Archive of Our Own

Law wakes up aching.  

There is a throbbing in his back, a drum of pain running up his fingers, a blurriness in the back of his head that he can’t quite name, and a weakness that shakes in his limbs as he pushes himself upward.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. The dull light of his sub – the soft humming of the machines – it’s all already too much. He wants to go back to sleep.

Instinct tells him doing so will be his death –

Wait.

Law’s eyes flash open as his entire body starts shaking.

He hasn’t… hasn’t felt this way since he was 13 and running with Cora. He –

God.

No.

(Litanies of prayers flash through his mind, the same the nuns like to whisper over the children as they laid dying in bed. The lights of the hospital, the screams of agony, the white creeping up up up – his father shaking as he attached IV lines to his sister, the blood pooling on the streets –

No-)

It can’t be. Law got rid of it. He was the survivor. The only survivor, because of his thrice damned fruit.

His eyes look down, to where his hands are clenching the bunk he collapsed in late last night (after feeling off all day god he was a fool-), to where –

White splotches against tanned skin, spreading and rising in irregular shapes.

A relapse.

A relapse of Amber Lead Disease.

Law wants to laugh.

(Laugh, in the kind of laugh those who are about to die have. Laugh, not in the way of the indomitable D, but in the kind of way a sailor laughs in the face of a raging storm that he will not survive. Laugh, in the way that fools cry.)

Who knew it was possible?

Tears well up in his eyes as laughter chokes out past the tightening in his chest. He couldn’t die. Not yet.

Not when Doflamingo still lived.

His chest is getting tighter as he raises a shaky white splotched hand to his face, feeling the wetness there. His skin is rough, raised, god it already spread to his face?

He is going to die.

(Everything hurts.)

The world is going blurry at the edges, darkness creeping in, every limb aching and – Oh.

A sliver of thought breaks through the memories of pain and death and terror.

He needs to breathe.

Law takes a shuddering breath, pressing against his chest as if that would make his lungs work past the blinding panic in his mind.

It helps.

He takes another.

It helps more.

Another, and another, and another, until he is lying back in his too small bunk and looking up at the flickering lights.

Fuck, he thinks.

Fuck.

His eyes slip shut past the instinct ingrained in him from his days with Cora, and finally, finally, he falls back to a restless sleep.

-

Untellable time has passed when he finally drags himself out of bed, legs shaking beneath his weight. Kikoku is a helpful walking stick, his jeans an unhelpful hindrance, and his feet barefoot against the deck.

Bending down had hurt too much to put them on.

He makes his way, slowly, to the kitchen where most of the off-duty crew is, their chatter rising above the hum of engines and the lurching power of the sea.

Bepo –

Bepo is there.

Thank fuck.

He stumbles in and makes a bee-line towards his first mate, ignoring the cries of his crew (idiots – who told them they could care so much about him?) as he finally arrives in front of Bepo, shaking.

Bepo stares. “Captain?” His voice is soft.

Worried.

(The way it is after nightmares shake Law awake and all he can hear is the laughter of a mad tyrant echoing in his mind.)

Law stares back and carefully, carefully, slumps into Bepo’s arms.

(By the shouts of his crew, it’s not so carefully. It’s more the last legs of a starving man giving out.)

“Captain!” Bepo says, less questioning and more panicked and worried this time.

Law just shoves his face into his jacket and mumbles “I’m fine Bepo.” Half the words don’t make it out but it’s fine.

He’s fine.

Law is… Law is fine.

Shachi echoes from his right. “You don’t look fine captain.”

“Yeah!” Penguin chimes in. “You look like death warmed over.”

(He’s not fine)

Law shudders, and shakes his head. “I feel it,” He mutters, uncharacteristically open, and then moves on as Bepo lowers them bother down to the bench. “It’ll… It’ll pass. Just need to operate, that’s all.”

He can’t see it with his face shoved into Bepo’s warmth but he just knows everyone is sharing glances over his head. Especially Shachi and Penguin and Bepo. They knew him… they knew him when he just got over Amber Lead, operating out of his skin with cries of pain and little control over his devil fruit….

