It's a Coup!

Cora stares out the window, face turned away from Law, and Law tries not to take it personally. It's dark enough outside that he can barely see the reflection of Cora's expression in the window, but the slash of his mouth and the heaviness of his eyes indicate a feeling Law is long familiar with himself. It's the kind of face Law would probably wear if he were in the passenger seat and had the brain space to really think about how his entire life has gone upside-down in a split second.

The reflection disappears as they roll under the harsh blue-tinted light of a streetlight. They're out of the country roads now, and Law is stopped at a stoplight to get on the state road back into the city, and his left leg jiggles nervously on the clutch as his mind howls, this was a bad idea this was a bad idea this was a bad idea--

Law knows from experience that this is a very long light. He has time, so he lets go of the shifter to reach for Cora's thigh and let his trembling, sweating fingers wrap around it. It's not a gesture he'd do with anyone else; in fact, Cora is the only person in the world that he would reach for so unselfconsciously.

Cora turns to him immediately, layering his hand overtop Law's and squeezing reassuringly. That's why Law reaches for him with unflinching need; he knows Cora will catch him, every single time. Law opens his mouth, because he needs to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. What the hell does he even say to someone he watched die twenty years ago? Cora watches him back. Patient. Waiting for Law to be ready.

The left turn light goes green. Law doesn't move. He'd have to take his hand back to shift gears, and he doesn't want to. He wants to feel Cora's skin on his until his heart stops racing rabbit-fast in his chest. The problem is, it's Cora touching him that's causing the tachycardia. Twenty long years, and Law finds out the ghost of his past is unforgivably hot, on top of, you know, alive.

The left turn light goes yellow. Law doesn't move. Cora squeezes his hand again. Gentle, but affirming. I'm here. "Is this really happening?" Law whispers. Cora nods.

The left turn light goes back to red. Law doesn't move. He's frozen. He can't let go of Cora, because if he does, maybe Cora will disappear, or say something awful like I actually hate you, or even worse, you did hit me with your car and kill me and these are your dying delusions because you immediately self-destructed in your horror at what you'd done. Something in Cora's expression shifts, and his hand shifts, too, reaching across the center console just like Law is to grip at Law's thigh. Law's eyes slide closed against his will, and he gasps in a weak breath, and Cora's fingers tighten the tiniest bit more. It takes everything Law has to gather himself and open his eyes to stare sightlessly at the empty intersection in front of him.

The left turn light goes green. Law lets go of Cora's leg, clutches the shifter like it's a lifeline, and drives them the rest of the way home with Cora's fingers burning a brand into his thigh.

Cora tails after Law in perfect silence from the garage--watching him unfold himself from a sports car too small for his frame and heave himself to his full height is a spectacle that Law cannot appreciate in the least when he's on the edge of a complete mental breakdown--to the elevator--filled with drunken nepo babies on their way home from the club to their fancy apartment paid for by mommy and daddy, fucking hell, Law's going to scream if he heard one more shrill, drunken screech of a laugh--to the front hall of Law's penthouse condo.

All the lights are off, so Law curses under his breath as he scrabbles for the switch. When he finally flips it, Cora's standing directly under the can, and the light forms a beautiful halo around his silver-and-gold hair and limns his strong features like he's in a Renaissance painting. Law stares, slack-jawed, as it hits him. Cora's here. Cora's alive, and he's standing in Law's apartment, and when Law asked him do you want me to take you home he'd said my home is with you and what in the ever-loving fuck is he supposed to do with any of that?

"Work," Law says. He's supposed to work in a few hours. He can't. He turns and flees from Cora, digging through the trail of destruction he'd left when he'd gotten home on his way to lay catatonic for hours on the couch before getting in his car--focus! Finally, he finds the damn thing thrown carelessly on the kitchen island with a cracked screen to prove it, and it's at two percent. It's barely enough juice to dash off an email that says effective immediately, taking one week of leave to the first three email addresses that pop up when he taps the To: field. He doesn't even double check who it goes to. For all he cares, they can fire him.

"Do you need to leave?" It's incredible how silently Cora can sneak up behind Law. Law whirls and slaps the phone on the counter with an ominous crack. His hands move without conscious instruction to fist in Cora's hoodie.

"No!" Law shouts directly into Cora's face. The lurching feeling of insanity is back. Finally, there's enough light that Law can see the familiar red shade of Cora's eyes, and it makes his heart throbs with indescribable pain and joy and love. "I took the week off. I'm not leaving your side."

Maybe he's coming on a little strong after twenty fucking years. It's not like they knew each other all that well; he'd been thirteen when Cora died, and Cora ambiguously mid-twenties, and they'd hated each other until they didn't, and six months of tentative bonding after two and a half years of despising each other shouldn't be enough for a reunion that looks like this.

But Cora's gripping him just as tightly in return, his hands clenching around Law's waist as Law's hands twist in Cora's hoodie. If Law looks deep enough, he can find a similar desperation to the one he feels lurking in Cora's expression. Maybe he's coming on a little strong, but he's not the only one.

