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Dark falls early in the marketplace. Storm clouds rolling in overhead, thick and heavy with a promise of turmoil. Wind comes with it, cutting across the clearing to shudder the canopies of circling stalls and ruffle those still standing in the open. In this weather, at this hour, there’s far fewer willing to linger; already the shops are nearing closing time, and judging by the worried looks on the merchants’ faces, there may be a premature end to the day.
Robin glances up at the blackening sky. Her bangs flutter across her face, shuttering her vision. It’s been a pain growing them out, but there’s no choice other than to endure the awkward phase between too short to tie back and long enough to cover her eyes in unideal conditions such as these. A hat might help, and she did consider it as she left her hostel room for what should only be a quick grocery trip a few paces down the road. Now, with the distant rumbling of thunder off the coast of the island she’s been scouting out for the past couple days, she thinks that perhaps a raincoat might have suited her better than the shorts, tank top, and light cardigan she threw on.
Not that she truly minds the rain. Her initial wariness of the Revolutionary Army compelled her to sleep outside on their ship, where she endured almost any weather while resting—at least, until incrementally they gained enough of her trust for her to accept a room within their official base. Still, she hesitates to remain in any closed space unguarded; these kinds of missions, where she must lie low in a temporary residence in-town, bring uneasy sleep.
At the stall, the tense owner asks Robin what she wants. A sourdough boule, and the last chocolate-filled pastry in the case. Already she has a bag of a few fruits and snacks. Her room lacks heating apparatuses, so cooking is out of the question. Briefly, she thinks of Sanji, and smiles at the memory of his deliciously extravagant cooking, always served with a genuinely charming simper that quickly evolved into a giddy gushing at her approval—or, spinning around the room like a twister with heart eyes from the start.
It comes with a pang; it’s been months since she saw him last, in those terrifying moments on Sabaody where one by one she and her crew disappeared in a flash at Kuma’s touch. There’s been no word of him or any of the others aside from Luffy with his message intended only for them, and she’s clutching tightly to the faith that the Warlord propelled everyone else to someplace habitable rather than flinging them directly into the ocean. If the island he sent Robin to is anything to go by, it may be unpleasant, even painful, but manageable for each of them—even suited for exactly what they need, considering the incredible timing with which the Revolutionary Army arrived. Knowing that prior to his complete mechanization and loss of self-identity, Kuma was a member of the Revolutionaries, sets her mind at greater ease than believing him to be a puppet for the World Government… even if that’s all he is now.
Still, it reinforces the hope that the Straw Hats kindled and fostered in her; a steady flame that she oxygenates in her low points, never letting it dwindle because she will see them all again. In less than two years she will reunite with the only people she has found love with since childhood—all intact, stronger, and prepared to sail into the New World in the Thousand Sunny with Luffy leading the way.
Her heart aches even more when she thinks of him; that final shot, wrapped in bandages, solemnly facing the world, grief for his brother painted across him despite his resolute stance. All she thought in that moment, staring into the greyscale newspaper picture, was how desperately she wanted to be there for him—how horrifying the first report had been, where she could feel his pain bleeding through the page, even without a photo of him to witness. And yet the markings on his arm bade her to stay. So she did.
Robin turns away from the merchant, bags in hand, and comes face to face with a man that freezes her in her tracks.
She recognizes him quicker than she did the first time in that auction house, seated in the stands with a casualness she didn’t find the situation deserved. When he drew attention to himself and his little crew, she issued the warning of “Luffy, he’s a pirate,” to which her captain had looked over and asked “Even the bear?”
Yes, even the bear—though him and the other two appear to be absent. Robin maintains her cool, unperturbed expression, but she knows her eyes widen in recognition and there’s no doubt he’s done the same.
“Trafalgar Law,” she addresses him, glancing him up and down.
He maintains a similar sort of reserved leisure from the first time she saw him, but there’s a new tension to his lanky frame, adorned in that same yellow and black hoodie, a pair of spotted blue jeans, and his fur hat. In one hand, he holds his sword, and the other a bag like herself. He doesn’t reciprocate her checking, likely having already assessed her out of view. Instead, his grey eyes pierce hers once she meets them; there’s no apparent hostility, only a distinct sense of curiosity.
“Nico Robin-ya,” he replies in his smooth, distinguishing voice. His lips quirk into a slight smirk as he says her name, and she’s surprised by how pleasant it sounds rolling off his tongue.
She makes a quick judgment. This corner of the island hosts a fair amount of shadier activity; low marine presence, high inflow and outflow of pirates and similar ilk. It’s not likely that he’s targeting her for any other reason than pinpointing a recognizable face in the crowd. Not that there’s much of a crowd at the moment—the thunder rumbling in the distance is already nearing, and more have filtered out to seek shelter since she last looked around.
“Are you in line?” she opts for as her mild, willfully blithe follow-up. “If so, you ought to hurry. It seems like she’s about to close.”
Robin indicates to the merchant behind her, already packing up her items despite the potential customer in waiting.
His smile twists a bit more, clearly picking up on the irony in her statement, and his gaze shifts beyond her to the case of goods, before sliding back to her. “I don’t like bread.”
Oh no. Her own lips twitch. “An odd choice to stand before a baker’s stall, then.”
“Perhaps I’m incidentally in the vicinity,” he says, continuing her circling around the obvious. “Is meandering a crime?”
Robin tilts her head. “Loitering is,” she says slyly, “as is trespassing, and so your alleged meandering is bound by law dependent on location, time, and identity… and I’m certain that the first two factors won’t incriminate much more a man with a 200 million berry bounty.”
Law narrows his eyes. “Bold words for a woman with 80 million on her own head.”
They aren’t speaking loudly, but Robin still scans a quick side-to-side. Even as a tenuously accepted district for roaming pirates, there’s still plenty of passersby that would be hungry for such a prize. When her eyes flit back to his, he continues.
“You’re outdated as well,” he says. “They recently upped mine to 440 million berry.”
He doesn’t say it like it’s a competition, as many other pirates would have boasted. There’s satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, but it doesn’t come with the obnoxious ego she might have expected from a man so notorious. Of course, those kinds of comparisons rarely ruffle her—getting a rise out of her on such perceived measures of success is almost impossible. In the times that she has reacted, it’s only if there’s an imminent threat; defending herself from a belligerent pirate is a far cry from taking the bait of a random somebody.
“What a raise,” she offers, though it truly is. “Have you been rearranging Marines again? They didn’t seem to appreciate your mix and match approach to body sculpting, but I found it quite artful.”
“Did you?” and he actually laughs—it’s nice, and Robin wonders whether she can evoke it again. “Most would call it horrifying.”
Her guard is still up, but something about him puts her at a strange sort of ease—she can’t help the half-wry, half-genuine smile that takes over her face. “Sickening?” she suggests, “Repulsive? An act against nature? Demonic, even?”
He mirrors her mixed grin. “I’m not the only one whose reputation precedes me, Devil Child.”
“Bold words from the Surgeon of Death,” she counters, calling back to his earlier words. And then, though she didn’t stray too far from it, she sobers. “It’s said you appeared at Marineford to rescue Luffy.”
Law’s smile disappears. “It’s true.”
She supposes there’s a plethora of questions she could start with, but it is the one that presses on her the most now that she’s in front of the man who saved her captain’s life. “Why?”
He shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that she doesn’t fully buy. “It was a whim.”
Lightning suddenly flashes, illuminating the darkened plaza, and a crack of thunder booms overhead. A raindrop splashes onto Robin’s nose. In just a couple minutes, the rage of the storm crossed over the shore and threatens to downpour over their heads. She looks down at her bags, several dark spots already dampening the paper, and in the process catches a better glimpse of what Law’s carrying.
“Your bag is pulsing,” she notes.
