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Being a Royal Warlord requires a lot more paperwork than Law expected.
He’s required to come to at least one meeting a year and this one is supposed to be the least attended, with only Kuma there, besides him. They’re having him fill out a bunch of paperwork while he’s here— none of which he actually reads before signing. He doesn’t intend to be a Warlord long enough for it to matter.
He hears the doors open behind him as he flips to the end of another stack, adding his signature.
“So, you survived after all, Law.”
Ice shoots up his spine; his breath catches in his chest, suddenly paralyzed.
He isn’t supposed to be here.
Two long, thin hands grip the backrest on either side of Law's shoulders.
Doflamingo has always had a particular presence, unique to him. It emanates from him, oppressive— the symphony of a thousand razor-wire strings, vibrating.
Gooseflesh erupts on Law’s arms.
“Doflamingo,” Law says, managing to make himself sound normal.
“Aw, you didn't miss me?” he says, feigning hurt— but Law can hear the mockery in his voice, his amusement.
“Our dear prodigal son has been so mourned these many years.”
Doflamingo bends over; Law can feel his breath on his ear, smell the faintly sour scent of wine, the overpowering sweetness of his cologne.
“Why don't you come home with me, Law?” he whispers, voice dripping with mirth and falsity. “Wouldn't you like to see Dressrosa?”
Law breathes slowly through the blinding rage, strangling it in his chest, unborn.
“I'm afraid not. I have business to take care of, after this.”
“Oh, do you?” Doflamingo says. “What kind of work has the Surgeon of Death to attend, I wonder? Maybe something to bloody those hands a little further, hmm?”
The doors open again.
“Donquixote.” Sengoku says, walking briskly to the head of the table. “Thank you for joining us. If you would sit, so we may begin.”
Law can tell he isn't happy to see Doflamingo, either. His jaw is set, his eyes cold steel.
Doflamingo pauses for a minute— Law feels his fingers dig into the fabric on either side of his head— but doesn't argue; just saunters around the table to take the seat directly across from Law.
He can feel Doflamingo staring at him. His gaze weighs on people, smothers them. Even without seeing his eyes, you always know he's looking.
Law does not hear what Sengoku says about the mission. He's caught, counting breaths, sublimating the urge to attack Doflamingo immediately— to destroy that taunting smile.
To wrap his hands around that neck; to knock away his sunglasses and watch the light go out of wide eyes as blood vessels burst; to feel him struggle and refuse to relent, merciless— as Doflamingo had been, on that day.
It would be idiotic. Much as his hatred— the forever-pain of that day, of that horrible moment in the snow, crystallized within him— urges him to act rashly, he cannot.
He has a plan.
He is not ready yet.
He keeps his breathing steady and tries to ignore Doflamingo’s continued staring.
“Did everyone get that, or do you need me to go over it again?” Sengoku asks, with the air of a man used to being ignored.
“Someone's fighting the government. You want one of us to make them stop— show up, kill a bunch of rioters, leave. Simple job,” Doflamingo summarizes, propping his feet up on the table in front of him.
“Only, I'm busy. It's a lot of work, running a country. Why don't you ask our newest member to help out?”
Law watches the edges of his lips stretch impossibly wider.
This is his favorite kind of game to play. Making people do things is easy for him— he thinks it’s boring. He wants to back people into a corner, force them to deal with situations of their own creation. To push until he finds the breaking point, without ever touching his victim.
“What is the mandate, exactly?” Law asks.
“To quell the rebellion and retrieve the Heavenly Tribute.”
He’s loath to do the government’s work for them— especially over something as vile as the Tribute— but he must play his part correctly, here. He cannot falter; cannot have qualms about parts of the job. He does not particularly want to kill civilians or fight any sort of rebellion, but it’s not about what he wants.
It’s for Cora-san; everything is for Cora-san. His life and breath, to find an end to the Demon’s reign.
Besides, fear is always Law’s ally— he can work in ways other Warlords cannot. Depending on his methods, the aim may be achieved without blood.
Law nods.
“I will go.”
Doflamingo giggles, leaning forward across the table until Law can see himself in those sunglasses.
“I look forward to your work, Law. To seeing what you’ve become.”
He almost shivers, looking back at Doflamingo; seeing in his reflection what he might have become, had Cora-san not intervened. The hands which could have shaped his own.
He rises from the table, nodding to Sengoku.
“I will see you soon,” he promises Doflamingo, with just the barest hint of a threat in it.
“Oh, I can’t wait, Law.”