Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun dipped lower toward the horizon, casting a fiery glow across the land, as the air still hung heavy with the warmth of the long day. Hues of deep orange and soft pink bled together, washing over the landscape like spilled paint. Outside, the air buzzed with life, thick with the sound of cicadas and the steady hum of voices. 

The Buggy Pirates, bare-armed and sun-kissed, continued their work in the lingering heat, savoring the warmth on their skin. Sweat gleamed on their brows, but they welcomed the fading sunlight, the day’s labor softened by the promise of the evening ahead. 

Soon, they'd gather around the sprawling main tent, where the smell of roasting meat and the clink of bottles would fill the air. Ale and gin would flow, laughter would echo—another night of camaraderie beneath the open sky.

Inside his tent, Crocodile sat, isolated from the buzz of activity. 

The walls around him were heavy, trapping the heat, and though he could hear the muffled conversations outside, his attention remained locked on the towering stack of paperwork before him. 

His jaw tightened as he glared at it, the weight of the week's tasks bearing down on him, far more than the sun ever could.

If he was being honest, most of that work was negligible, tedious reports, mundane requests, the kind of paperwork he usually delegated without a second thought. But with Daz away to procure supplies, Crocodile had de facto no choice but to tackle it himself.

His fingers rested against his temple, absent-mindedly tracing small circles as though the motion might somehow dull the irritation that simmered just beneath the surface. It didn't. And the muffled laughter and the distant clatter of tools outside only served to deepen his annoyance.

It wasn’t like he could trust the clown’s crew with something like a proper evaluation of their yearly revenue–-

As if on cue, the unmistakable sound of shattering glass reached his ears. Crocodile pressed his fingers harder against his temple.

—or with anything, for that matter. 

His gaze flicked over the reports as he leafed through them, searching for something tangible enough to occupy his evening. Something simple, manageable despite the dull throbbing in his head that pulsed with every passing moment.

Though, hadn't he just entrusted some documents to that damned Jester that very morning? 

Where was that incompetent clown?

Crocodile drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. 

He had instructed the star clown to report to him by nine, and it shouldn't have been difficult at all. 

A straightforward review of some deals to gauge their viability. Even a child should have finished it within a day

Frustration simmered within Crocodile.

It was true. They hadn't gotten off on the right foot when he arrived at Karai Bari to collect his money, but he had given Buggy several chances to prove himself useful. 

That ridiculous clown. The thought alone brought a scowl to Crocodile's face as he stood from his desk, the chair scraping against the wooden floor.

He headed to the meeting room, wondering if that idiot had somehow confused his office with it. Though he knew that would be too much to hope for.

He strode out of his tent, the air outside only marginally cooler as he moved swiftly across the camp. 

His boots struck the ground with a steady rhythm, the distant chatter of the crew barely registering in his mind as he approached the meeting room. Once inside, his sharp eyes swept across the space, immediately settling on the whiteboard, then to his desk, where everything was, unsurprisingly, in order.

Crocodile’s gaze then settled on the empty wine glass still sitting on the table. Mihawk had left it there days ago, abandoned beside the stack of paperwork that he had either chosen to ignore or simply hadn’t had time to address. 

Crocodile strode over to Mihawk’s usual seat, eyeing the unopened letter that sat beside the glass. It remained untouched, its edges curling slightly from neglect. He resisted the urge to glance at any clues that might reveal the sender, though he already had a vague idea of who it could be.

His eyes flicked to the ugly makeshift lanterns hanging from the beams instead, an absolute eyesore, but the clown had insisted on keeping them. 

Something about his crew making them by hand, as if that excused the poor craftsmanship. 

Crocodile‘s gaze shifted again, now landing on the clown‘s ridiculous waterproof markers, scattered carelessly across the table. Crocodile squinted, eyeing the unnecessary array of colors.

An unsettling thought crept into his mind. Oh he better not.

Slowly, he took a step back, his hand purposefully brushing over the words scrawled on the whiteboard. His fingers smeared slightly as the black ink transferred to his skin, and he sighed in relief.

If that fool had used permanent ink, Crocodile would’ve been forced to cut his pay

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it. The parchment letter, still pinned to the board where it had hung for two weeks. 

The same letter, specifically addressed to him. He didn’t need to open it to recall the contents; A minor pirate crew proposing an alliance of mutual advantage. Audacious, but far from impressive. 

His thumb brushed the corner of the letter as he skimmed it again, his frown deepening.

Daz had visited those pirates just weeks ago. They had shown nothing of value, no resources, no assets worth considering. But the mention of captured Marines had given him pause. Even so, Crocodile wasn’t interested in aligning with second-rate pirates, not when there were bigger issues to deal with.

With a flick of his wrist, the letter landed carelessly on the table.

