Hello, I'm Monica! This blog is a hodgepodge of things I like. Below is a list of the main things that take up all the space in my brain. This list will change often, and things will fade in an out of my focus randomly.
Current Main Interests:
🍂 Coral Island
🍂 One Piece
🍂 Project Hail Mary
🍂 Learning About PS1 & PS2 Era Games
🍂 Learning About Point & Click Adventure Games
🍂 Long Video Essays About Niche Topics (Recommendations are Welcome. By long I mean at least an hour)
A Taste of Home (Trafalgar Law x Reader x Eustass Kid) Chapter II
Synopsis: Hailing from the North Blue and a founding member of Kid’s crew, you’re the resident, overworked cook on the Victoria Punk. Unable to sleep, Trafalgar Law lends you his bed. Your cooking only brings you closer to the Heart Pirate crew and their captain.
Word Count: 9k
Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, KidPiratesCook!Reader, Arguments, Sleep-Deprivation, Forbidden Relationship, Heist
Notes: I’m blaming the delay on this one on suddenly craving noodles every time I tried to complete it.
Chapter I
You woke up gently the next morning, consciousness massaging at your body until your eyes fluttered open to the diffused daylight. You let out a soft moan into the pillow, soft blankets twisting around you as you turned on your side. You settled back into the mattress.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt well-rested, let alone properly relaxed. You stretched your legs out, a few muted cracks popping from your overworked joints. The night’s sleep relieved you of the heaviness you’d been carrying, melting the stress away into the cozy warmth surrounding you.
You nestled farther into the wool blanket you’d pulled over yourself during the night. It’d been a while since you were able to wake up on your own terms, and the gentle rocking of the submarine nearly lulled you back to sleep. Your forehead relaxed as you drifted deeper into the plush under your head. The curtain of sleep began to draw over you again.
Wait.
Submarine.
You shot up in bed, a sharp electric pang shooting through your chest.
For one stupid, groggy moment, you had no idea where you were.
You certainly weren’t in your own quarters. The room around you was cool and lit gently by the miniscule sunlight that poured through the porthole. The walls were metal, and the ceiling hung low. The hall outside remained silent as a church, and the scent of clean fabric, soap, and nitrile gloves laced the light breeze that blew from the vents.
The memory of Law hit you at the same time the knot in your stomach did. You had been desperate, and in your sleep-deprived state, you were certain you would have passed out in a dumpster if it were quiet enough.
But this wasn’t a dumpster.
No, this was—
“Shit,” you breathed, tossing your legs over the side of the mattress to walk toward the porthole.
You hardly made it two steps from the window before you recoiled. You flinched at the light that trickled through. The sun was brighter than it should have been.
You scrambled toward the clock on the desk before you froze.
Noon.
It was past noon.
You slept through the entire morning. On the first day you promised to help Sanji, you missed breakfast service, prep, cleanup—hell, you likely missed lunch prep if you hadn’t already missed lunch.
Considering how everyone was on high alert in preparation for the raid on Onigashima, you wouldn’t be surprised if your crew had torn half the harbor apart looking for you. Or worse.
Your fingers fumbled as you pulled on your shoes.
The morning passed.
Half the day had passed with you missing.
And you were in Trafalgar Law’s bed.
You made short work of the locks, throwing your body weight into heaving the heavy door open. You glanced over your shoulder, quickly scanning the room to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind.
But you stopped dead as you turned to face the hallway.
The ship had been so quiet that you nearly forgot that a crew lived there.
Nearly.
The two men at the far end of the corridor had gone as still as you. They gaped, their lips poised to say something before they exchanged glances quietly.
“Uh,” the one with the penguin hat blurted. “Wait…”
The one in the orca hat blinked at you a few times. “Is that—?”
You stood in the doorway of Law’s cabin in your slept-in clothes, messy hair, and half-toggled-on shoes.
“I’m not—” you started before falling silent. You didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. “How do I get out of here?”
They both instinctively stepped back.
“Down this hall.” Penguin-Hat pointed down the corridor.
Orca-Hat pointed up. “Up the stairs and to the left, then straight to the main hatch.”
You glanced away, bobbing your head unconvincingly. You sped down the hall at a pace just short of a jog. As you passed Orca-Hat and Penguin-Hat, you refused to look at them.
You scurried through the metal corridors as quickly as you could muster. You rounded the corner, smoothing out your shirt before your left heel finally settled comfortably in your shoe.
What looked awfully like a main door sat straight ahead, but the closer you grew, the longer you stalled.
It wasn’t enough that you’d stayed the night in Trafalgar Law’s cabin. You could come up with several excuses for your absence that you could force Kid to buy with sheer stubbornness alone.
At the very least, your crew had to have noticed your absence by now. There was only so much pounding they could do on your door before someone noticed your cabin was empty. You might’ve been able to explain your absence for the night. The crew barely held a sleep schedule as it was. You had just fought with Kid. If you’d been gone for a few hours, you could’ve explained that you were blowing off steam.
But leaving the Polar Tang in broad daylight was another beast.
Perhaps if it were still early in the morning, you could’ve slipped out quietly, but given the time of day, you knew everyone was gathered on the shore outside that door. The question wasn’t if someone would spot you, but who.
You heaved a breath in, attempting to muster your most neutral energy as you stepped onto the deck. You kept your head down all the way to the gangway, and once you reached the shore, your stride slowed.
You glanced around.
Perhaps you got lucky. With all the preparation and the people gathered, no one might have noticed your absence. The harbor bustled with people, cargo, and plans far more important than where you’d been sleeping last night.
