” he steamed. “It’s called sleeping sickness. I read about it. People start falling asleep, and then they die, Law. I don’t have much—” 

“You don’t have it.” Law repeated, dragging out his words to see if that would make Ace listen to him.

“Stop saying that–”

Law reached up, pushing Ace’s hair from his forehead and lying his palm on it. It felt fine. “Have you had a fever?” he asked.

Ace pulled away from Law’s hand, shaking it off. “N– no.”

“Headaches?”

“Sometimes.” 

‘Sometimes’ didn’t sound like the answer of someone with blood pooling in their brain. “Base of the skull?”

“No, but—“

“Look at me,” Law demanded. He hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Ace’s eyes before, but he was already this far into his questions, so why stop now? “Okay, look up. No, not with your whole head. Down. Left. Right.” All fine. “And this has been happening for how long?”

“Three months.” 

“You don’t have sleeping sickness.” Law told him. For the third time. 

“I… so, what?” Ace was running out of steam for insisting on being wrong. ”I’m not–”

“You’re not dying.”

Ace searched Law’s face for some kind of crack. Finding none, his hands released their grip and went fully slack. “Holy shit,” he muttered, sitting back, “I really thought…”

Law watched it sink in. Even though the sleeping sickness wasn’t real— for Ace, at least— the fear certainly was. Three months was a long time to carry the weight of a doomed man, especially alone. Law wasn’t unfamiliar. When the Spanish Flu swept his hometown, infecting his sister, then parents, killing them all within a matter of weeks, he assumed he was next. He coughed horribly. His fever spiked. Rather than do anything useful, the government simply shut off access to the town, meaning that only meager food scraps remained. He was sick and starving, so he waited. Lingered around his empty house like he was already a ghost, the bodies of his family— splotched purple and bloated— decaying in the cellar. He didn’t have the strength to bury them. He had stared down death in fever-induced hallucinations, lying on his back, waiting for his lungs to fill with fluid and drown him. 

Then, he got better.

“The next time you think you’re dying,” Law said, “you better ask me first.” 

“What, for permission?” 

Law huffed out a laugh. Apparently Ace was feeling better. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Ace conceded. He pushed off the ground and slid back against the ice, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Law. He stared into the empty room a moment, arms hanging loosely at his sides, the tension leaked out of them. “How’d you know, anyway?”

“If you’re falling asleep standing with sleeping sickness, that wouldn't be your only problem. It’s an influenza, it moves fast. There’d be other signs— fever, headaches, droopy eyelids. It’s not easy to hide.”

”So… what is it then?”

“Narcolepsy.”

“Narcolepsy ?” Ace clarified. “What even is that?”

"It means you fall asleep sometimes. It's not exactly easy to deal with, but it's not deadly."

"Why couldn't that be the thing with 'sleeping' in the title?" Ace complained. "It's confusing." 

Law hummed in agreement. Ace didn't know it, but there was already a sleeping sickness before this particular sleeping sickness came around, one which was completely unrelated and mostly in Africa. Because of this newest sleeping sickness, there were now doctors who were convinced that narcolepsy didn't even exist outside of sleeping sickness, and their practice of reporting everything as sleeping sickness made it hard to know how many actual cases were in the city. So, yeah. Confusing. 

“Sorry for… um.” Ace's voice pulled Law from his thoughts. He looked over to see Ace looking down at his hands. 

“Passing out in my basement and then threatening me about it?”

Ace’s smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That.”

“You're not the first,” Law answered. “It’s fine.”

Ace shifted again, pulling his feet up and bumping against Law’s shoulder. Law couldn’t remember the last time he let someone other than Bepo sit so close, and found he didn’t mind it. 

“You must think I’m an idiot,” Ace stated, pulling a hand through his hair. 

Law shook his head. “No,” he said, looking over and making eye contact with Ace. His eyes were dark, especially in the low light, and steady. Ace had an unraveling way of watching people, and whenever a thread was snagged, Law felt compelled to follow it. “I thought I had it too. A long time ago.”

“You were falling asleep?” Ace asked.

“No, not like that. First I had the Spanish Flu, which I recovered from, but a lot of people who recovered got sleeping sickness later. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes years. A woman from my hometown had a horrible case of it, she went from perfectly fine to comatose in about a week, and then died less than a month later. I figured it was only a matter of time." Law paused. He didn't like thinking about her. Or any of this, really. There was a reason he liked surgery. In surgery, the problems were mechanical. His job was to take something out or put something back together. He didn't like dealing with illnesses that slowly eroded your body, stressed at systems until they failed, where all he could offer was half-measures and delays, instead of a fix. Right now, though, something dulled the usual dread that came along with bringing all this up. Maybe it was the earthy-sweet smell of hay that was grounding, or the cold ice at his back, or the warmth of Ace along his side that made it more manageable. The memories felt more distant than usual, and he struggled to capture the negative feelings that usually bubbled through, uninvited. "I was still tired back then," he added, "but that was for other reasons. And I felt like shit all the time, which was, again, unrelated. I genuinely got sick at one point, but it didn't end up being serious. I guess I never thought I had it, but I was paranoid about it for a long time." 

"Huh," Ace said. "Your reason sounds better than mine."

Law huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, maybe." He put a hand back and pushed off the ground, rising to his feet. If they stayed much longer, someone was bound to come looking for them. He offered his hand to Ace, who took it and stood up in front of him. 

"Come by Friday and we'll talk more," said Law. He reached up, picked a piece of hay out of Ace’s hair. “There's medicine you can take for it, but I don't keep any of it here. For now, don't go anywhere dangerous and sleep if you need to. If you pass out again, try to remember what you're doing right before it."

"Okay," Ace agreed. Something occurred to him, changing his expression, and he shifted on his feet. "Do I..."

"Shit, we still need a turkey," Law turned toward the crates, but stopped when he felt Ace grab his sleeve, turning him back. "What?"

"I can pay you," Ace said. "Not all at once, probably, but if you—"

"No," Law said promptly, turning back to the crates. He felt awkward, suddenly, but couldn't explain why. Everyone else paid him, except for his own crew, and even then, they liked to trade favors. He slid the lid off of a crate. 

"Fine," Ace said, his voice colder than before. "Then I'll get the money, but—"

Law lifted a turkey from the crate and wrangled the lid back on with his one free hand. "You're not paying me." 

He pushed the turkey into Ace's arms. He took it, but didn't move. "Why not?" 

"I didn't do anything," Law answered, which wasn't exactly what he meant. He more meant that Ace hadn't visited him on purpose. Or that he didn't do any real procedure. But even if he had...

"Yes, you did," Ace argued. "And if I come back—"

"No," Law interjected. 

"Why not?"

"I don't—" They heard footsteps in the hallway overhead, quickly approaching the stairs, which saved Law from having to explain himself. Distracted, Ace turned around and Law nudged him toward the door. "You should tell him," said Law. 

Ace peered over his shoulder and nodded. Luffy rushed the door, talking excitedly about everything he bought from Bepo and admiring his new, prized bird. Law hung back, watching them. Somehow, it was difficult to remember the store before they started coming to it. They slipped in so naturally, and Law felt a wave of gratitude toward Bepo for luring them back, again and again. He wouldn't tell him. The bastard already knew. Individually, Ace and Luffy both had their charm, but there was something about them together that amplified their presence. Their attachment to each other was gravitational, pulling everyone else in and aligning the rest of the world around them. They knew each other so well. Maybe that was the reason, then, that Law couldn't keep a secret from Luffy. It felt wrong, like he was in the way of something he shouldn't be. 

Then again, maybe it wasn't even that complicated. As Law stood there— the usually cold, sterile basement feeling strangely homey— he realized why he wouldn't let Ace pay him, and why he, for once, had an opinion about someone else's decisions.

He actually gave a shit. 

Chapter Text

It was already late morning when Law blinked his eyes open on Friday. The night before— earlier that morning, really— he awoke to the sound of his back doorbell ringing, and opened the door to two men, one half-dragging the other by his upper arm. They looked vaguely familiar, though they didn’t strike Law as being affluent. Cheap accessories. Too polite. 

It was wood alcohol. Bad case of it, just a hair under deadly. The guy’s vision was shot, and he vomited across the full span of Law’s table. Law could still smell it faintly, and it was impossible to tell whether it was on him somewhere or just lingering in his memory. He needed to shower. Finish his note. Check for leftover vomit. Eat something. No, wrong order. Check for vomit first, then grab his notebook. Shower. Eat.  

Law rolled out of bed and threw on his housecoat. He made it down to the basement door when he heard a low voice from the store. Was that Bepo? He sounded a bit…

“… no need to make trouble.” 

Make trouble? Who was making trouble this early in the morning? Shoving his hands in his pockets, Law stalked down the hallway, stopping behind the corner to listen. He’d deal with this first, then get his notebook, then the vomit, shower, eat. 

An unfamiliar voice responded, “No trouble, right Ace?”

Ace was here? Law checked his watch. He hadn’t expected Ace to drop by so early. Or to come with someone who wasn’t Luffy. Who was–

“Teach, let it go,” Ace responded.  

Teach. Law knew that name. One of Whitebeard’s men, so it wasn’t surprising Ace was with him, given his assumed relationship to the man. Ace’s tone of voice, though, was surprising. He was angry, speaking in a register he didn’t use around Luffy, even when he was annoyed. Law thought of Ace as an agreeable person. He was polite. Considerate, especially when Luffy was being difficult. Honest, even if there were things he’d rather not talk about. 

On second thought, maybe Law did know this side of Ace. He had mentioned not getting along with people. Law had seen this himself, if only in tense, fleeting moments. He had had the sense to heed the warning in Ace’s tone. Teach did not. 

“Come on,” said Teach. “You got extra cash.”

“I don’t .”

“You could.”

“ Let it go ,” Ace snapped, raising his voice somewhat.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Ace’s warning hung heavily in the air. A car passed by the store, beeping once as it went. Someone shuffled their feet. 

Bepo broke the standoff.

“Fifty cents is all.” He stated. He spoke politely, but without any of his usual warmth. “It’s the market price. I don’t want to have a problem with you, so if you—“”

“With me ?“ Teach asked, exaggerating his tone. “I already said he’s buying. Take it up with him.”

“I don’t have a problem with Ace,” Bepo said.

Teach had a bad reputation. For the most part, Law paid no mind to reputations, because his own was less than accurate, ranging from creepy to utterly disturbed. He wouldn’t condemn someone for being disliked by the public. 

If someone managed to piss off Bepo, though, that was a different story. 

“Oh really?” asked Teach, laughing dryly. Law heard the shuff of fabric brushing together. “If you have a problem with me , that means you’ve got a problem with Ace too. Right buddy?”

“Get off me,” responded Ace, inciting more laughter from Teach. 

Law felt an angry heat rising in his chest, tensing across his shoulders. This guy sucked. Wasn’t Whitebeard’s crew supposed to be all ‘brotherly love’ and whatever? Who let this shitbag in? 

“Touchy, are you?” Teach teased. 

Fucking hell.

Law was debating the pros and cons of getting involved (Pros: He would love to clock this guy. Cons: He’d definitely piss off Whitebeard. Ace would be stuck in the middle of it. Teach didn’t seem like he’d leave without wrecking the center shelf or a glass display case.), when he heard coins hit the counter with a sharp, high-pitched noise. After a pause, he heard them slide off, scraping against the wooden counter and dropping into the register. 

“Is Law around?” Ace asked, presumably having paid Bepo. 

“He should be,” answered Bepo, sounding a bit defeated. “But he hasn’t come down, so you’ll have to ring the bell at the back.”

Knowing they were leaving Bepo alone, Law retreated upstairs to change clothes and make himself look like he wasn’t up awake at four in the morning. He tossed his housecoat across his bed and threw on a shirt and pants. Where’d his hat go? The bell rang while he was searching around. He found the hat on the floor, underneath the coat rack. Even with the change of clothes, he still detected the slight, sour twinge of vomit on him somewhere. Lovely. He slipped his fingers through his hair, bracing himself for anything crusty. Surely the splash radius last night hadn’t reached that high. Showering was moving higher up on his to-do list, but still, it would have to wait.

Law returned to the main floor and opened the back door. He greeted his visitors stiffly. Ace seemed to pick up on his mood. Or, more likely, he was already in a mood himself, and responded unenthusiastically.

“Sorry I’m early,” he stated brusquely. 

Law didn’t care about that. He was more concerned about their company. Teach stood slightly behind Ace. He had a long black beard and was missing a few teeth. Law could guess how that happened, would like to knock out a few himself. Teach was a large man, a full head taller than Ace, and his heavy hands were adorned with expensive-looking rings. He carried a gun at his waist, not bothering to hide it. It was probably for the best that Law hadn’t tried to fight him earlier.

Law turned his attention back to Ace. “Is he coming in?” Law asked, tilting his head at Teach. 

Teach didn’t like being talked about like he wasn’t there, and scowled in Law’s direction. Ace glanced at Teach, noting his expression, and then back at Law. “Yeah,” he said, not sounding the least bit excited about it. Teach seemed like the type to throw a fit if he was left out of something. 

Law motioned them inside unceremoniously. “Weapons stay at the door,” he noted. Teach glared as Law pointed to a small table in the corner of the back room. He wasn’t always picky about the ‘no weapons’ rule, but he wasn’t dumb enough to let someone down with a plainly exposed gun at their waist. A person like that was too eager to use the thing. “Leave it there,” he reiterated. 

“Fine,” Teach said, sneering as he passed through the door. Law caught the smell of alcohol on his breath, which, between that and the lingering vomit smell, rekindled his memory of the puke fountain from the night before. He needed to make this short. 

In the basement, Ace waited by the table while Teach immediately wandered the room, uninvited, eyeing the setup before settling along the wall opposite Law’s counter. Law didn’t like him investigating. 

“We have to run an errand this weekend,” Ace explained, shifting Law’s attention away from the other man. “I’m busy this afternoon.”

“It’s fine,” said Law. “Usually in my office earlier, but I had a late night.”

“We woke you up?” Ace asked.

“Yeah,” Law said, amused at the concern in Ace’s expression. “Most people do. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh.”

“Anything new this week?” Law asked casually. 

“No.” Ace answered. 

Law would have asked more questions, but he was ticked off and keenly aware of Teach leaning on the back wall, watching them with his arms crossed. Did he know what they were here for? Ace didn’t offer up any extra information, so Law decided to play it safe. He opened his cabinet and pulled out the ephedrine. Then he handed it to Ace, who spun the dark brown bottle in his hand and studied the label. 

“One of these a day, to start,” Law explained. “Are you around next week?” 

Ace nodded. 

“Check in with me then. We’ll see how it’s going.“ In other words, Law thought, talk to me when this asshole isn’t hanging around. He put his hands in his pockets. “This is enough for a month. Normally I tell people to figure their own shit out at the pharmacy, but this can be hard to find and it’s tricky to get the dosage right.”

Teach whistled at Law’s side. He was closer now, eyeing the bottle curiously. He was light-footed for his stature, and Law hadn’t heard him approach. “Didn’t know you had such a hook up,” he said, crowding over Ace’s shoulder. He leaned into the cone of overhead light, taking notice of Law’s medicine cabinet. “You’ve got some strong stuff in here, Trafalgar.”

“It’s not for sale,” Law stated. 

Great. Law was always worried about getting raided for his medicine cabinet. By the cops or by someone else looking for drugs. He tried to keep it minimal, but that wasn’t always practical. Whenever someone took notice of his stock, it put him on edge, especially when it was someone like Teach. 

“Pity,” said Teach, crossing his arms.

It was not a pity, and Law got along fine without dealing. It was a dangerous game anyway. The other crews in the city were possessive of their territory, and Law wasn’t trying to start a war over some small-time drug dealing. 

He turned back to Ace. “Do you have any questions?” 

Ace looked down at the bottle, then back up at Law. “No,” he said. “Well,” he side-eyed Teach, shifting on his feet, “Do I owe you anything?”

“No,” said Law. He thought keeping money out of this would be simpler, considering the conversation upstairs, but he was wrong. 

“ No ?” echoed Teach immediately, looking back and forth between Law and Ace with his eyebrows raised. “What’d you do for him, Portgas?” 

“ Nothing ,” Ace replied. “Law, are you sure?” 

“We’ll talk about it next week,” Law said, not changing his mind, but hoping to stall his way out of the present conversation. Teach wasn’t so easily deterred. 

“Come on Trafalgar,” Teach urged. “You can charge him now.” He dropped a hand on Ace’s shoulder, causing his shoulders to stiffen. “If he’s not desperate for money, he’s never going after his little stash again. You owe the doctor a tip, at least.”

“Stop it,” Ace warned, shoving him off. Teach dropped his arm, but didn’t back off.

“Sure,” Teach smiled, “Right after you tell me where it is.” 

“It’s gone,” Ace snapped, raising his voice.

“ Gone, huh?” Teach’s eyes gleamed. Panic flickered across Ace’s face, his eyes wide and dark. He had said the wrong thing. Teach laughed humorlessly, “Damn, Portgas, you really had one then?” He leaned forward greedily. “How much? Five hundred? A thousand?” Ace glared at him, mouth clamped shut. “ More than a thousand?“

Teach was breathing like a dog, his alcohol-twinged breath filling the space between them all. Law didn’t know what this was about, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t like Teach, first off. He didn’t like his attitude or his smell or the way the rings caught the light when he made a fist. Law should’ve made him leave those at the door. He also didn’t like Ace, or rather, this Ace, with the dark, clouded fear in his eyes who spoke in short, stilted sentences. 

Law didn’t know if he could say anything helpful, but he had to try something. “ Enough, ” he scolded. “Back off my patient or–”

“Your patient?” Teach said skeptically. “Yeah, he looks real sick. What’s he even here for?”

“That’s none of your business,” Law responded. 

“Is that right?” Teach said, raising his eyebrows. “You’re keeping secrets for him already?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. His arm snaked over Ace’s shoulders again, who hardly reacted this time, already looking stretched thin and tense, like a rubber band about to snap. Teach continued speaking, his mouth by Ace’s ear but his eyes drilled at Law. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Trafalgar. All this kid does is keep secrets. He’s got a nice little act going, right Ace? New kid from out of town? Friendly neighborhood repairman? Doting older brother?” 

Ace’s eyes flicked upward from the floor. “Leave Luffy out of it.”

“Now, isn’t that nice,” Teach mocked. “Still playing the role of heroic older brother. How long before Luffy wises up and realizes his entire childhood’s been left in the hands of a hot-headed teenage convict? He’s not going to look up to you forever.”

“He won’t–”

“And what about the other one? Not so much the hero there, are–” 

Ace uppercut Teach, landing his fist under Teach’s jaw. It was a hard fucking hit, and Law heard the sickening sound of teeth slamming together. Teach stumbled backward, knocking into Law’s table with a clang . Ace moved the other way, toward the door. Teach coughed, steadied himself for a moment before breaking into laughter. Blood ran over his teeth. “Aww, and just when I thought we were getting along.”

Ace backed up to the stairs, hand still gripped in a fist. His hand seemed fine now, but a punch like that was going to hurt later. Ace waited to see if Teach might come after him, but he showed no intention of doing so. He neared the stairs, took one fleeting glance at Law, an apology reading across his face, before fleeing the basement.

“Job’s still on today, Portgas,” Teach yelled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “You’d better show, asshole.”

Teach ignored Law entirely, apparently bored of him now that Ace was gone, and left a trail of blood on Law’s stairs as he saw himself out. 

Law stood facing the stairs, breathing hard. 

What the fuck was that about?

A slurry of emotions twisted in Law’s gut. He was pissed off, but in the end all he had done was stand there. Adrenaline hummed under his skin, finding nowhere to escape. He felt like he fucked up somehow, but what else was there to do? What was he supposed to say when he wasn’t even sure what they were talking about? 

Law spotted movement at the edge of the open basement door. Brown leather and a flash of metal.

“It’s fine, Bepo,” he called. 

Bepo poked his head around the corner, revealing the business end of the machine gun he had in his hands. Law wasn’t surprised. Bepo knew what kind of patients he dealt with, and they weren’t so naive to think that every problem could be solved with sound medical advice. Bepo wasn’t just going to sit upstairs selling beef sticks.

“He’s not coming back?” Bepo asked, turning the corner fully. 

Law shook his head. “Doubt it,” Law answered. “He’d be an idiot to try.”

Bepo descended the stairs, one hand sliding along the railing. “He is an idiot.”

Law grinned. Bepo had a kind-hearted nature, which meant there was something immensely satisfying about hearing him insult someone. “Not a fan?” 

“He bullied Ace into paying for his sandwich,” Bepo explained.

“I heard, actually,” Law said. 

“You did?” 

Law nodded, “I had just woken up.”

“Mmm,” Bepo answered. He surveyed the room, spotting a smear of blood on the table. “What happened down here?”

Law sighed. “Ace punched him.”

“Good for him,” Bepo commented. 

“He wouldn’t stop talking about the money,” Law said, drumming his fingers on the counter. “He was about to say something else when Ace punched him.”

“About what?” Bepo asked.

“No idea,” Law said. “Teach said he had a lot of secrets. And that I didn’t know who I was dealing with.”

Bepo shrugged, “We know enough.”

“Do we?” Law asked skeptically. “He’s had red flags since day one. What if he’s putting on an act?”

Bepo’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think he is?”

Law thought for a moment. It was true, Ace had secrets, but Law couldn’t convince himself that he was disingenuous. “No, but—“

“I don’t think so either,” agreed Bepo, not allowing time for Law to qualify his answer. 

Law sighed. Regardless of the source, Law had been delivered a warning. As much as Law wanted to dismiss the man, Teach didn’t seem to be making up rumors out of whole cloth. There had to be some truth in order to dig at Ace’s nerves the way he had. 

“He is hiding something,” Law emphasized. “Even if he’s acting genuinely, it’s not like he’s an open book.”

“Sounds familiar,” Bepo said, raising an eyebrow meaningfully at Law.

Law cracked a smile. Bepo knew when he was being an ass. “This isn’t about me,” he countered, to which Bepo shrugged noncommittally. 

Bepo and Law were a bad match for dealing with things like this. Bepo trusted easily and wholeheartedly. Law was slower to trust, and even then, he was fickle about it. Polar opposites, meaning that in all probability they were most likely both wrong. In any case, it was better to be cautious. Maybe, for once, not keep themselves completely in the dark. 

“Stay on your guard, I guess.” Law decided neutrally. “It’s not like we’d blacklist him for being cagey, that’s most of the people who come in here. Let me know if you hear anything.”

Bepo’s eyes lit up. The last time they talked, Law had told him to stop asking questions, and ‘Let me know if you hear anything’ was as much a green light as Law would give for poking into people’s personal lives. Bepo, being who he was, could do that without raising suspicion. “Will do,” he agreed.

“Good,” replied Law, moving toward the stairs. 

He passed near Bepo, who twitched his nose in distaste. “Why do you smell like vomit?” 

“Is it that bad?” Law asked. Jesus, he needed to shower.

“You know me,” Bepo answered, which was to say he had a freakish sense of smell. “It’s not bad, but it’s there.” 

Law groaned. “I’m taking a shower,” he said, laying his hand on the stair railing. 

“Please do,” said Bepo. He looked around the room. Sniffed discerningly. Frowned. “I’ll clean up down here, we have a few minutes before the lunch rush.”

“Thanks Bepo,” Law answered graciously, waving a hand and continuing up the steps.

Chapter Text

Law had a bad week. 

Monday night, one of his patients returned with a nasty infection on a hand Law had treated the week before, and then he found out that the guy had followed exactly zero of Law’s instructions, so Law wasn’t sure why the guy got to be pissed off at him , and not the other way around. And yes, it was going to cost more, because Law wasn’t the one who went and hung out rooftop-poolside with a freshly sewn up stab wound through the center of his hand, so no chance he was fixing anything without getting paid. 

Tuesday, Penguin finally got around to organizing the cold storage, which meant its contents spent half a day crowding into Law’s territory of the basement, stray meats and vegetables finding their way onto Law’s table and counter, which was not something the health inspector would enjoy if he had any idea what other fluids had occupied the same surfaces. Penguin argued that everything was sterilized– and it was, thoroughly– but the butcher shop and Law’s clinic were already, quite literally, on top of each other, and if there wasn’t some boundary between them then they were hurtling toward medical experimentation with animal parts or throwing some human meat on the weekly specials. They had enough crossover already. There had to be some semblance of separation. For the love of god. 

Wednesday? Who knows. Fuck Wednesdays. 

Thursday, Shachi tried to make an adjustment on the smoker and ended up pumping smoke through the main floor of the building, alarming Law, Bepo, and a group of office workers on their lunch break. Shachi assured them there was no fire. Well, no fire where there shouldn’t be one, but that was hardly comforting when you’re coughing your lungs out trying to air out the building. Shachi had to bail on the adjustment (now a repair) and said he needed something else to fix it, or he needed to read something else– Law had stopped listening after he heard “next week” and retreated upstairs to his apartment, which was habitable, but doused in a barbecue-like stink. 

Then there was the Ace thing, which grew over Law like a weed, sprouting roots and getting under his skin. Though, it was really the Teach thing, because it was Teach’s words that dug themselves into Law’s thoughts, poking up in various spaces throughout the day, regardless of how much Law tried to bury them. His brain wouldn’t let it go. Teach was an asshole, sure, but Law had met a lot of assholes. To plenty of people, Law himself was an asshole. Normally he could brush things off. 

So why was the Teach thing bothering him so much?

Ace was involved, for one. Law wasn’t so dense as to believe that didn’t make a difference. He could admit that he liked Ace enough. At least, enough to not want to see him extorted for money, which seemed like a low bar.

Teach had pissed off Bepo, for two.

Teach also seemed like he might come back to raid Law’s medicine cabinet, which, get in line. 

There was something else, though, which only occurred to Law after being in a shit mood all week and spending a restless night only half-sleeping in the lingering beef smoke, brain-stuck on the image of Teach’s arm snaking over Ace’s shoulders, wrapping more tightly in each iterative loop through Law’s memory, alternating dizzyingly with Ace in the ice well, his shoulder warm against Law’s side and the light hazy and…

Jealousy. That’s what it was. Fuck it all. Law groaned and rolled over in his bed, closer to the window he had cracked open to let the smell out, even though it was near freezing outside. What was he, sixteen? Maybe he would get a good night’s sleep— not tonight, because that ship had sailed— but another night, and his brain would remember that he was already an adult who’d had, what? Three full conversations with Ace? So he had no reason to get jealous of some creep—

And that was the other thing. Teach was a creep. As much as Law mentally disparaged him and as much as Ace clearly disliked him being around, he still knew enough about Ace to get under his skin, and, really get under it, while Law was left hearing Ace’s last name for the first time from Teach’s stupid, punchable mouth using it casually, like a nickname. They had clearly spent time together. Moved in the same circles, and for how long? Ace hadn’t lived here long. Did they know each other before that? Probably not. Maybe. How would Law know? He didn’t know a single goddamn thing. 

So fine. That was the rub. Law realized this might mean Ace had moved out of ‘would-not-like-to-see-extorted-for-money’ level of acquaintance and into… some other level. It didn’t matter.

Law swung his legs out of his bed and wrapped himself in his housecoat, pulled off the nearby dresser. Outside, he saw the faintest light of sunrise— or imagined it, because he was impatient— and gave up on sleeping. He got a glass of water and poked around his apartment, trying whatever activity was available to think about anything else. Reading. Writing notes. Organizing his bookshelf. He gave up on those quickly, and ended up staring at the ceiling in rising frustration until the light of the sun tinted it gray-yellow-white, heralding in the day.

Law worked at the clinic that morning, and it was a mercy to get out of his apartment. It was a decent enough distraction, too. It was busy. Someone came in with a handful of glass splinters, and that was fun for Law to sort out, picking out pieces and fitting things together like a messy, biological jigsaw puzzle. 

Soon enough, Law was back in his office at the shop, working on his notes. At least, trying to. He had them spread out on his desk chronologically and had scribbled some details down here and there. He was expressly not watching the clock on the shelf, but he was well aware that Ace was supposed to come back this afternoon. Law had told him to come back, and he should, for his own sake, but he didn’t have to. He might not show up. Ace wasn’t obligated. He didn’t have to answer for a nosebleed’s amount of blood spilled on Law’s basement floor. He didn’t owe them an explanation. He didn’t owe any money. There were probably other doctors who knew medications better than Law did. Whitebeard had plenty of connections. Narcolepsy wasn’t even Law’s specialty, nor was pharmaceuticals. Ace would be smart to go somewhere else. Make everyone’s lives simpler.  

Ace wasn’t showing up. Law needed to get back to work, anyway. He was behind. 

Minutes later, when Ace and Luffy appeared in the shop’s window at the usual time, Law was genuinely surprised.

Ace looked reluctant to come in, and If it weren‘t for Luffy, Law didn’t think he would have. Law heard Luffy’s voice outside before they came in, sounding petulant. The gaps in his speech were presumably filled by Ace’s end of the conversation, but he was inaudible, speaking at a normal volume instead of Luffy’s habitual half-yell. In the end, Luffy barged in first, running up straight to Bepo‘s counter. Ace followed after, hesitating by the door. 

Luffy and Bepo started up their conversation easily, like they had earmarked the page in a book. Law felt a beat of jealousy, for Bepo, this time. Why did Bepo’s relationships seem to stabilize themselves, ready to be picked freshly off the shelf at any moment, while Law’s decayed with a radioactive half-life? Luffy rambled about what he had to eat last Friday, which was something his friend Sanji made at the hotel. Bepo dutifully asked for details— no, not dutifully, with genuine interest— and reviewed the shop’s specials from last week. 

Meanwhile, Ace approached the end of the counter, hands in his pockets and dragging his feet. Law’s sleep-deprived mind couldn’t land on an emotion. Was Law relieved? He didn’t feel relieved; Ace’s reluctance filled him with dread, actually. He didn’t look like he wanted to talk, but he made eye contact with Law, eyeing him expectantly. Fine. Law stood up from his desk, pushing back his chair and walking toward the front. 

“Hey,” Ace said neutrally as Law approached. 

“Hey,” Law said back, acknowledging him with a nod. 

Ace paused for a moment, looking unsure of how to start. He shifted his weight and pushed a strand of hair back from his face. His knuckles were tinged bluish from last week. 

Law didn’t know where to start either. He liked Ace, but he may as well be starting a conversation with a stranger. 

Ace opened his mouth to say something, but the bell at the front interrupted him. They both looked to see an older couple walk into the store.

“We can go to the back,” Law said, turning into the hallway before Ace could respond. 

Ace’s footsteps followed Law into the hallway. Law stepped into his office, motioning Ace inside and closing the heavy wooden door, which sucked the noise from the store abruptly out of the room. The remaining silence amplified the awkward tension in the room, leaving nowhere to hide. Law sat stiffly behind his desk, and Ace sat across from him, sinking into his chair and looking down at his hands. His wool winter coat rode up slightly on his shoulders, partially hiding his face behind the collar. 

Damn it, why was Law so nervous? Why did his office feel so formal? It had never done that before. No wonder Ace looked like he wanted to crawl out of his chair. What did they even have to talk about? 

“Sorry about last week,” Ace said, fidgeting with his gloves.

“Why?” Law asked abruptly. Ace didn’t owe him an apology. 

Ace glanced up at him, surprised. “For Teach? Being an absolute shithead?”

“Then he should apologize,” Law said sourly. 

Ace wrung the gloves in his hands. Huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, good luck with that.”

Law didn’t respond. He could hear his mood and sleep deprivation dripping over his own words, but he couldn’t seem to pull it back. It didn’t help that Ace came in like he did, on edge and dodgy. He didn’t want to be here. Law wasn’t forcing him to be here. 

“I didn’t mean to bring him in,” Ace explained hesitantly. “I asked him to meet me later but he followed me anyway, so sorry for—“

Law twisted his expression skeptically at Ace, making him abandon the rest of his sentence. Law wouldn’t let it drop. “Sorry for what?” 

Ace twisted his eyebrow, annoyed. “For bringing him here, what else?”

“You said he followed you,” Law countered. 

“What’s the difference?” Ace asked. He dropped the gloves on his leg, ran both his hands through his hair. “Look, Law, Luffy will throw a fit if we stop coming here, so I’m apologizing for—“

“For what ?“ Law’s voice came out meaner than he meant it, but something about the Luffy comment stung. Was that the only reason they were here? Because Luffy threatened to tantrum if he didn’t get a slice of ham?

“Are you an idiot?” Ace raised his voice in response, gripping his knuckles white (blue-white, on his right hand) on the arms of the chair. “What do you want from me, Law? Should I get on my knees and beg for forgiveness? Run through the whole list? How about the part where Teach showed up drunk and was a dick to Bepo, or when he accused you of dealing drugs?”

“Then he should—“ 

“Who do you think I am?” Ace steamed. He threw his arm out, gesturing in the direction of the door. “Do you think I could drag his ass back here to apologize? Is that what you want? Me getting the shit beat out of me because I’m acting like his fucking mother? Would that make you happy?”

“No—“ Law tried to sound calmer. Tried. 

“I’m done here,” declared Ace, pushing off his chair and starting toward the door. Law saw a whoosh of air run through the papers on his desk as Ace’s coat swung past them “We’ll leave you alone if you’re going to be a—“

Law stood up, stalking around the desk and catching Ace’s arm from behind. Ace froze at the door, his muscles tensing under Law’s grip. He stared straight ahead. “Let go of me,” he warned.

Law ignored that. “Did I say you should make him apologize?” he asked. Ace took a beat, then eyed him warily over his shoulder. Law really, really tried to sound calmer. “I’m not trying to— I’m not being an asshole, I’m telling you to stop apologizing at me.”

Ace turned and Law dropped his arm. His eyes were dark and defensive, scanning Law’s face. “Why not?” he said. “I’m the reason he came in here.”

“ He’s the reason he came here,” Law argued. 

“What’s the difference?” Ace asked, exasperated.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Law said. Ace could apologize on Luffy’s behalf, because he was in charge of him, or whatever that situation was, but another grown-ass adult?

“ What doesn’t make sense?”

“Apologizing for him.”

Ace rolled his eyes. “It’s a courtesy , asshole. You’re supposed to just accept it.” 

“Well, it’s stupid,” said Law dryly.

