Do I own One Piece? No.
Just some rough background, this story is AU and taking place in London, UK. Let me know if there is any lingo that you don't understand I'll try to address it. Also, I hope you can catch it, but I'm depicted Kid is a thick Scottish accent and Law with a very "posh" sounding accent, which would indicate that he is upper class.
Read and enjoy.
The first thing that swam into Eustass Kid's vision was the sight of a long, lean back, rakish muscles twisted under a tight black and yellow shirt. He realized he was shivering, and blinked, trying to move his fingers to grasp at the blankets around him, trying to speak with his hoarse throat, but blackness was fast descending on his vision.
He didn't know how much time had passed until he woke again, and this time the man was gone. The blankets were soaked with sweat, yet he was still freezing cold. The door creaked open, the yellow light of the hall seeping into the room. The tall, skinny man from before came in and began to pull the damp blankets off his body. His motions were not careful nor kind. He stripped the bed from around Kid like a coroner ripping a sheet off a dead body.
Kid blearily watched the man above him, but again, his fingers would not obey him, his voice would not come. The shadow of the man's face only showed dark, lidded eyes. There were bags under them that spoke of many sleeplessness nights. But as the man began to wrap new, warm blankets around Kid's body, the redhead began to think that perhaps this was all a dream, and he fell asleep once more.
Finally, morning haze drifting through the curtained windows, Kid opened his eyes and found that he could feel his fingers twitching over rough, woolen fabric. Again, he was drenched in sweat, but this time he felt it to his bones. It was stifling hot in the room, and he pushed the sheets off his bare chest, the cooler air sharp on his heated, pale skin.
Again, there was the man he had seen only in fleeting, half-conscious moments. This time, he could focus on him with more clarity. He was unspeakably tall and thin, with a caramel colored skin and ink on his forearms and fingers. At the moment, he was tinkering with a tiny bag of clear fluid.
Kid's eyes followed the tube from the bag toward the needle taped to his arm, embedded in his vein. A deep rumble escaped his throat and he thought over past events. The deal had gone bad, there was gunfire, and, not for the first time, Kid was unlucky. He recalled Killer's efficient state of panic, and laying in the backseat of his car with his hand pressed to his gut, but then nothing more.
"Your fever broke."
Kid looked up. The man was looming over him, his expression cold and clinical. His voice matched, smooth and removed, layered with a high cut accent. The sick man immediately decided he did not like his caretaker.
"And who the fuck are you?" Kid grated out, his deep voice made husky from the searing thirst in his throat.
"I am Doctor Trafalgar Law," the man replied, not taken aback at all by the redhead's rude remark. "You have been under my care for three days, seven hours and..." he glanced at the clock, "forty-three minutes."
"Fantastic," Kid snapped. He pushed himself up on the bed and moaned as vertigo stole his vision away. Breathing steadily, his vision swam back together, only to show the condescending smirk on his doctor's face.
"Dizzy?" he remarked offhandedly. "That's likely the oxycodone."
Kid's fingers pinched the needle in his arm and he tore it out with a vicious curse. "Blues?" he growled. "What kind of shady backstreet wanker are you, anyway, to chock me up with blues?"
Trafalgar Law tutted, his eyes slipping away from Kid's face and toward the small stream of blood leaking from the inside of his arm. He made no move to patch it up or reinsert the needle. "I graduated from Harvard Medical School, summa cum laude. I specialize in cardiac surgery. Any more questions, Mister..." he frowned, holding up a clipboard in his hand, "Oliver Cromwell?"
Oliver Cromwell was the name that Kid often went by when he didn't want his identity discovered. It was used for doctors, coppers, and other governmental twats. Kid rolled his eyes, "Who gave you that name?"
"Guy Fawkes," the doctor responded with a chuckle. "To be honest, his alias is better suited than yours. I mean, Cromwell was an Englishman, but you even grunt like a Scot."
Killer, then. The name suited him more than the doctor could know, for he was, by nighttime, a masked murderer. Even in daylight, a person would be hard pressed to see more than a few squares inches of his face.
