Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every night, Crocodile has but one simple request: to be served a glass, a bucket full of ice, and a bottle of whiskey to enjoy in solitude. And every night without fail, Daz fulfills this request in a timely manner.

Except for tonight.

“What do you mean the ice shipment got delayed?” Crocodile barks from his desk. His perfectly slicked back hair is coming undone after an entire day of signing papers and taking stock of munitions— all the less glamorous tasks of commanding a pirate fleet.

“Marines, boss,” Daz explains. “It seems there was an ambush. They’re already on their way back but we shouldn’t expect them for at least a week.”

“A week!?” Crocodile exclaims.

“I can take a few of the men and procure some ice from the nearby islands, boss,” Daz offers expediently.

Crocodile thinks it over for a moment. “No… No, don’t be ridiculous. You’re needed here. I can do without ice for a week,” Crocodile says. “Just leave the bottle and go.”

“Are you sure, boss?” Daz hesitates.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Mr. One,” Crocodile mutters in a thinly veiled threat.

“Of course. Goodnight, boss,” Daz says as he hurriedly leaves the room. And like all the other nights, Crocodile says nothing as he watches him close the door behind him.

When he’s finally alone, Crocodile lets out a sigh. He’s been suffering from a headache for the last few hours, powering through the evening by looking forward to his nightly ritual. But the empty glass that Daz left behind on his desk is just sitting there, almost mocking him.

He’s considering pouring himself a drink when a sudden shot of pain travels up his left arm, knocking the air out of him. As he gathers his bearings, he smashes the glass down with a snarl.

He sighs, pulling his hair back in an attempt to pull himself together, and leaves the room.

It’s easy for him to roam the hallways of the Cross Guild at night— no one questions if the wind carried in a bit of sand from the shore, no one needs any explanations. The sensation of dematerializing into a million tiny particles is an odd, soothing one, but it’s no respite from the pain. He lets the breeze carry him outside into the cold, wet sand, and the humidity in the air forces him back into shape.

Crocodile stares at the sea, the distant horizon covered by a thin layer of mist glimmering under the moonlight. Tiny droplets hit his face as the waves break by the shore, uncomfortable like the edge of a razor blade cutting too close, but not enough to break the skin. A different kind of pain that’s almost welcome.

He makes up his mind and undoes the clasp on his left arm. His hook falls onto the sand with a loud, heavy clang. He takes off his loafers and lets his coat fall down from his shoulders.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt the sand beneath his feet.

The first step into the water is like walking on glass. It’s cold, almost impossibly so, but he marches on until the water reaches his waist. Crocodile bends forward to get most of his left arm into the water, and it’s a shock to his system. The cold settles into his bones, but it takes the edge off the pain. He can handle the cold, he thinks. He just has to look away into the horizon, listen to the waves, breathe in the salty air and--

“Don’t--!”

A sudden scream cuts through the night. Before Crocodile can even realize what’s happening, he’s being dragged back to the shore. A pair of strong, powerful arms grab him by the waist and protest as he might, the water saps all of his strength. He’s no better than a sad, wet cat as his own arms go limp by his sides.

Next thing he knows, he’s being laid down in the sand. A pair of hands cradle his head as he looks up to find none other than Mihawk. His golden eyes look frantic, searching— an expression he’s never seen on him before.

“What were you thinking!?” Mihawk snaps at him. It’s so odd to get such a strong reaction from him that all Crocodile can do is laugh.

Poor Mihawk seems even more confused now. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

He fusses over Crocodile like a worried mother hen. The whole thing seems so bizarre that Crocodile can’t even stop his laughter to reassure the other man, but then his laughter turns into a cough and he has to sit up. Mihwak pats his back as he coughs out some of the water he must have swallowed during the whole ordeal.

“Ugh…” Crocodile groans, his voice hoarse.

“Explain yourself,” Mihawk finally demands. His expression has settled into the usual scowl, but he must be as confused as Crocodile feels.

“Me? I was just minding my own business, why did you--”

“You weren’t-- I thought you were going to--”

“What!? No!”

“Oh,” Mihawk exclaims as the realization settles in. If he wasn’t so out of it, Crocodile would think it’s funny how they managed to have a whole conversation in broken sentences.

“You thought I was gonna kill myself?” Crocodile asks in disbelief.

“That’s what it looked like, yes,” Mihawk admits.

“Oh,” Crocodile echoes. “Well… It wasn’t. That, I mean…”

“I see…”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Perhaps we should go back inside,” Mihawk proposes.

“And let the crew see me like this?” Crocodile says as he points at his current appearance. He’s so thoroughly drenched he can’t even use his devil fruit powers to sand his way back unnoticed. Sad, wet cat indeed.

“Right…” Mihawk seems to think for a moment. “I’ll start a fire, then. You’re shivering.”

Crocodile realizes that he is, in fact, shivering. Not even the heat of shame for displaying such weakness in front of the other man can abate the awful cold that has settled into his bones. He reaches for his coat lying in the sand which is blissfully dry, and he watches helplessly as Mihawk gathers some driftwood to start a small fire.

“Ever the boy scout, huh,” Crocodile says, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he huddles by the fire.

Mihawk gives him a stern look. Crocodile sighs.

“We ran out of ice…” Crocodile says.

“What…?”

“Ice…” Crocodile repeats. “We were supposed to get a shipment of ice and other supplies. It got delayed by a week.”

“... and?”

“And…” Crocodile takes a deep breath. “I need ice. For the pain…” he finally says as he brings up his stump.

Mihawk’s expression seems to soften at that. “Oh…”

After another awkward silence, Mihwak finally says “I thought you just liked whiskey on the rocks.”

“Pffft…” Crocodile snorts. He might be seeing things, because there appears to be the tiniest hint of a smile on Mihawk’s face.

“I really don’t drink that much,” Crocodile says after a while. “It’s just… At the end of the day it really builds up, you know. Carrying that thing around,” he says as he points with his head towards his hook, slightly sunken into the sand. “So… Every night before bed, I put my arm in a bucketful of ice. It helps.”

Mihawk nods.

“You can see why I would prefer to keep that private, right?” Crocodile asks, hoping Mihawk will acquiesce to his silent request.

“Of course,” Mihwak says. “You don’t want anyone to know your weakness.”

“Well, I think my weakness is rather obvious,” Crocodile says. “But now you know another one.”

Mihawk takes a few moments to think, and says “May I?”

Crocodile tilts his head in confusion, but then Mihawk extends his hand towards him. Warily, Crocodile reaches out with his left arm, and Mihawk grabs his stump between both of his hands.

“What are you-- Ow!” Crocodile yelps as he pulls back abruptly.

“It seems you have a lot of muscle tension,” Mihawk says nonchalantly. “No wonder, given the size and weight of your hook.”

“At least I’m not the one carrying a sword twice my size,” Crocodile snaps.

“I have trained my entire body for decades to handle Yoru. You, on the other hand…”

“Careful with what you say there,” Crocodile warns. Despite the cold, he can feel his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. Is it not enough that Mihawk is privy to yet another one of his weaknesses, and he must now chastise him for it?

Mihawk falls silent. His golden eyes seem to glow with the firelight.

“This pain…” Mihwak says after a while. “Is it so bad that you would risk drowning to get some relief in the cold water?”

“I was only waist deep,” Crocodile groans. “It was a calculated risk.”

“What if our enemies had found you instead of me?”

“I’ll admit it wasn’t my best idea,” Crocodile says with a roll of his eyes.

“Then you won’t attempt this anymore?” Mihawk asks with the faintest hint of worry.

“I guess I can tough it out for a week.” Crocodile says. “I’ve done it before, I just…”

“Just what…?”

Crocodile sighs. “I don’t know. I must be getting old.”

Mihawk shakes his head. “Tomorrow night. Come to my room. I believe I can help.”

“Mihawk, you don’t have to--”

“I insist,” he says determinedly.

Crocodile gives him a wary look. “Fine… But if you do anything weird, I’m out of there.”

Mihawk nods. “Have you warmed up?”

Crocodile realizes that he feels pretty much dry, even if his clothes and his hair are still a little damp. He stands up on wobbly legs, feeling slightly unbalanced without the weight of his hook to ground him. He clutches his coat at the front of his chest, feeling slightly naked under Mihawk’s watchful gaze.

“Let me carry this for you,” Mihawk says as he stands up to pick up Crocodile’s hook.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Crocodile says in response. And it’s weird, because in normal circumstances, accepting Mihawk’s help would feel like defeat. In normal circumstances, Crocodile wouldn’t ever lower his guard— he comes from a world of power plays and mind games, where everyone is always trying to one-up everybody else. But tonight he’s wet, and tired, and in pain, and for whatever reason Mihawk genuinely seems to want to help, so Crocodile might as well let him.

Mihawk even walks him all the way back to his room. He hands him his hook back when they reach Crocodile’s door, and they both stand there for an awkward moment.

“Well…” Crocodile says, breaking the silence. “Thanks for… You know. Whatever that was.”

Mihawk nods solemnly, and turns to take his leave. “Goodnight, Crocodile.”

Crocodile watches him walk away, but just before Mihawk disappears into the corner, Crocodile finds himself taking a step forward.

“Goodnight!” Crocodile suddenly blurts out.

A few paces away, Mihwak stops in his tracks. He stands still for a few seconds, turns his head back towards Crocodile for just a moment, and then carries on to his room.

Chapter Text

Despite what he considers to be his better judgment, Crocodile finds himself in front of Mihawk’s door the following night. Before he can talk himself out of it, the door opens without preamble. Mihawk is standing there, stripped down to just a white shirt and pants. He looks almost naked without his coat and hat on.