Ace stared at him a moment, waiting to see if Law would back that up with anything. He didn’t. 

Ace’s expression cracked, the corner of his mouth reluctantly sliding upward. “You can’t just say it’s stupid,” he said.

“I already did,” Law replied, relaxing a bit. The atmosphere in the office deflated, like the room was leaking air, taking some of the tension with it. 

Ace breathed out noisily and closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped as he shoved his hands in his front pockets, relaxing his arms. When Ace opened his eyes again, he looked more familiar than before, his casual disposition returned. “Your personality sucks,” Ace said bitterly. But he was grinning.

“Yeah, well,” Law shrugged, “I’m starting to think it might be permanent.” 

“I thought you’d be pissed off,” Ace admitted. 

“I’m not,” Law stated. “I had a bad week.”

“So you’re not pissed that I started a fight in your basement?” Ace clarified. 

“One of us had to,” Law said bitterly. 

Ace laughed warmly. “Teach has that effect on people.”

Law hoped he'd never have to see him again, and felt bad that Ace probably had to. For now, Ace no longer looked ready to bolt, so Law took the opportunity to change the subject. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the chairs. “Let me see your hand.”

“Why?” Ace asked, but he was already moving toward a chair, pulling off his coat off and hanging it over the back. 

“Because I didn’t know you could punch like that.” Law dragged his office chair from behind the desk, sitting in front of Ace. 

Ace held out his hand. “It feels fine,” he commented. 

Law took it, admiring the fading bruises across his knuckles, most prominent on his middle finger. Law had seen a lot of broken hands and fingers with his particular clientele. Often, they were fighting someone they shouldn’t have, and wanted to know how to fix themselves up discreetly, without the obvious giveaway of a cast that their spouse or coworkers would notice. Law was good at knowing the minimum amount of stability a fracture needed to recover. 

There were also a lot of people who visited him for more serious injuries, but ended up having breaks they didn’t know about. When a person is pumped up on adrenaline, spitting blood from a couple of knocked out teeth, and suffering from some level of concussion, an uncomfortable twinge in their knuckle isn’t the most pressing concern. Still, Law liked to be thorough; he wasn’t going to ignore injuries that were right in front of him. 

Law stretched the joints individually, systematically pressing on the back of Ace’s hand, asking if anything felt off. He had done this hundreds of times, and his procedure was habitual, questions automatic. This left him with full awareness that this time was different, because they were in his office, and Ace’s hand was warm, with light freckles scattered across the back of it and calluses along the inner edges of his pointer finger and thumb. Law studied the shape of Ace’s knuckles and the gradient blue of the bruises, taking stock of details that had little relevance to medical practice. He noticed Ace’s ring finger rotated inward when it bent, but not worryingly; it was less bruised than the other fingers. Curiously, he stretched it out and then let it hang, watching it crowd into Ace’s middle finger.

“Have you broken this before?” Law asked, tapping the crooked finger. 

Ace lifted his hand and turned it around, opening and closing his fist so he could see what Law was talking about. “Maybe,” he answered. “I’ve been in a lot of fights–”

“Clearly,” Law interjected.

Ace grinned, stretching his fingers out. “It’s been beat up before, but I never went to a doctor for it.” 

Law dropped Ace’s hand and leaned back in his chair. “It’s fine,” he concluded. “Just a bit off, so I was curious. Are you still falling asleep?”

Ace shook his head, “No, not as much.”

“But you are?” Law clarified.

“Ah, yeah,” Ace answered. “Not like before, but I still get tired.”

“Have you been dizzy at all?” Law asked. 

“No.”

“Nauseous?”

“Not really.”

“Nervous?”

“About what?”

Law didn’t like that question, but he didn’t know a better way to ask. “In general,” he tried.

“I don’t think so.”

“Try doubling what I gave you. If it makes you feel like shit, go back to one. Come back when you run out. I’ll keep it upstairs for you. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Ace answered. He took a second to study Law’s face, then looked at his feet. “Law, I… what Teach said. I’m not fucking with you about the money. I mean, I can pay you, if you want, but I don't have money stashed away anywhere. And I don’t–”

“I know,” Law stated firmly. 

That wasn’t true. Law didn’t know . He had no way of knowing anything. So maybe he was an idiot for feeling like he could trust Ace, now, when a half hour ago Law had decided that Ace would be happy to ditch coming here ever again. That seemed stupid now. Bepo would agree. 

Ace stared at him, a bit skeptical. “What, do I just look that pathetic?”

Law snorted. “A little bit.”

Ace laughed, “Oh, come on, asshole. Why don’t you make me pay for anything?”

Law made a face. “You know I’m stealing those meds, right?” 

“I... could have guessed." Ace answered. “But usually that makes things more expensive.”

Law shook his head. “That’s only true for drugs people want to use. I’m not giving you opium. Or alcohol. This stuff just sits on the shelf until someone clears it out for more space. At the most I’d charge you a delivery fee.” Ace raised an eyebrow. “No, that was a joke,” Law snapped. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

“Fine, I’ll stop trying to pay you, but I owe you a favor ,” Ace decided.

Law looked down at Ace’s gloves, which were work gloves, worn in and covered in something… dirt? Ash? He had been planning on telling Ace no, but—

“What kind of work do you do?” Law asked. 

“Boiler maintenance, mostly,” he responded. “I work at the railyard.”

That was… 

Law didn’t think Ace was dumb, by any means, but he wasn’t expecting that. He knew Ace had a knack for fixing things (from Teach, but he’d rather not think about that), but boiler maintenance? Those things were complicated, and basically death traps, as far as Law was concerned. Ace made it sound like he had a less-than-stable childhood, what with the fighting and pickpocketing and all that. Where’d he learn to work on trains?

A thought struck him. When Law first met Luffy, he mentioned being comfortable around trains. Law hadn’t thought much of it. Well, he had thoughts about it— mainly that Luffy had a fucking screw loose and was going to get himself killed— but he hadn’t assumed that Ace had the same familiarity, though, it did make sense that he would.

“How long have you been doing that?” Law asked.

“Officially? Only since we moved,” Ace answered. “But we grew up around trains.”

Law grew up in a mining town, but he knew fuck all about how that worked. Growing up around trains hardly explained where Ace got the experience from.

“Sure,” said Law, relenting. The point of this wasn’t to review Ace’s resume. “Can you fix our smoker?” he asked. “Shachi’s been having trouble with it, and he’s losing patience.”

“Is that why it smells in here?” Ace asked, prompting a nod from Law. ”What’s wrong with it?”

“Hell if I know,” Law replied. “Shachi blew smoke through the whole building yesterday, and now everything’s on hold until next week.”

“Can I look at it?” Ace asked.

“Yeah,” Law pushed off of his chair, sliding it out of the way, toward his bookshelf. “It’s just down the hall.”

The smoker was on the main floor, a large metal box, approximately coffin-sized, with a pair of tubes exiting it, one leading up the wall, to the ceiling, and the other into the floor. It had a door that opened in the front, which was hanging open, and a series of hooks on the inside. They had debated on setting up a more elaborate smokehouse at the farm, but that would’ve meant someone had to live outside of the city to manage it, and this was more convenient.

Shachi was typically competent with the smoking process, though it had taken some time for him to get established. He had a knack for troubleshooting the steps, flavor-wise, but had less intuition when it came to the mechanical side of things. 

Ace inspected the smoker, putting on his gloves and messing with different parts. He knocked on the vertical metal pipe at the top. “Where does this let out?”

Law shrugged, “The roof?”

“What about the bottom one? Where does it pull from?” 

“I don’t know,” Law answered.

Ace pulled a mechanical lever on the side of the box, and something toward the top of the smoker squeaked. “Where do you change the intake?” he asked. 

“How should I know?” Law asked, crossing his arms and leaning back against a table. 

“You’re kind of useless,” Ace commented, eyeing him over his shoulder. 

“Not my job,” Law said. “I have enough shit to deal with. If I have to spend a single second thinking about— what are you doing?”

Ace’s upper body disappeared into the smoker, and he reached up into it. Law heard a series of squeaks.

“Huh,” he said.

“Huh, what?” 

“Does this vent connect to anything else?”

“I don’t—“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Ace laughed, pulling himself out of the smoker. He brushed off his thighs; leaning against the smoker had left some ash there. “Where’s the guy who actually uses this?”

“Shachi? Gone this weekend. He’ll be back Monday.”

“Did he set this up?” Ace asked.

“Yeah.”

“I can come by Monday then,” Ace decided. “You're getting us nowhere, and I want to see how he’s lighting this thing. I don’t have any tools with me anyway. Does Shachi have—“ Ace paused, grinned, “Nevermind, you don’t know.”

“Probably not,” Law admitted. 

Ace took another look over the smoker, inspecting the grate at the bottom of it. He picked up a spent coal at the bottom, dropped it back in. Then he took his gloves off, seemingly satisfied with his inspection, for the time being. 

Law expected them to return to the front, but instead, Ace stared down at the smoker, lingering there. At the front of the store, Bepo laughed heartily, presumably at something Luffy had said. Law turned an ear to the noise. Ace didn’t seem to hear them. 

“Ace–” 

“Do you know about Gray Terminal?” Ace asked suddenly. He had a hand on the edge of the smoker door, and pressed his thumb into the side of it. He was still staring at it, eyes unfocused. 

“You mean the train wreck?” Law clarified. 

“Yeah,” Ace said distantly.

Everyone knew about Gray Terminal. Most train derailments made the newspaper, in some form or another. Gray Terminal made headlines. As far as train wrecks went, it was a worst-case scenario. The boiler exploded near the terminal, causing it to hop off the tracks and level a cluster of houses, poorly-built ones that— judging by the photos— folded like card towers on impact, the train leaving a mass of shredded wood, glass, and scrap metal in its wake. Whatever survived the aftermath of the derailment was lost to the ensuing fire. The number dead was… in the eighties? Higher? It caused casualties across the board: train crew, passengers, residents. 

The police suspected sabotage, rather than an accident, because it was common for train robbers to take out the workers running the train and bring it to a stop, and who knew if a bunch of train robbers were capable of driving a train after they forcefully commandeered it. Law couldn’t remember if the papers mentioned any suspects. He also didn’t know if there was even money missing. Those details got shoved aside when the papers needed the space for obituaries. 

“What about it?” Law asked.

“We were there,” Ace confessed.

Law frowned. “You were… where?”

“On the train.” Ace looked up at Law, face serious.

Law stared. Why was Ace telling him this? 

“What Teach said,” Ace explained, reading the confusion off Law's face. “He knows we were on that train, and the money was never recovered– because it was incinerated , but try telling Teach that. He thinks we stashed it somewhere, so that’s why…”

Jesus , Law thought. He made eye contact with Ace. Gray Terminal was how long ago? That must’ve been only a few weeks before they showed up in the city. No wonder Luffy had slept like shit. No wonder Ace didn’t want to talk about it. There was no way to walk away from something like that unscathed. Law didn’t know how to respond, or what to ask.

“I didn’t blow the boiler,” Ace said defensively. 

That… 

Law hadn’t been thinking that. 

“ I didn’t ,” Ace emphasized, and Law got the feeling this argument wasn’t really directed at him. Ace pressed on anyway, “I can think of about thirty other ways to stop a train that don’t involve turning it into a fucking bomb . We used to rob trains, but not like that. Never like that. I know how to read a pressure gauge, and I was stuck at the back of the train, anyway, so it’s not my fucking fault that– that–”

“Ace–” Law said quietly. 

“And no, I’m not a fucking hero, because I’m the reason Luffy was there in the first place, but I got him out." Ace's voice caught. His eyes looked lost. "I got him out, like I promised, and I would’ve… if I had known that… I would've”

“ Hey, ” Law grabbed Ace’s arm, forcing his attention. Ace seemed to snap back in place, eyes sharp and glassy. He looked sick.

“Teach is full of shit. What he said, it’s not–”

“Yeah,” Law said. “I gathered that based on the fact that he acts like he’s full of shit. Ace–” Law sputtered, trying to figure out how to say what he was thinking. “You’re not– you don’t have to–” Law gave up. Pivoted. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Ace answered automatically. Law held onto his arm, unmoving. Ace held his gaze, eyes narrowing. “I'm... I have to be–”

Ace’s eyes darted past Law’s shoulder, where they could hear footsteps running in their direction. 

“Fuck,” Ace whispered, wrenching himself out of Law’s grip and running his fingers back through his hair. 

“Ace!” Luffy yelled, excited. “Bepo said–”

Luffy stopped abruptly and looked between them, a growing scowl on his face. “What–” 

Ace was already shoving him back toward the front. He spoke playfully, but it sounded hollow. “Did Bepo say you could come back here?”

Luffy didn’t answer, distractedly staring down Law, his face twisted into an uncharacteristic frown. “What happened?” He asked. 

“We’ll talk later,” Ace answered. Then, to Law, “I’ll be here Monday.”

“We’re coming on Monday?” Luffy asked excitedly. 

“Not this time, Luf. Just me” Ace’s voice had quickly returned to normal, mostly. They walked ahead, Ace pulling his coat out of Law’s office when he passed it. “You have to be at school.”

Luffy begged to come after school, but Ace wasn’t budging. When they turned the corner to the front, Luffy was still trying to bargain his way into a visit. Law heard them stop by the counter, and the bell over the front door rang a few minutes later. 

Law looked down, a wave of exhaustion pouring over him. Something caught his eye on the floor. One of Ace’s gloves, dropped at the base of the smoker. He picked it up, rubbing his thumb over the leather, watching his skin darken with ashy residue. 

He felt… he didn’t know how he felt. He had more questions now than he did before, which stressed him out. But he was convinced Ace was coming back, this time, so that was something. Mostly, he felt like he needed to sleep, and left Bepo to handle the store. He usually got patients on Friday nights, and was used to that, but tonight he hoped the city would leave him alone, for once. This week was trying to kill him. 

Chapter Text

On Monday, Ace showed up at the shop with a large, leather tool bag over his shoulder. It reminded Law of the surgical kit he used to lug around– it being a collection of sharp metal objects– but everything was oversized compared to his scalpels and clamps. Ace’s bag was open on the top, with a series of pockets around the outside holding a number of unfamiliar tools. Well, Law recognized some of them (he knew what a hammer was), but there were a lot that were nearly identical, only distinguishable by an extra groove or different handle. How many variations of ‘hammer’ and ‘screwdriver’ could a person need?

Then again, Law had about twenty different scalpel-like objects between here and the clinic, so maybe he could understand. 

Law waved at Ace, inviting him to the back. He grabbed Ace’s glove out of a desk drawer, got up from his chair, and held it out. “You left this,” Law said. 

“I was looking for that,” Ace said, taking it and shoving it into his pocket. 

“Did you need them?” Law asked.

“Nah,” answered Ace, “Well, yeah, but I borrowed some.”

“Oh,” Law said. “Was it… busy today?”

Ace looked amused. He pulled at the strap of his leather bag, shifting it higher on his shoulder. It looked heavy. He probably wanted to put it down, and here was Law, making small talk. 

Ace didn’t seem to mind. He shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon looking for a leak in an old air brake system. The train is like, barely operational at this point. It doesn’t need brakes if it never runs for more than an hour before it blows a gasket.”

“Why are you fixing it?”

“Dunno. Money, probably.” Ace shrugged. “My boss thinks he can get a big payout on this repair– I’m not sure who owns it, someone out west– so we’re stuck fixing this thing until he either gives up on it or has us replace every part, basically.”

“Is that–”

A loud clang echoed from the back room. 

Law frowned, and then he nodded down the hallway. “Shachi’s back there already,” he said, “Probably fucking things up more than they were before.”

“I heard that!” Shachi yelled from the other room.

“Good!” Law snapped back. He took a step toward the hallway, Ace following at his side. Law glanced at him. “Thanks for coming. I don’t know how broken everything is–”

“Not that broken!” Shachi yelled.

Law made a face. “I’ll believe it when I see it,“ he muttered to himself. “Anyway,” he said to Ace, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but you can leave whenever you need to. Don’t let Shachi keep you here.”

“Eh,” said Ace, “I don’t have anywhere else to be. Luffy’s with a friend tonight, so I’m off the hook.”

“Is this your idea of a night off?” 

“Hah, no,” Ace laughed. “But—“ he glanced sideways at Law, “It’s not the worst thing.”

Law didn’t know how to read that, which probably meant he shouldn’t be reading into it at all. They entered the back room, and Law gestured toward Shachi, glad to have a distraction. Shachi was on his knees in front of the firebox. He turned to face them, ash streaked across his cheek and red hair sticking out at odd angles. His hands were covered in ash, and it only smeared around when he wiped his palms on his pants. He stuck a hand out to Ace, who hardly seemed to notice the state of it. Or, ignored it. They shook hands.

“Ace, Shachi,” Law said, clearing his throat. “Shachi, Ace.”

“Steam engines, huh?” Shachi commented. 

“Yeah,” Ace answered, setting down his bag and shoving his hands in his pockets. “They get sent to us for maintenance. They’re not too different from this, actually.” He nodded at the smoker.

“Not different, my ass,” Shachi jeered. “Boilers make it look like I’m playing with tinker toys over here.”

Ace smirked. “They look worse than they are." He ducked his head, peering past Shachi's shoulder and through the smoker door. "Do you know what’s wrong with this thing?”

Shachi groaned and scratched his head. “A combination of things, I think. Which is the problem. If it were only one thing I could handle it, but since I started messing with stuff, it seems like everything’s off. I checked the vent on the roof, which would be the most obvious thing, and it was stuck a little bit, but not completely cut off. That shouldn’t have been a huge problem, but still, I spent some time messing with that, and then tried adjusting the other ones, to see, and, well… who knows at this point? Even when it’s working, it’s not working great. It’s still leaking smoke out the front, and now that Law’s all touchy about it–”

Law glared, “I’m not touchy, I’m–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shachi waved him off, ”Now that he’s all touchy about it, any amount of smoke is an issue for him.”

“I can’t live here if it smells like a campfire,” Law reminded him shortly. 

“See?” Shachi said to Ace, raising an eyebrow. “Touchy.”

“I’m leaving,” Law announced. 

“Leaving, leaving?” Shachi asked hopefully. 

Law narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be in my office.”

Shachi leaned over to Ace conspiratorially. “Bummer,” he said, “I guess we have to work the whole time.”

“I’m not babysitting you,” Law said, annoyed. “I have work to do.”

“Fine,” Shachi accepted, “Then keep your door closed. There’s going to be some loud noises and maybe a little smoke while we figure this out. If you come sniffing around every time you think the building’s going to explode, we’ll never finish. Plus—“ he gestured widely to Ace, at his side, “he’s here now, and with two of us, we’ll be twice as fast getting to the fire extinguisher.”

Jesus, what had he signed Ace up for? 

Law tried to shoot Ace an apologetic look, but it turned into a scowl when he saw how much Ace seemed to be enjoying this.

Shachi stepped toward Law, reaching out and pushing him toward the hallway. “Now stop worrying and go on back,” he said as he walked Law halfway to the office, “I’ll take care of your friend.”

Law scowled at being led around. It wasn't fair that he was already going this way anyway. He wasn't going because Shachi told him to, but because he did actually have notes to write, and while he wasn’t quite as worried about the smoker as Shachi made it seem (Law thought he was a perfectly acceptable amount of worried, given that he was tired of sleeping in meat smoke and didn’t want their building reduced to ash), it was distracting to have clanging noises and conversations happening. He entered the office and pulled the door behind him. 

Fine then. Law sat heavily at his desk and took up his notes. Even though it was getting late, he wanted to finish the note he had been working on. It was actually interesting. He’d seen a guy last night who’d been shot in the arm, over a year ago, and never had the bullet fragments removed, until yesterday, when Law cut it out of him. Apparently it’d migrated outward into a nerve, sending shooting pain down the guy’s thumb, months after it had healed over. 

He sketched the size and shape of the fragment, which was a little larger than a fingernail clipping and stored in a small glass bottle on his desk. The guy hadn’t wanted it. 

Some time later, Law stretched in his chair and checked the clock, having finished his first note, and then another shorter one from the clinic after that. It was later than he expected, and he was hungry now that his writing wasn't distracting him. He poked his head out of his office, bracing for smoke and loud noises, but encountered neither.

He did, though, find Ace on the floor in front of the smoker, scrubbing at the bottom of it with a wire brush. He was focused, crouched on his toes and leaning in close to inspect… some part of the thing. He was also surprisingly quiet. Besides the even shuff shuff shuff of the brush going back and forth, he didn’t make any sounds louder than his own breathing. He didn’t knock the grates inside the smoker, didn’t bump the door, hardly moved, apart from his hand holding the brush moving in even, practiced lines. Ace navigated the inside of the smoker like a submarine captain, cleanly avoiding any collisions.

Law had accepted noise as an inevitable consequence of “mechanic stuff,” because Shachi could hardly hold onto a hammer without knocking it into something. Plenty of tasks probably had to be noisy— it’s not like anyone could hammer a nail quietly, right?— but Ace’s work was a whole lot quieter than whatever Shachi was doing. 

And where the hell did he go, anyway?

“Hey—“

Ace startled, smacking the back of his head on a metal door. “Ow,” he whined, rubbing a hand on his head and twisting around on the floor to face Law with a scowl.

“Shit—“ Law stepped forward, reaching out a hand to help Ace off the floor. “What? It’s not my fault.”

Ace took his hand, pulled himself to his feet. “You snuck up on me,” he complained. He ran his fingers against his scalp again, more assessingly now. 

“Is it terminal?" Law asked dryly. He normally treated anything medical-related with some brush of seriousness, but he’d seen Ace concerned about something before, and this wasn’t it. 

Ace cracked a smile, still rubbing the back of his head. “Isn't it your job to know that?”

“I’m on my break,” Law answered. Then he looked suspiciously around the room. “Speaking of breaks, where’s Shachi?” 

“North side,” Ace answered. “One of the things we need to fix is your top vent. It isn’t insulated well. It should really be bricked over if this is going to be permanent. Shachi said he knew a guy with some brick left over that we could use.”

“He went all the way to the north side?” Law asked, “How long ago?” 

“Um,” Ace thought, “Twenty minutes? He told me to leave— Stop making that face, he didn’t ditch me,” Ace laughed. “It’s cold again this week, so we decided he should really insulate this thing before we do anything else, because it’s hard to pull air into a cold vent like this. Then we’ll have the biggest project out of the way. I just decided to finish cleaning this out on my own. It could use it.” Ace placed his hand affectionately on the smoker's top. 

“That makes it sound like he neglected it,” Law commented.

“No, he gets the grates!” Ace defended. “You don’t need to clean this part out often, it gets filled with ash anyway. But since it’s getting repaired, we may as well start fresh." Law flipped the wire brush in his hand, catching it back in his palm. "Speaking of, do you have a dustpan or something?” 

“Yeah,” Law said, stepping back into the hallway, “One second—“

Law grabbed the dustpan from behind the counter, noticing that Bepo had closed up the store while he was in the office. It didn’t feel like it was past six already, but it was nearly dark out, the street looking orangish between the streetlights and last flicker of sunset. He returned to the back, handing over the dustpan to Ace.

“It’s getting late—“ 

“You’re kicking me out?” Ace said, crouching. 

“What? No.” 

Ace brushed a pile of ash into the pan, gathering it cleanly in three soft swipes. He stood, setting the brush on the top of the smoker and leaning against it. 

“Are you hungry?” Law asked.

Ace grinned. “Bepo got to us first,” he replied. “About half an hour ago.”

Law ignored the flicker of disappointment that caught in his throat. He should’ve guessed. Bepo loved giving out food, and he had more liberty to do so with friends, rather than customers. Law got passed over because his door was closed. Bepo, being who he was, always used to interrupt Law with food throughout the day, which was nice, except when it wasn’t, because he was also chatty, and wanted to know what Law was working on, and whether he was enjoying the weather outside, and if he was thirsty, or tired, or cold; and if Law didn’t bar Bepo from entering when his door was closed, he couldn’t guarantee a single moment of peace for himself.

“He left yours upstairs,” Ace mentioned. 

“Course he did,” Law replied, unsurprised. “Did Shachi give you any trouble?”

Ace shook his head. “Nah. He mostly knows what’s going on. Doesn’t seem like he’ll accidentally burn the shop down. He even took notes.”

“Wait, really?” Law asked. Shachi wasn’t a studious type, and he hated filling out any sort of inventory form for the store. 

“Yeah,” Ace said, “Over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room, where a few sheets of paper sat on a wooden crate. 

“Oh, excellent,” Law said, walking over to the crate. Ace went the other direction, grabbing the dustpan and saying he’d be right back. Law picked up the papers. Oh, wow, this was good. Shachi’s notes were almost illegible, the lines blotted and bumpy. Was this his handwriting? Surely, Law would’ve figured out already if this was his handwriting. The paper was slightly crinkled, like it had been pressed— was he trying to write on brick? That’d explain it. Law flipped to the second page, where he was treated to the shittest drawing of an object he’d ever seen. The collection of sort-of straight lines made it appear vent-like, but could’ve easily been some train tracks, or a stack of books, or–

“Uhh, Law?” Ace yelled from the back.

“What?” Law asked. 

“There’s a guy.” 

Drop in visit on a Monday? Or like a neighbor? 

“What do you mean there’s a guy?” Law yelled back.

“I mean a guy!”

“Well, what does he want?” 

“I dunno—“

“So ask him,” Law said, setting down the papers and turning to the door. 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not? ” 

“He’s… unconscious.”   

“What? ” Law yelled, “Start with that next time.” Law sped up, jogging to the back door and finding Ace standing in the doorway. 

“Move,” he said, but Ace was already pressing himself against the open door. 

On the ground was a large figure, lying face up. Light brown hair, well-muscled— standing up the guy would be a tank— and coupled with the most punchable face Law had ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

“Oh, fuck me. It’s Foot Guy?” Law leaned over at him, getting in his face and tightening his hands into fists. “Is it still a blister mister tough guy? Still feel like waiting this one out? No, no, don’t mind me, I’m just a doctor. I was definitely joking about the whole foot-falling-off thing, definitely just fucking with you when I said it’d kill your ass in a week.

“Law–”

“Let’s wait and see if it gets better on its own, right?” Law crouched down closer to the guy’s face, “What’s the rush, pal? My prices are shit anyway. Should I let you sleep in the alley for longer while we wait and see? Great goddamn idea. Maybe I'll pour myself a drink and listen to the crackle of your FUCKING gangrene, asshole.”

“Law—“ 

“What?” Law snapped. 

Ace had an amused grin, but was also rigidly pressed up against the door, well out of Law’s way. “Is this how you greet all your patients?”

“I hate this guy,” Law growled, pointing at the ground.

“Yeah, think I picked that up,” Ace said. “So what, we leave him out here?” 

“No,” Law countered in a slow drawl. “I’m gonna save his life.”

Ace made a face. “Why does that sound like a threat? And stop smiling like that, it’s creepy.”

Law crouched, placing the back of his hand on Foot Guy’s forehead, which was expectedly feverish. “That’s what I thought. A million goddamn degrees.” Law pulled open his eyelids, one at a time, watching the pupils shrink. The guy mumbled something. Law ignored that, moved onto his pulse. “Listen here, idiot. I’m gonna save your ass, and then I’m gonna see the dumb fucking look on your face when you admit I was right, and you were wrong. How does that—“

Law felt a sharp tug on his collar. Chillingly, Law recognized it as the same tactic Ace used for Luffy. Ace spoke before Law had the chance to complain. “I hate to be the adult in the room," he said, "But threatening the unconscious guy seems a little beneath you.”

“Fine,” said Law sourly, backing off and straightening up. “Let’s go wake him up, and then I’ll threaten him. You get his legs.” 

Ace pointed to chest. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Who else?” 

“What about Bepo? Or Shachi?” Ace looked around like he expected one of them to jump out a nearby window. 

“Bepo visits the farm after work on Mondays. And you’re the one who let Shachi go to the north side. You know most of his friends are up there? We’ll be lucky if he’s back before midnight,” said Law. 

On the weekends, they were pretty good about keeping an extra person around in case Law needed help with something. Mondays, though? Who’s going out and getting shot on a Monday? Plus, he specifically told this guy to not show up here again. “Come on,” Law urged, “Just get him down the stairs and then I’ll take over.” Ace eyed the man. Law did the same, studying the messily wrapped bandages on his foot. He had a pretty good idea what kind of disaster was underneath. Ace… might not enjoy that surprise. “Actually, I’ll take the legs.”

By the time Law reached Foot Guy’s titular foot, Ace had relented and was cautiously approaching his shoulders. “Is he… contagious? Ahh, gross, he’s wet.”

“Not contagious, just sweaty.” It was hard to get a grip on Foot Guy’s ankles without accidentally running into The Foot, but he finally managed it by balling up a pant leg in his fist. “Ready?”

Ace agreed, and then they started dragging. The guy was heavy. Standing up, he was a head taller than Law and his shoulders were twice as wide. His grip strength was notably ridiculous, which Law discovered two days ago when Foot Guy tried to throttle him, thinking he was getting scammed out of $10 and a few toes. Now, this guy’s muscle-packed frame was a different problem for Law, and he strained trying to keep the guy’s ass off the floor. It was no easy feat. Ace grimaced the whole time, either from the weight or because the guy was sweaty, probably both. They made it down the stairs and counted down for one final push onto the table. Law got to work immediately, wetting a rag and grabbing his smelling salts.

Having been moved, Foot Guy started to rouse. Law slapped the rag across his forehead and shoved the smelling salts beneath his nose. With his other hand, Law snapped his fingers in the man’s face. 

“Wake up, asshole, we need to talk,” Law demanded. 

Foot Guy’s eyes opened and focused on Law’s face. Kind of. 

“Do you know where you are?” Law asked impatiently.

Foot Guy eyes wandered around the room, and then sort of settled on Law for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice cracked with dehydration. “Doctor–” he swallowed, making a pained expression at the exertion, “S– save me, p– please. ” Weakly, his arms reached out for Law, who stepped clear of the large, meaty palms. Tears sprung into the man’s eyes and they turned glassy. “Please. ”

Law wasn’t having any of it. “You owe me money–”

“I– I wanna live,” the man pleaded. He half-rolled to his side, reaching in Law’s direction again. Law shoved his shoulder away, tipping him back flat on the table. 

“Sure, whatever.” Law answered, “Are you gonna pay me this time or—“

“M– mother?” The man turned his head and stared straight into the dangling lightbulb overhead. His eyes moved back and forth, like he was searching for something there. Then, they stilled. “M– Mother?” His face broke into an open sob. “Oh, mother, it’s really you.” Foot Guy reached out his hands, grasping at empty air. He spoke disfluently, sputtering and hiccuping as he went. “I– can’t believe it… can’t believe you came… back for me…”

Law narrowed his eyes. Pretty convenient for him to start hallucinating when money was brought up. 

Ace approached Law’s side, watching the man pathetically wave his arms and sob. “So,” he said dryly, “Is this what you were looking forward to?”

Law scowled. “He wasn’t like this on Saturday.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“He stiffed me and then tried to strangle me,” Law argued. 

“Maybe he thought you were his mother,” Ace said, raising an eyebrow at the man’s gestures. Foot Guy swiped another hand, stretching his fingers and then tightening them into an animalistic claw. Even though the guy was only half-conscious, the sheer mass of his forearms made the movement threatening.

“You’re saying he strangled his mother?” Law asked, looking at Ace incredulously. “That’s–” Law rubbed at his neck, which was still sore, though he was sure the man hadn’t been using his full strength. The guy had been pretty quick to anger. And look at him now, bawling his eyes out and riddled with guilt? “Shit, maybe.”

Ace shoved Law’s shoulder. “Idiot, I was joking, he didn’t–”

“He could have.” 

“You only think that because he tried to strangle you,” Ace argued.

“Yeah," Law huffed, "Which has to be the best argument for someone being a strangler.”

The man coughed wetly and dropped his hand heavily on the metal table. His knuckles hit first, and the sound rung out like a large, muted bell. The strangling hallucination had tuckered him out.

Law moved closer, studying the man’s breathing. “Hey, you–” he said, waving a hand.

The man looked around helplessly for Law’s voice, his eyes bleary and failing to focus. 

Law tapped on his shoulder, and the man opened his eyes wider. “If I help you, you’re paying for this time and last time, got it?” 

The man’s head rolled a few inches to the side. Law turned to Ace. “You saw him nod, right?” 

“Uh. Sure,” Ace agreed skeptically.

Law returned his attention to the guy, who may or may not have been fully asleep at that point. “And you’re not complaining about how many toes I take off, got it?”

“Wait, what ?” Ace asked from behind him.

“What?” asked Law, turning around to Ace. 

“You’re taking his toes off?”

“Not all of them.” 

“Here? Now?” Ace asked, glancing around the basement around him like he was seeing it for the first time. 

Law thought it was pretty clear what kinds of things happened down here, but he was also the one in charge of it. “It’s better than the alley,” he said. “And we shouldn’t waste time, this should've happened days ago.”

Ace wrinkled his brow, looking over Foot Guy with a fresh, fearful gaze. 

“If you saw these toes,” Law continued, “You’d want them off too. Actually–” Law stepped toward the man’s foot and started rolling off the bandages. After a few loops, the smell hit. Law wouldn’t say he was used to it– the revulsion was too instinctual, too ingrained in the tissues of his nose and mouth willing him to gag, vomit, run– but he could control his reaction to it and keep a clear head. It helped that he always had something to do to distract him. There was already a next step. A plan to be made. 

The rest of the soiled bandage fell off, revealing two fully blackened toes, the darkness stretching down the outside of the foot, toward the heel, and enlarged, leech-like blisters protruding from the skin. 

Behind him, Ace gagged. “What-the-fuck-is-that?” he heaved.

Law turned to find that Ace had skittered back a few feet and leaned over defensively. Like the foot was going to leap up and attack him. 

“Gangrene, like I said,” Law said plainly. 

“Yeah, but–” Ace swallowed, wiped his mouth, “What is it?”

“His foot’s dying. Partially. We have to get rid of the dead parts.” 

Law nodded toward Ace, whose face transitioned slowly from confusion, to horror, to defiance.

“Law.” Ace breathed. “Absolutely-fucking-not.”

