Chapter Text
Rosinante has been the Head Jailer of Impel Down for twelve years.
He doesn’t enjoy it. He’s never enjoyed this, watching the worst criminals jeer and shriek in their cells, knowing that he is the one keeping them all there, whether they deserve it or not. It was meant to keep him safe from Doflamingo (for who would look for him in the furthest reaches of the worst prison?), but he’s not so sure that the trade-off was all that helpful.
The nearest cell is silenced in less than a second with the merest twitch of his hand. If nothing else, he’s certainly never had more practice with his Akuma no Mi.
Rosinante’s heels click solemnly against the stone floors, the only sound in the entirety of Level 6, now that he’s silenced the crazed screams of the prisoners. At least on this Level, he can be mostly sure that these people belong behind these bars. As the Head Jailer, he’s privy to the exact reasoning behind each and every arrest, each and every imprisonment, and some of these crimes are things he wouldn’t dream of in his wildest nightmares. They’re heinous, and it isn’t hard for him to see why these people were deemed so high-risk, so unforgivable.
(The thought crosses his mind, as it always does, if everything in the file is true, if there are no embellishments whatsoever, but he quickly quashes that treasonous wonderance. It’s not his place to question these things.)
Click, click, click. Day in and day out, Rosinante follows the same routine. Check on the prisoners, morning and night, keep them quiet and keep them contained. It isn’t hard, not by any means, but it does get tedious. Any deviation to the norm, any change in schedule or change in plan, is welcomed and appreciated… for the most part.
The last change was when the Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates was brought in. Portgas D Ace, his file had read, arrested for piracy, property destruction, pillaging, and a myriad of other things listed for pretty much every pirate. High-profile due to his possession of a logia fruit, and only seastone chains marked for use because of that fact. Rosinante can’t exactly see what’s got the higher-ups in such a tizzy over this child (because he is a child, despite what the other Marines are whispering), but it must be something awfully problematic for the grand order of things. Sengoku had said there was more to this boy’s file, more to his story, but he’s thus been refusing to tell Rosinante of the details until after the execution goes through and the boy’s head hits the ground.
Inevitably, this must mean it’s something Rosinante would take issue with. He wonders, then, if he shouldn’t simply oppose the execution on principle, but he couldn’t. The Marines have done too much for Rosinante, keeping him alive and safe from his madman of a brother. He can’t start causing trouble for them now, and on such an irrelevant issue. It’s not his place to make waves.
Supposedly, there’s a new prisoner being transferred in today – a rather high-profile one, if he remembers the report correctly. He hadn’t gotten a name yet, only a moniker. The Surgeon of Death, they call this pirate, and isn’t that a bone-chilling name? It makes him think of another person, someone else with a penchant for the medical and the gruesome, but– no. Rosinante shouldn’t be dwelling on the past, not now. He knows that Sengoku would have told him immediately if there was any news regarding Law. After all, Rosinante’s been asking for the last decade and then some – at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sengoku had a snail just for his calls asking for information on Law.
So of course, no updates means there must be nothing to worry about. He’s sure that Law is alive and well. He would know if the boy wasn’t. Besides, Rosinante remembers quite well that Law was always fantastic at keeping himself hidden, not to mention clever enough to know when he should be doing so.
He thinks about Law quite a bit. There aren’t many pleasant things to think about down in these chilling halls, especially not when Rosinante’s primary job is ‘shut those criminals up’. All in all, wondering what Law could be up to… well. There are worse things he could be doing with his time, and this hobby, at least, is one that might bring a smile to his face.
(He refuses to entertain the possibility that Law is doing nothing, not even for a moment. If Law isn’t out there somewhere, safe and happy…
No. He won’t think about that.)
Click, click, click. Down the hall, past the barred walls separating Rosinante and the prisoners. Down here, it’s us and them, good and bad. He isn’t sure how he feels about that. He never has been.
His white Marine-issue suit is pristine. Their black-striped prison uniforms are rags. His shoes click against the stone floor. Their slippers barely stay on their feet. It’s a matter of separation, of demonstrating exactly what the difference is between the Head Jailer and those he is jailing. A trail of smoke goes up from the corner of Rosinante’s mouth as he walks past row after row after row of cells, the shrieking, jeering prisoners within silenced with a mere flick of his fingers and a whispered word.
The new prisoner is at the end of this hallway. They were just placed in their cell an hour or so ago, he thinks, likely by a set of disillusioned guards who wanted nothing more than to be done with the workday so they would no longer have to walk amongst the pirates and rabble. A pathetic take for a Marine, but nothing he hasn’t heard before.