He doesn’t look down. “So it is.”
She’s curious enough to be direct. “What’s in it?”
Law smirks. “You don’t want to know.”
She does, actually, but in that moment, a voice roars across the marketplace.
“TRAFALGAR!” the man shouts, not yet in view, but it sounds like he’s coming out of the pub down the street at the other end of the clearing.
Robin turns to the source, blinking. “It seems you’re wanted.”
Law laughs with what she can only consider a dark glee. “Aren’t I always?”
Looking back at him, she asks, “What did you take?”
“Nothing that matters,” he assures her.
“He doesn’t seem to agree,” she returns. “Do you need an exit?”
“I might,” he admits. “I don’t enjoy fighting in the rain. Though, it won’t be much of a fight. It may draw unwanted attention, though.”
All around them the leftover merchants hurry to pack up, eager to escape the rain and seemingly gaining haste at the sudden tension striking the area.
Robin quickly considers her options. She doesn’t want to get caught up in this either, and truthfully, she’s reluctant to let Law go so soon. There’s more she wants discuss with him, and it might be her only chance—at least, for a while. And something about him compels her—a peculiar magnetism she didn’t anticipate, though he’d intrigued her from day one. It’s true that they’re technically from enemy pirate groups, but he did save Luffy; she doesn’t believe it was truly on a whim, but she isn’t getting the impression it was for personal gain either, and that alone makes her more inclined to take the action she does next.
“You can follow me,” she offers.
“Okay.”
She blinks—perhaps there’s no time for it, but she anticipated some cursory questioning or hesitation; not immediate, blinded acceptance. What does that say about him? What does that say about how he sees her?
No time to investigate. “This way,” she tells him, and starts pacing quickly out of the market and down the street. He tags beside her, matching her haste.
Behind them, there’s another angry bellow of his name, and then, “I’ll kill you!” resounds across the plaza. She spares a quick glance to see a large figure at the edge of the marketplace, looking wildly around.
She has no doubt they’d be able to take him down, but she can’t afford negative attention, and so she hurries along the path until they reach an alley, and turns right into it. There’s a set of stairs leading up to the second floor of the long two-story building. She scales it, stepping onto the railed walkway that runs along the perimeter of the side and front walls. There’s three doors spaced equally apart from each other. They stop at the last one at the other end of the alley.
They wait, listening as the string of threats and profanity nears, reaches them, and then passes by, fading into unintelligible yelling in the distance.
Robin turns her attention to Law. “Who was that?” she inquires.
He meets her gaze. There’s a humorous glint in his eyes—a darker amusement, because though he laughs and smirks and holds himself casually, he seems far from the light-hearted type. He isn’t too different from how he presented himself in Sabaody, and yet something tautened in his features; a severity previously absent. Perhaps in the process of doubling his bounty, he lost a fraction of his insouciance. Or perhaps it was a facade to begin with; or, possibly, could it be indicative of future concern? She wants to find out.
“Just some overconfident pirate woefully misguided by the numbers on his wanted poster. I think they forget that higher notoriety is more than just a bragging point.”
Robin nods. “Sometimes all it makes you is a target.”
“Nothing to envy,” he agrees, tilting his head.
The humor dims and he looks at her with such perception that it chills her; of course, a man already proving an awareness of her past could levy such a comment towards her with all the weight that it implies. What does he know of the crime so egregious, that the World Government would sentence her to a life characterized by pain and fear—the blade of a seventy-nine million berry bounty hanging over the head of an eight-year-old child. All asylum sought shadowed by inevitable betrayal; either by those she found refuge in, or herself out of self-preservation. The haunt of Marines hunting her; capture always around the corner; malice hidden in the eyes of every friendly face offering her a night out of the cold. Even those that did not cede her to the Navy only ever wanted something from her. There was no certainty or true security—only a lifetime of suffering, loss, and terror—and for that, she has never found any pleasure in infamy.
A large raindrop hits her cheek, and she pulls herself out of the reverie. She ought to go inside before the insides of her bags dampen, but again—she doesn’t want to separate just yet.
“Where’s your crew?” she asks.
“Restocking the ship. I told them I’d meet them back later. We’re only here to resupply… and there’s one last thing I needed. I have it now,” and he lifts his bag a bit.
Again, she’s curious about the contents. It continues to throb; she has her suspicions about it.
“Are you a cannibal?” she asks point blank.
His grins wickedly. “You caught me. While you were shopping for bread and apples, I found my groceries in the nearest inebriated brute. Easy pickings, and you could say I’m doing the world a favor by ridding it of yet another indiscriminating pillager, but truly, I just enjoy the taste of still-beating hearts.”
“So it is a heart,” Robin says, completely unperturbed. “How different is the taste from already deceased hearts? Or do you only consume the flesh of humans that are still alive?”
Law’s eyes widen in what she thinks is surprised delight. “Only fresh from the source. You can taste the fear of the person still terrified by their sudden organ theft, and the pain and shock flooding their system when you take your first bite. It’s delicious.”
“I bet it’s bloody,” she muses. “How do you manage the mess?”
“I lick it all up. No waste,” and he grins; she pictures dark red staining his teeth; tongue lapping at his fingers, the table, any surface the blood splattered onto—even the floor. It’s morbid but she can’t help her small burst of laughter.
“You’d get along with Sanji,” she says. “He’s the same way.”
“A cannibal?” Law quirks an eyebrow.
“No,” she replies. “He hates wasting food.”
“Mm,” he hums, and abandons the bit. “Have you heard from him or anyone else from your crew?”
She shakes her head.
Again, the amusement reigns in. “That must worry you.”
It’s a surprisingly considerate statement—she wasn’t expecting empathy, but she also wasn’t expecting him to ask any further at all. Or any of this: approaching her, bantering with her, trusting her to take him to a secondary location, initiating grotesque jokes and complementing her macabre sense of humor without shying away in horror. At least, she’s ninety-eight percent sure he’s joking. It is possible he’s eaten at least one human heart, and with that also possible that he continues to do so regularly. But she doubts it.
The look of… is that concern? His eyebrows slightly furrowed, a serious set to his lips. She takes a moment to notice what she’s been covertly aware of all along—Trafalgar Law is devastatingly attractive. A bit gangly, but with nice, sharp angles. His rolled up sleeves reveal his lean, tattooed forearms, leading to knuckles inscribed with a word characteristic to his moniker and long fingers likely calibrated for the intricate, careful motions necessary as a surgeon. His devious smile and perceiving eyes spark something unanticipated in her: intrigue, but beyond that, a simmering heat she hasn’t felt in a long time—and rarely in any capacity that she’s wanted to act on it.
“They’re capable of taking care of themselves,” Robin tells Law. “I believe in them.”
“Assuming they’ve been sent somewhere habitable,” he responds, then averts his gaze quickly—perhaps he didn’t intend to say something so pessimistic.
The rain still falls sparsely, but thunder rumbles in shortening increments and she really can’t stay out much longer if she wants to preserve the integrity of her purchases.
“Considering my own circumstance,” she says lightly, “I must assume that everyone else was given survivable conditions.”
He looks back up at her. “If your captain is anything to go by,” he says measuredly, “I wouldn’t consider your belief misplaced.”
She stares at him. It’s such a genuine expression of faith in her captain and crew that it feels absurd—especially considering Law’s lived experience of them all. He must think they’re crazy; from the unwise spectacle in the auction house: assaulting Celestial Dragons—to the ultimate catastrophe on Sabaody: the unwinnable fight between them and the Marines leading to their separation—to Luffy’s desperate, unstoppable race to save his brother including a break-in of Impel Down and failing, almost dying in the process… perhaps he’s basing his assessment on their other infamy in the news. But she doesn’t think so.