Maybe you didn’t have to explain a thing. Maybe you could get back to the Victoria Punk and slip out quietly to help Sanji as if you’d been there all morning. If you played it cool enough, you might even convince yourself that this was all a part of your normal routine: climbing out your window in the middle of the night and returning from a rival crew’s submarine looking a little too well-rested and guilty.
But as you continued toward the Victoria Punk, a familiar voice rang out loudly over the usual commotion of the docks.
“I heard what you said! Say it again!”
“I wasn’t talking about your crewmate, I swear.”
“Bullshit! You know something.”
Your eyes widened as you scrambled across the sand. Just as you dreaded, a familiar patch of red hair came into view. A familiar figure was shrunken in his shadow.
“I don’t know anything about your crew,” she whimpered.
You recognized her curly hair. You remembered seeing her the night before. That was the woman who was on watch when you entered the Polar Tang.
You picked up your pace, rushing forward, but someone intervened before you could.
“You’re done interrogating my crew.”
Law stepped out of the gathered crowd. You barely spied him amid the bustling chaos, only catching part of his hat and a tuft of dark hair behind his ear.
The curly-haired woman’s shoulders eased by a fraction.
Kid scowled. “One of mine has been missin’ all day, and your crew knows something about it!” he roared.
The panic burning in your chest curdled fast into annoyed, familiar rage. Your pace slowed, turning the last stretch into a deliberate march. By the time you reached the edge of the crowd, you were too pissed off to feel embarrassed.
“Hey, dipshit!” you spat, pushing yourself to the middle of the spectacle.
Kid’s head immediately snapped toward the sound of your voice. His eye twitched with the smallest flinch.
You shoved past the crowd and planted yourself a short distance away, glaring at him like you had any rank to pull.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you asked, judding your chin upward. “pickin’ fights here like a goddamn idiot?”
Kid stared for half a moment. An old expression of guilt flashed across his light-blue eyes, as if you’d caught him when you’d both been younger, spoon in hand and ready to drag him away by the ear.
Then, his jaw clenched. Kid immediately advanced toward you, pushing the curly-haired Heart pirate out of the way as he went. Red rage began to gather under his skin.
“The hell do you think I’m doin’?” he barked. “When you’re the one who vanished, Shrimp?”
He stopped too close in front of you, his chest jutting out and shoulders squared in an animalistic display of dominance. You didn’t back down. You never had before. You stood with your feet planted firmly in the sand, arms crossed, and nose upturned.
“And that means you get to harass random girls?” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Use your damn head.”
You slipped past him and through the other side of the quickly dispersing crowd. Kid followed on your heel.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that around strangers,” he seethed.
“Don’t act like a dipshit, and I won't call you a dipshit,” you bit back.
“Where the fuck were you?”
The second his hand caught the back of your sleeve, you wheeled around to smack it away. Kid jerked back before you even connected. Annoyance flashed across his face, like he was pissed at himself for his reflex.
“If you want a fight, save it for the raid,” you snapped, not waiting for his answer.
You continued to the Victoria Punk, the sound of metal clattering behind every step you.
The ship descended the moment you hit the deck.
“Where the hell were you?”
“You missed breakfast—”
“We were starving without you here!”
“Thought you fell overboard—”
“Now that you’re here, can you make me—?”
The relaxation you were miraculously gifted the night before vanished instantly.
You shoved your way through without a word. You didn’t have time to pick fights, not when Sanji just handled breakfast service for half the island by himself.
God, you felt like you were doing that most days.
When you turned down the corridor to your quarters, you stopped so hard you nearly slipped out of your shoes.
Ahead of you was your door.
Not in the doorframe.
On the fucking ground.
The slab of wood had two large holes punched out of the center. The hinges were still attached to splinters from the frame. The knob sat on the floor a few feet down the hall.
And for a second, all you could do was stare. Perhaps if you blinked fast enough, the wood would mend together in fear of disappointing you further. But it didn’t, and a hard pit sat in your stomach.
The uproar on the deck rang as white noise in your ears, as did the steps that stopped behind you.
“Someone was worried.” Killer’s voice came from somewhere over your shoulder, low enough to cut through the noise. “Said you weren’t answering.”
You didn’t turn around to face him. You didn’t know what you were going to do if you moved from the spot you stood. You didn’t know what you were going to say, and out of everyone, Killer was the last person you wanted to take your anger out on.
“Not to say it was right,” he said. “I know you had a fight with Kid last night, too. That probably doesn’t help.”
Then, slowly, you stepped toward your room. The wooden door shifted under your shoes as you climbed over it and into your bedroom.
Your wardrobe sat open, your clothes pushed to one side. The cookbooks on your desk had been thrown to the floor. Pages crumpled and folded under heavy spines. The window remained open, just as you’d left it the night before.
Killer lingered in the hallway, watching through the holes in his mask as you reached for a duffel bag under your bed.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
You didn’t look at him. You just started packing. You shoved clean clothes, your knife roll, a few aprons, and anything you could grab without thinking too hard about it into your bag. At the washstand, you snatched what you needed and went through the bare bones of your usual routine on instinct.
“What does it look like?”
You brushed your teeth with one hand and scrubbed your face with the other. Then you spat, rinsed your brush, wrapped it in a clean rag, and threw it into your bag with everything else.
After you did the least you could to wrangle your hair into a somewhat presentable state, you stripped off the clothes you’d slept in and reached into the wardrobe for something clean.
Killer shifted his posture in the corner of your eye, turning to angle himself toward the wall as you threw on a fresh outfit. It was only then that you noticed the toolbox in his hand.
