you speak to me in rhymes

At first, Smoker's interest in Trafalgar Law is purely professional. He's got some questions, and given that Law's a walking government conspiracy theory, answers are hard to come by.
Somewhere along the line, that interest becomes much more personal, and by the time Smoker finally figures it out, he is in far, far too deep.

Notes:

okay i'm sorry but i really fucking love this fic lmfao orz

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Smoker’s fascination with Trafalgar Law begins with the Rocky Port incident.

He isn’t present for the mess itself, being too busy trying to figure out where the hell Straw Hat disappeared to. He reads about it in the papers, though, and he reads Koby’s incident report, because even alongside the lingering news from the war at Marineford a few months earlier, the stories published seem too outlandish to be real.

For once, Koby’s report corroborates the sensationalist headlines. Trafalgar Law did, in fact, cut the still-beating hearts out of a hundred pirates and make off with them. Even more unbelievably, all those pirates are still puttering around, presumably in a constant state of panic over missing arguably one of their most important internal organs.

Conspicuously absent from both the report and the newspapers is how exactly Law had managed this feat of medical magic.

The little bastard has a power, obviously, but none of Smoker’s sources mention it by name, or even acknowledge it. The glaring omission buries itself under his skin, in the back of his mind, a thorny, lingering annoyance that he can’t force himself to move past.

That red flag only waves harder when Law shows up on the World Government’s doorstep with a crate full of pounding hearts preserved in gelatinous little cubes.

The hearts are whisked away before anyone can ask too many questions, and the next Smoker hears of it, the World Government is declaring Law a Warlord, effectively rendering him untouchable.

With Law’s status granting him secrecy, Smoker’s higher-ups stop indulging his questions, leaving him with nothing but a brick wall wrapped in red tape.

It’s purely by chance that Smoker runs into Koby at New Marineford.

Smoker and Tashigi are there to file incident reports after a rough scuffle with the Kid Pirates nearly left Smoker with one eye, and Tashigi with one leg. He’d been careless, and he’s still in a visibly shitty mood about it, so it’s no wonder Koby tries to sprint away from him after rounding a corner and literally bouncing off of Smoker’s chest.

He doesn’t make it far before Smoker catches him by the scruff of his uniform. “I-I’m sorry, Commodore Smoker, sir, I’ll be more careful—”

Smoker cuts him off with an annoyed, one-eyed glare, his pissy mood more than making up for the eye covered in bandages. “You’re Koby.”

Koby blinks up at him, then at Tashigi, who just adjusts her glasses curiously. “Uh. Yes.”

Smoker’s curiosity about Law’s power has been on the backburner for months, and with so much standing in his way, this is an opportunity he’d be stupid to pass up.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Smoker says, already dragging Koby down the hallway, only half paying attention to the kid’s wheezed compliance.

He hauls Koby through the building and out into a courtyard garden, wrinkling his nose at the sticky, humid summer air and the inescapable aftertaste of soap that taints every pull off his cigars. It’s hardly ideal, but Smoker gets the feeling he’s going to need some measure of privacy for this conversation.

Smoker sets Koby on his feet next to a tall, meticulously-kept bush, then leans on the wall beside him, arms crossed over his chest. Tashigi joins them, barely slowed by the long, nasty gash Kid’s first mate had left down her thigh, over her knee.

“So you’re the great Navy hero of Rocky Port,” Smoker starts, not much in the mood for bullshitting.

Koby scrubs the back of his head and turns bright pink, breathing a nervous laugh. “I don’t know about all that. I was just in the right place at almost the right time.”

Smoker raises an eyebrow. “Almost?”

With a nod, Koby frowns at the grass between them. “If I’d done something sooner...”

“Then Trafalgar would’ve gone somewhere else.” Smoker idly chews on his cigars, and Koby cranes his neck to regard him curiously. “People like him don’t get deterred. Stopping him when you did still saved lives.”

Koby swallows heavily, clearly confused by this conversation. “But he got away,” he finally mumbles. “He took those hearts, and...”

Smoker’s familiar with this uncomfortable pause. He’s been through it himself, and he’s seen Tashigi struggle with it countless times, the futile attempts to follow the World Government’s logic.

“And used them to become our ally,” Smoker finishes quietly, completing the thought Koby isn’t yet brave enough to. “Paid a hundred human lives for the title of Warlord.”

The silence is deafening. Koby glances around anxiously while Tashigi carefully investigates a plump, radiant rose, both of them pretending that if they don’t make eye contact with their budding dissent, it won’t hurt them.

There’s no good response to his heavy statement, but this isn’t the reason Smoker brought Koby out here, anyway.

“Must’ve been a real bloodbath,” Smoker sighs, circling back to his point. “Him cutting people open like that.”

Koby’s frown deepens. “It should have been, yes.” Smoker stares down at him, waiting for him to explain. Koby sighs, nervously rubbing his elbow. “There... there wasn’t a drop of blood. Anywhere. Every one of those incisions was a clean cut, and where the blood should have poured out, it just... it’s like it’d pop in and out of existence around the wound.”

Smoker’s curiosity burns. That hadn’t been mentioned in any of the stories, nor the reports.

“Must be some power he has,” he says casually. Clumsy bait by his standards, but based on the way Koby’s hand twitches, he must’ve hit a mark of some kind.

Koby swallows again, his eyes shifting aimlessly before he finally murmurs, “I can’t... say.” His eyes widen at his own words, and he blurts, “For sure. I can’t say for sure. I didn’t get a good look.”

That might be the worst lie Smoker’s ever heard.

Smoker shifts his cigars to the other side of his mouth and watches Koby squirm, thinking those words over. He’s this kid’s superior officer, technically, but Koby’s not the kind of person he would need to openly pull rank on.

Him lying like this can only mean one thing.

Before Smoker can ask him any more badly-disguised questions, and before Tashigi can gather the courage to call out that lie, Koby visibly shudders, his wide gaze whipping to his left. “I’m very sorry, Commodore,” he squeaks, “But I have to, um—I have some—some paperwork?”

Smoker just blinks at him, nonplussed. He begrudgingly jerks his chin to dismiss him, though, because quaking like a deer in headlights isn’t the best look for a captain.

With no small measure of relief, Koby scampers away from them, ducking through the nearest door he can find. Smoker stares after him, then turns to glance across the courtyard. It’s as peaceful as always, a clear, soapy day in New Marineford, but soon enough, Smoker senses the same foreboding presence that must have scared Koby off.

Across the courtyard, a pair of doors burst open, revealing the unnervingly long, pinstriped body belonging to Admiral Kizaru.

The admiral’s wearing sunglasses, but when his stare is this intense, it’s impossible to ignore the way they lock eyes. Thunderous unease pulses threateningly in the back of Smoker’s head, even as Kizaru’s face remains neutral.

A few excruciatingly long seconds pass before Kizaru turns and strolls along the walkway, whistling to himself, his attention never leaving Smoker. Smoker watches him right back, his eye following those long, jaunty strides until Kizaru finally passes into another building, taking his oppressive aura with him.

As that onerous presence recedes, Tashigi’s voice brings Smoker back front and center. “Smoker-san?”

“It’s nothing,” he grumbles, shaking himself slightly. He pushes off the wall and sets off across the courtyard, intent on moving somewhere private, somewhere quiet so he can think.

“Koby lied to you,” Tashigi says matter-of-factly once they’re safely aboard their own ship, tucked away in their shared officer’s cabin out of earshot of the few G-5 men on port watch. “Why would he lie to a superior officer?”

Rather than answer that right away, Smoker crosses the cabin to the cushy green armchair in the corner, then collapses into it and drags the nearby coffee table closer. He digs his hand into his pocket, retrieving a smooth, flat rock he’d swiped from one of the gardens littering the shiny new headquarters.

As he places the rock on the table, comparing it to the rest of his collection to see where it fits, he finally replies, “You know why, Tashigi.”

He hears her disgruntled huff, which honestly only proves him right. She doesn’t try to fight it, though, instead moving to the couch across from him and lowering herself onto it, clearly ignoring the way her host of stitches must be aching.

“Someone higher up ordered him to keep quiet,” she murmurs finally, her reluctance to admit it dripping from every word. Smoker doesn’t need to respond; they both know she’s right.

The unspoken question burning between them is why.

Someone’s Devil Fruit powers have never been classified information before. In fact, they’re usually public knowledge, sometimes even before the wielder has a chance to make a scene with them.

What Trafalgar did at Rocky Port is obviously some power or another, and someone much higher up the chain wants that power kept secret.

Smoker doesn’t much care for secrets.

He stacks his rocks in silence, smoking and thinking and smoking some more until Tashigi breathes a soft, “Oh!” Smoker glances at her out of the corner of his eye, watching her drop her fist into her other hand. “We’re at Navy HQ!”

“... Did you hit your head too?”

She huffs impatiently, then gives him a meaningful look. “They finished moving the records library here last month, right? So there should be copies of all the incident reports and criminal records the Navy has on hand. I bet if you—”

Smoker narrows his eye in warning. Bright as always, Tashigi doesn’t finish her sentence, having the good sense to look cowed. There are eyes and ears everywhere, after all, and it wouldn’t do to have one of them pick up on Tashigi suggesting that they circumvent an order from somewhere far above their heads.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need her to finish that suggestion. He appreciates her intelligence on a regular basis, but he’s particularly grateful for her boundless nerdiness right now.

“Hold it down here,” he says as he stands, pulling his coat back on. “I’m going for a walk.”

Tashigi blinks widely at him, tilting her head curiously. “Yes, sir.”

The library’s stacks of incident reports don’t interest Smoker in the least. He already has the Rocky Port file just about memorized, anyway, glaring holes and all.

The criminal records section, on the other hand... that’s something he hadn’t considered, given that he’s never had to rely on someone’s criminal profile to get even a scrap of information about them before. A stupid mistake on his part, and one he won’t be making again.

It does take some searching to find the Warlords’ records, buried as they are. Some of them are outdated, too, and the file for Don Quixote Doflamingo is conspicuously absent, but Smoker pays it no mind for now.

Trafalgar Law’s file is surprisingly hefty for how little Smoker knows of him. Reading through his laundry list of petty crimes sounds pretty boring, though, so Smoker skips through most of the file, skimming until he finds the general information profile near the back.

Name: Trafalgar Law
Height: 191cm
Status: Alive
Sea of Origin: [REDACTED]
Country of Origin: [REDACTED]
Known Family: [REDACTED]

That gives Smoker pause, but he reads on, only growing more irritated as he does.

Power Holder: YES
Fruit Name: [REDACTED]
Approximate Worth: [REDACTED]
Known Abilities: [REDACTED]
Favored Weapons: [REDACTED], swords

With an aggravated growl, Smoker slams the report shut, double-checking the clearance level on the cover. The giant blue “4” sprawled across the cover taunts him, because this is this highest clearance he has and it still affords him about as much information as a cabin boy.

He pulls out the other Warlords’ files and cross-checks them, his mood souring even more when he finds almost no redacted information across any of them. Mihawk, Hancock, even the recently-deceased Moria are all open books, not a secret kept from him.

Faced with yet another brick wall, Smoker crams the files back where he found them, then stomps out of the room and down the hall to the elderly librarian’s office. The man doesn’t acknowledge Smoker right away beyond holding up a gnarled finger when he tries to talk. It grates his nerves, but it won’t do to make a scene here, so he waits, gnawing on the ends of his unlit cigars.

Once he’s filled out whatever section on whatever forms it is he’s working on, the librarian lowers his wrinkled hand and pushes his thick glasses up his crooked nose, then crosses his fingers over the papers in front of him.

Smoker shifts his cigars, then grunts, “Some of that shit is misfiled. Might’ve mixed up clearances.”

“There are no mistakes,” the librarian says placidly, his surety irking Smoker further. “If there is missing information among the criminal records, it’s simply because you lack the appropriate clearance, Commodore Smoker.”

Smoker’s annoyance grinds to a complete halt.

Every warning klaxon built into his body flares to life at once, leaving his hair on end, his ears ringing, muscles tense.

Nothing has changed on the librarian’s face, not even the calm look in his sunken eyes. Smoker isn’t exactly surprised that he knows who he is, given the reputation he’s made for himself, but something about his flat tone as he addressed him, or maybe his words themselves digs barbs under his thick skin.

That simple statement feels like the only warning shot he’s going to get.

“Huh,” he says finally, making a show of accepting the librarian’s answer before turning on his heel and leaving the library.

Somehow, the man knew already that Smoker had been in the criminal records, despite the fact that he’d been halfway across the floor from him. He hopes against hope that he hadn’t left any noticeable clues to exactly which files he’d been looking into, not just yet.

Faced with yet another of the many brick walls surrounding Trafalgar Law, Smoker does what any reasonable, curious individual would do.

He gets promoted.

The position of Rear Admiral grants Smoker one higher level of clearance, but he’s not stupid enough to go right back to the library and try again. He knows he’s being watched to some extent, and at this point, the criminal records stacks are nothing more than bait.

Fortunately, a few short weeks after his promotion, something slightly better than a heavily-redacted file falls right into his hands.

Smoker orders the sting with nothing but Tashigi’s gut instinct to go on.

It’s a tiny, sweltering summer island just beyond the Red Line, flat and unassuming with a few ramshackle wooden buildings scattered atop the glittering sand, nothing to look at twice.

On the surface, anyway.

Just inside those doors is a local, small-time gambling ring, a bunch of no-name pirates manhandling crumpled stacks of cash like they’re Warlords, but somehow Tashigi had managed to follow the one tiny, near-imperceptible thread connecting them to something much larger, much darker.

Smoker has been more than aware of the weapons trading he’s been ordered to turn a blind eye to. He doesn’t like it, obviously, but he’s a patient man from time to time, capable of waiting for the right probable cause. This island has never been mentioned, though, nor does it show any outward indication that it belongs to the same syndicate, so Smoker feels no remorse descending upon them with a full platoon of men.

“I can’t believe you were right, Smo-yan.”

Smoker gnaws on his cigars, his body spread thin restraining a few clusters of pirates while his men clap handcuffs on them. He glances at the marine who’d spoken, the man having removed his hat to scratch his sweaty head.

“It was Tashigi and you know it,” he growls, irritated as always to be burdened with successes that aren’t his own.

“Yeah, true, but if she’d been wrong, you would’ve caught the heat.”

Smoker glares at the man out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t need you to define seniority for me. Now get off my dick and go make yourself useful.”

The marine salutes and scampers off, leaving Smoker to slowly reassemble himself as his men relieve him of his captives. He barks at them to get a move on, glad at least that he’s finally corporeal enough to cross his arms.

Across the hideout, Tashigi stands and flips through a stack of papers she’d wrestled out of one of the crates piled high in the corner, a thoughtful frown on her face. Smoker dematerializes, then forms again beside her, which used to scare the bejeezus out of her before she started developing her haki. Now she just gives him a nod, not pausing her search.

“Is that all of it?” Smoker asks, looking over the leaning tower of crates filled to bursting with illegally traded arms.

“I haven’t really searched the building around back yet. It looked like some kind of office, but I was more focused on apprehending the ringleader. If we want to be thorough—”

“I’ll do it,” Smoker interrupts, growing bored of restraining the remaining handful of bitching pirates. He lifts them into the air and flips them upside-down, then slams them all headfirst into the packed dirt floor, stunning them just long enough for his men to dogpile them. He turns to leave, gathering the rest of his body to him as he steps out the back door and into the blistering summer sun.

Good thing he’d left his coat on the ship. Even the straps of his jitte harness are too hot, the narrow leather burning on his bare shoulder, the sensation only worsened by the sweat slicking his skin. He exhales a torrent of smoke and turns his gaze to the shack behind the main hideout, his eyes narrowing, fists clenching.

They’d already cleared everyone out, including Tashigi hauling the bawling ringleader out of his office by his scruff. All the pirates are in custody, or about to be.

So who the hell is he sensing from just inside that leaning driftwood door?

As he pulls his jitte off his back, Smoker grits his teeth around his cigars, preparing himself for an extremely sweaty and unpleasant fight.

Forgoing all subtlety, Smoker kicks the door in, but he grinds to a halt when he sees who’s sitting on the desk in the middle of the office, one long leg crossed over the other, a mean, crooked smirk painted across his face. He’s missing his trademark hat, probably due to the oppressive heat, but Smoker would recognize that face anywhere.

“I thought that you crashing around like a bull in a china shop would get in my way,” the man says smoothly, his tattooed hand cradling his improbably long sword against his shoulder. The other is resting atop a messy pile of papers stacked haphazardly in his lap, like he’d been midway through leafing through them when Smoker had barged in. “But it actually worked out in my favor. I suppose I should thank you.”

Smoker narrows his eyes, and Trafalgar Fucking Law just sneers right back at him, radiating all the smug overconfidence Smoker’s come to expect from people like him.

“What are you doing creeping around here?” Smoker snarls, his grip on his jitte tightening.

Law tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in interest as he takes in the weapon, no doubt already sensing the cruel stone embedded in the tip. “Who knows?” he muses, like he thinks he’s untouchable, like he really thinks Smoker will back away from him just because he’s a fucking Warlord.

Gritting his teeth, Smoker stalks forward, just enough to tower over Law as he slaps his jitte against the desk beside him, the open threat not lost on either of them. “Watch your ass, Trafalgar,” he growls, agitated smoke pouring from between his curled lips. “I don’t give a shit if you’re a Warlord. A pirate’s a pirate, and if you get in my way, you will regret it.”

Maddeningly, Law just glances him over again, still entirely at ease. “That’s quite the threat,” he hums, his grip on his sword barely shifting. “But I think I could take you, White Hunter-ya.”

Smoker seethes at that, but he calms himself quickly, not wanting to rise to Law’s bait any more than he already has.

“Well, as fun as this has been,” Law says, hopping down off the desk and carelessly brushing past him, “I have to run.”

