Chapter Text
Zoro had a small problem. He was a swordsman who couldn't use his swords.
It had been months in the making. He chalked up the exhaustion to training, the strange aches to training, and everything else to the everyday wear and tear of life.
When it first got worse, he thought, No sweat. He'd never injured his wrists like this before, but it was temporary. There's no way it couldn't be cured. If Chopper couldn't do it now, he could do it eventually.
Apparently not.
Chopper was not an expert in this kind of illness, and he stayed up all night to read about it, falling asleep in his cereal at breakfast.
"Sleep deprivation is used as torture, did you know?" Robin said offhandedly, when Luffy had to nudge the reindeer awake.
Okay, it might drive him up the wall, but it wasn't worth torturing his friend. He didn't want the reindeer to waste his life on this. It wasn't even serious. He couldn't seem to persuade Chopper of this, no matter how much he tried to convey how little it mattered.
Admittedly, he didn't take the news as well as he should've. So when he acted like nothing was wrong, that convinced their doctor he was covering something up.
"You don't have to pretend," the reindeer said, his eyes big and earnest. "You can tell me the truth!"
I am, he thought.
The last straw was when he went to see Chopper in his office. The reindeer was crying at his desk. Tears splashed onto the pages of his notes, all crowded with writing so dense it didn't look readable.
His dream was to cure every illness in the world. As long as Zoro was around, he couldn't.
So the next time they landed on an out-of-the-way island to resupply, Zoro took the opportunity to ask a local where to find the doctors.
His guide shook their head sadly. "You're better off going somewhere else, to be honest. Our doctors are… well, they're okay for most things, but if your condition is both rare and not deadly, they're not going to be much help."
"So they can't cure it?"
"No, they-- they lack bedside manner, if you catch my drift."
"Fine by me. I'm not going to sleep in their office."
"Do you know what bedside manner is?
"I need a doctor who isn't going to cry at the thought of not being able to cure me. Someone who's competent but doesn't give a shit about me at all."
They looked a little skeptical. "That usually doesn't make for good medical care."
"I'm not putting my crew through this. Get me a doctor who doesn't fucking care."
With directions and a map in hand, he located the first doctor in the town through trial and error (there were only three). It was a small clinic, its whitewash cracked and covered in stains. The adjacent building wore bamboo scaffolding like a sort of cage, and a few workers sat outside, eating their lunches.
It was a walk-in clinic, and the doctor-- a short, middle-aged man with a strangely shaped mustache-- didn't have any patients and he was seen almost immediately.
"I can't move my wrist."
"Why?"
"You're the doctor. You tell me."
He gave him the most patronizing look he'd ever received. "I meant what did you do to cause it? What happens when you try to move it?"
"It doesn't."
"That sounds like an excuse to me."
"What?"
"Try to move it."
He did, gritting his teeth.
The doctor's tone was laced with judgment. "See, you're fully capable of moving it. Honestly, too many of you fake illnesses nowadays. What is it? You want to dodge the draft?"
He blinked. "The fuck are you talking about?"
"Watch your language. You know, young people these days are too soft. Back in my day, if you walked into my office with something like that, you'd get laughed outta town. I knew a guy who had a shovel stuck in his head for 45 years, never said a word. And you come running here as soon as you get a little--"
He was out the door before he finished the sentence.
The next clinic he found was full of patients, and he felt a little out of place. His thing wasn't nearly as urgent. He could still use his other hand, after all. A man with a goiter the size of a grapefruit on his neck squinted at him, as if questioning why he looked so healthy.
The receptionist didn't look up at him when he approached the front desk. "Fill out this form."
"I can't write."
"Are your fingers broken?"
"No."
"Too many illiterates these days..."
"I'm...not illiterate."
"So you're just lazy?"
Maybe he should have claimed to be illiterate. He didn't know many of the answers. Once he filled it out--which took a while--they couldn't read it because his handwriting was too unsteady.
This was a pretty paradox. To fix his hand, he had to see a doctor. But to see a doctor, he had to fix his hand. It was like how you needed experience for a job but also needed a job for experience.
