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strawberrystepmom · 11 days ago

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shifting sands and the fingers they fall through | two

cw: discussion of an injury reader has with mentions of blood, pus, and infection. reader is also described as smaller/shorter than law. trafalgar law x fisherman f!reader. | word count: 3.1k, reading time: approx. 15 min.

note: this is a series. each post will contain warnings that pertain to that particular chapter. | part: one, three, four, five, six

A gulls cry has been the constant alarm clock through your adulthood for as long as you can remember. It has also become your background music and dinner bell; the cry that reminds you that you’re alive even on days when you aren’t as pleased to wake up as one perhaps should be.

Mundanity can have that effect on a person or at least that’s what you’ve read in some of the silly self help novels you’ve been able to procure from the small island library.

You don’t have enough free time to do much but reading is how you prefer to spend those few precious moments. Nobody will admit it on the island, least of all the librarian, but they ask other islands to send new-to-everyone here books solely for you to enjoy.

The gull woke and led you out to the shore this morning. It was a late night spent spearing flounder and coming up short. You’ve cast your net twice this morning, catching a few unimpressive but big enough to be sold mackerel.

You’re unlucky today but at least you’re at peace.

A contented sigh escapes while casting your net back into the shallow, turquoise water a third time. Your eyes aren’t looking down at the foamy waves, they’re locked onto the horizon. If the sunrise were less spectacular you’d be upset to be here. Everything feels drenched in a glow that no other time of day can replicate and you get to enjoy it all by yourself, uninterrupted.

This is the type of loneliness you wish you felt perpetually. Happy to be alone, embracing the world around you with no expectations upon you. Instead that pang comes in the middle of a long night or when you can’t reach something on the top shelf at home or when you see one of the few other young women on the island hand in hand with the one they’ve chosen to fill their time with.

You learned to more or less accept loneliness as a consequence of freedom years ago, not long after you finally felt accepted by your fellow fisherman on this little gem settled amongst the waves. Arriving here as a stranger and a young one at that raised everyone’s hackles but you proved yourself trustworthy and hardworking, simply pleased to be away from the shackles your life would’ve become if you’d stayed where you came from.

Drawing your net back up to shore, you sigh when it comes up empty yet again. Footsteps pad through the sand and their cadence sounds familiar to you, similar to the ones heralding the man you assured you’d tend to your wound three days ago.

As assumed, you did not tend to it at all. You’ve been too busy to focus on how it throbs, the current fishing season passing quickly and your stall as busy as it always is.

A chuckle rings from behind you. It’s quiet enough you’d miss it if others were around. It mingles with the waves lapping at your feet, encouraging you to look over your shoulder even though you refuse out of spite at this point.

You know it has to be this enigmatic man, Law, based off of the way your skin prickles with awareness of his stare just as it did a few days prior. Something about him makes your body react. It could just be an overreaction to someone new. Your best guess is that you are anticipating his imminent lecture and that’s why everything about you feels off right now, your usual go with the flow approach failing.

“How’d redoing those stitches go?”

Now you turn around, dropping your net at your feet and pursing your lips. He looks charmingly mussed up, wearing a tan button down shirt with too few buttons fastened instead of the blue t-shirt you saw him in prior. The unenthused look on your face remains although your traitorous eyes take a peek at the tanned, tattooed skin he’s showing off.

You’re caught in the act, of course. He rolls his shoulders when he catches your roving glance and you almost believe you see the faintest hint of a smirk on his face, those hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pants that are as unique as the rest of him.

It’s the closest you’ve come to a smile or really anything that isn’t, in your opinion, overt disinterest from the man. It brings back that same feeling you had during your first meeting, stomach turning and feet itching to get away.

You promptly look away while pretending to busy yourself with your net, cheeks warm. It makes you wonder why he approached at all if only to give you a hard time which only makes your face heat further.

“Didn’t have the time. I’m a busy girl, you know.”

