Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship should have been soothing, a steady backdrop to his thoughts as he pressed onward toward his destination.

Instead, Crocodile remained caught on the sour aftertaste of a quarrel that should have been beneath him. Beneath both of them.

It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, Crocodile knew. And really, had it been anyone else, he’d have dismissed it for the nonsense it was.

Thud.

A drop of rain landed on his cheek, leaving a hot sting against his skin that felt far too warm for the weather.

The clouds had been gray for hours, a sky no seasoned sailor would have set out under. Yet, and against his better judgment, Crocodile had left the harbor anyway.

He slipped the golden pocket watch from his coat to read the hands. Two more hours. He would make land before the weather turned. Granted, it wasn’t ideal, since the storm would keep him at Sunset Port before he could continue onward. But then again, there was never much choice to begin with, and for once, he found he had neither the time nor the energy to care.

Mihawk’s words stirred in the back of his mind, making him snap the watch shut and slide it back into his coat. “You exceeded the terms, Crocodile.”

With long strides, he crossed the deck, the wood groaning faintly beneath his boots as he tried to shake off the swordsman’s voice. He ducked below deck, the door yielding under a shove slightly harder than he’d meant to give, and set about rigging the small canopy that would shield him from the rain while he held the wheel.

With a flick of his wrist, Crocodile watched the folded canvas rise from where it had been stowed under the storage chests, the sand delivering it neatly into his hand. He made his way back onto the deck.

When everything was secured in place, he forced the air from his lungs, his stare leveled at the horizon ahead. Even with this detour he would still make his timetable. He would be back on Karai Bari just in time to meet whatever purpose had brought their rival there.

“What were you thinking?” The memory of Mihawk returned, unwelcome and sharp, cutting across Crocodile’s thoughts.

“What were you thinking?”

“What were you thinking?”

The words kept repeating themselves, circling back in his head no matter how often Crocodile tried to push them aside, until they almost sounded like his own judgment.

And what had Crocodile been thinking, anyway?

***

A couple of hours earlier.

Buggy let his head tip against the warm rim of the jacuzzi, steam curling against his temples, debating whether to steer the conversation in that direction or let it sink beneath the water where it probably belonged. His instinct told him it was wiser to leave it unsaid. But wisdom had never sat well on his tongue. The thought pressed, insistent, until the sentence slipped out before he could stop it.

“Shanks is coming in a few days.”

Alvida’s lashes flicked upward, unimpressed. Hardly the reaction Buggy had hoped for. “Shanks? Here, to Karai Bari?” Her voice jumped an octave, but it sounded more like feigned surprise than the real thing. Her attention quickly returned to the meticulous inspection of her nails, just as it had been for the last five minutes.

“Yup.” Buggy drummed his fingers against the tub’s edge, aiming for nonchalance. “Crazy, right?”

She tilted her head toward him, the clay mask they’d slathered on an hour earlier cracking faintly as she parted her lips. “Is that why we’re doing all this?”

“N-no…” The protest shot out too fast. He flicked droplets from his fingers as if he could scatter the thought with them. After a moment he slumped back, shoulders shrugging with a half-hearted bravado that didn’t quite convince even him. “Okay, maybe.” He pouted, trailing a finger through the small whirlpool circling near the jet. “Sorry,” he added at last, barely audible.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Buggy had asked Alvida to hang out, but mostly to drown his head in anything that wasn’t the thought of Shanks reappearing after two years of silence. Maybe it wasn’t the nicest move. Maybe it was a real shitty one. He had dragged her into a spa day on her day off when she had no obligation whatsoever to spend it with him. Not like she ever did much on her not days off. Besides, he liked to think Alvida actually enjoyed hanging out with him. Who else was she supposed to do this kind of thing with, anyway? Nancy the pastry girl? Please.

He could have made it less obvious, though. That he needed someone like Alvida to talk it out with instead of hiding behind the pretext of all this pampering, sure. But maybe he liked the little charade. Maybe he liked that someone played along. Sue him.

To his surprise, or his dismay, Alvida didn’t press any further. Just a flat “mh,” and the faint purse of her lips. Buggy didn’t need more than that to know exactly what she was thinking, and he hated how right she probably was.

“I’m over him, okay?” Buggy groaned, the jets buzzing at his back.

“Didn’t say a thing.” She shrugged, sending ripples across the water around her shoulders.

“You don’t need to.” Of course she didn’t. Buggy could read her face like an open book. He sank deeper, letting the water’s warmth press against his skin. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Alvida hummed. “Do you, now?” Her thumb worried at a sliver of polish until it flaked from her nail.

“Yes.” The muscle in his jaw started twitching. “And I can guarantee it’s not what you imagine. Not even close.”

She lifted her gaze to him at last. “Okay, Buggy.” Her lips pressed into something close to a smile, though it never reached her eyes. “If you say so.”

For a while, only the jets hummed between them. Buggy kicked lazily at the water beneath, the words bubbling up with more bite than he intended. “I just don’t understand why he tries so hard to weasel back into my life. Every time I’m on the brink of forgetting him —poof. There he is again.” Alvida’s groan reached his ears before he’d even finished.

“So you do want to talk about him!” Alvida exclaimed, her hands cutting through the air as if to underline the point. She silenced him with a raised palm before he managed a reply. “Fine by me. But if we’re having this conversation, I want you to take a second and consider whether you might be exaggerating just a bit. Do you really think he came all this way just to make your life harder? What if he’s just dropping by to see whether the Cross Guild is a threat? We do have a pretty unique standing, in case you forgot.”

Buggy snorted right at the words, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’d be way too rational of Shanks.” As if anyone should be surprised by him being irrational. “No, he’s got something else in mind, I’m telling you. Looking for alliances is just a cover.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Trust me, that guy's a complete idiot.”

The shrug came easy. Idiot. He liked how the label rolled off his tongue, leaned on it like a shield.

Except, apparently, part of him wasn’t sticking to it at all, because even now he could feel a trace of doubt slipping through. What if Shanks had already moved on without a second thought? Maybe he only was here for an alliance. And maybe, just maybe, Buggy was the real idiot between them after all. For the way Shanks still managed to infest his thoughts, for how quickly Buggy’s certainty wavered the second Shanks’ name came up in a conversation.

Alvida looked at Buggy skeptically, clearly unconvinced by his explanation. And the longer her gentle brown eyes stayed on him, searching, the more he felt himself falter. “He’s an idiot, Alvida.” The words left him softer than he intended, almost as though he needed her to confirm it.

“Okay, Buggy.” Her face shifted toward resignation, though a faint smile broke through. “He’s an idiot.”

The water bubbled between them, filling the pause he didn’t know how to bridge. Perhaps what unsettled Buggy more than Shanks’ return was the thought of actually having to speak to him. The thought lodged itself deep.

It was stupid. Maybe even a little pathetic, which, in all honesty, wasn’t even what bothered Buggy the most. How could it? He had spent a lifetime making peace with being considered pathetic. A pathetic fool —heck, that was point of the whole act! To be underestimated! And it paid off, too. Good for business, even. So it couldn’t be all that terrible. Right?

Besides, who could really blame him, anyway? He hadn’t chosen to be this way. If anything, he should be praised for learning sooner rather than later that it was far more advantageous to lean into the mask if that was what people chose to believe.

Only that maybe Shanks, stupid, stupid Shanks, had known him even before that.

Shanks, who saw straight through him.

Always had. Probably always would.

He remembered the day they crossed paths again at Marineford, the way Shanks’ eyes bore into his, so knowingly, as if they had never been apart at all.

And no matter how many times Buggy turned it over in his head, there was something cruel about being forced out of the act by the one person who knew better. He could not help but find it terribly unfair.

“It’s hard to understand when you never tell me what really happened between you and him, you know.” Alvida’s voice pulled him from his reverie. He blinked at her, dumbfounded for a moment, as she stepped out of the jacuzzi and drew her bathrobe around her shoulders. Only when she held his out to him did he finally stir, stepping out and slipping into the fuzzy cotton. He patted himself dry as best he could.

“You’re right. Sorry.” Buggy scratched at his neck, guilt prickling in the back of his mind. Oh, man. He only ever went on about not wanting to see Shanks, but never dipped into the reasons why. He could see why this was lousy for Alvida.

Alvida set her hands lightly on his shoulders, drawing his gaze up. She gave him one of her crooked little smiles, the corners dipping in a way that somehow only made it more endearing. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

He covered her hand with his own, answering with a small, grateful smile. Someday, he really wanted to tell her. But right now he didn’t even know himself what to think of Shanks. If only the Red Hair Pirates weren’t coming so soon. Maybe then he’d have the time to sort it all out.

They made their way to the sink. He splashed water onto his face, working the clay mask off his skin. Alvida handed him a cloth, and he pressed it against his cheeks to dry.

“But you know,” she went on, her tone careful, “I’m not trying to drag it back up, and it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it, but maybe it’ll bring you some clarity in the end.” She crossed to the mirror and gave her hair a quick once-over before turning back to Buggy. Dutifully, he handed her the small bag with her things, the one he’d bought her during his short stay on a summer island he really should return to one of these days. “In the long run, I mean. Because one way or another, you’ll have to face him. You’re a Yonko, after all.”

Don’t feel like one. The words pressed at his tongue, but he refused to give them voice. Did he even need to? Wasn’t it obvious that this crown he wore never truly fit. That the role he played had always felt miscast like it was meant for someone else? “I’d rather not face him,” he mumbled instead, pushing open the door that led into the hallway and the warren of rooms strung together beneath the main tent.

“Okay, but maybe, who knows, it keeps your mind off… I don’t know, your other tragic little side quest,” she commented, sending him a quick sidelong look as they walked down the corridor.

“My… what exactly?” Buggy’s brows shot up.

She must have taken pity on his confusion, because her eyes flicked around to make sure no one was within earshot before she lifted her hand, fingers curled loosely as though pinching an invisible cigarette.

Buggy threw her a baffled look. Crocodile? “You give me too much credit.” He let out a huff, the sound half a laugh, half exasperation. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what circled through her head. She was anything but clueless, and while their jabs could go on endlessly, she usually knew the exact moment she was pressing too far. Better than Buggy ever managed, that was for sure. “Besides, weren’t you the one who told me just yesterday it’d be wiser to let it go? Where did all that reasoning vanish to so suddenly?”