And little choice to not do it.

It’s always like this out at sea – out on open waters with a black flag overhead, or the intention to be one. Life or death.

Life or death.

(For so long, Law has intended to die.)

He sighs, further, as they finally sit down, the ache in his legs easing as Bepo allows him to slump into his side. A hot mug is shoved into his hands and lifted to his lips, shakily.

Coffee.

Sweet, just how he secretly likes it. Ikkaku then, the only person who knows how to get it just right, helping him drink.

(His eyes feel so heavy.)

There’s murmuring around him. Law closes it out, to focus on how the jumpsuit is soft on his raised and rash-ridden skin.

Someone moves Kikoku away from him, and he doesn’t move an inch. The worried voices pick up again.

Soon, someone shakes him.

“Captain.”

He’s so tired.

“Captain.”

This is, essentially, the second worst thing that could possibly happen to him. The first being Doflamingo dies before Law can spit in his face and say Fuck You.

“Captain!”

He should have just operated in his room. Why didn’t he do that?

“Law!”

Oh.

He’s a captain now.

That’s him.

He pushes himself off Bepo, and blinks wearily at his crew.

“Yeah – Yes?” He tries to pour irritation into his voice, but honestly – they are a crew, no matter how often he holds them at arms lengths. They know he’s not as prickly as he seems. They have seen him half drowned, drunk out of his mind, and on fifteen to many cups of Shachi’s special coffee.

They can see him sick.

(He’s so tired.)

Penguin peers into his face, his hat tipped up so that he can meet Law’s eyes clearly with his own. “What operation?”

The words come out of him slurred and tired.

“Amber Lead,” He says, and doesn’t miss how Clione in the corner takes a step back. “It’s… not contagious…” He slumps further into Bepo. “That was all a government ruse.”

Most of them are from the North Blue. Most of them have heard the stories – of Flevance, and how it burned to the ground, how its people were exterminated, how its people were contagious and it was good for the world that their disease wasn’t spread.

Most of his crew, however, don’t know that he’s the last survivor.

A hand drifts over his cheek, tapping gently on the raised, white skin, and Law is drawn back into reality.

“’M from Flevance. Last survivor. My fruit… my fruit cured me. Had to operate.” He says, dimly remembering it. “Now its back. Gotta….” His mother would be ashamed of how his voice was drooping. Slurring. There was a patient he had to tend to. Wait. He was the patient. He was so tired and even the coffee wasn’t helping. “Operate again.”

Dimly, he remembers how he wasn’t allowed to see the adults who had Amber Lead. They were always worse off than the children once the disease reached its peak. The body, too old to defend itself. The mind, old enough to understand eminent death. To understand that you were leaving everyone behind, because of an unavoidable fate, because you were born of Flevance and its greed.

Now, Law is aching as he did when he was a child in the last stages of the disease, and he feels… distant and all too close to the fact all at once. He’s tired, but he has survived this before.

Before, he was alone.

Now, he has a crew.

(And a dream, as horrible and revenge driven as it is, to kill the one who took everything else from him.)

A crew that is slowly pulling him out of his despair and into open arms.

Bepo is muttering with Shachi and Penguin, something about how did it set in so fast? And Island conditions? And large concentrations of ore and ocean depths and battles? But all of it is fading distantly.

A hand taps his cheek and pulls the cup from his hands. He tries to follow it, but he is quickly trapped by a large, fluffy orange arm.

“Sleep, Captain.” That’s Clione, stepping closer now. “You can operate when you’re coherent.”

He wants to snap at them, snap at all of them, that he’s a man and doesn’t need to be babied, he’s done this before and he’ll do it again, and he’s a trained doctor –

(Who trained all of them-)

-so he can decide when he needs to sleep but –

Bepo’s arm is soft. Comforting. Familiar.

(He tried to find Cora’s coat after he was killed. He couldn’t. He missed the warmth of smoky black faux feathers. He had no comfort then, when he was digging into his skin with shaky powers and a stolen knife.)