Something darts into the glare of his high beams, and he hisses out a curse. He's going a little too fast, and the road is windy and twisty and dark; slamming on his brakes while wrenching the wheel until he lays down a donut of tire tracks might not be enough. The second he screeches to a halt that stinks of burned rubber, he's flinging open the door and stepping up to stand in the footwell for a better vantage point to look over the bright yellow roof at the road. "Are you okay?" He shouts into the night. His headlights are uselessly pointed at the ditch at the side of the road and the trees beyond, so he's left squinting into the velvety dark.

There's a groan, and Law curses to himself again as he drops down to stand on the pavement. Forget about the psych ward; he'll be spending the night in jail for manslaughter and the rest of his life hating himself for what he's done in his reckless grief. He reaches inside the cab to poke at the hazard button and then scrambles around the hood to the quiet chirping of crickets greeting the moon. The hazards blink red, barely lighting the road enough that Law can make out that the lump is indeed a person and not a particularly human-sounding deer. Law crouches next to him and focuses in.

Blink. Light colored hair, shaggy enough to hide forehead and eyebrows. A slack expression and closed eyes, but no obvious signs of head trauma.

Blink. Unremarkable and well-worn clothes that are unstained by blood, as far as Law's quick visual exam shows.

Blink. Hands so large they suggest the person must be quite tall when not collapsed into a pile of limbs, and a thready but steady pulse in the wrist when Law presses urgent fingers on it.

Blink. Eyes blearily fluttering open above a wide mouth that must stretch into such a smile when he hasn't just been fucking hit by a car driven by a damn fool.

Blink. "I'm a doctor," Law says, low and as soothing as he can make it when his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. "Does anything hurt?"

Blink. The man stares blankly. He's in shock. Even if he gathered the words to speak, he could be bleeding out and not even notice.

Blink. It's dangerous to move him before doing an exam, but even more dangerous to stay in the middle of the road for the next idiot with a death wish to cause collateral damage. Law makes a decision and hopes it turns out better than his other recent ones.

Blink. "I'm going to move you to the side of the road. Tell me if it hurts at any point, and I'll stop."

Blink. That same stare. Lips part and exhale, but no words pass them, so Law does a quick check for cervical spine fractures, gets his arms under the man's armpits, and drags him to the shoulder on the far side of Law's car from the road and oncoming traffic.

Blink. Law lays the man down, yanks off his sweater, lumps it into a pillow, and shoves it under the man's head. It's the least he can fucking do.

Blink. Law's hands are smooth and practiced as he starts a quick physical exam, looking for broken bones, open wounds, and internal injuries. Every inch of him trembles except his hands, so familiar with this process that they move with easy confidence.

Blink. Arms and hands are fine, no broken ribs, no immediate signs of organ damage. "Are you with me? Can you tell me your name?" It's not that he so badly wants to know; he doesn't, because the shame of knowing the name of a person he almost killed will tear him apart. But it's the quickest way to get a response, and he needs to do a cognitive assessment.

Blink. Silence. Law continues his exam as the man gathers himself, shifting from core to legs and finding nothing wrong, God, maybe he isn't hurt, maybe this will all be okay--

Blink. "D--Donquixote Rocinante."

Blink. The red lights flash to illuminate the face of a ghost.

Blink. Law's hands freeze on the man's shins. The quiet of a cool summer night is replaced by the roar of blood in his ears as he desperately tries to make sense of what he's heard.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Rocinante can’t help himself; he’s been biting his lip to try to suppress his amusement, but at we can call granny a snort works its way past. This is worse than if the Navy gave the greenest batch of recruits a ship with no commanding officer and no training. The unbelievable amount of havoc he could wreak with a bunch of gullible landlubbers…

Bartolomeo bristles at that. “You gotta problem with that, shitbag? Who the hell even are you, anyway?” 

“He’s with me,” Law bristles back. “Watch your tongue.” As if Law hasn’t routinely called him worse things than shitbag. Though-- not recently, now that Rocinante thinks back. Huh.

“Yeah, I guessed that the way he’s halfway up your ass wherever you go. ‘Cept it’s kinda weird because he wasn’t there at the battle. Where’d he come from?” Bartolomeo looks Rocinante up and down, really looks, and a curling lip exposes more of one already well-exposed fang. “Looks kinda like that Doflamingo fucker, now that I think about it.” Rocinante’s heart shudders from an adrenaline rush, and he thinks about squaring up for a fight. Franky had kindly carried his ruck for him while they ran, but it means it’s still across the deck on Franky’s back and he’s disarmed aside from his boot knife, a noncombative devil fruit, and the will to protect Law at all costs. 

Law is unphased by this. “Don’t remember asking for your opinion. So you don’t have a navigator. Do you at least have a helmsman?” 

“Nope,” Bartolomeo says, popping the p. He grins wide and snarky at Law’s answering look. 

“Who the hell sails the ship then?!” 