Alvida burst out laughing, the sound light. “Sure, but…” She let the words dangle in the air, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug, her chuckle lingering even as Buggy saw she had no real answer. Eventually she just looked at him, warmth flickering in her eyes. “Maybe you don’t give yourself enough credit.” She bumped his shoulder playfully.

He shook his head so hard that the water still clinging to his hair flew off in little droplets “No. Just no.” Geez, this was wrong on so many levels. “Look, wanting something you’ll never get is one thing, but feeding your own delusions and then crashing down when reality hits, that’s even worse. Self-sabotage at its finest. So please, just stop.”

Alvida chuckled again, low and amused. “God, aren’t you adorable.” She reached out as if to grab his cheeks. He jerked back, ducking out of reach, and halted to glare at her. “Alvida! I’m serious. Stop it.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” She threw up her hands exaggeratingly, though the smug grin tugging at her mouth ruined the apology. The corridor’s dim lamplight caught on the damp ends of her hair as she drifted a few steps ahead. “I’ll stop,” she said, glancing back at him.

“Seriously. No more talk about this,” he pressed, trailing after her down the corridor.

They pushed through the canvas flap into the open air, dark clouds hanging low across the afternoon sky. Most of the workers had already gone inside, busying themselves elsewhere with the forecast promising a warm summer storm within the next few hours. Nothing dangerous, but more than enough reason to eventually retreat indoors. For now, though, the air was still dry and pleasantly warm.

Nearly deserted stood the little tea tent they had made their way toward, its plum-colored fabric cutting through the dreary gray as the faint scent of red tea and pomegranate drifted into the damp air. It was a pretty little jewel of a place. Exactly the sort of detail Buggy himself had a weakness for and a favorite among the workers who usually crowded its benches at any hour of the day. Though, its most surprising aspect would probably be that it had been Crocodile’s idea. Of course it had.

As for now, however, the tea tent remained empty. Buggy certainly wasn’t complaining, given their current state of dress. And why should he? He could walk around however he pleased. Call that the perk of being a Yonko!

With a long groan, Buggy sank onto one of the benches facing the stretch of green beyond, while Alvida had taken it upon her to prepare the beverages at the counter.

Another perk? The tea tent’s view.

The woods lay to the left, the sea to the right, both of them picturesque enough, sure. Yet, the real draw lay straight ahead, where the benches offered a perfect line of sight into a certain swordsman’s garden, just a little under hundert feet or so away from where the tea tent itself was located. A patch of earth the former warlord had claimed in the same week of their arrival, and he had tended it faithfully ever since.

It was also no secret at all that whenever Mihawk set foot in his garden, half the tea drinkers would tilt toward, pretending to sip their tea while really just watching him work.

He probably loathed the audience, though Buggy figured that if it ever bothered him enough, he’d just bring the whole tent down in one stroke of Yoru and be done with it.

Buggy’s eyes followed the tall stalks of the sunflowers edging Mihawk’s garden, which was almost as polished and precise as everything else the man seemed to touch.

They had shot up impossibly high since Buggy last paid them any attention, their heads tilted like golden sentries.

He squinted a little.

Indeed, one hardly needed to be an expert to see the care he had poured into —Crap. Mihawk was there.

Surrounded by the very sunflowers Buggy had just been admiring, there knelt Mihawk, almost hidden from view, but unmistakably, without question, absorbed in his task.

Buggy shot up from his seat so fast he nearly sent it toppling, only to whirl around and collide headlong with Alvida, who had just returned with two steaming cups of tea balanced in her hands.

“What are you doing!” she squeaked, clearly startled by his sudden, hectic movement.

He reached for one of the cups. “I’ve decided I don’t want to drink my tea here. Let’s go somewhere else!” When she stayed planted, he let out a groan. “Come on, Alvida!”

“What, no!” She jerked the cup out of his reach before he could grab it again. “Why do you wanna leave? We just got here and….” She cut herself off, eyes shifting over his shoulder, narrowing. “Hold on. Is that Mihawk?”

He seized her arm, now blatantly trying to pull her away before Mihawk so much as noticed them. “Yeah so what? He’s working in his garden.” Just to prove a point, he took another step away “Don’t you think it would be appropriate to leave him to it?” he mumbled, half to himself, while waiting for her to start following him.

”But why?” Alvida didn’t budge an inch. “Everyone watches him when they’re here. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

There was something sickly sweet in her tone, something almost concerning, and when Buggy finally turned back to look at her, she was already grinning at him in that infuriating way that made him want to wipe it off her face. Apprehensive, he darted a look toward the garden… and oh, excellent. Mihawk was on his feet now. Buggy snapped his eyes back to Alvida, only to find her still staring at him, her smile widening by the second.

“What?” Buggy snapped, but it only seemed to amuse her further.

“Oh, darling,” she snorted, pressing a steaming cup into his hand. “Your subconscious might be trying to drag you away, but your body sure as hell isn’t.”

Buggy's brows furrowed in annoyance, utterly at a loss for how to reply. She couldn’t actually be serious right now, could she?

When she refused to elaborate, he simply huffed, sulking as he dismissed her with a shake of his head. What did he care, anyway. If she wasn’t going to tell him, then so be it. Buggy could think of plenty of better ways to spend his time than putting up with her stupid cryptic games. “You make absolutely no sense.” He was just about to turn on his heel, leaving her behind with a muttered, “Seriously, what is it with you today?” when her hand clamped around his upper arm and pulled him back.

Rolling her eyes, she tilted her head just enough that his gaze followed and, once again, landed on Mihawk. Buggy had the sinking feeling the swordsman had already spotted them by now. They’d been fooling around there long enough, that much was certain. If he had, though, he gave no sign, too busy now with rinsing down his tools with the water hose beside the little hut. “Your messy mix,” Alvida prodded, now openly watching as well.

Slowly it dawned on Buggy what she was getting at, and he nearly choked on the groan that tore free at the implication. “Oh, for god’s sake.” He dragged both hands down his face, as if the motion alone might scrub the thought away. “He’s not…no! Absolutely not!” The last word cracked louder than he intended. What had he even done to make her think that? For a moment, Buggy genuinely didn’t know if he should feel flattered or like the target of a very, very unfunny joke.

Mihawk?

No…not Mihawk. That was ridiculous. Mihawk was…well… Mihawk was Mihawk. And in Buggy’s world people like himself didn’t get linked with people like Mihawk. Hell, half the time Buggy wasn’t even sure who the man with the massive sword actually was.

Not that he knew much of Crocodile either.

Though at least Crocodile’s game was becoming somewhat familiar with Buggy. Not in the sense of a fair chance, absolutely not. But in the sense that, by some cosmic mistake, Buggy had been forced into Crocodile’s orbit often enough that he’d managed to work him out at least a little.

Forced to work for him on occasion, Buggy had witnessed Crocodile’s endless perfectionism and the way his temper snapped at the smallest things, so sharp that if Buggy so much as breathed too loud, the man would call him on it in an instant. He was also obsessively tidy, which clashed with Buggy’s natural chaos, though for some mysterious reason he had yet to figure out, he found that kind of thing stupidly attractive. Difficult as Crocodile could get, he wasn’t only that. Cross his heart! Contrary to what most believed, he could even be funny. Call it the late nights or the blood in his caffeine system thinning out, sure, but every so often something he said actually counted as a joke. It made the hours in his office almost pleasant. And well Buggy, against his better judgment, had to give him that.

Mihawk was different. With Mihawk there was even less to hold onto.

It wasn’t as if Buggy had never tried to understand the man. He had, on more than one occasion. But while Buggy’s only glimpses of Crocodile came when he was literally forced to work his ass off under him, with Mihawk he had never really had the chance to be near him at all. As rare as it was to cross paths with either of his two executives, with Mihawk it was rarer still.

The things Buggy knew about him could be counted on one hand. The swordsman spent most mornings training in the woods. Alone. And Buggy wasn’t nearly suicidal enough to go barging in on that. He also liked to garden, but that hardly counted, because everyone knew that. Buggy was certain it was also one of the few details Mihawk ever permitted people to see.

Buggy had barely registered the clatter of tools going quiet, too caught up in his own mess of a mind, when he looked up only to find Mihawk, whose eyes had now been fixed squarely on him. Evidently, he’d set aside whatever he’d been doing minutes ago and was now facing them from across the distance. “Oh,” Alvida gasped softly beside him, and Buggy, frozen for half a beat, had to wrestle with the urge to snap his gaze away and pretend none of that ogling and whispering had just happened. Instead, he forced his left arm up in an awkward, too-late wave.

Mihawk, as expected, didn’t return it. Though, his golden eyes lingered on Buggy for a few more seconds before he at last turned back, his attention on the garden once again.

Buggy felt himself physically deflate at that. At least Mihawk didn’t care enough to come after them with his sword. “Listen, Alvida,” he muttered, finally pivoting away from that garden. “Mihawk is not part of the…the messy mix, okay?”

“But why?” Alvida pressed, frowning as if she just couldn’t grasp it. “I thought your brain subconsciously distracts you from one person by focusing on another. That’s what you said just yesterday!”

“Yeah, but— ” Buggy stopped mid-word, biting down on it.

On second thought, Buggy supposed Mihawk did deserve a little credit, because Alvida’s assumption wasn’t entirely baseless.

Anyone with two half-functioning eyes could see just how unfairly good-looking the man was. Buggy, for his part, had gotten far more privy to that fact than he would have liked, especially during their agonizingly long meetings, when his brain basically insisted on wandering to exactly such places. He could admit it. No point in lying about the obvious.

And yet!

It was bad enough he’d already been forced to acknowledge an affection for Crocodile that went well beyond the bounds of business, something he quite frankly hoped would burn itself out sooner rather than later, if only for the sake of his sanity. But to imagine himself falling for Mihawk too? He shook his head at the thought. That’d be the day!

Still, how was she not seeing this? “Isn’t it obvious who I’m distracting myself from?”

Alvida tilted her head, expression painfully blank. “No, I don’t know who you’re distracting yourself from. You’re confusing me.”

Buggy gaped at her, unbelieving how she could still miss the point when he’d stopped hinting ages ago. At this rate, he might as well tattoo it on his forehead. “What the hell, Alvida?”