“There’s no way you can fix that,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You’re good, but you’re not that good.”
“Where are you planning on staying, then?”
You closed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “Not here.”
Killer let you pass through the doorless frame.
***
You tried not to think too hard about where you’d be sleeping that night until you got distracted by the smell of lunch. Steam and smoke curled up into the midday air. With your nose, you probably could have smelled oil and garlic from a whole island away—in your sleep, for that matter.
Meanwhile, Sanji operated the outdoor kitchen as an army of one. He stood with a cigarette tucked between his teeth as he operated three large pans, each on an open flame. Large bowls of prepped vegetables sat on an adjacent crate. He’d already laid out dishware in a clear line as if he were beginning a gourmet conveyor belt.
He glanced up as you drew closer, his gaze finding your face first, then your bag.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t interested anymore,” he called, a grin breaking out on his lips, “But if I’d known you were moving in, I would have been less worried.”
He shook one of the pans, which lit up in a tall blaze.
“I’m so sorry,” you said. Your bag hit the ground, sending a small cloud of sand into the air. “Chaotic morning.”
Sanji’s eyes flicked again, this time over to the Victoria Punk.
“I was hearing rumors about some commotion,” he hummed, returning his attention to his skillfully combusted pans. “I’ve got things covered if you’ve got unfinished business—”
“No, no,” you cut in quickly, having already plucked an apron from your bag before shoving the duffel out of the way. “Trust me, I need this.”
You slotted yourself into the kitchen, already following the flow Sanji wordlessly left the blueprints for. At least here, the people you were feeding lingered outside the kitchen area, patiently waiting as they chatted amongst themselves. There was a clear plan to follow. Only so many dishes to concern yourself with. Sanji had already done the prep work.
He remained by the stove, basking in steady heat while you fell into the steady rhythm of plate assembly and service handoff.
Plate. Noodles. Vegetables. Garnish.
Plate. Noodles. Vegetables. Garnish.
Working with your hands churned up the stiff feelings that burned in your chest and released them into something more constructive. Something about the repetition and mild monotony eased the tension in your brow, and fixing plates was far less destructive than any other way you’d usually take your anger out.
After the initial wave of service, a quiet shadow morphed into your periphery just as you were finishing the garnish on your latest plate. You glanced up to meet the charcoal blue eyes of a familiar specter. Steam from the meal curled into the air, breathing warmth onto your face.
“Hey,” you said, glancing to the side.
You should have expected to talk to him eventually. Too much had happened for you to be able to truly ignore the pirate captain in front of you. And if waking up in his bed wasn’t enough, you wanted to ensure that your alliance was still sound.
You took the plate and held it out to him. “I’m sorry about this morning.”
He didn’t take it from you right away, letting a short beat pass.
You stood for a moment, arms outstretched with an offering in your hands. Heat seeped through the ceramic bottom.
“Or,” you hesitated. Your reach recoiled for a small, insecure second. “I guess it was this afternoon.”
Another beat of silence passed, then finally, the weight of the plate lifted. He’d hardly moved from where he stood. The meal you made sat untouched, perfect between his hands. He tipped his chin down a fraction.
“It was both,” Law said curtly. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
An exasperated huff escaped your lips. “We shouldn’t be having interactions like that if we’re going to be in an alliance.”
“Ikkaku can handle herself.”
“Why’d you do it?” You stepped on the heels of his words.
You could almost see your guilty expression reflected back to you in his pupils.
“Do what?” he asked.
You handed off a plate to someone to his right before you left alone again. Your breath hitched in your throat.
“I didn’t take you for the type to play dumb.” You frowned, your voice barely above a whisper. Your quick eyes darted around the shore before returning to your plates. The kitchen settled into a lull. “You let a member of a rival crew into your quarters.”
Law shrugged, reaching for a pair of chopsticks. “You seemed like you needed it.”
“And I didn’t take you for the generous type.” You planted your palms on the counter in front of you, and your eyes narrowed. “I stepped in to save your crew member’s skin and the alliance, so if you were planning on holding this over me as some sort of blackmail—”
“Arctic foxes curl together.”
You blinked, your next words dying on your tongue.
Law barely moved as he seemed to study your face. His eyes flicked in a circular motion, as if you had letters written on the creases of your cheeks.
“What?”
Law inhaled, “Arctic foxes—”
“Yeah, I heard that.” You clenched your fists on the counter. Your lips pursed together once, then twice. “But it’s penguins huddle together.”
The corners of Law’s mouth barely twitched.
“Maybe in the South Blue,” he replied flatly.
Your stark pout likely didn’t help your case.
“Arctic foxes don’t even curl,” you insisted with a scoff. “Penguins huddle in bad weather and take turns in the middle. Everyone knows that.”
Law said nothing to that. He just lifted his chopsticks and took his first mouthful of noodles. Perhaps he was acting polite, pretending you weren’t attempting to pick a fight with him in broad daylight.
Law tipped his head once in consideration.
“That’s one version,” he murmured into the ends of his chopsticks. “The wrong one,” he added.
You slid a few plates across the counter with more force than necessary.
“Still not an explanation for what you did.”
“I explained enough.”
You wiped your hands on the towel at your hip, buying yourself a second you didn’t need and weren’t using well.
“I find it hard to believe it was just because I was a Northerner,” you said at last. “There had to be something in it for you. Letting a stranger onto your ship.”
Law looked up then.
“With the way you just said Northerner,” he said, “I’d say you still are one.”
The words landed in some soft, poorly defended place you would have preferred to stay unbothered. And if he hadn’t prodded the softest sides of your psychology enough…
“And I wouldn’t call you a stranger,” he added.
