A Taste of Home (Trafalgar Law x Reader x Eustass Kid) Chapter I
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: 7.6k
Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, KidPiratesCook!Reader, Arguments, Sleep-Deprivation, Forbidden Relationship.
Notes: Endgame couple at the end for folks who want to know up front.
Dining on the Victoria Punk was more like a series of snacks than full meals, spread across the day and night. The frequent, small bites were as gastronomic as dining got. While you could try your darndest to coerce any member of the Kid Pirates into eating a vegetable, things appeared to operate better when your kitchen became a glorified food stall.
Kid never paid much attention to it, and that morning was no different. It had been way too long since he last stepped onto the Victoria Punk and inhaled the fresh ocean breeze of the beach. Kid had been inland for too long, but as he boarded his ship, a scowl formed on his face. No, being at Kaido’s mercy for any length of time kept his stubborn heart bitter, and he doubted that anything could change that. That was, until he walked into the kitchen.
The Kid Pirates didn’t allocate much space to an activity as useless as food preparation, but you always seemed to make the space work. Appliances lined the left-hand wall of the room, just to the left of the door, and floor-to-ceiling cabinets for storing dried goods were on the right. A narrow island sat between the two walls, barely enough room for prep work and for five to sit on the stools closer to the right side of the room. Beyond your kitchen was a decently sized, circular table and a matching booth that pressed up against the windows.
Killer was already there, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup sporting a straw in the other. A few other members of the crew—fresh from sleep despite it being the middle of the afternoon—gathered randomly around the narrow space, talking among themselves and to you.
And speaking of you, you were hard at work. You must’ve had five different dishes going on—everything from pancakes to chicken cordon bleu—and you still had time to laugh at a few terrible jokes and refill coffees.
When he entered, the gathered crew greeted him with enthusiasm. Smiles. Enthusiastically raised eyebrows. And just like the rest of them, just like the morning itself, you were no different.
You had the windows open, the breeze taking the edge off the oven's heat. Natural light cast over you as you turned to glance over your shoulder. Your somewhat shocked expression melted into a gentle smile.
“Good morning, captain,” you greeted, your voice far softer than the flurry of enthusiastic shouts filling your kitchen. You turned your back on him, arming yourself with mitts to pull a dish from the oven. “I had a feeling you’d be stopping by.”
You were uncharacteristically… soft today.
Kid didn’t say a word, ignoring the greetings and sarcastic jokes as he stepped up to your little island. Sure enough, you pulled a hot, steaming dish of cabbage rolls out of the oven, no doubt just for him.
Perhaps you were worried. Maybe you missed him while he was away.
“Your favorite,” you hummed, more to gloat over your good work and even better memory than to offer a reminder. “Let me just—”
You turned to grab a plate and serving spoon, but when you pivoted back around, Kid had already stolen the entire platter in his prosthetic hand. The metal spoon flew from your grasp, and Kid caught it in his right hand. He sat down across from Killer, moving to place the hot dish directly on the wooden table. You plucked a circular trivet from the counter and threw it across the room with a flick of your wrist. It landed beneath the platter just before it hit the table.
“What did I say about ruining my table?” you snapped with a frown.
Yep. There it was.
Kid had already split a cabbage roll in half using the edge of the serving spoon. “Carpentry has never been your strong suit, shrimp,” Kid proclaimed rudely, a massive bite already in his mouth. It was far too hot, causing him to huff out his words incoherently. “Can’t look rougher than she already does.”
You frowned. You’d installed the table yourself, not too long after the Kid Pirates obtained the ship. The surface panels were uneven. The heads of the necessary nails jutted out just slightly, and while wonderful for pooling dipping sauces without a sauce dish, the rough surface wasn’t ideal for a table.
“Sorry we can’t all be master craftsmen,” you scoffed, serving up a few more dishes and sending your crewmates on their way.
You took the lull in business to arrange a neat pile next to the sink before you flipped on the faucet. Killer stood as soon as he heard the running water.
“Let me get that,” he said, moving swiftly to grab the pan from your hand. The movement spilled half a pan’s worth of soapy water onto the floor. “Go sit down for once.”
You frowned, but didn’t acknowledge your now-damp pant leg. “I got it,” you tried to dismiss, making a swipe for the pan.
But Killer didn’t allow for it, swiftly shoulder-checking you out of the way. You stumbled, nearly slipping on the wet floor.
“You’ve been on your feet for hours. Have you even eaten today?” he asked. You could hear a few snickers tease through his mask. “Nothing on a tasting spoon counts.”