“Where do you think you’re taking those papers?”

Law pauses midway through folding the stack of papers to glance at Smoker over his shoulder. “Wherever I like. These guys messed up and got caught, so it’s all fair game, isn’t it?”

The ethics of pirates will never make sense to Smoker, but he’s used to that particular flavor of idiocy by now. “It’s evidence.”

“I don’t think you’ll find these of any help to you, White Hunter-ya. In fact, I’m doing you a favor.” Law turns away again, noticeable tension spreading through his lithe body. “It won’t matter, you know.”

Smoker turns to Law, holstering his jitte so he can cross his arms, the sweat slicking his chest only mildly more bearable in the shade of the office. “What won’t?”

“Arresting these men. Your clever subordinate’s discoveries. Confiscating these weapons. It won’t get either of you anywhere but hot water.”

Aggravation getting the better of him, Smoker grabs Law by the shoulder and hauls him around, then shoves him against the wall, which creaks and groans like it’s about to collapse. “Explain,” he spits, tired of Law’s little games.

The smile Law gives him is cruel, and all too knowing. “They’ll be released and the contraband will be returned to them. You’ll be thanked for your service, and praised for your intuition, but then you’ll be told to never look at them again. And you won’t.”

Law knows something. He might know too much, actually, and the sinking feeling in Smoker’s stomach does nothing to soothe him. The look on Law’s face, though... it feels too much like the disdain Smoker feels every time he stumbles upon something the Navy is intent on covering up, and the irritation he feels having to obey.

Smoker knows dissent when he sees it, and watching it paint itself all over Law’s face is nothing short of hypnotizing, if not confusing.

He’d expect a Warlord to be grateful or appreciative of corrupt authority, or at least amused by it, but the aura radiating off of Law exudes nothing but raw, unadulterated hatred.

Shifting his cigars to the other side of his mouth, Smoker sets that information aside for now, knowing there’s nothing to be gained by grilling Law about it. He takes a step back, irritated by the slight warmth of the other man’s proximity in the already unbearable heat, and watches Law tuck the papers into his unbuttoned shirt. He hadn’t noticed before, but Law’s bare chest is covered in tattoos, swirling, intricate ink drawing heart-shaped trails down his muscular stomach.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me here,” Law says, his tone having lightened somewhat.

Smoker snaps his eyes back up to Law’s, raising an eyebrow at him. “And why not?”

Law hums, stuffing his now-free hand into his jeans pocket. “It’ll draw unwanted attention to both of us. You’ll be buried in paperwork, and me—well, it’ll be unpleasant, that’s all I can say.” He breathes a dry, humorless laugh, the corner of his lips turning up. “Besides, I think when it’s all said and done, you’ll like what I’m working on.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Smoker huffs, offended by the very idea. “What could a smug little shit like you come up with that I’d approve of?”

“Oh, so you’re a fan of the Warlord system, then?”

Smoker chews on his cigars, not quite following Law’s logic. “Of course not.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Law runs a hand through his hair, unconcerned for how mussed the heat makes him look, and for the briefest moment, Smoker finds himself distracted from what Law had just revealed to him. Before he can get his bearings, though, Law smirks at him again and says, “It’s good Eustass-ya failed to take your eye after all. I was getting tired of hearing him brag about it.”

That brings Smoker right back to the irritation he feels in the presence of all pirates, back from... wherever the hell he’d been. “He can go fuck himself.”

Law chuckles at that, tilting his head almost playfully. “At least the scar suits you. He didn’t do you completely wrong.”

In the split second Smoker spends wondering what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, Law holds out one hand, palm down, his crooked smile widening.

“See you around, White Hunter-ya.”

Something nearly imperceptible explodes from the cage of his long fingers, the air itself shifting, changing, sticky and clinging to Smoker’s skin.

Before he can grab him or pull his jitte, Law flips his hand over and vanishes completely.

A flat, fist-sized rock falls to the packed earth where he had been standing, and just like that, Smoker is alone.

Realistically, Smoker should be pissed off. Mostly at himself. He’d just stood there and let a whole Warlord use his power right in front of him, the same power that allows Law to pilfer entire functioning organs from people.

And yet...

And yet all Smoker does is pick the rock up off the floor, dragging his thumb over the smooth, sun-hot surface before slipping it into his pocket and turning to leave.

“Did you find anything back there?”

Smoker glances at Tashigi, who seems almost entirely unaffected by the searing heat, worse now in the afternoon than it had been when they’d landed this morning. Fucking East Blue kids. She tilts her head curiously, so he looks away from her and grunts, “No.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t blame her. She’s not going to press him in front of their men, but the flat, unamused stare she gives him makes it very clear that he’s far from off the hook.

For now, Smoker storms onto their ship and barks orders, intent on being around as many of their men as possible until he’s had some time to process his conversation with Law.

“Your intuition never ceases to impress me,” Vergo says mildly, completely unaware as always of the crumbling half of a cookie stuck to his cheek. He flips through Smoker’s report, and as much as it grates him, Smoker doesn’t correct his praise. Any other time, he would, but this time...

This time it feels like he’d be throwing Tashigi under the boat.

It’s disorienting and uncomfortable, but Smoker follows his gut instinct and just stares at Vergo, chewing on his cigars.

Vergo neatly taps the reports on his desk, then lays them flat and laces his gloved fingers over them, now aiming his impassive, shaded stare at Smoker. “Thank you as always for your hard work, Rear Admiral. I’ll take over from here.”

Something about that rubs Smoker even further the wrong way. “What’s your plan for them?”

“I’ll see that the men and the arms are processed properly,” Vergo says simply, which doesn’t at all answer the question, and Smoker can’t help but feel that it’s by design.

He wants to trust Vergo. He wants so badly to trust his superior officer, the leader of his new home base, the strange father figure to his band of vaguely lawful miscreants. He wants to believe that Law is full of shit, or that he’s trying to get under his skin, but he can’t ignore the fact that Law had predicted this outcome to a T. He’d known already that Smoker was going to have the case whisked away from him by his higher-ups, even known the exact compliments he’d be paid.

Pushing his luck, Smoker folds his arms over his chest and asks, “And the island?”

Vergo glances up at him. At least, Smoker thinks he does. Hard to tell with the sunglasses and the cookie obscuring his face. “What about it?”

“It’ll be uninhabited now. Might attract more pirates.”

With a hum, Vergo nods slowly, looking as if he’s genuinely pondering the question. “I don’t think it’ll be an issue,” he decides. “Don’t worry about it too much. No use going so far off your patrol just for a patch of sand, right?”

‘You’ll be told to never look at them again. And you won’t.’

Smoker gnaws on his cigars.

“Right.”

Tashigi finally corners him that evening, and the stubborn look on her face makes it entirely clear that she’s had more than enough of his waffling. He still tries to ignore her on principle, focusing as hard as he can on stacking his rocks, but when Tashigi’s determined like this, there’s no escaping her.

She sits on her couch across from him, her hands patiently folded in her lap, and she lets him stew for a good few minutes before asking, “What did you find?”

Smoker doesn’t answer right away. She isn’t expecting him to, it seems, waiting patiently for him to get his thoughts in order.

Once he’s placed the last rock atop the precariously-balanced stack, his hand hovering as the whole thing wobbles, Smoker says, “Trafalgar Law.”

Tashigi blinks widely, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Trafalgar? What was he doing there?”

“He didn’t deign to answer that question,” Smoker sneers, entirely aware of how bitter he sounds.

Before she can ask, Smoker sighs heavily, then recounts as much of the encounter as he cares to, including the brief flash of Law’s power he’d been shown. He tells her the result of his conversation with Vergo, too, but he holds most of his thoughts about it close to his chest, not quite done working through them in his own mind.

When he’s done, Tashigi looks about as perturbed as he feels. “You let him remove evidence?”

Smoker sighs again, sitting back in his chair to regard his rocks blankly. “He turned out to be right about the other shit. I was pissed at the time, but now...”

“Now you think he was right about it being information that would land you in hot water,” she supplies slowly, her frown deepening. “So he was... protecting you?”

“Hell no.” Smoker pulls in a thick mouthful of smoke from his cigars, rolling it around on his tongue before allowing it to spill from between his lips as he says, “He was there for his own reasons. Information for whatever he’s plotting.”

“A plot that could result in the dissolution of the Warlord system. A system he’s currently benefiting from.”

Smoker grunts, still not sure what to make of that. He’s never been one for speculating, and Law hadn’t given him much at all to work with, so that thought had been on the backburner. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing in it for Law to dismantle the Warlords, so there must be another layer Smoker just isn’t seeing yet.

Well, as with all things, only time will tell.

“What do you make of his power?” Smoker asks instead, hoping that Tashigi’s nerdiness will once again prove useful. “From what I saw, it just seems like it lets him do whatever he wants.”

Tashigi’s eyes widen at that. “What did you say?”

Smoker frowns, but doesn’t bother repeating himself. Tashigi’s already on her feet anyway, rapidly moving to her bookshelf and scanning the musty old books. She pulls out a particularly decrepit, blood red tome from the bottom shelf, then goes back to her seat, spreading the heavy book open across her lap so she can flip through its yellowing pages.

When she finds what she’s looking for, she breathes a surprised sound, that confused frown returning. She looks up at him, nervously adjusting her glasses as she asks, “You said that his fruit was classified at level four?”

Smoker nods, gesturing for her to bring the book over. She crosses to him quickly, handing the book to him before perching on the wide arm of his chair. His gaze follows her narrow finger toward a short, unassuming blurb about something called the ‘Op-Op Fruit.’

As he skims the scant few unhelpful sentences about the fruit, something about free-form modification, Tashigi strokes her chin thoughtfully. “It’s interesting enough on paper. Probably dangerous in the hands of a particularly creative user, which I have to assume Trafalgar is. But for even the name to be redacted at level four...”

“There must be something else to it,” Smoker says, slamming the book shut and dropping it back onto her lap. She wheezes softly, but Smoker just leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, staring deeply into his pile of rocks.

Tashigi lets him think for a while, getting up to carefully refile her encyclopedia before returning to her own seat.

“What are you going to do?” she asks eventually, her gaze curious.

Smoker fumes quietly, then grunts, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

The mess bell tolls then, signaling dinner, so he stands and pulls his coat on. “Not much to do but wait to get lucky again.”

The look Tashigi gives him is flat, and surprisingly judgmental. “You’re counting running into a scheming Warlord as lucky?”

He frowns at her, chewing on his cigars, strangely relieved when she folds and looks away sheepishly.

Without dignifying her with a response, Smoker stuffs his hands in his pockets, pausing when he finds something unexpected.

He pulls out the rock that Law had somehow summoned when he’d vanished, running his thumb over the surface. It’s dense, sun-bleached and worn smooth by sand and surf, only faintly heart-shaped.

Silently, he reaches out and sets it atop the stack, expecting the whole thing to come crashing down under its unfamiliar weight.

It doesn’t.

The tower wobbles dangerously, swaying against its own gravity and the swell of the tide beneath their ship, but it doesn’t fall.

Smoker’s been thinking with rocks for decades, but for the first time, he’s not sure what they’re trying to tell him.

Months go by without Smoker seeing Law, nor hearing anything about him. Whatever it is he’s up to, he’s keeping it quiet, and Smoker can’t quite decide how he feels about that.

Normally, he’d have to assume that no news is bad news. Pirates are never up to any good, and the quieter they are, the more trouble they end up making when they finally reveal themselves again. At the end of the day, Warlords are nothing but pirates too, so Smoker should be holding Law to the same scrutiny.

Should be.

Unfortunately, where Smoker’s irritation should be, the seed of curiosity has taken root instead. The more time passes, the more it blooms, and the deeper it wedges itself into his mind.

‘You’ll like what I’m working on’ haunts him everywhere he goes, because as skeptical and distrustful as he is, and as much as he knows he shouldn’t, Smoker can’t stop himself from wondering if Law might be right.

He doesn’t get that much time to brood on the matter, for better or for worse. The Navy’s always busy in this golden age of piracy, and while the case that falls into Smoker’s lap is pretty damn boring on paper, it takes up more of his time than he’d anticipated. His mind can’t wander in Law’s direction if it’s occupied at all times by catching what might be the most basic pirate crew on the planet.

The Billy Pirates, headed by the aptly-named chickenshit Captain Billy Coward, are a small-time drug peddling group established right in the middle of Smoker’s patrol route roughly two months ago.

They’re clumsy by most standards, and not terribly clever or strong. They are damn quick, though, and they navigate their stolen ship like they’re throwing a dagger at a map and taking the dumbest possible route to get to wherever it had landed. It makes them a giant pain in the ass to keep up with, which is just enough of a distraction that Smoker almost forgets about Law’s words entirely.

Almost.

“Rear Admiral, please stop moving!”

Flicking his glare to the medic clinging to his elbow only makes Smoker’s vision swim a little. “I told you to get out of my way.”

The medic shrivels slightly, then seems to relocate his spine, based on the way he sets his jaw and blocks Smoker’s path out of the rattling infirmary. “And I asked you to please stop moving! Do you have any idea how many of those bullets you have lodged in your guts right now?”

Smoker glares harder, gnawing on his cigars and ignoring the persistent ache radiating out from... well, everywhere. “Eight,” he grunts. “Not enough to justify being bedridden while my men fight.”

The look the medic gives him is downright incredulous. “Rear Admiral, they’re sea prism stone. Just one should be enough to knock you on your ass.”

“I don’t need my power to fight,” Smoker snarls, finally managing to toss the medic out of his way with only a moderately devastating stab of searing pain.

Before he can leave the infirmary, the door explodes inward in a shower of splinters, and Tashigi flies in at a frankly alarming speed, like she’d been shot out of a damn cannon.

Smoker’s entire torso cushions her landing.

By the time the throbbing haze clears from his eyes and the agony has stopped rioting over every other brain function he has, he’s sprawled across the infirmary floor, a heavily bandaged Tashigi holding him down. Noticing he’s come to, she leans over him, her face pale, and says, “Do not look down.”

So, naturally, he looks down.

The medic is rummaging around in his guts. Specifically, he’s digging a long pair of forceps into one of several entry wounds littered across his abdomen, and god, they must have really loaded him with pain meds, because all he can feel is an incredibly bizarre pressure emanating from somewhere uncomfortably deep inside him.

A wave of dizziness washes over him, so he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against Tashigi’s thigh. The impact of a cannonball against the hull vibrates through the room, jostling him back to relatively full consciousness.

Still fighting, then.

Shoving aside his frustration with himself, Smoker wrestles his arm away from Tashigi, but before she can snap at him, he reaches up and grabs the back of her head, pulling her down into his line of sight.

“Call Vergo,” he croaks, grinding his teeth and groaning when he finds no cigars. “Now.”

Tashigi nods and pulls herself away from him, careful not to let his head slam into the floor, then scrambles to the transponder snail across the room. As she’s gently peeling it away from the counter, Smoker closes his eyes and tries very hard to ignore the feeling of someone foraging in his innards.

Vaguely, he hears the snail connect and Tashigi report in, the continued sounds of cannons, gunfire, and clashing swords lending urgency to her voice as she requests backup. Smoker forces his eyes open again, straining his ears to catch Vergo’s response, calm and collected as ever.

“Why not call on one of the Warlords? I’ve heard Trafalgar Law is in the area again.”

God dammit. Of course he is.

“But sir,” Tashigi starts, her reluctance apparent in her voice, but Vergo interrupts her pleasantly.

“I’d hate to see more G-5 casualties, wouldn’t you, Commander Tashigi?”

Tashigi bites her lip, and Smoker narrows his eyes at the ceiling. Vergo doesn’t come right out and say it, but Smoker hears his meaning loud and clear regardless.

‘Use Trafalgar. He’s expendable.’

Vergo hangs up, leaving Tashigi staring at the sleeping snail, her fingers clenched around the receiver.

Smoker wishes that implied order didn’t rub him as wrong as it does.

Tashigi sighs heavily, then turns to look at him. “Sir?”

Fuck, he can’t think like this, stuffed too full of pain medication and not nearly enough nicotine. “Where are my cigars?”

The medic huffs, but he’s long since given up on lecturing Smoker for his bad habits. He hands Smoker his coat, then goes right back to digging the bullets out, leaving them in a bloody little pile on Smoker’s chest, presumably hoping to keep him still.

Setting the snail close by, Tashigi comes and kneels beside Smoker, her hands steady when she lifts his head to lean against her thigh again. She watches him wrestle two cigars out of his coat, then apparently decides he’s too pathetic to light them on his own, given the way she takes them, cuts them for him, then crams them between his lips and holds a lit match to them.

“Don’t fucking coddle me,” he snaps, even as he pulls in short, quick little puffs to encourage the embers to spread.

Tashigi doesn’t acknowledge that beyond a flat stare through her broken glasses. Instead, she holds up the snail’s receiver and asks, “Am I calling him?”

Smoker gnaws on his cigars, closing his eyes in thought.

Law may be a Warlord, but even that doesn’t make him or his crew expendable. No living human is ever expendable. Not even pirates.

Still, Smoker’s never been stupid enough to ignore when he needs backup, and right now, it seems like Law’s all he’s going to get.

He sighs heavily, a stormcloud of smoke blooming right in Tashigi’s face.

“Call him.”

There’s still plenty of fight left for Smoker when he finally manages to force the pain medication from his body in a heavy sweat, or at least enough that he can bully the medic off of him and storm out onto the deck of their battleship.

As he takes in the fierce scuffles spanning between his ship and the stolen galleon, Smoker pauses to light another pair of cigars, quick as always to judge where he’s needed most. He pockets his lighter, exhaling a torrent of smoke before flowing into it himself, rematerializing halfway across the ship with a boot firmly planted in the face of a pirate trying to sneak up on one of his men.

The victorious shouts of his name cascading from everywhere across the ship makes every pirate on board freeze for a moment, clearly under the very mistaken impression that eight bullets of any kind could ever be enough to kill Smoker.