But he couldn’t deny it. He could use more competent hands. 

Cigar between his teeth, Crocodile snapped his lighter open for what felt like the hundredth time that day. 

A thin plume of smoke curled into the air as he inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing in thought. 

He could pass the task off to the clown, but that buffoon can‘t handle even the simplest of duties.

With one last glance around the room, Crocodile had to admit his initial suspicion had been right; the clown hadn’t mixed anything up, at least not here. 

***

Buggy sat cross-legged on his bed, completely lost in his own world. A needle in one hand, a shimmering piece of fabric in the other. "Everybody look at me, me…" he hummed, while admiring the vibrant fabric in his lap. "I’ll make you work hard, make you spend hard…"

His hands moved expertly as he admired the luxurious fabric he’d traded for earlier in the week. The colors were striking, the texture divine. He twirled the needle between his fingers.

It was going to be perfect.

“This is gonna be fabulous,” he muttered to himself, picturing how stunning he’d look in the new outfit.

The kind of outfit that demanded attention, admiration… and maybe even a little envy. He grinned, clearly enjoying the peace, when—

“I swear, Clown— ” Crocodile’s voice cut through the air like a whip, low and controlled, making Buggy yelp so loudly he was certain someone would eventually come running out of concern.

He leaped out of bed as if he'd been bitten, eyes wide with panic as he finally registered who was standing in his room.

“Oh, h-hi, Croco-baby. How nice of you to visit me here!” he stammered, frantically tossing a pile of sewing materials off the bed in a clumsy attempt to hide them.

“Is there anything I can, uhm, do for you?” he fidgeted nervously, all while maintaining a conspicuously safe distance from Crocodile. Duh.

Crocodile's gaze narrowed, scanning his room with a sour expression. "Did you finish the paperwork I gave you earlier this morning?"

"The paperwo…ah yes, the paperwork!" Buggy squeaked. "Such a funny story, actually!" His voice shot up an octave as Crocodile’s unblinking stare practically pinned him to the spot.

“Where. Is. My paperwork, Jester?!”

Buggy shrieked, "D-desk...on my desk."

With heavy steps, Crocodile marched to Buggy's desk, only to find a mess of papers covered in paint and glitter.

A vein throbbed on Crocodile’s forehead as he turned back to Buggy.

“Why is your crap all over my paperwork?” Crocodile growled dangerously, his voice dripping with so much venom Buggy was half-expecting him to bite through his cigar.

Buggy vividly recalled this happening a few times before. That one meeting when Crocodile had nearly lost his mind over Buggy's choice of a neon yellow pen for the protocol. Oh boy, was he fuming.

Grimacing, he had to shove the memory aside. This was definitely not the time to giggle.

"Oh, that… hm…yeah, well, you see— "

But he couldn’t finish because Crocodile’s hand had already shot out, gripping Buggy’s throat with a vice-like strength that made him gasp for air like a fish out of water.

"Do you think I am stupid?" Crocodile hissed.

Buggy sputtered, "N-no, no, of course not, Croco-baby! I would never think that. You're way too flashy and smart!"

Crocodile's grip tightened. "Do you think this is funny? Messing up my work?"

"No, that's not— "

"Then are you just mentally unable to follow simple orders?" Crocodile spat, releasing Buggy, who fell to the floor without warning.

"Don't be mad, Croco. Please, it was an accident. I swear I didn't mean to upset you!"

"Accident or not, this incompetence of yours is a liability," Crocodile snapped, his voice cutting like a knife. "I have given you multiple chances this month, Jester. I am starting to think you want me to sell you as a slave instead."

Buggy shook his head fervently, his heart pounding in his chest. "I won't, I promise! I'll fix it, Croco. I'll make it right, please!"

Crocodile regarded him with a cold, calculating gaze.

“See that you do,” Crocodile said, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. “Or you’ll find yourself with more to worry about than just paint and glitter.”

Buggy was almost certain Crocodile had spat out “paint” and “glitter” as though they were the most repugnant things imaginable. He was also sure that, at that moment, they probably were.

“Of course, Croccy!”

With that, Crocodile turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Oh boy, why can’t I just get anything right?” Buggy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, the weight of his mistake sinking in.

He felt a deep sense of regret twisting in his chest, but it wasn’t just because he’d messed up the task. Again. This time, it was different. This time, it was Crocodile he had let down.

After everything, he had thought the three of them were finally starting to get along, despite their rocky start. Sure, Buggy was prone to forgetting things or slipping up every now and then, but he’d been trying. Really trying.

He didn’t want to ruin the fragile sense of mutual respect he had fought so hard to earn, especially with Crocodile, who barely tolerated anyone to begin with.