Another waiting patient took pity on him and helped him with the form. "God damn, what did your mother feed you? You're built like a brick shithouse. What's your name?"
"...François."
"So, Frank, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a swordsman."
"Well, we all make mistakes in life," he said, and Zoro remembered why he didn't go see doctors.
The harried and exhausted-looking young doctor saw him after a stream of the more serious cases. "What seems to be the problem?"
"I can't move my wrist."
"Ah, why?"
He stared. Did all doctors do this? "I was hoping you could tell me that."
"What happens when you do this?" The doctor took hold of his wrist and bent it.
A pain that left a ringing in his skull exploded in his arm. He expelled his breath in a sharp burst and said, as calmly as he could, "It hurts."
That earned him a disbelieving look, as if to say 'Don't waste my time.' "It doesn't look like it."
"I've had worse."
"Well, you don't seem like you're in a lot of pain."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you here?
"Fuck you too," he said. He left.
Alright, maybe it wasn't a good idea to hit up random clinics. None of them had Chopper's patience or understanding. To be fair, he did ask for people who didn't care, and that was exactly what he got. He forgot what he was supposed to tell them in order to make them think he was worth helping. Maybe he should have offered them berries up front. At least now he had no qualms about leaving without paying.
By this time, night had fallen over the town. The roads were silent and empty-- the people here tended to obey the local curfew, and those who broke it wouldn't go somewhere so boring.
He couldn't find the third doctor, who was only available by appointment and, according to the guide, "tended to prescribe bloodletting", and frankly he didn't want to. He didn't want to risk getting reported.
"If it doesn't hurt that much, why are you here?"
Because it never stops, he thought irritably. If you had a pebble stuck in your joints, wouldn't you want to pick it out?
He spent the rest of the day still unable to use his left hand, awkwardly transferring his scabbards to his other hip so he could at least be prepared to fight. He had to do everything with his right: eat, open doors, dress himself--
Well, no need to go into details.
He needed a drink.
Zoro glanced up at the blade pointed at his throat.
In hindsight it was a bad idea to sneak off for a drink. It was an even worse idea to ask the bar's owner for directions back to the ship (seriously, who could give directions that bad) and end up crossing paths with another Worst Generation crew. And the worst idea of all was to pick a fight with said crew.
He had to take some responsibility for it. He drank more than he intended to, bumped into another patron when he tried to leave, spilling the drink.
"Watch it," he had growled.
The whole table had suddenly ceased its chatter. Chairs scraped the floor, and weapons were drawn. His already short temper curbed itself even further, he said some things he shouldn't have, and his next move was to unsheathe his blade at the man he had identified as the leader of the group -- the one who sat aloof from the others, his drink untouched, as if he was better than them all. Then, just as quickly, he had been disarmed.
It turned out he had instinctively challenged the only swordsman at the table. The scabbard of his sword was covered with white crosses. Zoro's attention immediately zeroed in on it. A cursed sword.
His gaze travelled upward to the black and white spotted cap in a hand inked with the word death. Something clicked: he'd seen this guy at Sabaody.
This captain of the Heart Pirates stood above him, his unruly black hair tousled, features relaxed in a bored nonchalance. "I thought you used three swords."
"I do."
His wrists were burning. He hadn't been able to keep his grip, and that left him in shock. He didn't know it had gotten that bad. How could he not have known?
He didn't know if he could put any force into his draw. If he died like this…
That made him furious beyond belief. This disease didn't even have the decency to kill him directly. It was outsourcing.
Trafalgar Law placed his hat back on his head. There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Go on, then. What are you waiting for?"
He noticed. This was a taunt. The rest of the crew didn't seem to notice, though.
"Get him, captain!" a masked Heart Pirate yelled.
"We can't let him trash our reputation!"
Fuck this, he would deal with the consequences later. He had to end this quickly. He reached for Wado Ichimonji. "Shi--"
He was interrupted by the voice of a civilian.
"Stop what you're doing! I've called the marines, they'll get here soon!" a patron yelled from underneath another table, pointing at them with one trembling hand, a bounty posters clutched in the other. "You pirate scum won't get away with this!"