Law thought this might be a hard sell, but he wasn’t lying when he said this should happen quickly, and everyone else was out. “Ace,” Law said calmly. “I just need you to hold a mask on this guy and make sure he doesn’t wake up.”

“But…” Ace peered around Law’s shoulder at the guy. “He’s already asleep.”

“He’s not going to stay that way if I’m chopping off his toes.” 

Ace looked up at Law, a last-ditch plea in his expression. Law studied his face. He wasn’t just complaining, he was genuinely stressed. His cheeks flushed red. Sweat glossed along his hairline. This might get tricky. 

“Ace, we don’t have any other options.” Law stated. He hoped that if he used “we” enough, eventually Ace would recognize them as a team, or something. 

Before Ace could answer, Law picked an apron off the wall hook and tossed it at Ace. Then he pulled out a mask and gloves. Without asking, Law grabbed the neck-loop of the apron in Ace’s hands and dropped it over his head. He handed Ace the mask and gloves. “Put these on and grab that stool up there.”

While Ace got himself accustomed to the idea that yes, they did have to do this, Law got ready in a fraction of the time and started laying out supplies on the counter. For something like this, that basically meant cleaning out every drawer. It all had an order, one which made perfect sense to Law but frustrated other doctors, if he happened to work with any in the clinic. He was used to doing things with him and another person, rather than a whole team, so he arranged things in order of possible urgency, and anything that had multiple uses stayed especially close. 

Law grabbed a few things and walked over to Ace at the end of the table, motioning for him to sit on the stool. 

“Mask.” Law said, holding up a mouth-sized metal cage with gauze over it. “Ether,” he said, holding up a metal can with a white and red label. 

Law tapped Foot Guy’s cheek. The man recoiled like a fly had landed on him. “Hey, can you count?”

The man mumbled a sleepy response. 

“Guess not,” Law decided, dropping the mask over his face. He uncapped the bottle of ether, pouring a few drops over the mask. “He’s sleeping now, but he’s going to go unconscious. If he coughs or sounds like he’s gargling, lift this up until he stops. Every few minutes add more of this–” Law handed Ace the can, “And tell me if he stops breathing. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Ace said miserably, inspecting the label on the can. 

“Good,” Law said. “I’m going to go figure out…” he waved at hand, “All that.” 

Law pulled on his gloves and leaned over the man’s foot to inspect it. He poked at the toes, hearing the signature crackle of the gas pockets underneath the skin, which itself was black and wrinkled. Foot Guy and his buddies had gone on an extended hunting trip and were run off course because they'd been on someone else's property or something. Foot Guy got a nasty cut on his foot, ignored it, ran through a bunch of fields with god-knows-what in them, and, ta-da! Gas gangrene. The blisters, dark and fluid-filled, masked the foot’s natural silhouette, creating mounds and ridges where they shouldn’t be possible and blowing up the toes into amorphous knobs. The gangrene spread unevenly on the top and bottom of the foot, past the base of his toes. Wasn’t like that the other day. This guy’s stubbornness was going to cost him a few foot bones. Law sighed. It was almost worth taking the whole foot, which would be much simpler, but, only almost. 

He looked up at Ace, who was dutifully dropping Ether over the man’s face, a healthy expression of fear in his eyes. Law was going to owe him for this one. Especially– Law thought with a twist of guilt in his stomach– because he was lying through his teeth. 

In these types of situations, some people would rather not know all the details. They were the same people who chose to get shots without the countdown. Sometimes it was better to focus on the immediate next thing and not the big picture. Was Ace one of those people? Law wasn’t sure, but for now, his strategy was to introduce one thing at a time, and hope Ace would just go along with it. 

It was working for now.

Law refocused on the rest of his preparation, though most of it was muscle memory at this point. He cut the guy’s pant leg up above the knee, propped his lower leg up on a box, and cleaned off it off as best he could, the smell of antiseptic combating bravely but unsuccessfully against the smell of rotting flesh. While he worked, he snuck glances at Foot Guy’s chest, watching his breathing. Ace seemed like he was doing his job diligently, but it wouldn’t hurt to double check that this guy didn’t die before they even started anything.

After he finished, Law visited Ace’s end of the table again and pulled the guy’s eyelids up with his fingers. He shined a light into each of them, watching for movement. Foot Guy's breathing was slow— slower than before— and even.

“We’re done up here,” Law announced. 

“What?” Ace asked, turning over his shoulder. “Aren’t I keeping him asleep? You haven’t done anything yet.”

“He’ll stay asleep,” Law said decisively. “I need you to hold something.”

“Hold what?” Ace asked skeptically.

Law grabbed Ace lightly by the shoulders, leading him over to the other end of the table. “I’ll show you.”

“Wait, Law? No. Nonono, you said I could stay over there.” Ace resisted, planting his feet stubbornly on the ground. 

“I lied,” Law said, prodding Ace to the other end of the table. Then he pulled his tourniquet off the counter and wrapped it tightly around the guy’s lower leg, twisting it in place. He moved the crate off, bent the guy’s knee, and placed his foot flat on the table. Law patted the leg invitingly. “All you need to do is hold this still. It’s even easier than the ether.”

“No,” Ace argued. “It’s closer.”

“Face that way,” Law nodded in the direction of the storage door. 

Ace looked over at the door, then at the guy’s leg, then back at Law. He sucked in a slow breath, then released it heavily behind his mask. “Just… hold it?” Ace asked. “You swear that’s it?”

No, but–

“Yeah,” Law answered. 

“Fuck. Fine,” Ace relented. 

“He won’t be trying to move, but I just need him to not flop over while I’m…” 

“Chopping his fucking toes off?” Ace answered. 

“Yeah, that.”

Law got to work on Foot Guy’s foot. He had to start by draining out the dark, stiffened blisters, because those could get messy if he put too much pressure on them with a scalpel. He made small incisions in the largest ones, ignoring one on a toe that they’d be getting rid of— he didn’t need to cut that high up. A slow, sickly fluid seeped out of the blisters, and Law layered rags underneath to catch the drainage. 

Didn’t stop the smell though. Next to him, Ace gagged.

“Law—“ Ace coughed, “What did you do?”

Law paused, holding his scalpel aloft, looking at the swirling mosaic of blackened skin, infection, and blood in front of him. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Ace groaned, shifting in his feet. He looked pale. “Law, I can’t do this,” he said hurriedly. “I’m gonna vomit. I’ll go get someone else, I’ll go… I’ll go wake up your neighbors, I don’t know. But this sucks, Law. It sucks so bad down here, I can’t—“

Fine, time to change his strategy. 

“There’s a metal bucket upstairs,” Law said. “It’s behind the counter, on the floor. Go grab it for me.”

Ace looked at the guy’s leg he was holding up. Law reached over and put a hand on it. “I’ll get this. Go.”

Having been released, Ace shot out of the basement and up the stairs. 

Law didn’t need the bucket. He needed to plan what he wanted to say, and he needed Ace to clear his head for a second. Law couldn’t talk him into anything while he was panicking. 

Law had a lot of practice talking people through these situations. When patients came into his clinic, they often had other people with them, who were in various states of freaking the fuck out. Law couldn’t ignore them. He didn’t have the luxury of a waiting room or secretary. If he didn’t give those people jobs, or directions, or something they’d be watching over Law’s shoulder, saying stupid shit like “he’s bleeding,” or “you have to help her.” Like Law was going to get anything useful from a single thing coming out of their mouths. Like they weren’t interrupting Law’s very useful train of thought consisting of Actual Medicine every time they talked. Sometimes he had them hand him things. Sometimes they cleaned his counter, or the far end of the table. Once he'd gotten some lawyer type to spend twenty minutes searching for a medicine that didn't exist. 

Unfortunately, Law needed Ace to actually help, so it was time to pivot. 

It didn’t take Ace long to return, bucket in hand. He waited hesitantly at the bottom of the stairs, not entering the room.

Law walked up to him, taking the bucket out of his hands and leaning casually against the wall. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he stated. “First, I’m going to cut a line down the side of that guy’s foot. Then, I’m going to clear out some of the dead tissue so I can get a better look at what’s there. After that, I’ll take out the pinky toe, along with the foot bone right behind it. Easy, I’ll cut through the joint. Takes like a minute. Then we move to the fourth toe, do the same thing. After that, I close up anything that’s bleeding, clean out any dead tissue that’s leftover, and throw a bandage over the whole thing.”

Ace stared at him blankly.

Law continued, “The tourniquet will slow the bleeding, but occasionally we need to pour a solution over the whole thing to clean it out.  I also need someone to hold the skin back for a bit to be able to see anything well. Or hold his leg still. And—“ Law placed a hand on Ace’s shoulder, ”The whole thing goes a lot faster if I have someone to hand me stuff.”

“You’re really making me do this?” Ace asked.

Hey, that sounded promising. Law waited.

 “I didn’t even make it to the actual surgery part,” Ace argued.

Law waited longer.

“Fuck, fine,” Ace said, half-groaning. “How long will this take?”

Law applauded himself for getting Ace on board. His next tactic was usually appealing to a person’s emotions toward humanity, and Law really didn’t want to make a speech about lives being precious or whatever-the-fuck. He didn’t even like this guy, and that made it hard to convincingly beg for his well-being. 

“Thirty minutes, give or take,” Law replied. Probably shorter, but Law wanted to leave time for complications. “And the rest of it shouldn’t smell as bad, so that’s a positive.”

Ace looked at him doubtfully, posture a bit slumped. 

Law clapped him on the shoulder. “Alright, let’s get to work before this guy wakes up on us.”

Ace continued to look deeply uncomfortable and mildly nauseous throughout Law’s explanations of their process. Law walked him through the tasks he mentioned, and Ace, for all his reluctance, was a fast learner. He caught onto the general order of steps in the debridement process and started anticipating what Law would need next. He moved efficiently, seemed to be successfully avoiding looking at The Foot. 

Law moved smoothly into the amputation. He announced it casually, tone unchanging, and told Ace to hold onto a small metal hook pulling back a flap of skin. 

The pinky toe was far, far gone, hardly resembling flesh anymore. It was thinner than the other affected toe, lacking blisters, and much more wrinkled than it should be. Raisin-like. When Law cut it away at the joint, it hardly protested, falling away cleanly. He tossed it into the metal bucket at his feet.

He needed to look at the other foot bone behind it, but first—

“Ace?” 

“What? ” Ace snapped. He was doing his job, but he had gotten paler, and half-hid his face behind his upper arm. He had his “free” hand clamped onto the wrist of the one holding the metal hook, like it would run away if he didn’t hold it there. 

“Ninety seconds.” Law said, eyeing up the phalanx and checking that the rot hadn’t burrowed through to the metatarsal. 

“Until what?” Ace asked apprehensively.

“Until he explodes.”

Ace’s eyes widened.

“Joking,” Law said, smiling behind his mask. He wasn't sure if it was helpful or evil to make jokes at a time like this. Probably both. “Give me ninety more seconds here and then I need you to mix more solution," he explained.

They were probably good without more solution, but it was the best-smelling task that Law could think of. 

“Ninety?” Ace sounded weary, like it was minutes or days instead of seconds. “I don’t—“

“How many wheels are on a train?” Law interrupted.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“I don’t.” Law said, grabbing a smaller scalpel to remove a yellowish bit of muscle. “Answer it.”

“It depends on the train.”

“The one you worked on today,” Law clarified, locking his eyes on the bit of flesh he was manipulating. “How many wheels?”

‘How many' questions were Law’s go-to distractions. Per his policy, he didn’t ask personal questions, and it was wild how many seemingly innocuous questions got into dubious territory. Asking about weekend plans or childhood memories was a slippery slope into personal information. So, he instead learned a lot about how many lamps were in people’s workplaces or how many ties they owned. 

“It’s a compound Mallet,” Ace answered. Like that explained anything.

“That’s not a number,” Law stated. 

“Two, six, six, two,” Ace clarified.

Law furrowed his brow. “That’s too many numbers.”

“Is this important?” Ace complained.

“Incredibly,” Law answered dryly, not looking up from his scalpel. He didn’t hear a response, and he glanced up to see Ace watching what he was doing, looking greenish again. “How many wheels, Ace?”

Ace blinked. Refocused. “The sixes are driving wheels, so twelve of those. Then two leading wheels, two trailing wheels.”

“Which makes what?” Law asked, too busy to add up the numbers. This little exercise wasn’t for him, so he wasn’t doing the mental math. Law tightened his grip on his scalpel, aimed at the next joint, cut out the phalanx and swiped it into the bucket. 

Ace flinched at the noise. 

“Which makes what?” Law asked, more sternly this time.

“Six… sixteen,” Ace swallowed. He was watching Law’s hands again. He needed to not be doing that. 

“What about the rest of the train?” Law asked.

“Eight each,” Ace answered hurriedly, “Are you almost done?”

“Thirty seconds,” Law said, grabbing a clamp and some sutures to close off an artery. There was more blood now. Ace’s focus on train wheels was flagging, and he was paying way too much attention to Law. He probably didn’t want to be watching so closely– not probably, definitely– but sometimes people had trouble tearing themselves away when everything was up close and they were involved in it. Law didn’t feel like more questions would be helpful, so he went for a countdown instead. He affixed the small clamp on the artery. “Twenty seconds.”

He looped the sutures behind the clamp, pulling them tight. 

“Fifteen seconds.”

With his right hand, he twisted his fingers with the thin lines, pulling them in fast, methodical loops. 

“Ten seconds.”

He reached around Ace to grab scissors off the counter, then came back to cut the dangling loose ends. 

“Five seconds.”

Removed the clamp.

“You’re done,” Law took the hook out of Ace’s hand and elbowed him away from the table. Not rudely, only because he looked like he was going to vomit if he stayed any longer. That had to be some of the cleanest suturing he'd done, and fast too. Not that anyone else here was going to appreciate it. “There’s a jug in the tall cabinet. Fill it three-quarters of the way with water then add what’s left in that bottle.”

Ace listened, but he didn’t say anything, and Law saw his hand slip on the cabinet door. Damn. Law was out of tricks, and it didn't seem like Ace would make it through another toe. 

Fine, then. He’d just have to hold the ankle steady with his left hand and do everything else with his right. If Ace could at least hand him a few things he could probably get away with it. He’d just have to hope for a clean cut, minimal bleeding, no surprise areas where the gangrene spread deeper than he expected it to.

He told Ace the plan and set him to work on some organizing tasks while Law got ready to tackle the other toe. Ace bounced back a bit, keeping his distance while he set things out in the specified order.

Before Ace had time to idle, Law announced that he was starting. He also immediately told Ace to cut a few lengths of sutures, which would be handy for later on and useful for keeping Ace nearby, but distracted. Law made his first incision. Asked for a rag. Told Ace to thread a needle. 

Then he focused on finding the joint he needed to disarticulate, which was harder here than on the other toe. The fourth toe was deeply affected, and the rot and blistering made it reminiscent of a horrible, putrid blackberry. Jesus. He should really stop comparing body parts to food, but— given the location of his clinic— that could be hard. Those sorts of thoughts were some of the only ones that could still turn Law’s stomach after all this time. Especially when he also happened to be hungry. He tried to refocus, steadying his scalpel over the joint at the base of the toe. He gripped the guy’s ankle in his left hand, making sure it was stable. Then he looked back to his scalpel, tightened his fingers around it. Watched where it sliced into the joint and—

What sucked, really sucked, was that a blackberry— especially a moldy one— was actually a pretty good comparison for what he was looking at, and only got worse when Law felt the scalpel run through the firmer, crunchy-ish center of it, and saw dark purplish fluid left behind—

His hand slipped. 

His scalpel ran unevenly into the table, shot a centimeter to the side, which, was fine, because he only hit metal— the cut was still fairly clean— but it did send the loose toe careening across the metal table, and Law watched it bounce a few times before it rolled to the far end of the table.

Oops.

Ace’s hand shot out, snatching it out cleanly out of the air before it fell. Law heard a strange, muted pop.

Uhh.

Law looked at Ace’s fist. 

Law looked up at Ace. 

Ace looked back at Law. Then the foot, toe noticeably absent, then back at his hand.

His mouth dropped open in horror. 

“LAW– ” he yelled, panicking. His fingers tightened together, like the toe was trying to escape his grip. “WHAT WAS THAT?”

“WHY’D YOU GRAB IT?”

“WHY’D YOU SHOOT IT OFF THE TABLE?”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO–” Ace wasn’t looking at Law anymore. Wait, what was he doing? “Wait, wait, wait, Ace—”

As if possessed, Ace slowly opened his hand, eyes trained on the middle of it. His mouth twisted into a grimace. Morbidly, all Law could do was watch, horrified curiosity making it impossible to look away. 

Smack in the center of Ace’s palm was the ‘blackberry.’

Squished.  

Ace’s shoulder hitched upward.

“WAIT—” Law lunged at Ace’s arm before he could reflexively shake out his hand like a wet dog, which would have sent a spray of god-knows-what flying through the air. Law crashed into Ace’s back, wrapping his arms around him and grabbing Ace’s wrist to steady it with his right hand. Ace gagged, coughed, wriggled against Law’s arms. With his left hand, Law grabbed the toe out of Ace’s palm (the main, together parts of it, at least), and tossed it clumsily on the table before reaching back for Ace’s glove, pulling it off and throwing it to the ground. 

Law let go and Ace stumbled to the nearest wall, braced his hands against it, and vomited. 

Well, this wasn’t ideal.

Law watched him for a moment, mildly stunned and thinking that he was wrong about the smell being at its worst before. Ace wiped his mouth with his arm, wobbled without both his hands braced against the wall, and dragged his foot along the floor toward—

Foot Guy. 

Law spun, remembering that he was very much in the middle of something. He quickly checked the guy’s foot, dumping saline over it to clear the pooling blood and gauging how much he was bleeding. He fit a clamp onto an artery and left it there, for now. Foot Guy would be alright for a minute. Law pulled his own gloves off and stepped over to Ace, who had collapsed to the bottom stair, leaning over like he might get sick again. Law could wait for him to recover, but it smelled like shit in here now, and Law thought Ace would appreciate leaving the basement as soon as possible. He put a hand around Ace’s back and lifted his arm over his own shoulder. 

“Time to go,” Law grunted, lifting Ace to his feet, kind of. Ace complied, leaning against him and drooping his head forward. His hair dangled across his face, some of it sticking to his forehead. He walked alright but looked deathly. Law braced an arm on the stair railing, trying to keep them as upright as possible. 

“Don’t pass out,” Law ordered as they hit the landing. 

Ace huffed something that may have been a laugh. 

Law pulled out his keys and unlocked the door to his upstairs apartment, dragged Ace up the second set of stairs. At the top there was a built-in wooden bench, which Law cleared off with a swing of his arm, sending shoes, an umbrella, and a newspaper to the floor. He sat Ace down on it and crouched in front of him. 

“Hey–” Law put his left hand on Ace’s shoulder, pushed his hair out of his face with his right. “You alright?”

Ace smiled weakly. That was a good sign. “Alright?” Ace laughed. “You mean aside from that being the grossest moment of my whole life?”

“Yeah, that’s uhh. My bad.” Law said. He didn’t apologize a lot, but this one he felt a little bad about. 

Ace shook his head, smiling. “It’s these caps,” he explained. Law didn’t follow. “On the brakes,” Ace clarified. “I kept dropping them today. They’re easy to lose, and they roll, so—“ he made a swiping motion with his hand, eyeing it warily. Then he hiccupped a laugh, eyes watering, smile broadening until he was having a fit, shoulders shaking and breath sputtering. He leaned back, still laughing but also wiping at his eyes. "Did you see how fucking fast I caught that?" He swiped his hand again, cracking up at the sight of it. "Pretty impressive, right?"

Okay, so Law had fully broken him. He hesitantly laughed along. "Maybe next time try baseball instead." 

Ace laughed harder, nodding in agreement. 

Law liked the sound of Ace's laugh, clear and unabashed. Ace had a positive disposition, generally, but it was different for someone to laugh, really laugh, so genuinely. His cheeks, flushed, pushed up underneath Ace's eyes, making his whole face look lighter. Law liked him like this. He wondered what the hell he'd done to earn it. 

He wanted to linger in his apartment for longer. Ace was fun, he thought. It was as simple as that. Even when Law was torturing him. Even when Law was busy trying to keep a guy from dying. Even when Ace was just one of an endless stream of customers and patients coming through the door— all different but still basically the same— Ace stood out among them like the sun slipping between buildings, every so often drilling a ray of light into the solid wall of Law's building. Law wished he could stay. But, shit, he was taking way too long, and he might actually kill Foot Guy if he kept stalling. “Alright," he said hurriedly, "I have to go sew up that guy’s foot, but everything in here is fair game. Seriously. Just don’t pass out— or, at least lay down first, and try not to throw up on anything, but if you do– I think we can both agree I had it coming.”

Ace grinned at that. 

Law pointed his thumb backward. ”Bathroom’s behind me, kitchen’s down the hall. You should eat something before you go anywhere, but you're also welcome to stay here.” Law didn't know if that was weird to offer, but he had sick people stay over once in a while, so it seemed normal to him. He'd be downstairs with Foot Guy for most of the night anyway. He stood up, took a step toward the door. ”Yell at me if you need anything else.” He put his hand on the door handle, feeling anxious about the amount of time he’d been gone. But he wasn’t going to send Ace up here and leave him to fend for himself. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

Ace looked up at Law, smirking, hands dangling casually between his knees. “You know, you’re kind of…”

“Kind of what?” Law asked. 

“Fussy,” Ace declared.

Law called it being a doctor, but sure. He didn't have time to defend himself anyway. 

"Go take a shower," he said as he walked through the door. "You smell like shit." 

Law returned to the basement to finish the rest of the surgery. Foot Guy hadn't bled out while Law was upstairs, so that was good news. The rest of the surgery wasn't especially complicated, just slow and difficult because he was flying solo. Cutting out the rest of the dead tissue took the longest, because he had to be absolutely sure to find it all, and that was hard when he only had one hand to hold back the skin and the other to clean things out. For much the same reason, suturing the blood vessels was a pain in the ass, and he had to get creative with his tools in order to keep the foot stabilized in a way that he could see what he was doing. On top of that, Law was worried about the guy waking up, since everything was taking longer, and Law had to keep checking to see if he was still fully under.

Also, the smell was really starting to get to him. 

By the end of it, Law was exhausted. He started cleaning the basement and organizing everything back into place, but it was half-assed. He was staring down at a bucket of soiled rags, wondering if he could leave them for the morning without thinking about them all night, when Shachi walked through the back door. 

Thank christ. “Shachi?”

“What?”

“We have an overnight.”

“Seriously?” Shachi poked his head in the basement doorway. “Hold on, I need to put this stuff down.”

Shachi banged something down on the table upstairs. Then he trotted down into the basement, making a face and waving a hand when he got to the bottom. “Jesus, Law, what did you do down here?” he asked. 

Law kicked at the bucket on the ground containing the carnage from the surgery. Shachi peered inside and then looked at the man on the table. “No way–” Shachi's face put on an amused half-smile, “He came back?”

Shachi hadn’t been in the shop Saturday, but they all heard about the incident, and were warned about any large, muscular men with gangrenous toes coming around. “He passed out in the alley, actually,” Law explianed. 

“Is that right?” Shachi studied the man’s face, and then inspected the bandages covering Law’s work on his foot. “I take it he didn’t try to strangle you this time.”

“Not so far,” Law said. “We’ll see how it goes when he wakes up with half a foot and a bill for two month’s wages.”

Shachi reached past Law to pull gloves out of a drawer, snapping them on without comment. He grabbed a rag and started cleaning Law’s instruments, which were collected on the counter in a heap. He took the dirtiest scalpel first, rinsing in under the sink and turning the water pink-ish in the basin. “So, how’d it go?,” he asked, holding up the scalpel, inspecting it before sticking it back under the water. He glanced over at Law, “Did you do this yourself?”

“No,” said Law, putting a bottle back into his medicine cabinet. 

“Did Ikkaku–”

“She had class tonight.”

“Bepo?” Shachi guessed.

“No."

“Then…” Shachi scrunched his face, thinking. Then his head whipped around, his mouth hanging open. “ No .”

Law tried to keep a straight face, but the corner of his mouth snuck upward. 

“Law, you did not . I thought he was your friend!” Shachi dropped his hands, scalpel clinking against the metal sink. 

“E veryone else was out," Law argued.

“I was coming back!”

“You took too long,” Law complained. 

Shachi laughed, “You’re a monster. He stays late to help us fix the smoker and this is what he gets.” Shachi waved an arm at Foot Guy, shaking his head. “Ace must’ve owed you one hell of a favor. Jesus.”

“Not really,” Law shrugged. 

“No?” Shachi asked skeptically. "Then that's quite the generous friend you've made.”

“Bepo’s the one who made friends with them.”

“That‘s not what Bepo said.”

Law threw him a look. Did they really need to spend their free time talking about Law's life? Didn't they have anything better to do? This had been a habit of theirs for a while. A hobby, really. Like Law— who spent most of his time working, reading, or sleeping— was ever doing anything interesting enough to warrant discussion. Something was wrong with them. 

“What?” Shachi asked. He knew what. Ignoring Law, he continued, “Bepo said he made friends with the kid.” 

“Same thing,” Law argued, “They’re kind of a package deal.” 

“If you say so,” Shachi shrugged, looking smug. “How’d he do, anyway? He seems smart enough, at least.”

“Uhh—“ Law choked on a laugh, and Shachi threw him a worried look. 

“What’d you do?” he asked, bracing his hands along the edge of the sink.

“There was a... complication.”

“Law—“

“I slipped and knocked a toe off the table, and he caught it.”

Shachi grimaced and raised an eyebrow. “He caught it? Why?”

“And then he squished it,” Law said, raising an eyebrow meaningfully at the bucket on the floor. “And then he threw up.”

“That’s his?!” Shachi pointed at the vomit by the stairs. 

Law nodded, snickering. Shachi belly-laughed, taking a peek into the bucket to inspect the damage. He laughed harder. “Law, that’s horrifying.”

“I didn’t tell him to catch it!” Law defended.

“Oh, so it’s his fault?” Shachi mocked. 

“No,” Law conceded. “But it’s not like I could’ve seen that coming. He might have made it if not for—.” 

“Might have?” Shachi interrupted. “So he was already in bad shape?”

“I—” 

“This is why we stopped letting you train people,” Shachi interrupted, pointing a scalpel accusingly at Law.

Law glared. He didn’t even like training people, and he remembered passing that responsibility off to Shachi by choice, not being barred from doing it. 

“It's not like I planned it," Law shrugged. "He's just unlucky. Really unlucky." Law looked up in the direction of his apartment. "Actually, I should probably go check on him.”

“He’s still here?” Shachi asked. “You mean he didn’t immediately bolt out the back door?”

“I dragged him upstairs.”

“Pfft, dragged?” Shachi laughed. He went back to rinsing a clamp at the sink, shooing Law away with one hand. “Yeah, you should go check on him. I’ll finish cleaning this.”

“Thanks, Shachi,” Law said.

He meant it. The rest of Law’s crew weren’t trained in medicine, but they were all on board with learning enough to keep the clinic functional. Law was only one person. He could run the thing, but if he had to do everything, he’d end up killing someone. Everyone else slowly built up experience, and at this point, they were collectively pretty good. 

Law climbed back up to his apartment and swung open the door, finding it mostly dark inside. Lamplight leaked from the hallway.

Law liked his apartment. A lot. It took him a long time to get used to it. He had a bad track record with living spaces. His family's house in Flevance was in ashes. He had no attachment to the shitty, mostly abandoned buildings that Doflamingo kept them in. His time with Cora was the most transient, moving around the city and hoping they didn't get caught by the wrong people. 

When they first bought the shop, Law kept his apartment barren. His office, he could fill; the books and files in there had a purpose. But his apartment’s purpose was simple: eat, sleep, shower. It didn’t need anything else. There were hospital rooms with more warmth and charm than his apartment. 

Bepo noticed. He loved collecting worthless shit— little trinkets from the market, magazines he liked, any note or postcard that anyone gave him, ever. He pestered Law about getting more furniture, which Law ignored, until Bepo got him one of those stupid, souvenir coin books for his birthday, and looked so damn happy about it that Law felt bad trashing it, so it sat in the corner of his apartment until he finally bought a shelf for it, just to get it off the floor. And since he had to hang onto it he may as well check for the stupid coins anyway. And if he had to look for them, he may as well find out what they were worth and made of and why they were collectible— it’s not like it was hard, those books were for children— and before he knew it Law had filled most of the book and even hung onto a few extra coins.

After that, Law bought a couch.

Nowadays, he mostly didn’t get the feeling that something was going to pull the rug out from underneath him again. He, mostly, didn’t picture his bedroom going up in smoke, or wake up in a cold sweat, trying to catch his brain up with where he’d fallen asleep last. He mostly didn’t get gut-punched with a rush of panic whenever he let himself relax in his own space, waiting for the inevitable moment when the walls around him would crumble or burn, leaving him empty-handed and homeless, with nothing left to do but try to fashion the shattered pieces of his past life into something that wasn't completely fucking miserable. Again. 

No, he didn’t get that feeling anymore. 

Mostly.

Law followed Ace’s trail into the apartment, from his shoes kicked off by the door, to his clothes abandoned in a heap in the bathroom, to an open drawer in Law's bedroom dresser, and finally, to Ace, dead asleep on his couch, wearing one of Law’s shirts. Law liked that one. It was simple. Looser than it needed to be, swallowing up Ace's hands folds of fabric. part of the collar flipped the wrong way, and Law reached down to fix it. As he did, Law watched Ace's chest, waited for him to breathe, out of habit, before realizing he didn’t need to do that here.

It smelled fresh in the apartment. Soapy mixed in with fresh air. The window was open, and the draft of cold air settled over Law's exposed skin. The street was quiet. Ace’s hair was wet, hanging in heavy strands across his forehead. Law’s couch was green, velvet, with armrests that curled over like Spring leaves. Ace tucked into the corner of it, legs and arms all collected in a row.

For one fleeting moment, Law relaxed completely, letting the soft ambience of the apartment sink into his chest. He stared at Ace asleep on the couch, collected there among all of his other favorite things. 

Then the panic hit.

The hot, burning not-wanting-to-leave searing into his throat making his eyes sting. Flames licking out his bedroom window. The feeling of waking up by being dragged outside, still half-conscious from sleep. His heart raced. Law leaned over and shut the window with so much force that it rang his ears, should have woken up Ace with the sound, but maybe it was lucky in that moment that Ace had a long, exhausting day behind him and a sleep disorder. Law though, painfully awake now, couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was outside, waiting to throw a brick or a grenade through the window. He searched the street, his eyes cascading over the shadows. His fingertips felt cold against the glass. Next, he found himself in the kitchen, making sure the stove was off. Had Ace even used it? Probably not. Then he grabbed an extra quilt from the heavy cedar chest in his bedroom and threw it over Ace, because it was cold and he didn’t have a blanket, and it’d also be easier to hide under if someone came and raided the apartment. 

Stupid. None of this made sense, but he couldn’t stop his brain from wandering. Law didn’t consider himself creative, until these moments, when he thought of every possible way that this , all of this , could be wrenched away from him. Law gave himself tasks. He couldn't sit there without completely losing over to cold panic. He took a shower. Ate leftovers from Bepo. That helped some. This he made coffee, which was the opposite of helpful, but he had to stay up anyway, with Foot Guy downstairs, so he took it in his hand, checked that the doors and windows were locked, made sure Ace was breathing, and returned to the basement to have anything else to do besides drive himself insane upstairs. 

“Back already?” Shachi asked when Law came downstairs. Foot Guy was starting to rouse, and the basement was considerably cleaner. 

“Yeah,” said Law.

Shachi’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright up there?” 

“Yeah,” said Law.

“You look…”

Foot guy groaned. Thank god. Law didn't want to have a conversation about poorly checked moodiness; Shachi and Bepo could talk about it later. Law approached the table, checked Foot Guy's fever. They still had a lot to do. Foot Guy would wake up dehydrated, sick, confused. He should tell Shachi to get a blanket. And water. And Law couldn't remember if the clinic had the supplies to test for bacteria, so he should figure that out early tomorrow morning. He hadn't done inventory. He had to figure out what he was charging this asshole. 

Law busied himself with his mental lists while Foot Guy regained consciousness, shutting down every corner of his mind not focused on the exactly right now. He forced himself to breathe. He held his hands overtight to keep them steady. 

And he did his job. 

Chapter Text

In the morning, Ace left without much fanfare. 

They had half a conversation, Ace got ready to leave, and then he was out the door. He was running late, and Law wondered whether he should’ve woken him up earlier, but Ace didn’t seem too concerned, so Law wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. 

So, that was it. 

...

Law couldn't stop thinking about it. 

Their dynamic had changed again, overnight, and Law was struggling to keep up. It took him forever to get comfortable with people, usually, and now he was uncomfortable with the level of comfortable that had taken over the apartment. He was happy. He was freaking the fuck out. Having anyone in his apartment put him on edge. But he wasn't, and then he was because he wasn't.

Ace had changed too. Everything had changed. 

It was the way Ace borrowed Law’s clothes without asking. The way Law didn't think he needed to. It was the way Ace leaned over Law’s shoulder at the kitchen table, stealing his apple and a sip of coffee, laughing in his ear. It was the way Ace didn’t ask about coming back, or when he could get his clothes back (if he even wanted them), but instead waved a hand in Law’s direction, said “see you Friday,” muffled by the apple between his teeth, and disappeared down the stairs. 

Law stared at small, circular ripples in his coffee, wondering when the feeling would shake off. Wondering if, by Friday, he'd get some sleep and stop thinking about the way Ace blinked in the morning sun, the way he tilted his head when he laughed. The way his apartment seemed to dim once it was quiet, and Law was alone again. 

Ace didn't visit on Friday, so he never found out. 

Instead, the shop had a different visitor. Law was in his office when Bepo called from the front. 

“Law, Law, huge problem. Law?”

Law pushed up from his desk and stalked to the front. “If it’s a mouse again, I already told you— oh, shit.”

The bell above the door clanged. 

Some gang leaders liked to keep a low profile. Whitebeard was not among them. Well, maybe he never had a choice. He was a mountain of a man, absolutely unmistakable with a tusk-like, white mustache. 