Crocodile blinks. “I didn’t even knock.”

Mihawk stares at him with an unreadable expression. “I could see your shadow from beneath the door. You were pacing back and forth--”

“Alright, alright,” Crocodile says, slightly flustered as he lets himself inside the room. He doesn’t want to make another scene right in the hallway. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mihawk closes the door behind him. “Very well. Please, sit.”

Crocodile stops in his tracks as he takes in his surroundings. Mihawk’s room is austere and tidy, a testament to the practicality of its owner. The only pieces of furniture to be found are a couch, a desk with exactly one chair, and a dresser. The man doesn’t even have a bed to sleep on.

“You don’t have a bed?” Crocodile asks. Even before he’d sent the order to build the Cross Guild ship, Crocodile had taken advantage of Buggy’s carpenters and shipwrights to make himself a custom-made bed for his own room. A man needs his sleep, after all.

“I sleep on the couch,” Mihawk shrugs.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Crocodile says, recalling all the weird places he’s caught Mihawk taking a nap on. He considers for a moment which side of the couch Mihawk is more likely to place his head on when he sleeps, and chooses the opposite side to sit down.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile asks when he sees Mihawk walking over to the desk and rummaging through the drawers.

The man returns with a clear bottle containing some kind of liquid. “Looking for this. It’s almond oil,” Mihawk explains. “I use it for my own honing oil blend. It’s the best I could find for this.”

“Honing as in sharpening?” Crocodile says, and he tries to subtly scoot as far away from Mihawk as possible when the other man finally sits down on the couch.

“Of course,” Mihawk says, looking at Crocodile expectantly. “A swordsman must look after the sharpness of his blade.”

Crocodile gives him a wary look in exchange.

“May I?” Mihawk asks as he extends his hand towards Crocodile, and it’s that damn politeness again, disarming Crocodile with its gentleness.

It’s almost infuriating, really. Crocodile is used to throwing his weight around. He puts down those who dare perceive themselves above him. He intimidates fools and cowards into falling in line, and he rules over his subordinates with an iron hook. But Mihawk? He’s an entirely different beast. His equal in most aspects except sheer power, and even then, Mihwak defers to him for leadership and council. A truly equal partnership, something Crocodile has no experience in whatsoever.

Crocodile sighs and gives Mihawk his left arm. He’s about to instruct him on how to undo the clasp on his hook, but Mihawk’s dexterous fingers get it off him in seconds.

“So what's the diagnosis, doctor? Will I live?” Crocodile says after Mihawk takes some time to inspect his arm with careful and soft touches. He’s down to sarcasms as his only defense.

“I might not be a doctor, but I know a thing or two about pain management,” Mihawk says in response. He instructs Crocodile to pull up his sleeve as he picks up the bottle of almond oil from the floor. “I’m going to massage the trigger points in your muscles and hopefully it will alleviate some of the tension.”

“Ow!” Crocodile flinches the moment Mihawk gets to work, but this time he doesn’t pull away. “I thought massages were supposed to feel good?”

“It will, once the muscles release…” Mihawk says without taking his eyes off Crocodile’s arm. His hands are slick and glistening with oil as he rubs Crocodile’s tanned skin. It hurts even more than his usual pain, but that in itself is a welcome distraction, so Crocodile stills himself to receive Mihawk’s ministrations.

“Ugh…” Crocodile groans. “That grip strength of yours really is something, huh…”

Mihawk pauses for the first time. “I apologize if my hands are too rough.”

“I can handle rough,” Crocodile says without missing a beat, and then immediately realizes just how wrong it sounds. “You know what I mean,” he amends hurriedly.

Mihawk clears his throat, and picks up right where he left off.

From that point on Crocodile decides to do himself a favor and just skip the small talk. That way he can avoid embarrassing himself further, plus the silence is actually kind of nice. He’s known Mihawk for a long time now, and even though he can be weird and off-putting sometimes, the time they spent together usually passes in amenable silence.

“Ngh…” Crocodile can’t help a small whimper that escapes when Mihwak presses on a sore spot.

“It hurts here, doesn’t it?” Mihawk says.

“Obviously…” Crocodile breathes out with as much composure as he can muster.

Mihawk presses his way up Crocodile’s forearm with his palm, his thumb going under his sleeve just by an inch, and it somehow feels like too much all of a sudden.

Crocodile stiffens, and Mihawk must realize something’s up, because the next thing he says is “maybe this is enough for tonight.”

“Yeah, okay,” Crocodile agrees.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Mihawk says as he gets up from the couch and leaves the room.

When he’s finally alone, Crocodile lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He touches his stump, sticky with oil, and his own touch feels almost foreign after having Mihawk imprinting on his skin for so long. Suddenly, it hits him… Even though his whole arm feels sore, the usual pain is gone.

The door opens once again to reveal Mihawk carrying a piece of cloth of some kind and a wooden bucket. “Let me clean up before you go,” he says as he sits down next to Crocodile.

Before Crocodile can protest, Mihawk plunges the cloth inside the bucket to wipe the excess oil off Crocodile’s skin. To Crocodile’s surprise, the bucket is filled with hot, steamy water, and the warm, wet washcloth rubbing against his skin feels heavenly after all the abuse his muscles put up with. The sensation is so nice that he doesn’t even realize when Mihawk is finally done, so he just stays on the couch blinking slowly, almost sleepy.

“Heat is the better option,” Mihawk says out of the blue.

“What?” Crocodile mumbles.

“Heat is the better option for chronically sore muscles and joints, not ice,” Mihawk states matter-of-factly. “Ice is best reserved for acute pain, and it’s most effective at its onset. But you can also alternate between the two.”

Crocodile takes a minute to process the information. “Oh…”

“You should try to take it easy tomorrow,” Mihawk says. “I tried not to aggravate the muscles too much, but I have reason to believe that one of the issues might be a muscle imbalance.”

“Okay…” Crocodile nods hazily.

“Well…” Mihawk says, then pauses.

“Uh, right,” Crocodile stands up, suddenly realizing he might be overstaying his welcome. “Thanks, Mihawk. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mihawk says behind him. But Crocodile doesn’t look back at him as he closes the door, and walks all the way back to his room in a daze.

He drops down on his bed the second he arrives in his room, not even realizing that he left his hook back with Mihawk, and succumbs swiftly to his usually elusive sleep.

Chapter Text

Crocodile doesn’t often dream.

He used to daydream in his youth about things that were impossibly out of reach, but life at sea honed all the youthful aspirations out of him. He became practical, pragmatic— his naivety yet another sacrifice upon the altar of his utopia.

Even dreams can have practical applications, though.

It starts with warmth, it always does. Sweat dripping down his back, basking under the hot desert sun…

Blond hair and tangled sheets. Somewhere between a memory and a dream.

There is no gentle touch here, no soft caresses. Still, Crocodile wants and wants, and pleasure is thrust upon him, into him, and it’s not a choice. It’s conquest and surrender. It’s giving up himself, his pride, to satisfy his baser instincts. A calculated gamble, but a gamble nonetheless.

He wakes up suddenly to a painful, throbbing want and slick between his legs. Crocodile curses under his breath, pushing his hair back. The light of the late morning filters through the gaudy curtains in his room— the clown might not have the best taste in decor, but at least Crocodile can ensure his own privacy.

Crocodile stretches on his bed leisurely, the waves of heat from his half-remembered dream still coasting through his body. He places his hand on his chest, and it travels slowly in a downward path, inch by inch, still considering the best course of action as he ponders on the practicality of dreams. It’s been a long time since he found some release, and while Crocodile would rather ignore the whims of the flesh, he can’t deny the benefit of having a clear head after the act.

Before he can commit to a decision, however, an unfamiliar shine catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Crocodile sits up on his bed, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s his own hook, shining under the filtering light, and placed neatly atop his bedside table.

Crocodile extends his fingers to touch it in spite of himself, and is surprised by the ghostly warm sensation he feels on the surface— a stark contrast to the usually cold metal.

That’s when the realization finally hits.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he shoots up from the bed. He clasps on his hook and dresses as quickly as he can manage before he bolts out of the room. He runs into Daz as he walks in big, long strides through the hallway. The man probably just wanted to check in on him for staying in bed so long, but Crocodile dismisses him with a gesture of his hand and quickly passes him by.

He reaches his destination soon enough, and knocks twice on the door before a voice from the other side says “it’s open.”

Crocodile walks into Mihawk’s room and closes the door behind him. Mihawk is reading the newspaper by his desk with a plate of pastries next to him.

“Good morning”, Mihawk says, without taking his eyes from the paper. “Would you like a croissant?”

“Would I like a croissant?” Crocodile repeats mockingly. “Mihawk, you went into my room! While I was sleeping!” he protests.

“Yes,” Mihawk says calmly, but this time he puts down the paper to look up at Crocodile. “Forgive me, but I thought it would be the best course of action.”

“The door was locked, how did you even…?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Mihawk interjects, “I do not require an invitation to enter the domains of others.”

“Now’s not the time to find your sense of humor!” Crocodile snaps.

“I apologize,” Mihawk says, standing up and walking towards Crocodile. “I honestly thought you would appreciate having your hook back without having to walk all the way back to my room to retrieve it.”

Crocodile stutters. When he takes a moment to think about it, of course Mihawk is right, which makes him even angrier. Mihawk knows he hates showing weakness, and he never goes anywhere without his hook on, so naturally he came to the right conclusion. Crocodile would hate having to leave his room without his hook and ask for it back. Not to mention how unseemly it would be to run into any member of the crew in that state.

Crocodile is suddenly reminded of the early days of Baroque Works, and a conversation he had with a certain woman that left a lasting impression on him.