"Oh great," he heard one of the Heart Pirates mutter.
He should have taken advantage of the momentary distraction. He would have if he could. In the bustle of retreating civilians, he was utterly forgotten.
Or so he thought.
Before he could react, a cube of flesh emerged from his chest. It carried a beating heart.
A voice sounded in his ear, smooth and cold as unsheathed steel. "Don't panic. I don't intend to take you prisoner. Come with us if you want to live."
A blue film enveloped him, and the bar disappeared.
And so the Pirate Hunter was taken onto the Polar Tang. Before they could explain the situation, he tried to fight his way out and Law had to knock him out with a sedative and instruct them to restrain him so he didn't destroy the place. They took his swords, tied his arms behind his back, and placed him in a spare room, bare of most furniture.
"What do we do with him, Captain?" Shachi asked as Law treated the members of his crew who had been unlucky enough to be in range when the Pirate Hunter found himself on board an unfamiliar vessel.
"I have no plans to keep him captive. We'll release him."
They looked through the periscope. The night sky lit up with cannonfire.
"Now?" Shachi said doubtfully.
"It's a mess out there," Penguin observed, as gunfire and screams echoed above them.
Law kept his expression neutral, though there was a bit of tension in his jaw. "It can't be helped."
"Wait," Bepo said, frowning, "if we can't release him, and he doesn't want to be here…"
Shachi caught on. "Did we just accidentally kidnap the Pirate Hunter?"
Penguin and Clione exchanged horrified looks behind Law's back. None of them wanted to be around when Roronoa Zoro, the Demon of the East Blue, inevitably broke loose.
"We were just trying to be nice," Bepo said forlornly.
"No, we were not," Law said, although he was summarily ignored.
"He didn't believe us when we said we did this to save him from the marines."
"Why are we even sheltering the enemy?" Ikakku grumbled. "That's worse than dead weight."
Law didn't look at her. He merely said, "We want to keep our avenues open. Uni, have you found the whereabouts of the rest of the Straw Hats?
He nodded. "I talked to the people running away from the cannons. One of them saw a rubber boy setting fire to navy ships on the other side of the island. He was yelling for them to give his crewmate back."
"Oh," Bepo said. "Maybe we should tell them--"
"How?" Clione retorted. "Bird's too slow, I doubt they'd answer their snails right now, and we can't go out there. The entire place is crawling with marines. Those straw hat morons are probably gonna attract more of them with the ruckus they're making."
"This was a horrible idea," Ikkaku agreed.
Law stood. As he was taller than a lot of them, they had to look up at his firmly unamused expression. "Are you questioning my decision?"
They clammed up, except for Ikkaku, who said, "No, Captain, but we don't like it."
"This is an unexpected development, but if we allow the marines to capture him, our plan will fail, and we cannot foresee what would happen to the world. Killing him will make us an enemy that we cannot afford to make. This is our only option for now, however distasteful."
Bepo understood. It would be inconvenient for everyone involved if they let the marines capture and execute him. The Straw Hats weren't going to give up their crewmate without a fight, and Law needed them available and at full strength if he wanted to make use of them.
"Are there any other objections?" he continued, his demeanour imbued with a frigid calm.
"No, Captain."
"Good. Set up shifts to keep an eye on him. He's dangerous. Don't let your guards down."
They followed their captain's orders and took turns to watch over their enemy-guest. Eventually, a couple of hours before dawn, it was Bepo's turn. According to the others, the Straw Hat swordsman had slept the entire time. Bepo was a little jealous, but he reminded himself that getting shambled onto someone else's submarine must be very tiring.
The bear stood at the door attentively, rehearsing his lines in his head. He wanted to do a good job of convincing Roronoa that they meant well if he woke up. Granted, it would be difficult to explain the ropes, but Penguin and Jean Bart had the black bruises and cuts to prove they were necessary.
The enemy pirate stirred with a groan. Bepo jumped, instinctively raising his arms into a fight-ready pose. Light reflected off the open eye glaring at him through the bars with venomous hatred.