Grunting his initial response, he takes a few steps to close the distance between you two. You jump back a few steps, pretending that they were necessary to untangle your net. Law pauses, eyebrow raised.

“Does your health mean nothing to you?”

Sighing, you drop the net at your feet and fold your arms over your chest in an ill guided attempt to puff yourself up. He’s intimidating, not just in expression and brusque conversation, but in stature too - broad and twice your size. You’re no stranger to dealing with men who talk a big game but an eerie feeling in your gut makes you believe that this man could back it up.

This stranger who insists on disrupting your day, your silent, peaceful beach time with you and the foam and the fish. Agitation gnaws and you tilt your head to the side curiously, brows raised.

“Why do you care what a woman you don’t know does with her body?”

It appears you have finally taken control of the situation judging by the way he slowly blinks like he’s processing what you said. Then he shakes his head, rolling his eyes enough that it’s your turn to catch it and scoff.

“I’m a doctor. It’s my responsibility to care.”

Although that isn’t enough to explain to him why he cares. As a principle, he believes men like him should not take a vested interest in the wellbeing of civilians. Pirates live a life that few can understand and certainly not simple fisherman on an island that he and his crew are currently taking a brief respite on.

“Then care about someone else,” you shoot back with a smile, finally bending to reach for your net and walking a few steps closer to shore, back toward your unexpected guest. The gentle morning waves wash over your boots. He watches as you toss, seabreeze ruffling the end of your shorts.

Unburying one hand from his pocket, he scrubs it over his face defeatedly. You’re just an honest person trying to make a living as difficult as you are. That’s why he cares. Not this strange draw he feels, a little poke between his ribs every time he thinks about the unique woman from the fish stall.

“My ship has an infirmary. I can take care of it since you apparently refuse to.”

You glance over your shoulder, a single brow raised.

“I try to avoid following strange men anywhere.”

Law sighs, exasperated.

“We aren’t strangers, we’ve met before. You even know my name.”

You shake your head, heaving your net back toward shore. “And that suddenly makes you perfectly upstanding and trustworthy?”

He doesn’t miss the wince that flashes across your face when the knotted fibers drag across your arm and subsequently the wound. Looking into the weave, you frown when no fish are flopping around and prepare your arm to cast again but stop when your arm twinges.

The doctor shakes his head, pulling his other hand from out of his pocket and folding his arms over his chest. If he can’t reason with you, he believes he may know another way to convince you yet.

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. Let it fall off for all I care.”

Worked like a charm. That caught your attention, the ever astute man notices. The defiant smirk on your face falls, eyes widening in horror instead.

“Can that really happen?”

Internally he’s nearly aghast at your naivety but he nods once, face unchanging. He could sever it himself if he were to use his abilities, it would probably be less trouble than getting you to take him seriously would be but something tells him to be patient. You are a little prickly, perhaps distrustful, but you don’t seem to lack sense enough to dismiss his help a second time.

“Fine. But promise you aren’t going to steal my organs or hurt me in any way first.”

He snorts, shaking his head.

“I’m not promising anything. You can let me look at it or you can suffer, those are your options.”

You contemplate the suffering option for a second until your arm aches again. This draws a dramatic groan from you, your empty net tossed over your shoulder. It’s so rare that you need help from anyone for any reason but this is out of your wheelhouse. It’s time to take what’s being offered to you, albeit reluctant.

“Lead the way then, doctor.”

Thankfully Polar Tang isn’t submerged and waiting terribly far from where you stand right now. It’s how he stumbled upon you anyway, walking the shore before the rest of the crew decided to greet the day.

Things are already off to a strange start but once he gets this done, he can stop worrying about you completely and move on with his life.

—----------

You’ve never been aboard a submarine before and admittedly, you kind of would be alright not doing it again. Or maybe just not this one, its grumpy captain leading you inside and instructing you to remain quiet and walk straight in the direction he’s pointing which must be toward that infirmary he talked about.