He clenched his fists, frustration welling up inside. He didn’t want to go back to square one, not after all the effort he’d put in to prove he could be of...whatever this was.

Hoping for more simply wasn't an option.

There was no room for hope when it came to things like this. And yet, he had done it anyway.

***

Mihawk had just finished his training, Yoru resting on his back, when Crocodile stormed past, his irritation almost palpable. Mihawk barely spared him a glance, too accustomed to the man's simmering impatience to pay it much mind.

In the distance, the faint sound of Buggy's hurried footsteps echoed through the walls, accompanied by frantic muttering. Mihawk didn’t need to listen closely to know that the clown was stressed, undoubtedly due to Crocodile. The entire atmosphere felt charged with agitation, but Mihawk wasn’t one to concern himself with their trivial frustrations.

With a calm, deliberate pace, he turned away from the noise, making his way outside, where the last hours of sunlight awaited him.

The weather had been mostly sunny these days, quite different from Kuraigana island. It was strange, he thought, how the constant lack of sunlight on Kuraigana island never seemed to negatively affect his garden. The plants had always grown just fine.

Still, he had to admit, since coming to Karai Bari Island, his eggplants had never been this beautiful.

He himself didn't particularly crave the sun, simply never felt the need for it. The constant overcast skies of Kuraigana island suited him just fine. 

But here, on Karai Bari Island, the sunlight was ever-present, warm and persistent. And though he never sought it out, the shift was a welcome change, a refreshing difference in his otherwise steady routine.

Mihawk stepped into his small shed, the familiar scent of wood and soil greeting him as he reached for his tools. His fingers grazed over the smooth wooden handles, each one well-worn and fitted perfectly to his grip. 

His hand moved to the trowel, its sturdy metal head still speckled with dried soil from the last time he had dug through the rich earth. It was small but sharp, perfect for loosening the dirt around more delicate plants. 

Stepping back into the garden, he also reached for a small watering can filled with water.

The scent of damp earth began to rise.

Kneeling beside his plants, Mihawk noticed the creeping vine that had begun to choke one of his eggplants. It was barely noticeable now, but left unchecked, it would eventually take over.

Mihawk’s fingers brushed against the vine. He’d deal with it later. 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the rows of vibrant green and red.

His thoughts drifted for a moment, tracing the steady rhythm of the garden's growth, plants thriving or struggling, much like the people around him.

The scent of saltwater and steel lingered in his mind, recalling the day he last crossed swords with a certain green haired swordsman.

He let his mind wander to the latest news he’d come across. Word of Zoro’s recent victories, though Mihawk would deny ever keeping track of such things if asked. Defeating an Emperor's All-Stars was no small feat. It marked a significant leap in the swordsman’s journey. Zoro was improving. They all were. 

As he reached out, though, his fingers gently brushed against a ripe strawberry, its vivid red hue catching his eye immediately.

He plucked it from the plant, holding it in his hand, the delicate fruit warm from the sun. For a moment, he simply studied it, rolling it between his fingers, noting the richness of the color.

He shook his head with a hint of amusement, surprised at his own lack of discipline. Of all things to let his mind wander to, it had to be him.

With a small sigh, he tossed the strawberry lightly in his hand before setting it down. He carefully put away the tools, arranging them neatly in their places. Satisfied, he made his way toward the mess hall, hoping to eat in peace before the inevitable noise of the Clown’s crew filled the space.

***

Crocodile sat at his desk, his pen moving across the page, though his mind wasn’t entirely on the task. 

Outside, darkness had already settled. The days had been getting longer for a while now, but tonight it felt like the evening had come too quickly, like time was rushing forward, eager to drag him along. 

He caught his reflection in the window—tired eyes, a deep frown, hair a little more disheveled than usual. With a sigh, he ran a hand through it, smoothing it down out of habit, though it did little to ease the fatigue that weighed on him.

His hook sat on the shelf by the door, set aside in the hope of easing the constant throb in the scarred tissue of his arm. Though, it had nothing to do with that scar. Not really, anyways. 

He reached for a cigar, cutting it with the familiar flick of his wrist, the action grounding him as he glanced at the wooden clock beside the shelf. 

Ten minutes left.

He resisted the urge to glance at his reflection again. Instead, he reached for the candle on his desk, lighting it with deliberation as he flipped through the last report. It was only appropriate to light one tonight.

Of course, the report in front of him was flawless. He’d looked over it five times already, not because it needed more work but because it gave him something to do. Something to keep his mind from wandering too far into the places he’d sealed off long ago.

Crocodile closed the report with a soft thud. A small smile tugged at his lips as the candle flickered on, its gentle light barely cutting through the darkness. The faint scent of wax lingered in the air, and the steady ticking of the clock filled the silence.

And his mind wandered.