He didn’t look happy. 

What'd they did to earn a visit from him? Law had never spoken to Whitebeard, had scarcely been in the same room as him. Before Ace and Luffy, he hardly ever had patients from his crew. Law tried to stay out of Whitebeard's business, which was easy, since they didn't have a lot of overlap in people they knew or places they visited. Except for now, with Ace and Luffy hanging around. So, this was about them? Unless this had to do with Blackbeard? Law didn't like him, but, all things considered, Law’d shown him a hell of a lot more civility than he deserved. Was it about someone else? A patient Law didn’t recognize?

Why the hell was Whitebeard barreling through his door?

The man towered in the door frame, nearly filling every inch of it. His eyes narrowed at Law. 

“We need to talk,” he demanded.

Law gripped the edge of the counter, steeling himself until his knuckles turned white. “I don’t talk business up front,” he said. Bepo was frozen next to him, watching carefully. 

“Lead the way, then,” Whitebeard said, stalking over in Law’s direction. His arms swung heavily at his sides, hands in fists. Law could hold his own in a fight against any normal human, but this man would pummel him. 

Law went into his office, feeling the overwhelming presence of the man behind him, casting a shadow over Law’s back. Inside, Law motioned to the chair across from the desk. “Have a seat.”

“No,” Whitebeard growled. “This’ll be short.” 

That was hardly reassuring, and Law didn’t like the position he ended up in, not having time to sit behind his desk. They were too close. Whitebeard towered over Law, and Law was well within arm’s reach. 

He felt cornered. He was cornered. It snapped something in his brain, and his attitude dialed back a decade, summoning up the demeanor of a fiery, pissed-off preteen with a death wish. A scowl overtook his face. 

“Go ahead then,” Law said, a hard edge in his voice.

“Do you have a deal with the cops?” Whitebeard asked, leaning into Law’s space. 

“So what if I do?” Law answered uncooperatively. 

Whitebeard’s elbow shot up, impossibly fast for someone his size. His forearm pressed down on Law’s chest like a heavy stone, pinning him to the bookcase behind him. Law grit his teeth as his back made contact with the shelves but otherwise held Whitebeard’s gaze with a deadened stare. 

“Don’t play smart with me.” Whitebeard pressed forward on his arm, and Law fought to breathe normally. “What is it?” Whitebeard demanded. “What’s your deal?”

“Exchange of services, what else?” Law answered automatically. He bared his teeth and sucked in a breath. ‘Exchange of services’ was the standard phrasing for agreements with the police— you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours type things— and Law knew it was unhelpfully vague.

“What services?” Whitebeard growled, tightening a fist around Law’s shirt collar.

Law narrowed his eyes. “Fucking— I’m a doctor, asshole, what do you think?”

Whitebeard’s eyes widened. He didn’t seem to appreciate someone calling him an asshole to his face. Or, who knows, maybe he didn't like any part of Law's answer. Doflamingo may have found Law’s attitude endearing, on a good day. With Whitebeard, it earned him a sharp punch to the gut— a disciplinary little jab, because Whitebeard could easily crack ribs if he was serious. Even so, the punch would have leveled Law if he wasn’t already being held up. 

“Are you feeding them information?” Whitebeard asked, not waiting for Law to recover. 

Law cough-choked, trying to force air back into his lungs. What a stupid question. In ten whole years, his stance on sharing information had been the same goddamn thing. He didn’t know shit, and he didn’t want to know shit. Not once had he bartered a deal to rat someone out, and he sure as hell wasn’t starting now. His whole operation relied on the fact that theirs was the place you went when you didn’t want things found out. Otherwise, they were just a creepy, overpriced hospital with questionable food storage practices. How many times did he have to explain it before people understood?

“No,” he rasped with as much air as he could muster. "I don’t deal information with anybody. That includes cops."

Whitebeard stared him down hard. Law swallowed thickly. He was being assessed. The grimace on Whitebeard’s face grew. It… didn’t seem to be going well. 

Whitebeard dropped his voice down low. Law couldn’t decide if it was more or less threatening than the yelling. “You haven’t said anything about Ace?” 

Law furrowed his brow. Had something happened to Ace? Was this about Gray Terminal? It wasn’t like Law knew anything about it, not really. If Whitebeard was worried about information getting out, he should talk to that black-bearded shitstain of an underling he had hanging around, not Law. But even saying that was revealing more information that Law felt like giving to someone pinning him to a bookshelf.

“What,” Law mocked, “Do the cops want to know his favorite lunch order?”

Whitebeard pulled him forward and slammed him into the bookcase again. Not a fan of sarcasm, then. Wasn't really surprising. Law’s head smacked something sharp. Felt like the clock. He grunted, closing his eyes and wishing he could free an arm to rub the back of his head, settling for gritting his teeth. He squinted his eyes open again to Whitebeard’s reddening face. “I haven’t said anything,” Law emphasized, through his teeth, “And I don’t know anything, so whatever you’re so worked up about is a fucking delusion.”

“What do you want with him?” Whitebeard demanded, “Is he just an easy target for you?” The man had both fists clenched around Law’s shirt, and the collar dug into Law’s neck as he tightened his grip. 

“Easy target for what?” Law asked, “Selling sandwiches?” 

Maybe it was the throbbing at the back of his skull or the persistent near-suffocation, but Law thought that was a valid question, given their location. Whitebeard disagreed, which he indicated with an angry shake. “Drugs, you punk.” 

Oh. The ephedrine, then. Is that what this was about? 

“I’m a doctor,” argued Law. “If I give someone drugs, it’s for a reason. I don’t deal.”

“Don’t feed me that crap,” Whitebeard snarled. “You work for Caesar, you punk.” 

Law’s expression faltered, and Whitebeard's eyes clocked the change immediately, pupils widening. How the hell did he know that? And for Caesar? Not with? Jesus, give him some credit. He wasn't working for Caesar. Law met with him once a month to sell off some of the University’s chemical supplies, stolen by another med student Law had taken classes with who was still there on internship. Law was a middleman. That was it. 

And yes, Law knew that Caesar was using it to manufacture drugs, so no, that wasn’t a great look in the not-a-drug-dealer department, but he couldn’t help that. He needed to maintain an inroad to Doflamingo if he was ever going to get close enough to take him down, and Caesar was the best option, even if most days Law wanted to beat his fucking teeth into the back of his skull.

He couldn’t tell Whitebeard all that.

Instead: “Fuck off.”

“What’d you sell him?” Whitebeard demanded. 

“Nothing," Law repeated, which technically wasn't a lie.

“It’s in his apartment.” Whitebeard argued. “I’ve seen it. So tell me what it is.”

“That's what the label's for, old man." Law pushed out with his arms, trying to get more distance between them. It felt like trying to push over a statue. "It's a hell of a lot easier than asking me."

“I did read it." Whitebeard said. "It says it’s for asthma. Ace doesn’t have asthma.”

Fucking pharmaceuticals. This was their problem. Doctors liked to shit on the snake-oil salesmen and then turned around to submit patents for medicines that cured about thirty different diseases. Whatever got listed on-label rotated in and out like seasonal fashion trends, and the effective off-label uses were passed around through clinics like secret family recipes.

“Why don't you ask him what it’s for?" 

Some emotion flickered on Whitebeard's face. His brow furrowed, except— at that exact moment— it didn't seem to be because of Law. He had already managed to piss off Whitebeard, even before they started this chat, and now he'd struck some nerve, with no idea what he'd even struck it with. 

Whitebeard recovered, almost immediately. "Nevermind that. I'm already here, and I'm telling you—"

"Patient confidentiality, asshole." Law said, trying to push out of Whitebeard's grip again. "I told you; I have a policy.” 

Whitebeard’s face went a deeper shade of red. “I’m not the cops.”

“I don’t. Share. Information.” Law restated, sounding annoyed. “That includes cops. That includes family. That includes friends, enemies, employers, and even refrigerator-sized pricks who come storming in here looking to beat it out—“

Whitebeard dropped him. Unprepared, Law missed catching his hand on the bookshelf and crumpled awkwardly to the floor, landing painfully on his elbow. Whatever. At least he could breathe. He stared at the carpet between Whitebeard's feet, spotting the specks of dirt he had tracked in on his boots. Whitebeard's frame blocked out the overhead light, throwing a shadow over Law. He didn't speak.

Were they done here? Why was Whitebeard still standing there? Was he trying to figure out if kicking was a better strategy? Law braced his back against the bookshelf, giving his chances of getting drop-kicked an even fifty-fifty. He waited for what seemed like minutes.

Luckily for Law’s rib cage, Whitebeard finally stepped back, giving up on beating any answers out of Law, for the time being. Law let out a breath. It was as much of a win as Law was going to get. He pushed himself upright, slumping back into the shelves behind him.

“I don’t want you near him. Or Luffy.” Whitebeard concluded. “You’re not selling them anything. They’re not coming around here. They’re not getting tangled up with the cops you have crawling around. Do you understand?” 

No. He really didn’t. And the cops were hardly crawling around here, he got maybe two a month, and they weren’t grilling anyone or doing detective work.

“Tell them that,” Law complained, shooting a glance upward. “Nobody’s forcing them to come in here. I’m not babysitting the shop because you can’t control your children.”

“Fine,” Whitebeard snapped. “Then we’re done here.” The man took another moment to mentally strangle Law with his glare, and then stepped out the office, slamming the heavy oak door on his way out. 

Heavy footsteps crossed the store, making the wooden floorboards creek. 

The bell at the front door chimed. 

Law’s head rolled forward, and he looked down at his hands. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, he was shaking. 

With Whitebeard gone, the sudden drop of pressure left Law feeling dizzy and untethered. Law could handle people yelling, but there was something in the way Whitebeard scolded him that put his brain back in Doffy’s palm. He felt like a kid again. Angry. Defensive. Small. Yelling back was the best defense Law had against Doffy. Every so often it worked, and Law would strike a nerve, and feel like he'd finally won at something. Most of the time though, he'd crash out eventually, his brain unable to brick together the hard, twisted front he needed to tell Doflamingo— or, in this case, Whitebeard— to go fuck himself, and instead collapsed in on itself. 

He didn't feel like he'd won his conversation with Whitebeard, even if he had managed to get under his skin. The whole premise of it was stupid, along with the outcome of it. Trying to give Law rules to follow, like Whitebeard was a goddamn cop himself. Then saying Ace and Luffy weren't allowed to come into the shop? It was ridiculous. How would Law enforce something like that? Luffy would find his way back in soon enough. He wouldn't follow a rule like that. They would come back, or else Luffy would throw a fit outside in the street or find a way to break in at night.

“Law!“ Bepo flung open the door and knelt down in front of him. “What happened? What’d he do?”

Law looked up briefly. “I’m fine, Bepo, just—“

He didn’t have to explain the rest. Bepo got a good look at Law and promptly sat down on the floor and threw a heavy arm over his shoulders. Law leaned into it, feeling steadied by the weight. 

Law wasn’t a touchy person, but Bepo was an exception. Law wasn't sure what he would've done if he hadn't met Bepo after everything with Doflamingo. He was warm. Genuine. Rarely acted inconvenienced or burdened by other people's problems. He was solid, and Law had been drowning. 

After a minute, Law sighed heavily, sliding his legs out straight in front of him. The air in the office seemed to clear, and Law could breathe normally again. Bepo pulled his arm back but stayed sitting next to him, mirroring his posture. They stared forward. The clock ticked evenly from the shelf. 

“Should I have offered him some brisket?” Bepo asked.

Law snorted, “Nah, he seems more like a prime rib sort of guy.” 

Law tilted his head forward, reaching back and finding blood in his hair from where his skull knocked into the clock. It wasn't that bad. Probably didn't need stitches. He dropped his hand. Sighed.

"So, did you get all that?" he asked Bepo.

"Sure did," Bepo answered, nodding his head. "Sounded a little rough."

"Yeah," Law agreed. "What do you think?" Law wasn't even sure what he was trying to ask, really. His head felt mushy and tired. 

"What do I think?" He paused, scratching his beard. "About what?"

"I don't know." Law crossed his arms over his knees and dropped his forehead onto them. He stared at the carpet. 

"Hmm," Bepo hummed. "I think your reputation could use a little work."

"I don't care about that," Law grumbled. But he got the point. It was one thing to have a few bad rumors, but this was becoming hazardous to his health. Not that he had any idea what to do about that. What, did he lead some kind of campaign? Hold a press conference? He wasn't a politician. What was he supposed to do?

"I don't like seeing Whitebeard scared," Bepo commented, changing the subject. 

Law pulled his head up to glare at Bepo. "Scared?" he echoed. "When did he act scared?  Was it the part where he shoved me into the bookshelf or when he dropped me to the floor?"

"Not of you. Sorry." Bepo patted Law sympathetically on the shoulder. "But you don't think so? He wouldn't have bothered to do all this if he wasn't worried about something."

"Whatever it is, he's overreacting," Law mumbled, rubbing the spot on his neck where his shirt dug into the skin. He said that, but he didn't know if Whitebeard was overreacting. Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn't. He was wrong about Law's involvement, so what's to say he had a good gauge on anything else happening in the city? But Whitebeard had a large organization, with plenty of connections. He wasn't making random guesses, wasn't kicking up paranoia out of whole cloth.

"Guess we'll just have to wait and see what they say," Bepo said casually, turning toward the front of the store.

"Did you miss the part where they got grounded?" Law asked. 

Bepo chuckled. "Do you think they'll listen?"

Law shook his head. "No," he said. And he did believe that, but it was reassuring that Bepo felt the same. Maybe Whitebeard needed time to cool off, but it just... didn't feel like the shop had seen the last of them. They were too comfortable here, for that to be an option. Law shuffled his feet underneath him and stood up, with Bepo following suit. Law rubbed the back of his head again, feeling a bump forming. “I’m gonna grab some ice,” he said, looking up to where the clock stuck out from the shelf. Maybe he should move it. While he was distracted, Bepo laid his palm on the top of Law’s head and mussed his hair. 

“Hey—“ Law protested.

“I don't want to see you back down here," Bepo said. "The shop's fine, so take the rest of the day off." He turned to the front of the store, eyeing a couple making their way across the street. 

“Fine,” Law agreed, not even trying to sound annoyed at being bossed around. He was exhausted. He didn’t need to say thanks to Bepo, he already knew as much. Law wandered off down the hallway, grabbing his ice and stumbling up the stairs to the couch, which still had Ace's blanket draped over the back of it. 

Chapter Text

Law stared down at his shoes, studying the thin layer of dirt that settled over the black leather, evidence of the distance he’d covered throughout the day. His feet ached. He stretched his ankles out one by one, tapping the toes of his shoes on the floor.

He stood in the center of the streetcar— all the seats having been filled— and held onto the leather strap overhead, leaning backward and forward as the car stopped and started. It was a long day of travel. What time had he left this morning? Nine? The trip to the farm had taken at least two hours, between the hour riding the streetcar north and the hour riding in Jean Bart’s truck. And now it was already six, and the surge of traffic in the streets congested the main roads and blocked the streetcar’s path southward. He’d hoped to be back before dark, but the sun was already below the building line, though not entirely set. 

It was Law’s own fault that he’d ended up in transit hell. Penguin could’ve gone later this week. Law didn’t need to volunteer to visit the farm, but— in the bright, clear morning— it seemed like a decent idea to get out of the shop for a bit. Between Foot Guy’s prolonged stay and Whitebeard’s intrusion, he felt the building‘s walls shrinking inward. His office felt cramped. He needed to rearrange his shelf, organize his notes. His apartment was still upturned by having Foot Guy staying there. The sheets were dirty, and Law should really restock the upstairs cabinets, air out the room. Instead of doing that, he’d ended up here, wondering if he’d have been better off staying back. 

Law coughed at a passing cloud of exhaust, promising himself to visit a park or something the next time he was feeling stir-crazy, which was much easier than hauling out to the farm for a whole day. It was late in the year, and the farm had smelled like packed earth and dry switchgrass. The scent lingered in Law’s nostrils, even as the streetcar filled with stuffy, urban fumes. It was a fleeting comfort. Law longed for the familiar air of his apartment, with its strange, shifting pockets of ink, smoke, and antiseptic.

As the streetcar passed haltingly through the city, the day rolled over into evening, taking its time and stretching out the twilight hours in the wide, cloudless sky. Not that Law could see it. He only saw the changing hues of the stone and brick buildings. He had seen the sky, at the farm, but now the city closed in overhead, pumping the air full of smoke trails. Law rode along in the half-dark, surrounded by people dressed for bars and restaurants instead of work clothes. The chill in the air meant the car was stuffy in comparison, and his coat was oppressive around this many people. 

The woman in front of Law wasn't helping the situation. She already smelled like alcohol and couldn’t keep her fucking balance when streetcar started and stopped. She was hardly even trying, distracted because she was telling another woman about the half-cent celebrity she’d met the week prior. The other woman didn't care. Nobody cared. Law’s generous passivity was the only thing keeping the woman upright, his body stiffly serving as her own personal handrail, even though he’d really like to kick her knee out and drop her to the floor, where she’d be a hell of a lot more stable anyway. Her hat had a feather that kept tickling Law’s chin, and he fantasized about throwing it out the window. 

Law closed his eyes, breathed. He just needed to make it home without stabbing someone. They couldn't be that far away, but the traffic on Saturdays risked forcing the streetcars to a standstill.

A few stops down the line, a familiar face boarded the car. Ace stepped onto the front of the streetcar, trailing a large, light-haired man who looked to be twice his age, judging by his teeth. It was weird, seeing Ace outside the shop. Logically, Law knew that he had a whole life outside of their building, but it was different to see him living it. 

He wondered what he’d think of Ace, if he didn’t already know him. He didn’t board the car so much as dangle, hanging out the side door with only his fingertips around a metal handle. When the streetcar finally started up and— swear to god, it had better not stop again— the wind picked up, and Ace smushed his hat onto his head to keep it from blowing off. His long coat billowed out like a ship’s sail, catching air and fluttering.

There was something untethered about him. Not like Law, who could hardly spend half a day outside the shop without aching to return to it. Ace seemed like he could go anywhere, talk to anyone. He didn’t look wealthy, but he had the kind of face, freckled and genuine, that endeared him to people, regardless of who they were. Not like Law, who could hardly speak two words without slighting someone with his tone. 

Ace didn’t seem like someone who’d associate with Law. But he also didn’t seem like someone who’d survived a massive train accident with his younger brother six months prior, or someone who’d convince himself he was terminally ill with sleeping sickness, or who’d pickpocketed his way through his childhood. It was like he could set all that aside, float away from it on some westerly wind, in a way that Law never could. 

At least. He seemed like he could. 

The woman in front of Law checked her purse for a tissue, throwing herself off-balance again. She took a clumsy step backward, her pointed heel landed painfully on Law’s foot.

Law grit his teeth. If she did that a little harder, Law could call it self-defense when he pulled out a knife and stabbed it through her shoe.

There was movement at the front of the car. The man with Ace pulled him by the arm, his hand wound tightly around Ace's wrist. Ace dropped his hat, and he watched it spin and flutter to the street. The man crowded Ace into the car, speaking sternly into his ear. Ace didn't seem to be listening at first, eyes still focused down the street, but the man kept talking, and Ace's expression turned to annoyance. Soon it was replaced by a darker one, the one that signaled warning like a red sky, dawning over his face gradually with every word the man said. He had Ace's attention now. 

Ace said something back sharply. 

The man brushed him off, pushing on Ace’s shoulder, telling him to calm down, the words exaggerated and easy to make out. The man made a joke. Ace didn’t laugh. Instead, he eyes sunk to his feet, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

It didn’t take much for Law to decide he hated someone. Really, it was nearly his default opinion of people. It didn't take much, then, for this man to end up on his shit list. Who was he, anyway? Some asshole coworker? Another one of Whitebeard’s goons? Why was he talking to Ace like he was in charge of him? It occurred to Law, then, that he didn’t know how old Ace was. He’d assumed they were the same age, but Ace looked younger, in that moment, being talked down to like that. Without his hat, the tips of his ears poked through a mop of dark hair as the wind picked up the strands and tossed them into his face. 

The temperature in the streetcar rose. Ace wasn’t that hard to get along with. Anyone with a half-decent sense of when to shut their goddamn mouth could do it. Law’s chest pounded. The woman in front of him threw back her head and laughed light-heartedly. She stopped abruptly when Law elbowed her out of the way and pushed toward the front. She said something to him, cross, but Law wasn’t listening.

The streetcar was no less packed in Law’s new position than it had been two feet back. Obviously. People nearby turned to eye him warily, wondering what the shuffling was about. And... what was it about? What was he even doing? Attempting to elbow past the entire center aisle? To say what? To do what? The same thing he did with Blackbeard, when he stood there like an idiot and did fuck-all about the situation? 

Whatever. It didn’t matter. He had to move, because now the woman was tapping him on the shoulder— practically begging Law to snap her finger in half— and saying excuse me in increasingly loud volumes. There was only one direction to go, so he pushed past a couple of businessmen. Even though Law had no plan, tenuous self-control, and Whitebeard’s string of warnings about ever interacting with Ace again aching painfully at the back of his head, he was already going. The woman threw out another excuse me— her pitch reaching new, bird-like frequencies— before Law put her solidly out of sight by looping around another woman wearing a stupid, feathery—

POP.

A bright light flashed from somewhere overhead, accompanied by an electrical fizzing. The passengers collectively looked upward as the streetcar lost power and began to slow. 

Law might actually murder someone. 

He wasn't waiting for the driver to assess the damage. He'd walk home, even if it meant his feet fell off. Or take a taxi. Either way, he was getting of this car, now. He pushed toward the side door, ducking his shoulders as he did. He reached the exit, jumping off onto the cobblestones before the car had a chance to fully slow. His mood improved the second his feet hit the pavement. 

He still wasn't sure what his plan was. Which cross street were they at? Law wasn’t as familiar with this area as he was with his own neighborhood. He looked around, orienting himself, when he spotted Ace hopping off the train and moving in his direction. The man wasn't following him, and it didn't seem like Ace was waiting up for him.

Ace stalked past Law, bumping into his shoulder, hands shoved into his pockets. “Come on,” he said. 

“Where?” asked Law. 

“I want my hat back,” Ace said, taking a few uneven, backward steps before crossing to the other side of the street. 

Law followed, jogging a few steps to catch up. Ace walked fast, a strange energy crackling off of him, like electricity. He wasn't in a good mood, but it's not like that was Law's fault, so, whatever. Ace looked over his shoulder a few times before ducking into an alley, then cutting north another block. They went about two blocks before finding the intersection. Ace’s hat was there, shoved against the curb, but otherwise fine. He examined it, brushing off the brim and then pulling it on. He eyed the direction of the streetcar, his eyes following along the wires. 

"That sound back there was the transformer." Ace commented. "Takes forever to fix." He paused, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Wanna take a train?"

Law hesitated. Not because he had a better idea, but because Ace's voice was stony. He held his arms in close, shoulders hunched. He was clearly bothered by the streetcar situation, but Law didn't know if he should ask about that. Didn't know if he'd get the same icy reception that sometimes surfaced when Ace was pushed. Would Bepo ask? Probably, but Bepo was easy for anyone to open up to. Law wasn't that.  He didn't even know how to ask. They weren't in the shop anymore, where everything had some vague relevance to Law, simply because of the location. They were in the city, where—

Ace’s eye flicked over his expression, hands fidgeting in his pockets. He must've read something on Law's face, because he furrowed his brow and looked down at his feet. "You don't—"

“What train?” Law interrupted.

Ace looked up again. “There’s a 9,000 headed south," he said. "Freight train.” 

“We can ride a freight train?” Law asked.

“Yeah,” Ace shrugged. “I don’t have money for a taxi and it’s faster than walking. We should go now, though. It was nearly ready to leave the railyard when I left.”

“Sure,” Law answered. Ace started off in the direction of the railyard, taking another glance in the direction of the streetcar. Law trailed behind. Law wouldn’t mind paying for a taxi, but he also didn’t mind following Ace around, especially since he could breathe now and nobody was stomping a railroad spike through his foot. Plus, his conversation with Whitebeard had had the opposite effect, igniting his defiant streak that hardly got to come out in his day-to-day. That's what he gets for knocking Law's skull into a clock. He was admittedly curious about the train, too. Ace must have some kind of in through his work that let him ride a freight train, though Law felt a little weird about taking advantage of that himself. It felt like an intrusion.

Turns out, Law didn’t have to worry about that. Before they made it to the railyard, Ace took a sharp right turn, following a dirt service road. On their left was a tall, worn-down fence and a park to the right. Or, woods, maybe. It wasn’t maintained well, but it did have small trails leading into it. Broken glass in places, remnants of campfires. 

“Where are we going?” Law asked, looking along the fence for a gate into the yard. 

Ace looked back at him, confused. “To catch the train.”

“Not in the railyard?” Law clarified. 

Ace laughed, cutting off the road and into a narrow dirt trail through the trees. “No, not in the railyard. We can’t hop a train from there without getting caught. Are you trying to get me fired?”

“We’re what?”

“What?” Ace pushed back a branch, holding it forward so it wouldn’t smack Law in the face. 

“We’re not riding in the train?” 

“No,” Ace answered with a grin, like it was the most obvious thing. “It’s not a passenger train. There’s only space for the crew.”

“Aren’t you the crew?”

“Yeah, right,” Ace answered sourly. “I’m not getting on a crew anytime soon. They had me figured out, like, day two. I guess I use a lot of slang. How was I supposed to know?” He ducked underneath a fallen tree trunk angled over the trail. “I didn’t go to school for this stuff. Whitebeard pulled some strings to get me the job, which was probably a dead giveaway that some delinquent was signing on. I think if I try to rob them, it’s inked in his blood that he’ll owe them a hotel or something.”

Law ducked under the tree trunk, setting his hand on it so he wouldn't smack his head on it. He could relate to what Ace was saying. Law didn’t fit the description of anyone who’d be expected to go to medical school. He was mostly self-taught, scraping together everything he learned from his father along with any textbooks he could get his hands on. When he first went to medical school, his terminology was dated and his techniques had idiosyncrasies, habits he’d formed while learning things on his own. He didn’t understand what the hell lectures were for, since it was easier to read the books anyway, but for some reason people got pretty pissed off when Law decided not to go–

Wait, he had gotten distracted. “So we’re…”

Ace stopped ahead of him, waiting at the edge of the woods, just inside the outer line of trees. In front of them was a dirt hill leading up to empty train tracks. 

“Trainhopping.” Ace said, pointing to the tracks. “Have you not done it before?”

“Not really,” Law answered. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ace said, taking a seat on a large, worn boulder and leaning back on his hands.

Law took the other half of the boulder. Along the track he could spot the edge of the railyard fence. “I've stowed away before, but that's it,” he clarified. 

“How’d you get on then?”

Oh. That would be the next question. Law stared at a rock between his boots, stuck deep in the dirt, realizing he’d caught himself in an explanation. He wished he could backtrack, because no, he’d never trainhopped, not in the way Ace was asking. Why hadn’t he just said that? And now Ace was waiting on an answer, not knowing the size of the stone he’d unturned, the dirt stuck into its cracks, and all the roots twisted around it underneath. 

“It was a cemetery train,” Law answered. “During the plague.”

"What?" Ace said, sitting forward. He studied Law’s face and waited, like Law might take it back, say it was a bad joke or something. 

Law didn't know what else to say about it. It wasn’t a great explanation, and someone with less experience on trains wouldn’t catch the full meaning that Ace clearly had. Cemetery trains ran at overflow capacity during the plague, and their destinations were no longer cemeteries, but mass graves, dug deep into the earth to try to bury the rot and disease far enough from cities to keep it from spreading. It wasn’t hard to sneak on. All you had to do was look dead enough to blend in. A child could manage it. 

“You’re serious.” Ace said, less a question than a statement. “Like, with the dead people?”

“It was a long time ago,” was the only consolation Law could manage, digging his hands into his pockets. There was a breeze coming off the tracks, one that the trees couldn’t block. They sat in silence for a moment, a gust of wind shaking the dry leaves overhead. 

”We used to tell each other stories about those trains.” Ace commented, tipping his head toward the sky.

“What kind of stories?” Law asked, relieved to not be talking about himself anymore. 

“Ghost stories,” Ace answered, grinning. He leaned back on his hands, kicking at the dirt with his heel. “We did it to scare Luffy off of them. Sabo had a theory— he said you had to hold your breath when the cemetery trains passed, or else it’d haul off with a piece of your soul, and you’d catch fever and die in a week. I told Luffy that cemetery trains created ghost towns; that if you ran an empty one through a small town it’d snatch up all the bodies.”

Sabo. Ace said the name off-hand, like Law would know who he was talking about. And maybe he could guess, because there had been traces of a someone else in the things Ace said. But still, Law didn’t know. Maybe that was just like them, moving forward before Law had a chance to catch up. He kept forgetting how little he knew about Ace. How he'd learned his last name from Blackbeard. How he didn't know how old Ace was. He should be trying to catch up. Figure out who he was dealing with. Law didn't do anything without a plan. He didn't take action before he had a handle on the circumstances. He should ask. Pull the brakes and stop getting ahead of himself. 

But he didn't. He just... didn't feel like it. 

Instead: “Did it work?”

Ace laughed. “Of course not, nothing works with Luffy. He did the breath-holding thing, but not because he was scared. He just likes games. And then he kept trying to tell me we should run a cemetery train backward through a ghost town to see if all the people popped out.”

Law grinned, and then a train horn interrupted his thoughts. Down the tracks, a headlight blinked into view. Ace stood up, brushing off the back of his pants. “Okay," he said, "I’m gonna go ahead and say this’ll be a lot different from the last time you hopped a train.” Ace stuck his hand out and Law pulled himself up with it. 

“We’ll catch it on the fly but it has to take at least two minutes to reach the next mile marker," Ace explained, "It’ll be crawling at this point.” The train moved closer to them, the engine only a hundred feet or so down the tracks. “We want at least twenty cars between us and the engine, because I’m screwed if I get caught. There’s a few grainer cars on this train, kind of triangle shaped. They have the easiest ladders to get on, so you’ll get on there and I’ll hop one further back and then come up your way.”

The engine chugged past them, picking up a light wind, the sound of the wheels rolling and scraping underneath it. Ace leaned over, cupping his hand behind Law’s head and speaking louder now, just audible above the noise of the train. 

“Don’t go all the way up top. There’s a platform down low.” Ace’s hand trailed down Law’s neck for a moment as he watched the passing cars. “Here it comes,” he told Law. “See it?” 

Law nodded. Watched it pull closer. Had a brief moment to wonder how the hell he'd gotten here before Ace nudged him forward, timing the approach for him. Grabbing the ladder wasn’t hard. It was sturdy, and he didn’t even have to jump to reach it. 

Law pulled himself up against the ladder and looked back. Ace gave him a thumbs up, smiling stupidly before turning, stepping back, and executing a flying, two-footed jump into a boxcar. 

The platform spanned the width of the train and was protected by the metal overhang of the storage container. It was high enough to stand, but bisected by a sturdy, metal wall. Law swung around the ladder and ducked underneath the overhang. He sat down with his back against the metal, legs stretched out toward the front of the train. It was a bit quieter here, with wind tamped down by the cave-like structure of the train car. He crossed his arms against the cold. His coat was oppressive on the streetcar, packed in with so many other people, but now the wind slipped through gaps in the fabric, stinging at his skin. From his position, he could see the trees passing by on his right, and the city back behind it. The city seemed smaller now, and quiet. The stress he'd felt on the streetcar was buried somewhere in those streets, but not in a place he could see. He breathed, smelling wood and smoke from the engine. 

Ace was right. This was nothing like the train from Flevance. 

The train from Flevance had left during the day. It was much hotter, then, being mid-summer. There was no wind in that boxcar, where Law had packed himself in with putrid, rotting corpses and tucked himself away in a corner, staring desperately through a misaligned panel in the side of the car to avoid the bloated, rotting faces that surrounded him. Praying to some treacherous god that he wouldn't recognize any. That day, he’d also watched the scenery slide sideways in his field of view, and felt the loud, rhythmic thrumming of the train's wheels beneath him. He had tried to focus on the sound, predict the changing pitch with the speed, if only to keep his brain occupied from thinking any thought that might send him into a hopeless spiral. Make him more aware of his surroundings than he already was. 

This was not like the train from Flevance, he reminded himself. 

Why, then, did he dread the idea of looking away from the trees, sliding past his field of view?

Why, then, did he listen to the thrumming of the wheels, with all his focus, forcing it to drum out any other thoughts that tried to surface? 

Why couldn't he breathe?

Fuck. This was a bad idea. He'd ridden on other train before, normally, so he didn't think— those trains had more distractions, regular passengers instead of aching solitude. The feeling that he wasn't supposed to be here. Not in a legal sense— he didn't give a shit about that. But in the sense that this wasn't a place normal people saw and touched and shared. In the sense that nobody knew he was there. He hadn’t thought about Flevance in a long time. Or maybe he had. Clinically. Assessingly. Like he thought about his patients. But he hadn’t felt Flevance in a long time, where he could taste the unforgettable odor of sick and dying at the back of the throat, imagine the strange sensation of cold skin against his, feeling inhuman if he didn’t look at it, like a leather shoe or the skin of a fruit. Where he—

“Make it alright?” Ace asked, climbing down the ladder. 

Christ, Law, pull it together. This was not the train from Flevance. He nodded. 

Ace sat down next to him, warm against Law’s shoulder. Law remembered he wasn't alone, like he had been back then. The body next to him was warm, animated, not just rattling along with the movements of the train, unlike... Ace leaned into Law's ear and gave a tour of the parts of the train they could see, pointing out important junctions and bolts. Law nodded along, better for the distraction. There was no trace of Ace's bad mood from earlier, it having been fully left behind on the side of the tracks. Ace switched to talking about the city, explaining where they were headed and identifying different landmarks by their blackened silhouettes, dimly shaped by the low-lying streetlights. His voice cut clearly through the noise of the train. Law listened closely, but Ace may as well have been speaking a foreign language, with all he comprehended. The only thing Law could think about was how alive he looked. How the wind pulled through his dark hair, cascading in lively waves across his face, like the grasses alongside the tracks. How it smelled like smoke and the final drafts of fall and— when Ace leaned over him to point out the library— leathery, like his gloves. Not at all like—

This was not the train from Flevance. He needed to stop thinking about it.