You couldn’t help the light smile that threatened to tug at the corners of your mouth as you glanced away. You knew he couldn’t help it, and you were also certain he’d never talk about it. But Killer had never been expressive before, and these new laughs seemed like a window into something you’d barely seen before.
Killer took your pause for an answer, and, well, he was right. Killer didn’t acknowledge you as he sighed. “Go into town and grab something. Or if you’d like, Strawhat’s cook has been making enough to feed an army. I’m sure he’d give you a plate.”
The suggestion caused your eyes to widen in consideration, brows bouncing upward. “Oh?” you hummed. “Is that whose cooking I keep smelling?”
“Oh, like hell,” Kid scoffed, his mouth full. “No crew of mine is going to beg for food from Strawhat of all people. If I catch you crawling over there, I’ll drag you back here myself.”
You drifted to the end of the island closest to him, just a few steps from the table where he sat. You crossed your arms, leaning against the countertop.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked. By this time, Kid had already cleared a majority of his platter, which you thought would’ve lasted at least two days. You glanced at it pointedly as you leaned over the table. “I’ve been slaving away in here all day because my captain is a child who can’t maintain a dining schedule over the crew to save his life! Are you going to cook for me, huh?”
Your flat palm swatted against his goggles, and Kid slapped your hand away.
“You’re a cook,” he grumbled. “I don’t get why you’d need to get food from anyone else, let alone Black Leg… Make yourself useful and cook something for yourself.”
You opened your mouth to retort.
“But don’t you go stinkin’ up my ship with that North Blue slop,” Kid cut in before you could speak.
At that point, you hopped up onto the table, leaning forward over Kid’s nearly empty dish. Your nimble fingers swiftly plucked the oversized serving spoon from him, bringing it down on his head with a speed that made the air whistle. But you were blocked again, and a loud clang echoed through the small kitchen.
Kid magnetized himself, causing the spoon to stick unyieldingly to his arm, but that didn’t discourage your iron grip on the handle. You beat your hand against the back of his metallic palm, a protest to get your weapon back.
“Our ship,” you corrected in between smacks. “Wano’s done a number on you—you thug!”
“Thug?” Kid mused, taking the last cabbage roll into his hand before taking an unceremonious bite. “You really pullin’ out the dirty words, huh, shrimp? You used to be nice.” Kid frowned, but his raised brows were mocking. “What happened?”
“Oh, what do you think?” you huffed, finally snatching his now-empty dish away from him. “Glad to see prison didn’t beat the attitude out of you at least,” you huffed, adding the dish to the sink. Killer had made good work on your pile.
“Aw, shucks. You don’t really mean that, do ya?” Kid turned in the booth, knees splayed.
He grinned. There was nothing quite like testing your patience. Now, Eustass Kid of all people was hardly a connoisseur of cute things. Kid and cute were, after all, hardly associated with the same brand. But you were nothing short of adorable when you were angry.
He’d thought so ever since the crew’s early days. Ever since he saw you telling that dumbass customer of yours off in the middle of shaking a cocktail, it was something in the way you scrunched the space between your brows and curled your nose into a snarl. It contorted your otherwise aesthetically pleasing exterior into a violent, rageful grimace. And it was something about the juxtaposition that delighted Kid more than he’d admit.
“I’m going out,” you decided, turning toward the door. “Try not to starve to death.”
You stormed out of the kitchen without another word.
Kid watched as the door swung open, closed, and then opened again. It wavered a moment in the doorway before finally becoming still. Killer finished the dishes not too long after, wiping his wet hands on a nearby towel. Kid eyed him, a cocky smirk on his lips as he stared into the blue-and-white mask.
“What?” Kid probed, standing from the table. “What do you gotta say, Kil’?”
“Nothing,” Killer muttered.
Kid frowned, the self-satisfied grin on his face wiped away in an instant. He turned, leaving his dish forgotten on the table, to face Killer fully. Kid’s frown morphed into a scowl.
“You’re worried about nothing,” Kid grumbled, “Don’t be a damn priss about a couple of jokes.”
Killer didn’t say anything in reply, adjusting the now-very-damp towel in his hands on the stove's handle.
Kid leaned against a nearby cabinet, his scowl only deepening as he stared into blank space. “We all have our jobs here. You’d think that you’d know that after this many years,” he complained, perhaps to no one but himself. Something complicated flashed across Kid’s expression. “This is how we’ve always been.”
His eyes flickered up toward Killer for acknowledgment of his fractured ramblings, only to find that his first mate had already left.
***
There was something about cooking for yourself that put you in a foul mood—even the thought of it. You guessed it had to do with smelling and tasting your own cooking all day, which tended to dull your senses. And if your crew could stick to a schedule that even resembled three square meals a day, you might have been able to tailor a routine that didn’t leave your taste buds bored.