Law falls to sleep, surrounded by crew, and hopes he’ll wake to see morning light.

-

There is none when he wakes. Instead, there is a heavy pressure on his right, crushing him, almost gently, against a large, soft, bodily shaped lump.

For a moment, with the shaking in his limbs, Law thinks he is in Flevance again, hiding amongst the bodies of his dead neighbors and friends to get a chance at life.

His heart races, before Bepo lets out a familiar snore and Shachi slaps at his cheeks.

Ah.

He’s not in Flevance.

He’s home.

(Usually, he would correct himself and say The Polar Tang. Not today. Today he is tired.)

He looks across the room.  They are still in the kitchen, the crew merely moving around him instead of moving him, the idiots. The lights are dimmed, and it seems to be only Bepo and Shachi in the room. A blanket is pulled around him, and his sword leaned against the wall.

He gives a sigh. Someone had even grabbed his hat for him.

(He wants his hat. His father had given it to him. He wants his hat.)

His eyes drift, still tired, but the aching in his limbs has abated for now. It’s time to move, before he’s lost again in pain and memories.

Law pushes at Bepo and Shachi, shoving both off of him in a spur of strength, before standing up.

“Captain!” Bepo cries happily, undeterred from his harsh wake up. On the ground, Shachi rubs his head but doesn’t complain. “You’re awake! Is your head better? Is your body better? Are you okay? Do you need water? Food? Wait maybe don’t’- “

The world spins as Law stands up, but he still manages to grit out a “Bepo!” that shuts the bear up quick. He feels bad for it, but at least the questions are stopped.

“Help me to the operating room.”

Shachi gives him a look even as Law refuses to wait for them to help him across the room to grab his sword. “Are you sure you’re ready to operate?”

Law gives him a look as he grips Kikoku, Bepo helping up his other arm. “If I don’t operate now, I won’t be able to later. If I don’t operate later, I’m going to fucking die.” The clarity in this threat and his voice seems to stir Shachi into opening the doors for them to go through, Law’s feet getting heavier with every step.

“Amber Lead, huh?” Shachi questions quietly.

Law lets out a breath. “Yeah.”

“That’s what you were recovering from when we first met, right? With the white splotches?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re back now.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought they were gone forever.”

Law sighs again. “Me too,” he says, and that’s the end of the conversation. It’s silent then, as they pad through the ship to the operating room. The rest of the crew must know by now, because they don’t question it when Law limps quietly throughout the sub. They only nod, and give him worried looks.

His crew is a crew of fools.

(He wouldn’t trade them for the world.)

The operating room is already open when Law arrives.

(He can barely stand. His legs ache. He bets if he rolled up his pants, his legs would be near entirely white, the disease setting in quick. He hates this. He hates this.)

“Captain!” Penguin cheers from the corner where he is cleaning Law’s favorite sets of scalpels and has a chair set up. “Everything’s ready for when you need it! Didn’t know what exactly you needed, so I got everything that seemed reasonable.”

A part of Law softens at that, though his face hurts to twitch into smile. “Thank you, Peng,” He says, quiet, and with Bepo’s help eases himself into a chair. He sighs and gestures for the tray scalpels Penguin rolls over.

He’s practiced this kind of removal before, on albeit unwilling patients. They were thankful after, but never quite liked it when Law opened them up.

They felt no pain, thanks to the Ope-Ope fruits natural anesthetics, but removing things buried into your skin by what appears to be magical scalpels is never fun.

(It was funny to Law. He was always sadistic like that.)

He picks up a scalpel, gestures for his crew to back away, and then says, very carefully, “Room.”

His crew stares, but then the pieces come together when his eyes lock on Bepo and he says “Shambles.”

In an instant, his head is switched with the air above Bepo’s palms.

Bepo screams, only a bit, but it gives Law the perspective he needs to make this surgery.

His body is trembling before him, Law already feeling the strain from using his devil fruit. Splotches run up his arms from where his sleeves are rolled up, the hoodie dipping just a bit to reveal the splotches on his neck as well. When Law glances into the mirror on the tray, he pauses, for just a moment.