“Are you planning on returning to your ship in this?” she asks, breaking away from the topic at hand, but not really, because she wouldn’t be asking if not for it.
He looks up at the blackened sky, rain already streaking down his face. “There’s nothing on me that won’t dry.”
“Lightning isn’t so forgiving,” she says, and though not without lingering doubt tells him, “You should stay. I’ve been renting the room beside us.”
He glances at her in surprise, then at the door, and then back to her. “I can walk,” he insists, but it sounds more like a self-effacing effort to not impose rather than an outright rejection.
Robin hesitates—past experience leaves her wary. There’s little precedence for her to believe this might be any different, and yet… she feels convinced to try.
She takes a step forward into his space; he doesn’t back away, but he does go still, his eyes scanning her face—they settle on her lips.
“I don’t offer what I don’t want anymore,” she says quietly.
He sucks in a breath. She leans in slow, carefully—attentive to the first sign of unwillingness. Law mirrors her, until their faces almost touch, and their eyes meet for a brief second before she kisses him.
It’s gentle at first; his lips soft and hesitant against hers. His eyelids flutter almost to a close, but she can see his dilated pupils eclipsing the grey of his irises through her own veiled eyes. After a moment of neither withdrawing, Law responds, actually kissing back instead of simply accepting her initiation.
She understands the uncertainty—he’s as measured as she is, and she doesn’t doubt he holds consideration of their statuses as rival albeit diplomatic pirates. Robin imagines he’d deny any debt for the rescue of her captain, and considering his earlier evasion, deflect a display of gratitude—though she wouldn’t hesitate to offer a genuine thank you, and likely still will when she circles back to the topic. That isn’t what this is; she will never offer her body as service again.
He doesn’t seem the kind of man that would accept, anyways. Perhaps that’s part of where his trepidation lies—the ambiguity of her intentions. This is hardly her wisest idea, and he must sense it isn’t for himself either. She can feel the calculation in his lips as he deepens the kiss, tilting his head for a better angle. Why would she want this? Is it a good enough reason that she just does?
Both his hands are preoccupied, but only one of hers is. She uses the free one to cup his jaw, though she could conjure as many as she’d like to hold him close, or alleviate the burden of his own items. Would that perturb him? His powers can be used in ways similar to hers—as in, deeply disturbing to the general populace. She wasn’t lying about how she viewed his demonstration in Sabaody earlier. If the situation hadn’t demanded such urgency from her, she would have taken a few more moments to admire his work.
Robin’s heart races as Law kisses her: open-mouthed, tongue swiping her lower lip, finding an easy rhythm with her and it sends excited shocks across her body, heat radiating throughout despite the cold air and rain striping down her skin. Can he sense her pulse through her fingertips to his face? Is that what drives the sudden hunger—is he satisfied with the one he collected, or does he want hers too? The thought shoots a nervous thrill down her spine and that is a dangerous line of thought that should break her away. So why, despite all she knows about the world and pirates, does she believe that he won’t do that?
It’s inexplicable, but undeniable, and it’s why instead of forcing herself apart from him—changing her mind and throwing him out into the storm—she tangles her tongue with his and lets the doubt recede.
Until the sky finally bursts with its initial promise and the light rain transforms into a torrential downpour.
Robin pulls away with a gasp, blinking at a very flushed, dazed-looking Law. She doesn’t give him a chance to protest, just grabs his arm and drags him to the nearest door. In a flash she produces the key with a covertly generated hand extricating it from her pocket, and turns it into the lock. Opening the door, she steps inside and tugs Law along with her.
Darkness greets them in the windowless room. Robin creates another hand emerging out of a nightstand to turn on the lamp beside her bed. It dimly illuminates the space: a rectangular room with peeling yellow wallpaper and dubiously stained carpet, just large enough to host a queen-sized bed, an old wooden desk and chair, a little table with two seats, a cooler, and a door leading to a bathroom on the left wall. Many levels above the worst accommodations she’s resided in, though a step down from what she’s tentatively grown accustomed to at the Revolutionary Army Headquarters.
When she first arrived on the island several days ago, she mildly regretted that the only other available room was at another face of the building. Robin is no stranger to isolation, but her time with the Straw Hats sparked a realization that she vastly preferred sharing a bedroom with Nami over complete solitary living or sleeping with one eye open in whatever communal space she’s endured in the past.
Now, though she would have previously favored neighboring next to Sabo and Koala, she’s grateful they aren’t next door to listen in through the thin walls. For one—her intrinsic desire for privacy. It’s not an issue if she attains her own lodging within close proximity, because she’s naturally quiet and never has company to converse intimately with. Second: though there aren’t any stipulations about outside relations, she sincerely does not want them to know that she decided to bring ostensibly a stranger into her room, especially given her initial refusal to corner herself in any enclosed area with people she does not trust. Either they’d consider it growth, or that she’s gone insane. And third: she isn’t here idly. There’s a mission weighing on her mind, and the responsibility lies on her and her two fellow agents to carry it out.
The nature of it requires them to covertly reside on the island while performing reconnaissance; once they’ve assessed the situation and formed a plan, they can call in the larger ship lingering off the coast in support. A distraction, albeit a very good distraction such as the one in front of her, compromises the integrity of her whole purpose in being present. Robin isn’t keen on any sort of confrontation regarding these three factors. Koala can be quite strict when it comes to assignments; Robin’s witnessed her wrath towards Sabo enough times to know she doesn’t want to be at the receiving end of it.
Robin shuts and locks the door and turns to Law, currently scanning the room. His face betrays no judgement, only a curious scrutiny as he absorbs the details. Perhaps taking note of her sparse belongings: a fabric carrier for her clothes, a closed backpack containing necessities and reports for the mission, a water bottle on the nightstand beside the cowboy hat she belatedly realized she should have brought out this evening. She packs as light as possible, even for what she projects to be extended stays.
“You haven’t been here long,” Law remarks. “And you don’t look like you plan to stay long either.”
“Only a few days both ways,” Robin admits.
“Are you alone?” he inquires.
“No,” she answers honestly, then smiles slyly. “I’m here with you.”
He huffs, but without true irritation. There’s still a flush to his cheeks, skin glistening and drenched hair sticking out from beneath his hat. She knows she must appear the same—bangs plastered down the sides of her face slick with rainwater. Her heart-rate hasn’t fully calmed yet, and just looking at him magnifies the effect she felt outside, drawing out the wild urge to jump him. They’re still so close… all she needs to do is fist her hands into his hoodie and yank him forward.
Still: it would be useful to have some insurance, in case he does develop any sinister ideas.
“I’ll be quickly missed if I disappear,” Robin offers as her evasive warning. “It won’t be received kindly.”
He nods in understanding.
She glances down at her bags, now hopelessly dark with moisture, and observes that his is the same.
“You can put your things on the table,” she suggests. Already she takes a few steps away to set her items on the surface. A ring dampens on the wood around their edges; not a good sign for her bread.
“You are assuming I’m staying,” he says, but walks towards her anyways.
“I’m not stopping you from leaving,” she counters mildly.
He stands before her, then wordlessly places his sword and bag beside her belongings.
“I’ll have to call my crew,” he tells her, glance askew. “They worry.”
There’s a layer of vulnerability in his admission. He worries. Each little facet she picks up only increases his appeal; it’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s drawn her in.
“Do you need a transponder?” she asks.
“I have one.” He pulls a case out of his pocket and opens it.
Oh no, she thinks, peering at the mini snail in his hands. It’s cute.
“Did you make the hat?” she asks, unable to hide the humor in her voice.
His eyes flit to hers, and then back to the snail, which wears a tiny replica of the hat he currently has on.
“Yeah,” he replies—cautiously? Is that a hint of shyness?
She looks. There’s a tinge of pink to his cheeks.
OH NO, she thinks again, and she knows she’s blushing too. I really like him.
