Chapter Text
Law knows it the moment he wakes up that morning.
The thing about having come as close to death as he has is that death holds grudges. It’s as possessive as a certain pink-feathered would-be god and jealously hounds what it’s marked. And Law, being a doctor as well as a survivor, has had ample time and opportunity to garner more than his share of its ire.
Because naturally, a substance like Amber Lead wouldn't be content to just destroy his people, his homeland, and try to do the same to him; nor would it settle for simply haunting his nightmares. No, all Amber Lead ever knew was how to take. And even the ultimate devil fruit had its limits. Despite the miraculous power of the Ope Ope fruit, and his faltering self-surgery at thirteen years old, Law had been surviving on sheer force of will and Cora-san's stubborn, contagious hope for over two weeks by the time he managed it. His already frail, not even fully grown body had been pushed to its limit and over. So while he'd managed to remove the poison from his system - and eventually all traces of it, in subsequent operations - the damage it had already done was extensive. Even equipped with his current knowledge and abilities, another thirteen years later, Law doubts there's much more he could've done.
So, he knows the moment awareness comes to him: it's going to be one of those days.
Law groans through the thick haze of weariness and tries to roll over from where his arm is pinched between his body and the mattress, but his limbs feel heavy as though they’re filled with lead (ha). The attempt at movement jostles his arm enough to cause pins and needles though, and he grimaces. Trying to flex his fingers to ease it only causes shocks to radiate up through his shoulder to the rest of his body, starting a vicious cycle of cramps all over.
Active Amber Lead Syndrome is insidious, but so are the aftereffects, Law has found. The overwhelming fatigue is uncomfortably familiar and never gets easier, no matter how many times he’s experienced it. It’s not unlike the feeling that follows being exposed to seastone or bodily submersion. What sets it apart is the undercurrent of torment: pain cascades over his mind and body, surging sometimes and other times subsiding to almost nothing. But the ebb and flow is viciously erratic in its patterns, lulling him into confidence before ripping him apart again.
Through that tide Law tries to force his groggy brain through the motions of self-triage, identifying and assessing symptoms, but it's so very hard. (Which, he knows, is a symptom in itself.)
He has no idea what time it is or how long he spends in the fogged up state of half awake (and wishing he wasn’t) before a knock on his door pierces through his awareness. Law grimaces again, forcing himself bodily to roll over, and the sound that leaves him is definitely not a pathetic whine of pain. His vision swims when he finally manages to crack his eyes open, and he thanks the seas that they’re still underwater and the light that filters in from the porthole is muted, painting everything a dim blue.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time, and every impact of knuckle to metal is a spike of pain through his skull. Law screws his eyes shut and regrets it immediately, because that, too, aggravates the pulsing agony within and around his cranium. He must let a sound out then, because a muffled voice joins the next knock, the rap much lighter and quieter than the ones before.
“Captain?”
Law musters his strength to produce what he hopes is a noncommittal grunt, but with the humming in his ears it’s hard to tell. There’s a clear pause behind the door, and the voice speaks again.
“I’m coming in, Captain.”
Law doesn’t bother to acknowledge that one.
True enough, his door opens, slowly. Law buries his head in the pillow to shield against the light coming from the hallway. Thankfully, his visitor knows enough to slip in as soon as they can fit through the crack and then shut it, careful to not let the door bump or creak.
"Captain?" They ask in a low voice, and Law forces himself to turn his head enough to crack open one eye and look at them.
Him.
"B'po," Law mumbles, swallowing hard against the swollen sandpaper feel in his mouth.
Law's best friend is looking at him with concern, small button eyes full of gentleness. The familiarity of them eases some of Law's tension, though there's little they can do for his pain.
"One of those days?" Bepo asks, careful to keep his voice quiet and even, because he knows.
His presence - and the promise of it - gives Law the strength to push up from the bed enough to flip himself over, groaning as he lies back against the pillow. He doesn't have to bother with answering the question, because Bepo has always been eerily in tune with Law and his idiosyncrasies: the polar bear has already begun gathering extra pillows and helps prop Law against them, knowing exactly which points of his body to cushion and support to make him as comfortable as possible. When he's done, he moves back and fishes a journal from the drawers of Law's desk.
The journal is Law's personal patient record - specifically his chronic symptom log. He'd started (finally) keeping it a few years after the original four Hearts had set out to sea, once he'd finally admitted that Amber Lead had left him with more than lifelong mental trauma. And while Law himself might, and probably would be, the only person ever to suffer from Post-Amber Lead Syndrome, he couldn't deny the value in still documenting it. His parents had always preached that any research and discovery that helped even one person was no less valuable than that which would help thousands - and his crew had (after long, arduous years of twisting his arm) managed to convince him that the rule still applied even if that one person was himself.
(And sometimes Law even entertained the thought of eventually publishing his records or formulating a proper paper on them. On the off chance that the syndrome ever resurfaced, or just as a giant middle finger to the World Government. But that's all it ever would be: an entertaining thought.)
Bepo thumbs through the journal to a blank page and uncaps a pen in preparation. He then looks up at Law, hesitant for the first time since he entered the room. "Are you up for this?"