“Strawhat Luffy… his actual bloodline makes him the son of the Revolutionary, Dragon!” 

The announcement rang through the battlefield like a cannon blast,  crashing over Crocodile and freezing him in place as they sank in. Strawhat? That reckless kid he’d tried to kill, not once, but three times, thinking him just another… fool on the Grand Line. 

His son. And Dragon’s.

Thinking back, the shock of it had nearly undone him, a mix of emotions swirling too fast to control. He could remember the disbelief, the raw relief of knowing his son was alive after all. Dragon had told him years ago that his child had died. Something he’d had no choice but to accept. 

But standing there in the chaos of Marineford, hearing his son’s name and realizing he’s in fact here…  it had left him more at peace than he’d felt in years, even if the news was nerve-wracking.

And now, with a bounty of three billion and tales of his clash with Kaido spreading across the seas… his boy. It was absurd, really, but he was proud. 

But the guilt gnawed at him too, a sharp reminder that he’d had no part in raising Luffy, hadn’t been there to shape or protect him. So why should he, of all people, feel this pride? That kid had grown into a force of his own, without him.

When the clock finally struck twelve, the chime pulled him from the memories, grounding him in the quiet dark. 

“Happy birthday, baby” he muttered into the stillness.

The candle's warm glow flickered as if responding, casting a soft shadow that danced along the wall. 

With a swift motion, he reached into the pocket of his coat, his fingers wrapping around a small, folded piece of paper. He brought it to his lips, before closing his eyes for a brief second.

The paper had gotten so small in the recent weeks. 

And the uncertainty was gnawing at him from within. 

He looked at the paper in his calloused hand, its worn edges soft from being handled so often. Please be safe, he thought, a quiet hope crossing his mind before he slipped it back into his coat pocket. 

With a quick motion, he extinguished the candle’s soft glow, plunging the room into peaceful darkness as he rose from his chair, the weight of the night still lingering as he made his way to his quarters.

Lost in his own thoughts, he barely noticed the faint light spilling out from someone’s room as he passed by, catching it only in the corner of his eye.

Chapter Text

“Well, that’s a first.”

“Hey! I can be early whenever I want!”

It was Wednesday. 

Which usually meant one thing: It was time for the weekly Cross Guild executive meeting.

Without fail, they’d arrive in the same, almost ceremonial order. Crocodile himself would show up a solid five minutes early. Mihawk, precise as ever, followed right on time. And, like clockwork, the clown would waltz in exactly two minutes late.

But today threw them a curveball.

When the heavy door creaked open and Crocodile stepped inside, Buggy was already there.

For once, the clown was over-punctual, standing with an exaggerated air of importance as he held out a stack of paperwork. His red nose gleamed under the soft glow of the hanging lanterns, a wide grin stretching nearly ear to ear.

Crocodile took the stack of papers and flipped through them suspiciously, his eyes narrowing as he skimmed each page.

To his surprise, the usual wave of frustration didn’t hit. Instead, the paperwork was impressively thorough, almost suspiciously so, especially coming from Buggy. 

Crocodile couldn’t help but wonder if the clown had actually stayed up all night, maybe even sweating over this. He almost smirked. Almost.

“See? I told you I’d get it right!” Buggy declared. His fingers drummed lightly on his sides, betraying his excitement.

"Better than expected,” Crocodile muttered, stepping further into the room with Buggy trailing behind, practically skipping.

He’d have to go over the rest later, once this meeting was done.

The air shifted as Mihawk entered moments later, his boots making soft thuds against the floor. He nodded, his usual calm demeanor in place. 

If he was at all surprised to see Buggy already there, he hid it flawlessly.

"Good morning."

"Morning."

"A splendid good morning, gentlemen!"

They sat down around the round meeting table, each falling into their familiar roles. 

The muted clink of Mihawk’s ring tapping occasionally against the table was the only sound as the meeting drifted from one topic of their agenda to the next. The clown, despite his earlier theatrics, managed to hold himself together, occasionally fidgeting but mostly staying on task. Crocodile, for once, didn’t feel that familiar pulse of an oncoming headache.

By the end, the room was filled with a sense of strange routine, something almost efficient

Buggy, however, was barely hanging on. 

He flipped through last week’s newspaper, doodling mustaches and devil horns on the faces with a look of pure suffering. 

Every now and then, he’d let out a loud, dramatic sigh, hoping someone might notice his plight. 

But no one seemed to care, and Buggy slumped further in his chair, clearly the only one aware of how painfully dull this all was.

Inevitably, his eyes began to roam around the room. 

Until they landed on Crocodile. 

The raven-haired had changed to sit at the desk by the whiteboard, deeply engrossed in crunching numbers for supply needs and distribution schedules. Brow furrowed in concentration, as he meticulously reviewed each detail.