One by one, the cells are silenced, the power barely exhausting him as it once did. Finally, he reaches the end of the hallway.
The prisoner within is shadowed, chained to the wall as only the most dangerous are. Seastone glints in the dim light – an Akuma no Mi user, then, and a risky one at that. All that’s visible are the prisoner’s shining black boots and the very ends of his spotted jeans. The pattern is familiar.
Rosinante steps closer.
The prisoner lifts his head, and the cigarette falls from Rosinante’s mouth as his jaw drops the barest amount, the familiar, oh-so-familiar face registering in the back of his mind. It’s been years, twelve years, but he would know that face anywhere. The spiky black hair hanging over golden eyes, the pale splotches of scarring from the disease that once plagued his body to the point of near-death. The lanky limbs, the irritable hunch to his shoulders, even the unfamiliar golden hoops piercing his ears look right at home.
Trafalgar D Water Law.
Rosinante’s son.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, but he knows that after some amount of time ( too long, his mind whispers), Law looks up. The look on his face… it’s heartbreaking.
He looks betrayed.
Rosinante cannot let that stand.
They stay that way for a moment more, eye to eye, neither willing to break the contact, but it’s Rosinante who does so. He turns on his heel, abrupt and sharp, and goes right back down the hallway without another word.
He doesn’t silence the final cell – he can’t. Not his Law.
oOoOo
Law has, unfortunately, been arrested.
He was aware that this might happen, especially after the shit Mugiwara pulled with the Tenryuubito in the auction house, but god, does it suck. He’s only been here an hour or so and he’s already miserable. None of the other prisoners possess the ability to shut the hell up, and those few who might are utterly unwilling to do so.
He’s about to join them, to start yelling at them all to just shut it already, anything to quiet them down enough for him to think, but… he doesn’t have to.
One by one, the cells begin to fall silent. Deadly silent. It’s as if they’ve lost the ability to make sound at all.
Or perhaps, Law’s ever-ticking brains supplies, something’s got them scared enough that they don’t want to. Something is coming down that looming hall with the ability to silence these prisoners with nary a spoken word, and Law is starting to wonder exactly what goes on here, in the deepest bowels of Impel Down.
Law lets his head drop to his chest, permanent scowl fixed in place as usual. Whoever or whatever is coming towards him, he’s not about to let it scare him into submission. He’s the Surgeon of Death, for god’s sake. There’s very little in this world that could possibly scare him, and they all start with Donquixote Dof. And as he seriously doubts they called in a pink Warlord just to rile him up…
Wait.
Fuck. They could’ve done that.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, if anyone would be getting word of the new arrests, it would be a Warlord. Doflamingo’s always been particularly invested in Law, and who knows what the World Government might agree to when it comes to that mad bastard? What would they allow?
Is it him, coming down that hallway? Was that really the last time I’d ever know freedom?
Law forces himself to stay calm, though he can feel his traitorous heart racing against his will. If Doflamingo is coming for him, if the World Government has agreed to let Doflamingo have him… well, he’s well and truly fucked, isn’t he? He’ll never get away from him again, not if he’s being so freely given. Doflamingo will have his Corazón, and Law will never be free again. Never.
He can hear the click of footsteps coming down the hall, stopping right in front of his cell. Everything is silent now, the roaring of the prisoners cut short by this new presence. A second passes, and they step closer.
They’re at a standstill, Law and the prisoner. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a half-burned cigarette fall to the floor. A few more moments go by before he can’t take the suspense anymore, and ever so balefully, keeping his glare fixed well in place, he glances up.
For just a split second, Law sees blond and overwhelming height and thinks Doflamingo, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest at the notion, but then he looks closer, and it stops altogether.
No.
No. this– no. It can’t be.
Cora-san.
Law’s head is reeling, but he can’t bring himself to move a muscle. He knows his glare has fallen to the feeling of betrayal now coursing through him, but how? It’s not– this can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Not him. Not here, not like this.
Cora-san stands above him in a snow-white suit, and Law sits chained in a darkened cell. Everything about this feels wrong.
He doesn’t know how long they stare at each other, completely still, but it’s Cora-san who moves first. Cora-san who turns so sharply on his heel, Cora-san who walks away. Cora-san who leaves Law behind as if he’s nothing more than a discarded tool.
