you and yours.

waiting for you. [ trafalgar d. water law ]

"I refuse."

Nami scowls. "Stop being so difficult. It's twenty minutes, it's not the end of the world."

You shake your head once more. "No."

With an exhale, Law crosses his arms and peers out the window beside him. He doesn't have time for this.

Thanks to some digging, he was able to gain intel on a gala a couple of islands away from Dressrosa that supposedly had pirate groups who wanted to purchase SMILEs. Given that information, a pit stop was decided in order to load up on information. Disguises came easy, but a plan did not. Said plan involved you pretending to be in a relationship with Law. You hated Law.

None of the crew knew why you did, nor have they ever received an explanation outside of "He just irks me." Although it was entertaining to watch you snap at him or bicker back and forth, it proved inconvenient and fairly obnoxious at a time like this.

"You don't even have to talk to him! Just loop your arms, walk around, and note what you hear." Usopp pushes. Even he looks mildly annoyed.

You frown, resting your hands on your hips. "Like I said, no. I would rather fake-date Sanji for all I care."

The blond's head pops up from over Nami's shoulder with a lopsided grin. "Really?!"

"No." you deadpan. You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth, avidly avoiding Nami's burning and somewhat frightening stare. Guilt begins to set in-- not for yourself, nor the captain beside you, simply just being difficult -- and you sigh, slowly letting your eyes slide up to catch Law's briefly, gray and intense in a way that makes your skin crawl before finding the redhead's.

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes, tops."

Gritting your teeth together, you grab Law by the wrist and trudge off, ignoring the snicker's of your crewmates behind you.

Law shifts uncomfortably in the tight grip of your hand, letting himself be tugged behind you into the thick swarm of dancing bodies. He's usually one to take the lead, but he concludes it would be rather pointless to try to argue with you when you're already fed up with him. It's hot , people pressed against each other in swirling waltzes and awkward, klutzy steps that cause irritating clashes and muffled sorries to disappear into the air before they can reach his ear. It's not his kind of scene, and he's guessing it's not yours, either, with the way you curse to yourself every now and then.

Spotting a man you deem familiar, swearing you saw him in the pictures Law made show of in your briefing hours prior, you pause, yanking the captain towards you. He manages to stop himself from crashing into you completely by finding stability at your waist against the smooth satin of your dress, not missing the way your eyes pop open and jaw snaps shut. He glares down at you, gaze following as your arms hesitantly and unwillingly slide up and rest around his neck.

"What was that for?" he grits out, low enough for only you to hear.

You peer over your shoulder briefly, long diamond earrings tapping against your neck before returning to him, muttering, "That man behind me; he's one of the guys in the image, is he not?"

Sure enough, he was. Neither of you could miss his overly-gelled comb over, his kempt goatee, his steamed and smooth velvet tux that was already getting stained and ruined by the wine that had dripped down his chin. His cologne was putrid , stuffy and overwhelming; the gold cap on his tooth that glistened in the dim lighting of the ballroom whenever he opened his mouth to gloat.

"Surprised you didn't notice sooner," you grumble to yourself as you drag your bodies closer. Law doesn't miss the way your target's eyes briefly glide over your body.