christ. you swear the warmth of his hands have penetrated your skull already, even as they hover almost four inches from your head. he’s hardly close enough to give you something to revel in— though, maybe if the hair of your scalp raised as the ones of your neck, they'd have a chance at touching him. you'd beg for anything at this point. “mm. yeah, ‘t hurts.” you release the (now probably mutilated) skin of your lower lip from between your teeth as you mumble to him. “always had that sort of thing, but more so recently. ‘dunno why.” you think the ghost of his hands have grown closer to you from behind.

law hums in acknowledgment, voice closer than you had presumed. his hands, pleasantly deft from surgeons practice, card through your hair, tucking it from your face. he’s taking his time. you feel a stroke of breath against your now exposed shoulder. “any head trauma?” he presumes, this stroke of his hands concluding with two thumbs pressing to the base of your skull at the back of your neck, shifting left and right every few seconds to feel around. a shiver crawls over the skin of your jaw.

“concussions?”

he tilts his head to watch as the rest of his tattooed fingers begin to feel above and behind your ears on each side of your skull. he thinks your hair smells nice. your teeth grind slightly, tensing your jaw. he feels it, yet refraining from commenting on both observations. “no,” you pause, attempting to ignore the coolness of his hands. “ran into a brick wall head-first as a kid, though.” you huff a light laugh, earning a furrow of his brows. his hands are stagnant for a moment, tangled lightly in your hair, “that should explain it, then.” he hums, seemingly done with his examination. in the midst of your naivete, you respond with a quick, “really?” 

promptly, “no.”

a frown curls the ends of your lips, retortive curses bubbling up your throat and tickling the back of your tongue. however, before you can open your mouth, his hands resume their motions— yet gathering your loose hair up into his palms and between his fingers, holding it up from your neck rather than merely combing. a makeshift bun, you feel him form. 

he also rounds the exam table to stand in front of you, borderline between your knees. you straighten on reflex from the sudden presence, but not a bit of him cares because he’s feeling at your temples now, thumbs smoothing to your cheekbones. 

he sighs. “recently. any cranial trauma recently?”

stupid and flustered beyond a point of admission, you hum, “tellin’ you my life’s story and you’re asking for yesterday?”

he glares, unimpressed.

your throat works, fumbling to correct yourself with a long sigh. “no…” it’s indignant and begs a laugh from him. 

“hm,” he hums thoughtfully, fingers trailing back behind your ears as his forearms practically cup your face. it feels as if he truly couldn’t get any closer to you, but his knee shoves yours apart— so close now that his thigh nudges against the cool metal of the table beneath you. he’s playing you. the thought dances around in your head the nearer he is but it’s become too distracting for you to object, the brush of your thigh to his hip all but electrifying.

and the bastard laughs. a sarcastic vibrato within his throat punctuated by a shake of shoulders. you find yourself thinking of how pleasant it sounds, but you’re reminded that bliss is painfully momentary as soon as his touch desists from your skin. 

his hands plant onto the table by your hips instead. it effectively stills you a little quicker than you’d like to admit.

his eyes meet yours, unimpressed. 

“you know what i think?” he sounds so, so amused. you’re silent, too dumbstruck to answer. 

he tries again: “no?” 

and god, he’s cocky.

law lifts a hand once more to the back of your head, fingers brushing slow along your scalp until he’s tapping gently at a suspiciously rounded knot just behind your right ear. you wince, and it tells him all he needs to know.

“i think you’re bullshitting me,” he finalizes, a grin curving his mouth. 

a groan forces from your lips— long, drawn out, and annoyed. your head falls to the curve of his shoulder, apologizing gruffly into his shirt. “jus’ missed you, wanted to get you away from work,” you mumble your excuse with little nettled pokes to his chest.

“kind of you,” he remarks, shaking his head.

he hoists you closer to nose into your hair while he rubs soothingly at your little bump, a whispered shambles inviting the appropriate container of pain medication into his waiting hand from his faraway desk. and because he can’t help it, he begins to ask, “how did you even—”

“—don’t,” you interrupt, shoving him playfully. “don’t ask.” 