The spots make him seem… hollow. As if he were only a frame of the person he wanted to be. They fill his cheeks and nose, distorting over his forehead, like a skeleton made of flesh and empty spaces.

He looks tired.

(He always looks tired.)

He looks like death.

(A part of him laughs at that. The Surgeon of Death, looking like death warmed over? Irony at its finest.)

He blinks his eyes closed and opens them quickly. If he doesn’t act soon, he’ll be death.

He watches his arms lift in front of him, and mutters “Scan.”

His body lights up in shades of vibrant blue, making his spots glow where they are raised above the skin. Law looks closer, his fingers twirling in the air, till it is as if he can see the innermost parts of his body.

There.

The core of all his trouble, nestled right next to his lungs. A part of the Amber Lead he missed when he didn’t know that Scan was an ability he had with his fruit. A part that grew and grew and grew, and seemed to have been suddenly exacerbated by the climate of the Grand Line.

The only surprising part is that it took till now for it happen.

“Peng. Shach.” He says, straining, speaking odd when your mouth is in one area of the room and your voice box in another. “Get the infectious substance containers.”

Penguin looks alarmed. “Thought you said it wasn’t contagious?”

“Yes.” He responds. “It isn’t. But it is toxic, and this is the closest containment system we have. Get it.”

Penguin gives a snappy salute, and then he and Shachi are running out the door, leaving Bepo and Law’s disembodied head, and his body in the room.

Law sighs, neck leaning back so his head rests on Bepo’s chest. To Bepo’s merit, he only shifts his hold on Law.

A moment, and Bepo shifts his grip again so that one paw is patting Law’s head. IF his body were not so weak he would have strangled Bepo.

(It feels nice. He won’t let him know that.)

“Bepo.” He growls.

“Sorry!” Bepo yelps, but doesn’t stop dragging his fingers through Law’s hair, gentle and calm.

Law doesn’t scold him again, and instead fights the urge to sink into sleep by examining his body further.

His chest tightens when he realizes how much it had spread – all because Law didn’t bother to check up his body earlier. God.

He would have died if he didn’t have his fruit.

If Cora hadn’t…

The operating room door slamming open distracts him from his thoughts.

“We got it!” Shachi and Penguin cheer, rolling over two large glass and plastic and metal containers.

(Law new the destructions of diseases. He filched the best containment for his own ship.

Like hell he would let Flevance happen again.)

Law nods the best he can without a body, and across the room, his body raises its arms.

“Scan,” He says, one more time to be sure. When it all lights up again, he closes his eyes and breathes out.

One second.

Two.

He breathes in, and opens his eyes.

“Room,” He says, and the operating room becomes his. His eyes flash to the air inside the empty cases and –

“Shambles.”

The blue disappears from his eyes, from his body, from his face, the aches disappearing, in a snap from his skin, and into the containers already sealed shut. His fingers twitch, another muttered Shambles, and his head is securely on his body.

The world blurs in front of him.

Fuck.

He’s so tired.

So, so tired.

He lays back, melting against the chair, and doesn’t protest as Bepo lifts him up.

“You’re alright captain. You’re alright.”

As his hat is placed on his head, white splotches slowly fading from his hands in itchy waves, he honestly thinks he might be.

His eyes shut and to worried murmurs, he falls unconscious, operation over.

(His parents would be ashamed of how he didn’t check to make sure the patient was recovering right.

Wait.

He’s the patient.

Fuck.)

-

Law wakes without aching, without wanting to laugh, Bepo wrapped around him again and his favorite food on a tray beside him. When he looks in the mirror, only two splotches of white remain near his eyes, fading as he watches. Someone has washed his hair and scrubbed the other flakes of white on cheeks away with tender care, and a blanket is wrapped carefully around him. This time, Law doesn’t panic. This time, Law goes to goes back to sleep on purpose, smile gracing his features.

His crew is a crew of fools but fuck, if Law doesn’t love them. They keep him alive.

Law won’t die now.

Not yet.

And not from his past.