That got your attention faster than it should have.
You crinkled your nose at him. A practiced scowl overtook your lips. “You don’t know me. We’re not even from the same part of the North Blue.”
“That’s true,” he said, unbothered.
Just that.
No anger. No sarcasm. Not even any spit to it.
He lowered his gaze to his plate again, like that should have settled it, and somehow that only made it worse.
You stared at him, waiting for the rest.
You watched him consider testing his luck for a half second.
After a beat, he obliged. “But you were half-asleep. In your night clothes. One shoe half on. Forgive me for not assessing you as a good robber.”
“Oh, I’m being assessed now,” you scoffed. You gripped the corner of the towel at your hip to wipe a stray speck of sauce from the side of your plate.
“Past tense,” he corrected flatly. “I already did.”
When you looked up, Law wasn’t even paying attention to you. He just stood where he had stationed himself this whole time, unbothered and unmoving with his noodles half-finished. Your eyes flattened.
“How reassuring that I looked so trustworthy.”
“I trust you as far as I can throw you,” Law said quickly, still more invested in his lunch than in your conversation. He shook his head once. “It was triage, not trust.”
You tried to scoff, your brows bouncing. “Glad to know I looked so shitty I required medical intervention.”
“Must not have a good doctor on your crew,” he retorted. His answer came so flat and immediate that you almost laughed.
Law took another bite before he went on. “You looked exhausted. Still apologizing for other people. Still feeding people.”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck.
“You don’t know anything about me,” you muttered.
Law’s eyes flickered up, locking with yours for a single unreadable second. He caught a stray spot of sauce at the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, careless about it.
Your stomach gave a small, treacherous turn.
“I know enough.”
Your jaw tightened. “That’s—great. Good for you.”
Your eye twitched at your own words.
Awful. Absolutely awful.
You turned on your heel and reached for the garnish tray with far more focus than the situation required.
***
Law wasn’t the only one to arrive late for lunch service. But as you watched your fellow crewmates draw nearer, you were torn between self-satisfaction and dread. On the one hand, everything played out exactly how you wanted it to. Despite Kid’s big talk, you knew that the crew wouldn’t have lasted a day before they gave in to your collaboration with Sanji.
On the other hand—
“Hey, we really need you back on the ship.” One of your crewmates draped himself over your service counter. “Someone spilled a big bag of flour, and now the kitchen is a mess!”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
Of course.
You couldn’t be gone for eight hours and expect no mess to be waiting for you.
You sighed, your thoughts darting to the lock on Sanji’s fridge.
“That sounds terrible,” you hummed sarcastically. You held the plate in front of his face, shaking it slowly. “Better tell cap’n.”
Your crewmate’s forehead scrunched. “What? Captain won’t do anything about it.” Then his eyes flicked to the plate. “You know I like mine with extra egg.”
Your shoulders drooped a fraction. “There isn’t any egg in this.” You waved the plate again. “Can’t have extra of what isn’t there.”
But your crewmate only sank farther into the counter, wimpering your name.
“Can’t you just make me an omelet?” he whined. “I want egg.”
You frowned. “You love panfried noodles.”
Your crewmate let out another groan. “Yeah, but, like, I’m in the mood for an omelet.”
But before you could tell him where to stick his omelet, a pair of Heart pirates approached the counter from the proper side of the line.
“God, that smells good.”
“Man, I never thought the sight of noodles would ever make me this happy.”
Your crewmate glanced to the other side of the counter, annoyed.
When you looked over, you recognized them first by the hats.
The two Heart pirates you’d run into outside Law’s cabin had reached the front of the line at last, both of them standing back from the counter with empty hands and obvious interest.
“Hi, again,” Orca-Hat greeted.
“Hi, again, again,” Penguin-Hat added.
You heaved a shaky sigh as you subtly glanced around.
No one seemed to bat an eye at the comment, although you considered it too vague to draw suspicion.
“Well,” you said, ignoring the greeting entirely, “it’s a good thing I got nothing but noodles for ya. Though, I can’t take all the credit.” You gestured your head to where Sanji busied himself behind you.
You set the plate of noodles down in front of your crewmate, then moved to prepare two more plates.
The two Heart pirates grinned.
“Fresh off the pan. You cannot get better than this,” Orca-Hat hummed.
Meanwhile, your crewmate hadn’t touched his plate.
“I just asked for an omelet,” he snorted.
The Heart Pirates exchanged glances.
“During… lunch rush?” Penguin-Hat asked slowly.
“No omelets,” you called over the slow sizzle of oil. “You ask me for noodles every other day of the year, but this is the day you want eggs?”
Your crewmate stalked off, muttering something about your fight with Kid even though he knew better. In a crew full of rowdy and rough tempers, talking under your breath was an invitation for a fight. If you’d been in a less civilized kitchen, you might’ve jumped the counter and given him a piece of your mind.
That’s how things operated on the Victoria Punk, but unlike some of the punks you sailed with, at least you retained some semblance of manners.
You held a plate in each hand, and with a noticeable tension deflated from your shoulders, you held them out to the Heart pirate duo. A deep breath expanded your chest.
“Enjoy,” you said, taking a steady breath out.
The pair exchanged glances, but ultimately took their meals.
“So…” Penguin-Hat trailed off.
“Is this a temporary arrangement?” Orca-Hat’s brows rose incredulously over his sunglasses. “Or are we allowed to get attached?”
Your forehead creased as you cocked your head a fraction.
“Uh, the kitchen?” You gestured behind you. “It’s going to be here until the raid.”