When the two of you finally arrive, he shuts the door tightly behind you and instructs you to sit down near a stainless steel bench attached to the wall. While you do so he grabs his glasses off of the bench and a pair of gloves and snaps them on, leaning over you and grabbing your arm to stretch it across the table.

“This won’t take too long.”

You nod once, sitting in the stool and looking around at the incredibly clean environment he calls his own. It’s strange and you never would have considered looking at him that this is how he maintains his space. It seems like a direct contrast to the man in front of you who seems at least a little bit rough around the edges.

You suppose the same could be said about you though, precise in your work despite everything else about you being flighty at best, so you keep your opinion to yourself. It’s kind enough of him to see you in the first place that you don’t want to make him mad and potentially end up without an arm if his claims were to come true.

Noises on the other side of the steel walls capture your attention and Law groans, looking up from his work for the briefest moment.

“Go away. I won’t tell you again.”

He doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t have to, the low growl clearly enough to send the several pairs of feet eavesdropping outside of the medical bay door scurrying. You giggle, shaking your head.

“Friends of yours?”

Law’s face is unchanging, glasses perched on his nose while he leans back in.

“My crew. I assumed they’d still be sleeping but apparently I was wrong.”

“Oh, a crew!” You exclaim and he shoots you a warning glance encouraging you to be quiet lest they catch wind of the fact not only a stranger but a female one is onboard. “Sorry, I was kind of excited to hear you aren’t traveling all alone. You seem like the type that does.”

A strange thing to say but he chuckles so quietly you believe you imagined it, that same thumb from three days ago holding your arm as though it’s made of glass. That feeling of being seen and not simply viewed returns, settling strangely while you kick your feet back and forth where they dangle.

“Do you guys go around the world and help people like this all the time?”

Reaching for his scissors that are in a cup on the table behind you, he shakes his head once but his eyes never move from your wound. He cuts through one of your poor stitches and then another, the tension keeping the cut closed finally releasing and showing you just how much pain you’re about to be in. You play it cool, kicking your feet a little harder to focus on something besides how bad it hurts and finally, he speaks.

“No. We’re pirates.”

Staring wide eyed at the man, you try to will your face to change before he can look up and catch the expression. Unfortunately, you failed and he looks over the top of his glasses, mouth set in a flat line.

“What? Are you scared?”

“No no no, just surprised is all,” you chirp, playing off your anxiety. “You’re helping me so I have no judgment either way. Besides, I don’t have much a pirate would be interested in anyway.”

Trafalgar could name a few things about you the pirates he knows would be very interested in but he keeps them to himself, squeezing the edges of your wound together to release any lingering pus. You wince but swallow it down, tough girl that you are, gnawing your lower lip and flaring your nostrils as you breathe through the sting.

“How did this,” he nods and you know what he’s nodding toward. ”happen?”

You swallow thickly, blinking fast to keep from crying.

“Uh, it was nighttime. I was by myself and something was caught in my nets that wouldn’t come out. I tried to cut it out and ended up cutting myself instead.” Sniffling, you wrinkle your nose to keep any further show of pain or emotion from arising. “Cut the net too which really sucks.”

The pain is immense but manageable while he cuts through a few more of the stitches, gently squeezing as he goes. It’s bad but it isn’t as infected as he thought, fighting off annoyance at your utter recklessness like he should care or something.

“I hate to break it to you but maybe you shouldn’t be doing things on your own if this is the outcome.”

Contrary to the immediate offended glare you cast toward him, you have to admit to yourself that he may be correct. This time wasn’t the first you’ve ever injured yourself alone and as long as it isn’t the last, you have always sort of just considered things even but this is bad. It aches. Every stitch he pops releases the tension of the thread and you hiss through your teeth.

“You’re probably right,” you admit aloud, feet no longer kicking out and instead planted firmly against the legs of the chair to brace yourself for the worst of the pain to come. “But all I have is me so I do what I have to.”