It wasn’t the first time Buggy found himself staring, a thought sneaking into his mind. 

A thought he’d had before but never quite dared to dwell on.

His gaze drifted lower, slowly landing on Crocodile's hand as it worked with methodical precision, jotting down figures and calculations that might as well have been ancient hieroglyphics for all Buggy understood. 

Its veins were tracing the surface like rivers on a map, yet tempered by an almost graceful elegance. 

A hand that could just as easily crush a man's windpipe as it could hold a delicate object with unshakable care.

Buggy inevitably glanced down at his own hands, instinctively comparing them but quickly decided not to dwell on that particular subject. 

He stole another glance at Crocodile. 

Crocodile was good at this kind of thing. Numbers and all that. 

It wasn’t really Buggy’s strong suit, or—

He cast a shy glance over at Mihawk, who had his feet kicked up on the table, looking for all the world like he was taking a power nap in the middle of a strategy session. 

—Yeah. 

He tore his eyes away, suddenly painfully aware of all the staring he'd done, and his gaze fell on the scattered materials in front of him. 

He reached for the red sharpie in front of him, itching to adorn Sengoku's stern, humorless mug with a pair of smooching lips.

But as he reached for the pen, his hand brushed against the edge of a glass of water, sending it tumbling to the floor with a crash that shattered the room's silence like a rock through glass.

Fuck. 

"Shit.“

Mihawk’s eyes snapped open, his gaze shifting immediately to Buggy, one eyebrow quirking upward in mild annoyance. 

Crocodile turned his head just slightly, his expression a masterclass in restrained irritation.

“Jester,” Crocodile began, his tone carrying that weary edge of someone who’s had to say this far too many times, “try not to make a mess of everything.”

“Uh, sorry, guys,“ he tried to quickly mop up the water with a corner of his red coat, only making the spill worse in the process.

Crocodile sighed deeply, but said nothing more, turning back. 

The room fell into a heavy silence once more, though Mihawk, now robbed of his pre-lunch nap, seemed less inclined to return to his former state of relaxation. 

Mihawk‘s gaze wandered lazily around the room until it settled on a parchment letter lying carelessly amidst the pile of Crocodile’s paperwork. 

His golden eyes narrowed in curiosity.

"What’s this?" Mihawk asked, nodding toward the letter sitting on Crocodile's desk. 

The same letter Crocodile had been studying the day before.

Crocodile looked up from his notes, mildly surprised that Mihawk had now cared to adress it, and followed his gaze. "It’s a proposal from the Isle of Verdelia. They’re seeking a strategic alliance."

Their eyes met briefly. "I assume your lack of immediate action suggests it’s not urgent," Mihawk remarked, his tone more observant than unkind.

Crocodile's eyes flicking toward the letter with a casual ease. "Nah, I’ve just been letting it sit there."

Mihawk just hummed in response, looking at his nails. 

"Figured I’d get to it when it started looking important,” Crocodile shrugged. 

It amused Crocodile how Mihawk always acted indifferent, when in reality, he was always a step ahead of them. 

He simply never seemed bothered to let anyone know.

Actually, Crocodile wouldn’t be too surprised if Mihawk already knew who the sender was. Chances were, he had even approached Daz the moment the latter returned from his trip to Verdelia. 

Mihawk’s voice was calm but intent. “Then shall we discuss it now?”

Buggy looked up as Crocodile shook his head. 

“Truth is, It’s not urgent. Daz is away until next week, and I have no one else to handle it.” Crocodile cast a sharp, doubting glance at Buggy, who suddenly felt a cold sweat forming. 

Buggy’s mind raced, his usual bravado faltering.

Mihawk hummed, his golden hues now also settling on Buggy. 

Oh no, Buggy thought, panic setting in. 

It’s always the pretty ones, isn’t it?

He forced a shaky grin, desperately trying to fill the silence. "I must admit, you sending me to seal a strategic alliance wasn’t exactly on my bingo card for this year," Buggy said, with a quick flick of his hand."But I guess I do have a certain flair that’s tough to overloo —,"

“Star Clown,” Crocodile cut him off. 

"Yes Croccy-baby?"

"Please do shut up."

"Wha—,"

“There is no way we’re sending you to Verdelia,” Crocodile said. Looking somewhat disappointed. 

Mihawk met his gaze knowingly. “I agree with Crocodile, sending only you would be unwise.”

He gave Buggy a steady look. "I really can’t have you spoil this one, clown," Crocodile said, his voice firm but even. 

Crocodile‘s mind had already begun wandering to the idea of recruiting pirates more capable of following blueprints than the jester‘s. This might be an opportunity after all. 

Before Crocodile could add something more, Mihawk looked at him again, "What about me?" His voice carried a hint of challenge. "Am I going to spoil it?"