Because he sounds bashful, she’s kind enough to assure him with what she’s already thinking. “It’s cute.”
It has the opposite effect; his flush deepens. Even kinder than before, she looks away. For a man so outwardly cool, he does fluster nicely.
Law dials the snail. It rings, for exactly two seconds, before opening the line.
“Captain!” The voice cries urgently through the snail’s mouth. “Are you okay?”
“Bepo,” Law says calmly, “I’m fine. I’m waiting out the storm someplace dry. You don’t have to worry.”
“Are you sure? I can come get you! I’ll bring an umbrella—”
“It’s not safe for you either,” Law interrupts. “I’ll call you again before I leave, after the weather lightens.”
Robin watches, fascinated by the short exchange. The panic at the other end of the line revealing a deep devotion to his captain, who maintains his composure with clear concern for the fear of his crew member.
“Okay,” Bepo replies, less anxious but still with a slight fret to his tone. “Be careful!”
“You too.” Law hangs up, the snail closing the channel with a quiet gacha. He shuts the case and pockets it.
Law glances at Robin, but if he expects her to comment, she disappoints him.
Rain lashes the roof, and wind howls from beyond the walls. Thunder resounds from directly above them, giving voice to the threat of lightning out of view. The racketing of the weather makes up for silence that falls between them.
Now, here, in the privacy of her room, only a slight distance between she and him—she hesitates on exactly how to reinitiate. She’s struck with the sudden stark reality of the situation; every other connection remotely similar to this existed only as means to an end, or concluded in betrayal. Waking up barely clothed to the sounds of Marines at the door ruined any benefit she otherwise could have gleaned, and so she quickly abandoned hopes of lasting intimacy… or at least one that wouldn’t immediately result in treachery.
What are the risks here? There’s no chance he’d call the authorities. Perhaps the greatest danger is that he might steal her heart.
Robin takes a breath. Lifting her hand, she touches his jaw and turns his face back towards her. There’s heat in his gaze when it meets hers. It inflames the inner warmth combatting the chill of her soaked clothes. She closes the gap between them and recaptures his lips.
There’s no hesitation this time. He kisses her like he’s been waiting—it’s only been a few minutes since they parted outside, gasping at the sudden shock of the rain—and he seemed so composed after, as if nothing had transpired at all. The fervency with which he reclaims her dispels the illusion of disinterest. Her eyes close as his hands grasp her waist and pull her in, gripping firmly but not roughly. In turn she cradles his jaw, curling her fingers along the skin, and snakes her other arm up to wrap around his neck and drag him closer. They fall back into a similar rhythm as before, but quicker, hotter; intense, want-driven kisses with teeth and tongue and no room for misinterpretation. Regardless of the earlier posturing, he must desire this as much as she does. She burns with it—heat coursing through her body with a feverish potency.
Time passes—how many minutes, she isn’t sure. She’s as flush as possible to him, cold wet clothes sticking together in what clashes drastically with the stifling warmth, compounded by his proximity and her heightening attraction. The contrasting stimuli of temperature and texture differences, the tight, amorous hold he has on her, and the passionate surge of their lips in sync suddenly overwhelms her and she can’t help but break away, panting.
“I—” Robin says, but stops, taking a moment to breathe.
Law stills, sounding similarly breathless. A moment passes, and his hands lighten around her sides. “Are you okay?” he asks lowly.
The concern in his voice pierces her. She doesn’t say the first thing on her tongue, that in every prior occasion like this, nobody has ever asked her that before. She would laugh that the first to do so is a notorious pirate captain with a nine figure bounty that she barely knows, except the reality of that is so humorless that she can’t.
Can he sense it? Did he catch the significance of her admission, right before she kissed him the first time? Is that why, when she opens her eyes to find his, they look so careful? It strikes her right in the heart—here’s a wound she had no expectation of touching again, much less hoping to heal like the others in her life since meeting the Straw Hats. She recalls his response to her inquiry about Luffy. It was a whim. She doesn’t believe that. Is this a whim? There’s nothing else it could be. So why does she get the impression that he actually cares?
He’s different, she thinks, and she thought that before in early days, right before that shattered and she realized that anyone that lusted after her was always the same. That everyone in the world would only treat her as she has been seen all her life: an object; a burden; a monster; a means. Saul’s parting words rang hollow in her mind for so many years. Luffy and the crew she has come to cherish as her own were the first to challenge her beliefs in two decades. More have come since. Is it so incorrect to think that she may have found another?
“I need to take these off,” Robin says. It comes out a bit strangled—she steadies her voice. “My clothes. They feel unbearable.”
Law nods in understanding. “I would have suggested it from the start,” he says.
“What stopped you?” she questions.
He shrugs slightly. “It’s your pace.”
She stares at him. And cannot stop herself this time from saying it: “You are the first person to ever care about that.”
His eyes widen. She didn’t exactly intend to admit that. It’s a cut too personal; the weight of it could scare him off.
“It’s not a high bar,” he tells her. It seems more an effort of self-effacement than dismissing her.
“It has been,” she replies, and turns away, uneasy.
“It shouldn’t be.”
There’s a long pause.
“Do you want to stop?”
Her gaze snaps back to his. There’s no judgment or pressure in them.
“No,” she says, and does not continue with the next truth that nobody has ever asked her that either when it comes to this. “Just take these off.”
“Okay.” He releases her waist, and she untangles herself from around his neck. “I want to hang mine.”
“There’s racks in the bathroom,” she says, and indicates for him to follow her as she walks to the door and opens it.
He joins her as she turns on the light, brightening the room. It’s small, but large enough for all the necessary amenities. There’s a shower-bath combo at the end, and a mirror spanning the counter length to the ceiling. The floor is covered in white tile that reaches halfway up the wall before opening to more flaking paper, this one a light blue. There’s two towel racks for them to dry their clothes.
Robin wastes no time peeling off her soaked cardigan and folding it over the bar next to the towel she’s been using. She kicks off her heels, leaving them near the wall. Her socks are barely damp, but she takes them off anyways, placing them further down the rod. Beside her, Law mimics her with his shoes and socks, then removes his fur hat, draping it over the other rack. In her peripheral, Law pulls his hoodie over his head, leaving him in a black t-shirt similarly branded with his Jolly Roger.
It makes her laugh, and him look over. “What?”
She covers her mouth. “I appreciate the theming,” she says, unable to prevent her smile. “Is this the only outfit you have, or do you tailor everything?
His lips quirk up. “It’s only a coincidence that this is all you’ve seen me in—if you’re serious, I ought to show you my closet.”
She blinks. That sounds like an invitation. Robin pictures herself following him back to his ship, into his room—and immediately dispels the image. She doesn’t trust him that much.
“I have other obligations right now,” she evades. “Wear something else next time we meet.”
“Assuming there’s a next time,” he replies, and strips off his shirt. “Or that I’ll have the foresight to know you’ll be there.”
She pauses, unable to speak as she takes in his topless form. Lithe and muscular, with black ink swirling over his chest and arms. In the center, another brand of his crew’s symbol, surrounded by what is unmistakably a heart. Each shoulder bears an additional one.
The theming goes deeper than I thought, she muses. Captain of the Heart Pirates. Is there more to it? She doesn’t comment, but by his deepening smirk, she knows the admiration must show on her face.
“It’s simple,” Robin manages to say, “don’t wear it until after we meet again.”
He sucks in through his teeth. “That’s a big ask, considering you haven’t convinced me we will at all.”
She tilts her head. “I find it’s a smaller world when you want the same thing.”
His gaze sharpens. What does any ambitious pirate want? The dream that sets so many hopeful souls out to sea—a dream that has crushed and killed and caused irreparable damage—now renewed by Whitebeard’s final, catalyzing call before his death. A dream that she would die herself for to help her captain achieve it—if only he hadn’t demanded her so willfully to live.