The Heart pirates met eyes again.
“Right,” said Penguin-Hat. “The kitchen.”
“Definitely what we meant.” Orca-Hat nodded.
You absentmindedly handed the pair two sets of chopsticks.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for the meal.”
To your surprise, much like their captain, the pair immediately dug into their food right there at your counter. You blinked for a moment.
On the Victoria Punk, everything you plated was usually whisked away in an instant. No one but Killer ever thanked you nowadays, let alone showed such eagerness to display approval in front of you.
Penguin-Hat immediately recoiled, a hand over his mouth as steam poured from his lips.
“Hot,” he breathed, before diving into another mouthful.
Meanwhile, Orca-Hat looked as if he were half-done with his plate.
Your lips parted, your words catching in your throat as you leaned slightly over the counter.
“Slow down then,” you sputtered, reaching a hand out to grasp nothing in particular.
Penguin-Hat shook his head. “Nope,” he muttered into another mouthful. “This is a serious improvement over our current system.”
Your brow furrowed. “Current system?”
Orca-Hat looked up from his plate, a stray noodle still hanging from his mouth. “We rotate galley duty.”
You pursed your lips. “Ah.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Penguin-Hat shook his head in between bites. “Cap’n’s a half-decent cook, but—”
“We are eternally grateful for these.” Orca-Hat cut in gravely. He swallowed, then tipped his plate at you. “I’m Shachi, by the way.”
Penguin lifted his chopsticks in lazy agreement. “Penguin.”
You blinked once. “Those are your names?”
Shachi and Penguin glanced at each other, then back at you.
“Think there are better ones for us?” Shachi asked.
You gave a single conceding nod. “Point taken.”
“Seconds, please,” Penguin said, already chasing the last of the vegetables around his plate with his chopsticks.
“I second the seconds.” Shachi set his plate on the counter.
Streaks of sauce marked the inside, but not a drop touched your station.
You set the plates aside for washing and reached for two clean ones.
“You two are... easy to please,” you said slowly.
Penguin shrugged and nudged his empty plate neatly toward the wash stack. “We gotta support the operation. What’s the phrase? Shop small?”
“Eat local,” Shachi corrected.
“That too.”
You snorted softly as you spooned noodles onto the fresh plates. “I think that only applies to service you pay for.”
“We can pay you in eternal gratitude?” Penguin shrugged.
You held out the two plates, not even noticing the way the corners of your mouth twitched upward. “Go eat,” you said, “If you want thirds, I’ll have them for you.”
You sent them off, leaving an empty patch in their wake. You spared a glance at the clean counter and the neat stack of plates that you shuffled into the rest of the wash. On the Victoria Punk, you hated people crowding your kitchen, but here, the absence struck you quietly.
And for the first time that day, the corners of your lips began to tug up.
***
The afternoon clean-up went by in a whirlwind of soap and chopping. Someone hauled in fresh water, courtesy of the Straw Hat crew. Another brought raw ingredients from the Polar Tang.
You glanced toward the Victoria Punk with a frown, your mind drifting to the mental stock of your stores. You certainly had enough to feed a small army; the Kid pirates were, in and of themselves, an army. But knowing Kid for as long as you had, he’d likely destroy all your stores before he let you contribute any to the alliance kitchen.
Or worse, overlook them entirely, assuming they would always be there.
By the time you and Sanji had scrubbed the dishware from lunch and reset your stations, dinner prep crept up on you. The work went faster with two people. Between Sanji’s efficient chopping and your steady simmering, you took the dinner rush by storm.
Towels snapped. Plates slid over makeshift counters. Oil hissed, and metal spatulas scraped against metal woks.
The day moved into evening.
Familiar faces presented themselves at your counter. Heart pirates took their plates politely and always returned their dishware in a neat stack. The Straw Hats, for how loud they were, had a rhythm to their patronage and vocal admiration for their cook. Every so often, one of them would stand out of Sanji’s way to chatter to him about their day. Your crew had been quickly starved out of the Victoria Punk and had too much commentary about dinner for people who readily gobbled up what you served them.
The rush came on as a steady horde that formed a line. Then the line became a cluster, before that cluster dissolved into a handful of stragglers coming for seconds and thirds.
Perhaps those gluttons were the reason Sanji was staring at the supplies with a frown. The puffing of his cigarette grew deeper.
“What?” you asked.
You dried your hands with a clean towel. Water dripped off the newly cleaned pans on the drying rack.
The corner of Sanji’s mouth ticked downward. “Nothing dramatic.”
“What are we out of?”
You walked to stand next to him. Sanji stepped to the side for you to see.
The container of flour barely had more than a quarter cup tucked into the corners. Two and a half jugs of oil sat where you could’ve sworn there should be five. The egg cartons piled on top of each other, empty.
“We can make do,” Sanji said, his voice far too calm for the resignation laced through his tone.
You shook your head, folding your hand towel onto the drying rack. Your eyes darted toward the Victoria Punk.
The ship almost seemed louder than it was during the day. Light glimmered from the deck. You could almost make out the words one of your crewmates shouted at another.
“I’ve got a solution.”
You nodded decisively before you exited the kitchen to scan the beach.
It took you a second to find him, not because he was hidden, but because he wasn’t where your brain kept insisting he ought to be. In your universe, Trafalgar Law existed at your counter, dropping North Blue proverbs like an old man. You supposed the one time you saw him elsewhere was when he’d taken advantage of your sleep deprivation to graciously provide you with a room with a lock. But now, he stood somewhere new—farther down the shore near a stack of supply crates. A blue aura surrounded the loading dock as cargo seemed to blip in and out of thin air before everything was arranged in order.