“Whoever’s feeling lucky that day. Oi, who’s on wheel duty?” The second part is shouted out to the fifty-some members of crew conspicuously lurking on deck to watch the Strawhats gamely attempt to act natural under such close scrutiny. The stalker crew is also failing to act naturally by engaging in the most nonsensical busywork Rocinante has ever seen. One crew member is whittling down the handle of a mop just to look busy, while at the other end of said mop, another is braiding the yarn of the head into a rather impressive five-strand plait. They look at each other and exchange shrugs, and the sentiment is reflected across the entire deck. Rocinante turns in tandem with Law to look up onto the quarterdeck and finds it completely empty. 

“Nobody’s feeling lucky, then. Oh well, guess we'll have more time with Mister Luffy and the Strawhats until we find our way!” 

Rocinante can practically see the stormcloud over Law’s head. “My crew is waiting for me on Zou. I’m not interested in fucking around and making them wait any longer than they already have because of your astounding ineptitude.” 

“Well, unless you’ve got a navigator shoved up your ass next to the stick and that lanky asshole, you’re shit outta luck, aren’t ya?” 

“That lanky asshole is a navigator,” Rocinante interjects before Law blows his top. It isn’t precisely true, but it’s close enough; he can follow a vivre card’s heading just fine and keep a ship out of basic trouble, which apparently makes him more of a navigator than anyone else on board. 

“Well, isn’t that just ever so convenient. I'm not buying it. I still don’t know who the hell you are, and you’re not taking charge of my ship.” 

“I already told you, he’s with me,” Law says. His scabbard slides down in his fist until the grip is within reach of his other hand, and he shifts unsubtly into a ready stance.

Bartolomeo mirrors him, apparently more than willing to rumble, but then collapses into a weak-kneed and blushing posture as Luffy pops up between them. “Hey guys, whatcha talking about?”

“Oh, Mister Luffy! Do you need anything? We were just talking about who’s gonna navigate us to Zou.” 

“If Nami was here, she could do it.” Luffy pauses, considering, and turns one of those massive smiles on Rocinante. “Rosey used to be a marine, so he should do it!” 

“He WHAT!” Bartolomeo wails. “Mister Luffy, I don’t want to question your greatness, but a marine?! They were just chasing us all across Dressrosa! If I put him at the helm, he’ll send us right to the nearest Navy outpost! Not that I don’t think you can’t fight your way out of it, because of course you can, but I promised the Grand Fleet I’d get you to Zou safe and sound!” 

“Nah. Rosey promised me he wouldn’t go back to the Navy. Right?” Luffy can’t remember Rocinate’s name to save his life, but he remembers a throwaway conversation from two years ago amid the chaos of escaping Impel Down right before the tragedy of losing Ace? 

“Right.” 

“See? It's fine! Let’s go already, I wanna see how big an elephant really can get!” 

“After you,” Law says, gesturing widely, and Rocinante takes the steps up to the quarterdeck. Bartolomeo sullenly watches them, visibly unhappy but also unwilling to challenge a direct order from his hero. 

For all that her crew surely doesn’t know the orlop from the hold and would happily rig the mizzen royal where the main upper top gallant should go if their sails weren't color-coded, the Going Luffy isn’t a terrible ship. She’s steady, light enough on the draft to be quick without being easily dragged off course by a breeze, and responsive enough for a ship that’s probably never been dry-docked or careened. Rocinante gets them on their heading quickly as Law props himself against the mizzenmast to watch him from behind. 

“I didn’t know you were a navigator,” Law says into the salt breeze. He sounds… wistful, maybe. Rocinante turns to look over his shoulder, but Law is staring down at the deck between his feet with his eyes cast in shadows from the brim of his hat.

“As much as any Commander is. I never captained a ship myself, but it's the lowest rank that can. Can’t exactly lead a navy crew without knowing what you’re doing. Unlike pirates, apparently.”

“But I never saw you doing any of the sailing work on the Numanica.”

Rocinante huffs. It’s easy to forget that Law knew of him as a marine only in theory. “Couldn’t exactly demonstrate my Navy training in front of Doffy. This may shock you, but it’s hard to stay undercover when you show your whole hand right after the deck is dealt.” 

“Would’ve never guessed.” 

Law falls silent after the dry remark, and Rocinante falls into the lull of sailing. It’s a challenge, because there doesn’t appear to be a soul on deck capable of sheeting the sails, so instead he’s reduced to clever steering to keep the sails from luffing. 

The sun has lumbered low in the sky when a cold breeze clips across from port. Rocinante frowns at it, but he’s not skilled enough at weather reading to know how much trouble it’ll bring to him. A party sets up on the main deck, complete with piles of food, but Rocinante is loath to leave his post. They’re shit out of luck if he loses control of her, given the fact that all fifty-odd crew members are worse than useless. 

“You need to eat,” Law says. 

“And who’s going to keep her steady while I do?” Rocinante squints into the wind. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.” 

Law mutters something unkind but not untrue about Bartolomeo and his pathetic excuse for a crew. There’s that flash of blue that’s slowly growing familiar to Rocinante, and then a clatter as a variety of plates hit the deck behind him. “Come here and eat. I’ll take the helm while you do.” 