Maybe he is. Maybe he’s finally fucked up so badly that not even Cora-san could possibly see anything left in him. He’s already put his crew in danger – hell, they were in danger from the second they joined him, and yet he still agreed to it anyways. Doflamingo’s shadow has hung heavy over his head for so many years, but he never once thought that he should tell his crew just how much of a target they were making themselves? How much of a target Law was making them? How pathetic, how selfish, can he possibly be?
Cora-san must be disappointed. No – disgusted. There’s no other word for it. The blank look on his face, the cigarette on the floor, that’s what this all must be. Law is finally paying for everything he’s ever done wrong in his life.
This is just his payment for living. He should have been dead years ago, but he was too selfish to accept when his time had come. It’s only fair of the universe to remind him.
Law is never getting out of this cell, not until they inevitably decide it’s time for his head to hit the ground and drag him up to the execution stand. He’s going to be trapped in this underground hell for the rest of his life, and no matter how much he might want it, Cora-san will never again come close enough to hear just how many apologies Law has to give him. Why should he, anyways? He doesn’t deserve to be tainted with Law’s poisoned regret.
People like Law don’t get happy endings. He was just too selfish to see that before.
Letting his head drop again, Law scarcely notices the tears as they begin to trace down his cheeks, though he’s sure they must be dripping down onto his jeans. It’s no matter, anyways – they’ll blend with the bloodstains well enough. No one will care, if they even notice at all.
The footsteps are returning. Law forces down the shakiness of his breath until he’s scarcely breathing at all, but it’s better than dulling Cora-san’s presence with this– this shamefulness. This imperfection. Law has never been good enough for his guardian angel, and the stark difference between them now is only a confirmation of what he already knew. Law is in the cell, and Cora-san stares down at him. Law is chained and bloody, and Cora-san is untouched. Law has tears rolling down his face as he can’t bear to look up at the man who saved his life, and Cora-san–
Cora-san is back.
And the door is opening.
Barely aware of his actions, Law starts to draw back, to hunch in on himself, don’t touch me, can’t you see I'm tainted, and Cora-san stops too, if only for a second. He steps forwards again, slower this time, and as Law completes the grievous task of bringing his eyes up just high enough to see what’s going on, he notices a rather poignant detail.
In Cora-san’s hands is a sword. Law’s sword, Kikoku, resting in Cora-san’s hands. For a brief moment, he wonders if this is to be his execution, but no. Cora-san would never be so vindictive as to kill a man with his own cursed blade.
Instead, Cora-san crouches down, slowly – ever so slowly – and sets Kikoku at Law’s feet, within easy reach of even his chained hands.
Law doesn’t move. Doesn’t even deign to meet Cora-san’s eyes. He can only imagine what his traitorous face must be doing right now, but he can’t bring himself to believe it’s anything good.
They are at a standstill once more, Law and Cora-san, and just like before, it is Cora-san who moves first. He reaches into his pocket, still moving so slowly (almost as if he’s trying not to surprise Law, trying not to scare him), and from the depths of his pristine white coat, he draws…
A key.
What?
Law is sure that the confusion must be evident on his face, but Cora-san does not stop, though still he moves slowly. He’s coming closer, inching over, and Law can’t help but shrink in on himself.
He doesn’t want Cora-san to touch him. Not for his own sake, no, but for Cora-san’s. He can’t allow whatever disease he still holds in his heart to taint the skin of someone like Cora-san (like the man he once called his father, no matter how much Law didn’t deserve him).
But Cora-san doesn’t stop. He’s careful, doesn’t even knock anything over like Law almost expects him to do, and he’s meticulous as to not touch Law’s bare skin as he ever-so-gently unlocks the seastone cuffs, one wrist at a time.
(Whose sake is it for, that he avoids even the slightest touch? Law’s, or his own?)
Cora-san has fallen still. Law still hasn’t moved a muscle. Kikoku is still there, right within his reach.
He could take his blade right now, he realises. It wouldn’t be hard at all to leave this place, now that he’s uncuffed and has his sword back. The only thing he would lose is his hat, and he can always make another one of those – he’s been meaning to do so, anyways. The old style doesn’t suit him as well as it once did. Law could leave right now, and everyone in this entire structure would be powerless to stop him, wouldn’t they?
But then, what’s the catch?
There must be a detail he’s missing, something that would cause this half-thought-out plan of his to fail. He couldn’t– this wouldn’t just happen to him. Cora-san appears right in front of him, a higher-ranked Marine than any he’s seen here so far, and he just… unlocks the cuffs and returns his sword. There’s a catch here. There must be.