Before he can respond, she lifts the seam of her tank top and shirks it off, revealing her own chest, still bound with a bra. Whatever words he might have replied with stop in his throat as he looks her up and down, much like she did him. She realizes how nice his black hair looks loose, ruffled by the hat and now falling over his forehead. There’s evident want in his eyes, and the banter has cooled her down a bit but the heat quickly returns at his expression.
She turns, putting her shirt on the rack, then shimmies out of her shorts. Quickly, she picks those up and occupies the rest of the bar with them. For a moment she lingers, suddenly hesitant. It’s been a long time since she’s exposed herself like this to any man. As certain as she is, there’s a part of her that shrinks back at the prospect of being viewed completely. Lust can transform a person—who’s to say he won’t take after all the others?
He hasn’t so far, she reassures herself.
Robin faces Law again, left only in her underclothes. There’s nothing special about them—nude-colored, no frills. But it sparks a sudden memory of Brook’s recurring invasive inquiry: “Can I see your panties?”
Each time, Nami would clout him on the head, furiously reprimanding him on Robin’s behalf; but truthfully, after a couple times, it just amused her. Now, the thought is even endearing—of both Brook and Nami. But the distance of time and space, her breach of knowledge regarding their health and whereabouts, constricts her heart. So she sets them aside.
Law’s still frozen, gaze trailing over her body. In the past, lascivious, self-serving men surveyed her like a piece of meat, and treated her the same. Means to an end, is all it was for her. Anything to survive in pursuit of her goal—at least the several years under Crocodile hadn’t demanded such measures from her—his interest in her purely professional. Prior, though, in both desperate and opportunistic times, she found use of her flesh: security, information, access, manipulation; all things necessary, and rarely borne out of the sole purpose of physical gratification. Life divorced her from such wants—it seems her time with the Straw Hats has taken her repressions and breathed animation into what she considered long dormant, if not dead entirely. Perhaps she should have anticipated that carnality would be included in the revival.
Still, the old memories flash—she compares them to the scene before her, and finds that the feeling they offer her is non-existent here. Law’s stare isn’t predatory… desiring, for sure, but not in a way that makes her feel uneasy, or unsafe, or like he isn’t seeing a person. All it does is spread warmth through her; she’s longed for, but not leched after, and that seems to make all the difference.
When his eyes reach hers, he takes the small step back into her space. His face nears; he’s barely taller than her—a fact she likes, because it puts them on equal footing.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss her, but stops short to lowly ask, “Better?”
“Almost,” she replies softly. She finds his belt loops and tugs him a bit closer, brushing their lips together. “These too.”
He pulls back, and quickly obliges her, shuffling off the jeans in record time considering how frustrating it can be to take off wet denim. Before she knows it, they’re hung up and he’s drawing her in, hands on her hips, lips barely touching hers. She hisses at the cold of his fingers; both of them are still layered with a light sheen of rainwater, but it should air-dry soon enough.
He leans in, teasing her with an almost-kiss, and tells her, “One more thing.”
She blinks as he pulls away, slightly bemused by the sudden withdrawal. When he angles to the sink and turns on the tap, she can barely believe it.
He… washes his hands? Somehow, this shocks her even more than his previous surprises. She watches in fascination as he meticulously applies soap, scrubbing thoroughly at his skin, even under the crescents of his nails—she didn’t notice how well-clipped he keeps them until now.
He catches her look of amazement through the mirror.
“I’m a surgeon,” he explains. “I’m well aware of all the contaminants we’re exposed to daily. You do not want a UTI.”
Does it even need saying that not only is he the first to preface intimacy with this—but one of the only men in general that she knows that regularly washes his hands?
There’s Chopper, of course, but he’s also a doctor. Sanji as well, but he’s a chef, and similarly cautious about contamination with his cooking. Usopp is better about it than the rest of the crew, to his credit. She wouldn’t particularly say germs are high on her list of concerns, but it does impress her when she comes across a man—more than that, a male pirate—who takes a serious interest in hygiene.
“How considerate,” she says calmly, but internally she’s far less composed, because—why is he so special??? It doesn’t bode well for her emotions. She can’t afford to be so quickly enamored by a person she very well may never meet again—though she doubts it. Even more—someone who she does not and cannot owe any allegiance to. Still, she cannot suppress the feeling. As of now, all they have is until the rain ends. He’ll move on, and she’ll continue training with the Revolutionary Army, and she will reunite with her crew at Sabaody when the time comes. The future is a murky, mercurial thing, and she holds no illusion that it promises anything; yet she does have hope. Perhaps by the end of the storm, she’ll have a bit more.
But she’s getting ahead of herself. Law shuts the water off and dries himself with a small towel. He turns and leans on the counter to face her, and she takes it as an indication to step up to the sink and wash her own hands. As she does so, he rests his hand on her back; the hot water warmed him, so she shivers from the thrill of the contact rather than any chill. When she finishes, she dries her hands on the same towel he did, and without further delay, pulls him into an embrace and fiercely kisses him. He presses her to the edge of the counter so she rests against it.
His bare skin against her own—his hands roving over her body, fingers splaying across her abdomen, trailing along the ridges of her ribcage, sliding over the curves and edges with hands partly calloused from years of sword-use, yet so careful and precise from all his experience as a surgeon. She pictures him taking a scalpel to her skin, cutting lines across where his fingers trace. Dissecting her; splitting her down the middle to reveal all the parts and processings she has only known are within her, but never seen.
She returns the exploration; eyes closed as they kiss, hot and messy: teeth clashing, tongues winding, panting in between each slight separation before meeting again, impassioned and oscillatory like waves crashing to the shore; receding and then surging, over and over again. Her hands press along his back, charting the region: the sharpness of his shoulder blades, the soft hair at his nape, each vertebra of his spine as she runs her fingers over the slope of it. He arches as she reaches the small of his back, where she lightens her touch to tease the sensitive area.
Law parts from her lips, and finds her jaw. Robin tips her head back as he mouths along it, down to her neck. She sighs softly as he kisses the skin.
He pauses, face burrowed in the curve. “You’re so gorgeous,” he murmurs.
It sparks a deeper feeling of pleasure in her chest, and she exhales as his hands curl into the notches of her ribcage on her back.
“I bet you’re beautiful inside,” he continues breathlessly.
“Really?” she asks, further pleased instead of perturbed.
“Oh yeah,” he says, and he mouths again at her neck, alternating between kisses and phrases. “Your skeletal structure has immaculate definition… such lovely flesh, and healthy, smooth skin… every vertex, inflection, incline is just perfect.” He takes a sharp breath. “It feels like a privilege to touch you.”
“Oh,” she says breathily. The way he’s talking about her is doing something to her. He continues lazily kissing down her neck, and the combination of the sensation of his lips and admiration of her body floods her with a wave of arousal. “Would it hurt?”
“Hmm?”
“Looking inside,” she answers, inhaling sharply as he nips at her skin.
“No,” he replies. “It’s completely harmless. No pain whatsoever.”
“I see,” she says, and she is curious. When else would such an opportunity be presented to her? “I’ll consider it.”
She feels him grin, teeth bared against her skin. “I could give you a taste,” he offers. “Nothing too invasive.”
“Like what?”
A hand wanders across her body, settling above her pelvis. “Well…” he says slowly. “I could check you for STIs and whether you’re far enough into your luteal phase.”
It’s so unexpected that she laughs; a sharp burst of surprise, and she opens her eyes. “Do you offer that to all the girls?” she questions, deeply amused.
He stills, but doesn’t raise his head. “I don’t do this often,” he confesses. “It’s rare to catch my attention, and rarer still for me to act on it.”