"And where is Fawkes now?" Kid asked. His eyes and fingers prodded at his chest, feeling the bandages, sensing the sore skin, the stitches.
Trafalgar settled into an armchair positioned halfway across the room, his impossibly long legs crossed, his ankle resting on his knee. Both of his arms stretched over the back of his chair, his fingers dangling like spiders. Only now did Kid read the word etched across them: death.
"I sent him away. I don't trust another conscious man in my home." His eyes flittered to the window. "But he isn't far. He's been watching the place since he left you here, and I don't think he's slept much, if at all." He appraised Kid for a moment, and then shook his head, as though the man was found lacking. "You have a very loyal comrade."
Kid twisted to the window, clawing at the curtain until he pulled it open. There, on the corner, right outside the townhouse, was a black car. Inside he spotted a mane of blonde hair, his tanned fingers lazily flicking a cigarette out the window. "I'm glad he is there," he asserted, "I'm happy he didn't trust me with a creep like you."
"I hear that a lot," Trafalgar replied, but his eyes were darkening as he spoke. "But I won't take it from the likes of you. You know, I had to wash off all the filthy make up from your face once it started to drip." His nose wrinkled in clear disgust. "Even without it, you still look like a freak."
Flicking the crimson hair from his eyes, Kid began to snarl like a wounded animal. "You really are one rude motherfucker. At least I know who I am."
First, the doctor raised an eyebrow at Kid, and then he raised his middle finger. "I'm glad you know who you are, Mr. Cromwell, because I'm going to need a name. A real name."
Kid frowned. "Why would I give you something like that?"
Trafalgar did not respond with words immediately. He stood, and flicked open a silver case sitting on a stand. Rifling through the contents, he pulled out a canister, a syringe and needle. Twirling it across his talented palms, the injector was quickly loaded. Smirking like a madman, the doctor squirted a bit of excess on to the wooden panel floorboards.
"A life-saving surgery and three days of the highest medical care is not for free."
"I have money," Kid spat, "What kind of fool do you think I am?"
"So you have five thousand pounds hiding somewhere on your person then?"
Kid's jaw dropped. "Five thousand pounds?" he spluttered, "Why don't I just give you a fucking car?"
Trafalgar tilted his head, bemused for a moment. "I have no need nor want for a car," he concluded, "I take the tube."
"Oh, right," Kid drawled sarcastically, "A Prince William like yourself takes the tube, I'm sure."
"I don't think Prince William takes the tube, Mr. Cromwell."
Gritting his teeth, Kid realized that humor was a dead end street with this man. "I meant you, fuckface, because of your bloody accent. Whatever. I'm not paying you five damn thousand pounds, not in a millions years." He cracked his knuckles and stretched his sore joints, pushing the creaking joints in his knees as he sat up fully.
"Why don't I just kill you right now, Doctor Trafalgar, and we call it a sealed deal?" Kid's threat was more than true to his word. He didn't want to pay the man the money, but even more so, he didn't want some high class snot on the street with way too much information floating around in his brain. The thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth. It was best to just wipe the slate clean with a nice, red smear of blood.
The doctor shrugged off the death threat, twirling the syringe over his knuckles. "A name, good sir, or I'll inject you with a highly concentrated serum of morphine."
Kid eyed the liquid warily - was the doctor bluffing? "So you claim to be the killing type, huh? Do you even know what you're messing with?"
"No," Trafalgar replied shortly, "Which is why I'm pressing you for a name. And it's not murder." He stroke the shaft of the needle with his fingernail, "It's euthanasia."
"You're sick," Kid growled from between gritted teeth.
There was a soft clatter as the threatening medical tool landed back on the tray beside Trafalgar's silver case. Fingers still brushing over the surface of it, the doctor said, "The fact of the matter is that you are no longer sick. And for that service, for saving your life, I am asking for measly five thousand pounds." He reached into the back pocket of his spotted jeans and pulled out a card, which he handed to Kid.