You found the very idea of acquiring a plate of someone else’s food alluring, though you weren’t entirely sure whether this new, temporary pirate alliance extended to plates. But considering the massive outdoor kitchen the Strawhat cook had set up a short distance from their ship, you didn’t think you’d have to persuade him.
The Straw Hat crew weren’t the only ones looking forward to enjoying an evening meal. Samurai, Minks, and assorted people from Wano mingled with them, already drawn by the aroma wafting from the cook’s workspace.
Identifying the Straw Hat’s cook wasn’t difficult. If the bright pink ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron didn’t make it apparent enough, the fact that he seemed to be the only one doing any of the kitchen work made you immediately forget why you left your ship in the first place.
You wanted to leave your ship’s galley, but something about the makeshift kitchen on the shore made you pause. A familiar scent wafted into the air, growing stronger as you grew closer.
You didn’t think about your approach, already rolling up your sleeves, your eyes darting to the various places where he could use help. And when you crossed the threshold from sandy coast to sacred ground, you didn’t ask for permission. You didn’t even introduce yourself; you immediately moved to wash your hands.
You moved like you’d been there the whole afternoon. The outdoor kitchen was tight by conventional means, but compared to the glorified closet on the Victoria Punk, you almost felt like things were too far apart.
The Strawhat cook set up the works: bowls of prepped vegetables arranged in neat rows, a chopping block that was still wet from rinsed herbs, a generous prep station, and two large pots, one simmering a delicious-smelling broth. He’d done the hard work, but when you had this many mouths to feed, you knew as well as anyone that the labor most certainly didn’t stop at prep.
You slid into his rhythm, immediately too busy to notice the cook’s face light up upon seeing you. He didn’t freeze for a second, moving around you as he made his subtle assessments.
You moved to several large covered bowls, gently lifting the cloth from the top. You inspected the pale, elastic dough. You poked it, watching as the mound sprang back quickly, but didn’t fill all the way back in. You glanced toward the Straw Hat cook.
“A Northern boy, huh?” you mused, already flouring the large cutting board in front of you with a goofy grin.
The Strawhat cook spared a second of attention away from his work to barely meet your eye. “I really grew up in the East,” he answered, his eyes flickering to the rolling pin in your hand. You were already working the dough on the board with perfect technique. “And you?”
“Starport, way up North,” you said. “I’d be surprised if you’ve heard of it.”
“Must’ve missed it,” the Strawhat cook said. “The name’s Sanji.”
You offered him a wide smile and gave your name in return. “Thought you could use the extra set of hands.”
Sanji shrugged. “Yours look capable.”
Sanji winked before you sank back into the rhythm of work.
It’d been a long time since you got to make Northern cuisine. Kid practically put a permanent ban on it on the Victoria Punk.
“That pigswill makes the whole crew gag,” he’d say, and after enough times, you stopped making it altogether.
You rolled the dough out into a long slab and, starting from the bottom, rolled it around the long rolling pin like a spool. You continued with rhythmic motions, gradually flattening the dough until it reached your desired thickness. You wrapped the dough around the pin one last time, then dropped it so it folded over itself.
With a sharp knife, you began to make precise cuts. Every few slices, you grabbed a handful of the forming noodles, shook them out, and arranged them neatly into nests until you’d processed all the dough.
You’d spied the handles of a few pasta baskets sticking out of one of the large pots. You brought your neatly arranged board over to the closest surface.
Sanji already had an army of bowls set up, each with a bit of oil at the bottom. Wano got chilly at night. This was the perfect evening meal. You began the first batch of noodles, putting them in the baskets and shaking them when they were done. You and Sanji worked together like machines, layering noodles, broth, and toppings like the best culinary assembly line the world had ever seen.
There was something meditative about the way service got on days like this. It wasn’t every day that you got to plate anything so uniform. Usually, your rush was twelve different dishes that required ten shades of prep and 350 degrees of patience. It felt like you were working through it all in no time. Between slinging noodles and garnishing, you were handing out trays to anyone who gathered around what had turned into a dinner stall. As quickly as the bowls were made, they were taken.
You couldn’t remember the last time your job was as easy as slicing noodles and enjoying the scent of rich broth. The familiar aroma of the stock began to melt tension off your shoulders as your body eased back into a memory of itself. There had been a time when you had fewer scars, when your back hurt less. In the past, when you were salting rocks glasses in snowy taverns before you ever set your feet on a sandy shore.