Cora-san is still beside him. Watching. Waiting. Law has yet to meet his eyes since they first saw each other here, when he first realises exactly who it was that was silencing the prisoners.
“Law.”
The voice is little more than a whisper, but it’s oh-so-familiar, painfully familiar, and he can’t help the accompanying flinch. Law feels Cora-san draw back slightly at the motion, but he’s returned to his original position a second later, even leaning in closer.
“Law, please look at me.”
He can’t. How much of a coward is he, that he can’t even look at him?
“Law… please.”
That voice, that tone, it’s just too familiar. Too much. Against every ounce of his better judgement, Law turns, and he finally meets Cora-san’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cora-san.”
(If he has nothing else to offer this man, he at least has every apology he’s owed him for the last twelve years. He got Cora-san killed for his stupid, stupid life that was never worth saving, even if it seems his guardian angel survived after all.)
Cora-san’s eyes widen at Law’s words, and he twitches, almost like he’s holding himself back ( but from what, Law wonders). “Law, you– please, you don’t have to apologise. You never did anything wrong.”
Of course he did. He existed. That was bad enough.
Something must show on his face, some ounce of the self-loathing weighing down his every movement, because Cora-san makes another one of those aborted movements, and–
Oh.
He’s tilting.
Law barely has time to try and hold himself up before he’s tilting at a dangerously horizontal angle, and the only thing that stops him from banging his head (again) on the unforgiving stone floor is a set of familiar arms, moving to catch him before he can injure himself further.
Cora-san caught him. Why did he do that?
And he’s… he’s not letting go, either. He’s pulling Law in closer, as if it’s the closeness that he deserves and not the cold stone of the floor beneath him. Why doesn’t Cora-san just drop him?
“You don’t have anything to apologise for, Law,” Cora-san murmurs, and the way his arms are wrapped so carefully, so gently around Law, makes him want to cry. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through so much. It’s me who should be apologising… for leaving you alone when you were in so much pain.”
Law’s head is aching, and he’s honestly not sure how he’s still conscious at this point, but somehow he finds the faculties to shake his head. “No, you didn’t– didn’t leave me. You died. ”
“I didn’t,” he whispers. “The Marines found me, saved my life, but they– they couldn’t find you. I tried to go back, I swear I tried, but you were gone by the time I was conscious enough to demand they turn the ship around.”
Law can’t bring himself to respond, only drawing in a shaky breath as he tries to comprehend whatever level of dreaming he must have ended up in. There’s no way that any of this can be real.
Long, thin fingers card through Law’s hair, and it’s a soothing gesture until they stop abruptly, Cora-san’s gentle grip tightening ever so slightly around Law’s thin, lanky form. “You’re injured.”
Ah. He must have found the blood. Law doesn’t know if it’s dried yet, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. It’s rather unfortunate that he’s so exhausted and probably has a god-awful concussion, because otherwise he could just fix all these injuries himself. It’s not so bad – he’s certainly felt worse pain, at least – but it still sucks that he’s going to have to replenish so much blood, whether by natural means or artificial.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Cora-san asks, and Law is about to shake his head before he remembers that lying is bad and would likely make Cora-san even more disappointed in him than he already is.
Instead, he tries to sit up, gesturing vaguely to his leg, which only makes Cora-san gasp and hold him even closer – still so careful, as if Law is made of spun glass and not poisoned flesh. He doesn’t want to admit how much he wishes he could lean into it – Law knows he doesn’t deserve the comfort.
“Oh, Law,” he whispers. Just those words, just that tone, it’s almost enough to make him cave right here and now.
And then he starts to stand up.
Law tries to pull away, tries to draw back, out of the embrace that feels like home, but Cora-san doesn’t seem to notice, only adjusting his grip until Law is firmly situated in his arms. He bends down once more to retrieve Kikoku, slinging the sword across his back before taking one last cursory glance around the cell and walking out, Law held carefully in a princess carry, cradled like a child in the safety of his arms.
oOoOo
Rosinante is having approximately four to six crises and every single one of them is happening at the same time.
Law is in Impel Down. Law, as in his son, is in Impel Down, as in the worst prison in the world, and he’s here as a prisoner. This might possibly be the worst thing that has ever happened in any close proximity to Rosinante himself, and that’s counting a lot of things.
Rosinante has had an… interesting life, he won’t deny. Still, this isn’t about him, not now.
This is about Law.
Law, who is now cradled in his arms, barely clinging onto consciousness as he bleeds for who knows how many wounds. It was meant to be Rosinante’s job to keep him in that cell. To keep him hurt and trapped and alone. How could he do that to his son? Law is the only family that Rosinante really has left, and if he’d been a little less loyal, a little less possessive, a little more dutiful, he… he could have left him there to rot.