Rocinante has let his guard down on the greed. They’d been so busy today that there just hasn’t been time for it, and he forgot that he has to defend against it. But now, sitting with his back to a mast and a fresh sea breeze in his hair, eating a hearty hot meal-- at least granny taught the crew how to cook decently, apparently-- contentment rises and twists into greed. Greed for the long line of Law’s body at the wheel and the confident way his hands rest on the handles as they cut the bow into the wind. How easy it would be to stand behind Law and curve around him to hold the wheel. They could hide up here on the quarterdeck from the riotous party down below with Law pressed tight and warm against Rocinante--

Stop it, he commands himself firmly. Don’t-- he can’t do that. Be content with what Law wants. 

Appetite suddenly gone, Rocinante eats mechanically and fast in the way that all marines learn how to do, not for enjoyment but for function. All he’s hungry for is-- Stop!!

He finishes just as the wind goes from suspicious to outright threatening. There’s an unfortunate lurch of the decks when he stands, and he goes right back down with a thud. Law doesn’t even notice because he’s wrestling with the wheel, and Rocinante can tell this situation is going to devolve quickly. 

Massive hail starts to fall as chaos breaks out on deck. “Call granny!” one of the useless crew members yells while Rocinante gently hip-checks Law aside and takes the wheel.

“Belay that!” Rocinante bawls with all the force he can muster, half-forgotten knowledge surging to the fore under the pressure of a storm. If there’s one use of an ex-Navy Commander, it’s the ability to set a ship to rights with the sheer force of assumed authority and shouting the loudest. “Furl the mainsail! Set the storm jib! Batten the hatches and tie down cargo!” 

He watches half in despair as his commands cause overwhelming chaos instead of purposeful motion-- but through the panicked churn swim four Strawhats moving with purpose. They prove themselves as competent sailors as they set to, with Usopp and Zoro wrangling the sails, Robin's many hands preparing the deck, and Franky hoisting the storm jib. 

Another stronger gust blows with a fresh round of hail. They’re well out of any chance to outrun this storm, so he might as well try to stabilize them and wait for it to blow over. “Furl the mizzen! Drop the sea-anchor and prepare to heave-to! Franky, trim the storm jib aback!” There’s another burst of activity as his commands are followed, but instead of watching, he turns to Law. “I need rope,” he says, urgent and low.

Law nods, his features set into something determined, and he extends a hand. Rope appears in it-- Law’s devil fruit is so bluesdamned useful-- and Rocinante snatches it up. Law has to steady the wheel for him because it fights back so aggressively, but they manage to lash the helm as the bow turns off the wind and the mad pitching over the storm surges stabilizes. 

When Rocinante looks down to check on Law, he’s greeted with an expression that nears on admiration. The greed glows warm and a little tipsy with relief in his chest. He scrubs a hand teasingly against Law’s hat to make him splutter and swat it off, because otherwise he’d bend right down and kiss Law on the lips. 

Rocinante casts an eye back over the main deck as a distraction, to find the hapless crew… using the hail to peel up all the gum stuck on the deck? “How have they not all drowned by now?”

“Beats me. If that’s how they react in a storm, it’s a miracle they haven’t sunk.” Law pauses, and then sounds almost shy as he says, “Miracles really do follow you around.”

“I’ll let the Navy know that basic sailing skills are now miraculous. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.” 

Law’s lips curve into a moue at that answer. He slumps off to stack up the scattered plates that once held his share of dinner, now gone to waterlogged slop. “I’m going to get something to eat.” 

Huh. Weird. Rocinante thinks back over what he said as Law descends the stairs. Was it the mention of the Navy? It’s not the first time Law’s gotten squirrely about that. He needs to watch his mouth a bit more around Law until he can sort out where their rough edges are bumping into each other and soften them. 

He’s left alone with his increasingly glum thoughts as the dark clouds blow by. It’s high time he presses Law a bit about the last thirteen years. Going off of an outdated Navy file is beyond insufficient at this point, and as much as he hates the idea of prodding at old wounds, better to open them up now than to let it continue to fester.

“Good morning, Sir Rose and Sir Law!” a too-loud voice greets. Rocinante and Law turn as one to find both Wano samurai walking through the field bearing enormous sacks. Kin’emon continues, overly jolly, “We have returned from our mission to fetch sustenance, and look! You’ve awakened just in time! Perhaps you should join us in the cabin, or else Sir Luffy will consume all of your portion of the day’s food.”

“Stop announcing we’re here if you don’t want the Navy up our asses.” Any hint of a good mood that Law had has officially evaporated. 

“Oh! My apologies, Sir La-- that is, uh. My apologies.” 

“Just get inside.” 

Rocinante trails after Law without instruction, ducking inside just in time to see Luffy descend on the additional provisions like a one-man pack of wolves. Careful hands snatch up their own share of the food, braver ones wandering closer to Luffy’s ravenous mouth and more cautious ones sticking to the items that have rolled to the perimeter of the table.

