Work Text:
Living inside a submarine is different from living on a normal ship in an extensive variety of ways. What tends to surprise their new members the most, though, is there’s really no way to tell the time underwater. Not at plain sight, at least.
Whether they’re near the surface in the middle of the night, or it’s midday but they are simply too deep for the sunlight to reach them, is up to anyone’s guess. If someone were to look through any of their windows, they would promptly find out it was water o’clock. Sometimes water o’clock would even feature the presence of a sea monster staring from the other side of the double-glass, or even two or ten of the creatures, but one got used to it.
Somehow.
Penguin carries no watch or clock on his person. He sips from a cup of coffee, as he counts the fishes on the other, considerably more wet, side of their submarine walls. It seems to be the hour of the Three-meter-long Weird Glowing Red Fish, with the minutes on Two Sea Monsters barely visible far away, who will hopefully continue to leave them alone through their voyage.
He thinks it’s night. Or maybe it’s sunrise. The line between waking up at midnight and rising early is rather vague.
Penguin rests his forehead against the glass of the window for a moment, and allows his eyes to rest.
Seas, he hasn’t slept properly in days. At this rate, he really should consider asking Law for meds.
He starts to relax, the beginning of a tiny river of drool making its way to his chin, when he’s forcibly stirred from his dreams. A deep, reverberating noise, like something hitting a metal wall, flinches him awake.
Immediately, he looks around the common room, in search of the cause.
He finds none.
With a resigned sigh, he stands up from the couch next to the window, mentally moving up sleeping medication a few places on his priority list.
He’d turned on the lights of the common room once he decided to hang in it until he either passed out on the couch or his crewmates woke up, but the rest of their submarine is still largely in the dark.
He leaves the cozy communal room behind, greeted by the lightless hallway. The rumbling of a sea monster can be heard coming from outside.
The scene before him is the slightest bit creepy.
Serenely, Penguin makes his way to the end of the hallway and turns on the lights, continuing on towards the direction of the mess.
There’s not much to see. He knows where to turn and place his feet more by heart and memory than the dim light behind him, and everything is fine.
Whatever made the noise will likely be a restless crewmate, or maybe a sea monster knocking against their hull, or just something having fallen out of place due to the Tang’s movement through the waters.
Probably.
He turns to another hallway, its walls marginally illuminated by a weird glowing fish outside the window panel. The unnatural blue light it emits is enrapturing, and for a moment, Penguin can wholly sympathize with its prey.
Then he trips on something unmistakably soft and everything is decidedly not fine.
Penguin knows what a limp human body feels like.
Barely scrambling to catch himself on his hands before he falls face-first on the metal floor, he turns towards the shadowed figure behind him, with eyes daunted and heart climbing his throat. His foot is still trapped between soft, human muscle, and he can feel the body start to stir up under him.
“Oh, holy mother of the ocean,” he hears a prayer come out of his own mouth.
Sometimes he has regrets about leaving his boring, uneventful, lovely Swallow Island behind.
A few grunted words later, the body goes back to stillness. Which, once he stops to consider, is likely not good.
Penguin wrestles his foot out, momentarily savoring on his freedom, and crawls back to it against the advice of his every instinct.
He has to squint against the faint blue light, bringing his face as close as he can to the body’s, before he’s able to recognize the trimmed goatee and long nose of his Captain.
Maybe he should feel more surprised at the discovery, but in hindsight there’s only one person Penguin knows who would pass out in an unlit hallway of their sub and not wake up even after being tripped on.
“Captain? You with me?” he tries.
The grumbling comes back, before he falls silent again.
Well, now, that’s cause for worry.
Penguin presses his ear to Law’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. It’s a bit slow, maybe too slow, but shouldn’t be serious enough to worry about.
Worrying about things is kind of Penguin’s job, though.
If he has to make a guess, he’d say Captain probably tried to make his way to the mess in the dark, during which he walked into a wall and hit his head. Likely didn’t want to turn on the lights so he wouldn’t wake up any of their crewmates, or something nonsensical along those lines.
A fond sight escapes him, and he takes the chance to ruffle the younger man’s hair while his guard is down.
Only Law would do something this stupid.
Still, Penguin made an oath to be his loyal subordinate many years ago, when they were both still little boys, and he has a duty to his Captain.
Carefully, he places an arm below the back of Law’s knees, and the other around his shoulders, cradling the long man in his arms and lifting him off the floor.
Law has always been thin for his height, more bones than muscle, but he somehow feels lighter than he should be as Penguin carries him back to his quarters.
A groan leaves Law, as he rouses in his arms, moving his limbs awkwardly until his head rests against Penguin’s chest.
“Penguin,” he mumbles. “Paracetamol.”
There’s something oddly endearing about his captain clearly being unable to notice a wall ahead of him in the dark, yet easily identifying Penguin without so much as opening his eyes, but he decides not to mention it. Experience tells him such comments will award him only dismemberment, and he needs arms to carry Law to bed, so he’ll save it for later, when his hands are free.
“I don’t think paracetamol will fix your headache,” he comments instead.
“‘S an order,” comes the command.
“Aye, aye, captain.”
It’s an awkward maneuver, to ferry the younger man through the dark hallways. Law’s feet repeatedly knock against the wall every few steps, until he curls up tighter in Penguin’s arms, which in turn makes them both sway out of balance and almost fall to the floor.
Law falls asleep sometime before they make it to his quarters, though Penguin feels him wake up as he adjusts their limbs to free one of his hands. Said hand goes right back to doing its job of —quite literally— supporting his Captain once the door to the room is open.
“I said paracetamol,” the man in charge repeats, noticeably offended, and Penguin has to pretend he doesn’t sound like a whining child. He’s gotten good at that, though.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just bring it here. Easier that way.”
Another groan leaves him, and then Penguin receives little to no cooperation at all in tucking the grown man in bed. The hardest part of it all is avoiding the clutter of the floor, when he has no sort of illumination whatsoever. It’s a relief when he’s finally able to turn on Law’s bedside lamp, a soft warm hue filling the room.
With the full intention of annoying him, he kisses Law’s forehead gently as he wraps the blanket up to his neck, and receives a swift hand to the face, pushing him away with a variety of insults following in his direction.
Retaliating, Penguin grabs and throws him a small plushie to his face— the one with a strong resemblance to their navigator, which their tailor had especially made for their captain’s birthday. Law seems to simply accept it, contently holding the plushie against his chest as he turns around with a huff to face Penguin with his back.
“I’m glad you haven’t grown up,” Penguin mutters affectionately, leaning against the closed door.
“What?”
“Nothing. Do you feel better now, or should I get you medicine?”
“Hmm,” he hums, burrowing further under the covers. “I think I’ll be fine. But if I have a concussion in the morning, it’s your fault.”
Penguin snorts. “Pretty sure it’s already morning.”
“Got a watch?”
“No, just a feeling,” he admits. “I’ll bring you water and paracetamol later.”
“...Add an onigiri to that. Please,” says the blanket.
“Sure thing, Captain,” he chuckles, opening the door.
Penguin looks back towards him again. The merest hint of tousled hair visible on the top of his head, the rest of his body curled up sideways like a little kid.
There’s truly no one else he’d rather follow until the end of his life.
Switching off the lamp, he goes to leave.
“Sleep well, Law.”