Crocodile considered Mihawk for a moment. A toothy grin tugged at his lips as he leaned back. 

"That‘s absurd. You’re the most capable person I know." Crocodile paused, his gaze steady. "But you’re needed here. The ship with the new Marines arrives in three days, and I don’t trust this fool" —he gestured toward Buggy— "to handle it."

Buggy gasped, obviously hurt by the words. 

Mihawk nodded, sensing the weight of the situation. "I understand your reasoning," he said calmly, "but I’m not convinced that sending any of us alone would be the wisest decision."

Buggy piped up, undeterred, "I'd love to tag along with any of you, you know— ,"

But his words went unnoticed.

"The deal has already taken up too much time," Crocodile replied, frustration evident in his voice. "Let‘s get this over with. Besides, these are just low-class bandits hoping to cozy up to a Yonko for protection. Daz handled them on his own a few weeks ago without any issues."

Mihawk nodded knowingly. "Naturally.“

"It's unfortunate Daz is away. He could have handled this, freeing you for more pressing matters,“ Mihawk then added. 

Crocodile hummed. "Yes, it's a real inconvenience."

"The Isle of Verdelia is only a few kilometers north of Karai Bari Island, isn't it?" The swordsman asked, his eyes scanning the now slightly wet map spread out on the table. 

"Yes," Crocodile confirmed. "I'd be back in time for the marines' arrival."

Mihawk nodded, satisfied. "Good. Handle it quickly then."

"Sure.“

Buggy looked between them with wide eyes. "Wait, so Crocodile’s just going now? Just like that?"

Finally, the two ex-warlords turned their attention to Buggy. “Got a problem with that, Jester?” Crocodile asked, his tone direct.

Mihawk mused, “If Daz handled it without complications, Crocodile should have no issues either.”

Buggy hesitated, then blurted out, “Yeah, no, I get that part, but… what about me?”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“Well, I am the Yonko they’re seeking protection from, so shouldn’t I at least be accompanying Crocodile?”

“Somehow, I think you tagging along would only make things worse,“ Crocodile replied, lips curling.  

Mihawk hummed in agreement. 

Buggy deflated slightly at that. "I would have been one hell of a flashy sidekick, you know."

“Sometimes, it’s a skill to keep things rather simple.“ Mihawk gave him a brief glance, reaching for his glass of wine. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Buggy muttered, stomping off in frustration. From the way their conversation had ended, it was clear the meeting was now over, anyways.

Crocodile called after him, a hint of amusement in his voice, “Quit pouting, clown,” as Buggy shuffled away, still grumbling under his breath.

Just then, Crocodile’s gaze shifted to another letter. The one that had been sitting untouched on Mihawk’s desk for days.

Its presence starting to feel more like a fixture than correspondence.

“Have you gotten around to reading that one yet?” Crocodile asked.

Mihawk’s golden eyes drifted lazily toward the letter, his expression as unreadable as ever.

He took his time, lifting his glass and taking a measured sip of his wine before responding, his voice calm and deliberate.

“No.”

Silence settled between them. Crocodile raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Mihawk had never been one to explain himself. 

Still, the silence lingered just a bit too long for Crocodile’s liking.

Eventually, Mihawk set his glass down with a soft clink and glanced briefly at Crocodile. “But let that be of no concern to you,” he said, his tone carrying a finality that left little room for argument.

Crocodile didn’t press further and without another word, Mihawk got up and left, his movements as graceful and composed as ever, as Crocodile watched him go. 

***

By midday, Buggy was in his workshop, humming a tune as he carefully painted his signature Buggy Balls. 

Each one was a masterpiece in his eyes, with bright, flashy colors that screamed danger and drama. Just like him. 

The paintbrush flicked back and forth, leaving vibrant streaks of color on the metal spheres.

But as much as he tried to focus on his work, Buggy couldn’t help but remember this morning’s meeting. 

The way Crocodile and Mihawk had dismissed him still stung. “Stupid Croco… stupid Hawky,” he muttered under his breath, dabbing a bit of neon orange on a Buggy Ball with unnecessary force. 

“They don’t appreciate real flair when they see it. I could’ve dazzled those low-class pirates into submission.”

His brush strokes became more aggressive as his frustration bubbled up. “All I wanted was to help. Mihawk's always so serious, and Croccy… he probably thinks he’s too cool for a little flash. They wouldn’t know pizzazz if it hit them in the face!”

With a huff, Buggy laid down the brush and stepped back to admire the vibrant colors and intricate patterns that gleamed under the light, 

But as he stared at his work, the usual pride didn’t quite reach him. The sting of being left out still weighed heavily on his mind.