Law evaluates his options before plucking a pair of avocadoes from the pile. A knife appears in his hand, and Rocinante watches with no interest whatsoever as his long, clever fingers plunge the blade into the dark skin and run it around the long perimeter. He twists the halves apart, carefully pits it with a sharp slap of the blade and a twist, and whacks the knife on the edge of the table to send the pit tumbling off.

“Here,” he tells Rocinante, offering both halves. “Potassium and magnesium, both good for muscle cramps.”

Rocinante takes them with indescribable tenderness bubbling up in him. One of Robin’s disembodied hands wave a spoon at him, and there’s salt and pepper carefully kept outside of Luffy’s reach but well within his to put on top, and then the skins are empty and Law’s swapping them for the other two halves he’s prepared. He’s clearly been paying attention, because these ones are sprinkled with salt and pepper already. 

It reminds Rocinante of a tiny Law, looking like a furious mushroom and brandishing a ladle as he yells get up, oaf, breakfast is done! This grown-up Law doesn’t bluster to try to cover up the vulnerability of caretaking. His shoulders are relaxed as he steals food out from under Luffy to feed Rocinante. He takes a tax for himself along the way, which is good, because Rocinante would have to throw a fit if he didn’t. 

Speaking of throwing fits, there’s a back-and-forth going on outside of the little bubble between them. As the tension climbs thanks to the oppressive weight of Luffy’s sour mood, he tunes in to the argument. “Who would make up some dumb crap like that?!” Luffy’s saying. 

Zoro piles on as Rocinante goes back over half-remembered exchanges. There was something about… a rumor in town? About the one star gladiator girl’s father being a prince from a foreign land. The general response to this is displeasure, for some reason. There's nothing wrong with it to Rocinante; she's the granddaughter of the deposed king, after all, so a prince for a father makes good enough sense. Once again, Rocinante curses his lack of intel. He really should’ve asked Law for some key details at this point.

“I was the person who got that rumor started,” Kyros says from his stand by the window. This markedly does not improve the mood in the room. “The only ones who know the truth are some of the royal family, and those of the Donquixote Family who dug into my past. The kingdom knows her mother, but little more than that.” Luffy’s chewing with the fury of someone who has been deeply wronged, which sends Rocinante’s stomach sinking towards his feet. The last time he saw Luffy angry, he escaped an inescapable prison. It’s not clear what the consequences will be this time, but with a full Navy detachment and an admiral still on Dressrosa, it could get messy. Fast. “I spread that story before they could find out that Rebecca is my daughter.”

Shit. Rocinante feels a scowl crawl onto his face. Maybe the mood in the room was correct.

“But why?” Robin asks, her tone impressively neutral compared to everyone else's disgust.

“It’s because of my past. I was a criminal, and someone of my low breeding could never marry royalty. This is better for her.”

Rocinante goes from scowling to seeing red. Luffy beats him to it, though. “No, it isn’t! Does Rebecca know about all of this stuff?”

Kyros glances sideways at the room. Guilty. “She must have read my note. I told her the honest truth about my whole life. Because of what I did, Rebecca suffered for a long time. I want her to live in the light forever, and that means she can’t have anything to do with me. It’s the only way I can make amends by failing as her father.”

“Bullshit,” Rocinante snarls. Heads whip around to stare at him, and even Kyros fully turns in his shock. Rocinante hasn’t said much of anything to anyone other than Law since he arrived at the cabin, but he can’t stay quiet at this. “Running away is a punishment, not an apology.”

“Who are you to say--” Kyros starts, heated.

Rocinante cuts him off. “Unlike you, I didn’t have a choice. I was dragged away and locked up in Impel Down for eleven years. Do you know what I would’ve given for the chance to stay? And here you are, willingly turning tail on someone who needs you for no reason other than you’re chickenshit, and you can’t even admit that to yourself, either.” 

Law’s gaze bores into the side of Rocinante’s head. He’s too angry to notice much beyond that. Maybe he’ll regret saying all this later. Maybe Law thinks it’s private, their business and no one else’s, and will take Rocinante to task for revealing it. Too late now. 

“You don’t understand my situation. She’s still a child, and I won’t let her life be ruined by a temporary fit of emotion.” 

Rocinante unfolds himself, standing tall so he can glare at Kyros almost eye-to-eye. “The only temporary fit of emotion is whatever the fuck is going on right now. Eat your pride fast, or else it’s going to eat you first. Nobody wants to be abandoned. Nobody. And it’s bluesdamn cruel to say it’s for her good when I bet she hasn’t asked for this, and maybe even has begged for you not to leave her.” 

Kyros’ expression is hardening. Rocinante grins at him, ugly and begging for a fight, and then--

Purupurupurupurupuru. The tension between them snaps as Kyros picks up the snail. Rocinante’s ass thumps back down on the floor as a voice comes through. “Captain! Uh, I mean, Sir Kyros. It’s me, Leo!” 