You were sure you had a goofy expression on your face as you turned around. Kid always said you looked dumb when you were thinking about the past. You definitely had your mouth open, and your tongue dug into the side of your mouth when you locked eyes with the prettiest charcoal blue eyes you’d ever seen.
The pirate in front of you appeared tall with broad shoulders. His skin had the kind of olive tone that deepened easily in the sun, giving contrast to the dark tattoos scattered along his arms.
He wasn’t pretty. His cheekbones angled sharply, almost making him look sickly. His facial hair grew patchy in some places, in stark contrast to the unruly hair that brushed at his nape. The dark circles around his eyes made him resemble a specter more than a pirate.
And still, you stared.
You attributed the momentary lack of oxygen to the way you short-circuited, to the way the bowl in your hands tipped, just barely. You made the mistake of blinking because in that second, the weight of it vanished.
Your heart dropped as you instinctively glanced down, expecting hot broth, shards, and wasted food.
You didn’t realize what had happened until the pirate muttered a low, rough “Thanks,” finally noticing the bowl in his hands as if it’d teleported.
Then, he walked away without another word.
It took you a moment longer than you’d comfortably admit for you to snap yourself out of your trance. You turned back to your baskets and garnishes, having faltered in the consistent rhythm you’d established with Sanji.
You tried to return to slinging noodles, your thoughts lingering on your brief and unfortunate interaction.
“Was that—?” you started, after a few beats of consideration. Sanji glanced up from his ladle. You stared down at your baskets. “Was that who I think it was? With the big hat.”
Sanji swiveled his head, looking somewhere through the crowd. His brows furrowed slightly. “What? You mean Traffy?”
Traffy. You’d heard rumors about their earlier alliances, though you were somewhat surprised by the degree of familiarity they shared.
“I just… I’ve just never seen him in person before,” you breathed, trying a bit too hard to appear nonchalant. “He doesn’t really look like his bounty poster.”
Sanji laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think he looks like 500 million berries either!”
You finally got to eat a proper meal. You didn’t care so much about plating it yourself as you did about not having to make it alone. After the initial rush, you had enough time to eat, finishing just a handful of minutes before the dishes started coming back.
You dialed back the heat beneath your pots. Throughout the cleanup, you spoke with Sanji about all manner of food: dishes you’ve made, ingredients you picked up at the last islands you were on, and, of course, Northern cuisine.
“Do you make it a lot for your crew?” you asked, hooking a pasta basket on the rim of the pot to drip.
The corner of Sanji’s lip dipped. “Not much. Most of the crew has a taste for Eastern food, and that’s what I was trained on,” he explained, pausing a moment to think. “Not to say I only cook Eastern food. Northern dishes take more time than I think my captain has patience for.”
You snorted, playing with the ladle's handle. “Oh, trust me. I know about a captain with a lack of patience,” you muttered. “Try a whole crew.”
Sanji let out a chuckle. “Sounds familiar. Don’t get it twisted. They’re impatient. Loud. They want their plates yesterday.”
“But?” You raised a brow, eyes on the stack of clean bowls in your hands.
“They know I’ll take care of them,” Sanji said, rinsing a pan under the rinse barrel. His movements were meaningful. He wouldn’t waste a thing, not even water. “We don’t have the most punctual schedule. I’ll do a midday snack; I’ll tailor the menu to what I know they like, but it’s a routine. They trust my hands.” He set the pan aside to drip.
“You mean you don’t get woken up to chop up mango?”
Sanji shook his head. “Even better—I’ve got a lock on my fridge.”
You stopped mid-step and stared at him. “No shit.”
You barely heard the sound of a bowl being set on the makeshift counter behind you.
“Seconds.”
The voice was too close behind you for how little you heard his approach. When you turned, it was him again. Trafalgar Law. He pushed the bowl toward you before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
You eyed him, wordlessly making your approach to pick up the bowl.
“Starport,” Law said.
You blinked, your eyes shooting up to his. “What?”
Law gestured toward the noodle pot. “The cut,” he said. “You snip the ends.”
Perhaps you shouldn’t have fallen into the trap of looking into his eyes again. He wasn’t even looking at you, and you were having a hard time processing what he was saying.
“Usually, noodles are sliced straight, but you trimmed the ends so the tips split like a star,” he continued dryly, finally glancing back at you. “That’s a Starport thing. No one does it by accident.” Law nodded decisively.
You were quiet for a beat too long. Law continued to stare, expecting a reply.
You gulped. “You’ve been there?” You tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind your ear. You immediately touched it again, as if the first motion hadn’t been enough.
If Law noticed, he didn’t bring attention to it.
“A long time ago,” he said.