“What?” Her voice went squeaky with bafflement. She wasn’t mocking him. If anything, she sounded genuinely lost, like he’d just falsely accused her of murder in the middle of a picnic. Her eyes searched his face as if she expected the words to suddenly materialize in the air between them.

“Obviously it’s Shanks!” Buggy burst out, hands flying in exasperation.

“Shanks?” Alvida repeated, as though she couldn’t quite believe him.

“Yes!” The word came out raw, and she actually had the audacity to recoil ever so slightly.

“Oh,” she said flatly, far too underwhelmed to the point of disdain, like someone flicking gum off the bottom of their shoe. Buggy nearly took offense for the other.

“Hey!” He jabbed a finger at her, frustration now bubbling over. “What kind of reaction is that supposed to be?”

Alvida only blinked at him, wide-eyed. “I dunno, sorry. I thought it was — ”

“Star Clown.” The familiar voice cut through their blather, prompting them both to turn at once.

To say he was startled to see Mihawk standing before them, when only a moment ago he had been in his garden, would have been an understatement. Buggy blinked, torn between the shock of not having noticed Mihawk’s approach and the dread of what he might have overheard. Leave it to the swordsman to move like a phantom. He hadn’t really heard what they were talking about… had he? Unless he had. Oh man. How long had he been standing there? Long enough to catch the worst part, probably. Because that was just Buggy’s luck.

Mihawk’s eyes moved over the two of them, his expression bored and utterly without interest. “Since you’re here, I thought I might seize the occasion.”

…Seize the occasion?

It was Alvida he fixed on then, and with that came the faintest inclination of his head. The gesture was courteous, though it lacked all warmth. Still, it seemed to be enough.

She hesitated, then gave a quick nod of her own and stepped back, understanding what he meant without him saying a word. “Right, I’ll, uh, leave you two to it then. Catch you later, Buggy.” She gave the briefest wink, then slipped away toward the main tent, without another glance.

Traitor, Buggy caught himself thinking, although it was Mihawk who didn’t give her much of a choice.

“Forgive my intrusion upon your idling,” Mihawk continued, his voice as measured as his expression, and Buggy couldn’t help but brace himself for what was about to come. Not only that, but the reserved stare he held on him made Buggy all too aware of his current choice of attire. “But time grows thin, and I would prefer to address it while the moment allows.”

It was always the same with Mihawk. Though he had long since stopped posing a real threat or measuring Buggy against some invisible standard, Buggy still struggled to hold his gaze whenever Mihawk stood this close. His throat went dry. “Of course,” he managed. He really, really hoped Mihawk didn’t hear them. Judging from his look, he didn’t seem particularly invested, which, to be fair, was about his permanent state, but maybe this once it actually counted for something. “W-what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“It’s about Red-Hair.”

Oh man, forget it. There he goes.

“Shanks, you say?” The unsure chuckle slipped out before Buggy could even think to stop it. “W-why? What did he do?” he asked, pretending ignorance. What a stupid question! These days it was better to ask what Shanks hadn’t done. It was also a flimsy attempt to steer Mihawk off the point, and Buggy knew it. But with Mihawk right in front of him, he couldn’t think of anything else to do. No need to dig his grave too early. Mihawk would send him there fast enough anyway.

Mihawk didn’t say anything for a second, and the silence unsettled Buggy even more than his words tended to. He glanced up, if only for a heartbeat, before looking anywhere but Mihawk’s face. Still, it was long enough to catch the barest flicker of something in the man’s eyes. He cleared his throat. “We do not know each other well, Clown.”

Well, agreed.

“So naturally, there is still a chance I have misread the situation. Although that’s rather unlikely” It never ceased to amaze Buggy how confident the former warlord was, and he had to try his hardest not to roll his eyes at the choice of words. “Your earlier reaction let me to believe, however,” Mihawk went on, “that neither of us particularly desires Red-Hair’s visit.”

…Oh?

Well, yes! agreed… not what he’d expected, but agreed. Most definitely agreed, in fact.

“T-true,” Buggy conceded and brought his eyes back up, anticipation edging out fear.

“I would therefore assume it is in our mutual interest to undermine his arrival,” Mihawk concluded.

So this wasn’t about Mihawk overhearing them after all! He was safe. Lived to see another day. Ha! “So, what do you propose?” Buggy asked, testing the waters.

Mihawk adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, watching Buggy from the corner of his sharp eyes. He seemed to notice Buggy’s subtle change in demeanor. “Given the circumstances, the matter should be revisited in council and resolved by a majority decision,” he stated.

Well that was… interesting. Buggy hadn’t anticipated him resorting to such methods. Perhaps he loathed the idea of Shanks’ return just as much as Buggy did.

“Okay,” Buggy nodded, unsure where this was going.

“Crocodile may wish to insist at first,” Mihawk continued, letting out a sigh as he folded his arms, “though he is not one to contest the outcome when the odds are properly aligned.”

“Let me get this straight. You don’t want Shanks to set foot here at all?” Buggy stared at him in slight disbelief.

Mihawk’s only reply was a curt nod.

Could it be?

Surely things wouldn’t line up so easily for him.

Right?

His fingers fidgeted at his side, nails catching on the soft fabric of his bathrobe. “And what makes you think a vote would be enough to keep Shanks out?” he asked, the words slipping out bolder than he felt. “Shanks does whatever he pleases, you said so yourself. That won’t stop him, no matter how much I’d rather he didn’t show up.” His hope of avoiding Shanks suddenly withered at the realization while he spoke.

“For all his nature, Red-Hair remains as bound as any of us to choose his ground with care. Should Karai Bari present itself as hostile, he will not step onto it.”

Wait, hostile? The implication of that word nearly dragged a sharp laugh out of him, although there was nothing funny about it. Hostility meant trouble, and trouble with Shanks was about the worst outcome he could possibly imagine. Why did Mihawk have to say it like it was nothing? Damn it. And how was being hostile toward the Red-Hair Pirates supposed to solve that problem in any way? Seriously, Buggy couldn’t picture a single scenario where Shanks would just turn away because the welcome mat wasn’t out. If anything, he’d be drawn to it. “Why would he do that?” Buggy blurted.

Mihawk only gave a faint click with his tongue, as if he were slowly growing tired of Buggy’s questioning. “Multiple reasons. Political ones included,” he remarked. “I am sure you can imagine the peril of two emperors aligned. The balance would obviously break.”

….two emperors aligned? Oh.

Buggy swallowed thickly. Yeah, that’s right. Shanks and Luffy. They were a real package deal. Buggy would honestly prefer that if it ever came to war, they wouldn’t have to face both at once. “Yeah, alright, I see it. That’d be a terrible idea,” he agreed. “And with Teach being such a wildcard the way things have been going, I don’t even wanna know where that would leave the Cross Guild.”

Mihawk’s mouth curved into something that might have almost been close to approval. “You can be perceptive after all, Star Clown.”

Buggy huffed, rolling his shoulders as if to shrug it off. “Yeah, yeah, keep your compliments. I still don’t think that would keep him away.”

“No,” Mihawk returned. “Yet with you present, the matter might be different.”

What?

“Because one thing is as certain as night follows day,” he said. “He will not act where you might be harmed.”

Buggy spluttered, suspicion twisting through his voice, though not because he distrusted Mihawk so much as the idea itself. “And you know that… because?” He searched his face, for half a heartbeat. But the lack of words was telling enough.

Of course Mihawk knew! How could he not? Shanks had been his rival. His closest one at that. Perhaps even an acquaintance.

The click of Mihawk’s tongue came sharper this time, almost as if the merest crack of impatience was finally seeping through. “Because I do. Now stop asking.”

“Okay, sorry, Hawky” Buggy muttered. He spread his hands before letting them drop uselessly to his sides, then he opened his mouth to add something clever, just to shut it again. He hated to admit it, but Mihawk might have a point. And all things considered, a vote was certainly better than just sitting around until Shanks showed up. Encountering Shanks was something he definitely didn’t want to face just yet. Maybe it really could work out. “So… when’s the vote?” he asked at last.

“Five o’clock,” Mihawk answered, while turning on his heel toward the garden he had abandoned earlier, leaving Buggy behind with tea that must have gone lukewarm by now. “The same tent as earlier. I will see to Crocodile.”

***

There in his office, Crocodile had been sitting at his desk for hours.

Though at some point he had set aside his work for something else entirely, hovering instead over the fragile parchment, pen loose in his hand, as he imagined, albeit only for a moment, the flourish of a curling "C" at the bottom of it.

As so many things, the thought passed as quickly as it came. Next year, perhaps, he muttered to himself, though he already knew he would rather not.

Crocodile folded the little letter neatly before rising from the desk with an exhale. He lifted his hook to loosen the ascot around his throat as he made his way to the antique credenza, where the angular black box already waited.

At the same time, a cigar had found its way into his hand. He could not recall the moment he called it to him, the action so ingrained it demanded nothing of him. The sand simply carried the habit for him.

His gaze lingered on the elegant wrapping for a moment, drifting to the thought of what lay inside; a little golden bracelet he had commissioned some time ago, simple and delicate, its slender make meant for small wrists.

An entirely unique piece, made by hand.

Chosen with care, he had hoped it might mean something to Luffy, for all that he knew it was only wishful to imagine the boy would see any value in gifts from a faceless source.

But perhaps, after all, it wasn’t so difficult to guess who the sender was meant to be.

Crocodile shifted, pushing aside the dull throb beneath his skin, the same ache that had been with him since morning, and drew a little golden watch from his coat pocket.

It had been Cobra’s once, by right if not by use. Crocodile himself had kept it with him just because he liked the look of it. Granted, he could have told the man, but what difference would it have made?

With Alabasta’s former king now feeding the worms, he was out of time in every sense.

He paused. He could reach Sunset Port before he made it to Verdelia, which would cost him little to no time. And with a smaller vessel he could move freely and send off Luffy’s present without explaining himself to anyone.

It was, however, more than unfortunate the bracelet had been late, missing his son’s birthday for the first time ever since Crocodile learnt he was alive.

Special work never came when it should, although he had made sure to give it more than enough time. But with resources growing scarce, delays had become yet another currency to pay. At least his path to Verdelia made this year’s detour inconspicuous enough.