He lowered his arms. "Hello," he said.
He didn't get an answer. Unfortunately for Bepo, his prepared speech had fled his brain.
"Nice weather we're having."
"We're inside a submarine," Shachi muttered as he walked up behind him.
"That doesn't make the weather not nice," Bepo said, a little hurt.
"Yeah, but you think this guy wants to talk to you about it?" Shachi handed him a tray. "Captain says we have to feed him."
"Oh," he said. "By hand?"
"No, you idiot, just put it in the cell."
"Sorry," he mumbled. Secretly, he was glad. The pirate hunter seemed like the type to bite.
As soon as Shachi left, Bepo slid the food over -- plain bread (the captain didn't like it) and leftover beef marrow soup in a rubber plate, with a few pieces of citrus. It was a decent meal, he thought.
The pirate made a sort of cough and said, in a strained voice, "Take it away."
"Don't be picky," he chastised.
He shook his head, then stopped moving completely.
Maybe he still didn't trust them. It made Bepo a bit unhappy, because in his own opinion he was very trustworthy. "Fine then, but you're not getting anything else to eat."
"Good," he all but spat, before coughing again.
The bear took pity on him and picked up one of the fruits. "It's not poisoned. Captain's not that kinda guy. He wouldn't make you sick for fun. See?" He took a bite. "It's safe."
"I don't care."
Bepo peered into the room at the huddled bundle in the corner of the room. The pirate lay flat on the floor with no strength in his limbs, like a ragdoll. On occasion, he struggled to move his arms from behind his back, and winced as the rope prevented him from doing so.
Bepo shuffled closer to get a better look.
He tensed. "You're a bear," he said, sounding confused.
"Huh? I guess so." He frowned. "Couldn't you see me?"
"How can I when you're so damn blurry?" he muttered, his face turned to the floor, his eye half-shut to block out the light.
The first thing Bepo thought was, This man is visually impaired.
The second thing he thought was, You silly old bear, of course he is.
The third thing he thought was, Hold on, losing an eye doesn't give you a cough, or take away your appetite. Well, maybe it would if you just lost it, but he didn't just lose it, or there would be a lot more mess on the floor. Where was I going with this again? Right...
Bepo wasn't a doctor like his captain, and he didn't know much about lesser mink biology, but he could tell that something was off with this one. Or maybe he was pretending.
He didn't seem like he knew how to pretend, though. The shivering was also a bit too convincing.
"Stay there," he said, before kicking himself internally. Saying that to someone who couldn't go anywhere was worse than saying "you too" when a waiter at a restaurant tells you to enjoy your meal. He hurried off before the awkwardness had time to set in.
Law glanced over the maps that his navigator had drawn up. It would take a while to get to CC's island, and that would give his crew some time to get to Zou. If he planned this well…
There was still no guarantee he would succeed.
A transponder snail began to ring on his desk. He answered it. "Yes?"
Bepo's apologetic tones emanated from the snail. "Sorry to interrupt you, captain. I needed to report something."
"What is it?" If he bothered to get a snail, it must be for something important.
"The prisoner isn't eating."
"That's stupid of him, but his choice."
"He doesn't seem all there in the head."
"We found him in a bar. Get a bucket if you need one."
"I don't think it's a hangover. He wasn't drunk when we caught him." Bepo went quiet for a moment. "I think there's something wrong with him."
"What exactly?"
As he listened to Bepo's description, his instincts as a physician overtook his other considerations. If this was a plague or worse, he had to deal with it quickly. His decision to quarantine him in a solitary room had been wise.
"Tell everyone who's come into contact with him to wash up. Just in case."
Law didn't see any signs of plague when they fought, but he snapped on a mask, a pair of gloves and scrubs anyway.
As he approached the cell, he cast a Room.
The pirate was lying on his side, his back to the wall, his face partly hidden in the floor. In the stark lighting, his skin looked pale as chalk. A thin sheen of sweat shone on his rumpled hair and the visible half of his forehead.
"Wake up."
The forehead creased. "Go away, Luffy," he mumbled.