He draws his jitte and braces it against his shoulder, gritting his teeth around his cigars as he glares daggers at a nearby pirate lieutenant frantically juggling a shouting transponder snail. The marines are all still whooping and hollering, though, so Smoker barks, “Get back to work!”

His voice rings across both decks, but he pays it no mind, instead leveling his gaze back on the lieutenant as he points his jitte right at him.

The man fumbles the snail again, losing his grip entirely when Smoker dissolves into the gunsmoke lingering heavy across the battlefield.

He rematerializes above him and remorselessly drops his entire weight on the man, leaving him crumpled and stunned on the deck, wheezing in as much air as he can with Smoker compressing his torso.

The snail beside them continues bleating, Captain Billy demanding updates from his unresponsive lieutenant. Just as Smoker starts to reach for it, though, the snail goes alarmingly quiet, widening eyes staring vacantly into space.

That eerie silence all but explodes from the Billy Pirates’ ship, every scuffle on board the worn galleon going deathly still all at once, leaving Smoker’s ears ringing.

Then, just as quickly, the screaming begins.

Smoker hears it from the ship itself, then echoed from the snail beside him, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

He snatches up the snail, wincing at the shrillness of Billy Coward’s voice before he yells, “Oi, what’s going on over there?!”

The captain on the other end babbles frantically, growing even more panicked hearing Smoker’s voice, considering how many times he’d personally shot him. Rather than answer him, the captain hangs up, which Smoker supposes isn’t surprising. He curses and sets the sleeping snail aside, tucked away under a bolted-down cannon where it’s less likely to get hurt, then leaps into the air, using the lieutenant’s body as a lifting point before vanishing into smoke once more.

He crosses between the two ships, crashing onto the galleon’s deck with a resounding thud. The screaming seems to be coming from deep within the ship, and the fights spanning the deck have all come to a standstill as pirate and marine alike stare anxiously at the shattered door leading deeper into the ship.

Smoker reaches out and grabs the closest marine by the scruff, pulling her away from her stalemate. “What’s all that noise?”

The marine gapes at him, then shakes herself out of her stupor and snaps into a smart salute. “No idea, sir!”

Grumbling to himself, Smoker releases the marine and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward his ship. “Get everyone back on board. Arrest what you can.”

“Yes sir!” The marine clicks her boots together again, then turns and, with great precision, sucker-punches the pirate she’d been fighting right in the nose. There’s a nasty crunch and a splatter of blood, but Smoker doesn’t have time to pay attention to that. Instead, he pulls himself apart and retreats into smoke, dripping between gaps in the deck to the rooms below.

As he searches the ship, Smoker finds a few shell-shocked marines, and more than a few chaotic piles of unconscious pirates. He points his men toward the exit, but continues on his way, following the terrified shouts as long as he can until finally there’s only one left to follow.

The sound of Coward’s desperate babbling leads Smoker to what he assumes is the captain’s quarters, but he pauses in the doorway, trying and failing to process what he’s seeing.

There’s an entire half-giant squatting in the corner of the cramped, trashed room, his head tilted aside against the low ceiling, a toothy glower on his face as he scans through what looks to be the ship’s logbook. He flicks his steely gaze up at Smoker for only a brief moment before going back to reading.

Smoker recognizes this man. Once a pirate captain of his own renown, then lowered to a human conveyance, subject to the constant screaming cruelty of the gods of this world until a chance supernova on Sabaody set him free once more.

Jean Bart. A member of the Heart Pirates. Which means—

“You could make this much easier, you know,” comes a cold, familiar voice from Smoker’s right.

God dammit.

Tightening his grip on his jitte, Smoker walks into the room and turns to face the man himself.

Law glances over at him, his sharp eyes frigid, but dismisses him just as quickly as Bart had, turning his furious gaze on—

Smoker blinks a few times, then actually digs the heel of his free hand into his eye, wondering if he still has too much of that damn pain medication coursing through his veins.

Trafalgar Law is holding up—and threatening—Billy Coward’s severed head.

It’s not as much an act of insanity as it sounds, though, seeing as the head is still bawling, begging for mercy from a merciless Warlord.

Law seems to be in a pretty piss-poor mood. His hat has a jagged slash through the fuzzy brim, the wound mirrored by the blood dripping down his face, off the sharp line of his jaw. His sword is unsheathed, the wicked, menacing blade pointed at the rest of Coward squirming on the floor at his feet.

As the captain sobs and pleads for his life, Law breathes a derisive huff, then shakes the head by the hair. “Stop whining! You’re embarrassing yourself. Just answer my damn question.”

Coward does no such thing, so Law makes another disgusted sound and turns to Bart. “Did you find anything?”

Bart nods slowly, flicking between pages before answering, his voice a quiet rumble of thunder. “It’s in code, so I’ll need to spend some time with it, but we can use this.”

“That’s fine,” Law sighs, carelessly dropping Coward’s head onto the man’s own chest. “Good work.”

Having had about enough of being ignored, Smoker gnaws on his cigars and grits out, “Didn’t see you show up.”

“I expect not, no,” Law replies cryptically, which naturally only irritates Smoker more. Those steely eyes lock onto at him as Law moves across the cabin and accepts the long sheath Bart absently hands him, not-so-subtly putting himself between his occupied subordinate and Smoker.

“I called you to fight, Trafalgar,” Smoker snarls. “Not to make off with more evidence.”

Law rolls his eyes, carefully sheathing his bloodthirsty sword. “Is this a sting or a crime scene? Make up your mind, White Hunter-ya. And in any case, I did fight, as did my crew.”

Based on the number of unconscious pirates he’d found, Smoker supposes he can’t argue with that. He wants to, though, between his irritation with Law’s sneaky entrance and having been useless for most of the battle. Hell, if he hadn’t come to check out all the noise, he probably would’ve missed Law entirely.

Before he gets the chance to pick a fight, all of Smoker’s attention is forcibly ripped away from Law. His haki narrows his focus to a needle point on the beheaded captain, who’s pulling a familiar gun from under the nearby desk.

The same gun that had plugged Smoker full of sea prism stone bullets.

Now aimed shakily at Law’s unsuspecting head.

Time stands still just long enough for Smoker to make a decision.

He hates pirates. He especially hates Warlords. It shouldn’t matter to him if one of them dies every once in a while.

He should be fine with Law’s sneaky ass catching a bullet or two with his teeth.

Coward’s finger depresses the trigger in slow motion, and before Smoker can think twice, he explodes into smoke and floods the room entirely.

The gun fires.

The smoke spasms, then collapses back into human form, leaving Smoker towering between Law and Coward with his iron grip around the barrel of the gun, forcing it toward the ceiling. He feels something tingling in his lower abdomen, sapping his strength and his power, before a white-hot flare of pain erupts from somewhere around his right hip, and dammit, it’s not even the first time today.

Behind him, he’s vaguely aware of Law breathing a startled sound, nearly swallowed by the hollow ringing in Smoker’s ears.

Coward’s severed head is just gaping at him, so Smoker uses the distraction to wrench the gun out of his hand. He tosses it to Bart, who manages to catch it despite having his large hands full, a confused frown on his face. Smoker grunts quietly, wishing he had the strength to kick Coward in the nuts while he’s down.

As he sways, weakness spreading from the throbbing pressure cracking his hip in half, he hears Law blurt, “Room!”

A distantly familiar filmy sensation fills the air, a near-invisible bubble exploding from Law and quickly encompassing the entire quarters, and then some.

“Where are you keeping these guys?” Law asks, his voice tight. “The big room below the deck, are those cells?”

Smoker glares down at the defeated pirate, then nods, trying his best to ignore the way his vision is swimming. Fuck, he’s relying on his power way too much, if taking a few hits is leaving him like this.

Law says something else, but before Smoker can process it, Billy Coward vanishes into thin air, head and body both replaced with an alarmed-looking mouse.

“I’m sending you to the library,” he faintly hears Law say. “Hand the maps off to Bepo and get started on that logbook.”

Glancing briefly at Smoker, Bart narrows his eyes almost protectively, but nods anyway. He gathers a few more things within reach before Law blinks him away too, leaving a half-empty cup of tea in the corner he’d been crammed into.

Now alone with Law, Smoker allows himself to lean heavily against the desk before sliding to the ground. His vision flickers as he turns enough to sprawl his legs along the swaying wood floor, blinking blearily up at him. Law looks him over closely, his brow furrowed, his shaded expression too complicated to read.

He doesn’t say anything, though, nor does he draw his blade, even though it’d probably be pretty damn easy for him to finish Smoker off right here.

Instead, Law leans his sword against the wall and closes his eyes in concentration, clearly not worried about leaving himself exposed, vulnerable in front of Smoker. He raises his tattooed hands, exhales slowly, then starts moving them in sharp, purposeful sweeps, his gestures nothing but familiarity, control, power.

Smoker can’t do much but watch, so he does. The sea prism stone weakens his haki, but not enough that he can’t sense the way Law’s rearranging the battlefield.

Some-fucking-how, Law shuffles all of the pirates into a locked cell on Smoker’s ship, making a neat pile of them, conscious or not. He shifts Smoker’s men onto the ship too, then moves a handful of unfamiliar voices off the galleon and into the sea below. They don’t scream, though, nor do they go silent; they instead join a muffled chorus that calls for Law, one that he clearly hears, but ignores for now.

Once he and Smoker are the only voices left aboard the galleon, Law collapses his bubble, his room and sags heavily, clearly exhausted. He reaches for his sword and uses it to support himself, then turns on Smoker, now visibly angry.

“Did you seriously just take a bullet for me, Smoker?” Law spits. “What the hell kind of marine does that?”

“A bad one,” Smoker mumbles, breathing a struggling cloud of cigar smoke.

“No shit,” Law growls in return, his teeth grinding. He tightens his grip on his sword, then ducks to grab the ankle of Smoker’s boot and yanks, leaving Smoker sprawled along the floor on his back.

Too quick to catch, Law parks his ass right on Smoker’s chest, just above the line of bandages wrapped around his stomach. He buries the shining tip of his blade in the floor beside Smoker’s head, but the threat is rather watered down by how hard Law’s breathing, how heavily he’s leaning on the sword.

“You’re too trusting,” Law pants, glaring down at him.

Smoker blinks slowly, then wheezes, “You need to pay more attention.”

Law bares his teeth and goes to retort, but he freezes entirely when Smoker whips his jitte up and slaps the tip right against Law’s back, between his shoulder blades.

With the sea prism stone buried in Smoker’s hip and pressed to Law’s spine, they’re on an equal playing field, albeit a pretty pathetic one with the state they’re in.

At least Law seems to realize the situation he’s in, given the way he curses and sits up, resting his slight weight on Smoker’s ribs. He gives him one last tired glare, his exhaustion worsened by the touch of Smoker’s jitte, before crossing his arms and sighing.

“Why?” is all Law asks, his voice unexpectedly small.

The slow ooze of blood congealing to the side of Law’s face draws Smoker’s eye, as does the uncomfortable clench of his tattooed fists in his own sleeves.

He has no fucking idea why, and it annoys him that Law’s asking, because he had no intention of ever thinking about it again.

Finally, he blows smoke right in Law’s face and grunts, “’S my job to protect people. Don’t read into it.”

Fuck, even he doesn’t buy the words he’s saying.

Fortunately, Law doesn’t push. He just stares at Smoker, his teeth subtly finding his lip.

“I don’t want to owe you,” Law says after a moment, yanking his sword out of the floor. He sheathes the unnerving blade, then leans it against the desk, and when he turns back to Smoker, he fists one hand in his jacket, the other forming a now-familiar gesture, ready to cast one of those rooms of his.

Smoker digs the tip of his jitte into Law’s shoulder, taking no notice whatsoever of the way those honey-colored eyes flutter as the man’s frown deepens.

Weakly, Law reaches back and bats the weapon away. “Cut that shit out and let me talk.”

For whatever reason, Smoker listens. He lets his jitte clatter to the splintered floor, chewing on his cigars as he raises an impatient eyebrow, squinting at Law’s wavering double image.

Law sighs, bracing his fist on Smoker’s chest and locking eyes with him. “You better listen close, because I’m not repeating myself. Did your medic survive the fight?”

“Yeah,” Smoker wheezes. “He’s not gonna die until he bitches at me for popping some of these stitches.”

Law rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated, if the derisive huff he breathes is any indication. Smoker’s gaze follows, though, his vision flickering toward the dark ceiling until he’s brought back by the light slap of Law’s cool hand against his cheek.

Smoker snarls, whipping a hand up to catch Law’s bony wrist. “Fucking stop, I’m awake.”

“I can literally see you passing out, Smoker.”

His teeth clenching around his cigars, Smoker stubbornly forces himself to focus, several hazy Laws resettling into one. “Better make it quick, then.”

Law outright seethes, but he has to know he’s running out of time. He sits up and glares at Smoker before reaching his free hand behind himself, a rush of thin air curling between his long fingers.

The room Law forms is much smaller than the last, most of it occupied by Smoker’s hip.

With a long, shaky breath, Law murmurs, “Do not move.”

The feeling coming from Smoker’s hip should probably still be pain. Not for the first time today, though, it dulls until it’s just pressure, uncomfortably bone-deep and throbbing hard enough to eclipse all other thought.

A word from Law, and both the pressure and the filmy feeling of his room stop with an alarmingly sudden snap.

Smoker’s eyes flutter again, dizziness sending his vision spinning, but when he manages to stabilize it, Law’s holding his hand out and uncurling his long fingers, revealing an innocuous-looking stone sphere smearing blood across his palm.

Law tosses the bullet aside and carelessly wipes his hand on Smoker’s jacket, his entire body now visibly shaking with exhaustion. “You somehow managed to trap that damn bullet inside your hip bone, you stubborn jackass. I cut it out, but tell your medic to watch you closely for signs of sepsis, whether those holes in your gut look infected or not. And tell him to redo your stitches, while you’re at it. They’re too shallow and tight.” Law leans over him, the corners of his thin lips turned down in a little frown. “Got all that?”

Smoker pulls in a thick mouthful of smoke, blinking slowly at Law as he drifts into two again. He must be more out of it than he thought, because Law’s warm weight on his chest has yet to bother him, but also because, in the low light, he’d almost swear Law looks worried.

He shakes his head briefly, smoke dripping from his lips. “‘Surgeon of Death,’ huh,” he mumbles, vision going hazier.

“Oi, Smoker—”

Law’s interrupted by a nearby voice yelling, “Smo-yan! Are you down here?!”

The almost delighted expression that blooms on Law’s face when he hears that nickname makes Smoker groan miserably, squeezing his eyes shut. He can still feel the amused smirk Law’s giving him, though, and it makes half of him want to chuck the damn pirate out into the hall.

The other half of him, though...

The other half of him doesn’t want Law to move at all, and remembers with burning clarity how nice Law’s cool fingers had felt against his face.

He’s definitely still drugged up.

Law snorts, then slowly pushes himself to his feet, swaying heavily in his fatigue. Smoker looks up at him, grimacing around his cigars, but his grumpiness has no effect on Law’s amusement.

“Don’t forget all that, White Hunter-ya. If you die of shock, things’ll get pretty boring around here.”

Smoker snarls at him, which just makes that smug grin widen. Law picks up his sword and holds his hand out, casting another room around them, this one stuttering badly as it expands. It spreads beneath the galleon, reaching weakly toward the collective of increasingly worried voices, and before Smoker can so much as blink, Law vanishes.

A feather quill hovers in the air where he’d been standing, then clatters to the floor, ink splattering the wood just as several of Smoker’s men tumble down the hall, including his frantic-sounding medic.

He can’t quite hear what they’re saying through the fuzz filling his ears, let alone form words of his own, so he lets Law’s advice slip to the back of his mind and succumbs to the dizzy draw of sleep.

“Rear Admiral, I need you to wake up for a minute,” are the words that drag Smoker back to consciousness.

Everything hurts, and this time it’s actual pain, sharp and hot and consuming. He groans raggedly, his throat dry, then blinks his eyes open, the medic’s worried face swimming in and out of focus.

“Good,” the man breathes. “Can you tell me what happened below deck on that galleon?”

Smoker heaves a long, rough breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Made that brat do his damn job.”

The medic frowns, opening his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by Tashigi’s harried voice. “Is this important right now?”

“Well, yes. I think so.” The medic turns to Tashigi and presses his finger against Smoker’s right hip, where Law had excised the bullet from his bone. “This wasn’t here when I was stitching him up the first time. It looks deep, but I don’t have a clue what would make this kind of incision in combat, or if there’s something lodged in there. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen in the field before.” He leans over Smoker again, forcing his eyes to focus. “Where did this cut come from?”

Smoker grits his teeth, grumbling when he finds no cigars, nothing to help him think.

There’s no way he can just admit to taking a bullet for a damn pirate. Hell, he doesn’t even know what to make of it, let alone trying to explain it to any of his men.

He wants to look at the cut, but even existing is painful right now, so he just spits out whatever sounds most likely.

“Shrapnel.”

The medic and Tashigi both stop and stare at him, then at the cut, their skepticism painfully obvious. Damn.

In an attempt to draw their attention away from his awful lie, Smoker grumbles, “I blew some stitches.”

“Yes, I saw,” the medic bites out, successfully distracted. “I was a little rushed by the literal war happening on deck, so they were too tight, I know. But if you hadn’t insisted upon going back out there, they wouldn’t have—”

“Don’t care,” Smoker mumbles, his consciousness starting to slip again. “Just redo them.”

He hears the medic’s indignant bleating, but doesn’t process any of it, instead leaving the man to deal with his bruised pride as he follows the siren’s call of sleep.

Smoker honestly should have known better than to lie in front of Tashigi and think he could get away with it.