He sighed, flicked his fingers toward the letter that still lay on his desk, waiting. The parchment stirred, rose at the tug of sand, and drifted toward Crocodile’s outstretched hand. Only then, caught at the edge of his vision as his focus drifted back to the box, did he see the stark tremor in it.

Reflexively, he drew the hand closer, as if to inspect a flaw, causing the sheet to waver mid-flight before it began to sink to the floor.

He twisted sharply to catch it, his coat striking the porcelain vase on the sideboard beside the gift in the same motion, sending it into a violent teeter before it toppled and fell.

The shatter made him clench his jaw and he hissed when water splashed over his coat, soaking the carpet and the letter now scattered across it.

Shards sprawled like teeth across the floorboards, and he felt the vein in his temple throb in response.

With a groan, he dropped to one knee, the old throb in his lower abdomen suddenly pulsing harder, halting him mid-motion. He pressed the weight of his hook against his side to steady it, his good hand splayed on the carpet for balance. The light-gray fibers were already blotched with water, the letter looking half-drowned, and Crocodile wondered, just for a moment, what he’d done to piss the universe off so consistently.

Clumsily, he tried reaching for the shards, forced to hold and gather them all with the same hand. The pieces pressed into his palm while he tried to hook the next between his fingers. Now, he rarely grieved the loss of his limb nowadays, but moments like this sure as hell wouldn’t let him forget it.

So this was what it came to. One last piece of parchment, and even that he’d managed to ruin.

Some legacy to leave a child.

He could dry the letter. But what was the point? The idea of sending a letter at all suddenly felt ridiculous.

The boy would never know who sent it anyway.

Maybe that was better. Better no father than one like him.

And why did he care, anyway!? He shook his head, barely believing he was even this hung up about it. He needed to get a grip.

Something coiled beneath his sternum, each breath making his ribs feel as though they were ratcheting tighter.

And Crocodile, unwillingly acquainted with the unwelcome sensation after years of it, instantly recognized it for what it was.

He stared at the mess glinting back at him, air dragging unevenly in his lungs, and felt the familiar pull of questions looping at the back of his mind. Old questions he’d stopped asking long ago, because the answers never changed.

Forcing his breaths out slowly, he began counting backwards as he gathered the shards one by one.

He had most of the shards corralled into his palm, the pressure in his chest dulled to something manageable, when a knock cracked against the door and jolted through him. He cursed, glancing at his hand as his grip tightened without thinking, driving the glass deeper into his skin.

“Sir, I am here to inform you that your personal belongings have all been accounted for and transferred aboard.” Galdino’s voice rang from the other side of the door, unbearably bright.

Crocodile pressed his tongue against his teeth, forcing his voice even, as if he wasn’t just about to lose it. “Fine,” he said. “Now leave!”

His eyes drifted back to the soaked letter, still resting in the middle of the puddle, a thin film of water clinging to it, when the door latch clicked.

Crocodile’s first instinct was to keep the gift on the credenza near the door safe. A flick of sand slammed the door shut before anyone could try to step inside. He snatched the letter with his good hand, bloodying it in the process. So much for drying it later.

“What else is it?!” he barked, rising quickly, scarred tissue flaring again at the sudden movement.

“I am also to let you know that Mihawk has called for you and that— ” Galdino’s voice came closer as Crocodile cut across the room, closing the distance in a handful of strides. He wrenched the door open and, unsurprisingly, found Galdino still loitering outside. “ —there will be a meeting in ten,” he finished, all brightness now drained from his tone as he glanced up at Crocodile standing mere inches from him.

What the hell did they need another meeting for now? The frustration thudded through him like a blow.

And to let some of it out, he jerked his hook up between them, the tip so close to Galdino’s face that a fraction higher would have drawn blood. “Tell me, Mr. 3. In the last fourteen years, when was it ever acceptable for you to step into my room without permission?” The skin beneath his eye gave a sharp twitch.

Galdino swallowed hard. “Is everything all right, sir?” he tried, avoiding the question. “I thought I heard something fall,” he added after a beat, finger pointing vaguely toward the office behind Crocodile.

Crocodile slammed the door shut with a snapping gust of sand, the frame rattling in its hinges. “You step into my office uninvited again, and I’ll kill you.” The threat slid out clean. He let the hook’s point kiss his skin, pressing until it parted. A bead of blood slipped loose, sliding fast down Galdino’s cheek. It didn’t soothe Crocodile in the least. “Now piss off.” He drove past the shorter man, sending him stumbling, and strode the corridor without a glance back.

Gods, he must be surrounded by idiots. An order given was an order ignored.

What Crocodile didn’t expect was Mihawk, waiting just around the corner, shoulder pressed to the stone, the faint scrape of steel against wall marking his presence. And Yoru’s.

“What is it?” Crocodile demanded, neither breaking pace nor wasting words on courtesy.

Mihawk pushed away from the wall, quickly falling into step beside him. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said, a false politeness hiding in the words. Bastard.

Crocodile scoffed, refusing to play along. “Yeah. Now tell me why the hell we’re having a meeting again at this hour when we already sat through one earlier.” He drew a cigar from his coat pocket, the one he hadn’t lit earlier after being interrupted, and clamped it between his teeth. ”Some of us still have work to do.”

Mihawk’s gaze dipped, then rose again. He arched one brow, a glint of curiosity catching in his keen eyes “That’s blood on you,” he observed, the corners of his mouth curving as if he found detail amusing.

“Not the point.” Crocodile swept the inside of his wrist along the side of his head, careful not to smear blood, hair falling obediently back. He kept his eyes fixed ahead “What’s the meeting about. Did someone keel over?”

“Not yet,” Mihawk hummed, maddeningly calm but Crocodile could recognize the lazy threat in it. Which might have worked had he been anyone else. Mihawk gestured idly as they passed the mess hall. “This way.”

They turned the corner together as Crocodile’s eyes narrowed at the route they were taking. Was Mihawk being serious? “Are we holding all our meetings in your tent now?” he asked, almost mocking, but he still kept pace.

Mihawk, eloquent as he was, said nothing.

Instead, they walked in silence as the sky thickened into a heavier color, the air humid with approaching rain. Crocodile, naturally, had left his umbrella behind. Because why make life easier.

“The Clown will be there too,” Mihawk eventually deemed it worth saying, as they passed the infirmary tent. The sharp smell of chloroform heavy in the air.

“What a revelation,” Crocodile muttered, ignoring Mihawk’s sidelong glance as he lit his cigar.

“You don’t seem very willing to give him a chance. Strange, since between the two of us I always thought you’d be the one ready to let it go. In fact, weren’t you the one who led him into our tent this morning?”

“What, does every damn thing have to run through the Jester now. Since when?” Crocodile threw back, not convinced he’d heard Mihawk right. Was he now suddenly siding with the clown?

“By contract —your contract by the way,” Mihawk clarified, turning to Crocodile, “he is as much in this as we are.” The swordsman rolled his eyes. “But that’s hardly the issue. The issue is he’s on the books. And ignoring him doesn’t make him disappear.”

It wasn't like Crocodile was saying the Clown had to be shut out completely.

Just that not everything needed his fingerprints on it.

Crocodile huffed, smoke coming out. “Look at you, clinging to the fine print.” He drew the cigar from his mouth, speaking easier without it. “If you wanna play committee with him, you go ahead, but leave me the fuck out of it.” The cigar slid back between his teeth.

He didn’t know why he was so riled, least of all why he was snapping at Mihawk of all people. Maybe the damned ache gnawing under his skin had something to do with it, refusing to shut up all day. Either way, he really should’ve been back finishing Luffy’s present instead.

“That’s rich, considering the whole Cross Guild plan was yours to begin with. Acting like you’re some bystander now doesn’t quite add up, does it?” Mihawk stated.

“Can’t act like a bystander if I’m the one keeping the whole thing afloat, can I?”

Mihawk let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, his eyes fixed on Crocodile as if trying to work him out. “You’re implying I am not?” His tone was calm, challenging without any heat. He had always been better at not losing his temper, and Crocodile was man enough to admit he couldn’t say the same about himself.

“I don’t know, Hawkeye. What have you, for instance, been doing since our earlier meeting today, if that’s not too intimate a question?”

“I was in my garden. But that hardly has— ”

“Oh, in your garden?” Crocodile cut him off, a thin smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay, and that’s been what,” he shrugged, “three hours?” He turned mid-stride to glance at Mihawk before facing forward again. “Truly the Cross Guild’s pride and joy.”

Looked at plainly, it was, if anything, a paltry attempt to get under Mihawk’s skin. And Crocodile knew that. He also knew, maybe even better than most, that Mihawk wasn’t one to laze around. He was up before nearly everyone, often even before Crocodile, training and pushing himself beyond what any sane person could even picture.

So Crocodile didn’t know why he said it. There were precious few things in life that could actually unsettle Mihawk, and this kind of cheap provocation clearly wasn’t one of them.

Mihawk’s eyebrow twitched, the only sign of reaction. “The idea was a vote.” He caught his cheek between his teeth lightly before continuing. “Every executive has their say. That’s how we’re going to do this.”

“A vote?” Crocodile gave a short laugh around his cigar, ash spilling to the ground with the movement. “Let me guess. To keep Red-Hair from coming?”

The scoff that followed, half disbelief, half irritation, gave Crocodile all the confirmation he needed.

“You’re not as inscrutable as you think you are.” Crocodile’s mouth curled around the cigar as he spoke. He lifted his brows, jaw stilling around the cigar. “Oh. Wait.”

They had reached the tent, its flap swaying faintly in the breeze.

He angled his body toward Mihawk, fingers brushing his temple in a mock gesture of forgetfulness. “Well. Makes sense, I suppose.” He studied the swordsman for a moment, releasing a slow stream of smoke from his nose. “But really? You and the Clown?”

Mihawk said nothing, save for the bare narrowing of his eyes.

Crocodile shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Odd, that it’s this of all things that managed to bring you two together.” A short, humorless laugh rasped out of him. “But seriously, since you’re both on the same side, I can’t quite see why you even bothered calling a meeting. Majority rules. I bow.”

He could hear Mihawk exhale through his nose, turning. “This mood doesn’t become you, old friend,” he said at last, the words clipped. He tilted his head halfway over his shoulder, withholding his gaze. “So I recommend you keep it in check until the meeting is done.” He slipped into the tent, leaving Crocodile at the entrance.