"Do I sound like your captain? Get up."
With difficulty, he turned his head to glare at Law, a bright, feverish gleam in his uninjured eye. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
He scoffed. "Chambres." In an instant, he swapped the other swordsman with a rock he tossed against the wall, and the swordsman slammed against it with a thud.
Instead of complaining, he shut his eye, taking deep breaths, hunching over. He looked decidedly green. More than he already did, that is.
"Are you going to be ill?"
"No. Shut up. You're making my head hurt," he said, his voice faint but defiant.
No visible buboes. Probably not plague, but one couldn't be too careful. Law held up a contactless thermometer. "I'm going to take your temperature. Stay still."
He didn't. Law sighed. "I'm not going to harm you."
"Then why did you tie me up?"
His voice sharpened. "You attacked my crew."
"They were in my way."
"Then we're at an impasse." Holding the thermometer to the light, Law read the number. A low fever. Nothing serious, but it was better safe than sorry. "Do you know what's wrong with you?"
"Like I'll tell you."
"So you do." Then this wasn't a huge priority. He teleported a chair, and seated himself on it. "I can wait."
The room was spinning. Or maybe it was his head. Whatever. Both worked.
His arms were killing him. That reminded him of something. Right--
He squinted toward the too-bright hall. Where the hell did they take his swords?
"If you don't talk, I'll have to make you talk."
"And how'll you do that?"
In the hazy, overlapping images his vision composed for his brain, he saw two hearts beating in tattooed hands.
Ah yes, the illusion of choice: pain, or slightly different pain. Variety is the spice of life, after all.
Maybe he was losing his mind.
"... Insulted us, and nearly drew the attention of law enforcement… it was a kindness to take you in."
The door opened and shut. The air was too cold and too warm at the same time. All this light was making his head pound. He was stuck with the Surgeon of Death in a tiny metal box. This was hell.
"What an inconvenience. If only we could have just handed you back over to your captain… they'll go to absurd lengths to retrieve you."
Trafalgar was talking about something, asking questions he didn't want to listen to. He wanted to get his swords then get out of here. Or cut this sub in half. Whichever pissed this fucking asshole off more. His head hurt too much to think.
A light shone directly in his eye and he hissed.
"Reflexes are fine. Breathing sounds normal. Heartbeat's a little rapid-- relax, will you?-- but proper rhythm."
"Yeah. There's nothing wrong with me. Go away."
"Don't be stubborn. I don't intend to harm you. You're more useful alive."
His mouth pulled up in a snarl. "Go to hell."
"Symptoms," he said. "What are they?"
He was going to kill this man when he got the chance. Keeping upright was a bit of a problem right now, but as soon as he--
His focus cut out for a second, and gravity won the battle. Something grabbed his arm and lightning branched up from the molten-glass ball of pain in his wrist. His breathing halted. Then he gasped violently for air.
The voice became faintly bemused. "Ah. You're injured?"
"No," he said through gritted teeth. Damn it. He was too tired for this.
"I'll have to take a full history."
"Like hell you will. Let me out of here."
Yellow eyes swept across his face. "If I wanted to use it against you, I wouldn't need to take your medical history. There's plenty of ways I could make you comply."
He hated to admit it, but he was right. If he just wanted to torture an enemy pirate for kicks, there were less complicated ways to do it.
"I'll collect some samples to make sure this isn't infectious."
"Do your worst."
"Suit yourself."
Before he could reconsider and take it back, the cursed blade sliced through his forearm and the rope. The surgeon picked up the segment of arm. As if juicing a lemon, he squeezed blood out of the severed end into a series of vials.
This should hurt, shouldn't it? he thought. It didn't. He couldn't feel it at all.
His forearm reattached itself, and the rope returned to its original position. He shut his eye, sheer humiliation curdling into rage. "I'm going to cut you," he said.
"Get some rest for now."
He didn't really have a choice now, did he.
After Law ensured that his crew had followed disinfection protocols and traced contacts, he ran the tests on the samples he collected.
Meanwhile, he received news from Uni that the marines headquarters had already made their move, sending more troops to the island to quell the unrest. They would have to depart, with their unwilling guest in tow.
