Pain Management

Chapter 2: Recommended Course of Treatment

"So what kind of treatment is this going to be?" You swung your legs absentmindedly as you sat on Law's exam table for the second day in a row. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol, just enough to turn your stomach, kicking up just the slightest bit of acid in your already churning guts. "Like physical therapy to get me stronger or something? Support my core better or whatever?"

"Not precisely, but you're not far off." He stood against the counter, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. "We're going to focus on releasing muscle tension, and retraining your brain to release the right kind of chemicals that will help alleviate the pain more naturally. Sound reasonable?"

"Sure," you shrugged. It certainly sounded like a lot of words to describe physical therapy, something you had done enough times that you could almost predict the routine—learn a few new stretches, modify a few old ones, maybe do some light strength training, and you'd be assured that your core would be better equipped to support your broken organs in no time.

"Now, I'd like you to take off your clothes." He brusquely handed you a gown and a flimsy paper blanket, then returned to the counter, turning his back towards you.

"Uh, for what?" Physical therapy had never required full nudity before, at least not any kind that you could recall.

"So we can begin treatment," he said flatly, without glancing at you.

You fiddled with the scratchy fabric, stalling as long as you could reasonably manage before asking, "Captain, what kind of treatment is this, exactly?"

"You'll understand in a moment. Just remove your clothes, please."

You stared at the back of his head a moment longer, trying to glean anything you could from his movements, but came up short—his lean frame kept still as he waited for you to undress, his palms flat on the counter, his breathing even and measured.

"You know, I meant to ask you yesterday," Law started, drawing out his words, still staring ahead at the cabinets on the wall, "how long has it been since you were sexually active?"

"I'm sorry, what?" you asked, your voice muffled by the sweatshirt pulled half over your head.

"It's a standard question to ask when doing gynecological exams," he explained coolly. "Sexual history is important to know for a number of reasons."

"Uhh, I don't know. Quite a while." You sorted through your memories as you unzipped your pants, not being able to distinctly recall exactly when it was that you'd last had sex, cobbling together vague recollections of bodies tangled in sheets, probably fueled by alcohol and too much emptiness.

"Would you say it was before joining the Strawhats?"

"Oh, definitely."

"Interesting." You could have sworn he almost sounded pleased by your answer, could almost hear just the slightest upturn of his mouth into a smile. "I'm surprised, no romances aboard the Sunny?"

"Nope, not a one."

Not that you hadn't thought about it, or had the opportunity—there was that one time that Usopp got a little handsy with you as you meandered back to the ship together after a night of revelry at some tiny tavern in the middle of nowhere, the arm around your shoulder slowly drifting down your back, finally landing even lower to cup one of your ass cheeks; he snickered to himself how much you jiggled in his hand with every step before you pushed him away and into a nearby bush. And there was Sanji—perverted, persistent Sanji—who would have probably cut off one of his limbs if it meant having even the most remote chance to spend a night between your legs, devoting himself to your pleasure. But despite whatever longing may have been felt between you and any one of your shipmates from time to time, you knew the risk was too great for heartache and turmoil and chaos if you'd given into your basest desires—you loved them all too much to ruin everything just for a little bit of satisfaction.