SLAM! “Mister Zoro!” A clown of some sort has appeared at the door. Green hair, fangs, harlequin print pants. “Mister Luffy! Miss Robin! Mister Franky! Mister Usopp!! What an honor! How’s your morning?” He cringes, holding up his hands like something inside the cabin glows bright enough to blind, and then collapses to the floor with a stream-of-consciousness mumble as he writhes there. 

“Would you please just say what you came here to say?” Zoro barks. 

Law’s hand wraps around Rocinante’s wrist. He looks down at it, tracing slim fingers and dark ink with his eyes to calm down, because if he looks Law in the face right now, he might say something he doesn’t want an audience to hear. 

“Right! Sorry.” The clown quits whatever his interpretive act is. Rocinante definitely doesn’t get it, and he even used to be clown-adjacent. Standards really have been dropping everywhere, haven’t they. “There’s been some movement over at the Navy tents. I think they might come this way! Vice Admiral Tsuru is with them, and the old Fleet Admiral Sengoku, too!” 

Rocinante’s breath catches. His right hand fists in the same second Law’s grip tightens on his left wrist. Sengoku is bad enough, but Tsuru too… He doesn’t remember it, but he knows Tsuru had been the one to find him on Minion Island. To save him. If she gets her hands on him, she’ll surely dress him down so hard that he’ll long for the good old days in Impel Down. 

“Tsuru and Sengoku?” Franky says skeptically, and it jars Rocinante out of his thoughts. Right. The Strawhats have no idea about his connections to the new players, and even Law is likely fuzzy at best on the details. 

Usopp wails as Law’s chin dips down to shield his eyes behind the brim of his hat. Rocinante’s skin prickles at what little he can see of the expression on Law’s face. Scratch this situation being messy due to Luffy; this could go sideways in a whole new and terrible way he wasn’t expecting. 

“Oh, the Navy’s getting ready to attack you!” Leo says at the other end of the denden.

Nanny clucks as she looks him over in the bathroom. Roci puts his hands over his head and wishes he could disappear. “Come along then, holiness,” she says as she grasps the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get your little suit to the laundry girls. Hopefully they can save it; you look so sweet in it.”

Nanny hums to him as she bathes him, and Roci waveringly joins in when he can remember how it goes. She’s scrubbing his hair when her song fades and she says lowly, “You shouldn’t let Saint Doflamingo convince you into being naughty, holiness.” 

Roci bites his lip. He knows Doffy would yell if he could hear Nanny say that. Maybe mama and papa would be unhappy, too. Nobody’s allowed to say Doffy did something wrong. “Was my idea,” he mumbles. It wasn't his idea, but Doffy said it was, so now Roci has to say it was, too.

Nanny sighs. “Just like beating that slave the other day was your idea?”

Roci squirms. He shakes off Nanny’s hands. His tummy hurts as he says, “Yeah. My idea.” He puts his hands over his head again, hoping she won’t see him if he’s hiding.

Softly, Nanny removes his hands so she can rinse away the soap in his hair. “I’m sure the whole house will do extra morning prayers tomorrow for you, heavenly star. We’ll pray for your temperance and good judgement, and pray that you are kind to us if we deserve it.”

“No!” Rosi cries. “Hate morning prayers! Don’t wanna!” 

Every morning before breakfast, the entire household lines up before the family to say their prayers. It’s boring, and takes forever, and everyone looks sad when they say them.

“Prayers are important, venerable star,” Nanny says, a little scolding. Roci whines. He still hates them. “They’re how us unworthy beings ask for the favor of your holiness, the Celestial Dragons, who are as gods. Here. Let’s practice.” 

Nanny folds her hands together and casts her eyes to the ground as Roci’s hair drips into his eyes. Her voice follows well-worn paths as she recites, “Oh Celestial Dragons, holiest of thy name, may you receive in this world all which is good and in the hereafter all that which is good and may you be protected from punishment.” 

“No! No no no!! Stop! I don’t like it!” 

No matter how he screams and thrashes, Nanny keeps going. When she's finally done, she smooths a hand over his hair until he hiccups to a stop. As she wraps him in a warm, snuggly towel, she says, “When there’s nothing else we can do to change the tides, we pray. I hope you never have to understand this, your holiness.” 

Rocinante is thirty-one years old. He rots in Impel Down, his least favorite food is the only thing on offer most days, and he would do anything at all for Trafalgar D. Water Law. But there’s nothing else he can do now than pray. Awake, asleep, mumbling, in silence, the litany rolls on:

8:03 you're late, long day at work? Better hurry home, I have a surprise for you 😘

8:21 if you don't hurry up, I'll get started without you. You don't want to miss out, do you?

9:00 you have half an hour and the timer starts now!

9:30 ready or not, here I go… Better hurry up so you can join in on the fun!

9:38 has no text, just a dick pic that has Law feeling faint. It's angled down the long line of Cora's body, starting at the little soft pooch right at his bellybutton that he's started to develop now that he's not on active duty anymore (Law's obsessed), and then proudly displaying the hard jut of his cock glistening with lube and being worked over. He clearly didn't stop to take the picture, because his hand is a little blurred in the soft, warm light. Law bites his lip, but it isn't enough. He lets out a harsh breath as he feels his own dick stir.