“What is this…?” Crocodile asks the woman. There is a full spread of food on his desk waiting for him in his room. Alligator meat with fresh tomatoes, his favorite.

“I thought you would be hungry by this time, so I made a special request to the chef,” she says from a shadow in the corner. The desert moonlight filters through the balcony, and he can only make out her silhouette and her eerie blue eyes shining in the dark.

Crocodile hesitates for a moment.

“It’s not poisoned,” the woman assures.

Crocodile sits down. He doesn’t trust her, but he trusts that she’s trying to make something out of this odd partnership of theirs. Still, there’s something uncanny about her. Almost performative… Like a changeling, or a desert spirit trying on human skin for the first time.

He takes a bite from the meat. It’s just how he likes it. “This something you read in one of those books of yours? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and all that?”

She lets out a soft laugh. “As a matter of fact, yes. But it’s not your heart that I’m interested in.”

He laughs.

In hindsight, Crocodile finally understands what she was after. Anticipating his needs. Becoming essential. She was just looking out for her own skin. She was always a survivor, after all.

Back in the present, he looks at Mihawk standing in front of him. The other man is holding out the plate of pastries in one hand. A peace offering.

Crocodile grabs one of the croissants abruptly and takes a big bite without breaking eye contact. He turns back without a word and exits Mihawk’s room, croissant still in hand.

All this time he’d been starving, and he hadn’t even realized.

“You’re still mad at me,” Mihawk says to him when he finds him later in the day. Not a question, but a statement.

Despite his best efforts, Crocodile hadn’t been able to avoid Mihawk for the whole day. It’s the stupid clown’s fault, really. Buggy and his stupid circus tent as a base of operations. No one can hide from anyone in here for too long, and it’s no better than being out in the open. Crocodile ought to uproot the whole thing and build an actual headquarters building for the Cross Guild. With better plumbing.

“What makes you think that, hawk-eyes?” Crocodile says without looking up from his paperwork.

“I already apologized,” Mihawk says, ignoring the question.

“If you think that’s enough, then by all means,” Crocodile says, still not making eye contact.

Mihawk’s usual frown deepens, and he turns to leave.

Crocodile finally looks up as Mihawk walks away, and right before he leaves, Crocodile lets out a sigh. “Mihawk, wait.”

The swordsman stops in his tracks.

“Mr. One, give us the room, please,” Crocodile orders. Daz, who all this time had been sitting in silence in one of the arm chairs in the study, stands up and leaves without a word as he closes the door behind him.

Crocodile finally gives Mihawk his full attention, and he notices the swordsman has a tell— his hands are tight, clenching into a pair of fists by his sides. It’s the most frustrated Crocodile has ever seen him without pointing his sword at someone.

“Do I really have to do all the work around here?” Crocodile exhales after he takes a long drag of his cigar.

“What do you mean?” Mihawk asks as he walks closer to Crocodile’s desk.

Crocodile leans back in his chair. “You fucked up. I’m entitled to my anger,” he explains. “And yet, despite you being the one at fault, I’m the one who has to figure out how to make things right between us lest this whole operation fall into chaos.”

Mihawk looks down at his feet.

Crocodile sighs. “Do you realize how exhausting this is?”

“What can I do to make it right?” Mihawk asks.

“How the fuck should I know!? Take me out to dinner or something! Figure it out!” Crocodile blurts out without thinking, the ash from his cigar sprinkling all over his desk.

Mihawk gives him a deep, knowing look. “You’re pent up.”

“You’re on thin ice already, do you really want to make it worse for yourself?” Crocodile says in a low, threatening voice.

Mihawk doesn’t flinch. It’s infuriating.

“Just go already. I have enough work as it is,” Crocodile says as he goes back to his paperwork. Mihawk does as he’s told and leaves, and this time Crocodile doesn’t look up as he goes.

“It’s going to be lentils for the third time this week, boss”, the head cook says with an air of apprehension. “The crew’s not gonna like that.”

Crocodile pushes his hair back in frustration. He had scheduled to take stock of the food supply in order to let the cooks do the meal planning for the month, but the delayed ice shipment has proven to be a wrench in his plans in more ways than one. Along with the ice, the shipment was also supposed to bring some very coveted fresh meat for everyone’s enjoyment.

If this was his own crew, Crocodile would just tell them to toughen up and eat the damned lentils. As a matter of fact he hates them too, but it seems Buggy has been going above the bar to keep his crew happy with their meals. It’s a difficult situation, because giving the crew too much would make them entitled, but giving them too little would make them mutinous.

“Well…” as Crocodile considers his options, a sudden uproar erupts near the entrance of the main tent. He immediately springs into action, dematerializing as he swiftly makes his way to the front, ready to take point in case of an attack. But as he materializes back into shape, he is taken aback when he realizes the source of the commotion is none other than Mihawk.

The swordsman is carrying two giant alligators over his shoulder. The animals are as big as a house— enough to feed an army and then some— but he carries them around like a sack of potatoes. The crew quickly makes a circle around him as they break into cheers, but Mihawk ignores everyone as he spots Crocodile in the crowd, and walks right up to him.

“Where do you want these?” Mihawk asks simply.

Crocodile takes a long drag of his cigar as he looks at Mihawk straight in the eyes. After a moment of consideration, he calls out for the cooks.

“Yes, boss!” The head cook says as he appears through the crowd.

“I want these cut into portions right away. Serve what you can for dinner and put the rest in cans,” Crocodile instructs. “Careful with the hides, they fetch a high prize.”

“Right away, boss!” the head cook says as the other cooks start gathering around them. Mihawk drops the alligators down in front of them with little effort, but it takes a group of fifty men under each alligator to bring them inside into the kitchens.

Mihawk dusts off his coat and rearranges his hat back into place like it’s nothing.

Crocodile gives him a long, inquisitive look. “When I said take me out to dinner, I didn’t mean that literally.”

Mihawk shrugs. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

As much as he tries to play coy, Crocodile can’t help the small, amused smile that appears on his face.

“I guess I do now.”

Chapter Text

When he woke up that morning, Crocodile wasn’t expecting to end the day with a candlelit dinner with Mihawk as his companion, but weirder things have happened.

After the commotion of Mihawk’s hunting spree calmed down, Buggy appeared to take credit for the whole situation, as he often does. But this time Crocodile was happy to let him have his time in the spotlight and feast with the crew, while he personally arranged to set aside a couple of plates so he and Mihawk could enjoy their meal in peace and quiet.

What Crocodile wasn’t expecting, however, was that the cooks would take this opportunity to barge into his room and make a whole spectacle of their private dinner. The cooks somehow managed to bring in a small table from the dining area and two chairs, and then proceeded to decorate the whole place with candles and mismatched fabrics in what Crocodile considers a failed attempt to set the atmosphere.

“They really go above and beyond, huh,” Crocodile mutters as he and Mihawk walk into his room.

“It verges on worship,” Mihawk says distastefully as he takes a seat.

Crocodile sits down in front of him, and Mihawk pours the wine for both of them. Buggy’s cooks are not as talented as his chefs back at Rain Dinners, but when Crocodile takes the first bite the meat is fresh and well seasoned.

“How did you know?” Crocodile asks between bites.

“You once mentioned alligator meat was your favorite food in one of our Warlord meetings,” Mihawk says matter-of-factly.

“That must have been years ago. How could you remember that?” Crocodile asks.

Mihawk takes a sip from his wine. “I have a good memory.”

Crocodile says nothing as he observes Mihawk through half-lidded eyes, like he’s a puzzle that needs to be solved.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Mihawk asks.

It takes a moment for Crocodile to realize what he means. “Huh. I guess I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it… It does feel better than usual. Lighter, somehow.”

“That’s good,” Mihawk nods.

Crocodile hesitates for a second. “Why… Why would you go out of your way to help me, though?”

Mihawk puts his glass down. “We’re comrades.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Crocodile snorts.

“You said it yourself earlier today,” Mihawk says as he rearranges himself in his seat. “We have to make things right between the two of us, or we could risk the whole operation.”

“So, business as usual, then,” Crocodile says. In the grand scheme of things, Mihawk going out of his way to help his so-called fellow chief officer makes perfect sense from a strategic point of view.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Mihawk says under his breath.

“I still can’t believe you really came over to my side,” Crocodile confesses with an amused smile. “I was half-joking when I said that, you know.”

Mihawk shrugs. “You called. I came. Simple as that.”

Crocodile sighs. “I guess I should apologize, as well. For blowing up at you this morning.”

“That’s not necessary,” Mihawk assures him. “You care deeply about your privacy, and it’s been duly noted.”

“Yes, but you were just trying to do me a favor,” Crocodile adds. “What I’m saying is… If anyone gets a pass… It’s you. Even if you broke into my room.”

A small, lopsided smile tugs at the corner of Mihawk’s lips. “Is that why you told me to come here tonight?”

“Well, you were kind enough to put food on the table,” Crocodile says as he raises his glass up for a toast.

“Kind…” Mihawk repeats wistfully, and raises his glass as well.

“Yes,” Crocodile says as he clinks his glass with Mihawk’s. “To the kindest, deadliest, and strongest swordsman in all the seas,” he cheers.

Mihawk looks at Crocodile straight in the eyes, and without missing a beat, says “to the future pirate king.”

Both men drink to their toasts without taking their eyes off each other. The wine goes down Crocodile’s throat like honey, warm and syrupy sweet. By this time they have both emptied their plates and glasses, but a hunger of a different kind remains. A hunger that has been growing inside of him for a long time now.