Instead, Law thought about how Ace's cheeks looked flushed and warm, and how Law’s hands ached for something human, something so alive and something so here, and now, so he could shake off everything from then. And for once, instead of piling more shit over his miserable fucking childhood he thought maybe he could just have this instead. What if, this time, he had a right thing instead of so many wrong ones. All of the twisted flesh and broken bodies that he’d thrown himself into until the memories of his family’s sickness and that fucking nightmare of a train ride were only a few lines of a long, long list of the times Law had seen humanity devouring itself, breaking apart at the seams and spilling its guts out at his feet.

What if, this time, he did something different. 

Fuck it. Ace’s face was already at his ear and Law turned toward it, pressing into his open mouth into Ace's and grabbing the front of his shirt. 

Ace pulled back, looking stunned. "... by the theatre..." he muttered, finishing the sentence Law had interrupted. He blinked. 

Law sat there breathing. Wondering at what point he’d completely lost his mind.

What was he doing? Who did he think he was? Ace looked like he'd just been smacked upside the head. Of course he would. They were friends, not... whatever this was. Law wasn't a person who made moves without thinking. He'd never hooked up with anyone without calculating the reward relative to how fucked he would be if things went south. And they weren't doing that, so he could calm down a little bit. He could still backtrack this. It'd be fine. It wasn't that deep. Maybe Whitebeard's threats were a blessing in disguise, giving him an easy way out of the awkward situation he'd launched himself into. They'd be better off as—

Ace leaned over and kissed him back. 

Well, fuck. 

Law pulled him closer, moving his mouth along with Ace's and realizing he'd never let go of Ace's shirt. He felt betrayed by his own limbs, which kept drawing them closer together, even when his brain was begging him to pull the brakes and think for a second. But he'd shut that part down, abandoned it on the side of the tracks, or earlier, all the way back on that insufferable streetcar. Whatever. He was tired of thinking. He wanted to keep moving, feel Ace's weight against his side and his breath mingling with the rush of air between the cars, his hair whipping across his face. There was a warm familiarity there. Law thought this would be new, and it was, in a lot of ways. But Law realized, then, with a light stutter in his chest, that pieces of this were already in place: the way Law held him with an arm behind his back, the warmth of Ace against his shoulder, the shape of Ace's jaw when he trailed a finger underneath it. 

Ace leaned in further, pushing Law's head back against the cool metal sheet behind them, reminding Law that there was a bruise there. God, Whitebeard was going to kill him. Law didn’t plan on heeding Whitebeard’s warning, because it was stupid, but he hadn’t planned for this level of defiance either. He could deal with that later. Right now, the city, Whitebeard, and everything else was racing past them, blurring into the background, because Ace’s tongue was running across Law’s teeth, and his fingers wound their way into Law's hair. Time swept past them, stalled out and racing all at once. They could’ve traveled a few feet or a hundred miles, and Law would—

“Shit-shit-shit,” Ace said, looking off the side of the train. “We have to jump, now.“ Ace pulled Law forward by his shirt. “Ladder, go.” 

Law listened scrambling into a crouch and around to the ladder. They were going faster than before, and Law looked skeptically at the pitched gravel running past the train car. Past that, a line of trees blurred into a single, leafy mass. His hand tightened on the ladder.

“Look forward,” Ace directed.

“I am.”

“No, forward forward," Ace stressed.

”What?” Law squared his feet on the bottom rung. Released a hand from the ladder. 

The train ran past an awkward joint in the tracks, metal banging loudly against metal. He missed the start of Ace’s explanation. “… the signal. Go.” 

Law readjusted his grip on the metal, confused. “On what signal?“ 

Two hands slammed into Law’s back as Ace shoved him forward, hard. Law lost his grip on the ladder and had a moment of confused terror, suspended above the gravel and in no position to catch his fall. He braced himself for the landing, but it did little to soften the impact. His feet hit the ground first, which would’ve been great, if the rest of him wasn’t already pitched so far forward. His left foot landed solidly, but his right foot found a divot in the loose gravel and twisted, pain shooting up his ankle. Law’s body inverted, and he tucked inward, only half-managing to pull his head in far enough to avoid eating gravel. The rocks scraped the side of his face and then he somersaulted, rolling down the small hill into the thorny brush at the base of it. He ended up on his back, staring up at the darkening evening sky. 

He blinked. 

The stars spun above him, unfocused.

“Law ?” Ace yelled from somewhere down the tracks, nearly drowned out by the sound of the train.

Law rolled his head to the side, spotted Ace jogging down the gravel. The end of the train flew past, plunging them in sudden silence. Law’s ears rang. 

Ace reached him and slid down the gravel slope, arriving at Law’s side along with a cascade of loose rock. He put a hand on Law’s shoulder. “Shit, sorry. Are you okay?”

Okay? Well, he wasn’t dead. Everything ached, though. The side of his face stung. He tried to move his ankle, and it shot pain up through his lower leg. His whole head throbbed.

“You pushed me off a train,” he groaned.

“Did you see the signal?” Ace asked.

“You didn’t give me a signal,” Law argued, confused.

“No, that signal.” Ace pointed up the tracks toward a large metal scaffold, fifteen feet high with a colored light at the top and cemented into the ground. “Swear to god,” Ace said, “I thought you were about to jump into it.” Law pushed up onto his hands, feeling his spine protest the movement. Ace put a hand behind his back, sitting him up. “You have to look forward, like, along the tracks forward, because when you jump you’ll go that way.”

Ace pointed “forward.” Law looked at where he landed, then back at the signal. 

“So you pushed me?” 

“I panicked, okay?” Ace defended. ”There’s a bridge after the signal, and if you time that badly you end up dead in the river, and then there’s a section of warehouses and anything after that doesn’t matter because the train’d be going too fast to jump anyway, and we’d be stuck on it until—“

“You pushed me,” Law repeated. “Off a train.”

Ace laughed. “You’re not making me sound like a hero.“ Ace brushed dirt off Law’s back, grabbed his upper arm and slid him a few inches up the gravel and out of the shrubs. “Seriously, though, are you hurt? I need to know how bad I should feel.”

“Uhh—“ Law slid his right leg up until he could lean over and reach his ankle. He pulled up his pant leg and poked at the joints, testing what hurt to move. It was starting to swell.

“Is it bad?” Ace asked.

“It doesn’t feel broken,” Law answered, which didn’t amount to much, because it wasn’t easy to tell what was and wasn’t broken without an x-ray. Nothing was wildly out of place or sticking out of his skin, so it wasn’t the worst it could be. He flattened his hands behind him and pushed off the ground, making it halfway to standing before he tried to put pressure on his ankle and it buckled underneath him. Ace caught him, his feet sliding on the steep hill as he tried to stabilize them.

“Okay. Well. That seems bad,” he commented. 

Law looked up, and found himself inches from Ace’s face, which was flushed, the pinkish hue warming his cheeks. It reminded Law that they’d been in the middle of something, on the train, which was already starting to feel like a hallucination, especially with his head injury (injuries, actually, if he counted yesterday), except Law’s skin still hummed with electricity and remembered the way Ace’s breath felt across his lips. Ace’s eyes were dark, burned matte as coal, and passing back and forth across Law’s face. 

“Are you… okay?” Ace asked, his mouth forming an anxious smile.

“I’m fine,” Law answered. It was just that he couldn’t stand, or walk on his own, or shut out the ringing in his ears. “I’ll get a better look back at the shop. Where–” Law looked around, trying to recognize what area they ended up in. “Where is it?”

“Yeah,” Ace laughed nervously. “We overshot a little. My bad.” He pulled a hand behind his head, running his fingers through the tangled tufts of dark hair there. “Eight…” he muttered, counting off on his fingers. “And then… four– no– five? Thirteen blocks? Should be under a mile. I think.” 

“This isn’t faster than the streetcar,” Law stated. He tightened his arm around Ace's shoulder, squaring up to navigate through a gap in the shrubs. Ace wrapped an arm behind his back. 

“Not this time, no.” Ace relented, starting to walk and carefully propping up Law along with him. “I was tired of the streetcar.” 

Law nodded in agreement. 

"What were you doing?" Ace asked. 

"On the streetcar?"

"Yeah, on the streetcar. That woman was screaming at you."

"She started it," Law said defensively. 

"Oh yeah?"

"She stabbed my foot with her stupid shoe, and all I did was try to get away from her so I didn't have to listen to her going on and on about her fucking social life, and apparently she didn't like that I had to push her to the side— a bit, it wasn't even hard— even though she'd been running into me the entire ride."

Ace smiled, mouth closed and eyebrows raised. "You don't ride the streetcar much, do you?"

"No," Law said bitterly. "I don't like it."

"Uh-huh." 

"What were you doing on the streetcar?" Law asked, diverting the conversation away from himself. 

"I ride the streetcar all the time," Ace answered. "Well, except when I do this." He tipped his head vaguely in the direction of the train tracks. 

"Do you always have some asshole yelling at you too?" 

Ace's expression dimmed, and, shit. Law knew he shouldn't have asked. At least not like that, but delicacy had never been his strong suit. 

"Didn't know you were paying attention," Ace commented. 

Really, Law had been doing more than paying attention, but there was no need to bring that up now. Him telling Ace that he'd lied, and was actually elbowing his way through the center aisle to stop some imagined conversation that was happening was, uh, not normal behavior, if he had to judge. "Yeah. Kind of," he said instead.

“It's someone from work.” Ace sighed, leading Law down through a shallow ditch and into a park. “He's also with Whitebeard. He... doesn’t like me.”

“Why?” Law asked. He hadn't really believed Ace when he said he didn't get along with people. But now Blackbeard and this other guy were both shitty toward him, and Law didn't know whether Ace had anything to do with it, or if he was just unlucky. 

Ace shrugged. “Because I’m a disaster. And apparently that’s his problem now.”

“No you’re not,” Law said.

Ace adjusted his grip on Law's shoulder as they crossed a flat, grassy area. He watched their feet, steering clear of a large stick and making toward the sidewalk. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“Do what?” 

Ace flicked his eyes over to Law. “It’s just… it’s true,” he concluded. ”I've been a mess ever since we moved to the city. I’m late all the time. I log everything wrong at work. I argue with people for no goddamn reason. And then Luffy ends up in the middle of everything."

Law's gut reaction was to argue, but— if he were being honest— he didn't have much to lean on. He could say that Ace was too hard on himself. That he just didn't seem like he was irresponsible. But Law didn't know Ace outside of the butcher shop, so that could only go so far. Really, maybe he was a terrible employee, how would Law know? 

“So why does the other guy care?” Law asked. 

“Squard?" Ace said. "Fuck if I know. He’s worried I’ll make him look bad or something. Or make Whitebeard look bad. I dunno. I think he just likes telling me what to do.” 

“Does Whitebeard care about appearances that much?” Law asked. 

“No,” Ace shook his head firmly. “He… keeps telling me that. Squard thinks he's looking out for me, but he's not. He doesn't even like me. He'd hate me if he knew..." Ace caught himself, glancing up at Law with a worried look.  "Whitebeard isn't like that. He actually gives a shit. He only gets on me for stuff when he’s worried about me.”

“Like when you started hanging around the drug-dealing butcher shop?” Law asked. 

Ace laughed lightly, “Yeah, like that.” Then he stopped, face turning serious. “Wait, how did you know about that?” 

“Whitebeard told me.”

“Are you serious?” Ace said, eyes widening. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

"Holy shit," Ace said, shaking his head. “He came in all pissed last night and told us to stay away from the shop. I didn’t think… Jesus, I didn’t know he talked to you. What did you say to him?”

“He asked if I was giving you up to the cops or selling you drugs.” Law said sourly. “And I told him to mind his own fucking business.”

Ace grimaced. “How’d that go?”

“He slammed my head into a clock," Law said plainly.

“Holy shit,” Ace said, looking genuinely concerned, “Is it— Um. Are you sure you’re alright? 

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Law asked, ignoring the question. He was fine. “He doesn’t know what the ephedrine is for.”

“You didn’t try explaining it?"

"No," Law said bitterly. "Not my job."

”It's not about your job, it's about not getting a concussion," Ace argued.

"I don't share information." Law stated, for what felt like the hundredth time. "That's the policy."

Ace started at him, frowning. "I did tell Luffy, for the record” he said defensively. "It didn't seem like I needed to tell anyone else since I wasn’t, like, falling asleep standing anymore. And I was kind of avoiding telling Whitebeard, since he's never liked you—“

“What?” Law asked, surprised. 

“What?” Ace asked, furrowing his brow.

“He never liked me?”

Ace raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?” Ace grinned. Law shook his head. Neutral. He thought he was at least neutral with Whitebeard before all this, which didn’t seem like too much to hope for. 

Ace looked at him like he was insane. ”Law, ever since we moved I’ve literally only heard bad things about you. Apart from like, doctor stuff. Your reputation sucks. People actually think you’re a serial killer. Or that you sell organs for money, or… or run secret experiments on prisoners. Depending on who you ask, you’re either working for the cops or Doflamingo, neither of which are a good look.”

“He’s never liked me because of some rumors? None of that is true.” 

“No,” Ace said, matter-of-fact. “He also said you threw a grenade into one of his buildings.”

“Oh.” That would explain it. “Probably.” 

Ace looked taken aback. Some rumors about Law were just that— rumors. Other had bits of truth sprinkled into them, like the one about the guy’s heart exploding in the shop. Some of them weren’t lies at all. Ace frowned. “What do you mean probably?”

Law shrugged. “I don’t remember which buildings they were.”

“Buildings?“ Ace clarified, ”"There was more than one?”

“Yeah.” 

“And you don’t remember any of them?”

“Not really.” Law answered. “At least one was a factory, but I don’t know where. One was outside the city.” Ace continued side-eyeing him with a frown. “What?" Law said, "I was like ten years old and in a new city. Sorry I didn’t mark them off on a map for you.”

“How are you not in jail?” Ace asked. 

“Doflamingo.” Law answered. “Had a deal with the cops. Still has it.”

Ace stared at him a long moment. 

“So you really worked for him?”

“Three years," Law said. 

“But you were just a kid, right?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I mean, did you even know what you were–”

“I knew what I was doing.” Law said quickly, cutting him off.

Ace watched him, eyes dark underneath the streetlights. 

Bepo looked at him the same way sometimes. They’d had this argument before, about that child version of Law, the one that was happy to light the world on fire, given a match. Bepo thought Law was too hard on himself. That he should give himself some grace, because he’d been through so much in Flevance, so wasn’t it understandable, to some degree, that he wanted some kind of revenge? Only problem was, Bepo saw innocence where there was none. He didn't think a child as young as Law could really understand the consequences. He didn't think children had the capacity to understand the pain and suffering they could inflict. 

And he was wrong. 

Law knew exactly what he was doing back then. The burning of Flevance was fresh in his mind, and when Doflamingo torched a city, he hoped the residents would feel the same heart-eating horror that he'd felt. Or die. He didn't care. He had the single-minded urge to lay waste to everything in sight. He felt it roiling, dark and corrosive his gut, like a venomous snake, ready to strike. He thought about what it would be like, to burn, to fight, to kill, to see humanity’s twisted expression when he got back at them, took down their stupid, little lives in the tornado of his own cursed one. He wanted to slit the throat of people on the street. He wanted to break fingers and listen to their owners' screams. He wanted everything burned to ashes. Nothing could deter him. No words. No punches or kicks. Not even Cora shoving him out a window, catching his arm on broken glass and landing with a hard thump on his back that knocked the air out of him. He still came crawling back, wretched little creature he was. 

Law didn’t remember everything, especially from his early days with Doflamingo. He hardly slept, and he was recovering from days of starvation and a solid bout of smoke inhalation. He also remembered some things that he knew couldn’t be true. Burning alive the men who'd lit Flevance on fire. Throwing grenades into the mayor’s mansion of the town next over, hearing the screams of the people inside, and watching them fight to escape. Those things had never happened. He’d imagined those things. He’d imagined them a lot. He’d imagined them enough times to turn them into something tangible and real, even more so than the slurry of memories he had from his preteen years, built them up with brick and iron and hate, uneroded by the passage of time. 

There was no childhood naivete in the hellscape of Law's ten-year-old brain. Doflamingo knew that. That's the reason he kept Law around. 

Bepo didn't know that version of Law. He didn't understand that making excuses for him— that he was still so young, that he didn't know what he was doing— would make adult Law lose his grip on him. The only way to keep that demon in check was to stare straight at it, see the black, hollow eyes and full shape of it, or else risk its claws tearing Law apart from the inside out. No, he wasn’t that thing anymore, that came crawling out of Flevance and into Doflamingo’s lap, but he also couldn’t pretend it wasn't there. 

“Law?” Ace asked, looking concerned. Had he said something else? Law might’ve missed it. At some point they'd stopped walking.

“I knew what I was doing," Law reiterated. 

Ace watched him closely, fingers loose around his side, now that Law was standing still. 

“Let me get something straight," said Law. "Doflamingo didn’t kidnap me off the street, I went and found him myself. I asked to work for him. I stole the grenades. I threw them because I wanted to, not because anyone forced me to.”

“Then... why?”

Good goddamn question. At the time, Law chalked it up to everything that happened in Flevance, the same way Bepo would have. That was an excuse. Cora had shown him that. Cora had been through hell, had his whole life upended into the shitter, and still he was soft-hearted and kind. Trying to do good on his own accord, without needing anyone else to point him in the right direction. Why did Law— and Doflamingo, for that matter— turn into a monster, while Cora stayed human? What was different about him? His personality? Some innate quality, compelling him to do good? Some lesson he'd learned as a child, that Law and Doflamingo had managed to miss?

"I don't know," answered Law. “And it doesn't matter. I did what I did. If Whitebeard hates me for that, then, fine. I knew what I was doing. I could have killed someone, and it’s by pure chance that I never did, as far as I know. I’m not surprised Whitebeard hates me, I’m only surprised I didn’t know about it already.”

“But… you’re not like that now.”

“Yeah, who gives a shit.” Law steadied himself on Ace's shoulder and started to walk again.

For some reason Ace looked hurt about that. “You don’t think that’d matter to him?” 

“How should I know?" 

“Don't you think it should?”

“No," Law answered. "It's up to him if it matters or not."

“But you didn’t deserve all that.”

“I threw a grenade through his window.” Law said skeptically.

“That was a long time ago, Law. You’re a different person–”

“No, I’m not.” Law interrupted.

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I’m not.” 

“Yes—“

“What, do you think I was possessed?" Law glared in Ace's direction. "No. Maybe I don’t do that shit anymore, but it was still me who did it. You think the guy whose leg I snapped in half cares that I give band-aids to kids now? No. It doesn’t fucking matter. If they want to forgive me because it makes them feel better, then they're welcome to it. But they don't owe me anything, and I'm not going to spend my life pretending that anything good I do can magically erase the three years I spent working for Doflamingo.”

“You don’t think you deserve any credit for getting out of that?” Ace said, sounding genuinely annoyed. 

"No," Law answered. "I’m not even the one who got me out. If it were up to me then I would be Doflamingo’s right hand now. Or, dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“You want me to drop you off in a ditch?" Ace said, sarcasm dripping off his words. "I’d actually be happy to drop you in a ditch right now.”

“Maybe you should try pushing me off a train again.” Law snapped back. 

Ace flipped him off. 

Law laughed. The corner of Ace's mouth snuck upward. "You're a fucking pain," he said. 

"Yeah." Law agreed. That was a pretty fair assessment. 

Law started recognizing buildings, and soon they reached the back alley behind the shop. It was strange approaching it from this side, limping along like one of his patients. The lantern above the door was bright, carving out a circle of light on the pocked cobblestone below. Law assessed hundreds of patients below that light, making split second assessments of their posture, their attention, their mental state. He didn’t stop there. He also made judgments about them. Whether they were rich. Who they might be working for. Whether they could kick Law’s ass in a fight. He made mental notes about what they wore. Who they were with. 

They stepped into the light, and Law blinked up at it, reaching in his pocket for his key with his free hand, the other still draped over Ace’s shoulders. Ace’s hand wrapped around his side, fingers warm underneath his jacket. Law wondered what he’d see, if he were on the other side of the door. Wondered if he’d decide they were acquaintances. Or coworkers. Or friends. Did they know each other well? Had they known each other for a long time? Would Law, on the other side of the door, notice the way he trailed his fingers along Ace’s arm as they separated? Would he notice the way Ace watched him, attentive and over-careful, as Law shifted his weight and leaned against the wall? Would he think it meant anything, when Ace said he had to get back to the hotel, but made no motion to leave? 

“I’m fine,” Law stressed, shoving the key into the lock and turning it. 

“Don’t you have to go down the stairs?”

“That’s what the railing’s for.” Law answered, stepping carefully inside the door. He leaned back against it, steadying himself with the handle. 

Ace didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? I’m late but I’m not that late.”

Law looked at him skeptically. “Whitebeard doesn’t seem like he’s having a very forgiving week.”

Ace shoved his hands in his pockets, looking off down the alley. “That’s… yeah. He’s not.”

Law didn’t know what to say next.

“Honestly,” Ace kicked the toe of his boot on the cobblestone. “He might need another week to cool off. I don't want him to like, kill you. We'll be around, I just have to figure out when."

Law didn't want him to leave. He felt the reluctance in his throat, and in the way his chest tightened. He'd had a long day, from the city travel to the farm to the train, but he still didn't want it to end. He didn't want to go back to his normal routine. He didn't feel like working, even though he usually didn't mind. He didn't want to go up to his empty apartment. 

Ace didn't want to leave either, by the way he was standing there, like he was waiting for something. But at some point, Law's brain had caught up with him. Ace was supposed to be back hours ago, probably. Law had to go fix his mounting number of injuries. So even though he didn't want to, he said simply, stupidly, "Yeah. I'll see you around," and moved to close the door. 

Chapter Text

Ace walked home, watching his own shadow circle him on the cobblestones, underneath the streetlights. It was cold, now, and he missed the warmth of Law’s arm over his shoulder. He felt strange. He noticed a pool of spilled oil, lighting up with color, and swirling with darkness, coal-black and heavy. He felt giddy, but the feeling was also leeching out of him, adrenaline running down the stack pipe, leaving behind all the other shit he had to deal with.

If not for Luffy, Ace might’ve flown the jump, ditched the city and rode out the end of the line. 

But, he didn’t.

And there it was again, that surge of spent adrenaline, firing off like a piston and opening up the hollow feeling in his chest. 

He wished he could turn around. He wished Law hadn’t shut the door. He had never been good with consequences. Garp said he didn’t think about consequences, but that was never the problem. Ace thought about them enough. Garp just didn’t like when Ace decided they were worth it. 

Didn’t matter now. 

Ace shuffled through the front door of the hotel, pushing it open with his shoulder. Thatch looked up from the desk, told him Luffy was in the basement. He smiled. He was being helpful. Ace knew that, and still he had to fight back a scowl. He didn’t know how so many people managed to keep track of his schedule, everywhere he was supposed to be, and when. He could barely manage to keep track of it himself. He’d never had to before. Luffy sure as hell wasn’t keeping track. 

Ace spotted Luffy in the corner of the basement bar, watching over a card game and sipping a soda. Poker, looked like. The room was quiet for a Saturday, though it was still early for people going out in the city. The biggest group was Whitebeard’s crew at the card table, and a smattering of couples and small parties filled the rest of the room. As Ace looked around the card table, he accidentally made eye contact with Squard, who narrowed his eyes at him under the low, green-plated overhead light. 

Ace tensed his jaw, staring down Luffy and pretending not to notice the way Squard scrutinized him. Ace hadn’t been in the mood for that lecture three hours ago, and he sure as hell wasn’t now. ‘Communication’ was Squard’s theme of the day (week, really), and he was just getting to the good part about ‘showing up good for the crew’ when Ace ditched him without a word, ducking around the streetcar to go hop a train with the one person in the city he was supposed to have zero communication with. Squard could take his catalog of everything Ace said ‘unprofessionally’ and shove it. And Ace knew he was going to have a problem with him walking off, and ask him where he went, but Ace was sticking to his story that he walked home alone, and if Squard felt like challenging him on that, Ace would be happy to communicate his own thoughts by punching him in the mouth. He sucked in a breath, glared over to Squard, who was….

…already back to his card game. 

Fine. Whatever. He didn’t want a confrontation anyway. Ace went up to Luffy, who was looking over Marco’s shoulder and making the most readable expression about the cards in his hand. 

“C’mon, Luffy, fun’s over,” he said, pulling Luffy by the forearm. “Time to go up.”

“But—“ Luffy heard Marco raise, which was an obvious bluff, judging by the way Luffy screwed up his face. 

“Nuh-uh,” Ace said, shaking his head. “Right now.” 

“Boo.” Luffy commented, slumping in his chair and pushing it backward. 

“I don’t care. Hey, leave the soda, we don’t need glass upstairs.”

Luffy made a face, but Ace was already prodding him along before he could complain more. They walked to the staircase, and Ace thought he’d managed to make a clean escape until he heard footsteps jogging up behind him. He sighed. Of course he wasn’t getting out of here without some kind of lecture. He turned around, wondering how he could end the conversation with the least number of words (probably zero, maybe he should just bolt), and was surprised to see Marco standing there, instead of Squard, leaning on one foot with his hand on his hip.

What was his problem? Why did he care if Ace was late again? Did Luffy do something? Did Squard send Marco to talk to Ace this time, to mix things up a bit? Could Ace not go like, three fucking hours without someone yelling at him for something? 

“What? ” Ace said, making sure he sounded annoyed. 

Marco raised his eyebrows, dropped his hand. “Whoa there,” he said casually. “I’m not here to piss you off, I just…” Marco scratched behind his ear, frowning.

“You just, what? ” Ace said, keeping one foot on the bottom stair. Luffy hovered up ahead.

“Wanted to talk,” he decided. 

Ace studied his expression. ‘Wanted to talk,’ could mean anything, and half those things still ended up with Ace getting a lecture. He didn’t know how to read Marco. He didn't look mad. He looked relaxed, genuinely. So maybe he wasn’t here to be a dick.  

As a person, though, Marco was responsible, disciplined, even keeled, and a thousand other things that Ace wasn’t. He had a cocky sort of attitude, and Ace had kind of written him off as a cool, too-good-for-you kind of asshole. One who— instead of just telling you they were mad at you— would be your 'pal' first. Pat you on the back while thinking about how much better they would've handled everything. Give you little bits of advice, presented like they were some deep, Earth-shattering truths when Ace could read the same thing in the newspaper write-in column for two cents.  

Only thing was, if Marco had that side to him, Ace had yet to see it.

Luffy seemed to like him. 

Ace sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Luffy, go on upstairs,” he said, waving him along. “If I catch you bothering Thatch behind the desk, you’re dead.”

Luffy grinned, a glint in his eye. In Luffy-brain, that meant Luffy was free to bother Thatch behind the desk, as long as he snuck up the stairs to the fourth floor before Ace could take the elevator up and catch him not in the room. He liked games about not getting caught: hide and seek, kick the can, running from the cops. Ace pretended not to know all that and turned back to focus on Marco. 

“Sorry,” Ace said. “I’m a little—“

“Tired?” Marco guessed.

“Yeah.”

“I heard about last night,” Marco said. 

Well, that wasn’t a surprise. It’s not like Whitebeard had spoken to them in private. Just kind of, pulled them aside and talked in his same normal volume, which was not yelling, but still resonant, echoing into every corner of the lobby. He was also clearly pissed off, but not at Ace and Luffy, exactly, even though they were the ones getting flack for it. 

“What about it?” Ace asked. He didn’t know what Marco could possibly have to add. Ace and Luffy were banned from visiting the shop. Message received. Did Marco think they weren’t going to listen? Because, he was right, but that wasn’t any of Marco’s business. Was Ace about to get another lecture? But not a lecture, lecture. That didn’t seem like his style. A ‘I’m the cool uncle’ kind of lecture, about how he used to make bad decisions too, and— 

“You have narcolepsy?” Marco asked.

Fine, okay, yeah.

It would be that. Of course it would be that. Marco was a doctor. Ace rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead. He needed to fucking chill. He pushed off the wall and sat on the stairs, pulling his feet underneath him.

“Yeah,” he answered, pushing his hair out of his face. 

Marco sat next to him. Slowly, giving Ace a chance to protest. He didn’t. 

“Is it going alright?” Marco asked. “I heard Trafalgar gave you something for it. Well, first I heard from Blackbeard that he sold you drugs, but it sounded like he was talking out of his ass, so.”

Ace nodded, feeling his shoulders relax. Fine. Maybe Marco wasn’t out to get him. Maybe he wasn’t trying to catch Ace in a lie or fish for something that Ace had fucked up, or was going to fuck up. Maybe he was just, you know, being a doctor? “Sorry I didn’t say anything,” Ace said. 

Marco shrugged. “No skin off my nose. What’d he give you?”

“Ephedrine,” Ace said, a bit haltingly, since he’d read the name more times than he’d said it. 

“How much?” Marco asked. 

Ace frowned, “I dunno, two?” 

“Little round ones? White?”

Ace nodded. 

“Any side effects?” 

Ace shook his head.

“Well,” Marco commented. “That all sounds fine to me. Are you going back there?”

Ace glared. Marco was fishing. Fucking figures. Did he think Ace was dumb enough to answer–

“Hey. Kid,” Marco said, leaning over, hand on the edge of the step between them. “What’d I say about not pissing you off? I’m not trying to get you in trouble, I’m asking if you need anything.”

”I’m fine,” Ace said icily. He watched Marco’s face. Would Marco take that to mean yes, he was going back there? Or would he leave it alone? Was he going to rat him out to Whitebeard? They may as well lock him in the hotel if everyone was going to be so stressed about everything Ace did. If Marco was going to kick up dirt about Ace not following rules, he'd rather know about it now. 

Marco... hardly reacted at all. In fact, he looked like he was waiting for Ace to say something else, but Ace didn't know what he wanted.

“What’s he like?” Marco asked, after a beat. 

Why did Marco want to know what Law was like? What’d it matter to him? Did Marco agree with Whitebeard already? Was Ace going to get the same speech as yesterday? He wasn’t answering that question, just to have Marco feed him back the same rumors about Law that Ace had heard a thousand times already. Ace wanted to sleep. He should walk away before this got any worse. If Marco was baiting him into a conversation so he could—

“Did I… do something to you?” Marco asked. Same stupid, genuine expression. Completely neutral, like there couldn’t be a wrong answer, except there was always a wrong answer, Ace just hadn’t figured out what it was. 

“What do you want from me?” Ace demanded. 

Marco blinked. 

“What are you asking me questions for?” Ace asked, frustrated. 

Marco scratched his head and looked upward, thinking. “Ace, I don’t know how else to put it. I’m not getting you in trouble, I’m trying to ask if you’re alright. Squard said you picked a fight with the engineer earlier and—“ Marco raised his hands, noting Ace’s expression. “Not an accusation. Then he said you ditched him on the ride home and disappeared for an hour and a half.”

“The transformer blew, and I didn’t feel like waiting around—“

“Ace—” Marco interrupted, pitching his voice up a half step. He was frustrated. 

Ace snapped his mouth shut.

An expression slipped over Marco’s face. Sad, or guilty, or something. Ace didn’t know what to do with that. Marco lowered his voice, dropping back into his casual tone. “You’re acting like I’m interrogating you.” Marco commented. “I mean, your grandfather is the fucking police commissioner, so I don’t blame you. And I know Blackbeard is twisting your words around, so he’s certainly not helping. And Squard can be shitty with new people, so I told him to shut up for the rest of the night unless he wanted me to strangle him. Then you’re hanging around Trafalgar, who’s supposed to be both an asshole and kind of a prick about payment. So—“ Marco raised his hands, defensively, “—swear to god— I am only trying to figure out if you need anything. That’s it. And if I did anything to piss you off, then fine, I’ll back off, but I don’t know how else to tell you that you’re not on trial here.” 

Marco stared at him, waiting for Ace to say something back.

Ace dropped his eyes to the floor. 

He sucked at this. Why was it, he wondered— eyeing a snagged thread in the carpet— that the only thing he handled worse than people trying to piss him off was people trying to get along with him? What was wrong with him? Marco hadn't done anything. He'd only been helpful. Luffy liked him. Why did Ace have to make it complicated? It was exhausting, trying to figure out what everyone wanted from him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted people who made sense to him. He... 

He missed Sabo. 

The emotion hit him like a freight train. 

He wanted Sabo here.

For half a second, he tried to fight it off, but this head was screwed up and his nerves were weak, firing off like sparks onto wet coals. He crumbled, quietly, like a shuff of snow off a roof, dropping his head onto his arms and slumping against the wall. He was tired of trying to figure people out. He was tired of trying to explain himself. He was just tired tired, and all he wanted was Sabo, who made sense to him, who always knew what Ace was thinking. 

Ace hadn’t cried since they came to the city. There was too much happening. Ace was immediately overwhelmed by the number of people around, all of the things he had to do and keep track of, the fact that he was tired all the fucking time, the way the city air suffocated every street corner, seeped in through the windows, bringing endless noise along with it. And he’d been handling all of that. He’d been fucking dealing with it, and managed to only punch one person in the face this whole time. So why, now, was everything piling up at once, running over itself and into a crushing heap? Why, now, when an hour ago he'd thought maybe he was doing better, laughing and dragging Law across town, adrenaline fiery underneath his skin, not thinking anything about Gray Terminal and everything they'd left behind there in the rubble. Why was his head like a piston, building up pressure until it all flipped directions, letting him up only if he promised to come crashing back down? Law going inside. Law shutting the door behind him. Ace walking back to the hotel, left to deal with yet another missed curfew and an incoming surge of people telling him everything he’d done wrong in the past twenty-four hours. He felt sick. He felt hungover. He took a shaky breath and fisted the sleeves of his shirt. 

How was he supposed to do this without Sabo?

