[Mugiwara-verse] "You can fool them," Law growls under his breath, finally catching the woman alone after days of waiting and watching. "The Straw Hats go out of their way to see the good in others - irritatingly so, they will eat up your story...one finely crafted and carefully tuned, I've no doubt," he flicks the bill of his hat upward so that he can look directly into her owl-like eyes. "But I know /you/, Monet. I underestimated you once; shame on me. I won't make that mistake a second time."
She had been waiting for this since she had become a part of the crew. Naturally, the most mistrusting man in the world would have a lot to say about her joining the Mugiwara even if it shouldn’t be any of his damn business. But, yet again, Trafalgar Law was known for giving his unsolicited opinion just as he was known for being an antisocial grump and a miserable twit.
Nothing to be surprised about here.
Her yellow eyes are half-lidded as he speaks, the corner of her mouth tilted upwards, finding this rather satisfying. His frustration, that anger inside of him. This would imply even less hours of sleep for a man that didn’t sleep that much to begin with. The power that he was unconsciously giving her with admitting this out loud. A power she would abuse to mess up with him- just because it amused her.
She leans closer, ever so slightly, to speak something just meant for him to hear. “You know jackshit about me, Law.” Her tongue trails along her upper lip, her gaze on his, eyes slightly squinting, measuring him, and Monet smiles. “But suit yourself. Keep tabs on me. Be my guest.” She will watch him slowly go insane and take great amusement from it.
'Keep tabs on me'. These four syllables trigger the hint of a memory, the type where only the subconscious picks up on the specifics - cloudy, snowy days on Punk Hazard, that eerie feeling being watched - while the conscious, active reaction was northing more than a shock of incredulity to the system.
The irony.
"I know enough," he grunts, a low noise something like a scoff. "I don't need to know you as a person - I only need to know for whom you chose to work, and that, Monet…I know."
His head lowers, the bill of his cap casting its typical shadow across his face. A closing off, a barrier that won't let her in closer; he'd cross his arms if the odachi wasn't held over his shoulder.
"He loves a martyr, Monet. You could have been a Donquixote saint."
The shadow lifts. Law meets her eyes with a grin. "What a waste of a perfectly good death."