Crocodile’s face feels hot. He’s not drunk, but he and Mihawk just drank a whole bottle of wine between the two of them, and it’s the perfect excuse to pass off anything that might happen as an alcohol-induced indiscretion.

“Would you… Would you like to stay a little longer?” Crocodile says after some hesitation, his cheeks flushed red. “We could get another bottle.”

Mihawk takes a deep breath, and it feels like forever until he finally says “perhaps another time.”

It stings. A cold, sobering loneliness washes through his body, and it stings like a knife through the chest. Crocodile sighs. “You’re right. It’s getting late.”

Mihawk stands up from his seat and walks a few paces towards Crocodile’s seat. He kneels in front of him, takes his right hand in his, and brings it up to his lips to place a chaste, dry kiss upon Crocodile’s knuckles, right above his rings.

“Goodnight, Crocodile,” he says softly.

Crocodile finds himself at a loss for words. He looks at Mihawk’s lips, then back at his hand. He leans in, for what he doesn’t know, but he’s oh so close to the other man’s face now, and Mihawk remains still, headfast, a port in a storm.

“Goodnight,” Crocodile whispers, and Mihawk nods. He stands up, tips his hat with a little flourish, and leaves the room.

Crocodile sinks into his seat, and as he brings his hand up to his face, a small whimper escapes from his lips. He groans.

So much for an alcohol-induced indiscretion.

Crocodile doesn’t get much sleep that night. He tosses and turns until the early morning, and at one point, half-asleep, he feels the phantom pain of his amputated hand, the sensation of ghostly fingers interlacing where his own should be.

It makes him angry, this aching want. Angry at himself, angry at Mihawk... There he was, like some fool, offering himself on a silver platter for a night of pleasure without consequence... But then the swordsman had to be a gentleman about the whole thing.

For a moment Crocodile thinks he might be reading too much into it. Mihawk could be asexual for all he knows. But then what about the kiss? The hesitation? The yearning looks filled with longing?

Crocodile is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. He knows when another man wants him carnally. He’s done this song and dance a thousand times, after all. It just so happens that nine times out of ten, he’s not interested. He could even be considered a prude in pirate standards. With the freedom of the sea comes the freedom of love, and most pirates are down to fuck at any given opportunity, no strings attached.

He always considered himself to be above that sort of thing. He was too focused on his goals, too pragmatic. But if he’s being honest with himself, he was also too scared to follow through when the opportunity presented itself most times. Too hung up over his own body. Too guarded.

But then along came Mihawk, who is kind, and dependable, and yes, really fucking hot, and now all of Crocodile’s innermost desires are flourishing to the surface like a wanton maid’s. He might actually throw himself at the sea this time out of sheer embarrassment.

As the sun starts to shine through the window, he decides he has wallowed enough in self pity, and stands up from the bed as quickly as he can.

Seize the day and all that.

“...uh,” he mumbles as the room suddenly starts spinning all around him.

He falls into the ground with a loud thud, and everything turns black.

Chapter Text

“Look, he’s waking up!”

“Somebody get the doctor!”

“Boss!”

“Give him some space, will you?”

“Crocodile…?”

Crocodile wakes up to a pair of golden eyes looking down at him with worry. He tries to speak, but his throat feels dry and painful. As he focuses his eyes on his surroundings, he realizes he’s back on his bed. Mihawk is hovering over him, sitting next to him by the edge of the bed. Behind him, Crocodile can make out Daz, Galdino and Buggy peeking over his shoulders.

A few minutes later, Alvida arrives with the crew doctor in tow. “Seems to be a nasty cough. He’ll recover soon enough with some rest,” the doctor declares after a thorough examination. A collective sigh of relief is heard across the room.

“Ugh…” Crocodile groans. “That can’t be right… I have work to do, I have to--”

“Woah, woah, hold it, Croccy!” Buggy interjects as he walks over to him. “We can’t have you spreading this cold around. You better take it easy and rest. We’ll take over your duties for a few days. Right, Galdino?”

“Yes, boss!” Galdino says with a salute. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s reassuring,” Crocodile says as he stares them both down in what he hoped would be a threatening look, but the two men are just looking back at him with stupid smiles on their faces. He must be really sick if he can’t even intimidate Buggy into a cowering mess.

“Don’t worry, boss,” Daz says from behind. “I know everything that you have planned in your schedule. I won’t let these two slack off.”

“Good,” Crocodile tries to say, but he’s suddenly interrupted by a coughing fit.

“Is there anything you can give him, doctor?” Mihawk asks.

“I’ll bring some medicinal tea later. Other than that, just plenty of liquids.”

The doctor ushers everyone out of the room with him, and Crocodile is left alone to rest. The whole thing feels surreal, somehow. He doesn’t even remember the last time he got sick. He’s always been so focused on bringing his plans to fruition, tangled up in an intricate web of his own design. He never had any other choice but to power though whenever he felt his body giving up on him.

Crocodile could never allow himself to be this vulnerable before, but this time he couldn’t even help it. The exhaustion had been building up for a long time, he could feel it. But to think he would just faint like that? Someone even had to carry him back onto his bed, for god’s sake.

A soft knock on his door brings him out of his sickness-induced mental ramblings. The door opens to reveal Mihawk holding a tray with a teapot and a small ceramic cup.

“I brought your tea,” Mihawk says as he pulls up a chair to sit next to Crocodile’s bed. He sets the tray with the tea on the bedside table, and Crocodile sits up.

“Ugh. It smells awful,” Crocodile says as he brings the cup to his lips.

“Maybe this will teach you not to dip into the ocean at night,” Mihawk chides.

“I’d say don’t kick a man when he’s down,” Crocodile whines. “But I might really ask you to put me out of my misery.” He takes a sip from the cup and makes a face. “Seriously, I’m dying here.”

“No mercy kills,” Mihawk says jokingly.

Crocodile laughs, but then it turns into a cough.

Mihawk shoots him a concerned look, and Crocodile clears his throat. “I’m also dying of boredom, you know. I don’t remember the last time I had to stay still doing nothing for so long. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Silent contemplation is good for the soul,” Mihawk says as he leans back in his chair. “But I could read to you if you want.”

“How generous of you,” Crocodile says as he lies back on his bed. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything important, like napping under palm trees and watching the birds.”

“I also train early in the morning, but you wouldn’t know because you always sleep in,” Mihawk retorts playfully.

“I wake up at a reasonable time. You, on the other hand…” Crocodile snaps. His cough comes back and he wraps himself under the covers like a cocoon.

Mihawk stands up from the chair and walks around the room. He soon finds a small bookcase that Crocodile keeps in his room, mostly just to keep an archive of his logbooks and old dairies.

“Ah, promising,” Mihawk says as he comes back with a small leather bound tome.

“Religious sermons, really?” Crocodile says as Mihawk sits down. “You’re gonna pray for my immortal soul? Here, on my deathbed?”

“Ahem,” Mihawk clears his throat, and Crocodile falls silent.

“As an apple tree among the trees of the forest, so is my beloved among the young men. With great delight I sat in his shadow, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.”

Crocodile hums. “Maybe religion is more interesting than I thought.”

Mihawk ignores him and keeps reading. “On my bed by night I sought him whom my soul loves; I sought him, but found him not.”

As Mihawk reads, Crocodile starts to feel a little drowsy. The low hum of the other man’s voice lulls him into a relaxed state— not quite asleep, not quite awake. He closes his eyes, enveloped in a soft, gentle warmth.

“Have you seen him whom my soul loves?” is the last thing Crocodile hears, echoing in his mind before he falls asleep.

Crocodile wakes up alone later in the day, just before dinnertime. He manages to stand up for a bit and take a short bath with Daz waiting on him outside. He eats dinner in his room, and Buggy and Galdino see fit to pay him a visit to fill him in on the day’s events.

He ends up exhausted after the duo’s antics, so he kicks them out of his room as soon as they’re done and falls into a deep sleep until late morning.

A strong, grassy smell rouses him from sleep the next day, but he wakes up slowly. He opens his eyes as he stretches on his bed and finds Mihawk sitting on the same chair he used the day before.

“Morning,” Mihawk says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to just watch him sleep. He’s holding a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Brought you more tea.”

“Aren’t you a little overqualified to be playing nurse?” Crocodile says in lieu of a greeting. He sits up on his bed and grabs the cup Mihawk left on his bedside table with a scowl.

“Everyone else seems to agree that I’m the least likely to get tea thrown in my face and still be able to make sure you’ll drink it,” Mihawk explains matter-of-factly.

Crocodile takes a sip. “Ugh. They got that right.”

“I brought you some soup as well, if you’re hungry,” Mihawk adds.

“The cooks made soup just for me?” Crocodile asks. He doesn’t recall any soup in the meal plan for the month.

“I made it,” Mihawk says.

Crocodile gapes. “You can cook?”

Mihawk shrugs.

“Now this I have to try,” Crocodile says as he finishes his tea with a grimace. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but even if Mihawk’s cooking sucks, at least it’ll wash away the taste of the tea.

Mihawk stands up to procure another tray holding a bowl from Crocodile’s desk. He places the tray on Crocodile’s lap, and uncovers the bowl to reveal a rich, steaming broth.

“Well, it looks good,” Crocodile says as Mihawk hands him a spoon. He hasn’t put his hook on for the day, but he can manage to eat the soup with just one hand as long as he holds the tray on his lap.

“This is amazing,” Crocodile says with sincerity. He eats slowly and carefully, savoring each spoonful to the fullest. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You take care of everyone here,” Mihawk says. “I think it’s only fair for someone to take care of you for once.”

Crocodile suddenly feels a little self-conscious. He feels like shit, so he probably looks like shit. Even if Mihawk was trying to get into his pants, there is nothing to be gained by doting on him in his current state.