His reply didn’t leave you enough time to think about what to say next. The very fact that you were tripping over your words left you horrified. You weren’t a stranger to small talk—not in the service industry, you weren’t—and you definitely weren’t intimidated by any pirate, no matter how high his bounty.
Your captain was one of the most—if not the most—infamous pirates among the Supernovas. You lived elbow-deep in rowdy men with tattoos and cold stares, and that never stopped you from trying to beat Kid with a wooden spoon or take Killer by the ear when he was acting particularly foolish.
And yet…
“Then you remember enough to know I can’t let it sit,” you said, hurrying breathlessly, avoiding his gaze as you made him a new bowl. You placed it on the counter as if fearing that handing it to him directly would make your knees collapse. You sought anything to keep your hands busy. “It’s best when it’s hot enough—“
—“To melt the frostbite off—” Law said at the same moment you did.
Your head snapped up despite yourself. A smoldering heat crept up your neck for reasons unrelated to the soup.
“Good,” Law said, taking the bowl in his hand. “You haven’t forgotten. And you’ve still got your accent.”
He turned back the way he came and vanished into the noise and bustle in the evening light.
***
Sanji told you that he’d be set up for three meals a day until the raid on Onigashima. Part of the reason was the ease of feeding the groups gathered to take on Kaido, and the other was the limited food amongst the locals. You weren’t opposed to a mission, and if you could force your crew into a routine for at least a few days, you were taking the opportunity.
“Alright,” Kid started as he burst into your quarters. The door slammed against the adjacent wall. You didn’t even glance up from your book. “You have some explaining to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, flipping the page. A colorful image of a salad dish sat in the top left corner. “Knock next time.”
Kid’s gaze tightened, the skin around his brows scrunching as he gritted his teeth. “Oh, is that right?” he hissed. “So you don’t know anything about the rumor that you’ll be cooking for the Straw Hats? Where were you expecting this crew to get their food, huh?”
He stalked toward you, eclipsing your book with his metal palm and forcing it down onto your lap. He towered over you as you sat in your desk chair, as if he thought you’d be like half the rivals you’d met—intimidated by his size. You looked up at him with a frown, impatience tugging at a vein on your forehead.
“I’m not cooking for the Straw Hats; I’m cooking with them, so it’s easier to feed all of our crews—this one included.” You reached a hand up to Kid’s bare chest, giving him a shove. He didn’t budge.
“All of our crews?” he snarled. “Last time I checked, you only had one—unless you’re considering a change of allegiance. Try it, and I’ll make an example of you.”
“Oh, please.” You rolled your eyes, pushing him harder with two hands this time. Kid let himself concede half a step—enough room for you to shove your book onto your desk and stand. “Get your head out of your own ass and stop being dramatic.”
In your small quarters, Kid continued to invade your space, hulking over you with a scowl. “What did you say?”
“It’s a more efficient way to get people fed.” Your gaze narrowed. “We’re already in an alliance, aren’t we?”
“That’s different,” Kid gritted. “You could just do things like you always have instead of trying to fix something that isn’t broken in the first place.”
“I swear to god, you’re insufferable,” you groaned, turning back toward your desk. You reached over it to tug at the window, cracking it to let in the cool evening air. Things were getting a bit heated. “Things have been very broken, and if you bothered to listen to me, you’d know I could use a load off.”
“Oh, so it’s about what you want, now?” Kid chastised.
You turned, one hand on your desk. Your jaw tightened.
“As your captain, I’m saying no.” He scowled, taking up most of the room with his stature. “If I so much as see you with the Straw Hats—”
“You don’t get to pull the captain card on me—”
Kid’s metal hand hit the wall beside your head, just hard enough to leave a dent in the wall and make the windowpane rattle. His face scrunched into a fearsome grimace. A red flush began to pool under his fair skin.
“Want to test that?” he growled, his low voice rumbling in his chest.
You hardly blinked, letting your grip on the desk slide away. Slowly, you leaned back against the wall with a laxness that might’ve melted you into it. You heaved a deep sigh as if preparing for osmosis.
“Do we have to do this here?” you breathed. “In my cabin?”
“Don’t act tough. You’re the one who’s been sneaking off,” Kid growled.
You rolled your eyes. “I told you where I was going. We had an entire discussion about it.”
“Yeah, one where I told you not to go.” He finally recoiled his arm from the dent in the wall, but he didn’t back off enough. His shadow cast over you, baring his teeth. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? It’s a disgrace—running off with some pretty-boy cook because you can't handle your job.”
“My job used to be cooking.” You crossed your arms over your chest. Your nails dug into your bicep. —“and patching you up, and dragging you out of whatever mess you’d get into. Not playing glorified vending machine.”