After taking a day or two to recover, he’s back to his regular routine. They’re still a few days out from G-5 headquarters, where he’ll offload the squabbling mountain of Billy Pirates and write up a report, which means he has nowhere to go when Tashigi strides into their shared quarters, her face determined.

He pauses his rock stacking, one hand held over the tottering pile as he watches Tashigi cross to her usual seat on the couch, then neatly fold her hands in her lap.

She stares him down for a long moment. Honestly, he should commend her on how far she’s come, how much stronger she’s gotten, because the way he’s glaring at her would have sent her screaming just a few years ago.

Unfortunately for him, that same strength is going to force him to have this conversation, and he still has no good answers for anyone, including himself.

“Smoker-san,” she says calmly.

He grits his teeth around his cigars. “Tashigi,” he replies, one last attempt at warning her off obvious in his tone.

“A cut that small is a strange thing to lie about, isn’t it?”

Damn.

Smoker breathes a heavy, fragrant stormcloud between them, stubbornly maintaining eye contact as he balances the rock in his hand atop the stack.

He’s never been good at lying, though, and as much as it pains him to admit it, he could probably use Tashigi’s insight.

With an exasperated sigh, Smoker reaches for the next rock, his fingers feather-light as they brush over the now familiar surface of a heart-shaped stone.

“Coward shot me again.”

Tashigi’s brow immediately furrows in concern, her sharp eyes anxiously looking him over. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he snaps irritably. “That asshole couldn’t land a decent shot even when he was aiming at me.”

The concern on Tashigi’s face melts into confusion. Fuck.

“Who was he aiming at?”

Smoker gnaws on his cigars for a long moment, pointedly directing all of his attention toward balancing the heart rock atop the dangerously swaying tower. Tashigi doesn’t push, though, patiently waiting for Smoker to answer her question.

He slowly pulls his hand away, then mumbles, “Law.”

The ship crests a high swell, the New World’s temperamental weather rearing its ugly head, so Smoker rests his hand atop the heart rock to steady his tower, and also so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the way Tashigi’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” she says finally, and just as Smoker’s seriously considering throwing one or both of them overboard, she asks, “So the cut is—”

“Law used his power to pull the bullet out.” No use hiding anything, not anymore.

Tashigi hums thoughtfully, her thin, sword-calloused fingers brushing her chin. “Why?”

Another good question Smoker doesn’t have an answer for.

The current calms enough that he can let go of his tower, albeit not without a dangerous sway. It doesn’t fall, though, instead settling into a tilted equilibrium, leaning toward Smoker so much that he can see the full shape of the heart rock.

Finally, his eyes locked on the rock’s subtly curved edges, Smoker decides, “Because he’s a doctor.”

It honestly sounded a lot more convincing before he said it aloud. Now that the words are hanging limply in the air, the excuse sounds as flimsy, as half-true as his own excuse for taking the bullet in the first place.

Smoker doesn’t know what response he’s expecting from Tashigi, but the soft, shocked sound she breathes from behind narrow fingers pressed against her lips isn’t it.

Feeling uncomfortably transparent, he grits his teeth around his cigars and barks, “What?”

She jumps at that, her skittish nature coming back to her. “Oh! Oh, it’s nothing.” She smiles weakly, her squirming almost embarrassed, but before Smoker can grill her, she’s saved by the rapid clanging of the dinner bell.

All but leaping to her feet, Tashigi makes a show of checking the timepiece resting against the inside of her wrist. “Oh, good, I was just getting hungry,” she laughs nervously, shimmying toward the door. Smoker doesn’t let up, his glare following her every move. “I-if I’m not mistaken, we finally have beef again tonight. Good thing, too, I was starting to get burned out on sea king.”

She continues babbling until she leaves, not leaving Smoker an inch to question her.

Smoker grumbles to himself, but shoves all this to the back of his mind. It’s probably nothing to make such a fuss about, anyway. Piping a torrent of smoke above his head, he reaches for the tower, intent on putting his rocks in their little basket before he leaves the room.

The current beneath the ship is calm now, almost eerily still, but when Smoker gently lifts the heart rock off the stack, the rest of the tower comes crashing down.

He stares at the rocks scattered around the coffee table, then at the heart-shaped stone resting in his palm, and wonders what the hell he’s missing.

The few days it takes to return to G-5 headquarters pass uneventfully, if one doesn’t count the debacle that was Billy Coward discovering he could just reattach his dumbass head by putting it on his damn shoulders. Only took the stupid bastard three days.

Smoker tasks his men with delivering their prisoners to the transport ship bound for Impel Down, then heads to Vergo’s office with Tashigi, not in the least looking forward to this lame report.

It seems it won’t be much of an issue, though.

When Smoker swings Vergo’s door open, the dark hair and sunglasses he finds sitting at the desk don’t belong to the base commander.

Admiral Kizaru lazily turns his head to look at Smoker, his lips curled into a smile that could curdle milk.

“Welcome back,” he says flippantly, kicking his absurdly long legs up onto Vergo’s desk.

Smoker gnaws on his cigars, trying to fight the chill creeping into his veins. “Where’s Vergo?”

“Straight to business, huh,” Kizaru hums, examining his short fingernails. “He’s away for a few days. Illness in the family, as usual.”

Narrowing his eyes, Smoker folds his arms over his chest and sets his jaw. “And an admiral has time to play desk jockey in his place?”

Behind him, Tashigi breathes a shocked hiss, but she’s heard him say worse to people higher up, so she doesn’t interfere. Kizaru raises his eyebrows, more interested than affronted. “Hardly. I’m here to see you, actually.”

An unfamiliar swoop of anxiety surges through Smoker. “For what?”

“To hand deliver your promotion.” Kizaru pushes a thick file across the desk toward Smoker, presumably the usual pile of paperwork that accompanies a rise in rank. “The higher-ups are very impressed with your expert handling of the Billy Pirates.”

The heavy silence that follows is excruciatingly awkward, to say the very least.

Gnawing viciously on his cigars, Smoker wonders if this isn’t some kind of stupid-ass joke.

Firstly, that entire crew is a bunch of no-name drug peddlers, and they couldn’t even do that right. Secondly, Smoker was out of commission for most of that sting. Law showed up and did all his work for him, and somehow the brass expect him to buy that his piss-poor performance is worth a promotion to vice fucking admiral? There’s no way.

Smoker knows he’s walking a razor-thin line here, far from having forgotten the oppressive aura of warning Kizaru had projected at Navy HQ so long ago, when he’d first started snooping around Law. He has to know already that Smoker had called on Law, and perhaps more importantly, that he’s seen his power firsthand, so there’s no point in walking on eggshells around it.

“That glorified privateer did all the work and you know it,” he spits. “Don’t promote me just because that brat showed up to work.”

Kizaru’s interest only grows, his lips pursing around an obnoxious sound wheedling from between his teeth. “Now, now, there’s no need to be so humble. You can start your new duties in the morning.”

Lip curling in disgust, Smoker chews harder on his cigars, irritation now burning in his gut. “I know you heard me,” he seethes. “I don’t accept this.”

Even the sigh Kizaru breathes is somehow patronizing. “You’re a smart man, Smoker. Your men trust you, and,” Kizaru stares meaningfully over his sunglasses, “You make quite interesting use of military resources. You deserve the promotion, really.”

Smoker’s only felt his blood boil like this once before, when they tried to force feed him a promotion after Straw Hat turned Alabasta on its head.

It’s so much worse this time.

He can’t even really pinpoint why; something about this exchange just leaves Smoker on edge, hackles raised, fangs bared.

Kizaru looks him over almost appraisingly, then pulls himself to his feet with a long, warbling sigh. “Well, in any case, I’ve got work to do. Vergo should be back in a day or two.” He strides past Smoker, brushing shoulders as if testing whether he’d back away or not.

Smoker stands his ground, arms crossed, glaring at Vergo’s now-empty desk, his vision haloed by throbbing rage.

The admiral opens the door, lingering in the doorway long enough to sneer, “Congratulations, Vice Admiral Smoker.”

The silence he leaves in his wake is deafening.

Vaguely, Smoker can feel Tashigi staring at him. “You’re angrier this time,” she says after a minute or two. “Much angrier.”

“Billy Coward isn’t worth his weight in goat shit, let alone a fucking promotion,” Smoker snarls. “And even if he was, I didn’t do anything but catch bullets.”

Tashigi hums, knowing better than to argue that point. She takes a deep breath, though, and for a moment he wonders if she’s going to try anyway.

Her already soft voice is near silent when she says, “There’s something else, isn’t there.”

Smoker grinds his teeth. “Don’t know what else there’d be.”

“They think of them as resources. Tools to use however we please, then throw away when we’re done.” She pauses, then carefully breathes, “Not even people.” Smoker doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t, his jaw tensing tighter and tighter. “But even if they are pirates... they’re still human, aren’t they?”

Smoker bites clear through his cigars.

“Pirates are pirates, Tashigi,” he barks, turning on his heel to leave before he has to face just how weak those words sound right now. He spits the crushed ends of his cigars out and pulls out two fresh ones, jamming them between his teeth. “Get back to work.”

Tashigi trots along behind him, already updating him on the base’s status. Smoker half-listens, doing his best to shake the feeling that she knows something he doesn’t.

It takes nearly a year of artful dodging, but Smoker finally conducts a Warlord-less sting that he himself considers worthy of a promotion.

Capone “Gang” Bege may have slipped between his fingers at the end, but Smoker had confiscated so much of his Family’s contraband and dismantled so many of their strongholds that even he can’t find a good reason to turn down another stripe, raw stubbornness aside.

After a mind-numbingly boring ceremony, as he’s tossing the medals off the side of his ship, Smoker very pointedly doesn’t think about Law. He doesn’t think about how helpful his powers would have been, nor how easy it would have been to work alongside him, with as damn clever as he is.

He absolutely does not think about how long it’s been since he last saw Law, or even heard anything about him.

If he spends the entire night staring at the ceiling, replaying the hazy memory of those honey eyes looming over him, those thin lips frowning down at him, it’s purely because it’s only a matter of time before Law fucks up and becomes his next target.

The weather surrounding Raijin Island is an absolute shitshow.

Even giving the island a wide berth, they’ve been struck by lightning no less than forty-seven times today alone. The crew has almost gotten used to the hissing St. Elmo’s fires that flicker and glow at the tips of the masts, the yards of their ship. Seeing as they can barely keep from capsizing in the ruinous current, the last thing any of them are expecting is a visitor from beneath the sloppy waves.

Smoker can’t understand Koby’s words over the crackling thunder chasing near-constant lightning, so he reads his lips as he snaps into a smart salute in the torrential downpour and shouts, “Vice Admiral, sir, may I speak to you privately?”

He glares at the drenched captain in disbelief, but turns on his heel and stalks across the ship to the officer’s cabin, knowing without looking that Koby is scampering after him. Even without haki, the alarmed bleats he lets out as he dodges hail the size of watermelons would clue Smoker in.

The cabin is much quieter, although the door opening to the disastrous weather startles Tashigi out of a nap sprawled across her couch, the file she’d been reading sliding off her face.

Smoker gives her an unimpressed look, then slams the door shut after Koby and turns toward him, already lighting a fresh pair of cigars. “What, kid.”

Koby glances nervously at Tashigi, clearly hesitating. She sits up and sleepily offers him a spot on the couch, though, so he takes it, then turns those round doe eyes on Smoker. “Um... well, it’s a little difficult to say.”

“Just spit it out, then.”

The captain squirms, idly pulling his glasses off his head to clean off the rain streaking the dense lenses. “A-alright.” Koby sighs, then steels himself. “I heard about Alabasta recently.”

Smoker raises a critical eyebrow. That could mean anything. “What about it.”

Koby chews on his lip, then almost too quietly to catch, murmurs, “That it was Monkey D. Luffy who took down Crocodile... and that they tried to promote you for it.”

A brief memory flashes through Smoker’s mind of the brass’s subtle threat thinly veiled in congratulations, a gag order that he’d have been stupid to ignore. As much as it pissed him off, Smoker’s been following that order ever since.

Koby doesn’t seem like he’s bringing it up to gossip, though, nor to insult or blackmail him. He just looks plain uncomfortable, seeking advice from a veteran officer, so Smoker shifts his cigars to the other side of his mouth before rumbling, “Yeah. That’s right.”

“Smoker-san—”

Smoker holds his hand up to Tashigi, his eyes never leaving Koby’s. “That little asshole did all the work,” Smoker continues, “While the hero of Alabasta stood there and watched.”

Koby searches his eyes, looking for a lie, a trap, any deception whatsoever. When he doesn’t find anything, he laces his fingers tightly in his lap, then takes a deep, steadying breath and says, “I’d like to tell you about Rocky Port, sir, if that’s alright.”

The look Koby’s giving him now is grim but determined, a frustration Smoker is all too familiar with. He exhales a torrent of smoke as he shakes his drenched coat off and sits in his armchair, elbows leaned on his knees.

“Alright.”

Koby nods, encouraged by how intently both Smoker and Tashigi are listening to him now.

“I’m sure you know some of the details by now,” he starts. “Rocky Port, Trafalgar Law, a hundred hearts... but Rocky Port isn’t a pirate town. Never was. It had been under siege by a pirate syndicate for a few years.”

Suddenly, Smoker thinks he knows where this is going, and why Koby’s here.

Koby sighs, fiddling with his coat. “I was there by chance, but I was by myself. I didn’t... I was too weak then to help them, but I couldn’t just leave them like that.” His eyes narrow slightly, his haunted gaze miles away. “They walked around all day, working and living with smiles on their faces, but every time I closed my eyes, I heard—they were screaming. Constantly. Fear and pain and anger and—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, then shakes his head, bringing himself out of that rabbit hole. “When the Heart Pirates showed up, I thought I was done for. It couldn’t get much worse, and there was no way I could take any of them in fight. But Trafalgar wasn’t there to ally with the syndicate.”

Tashigi breathes a startled sound, having caught up now. She rests her fingers over her lips, but doesn’t say anything, her brow furrowing as she stares at Koby.

“It only took him two days to gather a list of every member of the syndicate, and starting at dawn on the third day, it took him sixteen hours to hunt down every one of them, cut out their hearts, and send them screaming into the mountains.” Koby shudders then, and Smoker can’t blame him; no matter what Law’s intentions were, nor how bloodless the process, watching an apex predator at work for that long would get under anyone’s skin.

“Once he had them all sealed up in a box, I—I did something pretty stupid, but in my defense, my head wasn’t in the best place.”

“You tried to fight him?” Tashigi blurts, appalled by the very idea.

Koby sheepishly rubs the back of his head, a light flush spreading across his face. “I challenged him. To what end, I don’t really know, but he cut me in half and ended the duel pretty quickly.”

Smoker raises an eyebrow at that, but he’s seen Law’s freaky-ass power at work enough to know that Koby means what he said in the most literal way possible.

“While I was lying on the ground, Trafalgar came over and crouched next to me. I thought he was going to finish me off, but...”

Koby bites into his lip, the first sign of hesitation since he started talking.

“He asked me... he asked if the hearts would be safe in the Navy’s hands.”

Smoker’s teeth dig into his cigars.

“What did you tell him?” he hears himself asking, although he already knows what answer he would’ve given.

“The truth,” Koby breathes, his face a mask of pain, of uncertainty. “I said I didn’t know.”

Yeah, that about hits the mark.

Koby sighs again, one hand anxiously gripping his bicep. “He had a few colorful things to say about the Navy, and then he mocked me too, but he seemed... worried. He left me on the ground after that, and left the island turned on its head, like none of the citizens knew what to do with all their freedom. They took me in and stuck me back together, and that’s when I met the village doctor.”

Smoker blinks at him, uncertain of the relevance.

“The doctor told me she’d been a hostage on the Heart Pirates’ ship for weeks, that she managed to escape during the raid, but I could tell she was lying. I eventually convinced her to tell me the truth: Trafalgar rescued her from the syndicate’s prison island, and after hearing her talk about how they were treating her people, he went after those pirates like it was personal.”

Those big, brown doe eyes meet Smoker’s, far too knowing to be comfortable.

“Trafalgar Law only landed in Rocky Port because he met that doctor. He told her that she was a hostage, but never held her in chains or demanded anything of her. No money, nothing. He took her home and cut a tumor out of her hometown free of charge.” Koby steels himself further, eyes ablaze. “He saved that town while the hero of Rocky Port hid in a shed.”

All those stories about Law’s cruelty, his bloodthirst, his raw evil crumble before Smoker like so much wet sand, barely clinging together in the first place.

He leans back in his chair, pulling deep off his cigars, and wonders why he isn’t surprised in the least.

Koby crumples slightly, his anxiety creeping back in, only briefly held at bay by the rush of telling the truth for once. He grips his arms, chewing on his lip and staring at the carpet, and when he speaks again, he’s so quiet Smoker almost misses it.

“Will it always be like this?”

Another feeling Smoker’s all too familiar with. The frustration of watching criminals exact messy justice, then being forced to take responsibility for it, every added stripe on his shoulder bearing the intolerable weight of the government’s lies.

He thinks first of Straw Hat, of Alabasta, of every kingdom he’s pulled to its feet after so long spent downtrodden, and of how driven Smoker’s been to beat him to the punch, to allow the institution he’s promised his life to the dignity of doing its damn job.

Then he thinks of that new admiral, Issho, of the rumors that he’d blinded himself after too long spent staring into the lightless abyss of this world’s rotten heart.

Finally, he thinks of Law.

Law, who lets people make a villain of him. Who lets people believe that he’s the worst of the boogeymen. Who took down a criminal syndicate and traded their shitty lives for power, but not without fear that those lives would come to harm.

Smoker thinks of Law’s face as he hinted at dismantling the Warlords, even as he hides beneath that title to get what he needs.

That crooked smile floods his mind, those sharp eyes, the confident, powerful lean of his body, the sureness of his surgeon’s hands.