“You shouldn’t hang out around here too much,” Crocodile says as he finishes his soup. “You might get sick yourself.”

Mihawk puts the newspaper down. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Crocodile blurts out, then immediately berates himself mentally for being so candid.

“Then I’ll stay,” Mihawk says as he picks the newspaper back up. “I don’t get sick that easily.”

Crocodile just stares at him for the longest time in response, as if observing the swordsman will help Crocodile figure out what makes him tick.

“You’re really weird, you know,” Crocodile says after he puts the empty bowl of soup on his bedside table. He stretches back on his bed and lifts the covers up his chin, feeling slightly feverish. “But I like that about you.”

Behind his newspaper, Mihawk hides a small smile.

Crocodile falls asleep to the sound of rustling pages and Mihawk’s quiet, soft breathing.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass in a blur, and when Crocodile finally starts to feel better, the delayed shipment arrives. He throws himself back into work without a second thought, supervising the drop-off, taking stock of all the new supplies, and assessing the damage the crew had to endure at the hands of the marines.

As he goes back to his usual routine, Crocodile suddenly starts missing the permanent fixture that Mihawk had become in his daily life. The truth is that they really didn’t see that much of each other on a daily basis outside of strategy meetings, with Crocodile sticking rigorously to his schedule, and Mihawk preferring to go about his day as he pleased. So Crocodile is actually quite glad to see him when Buggy suddenly “commands” an impromptu meeting with the chief officers.

“So, Croccy,” Buggy says when they’re all gathered under the big top. “I know you’re usually against this sort of thing, and we all know who really is calling the shots, no need to remind me,” the clown says as he puts his hands up in deference. “But if I might be so bold as to posit the idea… Maybe a celebration is in order, you know?”

Crocodile is sitting on the big, ugly green couch Buggy keeps backstage for their meetings. Mihawk is sitting next to him as he usually does, and Buggy is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them, probably anticipating that he will have to lick his boots at some point.

“I mean, you’re back on your feet, the shipment we were all waiting for finally arrived… The crew wants to party, so let’s give them a party, huh? What do you say?” Buggy says, spreading his arms wide.

“I don’t know…” Crocodile says, unaffected. Usually he would take his sweet time to make the clown suffer for being so bold, but he is feeling better, and he is actually in a good mood. So he turns to Mihawk instead, and asks “what do you think, hawk-eyes?”

Mihawk shrugs. “Bread and circuses.”

Crocodile snorts. “Alright. You get a pass this time, clown. But you better clean up after yourself, or I’m gonna let Mihawk use you for target practice.”

Buggy prostrates into a full, forehead to the ground bow, and then he shoots up into the air like a giant kite, flying off to deliver the good news to the rest of the crew.

Crocodile almost laughs. Almost.

“And you?” Crocodile asks when he notices Mihawk standing up. “You’re not up to the festivities?”

“I’ve never been too fond of parties,” Mihawk says simply.

“How about a private party, then?” Crocodile says with a sly smirk. “Drink with me tonight. I’ll wait for you in my office.”

Mihawk lets out a defeated sigh, but if anything he looks amused. “I’ll be there.”

Crocodile watches him go under the bright, colorful lights of the tent, biting his lip in anticipation.

Later that night, Mihawk shows up in his office on the dot. Crocodile had already made his usual request for the night, except this time he asked Daz to bring two glasses instead of one.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” Mihawk says as he sits down in one of the armchairs in front of Crocodile’s desk.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” Crocodile repeats. There’s a bucket full of ice in front of him alongside the bottle of whiskey, and he proceeds to serve the drinks.

“I hope you didn’t put your arm in there just yet,” Mihawk says playfully. “Not that I would mind.”

“Please. I wouldn’t,” Crocodile says as he passes him a glass. They both raise their glasses in a silent toast, and drink it all in one go.

“You sure you’re feeling better?” Mihawk asks as Crocodile tops them off again.

“Of course,” Crocodile says. “After all, it was you who nursed me back to health with your soup and your pleasant company.”

Mihawk snorts. Crocodile chuckles after taking a drag of his cigar, and puts it down in an ashtray.

“And what about the pain?” Mihawk asks.

Crocodile hums. “Well… That’s something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“Oh?”

“What you said the other night,” Crocodile says, knocking back his drink. “About ice and heat… Maybe I should stop wasting valuable ice and… give your methods another try.”

Mihwak puts his drink down. “You know I’m always happy to help.”

“I know,” Crocodile says, looking at Mihawk through half-lidded eyes. “But I thought this time it would be more comfortable if we go to my room.”

Mihawk says nothing for a while, apparently studying the drink in his hand.

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” Mihawk says at last.

Crocodile lets out the air he didn’t know he was holding, and there’s that sting again. He pours himself another glass and quickly drinks it all, slamming the glass on the table when he’s done.

“Just put me out of my misery, then,” Crocodile says as he picks his cigar back up, then puts it down again like a nervous tick. “Be quick about it.”

“Crocodile…” Mihawk pleads.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Crocodile says. “Is that what this is? Some kind of game? You pull me in then you push me away?”

“Of course not,” Mihawk says as he stands up from the armchair. He walks over to Crocodile’s desk and puts his hand on Crocodile’s cheek, gently pulling the other man in to face him.

Crocodile looks from Mihawk’s lips to his eyes. “Just tell me this is all in my head, then,” Crocodile whispers, and it’s the closest he’s come to begging in a long time. “Spare me the humiliation.”

Mihawk bumps his forehead against Crocodile’s, and they just stay silent for a moment, listening to each other breathe. After a while, Mihawk pulls back, and he holds Crocodile’s face in his hands as he looks into his eyes.

“I am in awe of you,” Mihawk says at last. “I’ve always been. Since the first time we met.”

Crocodile looks at him with searching eyes.

“I know I’m nothing special,” Mihawk says. “Just another man that has fallen under your spell. And I will carry out your vision gladly… From the shadow you cast when you shine in the light.”

Crocodile swallows, speechless.

“But if you give me a taste… Even just a small taste… I will consume you… All of you…” Mihawk whispers. “For your flesh is food, and your blood is drink… and I am nothing but full of sin.”

Mihawk’s deep golden eyes look almost deranged, and Crocodile, god forgive him, finds it thrilling.

“Selfish as I am…” Mihawk says, and he leans in almost imperceptibly closer. “I would never forgive myself for standing between you and the utopia you will bring.”

Crocodile feels an unnamed feeling bubbling up in his throat. Mihawk is not a man for half-measures. How could Crocodile ever think he would be down for just a quick fuck? Mihawk wants him, that much is true, but he wants all of him, body and soul, and as much as Crocodile would like to indulge, he knows he needs to be in control of himself, mind and heart, for his plans to come to fruition.

He knows better than anyone, after all. Love is how kingdoms fall to ruin.

Crocodile looks down in defeat. His slicked-back hair must have come undone at some point, because Mihawk pushes back a strand of hair behind his ear, gently, lovingly. It’s almost enough to make him weep.

“You’ve made your point,” Crocodile says, a lump in his throat. “I think I better finish this drink by myself.”

Mihawk says nothing, and lets go of him.

Crocodile doesn’t look up as he leaves, his gaze fixated on the deep amber liquid at the bottom of his glass, the ice almost completely melted.

Chapter Text

Crocodile gives himself the rest of the night to mourn. And by mourn he means getting completely shifaced and crying himself to sleep on his desk.

Daz finds him the next morning, and Crocodile wakes up to the mother of all headaches and the most godawful breath known to man. Still, he pushes through the day. He washes his face, changes his clothes, and goes on about his duties like nothing happened the night before.

Mihawk seems to have given him the grace of making himself scarce, so thankfully Crocodile doesn’t run into him at any point during that day. Or the following day. Or the day after that.

It hurts, but the distance helps.

It’s not until the following week that Crocodile learns that Mihawk actually left Karai Bari to hunt down marines, and then the hurt turns to anger.

“He did what!?” Crocodile exclaims. It takes all of his self control not to flip over his own desk.

“It seems he thought retaliation was in order, boss. For the delayed shipment,” Daz explains helplessly. It fell on him to deliver the news when he realized Crocodile actually hadn’t okayed the order. “He made it sound like you two had come to a mutual agreement.”

“I would never--!” Crocodile cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. He was about to say he would never put Mihawk in such danger, but he knows better than anyone that the only things that might actually pose a threat to Mihawk are few and far in between. He knows this, and yet…

His heart aches.

“Okay,” Crocodile exhales. “Okay. Let’s keep this between us. If anyone asks, I sent him out there.”

Daz nods. “You shouldn’t worry about him, boss. Master Mihawk is one of the finest there is. I’m sure he’ll make quick work of all this.”

It takes almost all of Crocodile’s self-control not to strangle the man in front of him. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion on this matter, Mr. One. Did I?” he says through gritted teeth.

Daz shakes his head, looking down at his feet. Crocodile sighs.

“I need a moment alone,” Crocodile says, starting to feel the beginning of a headache.

“Of course,” Daz says, and leaves the room.

Crocodile sits down on his desk and takes a long drag of his cigar. He tries to rationalize his own thinking— he and Mihawk are partners, after all. It’s perfectly normal to worry about his fellow chief officer when he’s so instrumental for the success of their operation.

Yes, that’s what this is, Crocodile reassures himself. He did his own due diligence. He’s invested in the swordsman like a chess player would be invested in the pieces on the board.

Crocodile puts down his cigar on the ashtray and sets out to do what he does best. He grabs a stack of papers and gets to work.