That's the last message in the series, and Law can figure out the rest well enough. Cora tried to stay awake, but he still gets up at ass o'clock out of habit despite bitterly hating mornings, and so not even whatever stupid porno he found and the promise of Law was enough to keep him up so long past his bedtime. He must have fallen asleep patiently waiting and trying to keep himself ready for his wayward and uncommunicative husband to reappear.

Law carelessly casts his phone aside on the floor and creeps back to their bedroom, heart overflowing with fondness. He shucks his own clothes before tucking Cora's dick away; a dangerous gamble, because it's so difficult to resist seeing if he can get Cora hard without waking him, but he deserves the dignity of sleeping without his cock hanging out.

Law carefully reaches over Cora to snatch up the phone, still making quiet sounds and flashing lights on the ceiling. He glances at it only long enough to find the side lock button so he can turn it off and get to sleep. He fully expects to see the beginning of a cheap porno where the flimsy plot is being set up with the most hilariously unrealistic dialogue, only to be completely ignored once somebody starts to lose clothing--

He stops. That's his own face in the video, red, half hidden by Cora's arm squeezing him so tight he's about to suffocate. He's audibly wheezing as he taps out on Cora's shoulder, but Cora is so delirious with excitement that he doesn't notice. Cora's in service dress blues, and it's nearly impossible to tell with the way he's wrapped around Law, but Law knows he's wearing the same white coat he took off just an hour ago with the Water 7 University Medical Center logo and Dr. Trafalgar stitched on the left chest.

This isn't porn. It was the day he officially became a practicing surgeon at W7UMC. Cora came to surprise him at work and take him to dinner afterward, and Shachi took the video as blackmail material which he later turned over free of charge because, quote, I've now realized you're both so disgusting about each other that neither of you are embarrassed enough by this that I could get money out of you for it.

(Joke's on him; blackmail wasn't it, but Law would've coughed up plenty if it had been a hostage situation instead. He'd thought he was a goner in the moment, so he couldn't enjoy the look on Cora's face while it happened like he can when he watches the footage.)

The video cuts to pictures, one after another of them smiling, kissing, laughing, all in an order he's practically memorized. This is the compilation video from their wedding reception, put together in secret by their friends. Cora had been enough drinks in at that point that he cried his face off, and Law would be lying if he said he hadn't shed a couple tears, too. Even now, it makes him a little misty-eyed.

With a soft smile on his face, Law hits the screen lock button, drops the phone on the nightstand, and shuts off the light. Preparations complete, he crawls into bed with a heavy sigh.

When he tucks his face into the sweet curve of Cora's neck and slings an arm around Cora's chest, it gets a sleepy snort and a "wha--?"

"I'm home," Law whispers into his ear. "Sorry I'm late. Go back to sleep."

Cora hums. He wraps his arms around Law and turns them on their side so he can curl all the way around Law, protective. "s'ry I fell asleep," he mumbles past a tongue thick with sleep. "tried really hard to stay up."

Law snorts at the unintentional double entendre. "I bet you did," he says, fond and a little dirty. It takes Cora at least fifteen seconds to figure it out, at which point he gives Law's side a pinch as he makes an offended noise. Every stressful thing that happened at work slides off Law. All that's left is Cora and the smile he presses into Law's hair and the way his heart beats love, love, love.

"have to go in tomorrow?"

It's not a surgery day, and Cora deserves an apology for his efforts going unappreciated. "Nah. I'll call out. Let's sleep in, and then I'll make it up to you for missing you tonight."

Cora makes a mumbly little sound of joy, squeezing Law tight and nuzzling him. "good," he says, sounding satisfied. " 'll make it worth it."

While Law was distracted, Bepo has accidentally gotten himself into a Situation that he is miserably failing at getting himself out of due to all the blushing and stuttering that's being wildly misinterpreted. Shachi and Penguin are being assholes, doing nothing more than watching and laughing, so Law has to stop this car wreck by explaining that despite his appearance, Bepo is less bear and more teddy. His potential suitor goes off, disappointed, as Law tells Shachi, "Asshole. My next one is on your tab for that."

"Yeah, how could you, Shachi?" Penguin razzes.

Law raises his glass to point at him above it. "Your tab is next, and if you don't shut your trap, I'll make it a double," before downing the last finger of liquid in the glass.

"Another one for him on me," Shachi obediently tells the bartender as the glass hits the bar.

Law idly watches his drink being made, carefully not reacting to the fact that he knows he's being watched in turn. To their credit, whoever it is is being a lot more subtle about it than anyone else tonight has been. But Law survived the kind of childhood where you needed to know when someone was looking, especially surreptitiously, so he notices.

Law leans back on the bar stool and braces an arm on Penguin's shoulder while he cracks his neck. It's an excuse to look around to see who's carefully watching him, and what do you know, it's tall, blonde, and cute who's suddenly moving to look down at his own drink. Excellent.

