Work Text:
Monet offers no warmth in this freezing hellscape of Punk Hazard.
Law had no hope of finding any reprieve from the cold, and yet he still expected heat when his fingers grazed over her skin. In retrospect, the idea is laughable; there is no refuge in the snow. He should have anticipated the chill of her lips, capturing his own in a cool kiss. Her breath as biting as the eternal winter wind outside the factory. They stand in front of the room allotted to him, his back inches from the door.
“You’re warm,” Monet says, golden eyes piercing his. She licks her lips, a predatory motion he’s come to associate with hunger.
It alarmed him the first time she did it, eyes lidded from across the room. Her request for wings and talons did nothing to quell the raptorial image it implies. Sharp claws to clutch and tear apart her targets replace her feet; feathers to carry her high and allow her to swoop with vicious speed now acting as her fingers. She brushes the tips around his neck as she stares at him, mouth bowed in a sly smile.
“Is that why you want this?” Law asks her lowly.
He knows exactly the bind between them: there’s no love shared, no trust, no expectation of a future… only the otherwise stifling isolation urging them together, and—they both carry each other’s heart.
In waking hours, he keeps hers hidden in an inner compartment of his coat. The steady beating of it is a constant drum, subtle from the padding of his clothes; but if he lets himself, he feels each murmur of it resound, tapping the pattern of her life-force into him.
Her scant clothing leaves no room for concealing his outside of her person. Monet isn’t foolish enough to leave it lying around; she must be cloaking it inside herself, as logia types can bury things within their body. Perhaps that’s why even wrapped in the thickest, longest outerwear he owns, the cold of this place continues to permeate within him.
Monet narrows her eyes into a half-closed, pleased expression. “You’re a rarity, here, Trafalgar Law…” she says. “Warmth… vitality… intelligence…” and her tongue swipes out again, “sanity.”
He lets out a huff of laughter. “Are you sure about that last one?”
She leans in, lips gracing his. The cold brush of them causes him to shiver. “All things considered…”
Of course, he knows what she implies. The only other remotely intelligent life-form on this blasted wasteland happens to be a sadistic, clownishly evil maniac—and the primary reason Law’s taken up seemingly indefinite residence on the island and traded off his heart. If her boss is the reference point of sanity, then there’s no competition between them.
He feels her twisted grin as they kiss. Despite the unrelenting frost of her touch, he takes undeniable pleasure in the contact of another person. Months into this, and determined as he is, he misses his crew; misses the soft, enveloping hugs of Bepo; the unconditional support and admiration of the rest of them—even though he shies away from their exuberance; and the understated comfort of simply being around people that care about him as much as he cares for them.
But they aren’t here—and it’s been ages since he’s given in to any kind of romantic intimacy. Attraction of this kind for him is unusual and rarely compelling enough to act on. Monet falls into the scarce class of those that manage to spark something in him. Her oddities intrigue him; one might think the bird legs are a turnoff, but he realized quickly they only add to the appeal.
When Law rests his hands on her waist, he finds the skin soft and smooth, fine like a freshly fallen flurry. A sigh into his mouth indicates approval, and he grips her sides to tug her closer. Body flush with his, but his coat still acts as a barrier. What would she feel like pressed against him with nothing to shield him from her? He thinks he knows; already, he feels her chill seeping beyond his flesh into his bones, numbness crawling up the pads of his fingers and into his phalanges. Will she leave him frostbitten, a hypothermic blue blossoming under every point of contact?
Law can’t bring himself to care, even as he contemplates the implications of this. He meshes well with Monet; she’s found a way to thaw him, in the most ironic sense. Carving out time with him as he covertly works to uncover the secrets of the base and set his plan into motion. She doesn’t seem to need or want any of the qualities to forge a true friendship, understanding as well as he does that all they share together is each other’s company, and a mutual kind of liking and desire. And of course, their hearts—but that isn’t personal.
He knows he can detach well enough to spare his emotions from the inevitable, ruinous ending looming in the face of his schemes. But could she?
He hasn’t decided how this resolves for her. Her fate hasn’t yet made it to his designs. Perhaps, if he’s truly being honest with himself… he’s been putting it off.
“Are you going to invite me in,” Monet asks, breaking apart. “Or would you prefer Caesar Clown witness this?”
Her tone is teasing, but there’s a hard edge to it. Now, or never, she seems to be implying.
Monet is cold. Her Devil Fruit ensured that she will never provide any warmth again; and yet… on this even colder, isolating island, her cool touch abates the loneliness and draws out an inner flame. Perhaps his heat is enough for the both of them—and if not—he’ll appreciate her pervading, incessant, soothing freeze for what it is: all that he can get.
Law reaches behind him, and opens the door.