Law jerks his head in a terse nod, steeling himself against the twinge that follows. "Prompt me."
When he'd started, Law always tried to manage on his own. But like with most things he tried to keep the other three out of, Bepo, Shachi and Penguin had caught on and put a stop to it. And Law had to admit having another set of hands and eyes when he was so impaired was incredibly useful; if he just tried to make notes afterward, he'd undoubtedly miss something, or misjudge the severity. It was much better to get the details while they were still fresh.
Plus, always listing everything that was wrong during any particular episode helped the others take better care of him. (Though they obviously put more weight on that point than Law thought necessary.)
Bepo nods in return and peers at the cheat sheets attached to the journal. "Vision?"
"Blurry." Law wets his lips, or tries to, at any rate. He suddenly regrets not asking Bepo for a glass of water first, but on the other hand, just the thought of having liquid sloshing around his hollow insides pushes his nausea to the forefront. "Light sensitivity."
Bepo scribbles. "Hearing?"
Law grimaces. "Yes."
Bepo looks up, a little exasperated. "Law."
Law groans. "Fine. Tinnitus." He screws his eyes shut, trying to think. "Hyperacusis. Probably vertigo." He's really not too keen to test that.
Bepo hums. Law grits his teeth against the faint scratching of pen against paper. "Neuromuscular?"
"Pain." As if it isn't obvious.
"What kind?"
Law curses his past self for being so thorough with the instructions. "Aching." He thinks for a bit, then amends himself. "Throbbing."
"Everywhere?" Bepo confirms, and makes a note when Law nods. "Intensity?"
A scale from one to ten has never been harder to recall. "Eight?" Law makes to shift, and aborts the movement with another grimace, mumbling, "make that nine." It’s a bad one, alright.
"Do you want a break?" Bepo asks, and even without looking, Law can tell he's already putting the writing implements down, ready to fuss. Law quickly shakes his head, entirely too vigorously, but the sound of movement stops. But he needs this done and over with, breaks will just needlessly prolong his misery before they can start easing it.
"Okay." Bepo sounds unsure, but doesn't push it. "What else? Neuromuscular," he adds as a reminder.
"Weakness." With no small effort, Law raises his arm at the elbow, bracing the point on the mattress and holding his hand in the air. He squints to see the shape of it in the muted lighting. "Tremor."
And like that, they continue down the list. Abdominal (nausea), respiratory (none, mercifully), cognitive (and now that’s a long and difficult list), and so on. Law absently notices Bepo jumping over some items, and after they're done with the questioning, the bear gets up to give Law a quick examination to fill them out. Skin, heart rate, reflexes, all the things that are better measured by him than Law's painstaking self-assessment. Law zones out for most of it, only to startle back to reality when Bepo pulls the covers over him.
"I'll be right back," he murmurs, and is gone before Law has the chance to blink his eyes into focus. Similarly, by the time he blinks again, Bepo is back, pushing through the door holding a tray.
"I let Shachi and Penguin know," the bear says as he sets the tray down on the bedside table. "And they'll tell the others to leave you be today."
Law would nod if he wasn't so wrung out. He makes the effort to produce some sort of noise, and that seems to be enough.
Bepo raises a glass of water with a questioning look, and Law allows himself to be helped. The liquid is cool, but not overly cold: just enough to be soothing on his parched mouth and throat, but not uncomfortably felt as it travels down his esophagus. Law drinks hungrily, but Bepo paces him, the two ever in sync. With the first glass empty, Bepo sets it down and holds out medication. Law squints at the pills, but doesn't bother with real scrutiny: even without the cheat sheets, Bepo is a decent nurse in his own right. And what’s more, he’s been here since the very start. Sometimes Law feels like his friend knows what he needs better than Law - the actual doctor - himself.
Law allows the bear to administer the drugs and help him gulp down another glass of water (from the corner of his eye, Law can tell there's even a third one on the tray. And they have the nerve to call Law over-prepared), then help make him comfortable in his nest of pillows and blankets.
"There's food for when you're able to eat, too." Bepo lifts a plate of fruit and rice balls so Law doesn't have to strain to see. Law doesn't argue; while he had definitely seen Bepo dutifully mark down nausea and no appetite in the log, it wouldn't be the first time he'd managed a bite or two once the drugs kicked in or he'd managed a bout of sleep.
Law clears his throat. "Thank you, Bepo." His voice still comes out as a pathetic croak, but at least speaking doesn’t feel like trying to burrow through the Red Line.
The mink smiles, all hope and warmth. "Do you need anything else?"
Law shakes his head minutely, the movement already easier and less jarring than before. Whether that’s real or imagined improvement, he can’t tell. It makes no difference anyhow.
"I'll check up on you often," Bepo promises. Law snorts in a way that is little more than a slightly harsher exhale through his nose.
"You have a ship to run," he admonishes, softening it with his best attempt at a smile. He knows it must be a pretty poor example of one, but it seems good enough for Bepo: the bear stands up straight and salutes him.
"Aye-aye, captain!"
And Law's ears don't even protest the sound.