Kid groaned, finally stepping back. He seemed to pace for a moment—although your quarters were too tight to allow him—before staring up at the ceiling. He heaved out a deep, steaming breath.
“You didn’t use to be like this,” he drawled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You used to just…” The words on his tongue twisted his lips. “You used to handle it.”
“Handle what?” you barked incredulously. “Handle you?”
Kid shook his head. “Don’t start. You’re acting like we’re chaining you to the stove.”
You shrugged, brows bobbing with incredulous consideration. “If the boot fucking fits.”
“I’ve got bigger things to deal with than who’s hungry,” Kid scoffed. “That’s your job. You get to do that. You’re the only one on this crew who doesn’t have to stand watch.”
Your head shot up, your eyes wide. “That is not the problem here,” you snapped. “The problem is that people are banging on my door at all hours of the day for me to cook. I’m constantly in the kitchen. And let me tell you, no one ever wants the same thing.”
“That’s your fucking job,” Kid repeated, clapping his hands with every word. “You’re lucky you have a door. You should be grateful that I let you have your own quarters—”
“Oh, fuck off, Kid!” you shouted. “I needed my own space after everyone kept waking me up, and you know what? They’re still waking me up! It’s every day and every night. I lock my door and everyone still—”
“So you want to start on some Straw Hat bullshit then,” Kid barked.
“It’s not Straw Hat bullshit,” you shot back, barely repressing a frustrated groan. “It’s normal meal times and time for me to prep a normal amount of things.”
Three loud bangs rumbled through the wall next to you. You and Kid looked over instinctively. You supposed that the crew on the other side wanted you to quiet down so they could sleep.
They understood when it was their sleep.
Kid’s eyes cut to you. “You used to do your own damn part to contribute to this crew.” He shook his head, glancing around the room. He gestured in front of himself as if trying to physically conjure up the words physically. “You were… nicer. You used to be… fun.” He waved his hand vaguely between you, the air, and the ship. “You used to roll with us.”
“And you used to be my friend.”
Kid froze for a second, staring at you like he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he did hear you right. Maybe you didn’t say what he thought you said.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing. “I know I didn’t hear you right.”
The room went still for a moment, the tension simmering with a heat palpable to feel.
You gulped, almost hesitating before breaking the silence. Almost.
“You’re standing in my room telling me I was ‘nicer’ before,” you said in a small voice, almost whispering. “I wasn’t always just your cook, you know.”
“You want to talk about friends?” Kid quietly simmered. “Friends don’t embarrass each other by running off and teaming up with the Straw Hats behind my back—”
“We’re already in an alliance.”
“You’re making it look like I can’t feed my own damn crew.”
“Maybe I could keep up with the spontaneous demand when there were just five of us, but we have thirty-one people, Kid,” you stressed, almost forgetting to take a breath. “Just… let me rest, just… a few hours to let me sleep. Please back me up on this one thing… as captain.”
You moved back to the desk chair. As you slumped, you let your head roll back over the back post, exposing your neck. You finally sounded defeated.
Kid stood over you for a moment as you let your eyes close.
“No,” he said finally. “You’re the cook. You cook.”
You breathed in, letting a beat pass.
“Okay,” you muttered. Your eyelids fluttered open, your gaze boring into the closed cover of your book. “I told you what I need, and you don’t care. I’m done fighting you.”
You forced a breath in. Kid opened his mouth to report.
“Just get out,” you breathed. “I’m done talking.”
Kid stood over you, watching you with narrowed eyes for a moment more than was comfortable. Like maybe if he glared at you hard enough, you’d change your mind.
“If you’re so done running your mouth, then stop acting like you’re the only one who works around here.” He stomped across the short room. Kid slammed the door behind him, and the frame rattled.
***
You didn’t have time to dwell on your fight with Kid. It was one of many, or at least, that’s how it felt nowadays. You didn’t have time to ponder long, not when you knocked out as soon as your head hit the pillow.
At that point, you must’ve been up for well past twenty-four hours. You didn’t know how long you'd been asleep when you woke up, but you knew it was nowhere near as long as you needed.
A sharp thudding erupted from your cabin door. In your exhaustion, you tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. But the knocking only continued. You rolled over, clutching your pillow over your ears, but your muffled name didn’t stop.
You glanced up at your cracked window. The starry night sky hovered quietly on the other side, casting just enough light into the room to illuminate the wood floors.
Another round of pounding rattled the door in its frame.