He noticed you coming somewhere around the point you decided turning back would be more embarrassing than whatever came out of your mouth next.
“I need you,” you blurted, coming to a stop a few feet away from Law.
He turned, the aura dissipating as he looked at you.
You blinked at him.
Your words hung there for an excruciatingly long beat before your brain caught up with your mouth. You scowled defensively.
“Your ability,” you corrected. “I need your ability to get me onto my ship.”
Law’s expression didn’t change as he regarded you.
“Is there something wrong with the gangway?” he asked flatly.
“Yes,” you snapped. “It’s attached to my ship.”
Law was silent for another moment.
Not the wary kind of silence you were used to, and not the kind that occurred just before someone snapped back. On the Victoria Punk, you always had to bite first. If you’re aggressive enough, you won’t get taken advantage of. If you’re loud enough, you could take a situation under control. And if it all boiled down to aggression, you were poised to take things outside.
That’s how the Kid Pirates operated.
That was the hierarchy of power.
But Law didn’t give you anything to push against. His silence was dry, patient, and most troubling of all, understanding.
His gaze dipped once to your face, then to the ship behind you, then back again, like he was sorting the useful parts between your words.
“You really don’t want to go back,” Law said at last, “Something happened.”
It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t ask what occurred.
The heat left your posture before you could stop it. “The kitchen is getting low on supplies, and I know we’re good for it.”
“So you’re planning on robbing your own crew.”
“It’s not robbery, it’s…” You scowled at the sand. “This is an alliance, isn’t it?”
For a moment your skin burned at the idea of having to turn around and—
“Okay,” Law said, “What do you need?”
Your gaze shot toward him with a haste you didn’t intend to display.
“What?” You blinked.
Law bobbed his head exactly once. “What do you need?” he asked again. “And will you be quick?”
No haggling. No smirk. He didn’t even mock you for asking. Instead, he was somehow the last thing you expected him to be, despite approaching him for help: cooperative.
“I need flour,” you answered quickly. “Oil and eggs. A few other dried goods wouldn’t hurt. I know where everything is; I’ll only need about two minutes.”
Law barely blinked in acknowledgment.
“Fine.” He nodded once. “But if anyone sees me, you’ll be putting the alliance in jeopardy.”
You glanced toward the sand. “I know, but—”
“If you just need two minutes, I can do that,” Law spoke over you before you could even offer an explanation.
And just like earlier, that was all.
“Oh,” you breathed, glancing away. “That’s… That’s great.”
You stood there, frozen for a half second. You were ready to convince him—to bargain and strongarm your way into agreement. By all means, you knew what you thought his answer would be. But the argument died on your lips, as, for what felt like the umpteenth time, Law’s straight-laced logic took the wind right out of your sails.
“You’re not going to ask anything else?” Your voice barely registered above a whisper.
“No.”
Law—whom you were quickly discovering was a man of few words—went quiet again. He rested his wrist on the hilt of his sheathed sword, waiting.
“The stores will be on the lower deck—”
“First time tends to make people nauseous.”
You eyed him for a moment, blinking a few times. “Nauseous?”
“Being transplanted,” he answered with a curt nod. “I’m assuming that’s what you’re asking for.”
Your skin burned.
Right.
You just marched up to him, demanded ingredients, and insisted on not being seen on your own ship. The heavy beating in your chest had stopped you from asking the question completely.
“Yes,” you bit out. “I heard… I mean, I just saw you could do that… uh… um, that room thing…”
Law’s brow tightened subtly in amusement.
“The room thing,” he repeated.
You scowled on principle, tearing your gaze away again. “You know what I mean.”
Law didn’t even snicker.
“I do,” he answered. You didn’t know what was worse, that answer or if he’d openly mocked you. “Stay close.”
You wanted to ask him what that even meant. What did close entail? Didn’t he need more direction than just “the lower deck?”
But your words never made it out.
Something changed.
Not in him, exactly, but in the space around him—around you. You reacted before the hairs even stood up on your skin. The evening air began to tighten around you, like the ocean drawing back in an instant before the giant wave hit. Every small sound around you went sharp, then dull, as if even the white noise around you was being sucked into whatever was about to hit.
You went still.
Law did not.
He only lifted his hand from the hilt of his sword. He barely held it out a foot in front of him.
The dread hit first, irrational and immediate. And for a moment, you felt little more than a wild animal—sensing impending doom without understanding why.
Your eyes flickered to Law.
“I think something’s wrong—”
“Room.”
The blue aura from before bloomed outward from Law’s boots. For one impossible instant, you felt an immediate disconnect. The beach, the sea, and everything outside the aura lost their presence. Your overactive senses almost seemed to deafen, as if you’d been suspended by nothing in a dark chamber.
You didn’t sense movement in an ordinary way. Wind didn’t brush your face. You didn’t even take a step forward.
The lines of the beach swept upward, spinning your head as a gasp tore from your lungs.
The trip lasted less than a heartbeat. In an instant, the scenery around you had reformed into the sturdy shelves of your storage.
Your feet hit a solid floor.
Your hand flew out for something steady as your stomach lurched. Your whole body felt terribly delayed, as if each bone arrived at a different time and in the wrong order.
Law caught your arm before your knees gave out.
That, too, was dreadful in its own way.
“Breathe through it,” Law said calmly.
His words hit your spinning head with the weight of a cast-iron pan.
You forced a deep breath in.
Clean fabric. Soap. Nitrile gloves.