Kid tore it from his fingers, reading the front of it. Trafalgar Law, MD, University College Hospital. Flipping the card, there was another number scrawled on the back, with the word cell next to it.
"I'm being reasonable. I don't expect it all at once. I won't breath a word that I ever saw you, I won't report you to the police, and your heart will keep beating..." Trafalgar finally lifted his fingers from his weapon. "Just tell me your name, and promise to pay me."
The patient closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He was furious. Any man who dared insult and threaten him would usually be pummeled to the ground by now, yet this doctor remained standing. It wasn't misplaced morals because the man had saved his life, and it wasn't because Kid was too wounded to snap the skinny neck. But honestly, he could not place the reason. He hated the man he shared a room with, loathed him, but something about the dreamlike care Kid recalled, the soft fingers and warm blankets...something held him back.
Besides, he could easily find the money. Kid had his connections and a healthy business. It was just a matter of pride.
"Eustass Kid," he surrendered, speaking his name.
"What?" the doctor spoke sharply.
Kid opened his eyes, strands of crimson hair falling across his chiseled features as shadows crept over his face. "Eustass Kid," he growled again, "is my fucking real name. You'll be able to find me with that alone, but I occasionally can be found at the mechanic shop in Hackney. It's called the Adventure Galley Garage."
"A mechanic," Trafalgar replied flatly. "And your name is Kid."
"Got a fucking problem?" Kid's voice began to raise.
Trafalgar raised his brow for a moment, and then shook his head. "Not at all," he reassured his patient. "Not as long as you pay me."
"I will." The redhead kicked off his covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed, scowling at the generic boxers he'd been stuffed in. "Now give me my fucking trousers and let me out of here."
It was three in the afternoon and Kid was brooding, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic downtown. Killer was driving, bandana tied tight around the bottom of his face, his bangs covering the rest of his scarred skin.
"I'm bumming a smoke," Kid said shortly, reaching for the pack stuck in the cupholder. Killer's hand swatted the redhead's away.
"I don't think you can smoke," he replied, "I haven't fully read the list of recovery steps that the doctor gave you, but I assure you that smoking it probably on there."
Kid scowled, "Fuck that doctor," he groaned, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't believe you took me to that guy. Do you know how much of a psycho he is?"
Killer lifted off the gas as they inched forward, and then pressed on the brakes again. "I've heard things about him. Surgeon of Death is his street name. But without professional medical attention you would have died, and he appeared to be a better option than the hospital."
"Hospital's free," Kid remarked. "Five thousand pounds, can you believe that shit?"
His partner appeared unfazed, though. "We can afford it. It's better than loosing your life, Kid."
"Whatever," the redhead scoffed. He knew better than to argue with Killer. The blonde may be loyal to him, but his intelligence and knowledge far outweighed Kid's own. Despite the reversal of roles, Killer was much like an older brother to Kid, and unless it was an issue that Kid was adamant about, Killer would often get his way.
"So what happened, then, after you dropped me off?" Kid asked, changing topics. "Did you take care of that deal?"
Killer rolled up the window, which had been cracked to air out the tense atmosphere in the car. "Capone's men?" he asked. "I killed them all."
A stretching, manic smile broke out on Kid's face. "Good," he hissed, beaming across the car at his best mate. "Although I would've liked to play with that man's small intestine myself, I'm glad you got the job done."
Although Kid could not see his friend's mouth, he could sense the frown in Killer's piercing blue eyes. "You shouldn't play with small intestines, Kid. It's rather unsanitary."
Kid rolled his eyes and reached for the dial in the center of the console, turning up the music. He leaned back and stretched out his legs in front of him as much as he could in the confined space. Allowing his eyes to flutter closed, the background noise of honking horns and the cursing public faded. "Tell that to Trafalgar Law," he murmured, feeling himself begin to drift off. "I'm sure he loves to play with intestines, too."
Killer eased up on the brake and the car crept forward a little bit again. "Maybe that's why you don't get along," he analyzed. "The two of you are very similar men...and yet very different."
"Shut up, Sherlock, that made no sense."
