Work Text:
You decide to practice.
This is, in retrospect, a mistake.
Law is at his desk writing reports. He looks calm. Focused. Entirely unavailable.
Which makes him the perfect test subject.
You clear your throat.
“…Do you need something.” He doesn’t look up.
You lean against the doorframe. Too casual. Painfully so.
“So,” you say. “Hypothetically.”
He sighs.
“…Go on.”
“If someone wanted to get your attention in a… non-professional way.”
Silence.
Slowly, he looks up. Flat stare. Immediate suspicion.
“This is not hypothetical.”
You smile. Too wide. “I’m practicing.”
“…Practicing what.”
You push off the doorframe and walk toward him, attempting confidence.
You trip on nothing. Recover badly. Point at him. “Seduction.”
Law blinks.
Once.
“…You’re terrible at this.”
“I haven’t started.”
“You absolutely have.”
You plant your hands on his desk and lean in, lowering your voice. “Hey, Doctor.”
He exhales. “Don’t call me that.”
You tilt your head. “You don’t like it?”
“I don’t like… whatever this is.”
That stings.
You take a breath.
Commit.
“I think,” you say carefully, “you’re… very efficient.”
Law’s pen stops.
Slowly, he looks up at you.
“…That’s it?”
You nod. “That’s all I’ve got.”
There’s a long pause.
“That,” he says flatly, “is not how people flirt.”
“I warned you,” you reply. “I said I was practicing.”
His eyes narrow.
“…You came in here to tell me I’m efficient.”
“Yes.”
“You interrupted my work.”
“Yes.”
“To do that.”
You shrug. “I panicked.”
Law closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “This is unbearable.”
You nod again. “That’s fair.”
You should stop there.
You don’t.
“And,” you add, because apparently you’re committed to ruining this, “you’re also very… organized.”
His eyes open.
Slowly.
“…Get out.”
You blink. “See, that feels harsh.”
“Do you have any idea,” he says, voice tight now, “what you’re doing.”
You hesitate. “Complimenting you?”
“You’re listing things I already know,” he says. “That’s not—”
He stops. Exhales. “That’s not helping.”
“Wow,” you say. “That hurt my feelings.”
Law exhales, irritated. “That wasn’t the intent.”
He goes back to his paperwork.
You should leave.
Instead, you hover.
Law feels it before he sees it.
“…Why are you still here.”
You gesture vaguely. “I thought I’d… finish.”
He looks up again, irritation sharp—
And stops.
Because you’re not smiling anymore. You’re not performing. You’re just standing there — a little embarrassed, a little flushed, hands fidgeting at your sides.
“I know it’s stupid,” you say. “I just wanted your attention.”
Silence.
Law’s gaze drops.
Not deliberately.
Instinctively.
Your hands twisting together. The way you’re standing too close to his desk now. The faint color in your cheeks.
His eyes snap back to your face.
“Stop.”
Your heart kicks. “Stop what.”
“Doing that.”
“Doing what,” you ask.
Law exhales slowly, like he’s already irritated with himself.
“…Looking at me like that.”
He stands.
Now he’s close enough that you have to tilt your head to look at him.
“You’re bad at theatrics,” he says. “But you’re very good at sincerity.”
Your voice wobbles. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It should be.”
His hand comes up before you can step back. Two fingers slide under your chin and tilt your face up.
“Because if you keep talking like that,” he murmurs, “this stops being practice.”
Your breath stutters. “That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
His fingers are still under your chin, keeping your face tilted toward him.
“You should stop.”
You don’t move.
“Are you going to make me?”
Law’s eyes narrow slightly.
“…No.”
You lean in and kiss him.
Law makes a low, irritated sound and pulls you in immediately.
“…Idiot,” he mutters against your mouth.
You smile. “So. Effective?”
“…Unfortunately,” he says.
And that’s the end of your practice session.
This is unacceptable.
He is irritated about it for exactly six minutes.
Six minutes after you leave his quarters — smiling, smug, pleased — Law is still sitting at his desk, pen unmoving, report untouched.
Efficient.
He scowls.
He has dealt with warlords. Admirals. Assassins.
And somehow the thing that ruined his concentration tonight was being called efficient.
He exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face.
That should not have worked.
And it bothers him that it did.
He thinks about the way you looked at him when you said it. The lack of performance. The lack of armor. Like you weren’t trying to win — just be seen.
“…Tch.”
He files the report. Closes the folder. Stands.
Next time, he tells himself, he won’t fall for that.
Next time, he’ll be prepared.
Then, unhelpfully, his mind supplies your voice again:
You’re very efficient.
Law exhales.
“…This is a problem.”
And worse?
He already knows you’re going to do it again.
And he’s absolutely going to let you.