Deep down, Buggy longed to show them that he was more than just a flashy sideshow. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t as unreliable as they believed, that beneath the theatrics was someone who could be counted on when it really mattered.

Since they’d arrived on Karai Bari, Buggy was certain some things had changed. He could see it in the way Crocodile would occasionally hand him paperwork, the kind he wouldn’t trust with just anyone, or the way Mihawk—stoic Mihawk—sometimes cracked a small smile at one of Buggy’s stupid jokes. And the way they’d even show up, lingering in the back of one of Buggy’s shows, thinking he wouldn’t notice. But still, at times, he couldn’t shake the confusion, wondering if things had really changed at all.

Well, so what? 

He shouldn’t feel down because of them. He was a Yonko, for crying out loud! Of course, it made perfect sense for Crocodile to handle things on his own. Wasn’t he technically Buggy’s subordinate, anyway? It was only right to expect his underlings to get the job done. 

Pff, yeah right. As if he, Buggy the genius Jester, the flashiest, most generous, prettiest and undisputed Emperor of the five Seas, had time for a trivial business trip. He had far more important things to attend to, thank you very much!

He tried to convince himself, but it didn’t quite work. The nagging feeling of being sidelined still lingered.  

He barely even noticed the door creaking open behind him.

Galdino leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face. “Hey, Chairman,” he drawled in that annoyingly nasal voice of his, “Sir Crocodile wants to see you.”

Buggy, still focused on his painting, didn’t turn around. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a sec,” he mumbled, eyes squinting as he added a final touch to one of the Buggy Balls. Perfection. 

“I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you. He sounded… let’s just say, less than pleased.”

That got Buggy’s attention. His hand jerked slightly, almost smudging the paint. “What do you mean ‘less than pleased’?” Buggy asked. 

“Oh, you know,” Galdino shrugged nonchalantly, “the usual ‘I’m about to throw someone out the nearest window’ tone.”

Buggy’s eyes widened in panic. 

“Why didn’t you say that earlier, you waxy freak?!” he yelped, hastily separating his upper body from his legs. 

Galdino chuckled softly, as Buggy‘s torso floated up and sped out of the room, leaving his legs still planted in front of the workbench. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Buggy zoomed down the corridor as fast as he possibly could, his mind racing. 

What did I do this time? Did I mess up the paperwork again? Or maybe he found out about the glitter prank? No, no, idiot, he already punished me for that one! Oh boy, he sounded really mad! Why didn’t Galdino warn me sooner, that stupid bastard!

He was so lost in his frantic thoughts that he didn’t notice the dark figure in front of him until it was already too late.

WHAM!

Buggy’s floating torso crashed head-on into a solid figure and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. 

Buggy’s eyes widened in horror as they locked onto Crocodile’s furious glare, whose gaze had dropped to his vest, a flicker of panic flashing across his features.

Following his gaze, Buggy’s heart plummeted. The vibrant colors he’d painstakingly applied in his workshop were now an unmissable disaster on Crocodile’s dark vest.

Beside Crocodile stood Mihawk, his gaze resting on the vest, the only hint that he’d registered the catastrophe unfolding before him.

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You…what have you done?” he growled. 

Buggy, still hovering mid-air, stammered, “Uh, Croccy, I am so sorry! I swear, I was just— ”

Crocodile’s hand shot out, grabbing Buggy by the collar and yanking him up to eye level. “You absolute idiot,” Crocodile growled, voice dripping with irritation. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? This is a custom vest!”

Buggy’s eyes widened, and he stammered, “I know, I know! I mean, I didn’t obviously!” He let out a nervous laugh, “Please, I am so so sorry!”

“Just tell me you can wash this crap out.”

Buggy swallowed hard, his attempt at a laugh coming out more like a nervous squeak. “Uh, well… it’s, uhm, kind of permanent?”

“Permanent!?”

Crocodile’s grip tightened, and his expression darkened. “You mean to tell me this—” he gestured at his ruined vest, “—isn’t coming off?”

Buggy winced, nodding again. “Yeah, it’s sort of… forever.”

Mihawk, who had been observing silently, finally spoke up, his tone slightly amused. “It seems your artistic flair has caused a bit more damage than usual, star clown.”

Still fuming, Crocodile released Buggy just enough to jab a finger into his chest. “You’re going to fix this, and you’re going to do it now. If this paint doesn’t come off, I will sell you off as a slave myself.”

Crocodile’s cold glare sharpened, a swirling sandstorm suddenly whipped up around them, shrouding him in a brief, gritty haze. 

When the dust settled, Crocodile was back in his usual attire, minus the vest, which landed unceremoniously on the floor with a thud.

Buggy, who had dropped to the floor, stared in awe at the swirling sand before snapping back to reality. “I...I’ll figure it out! Don’t worry, Croco, I’ll fix it, I swear!”