How unfortunate.
His forehead creased in irritation. This was what happened when he did nice things for other people. He didn't even know what possessed him to do this. It would be a logistical nightmare to explain this to his potential allies. Handle this the wrong way, and he'd burn the bridge between his crew and the Straw Hats before it was even built.
He summoned Bepo again. "We're leaving immediately. Set a course for the nearest suitable island."
"Aye aye, captain!"
"As for our…" he paused. He wasn't meant to be a captive. "Visitor," he said, although it felt like a cowardly euphemism, "you and I will handle the watch. That'll cut down on potential exposures--if this is contagious."
Bepo nodded, and turned to carry out the orders.
"Take off the ropes," he called after him. "And offer him painkillers if he needs them." He didn't intend to torture the man, after all.
Despite his stubbornness, their guest slept through most of the night and the next morning. He turned down all the medicine he was offered, but Bepo managed to convince him that the water was not poisoned.
When Law checked the cultures, he found no traces of bacteria. The tests also showed no viral infection, no organic disease. Whatever injury he sustained didn't fester.
So what caused the fever? Psychogenic, perhaps?
Something caught his eye. On a hunch, he took the leftover blood and ran another test.
When Law returned to the cell late the next day, the swordsman, clad in a bright orange boiler suit, had sat up, glowering. He looked more alert, but no less disgruntled. The temperature on the thermometer registered as normal.
"Drink some water."
He didn't touch the glass.
"Bepo," he said. The bear hurried over. He drank from it and set it back down.
He still didn't take a sip. What a stubborn patient.
He had met plenty of patients who refused treatment with justifications like "The bleeding is internal. That's where the blood is supposed to be." The reasons were many: Bad experiences with previous doctors, the ineffective quacks and the ones who were merely cruel, who couldn't or didn't bother to communicate well, and so on; a lack of understanding, fear-- of pain, inconvenience, death, debt; pragmatism -- many people didn't have the ability, the time, the energy, or the money to afford the services of a doctor or continue with treatment.
This man did not fear him. He had time, and he didn't need money. The distrust came from the fact that they were rivals in a generation of the worst plunderers the world has seen since the beginning of the new era.
Fair. Very fair. But irritating nonetheless.
"Drink," he said again. "You have to be hydrated."
"I'm not taking orders from the likes of you."
"Let me see if your fever has gotten higher. Your brain is clearly not working. I've said enough times that I'm not an enemy."
He only shot him a dirty look.
He shuffled his files. He'd ordered his crew to pull up all the information on him they could get their hands on. If he wouldn't tell them anything, they'd have to find out.
"You're 21?
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Pretty sure."
You don't act 21, he thought. The other swordsman held his posture tense, as if waiting for a fight. Law took his time reading through the reports. While there was a chance of a false positive, or an incorrect diagnosis, he suspected that the other swordsman already knew what he had.
"ANA is positive."
"Huh?"
"You have an autoimmune disorder."
"Oh. Yeah."
That was easier than expected. Law's hunch was correct. No wonder he was so antsy and quick to return fire-- this illness made him sluggish and overly vigilant to compensate. "So this is why we captured you so easily. I'd have beaten you regardless, but I expected you to put up a better fight."
That statement had the effect of painting his face a very interesting shade of furious red.
Before the other pirate could issue a rebuttal, he scanned through the rest of the report. "Blood sugar is a little low. Have you eaten anything since yesterday?"
"No."
"You should. Do you have any other symptoms?"
"A headache from dealing with you."
"I have no reason to indulge your rudeness."
"Then don't."
He sighed. "I didn't find any medication on you."
"That's 'cause I don't have any."
"If your symptoms are interfering with everyday activities, I suggest that you look into it. How long ago were you diagnosed?"
There was a pause. "Two days."
Ah. "I see. What do you know about your condition?"