Marco cautiously put an arm over Ace’s shoulders. Ace didn’t mind the weight of it. He wasn’t a bad guy. It was unlucky for him, to have met Ace now, when he was an absolute wreck and could hardly talk to people without saying something wrong. His shoulders shook. His whole body felt elastic, like he would snap, but he couldn't figure out how to let go. There was no answer. There was no solution. Sabo was gone. He wasn't coming back. He'd left him and Luffy and— 

”Come on,” Marco said gently, lifting up under his shoulders and pushing him around the banister. Past the corner was a lone booth, tucked behind a wooden divider and facing the bathrooms. Marco sat him there, told him to breathe, and walked over to the bar. He returned a minute later with a glass of water and his own glass of whiskey.

He set the water down in front of Ace and sat down across from him, feet still facing the rest of the room. He didn't say anything, just looked across the room absently, silently there, but also not intruding, somehow. 

Ace sniffed, took a drink, and ran his hands through his hair, closing his eyes and pulling his fingers against the wind-worn tangles. 

He listened to the hum of conversations around the room. Talking about shows at the theatre. Favorite dinner recipes. Eventually he felt... normal, ish, again, the wrenching sense of loss passing along, same as the adrenaline, wreaking havoc like a storm and leaving behind a mild-tempered afternoon. He took a deep breath, found that he could control it again. 

“Sorry about that,” Marco said after a long time. He cautiously made eye contact with Ace, then flicked his eyes back to the room. “I wasn’t trying to... do that.“

Ace huffed out a breath, shaking his head. "It's fine," he said. “You didn’t do anything, I’m just…” he leaned back in the booth, stretched his arms into the cushion, palms flat against it. “I don’t know.”

“Tired,” Marco said.

“Yeah,” said Ace. 

Ace could've ended it there. He needed to sleep. But now, with all the excess energy drained out of him, his head was clearer. Marco really hadn't done anything shitty. Luffy liked him. Maybe Ace should just...

"Law isn’t… he’s not a problem," Ace offered. 

Marco nodded. 

"He's... nice. Kind of." 'Nice' wasn't at all the right word to describe him, but Ace couldn't think of another word that could really capture it. He wasn't feeling creative. "I don't owe him money, and he's not going to sell me out to the cops."

"Good to know," Marco said casually. Accepting it easily. Ace studied his expression, more calmly than before. Maybe, Marco wasn't complicated at all. Maybe he really was just doing what he said he was. 

"He wasn’t trying to piss off Whitebeard," Ace continued. "He said he didn’t even know Whitebeard had a problem with him until—“

“Wait, you talked to him already?” Marco asked, eyebrow shooting up and a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, fuck me,” Ace complained, dropping his head immediately to the table. He was so relieved that someone was listening to him he'd forgotten to, you know, not throw all his cards on the table. 

Marco whistled, “Damn, Portgas, it’s only been like twenty-four hours.”

Ace peeked up from where he was hiding his face in his arms to see Marco, wearing a shit-eating grin across his face. It made him look younger. Hugely childish. Marco wasn't the type of asshole Ace had thought he was, he was an entirely different kind. 

“It was an accident,” Ace emphasized.

“Sure,” Marco said, smug, resting his chin on an upturned palm. 

“He was walking home when I was," Ace argued. 

“Uh-huh,” Marco replied. “Was that around the time you ditched Squard?”

Ace scowled. “For this not being an interrogation, you sure are acting like a fucking cop.”

Marco laughed at that. “I know, I know,” he chuckled again, waving his hand. “I won’t say anything, I swear.” Marco settled back into his seat, folding his arms on the table. “So, what’d he say about it?”

“He didn’t know Whitebeard had a problem with him.” Ace said. 

“Really?” Marco looked skeptical. 

“Yeah," Ace answered. "I kinda said the same thing. I don’t think he’s lying though.”

“They blew up an entire factory because Doflamingo wasn’t allowed to garnish wages off the workers. He doesn’t—“

“He didn’t deny it,” interrupted Ace. “He remembers something like that. Just not like, details.”

“Huh.”

“You don’t believe him," Ace said. 

“No, I actually do." Marco said, a bit solemn, drumming his fingers on the table. "I don't know if I'd believe that for anyone else, but for him... it makes sense." Marco closed his mouth. Paused, like he was deciding something. "I ran into him once," he said. "When he was with Doflamingo. There was some kind of shootout and the whole thing was a big fucking mess. I was trying to keep this guy from bleeding out on the street. It was probably a lost cause to begin with, and then I noticed this kid just… standing there. Back then, I didn’t know who he was. He must've been ten or so at the time, but he looked younger. I thought he'd accidentally wandered into a bad spot. I didn't know he was already working for Doflamingo, and was probably involved in the whole incident from the jump, so I yelled at him to get out of there.”

Marco took a long sip of his drink, swallowing fully before setting it back down. “He didn’t even blink. I don’t even know if he heard me. He just... watched the guy bleed out. He looked like one of the soldiers who goes to war and comes back with their brain turned to mush from the shell fire. Grown men with that expression end up in institutions. But a kid?” Marco shook his head. "A kid shouldn't look like that."

Ace tapped on his water glass, watching the ripples expand outward. That... sounded like Law. Ace had seen flickers of that himself. He’d seen the way Law's eyes glassed over. Like, for a second, he’d slipped away from the world and gone somewhere else. Maybe somewhere else was watching a man bleed out on the street. Maybe it was a cemetery train. 

“I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember all that." Marco continued. "It's probably better if he doesn't. Doflamingo's a monster. I’m more surprised that Law’s not dead, to be honest. Even moreso that he’s apparently a functioning human being. He dropped off the map after Doflamingo’s blow-up with his brother and—“

“With what?”

“Doflamingo's brother. Do you know about him?”

Ace shook his head. 

“Doflamingo had a brother. Corazon. He’s dead now.”

“Because of Doflamingo?”

Marco shrugged, leaned back in his seat and laid his arm across the top of it. “Probably. Corazon was undercover for the cops. There’s a rumor that Law offed him, but it sounds like Doflamingo started that rumor himself. In any case, Law disappeared for a while— we all assumed he was dead— until he resurfaced in the south side of the city, apparently no longer working for Doflamingo.”

Law said Cora got him out. Was that why he died? Or was that unrelated? There were so many rumors about Law, Ace struggled to keep up. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. The city treated Law like a mythical creature, some terrible folklore dripping into the sewers and polluting the air. Wherever there was misfortune, or illness, or death, there seemed to be a story about Law. He was a specter that haunted the streets. A warning whispered into back alleys and basements. The echoes of footsteps and the sharp edge of a knife.

Ace hadn’t met that Law.

He doubted that Law even existed. 

“He didn’t kill Cora,” Ace said. Law hadn't said that exactly, but something about it rang true.

Marco nodded. “Well. That's something."

“He’s… really not so bad," Ace said, leaning into the palm of his hand.

“You should try telling Whitebeard that," Marco said. "He’ll listen if you’re serious. He’s just… scared. Is all.”

“Yeah," Ace said. He didn't like thinking about that. He didn't like how much Whitebeard was willing to put on the line for him. How much he was willing to do. Of course, Ace was pissed off at how misdirected he was, but he'd never had someone around who was so protective in the way Whitebeard was. He didn't get it. 

“Are you?” Marco asked. 

“What?”

“Scared," Marco clarified.

The question seemed like a set up. One that would get you bullied by other kids if you said yes. Marco wasn’t a kid though, or a bully. He looked serious. Ace wasn’t sure what answer he was looking for. Although, Marco might not be looking for any answer. As far as Ace could tell, he really wasn’t interested in being an asshole about Ace’s attitude or telling him how to think. Maybe he was just… asking. 

That didn’t mean Ace knew how to answer. 

He was scared, in theory. He knew that there were cops who wanted him dead; he’d know that his whole life. He knew Garp wasn’t feeding him empty threats about laying low in the city and not getting into trouble. He could give him hell if he wanted to. There were plenty of ways things could break that would put Ace and Luffy in a much worse spot than they were now. 

He just, didn’t feel it though. Or, couldn’t. He was spent. A year ago he’d been living in the woods. In a lot of ways, the past few months felt like a dream. He could hardly wrap his head around it. Was he scared? Scared meant he had to be thinking about something that could happen. In the future. He wasn’t even caught up with where he was now. 

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. 

Marco nodded thoughtfully. "Well," he said, sliding out of the booth and standing up. "You should get some sleep."

Ace followed suit. 

"Let me know if you need anything," Marco said, clapping him on the shoulder and walking on past him. "I mean it." 

"Okay," Ace said. And he did actually mean it. He watched Marco return to the card table, gesturing at the spot where his chips used to be. 

Ace turned and headed up the stairs to find Luffy. 

As promised, Luffy was back in the room when Ace got up to their floor. Ace pretended not to notice the way the door to the stairway clicked closed when he made it up to the lobby, of the sound of footsteps he heard when the elevator reached their floor. Luffy greeted him when he walked in. 

Luffy could always tell when Ace was stressed. He listened better, even if he complained about it. Luffy hopped off the couch, making his way to the bathroom. He talked about his day while brushing his teeth, getting foamy spit all over the sink, which Ace would deal with in the morning. Then Ace shut off the light, and they flopped down in their respective beds, Luffy with his limbs hanging off over the side. Ace laid there a second, staring at the ceiling. 

“Hey, Luf?” said Ace. 

“Whuh?” asked Luffy. 

“What do you think of Law?”

“He sucks,” Luffy answered. “Bepo said he cut off the jerky samples.”

Figures. “No, I mean. Besides food related things.”

“Like what?” Luffy asked. 

“Like everything Whitebeard said.”

“What’d he say?” 

Ace sat up on his elbow. “Moron, were you not listening?”

“Huh-uh,” Luffy shook his head. 

“Not about the drugs? The cops? The whole ‘don’t go over there’ speech?” 

“Huh?” Luffy looked annoyed. “Why wouldn’t we go over there?”

“Because of Law, Luffy. Whitebeard said he’s dangerous, so he doesn’t want us over there.”

“That's dumb,” said Luffy. "He's our friend."

“You said he sucks,” Ace reminded him. 

“Yeah, cause he’s no fun," Luffy agreed. "And he takes my snacks away.”

“Why is he our friend then?” 

“Because you like him,” Luffy said. Like it was obvious. 

Ace went red and threw his blanket over his face. He didn’t know what he expected. Luffy didn’t even mean it like… like that. Luffy never talked about romance. It wasn't how his brain worked. But still, it cut straight to the point, exposed Ace's thoughts out bare. Ace did like him. And that seemed to trump all the rumors, all the warnings, all the possible consequences. 

“What’d I say?” Luffy asked. 

“Nothing,” Ace said, rolling on his side, facing away from Luffy. “Now go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Law laid face down on his bed, sprawled out like he was a bug that’d been squashed there. 

He’d never been so bored in his life. 

In the morning, Bepo’d taken one look at his scratched-up face, which had started to bruise, and called him off of work at the clinic. He’d sequestered Law to his apartment once Law half-explained what happened, leaving out the small detail that Ace pushed him off the train and he didn’t just trip getting off of it, because he’d rather sound stupid than have to explain the, uh, circumstances leading up to that particular incident. That was all before Bepo noticed that Law was limping, which got Law contained to his bedroom instead of his whole apartment. Bepo made him breakfast, served with a heaping side of follow-your-own-goddamn-medical-advice. Said in a much nicer way, of course, but Law got the point. Now, Bepo was coming around at irregular intervals to check on him, making Law, in all effect, a prisoner in his own bedroom. 

Law was bored, but he admittedly didn’t feel like working either. The sunlight hammered into his forehead, forcing him to close the curtains. Reading was exhausting. Writing, pretty much the same as that. He had a few things to do in the basement, where it was mercifully dark and wordless, but nothing that would take more than a half hour, and that didn’t seem worth the trouble of getting scolded by Bepo for hobbling down the stairs. 

So, here he was. 

On other days, he wouldn’t mind checking out for a few hours and staring into the wall. Sometimes he returned to his apartment after a long surgery or one of Shachi’s get-togethers and let his brain puddle into the carpet. Not today. There would be no checking out of his head today, which was stupid, because he couldn't focus on anything either. He was in head injury limbo. Not concussed enough for any serious concern, but also slightly too concussed to do anything interesting. Or even, anything annoying, or tedious, or frustrating. He’d take anything except laying here, staring at the wall watching dots of light peek through the side of his curtains. 

He looked at the clock above his bedroom door. Half-past eleven.

He flipped over to his back.

Stared up at the ceiling.

Checked the clock again. A whole forty seconds had passed.

Flipped to his stomach again. 

Buried his face in the pillow with a groan. This was Ace’s fault.

Not the concussion. Well. The concussion was also his fault, but Law didn’t care about that. 

The boredom was Ace’s fault. 

Law didn't get out much, in general. What was the point? He didn't like meeting people. He hated small talk. He could pass on most other talk too. He didn't like loud bars or strong perfume or people touching him or laughing at jokes he didn't find funny. So, maybe it was also his own fault that his social life was so emaciated it could hardly muster the strength to drag itself more than a few feet outside their building. Maybe it was his own fault that seeing Ace for a few hours felt sickeningly overindulgent. Like he was starving for it. Like it was going to make him ill. Ace was fun. He was interesting. He was a good book, a new hobby. He was burned in Law’s idle thoughts, dulling everything else around him into a strung-out, listless gray.

Law needed something else going on. There had to be something else he could do. He felt like a toddler. Give him some blocks to stack or a jigsaw puzzle. Give him a well-worded riddle or a ball of yarn to untangle, anything that he could-

Law's apartment door opened, and he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. 

“Bepo–” he called.

Bepo reached the top of the stairs and then opened the bedroom door, blinking while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Need something?” 

Law leaned up on an elbow and squinted into the hallway light. “I need a ship.”

“You need what?” Bepo looked concerned, like he might decide to add a few days to Law’s imprisonment. 

“A model ship,” Law clarified.

“You need a model ship?” Bepo asked. “For what?”

“To build,” Law answered.

Bepo made a pleased smile and folded his arms. “You want me to go to the toy store for you?” 

Okay, he didn’t have to say it like that, but, yes, that was what Law was saying. “Please," Law said, "For the love of god. I’m going to die if you don't give me something to do.”

“Fine," Bepo said, "I’ll go tomorrow."

“Not today?” 

“Tomorrow." 

“Why?” Law asked, deflating into his mattress.

Bepo made a face at his tone, which was, admittedly, whiny. He tilted up his chin. “Because you need to rest longer."

“But–”

“They’re not easy to build,” Bepo commented. “Have you ever done one before?”

Bepo remembered more about Law than Law cared to remember about himself. He knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to make Law say it. “No," Law answered, "but–”

“It’s a lot of reading.” 

“It’s some reading–”

“Tomorrow,” Bepo stated, ending the conversation there. He stepped toward the hallway and put his hand on the door handle. “What do you want for lunch?” 

“I want my ship,” Law complained. 

Bepo ignored that, saying he’d be back in soon with food. The door shut behind him, and Law’s eyes adjusted back to the darkness.

The clock ticked quietly on the wall. 

Law groaned, flopped back on the bed to stare at the ceiling, hearing every single second march forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. He spent the rest of the day waiting to eat or waiting to fall asleep or waiting for his heavy bedroom curtains to shift colors, indicating that some amount of time had passed. 

Somehow, the next morning felt even longer. Law watched the folds in the curtain slowly graduate as the sun rose, loosely defining shadows in the dull first light. He listened to Bepo open the store. He heard Shachi and Penguin come in to prep for the day and do inventory. Customers' voices snaked up through the floorboard, dampened by the heavy wood.  

Finally, he heard Bepo close the store after lunch rush, and snuck a painful, blinding peek out the window to watch Bepo head down the street. He returned within the half-hour, letting himself in and coming into Law’s bedroom. 

Law sat up and moved forward on his bed, eyeing the boxy shapes in Bepo's bag. 

“I couldn’t decide on one,” Bepo said, apologetically wrapping a hand behind his neck, “So I got all three." He held up a box. "This one says, ‘Easy to build,’ but then this one says, ‘Finest parts and pieces’ and, and this one says, ‘Best-looking model to put on your mantle,’ and you have one of those, so… Hey, hold on!”

Law got out of bed. Bepo grabbed his arm so he didn’t have to put as much weight on his ankle. Law wasn't worried about that. “They're perfect,” he remarked.

Bepo went pinkish and smiled with all his teeth. He looked so happy, it made Law feel guilty for not liking gifts.

Only a little guilty. If Law did like gifts, Bepo would be in financial ruin from buying things for him. There was a reason Bepo didn’t do any ordering for the shop. His indecision was a liability, and if he were left to his own devices the account book would be in shambles. Bepo couldn't make decisions without a deep sense of buyer's remorse, and he'd still come back with decorative trinkets or three different sets of chalk. 

Now, though, Law had never been happier about his overspending. Law could grab some extra shifts at the clinic if he really needed to pay off his model ship-building debt. He didn’t care. That was a problem for later-Law. Right now, he was staring at three beautiful, complicated, model ships with enough pieces that even sorting them could kill an entire afternoon. 

Law moved the stray bottles and clothing that he had on his dressing table to the floor and sat on the cushioned seat.

“Which one do you want first?” Bepo asked. 

“Easy to build,” Law answered. Bepo handed it to him– a ship with a simple sail and a premade hull– and set the other two by the door. 

“Thanks,” Law said, setting it down in front of him. Law opened the box immediately and started sorting out the parts. His head ached some when he skimmed the directions, but they were mostly in short, manageable paragraphs. He began with sanding the pieces, feeling the shape of each one, and the smoothness. It smelled like fresh wood and paper. 

Bepo watched him curiously over his shoulder for a few seconds. “You know," he said, "you’re...” 

“What?”

“Acting different,” Bepo mused.

“I have a concussion," Law pointed out.

“No, besides that," Bepo said thoughtfully. “You're more… relaxed. Or something.”

“Should I not be?”

“No, you should be," Bepo said. "You just never are."

"Hey-"

“Don't overthink it," Bepo said. "Anyway, I have to reopen the shop now." He backed out toward the door, but reluctantly. “Take breaks from that if you need to. Don’t give yourself a headache trying to get through it." 

Law spent the rest of the week with his model ships. He finished the first one in a day (Bepo scolded him for working too long on that), and spent three days on the second one, struggling with the hull situation and getting everything aligned right. The third one he started in concussion-prison but didn't finish before he went back to work the clinic. It laid in neatly sorted piles on his dressing table, waiting for another break in work, when Law wasn't horribly behind on everything. Or another concussion. Whichever came first.

The model ships certainly helped kill the time, but as the days rolled on his thoughts wandered back to Ace. It'd been a week, plus a few days. Law expected Ace to drop by with Luffy on a Friday, maybe. If not that, a weekend. Or another weekday, after work sometime. On a Tuesday, well after the shop had already closed, Law hadn’t even considered a possibility. This was, in part, because he was busy sewing together some guy’s half-torn earlobe and trying to dam up the steady stream of blood spewing from his nose. Underground fighting league, Law figured. The guy’s knuckles were bruised. 

He wasn’t in that bad of shape overall, except for the fact that everything was a bloody mess. His ear would heal back pretty painlessly. It’s not like an earlobe was life threatening. The bloody nose wasn’t from an especially hard hit, the guy said. Just wouldn’t stop bleeding, which tended to mean that the guy had a habit of snorting something. Maybe Law should ask, but it was getting better, so, whatever. 

The bell at the back rang just as Law was finishing up sewing the guy’s ear back onto his skull. 

“Don’t touch anything” Law said to the guy, making his way to the stairs. He needed to make sure nobody was dying in his back alley, and then he could finish wrapping the guy’s head. 

He reached the back door and pulled off a glove to open it. It was then he noticed that his sleeve was kind of a mess, as it’d fallen past his elbow at some point and been splattered with blood. His apron was darker, but shining eerily with dark, viscous liquid. Well. He didn’t get paid for his presentation. Law pulled his mask down underneath his chin. He twisted the knob, kicked the door open with his non-injured foot, and froze. 

“Uhh–” said Ace.

“Hey,” said Law.

“Are you, uh. Busy?”

Law looked at Ace. Then down at his apron, glistening more reddish in the back door light. Then down at his sleeve, stray blood trails winding up to his elbow. 

...

"No.” 

Ace gave him a once-over, raising an eyebrow as he surveyed Law’s clothes. “You look busy,” he commented, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.  

“I’m almost finished,” Law said, trying to roll up his bloody shirt sleeve. “Did you need something?”

“Yeah. Um.” Ace dug in his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. “Luffy’s friend gave me a list. He’s sick. Luffy is. He’s fine. It’s only a cold, so Marco’s looking after him for now. And I said I’d come over here and get this stuff–" Ace waved the list in his hand- "But I got caught up with something at the hotel, so now I'm. Yeah." 

Law smiled to himself. Ace sounded flustered. His cheeks were pinkish from the cold, and the wind kept tossing strands of hair out of place. He looked unsure, like he’d wandered into the wrong classroom on the first day of lecture. And maybe it was like that, because Law looked busy and the butcher shop had closed over an hour ago, but Law was still giddy from being released from concussion-prison. Ace could have come over and asked Law to read bible passages, and Law still would’ve jumped at the chance to do something other than be stuck in his room. 

“So food?” Law clarified.

“Yeah,” Ace said, huffing out a breath that hung like smoke in the winter air. “Food.” 

Law kicked back the door with his heel, leaning on it to make space for Ace to go through. “Give me five minutes. You can wait up front.”

“Thanks,” Ace said, taking a step onto the back stoop. He sidled through the door carefully, making sure to avoid running into anything blood splattered.

Law returned to the basement. Wrapping up the guy’s head downstairs felt like it took forever, but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Law moved fast, but the guy kept asking questions. He didn’t want to come back later because when his wife got back from visiting family she’d ask why he was going out. Or something. Did that mean… Was the guy unwrapping his head early? He shouldn’t do that. Didn’t Law say he shouldn't do that?

“If you take the bandage off early, go buy Dakin’s from the pharmacy and swab it on there every four hours,” Law advised. “Especially if you go out.” 

The man agreed, and Law had no idea if that meant he was planning on leaving the bandage on or doing the Dakin’s thing. Whatever. It was just an ear. He’d be fine. 

After the man left, Law flung his shirt into the corner with his apron, leaving him in only his undershirt. Normally he was better prepared for bodily fluids, but he hadn’t expected this one to be so cartoonishly bloody. That could be tomorrow’s problem. He hastily shoved a few bottles back in the cabinet, ignored his inventory sheet, washed his hands, and headed upstairs. 

Law found Ace silhouetted in the front picture window. It was half past twilight, and Law thought he had never seen anyone look more like a painting, than Ace, backdropped by wet, heavy snowflakes falling onto the street outside. There were still a few hanging onto his coat, at the shoulders, but his hair looked wet, glossy, painted expressionistically to match the dark, shrouded faces of the buildings across the street, slashes of streetlight cutting across the windows. It was quiet. The first heavy snowfall of the season. 

Law sat down across from him. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” Ace said back. 

“You know Bepo left like an hour ago.”

Ace’s expression stalled, and his hand reflexively slid back, pulling the list halfway off the table. “I can–”

Law kicked him underneath the table. “I’m saying that so you can’t get mad about the second-rate service I’m about to give you.” Law said. “What did you need?”

Ace recovered quickly, sliding the list across the table to Law. “Luffy’s chef friend said he’d make him whatever he wanted since he’s sick," he explained. 

Law picked up the list and looked it over. Flour, salt, black pepper... “He wants prime rib?” Law asked. “Are you sure he’s sick? He’s supposed to want chicken noodle soup or something.”

Ace laughed. “If he were feeling better, we’d need double of everything.”

“That’s frightening,” Law commented, pushing up out of his chair. “And he’s not even–”

“Wait–” Ace said, interrupting. “Is your ankle still bad?”

“It’s fine,” Law answered. “It’s not broken.”

“You’re limping,” Ace pointed out. 

“I’ve been walking on it for two days already, it’s–”

Ace stood up and pushed Law back into the chair. "I'll grab it, just remind me what I'm getting."

Law read from the list as Ace walked around the shop. Honestly, Ace was in here enough to have a better map of the place than Law did. He stacked everything on the counter by the register. Law grabbed a pencil from a nearby shelf and wrote down prices as he went. When he finished, he held up the receipt for Ace to grab. “Here. I don’t know if Bepo gives you a discount or anything. If he does, you can put it on.”

Law pushed up on the table and walked up to the register. When he made it behind the counter, Ace followed and stood at the edge of it. Frowning. 

“What?” Law asked.

Ace ran his thumb along the edge of the paper, crinkling it. “How much is it?”

“The total? That’s what I’m asking. Does Bepo give you a discount?”

“He does ten percent.”

“Do that, then.”

“I can’t," Ace said, handing the receipt back to Law. 

Was this a money thing? Was it weird because Bepo wasn't here? “I said it’s fine,” Law reiterated. 

“No, I can’t add it,” Ace admitted. “You have to do it.”

Law paused to stare at the receipt between them. Then back at Ace. He didn’t look like he was lying. But he had to be, because Law had overheard (or heard, rather, it’s not like he could’ve avoided hearing from his office) enough of Ace scolding Luffy about how much they were spending to know that he could at least add. 

“Are you joking?” Law asked. 

Ace glared. “You don’t have to be dick about it.”

“About—“ Law started. Then closed his mouth. ”What do you mean you can’t do math?”

“I never learned how to do all that.” Ace pointed at the paper, accusingly, like it had betrayed him somehow. “Sabo tried to teach me but I mix up the rules, and—“

“I’ve heard you do this before.”

“You heard wrong.”

“You tell Luffy prices, how do you do that?”

“I know how to count,” Ace said, scowling. 

“So why don’t you count all that?” Law said, motioning to the receipt. 

“You can’t count that," Ace explained, sounding annoyed. "It’s different.”

“Different how?” 

“Why are you asking me?” Ace complained. “I said I’m not good at it.”

What was happening? Law didn't hide the confusion on his face. He felt like they were speaking different languages. He could've quit there, added the receipt himself. Except he knew he wasn't wrong, he just didn't understand why Ace was fighting him on it. What did he mean he couldn't add?

“How much for two of these?” Law said, pointing to the 35 cent bags of rice. 

"Really?" Ace complained, making a face. Law didn't answer, just waited instead. Ace rolled his eyes and breathed out heavily. "Seventy," he answered. 

“What about this and this together?” Law pointed to a rice bag and an 18-cent container of flour. 

“Fifty-three,” Ace answered. “Can we not—"

“How’d you do that?”

“I counted it,” Ace said again.

"That was too fast for counting," Law mumbled thoughtfully. "Do it out loud." 

Ace made a face. Law recognized it as the face he made when Luffy asked for something ridiculous, like an entire turkey to eat. “Do I have to?”

“Yes," Law answered. "Thirty-five and eighteen.”

"Fuck it. Fine," he said, breathing out. He glared at Law, and his tone had a sharp edge to it when he spoke. “Four, five-six is forty-eight, then forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three.”

…

“What?” 

“You’re making fun of me,” Ace accused.

“Do something else." Law directed "Twenty-four plus… fifty-seven.”

“Eighty-one,” Ace said immediately. Law waited expectantly. Ace groaned. “Three and seven is eighty, then eighty-one.”

“Three and seven…” Law muttered to himself, “Three is…”

“Twenty-four,” Ace said. Like that clarified something. 

Fine. If three was twenty-four, and seven was fifty-seven, except… he went from eighty to… 

 “Are you doing this in multiples of eight?” Law asked.

“I dunno," Ace said defensively. "That’s how many ticks there are.”

“What ticks? Where?”

“On a yardstick.”

A yardstick. That, huh. That actually made a lot of sense. Which is to say it made no sense at all, and was the most insane way of adding things he’d ever heard. Ace was finding the multiple of eight, putting it in inches, basically, and counting his leftover “ticks.” It sounded like he had all his multiples of eight memorized offhand, like other people did with fives or tens. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Law asked.

Ace shrugged. “I don’t know, I just used the yardstick a lot. I like building things."

"Well, you're good at it." Law took the receipt, quietly adding everything putting on the discount. He could stop torturing Ace now. He handed it to Ace, who was eyeing him warily. "I'm not bullshitting you, I swear," he said, grinning. "I wouldn't care if you were bad at math, I'm just saying you're not."

Someone started crossing the street, opposite the store. A flash of recognition caught Law’s attention. She looked familiar…

No way. 

Law slapped his hand on the back of Ace’s head and pushed him to the floor. “Get down.”

Ace crouched, eyes wide with alarm. Law ended up with his back against the counter and pulled Ace away from the end, holding him back from being seen. "What is it?" Ace whispered.

“Shh,” was the only explanation Law gave, and he snuck a look around the corner of the counter.

The woman tottered past the shop window. She held onto a thin, leather leash. 

Ace shook himself out from Law’s grip, leaning on his palm to look up and over the counter. “What is— because of the old lady?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “And that thing she’s got with her.”

Ace half climbed over Law’s lap to peer around the corner. Law grabbed his shirt and tried to pull him back. He was sticking his head out too far. “Do not let her—“

“You mean the dog?” Ace whispered, incredulous. “It's barely bigger than a cat. Are you serious?”

“I’m not letting that thing in,” Law said defiantly.

Ace half-sat in front of Law. At least he was fully back behind the counter. “That thing? Really, Law? He has a little bandana.”

“I don’t care.”

“What do they even want? Do you sell dog treats or something? Dog bones?”

“No,” Law said, scowling. Bepo had tried to pitch that years ago and Law was having none of it. “I don’t invite people’s animals into the place we sell food.”

“Bepo’s let dogs in before,” Ace argued.

“He what?”

“Forget I said that,” Ace said, smiling in a half-tilted, devious way that made Law want to melt but also punch him. Ace continued, “If they don’t want treats, what are they even here for? Look, she already walked past the door.”

“Yeah,” Law said. “Because she’s going around back. Now shut up and stay put so she doesn’t think we’re here.”

“They’re looking for you?”

“Why else would I be hiding?” Law asked, annoyed. “She thinks I’m a vet.”

“Why does she think you’re a vet?”

“I did a vet thing. Once. Under extreme duress—“

The bell rang at the back, echoing through the hallway and into the store.

Law stayed frozen behind the counter. Ace… did not. He tried to stand up.

“What are you doing?” Law whisper-yelled, pulling down on Ace’s sleeve.

“Answering the door,” Ace said, trying to stand again.

“What did I just say?” asked Law. “We’re not answering that.”

“Law, this is ridiculous.” Ace argued. “She’s a sweet old woman with a sick puppy and you’re hiding on the floor.”

The bell rang again, three or four impatient rings all strung together. 

“She is not sweet,” Law emphasized, “And that is not a puppy. It’s not even sick.”

“Whatever,” Ace said, shaking off Law’s grip. “A senior dog. Are you really that scared of them?” 

“I’m not scared of dogs, I’m scared of its—“

More ringing. People with gunshot wounds had done less impatient bell-ringing than this woman. 

“That’s it,” Ace announced, fully rising to his feet. “I’m letting them in.”

Law made a last ditch effort to grab at Ace’s feet, but he jumped out of the way. His footsteps padded down the hallway and to the back door. 

Godammit. 

Law was going to kill him. 

The door creaked open as Law began limping down the hallway. Ace had no idea what he’d just gotten them into.

Law rounded the corner just as Ace finished pulling it open, a wide, friendly smile stretching across his face. He greeted the woman with a warm ‘hello’ and—

“Who the hell are you?” growled the woman, a permanent frown carved into her lower face.

“Uhh.” Ace blinked. 

“Where’s the one who looks like a sewer rat?” 

“Hah," Ace huffed, like she might be making a joke. She barreled him with her glare, making it clear that, no, she was not at all joking. "Uhh," Ace said uselessly.

“Hey, kid.” She snapped her fingers in Ace’s face. “Do you talk? Or are you just going to stand there grunting at me?” The dog threw a few insults of its own in sharp, demeaning yaps. “Where’s the other one?” demanded the woman. 

“He’s–” And then Ace was fully staring toward the hallway, where Law was partly visible around the corner. Godammit, he couldn’t even last thirty seconds on his own. Law stepped out and gave a weak, reluctant wave.  

“Move it,” was all the woman said, before scooping up her yelping little gremlin, elbowing him out of the way, and making her way down the stairs. 

Ace stood there, still facing the back door, looking stunned. Law pushed his shoulder, snapping him out of his half-frozen expression. “What’d I tell you?” Law whispered sharply. 

“You’re the sewer rat?” Ace asked, suddenly a big fucking grin slapped across his face. 

Law could smack him. He was already enjoying this too much, and in that case— “You’re coming with,” Law said sharply, and crowded him over to the top of the basement stairs.

“Wait—“ Ace pleaded, but he wasn’t getting out of this. Law put a hand on his back and pushed. 

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the woman already had her dog on the table, and Ace veered off to the side, out of the way. Coward. Law assessed the creature on his table reluctantly. Its eyes were full black, like a shark’s, and bulged out just as much. Its skin drooped on its face, giving off the general impression that it was melting into the table. Most upsetting, though, was the stink. Law recognized the odor, because it was burned in his memory from last time. The distinct, fish-like smell of canine anal leakage. Law wasn’t used to it. It wasn’t his job to be used to it because he wasn’t a goddamn vet. He could handle his normal human stuff— vomit, pus, urine, rotting flesh— but dogs? Absolutely not. Even the normal dog slobber smell bothered him. Dog fur had some sort of stink, musty and wet-like, especially when there was snow or puddles on the ground. Law wasn't sure why anyone would want that near them, let alone living in the same house.

The dog panted in Law’s direction, puffing out dog stink like a horrible, biological bellows. Fucker. He knew what he was doing. He held eye contact with law, unblinking.  

“Get a louder bell next time,” advised the woman sourly, breaking Law out of his staring match. “Leaving an old woman standing in the cold like that,” she clucked her tongue, “And what happened to your shirt? You’re certainly not making an effort to get a tip from me.” 

A tip? This wasn't a goddamn restaurant. And Law didn’t remember getting a tip last time, though that could’ve been due to the fact that the woman had to walk Law through the entirety of the procedure, mostly through a series of incensed yells and smacks to the back of his head. She had absolutely no reason to come back, except that Law had accidentally charged her a fraction of the price she normally paid. How was he supposed to know? He didn't do vet pricing. She misheard his initial guess (which was much higher), and Law took whatever she said back, because he would have literally paid her to leave at that point. And just like that, he'd been condemned with a loyal customer. 