If you stayed quiet, they would keep knocking. If you answered, they would want food, and if they wanted food, no one would want the same food. You wouldn’t see a wink of sleep, and by the time you were finished, the others would be up for breakfast.
So as the thudding continued, you slowly peeled yourself out of bed. You slipped on a pair of shoes and threw on a random jacket before you climbed your desk and onto the windowsill. The glass felt cold against your hand, but the evening breeze was far warmer.
You took in the smell of salt and that evening’s dinner before you jumped out onto the dock. Your landing made an unmistakable bang on the wood.
You glanced over your shoulder toward the ship. The rapping at your cabin door continued, though the sound resounded lighter on your ears.
The shore at night stood still and quiet. The water below you ebbed gently, as if the sea itself understood what time of the day it was. Your tired eyes had since adjusted to the moonlight as you strode aimlessly down the dock.
Your body had passed away tired hours ago, and if you closed your eyes right now, you might fall asleep and continue walking through the jungle until you woke.
The cool air helped. It kept you moving, but the sound of the sea countered your efforts. The waves lapped against the wood beams, tempting you into sleep.
Only when you reached the shore did you notice the unhurried footsteps behind you. You turned to glance over your shoulder. Then you froze.
Law stopped a few feet away on the dock, his gaze moving over you once before stopping at your exhausted face. Of course, the next time you saw him, you still appeared anything but put together and elegant. Not in your loungewear, half-secured shoes, and the most random jacket in your wardrobe slung across your shoulders.
“You shouldn’t be out here.” He frowned.
You turned fully. You crossed your arms over your chest in a half-hearted attempt to look less haphazard than you were. “What are you doing out here then?”
His expression didn’t change.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he drawled in what sounded awfully like a scold.
You almost laughed. Pirate alliances… always so suspicious of each other, though you couldn’t say it wasn’t a healthy amount of caution. Uniting to take down two emperors at once didn’t eliminate the possibility that anything could go wrong.
You looked away from his piercing stare out into the dark water. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admitted. “That’s all.”
“And wandering around half-dressed seemed like a good solution?”
You scoffed, not even having the energy to shoot off a retort to his prying. You barely had it in you to keep standing, let alone start a fight with a man you’d just met that evening.
“It was better than staying where I was,” you muttered, shifting your heel to depart.
“Better,” Law repeated, dragging the word out slightly.
Your gaze flicked back to him, brow furrowing. The corners of his mouth had pulled up, just barely.
“Where,” he said next.
“What?” you asked. You blinked a few times. If you were having a stroke, at least a doctor was with you to witness it.
Law took a half step forward.
“You pronounce ‘better’ the way the Southerners do,” he said, although the explanation did nothing to smooth the wrinkles around your brow.
“It’s a South Blue Crew,” you retorted.
“But you pronounce ‘where’ like you’re from Starport.” He bobbed his head exactly once.
You thought about it for approximately two seconds before your brain gave up on you. You breathed in. “Where,” you said again.
Law’s smile widened, small but real. Moonlight caught faintly in his eyes. “Where,” he repeated back.
Your bottom lip curled down. “That’s what I said.”
Law shook his head. “No,” he said, a quiet laugh slipping out with the word. “It isn’t.”
You stared at him for a moment, too exhausted to be properly embarrassed or logical enough to let the matter go.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
You let out a long, labored breath and dragged a hand over your face. “Good to know I sound funny to you.”
“You don’t sound funny,” Law said. “You sound exhausted.”
“I was working on that.”
Law took a measured blink. “Out here?”
You crossed your arms tighter over yourself, the night breeze turning colder. “I didn’t have much of a plan beyond getting out the window,” you admitted quietly.
He looked at you flatly. “The window.”
“Don’t get me started,” you sighed. “I was just going to—”
“What? Sleep in a tree?” Law glanced toward the treeline, then back at you.
Your gaze drifted toward the beach.
“I’m sure the sand is still warm,” you trailed off with a concerning amount of resignation.
Law stared at you for a second.
“No.” He shook his head curtly. “You’re not planning on sleeping on the beach.”
“It’s like camping.”
His mouth flattened as he stepped down onto the shore beside you. “You’ve clearly never been good at camping.”
Your breath hitched at the proximity, but he only passed by you a second later, tipping his head over his shoulder for you to follow.
“Where?” you asked.
“To get you somewhere to sleep,” he called, never once turning back.
You glanced around the empty beach, then back at the quiet ships lined up along the shore. You hesitated just long enough for Law to get a few steps ahead before forcing your tired legs to follow.
The Polar Tang sat a little apart from the others, with the Thousand Sunny separating it from the Victoria Punk. Aside from the single lookout on the top deck, the ship was quiet and still. Even from the shore, it looked more orderly than most ships in port—no shouting, no drunken laughter, no brawls.