This also surprises her. “It doesn't show,” she says honestly.
“Not often,” he says, “does not mean not ever.” His hands begin to move again, one circling widely around her navel. “I used protection in the past. My other suggestion tends to nauseate—but unfortunately, I don’t carry any right now.”
She can’t criticize him for that; she invited him in, knowing full well that she is also lacking. Perhaps not often also means not in a while, in which she can relate.
Robin pauses to consider. “How confident are you with your checking?”
“I’m never wrong.”
There’s rarely no margin of error in practice, but she chooses not to challenge him. She’s very certain herself that she does not have any STIs, and has no current risk of conception. But for both of their peace of mind, it couldn’t hurt to allow it.
“Okay,” she agrees.
Law straightens up, lifting his head to look her in the eyes. His glitter with something she can’t quite identify. She watches curiously as he pulls back slightly, removing one hand from her skin, and says:
“Room.”
A blue glow emanates from his palm, quickly expanding to enclose her and Law in a sphere, faintly visible like a translucent membrane. He places his hand back where it was, fingers pressing lightly to her abdomen, and says lowly, “Scan.”
There doesn’t seem to be any visible or physical effects to his word; no light, or zap, or even tingling to indicate that anything is happening at all.
“All clear,” he tells her simply.
She looks up at him. “Is that it?” she asks, mildly disappointed.
He quirks an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”
Truthfully, she imagined he might pass his hand through her; reach in, perhaps even remove the parts to scrutinize and glean the desired information. Or would he need his blade to expose her? It seems quite large for smaller operations—maybe he carries a scalpel in his pocket?
“I wondered if you might reach inside me,” she replies impassively. “Or cut me open.”
“I implied minimally invasive,” he reminds her.
“Without a reference point,” she adds.
“Did you think I wouldn’t warn you if that was needed?”
“Why would I?” she asks. “You don’t warn anybody else.”
“In a fight,” he cedes. “I’m a doctor. The quickest way to panic a patient is to start slicing them without explaining why. Or,” and a strange, almost sadistic gleam appears in his eyes, “without anesthetizing them.”
“You said it doesn’t hurt.”
“My powers don’t—but the reason I use them might.”
There’s something veiled in his voice; what is that? Should she press?
“Anyways,” he says, and the odd quality in his words disappears. “I could open you up, if that’s what you were hoping for.”
It tempts her. Would he say more lovely things about her organs? The way he complimented her anatomy makes her flush. She didn’t anticipate his praising—he didn’t seem the type—and definitely not the unorthodox way in which he praised her, and how potently it pleased her to hear.
And she’s curious herself about what they might find inside; but she’s also becoming somewhat impatient, and what she would really like is his lips and body back on hers.
“Actually,” she replies, though not without some hesitation. Intellectually, she wants to take this unprecedented opportunity to study her body. Far less cerebrally, she wants to tear the rest of his clothes off and study his. “I was hoping we could take this to the bed.”
He tilts his head, examining her face, and for a moment she thinks he’s about to start admiring the symmetry of her skull, or the quality of her corneas, but instead he just says a soft, “Okay.”
He surges forward to kiss her, and she meets him halfway. It feels crazy—how she can’t seem to get enough of him. She does not love this man; she cannot fully trust him; and yet she can’t recall wanting anyone more. Set to the side but still in view are her reservations: her obligations, both present and future; the long shadows of her past and all the pain and caution they haunt her with; the overhanging awareness that ultimately, they oppose each other; and the waning concern that she might meet the same fate as the bag currently pulsing on her table. And, perhaps the most frightening: he feels right.
Somehow they make it out of the bathroom—arms weaved around each other, his hand buried in her hair, lips parting barely long enough to breathe—by the time she collapses onto the bed, him falling on top of her, she’s managed to push her hesitations even further into the peripheral and is in the process of shutting out her thoughts. All throughout the evening, even in this exhilarating frenzy of touch and want and sensation—she cannot stop herself from thinking. Perhaps it’s because she can’t afford to block out rationality; but if she’s already made her decision, why can’t she just feel?
Law parts, but only for a second before moving to her clavicle, licking a long stripe down the bone. She inhales sharply—it’s not the easiest task lying down but her bra ends up unclasped and discarded somewhere to the side. She arches as his mouth finds sweeter spots on her chest; digs her nails into his back as he leans over her, one hand drifting lower; teasing thighs; the sensitive strip above the waistband of the only thing left to conceal her—but soon enough even that is removed. Lying bare under the weight of another isn’t unfamiliar, but the care with which he tends to her is—not tame nor restrained in his ministrations, but attentive, receptive to the way she relaxes, stiffens, flexes under his touch. He demonstrates the surgical skill of his long, clever digits with precise, calculated, incredible motions that bring her panting to the precipice—and then slow with all the wickedness seen in his twisted half-smiles. Tides receding. She hisses; he slows further; she finds herself cursing, words she rarely uses but it isn’t until now that she personally discovers the sadism in his fingertips. He laughs against her skin, taking obvious pleasure in her swearing—or perhaps just her torment. When he finally offers mercy, she cries out softly—the surge, waves cutting and crashing, the force overwhelming, drowning, dizzying her and she lies breathless until it subsides, and she finds use in her lungs again.
The storm furies above them. Thunder reverberates the room, shaking the building, and Robin dimly reckons it fitting for the timing.
A few moments of dazed recovery; his mouth back at her neck, sucking and biting and it jolts her back into reality, just a bit.
“Don’t leave a mark,” she gasps.
He pauses, and his tongue laves over the spot, as if trying to remedy it with his saliva, but only for a couple seconds.
“Something to hide?” he murmurs, a knowing quality in his voice. “Someone that disapproves…?”
“…Potentially,” she replies. “I did say I’m not here idly.”
“Which intrigues me,” he admits, and resumes his motions, interspersing his next words with them, as if trying to distract her from the fact that he’s no gentler than before. “If you’re not here by yourself… and you aren’t here arbitrarily… then you must be working for someone.”
He bites her again, and she inhales sharply. How rude!
“For someone fishing for answers,” Robin says lightly, “you don’t play very nice.”
He lets out a huff of laughter against her skin. “What made you think I’d be nice?”
She doesn’t tell him what she thinks: that of all the men she’s let touch her like this, he has been the nicest. It might not bode well for his self-image if he’s set on not being viewed in that way.
“What makes you think I’ll tell you more?” she counters mildly. “You haven’t really told me why you need the heart.”
“If I tell you,” he says lowly, “will you tell me?”
“Hmm,” she hums in consideration. “Minimal details.”
“Okay,” he agrees, and she really needs him to quit nipping at her while talking—but can’t seem to give more than her initial protest. “It’s leverage,” he tells her, “I need… and have... more than one heart. This one is my last.”
“Really?” she asks, unable to stop herself from the self-sabotaging line of questioning. “You don’t need any more? You mentioned higher bounties—and you do know mine.”
He pauses. “If I say it’s my last,” and his hand wanders up her skin, finding the left side of her chest. “Why offer yourself? It sounds like you want me to take your heart.”
His fingers circle around the area, and her pulse had settled but it begins to race again.
“I’ve been told…” she confesses slowly, “that I can be curious to my own detriment.”
“Hmm…” he hums, “I can see that. Now you.”
“Reconnaissance,” Robin says carefully, “of something in the area. Nothing you would find use of.”
Or she highly doubts he would. The Revolutionary Army has had their eyes on this island for a while; suspicions of weapons trafficking, and a stockpiling of them in an onsite facility. Robin, Sabo, and Koala have located the center—but it’s a delicate situation, as it’s nestled in an area with high civilian presence. The plan is to call in backup once they’ve analyzed the best way to proceed and raid the building, without causing unnecessary harm.
“And how would you know that?”
How to deter him without revealing too much?