He could turn back and make them all wait. Just to prove a point. But what good would that do?

With a low breath through his teeth, Crocodile crushed the glowing tip against the tent, leaving a dark smudge he dismissed without another thought.

The sooner they were done here, the sooner he could set sail.

***

After parting with Mihawk, Buggy practically bolted to his room. He definitely wasn’t about to risk being late. Not with the next two days, and possibly the rest of his life, dangling on this frickin’ vote.

Could it really be? A joint stance between him and Mihawk, enough to outnumber Crocodile, to force his hand, to finally slam the door on Shanks? Oh God, this could actually work!

A giddy little sound bubbled in his throat at the thought, and he dabbed the last touch of blush across his cheek, just enough to fake a healthy glow. Who would have thought the day would turn into something this good?

He tossed the brush aside and caught his own gaze in the mirror, grinning.

That’s right.

Buggy: one.

Shanks: zero.

With a kick, he shoved back the stool from his vanity and sprang up. He snatched his coat and stepped outside, already shrugging into it as his thoughts circled back to his little backstage chat with Mihawk.

He had to admit, Mihawk’s change of mind did surprise him. While the man hadn’t exactly looked thrilled at Shanks’ announcement during their first meeting today, Buggy hadn’t expected him to come to him of all people, asking for help to keep Shanks off Karai Bari.

Must be real serious, then.

On top of that, Buggy really couldn’t stop mulling over what kind of business a man like him could possibly have with someone like Shanks to begin with.

Not that it was any of his concern, but in Buggy’s perfectly unbiased and profoundly humble opinion, he couldn’t even imagine them having a single conversation that wasn’t one-sided. And that was one hundred percent on Shanks. For obvious reasons.

Mihawk was already a man of few words. So Buggy wondered how that would ever pair with someone like Shanks, who apparently never learned to shut up. And if Buggy was the one noticing it…well, that really said it all.

“Buggy!”

The call snapped him from his thoughts, and he turned.

“Cabaji?”

"Finally, I caught you!" Cabaji waved from afar, his posture hunched as if he had been running. Buggy waited until he reached him, realizing it had been nearly a day since he’d last seen the man. When Cabaji stopped in front of him, he braced his hands on his sides, breathing hard. "You’re a hard man to find," he said between gasps. "I’ve been looking for you."

Buggy chuckled, resting a hand on Cabaji’s shoulder. “What can I say, I’m also a busy man. You sound terribly out of breath, though.” He studied the other briefly. “Say…are you alright, Cabaji?”

Cabaji looked up with a faint smile, waving it off. “Thank you for your concern, chairman, but I’m fine. Yourself?”

"Are you sure? Where have you been the whole day?" He couldn’t help the smallest twinge of guilt pooling inside him for not checking in on Cabaji during the day, or at least at his training. Normally, Buggy and his crew started their mornings together over breakfast. And if not, Buggy at least made sure to see them at some point.

But today had been an exception. Buggy had gotten up late, and after their infamous blowouts it wasn’t exactly shocking if the morning after didn’t run smoothly. That was just part of the game.

A faint blush spread across Cabaji’s face, and he glanced to the floor, unable to meet Buggy’s eyes. “In bed. I had a…stupid hangover. Forgive me.” He shook his head as if in rebuke of himself.

Buggy just gave a soft laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. He had always appreciated Cabaji’s honesty. "It's fine. Hangovers are proof of a good night. That's the rule.”

The man gave him a sheepish grin, raising his own hand to rest it on Buggy’s shoulder. “You always cut me too much slack. Guess I’ll try to keep up with you next time.”

“Keep up with me?” He tutted, grinning. “Sorry, pal. Not in this lifetime.”

Cabaji flashed him a cheeky smile.

Man, Buggy would do anything for this bunch.

Reluctantly, he pulled away. "Alright, listen. As much as I’d rather stay, I really should get going. If I show up late, Croccy and Hawky won’t be too thrilled."

“You’ve got a meeting?” Cabaji blinked in surprise. “Now?”

“Sure do. Well, usually not this late, but since Crocodile’s leaving early tomorrow, we’re making an exception.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Not something I can skip. This one’s kinda decisive.” He punctuated it with a wink. Buggy left him with an easy look before turning away. “Anyway, I’ll see you around!”

“Wait,” Cabaji called, catching Buggy’s arm before the other could head off.

“Can I come with you?” he asked almost immediately. “I don’t have to go in, I’ll just wait outside until you’re done. But… Sir Crocodile. I need to talk to him before he leaves.” Cabaji shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stumbling slightly over the sanduser’s name.

Buggy just shrugged, chalking Cabaji’s sudden nervousness up to Crocodile, who just had that effect on people. "Of course, I don't see why not.”

When Buggy entered, the atmosphere in the tent was tight, neither Crocodile nor Mihawk looking particularly pleased to be there. From Crocodile, he’d half expected it. But from Mihawk, Buggy had hoped the man could at least manage not to roll his eyes when he stepped into the common area. After all, they were partially here because of him.

Buggy sighed inwardly, then forced some cheer into a, “Hey, guys,” raising both hands in a small wave.

“Fucking finally,” Crocodile muttered, sprawled in an armchair. He had his hook propped against the armrest, while his hand rested flat on his stomach. “Time to get this over with.”

Mihawk set aside the book he’d only just been leafing through, and snapped it shut with a loud thud. He cleared his throat. “There you are, Star Clown. Now we can start. Wouldn’t want to waste Crocodile’s time any longer, would we?”

Buggy caught the nasty look Crocodile shot at Mihawk, who, in return, merely cocked a brow.

Mihawk rose and stepped over to the table. Earlier that day, they had stood there discussing the letter Shanks had sent. With a wince, Buggy noticed the letter was still lying there exactly as they had left it. He quickly wondered if Crocodile already knew what the meeting was about, but with the mood already this sour, he had no desire to be the one to ask.

Crocodile didn’t even bother to stand, leaving Buggy awkwardly planted in the middle of the room, unsure where he was supposed to put himself. The middle it was, then.

“Go ahead.” Crocodile tapped his fingers impatiently. “Say what you wanna say.”

Mihawk eyed the abandoned letter. He huffed, then began, begrudgingly. “As the purpose of this meeting is already clear, I won’t go into detail,” he declared.

“Thank God,” Crocodile drawled, pulling Buggy’s gaze toward him, if only fleetingly.

From Buggy’s angle, the oil lamps fractured the tent into shadow and glow, making Crocodile, lounging in the chair, almost evoking a reptile in wait. Watchful eyes glinted under half-closed lids, while the scar across his nose sharpened the impression, etching his face into the closest thing Buggy had ever come to knowing as a predator’s grin.

“Who cares about anonymity,” Mihawk mumbled, tearing the corner of the ballot paper before letting it fall to the table. Buggy wondered idly when he had managed to conjure those up. “We will proceed to the vote. All in favor of the Red Force not coming to Karai Bari, raise your hand.”

Mihawk wasted no time in raising his own hand, Buggy following suit.

Crocodile didn’t lift his hand, but Buggy figured he couldn’t really hold it against him. The man loved doing business, and unlike Buggy and Mihawk, he wasn’t tangled up in any personal history with Shanks that would have given him a reason to avoid him.

“Seriously?” Mihawk asked, making no effort to hide his disapproval.

Crocodile didn’t bat an eye. “Yes. Seriously.”

Mihawk let out a sharp sigh. “Fine.” He straightened a little. “Who’s in favor, then of the Red Force coming to Karai Bari?”

This time it was Crocodile who raised his hand, while Buggy and Mihawk kept theirs down.

“So it’s settled,” Mihawk said, his mouth pressed into a thin line that might have passed for a smile if it hadn’t been so strained. “Two against one. This means the Red Force won’t be coming. Any objections?” he asked, the question unmistakably aimed at Crocodile.

"No. No objections," Crocodile replied, getting up from the chair. He grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulder, intent on leaving.

“Then why did you deliberately keep your hand down, if you have no objections?” Mihawk challenged, unwilling to let it go just yet.

Without looking up, Crocodile fished a cigar case from his coat pocket. “This was a majority vote. It doesn’t matter what I choose.”

“It kinda does.” Buggy chirped in, still lingering in the middle.

Crocodile pulled a cigar free and set it between his lips. “Wrong form of vote, then.” Fire flared as he flicked the lighter, catching on the cigar’s tip.

Mihawk frowned, watching as the smoke curled from the fresh ember. "Clown is right. Given the positions we hold, we should be on the same side here. And could you at least wait until you’re outside?” He nodded toward the cigar.

“We do not.” Crocodile lowered the cigar, holding it between his fingers just for a moment. "I’ve got no interest in starring in your soap opera," he said before bringing it back for another drag.

“Hey, It’s no soap opera!” Buggy retorted, planting his hands on his hips.

“The majority vote was my idea,” Mihawk went on. “And normally, I’d agree it doesn’t matter. But with just the three of us, it’s necessary to consider why a member of the Cross Guild is against it.” He hesitated for a moment, as if thinking about what he was going to say next, before finally adding, "Also to prevent bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed?” Buggy repeated, his head snapping toward Mihawk. Surely they couldn’t be serious, dragging things that far.

“Naturally,” he replied with a shrug, while Crocodile rolled his eyes heavenward at the words.

“My vote’s irrelevant. And so is your self-important preaching about unity.” Crocodile said and clenched the cigar loosely, letting it sit at the corner of his mouth. “Why exactly is that so necessary all of a sudden?”

“And when I tell you that there’s more to be gained with the Red Force staying off the island?” Mihawk said.

“I’d say careful. The way you’re pushing this could be taken as desperation.”

Mihawk made a short, incredulous laugh, propping himself on the table with both hands. “You do realize that a meeting between two emperors won’t happen without the government getting wind of it. We’re not even in a position to fight if it comes to that. A quarter of our men are out on supply runs. Just saying.”

Crocodile gave a slight shrug. “You’re the world’s strongest swordsman. What do you need a quarter of half-trained soldiers for?”

“Ah. He’s got you there, Hawky,” Buggy interjected, turning his back on the fact that those half-trained soldiers were technically his.

“Also, I’m not about to go behind your backs and set up a meeting with Red-Hair just because I voted differently,” Crocodile added.