In the meantime, Trafalgar Law was frowning down at a steaming hot cup of black coffee. He grasped the sides of the paper vessel, raising it to his lips, before frowning and setting it back down. The caffeine was well needed, but he would just have to be patient for it to cool.
Around him, the hospital was anything but quiet. The halls were bustling, wheels whirring on stretchers and wheelchairs, machines beeping, conversations passing by at whirlwind speed. He listened closely as fast-paced footsteps echoed down the hall and came to a short stop at the break room door.
"La - Law..." the nurse Penguin panted in the doorway. Law looked up and cocked an eyebrow at his subordinate and friend.
"Good afternoon, Penguin. Don't worry, I know my schedule for the day, you don't have to inform me. Mister Cavanaugh at four, correct, open bypass?"
Penguin caught his breath, stumbling in the room and crashing in the one rickety wooden chair. "That's not what I mean, and you know it," he berated. "Where have you been? You were on call and you never picked up, never came in."
The coffee had finally cooled, and Law sipped it quietly. "I took some sick days," he said simply.
Groaning, Penguin took off his hat and ran his hands through his dark hair. "Jesus Christ, Law, I don't understand how you keep your job here sometimes."
This incited a chuckle from the dark surgeon. "They could fire me if they'd like, I don't care. It's just something to keep myself busy. You know what my main source of income is, dear friend."
Law could nearly hear Penguin's heart palpitating as the man cast nervous glances around and shushed his superior as respectively as he could. He got up and inched closer, so close that the hairs on their arms brushed together. "I know," he whispered, "But really, Law, will you tell me what you were actually doing?"
The doctor considered not answering. Penguin had a habit of blowing things out of proportion. He took a deeper chug from the cooling beverage and licked the excess off his thin lips. "I made an investment," he finally admitted. "And honestly, I'm not sure where it'll lead...but it'll likely be interesting."
Interesting, indeed. The man he had operated on had an astounding physique; brute strength that was unrivaled on any human he'd analyzed before, an unusually vibrant genetic make up, and the pulsing hormones of an animal that would need to be taken down with horse tranquilizers. Aside from this, there were the scars, bullet wounds and scrapes and bones that had been shattered and ill-set back together. Eustass Kid was young, not a day over twenty five by Law's judgement, but his body spoke of a war-hardened soldier who had been out on the lines for fifty years.
Usually, Law would have said no the moment Mr. Guy Fawkes arrived on his doorstep, toting a bloodied monster of a man and requesting medical aid. But that was when Mr. Eustass cracked open his blood-caked eyes and fixed him with a stare, made even more intense with his burning, golden eyes. It was so fierce that even Law, who had witnessed the darkest areas of belligerence, was slightly unsettled. For the first time in a very long time, he had felt the stirring of a small flame deep within the ice of his facade. And instead of snuffing it out, he was a fool.
He fed the fire.
"It's been a long time since I've seen you show interest in anything," Penguin remarked. Law found that his friend had leaned in and was studying his face carefully. Uncomfortable, Law turned his head.
"Don't look to much into it," he insisted. "Like I said, I don't know where it's going as of now." The doctor finished his coffee and crumpled the cup, tossing it in the trash. "Let's prep for the surgery, I need to scrub."
Penguin sighed, giving in that he was not to find out anything more on the topic just yet. "Whatever you say, Captain," he conceded. "Do you want to go over the patient's file one more time?"
Law chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't be silly, now," he chided. His lips twisted up in a fearless sneer, "I'm just going to open the man up and tinker around, anyway, so what difference would it make?"
And with that, the doctor left, leaving his nurse behind, who just wiped his sweating pants on the front of his blue pants and chewed on his lower lip anxiously. "God bless malpractice insurance," he murmured, before roughly washing his hands and scampering off to pre-op, a bit afraid, but even more so just slightly excited to take part in the surgeon's room once again.
Just trying out something new, since I'm halfway through my last bit for The Switch and I just hit awful writer's block there. So this is the start of the Kid/Law fiction I've been outlining for a while, figured I just needed to get it out there.