“For the same reason that, though I don’t know why you need the hearts… I don’t want them.”
Law levels himself on his arms to look her in the eyes. “I have my own plans. I don’t intend to interfere with yours.”
It sets her back at ease; for a second, she feared she disclosed more than she should have. To fully sever the discussion—and return to what they both really want right now—she kisses him.
Sated once, but not for long—she pulls him into an embrace, splaying her hands across the smooth muscles over his scapula—she curls them as they kiss, fingernails scraping down his back, rougher than she would have been had he not sought to leave marks of his own. They reach fabric—some shuffling, and she finally has all of him within her touch. Gentle, unhurried; she offers him the same teasing ploy he offered her. When he wants to rush—she rolls them over, kneeling above him. He said her pace—an unfamiliar courtesy she intends to make use of. She caresses his pecs—fingers tracing the curves of his heart of ink—and then settling over where his true one pounds, obscured by blood and bone and flesh. It beats wildly—she smiles wickedly. She offers, “would you like a taste of my own powers?” to which he accepts, a daring gleam in his eyes. Mutual sighs when they finally align—he’s quiet, as is she, and she wonders what the world did to mute his reactions—could it be similar to what it’s done to her? Not for lack of feeling—she keeps her palms steadied on his chest, tuning in to his pulse, and finds her own rhythm. With her in control—no conditions, no agendas, nothing to gain other than self-gratification—she lets herself appreciate the sheer pleasure of the experience.
His hands reach for her; as promised, she conjures two of her own out of the covers to clasp with his and restrains them to the bed. The simplest trick she has for him—he glances, alarmed, but quickly calms, relaxing into her hold. Is that trust, or self-assurance? A blend of both? Her subtle revenge takes the form of her own tantalizing: more hands to tease along his skin—sensitive areas that tense under her fingertips; tempo changes to chase and draw out and linger; leaning over to look half-lidded into his heated eyes, careful not to pressure his chest—alluring him with what he cannot touch—and closing in to listen to his language of sensuality, so similar to her own. She would kiss him if she didn’t desire so potently to witness it: sighs, hisses, sharp inhales.
At some point he reminds her that freeing a hand might be useful—so she does, and he weaves through the others to demonstrate, eliciting a gasp from her when he finds his target. She takes further mercy—dissipating the other arm into petals, releasing his to allow full access to her skin, which he quickly exploits. Cupping, stroking, circling; evoking soft sounds and the realization that she’s trembling. Only a few more moments to the summit—heightening, surmounting, tilting, and the tensile chord tethering her to the edge snaps and sends her toppling into a vast ocean of ecstasy—tumbling under the warm waves, reverberating from the impact, closing her eyes as it washes over her, and she chokes a soundless cry.
Law in sync; taking the rhythm as he follows her. Dragging her in for an open kiss—she swallows whatever he might have expressed into the air; and can’t find it in herself to be disappointed with her hands still over his chest, taking in the sensations of dual-pulsing—his heartbeat starts to slow as the other finishes, and she notices that her extra limbs vanished without her awareness.
He finally releases Robin, but instead of parting she lets their foreheads touch, still coming down from the high and not quite ready to let him go. Law’s hands drift to her back, tenderly caressing the skin. When it begins to become uncomfortable—she braces him and slides off, collapsing onto the bed beside him.
Their arms touch. It isn’t enough, not after pressing as much of her skin as possible to his. Is he the cuddling kind? She doesn’t consider herself to be, but she might change her mind for him.
Robin turns to him, and finds him already regarding her with a look of such warmth that it stops her. If she didn’t know any better… she’d call it adoration. Surely he isn’t the type to fall so easily—if anything, an effect of the oxytocin rushing through their systems.
Yet Law stretches his arm, opening a space for her to rejoin him, and she takes it, settling against him. They lie in peace for a while. She doesn’t feel the need to say anything, and it seems he doesn’t either. Robin only wants to enjoy this transient bit of intimacy while it lasts. The storm still rages on above—likely, it will last throughout the night. Does she truly trust him not to sabotage her? Like the other fleeting connections that she believed she wanted for herself? Those which taught her cruelly not to place her faith in even those that claimed to want her back.
Does she trust Law well enough to sleep beside him—willingly lose consciousness in his presence?
She did on that first night with the Straw Hats, in a ship that offered her no escape route should they decide to throw her into the water. And yet, her intuition led her to believe that they would not. And it was right.
That same intuition leads to a tentative, yet unmistakeable yes.
After some time, Robin extricates herself, sits up, and stretches. She searches for her discarded clothes, and slips her underwear back on. Then she slides off the bed, standing up. A glance towards Law shows him propped on his elbows, watching her curiously. She inclines her head to the bathroom, and he nods, lying back down.
She goes to clean herself off. Scrutinizes herself in the mirror: hair disheveled, red marks on her chest and neck. Oh no. Internally, she winces. Even if Koala doesn’t scold her for becoming distracted, Robin might never hear the end of it from Sabo.
Oh well. She sighs. It can’t be undone, and she’s endured far worse than a lecture and some teasing.
When Robin returns to the bedroom, Law, also reclothed, gets up to take her place. The covers are a mess; she does a cursory job of rearranging them, and crawls into bed on the side closest to the door.
It suddenly occurs to her that the entire reason she left her room in the first place was to find something for dinner—and that she’s hungry. But also does not want to leave her bed. Her solution is to produce a trail of arms to reach into her bags at the table, and pass back to her a few groceries.
Law comes back, and gives her a strange look. “Do you really want to eat a pastry in your bed?”
She stares back, unfazed. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He comes to sit beside her, on top of the covers. “You’ll get crumbs everywhere.”
Robin glances down. So far, she’s managed pretty well not to get any flakes or chocolate where they shouldn’t be. She looks back up, her lips curving slightly. “It’s fine. I’ll lick it all up. No waste.”
His mouth twists into its own little smirk at the callback. “Well, I ought to eat the heart now, if that’s the case.”
“I also have an apple,” she suggests.
He sighs. “I guess I can save it for later.”
Robin hands him the fruit, and he turns it around, examining it.
“Worried it’s poisoned?” she asks.
He eyes her. “More that it’ll be sticky.”
She laughs. “Are you an obsessive, Law?”
“I have standards,” he deflects. “They adjust situationally. You have clean running water and a real bed, so they’re higher.” And after a second, adds, “Robin.”
She realizes it’s the only time she’s said his first name alone out loud to him, though she’s used it in her head all evening. He seems to be mirroring her—without his linguistic quirk, which seems intentional.
Her smile widens a bit more at the deliberate effort. “I imagine you’d suffer quite terribly as a pirate if your standards were inflexible.”
It makes him laugh, which pleases her.
“To cope, I’d have to reign the seas with terror: cut off the hands of every pirate that doesn’t wash them and throw them overboard.”
“That’s most of my crew,” Robin admits, amused. “So I would have to fight you on that.”
He laughs again. She really does enjoy eliciting the reaction in him. As they banter, he decides to join her under the covers and take a bite of the apple. It dribbles with juice, to his dissatisfaction, yet he concedes that it’s otherwise good, and continues.
They talk until they’ve both finished their dinners—she offers Law more, and he refuses. She licks her fingers off, as promised, and says that she can do the same for him, if he doesn’t want to himself—human saliva can also be sticky, he tells her—but accepts anyways, which devolves into another half-hour of lazily making out.
“I have to be up early,” she says as they part.
Arms wrapped around her, he gazes into her eyes. “I’m leaving with my crew as soon as I can,” he replies severely.
It’s a reality she knew from the start, and yet there’s still a pang in her chest.
“Then we should sleep,” she says, not without some doubt that she’ll even be able to.
“Yeah,” he sighs.
He unwraps his arms from around her, but leaves one for her to rest in the crook of, her head on his chest, his hand against her skin.