The oxygen snapped you back to the present. The wooden shelves sharpened into detail. The smell of flour and lamp oil hit the back of your throat. And then, the death grip you had on Law’s coat.
“Oh—” You quickly recoiled, but the step back caused your knees to recoil.
Law’s hand tightened around your arm before you could fold.
“Easy.”
In the small space, your momentum took you forward again. Law’s back hit the shelf behind him with a dull thud, one hand still locked around your arm while the other came up on instinct to catch himself against the wood beside your head.
Your hand landed exactly where you didn’t want it to be the first time, bunched up in the front of his coat once again. You accidentally met his eyes in the low light. Your face burned hot enough to light the room.
Law, infuriatingly, didn’t seem rattled by any of it.
The thud echoed, just barely stopping before voices sounded in the corridor.
“What was that?”
You froze.
“Probably one of the shelves you were fucking around with earlier.”
Your grip tightened on his coat on pure reflex, and your gaze regretfully dipped to his mouth, which was unhelpful at least and offensively mortifying at most. But at this distance, every detail became a problem. The shadowed set of his jaw. The warmth of his hand on your skin. The arm he extended to steady you both while inadvertently caging you in.
He wasn’t pretty. He was too sharp for pretty, too worn-looking around the eyes, and up close the angles of his face were more severe for it. But up close, that severity did something unfortunate.
His mouth was cut a little too cleanly for the rest of him. His jaw was rough with meticulously maintained scruff. By all means, he should have looked more haggard than he did.
But instead, he looked—
…
You stopped yourself before you could finish that thought.
Law didn’t move, his gaze staying on yours for a brief second, sharp and level in the low light, before it flickered toward the door. One of the floorboards creaked outside, now closer to the stores. The sliver of light from around the frame wavered.
Your breath hitched, and neither you nor Law moved. Your thumb stopped mid-sweep over the inner hem of Law’s coat. Law’s back remained pinned to the shelf behind him, his presence nothing but quiet and solid in the face of your mortification.
“Don’t even bother. You’re just gonna break something again.”
“Sounds like a pain anyway.”
The footsteps receded.
A few beats went by before you finally released your death grip on Law. Slowly, your foot moved back a half step. Your knees, which were somehow more solidified than before, allowed you to pull away.
Law’s hand loosened around your arm, almost lingering for a moment before you found your footing. Then, the hand he had braced next to your head returned to his side.
You turned away before your face could betray you, although you assumed your racing heartbeat had already done that. The sheer burning under your skin nearly made you forget yourself. Forget where you were. What you were doing and why.
This wasn’t happening.
You heaved in a deep breath.
This was absurd.
“Alright,” you breathed out. You shook your head, as if the physical motion could manually erase the memory of Trafalgar Law’s jawline from your mind.
You stepped farther into the stores, pretending not to notice the steady gaze Law kept on your back. You knelt down, only to be pleasantly surprised that all of your jugs of oil were exactly where you’d left them, untouched. You pulled them out from the lower shelf onto the floor between you and Law.
The same pristine storage couldn’t be said for the bag of flour that lay spilled on the ground a few steps ahead. Your hands gently cradled the large gash along the side, tilting it up slowly so that more powder wouldn’t spill. You heaved it up gingerly. A white cloud enveloped the front of your clothes as you lifted the broken bag to place it with the oil jugs.
Law extended his hands from his side of the oil.
“I can carry that,” he said.
You didn’t even dare to glance at his hands, keeping your gaze down toward your growing pile of ingredients. When you put the open bag down, another puff of powder leeched into the air. The bag slumped toward you, so you heaved it up to rest against the jugs. Then, it fell again.
You didn’t notice Law reach up to the top shelf before he knelt as far down as the confined space would let him. He held open a large, burlap bag. His hand didn’t extend past the barrier you’d created between you.
“Lift it a little,” he said.
You did, holding the torn bag just high enough for him to work the burlap underneath. He dragged it neatly up the sides. His knuckles barely grazed yours where you held the flour.
The warm flare of it was so immediate and so unwelcome you nearly dropped the whole bag.
You pulled back too quickly to hide it, leaving the rest of the task to him. Law took the weight without comment, gathered the burlap at the top, and tied it off loose enough not to split the flour bag further. Then he pressed the excess cloth flat with one broad hand.
When he looked up, you were facing each other again across the small barricade of oil, flour, and whatever dignity you still had left.
“What else?” he asked.
“There should be some eggs somewhere behind you,” you answered too quickly, turning back to the opposite end of the stores. “But knowing my crew, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all broken—”
You didn’t mean to glance back over your shoulder, but your plan to make as little eye contact with Law as possible was foiled by the egg cartons already in his arms.
“How many cartons?” Law asked. He teased open one of the carton lids with his knuckle. Your eyes caught the large vein that ran along the back of his hand and up his forearm. “There are a couple broken ones.”
Your voice caught in your throat as you took down an intact bag of flour. You hummed at the weight of it hitting your chest, disguising your off-guard pause to buy yourself a few more seconds of thinking time. You glanced down at the floor.
“Well—” you started.
By the time you looked up, the blue shimmer of his ability had already spread around his hands.
The eggs shifted in quick, precise blips—broken from intact, shell fragments from usable ones—so fast your eyes barely tracked it. When it was done, the cartons shut on their own.
Law set two intact cartons beside the oil.
“What else?” Law asked, but he had already turned back to the shelves.
It turned out that he didn’t need directions to figure out your food stores. Dried mushrooms, preserved vegetables, and home-canned goods gathered in the growing pile. Your eyes flicked through the ingredients before landing on a bag of rice.