As it turns out, work is not enough of a distraction, so as the days go by with no sign of Mihawk’s return, Crocodile allows himself to be pulled into the planning for Buggy’s party. Begrudgingly, he endures being asked about garland colors and cake toppers and party games he couldn’t give less of a fuck about, but he has to admit the clown can at least gets a rise out of him.

When it comes down to it, he would rather spend the rest of the week fighting off an anger-induced aneurysm than moping.

During one such attack and fed up by Buggy’s antics, Crocodile decides to give a demonstration for a potential party game. Pin the hook on the clown, he calls it, and it consists of chasing the clown’s body parts as they fly across the tent and pinning them down with his hook, one by one. Crocodile, for one, is having a great time. Poor Buggy not so much. But before any serious damage can be dealt, a hush falls over the crowd.

“Who…?” Crocodile mutters when a silhouette appears under the bright colored lights of the big top. His eyes widen in realization when he recognizes Mihawk walking into the tent. He doesn’t even register when he begins walking towards him, but then he starts running when he finally notices that the swordsman is covered in blood.

Crocodile grabs him by the shoulders, looking frantically for signs of an injury, but Mihawk puts him at ease by placing a hand over his.

“It’s not my blood,” Mihawk says reassuringly.

Crocodile sighs as relief washes over him. There are a million things he wants to say, but he stutters, and nothing comes out.

“Oh, thank god you’re back,” Buggy says as he walks up to the pair, reassembling all of his limbs. “He’s been extra cranky without you around. I thought this time he might actually kill me.”

Mihawk shoots him a glare, as if looks could kill. Buggy swallows.

“I think it’s time you realize, clown,” Mihawk says as he turns to face him. “Crocodile is the merciful one out of the two of us. I was ready to strike you down with my blade from the moment I set foot on this island, and I will not hesitate to do just that the moment you become an inconvenience.”

Mihawk leans in, and Buggy takes a step back, shivering in his boots. “If by the end of all this Crocodile decides to let you live, then… I will abide by his word. So if you’re going to grovel, make sure you do so by his feet, not mine.”

“D-d-duly noted!” Buggy assures with a nervous smile, hands up in defeat.

Mihawk turns back to Crocodile, and pulls a scroll out of his coat. “I brought you something.”

Crocodile, still speechless, unrolls the scroll with a shaky hand. His heart skips a beat when he looks down at the contents.

“This is…” Crocodile gasps.

“What? What is it?” Buggy says as his head flies up to take a peek from over Crocodile’s shoulder. “No way! A poneglyph rubbing!? But how…?”

“I know we still need an interpreter,” Mihawk says. “But I’m sure that can be easily arranged once we set sail.”

“Woohoo!” Buggy screams as he shoots into the air like a balloon. The crew cheers, joining in the euphoria of their captain. Buggy’s speech about the One Piece still sits heavy in their hearts, and it’s all they can manage not to forgo all planning and start the celebrations right then and there.

“Well?” Mihawk asks as the rest of the crew gathers under the main tent and he and Crocodile are left alone backstage. “I thought you might appreciate this.”

Crocodile pushes his hair back. He can’t exactly pinpoint what he’s feeling at the moment, but he is certain of one thing. “What I would appreciate is for you not to leave without notice.”

Mihawk seems taken aback. He appears to reflect in silence for a moment, and says “I’m sorry.”

Crocodile shakes his head. Mihawk looks like a wild thing like that, covered in blood and eyes shining bright under the circus lights. He looks every bit the marine hunter Crocodile met for the first time all those years ago. A natural born killer.

“Go wash off the blood,” Crocodile mutters as he walks away.

If anyone should feel sorry for anything it’s him, for himself.

Chapter Text

The day of the party finally arrives, exactly one week before the Cross Guild officially sets sail into the Grand Line. It seems Buggy suddenly decided halfway through all the planning that they needed to go all out to celebrate such a momentous occasion, so the original party plans were replaced with a medieval masquerade theme.

After everything he’s had to put up with already, Crocodile might actually kill him.

“I’m actually going to kill him,” Crocodile says as much to Alvida, who, for whatever reason, has been tasked with helping him with his costume. “Ow! Watch it, woman!”

“Stay still,” Alvida mutters as she brushes his hair back with a comb. “I know you’re not happy about any of this, but he’s partly doing this in your honor. He’s even making you king,” she says, referring to his costume. “I know he’s hard to put up with sometimes, but at least you have to appreciate his showmanship.”

“King of the fools, maybe,” Crocodile protests. “Careful with the make-up. You’re gonna make me look like a clown.”

“It’s just some light blush,” Alvida retorts. “And now, the final touch,” she says as she walks over to Crocodile’s bed to pick up the last piece of his costume.

Crocodile looks at himself in the mirror inside his dresser as Alvida reaches up on her tiptoes to place the crown upon his head. He does have to give some credit to Buggy for making his costume at least somewhat tasteful. He’s wearing a red cloak over his regular shirt and pants, but it’s been adorned with floral motifs in golden embroidery. The crown is just a prop made out of branches painted with gold, but it looks intricately made and not too flashy.

“How regal,” Alvida says with awe. Crocodile snorts.

“Where is Daz, anyway? I want to see him suffer through this, too,” Crocodile says as he goes to his desk to pick up a cigar.

“I think he’s the one helping Mihawk with his costume,” Alvida says with a hand on her hips.

“No way. Mihawk agreed to this?” Crocodile asks.

Alvida shrugs. “I have to go get ready, too. Be a good boy and don’t ruin your make-up, okay? See you in a bit,” she says as she picks up her things and leaves his room.

Crocodile sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

If there is one thing that can be said about Buggy the Clown, it is that he has a penchant for theatrics.

As soon as Crocodile walks into the big top, the entire crew breaks out into cheers.

“It’s the king!”

“The king has arrived!”

“Make way for the king!”

Crocodile feels ridiculous, but he marches on and fights the blush rising up to his cheeks. By the end of the tent, a table has been laid out with an enormous spread of food and drinks, so he makes the sensible decision and sets out to consume large amounts of alcohol to make the situation somehow bearable. Before he can reach his goal, however, he is interrupted by none other than Buggy himself.

“My king, my king of kings, you grace us with your presence at last!” Buggy says with a bow. He’s wearing a full-body medieval jester suit with a hat and everything.

Crocodile rolls his eyes, but Buggy doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tell me, my king, why does the knight by your side look so tired?” Buggy asks with a flourish.

Crocodile realizes that Daz is standing next to him, wearing a full knight’s armor, but before he can say anything, Buggy cuts him off.

“Because he worked on the knight shift!” Buggy yells, and the whole crew bursts into raucous laughter.

Crocodile could strangle him, but the music is too loud, and the lights are flashing brightly, so frankly he’s feeling a little over-stimulated. He tries to walk past Buggy and towards the drinks, but there seems to be another commotion that requires his attention because suddenly Daz is pulling him by the arm so he turns around to see what’s going on.

As if on cue, the music goes quiet and somber, and amidst the crowd appears a tall, dark figure with a ram’s head for a face.

“It’s the devil!” Buggy yells, and the crowd breaks out in oohs and aahs.

Crocodile stares in confusion as the figure walks towards him.

“The devil has come to seduce our king!” Buggy exclaims.

When the figure is right in front of him, Crocodile is suddenly overwhelmed by a strong sense of familiarity. The person under the costume is wearing a dark robe with golden accents over a pair of broad shoulders, and as he takes a closer look, Crocodile is able to recognize the sword on their back.

“Mihawk!?” Crocodile squawks.

Mihawk takes a step closer towards him and says, muffled by the mask, “I can barely see a thing.”

Crocodile is unable to control the laughter that erupts out of him. Daz suddenly reappears by his side and hands him a couple of goblets filled with wine— more props, as far as Crocodile can tell. He hands one of the goblets to Mihawk, and despite his earlier apprehension, Crocodile raises his own goblet in the air.

“It seems tonight we’re drinking with the devil!” Crocodile proclaims, and the crew goes wild.

Crocodile downs his drink in one go, and before he can finally make his way to the food spread he is being pulled away once again, this time by Mihawk and into the backstage.

As soon as they’re alone, Mihawk takes off the ram mask to take a deep breath. “I could barely breathe in that thing.”

Crocodile sits down on the couch and lets out another laugh, surprised at how delighted he is from seeing Mihawk flustered. “I can’t believe you agreed to this in the first place. I mean, seriously. The devil?”

Mihawk stares at him. “I thought that was your idea. I only agreed because Daz said the order came from you.”

Crocodile covers his mouth to stop his giggles. “I promise you, it didn’t. But now I kind of regret not thinking about it first.”

Mihawk plops down on the couch next to him with a defeated sigh. He must be hot under his costume, because his cheeks are flushing red and Crocodile can see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“There, there,” Crocodile coos as he pats Mihawk’s thigh. “At least you make quite the handsome devil.”

Mihawk snorts. “You’re not so bad yourself, for a king.”

The two men smile at each other, and for a moment it seems like things are just how they used to be between the two of them, but then Crocodile realizes he still hasn’t moved his hand from Mihawk thigh, so he pulls aways like he’s been burned.

Mihawk looks almost pained for a moment, but when Crocodile looks back at him, the swordsman has schooled his expression back into his usual unaffected scowl.

“Well,” Crocodile says as he stands up from the couch. “I don’t know about you, but if I’m gonna make it through the night, I’m gonna need a lot more alcohol.”

Mihawk shakes his head. “You go ahead. I’m turning in.”

Crocodile shoots him a longing look from over his shoulder, holding open the curtain at the exit of the backstage. “You sure?”