Somewhere into the night, Law has learnt his lesson and stops talking about Luffy altogether and you are relieved of the burden of defending his honour. Not of sound mind, Eustass forgets that the Strawhats' job is not only defending their buttfuck captain, but to annoy everyone else into submissively handing over the Pirate King title to Luffy. After terrorising Law enough, you spin your way around everyone and end the night by his side, dropping down on him unceremoniously— half-drunk, everything about you is looser, your chest against his back, hunched over his sitting form.

He’s halfway through his last drink when he turns over to you. Something breaks. It falls loose, something in him, he loses his purchase of an unknown thing under his ribs, the gears catches on the wrong shift and he hears this loud haltering creak in his ears, it rings and it calls. His skin itches horribly under all the metal that makes up his arm; it suddenly all feels too heavy. Your head is tilted in question, eyes bizarre in their clarity— had you not been drinking?— and it's a challenge, Eustass knows it is because all you Strawhats are only good for stirring up trouble and you're goading him into talking shit so you can beat him up too.

Suddenly, he remembers Wire calling you attractive. You straighten up a bit, chin pulled in towards your neck and your eyes look up at him through your lashes, lips curled up. Suddenly, he remembers agreeing with Heat. Suddenly, he jerks and his drink spills all over an unsuspecting Law passing by.

It takes a second, but you realise that Eustass has been exceptionally angry at everyone the morning after the party. He stalks around, stomping with the weight of Zeus' anger, purposefully barging into pirates suffering from hangovers, and just about winning every other verbal fight he gets into. Obviously, his streak comes to an end because the Strawhats are still loitering.

You don't have the decency to even act like you have a hangover when he passes you. You are skipping, you have that audacity, circling around poor souls with an exuberant Luffy, who doesn't drink, and Franky, who exclusively waters down his alcohol with cola. You are annoying everyone around you and Eustass can't help but follow the trail of misery you leave behind you. You find an offensive amount of joy in dancing around those suffering with headaches and joint pain, Eustass thinks— no, he's not going to entertain that thought. He's just going to watch you. He'll blame the tense feeling in his stomach on anger, he'll watch the smile widen on your face, the curl of your eyes squinting out the sun, shadows elongated over delicate features, the wind picking up through strands of your hair like it can't wait to touch you. Eustass will watch the world bend around you and think, in anger, of how irritating you are.

What if it were just an irrational amount of hatred he has for the Strawhats that make Eustass churn violently whenever you pass? He reckons, accepting a bowl of whatever the fuck Sanji and some other cooks had whipped up, that it's one of those feelings that is so overwhelming that it bleeds into a hundred and two other emotions when you feel it first. He doesn't want to dwell on it but it fits itself snuggly into his mind, between two points of a headache in his brain; he loses his bearings, trying to figure out if it is the ache or the feeling that is stronger.

His reflection flickers in the congee, smoke blurring the horizon as it strings itself into the sky. He looks up and sees you holding your own bowl, a spoon into your mouth when Luffy bumps into you and the congee spills down your chin with a cough. You lock eyes after you turn around to wack Luffy, wiping your chin. Eustass' head fucking kills.

Eustass has loved before. When he was young and love was just an innocent feeling, when it wasn’t this awful, grotesque active emotion. Eustass Kidd remembers love being passive, he was just an object in the equation, who allowed the feeling to be; it was allowed to just be when he was a child, he lived around it and stepped to the side when he felt its presence— the girl he loved was a spitfire, like you his mind supplies all so helpfully. He wouldn’t have called it love if he didn’t lose her, he reckons. He has a memory of it being quiet, the sudden awareness of himself when she was around, he doesn’t think she’d find much joy in the man he has become. Maybe that’s why you’re bothering him. You must be the punishment. Victoria has never been shy about hurting him anyways.

“You’re bringing down the mood,” you make the time to point out, as you walk past him with plates stacked up the entire length of your arm. Eustass snarls. And you’ve never been one to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead of going on about your merry way, you stop in front of him. Eustass sees Luffy’s arms stretch out over a crowd of people, swiping all the plates off your arm and bringing it over to his fat ass.  “What’s up with’cha?” You sound as though you’re making pleasant conversation, trying to be friendly as you make yourself comfortable next to him.