His face twisted in anger. "This disease," he spat the word with utmost disgust, "wants to get me killed and doesn't want to finish what it started by itself. Lazy son of a bitch half-assing its own damn job…"
A twinge of annoyance. "Like I said, I don't intend to kill you." He flicked his hand, and the ropes undid themselves. The other swordsman glanced at them in surprise. "Once we reach an understanding, I'll return your swords to you."
He massaged his forearm with a subtle grimace. "Oh yeah?"
He relented somewhat. "If you told us you were injured, I wouldn't have used restraints on you, or nearly so much force. It's clearly unnecessary."
"Don't look down on me," he growled.
"This is basic humane treatment, not looking down on you. And I'd hate to be a prisoner of your crew if that's how you treat your captives."
"It's different if it's other people."
"So you're a hypocrite. Good to know."
"If we're done here," he all but shouted, "You want to be rid of me, don't you? Stop fucking around and--"
"Unfortunately, we left the island a day ago and we're a good distance from the next one. Your crew has left as well."
He stopped mid-rant. "What?"
"I was originally planning to negotiate with them, but it appears that they've alerted the authorities in their search for you, so retreat was necessary."
His face had gone white with rage. "Let me go. Now."
"Why would I do that? I have nothing to gain, and you have nowhere to go."
He lunged forward, and he swapped him with the chair, causing him to stumble forward in confusion.
"Might I remind you that I have your heart?"
He stopped in his tracks, panting.
"I know you must have misgivings, but think about it rationally. I can help you."
"I'm not sick."
"Think of it any way you wish. It won't change the truth. If it's a truth too difficult for you to accept--"
"No," he said, his voice a low, rough growl. "You're wrong."
A pulse of unseen energy rippled through the room, shaking the glass vials in their cabinets.
Conqueror's haki.
Law blinked, surprised for a moment. Then he reminded himself they were in the Grand Line. Such a thing shouldn't be a surprise. "I have no vested interest in this. If you want a second opinion, these results are consistent with your doctor's hypothesis. This is incurable."
He lowered his head.
Law knew enough about him not to interpret this as giving up. This cauldron of feral rage was bound to spill over at some point. "Don't be ungrateful. You don't know how lucky you are."
"What part of it is lucky?"
"You are alive, you got a diagnosis less than a year after showing symptoms, and you're capable of everyday functioning. Mild cases like yours often slip under the radar until they becomes much more serious, and yours was caught relatively quickly."
Law was aware that this might sound unsympathetic. He couldn't get through to this patient without accommodating his point of view. If Roronoa wanted to deny the reality of his circumstances, he might as well indulge it for the moment.
The Pirate Hunter didn't want to admit that he had a real problem. If Law acted as if he agreed with him, then there was no way for him to be contrary without contradicting himself.
The other swordsman looked deep in thought. "Can you really help me?" he said finally.
"I can try."
He scowled. "Then fine. I don't have any better options."
"Good," he said. "I'm glad we're in agreement."
"Before you say anything, it isn't the worst thing that happened to me."
"I'm sure it isn't."
"I'm not lying about it--"
"I never said you were."
"--And I dunno what I did to cause it but it was probably stupid and you don't have to lecture me about it."
"I wasn't going to. You couldn't cause this on purpose."
"I'm not trying to dodge the draft--"
He narrowed his eyes. "Why on earth would I think--"
"-- and I know it's not a huge problem, so if you don't wanna bother with it, just--"
"Look," he interrupted, "you don't have to argue this with me. It's impairing you, so I'll treat you. Do you want me to or not?"
The other swordsman blinked at him, slightly uncertain now that his momentum had been brought to a screeching halt. "Yeah."
"Have you seen a rheumatologist?"
"A what?"
He had his work cut out for him. "A doctor who specializes in joint issues that-- Never mind. I'll be able to provide basic care for now. I'll refer you to someone if needed."
He stared at him, his expression brimming with mistrust.
"Are you not used to having doctors who are both competent and impartial?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
That explained more of his wariness. "That's unfortunate."
He shrugged. "'S how it is."
He needed to re-establish some trust. If not, his plan might crumble before he even had the chance to lay the foundations. "This may not mean much to you, but I truly hope that changes," he said. "Step this way. Let's begin."