“Which, mind you, I wasn’t even implying,” Mihawk shot back. “I was merely pointing out the very real possibility of what could happen. Just to give you some sense of how grave the situation is,” he said.

Crocodile took another drag from his cigar before replying, likely to irritate Mihawk all the more. "I’m very aware, thank you. And I still think the Red Force coming to Karai Bari would be fine. Why you think you need to persuade me is beyond me. You already won your little vote.”

Mihawk shifted, about to speak again, but Crocodile cut across him. “Look, I don’t care. Call it consent, not consensus. No veto from me. Doesn’t mean I agree but I can live with the decision.” He leaned over to the coffee table and tapped ash into the tray before stubbing the cigar out. “Happy now?” he asked, his eyes locking onto Mihawk’s, and for a moment Buggy couldn’t tell if he was referring to the smoke or the vote.

They held each other’s stare for what felt like way too long. To Buggy’s surprise, Mihawk was the first to break it with a derisive shake of his head. “Have it your way, then. I’m not wasting more breath on this.”

“And here I thought we’d never agree on anything,” Crocodile said with a thin smile of his own.

The silence that followed was even more uncomfortable. While Crocodile had looked ready to leave only a short while ago, he lingered, eyes still fixed on Mihawk, who had moved to the couch to fetch his hat and coat, paying him no mind.

Buggy would’ve gladly left by now himself, if not for Crocodile still blocking half the way to the exit. Then, perhaps realizing Mihawk had nothing more to say, Crocodile finally turned and, to Buggy’s dismay, picked up the umbrella he had left by the corner.

Buggy knew better than to call him out. The man hated the rain more than anything. Still, he found himself rolling his eyes. “What did that guy even know about consent?”

Crocodile turned slowly. His eyes pinned Buggy in place. “Excuse me?”

Oh fucking fuck. Buggy’s eyes went wide as he glanced back at Crocodile, instinctively taking a step back when he realized what he had just done.

Had he really just said that out loud!? He hadn’t meant to say that out loud!!

Crocodile clenched his teeth. His nose crinkled, causing the scar across its bridge to crease with the motion. “What did you just say to me?” The words came out strangely calm, and Buggy thought it almost more unsettling than any shout. This was it. God, he was so done for.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Croccy. Really!” Buggy screwed his eyes shut to brace himself. Then, he forced them open again, his weight shifting back as if to put distance between them, though Crocodile hadn’t taken a single step closer. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to insult you!” Why couldn’t he just shut up for once?

“I should kill you for talking to me like that,” Crocodile scoffed.

“Y-yes, Croccy, I’m sorry!” Despite not knowing why, Buggy’s stole a glance at Mihawk, who had stilled in adjusting his coat and was watching from where he stood, his expression bordering on bored.

Buggy closed his eyes again, readying himself for a blow… that never came.

He blinked in surprise.

Crocodile let out one last huff. And then, without so much as touching him, he walked out of the tent.

Only when he was gone did a shaky breath break free from Buggy, his arms rising at last to drag across his face and cover his eyes.

“Don’t mind him,” Mihawk said, watching Buggy from where he stood. “Crocodile definitely got up on the wrong side of the bed today and decided to make it everyone else’s problem.”

Buggy stilled, schooling his features as he let his hands slowly fall away from his face. Because the exhaustion in Mihawk’s words might have just been the clearest he’d ever heard.

“Yeah,” he croaked, looking anywhere but at Mihawk. Crocodile hadn’t seemed like he’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. This was on Buggy. “No, it was a stupi— “

A sudden shriek sliced through the close space of the tent, tearing the rest of his words away as his head jerked to the entrance. What —

His instinct hurled him forward before he even realized it.

He burst outside.

At the entrance stood Crocodile, unmoving as if he’d never managed to move past it, umbrella spread against the downpour.

And there, right in the sodden dirt, was Cabaji, crumpled and staring up at Crocodile. His face blanched and chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Cabaji— ” Buggy choked out, lurching forward, but a sudden grip yanked him back before he got anywhere. He turned to look. Mihawk? He jerked against the clasp. Unsuccessfully.

“I should’ve fed ’em,” Cabaji admitted, head lowered and voice rough. “Should’ve. I… didn’t. My mistake. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” His hands clamped hard around his underarms, as if holding himself in place.

Feed ’em? Feed what? What the hell was Cabaji supposed to feed?!

Crocodile went down into a crouch in front of Cabaji. He snagged his collar with the hook, dragging him closer until the man’s breath hitched. “Mm. That’s right,” he rasped through clenched teeth. "It won’t happen again. You know why? Because this is the last time an incompetent fool like you gets near them.”

Crocodile lifted his arm, hoisting Cabaji just enough into the air by the collar to choke his breath away. Buggy’s chest burned at the sight, aching to step in, but Mihawk’s iron grip on his arm kept him locked in place, leaving him helpless.

“Congratulations, Clown,” Crocodile murmured, rain drumming on the umbrella. “Looks like you’ve just been appointed keeper of the Bananawanis. Permanently.”

Buggy swallowed. He had no desire to be the keeper of Crocodile’s animals. The words strangled in his throat, refusing to form. To his relief, Crocodile let the hook slip free from Cabaji’s collar, and he crumpled into the filth. But before Cabaji could as much as suck in a breath, Crocodile’s hand shot out once more, locking around his throat. All Buggy could do was watch in horror as the hook wavered perilously closer, so near Cabaji had to roll his eye away.

“You, on the other hand,” Crocodile hissed at Cabaji, “have been promoted to entrée.”

Cabaji’s fingers dug into the filthy ground, veins bulging at his temples as Crocodile’s grip tightened.

“Aren’t acrobats normally supposed to have strong necks?” Crocodile muttered, more to himself, as he studied the vulnerable curve. His long fingers kept digging in mercilessly. “Yours doesn’t seem particularly sturdy.”

Cabaji’s hands shot up, scrabbling at Crocodile’s wrist in a frantic attempt to ease the pressure.

“That’s enough.” Mihawk stepped in, his tone so very authoritative despite the heavy rain. The interruption caught Buggy off guard, and it was enough to halt Crocodile briefly. “If you kill him, that’s one pair of hands gone. We don’t have enough as it is. So I would appreciate it if you didn’t waste the ones we have.” He let go of Buggy. Even so, Buggy didn’t dare to move.

Crocodile’s mouth twisted. “You’re oddly troubled by the lack of hands,” he said, but gave no sign of loosening his grip.

“As should you,” Mihawk returned.

“Thanks for the suggestion. Not interested," Crocodile dismissed.

“Then I’ll employ him.”

Buggy’s head jolted to Mihawk, certain he’d misheard.

What in the world was going on?!

Even Crocodile’s head turned at the words. “You?” he asked incredulously.

Although the feather on his hat had long sagged from the rain, Mihawk held himself with such bearing, almost graceful, his hand never straying to Yoru across his back, even as he stood mere inches from Crocodile, who still crouched with tight shoulders and a sneer. Mihawk only waited, his expression unreadable. And Buggy felt a pang of something like admiration despite himself.

Shaking his head, Crocodile gave a harsh exhale, almost a laugh. “You, the great Hawkeye, want to employ an idiot who can’t even tell shit from supper?” He turned his attention back to Cabaji, whose eyes had squeezed shut, a faint tremor running through him. “Give me a break.”

“Like I said, we don’t have enough people,” Mihawk replied matter-of-factly. “Killing him would be nothing but waste.”

“I don’t know what bleeding-heart stunt you’re currently on, but it’s unlike you,” Crocodile snorted. “And it’s starting to piss me off.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve punishment,” Mihawk continued. “I am saying that I myself have certain tasks that need handing off. Just like you do. Wouldn't that be something the Cross Guild could benefit from?”

Crocodile went silent. If he was genuinely considering Mihawk’s offer, he didn’t show it.

A few beats passed, the only sound being the rain drumming against the umbrella.

Cabaji’s cheeks had begun to mottle, almost purpling from the pressure. Buggy’s eyes flicked wildly from Crocodile to Mihawk, his heart hammering.

Eventually, Crocodile clicked his teeth before loosening his grip. Cabaji folded forward, drawing in desperate gulps of air. Crocodile straightened, then shrugged. “Please. If you’re going to throw yourself at him, who am I to stop you.”

Huh?

Cabaji stared up at him, still kneeling. "Just to be very clear," Crocodile hissed, looking down at Cabaji. "You’re not spared. You’ll get what you deserve when I return.”

“Of c-course, sir,” Cabaji choked out, bowing low, his frame quivering.

The second Crocodile walked away, Buggy practically lunged toward Cabaji and pulled him into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Cabaji said quickly, breath ragged. His bloodshot eyes clung to Buggy’s. “I swear, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. Not on purpose.”

“Shh,” Buggy tried to soothe him, though he knew there wasn’t much he could do now. “It’s alright.” He drew Cabaji back to look at him, offering an earnest look. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine.”

Cabaji stared at him, distraught “What are you saying, chairman?” He shook his head. His voice was hoarse. “I deserve whatever punishment he gives me.”

Buggy felt his chest tighten.

“There isn’t going to be a punishment, Cabaji,” Buggy said, shaking his head. “The newcomer party was something I came up with last year and since that’s what kept you from your task, the fault is mine. It's my responsibility.” He gave Cabaji a firm nod. “I’ll talk to Crocodile first thing in the morning.” He was the chairman. A Yonko, damn it! And what was a Yonko worth if he couldn’t protect the ones he cared for?

From the corner of his eye, unbeknownst to Buggy, Mihawk had been watching in silence, almost thoughtful. At last, he turned and strode into the rain.

“Mihawk, wait!” Buggy called after him. He turned back to Cabaji. “Let’s meet at the mess hall, okay?” He squeezed Cabaji’s shoulder, waiting until the man nodded weakly. Then he slipped off his navy pea coat and draped it over Cabaji’s shoulders. “Here. Take this.”

Only then did Buggy push to his feet and hurry after Mihawk, who didn’t slow even when Buggy called his name. Buggy quickened his pace to keep up.

“Hawky,” he tried again, the words catching in his throat. Just now did the strangeness of the past minutes hit him. “I… wanted to thank you! For stepping in, I mean!” And wasn’t it unexpected that Mihawk, of all people, was the one who intervened?