Mihawk nods, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Be alert and of sober mind,” he quotes. “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”

Crocodile sighs in defeat. “I’m never lending you any more books.”

Chapter Text

It’s surprisingly easy to blend in during a masquerade, Crocodile soon realizes. His outfit is nowhere near the top of the most outlandish get-ups that the crew has put together for the night, and it suits him just fine as he fades into the background, standing by the food table and watching the crew go wild.

As much as he hates to admit it, Buggy and his crew did a fine job with the costumes and the decorations. The food isn’t half bad either, and as long as the alcohol keeps flowing Crocodile could see himself having a semi-enjoyable night.

He drinks in silence for a while. Observing the members of the crew having fun makes him feel out of place. Like he doesn’t belong here, celebrating among them. After years of heading a criminal organization from the shadows, it's strange to be in such direct contact with his current crew. Not like he’s trying to be approachable by any means, but he’s been leading these men for a while now. And with the departure date soon approaching, it’s bittersweet to think that not all of them might make it through the end of the journey.

Looking at them now… it makes him feel almost fond.

Crocodile shakes his head. Entertaining such sentiment is unbecoming of him. Must be the alcohol getting to him already, because he’s also starting to feel uncomfortably hot under his costume. 

“Fire!” someone screams out of nowhere, and Crocodile groans. This is why he was reluctant to let the clown have his wayy— all his parties always end in disaster one way or another.

“Someone set fire to the tent!” a member of the crew yells as he runs past Crocodile with a bucket of water. For what was certainly a drunken mishap, things seem to be escalating quickly.

Crocodile is about to yell at the crew to get their act together, but then he hears it coming. A faraway gunshot buzzes towards him and he dissolves a hole in his face so the bullet passes clean through. Crocodile eye’s follow in reverse the trajectory of the bullet, and at first glance the gunman looks like any other member of the crew wearing a horse costume, but then Crocodile sees the gun, and recognizes the make and model.

“MARINES!” Crocodile screams, throwing his goblet of wine and launching into an attack. “Everyone, take positions! We’re under attack!”

One by one, marines in disguise start revealing themselves among the crowd, and the party turns into complete chaos. The fire catches on quickly towards the top of the tent, and the pillars holding it up start falling down in a rain of flaming embers.

“Everyone, out!” Crocodile yells, but then realizes that the exits have been sealed shut from the outside.

The bastards must have had it all planned to trap them inside and burn them alive.

Before Crocodile can get his bearings, a gust of wind cuts through the middle of the crowd, and the way out opens before his eyes. He doesn’t even have to look back to confirm that Mihawk has just joined the fight and saved all of their asses.

“We’re saved!” Buggy screams as he hovers in the air. He’s the first one to make it out of the tent, naturally, but before he can turn tail he’s faced with a formation of marines waiting outside and ready to push back. “Eek!”

Crocodile finds the whole thing almost comical.

“Men!” Crocodile bellows. “Follow after the captain! We’re taking the fight to them! And those of you who are too drunk to fight better work to put out that fire!”

Most of the crew marches outside, drunk and without their weapons, and Crocodile turns into a wave of sand to break the marines’ formation. He rematerializes right in the middle of the battlefield, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

He’s surrounded by chaos. Complete chaos. The big top is burning down, and most of the men are unable to hold their own in their drunken state. He knows he has to jump back into the fight— outnumbered and outwitted as they are, just Mihawk and himself could make easy work of the marines if they put their backs into it. But there’s an unnamed feeling bubbling up in his throat, and suddenly he feels paralyzed, overwhelmed.

Must everything he’s worked for burn down to nothing once again?

A faint glimmer catches the corner of his eye and breaks him out of his reverie. It’s that gunman again, in the horse costume. Crocodile follows the direction where the man is planning to shoot, and sees Buggy up in the air somehow dodging all of the attacks aimed at him, and standing below him…

Mihawk.

Crocodile doesn’t have time to think. The gun goes off. He launches into action.

“CROCODILE!”

His legs rematerialize under his body out of their own accord, and Crocodile falls to his knees. He takes his hand to his middle, and looks down at his palm to see it covered in blood.

“Huh...” He feels… cold.

A pair of strong arms catch him before he falls forward. From the corner of his eye he can see Daz cutting through the gunman like butter.

“Crocodile!” Mihawk calls out desperately as he holds him. “What’s happening…!? It’s just a bullet…! Crocodile…!”

Crocodile wishes he could put him at ease, but he finds himself unable to speak as a faint trail of blood drips out of his mouth.

Those golden eyes looking down at him with such worry… It’s more than he has ever deserved.

“The bullet…! It’s seastone!” Daz hollers as he runs towards them, the lifeless body of the gunman lying cold in the grass.

Ah, Crocodile realizes. The bullet was meant for Buggy then, not Mihawk. This entire offensive is most likely an assassination attempt gone awry. The clown must have gotten careless with the preparations for the party, and word must have gotten out through one of the caterers. The Navy must have seen this as the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the crew under the guise of the masquerade, and take out the Cross Guild captain in one fell swoop.

Crocodile lets out a short laugh after putting the whole thing together in his mind, unable to stop the blood from trickling down on his chin.

“Get the doctor! Quick!” Mihawk snaps. Crocodile closes his eyes, unable to keep them open as the sound of the roaring fire drowns all the noise from the battlefield.

“Stay with me…” he hears Mihawk whisper in his ear, rocking him gently from side to side in his arms.

“Please…”

Everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Master Mihawk. I have never seen anything like this in my entire career!”

“If you don’t do something, he will--!”

“Ugh,” Crocodile groans as he opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is the pain, searing through his abdomen. He breathes with difficulty as he realizes someone must have moved him to an impromptu medical tent. He’s been stretched out on a large table, and his shirt and cloak have been removed to reveal a gaping wound on his side.

“He’s awake!” Mihawk says as he turns to him. He's followed by the crew doctor, a small old man that decided to follow Buggy after escaping from Impel Down.

“What… happened…” Crocodile tries to speak, but the inside of his mouth feels like sand. The doctor moves forward to press some sort of gauze to his wound, and it burns.

“Ngh!” Crocodile whimpers.

“The doctor can’t take the bullet out,” Mihawk explains as he holds Crocodile’s hand in his. “It’s seastone.”

The doctor removes the gauze and picks up a pair of pliers in an attempt to take the bullet out, but then part of Crocodile’s abdomen turns into sand of its own accord, effectively obfuscating the location of the bullet and thwarting the doctor’s attempt.

“Never seen anything like this before… I don’t know what to do other than sterilize the wound…” the doctor admits.

Crocodile stiffles another pained whimper as he speaks. “Can’t you just… leave it in…?”

Mihawk shakes his head with aggravation. “It’s like poison for you. It’s killing you.”

Of all the stupid ways to go, Crocodile thinks to himself. He wishes he could at least laugh at the irony of his own fate, but then he starts coughing out blood.

“I refuse to see you die like this,” Mihawk declares with an intense look in his eyes. He bends down to push the hair out of Crocodile’s forehead, damp with sweat.

“Crocodile…” Mihawk whispers softly. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Crocodile says without hesitation. He’s dying, after all. What else is there to hide?

Mihawk nods and lets go of his hand. The swordsman closes his eyes, and Crocodile can feel Mihawks’s observation haki activating as he stands up straight next to the table. Mihawk then rolls up his sleeves, and his right arm turns black with his armament haki.

Crocodile doesn’t even have a moment to prepare before Mihawk’s arm penetrates through his wound into his body.

He screams.

“Young man, what are you doing!?” The doctor says, scandalized, but he quickly catches on and rushes to help keep Crocodile down on the table as Mihawk searches through his insides. The entire ordeal only lasts a few seconds, but to Crocodile the pain feels everlasting.

Almost as swiftly as he put it in, Mihawk takes his arm out, the blood dripping from his hand as he holds the bullet between his fingers. His shoulders drop with relief, and the doctor immediately gets to work, putting the bullet away to sterilize and close the wound.

“Forgive me,” Mihawk says as he sits on a chair next to the table, holding Crocodile’s hand once again to help him through the pain as the doctor carries on with the operation.

Crocodile whimpers, out of breath. “A little warning next time, maybe…”

Mihawk bumps his forehead with his, letting out soothing whispers as the doctor finishes up.

“All done,” the doctor announces as he cuts the final thread for the stitches. He gives Crocodile something for the pain and has him bandaged up in no time. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have to see to the rest of the crew. I’ll be back later, Master Mihawk, Master Crocodile.”

Mihawk nods and the doctor exits the tent with a bow.

“What about the marines…?” Crocodile asks when he finally catches his breath.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s taken care of,” Mihawk reassures him.

Before Crocodile can say anything else, Buggy and Daz appear through the flap of the tent with worried looks on their faces.

“Sheez,” Buggy says as they walk inside. “The doctor told us what happened. It’s always a shock to see strong guys like you get knocked down.”

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” Crocodile says, trying to play it cool. “Right, Mr. One?”

“Boss…” Daz says with a pained look.

“I mean it, Daz,” Crocodile says as Daz kneels next to him. “You did good.”

“I was just following orders,” Daz says, unable to meet him in the eyes.

Crocodile pats him on the head with his hand. “I know, kid. I know.”

In an unusually bold move, Daz grabs Crocodile’s hand in his. “You should know by now, boss,” he says solemnly. “You have my allegiance until the end.”

Crocodile lets out a small smile. “At ease then, soldier. Go get some rest.”

Daz nods, and goes after the doctor to take care of his own wounds. Buggy takes a step forward towards Crocodile in his place.

“So, Croccy…” Buggy says. “The way it looks… It seems that bullet was actually meant for me.”