"Got your eye on something?" Penguin asks casually once Law settles. "Or maybe someone?"

"It's the tall one, isn't it," Shachi says. Not a question, so Law doesn't bother answering. He picks up his new glass and takes a hearty pull off the top.

Penguin leans forward over the bar and around Law to make eye contact with Shachi. "D'you think there's some giant in him?"

"It's rude to speculate on heritage," Bepo scolds from Penguin's other side, his expression disapproving, and then as expected-- "Sorry. But you shouldn't."

Shachi isn't dissuaded. "It's just idle curiosity, Bepo. It'd have to be a couple generations back at least. There's no way he clears ten feet."

"S'pose you have a point. Longlegs, then?"

"Guys! Quit it!"

"Don't upset Bepo," Law says automatically.

"Sorry," they chorus, but Penguin hasn't learned his lesson. He adds, sly, "We all know cap'n only cares about whether or not he's from the Longdick tribe-- hrrrk!"

Law has pushed himself and his stool back by the expeditious method of shoving Penguin forward hard into the sharp edge of the bar. "Can I get a double on his tab," he asks the bartender, then shoots the rest of his drink. Shame to waste good booze like that, but he doesn't plan to come back to the bar once he leaves, and he needed to make good on his threat or else Penguin would get complacent.

"Jesus," Penguin wheezes once he's caught his breath from the punitive Heimlich maneuver. "Was that necessary?!"

"Yes," Law says, straight-faced. The bartender slides over his drink, so he picks up it, stands, and says, "Don't wait up for me." Shachi and Penguin low-five over his now vacant stool, as if they had anything at all to do with this.

It takes a few minutes to pick his way through the crowd towards his target-- how nice of him to loom over everyone to make for such a nice landmark for Law to follow-- and Law uses that time to study him more thoroughly. He slumps in a way that suggests he's trying his best to fit in with his group of standard sized buddies, but there's a strength and a width to his shoulders that doesn't go away even with the bad posture. A closer study of his face reveals crow's feet and smile-lines, and that plus the easy confidence in his motions and the decidedly un-peacocky outfit prominently featuring a sweater that looks like it was chosen based on softness rather than fashion makes Law's heart skip a beat. This guy has got to be at least a decade older than Law, maybe even a bit more.

Law tries not to overtly drool or lick his chops. This guy is almost a perfect package; all that's left is for Law to confirm is what he's packing, and there's only one way to do that. He's not afraid of a little hands-on work to try this guy on for size.

By some stroke of luck, the person next to tall, blonde, and handsome slips out of the group just as Law approaches. "Is this spot taken," he asks and doesn't even wait for a reply before he steps into it. "Name's Law."

"Rocinante," is the name he gets in return. His voice is deep and rumbling, easy to hear through the noise pollution of a bar. He straightens a bit under Law's unsubtle elevator eyes. There's a lot of floors to traverse, after all, and every one is perfect even from this close.

"I would ask if you come here often, but I'm more interested in knowing whether you'd like to leave." Bold, but it's always worked for Law. If that or the tattoos don't run them off, then Law's got nothing to worry about.

"Desperately," Rocinante says. "You wouldn't happen to be going in the same direction, are you?"

---

Law was supposed to be dead by now. The moon reveals all secrets, and that’s his biggest and worst. He’d never, ever intended to survive this day. Unease twists through him. It’s not-- right. Cora’s absence burns, overwhelmingly sharp and near and painful like he’s thirteen again. The cold white of moonlight becomes the cold white of snow and if he just turns around, he’ll see Cora’s corpse waiting to embrace him--

He turns. The only thing behind him is Kyros’ house. 

---

Maybe-- maybe Law isn’t dead because his death was intended to have a different purpose. 

The lone eye of the moon watches as Law evaluates this possibility. He could walk back inside that house, wake Luffy up, and perform the eternal life surgery. Then he could go to Cora without any guilt at all, knowing that his final gift of life went to the most worthy person he knows. 

Then Law remembers that the average half-life of a plan in the vicinity of any given Strawhat is approximately ten nanoseconds. Five if it’s Luffy. 

Yeah, fuck that. He’s had enough plans ruined by Luffy for a lifetime. 

---

Luffy will be fine without Law. Law won’t be fine without Cora. Eternal life surgery or not, Law was never meant to see the sun rise on a world without Doflamingo, and it's up to him to fix this grievous error. 

There’s always been a contingency plan for such developments, of course. Law is nothing if not practical. There’s a very robust list of situations he expected and planned for in his long siege for revenge, and some of them were so dire that the only way out consisted of a secret scalpel and medical knowledge of the quickest methods for exsanguination. 

It’s not that Law longs for death. Why would he? It’s been his constant companion, never more than an arm’s length away. What he longs for is to be reunited with Cora. There’s only one way to do that, he knows, and only one place.

Law is going to kill himself in the sunflower field.  

---

A terrible joy overtakes Law as he makes the long trek from Kyros’ house towards the plateau. It trembles through his fingers as a wild grimace wholly unlike a smile curves across his lips.