“No,” Smoker finally replies, although he’s not entirely sure he knows where the answer comes from. “It won’t.”

Koby glances at him, visibly relieved, but Smoker’s too lost in thought to acknowledge him. He vaguely hears Koby thanking him for his time, then excitedly asking Tashigi about her sword. Her returned enthusiasm means Smoker can tune them out completely, effectively leaving him alone with this new information, the last holes in the Rocky Port Incident now filled in.

He wonders if Law knows how much like Straw Hat he is, and how offended he’d be at the accusation.

Some time later, Smoker’s vacant skull is still filled with Law, until Tashigi hands him a sobbing wiretap snail. He doesn’t recognize the crying voice, but even after two long years, he’d know the voice that yells back anywhere, even if he didn’t go out of his way to announce himself.

Perfect. This distraction is just what he needs to get his mind off Law.

As the snail spews blood and goes silent, Smoker turns to his cadre of morons and barks at them to set sail for Punk Hazard.

Smoker really has to wonder whether he’s the luckiest man alive, or the unluckiest.

Too-familiar golden eyes lock onto his through the falling snow, that face a playful smirk promising danger, a blaring warning sign, but all Smoker feels is a warm fluttering in his gut.

He’s not familiar with the sensation, and it’s more his own uncertainty than anything else that puts him on edge.

For some reason, Smoker’s itching for a fight.

Fortunately, after an interruption that shocks everyone present, Law’s happy to oblige.

The first thing Smoker’s aware of when he regains consciousness sprawled across a cold packed-ice floor is a hard, unfamiliar line wrapped in a crushing vise-grip around his ribs.

It’s uncomfortably restrictive on its own, but paired with the sensation of a shirt buttoned tight over his chest, Smoker wonders briefly if Law had sent him straight to hell.

When his eyes flutter open, everything is far too fuzzy to see clearly, even though there’s a face hovering just above his own. “She’s awake!” that person shouts, before looking down again and sheepishly correcting, “I mean, he’s awake.”

Smoker sits up with a groan, thoroughly set off balance, barely able to breathe through whatever it is that’s squashing his ribs. He grits his teeth, irritated by the lack of nicotine on his tongue, then looks down.

He doesn’t have any idea what the hell he’s looking at.

His chest isn’t really all that different, but everything else is either tiny, blurry, or both. He stares at his boots, small and fluffy, then at his legs, now so thin that his thighs barely brush, then finally at his hands.

His fingers are long and narrow, but rough and steady, and it’s not until he sees the familiar timepiece resting on the inside of his wrist that Smoker recognizes the body he’s in.

Nearby, Tashigi awkwardly clears her throat, and as hard as he tries to look toward her, Smoker’s learning firsthand now that she’s blind as a fucking bat.

“My glasses are on my—your head,” she says quietly, clearly still confused herself, but less so than Smoker.

Smoker grinds his teeth and pulls the glasses onto his face, blinking as the world comes into focus.

They’re in the remains of one of Vegapunk’s labs, sheltered from the elements but still cold as hell. A quick glance around shows all his men accounted for and reassembled, along with Tashigi, who had somehow found a way to close Smoker’s coat over her chest.

“It seems there’s still a lot we don’t know about Trafalgar’s power,” she says, her voice still bitter with defeat. “This is his doing, you know.”

Smoker remembers then that he’d passed out right on the battlefield, after having to make direct eye contact with his own disembodied, still-beating heart. His hand flies to his chest, colliding uncomfortably with one of Tashigi’s breasts, which just reminds him of the fucking iron rebar she keeps around her ribs.

With a growl, Smoker rips Tashigi’s shirt open, soothed already by the feeling of cool air on his bare skin. She make a long series of offended noises, but he ignores her in favor of inspecting the pink, lacy torture device wrangling his chest.

He plucks at one of the shoulder straps, searching for a weakness in the design, then glances up at her. He’s momentarily distracted by the bizarre sight of his own body flushed bright red, gloved hands held over his face, his knees somehow pressed tight together. How she’s managing any of this is beyond him, but he focuses up and snaps the bra strap again. “Why do you wear this?”

Tashigi rips her hands away from her face, and although she’s much more flustered than usual, Smoker recognizes that expression.

That’s Tashigi’s done-with-all-men-ever face.

It’s incredibly unsettling to see it on his own face, but whatever.

“Why do you think?” she snaps back, having clearly reached the end of her patience. “It’s cute, and it keeps them out of my way!”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

She makes an outraged sound and throws her hands up in frustration. “You think I don’t know that?! If I’d known this is the kind of day I’d be having, I’d have worn a more comfortable one!”

Smoker grits his teeth, once again finding no cigars, which still isn’t helping his mood. Between the lack of nicotine, the crushing of his ribs, and the overall tininess of his body, irritation boils over.

He grabs the slim strap of fabric between the cups and yanks.

It’s surprisingly difficult, but he manages to shred the bra enough that he can toss it aside, ignoring Tashigi’s vocal fury in favor of taking his first full, deep breath since waking up in that accursed trap.

His relief must be palpable, because Tashigi sits heavily on a nearby piece of rubble and sighs loudly, then bites out, “Just do your best to stay decent, at least. And you owe me four thousand beli!”

That much Smoker can do. Probably.

Teeth still grinding, Smoker rests an ankle over his knee and grumbles, “So how the hell did this happen?”

As G-5 draw straws, Tashigi leans down to Smoker, close enough that their men won’t hear her, and asks, “Smoker-san, are you sure about this?”

If anything, Smoker’s even more convinced. He’s also certain that he fucking hates being short.

Gnawing on the lone cigar she’d allowed him, he spits, “Of course I am. I want my own damn body back, not to mention my heart.”

“But sending our men off alone—”

“We have no choice,” Smoker interrupts. “Law is my top priority right now, and I can’t have them bumbling around after us. They’ll just get hurt.”

Tashigi huffs a sigh, but she can’t exactly argue that.

G-5 splits into three teams: team steal the damn ship, team scout the island without getting poisoned you assholes, and team tackle Trafalgar Law.

Tashigi’s body is much stronger, and much more nimble than Smoker’s been giving her credit for. She fits perfectly atop the narrow metal perch mostly occupied by a humming surveillance snail, both of them obscured by the shadows cloaking the high ceiling of the long, curved hallway he’s camping.

“He’s coming around the corner,” the snail whispers in Tashigi’s voice, broadcasting from the nearby security room she’d found rather quickly thanks to her familiarity with government floor plans. “I think he’s heading outside again.”

Smoker remains still and silent, barely even breathing, relying on how deeply Law underestimates Tashigi’s abilities.

A moment later, he hears the steady click of Law’s boots against the cold steel floor, followed by the man himself, moving quickly and purposefully down the hall. He sure does look like he has places to be; unfortunate for him that Smoker’s as determined as he is to get in his way.

As Law passes under him, Smoker exhales mutely, then flutters off his perch, his tiny body still admirably silent even as he collides with the Warlord like a meteor.

With an alarmed snarl, his hat and his sword scattering out of his reach, Law drops like a sack of potatoes. Smoker shoves his knee between Law’s bony shoulders to hold him down, one hand gripping the back of his neck for good measure, the other slamming a sea prism stone cuff around his narrow wrist. Smoker huffs a satisfied sigh, pausing to relight his cigar before wrangling Law’s other hand behind him and cuffing that one too.

Law curses under him, banging his forehead against the floor in frustration. He squirms under Smoker’s slight weight, but when it doesn’t get him anywhere, he turns to glare over his shoulder and seethes, “I’m busy, White Hunter-ya.”

Feeling particularly mean, Smoker crosses his arms, still unused to the weight of Tashigi’s breasts resting on them. “Must be, if it was this easy to get the drop on you.” Law’s glare hardens, the corners of his lips turning down in a deep frown.

Smoker tilts his head, only slightly relishing the feeling of having a particularly troublesome pirate at his mercy, then leans down into Law’s ear and growls, “You underestimate her.” Law freezes under him, which is enough to confirm Smoker’s theory. He snorts, then continues, “I wouldn’t.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Law bites out, his voice surprisingly steady considering the way he’d just shivered under Smoker. “Now, if that’s all—”

“Don’t play games with me, Law,” Smoker snaps. He reaches down and yanks on the long chain connecting the cuffs, not even a hint of weakness arising from making direct contact with that accursed stone. “I wouldn’t go through this much effort just to scold you for mistreating my subordinate.”

Before Law can retort, Smoker stands and, once he finds his center of gravity, slings Law over his shoulder. Ignoring the indignant wheeze from somewhere around his hip, Smoker stalks down the hall, pausing only briefly to collect Law’s hat and sword.

For a hostage, Law seems pretty damn relaxed.

He’s sprawled across a desk in the security room, leaned back on his elbows, still firmly cuffed but confident enough to wear a smug, attractive smirk, his eyes locked on Smoker’s.

Something about this scenario is making it incredibly difficult for Smoker to think straight, but he can’t quite put his finger on what.

“So, White Hunter-ya,” Law says, his voice velvet-smooth. “What do you want?”

Smoker jerks his chin at Tashigi, who’s looming awkwardly beside him, and barks, “What the hell do you think?”

Those sharp eyes linger on Smoker, even as that smirk widens. “I have a few ideas,” Law outright purrs, obviously teasing. “But I think I’d rather hear it directly from you.”

An unfamiliar heat blooms low in Smoker’s gut, a strange tingling sparking along the insides of his thighs. He narrows his eyes at Law and snorts an agitated stream of smoke, then grouses, “I want my body back. My heart, too.”

Law tilts his head thoughtfully, dragging his gaze down the body Smoker’s borrowing. He spreads his thighs to see all the way down to Tashigi’s boots, and Smoker loses his train of thought again. “I don’t think so,” Law hums finally, his voice openly amused. “I’m still having fun.”

Huffing another stormcloud, Smoker stomps right over to Law, leaning over him just to get in his face. “Why are you here, Law?”

Those warm, golden eyes harden, Law’s walls snapping up once more. “I told you,” he says levelly, “This is my vacation home now. It’s just teeming with invaders at the moment.”

With Law closed off, it’s a little easier for Smoker to think. “Tell me the truth,” he rumbles, closer to a plea than he’d ever admit. “I know you’re not behind those kids going missing, but I think you know who is.”

Law frowns at him, flicking his eyes over at Tashigi. “I do,” he murmurs. “But I’m not going to hinder myself by telling you. You just got here and you’re already in my way.”

The snarl Smoker breathes is less menacing than he’d been going for, so he covers for it by gripping Law’s chin and forcing him to look at him again. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me anything.”

His frown deepening, Law glares up at him, jerking his chin out of Smoker’s grasp. “You can’t help me at all, Vice Admiral.”

Smoker slams his hands on the desk on either side of Law, easily boxing him in despite being a good foot shorter than he usually is. “You won’t let me.”

“Of course not!” Smoker’s almost taken aback by the vehemence in Law’s voice, even more so by the way he leans up to him, so close their noses almost brush. “I won’t let you get involved any more than you already have. It’ll just complicate things. I can get away with all this because I’m a pirate, but you’re not!”

It takes Smoker a long second to process those words, because between the fire in Law’s eyes, the quickness of his breath, the near-imperceptible tremble to his voice, he’s tempted not for the first time to think that Law’s worried about him.

Whether it’s purposeful or not, it’s impossible to say, but it almost feels like Law’s protecting him from something.

Smoker grits his teeth and stares Law down, trying to find the real meaning, the real intent, and coming up with nothing.

Law, meanwhile, has apparently caught up with himself, because a faint pink flush ghosts over his face, and he leans back onto his elbows again. He hunches into his shoulders slightly and looks away, his face a mask of annoyance. His wandering eyes land on Tashigi, though, and that smug overconfidence is quick to come back, his gaze locking once more with Smoker’s.

“I didn’t know you could blush like that. It’s a good look for you.”

Ignoring the way those words get under his skin, Smoker turns to glare over his shoulder at Tashigi, who’s about as red as a tomato and doing her best not to make eye contact. He grinds his teeth on his cigar and barks, “Stop blushing in my body!”

Tashigi jumps, then levels an indignant frown at him. “Stop... doing everything you’re currently doing in mine, please!”

Standing between Law’s spread thighs, hands braced on either side of him, barely a scant few inches of space between them, Smoker stares at her for a long moment before saying, “I’m not doing anything.”

She waves her hands in frustration, gesturing widely at the two of them, but a quiet, breathy chuckle from Law easily catches all of Smoker’s attention. He glowers down at him, baring his teeth, which just makes Law laugh again, that pretty smirk back on his face. “Well, this has been fun,” he murmurs, that low purr still sending a thrill all through Smoker, “But I really do have places to be. Thanks for the diversion, Smoker.”

Before Smoker can remind him that he’s being interrogated, Law tilts his head and bites his lip almost playfully. It’s far too late now, but Smoker realizes suddenly that the air around them is just slightly too thin, too sticky.

Law flicks his wrist and vanishes completely. Smoker really wishes he could say he’s surprised.

He’s left leaning over the desk, glowering thunderously at the still-locked cuffs loosely draped over a broom lying where Law had just been.

Tashigi crosses to the desk quickly, and when she picks up the cuffs without so much as a flinch, they realize simultaneously that they aren’t sea prism stone at all. Just damn close, nearly identical in weight and color.

Outplayed in every way, Smoker’s forced to wonder just how long he’s been wrapped around Law’s finger.

Smoker has never liked Vergo.

To be fair, that can be said of most people, but it’s especially true for Vergo. He’s an idiot at best, air-headed and slovenly, the crumby face of the Navy’s least honorable branch, which Smoker has always considered disgustingly fitting.

None of these things have ever distracted Smoker from the fact that Vergo is dangerous.

From the first time they’d met, food stuck to his cheek, lukewarm words of welcome on his lips, an oppressive aura that had clawed into Smoker’s skin like thorns, Vergo had left no room for doubt.

There is something very, very wrong with this man.

Now, snarling up at that expressionless face through the chain link caging him, Smoker thinks he’s finally starting to understand the alarm bells that never ceased ringing whenever he was around Vergo.

Of fucking course this asshole is a pirate. Of course he is. But even that doesn’t quite cover the extent of Smoker’s roiling hatred toward him.

The picture only grows clearer when Vergo shifts his vacant attention onto Law.

That stupid-ass face doesn’t so much as twitch when Vergo crushes Law’s heart in his fist. Law screams and writhes, he chokes on his own blood, he gasps for air sprawled across the floor of the cage, and the whole time, Vergo clearly feels nothing. Not even twisted satisfaction.

It’s not just Law, either, although there’s very obviously some terrible history between them. Smoker’s forced to sit there in his cage and listen to Vergo talk about their men, Smoker’s men like they’re less than fucking ants, like their lives and their cruel, untimely deaths are meaningless.

Vergo would kill them all with his bare hands, and that night, he’d sleep like a baby.

Smoker’s fury is blinding. His borrowed skin crawls, his blood boils, his jaw clenches, but none of it matters. Even if he had his own body, even if he had his own heart, there’s nothing he could do to turn this situation around. These sick fucks played him like a rat in a maze, and now that they’ve showed their hand, Smoker has no choice but to face just how little control he’s had since he set foot on this accursed wasteland.

Helplessness is not a feeling that will ever sit well with Smoker, and right now, all he can do is choke on it.

In an attempt to wrangle all these nauseating truths laid bare to him, Smoker focuses on what comes easiest to him: Vergo’s a pirate. He hates pirates. They’re scum, every last fucking one of them, bloodthirsty and inhumane, only ever after their own ends.

Pirates are pirates.

It’s a belief he’s held for as long as he can remember. There have been times recently where it’s felt shallow, fragile, but he clings to it all the same.

And yet, after Caesar dumps them outside, after Law frees himself and his allies, as he’s standing tall with his whispering blade drawn and hungry, Smoker finds himself genuinely terrified that Law’s about to prove that belief right.

From the moment those thin lips part to address him in his rightful body, though, that smooth voice begins to untangle the sea of knots Vergo’s betrayal had tied inside of him, piece by tiny piece.

Smoker knows his haki’s going off. He’s not stupid, and it’s a feeling he’s gotten used to over the last few years. It breathes in the shadows of his own breath, a soothing undercurrent of indescribable understanding, and as it winds itself around and between Law’s words, Smoker can’t do anything but listen.

“White Hunter-ya, I have no obligation to save you, but if letting you go back to your base safely makes Vergo lose his footing, it works out well for me.” Smoker narrows his eyes. He hears what Law’s saying, but the haki murmuring beneath his voice speaks to another language, another meaning, something lying just beyond the edges of Smoker’s comprehension. “However, you need to forget everything that you heard about me and Joker. I’m not asking you a favor. It’s a condition. For sparing your life.”

It’s a clear demand. No room to misinterpret anything, no holes in his argument. Forget what he heard, or die.

But that’s not how human memory works. Smoker knows Law knows that. If it was so easy to just forget, both of their lives would be significantly different. The world would be significantly different.

What Law’s asking is impossible, and based on the glint in those honey eyes, he knows it.

Just to see what happens, Smoker agrees.

Knowing that he has no real intention of forgetting, Law cuts Smoker and Tashigi both free, and as he turns away and sheathes his sword, Smoker feels like a blindfold had fallen away along with the shattered chains that bound him.

For the first time, guided by his haki and by his missing heart, Smoker sees clearly the spaces between the lines Law draws before him.

He sees the meanings hidden within meanings, a secret language shrouded in pride and in stubbornness.

He sees Law’s unfulfillable condition for what it is.

Mercy.

But Smoker could never accept Law’s mercy at face value, the same way Law could never allow himself to offer it plainly. They both know that, so Law had used his convenient leverage to hold Smoker hostage, to give them both a comfortable lie to rely on, a false trade that frees them both, and leaves neither of them in each other’s debt. Plausible deniability.

It’s laughably convoluted, and yet Smoker understands it completely.