The remark about his crew suddenly makes more sense. He hums, reaching for cotton and disinfectant solution to clean now that it’s squeezed out and the stitches are gone.

“Then you need to be more careful,” he warns, that cursed thumb finally letting go of you so he can use both hands to soak the cotton with the solution. He gently swipes it across the surface and he feels the tension in your body return.

“This is what happens when you get hurt and ignore it. It’s a pain in the ass and it hurts when it comes time to fix it.”

Frowning, you can hardly hide your displeasure over his poor bedside manner. Not that you’ve been to many doctors in your adulthood outside of the one who occasionally comes to do semi annual checkups for everyone who lives here but you assumed being a doctor meant you kind of had to be nice.

“I’ve learned my lesson.”

Your words are dripping with sarcasm but he ignores them, stepping on the trash can pedal beneath the bench and tossing the cotton in there. He moves as swiftly as you’ve ever seen anyone work and procures a needle and thread also from the bench behind you. That thumb touches the outside of your arm, again, and he pauses a moment to look up at you.

It’s obvious that you’re in pain and pretending like everything is fine. He gets the sense you do that a lot. Not that it’s his problem but he feels obligated to take the best care of you that he can while this situation is happening so he speaks slowly.

“This is going to be the worst part.”

You nod.

“It was when I did it too.”

At least you can laugh about it.

Gently poking through one side of the wound with the needle, he pulls it through and you see a tidy line of thread left behind. Far better than the messy, knotted, too big stitches you had before. He continues his pattern - poke, pull, weave - and you marvel at the quality of his work. It’s clear he takes his duties as a doctor seriously and a wave of gratefulness washes over you. Sure he hasn’t been the nicest man alive but the fact he’s done this at all tells you that he isn’t all that bad no matter how he acts.

“Thank you.” You want to leave it there, mouth opening and then closing again, but you don’t feel right saying that and nothing else. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this but I’m not good at asking for help or accepting it either. Most people give up after I shoo them off the first time so I guess thanks for not taking me seriously.”

Finishing the final stitch, he cuts off the thread and looks directly up at you.

“Yeah, well it’s not like it was hard or took a lot of time.”

Averting his gaze back down to his work to give it a final inspection, he considers telling you he’ll check in again to make sure it’s healing right. It isn’t his responsibility now that the work is done but your honesty has convinced him you aren’t very good at looking out for yourself.

“Alright, I’ll walk you back up to shore.”

You’ll have to figure out how to do it without him because once you leave this ship, he won’t bother trying to see you again.

#trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #law x you #law imagines #kendall writes #shifting sands and the fingers they fall through

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eridanidreams · 10 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

Tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon, @violenceandviolets, @therealgchu, @staticpallour and @artemis-crimson

I'm late to the party tonight, so enjoy!

from stars through my fingers like grains of sand

Lillian agreed, then took a deep breath. "But Sam, I need something. I need to see my daughter more. These messages, they're just a tease."

"And she misses you," Sam countered, before Cait could draw breath to speak herself. "But, Lillian, the last three times we planned something, you bailed twice. Twice." His jaw set, his eyes burned the hot blue of stars, and his anger fueled the embers of her own. Before it could go out of control again (she'd wanted to—what? the memory had gone up in smoke), she leashed it, channeled it into words.

"Cora knows you're not really invested in her, Lillian," Cait said, choosing every word with exquisite care. "She certainly knows that you put being a Ranger over spending time with her. And pretty soon now, she's going to figure out that you aren't actually interested in your reading club. Right now, she just thinks you're a slow reader."

Lillian flushed. "How dare you say that?"

Cait felt a slow, angry smile cross her face. "Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome: Do your worst, for I will do mine! Then the fates will know you as we know you." Lillian still looked confused. "That's only one of the most famous quotes from the book you're supposed to be reading right now."

"Do you have any idea the looks I get when I'm reading Dumas around the other Rangers?" Lillian demanded.