You stopped short once you reached the gangway, your steps having grown heavier.
Law noticed almost immediately. He turned to glance over his shoulder.
You looked past him at the dark ship, then back at the empty stretch of beach behind you. It was late. You barely knew him. He was a man you barely knew, leading you to an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night.
Kid would kill both of you for the implication alone if he knew.
Law shifted just slightly, his weight now on his back leg.
“You can say no,” he said.
You made the mistake of meeting his piercing, charcoal blue stare. You were convinced he could see right through you.
“I’ve got a quiet cabin you can use. It locks from the inside if that’s what you’re worried about,” Law explained, his voice even.
You took a breath in. After the lack of sleep you’ve been getting, nothing sounded better than quiet.
Your lips parted, then closed. A beat of silence passed.
“Why?” you asked.
Law’s expression didn’t change.
“Because I’m not using it.”
He turned and started up the gangway without another word.
You stood there for a beat, trying to wrap your tired brain around it all.
Not using it?
You didn’t even realize you’d hopped up onto the gangway to follow him.
“What do you mean?” you asked from the dock.
Law had already climbed the ladder up onto the deck.
You really should have left. You should have turned around and found another place to spend the night. The sand felt warm, just like you’d assumed. You might even be cut out for a tree, apparently.
But instead, without a second thought, you climbed the ladder. Law was waiting patiently for you. A woman stood at the far end of the deck, half-turned as she studied you with wide eyes out of the corner of her eye.
Law didn’t acknowledge her. He continued to walk, leading you inside the Polar Tang.
You nearly stopped the moment you stepped inside. This ship was definitely not the Victoria Punk.
The Polar Tang smelled clean, though not sterile. You had expected a submarine to have an atmosphere thick with sweat and heat, but instead, soap, metal, and what smelled like a familiar cleaner laced the cool, crisp air. A consistent, cold breeze blew from the vents lining the hall.
And more importantly, it was quiet.
A gentle hum rumbled throughout the ship. A round of muted laughter sounded somewhere in the distance.
No shouting from down the hall. No music, far too late. No boots pounding down the hall. The only aroma resembling alcohol was a vague ethanol scent.
Law led you deeper down the narrow corridor. The lights were low.
You followed a step behind, watching his back before he finally stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and reached for the handle.
He stepped inside just enough to let you pass, but you didn’t follow.
You didn’t have to know Law well to judge the made bed, the books and papers arranged neatly on the desk, and the coat hung by the door, as unmistakably his. The room he revealed was small and neat. Clean and quiet.
You remained frozen where you stood in the hallway, just a step or two from the doorway. Exhaustion and caution swirled together in your chest.
“This is your room,” you said weakly.
“There are two locks on the inside.” Law took the heavy metal door in his hands, closing it just a fraction to demonstrate the thick deadbolts.
You shook your head. “I can’t take your bed.”
Your gaze met Law’s. His expression hadn’t changed from the even look he gave you on the dock.
“If you want to leave, leave,” he said. “If you want to sleep, sleep.”
Your eyes drifted to the bed behind him. It looked painfully comfortable. The blanket overtop even looked like Northern sheep’s wool.
You exhaled slowly before stepping into the room.
Law moved out of the way immediately. His hand lingered in the doorway just long enough to turn the light down before he stepped back into the hallway.
“Use the locks. No one’s going to bother you,” he muttered. “And don’t worry about stripping the sheets tomorrow.”
Then, he left, closing the door behind him.
You stood there for a few moments, listening as his footsteps faded down the hall. Before you could ask yourself what you were doing, you reached for the lock.
The first deadbolt slid into the place, then the second. Your brain glazed over as you stared at the locks.
You blinked, finally snapping yourself out of your hypnosis as you turned to face the room.
Everything about the situation felt strange and wrong. It didn’t feel like you were supposed to be there. No, not in Trafalgar Law’s bedroom. It felt forbidden to kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the back of his desk chair. But as you sat at the edge of his mattress, Kid and the rest of your crew were the furthest things from your mind.
When you slid under the covers, a tired hum rumbled in your throat. The bed dipped just slightly under your weight, and you melted with it. It was warm and soft, just like a bed should be.
And it smelled like him. Clean fabric. Soap. Nitrile gloves.
Maybe you should have felt more self-conscious about how easily you curled up in the bed of a man you barely knew. If you weren’t so damn sleep-deprived, you might have been embarrassed by how quickly his scent coaxed you to sleep.
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Endgame couple: Trafalgar Law x Reader