“Not to mention Walter, here,” the woman continued. “His fur isn’t what it used to be. You know he starts shivering after ten minutes in these temperatures.”

In fact, Law did not know how long it took Walter to start shivering in these temperatures, and he didn’t really give a shit. 

“My assistant was supposed to answer it,” Law said in exaggerated remorse, nodding in Ace’s direction. Ace perked up, half-hiding behind the large, wooden pillar in the center of the basement. “He’s new,” Law added. 

The woman turned and glared, having acquired a new target. Ace straightened his posture and pressed his lips together into an appeasing smile. “Uhh, sor—“

“There he goes grunting again,” the woman complained to Law, waving a hand. Ace’s cheeks were pinkish, and he was clearly trying not to laugh. “What?” she snapped, looking Ace up and down, “They don’t teach you to talk proper in school anymore? He should practice his manners. My mother would’ve sliced my tongue out for stammering so much. It’s a damn shame what’s become of you youths.”

Ace nodded, half-tucked behind his pillar like she might try to throw something at him next. 

“Sorry about him,” Law said coolly. “I‘m always telling him that.”

”You are?” The woman looked at Law, displeased. “My grandchildren know: if I’ve got to tell ‘em twice with my mouth, the next time I tell ‘em will be with my boot on their rear end .”

So this woman had procreated. A terrifying thought. 

“If you keep telling him and he won’t listen,” she scolded, “Then you’d better try something else. You think saying that same thing for the sixty-eighth time is going to do the trick? No. He’s ignoring you at that point. Not even making an effort. You know, my mother had us recite bible passages over and over again, until we could tell them in our sleep, with none of that stammering that he’s got.” She waved at Ace again, not even bothering to look in his direction. “Believe me, if he could recite through plagues and famine and boiling non-believers, he wouldn’t be struggling with common courtesy. You–” she pointed a long, uneven fingernail at Law, who wondered how this had turned into him getting lecture– “had better smarten up if you want to keep your business afloat. It’d be a damn shame for your vet clinic to close down because you were too weak-handed with your employees.”

No, it would not be a shame for his vet clinic to close down, seeing as it wasn’t even a vet clinic in the first place.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Law said through his teeth, moving to the counter to pull out his gloves. It was time to get this over with. “What can I help you with today?”

“He’s been scooting again. You know—“ the woman did a half-bent, hip-thrusting motion for a second, “—all over my new kitchen rug.”

Ace made a choked sound from across the room, which he (poorly) covered up with a bout of fake coughs. Law remained straight-faced, wondering how hard he’d have to hit his head to erase having ever seen those particular theatrics. At least, well, that is what Law expected.

"Do the thing you did last time," the woman demanded. 

The ‘thing Law did last time’ was hook a finger in Walter’s little asshole until it leaked horrible, fishy fluids. Walter turned his head and breathed in Law’s direction, a smug sort of knowing to his mantis-like eyes. The mutual hatred was palpable. 

“Assistant,” Law called over to Ace, “Fill a bucket with water and grab a some rags. There’s an extra pair of gloves by the sink.” 

Ace made a “Do I have to?” face, but corrected it when the woman noticed him, curling her lip in severe disapproval. Ace grabbed a bucket and a rag from a drawer (good for him— he remembered where they were), and dutifully stood at Law’s side, safely on the opposite shoulder of the woman. 

“Don’t take forever like you did last time,” the woman barked at them. “Walter doesn’t like being prodded at for so long.”

Well. Law didn’t like doing the prodding, so at least on this, he and Walter were aligned. 

For the same reason, Law was also going to see how much of this he could get Ace to do without getting yelled at. 

“Gloves,” Law instructed, pointing to the gloves and looking at Ace. He was immediately suspicious, but that couldn’t save him now. He put them on.

After Ace was ready, Law pointed to Walter’s butthole. “Lift up his tail and wipe him down with a rag.”

Ace looked up at Law with a horrified frown. Apparently, he didn’t know what needed to happen here. He must not have grown up with dogs. Law hadn’t either, so he’d been equally horrified when he found out that this was apparently a thing that happened with dogs sometimes. Equally horrified when he learned what he was supposed to do about it. Slowly, Ace’s expression turned from confusion to hard defiance. He furrowed his brow and mouthed a hard, “No.”

“Assistant,” Law said, an affected, mild scorn threaded through his voice. “Don’t keep Walter waiting.” 

The woman cleared her throat pointedly. 

Ace looked across them both, realizing he was now the star of the show. He grabbed a rag, dipped it in the water, and delicately pulled up on Walter’s thin, bony tail. 

The real star of the show– Walter’s butthole– winked out at them menacingly. Leaked a bit of fluid into his fur. Walter adjusted his stance. 

Ace– looking pale now– reached out and dutifully wiped Walter’s ass, cleaning off the fluid and immediately dropping the rag onto the table. The smell was permeating the air, and Ace coughed into his shoulder. 

“Now,” Law instructed, very professionally, very clinically, “Just like we practiced. Take two fingers and pinch just above the anus to release more of the fluid.”

Ace’s eyes shot daggers at Law, who smiled pleasantly back at him. Ace shifted on his feet and shook out his hand, like he was a runner before the starting line. He took a breath, and then reached out to poke around the dog’s butt meat. 

“Up a little,” was the only instruction Law had to give before a fresh stream of yellow-brown fluid seeped from the dog’s anus. Next to him, Ace kicked the toe of his shoe into the ground, and turned away to bury his nose in his shoulder. Law graciously picked up the slack by grabbing another rag and cleaning up the new fluid. 

“Assistant–” Law started. 

“There’s more?” Ace asked, and, shit, if Ace figured out how to look clueless enough, Granny here wasn’t going to allow him to do anything else. 

“You can take the lead this time,” Law tried, attempting to sound normal about it. Ace wasn’t helping, he’d taken a step back from the table, and looked at Walter like he’d just blurted out an ancient riddle. 

“Take the…” Ace sputtered, “For—”

“Just like I do,” Law interrupted, not wanting Ace to reveal his complete lack of comprehension about what was happening. “Insert a finger into the–”

“Well show him first,” interrupted the woman, scowling at Law. “He can practice, but every dog’s a little different, and I don’t want him digging around in there making Walter uncomfortable.” She gave Walter a scritch underneath one of his chin folds. “You know Walter already, so you better demonstrate.”

Alright, well. Fuck. At least he only had to do one of them. 

Law explained as he performed the motions. It really wasn’t hard once you built up the nerve. “Insert a finger facing the anal gland– I’ll do the left side, you’ll do the right– and hook it around that direction. You’ll be able to feel it, about the size of a grape, and then you apply pressure until–”

Ace flinched as a sickly volcano of fluid slid from the dog’s anus. Law tried to keep a straight face, swallowing hard and feeling his eyes water at the horrible smell. He wiped it off with a rag, not offering any other explanation. He was too busy biting his tongue to keep from gagging. 

Ace hid behind his shoulder reflexively, which was funny, because Law was also the one making him do this. “I don’t think I’m ready,” he said. 

"What?” the woman exclaimed, with the same piercing roughness as a crow cawing. “You want to work in a vet clinic but you won’t even try this? Come on,” she barked at Ace, waving him back impatiently to the table. “You’re going to have to learn this, and you won’t get a dog who’s more patient than Walter here. You should feel lucky I’m letting you practice on him.” 

Ace didn’t look like he felt lucky. 

Well, too bad for him. Law stepped back from the table, leaving no barrier between Ace and the woman. He moved to Ace’s other side, nudging him closer to Walter. 

“You can do it,” said Law supportively. Ace had never looked more ready to kick him. 

“Well, go on,” urged the woman, getting Ace’s attention again. “We can’t wait here all night.”

Ace breathed out, squeezing his eyes and grimacing for a second. Then he reached a finger forward, followed Law’s instructions (very well, admittedly), and— 

YELP, snapped Walter, doing a hard twist with his back half. Ace jumped, yanked his hand back, but it was accompanied by a rocket of yellow-brown secretion, spraying wetly over the length of the table.

"LAW-" Ace turned, fully panicked. He looked pinkish and clammy, like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. His forehead scrunched when he looked at Law. "Are you laughing?"

Law leaned back against the pillar, closing his mouth. Trying and miserably failing to keep his composure. "Good job," he managed, giving Ace a thumbs up. His vision was blurry, which was half from the horrible smell and half because he kept replaying the scene in his head. 

"You think this is funny?" howled the woman. "What kind of vet are you?"

"Not a vet," Law choked out, breath hitching as he tried to suppress a chuckle. 

"You sure as hell won't be after I report you." She snatched Walter off the table, tucking him under her arm and crowding Law against the pillar. She was probably a foot shorter than him, but he held up his hands defensively. She pointed a finger into his chest. "How do you think Walter feels with you laughing at him?"

Law looked down at Walter, whose breath was clouding up the space between them. His bulging eyes seemed nice and settled underneath his eyelids. Walter looked like a hell of a lot more comfortable than anyone else in the room. "He's a dog," Law pointed out. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" the woman snipped, batting Law on the arm. "You think just because he's a dog he doesn't have feelings? Have some empathy." She gestured widely over to Ace, throwing her arm out. "Imagine if you were the one on the table with his finger up your anus. You-"

Ace went beet red. Law felt his soul exit his body. 

"Oh, you think that's funny too?" the woman yelled. "Christ in heaven, I've had enough of you. You can forget about your payment. I hope you go broke."

They sat in silence while she shuffled up the stairs. She exited the building with a hard slam at the back door. 

Holy shit, she was finally gone. Law was hiccup-laughing, eyes watering down his cheeks. He slid down against pillar, puddling down to the basement floor. He hung his hands over his knees, letting his gloves dangle away from him as far as humanly possible. 

He tipped his head back, catching Ace with a curious expression on his face. Ace blinked, putting on a wry smile. "Are you proud of yourself?"

"Uh-huh," Law answered, grinning. "I don't think she's coming back."

"No," Ace agreed. "Unless she's coming to burn your building down."

Law snorted and started to stand. Ace reached out a hand, pulling him to his feet. Law pinched the end of his gloves, one by one, pulling them off inside-out, so Ace could escape the foul-smelling fluids. 

"You alright?" Law asked, tossing the gloves into the trash. "I knew it'd be bad, but I didn't think it'd be that bad."

"Yeah," Ace said, retreating to Law's stool, which was a safe distance away from the table. "Though I was terrified I broke the dog or something."

"You thought you broke him?" Law asked, grabbing a rag to wipe off the table. 

"He sure seemed broken."

“Yeah. That's because dogs are gross," Law concluded. He filled a basin with water and grabbed a glass bottle of bleach from the top of the cabinet. He tossed in the rags and his shirt from earlier. Then he wiped off the counters, ignored his inventory sheet for the second time today, and stood in front of Ace. “Well,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“What?” Ace looked apprehensive, like Law was going to give him another disgusting instruction to follow.

“Want a drink?” Law asked. “I’m tired of being in this basement.”

Ace’s shoulders relaxed. “I would do literally anything to get the memory of that smell out of my head.”

Law snorted. “Well, all I have is gin, so hopefully that works.”

Ace hummed in approval, trailing Law as he entered his apartment and went upstairs. 

Before Law could really think about what was happening— about how Ace didn’t ask about staying over, or about how Law didn’t ask when he had to get back— he found himself swirling his gin and tonic, watching Ace light a fire in his fireplace to fend off the winter weather, which was steadily dropping snow along the bottom edge of the windowsill. It was quiet in the apartment, except for the small knocks of Ace stacking wood. They didn’t talk, at that moment, but it was a warm sort of silence. One that Law could sip on and feel heat down his throat. Ace didn’t seem to mind it either. He worked quietly. Efficiently. Rocking forward on his toes, lighting a match. 

The kindling caught, throwing flickers of light through the dark folds of Ace’s hair. He leaned down close, pushing hair back from his face, and blew. The light whoosh of air mixed in with the insistent ache of the wind at the windows, throwing a draft. 

Law looked around his apartment, admiring the way the orangish light glanced off of his coffee table, the lamp in the corner. There was a warmth to his apartment, with Ace in it. The walls melded around him, like he was an important piece that'd been missing. The threads of his rug settled beneath Ace's fingertips, and he was wearing Law's clothes again. Law wanted to know him. The same way he knew the way his floors creaked in certain places. Or the way the drawers of his desk stuck if you didn't pull them straight. 

He wanted to, but he had no idea how to start. He'd spent the better part of a decade doing the opposite. Maybe it was the gin, making him feel loose, or the concussion, or the distant sounds of the city outside, dampened by the snow, giving off the overall sense of prairie madness inside the apartment, that made him feel like, maybe, he could just ask. 

“Who is Sabo?”

The name hung in the air like a spell, and Law waited to see what it would do. 

Ace paused, holding a small stick midair. For a moment, Law thought he might brush him off. Maybe this was still off-limits. But then Ace rolled back on his heels, bracing his arm on the coffee table and turning toward Law. “I haven’t said?”

Law shook his head.

“Oh.” Ace turned back to the fire, picking up a poker and stoking it. “Sorry. I'm not really used to... He’s our brother. Was. He died. In Gray Terminal, before we came to the city.”

If Law had been asked to put the pieces together– the half-started sentences and offhand mentions of the name– that’s what he would’ve come up with. So it wasn’t surprising, but the weight of it still hung in the air like smoke. Law was never good at clearing the air. He didn’t know how to shift the mood or tactfully change the subject. Plus, he hated that. He hated that whenever he’d told people about his dead family or his burnt-up hometown (a rare occurrence), the topic would be waved off with platitudes and sympathetic looks. To be addressed at a more appropriate time, which meant, never. 

“What was he like?” Law asked. 

“Smart,” Ace answered. It was a slight, bittersweet thing, but Law could see him smiling as he poked at the fire. “He actually went to school. He had much better manners than me. And Luffy, for that matter, but it's hard to have worse manners than Luffy."

"Was he the oldest?"

Ace shook his head. "No. I'm two months older. We're not-" Ace set the fire poker aside, brushed off his hands on his thighs, and stood. "We're not biologically related," he said, grabbing his drink off the coffee table and joining Law on the couch. "We met when we were kids. We were both runaways, and pissed off most of the time, so we stuck together."

"What were you pissed off about?" Law asked. 

"Well..." Ace took a sip of his drink and put his feet up on the coffee table, leaning into Law's shoulder. "Sabo was pissed off because his parents were monsters. But he was also... he was also pissed off for other people. He had a point to being pissed off, I guess. He was always pointing out how the world could be a better place. He wanted people to be less shitty, you know? He talked a lot about scruples, which was weird, coming from a kid who stole almost everything he could get his hands on."

An idealist, then. Law's father was the same way. He was always trying to improve things. He wanted to make people's lives better. Thought a lot about what humanity ought to do and all that. 

Law could hardly stomach it anymore. The world was shitty enough. There was no need to add a layer of perpetual disappointment over everything. 

"What were you pissed off about then?" Law asked.

Ace looked vacantly at the fire, flames flickering in the reflection of his pupils. "That I existed," he said, voice hollow. 

"Huh," that sounded much more familiar. "Same."

Ace scrunched his face at that. Then he pushed away from Law's shoulder and glared at him. "What do you mean, same?"

"What?" Law asked defensively, tucking in his hand so Ace wouldn't accidentally spill his drink.

"You can't just say same."

"Why not?"

"I was being serious," Ace said, looking a little hurt.

"So was I," Law emphasized.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about."

"So?"

"It's not the same."

"It could be," Law argued. 

"Sure." Ace said, annoyed. "So you're going to tell me that you were pissed off that your parents were dead? And that... and that random strangers thought the world would be better off if you were dead? That even the whole fucking government would prefer if it you were dead, so why the hell were you even here in the first place?"

Law thought about it for a second. "Yeah, pretty much." 

"You're bullshitting me," Ace decided. His eyes crossed back and forth over Law's face, assessing.

"I was also pissed off when people used 'innervate' when they meant 'enervate,' but I got over that."

"How?" Ace demanded.

"Innervate sounds more similar to words like-"

"Fuck off," Ace said, laughing. "I mean the other stuff. How is it that you're serious? Why's the government want you dead?"

"Because of the plague," Law explained.

"That doesn't explain anything," Ace said, leaning back into Law's side. 

"And Flevance."

Ace furrowed his brow. "The city... it burned down. Didn't it?"

"Yeah. It was my hometown," Law said, matter-of-fact. "The government burned it down. Flevance was in the first wave of the Spanish plague. My father was a doctor, and he was helping to publish reports about the cases and all that. Flevance was trying to do the right thing by controlling the spread, taking quarantine measures, making everything public. Except plagues are bad for trade and tourism and all that, so the government decided they'd rather erase Flevance off the map and pretend the whole thing wasn't happening. That's why Flevance got torched."

 "And you..."

"That's when I escaped on the cemetery train and ended up in the next town over."

"Shit," Ace said, watching the water swirl in his glass. "No wonder the government wants you dead." 

Yeah. At least the heat had died down. Only a section of the local government was responsible, and those people had stopped looking for Law once they realized-

"You started a whole-ass plague, I only-"

Hold on. "What?" 

"What?" Ace echoed back. 

"That's what you got from that?" Law asked sharply. "I didn't start the plague," he emphasized.

 "Is that not... what..."

"No. The plague had already spread before I escaped, moron, they just stopped reporting it. I didn't spread shit. I wasn't contagious anymore. The government wants me dead because I know where the plague actually started, and it wasn't in Spain. I also know that the fire in Flevance wasn't an accident, that there were alive, not-sick people who died in it, and I know which officer gave the order to execute an entire city."

"Oh," Ace said, a bit sheepish. "Your thing makes sense too."

"Good," Law said, amused, setting his empty glass on the side table. 

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the crackle of the fire fill the room. It was getting late, and Ace yawned next to him before finishing his own drink. Law should probably sleep. Ace probably had work in the morning. He should get up, but he didn't want to. Ace slunk down in the couch next to him, tipping his head so it rested on Law's shoulder. Law couldn't see his face anymore, so he watched Ace's fingers instead, which fidgeted with a corner of the blanket, pulling slowly along the edge. 

"Law?" Ace said, sounding sleepy. 

"Huh?"

"Can I come back?"

Law wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. Ace and Luffy were already in the shop all the time. This wasn't about the shop, though. This was to Law, and Ace was asking about himself, singular. So maybe he was asking to come back here, to Law's apartment. Or here, on Law's couch. Or here, propped up against Law's side. Maybe he was asking to come back, but without any excuse to be there. Without needing anything else.

In any case, the answer was the same. 

"Yeah," he said. Though he really meant that Ace had to. That Law would die of boredom if he didn't. That Law was starving without him. He could only build so many model ships.

He didn't say all that.

Ace hummed at his answer, apparently content with it. Within a few minutes, Ace's breathing fell into even waves, pulling in and out steadily. 

Law stayed awake for a while, thinking. Wondering how he'd gotten here. Ace was different. He didn't follow the rules. Law caught a strand of Ace’s hair between his fingers, admiring the way the raven-like hue shined in the low light. The warning bells that Law had muffled a while ago- he was moving too fast, getting in too deep- couldn't carry through the heavy snow outside, or the brick walls of the apartment. They didn't reach him. The fire was nearly ash, hardly throwing off heat, but now, with Ace’s body heat warm against his side, he didn’t need it.

Maybe Bepo was right. He really was acting different. 

Chapter Text

Ace settled into the empty spaces of the butcher shop like they were built around him.

He took over the chair in Law’s office, digging out books or catalogues with anything vaguely mechanical-looking, flipping through them and eying the drawings curiously. Surgical catalogues and textbooks describing techniques and tools instead of diseases. He was as bad as Luffy about needing to be doing something constantly. He didn't whine like Luffy. He whined with the squeak of his chair as he half-spun it around, dragging his feet on the carpet, or the tapping of his fingers on an armrest. His eyes lit up when Law asked him if he wanted to inventory all the different equipment he had— scalpels, clamps, needles, forceps. Law had stolen most of it, rather than ordered it, which meant he’d never had the exact manufacturer or serial numbers. It’d be nice to have though, and Ace spent a few late afternoons with Law’s medical bag open, shining, steel instruments laid out on the corner of Law’s desk as he compared them to the pictures in catalogues. 

Ace went quiet when he focused. It would have been less distracting if he did talk. Law could grunt his way through a one-ended conversation and still write half-decent notes in his journal.

Ace was barely perceptible in Law's periphery. The soft hush of his breathing on the edge of silence. His hands moving cleanly and efficiently, sliding scalpels into an array from short to long. They didn't flail. His fingers didn't snap Law's attention away from his notes. Instead, they pulled Law's gaze as if on a string, wrapping him up in the way they carefully turned pages and took down notes.

Ace's handwriting was abysmal. Some combination of print and cursive, the letters built up with discrete loops and lines stuck together, rather than written in a smooth, even hand. When Ace wasn't in the office, Law eyed the pages, tracing the lopsided script and trying to pick out the patterns in it. The letters 'u' and 'v' were indistinguishable. He always paused after a cursive 'b', restarting his word with a hard line though the center of it. Law could read it, at least, without too much trouble. 

Ace claimed a spot on Law’s couch. A blanket draped over the arm. Dark rings of moisture on the wood of Law’s end table, because—no matter how many times Law told him—Ace could never remember to use a coaster. 

Ace's boots had a place on Law's shoe rack, at the top of the stairs. Law put them there, more often than not, because Ace slid them off—laces still tied—and abandoned them on the rug. Ace's coat went on the railing, even though Law owned a coat rack, only a few feet away. 

Ace was the smell of a new candle in the window, a fresh coat of paint. He settled into the floorboards and melted against the backdrop of Law's life. Law never meant to hold onto so much. He wasn't one to collect. But he had his coin collection. He had a growing collection of model ships, one on his mantle, one on his dresser, and one waiting to be finished.

And now, he had Ace, who'd become as permanent a fixture in Law's apartment as the drapes or the fireplace. 

Law watched as Ace crouched on the hearth, tilting his face up toward the chimney. He dragged a finger along the brick, and it came up dark with sediment. 

"Your chimney cap's off," he announced. 

"What?"

Ace wiped off his finger on his thigh, leaving behind a blackish smudge. "Your chimney cap. How do we get to the roof?"

"The roof?" said Law, "Shachi hasn't cleared the snow off yet." 

Ace stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. He walked up to Law, bumping into his shoulder as he went toward the hallway. "That's what I'm worried about," he commented. "Is it the ladder in the alley?" 

"No," said Law, "The balcony's closer."

Soon enough, Law was outside, cheeks stinging in the wind, feeling the cold rungs of the ladder though his gloves. Ace climbed above him, and then he went on ahead, tracking through the heavy layer of snow on the rooftop, thrown into drifts of snow piled against the rooftop walls, like waves on the ocean, frozen into solid, stiff peaks. 

“Have you gotten it swept recently?” Ace asked over his shoulder, holding up a hand to block the wind from his face.

“Shachi does that,” Law answered. 

Ace grinned. “So you don’t know?”

“No,” Law said, crossing his arms across his stomach, pulling his jacket tightly around himself.

Ace reached the chimney first and didn’t have to look far to find the misplaced cap, which was large, metal, and only half-hidden in a snowdrift. He pulled it out, brushing the snow off with his coat sleeve. 

“How long has it been off?” Law asked. 

Ace raised an eyebrow and held up the wiry, metal contraption. “I dunno, why don’t you ask the chimney cap?”

“You don’t know?” Law asked flatly.

“How would I know!” 

Law scowled. 

“When did the fireplace start smelling musty?” Ace asked.

“The fireplace smells smoky.” Law pulled his arms in tighter, burying his fingers in the crooks of his elbows. 

“You didn’t notice it?”

Law knew that Bepo had a better sense of smell than him, but he was starting to think his own might actually be bad. Who could blame him? He spent his time around vomit, blood, and antiseptic. Sorry he wasn't keen on sniffing around his apartment. “The fireplace was working fine,” he said, avoiding the question.

“Yeah," Ace said, shuffling over to the side of the chimney. "Until snow melts into it. Or until it rains. Or until a pigeon decides to fly in and build a nest in there.”

“Can you get it back on?” Law said, shifting his feet in the snow. 

“Yeah,” Ace answered. “Well—“

He looked up and down the chimney, which was about three feet taller than him. He could get to the top of it from the roof wall, but then he’d be standing on top of an icy roof wall with a thirty-mile crosswind trying to throw him off of it. 

He turned to Law. “Help me up,” he said. 

“How?” Law asked, skeptical.

“With your hands.” Ace locked his fingers together, arms hanging downward.

“We have a ladder,” Law stated, making no motion to uncross his arms. 

“We’re already over here.” Ace said, “this’ll just take a second.”

"Fine," Law agreed. It would get them out of the cold sooner if they could do this now. Law leaned his shoulder against the chimney wall and locked his fingers together, just above his knee. Ace took the chimney cap in his left hand and braced his right on the chimney. “Ready?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Ace’s boot was wet, and it slipped from Law’s hands once before he found his footing, testing his weight against Law’s fingers and then pushing himself up to the wall of the chimney. He reached up, fingers extended, and managed to hook his right arm over the top edge. Law lifted his foot higher so it wouldn’t be hanging. With the extra effort, Law’s face ran into Ace’s leg. The lower edge of Ace's wool coat scratched against his forehead.

“Ooh,” Ace said, “hold this for me.”

Before Law could point out that his hands were full, Ace dropped the chimney cap over his head. It hung lopsided, resting on his shoulders. The cold copper pressed against Law’s nose.  “Ace—“

“Just a second!” Ace called, sliding up further. Well, at least there was hardly any pressure on Law’s hands—

“Ow—“ Law yelled as Ace’s heel kicked him in the chest. 

“I can’t reach it!”

“Reach what?”

“There’s—“ Ace’s feet flailed, higher now, almost at Law’s shoulders. Law could only see them through a small slit at the top of the cap. Was Ace leaning over the edge of the chimney that far? Idiot was going to fall in. Law groped for Ace’s ankles, which found their footing again, one on Law's shoulder, kicking the chimney cap to the side, and the other in Law's hand.

“Ace—“ Law warned.

“Got it!” Ace yelled. Law still didn’t know what it was, because his head was in a copper prison. 

Ace’s feet twisted against Law’s grip. The foot on Law's shoulder slipped down, scraping along Law’s upper arm until Law grabbed it with his hand. Finally, the chimney cap lifted off Law’s head, and he blinked at the rush of low light from the cloud-covered sky. The tail of Ace's coat blew into his face, but then he stretched upward again, chimney cap held high so he could fit it over the far side. Law grabbed his calves to keep him from slipping. 

“Done!” Ace called. His foot twisted again, this time slipping fully out of Law's hand. Ace made a surprised sound and instinctually crouched and braced his arm against the brick. It didn't help. Ace's foot scraped along Law's side, finding a half-second of footing, wedged between Law’s hip and the brick side of the chimney, before it his whole body dropped. Ace's coat made a rough complaint as it dragged over the brick, and Law’s arms wrapped around Ace’s side to slow his fall.

Law stumbled as Ace landed in front of him, his feet hitting the rooftop and his body knocking into Law. Ace reached out and pulled the front of Law's coat to keep him from falling backward into the snowbank. They found their footing. Law was sweating, even though it was cold, and puffing out clouds of misty air. He frowned, furrowing his brow. 

“Next time we’re getting the…“  

Ace's face was inches away, his foggy breaths mixing in with Law's. His eyes were wide, and dark, tufts of hair brushing across them with each gust of wind.

“…ladder .”

Ace leaned forward and pressed his mouth into Law’s, pushing him back against the chimney. Law’s hands fisted into his coat.

Law had been meaning to ask. About this. He was getting around to it, but there didn't seem to be a rush. Ace found his way into the corners of Law's life, occupying the empty spaces. Law was happy to have him there, a familiar creak in the floorboards or squeak of a chair. Law would be fine, he thought, leaving Ace set up on a shelf, out of reach, so long as it meant he stayed. It would be greedy to hope for more, even if they’d already… 

A sharp gust of wind stung at the exposed skin on Law’s neck. Ace’s hand covered the spot, his gloves soft along Law’s jaw as his tongue glanced over Law’s front teeth. Law snaked his hands underneath Ace’s coat, finding the thinner fabric of his shirt underneath. He had gloves on, but he could still feel the heat of Ace’s skin and the shape of his shoulders, tense as they pinned Law against the brick wall.

Well. Maybe Law was greedy. 

The sound of the city sailed off with the driving wind, and all Law could hear was Ace’s breathing, and the soft shuff of Law’s wool coat as it ran against the brick at his back. Even in the bitter, wintry wind, something held them together, stuck and hardening like mortar, a forceful pull that Law couldn’t step away from, even if he wanted to. He didn’t do well with uncertainty. Had never been great at guessing where people were at with him. He thought he wouldn’t mind, though. Being set in stone. 

Ace leaned his weight forward, his knee running into Law’s leg. His mouth trailed along Law’s jawline, dragging up to his ear. Law blinked his eyes open for a second to see a gust of wind throw a snow drift into the air, exploding it like a firework. 

“Law?” 

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to freeze up here.”

Law laughed against Ace’s shoulder. Ace pushed off the brick. His hair was a mess, and the tips of his ears were bright red, poking out from underneath it. 

“Where's your hat?” Law said, pushing Ace’s hair back from his face. 

“Left it downstairs,” Ace said, stepping back and shuffling a few feet through the snow. Law followed him. Asked him if he even owned a scarf (he didn't), and watched as he climbed down the ladder. 

Back in Law's bedroom, Ace picked a feather out of his pocket, held it up for Law to see. "I found a feather," he said. "Cool, right?"

Where did he— "You dove into my chimney to get a pigeon feather?"

"What? Have you seen a pigeon before?" Ace asked, waving it in his hand. "It's not even the right color. It's a hawk feather."

"A hawk? How do you know it's not an owl?" Law asked, untying his boots and setting them by the balcony door.

"Look at it," Ace said, holding it out to Law. "The shape is different."

Law took it, spinning it between his fingertips. The base of it was wide, but it tapered off toward the top. 

"We used to collect feathers." Ace mentioned, toeing off his boots and dropping his coat over a chair. "Best ones are turkey feathers. They're even bigger than that. But there's hardly anything to find in the city." 

Law nodded. He'd seen the turkey feathers from the shop, but it was different to stumble upon one outside. He'd never thought to pick one up at the farm. Law pulled off a glove, touched the delicate end of the feather with his pointer finger. 

"You can keep it," Ace offered.

"You don't want it?" Law asked. 

"Came from your chimney," Ace reasoned. 

Law set the feather on his dresser, liking the way it looked against the dark wood grain. It was another thing collected in Law's apartment. Another way that Ace shifted the space around him. Wove himself in wherever Law looked. "Do you..." 

Law trailed off. Ace still stood by the balcony door. It was windy. The sun was setting, and it was getting cold.

Ace had slept over a few times, on the couch, underneath the blanket he hung over the arm rest. So far, they could call it convenience. They could call it easier than walking back to the hotel. 

"The living room's cold." Law stated suddenly, his voice rushed. The fireplace left unlit. The draft past the windows. "You shouldn't sleep there."

Ace blinked. His brow tightened inward. He paused a moment, and then he set his mouth into a tight line, reaching for his coat—

"No, I mean—" Law pulled a hand through his hair, staring at a discolored spot on his rug. He wasn't good at this. It sounded like he was kicking him out. Law glanced over at his bed, then back at Ace. He should be clearer. He should—

"You mean stay here?" Ace asked, pointing at the floor. "Like—"

Law nodded. 

Ace laughed, dropping his hand and relaxing his shoulder. "Jesus, Law," he said, stepping forward and shoving his palm into Law's face, "Why'd you get so serious? I thought I did something."

Law shook his head, a smile pulling at his mouth. Ace walked past him, fingertips dragging over his shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "I want my blanket, though." 

Ace filled the space on the other half of Law's bed, near the wall, twisted up in Law's sheets and wrapping his fingers into the blanket. He always fell asleep first. His hands and feet crowded into Law's space.  He said he was used to sleeping on the floor. Law settled into the left-behind spaces between Ace's limbs. Tucked himself into the folds of the sheets that Ace created. 

There wasn't a space in Law's apartment that Ace didn't touch. 

So, that's what they were.

No, Law didn’t have a name for it. They hadn’t talked about it. But they knew. There was an understanding, because Ace showed up with Luffy every Tuesday after school, and Ace— by himself— knocked on Law’s back door every Friday, sometime after dinner. He made drinks with the gin on top of the icebox. Lit the fireplace when it was cold. Slept on the far side of Law’s bed, closer to the wall, where he mumbled and twitched his fingers in his sleep. They had a routine. 

Until they didn't.

On a Friday, Law finished writing his notes and made himself dinner. He checked the clock. He cleaned up from dinner. He took a shower. He checked the clock. It was getting late. Law found himself back in the kitchen, which happened to face the alley, where he swept underneath the icebox and organized his spices. He grabbed a book. Made himself a drink.  

...

Put down his book. 

Swirled his drink, still full, with the ice melting. Watched some of it slip over the side and pool on his table. 

It would be stupid to go out and look for him. 

The lamplight flickered in the alley. He checked the clock. It was already past eleven. 

Maybe it was stupider not to look for him. 

Law dropped his forehead onto the table. 

Ace could be busy. He did jobs for Whitebeard. Or maybe something happened at the railyard. Maybe he got food poisoning. Maybe he hopped a train east, passed out, and was now hurtling toward the coast at a hundred miles an hour against his will. Maybe he had other plans, and thought Law wouldn't notice, or care. 

Law massaged the back of his neck, at the base of his skull. He should do something. Anything besides sitting here. He knew how this went, as the night wore on and the clock ticked him into long, empty hours of Law, left alone with himself. His imagination was waking up, feeding him possibilities he didn't want to consider. Explanations he tried not to hear. He saw blood. He saw gruesome accidents, twisted flesh and broken bones. He dug his fingers into his hair, pulling at it. He was letting his mind run away with this. He lifted up his head, downed half his drink, and took a breath.

He needed to relax. Or do something. But he couldn't do this. He needed to—

The bell rang at the back door. 

Law jumped, cursed aloud, and checked the mirror he had pointed to the door. Ace was here. Thank fucking god. 

His relief disappeared when he opened the back door. 