Law’s been speaking in riddles from the beginning, but now Smoker’s starting to see through them, if only barely.

The sound of Straw Hat shredding the cage pulls Smoker out of his head, which comes as something of a relief. He has to stop paying attention to Law, before something extremely stupid comes over him.

As he’s grinding his teeth and glaring at Straw Hat, who's still waving and laughing like a dumbass, Law grumbles, “We don’t have much time. First things first, we need to get back into the lab.” He sighs, then turns to frown up at Smoker.

Buried deep in one of Caesar's pockets somewhere, Smoker’s heart flutters.

He needs to leave. Immediately.

Before Smoker can run from the realization threatening to blow through all his carefully-constructed walls and rules, Law casually states, “There’s a lever inside that controls the emergency shutters. Let’s go let your dumbass men inside, then we can figure out our next move.”

Fuck. Fuck.

In this one brief moment, Law’s more worried about Smoker’s men than Vergo has ever been, or could ever be.

How did it take him this long to see Law’s kindness hiding in plain sight?

Well, maybe Law said it best himself: there are some things you can't see unless you change your standing.

Something soft and terrible blooms between Smoker’s ribs, but rather than face it, he just gnaws on his cigars and gives Law a short nod.

Smoker should have followed Law.

In hindsight, it’s so painfully obvious to him now. Whatever happened between them aside, Vergo has Law’s heart. It only makes sense that if Smoker wanted to find Vergo, all he had to do was tail Law, given how unimaginably cruel Vergo has revealed himself to be.

The way Law’s tortured screams echo off the cold steel walls is going to haunt Smoker.

However fast he moves, it’s not fast enough. Not by a long shot. By the time he turns the corner into some kind of manufacturing facility, his ears are ringing, and his blood is boiling.

The screaming stops. Law collapses, bruised and bleeding.

For a long, agonizing moment, Smoker thinks he’s too late.

Before the shock haloing his vision can twist into grief, he catches Law’s eye, that unhinged glint shining in the sickly green light right before he goads Vergo into squashing his heart again.

Seems Law’s alive enough to be an asshole, at least, so Smoker focuses up, leveling his murderous glare on the back of Vergo’s shitty pirate head.

Smoker feels like death warmed over, so he lets Law finish off their shared enemy. It’s a matter of convenience, and has nothing to do with how deep the wound Vergo left on Law seems to go, nor with the thought that Law probably deserves the shred of satisfaction this particular act of vengeance offers him.

In the hallway outside the SAD manufacturing facility, Smoker glances up at the ceiling, sidestepping a clump of falling rubble as it crashes to the floor. “You just destabilized half the island,” he grouses, willing the impressed tone out of his complaint.

“Yeah.” Law sighs and wipes his sleeve over the blood still smeared down his face. “I was a little worked up.”

Smoker turns to him, then reaches out and grabs his fuzzy chin. His hands are much larger this time, but his grip is gentler, coaxing Law into facing him so he can look over his injuries.

He focuses on the bruises and dried blood, the cut running through Law’s thin eyebrow, and takes no notice of how long his dark eyelashes are, nor the lingering sparks of anxiety in that sharp gaze, nor the way Law’s patiently allowing him to touch.

“I’ve seen worse,” Smoker concludes lamely as he forces himself to let go.

“High praise,” Law snorts, the corner of his thin lips barely curling up. “You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

While Smoker doesn’t doubt that in the slightest, he still grimaces at him. “Can it, brat.”

Law’s smile widens the tiniest bit, but he hides under the brim of his hat, so Smoker looks away too, busying himself with ashing his cigars.

“We need to find a way out of here,” Law says instead of responding, already turning to head down the hall. “There’s a surveillance room around the corner. If the gas hasn’t killed all the snails, we should be able to find something we can all escape in.”

Smoker stares after him for a moment. It's not lost on him that, like before, Law’s thinking of Smoker, his men, and the children, in addition to himself and his new allies.

God. There’s Law’s kindness again, so blatantly obvious now that Smoker knows where to look.

He feebly tries to remind himself that pirates are pirates, and before he has to make eye contact with the fine print growing under that belief, he follows Law down the hall.

As they enter the security room, Smoker turns to the wall of monitors, video feeds from the remaining snails flickering in and out of focus. Many of them are nothing but static, and of the ones still running, more than a handful of them are nothing but a wall of dense purple murder clouds.

“What are you hoping to find in here?” Smoker asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Probably faster to just go look.”

“Yeah, I’m a big fan of opening a door to a quick and violent death,” Law replies dryly. “If that’s how you wanna go, don’t let me stop you.”

Smoker grits his teeth around his cigars. “You really are a brat.”

“So I’m told,” Law huffs, taking a step back from the filing cabinet he’d been digging around in to unzip his long coat. He shrugs it off and throws it over the back of a chair, then goes back to his rifling, and Smoker has to physically rip his eyes away from the thin yellow hoodie pushed up over tattooed forearms, draped over those narrow hips.

There has to be something wrong with him. Law’s a pirate. A supernova from the Worst Generation, too, worth a hundred times his weight in trouble and then some.

“Are you finding anything?” Law asks. He’s much closer than Smoker had expected, frowning up at him with his arms loaded with files and logbooks, and god, Smoker should really, really leave before he does something stupid.

“Not yet,” he snaps instead. “Impatient.”

Law raises a critical eyebrow at him, and as if on cue, the entire building rumbles violently.

Throwing a brief glance at the ceiling, Smoker prays for patience and blows a cloud of smoke toward the flickering lights.

“You can make them bigger,” Law says quietly. Smoker looks at him out of the corner of his eye, but before he can snark back at him, Law sets his pile down and leans over the console. “These buttons will switch the active feed on the big monitor. I don’t know about you, but I can’t ever see shit on those tiny ones.”

As helpful as that is, Smoker can’t quite bring himself to thank a pirate. Fortunately, Law apparently isn’t expecting gratitude, instead dropping heavily into the chair beside Smoker and digging into one of the thick logbooks.

Smoker pulls his eyes away from him and forces himself again to focus on the monitors. He flicks through feed after feed of static and gas, but the longer he looks, the more he feels like he’s wasting their time. His eyes start wandering, and seeing as Law’s about the most interesting thing in the room, that’s where he ends up staring.

“What are those?” he asks, leaning over Law’s shoulder.

Law doesn’t flinch away from him, nor does he even seem surprised by Smoker’s snooping. “Shipping manifests,” he murmurs without looking away from them. “Did you see any ships outside?”

“Just Straw Hat’s and... Caesar’s.” Right now isn’t the best time for him to think too hard about the men he lost to Caesar’s slime monster on that stolen ship, so Smoker tilts his head and squints at the manifests, frowning at the horned sigil stamped in the corners. “I don’t know where Straw Hat’s is now, but as far as I know, it’s the only one left.”

Smoker knows he sounds bitter, but Law unknowingly provides an easy distraction. He snorts at him, badly hiding his smirk by resting his chin in his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m sure if you ask nicely, Daddy Akainu will buy you a new battleship.”

“Watch your damn mouth,” Smoker snarls, his teeth digging deeper into his cigars. It’s feeble admonishment, though, and they both know it, given the very minimal level of respect for the antagonistic fleet admiral in the room at the moment.

“No thanks,” Law replies, all casual ease despite the day he’s had.

Smoker’s dimly thinking that it’s a good look for him when Law opens the next logbook, and his demeanor changes entirely. Smoker doesn’t have to ask why.

The logbook before this was all supply imports, raw material exports, things one might expect from a facility like this. This one looks identical to the last, but instead of lists of long-winded chemicals and containers, it’s a list of names.

Names that strike Smoker as vaguely familiar, and that leave a sinking feeling in his gut.

“It’s those kids,” Law grits out, gripping the pages so tightly the paper crumples. He flips to the next page, then the next, hundreds of names logged like so much cattle. Smoker really can’t blame him for throwing the manifest aside with a snarl.

Law clenches his fists and glares blindly at the console in front of him. Not for the first time, Smoker has to wonder just how deep his scars go.

“He doesn’t give a shit,” Law spits, his voice trembling with rage. “Joker’s never given a shit about any of the kids he’s fucked up, no matter how useful they are to him. That bastard never changes.”

Smoker looks at him, every fiber of his being screaming to rest a hand on Law’s fuming head. He’s really not trying to lose an arm, though, so he shoves the urge down, instead reaching over Law to grab the book he’d flung aside. He digs the crumpled map of the facility he’d stolen earlier out of his coat pocket and drops it on the console, then pockets the manifest and turns back to the monitors, flicking once again through the remaining feeds while Law boils beside him.

Seemingly incapable of sitting still, Law looks up at the monitors too, then stands quickly and snaps, “Move over.”

Smoker does no such thing, of course. Instead, he stubbornly frowns at Law, who just sneers right back and budges him out of the way. At least, he tries to.

With what little room Smoker allows him, Law scans rapidly through the feeds, breathing a triumphant sound when he finds the one he wants. It’s a very purple, foggy view of a shipping inlet Smoker doesn’t recognize, the dock mostly dominated by a steel tanker marked for transporting SAD. Law takes note of the feed ID, then smooths out the discarded map, dragging his finger along the outside of the building until he finds what he’s looking for.

He traces a line into the building, and as he’s squinting at the map, Smoker finds himself begrudgingly impressed with how calm Law can be when he has something to focus on. He watches as Law moves through the feeds and along the map, drawing out an escape route with surprising speed.

As he’s working, Law seems completely absorbed, so when he grits out, “Would you do something?” Smoker has to raise his eyebrows at him.

“Espionage isn’t my thing,” he snorts, crossing his arms again.

“It’s not that hard.” Law clicks through a few more feeds, then turns to outright glare at Smoker. “Fucking knock that off and make yourself useful!”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re staring at me.” Law turns back to the monitors, but he can’t quite hide the pink flush creeping over his ears. “I can’t think when you’re staring at me like that.”

As pissed as he should be about being called out, Smoker finds himself focusing on another part of that statement. “Like what?”

Law breathes a frustrated sound and rounds on him, once again barging into his personal space. “Like—” He pauses, then roughly fists a hand in Smoker’s coat, bony knuckles digging into his chest. “You know how! Just cut it out!”

Having a pirate, a Warlord pressed all against him like this should irritate Smoker.

He should be feeling annoyance, anger, revulsion. He should be shoving Law away. He should be leaving the room to find his own way out.

Smoker doesn’t move, and of the many emotions he’s juggling, none of them are what he should be feeling.

Instead, the realization he’d wanted to run from so badly when they were outside floods over him like the tide rolling in. That awful softness, the warm contentment he can’t talk himself out of, some nameless craving lingering sweet on his tongue, his lips that brushes aside all his long-standing rules like so many dried leaves.

Smoker realizes then that he’s walking a fine line, just barely clinging to a tottering equilibrium that grows more and more fragile the closer Law comes.

If Law doesn’t walk away soon, Smoker’s going to kiss him.

He wishes the idea bothered him. At all.

As he clings desperately to the last shreds of his self-control, Smoker continues staring down at Law, slowly shifting his cigars to the other side of his mouth.

Swallowing heavily, Law tugs on Smoker’s coat, something vulnerable flickering through that heated gaze. “What do you want, Smoker?”

A brief sense of déjà vu washes over him. He thinks of the last time Law had asked that question, relaxed and teasing, and even though he thinks he knows the answer now, Smoker still elects to be difficult. “What do you think?” he rumbles back, low and rhetorical, the tenderness buried deep in his chest starting to sneak into his tone.

He hadn’t been sure just yet, but the subtle way Law wets his lips, the way he doesn’t recoil from him just confirms for Smoker that he’s not the only one struggling to balance all these complicated emotions.

“I have some ideas,” Law whispers, and before he can even get the second half of his earlier tease out, Smoker’s grinding his cigars out on the console with one hand while the other wraps around the back of Law’s neck and pulls.

It’s almost alarmingly easy to crush his lips against Law’s. He’d swear he caught him off guard, if not for the way Law’s breath hitches as he leans into the kiss, his lips already parting in a silent plea for more.

All coherent thought flies out of Smoker’s skull, leaving nothing but Law.

Smoker tilts his head and licks between Law’s thin lips almost ravenously, pressing harder against him when those cool hands come to rest on his face, short, bitten fingernails lightly scratching through the stubble on his jaw. Law breathes a tiny sound into the kiss, tangling his tongue with Smoker’s with undisguised eagerness, and Smoker can’t help the sudden, screaming desire to be so, so much closer than this.

He slips his free hand around Law’s narrow waist and tugs him closer, turning them so he can press him against the console. Law’s only reaction to being pinned is a soft, huffy moan as his teeth defiantly find Smoker’s lip, both of which only make the fire coursing through him burn hotter.

With a ragged groan, Smoker ducks to kiss him harder as his hands fall to bony hips and squeeze. Law sighs hot, one hand now tangling in Smoker’s hair, but it’s the subtle way he parts his thighs that leaves Smoker buzzing.

He wraps his hands under those thighs, easily hoisting Law’s slight weight off the ground. Law’s breath catches, but rather than complain, he leans into Smoker, licking into him almost desperately. Smoker lets him in, more focused for now on setting Law on the console, hungrily budging his way between those long legs.

Just as Smoker’s slipping one hand back up to Law’s hip, sneaking his thumb under the hem of his thin hoodie and finding soft, smooth skin underneath, Law leans away from him.

Before he can chase him, Law presses his hand against the base of Smoker’s throat.

It’s far from enough to hurt, barely even enough to threaten, but it sure gets his attention. Smoker freezes in place, his hands now hovering over Law’s hips as he stares into those shaded eyes.

“If you want to fuck me, I’m game,” Law says levelly. “But if you think you can use that to degrade or humiliate me, we’re done here. I’m really not in the mood.”

The thought honestly hadn’t crossed Smoker’s mind, but he still commits that plainly-stated boundary to memory. He looks into that deadly serious face, somehow even more drawn in by the aura of danger radiating off of Law in waves.

Smoker definitely hit his head at some point.

“If I wanted to humiliate you, I wouldn’t be trying to fuck you,” he says finally, his voice a low, affected growl. “Now’s hardly the time, anyway.”

Law raises a surprised eyebrow, but his hand slips away from Smoker’s throat, dragging lightly down his bruising chest. “Noted.”

Smoker does his best to sound derisive when he asks, “Anything else?” but he’s certain it doesn’t convince either of them.

Humming softly, Law continues trailing his fingers down over Smoker’s stomach, playing along a purpling bruise on his hip as he murmurs, “Don’t come inside me. We still have a lot of work to do.”

“Noted,” Smoker replies dryly. He can’t quite keep this act up with Law’s hands on him, though, so he catches his lips again, letting himself be lost in the warmth of Law’s thighs hitched up around his waist. He slips his thumb back under the hem of that soft hoodie, too, still tantalized by the bare brush of skin he’d been allowed, and this time, Law doesn’t stop him. He just leans into his kisses and threads his fingers through Smoker’s hair, his other hand still drawing dizzying little patterns along Smoker’s bare hip, and god, he can’t help but press closer.

The first time Smoker grinds their hips together, he does it slowly, but firmly, purposefully, and the sound it gets out of Law just about makes him dizzy. He spreads his thighs wider, too, making room for Smoker to fit them together, so Smoker takes full advantage of the offer.

As he’s rocking against him, though, Law pants against his lips, then murmurs, “Don’t freak out.”

Before he can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Law’s casting his spooky-ass ability, and Smoker’s hand flies back toward where his jitte should be without a second thought. Too bad Vergo broke it.

Far from being intimidated, Law’s other hand comes up to grip Smoker’s wrist. “I just told you, don’t freak out,” he grouses, even as he makes a deft flicking motion with his fingers. Smoker narrows his eyes at him, but still manages to catch the first aid kit that flies off the wall toward them before it collides with either of their heads.

“The hell are you playing at, Law?”

Raising a distinctly unimpressed eyebrow, Law dissolves his room and snatches the kit from him. “I hope you weren’t expecting to fuck me with spit alone.”

Smoker blinks at him. He honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead, too focused on kissing him, on the intense proximity of their bodies, but he supposes Law has a point. Even so, he leans into Law’s ear and nips sharply at his piercings, then growls, “Don’t use your damn power around me.”

Badly hiding a shiver, Law huffs, “We’ll see.”

He pulls the first aid kit open and digs around in it, his rustling pausing for a moment when Smoker sinks his teeth into the bend of Law’s neck. Smoker drags his tongue over his pulse, feeling just the slightest bit smug, but Law just grumbles at him and digs his heel into the back of Smoker’s thigh.

Based on his triumphant little hum, Law finds what he’s looking for soon enough, but rather than hand it over, he spreads his cool hands over Smoker’s chest. He pushes just enough to put a few inches of space between them, but before Smoker can complain about it, he’s entirely distracted by those nimble fingers falling to his belt. Law gets Smoker’s pants unfastened impressively fast, leaning up to kiss him roughly even as he slips one hand inside, into his boxers, and wraps his fingers around him.

He breathes a surprised, but oh-so-pleased sound at what he finds, so Smoker pulls away again and lets him look between them, just to give him a chance to change his mind.

As Law tugs his half-hard cock out and strokes firmly, though, the heated look in his eyes only grows darker, hungrier, so Smoker ducks to kiss him again, all teeth and tongue and badly-disguised desperation.

Law isn’t the only curious one. Smoker yanks his gloves off and tosses them aside, then licks deeper between Law’s lips as his hands grip that thin hoodie, pushing the soft material out of the way so he can work Law’s pants open too. They’re tight, so damn tight Smoker wonders how the hell Law manages to fight so fluidly in them, but he’s distracted soon enough by the warm brush of metal against his knuckles when he finally coaxes Law’s cock out.

He glances down, then groans when he sees the glint of a slick gold ring peeking from the slit at the head.

Of course Law has a dick piercing. Of fucking course he does.