Unfortunately, you are a Strawhat so all Eustass feels is the all consuming urge to start a fight. “Has your captain relieved you of the burden of waiting on him?” He snarks. Another one of your crew would be easily riled up by that, then Eustass would be gratified when he inevitably got into a fistfight. All he gets is a slow blossoming of amusement over your face, like you know what is troubling him. You have fight in your eyes, that’s what you stopped here for: a fight. That, Eustass can commend, he’s always been the one to like looking danger in the face, to see the shifting clouds in its eyes and want to drown in it, to be close enough to violence that he can smell last night’s alcohol on its tongue, feel its heavy heat, hear its rattling heartbeat, have enough sense to feel the phantom pain of a punch before a fist is even pulled back.

biting his lip, he clicks the call button, hoping that he could hear your voice at last but all he received was the repetitive drone of the dial tone and your pretty voicemail, “hello! i’m busy at the moment but you can leave me a message and i’ll get back to you soon.”

anxiety kicks into his chest and he hurriedly shuts off his laptop and tugs on a jacket before rushing over to your apartment. he had expected, upon entering with his own key, that maybe you were just busy cooking or with homework or maybe you had decided to do a deep clean and you had gotten sucked into all the lost things you had found in the crevices of your apartment. but no, he had entered your apartment and was met with silence. the lights were dim and the room cold with no indication that you were there.

then, he hears soft sniffles from your room and he pads over in quick strides to your door, heart lurching in his chest. there you were, cocooned in a heapful of blankets and a plethora of used tissues surrounding you like ornaments on a christmas tree. you squint against the slight light coming from the door, “law…?” you rasped out.

just like that, relief surged in his chest before the worry came right back. he tsked at you as he came close, kneeling at your bedside. “you’re sick,” he pressed the back of his hand on your forehead to check your fever, “why didn’t you tell me? i would’ve taken care of you, stupid.”

you close your eyes against the feel of his skin on yours. “you were studying, i didn’t want to bother you, doctor.” you tease, smiling despite how terrible you feel.

he tsks again before getting up, turning towards the door. you grab his hand just as quickly, wanting him to be near you once more, “stay, please. where are you going?”

he glances back at you, worry creasing the corners of his eyes. pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your hand, he tucks you into bed properly before saying, “i’ll be back, i’ve got to take care of you, don’t i?” he presses another kiss to your cheek before rushing out the door.

your eyes close shut at his retreating figure, finally being lulled back to sleep. as you rest, there is clattering in the kitchen as law puts in his best attempt to make you soup, muttering to himself as he goes. “okay and then carrots… no, fuck, i forgot the salt, god damn it.”

it is after an indistinguishable amount of time and you are awaken with drool on your face and hair plastered to your cheek, when law shows up again. this time he is sat on your bed, a tray laid on his lap with a steaming bowl of soup. he strokes your hair silently as you stretch your arms awake.

“how are you feeling, baby?” he asks, thumb stroking your cheek.

you lean into his touch, his warmth, something so comforting. “still feel sick, but i think i just need to sleep it off.”

he sighs and presses a kiss to your forehead before helping you sit up. “well at least eat the soup i made you, and then you need to take the medicine i got you, okay?”

you stick your tongue out at him but oblige, “whatever you say, doctor law.”

he rolls his eyes at you but nonetheless feeds you the soup spoonful by spoonful. “yummy?”

you nod, sleep coming back to you once more as the warm soup fills you. once finished, you take the bowl and place it gently on the side table and wrap your arms around law’s neck, pulling him in. “i missed you, baby.”

he sighs and nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder. his tattooed arms wind around your waist, pulling you closer. he kisses your shoulder and collarbone, “i missed you more, sweetheart. missed hearing your pretty voice talk to me.”

laying the both of you back down on the bed, you cuddle into his arms, fiddling with the tendrils of his hair. “you’re gonna get sick, you know.”

he pulls you impossibly closer, no amount of proximity enough. “don’t care. i wanna be with you, even when you’re all germy. missed you too much.”