“Mihawk?” Buggy asked, when the other gave no answer.

“Star clown,” Mihawk finally spoke, without slowing his stride. “Write to Red-Hair. Tell him his request to travel to Karai Bari has been denied.” He didn’t even wait for a reply.

Buggy faltered, then stopped, realizing the man was heading straight for his own quarters.

For a moment, he just watched him go. “O-okay.”

The mess hall wasn’t full yet when Buggy stepped inside. Nonetheless, the way people drifted inside showed it was nearly dinner. Stray confetti from last night’s celebration still clung to the floor in patches, but the sight didn’t make him smile. Not now.

He didn’t need long to find Cabaji tucked in their usual corner, Mohji and Galdino there to keep him company.

Unlike Crocodile and Mihawk, Buggy insisted on sharing meals with the crew. But well… maybe that was the difference.

If he didn’t have friends, he doubted he’d set foot in here either.

He made his way over to them.

“Are you alright, Cabaji?” Buggy asked carefully. Cabaji still looked a little shaken, but otherwise unharmed. Mohji sat on his left, rubbing slow circles across his back, while Galdino stayed close on the other side, offering comfort simply by being there.

“’S fine,” Cabaji answered. When he lifted his gaze to Buggy, something in it told Buggy he really would be alright. “We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?” He gave a weak chuckle.

“Yeah.” Buggy reached out, smoothing back Cabaji’s wet hair. “That we did.” He let out a sigh. “But listen… don’t you worry. You will not be punished.” He meant it. There would be no punishment. And certainly no being fed to Crocodile’s beasts. He just needed Cabaji to understand. He sat down across from them.

“Okay.” Cabaji nodded, rubbing his face with a groan. “God, that was so damn stupid. I hate knowing I could’ve prevented it.”

“And how exactly were you supposed to prevent it?” Mohji asked gently. “Hangovers happen. Any one of us could’ve been in your place.”

And truly, Mohji was right.

Cabaji just shrugged. “But this has never happened to me before. You guys know me. I can usually handle more.” He let his head rest on Mohji’s shoulder, staring off vacantly.

“Well, Cabaji, hate to break it to you, but everyone is getting older. Even you,” Mohji said, and for the first time since the incident it coaxed a tiny but genuine giggle out of Cabaji.

“It’ll be alright,” Buggy repeated softly. The truth was, he was clinging to that hope himself.

“Man, our chairman really has to put up with a lot,” Cabaji sighed after a moment. He leaned closer to the table, lowering his voice. “Those two are absolutely ruthless.”

“That’s why he’s a Yonko,” Mohji said with a grin. “He’s the only one who can handle them.”

Something like pride flickered across Cabaji’s face. “No kidding.”

Buggy chuckled, trying to play it off. In reality, he didn’t feel like that at all. Still, he appreciated that his crew trusted him enough to believe he had the situation under control. “What can I say? They’re a handful.” And that, perhaps, was the only truth in it.

Across from him, Galdino exhaled quietly. He hadn’t spoken until now, his face turned partly away from Buggy.

Galdino was one of the few who knew the truth. That, in reality, it was Crocodile and Mihawk who held power over Buggy. Having served under Crocodile for years before the Cross Guild was even founded, Galdino knew firsthand what the sandman was capable of.

Galdino’s small reaction must have caught Cabaji’s eye, because he leaned towards him. “What’s on your mind, Galdino? Just spill it. You’ve been awfully quiet since you got here.” There was no mockery in his tone, like he was genuinely intent on figuring out what was going on with Galdino.

“Oh please.” He crossed his arms. “Sure, they both might be crazy, but I think it’s perfectly obvious who revealed just how unstable he is today.”

Buggy blinked, momentarily taken aback. Judging by the looks of the others, he wasn’t the only one. To hear that from the former Mr. 3, who had always clung to Crocodile with the stubborn loyalty of a stray finding a home, was the last thing Buggy expected.

“Whoa, whoa.” Mohji tried to calm him, though neither of them could quite ignore the truth in Galdino’s words, he couldn’t help the curl of his lips. “Looks like you still haven’t forgiven him, huh?” He clapped Galdino on the shoulder and jostled him lightly.

“Forgive what?” Buggy blurted curiously, looking between the three of them.

That’s when Galdino turned his head, giving Buggy a proper look at his face at last.

Cabaji let out a low whistle. “Fair enough.”

“Shoot… was that Crocodile?” Buggy muttered, eyeing the cut on Galdino’s cheek. It wasn't exactly pretty.

“Who else,” he spat, looking away again.

“Pretty sure Alvida’s got ointment in her room. She’ll give you some if you ask,” Mohji suggested.

Buggy wondered what Galdino had done to set Crocodile off like that. Or maybe the problem was what Galdino hadn’t done. Buggy exhaled. “He must’ve been furious with you. I honestly don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything at all,” Galdino shot back.

“Oh, shut up, Galdino,” Cabaji said like he was used to it and Mohji came in a beat late with, “Seriously, shut up.”

Galdino clicked his tongue but let it drop.

“Beats me what got him in such a sour mood.” Buggy folded his arms across his chest. “As much as I hate what he did, he was rather decent to me just this morning.” His shoulders stiffened and he turned his eyes away. “But that still doesn’t excuse it.”

“Perhaps it’s not as out of the blue as you think,” Mohji said, leaning back and scratching at his jaw. “I heard from Alvida, who heard it from Daz, that Sir Crocodile has been hard to be around for weeks now. Don’t tell anyone I said that, but I’m almost certain that’s why Daz volunteered for the supply run to begin with.”

Galdino pulled a face. “Yeah, that’s why he’s taking it out on me now.”

Buggy raised a brow. “Wait, do you really think so?” If he was already surprised by what Galdino had said about Crocodile, then the fact that Daz had practically run off, even for just a few days, was the real kicker.

“Why is Alvida talking to Daz, though?”

“Does that really matter, Cabaji?” Mohji shot him a look.

“I guess not.”

Silence overtook the table, each of them seemingly caught up in their own thoughts and Mohji’s words. Man, Buggy hated that he’d fallen for someone who treated his crew so poorly. Didn’t that reflect on him as well? He dragged a fingernail along one of the grooves in the wooden surface, following its line absently.

“But you know what the oddest part is?” Cabaji spoke up after a while, breaking the silence. “Mihawk.” He met Buggy’s eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

That’s right. Mihawk.

Mihawk, who had stepped in to save Cabaji.

The same Mihawk who had approached him earlier, calling for a vote to keep Shanks off the island.

Buggy found himself nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he said at last, trying to underscore what Cabaji had said.

“Why, what did he do?” Galdino asked, sounding more intrigued now as he leaned forward.

“Can you believe it? Mihawk. The Dracule Mihawk. He stood up to Crocodile. Which, alright, maybe isn’t that unusual in itself. But do you know why he did it?” He leaned back on the bench, drumming his fingers against the table. “To save me.”

Galdino and Mohji glanced at each other, both looking doubtful, and from their point of view, the whole thing must have sounded crazy.

“…Cap.” Galdino leaned back, shaking his head.

“What? No! I’m telling the truth! Back me up, Buggy!”

“Yeah, Cabaji’s right.” Buggy chewed on his lip, still not understanding why Mihawk had done it.

“See!” Cabaji said with a triumphant grin.

“So the pot called the kettle black,” Galdino muttered. “How ground-breaking.”

“But why would he do that?” Mohji asked, voicing the essential question. All eyes turned to Buggy.

“Trust me, I’m just as confused as you guys,” Buggy said with a sigh.

He hated how little sense it made. Mihawk never did anything without a reason. Yet, here he was, intervening. Just...why? What could he possibly gain? Was it to challenge Crocodile?

“Aight.” He clapped into his hands. “How about we grab something to eat,” he offered, way too eager to steer them as well as his own mind elsewhere.

Even after the mess tent had long been abandoned by the rest of the Buggy Pirates, Buggy still hadn’t managed to go to his room yet.

Instead, he remained at the same spot, a small mountain of crumpled, ink-scored letters growing beside him. All failed attempts at explaining to Shanks why his visit had been denied.

At first, drafting them had been a more or less purposeful distraction from the earlier dinner table talk. From everything the day had left behind. From Crocodile. But the longer he wrote the more the task Mihawk had given him tested his patience in a way few things managed to. It shouldn't be this hard. Get fucked. That was what Buggy most wanted to write, and it would probably be the clearest message, too. Even Shaks would understand that. And yet… he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Despite not wanting to admit it, at the back of his mind guilt kept shouting that Shanks deserved more than that. And on some rational level, Buggy knew it as well.

It didn’t help that it was the first letter Buggy had sent to Shanks in years.

Why the hell did he have to write the damn letter anyway? Wouldn’t it have been easier if Mihawk had done it? He would’ve come up with something. An actual reason for why Shanks couldn’t come. A bit more elaborate than fuck off, but definitely something along those lines.

The whole thing was starting to feel impossibly hard.

“Shanks,” he mumbled, re-reading the first line of his letter. Not Hello Shanks, and certainly not Dear Shanks.

“Upon your request to visit us, the Cross Guild, we unfortunately have to inform you that your visit to Karai Bari cannot be granted.”

He read it through and squinted.

Unfortunately? As if they were mourning the fact he wouldn’t be coming! He crushed the paper in his hand. Just another addition to the growing graveyard of drafts beside him.

With a groan, he pulled a fresh sheet from the dwindling stack, reminding himself to loosen his grip on the pen. The last thing he wanted was for Shanks to catch even a whiff of how much of a pain it was just to write to him. He would only take pride in that.

“Shanks,” he began again.

“Upon your request to visit us, the Cross Guild, we have to inform you that your visit to Karai Bari cannot be granted.”

We hope you understand, he added mentally, only to discard the thought immediately. No! Of course not. He already tried that! If anything, they should ”insist” he understands. Who cares whether Shanks “understands”? He just had to accept it. Buggy scrawled the sentence onto the page. There.

“We insist that you accept our demand.”

That should get the point across. He leaned back to study the draft, read it once, then again. Should he add a threat? Threats, in his experience, were the most convincing arguments.

“Or we will not hesitate to act against you should you persist,” he jotted, then stared at it.

Fifty–fifty they’d take the bait, honestly.

He bit his lip, then put pen to paper once more and closed the letter with a final;

”Thank you, and fuck off.”