The urge to run his tongue along that little ring, to suck more slick precome out of him and taste it on metal nearly knocks Smoker sideways. He resists for now, but only because there’s not enough time in the world for all the ways he wants to take Law apart with his tongue alone.

Besides, Law’s giving him that smug smirk again, like he can see right through him, so Smoker bullies his way back into Law’s personal space, sating himself for the moment with his lips.

As they kiss, Smoker drags the length of his cock along Law’s, then wraps a hand around them both with a groan. Before he can get any more distracted, though, Law’s grabbing his other hand and pushing something against his palm.

Smoker glances down at the small green tube, then arches an eyebrow at Law, who just flushes and shrugs. “It’s safe enough to use.” Smoker squints harder, so Law sighs heavily and continues, “It’s a conductive gel for use with defibrillator pads to prevent contact burns fro—oomph.”

Law thumps an irate hand against Smoker’s shoulder, but doesn’t pull away from the kiss, letting himself be coaxed back out of doctor mode. If anything, both the kiss and the steady rhythm of Smoker’s rough thumb along his piercing have Law melting against him, his arms coming to drape around Smoker’s neck as he arches his hips into his hand.

A long, thunderous rumbling reminds Smoker where they are and how little time they have, to his distinct displeasure. He growls against Law’s lips, only briefly distracted by the way Law clings to him and sighs at the sound.

Before he can get swept up again, Law pulls away from him, dark eyes hot with arousal as he licks his lips. He looks so damn pleased with himself, like a cat that finally caught the mouse he’d been toying with, but rather than piss him off like it should, Smoker finds himself almost unbearably turned on by the contentment all over that pretty face.

With a low hum, Smoker reaches up and plucks Law’s hat right off his head, setting it aside so he can fist one hand in short, dark hair. He pulls lightly, groaning quietly when Law bites his lip and leans his head aside, leaving Smoker plenty of room to drag hot, needy kisses down his soft throat. As he sinks his teeth into the bend of his shoulder, he feels Law’s hands come to fist in his coat, the touch nothing short of encouraging. Smoker responds by dragging his tongue between Law’s earrings, then with a slow, purposeful roll of his hips, one that has Law gasping quietly.

“Let—let me down,” Law murmurs, in contradiction to the way he’s tugging on Smoker’s coat, and the way he’s rolling his hips into every slow pull of his hand.

As much as he’s enjoying himself, Smoker nips at his pulse, then steps back, giving Law just enough room to slide off the console. Law wastes no time shoving his pants down his hips, under his ass, doing an almost adorable little shimmy to get the tight material to work with him.

Before he can think to tease him for it, though, Law’s turning around and bending over the console, and Smoker comes dangerously close to losing all brain function.

Law’s pants are pulled down just enough to give Smoker room to fuck him, but he’s more distracted by the way Law rolls his hips back against his lap. He’s just the right height that Smoker’s cock rests temptingly between his ass cheeks, and he’s not shy in the least about his interest, glancing over his shoulder with a flushed, cocky smirk.

“C’mon, Smo-yan,” he laughs, already sounding breathless, and as annoyed as Smoker probably should be, he’s much more interested in what Law’s offering him so readily. He settles for a token snarl, a warning sound that just has Law shivering and biting his lip.

Smoker takes a brief moment to rip his coat off, dropping it on the same chair as Law’s. He only hesitates for a second before unfastening the straps of his empty jitte harness too, chucking it in roughly the same direction as his gloves. Now free of most of his restraints, Smoker wraps his hands around those bony hips and grinds against Law, the movement sure and steady, outright promising. He gets the flutter of those long eyelashes he’d hoped for, and a tiny, bitten-off moan, too, which has Smoker feeling more than a little impatient.

He rocks his hips forward once more, then rips the cap off the little green tube, messily slicking his fingers with the slippery gel. Setting it aside for now, Smoker shifts back enough that he can rub his wet fingers against Law’s entrance.

“When was the last time you did this?” he finds himself asking, squinting up at Law as he tries to coax him into relaxing.

“Don’t worry about me,” Law replies easily, even as he pushes back against Smoker’s blunt fingers. “Or is it that you’re jealous?”

It’s definitely not the latter, but Smoker can’t exactly admit to the former. So, rather than choose, he leans into Law’s ear and rumbles, “Like you said, we still have work to do, and I need you to not be completely useless when we’re done.”

Law snorts at that, but he can’t hide the way he shivers, clearly picking up on Smoker’s unspoken promise to wreck him.

He does relax, though, enough that Smoker can work one finger into him. Law’s weird medical gel turns out to be pretty good at its job, seeing as he has no trouble giving him a few slow thrusts of his finger, even with how insanely tight he is. It’s hard not to think about how that perfect heat is going to feel around his cock, but Smoker forces himself to focus, sating himself for now with working Law open on his fingers, his other hand stroking up his side, under his hoodie.

As he’s pressing two fingers inside him, working up him to a third, Law drops his forehead against the console with a rough groan. He’s still rocking his hips back, so Smoker doesn’t stop, instead burying his fingers deep and curving them down toward Law’s cock. The angle earns him a breathless moan and an insistent buck of those narrow hips, Law’s movements growing more impatient the harder Smoker rubs over his prostate.

“Smoker,” Law gasps, glaring at him over his shoulder. It’s not the most effective, though, between the pink flush lighting his face and the way he’s clenching his fists against the console. “We really don’t have all day. Put your dick in me before the whole damn building comes down on us both.”

Smoker huffs, but only to cover the way his breath catches at Law’s demand. “Don’t order me around, brat,” he grits out, his voice surprisingly steady. He pulls his fingers out anyway, grabbing the lube again to slick himself up. Law cranes his neck to watch Smoker’s hand move over his aching arousal, his teeth finding his flushed lip, and as tempted as Smoker is to drag this out, he’s feeling pretty damn impatient himself.

He steps close again, shuffling his own pants further down before rocking his hips against Law’s ass. It’s slippery as hell, so Smoker grips himself with one hand, the other bracing Law’s hip, then pushes forward.

It takes some coaxing, but when the thick head of Smoker’s cock finally slips inside Law, both of them freeze for a moment.

With a breathless, “Oh, f-fuck,” Law all but melts for him, so Smoker gets himself together and pushes deeper, already panting with how fucking incredible Law feels wrapped tight around him.

He gets about halfway in before he pauses, his thumbs stroking over Law’s soft, hot skin. He can feel Law’s thighs trembling already, so he starts pulling back, but he barely makes it an inch before Law snaps a hand back and grips Smoker’s hip, the strength of it catching him off guard.

“I’m pretty sure I said I could take you, Smoker,” Law pants, resting his cheek against the console so he can pin Smoker with a molten hot stare. “I wasn’t bluffing. Stop babying me.”

Smoker raises a critical eyebrow, then glances between them, doing his best not to be bewitched by how good Law’s scrawny, lanky body looks stretched wide by his cock.

Law squeezes his hip gently, catching Smoker’s attention again before whispering, “I can take it, promise. C’mon.”

Seems Smoker wasn’t as subtle with his concern as he thought. He clicks his tongue anyway, clinging to the last remaining shred of his stubborn pride even as he shifts his hands to Law’s waist, the touch more soothing than stabilizing. Law brushes his thumb over Smoker’s hip again, then pulls his hand away to brace against the console, already rocking his hips back enticingly.

“I’m not carrying you out of here,” Smoker grouses, even though he’s certain Law wouldn’t let him if he tried.

Law looks like he wants to snark right back at him, so before he can start, Smoker tightens his grip on him, then hilts himself inside him with one steady, insistent thrust.

God, the look on Law’s face.

Those dark, hooded eyes widen, then roll shut as Law melts across the console, his teeth digging into his lip, fists clenched tight, and as hard as he seems to be trying, Law can’t quite bite back the soft, keening moan he lets out as he tightens around Smoker.

Now that he knows Law’s capable of such pretty faces, such tempting noises, all of Smoker’s remaining reservations go flying right out the window.

He’s definitely going to have to carry Law out of here.

Despite his burning impatience to hear what other sounds he can wring out of him, Smoker still gives them both a few seconds to adjust, half for Law’s sake and half for his own. “’S tight,” he grits out, ignoring the breathlessness of his own voice. Law nods vaguely, panting softly as he trembles beneath him, an undeniably aroused frown on his flushed face.

Soon enough, Law rolls his hips back against Smoker, grinding onto his cock with a huffy sigh, so Smoker holds him still, then pulls back.

He pulls almost all the way out, just the head left spreading him open, and Law breathes a grumpy, arguably pouty sound at the feeling. That noise sends a thrill down Smoker’s spine, arousal sparking deep in his gut, so when he thrusts back in, he does it with a rough roll of his hips, burying himself deep in that irresistible heat with a low groan.

Law arches under him at the feeling, his lips parting silently, so Smoker does it again, then again, until they’ve settled into a slow, hard rhythm, just enough that Smoker can keep his wits about him.

It’s so damn hard to focus with how good Law feels around him, how well he takes him, those narrow thighs pressed together to keep him from collapsing. Hell, that’s probably just making him tighter, but Smoker is far from complaining.

Despite the weakness of his knees, Law squirms back into his lap with every deep thrust, so Smoker loosens his grip, letting him move in exchange for letting his hands wander further under Law’s hoodie, along his ribs, over his muscular stomach. He groans raggedly at how easily Law moves with him, leaning further over him to get closer, and the slight change in angle has Law twitching, then whimpering for him.

His voice is shaky, but Smoker still hears him clearly when Law gasps, “Harder.”

Smoker huffs a low moan, but obliges, burying his face in the back of Law’s head as he puts his back into it. Loath as he is to lose contact with that soft, warm skin, Smoker slips one hand out of Law’s hoodie, bracing his weight on the console so he can drag his lips along the nape of Law’s neck as he snaps his hips into him.

The way Law feels around him is fucking hypnotizing. Smoker’s honestly surprised Law’s narrow body can take him at all, let alone this perfectly, and still managing needy little pleas for more. He’s moaning quietly, although as Smoker edges closer to his sweet spot, that raspy voice grows louder, breathier. “Good right there?” he hears himself asking, his voice a low, thunderous rumble that has Law squeezing him tight.

It probably sounds like he’s fishing for praise, but it’s a genuine question; the better he fucks Law, the more of those pretty sounds he’ll get from him, and that’s motivation enough to do a damn good job.

Law nods quickly, his cheek squished against the console, hands now fisted tight in the sleeves of his hoodie for lack of anything else to cling to. God, he’d look so good with those inked fingers tangled in Smoker’s sheets instead, melting across his bed while he traces his tongue all along the tattoos hidden under this damn hoodie—

Catching up to himself, Smoker shakes his head slightly. He’s getting way too far ahead of himself, and those thoughts are... distracting.

He huffs and centers himself again, focusing all his attention on drawing more of those breathy, overwhelmed little sounds out of Law to keep his mind from wandering to such dangerous places.

Fortunately, Law’s pretty damn easy to focus on.

Even as Smoker picks up the pace, fucking him harder, deeper, and even as Law’s thighs threaten to give out under him, he still manages to arch back into every thrust, fitting himself firmly into Smoker’s lap with these pretty, brainless little gasps. Smoker pants against the curve of his shoulder, then nudges the fabric of Law’s hoodie aside until he can sink his teeth into his pulse.

“Fuck!” Law all but yelps, grinding back hard and tightening around Smoker so suddenly it makes his vision blur. Law doesn’t push him off, though, nor does he complain, so Smoker bites him again, not hard enough to really hurt but just enough to coax a loud, shaky moan out of him. He soothes the feeling with hot, messy kisses, working his way up until he can toy with Law’s pierced ear, groaning raggedly when Law tilts his head into the feeling, his thighs trembling where they’re braced against Smoker’s.

As he’s pounding into him, Smoker sighs against the turn of his jaw, the hand not supporting his weight still tracing along the strong lines of Law’s abdomen, his bony hips. He hasn’t been paying much attention to those motions beyond how warm, how smooth and solid Law’s stomach is, but when he slips his hand under his hoodie again, he brushes the pads of his fingers over one of Law’s nipples, and once again, the feeling of warm metal draws all of his focus.

His hips stall briefly, which gives Law room to take a deep breath, melting under him even as he arches into the hand on his chest. He breathes a low, teasing chuckle, though, throwing a smug look over his shoulder. “Never took you for the piercing type,” he hums, his tongue wetting his lips when Smoker glances at him.

Hell, Smoker hadn’t either, but just based on the way his cock twitches when he squeezes Law’s pierced nipple, it seems he has more than a few things he’s gonna have to admit to himself.

Rather than respond, Smoker growls in warning, even though he knows it just makes Law shiver deliciously. He nips at Law’s earlobe again, then curiously drags his hand across his chest to his other nipple.

They’re both fucking pierced. God dammit.

Smoker needs both of his hands on Law now, needs to touch him, to hold him. He’s not willing to lose the warmth of Law’s slender back against his skin, though, so when he stands up straight, he scoops Law up with him. He holds him against his chest, supporting him with his own body as best he can so he can slip both hands under Law’s hoodie.

He grabs the fabric and shoves it up under Law’s chin, far enough out of his way that when he looks over Law’s shoulder, he can see those dark, hard nipples, each pierced with simple gold barbells. Smoker grinds deep into him, rumbling lowly against his ear, but that damning sound is drowned out by the raspy, stuttering moan Law lets out.

That moan is loud, louder than Smoker had expected to hear from him, but the way he’s arching back into Smoker’s lap and quivering makes it readily apparent how Law feels about the change in angle.

He’ll deny it for the rest of time, but the moan Smoker muffles against Law’s temple is desperate, needy, his entire being buzzing with the craving for more.

As he starts moving his hips again, working back up to the quick, deep thrusts from before, Smoker spreads his fingers over Law’s tattooed chest, groaning raggedly at how slender he is. He drags the pads of his fingers over Law’s nipples, playing with sensitive skin, with delicate piercings, so intently watching his own movements that he almost misses the way Law throws his head back against Smoker’s shoulder.

He doesn’t miss it, though. He doesn’t miss the way those dark eyes roll closed, either, nor the way Law hooks one trembling hand around the back of Smoker’s neck, his spine curved so he can rock back onto Smoker’s cock even as he arches into the hands on his chest.

It’s so much, so much that Smoker doesn’t know how he’s lived without. He groans again, nudging his nose behind Law’s ear as he fucks him in deep, grinding thrusts.

Law’s breath hitches hard, his back arching tighter, and the moan he lets out this time is going to haunt Smoker’s more pleasant dreams for the rest of his life. It’s breathless, brainless, slipping from between those bitten lips before Law can even try to swallow it down, and Smoker’s so bewitched by the sound alone that it takes him a few seconds to realize what exactly Law had just moaned.

Fortunately, Law does it again, leaving Smoker with no room to second guess his senses.

“Smoker,” Law whines, his voice devoid of his usual smugness or derision. It’s just Law, calling Smoker’s name and melting into his hands, into his rough, needy thrusts, squeezing tight around him as he all but begs for more.

The building gives a particularly troublesome rumble then, but Smoker can’t find it in him to care about that right now, especially not when Law drags his short nails along the nape of his neck with a stuttering sigh. His other hand comes to brace on Smoker’s wrist, inked fingers clinging to him as he tweaks his nipples.

Smoker groans roughly and fucks him harder, his own eyes briefly fluttering closed at the feeling. He holds him closer to his chest, desperate for the tight press of their bodies, straining to hear the sounds of skin on skin over the now-constant thunder shaking the lab.

This angle has Law squirming in his hold, his hands gripping tighter, lips parted around short, pleading moans until he finally gathers himself enough to gasp, “There, right there, fuck Smoker—”

He sounds so fucking close, so worked up, so frantic, and god, all Smoker wants is to make him come so hard he sees stars.

Breathing a low curse of his own, Smoker drags one hand down Law’s tense stomach, down to where his flushed, pierced cock bounces with every grinding thrust. He’s dripping, clearly desperate to be touched, that gold ring slick and shining in the stuttering lights.

Smoker wastes no time wrapping his fingers around him, sighing hot at how wet he is, at the satisfying weight of him in his palm. Law twitches hard at that touch alone, but when Smoker strokes him in time to his quick thrusts, gently twisting his wrist around the soaked head, every muscle in that lithe body tenses.

Law chokes out a shocked, noisy moan, his nails digging into Smoker’s skin, only stunned for a moment before he’s writhing.

He bucks his hips hard, fucking himself on Smoker’s cock, then rocking into his tight, rough fist, but what catches Smoker’s attention the most is the way Law’s nearly sobbing for him, so busy enjoying the way their bodies meet he doesn’t even think to stifle himself.

Smoker watches him squirm, meeting his needy, erratic movements as best he can, and he’s so distracted by how fucking gorgeous Law looks like this that his own orgasm slips out of his mind. His whole rattling world narrows down to how good Law sounds as his orgasm builds, and to how pretty he is when he’s this lost in pleasure.

With as closely as he’s watching, Smoker gets to see perfectly the way Law’s body twitches and tenses when he finally falls.

As he comes around Smoker, spilling hot over his quick knuckles, Law’s lips part brainlessly, his honey eyes rolling closed. Smoker fucks him through it, barely noticing the way he’s growling at the sight, the sound, the feeling. All he has time for is Law, every quake of his body, the wet mess he’s making of his hand and of the console, memorizing every broken little whine he gets out of him until that tightly arched body goes limp against him.

Law slumps into his arms, gasping for air, and that’s about the point when Smoker realizes how perilously close he is, and when he remembers the two terms he’d agreed to at the start of this.

He just barely manages to pull out before he comes. The pouty little sound Law makes when he does absolutely does not help.

Smoker grinds up against Law’s ass, already coming in hot streaks all over the small of his back, muffling his desperate moan in dark, mussed hair. With as worked up as he’d apparently been, Smoker only manages to thrust once, twice more against that soft skin, his cock slipping through his mess, before the feeling becomes overwhelming and his hips shudder to a halt.