“Marine onigiri,” you noted flatly. Your gaze flickered to Law’s, a frown beginning to grow on your lips.
Another Northern dish. Of course. You didn’t expect anything less.
He busied himself with gathering more dried goods. Your attention turned back to the familiar gathering of ingredients.
Your eye twitched. “Did you want me to… make that?”
The corner of Law’s lips tugged downward in a split second of consideration.
“I’m not expecting you to,” he said, brushing some flour from his clothes. “You had the ingredients.”
As the name implied, Marine onigiri was easy to make in large batches and stretched scarce ingredients. While the stuffing may vary by region, they were often filled with self-stable ingredients like pickled vegetables or salted meat. It was an easy, low-maintenance dish for Marine cooks to churn out, and Law had laid out the ingredients carefully.
“Is this everything you need?” Law’s question snapped you out of your thoughts.
“Yeah.”
You nodded quickly, listening to heavy footsteps down the outer corridor as they faded. Muffled laughter and noise reverberated through the wooden walls. Snoring echoed up from below. Yells from a brawl on the main deck rattled the ship.
“Are you ready?” Law asked.
Hairs stood up on your skin as he poised his hand facing downward in front of him. That same sensation of dread returned to you, striking deep at your basest instincts.
“Please make it quick,” you whispered. Your eye twitched as you fought off a flinch.
The ship contorted around you before you even finished your sentence. Brown boards turned lighter before settling into an expanse of sand. Blackness turned to a deeper shade of blue as the evening sky took form above you. You stumbled back a half step until you caught yourself on one of your makeshift counters.
Your stock landed in the same position it’d been piled in the store room, resting neatly on the sand.
“Is that all?” Law questioned too soon after you landed.
He didn’t even look like he’d broken a single sweat, let alone teleported in the same heinous way you just did.
Your head spun for a second. Then you took a breath. The air cleared your brain fog faster than the last time.
You nodded.
“Yeah, that’s all,” you breathed softly, your vision just beginning to return to normal. “Thank you.”
Law didn’t humor you with even a hum of acknowledgment, but he also barely moved to leave. He pivoted one half step on his heel before stopping. You didn’t notice the way in which his eyes flickered across the sand.
“You need somewhere to stay again,” he said, an assumptive edge to his voice.
It took you a second to understand why.
Then you saw the strap of your bag.
“No,” you blurted, immediately busying yourself with putting away the stock for tomorrow’s prep. “Everyone’s too excited for the raid. They haven’t shut up since we docked here.”
That wasn’t an explanation, and you knew as much.
You huffed, heaving a bag of flour into the cabinet. Law didn’t help you.
And for a moment, the sound of shifting containers filled the air. Waves brushed against the shore in the background. A light bell rang in the distance every time one of the ships bobbed in the current.
Law didn’t say a word, but he also remained exactly where he stood. He lingered just out of your peripheral. Waiting.
You knew he was. You felt every ounce of his practical presence as you finally closed the cabinet doors with a sigh.
“I was going to figure it out,” you admitted.
“But you asked me for help with a galley raid instead,” he said dryly. He glanced to the side, his wrist resting on the hilt of his sword again. “You seem to find it easier when it’s for someone else.”
Only then did Law turn and begin to walk away.
“The offer still stands,” he called, barely looking over his shoulder.
You gaped for a singular moment, and before you could even process it—
“Wait!” You snatched the strap of your bag, sweeping it up off the sand as you hurried after him.
Law didn’t slow his pace, but it didn’t take more than a few steps to catch up with him. He didn’t even glance at you as you adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder. You brushed some stray sand that stuck to your clothes.
If it were Kid, he would’ve laughed. Kid would’ve said something snarky about knowing you’d give in all along before gloating about it for the rest of the night. But Trafalgar Law was not Eustass Kid. That much was evident by his silence alone.
A silence you weren’t sure what to do with.
You cleared your throat. “Just so we’re clear.”
Law continued as you hurried alongside him.
“I know what this looks like.” You frowned. “And I don’t want to hear about it from your crew tomorrow.”
“You won’t.”
“I had to rescue one of yours this morning.”
“You did,” Law admitted calmly, “And now she knows not to involve herself.”
He kept his head straight, his flat gaze fixed on the ship ahead. You followed him aboard without a word.
The air inside the Polar Tang was just as cool and metallic as it had been the night before.
That was bad enough.
Worse, you recognized the turn he took.
The common room. Then the corridor after it.
You knew this route now.
You knew where the common area was on the Polar Tang. You knew which turn led below deck. You knew where Trafalgar Law’s room was on a rival ship—one of your captain’s direct competitors, one of the other idiots ambitious enough to race for the title of king.
“No, seriously, I’m still thinking about those noodles from earlier.”
Your ears perked up as you continued deeper into the submarine.
“Don’t even get me started,” another voice chimed. “I was so stuffed, but I was so tempted to ask for fourths.”
A tiny smile bloomed over your lips. Law continued to lead you farther down the hall, and you followed him with a bounce in your step.
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
Notes: I really like the idea that a sense of dread overtakes you before Law even activates his Room. I think that little detail can just paint such vivid imagery behind his “Surgeon of Death” moniker. Also, this took so long because the storage raid was a completely last minute addition fdsjkfa;ds fa;j
Many lgbt teenagers and young adults growing up on the internet today have socially conservative beliefs that they voice at all times that they got from their conservative parents which they’ve never challenged because they think the life experience of being gay or trans makes them politically progressive
This is why I hate it when people say something homophobic and then go “so you’re really accusing me, a whole ass lesbian, of being homophobic 🙄” like yeah