Crocodile hums. “Figured out as much.”

“So… Um…” Buggy articulates nervously. “I guess I owe you one, huh.”

“A life debt on top of everything else you owe me?” Crocodile snorts. “Don’t worry. I’ll add it to your tab.”

“Right,” Buggy sighs. “Just… you know. I also wanted to say thanks… For everything.”

Crocodile looks at him straight in the eye, and nods.

“Well! I better go check on everyone else before they say the captain is playing favorites,” Buggy says with an air of benevolence as he walks away. “Feel better, Croccy. See ya later, Mihawk.”

As he disappears through the flap, Crocodile and Mihawk find themselves alone at last.

“Alright, give it to me,” Crocodile says.

Mihawk just looks at him sadly.

“That bad, huh,” Crocodile smirks. “I must really look like shit, then.”

“On the contrary,” Mihawk says, grabbing his hand in his. “I think being alive is a gorgeous look on you.”

Crocodile laughs, but he has to stop himself before he pulls any of his stitches.

“I can’t believe I’ve known you all these years,” Crocodile says, “and I never realized just how funny you are.”

Mihawk looks at him fondly. “I never thought humor was my strong suit.”

“Will wonders never cease,” Crocodile says with a smile.

Mihawk pulls Crocodile’s hand to his cheek, and the sadness returns to his eyes.

“Why…?” Mihawk asks with desperation in his tone. “Why on earth would you do that? You knew I could slice the bullet. I could have killed the man right from where I stood.”

Crocodile remains silent.

“Just… What were you thinking?” Mihawk asks.

“That’s the point… I wasn’t thinking,” Crocodile admits. “People do stupid things when they’re in love.”

Mihawk gives him a pained look. “Crocodile…”

“No, let me finish,” Crocodile interrupts. “I’ve been thinking about what you said… And while you make some very good points in favor of your noble sacrifice… There’s something you failed to take into account.”

Mihawk leans in. “Which is…?”

Crocodile pulls Mihawk’s face closer to his, and says, as he looks straight into his eyes, “I’m greedy.”

Mihawk looks from his eyes to his lips, then back up again.

“I want the One Piece, yes,” Crocodile says. “And I want to build our Utopia… But most of all, I want you there with me… For all of it…”

Crocodile takes a deep breath. “I know better than anyone how bitter defeat can be, but… If in the end… you’re the thing that ruins me, then…”

Mihawk exhales, and Crocodile can feel the softness of his breath on his face.

Crocodile smiles. “... at least it’ll be sweet.”

Mihawk surges forward like water breaking through a dam, capturing Crocodile’s lips with his own. Crocodile feels it all over his body, like rainfall over a dry desert, bringing life and color back to the land. Mihawk’s lips are slick and salty like the ocean, and Crocodile finds himself parched, gasping for him like a drowning man gasping for air.

“And now, our covenant…” Mihawk says breathlessly, pulling back, “...is sealed with a kiss.”

Crocodile pulls him back in for another kiss, impatient, and Mihawk comes eagerly. He’ll seal as many covenants as necessary, consummate as many vows as Mihawk wants as long as he stays by his side. They’re already bound by blood— Mihawk has literally been inside of him. Brought him back to life with his own two hands.

No one else has ever touched him as deeply as he does.

Crocodile feels the hunger inside of him flaring up. He wants more, here, now, but his eyes are closing on their own. He clings to Mihawk like a lifeline, exhausted from all the pain and agitation he’s been recently put through.

Mihawk seems to notice, because he pulls back to pepper small kisses all over his face.

“Rest now, darling,” he whispers in his ear. “I’m watching over you…”

Crocodile sleeps.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Crocodile can’t handle, it’s idleness.

The crew doctor had intended to shackle him to an entire week of bedrest after giving him the all-clear for his wounds. Crocodile had already made up his mind to go against the doctor’s orders and carry on with his schedule as usual to make sure they would be ready for their voyage into the Grand Line, but then Mihawk volunteered to move into his room to make sure he would stay in bed, and well…

He wasn’t going to complain about that.

The rest of the crew was quick to catch on that whatever happened between the two of them wasn’t anybody else’s business. As a matter of fact, everyone seems to agree that the entire crew benefits from this arrangement as long as Mihawk and Crocodile make each other happy. And judging from the sounds coming through Crocodile's door for the past few days, making each other happy seems to be all they do.

“Ngh…” Crocodile moans. He’s naked, sweaty and exhausted from partaking in certain… activities. He soon learned that Mihawk’s intense focus and prowess in battle translates very well to those certain activities, but the intimacy of the act reveals a tenderness in the swordsman, a softness to his edge that is more deadly than anything else Crocodile has ever experienced.

“Am I being too rough?” Mihawk asks, equally naked, as he kneels between Crocodile’s legs on the bed. He grabs one of Crocodile’s ankles and slowly raises his leg until he’s able to rest Crocodile’s foot on his shoulder. “The doctor did say we have to make sure you stretch properly during your recovery.”

“Well…” Crocodile exhales, out of breath. “You’ve been making sure that I get plenty of activity these past few days.”

Mihawk places a kiss on his ankle.

“Seriously, how do you have the energy?” Crocodile pants, reaching towards the bedside table to pick up a cigar. “We’ve done it three times today already.”

Mihawk continues his trail of kisses up Crocodile’s leg, then puts it down to crawl up to his face and push the hand holding the cigar away. “Plenty of rest, a healthy diet and regular physical activity.”

“Got the last part down, at least,” Crocodile says, and Mihawk bends down for a kiss.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to melt into the other man’s mouth and forget everything else. The universe is suddenly reduced to these four walls and just the two of them, lying on the bed like a couple of castaways floating on a boat into the unknown.

Mihawk lowers his face to kiss his neck, and Crocodile can’t help running his fingers through his hair, chasing after him like a cat in heat. If it was anyone else Crocodile would be ashamed of himself, but he’s way past the point of giving a fuck.

Mihawk goes back up for a deep, long kiss that makes Crocodile’s toes curl. Without breaking apart, Mihawk traces the slightly raised skin on Crocodile’s face scar with the tips of his fingers.

“You’ll have a new scar soon,” Mihawk says as he pulls back for air. He places his cheek on Crocodile’s chest and traces the scars there too, lowering his hand until he’s tracing circles with his fingers around Crocodile’s stitches in reverence— a holy wound that binds them both.

“This one I don’t mind,” Crocodile says, and he pulls Mihawk tight to his chest, enveloping him with his arms. The embrace makes him feel almost whole again, the phantom sensation of his amputated hand bleeding into this other body that’s not quite his but that feels almost like his.

For all he has lost, he has now gained immeasurably in return. In exchange for his own silver tongue, Mihawk’s golden eyes are his. What Crocodile’s own hand can’t accomplish, Mihawk will see to it with two. When the curved, poisoned edge of his hook can’t get him what he wants, the sharpness of Mihawk’s blade will cut through anyone and anything that gets in his way.

Crocodile has given so much of himself already, lost so many pieces of himself along the way… It makes sense the last fare to pay would be his own heart. If he could, he would take it out in an instant and give it to Mihawk for safe-keeping.

If he can trust anyone with the soft, yielding flesh, it’s him.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Mihawk says after a while, seemingly entranced by the beating of the other man’s heart.

Crocodile huffs out a laugh. “Always the romantic.”

Mihawk raises his head to give him a look. He props his chin on Crocodile’s chest, and Crocodile can’t help ruffling the swordsman’s hair. Mihawk looks so much like the young man he once was with his hair down like this. It makes Crocodile’s heart ache.

“You look happy,” Mihawk observes, and he captures Crocodile’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers together. His eyes are liquid amber, and Crocodile could just lose himself in his gaze, staring into his eyes forever.

“I am,” Crocodile says, spoken low like a confession. He never factored the pursuit of happiness in his goals, and it thrills him as much as it terrifies him to finally have something to lose.

Something to care for.

Mihawk comes down for another kiss, sweet and tender, and Crocodile can’t stop himself from smiling into his lips.

For all his heavenly aspirations, he might have almost missed the utopia that can be found in these humble, earthly delights.

“At last, the day has come!” Buggy screams as he spreads his limbs apart, morphing into a giant shape almost the same size as the sails of the ship. “The Cross Guild sails out to the seas, and we’re finally going to take what’s ours!”

The crew cheers in response.

Crocodile observes from afar as Buggy carries on with his impassioned speech. He’s not paying attention to the clown’s theatrics, but his heart feels light as the ship is pushed gently forward by the wind.

“He has them eating out of the palm of his hand,” says a familiar voice by his side.

Crocodile turns to see Mihawk coming up from the ship’s hold and walking up to him to stand next to the rail.

Crocodile shrugs. “You have to appreciate his showmanship.”

Mihawk shakes his head, but there’s an amused smile on his face. “I guess every king needs a jester.”

“Does that make me the king, then?” Crocodile asks playfully.

Mihawk shoots him a long, penetrating look. “If that’s what you truly want, the clown can be easily persuaded.”

Crocodile seems to think it over, grabbing onto the rail with one hand and looking forward at the horizon. The ocean glimmers in the distance, a reflection of the sky’s deep, neverending blue.

“What does that make you, then?” Crocodile asks after a while, turning back towards Mihawk.

“Your beloved champion, of course,” Mihawk says with a little flourish of his hat.

Crocodile laughs, and Mihawk takes his hat off to place it on top of Crocodile’s head.

“We’re gonna have to get you your own hat, though,” Mihawk says, pulling Crocodile down.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Crocodile says, and then Mihawk is kissing him, tipping the hat down to the side to shield them from view.

The ship sails on, northward bound, like the compass of his heart.