Chapter Text
“Mama says you use magic to heal.”
It’s an innocuous statement, the kind kids say when they’re bored. And to Law, it’s obvious this girl is - she’s slouched on the exam table, legs swinging back and forth and kicking him in the shin.
“Quit moving,” he orders, fingers carefully tilting her head back then side to side. She pouts but her legs come to a stop. “How does your neck feel?”
She scrunches up her nose. The red streaks on her face are fading, no longer standing out like rubies on her tanned skin. “Okay, I guess.”
Law lets go of her neck and holds up a finger. “Follow my finger with your head.” Obediently, she twists her head in the direction of his finger - up, right, down, left. He notes slight stiffness, but a remarkable improvement from when she couldn’t move her head at all. “Good. Exam’s finished.”
The girl brightens as Law stands up, tossing his gloves into the trash bin. “Am I all better now?” She sounds hopeful, which isn’t an unreasonable question considering she had been dying from infection two weeks ago.
If he were one of the local doctors, he might have offered exaggerated claims of complete recovery, but Law refuses to be that kind of doctor. If she’s old enough to know she’s sick, she’s old enough to be told the reality of her situation. “You still need another course of antibiotics.”
The girl’s face falls. “Those are gross.”
Law shrugs. “You can always not take it and not get better.” She pouts, but doesn’t say anything more. Assuming the conversation over, he grabs a notepad and begins to jot down the prescription.
The sound of feet kicking the exam table resumes. “So…can you really use magic?”
Law doesn’t even glance up. “I use medicine, not magic,” he says curtly, hoping that would end the conversation.
“Then when why did Mama say magic?”
“I don’t know.”
A loud huff rings out. “Well, she also said you’re a pirate.”
His pen stops, just the briefest of pauses before it moves once more. In a tight, controlled tone, Law asks, “What makes her say that?”
“I dunno. Your tattoos?”
The tension eases from his shoulders, but only just. Law very carefully rips the prescription off its pad. “Anyone can have tattoos, not just pirates,” he deflects, passing her the prescription. “Paper to the front desk. They’ll give you the pills. Make sure you finish all of them.”
“Fine.” She hops off the table but doesn’t leave.
“What?” he asks, already regretting asking.
“So are you? A pirate?” She peers up at him with wide and curious eyes, head tilted to the right. Something pangs in his chest because he immediately thinks of Lammy, but he can’t say why. Did Lammy used to tilt her head that way? Or have that innocent look on her face, even when marked by illness? He sifts through rusted memories, but can’t find his answer.
Fuck it - he’s already planning on leaving soon anyways. What does it matter if she knows? Law grits his teeth. “I used to be,” he says stiffly.
“That’s so cool,” she whispers, awed.
Law doesn’t care to entertain anymore questions. He nods towards the door. “You can go. I have other patients.” He doesn’t; she’s his last for the day, but if it gets her out of here…
She frowns, but it lasts only a flash. “Okay…thanks, Mr. Pirate!” She runs out of the room, a bull rush of renewed energy. Law pinches the bridge of his nose. He already feels the pressure of a headache building up.
Tomorrow. He’ll leave tomorrow.
The clinic director looks disappointed to hear of Law’s departure, but not surprised. With the infection under control and the last patients on the mend, the clinic is more than capable of handling the caseload. There’s no reason for Law to stay anymore.
Dutifully, the director hands over Law’s payment. His effusive thank-you’s needle at Law though, because Law has never been able to find the words to convey that he’s only just doing his job. So Law brushes him off and heads straight to port, Kikoku slung on his back in its black cloth bag and everything he owns in a duffle bag. He boards the first passenger cruise scheduled to depart.
It’s strange to think how just a month ago, he had rushed to be here. Even just rumors of a disease eerily similar to Amber Lead Poisoning had been enough to erase decades of numbness. Unfortunately, in its place was sheer dread that almost left him breathless. Law had been so stunned to feel something else that he bought his boat ticket without thinking.
Funny then, how that dread was all for naught. The disease had been nothing like Amber Lead Poisoning, something easily treated and cured. No quarantines, nor ruthless eradication of the ill. Law hadn’t even needed to use his Devil Fruit, a fact he supposes he should be grateful for. The last thing he needs is the Marines to find him.
Law heads below deck, choosing not to wait around to watch the island disappear into the horizon. What does it matter when it’ll soon be a hazy memory like all the rest?
The room he’s staying in is pristine, walls and furniture all various hues of blue. From here, he barely feels the rock of the waves nor does he hear the grinding of metal or the rush of steam. The bed is too soft, sinking with his weight when he sits down. Generic pictures of the ocean and beaches line the walls in silver frames.
It’s quaint and peaceful and completely alien. His mood only improves when he pulls Kikoku out of its bag and props it up next to the bed. Casting a quick, small Room is enough to shed weeks of apprehension and anxiety. With the familiar tingle vibrating through his fingers, a part of Law slots back into place, no longer needing to hide.
It’s hard to pinpoint when Law falls asleep, but he knows the moment he wakes, because it’s with a cannon going off in his chest. Every second feels like it could explode, and the unfamiliar rhythm is so turbulent and rapid that nausea sweeps over him, fierce as any Grand Line storm. Law curls over and presses his face into his knees, struggling just to breathe through it.
Time trickles by, moments of chaotic eternity passing before finally the rhythm in his chest begins to ebb and he feels like he can get air in his lungs. But he’s still unbalanced, tremors of adrenaline racing through his body. Law presses a hand to his chest, covering the mismatched patch of skin.
“What the fuck, Straw Hat-ya,” he breathes.