With his other arm, he manages to reach the lamp and turn it off, leaving them in complete darkness.
She lies there, in his comfortable, easy embrace, with her eyes open to nothing for some time. Just listening to their breathing and the sounds of the storm. Exhaustion saps at her, urging her into a lull, but her mind won’t let her rest yet.
“Thank you,” Robin says quietly, “for saving Luffy.”
He’s silent for a moment. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
Law doesn’t reply, but she feels his fingers curl gently against her.
Robin’s eyes close, and she drifts into sleep.
———
She rouses slowly. Cozy under the covers, turned on her side; an arm thrown over her, and a warm presence pressed along her back. She stiffens, and then relaxes as the memories return to her.
Law’s legs tangle with hers—his forehead at her nape, breath stirring her hair. They must have moved in their sleep—she doesn’t recall waking once throughout the night. It’s unclear what time it is exactly, but the storm clearly passed; there’s no rainfall overhead, but she can hear the faint call of gulls, so it must be at least early morning.
Exactly the time she needs to get up, if so. The room is still dark with no windows to shed light into it. Obligations tug at her, and she sighs. It feels nice to wake up with another person holding her close, and she’s reluctant to disturb him and end this rare comfort.
She lets herself linger for a few more moments and reflects. There’s no Marines at the door. No imminent fear of betrayal as she processes that he hasn’t let her go. She hasn’t been abandoned—he could have left as quick as the weather bettered, without so much as a goodbye. Instead he stayed beside her, presumably also sleeping, with no apparent agenda other than to stretch the amount of time with her in his arms.
And she wants to stretch it a little longer—but shifts in his embrace, carefully attempting to extricate herself from it—only to be pulled closer as he tightens his hold on her, clutching her to his chest.
It surprises her. “Law?”
He mumbles something into her hair that she doesn’t quite catch.
Robin accepts it, relaxing as she settles back into his grasp.
“We have to get up,” she tells him, somewhat amusedly, because she didn’t expect him to be clingy.
“Fve mre mints,” he murmurs, audible enough for her to understand him but still quite slurred.
It’s sweet, and funny, and tempting, so she acquiesces and remains for approximately another five minutes, soaking in the warmth and contentment of this moment.
At the end, she says softly, “Time’s up.”
He sighs. Releases his hold on her and turns, shuffling in the dark—which bursts into light as he activates the side-table lamp.
Robin blinks at the sudden brightness—which isn’t actually very bright—and shifts to see Law sitting up, staring ahead blearily, hair ruffled, clearly willing to lie back down and curl around her for longer.
The tired, bedhead image is quite cute. She smiles slightly.
After about thirty seconds, he slides out of the sheets, pads into the bathroom, and shuts the door.
Not much time later, muffled voices breach the barrier. Must be his crew, she thinks. The quality of the other one sounds the same as she heard last night—Bepo, Law said.
He opens the door, reappearing with his clothes back on, and a little livelier.
She props herself on her elbows to watch him approach her side of the bed.
“I’m leaving,” he says.
“Off to use your leverage?” she inquires.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he tells her cryptically. “Keep an eye on the papers.”
“Something newsworthy?” she asks coyly. “I’ll be anticipating.”
Law hesitates, and then nears the bed. He leans over it towards her, one hand balancing on the mattress, the other reaching out to tilt her chin. Curious, she lets it happen.
His eyes rove over her face, as if committing it to memory, and then he presses forward to lightly kiss her cheek. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture; he parts quickly, but lingers to tell her lowly, “Thanks.”
She doesn’t need to ask what for—and he doesn’t elaborate, already retreating.
He turns and walks to the table, carefully lifting his belongings, and then continues to the door. When he unlocks and opens it, morning light shines through, and he looks back at her.
“See you,” she calls.
His lips curve into a knowing smirk, and then he’s gone.
———
Sometime later, Robin approaches an even more reserved Trafalgar Law. He stands off to the side, quietly observing the odd celebration between the Marines, Straw Hats, Caesar’s leftover subjects, and the children.
His gaze flits over her as she stops before him and cocks her head. “So that’s why you needed the hearts,” she says, finally addressing the night that they’d independently decided to set aside. “One hundred pirates at the Marine’s mercy—that’s quite a tradeoff, Warlord.”
The only tell he’d offered that he even recognized her was a quick flicker of his eyes, meeting hers for an intense couple seconds before the heat dissipated and left his face impassive towards her for the rest of the events until now. The coldness didn’t shock her—she herself had quickly schooled her expression into one of cool regard, though she knows he caught the small slip in her usually unbothered affect.
Law’s lips quirk into a slight smile. It’s the first sign all day that he still holds some interest in her beyond the initial fleeting connection and the fact that he and her crew are now his allies. “Now you know why I didn’t take yours.”
She holds his gaze curiously. “Would you have? Say we met at the beginning of your collection.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Something in him changed—the severity she noticed last time deepened. Still calm, but closer to aloof than casual. She remembers her initial contemplation of what could have imbued the tension then—a subtle contrast from his demeanor on Sabaody, now more pronounced. What had she thought? An indication of future concern. Now, knowing the gravity of his ambitions, it clicks further into place.
“Do you really think I would end with that?”
“No,” she replies honestly, “but you might start with it.”
He regards her carefully. “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not? I’m certain the World Government would have accepted less hearts if you presented mine.”
It’s somewhat of a useless line of questioning—purely hypothetical, nothing material to be gained of it. Yet still, she presses.
His eyebrows furrow, and his next words do manage to surprise her. “One hundred pirate hearts are worthless in the face of yours. The Navy doesn’t know that, but I do. They don’t deserve it.”
It’s so romantic an expression that she blinks, speechless for a moment. He averts his gaze, perhaps realizing the implications of his statements and turning bashful.
Oh no, she thinks once more, and can’t help the smile spreading across her face. In the interim of their separation, she thought of him—new memories, good memories to rifle through at night and dream about. Kindling also, for the subtle hope that they might cross paths again—and not as enemies. She warned Luffy that pirate alliances are often marked by betrayal, as was her responsibility to alert him of such a reality. Yet when he glanced up at Law, innocently asking, are you going to betray me? She found herself more inclined to believe his simple, immediate, no.
And so, like her other hope: that she would reunite with her crew, stronger, healthy, and ready to set into the New World together, this one too has been fulfilled.
“Maybe,” Robin says lightly—too lightly for the implications of her own words, “you stole it anyways, Torao-kun.”
His gaze returns quickly to hers— grey eyes piercing her at the comment. She feels frozen under them, until they warm, cracking the cool facade, and his mouth curves into a sly grin. “If you say so, Nico-ya.”
Names to match the crew’s expectations—and, she finds Luffy’s shortenings and misnomers endearing. Yet she won’t forget the way he said her first, a hesitant afterthought to return her own informal address. Mirroring her—then, and again here.
He lowers his head, pulling down the brim of his new hat slightly. There’s no way for her to know whether he obliged her and refrained from wearing the same outfit since their last meeting, but this one is completely different—aside from the branding of his Jolly Roger and spots, now verifiably consistent. Unless, below his thick, long coat, is still the same hoodie and jeans. She could ask—but she’ll find out soon enough, once he settles onto their ship.
With his slight smile, Law steps forward to move around her. His eyes seek hers for a quick, knowing moment, and then he brushes by; arms meeting as he passes, hands touching for a brief second. An inconspicuous, affirming contact meant only for her.
She turns to watch as he walks through the snow, leaving her where she stands.
Robin presses her index finger to the wrist he grazed. Her pulse beats in a steady rhythm, far too calm for her confession. Or maybe, within that lies the truth: if he does come back to take her heart—claim it from her chest for his own possession—she knows he’ll keep it safe.