He liked the ring to it. It also sounded exactly like something Crocodile would use in his own letters, which gave it a strange legitimacy.

One last messy scrawl closed the whole thing off. Tomorrow, Crocodile and Mihawk could add theirs.

Getting to his feet, he stretched and cracked his back.

He ran a hand through his blue locks as he wandered over to the tent’s opening, where the night pressed in. At some point while he’d been writing, the downpour had started to turn into a drizzle. Jeez, he’d wasted more time on that letter to Shanks than he cared to admit. Shanks had better be thankful. Mihawk too, now that he thought about it.

For a moment he just stood there, staring out into the night, wishing his thoughts could be as calm as the rain.

There would come a day when he’d have to face Shanks, wouldn’t there?

“You’re a Yonko, after all.” Alvida’s voice echoed in his head. And he hated the way she said it, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he rubbed hard. Couldn’t people just stop mentioning that?

Deciding to do a quick, sloppy cleanup, he gathered the pile of discarded pages and dumped them into the mess tent’s bin. The only one he kept was the official letter, which he slipped neatly into a pocket sewn into the lining of his trousers. That was the upside of making his own clothes. He could add as many hidden pockets as he wanted.

Despite the exhaustion dragging at him, Buggy stepped outside the tent, desperate for some fresh air.

“Maybe it’ll bring you some clarity in the end.”

Doubtful, he thought at the words as he drifted past the other tents. For a moment, he wondered if he should duck into his workshop and mess with his Buggy Balls, just to clear his head.

He was just about to step into his workshop when a dull thud could be heard from a neighboring tent, audible even through the rain. He lingered a moment, listening. The sound didn’t come again.

Probably just a worker moving boxes in another tent… or some stray animal knocking things over, he told himself.

He slipped inside the workshop and the Buggy Balls laid exactly where he’d left them just yesterday.

Within no time, he sank back into his usual routine, moving as if on autopilot. He tied his hair up, pulled on the heavy apron, then slid his hands into the worn safety gloves before settling the goggles over his eyes. He clicked the lamp on at his left, then fiddled with the chair until it sat where he wanted it.

Then he set to work, busying himself with small adjustments. He smoothed down the rough edges, refilled the gas canister, and even repainted some of the casings.

After each ball he promised it would be the last, but his hands kept reaching for another.

He reached.

Reached.

Reached again.

Eventually, he hit the bottom of the box and was struck by the realization he’d completely lost track of time.

He pushed the goggles up onto his forehead and leaned back, releasing a long breath. It hit him only then just how exhausted he was.

No wonder. The party had absolutely wrecked him, and apparently sleeping till noon wasn’t the cure after all. Maybe it also had something to do with his executives. He rolled his eyes.

He studied the final product, satisfied, before at last peeling off his protective gear, slowed by fatigue as if he were moving underwater. He was so totally ready to call it a night.

A very distinctive, very bitter smell suddenly set his nose burning.

For a moment he forgot just how tired he was and left the workshop to follow whiff of smoke. It led him to...

The main tent. Straight back to where he had started.

Odd.

As expected, no one was here anymore. By now everyone had long since crawled off to their own rooms.

He turned a slow circle.

Then he spotted it.

On the path beneath the lanterns lay a thin, broken trail of sand, somehow still plain to see despite the drizzle.

Granted, sometimes the wind got strong enough to blow sand into the camp, and sand could turn up everywhere; in the corners of the tents, in the cracks between the planks, even in boots. That was just how Karai Bari was. But it never arranged itself into such a perfect little trail. Nor did it ever summon smoke whose scent was tied to a brand Buggy knew far too well.

So the next logical conclusion his mind offered was the slight chance of a certain sand-user being in camp, lingering at the same hour as Buggy.

“Hello?” he called cautiously into the night, but was met only with the steady rush of rain and the distant crash of waves against the coast.

“Someone there?” he tried a little louder. Nothing.

“Croccy?”

Buggy let his eyes sweep the camp again after not even his third call brought so much as a signal. Yet he found nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the sand and the persistent smell of smoke.

Still, it was strange.

Crocodile was a sand-user, yes, and if Buggy wasn’t mistaken, he could turn himself into sand. But could he also create it? He himself had never seen that happen, so he couldn’t be sure. What if that pile of sand was Crocodile? He frowned, at a loss as to how one was even supposed to react in a situation like this.

He thought for a moment.

He supposed he could try stepping onto the sand. But would that hurt him?

Who cared!

After the way Crocodile had treated Cabaji today, Buggy figured the man could hardly object to being stepped on if that was what it took to see if he was okay.

Before he could overthink it, he pressed his right foot down where the trail began.

No groan.

No stir.

No Crocodile reshaping himself into flesh and bone again.

Or maybe….

You idiot!

This couldn’t be Crocodile.

Crocodile despised the rain, and he would never linger as a heap of sand out in the open like that with no shelter in sight.

Briefly, he considered just heading to his room and leaving it be. Whatever this was, it probably wasn’t his problem. Right?

He turned on his heel, ready to head back. But then the thought tugged at him, ridiculous as it sounded. What if it was a trap? He nearly snorted. What was he, a child?

And yet… something about it still made his skin crawl at the possibility.

What if whoever made this wanted him to think it was a trap? And what if it wasn’t? What if it was, in truth, an SOS in disguise because someone from his crew was hurt?

Better call Mihawk, then.

But Mihawk was asleep!

Buggy cursed under his breath in frustration.

A hot tingling sensation crept up the back of his head as his gaze shifted between the sand trail and the mess tent, where Mihawk’s tent stood as well. Waking Mihawk would no doubt be the safest choice and yet he would rather walk into that non-trap-whatever-it-was than do that.

Officially, Mihawk was the one responsible for Karai Bari’s safety, so it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask him to take a look. But it felt wrong, as though he’d be crossing an invisible line. He didn’t know the swordsman nearly well enough to barge in during the middle of the night just to point out some sketchy trail of sand. Because what if it was nothing? What if it really was only the wind carrying sand up here?

Buggy found himself torn.

And mulled it over for a few minutes again.

His eyes followed the trail once more. The lanterns gave off a weak glow, and with the darkness and the rain blurring his vision, it was hard to tell where the trail ended.

As far as he could make out, it seemed to pass somewhere between the butcher’s tent and the Bananawani enclosure.

Should he take a look from the far side of the enclosure instead of following the trail directly, he might get a clearer sense of where it led. Maybe. If he actually went. That could technically be enough to tell if someone was in danger, without him stepping into danger, though.

And he would obviously just take a quick look and be gone before it turned into trouble.

That way Mihawk wouldn’t even have a reason to get pissed, since Buggy had already checked the trail without wasting his time first.

He tipped his hands at his sides, still uncertain.

“Oh, fuck it,” he muttered, before drawing one of the knives from his belt and sinking lightly into a crouch. Then he set off in the opposite direction.

It was most likely nothing.

In the end, it would probably turn out to be an animal after all. Or some lowlife who had lost his way. In that case, Buggy actually trusted his own abilities to deal with it. He wasn’t someone to be taken lightly, after all!

He moved briskly across the wet grass.

Fortunately, the enclosure itself wasn’t hard to spot, and the closer he approached, the more clearly he could make out the wide-mouthed cave where the gentle beasts nested. Though since he couldn’t take the direct path and had to skirt around, no lantern light reached him, making it hard to see where he was stepping.

When he reached the enclosure without any obstacles, he dropped fully to his knees, forcing himself to steady his breathing.

The pond inside the enclosure caught the moonlight, its surface shining as if it were made of glass. Buggy idly wondered how deep it went, though with the animals that lived here, it was surely deep enough.

Beautiful as the moonlight looked on the water, it was useful too. It gave him a clearer view of the enclosure, enough to be certain no one was hiding there. He scanned further, eyes narrowing, and thanks to the lanterns strung between the tents, he had a decent view of the camp as well.

The sand trail did in fact run further, past the enclosure and the butcher’s tent, winding between a few more tents, though even with the angle he had, Buggy still couldn’t see it clearly. Damn his eyesight.

For the next five or ten minutes, he tried to sweep his gaze as wide as he could, scanning for the smallest hint of movement around the camp.

Every so often, his eyes strayed back to the cave, half-expecting the beasts to show themselves at any moment and take him by surprise. But they never came.

The mouth of the cave stayed empty and the only sound was the rain tapping gently against the pond’s surface.

After a while, he found himself almost ready to give up and leave the investigation for tomorrow, tiredness finally catching up with him.

It was only then that something stirred in his periphery.

He swung his gaze toward it.

Buggy narrowed his eyes, jaw tense when, at that moment, a figure had stepped out of the butcher’s tent.

The figure moved as though in a hurry, his face obscured by a black balaclava. That alone was reason enough to assume trespassing.

The way he moved was fishy as hell too, and Buggy couldn’t come up with a single good reason why anyone, lost or not, would be sneaking through a presumably foreign camp, constantly looking over his shoulder. Especially at this hour.

He straightened a little and edged closer until his hands brushed the railing of the enclosure, trying to get a better look at the intruder.

Despite his suspicious behavior, the figure didn’t look like a threat to Buggy. Even from this distance, he figured he was still taller. Should he attack? But what if the trespasser was a Devil Fruit user? That could be a problem. But he couldn’t just turn around, could he? What if the figure was scheming something? Buggy’s grip on his knife tightened and his pulse quickened. Suddenly, the figure turned in his direction, staring at him for a long moment as if he had just been discovered.

Wait wha —

Buggy recoiled, stumbling back, unsure if the man had really seen him or not.

His shoulders struck something hard and a familiar scent of cigars filled his nose once more.

“‘Croccy!” he realized, and relief crashed through him, like a weight lifting off his chest.

But before he could so much as turn, a rough bag was yanked down over his head. A choking, caustic odor instantly filled his lungs, burning his nose and throat.

Without warning, his collar was seized and he was hoisted off the ground with brutal speed, his stomach lurching.

He was hurled through the air, the world spinning away. He had no sense of direction, only the sickening rush of falling before the impact hit.

The last thing he felt was the icy shock of water flooding his nose and ears, creeping toward his lungs as it numbed his limbs.

And no matter how hard he thrashed his arms and legs, he sank like a stone, darkness closing over him.