Why didn't Ace have a coat? He crossed his arms over his chest, covered only by a heavy knit sweater. His fingers fidgeted with the folds. He wouldn't look up. His boots were wet. It was just above freezing, and the daytime sun had turned the snow into a heavy, wet slush. Moisture soaked up Ace's shins. 

“What’s wrong?” Law asked. 

“Nothing," Ace answered, shoving past him and making his way to Law's apartment door. 

Law caught his elbow, trying to slow him down. "Ace—"

“I’m tired,” Ace said coldly, yanking his arm out of reach. His hand reached the doorhandle of Law's apartment, twisting it. 

Law stuck his foot out before Ace could pull open the door, blocking it. “What is it?" 

Ace spun around to face him, a tight step-turn, shoulders forward like he was ready to throw a punch. Law wasn’t trying to start a fight, but someone had. A dark, purplish shadow bloomed over Ace’s cheek, deepening the skin underneath his right eye. “Drop it, Law,” he snapped. 

"No," Law said flatly. 

Ace's eyes burned into Law's. Maybe he should drop it. He didn't know how to handle this. He didn't know how to speak gently or go about things calmly. Ace looked like he wanted to strangle him. 

But, Law was stubborn. He was never good at letting things go. He kept his foot planted unflinchingly against the door. 

Ace sighed, exasperated. “Fucking— fine, Law." He dropped his hand from the door handle, instead pulling it through his hair. "Luffy got in trouble, and it’s my fault, and now he has to stay with Garp for the weekend, while I try to come up with a plan for not being an irresponsible shithead.”

“You’re not—“

“Stop doing that.” Ace cut him off, glaring.

“Stop what?”

“Defending me,” Ace emphasized, curling his fingers into a fist. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes I do,” Law argued. 

“No, you don’t,” Ace bit back. “What would you know about it?"

Law... didn't have an answer for that. At least, not one he could explain. That didn't mean he was wrong, though. He knew Ace. He'd seen Ace with Luffy. He wasn't irresponsible. He was the only person who could catch Luffy's full attention, when he wanted, with only a slight change in tone. Ace went along with Luffy's games, his ideas, his ridiculous, constant chatter. He surrounded him with good people, made sure he had plenty of food all the time. So what if Law didn't see them at the hotel, or at school, or for all those years before they met? 

"You're not irresponsible," Law said, voice sounding more annoyed than he meant it to be, "You're—"

Ace went off on Law, struck like a match over kindling. 

His words came fast, and pointed like knives. Meant to cut. Meant to go for the throat. Ace leaned further into Law's space, but there was no softness, no warmth, besides the hot burning heat of his breath and the deep, fiery mauve that rose into his cheeks. He piled insults on like hot coals. Laid on accusations like half-burnt firewood. Law was a liar. Law was full of himself. Law thought he was smart, and knew everything, and could do everything Ace was doing, except better, without pissing off his boss, or Squard, or Garp, or every other person Ace had pissed off in the past week by being an irresponsible idiot. And maybe if Ace was more attentive, and better at talking to Luffy, he would've figured out that this was the third fucking time in two weeks that Luffy had snuck an extra snack to take out to the playground, which the teachers didn't even notice, the dumbasses, but only found out because Luffy straight up admitted it to their faces. And if Ace hadn't been pissing off his boss by complaining about replacing a boiler tube, then maybe he wouldn't have missed the message from the school and maybe they wouldn't have called fucking Garp, who couldn't just be normal about the situation for once in his goddamn life. 

"—And now you're standing here blocking the fucking door," Ace yelled, refocusing his attention back to Law. "Do you even know what any of this is like, Law? Do you have any fucking idea? No, so stop defending me like you have any idea about it. You only have to look after yourself, so you don't know a goddamn thing. You're only responsible for yourself. Well good for you, Law but don't say shit about me like you know what's it's like to take care of anyone but—"

"She died." 

The end of Ace's sentence caught in his throat. He stared at Law, eyes softening underneath his furrowed brow. For the first time that night, it felt like he had Ace's attention.

"My sister," Law clarified. 

Law hadn't meant to say it, really. He was fine with letting Ace burn through his anger until the flames went out. He didn't mind. He could take the low blows, the heavy hits. Maybe that meant something was wrong with him. A healthier person would care about that, he thought. Or at least take it personally. Law, though, never could get worked up about the shit people said about him. 

So, he hadn't planned on interrupting. It was just that, he realized he hadn't actually mentioned Lami. Law didn't care about being called a shithead, but if he was going to be, well, Ace should at least have all the right information. 

“I—“ Ace sputtered, eyes searching Law's face, trying to find out how he'd missed this. “You didn’t—“

Tell him, Law filled in. And, yeah. Law wasn’t great about details.

Ace’s posture drained, shoulders dropping heavily. Without the pent-up adrenaline, ready to throw a punch, he swayed on his feet. He steadied himself, bringing his arms up and rubbing his face into his sweater sleeves. "Law—" he complained. 

Law suppressed a smile at the corner of his mouth. That sounded like Ace. Law reached out, pulling on Ace's sleeve and bringing him closer. Ace slumped into Law's chest, arms in front of him and hands still over his face. 

"You're okay," said Law softly, wrapping his arms around Ace's back. 

"Asshole, you didn't tell me," Ace accused. But this accusation wasn't aimed to kill like the others, muttered grumpily into Law's chest.

"Sorry," said Law, tangling his fingers into strands of Ace's hair.

Ace took a long breath, letting his weight lean more heavily into Law. It was late. The exhaustion washed over him, his breath steadying, and Law thought he might fall asleep standing up. Law let him stay there a moment, enjoying the way Ace's breath felt hot on his skin, and the way his forehead brushed warmly against—

Wait— "Where's your coat?" Law asked. 

Law felt Ace shrug. He muttered a small mrmph sound into Law's chest. 

Was he not cold? His feet were wet, he should be...

Law dropped his hand and shoved it against Ace's forehead, pushing them apart to do so. 

Ace blinked at him, waiting, hair messy and shooting to the sides where Law had shoved it out of the way.

"You have a fever."

"What?" Ace asked. "Since when?"

Law huffed out a laugh. "How should I know?" He moved his foot and opened his apartment door. "How long have you felt shitty?"

"I dunno," Ace mumbled, starting to shuffle up the stairs. "This whole week was shitty."

"Yeah," Law agreed, "I got that part."

Ace turned at the stop of the stairs, waiting for Law to come the rest of the way up. His fingers wrapped around the sleeve of his sweater, knotting into the loose stiches at the end of it. "Sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have said all that, I wasn't—"

Law waved him off. "It's fine," he said. 

"No it's not."

"Guest bedroom," Law pointed, reaching the top of the stairs. "Go lay down."

Ace didn't move. He hadn't taken his boots off. "You're not..."

"What?" Law asked.

"... mad?" 

Law surveyed Ace, the way his posture seemed soft and off-center. The dark, wet shadows above his boots. The heat spreading across his skin, making it reddish in places. His black eye, cheek puffy and dark. 

No, Law wasn't mad at him. He looked like he might fall over. 

"I will be if you walk any further with those boots," he said.

Ace rolled his eyes, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He kicked off his boots, leaving them untied, and Law moved them to their spot on the shoe rack. "Go lay down," he said again, pushing him softly to the bedroom door. "I'll be back in a second, I just have to grab something."

Ace went into the room, and Law lingered long enough to make sure he didn't pass out on his feet. Then, he got a glass of water from the kitchen and then ran downstairs to get his medical bag. When he came back upstairs, Ace was already asleep, curled up tightly along the edge of the bed. Law felt his forehead again. It was a low-grade fever, but still a fever. Law set out everything he might need. Water. Thermometer. A towel. Mostly, though, Ace needed to sleep, so Law let him. 

Law sat in the corner chair, setting into it with his head against the wall. It wasn't the first time he'd slept in this chair, so he moved into the worn impressions it had from all the hours he'd spent bedside. He watched Ace sleep, his freckles splashed over his reddish cheeks. He'd had a rough week, but, even after all that, he ended up here. Showing up at Law's back door, feet wet and feeling shitty in more ways than one. Law didn't mind his yelling. He didn't mind Ace showing up near midnight, cutting into Law's sleep schedule (which was hardly a schedule, anyway). He didn't mind the puddles his shoes made in the entryway, or the rings of moisture he left on the side tables. Law wanted to keep him here, as long as he could. Same with his collection of coins and the feather on his dresser. 

Law stood up, made his way into his bedroom and pulled Ace's blanket off of it. He felt the grid of small stiches over it, connecting the colored squares and holding it intact. He returned to the guest bedroom, tossed the quilt over Ace, and then relaxed back into his chair. 

Chapter Text

Influenza had a rhythm. 

Law could sense it. A pulse beneath his fingertips, the sharp crescendo of body heat. First it marched, then it broke into a dead sprint, heart pounding, drumming, weakening, failing. He could hear its melody in the thick crackle from a person’s throat. It never played out exactly the same. That didn’t make it hard to recognize the tune. Law had seen hundreds of cases of influenza, each with their own sickly flourish. Full-body chills accenting a fever. Droplets of blood accompanying a persistent, throat-tearing cough. 

It’s how Law knew, almost immediately, that Ace had only caught a cold. 

He could run through the whole influenza procedure. The one he learned in medical school, that would have him making full pages of notes and taking temperatures all through the night, but Ace needed to sleep more than he needed Law filling in lines on a chart. He’d be fine. 

Law watched the rise and fall of Ace’s shoulders, spinning a pen between his fingers.

He’d be fine. 

Law planted himself in the corner chair, resting his head against the wall. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait. He dozed off in short, restless intervals, shifting around to keep his neck from aching or his leg from falling asleep. 

Ace stirred in the early, gray morning, before the sun breached the horizon of the city. On other days, he slept through Law’s whole morning routine, undisturbed by closing drawers or lamplight, just a tuft of jet-black hair poking out from underneath his quilt. 

“Law?” Ace blinked into the half-dark of the room, sitting up on an elbow. 

“Yeah,” Law answered, standing up from his chair. 

“Have you–” he coughed, breath crackling sharply as it unsettled in his chest. “Have you been here all night?”

“All night?” Law said, pushing Ace’s hair off his forehead to place his hand there. “It’s only been four hours.” 

Ace watched him, dark eyes wide and staring upward, eyelashes heavy with sleep. 

“What?” asked Law, dropping his hand. 

“Dunno,” Ace said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t expect the whole doctor thing.”

"You're right," Law said, tilting his brow and dropping his hand. "I really should've told you sooner."

Ace cough-laughed, hunching over to bury his mouth in his elbow. Law slid a glass of water to him, pushing the bedside table within reach. Ace noticed, took a drink when his coughs started to slow.

"How are you feeling?" Law asked. 

“Better, I guess. I’m not—” he coughed again, took another sip of water. “I'm not nauseous anymore, but—" cough— "My throat feels like shit."

“Hold on,” Law said, frowning. Ace would be better off with hot water, rather than room temperature. Penguin had brought over honey from the farm recently, too. “I’ll go put some water on.”

Ace's hand snapped out from underneath the covers, grabbing onto Law's wrist. The sudden lunge brought on another round of coughs, but Ace didn't cover his mouth, and instead shook his head vigorously back and forth. 

“What?” asked Law.

“No,” Ace said between coughs, brow furrowed. He was hunched over, gripping Law's wrist for stability as he tried to catch his breath.

“No, what?” Law asked, freeing his wrist and pushing Ace back to the bed. 

Ace stared at him a long moment, mouth pressed into a determined line. “Here,“ Ace decided, holding out the thermometer.

“Yeah," Law said, staring at it. "Put it in your mouth.” 

“No." Ace held it out to him, more insistently this time. "You don't have to—" cough— "do all this. Really. I feel better than last night. I can. I’m—” Ace swayed a bit and slid his hand out to steady himself. He shouldn’t have sat forward so fast.

Law held onto his shoulder. "Lay down," he directed.

Ace shook his head again, which was surely not helping his unsteadiness. “Thanks," he said. "But. I have…" he glanced up at Law, then down at his hands. "I remembered I..." cough— "have to go, actually.“

Yeah, that wasn’t happening. “Go where?” Law asked.

“Um. The hotel for… to take care of something.” Ace's eyes scanned around the room, like he was looking for something. “I forgot—" cough— "A thing… to go to,” he muttered, pulling his feet up, like he was really going to get up. ”It’s not actually… I mean, I feel better, so I can go, to—“

“Holy shit, Ace,” Law said, grinning. “Are you trying to lie to me or are you having a stroke?”

Ace scowled. Coughed. “I’m not having a stroke.”

“So you’re lying?”

“Yeah,” Ace answered. “No—wait. I mean—“ Ace clamped his mouth shut, glaring hard at Law.

“What‘d I do?” Law said, laughing. 

“I have to go,” Ace emphasized. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” 

“You can’t keep me here.”

“Yeah I can,” Law said. “The door locks from the outside.” He pointed a thumb at the bedroom door behind his back.

Ace’s mouth fell open, looking mildly horrified. “Law—“

“Would you lay down?” Law said, interrupting his whining. ”It’s four in the morning. I’m not letting you leave.”

“But—“

“What is it?” Law asked.

Ace tightened his blanket around his shoulders, and his face turned into a scowl. He looked between Law and the doorway, like he was judging the distance. Like he was plotting an escape. Law knew the look. Ace wouldn’t be the first person to try running. But this was an underground clinic. Law wasn’t above tackling patients. If he went through the trouble of putting someone up in his apartment, he wasn’t going to let them collapse out in the street. Or leave without paying him. The last time an overnight stiffed him was when he installed the iron bars on the window, and that was nearly eight years ago. 

Ace sunk back against the headboard, apparently accepting his fate. "Fine," he said sharply, "But if I have to stay here, then no ramps."

“No what?” Law asked. 

“Ramps.”

Ace said it with the vowel sliding around in his mouth, not landing on a single sound. Ace wasn’t from the city, but he knew how to blend into one. Every once in a while, though, a word or phrase would slip out, and a touch of somewhere else would escape from between his lips. The southern coast, or a far-off mountain, maybe. 

It was enough of a shift that Law wasn’t sure he heard him right. “Ramps?” he clarified. “Like. For wheelchairs? Who said you needed a wheelchair?“

“Not that kind of ramp.” Ace corrected. 

Okay. Well. What other kind of ramp was there? Law racked his brain, fidgeting with his pen in his pocket. There were ramps for loading carts, driving cars, and then…  “The onion things?” Law asked. Ace’s eyes widened in confirmation. “Why would you need ramps?”

“Because they–” Ace furrowed his brow. “That’s what you get for fevers,” Ace declared.

Law grinned. ‘You’re scared of an onion?”

“I’m not–”

Law raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m not scared of them, I hate them. The smell lasts for days. Dadan made us eat boiled ramps when we were sick, and then she’d put them all over the house," cough— "and in your bed…” He paused, staring up at Law. “You really don’t use them?”

“No,” Law said, shaking his head. “Where do you even find them?”

“I dunno. But it's not hard, Dadan always had a ton of them.” 

"I don't know if they even grow around here," Law said, "Jean Bart would've mentioned if any showed up on the farm."

"So..." Ace coughed into his elbow. "If you don't use them then... do they even work?" Ace asked, looking betrayed. 

“I don’t know,” Law said. “They’re not in any medicine I use. That doesn’t mean they’re useless, but does mean they’re not necessary. I can’t imagine that having them laying around is accomplishing anything. Eating them? Maybe.”

“I could never keep them down,” Ace commented. “So I always hid when I got sick.”

“Where’d you grow up again?”

“Outside Goa." Ace cleared his throat. "In the mountains.”

“And you never went to the doctor there?”

“No,” Ace said bitterly, shaking his head. “Garp said to keep out of the city.”

Well, that explained… a lot actually. Law’s father used to do house calls into rural areas, but most doctors weren’t willing to travel unless someone was dying. And, even then, only if they were dying from something with an easy fix. No point going out of the way to watch the inevitable. Ace had a broken finger that’d never been set. He’d passed out in Law’s basement before he’d admitted to feeling badly. 

“So you never went to the doctor?”

“Uhh…” Ace said, thinking. “I think I went once when Garp put me in reformatory.”

“Who is Garp?” Law only knew one Garp, but that was the police commissioner, so it couldn’t be—

“The police commissioner,” Ace said, and then, seeing the look on Law’s face, “He’s been in charge of me and Luffy since we were... Well, since we were born, basically.” 

Law’s eyes shifted to Ace’s cheek, purplish and swollen. From what Law had heard from city murmurs, Garp was strict. Someone who followed the law to the letter. Ace pulled his fingers to his face, pressing the puffy area underneath his eye. He breathed out a laugh, quiet and dry. “Yeah,” he said, “I told him to fuck off into an open grave yesterday.”

Law lightly planted his thumb next to Ace’s fingers, tilting his face toward the dim moonlight from the window. As far as black eyes went, it was one of the mildest he’d seen. Flat and purplish. Contained to his upper cheek. Not puffing up into his vision. He’d seen fighters who could barely see, orbital floor cracked and shattered like a serving plate dropped on a tile floor. Eyes gone red and glassy, doused over with a layer of blood. 

Ace’s bruise swallowed up the familiar pattern of freckles across his cheek. His eyelashes fluttered as Law dragged his thumb underneath them, feeling the shape of the swelling, soft and warm against his touch. A decade of clinical experience and every reference book downstairs would tell Law that it was nothing to be concerned over. It wasn’t an injury that should pound in Law’s chest, or force him to swallow hard against a sudden tightness in his throat. 

Law cleared his throat, dropping his hand. “You went to reformatory?”

Ace nodded. “Oh. Yeah." He sat back, taking a sip of his water. His voice was scratchy, but he stopped coughing so much. "Only for a few months, then Garp decided it was easier to send me off to the mountains instead."

“How was it?” Law asked. The reformatories had a spotty reputation. It was better than sticking kids in the same prison as grown-ass adults, but he also knew they were a shitty system, medically-speaking. They still forced hard labor and only consulted with the hospitals if a kid was practically knocking on death's door. That was often too late. The reformatories had cemeteries on site. 

“I dunno,” Ace shrugged. “Honestly, not so bad. They had us contract with the railyard for labor. Laying track and whatever. It's where I learned about train mechanics. The basics, at least. I was younger than most other kids, so I got pulled to crawl under rail cars and clean the dirt out. Then cowcatchers in the front too, which were a mess if they actually hit an animal."

"Gross." 

"Gross?" Ace said laughing. "That's gross? You're a surgeon who owns a butcher shop, Law."

"That's different," Law argued.

"How?"

"Because," Law said, tightening his arms against his sides. "All of that is planned out. It follows steps, and has—"

"Pfff." Ace rolled his eyes. "It's all the same shit."

"No," Law said, "Mine isn't exploded all over the place."

"That's—" Ace laughed hard at that, which devolved into a series of coughs. "All I've—" cough— "seen you do is—" cough— " explode shit all over the place."

"No I—" haven't, Law thought. But. Huh. Maybe Ace was right. Law didn't have the best track record recently. "That's a bad sample."

"Oh, sure," Ace said, skeptical. "You know, all I ever got with the trains was blood, and dirt, and fur. Maybe it was gross, but at least I knew what I was dealing with. The stuff you have in here is way worse."

Law narrowed his eyes, thinking. He really did get the whole spectrum of bodily fluids in this place. Ace... might have a point. "Fine," said Law.

Ace looked surprised. "Fine?" Ace joked, cocky smile across his face. "Aww, giving up that easy? I must really be sick. You're going soft on me."

Law peered down at Ace, wrapped up in his quilt, the edges of his hair blurring, backlit in the moonlight. He didn't know the half of it.

"Yeah," Law agreed, mussing Ace's hair into his face. "You're more fun to argue with when you're not spitting germs everywhere." 

"I'm not—" cough— 

"Do you want honey water?" Law asked, placing a hand on the doorframe. "That's what I was trying to get earlier. Promise not to sneak any ramps in it."

Ace nodded, swallowing to suppress another cough. His water glass was empty. 

"Be right back," Law said, heading into the kitchen. 

He turned on his kettle. The shape of the kitchen warped in its reflection, stretching over the side. He placed his finger on the side, tracing the wavy lines in the linoleum as the water warmed. Shit, he never made Ace take his temperature. Not that it would really tell Law anything new. He'd be fine. 

When Law made it back to the bedroom, a trail of steam wafting underneath his chin, Ace had fallen asleep again. Law frowned, setting the mug on the side table. Ace hadn't seemed that tired when he left the room...

Ah. fuck. Law forgot about his narcolepsy. That could complicate things a bit. Law flopped back in his chair. Nothing to do about that now. He'd just have to see how things went. 

Ace slept on and off through the morning, into the early afternoon. His fever dropped back to normal by then, but he didn't improve much. He was stuck in a miserable sleep cycle. Coughing too much to sleep well, but too exhausted to stay awake. He drifted in a dream-like state, and Law couldn't tell which of his murmurs were conscious, and which were utter nonsense. He drank the honey water Law left for him, even when it went cold, but he hardly ate anything all weekend. Law wasn't sure if he should be doing something else, medicine-wise. Pharmaceuticals sucked. They didn't have instructions for special cases like this. 

On Sunday morning, after a long night of half-sleep, Law's back doorbell rang, interrupting his reread of the bottle labels in his basement cabinet.

He opened the back door to a bright, sunlit morning and a wide-shouldered man standing in the alley. The light bounced off his blonde hair, highlighting the short yellowish tufts. His weight balanced evenly on his heels, not swaying or leaning, and his back was straight. His bright blue eyes stared steadily forward. 

He didn’t look sick. 

Law planted his foot behind the door, keeping it mostly closed. “What do you want?” he asked. 

“Is Ace here?” 

“No,” Law said, as a reflex. In a decade, he’d never once had a good reason to answer yes to that question. If people came to his door looking for someone, it was fifty-fifty that they were trying to finish a job. 

“He’s not?” The man raised his eyebrows. 

“No, so if you’re not sick then—“

“I know, but–” the man said. “I’m with Whitebeard, we’re just—“

“Get out of my alley,” Law ordered, moving to push the door closed. 

“Hold on–” said Blondie, throwing a hand in between the wooden door and the frame. ”Can we talk a second?” 

Yeah. Fuck that. The last time Law agreed to talk to someone he ended up on the floor of his office. He pulled out his pocketknife, making an audible click. “You have three seconds to start running.”

“Wait, Trafalgar—“ the man stepped back from the door, light on his feet, both of his hands raised in surrender. “I mean it, I swear. He came by at least, right? Friday night?”

Law's arm dropped down slightly. Whitebeard's crew, so far, had been hit or miss (mostly misses), and Ace kept a few of them at a distance. This guy, though, was talking like he was pretty in the know. “Who are you?” Law asked. 

“Oh yeah, sorry,” the man said, grinning. “Marco. The doctor for Whitebeard’s crew.”

It's that guy. Ace had mentioned him. He took care of Luffy when he was sick. He'd been Whitebeard's right hand for years, though Law had never put a face to the name before. 

“We actually met before,” he mentioned, nodding in a friendly manner. 

Law frowned. Maybe it was a friendly comment, but Law didn't remember him, so now he was even further on his back foot. “When?” he asked.

“Long time ago,” Marco answered. “You were with Doflamingo.” 

“Oh,” Law said neutrally. “How’d that go?” 

“You really don’t remember?”

Law gripped the door frame. What did this have to do with anything? Law was about to say no, he didn’t remember, but–

“You watched a guy bleed out on Seventh and South River. Blue sport coat. Trio of gunshot wounds through his left side.”

Law stiffened, digging his nails into the door frame. 

Yeah. Fine. He remembered. 

Well. He didn’t remember Marco being there. Memory was a funny thing, which is to say, Law’s memory flared like photographs burned in a house fire. Some parts missing. Other parts hazy, smothered in ash. The remnants, untouched by flames, in full, miserable clarity. He couldn’t have named the street, or even that there was another person there. He could, though, tell you that the first bullet embedded in the man’s diaphragm, the second, lower on the man’s hip, probably bore through his large intestine. And the third. The kill shot, bleeding far more than the other two, angled downward through his stomach, tearing through organs and choking out his esophagus with blood from the bottom up. 

“You remember,” Marco stated, eyes searching over Law's expression.

“What’s your point?” Law glared, hoping Marco didn't catch the way his voice came out strained.

“Think we’re due for a better introduction,” Marco said, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his feet. “Don’t you?”

Marco moved like he was playing the role of "casual guy" in a stage play. Between his confident posture, jovial smile, and stupidly-purple jacket, the act felt painfully forced.

At the same time... it was almost so overplayed that Law felt compelled to believe him. If Marco were faking nice, he could be a hell of a lot more subtle about it. 

Ugh. He'd probably end up regretting this. “Come in,” Law said, shoving open the door. He walked down the hallway to his office, listening to Marco’s heavy footsteps following behind him, and feeling a gnawing sense of deja vu. He sat heavily behind his desk, nodding toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit.”

Marco lingered in the doorway, hand touching the back of his chair. He admired Law’s bookshelf, leaning closer to read the spines. “This is quite the collection,” he commented. 

"If you want to talk, then talk." Law said impatiently.

Marco held up his hands, taking a seat in his chair. "Sorry to drop in, Trafalgar. It's really like I said. Is Ace here?"

"Yeah,” Law answered. "He's here."

Marco sat back in his chair, relieved. “Thank Christ," he said, tipping his head back and stretching his neck. “For a second I thought I’d actually have to start panicking."

Unprompted, Marco continued talking. "I’m trying to give him space, right? The last thing he needs is another Garp on his case, but he doesn’t know how to— he never had anyone keeping track of him before. It sounds like Dadan did her best, but they’d disappear into the woods for weeks without checking in. So now Ace forgets that he actually has to tell me where he goes or else I turn into his goddamn schoolmarm.” Marco cut himself off, waving a hand. “Anyway. You don’t need to hear all that. He’s just giving me gray hair, is all.”

“He’s sick.”

“Sick?” Marco asked, furrowing his brow. “With what?”

“Only a cold,” Law answered. 

Marco didn't look relieved. "He really can't catch a break. And here I am complaining about him. Is he doing alright, at least?"

“He's fine,” Law answered. “Except…”

Law paused, debating. He rarely consulted with other people about medicine. He talked to anyone helping him at the shop, but the final decisions always fell on Law's shoulders. The daytime clinic was small, and Law didn't cross paths with the other doctors often. He wasn't especially worried about Ace, but... Marco was a doctor after all. It wouldn't hurt to ask. “He can hardly stay awake, but he doesn't sleep well, either. I haven't changed medications at all, besides adding aspirin, at first, but now I'm not sure if I should try anything else.”

“Besides the ephedrine?”

Law nodded. “I’m a surgeon. I hate pharmaceuticals.”

"Do you?" Marco grinned. “We’re a good match then, Trafalgar. I was a pharmacist before I was an army medic. I learned surgery with a leather belt and a straight saw. On a folding table, no less. A lot has changed since then, so surgery really isn't my strong suit. Traveling with the army will teach you a lot about medicine, though. I've heard everything. People using rare minerals, animal bones, weird foods—"

“Ramps?” Law asked. 

Marco grinned. “Yeah, exactly,” he said. “Did Ace ask for those too? Luffy wouldn’t shut up about them.”

“No,” Law answered. “The opposite. He said he hates them. He tried to run out on me when he thought I had some.”

“Ha,” Marco laughed. “Makes sense. Luffy will eat anything. I've never had a ramp, but I hear the smell lasts for days.” Marco folded his hands. “Well, anyway, to answer your question. I’d leave it be, for now. Ephedrine dosage is finicky. Best not to mess with it if it was working before. And, far as I can tell, it was working alright, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“See?” Marco said. “You have good instincts, at least. Do you have a vaporizer here?"

"I don't," Law admitted. "They're not usually a post-surgical need, so I don't keep one around." 

"I can run one by in a bit," Marco offered. 

"You don't have to—"

Marco waved him off. "Nah, let me help out. I'll feel better if I can do at least one thing that's useful. Oh, also, make him sit up when he sleeps. When Luffy got sick he was sprawling out flat on his back, like he was trying to choke himself with mucus. Nearly had to tie him to the bed to make him stay put."

Law nodded, watching the way Marco had settled easily into his office chair. His ability to get comfortable with Law was off-putting, as was the casual way he kept saying Law's name. But, admittedly, Law liked Marco, as a doctor. Law was worried when Marco mentioned he knew pharmaceuticals. Some pharmacists tried to solve everything with odorous salves and unmarked elixirs. Marco was practical. He suggested simple things first. Didn't try to oversell. 

And, maybe, Law liked him apart from that. He was at least better than the rest of Whitebeard's crew, which was a pretty low bar. Even if he was Whitebeard's right-hand man, he didn't run around enforcing Whitebeard's whims, or else he wouldn't be so fine with leaving Ace here. Instead, he just... genuinely seemed worried. Was he really so straightforward?

"Why do you care so much?" Law asked. 

Marco laughed. "What, is that a surprise? Look, I know you had a bad run-in with Whitebeard. He was over the line, I know. I'm not saying he didn't overreact. But his only goal is taking care of his crew. I try to do the same, but I'm not so hard-lined as he is. Plus," Marco shrugged. "Ace reminds me of myself, when I was younger. Although, I could only stand the military bullshit for a few years before I defected. Ace doesn't even get a choice to do that with Garp around," he sat up straighter in his chair, "Speaking of, he has to pick up Luffy from school tomorrow. I'd go, except Garp's on edge and being an ass about Ace 'not taking responsibility' and all that. I know it's shitty, but Ace will probably insist on going, anyway."

"I'll make sure he gets there," Law promised. 

"See?" Marco said, grinning. "Ace told me you were a nice guy."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, yeah," Marco said, waving. "I won't tell anyone and ruin your reputation." He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and stood. "Anyway, I'll run out and get that vaporizer. But don’t tell Ace I stopped by, alright? I'm not saying that to save face, but it'll stress him out if he knows I went out looking for him."

Law didn't see the harm in that. "I won't say anything," Law said.

"Alright, well—" Marco stuck his hand out. "Nice to see you. Again."

Handshakes weren't really Law's style, but it'd be awkward not to. He took Marco's hand and shook it. 

Marco's grip tightened around Law's hand, and he clamped firmly onto Law's forearm with his other hand.

Law tensed. 

From an outsider's perspective, it'd look like a normal handshake. An intimate one, even, meant for long-time friends or business partners. But Marco placed his fingers carefully, angled in a way that gave him a huge advantage over Law. He'd kept his reach short, too. Law was leaning over the desk more than Marco was, and Marco's feet planted solidly on the floor. Marco could break his wrist from this position. Marco could drag him over the desk, if he wanted, and pin him to the floor. 

Law was an idiot. He slid his empty hand into his pocket, where his pocketknife was. 

Marco must have noticed, because he was clearly experienced at this. If he was at all threatened, his face didn't show it. Instead, it held the same breezy expression as before. "I'm glad Ace has someone else in the city he can trust."

Law tried to pull his arm back. Not serious. Only testing Marco's hold, which was rock-solid. He stared at Law, blue eyes intense and shining, the same casual smile, now stuck on his face like plaster. 

"He can, right?"

"What?" Law asked, distracted by the conversation happening between Marco's hands and Law's vulnerable position. 

"Trust you," Marco clarified. 

Law wanted to tell him to fuck off. His thumb rubbed the side of his knife. Law was stupid for thinking this would be an easy conversation. Law had let his guard down, and now he was trapped. "Yeah," he answered, through his teeth.

Marco released the handshake, and clapped Law on the shoulder. Law winced away from the touch. Marco pretended not to notice. 

"He's lucky to have you then," Marco commented. Same smile. Same lightness to his voice. It gave Law chills down his spine. Then, Marco slid a hand in his pocket, casually waving with the other. "See you around, Trafalgar."

Law sat down heavily, landing with his forehead down on his deck. Fucking hell. Since when did Law stop trusting his instincts about letting people into the building? Marco was just as scary as Whitebeard, except he'd managed to roll all his outright threats into a single, iron-gripped handshake. No wonder Marco was Whitebeard's right hand. They were the same person, except Marco was painted over with a friendly facade and a dumb, purple sport coat. 

Law hated him. Whitebeard's whole crew was going to give him an aneurysm. Especially because, Law didn't actually think Marco hated him. Or even distrusted him. That'd be easier, if he did. Law was comfortable with being hated and distrusted. But Marco wouldn't have bothered with him if he was trying to drive Law out. No. Instead, he was giving Law a chance. Law felt sure of it. The way he asked Law to keep quiet for him, and asked him to get Ace to pick up Luffy tomorrow, the way he asked him, blue eyes boring straight into Law's, whether he could be trusted. It was a goddamn test.

As much as Law wanted to say fuck it, that he wasn't playing games with Marco, or any of Whitebeard's crew, he couldn't. Ace existed outside the walls of this building. Law knew that, logically, but now he felt it in his chest. He left his office, stalking upstairs to check on Ace in the guest bedroom, who was sleeping, still. 

Law watched the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. In his apartment, the outside world was walled off, existing only in words spoken and mud tracked in from the alley. Law would keep it that way, if he could. Leave the space untouched, place his things delicately on the shelf and let them gather dust. But, eventually, all buildings had cracks. The windows went drafty. The chimneys leaked rainwater into the fireplace. 

Law sat down in the guest bedroom chair, spinning his pen in his fingers. Dread pooled in his gut, but he could hardly pin a reason to it. What did he think was going to happen? So what if Marco put him in some kind of probationary period? It's not like Law was going to rat Ace out to the cops or get him caught up in drug trafficking. Every shitty thing Law had done was more or less public knowledge, and he didn't have an issue admitting to it. Maybe he didn't overshare, but he wasn't trying to hide anything, 

Law spent the rest of the day restless, pacing around his hallway and burdening himself with menial tasks. Marco dropped the vaporizer on the back step, as promised, but mercifully left before Law got to the door. The next day, Law walked with Ace to the school in the afternoon. Maybe it was overkill, because Ace had slept better, and was not only sniffling every few seconds rather than coughing. He was on time to pick up Luffy, as promised. 

Law walked back by himself, feeling the exhaustion catching up with him, in the way his heels dragged across the cobblestone. Inside, he dragged Ace's blanket off of the guest bed, threw it onto his own, and went immediately to sleep.