"If you really cared about Cora," Cait said softly, "it wouldn't matter."

"For crying out loud, Lillian," Sam added, "where do you think the whole 'Rangers always have each other's back' thing comes from?" Lillian looked at him in complete astonishment. "I'm not the reader Cora or Cait is—" His anger was dissipating, replaced with a sort of grim amusement that damped Cait's anger like a fire extinguisher "—but I'm not immune to a rousing adventure. Like, oh, The Three Musketeers." He let that hang in the air.

"All for one, and one for all," Cait murmured.

"And books aside, what this all boils down to," Sam said, "is that every time you bail out on Cora, it destroys her. And I'm the one left to pick up the pieces." Now that her own anger was more-or-less quenched, Cait could clearly sense the memory of Sam's devastation as it shivered coldly through him.

"Be honest with yourself, Lillian," Cait commanded. "Do you really think you can put Cora first? Every time? Because if you can't, then you need to stop pretending that you can."

Lillian winced, shaken to the core by Cait's brutal honesty, as Sam added, "Whatever you've got going on with Cora right now, I won't stand in the way of that. But we're not going to make plans again if you can't be sure you're going to make them. Even if there's an emergency."

Lillian sighed. "It's so often a matter of life and death, you know that—" There are other Rangers, Cait thought, but did not say. Lillian needed to make this decision herself. "—but you're right. Maybe—maybe when she's older." When she's older, Cait knew, would never happen; Lillian had just driven a stake through the heart of any hope of a closer relationship with Cora. Unless she changed drastically, and soon, this was the most she would ever have. Cait couldn't find it in herself to be sorry—at least, not for Lillian. Silently, she vowed to do everything she could to make the inevitable easier on Cora.

Sam nodded solemnly; Cait wondered if he'd heard the same thing she had. "Okay. Friends, right?"

Lillian set herself, and underneath all the turmoil, the anger, the resentment, Cait thought she heard a faint note of relief. "Friends." She gave a soft, rueful laugh. "You and me—we were over before we ever began." Cait hadn't expected the turn of conversation, and now she did feel like she was intruding. She took a half-step back, intending to make a discreet exit, but the ice cracking beneath her foot betrayed her. Lillian offered her a soft half-smile, but her emotions had sharpened into something almost—speculative. "No need," she said. "Sam and I—we didn't really choose each other, we just sort of—fell into it. I admire him, and he's one of the few people in the Systems that can make me laugh… but he's right. What we had, was never love. Not then, and not now."

"Truth," Sam agreed.

"All right," Cait said, feeling like the ground itself was shaking underneath her. She was teetering on the edge of emotional overload, and she knew it. "Do you think you two can go on from here? Is there anything else you need to address?"

Sam shook his head in silence. "No," Lillian met her gaze without flinching; after a moment, a half-smile curved her lips. "Sam's found himself one hell of an advocate."

Cait shook her head. "Sam didn't need me to support him—he did just fine." Sam's surprised appreciation curled up through her, adding itself to the storm already raging inside of her. "He needed it for Cora." She breathed deeply of the cold air, trying to use the shock to steady her for just a few moments more. "I'll go take a walk while the two of you finish up whatever you need to. Lillian, I presume we're dropping you back at Neon?"

"No need," Lillian said. "I've arranged for pickup. But I will make sure to say goodbye to Cora before you lift off." She gave Cait a long, considering look. "And thank you. You've given both of us a real gift. Not a comfortable gift, but…" she let out a sigh. "Honesty is the best way to go... however painful. As if I didn't owe you already."

"I'm not one to keep score," Cait said. "But I'm glad I could help. If you'll excuse me…" She nodded to them both, then walked away quickly before either of them could draw her back in.

#starfield #sam coe #fanfic #starfield fanfiction #eridani writes #caitlyn lynch #coemancer #wip wednesday #stars through my fingers like grains of sand

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