They linger for just a few moments, catching their breath and trembling as they lean on each other. The hand still wrapped around the nape of Smoker’s neck squeezes gently, almost affectionately, but rather than acknowledge that, Smoker just buries his face in the curve of Law’s shoulder.

Far too soon, Law tenses hard against Smoker, completely different from how he had before. Smoker frowns into Law’s hoodie, expecting to be thrown off, or just straight up cut in half.

He’s certainly not expecting Law to lean over and click through security feeds until he brings up a scene of a familiar rubbery figure standing over what looks like a squirming, steaming pile of bloody sheets.

Law grinds his teeth hard, his voice boiling with irritation as he seethes, “Straw Hat-ya!”

Smoker looks up at the screen, watching as the sheets bolt upright, revealing the source of all the blood: the squashed remains of Caesar Clown’s face.

“He’s gonna fucking kill him,” Law spits, already peeling himself out of Smoker’s hold. He’s not quite ready to let go just yet, though, so Smoker wraps his arm around Law’s waist and holds him still. Law snarls at him over his shoulder, but if he really wanted to get away, he could, even with how visibly his thighs are shaking. “Oi, quit clinging to me.”

Smoker raises an eyebrow, pointedly fisting his hand in Law’s hoodie. “Tissues.”

Those sharp eyes narrow at him, but when Smoker tugs the hoodie up further, preventing it from acquiring some very interesting new stains, Law catches on. He flushes loudly, then calls on his ability to throw a box of tissues from the desk across the room toward them. “You made a damn mess,” Law grouses, even as he turns forward and allows Smoker to wipe his dripping come off the small of his back.

“It was either on your back or in your ass, brat,” Smoker grumbles right back, trying not to sound as satisfied as he is.

Clicking his tongue irritably, Law elects to ignore him, instead glaring at the fight unfolding on the screen. Smoker finishes cleaning him up, then reluctantly lets him go, so invested in pointedly ignoring his own disappointment at the loss of his warmth that he misses the way Law shivers.

As Smoker’s wiping himself down, then cleaning off his hand, Law pulls his pants back up, watching Straw Hat so intently that he doesn’t even try to hide the distinctly adorable little hop he has to do to tug the tight material up over his ass.

In an effort to distract himself, Smoker tosses the tissues aside and hikes his own pants up. “What do you care if Straw Hat kills him? I’m arresting whatever’s left of that freak, anyway.”

He’d said it casually enough, because it’s true, but the look Law gives him over his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

“No!” Law blurts, his eyes widening. He turns to face Smoker then, a frown spreading across his still-flushed face. “You can’t have him yet. As much as I’d like to see him kill Caesar, I need that asshole alive.”

Smoker hooks his thumbs in his now-fastened belt, tilting his head as he looks Law over. “He’s a wanted criminal, and an absolute bastard at that,” he rumbles. He doesn’t need to specify that Caesar’s also dangerous, a constant, screaming threat, so he doesn’t, but his unspoken concern stings on the tip of his tongue. “Why should I let you make off with him?”

Law considers him anxiously for a moment, his teeth subtly finding his lip as he runs a hand through his badly-mussed hair. Finally, he heaves a put-upon sigh, then murmurs, “You said earlier that you never understood why I joined the Warlords.”

Raising an eyebrow, Smoker stares down at him, fighting the urge to soothe Law’s fidgeting with his own hands. “Still don’t.”

“It’s because of him.” Law lowers his gaze, his expression bitter. “Joker. If my plan works out, I’ll cause enough trouble that even the World Government will have to think twice about tolerating pirates. And...” Law shrinks even further, but there’s a decidedly manic spark in his eyes when he looks up at Smoker again. “And I’ll get to pull the trigger and watch everything that fucking monster worked so hard for come crashing down around him.”

That wild glint sharpens, but Law’s gaze is miles away, his steady hands fisted tight, knuckles white.

He snaps out of it quickly, but Smoker knows trauma well enough when he sees it. Law’s voice is admirably level when he continues, “But I need Caesar alive and in my custody for any of that to happen. Sorry, but I can’t let you take him.”

Smoker sighs heavily, digging the heel of his hand into his eye as he thinks. He reaches for his coat, grabbing and lighting a fresh pair of cigars, grateful for the familiar feeling of thick, fragrant smoke rolling over his tongue. He pockets his lighter and blows a lazy stream of smoke toward the quaking ceiling, then invites himself right back into Law’s personal space.

To his credit, Law doesn’t recoil from him, stubbornly setting his jaw even as Smoker braces his hands on the console on either side of him and boxes him in. “Are you trying to get me fired, Law?”

Law frowns thoughtfully, head tilted in a way that Smoker absolutely does not find cute. “I don’t follow.”

“I know you’re not stupid.” Snorting a heavy plume of smoke, he leans closer to Law and growls, “We’re on a heavily restricted island, the Straw Hat crew and notorious troublemaker Trafalgar Law are all slipping through my fingers yet again, and now you want me to let Caesar go too?” Law blinks widely at him, lips briefly parted in surprise. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to keep my job, brat.”

Law wets his lips, then carefully reaches up and plucks Smoker’s cigars from between his teeth. Smoker would complain, but he’s fairly distracted by the way Law presses his lanky body against him, draping one arm around his neck. Holding the cigars to the side, Law leans up and brushes his lips against Smoker’s, those pretty eyes fluttering closed.

Smoker does his best to remain neutral, but he can’t help resting one hand on Law’s bony hip, slipping his thumb under his hoodie as he presses into the kiss.

It’s so different from their kisses earlier, just as passionate but much more patient, almost appreciative, grateful. Those clever fingers comb through Smoker’s hair, short nails scratching through the shaved hair on the back of his head, and for a moment, Smoker forgets again that the lab’s about to collapse on them. Besides, this is probably the only thanks he’s going to get for letting all these damn pirates escape, so it’s in his best interest to make the most of it.

A shrill alarm blares from somewhere close by, though, echoing hauntingly down the halls, so Smoker nips at Law’s lower lip, then grouses, “You’re not seducing me again. Answer my question.”

Law blinks at him, having clearly forgotten their situation for a moment too. Smoker kind of doubts Law would actually stoop to bribing him with his body, but the brief confusion on his face once again confirms that Smoker’s not the only one who keeps getting lost in whatever it is that’s happening between them.

“You uncovered a pretty major Navy scandal, didn’t you?” Law asks, his fingers still soothing through Smoker’s undercut. “You found out that the base commander of G-5 was a pirate working for one of those shitty Warlords, and that he’s been covering up the mass abduction of children and prisoners for years.” Smoker frowns deeply, but before he can say anything, Law’s kissing him again, this time teasingly slipping his tongue between Smoker’s lips just before he leans away. “I don’t think they’ll fire you. Not after you almost died to protect the Navy’s precious pride.”

“Don’t fucking burden me with your success, Law,” Smoker snarls. “All of this was either you or Straw Hat.”

Law snorts quietly, then butts his head against Smoker’s almost affectionately. “I had no idea Vergo would be here,” he says, which probably isn’t a lie, but it’s certainly distracting from the truth. “He tried to stop me from destroying Joker’s baby. Just some Navy bastard who got in my way.”

Smoker glares at Law, only a little unnerved by how quickly he’d managed to spin all this so Smoker comes out on top. Before he can protest, though, Law’s kissing him one more time, slow and almost sweet, and damn it, Smoker can’t help how badly he wants to hold him.

Unfortunately, Law pulls away before he can, which is disappointing but probably for the better.

He hands Smoker’s cigars back, then easily pushes past him to collect his things. “Come on,” he says softly. “We need to go get the SAD cart before Straw Hat-ya kills Caesar and sinks the whole damn island.”

As if to encourage them, the building quakes violently, dust shaking loose from the ceiling as the lights and video feeds take turns sputtering in and out. Smoker curses under his breath, but yanks his coat and gloves back on, grabbing his harness on his way out of the room after Law.

While Smoker’s crouching beside the SAD cart, trying to wrap his aching head around the convoluted-ass brake system keeping it parked, Law hovers nearby.

Normally, this wouldn’t faze Smoker. Law just hovers sometimes, whether he means to or not. Given the way he looks, the way he holds himself, the way he moves around in the world, Law doesn’t usually get to blend in with his environment.

(At least, Smoker’s never been able to overlook him. He assumes the experience is universal.)

Right now, though, Law’s hovering because he has something he wants to say, and that’s what’s getting to Smoker.

He doesn’t even really know how he knows. It’s just a feeling he has, a tense anticipation lingering in the air between them. Neither of them have looked at each other since they found the cart, and neither of them have said anything, either. There’s no accounting for Law’s reasoning, but as for Smoker, he doesn’t really trust himself to look Law in the eye and not kiss him again.

After some rather vigorous fiddling, the brake releases with an alarming metal clunk, and it takes Smoker’s patience with it.

“What, brat.”

Law breathes an affronted noise. He’s probably sulking, too, his lower lip just barely poking out, so Smoker very carefully doesn’t look at him as he stands and kicks the cart loose on its track.

By the time he’s deemed the cart movable, Law has finally found his words.

“This is yours.”

Smoker looks over just in time to catch a gelatinous, ominously-throbbing cube containing a human heart. He wishes this was the weirdest part of his day.

When he looks up again, Law’s already got one of the cart’s pull chains hooked over his shoulder. He’s leaning all his weight into it, too, his entire body slanted at an almost comical angle, trying and failing to coax the cart forward with only one chain.

To his credit, Smoker does try to ask questions. “Where did you—”

“Are you going to help or not?” Law pointedly complains over him, his stubbornness made damn clear.

Breathing an exasperated cloud of smoke, Smoker jiggles the heart’s unnervingly squishy weight in his hand and tries again. “How do you know it’s mine?”

Law’s frown deepens. “Squeeze it and see what happens.”

Yeah, he could do that. If he’s gentle enough, it might not even hurt.

Instead, Smoker considers that frown for a long moment, then silently crams the heart back into his chest.

The look Law gives him is downright incredulous. “You didn’t—”

“No need,” Smoker interrupts, happy to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Law opens his mouth to complain more, but decides against it, instead hiding under the brim of his hat and leaning harder on his chain.

As he moves forward and picks up the other chain, their combined effort finally convincing the damn cart to move, Smoker takes a risk in the name of science.

Rather than refusing to subject himself to how cute Law can be if he’s not thinking about what his face is doing, Smoker stares right at the little brat as he stews in embarrassment, like it’s so hard for him to believe that Smoker would just trust him at his word.

More important than Law’s flustered sulking, though, is the faint pink flush that blooms over his pretty face, all the way up to his ears, nearly hidden beneath blood and dirt and bruises.

This time, the wild, hopeless fluttering of Smoker’s dumbass heart sits right between his lungs where it’s supposed to, the feeling almost foreign after so long spent hiding... wherever the fuck Law had been storing it.

Yup. It’s his, all right.

After they’ve made it out relatively intact, Navy and pirate alike sprawled out along the icy beach, eating suspiciously good food lovingly prepared by the Straw Hat cook, Smoker isn’t expecting Law to so much as breathe in his direction.

Which is why, when a familiar, tattooed hand pops into his field of vision with a bowl of stew, Smoker stares at Law like he’d grown a second, equally pretty head.

He takes the stew, though, and as much as he dislikes how far across the scuffed, uneven, footprint-ridden line in the snow Law sits, he doesn’t complain. It’s easier for him to keep his head on straight with a solid ten feet of space between them, anyway.

Still, when he call Law’s name, it takes everything he has left to sound at least somewhat neutral, and not as smitten as he feels.

The only indication Law’s listening is the way he tilts an ear toward him, but it’s enough. “I know you don’t believe I’d actually keep my promise to a pirate. If you really wanted to silence me, you’ve had plenty of chances to kill me.”

Smoker pauses then, wondering if pointing out Law’s kindness so plainly is going to get him cut in half after all, then deciding he doesn’t really care. What he does care about, though, is the rest of Law’s plan, because just from what little he’s heard so far, there’s no way it doesn’t end messy.

It’s not like he can openly admit that he’s worried. His pride would never allow it, and neither would Law’s. Instead, Smoker phrases his question the only way he can think of.

“What are you up to, taking advantage of Straw Hat?”

It seems Law’s still not done surprising him. He laughs at that, the sound a puff of fog slipping between his soft lips, then murmurs, “I’m taking advantage of him? Maybe he’s taking advantage of me.”

Smoker gives him a dirty look, mostly because neither of them really believe Straw Hat’s capable of intentionally taking advantage of anyone, his own damn self included.

“There’s no particular reason that I didn’t kill you, White Hunter-ya,” Law says into his stew. Smoker watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious, until Law carelessly tosses his empty bowl aside, then stands and sighs, “By the way, I’m thinking about going to Green Bit.”

Smoker almost chokes on his stew.

He squints up at Law, who lets his gaze naturally follow the chaos of the banquet until their eyes meet.

Law looks uncomfortable, conflicted. He’s already given up more than ever before, and Smoker doesn’t have to remind him that he’s a marine, with the capability to fuck up the entirety of Law’s carefully laid plans with the tiniest scrap of information.

Besides, it’s not like Law had slipped up or misspoken.

He’s doing that thing again, where he says one thing but means something else entirely, a language Smoker’s barely starting to get the hang of.

He thinks of the few times he’s really tried to get information out of Law. How the little brat would spin him irritating riddles, fluttering by on non-answers and misdirection. Or worse, when Law had just plain glared at him and insisted he can’t help him, that he’d just get in his way.

Law’s refusal to answer a single damn question used to piss Smoker off to no end, but after Vergo, he has no choice but to understand why Law never gave him so much as an inch.

This is something completely different. Smoker waits for him to finish, not even breathing for fear of sending him running.

Law subtly bites the corner of his lip, his grip around his sword tightening anxiously as he looks Smoker in the eye and says, “I hope I can handle Straw Hat-ya’s crew.”

Gritting his teeth on his cigars, Smoker stares up at him, but Law breaks his own spell by turning to size up Joker’s assassins.

He’s only just started learning Law’s secret, complicated language, but there’s no doubting the meaning hidden between his words.

‘Help me.’

Later, that unspoken plea is close to the only thing keeping him alive after Doflamingo runs a train on his already ragged ass. That, and Law’s haunted, vulnerable stare, the uncertainty lying deep within him, the old scars that still hurt far too badly...

Thanks to his medic and Kuzan’s intervention, Smoker lives out of spite. He knows going to Green Bit will kill him in this state, not to mention the issue of the tanker full of children that somehow became his responsibility, but he can’t just leave Law to die in Dressrosa. Not after he finally, finally opened up and asked for help, not now that he knows how perfectly Law fits in his arms, against his lips, not now that he knows Law trusts him.

Days later, he’s still yelling at Tashigi, who flat out refuses to let him go to Dressrosa, even alone.

“You think I don’t understand, Smoker-san,” she snaps, having had enough of his constant bitching. “But I do. I understand completely. What I don’t understand is why you want to go all the way to Dressrosa just so Law can watch Doflamingo murder you!”

Smoker scowls at her, but she has a point. She always has a damn point, and every once in a while, it pisses him the hell off.

Before he can come up with a retort, Tashigi huffs, then peels the transponder snail off of her arm and sets it gently on the nightstand. “I know you want to help him,” she breathes, doing him the favor of not looking at him as she calls him out. “And I know you think you’re the only one who can, just because you’re the only one he asked, aside from Straw Hat. But Admi—Kuzan tried to warn you too. This isn’t a pill you can swallow on your own.”

Smoker drags a hand down his face, then immediately regrets it when the motion tugs on the razor wire slices Doflamingo had left him with.

Tashigi’s right. So was Kuzan, for that matter. This whole situation is out of Smoker’s pay grade, and he knows it. That doesn’t change the fact that he fucking hates that he can’t help Law himself.

She gives him one last meaningful glance, and when he begrudgingly nods, she dials the number.

The snail mutters for a few long seconds before opening blind eyes and, in a voice like gravel, rumbles, “Yes?”

Tashigi gives the snail a smart salute. “Good afternoon, sir! This is Tashigi!”

“Oh, hello, captain,” the snail croaks. “How’s the weather?”

“Terrible, sir, thank you for asking.” She hesitates for a moment, then cuts right to the point. “We have some rather sensitive updates from Punk Hazard.”

“Hm? Well, go right ahead, then.”

Tashigi salutes again, her face determined. “Yessir, Issho-san.”

Notes:

i have a twittr
also hey if you liked this, great news! there's a sequel! it's even fucking longer, and absurdly self-indulgent! that'll be around whenever i finish proofing it ahah

Series this work belongs to:

Part 1 of into the sea of waking dreams Next Work ⊟

Actions

Kudos

OtakuForever5, tokineann, sunflowerisbetterthantournesol, yyakitori, rezer234, SaphirGirl, ParkerIsLost, DewiOn, Shadowbeastclaw, gingeralejasminetea, rhapsodybywam, JoyJulietta_990E, NoriM9, SeveralGnomes, Ash_Asa, Infrangible, marklyjopping, Bohemian_now, fairyscopes, germa, srsd2311, yoonichu, HappyKitty, fen, grxceee, lullabyforacat, rottenspiderwebs, HenYu17, BalrogSlayer, captainmarion, greenleafofmirkwood, Sunangel12, TimeStop, TheDaughterOfHades, Melmoomnomnom21, Triss_Riva, FerminaMaga, NekoMoon032, springywinter, Cockgirl, moroselitanies, Saira91, CookiesandtheDead, yearningman, 17_Ananas_for_Mila, abcdgaf, Regal_Bloom476, smarmsi, Loriache, TheOneAndOnlyFin, and 304 more users as well as 121 guests left kudos on this work!

Archive of Our Own^beta

Actions

Work Header