The very concept is unthinkable, and even the words in his mind are making Rosinante’s stomach turn. How could he do that to his child? How could anyone?
Rosinante doesn’t hear the clicking of his heels on the floor anymore. The sound around both himself and Law is silenced, and has been ever since he returned to that godforsaken cell with Law’s sword in his hands. He hadn’t known it was Law’s when it came in, only that it was a prized possession of the Surgeon of Death, but… that name that reminded him so much of his son, it belongs to his son, doesn’t it? That’s Law’s moniker, Law’s title, one that he earned himself.
His son is a pirate. Rosinante is so fucking proud.
And not only is he a pirate, one of the freest people on the seas (and with a crazy high bounty, Rosinante might add), he’s even become a doctor at the same time. Rosinante can’t think of a single thing in this world that could ever make him happier than knowing his son is fulfilling every one of his dreams.
But now he has a bigger problem, and the bigger problem is Law’s goddamn arrest , not to even mention the numerous injuries he seems to have.
No, no, no, certainly not. Rosinante cannot allow his son to stay injured, and he never should have let him get hurt in the first place. It isn’t too hard to get Law out of the prisoners’ area and into the Marines’ quarters, anyways. For once, Rosinante’s stupidly flowy white coat is coming in handy, even if it’s being used to conceal a criminal – one that the government itself placed down here.
Rosinante carries his son ( his son, whom he’s heard not a single word of for over a decade, and isn’t that awfully telling) past row upon row of bars, knowing that even if a prisoner dares to look closer, dares to notice what he’s holding, it won’t make a difference. They can’t make a sound regardless – Rosinante made sure of that himself. Silent they shall be, and silent they are, as he makes his way down the dimly lit hallway without a single sound to accompany him. It shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, but at this point, he really couldn’t care less. Silence or not, Rosinante has a job to do, and for once, it’s a job he’s happily chosen for himself.
Rosinante lays Law down on his own bed as soon as the door to his quarters shuts behind him, and he tosses up a bigger dome of silence just for posterity’s sake, letting the personal one around himself and his son drop. Law is out cold, understandably so, but that’s fine. They’re safe, at least for now, which means that Rosinante can turn on the overhead light instead of relying on his cracked old lamp, and get a good look at Law’s wounds.
The light clicks on, painting the room in a soft white glow, and Rosinante inhales sharply as the full scope of his son’s injuries is revealed to him. The bloodstains on his hands and coat make quite a bit more sense now.
He thought that the worst of it would be the cause of all the blood in Law’s hair that he felt earlier. It was obviously from a head wound (and part of Rosinante is berating himself for letting Law fall asleep with a head wound, but he doesn’t know if waking him would make matters worse), but he hadn’t seen the rest of Law’s body well enough to tell what other harm had been done to him. The head injury is obvious enough, a bloodied rough patch over the side of his forehead, and as he follows the trail of where the blood drips down, he begins to see the rest of it. Bruises, scrapes, and small cuts litter his arms, causing tiny spatters of blood to soak through his yellow sweatshirt. One large slash has been taken out of the garment’s hem, no doubt leaving a matching gash on Law’s torso. That’ll need to be cleaned and bandaged.
The worst of it by far, however, is undoubtedly seen once Rosinante catches sight of his leg, because there’s a fucking knife sticking out of his flesh, right above the joint of his left knee. It’s on the outside, which means that it hadn’t hit Rosinante or Law’s other leg while they were walking, but even the thought of the weapon being jarred and the wound being worsened is making Rosinante want to hurl.
Someone is going to die for this. Blood will be shed – he is certain of it, because unless it would somehow be detrimental to Law, it will be Rosinante who sees it shed.
He’ll take his pound of flesh and bone soon enough. Now, it’s time to help his son.
Rosinante pushed down the ever-present reactions to the situation. The urge to murder whoever has the goddamn audacity to hurt Law in the first place, the urge to hurl at the thought of not being able to heal these wounds, the urge to just gather Law into his arms and never let go. Everything is compressed, packed away into its neat little box, compartmentalised so he can deal with it when it won’t get in the way of helping Law.
These wounds won’t heal themselves, after all, and he’ll be damned if he lets Law wake up in pain without doing as much as he possibly can to alleviate it. With shaking hands and even shakier breath, Rosinante takes out his first aid kit, and he gets to work.