Not even waiting for a response, Buggy charged down the hallway before Crocodile had the chance to yell at him again.

Mihawk, who had been standing there with his usual unreadable expression, simply turned on his heel. “Care for some Merlot?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

Crocodile, still wearing a sour expression, just huffed in response.

“Maybe later. I still need to go over a few things, including that buffoon’s report.”

“See that you do,” Mihawk mused, as though the entire ordeal was an unspoken farce only he fully appreciated.

***

Buggy stormed into the main area of the biggest tent they owned, clutching the small bottle of solvent like a lifeline. 

Spotting Alvida at the bar, he made a beeline for her, sliding onto the stool beside her with a dramatic sigh.

“This,” he declared, placing the bottle on the counter with exaggerated care, “is either going to save my life, or I’m going to need a drink. Multiple drinks.”

Alvida raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What’s in the bottle? And what in the world did you do this time?”

Buggy groaned, letting his head fall onto the counter. “It’s a solvent. I managed to paint one of Crocodile’s expensive custom vest with some of my, uh, extra-durable paint, and now I have to fix it before he decides to strangle me with it.”

Alvida snorted, trying to suppress a laugh but failing. “You seriously painted Crocodile’s vest, shouldn't you know better?”

Buggy shot her a desperate look. “It was an accident! I tripped and practically body-slammed him, and now his vest looks like it’s been through a battlefield.”

Alvida took another long sip through her straw, not missing a beat. “Well, Buggy, you’d better start practicing your last words.”

Buggy cried out again. “Not helping, Alvida! Not helping at all!!”

He then uncorked the bottle, his hand trembling slightly as he poured a small amount of solvent onto a clean cloth. He hesitated, staring at the vest with a mix of determination and dread.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he muttered, his confidence wavering.

Alvida, ever the supportive friend, gave him a reassuring nod. “You won’t know until you try.”

Taking a deep breath, Buggy began dabbing at the stain, his brow furrowing in concentration. But as he worked, the solvent seemed to be taking its sweet time, and his frustration grew.

“Come on, you stupid paint!” Buggy growled, scrubbing harder. “I am not ending up as a bargain bin special because of you!”

Buggy’s frustration hit a peak as the stain seemed to barely budge. Alvida noticed and finally reached over, gently taking the vest from his hands. 

“Here, let me. You’re just making it worse.”

Buggy huffed but handed it over. “Fine, but if this doesn’t work, we’re both doomed.”

Alvida rolled up her sleeves, getting to work with practiced ease. “Relax, I’ve got this.”

She began dabbing at the stain, but after a few moments, Alvida started to struggle with it, as well.

Just then, Galdino strolled in, eyeing the scene with mild curiosity. “What’s this, Buggy? Messing up again?”

Buggy didn't even spare him a glance. “Not now, Galdino. Alvida’s saving my skin.”

Galdino raised an eyebrow while watching as Alvida worked. “I see Alvida‘s doing all the hard work, as usual.”

Buggy narrowed his eyes at him, but before he could snap back, Alvida stepped in with a quick retort. “He managed to destroy Crocodile’s vest. Now he’s trying to clean it before Crocodile decides to sell him off to the lowest bidder.” With that, she handed the vest back to Buggy.

Galdino chuckled, taking a seat beside them. “Classic. Need a hand?”

"Well not from you, Idiot."

Buggy’s frustration hit a peak as the stain seemed to barely budge. 

Galdino smirked, unfazed. “Alright, but don’t come crying to me when the boss is haggling over your price.“

Buggy scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” 

Determined, he put all his strength into scrubbing the stain, but no matter how hard he tried, the paint just wouldn’t budge.

“I’m doomed,” Buggy groaned. “Why won’t this stuff come off?!”

“Honestly, you’re beyond help.” Alvida said as she took charge once again.

Buggy slumped in defeat, watching as Alvida started scrubbing. “You’d better work your magic, Alvida, or I’m really in trouble.”

Alvida gave him a sideways glance but kept her focus on the vest. “Maybe it’s because you’re doing it wrong. Just watch.”

Without a word, the fabric under Alvida's touch grew slick and damp, almost as if freshly soaked. The solvent quickly took effect, loosening the stubborn paint, much to Buggy’s relief.

“See?” Alvida said with a grin, holding up the now-clean vest. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Buggy’s eyes lit up as he inspected the vest, a huge grin spreading across his face. “You did it! I’m not getting thrown overboard today!”

Alvida smirked, leaning back with a satisfied look. “Of course I did. You owe me now, just so you know.”

Buggy chuckled, but the sound quickly faded as he stared into his drink, his mood visibly darkening. 

Alvida noticed the shift and nudged him lightly. “What’s wrong? Still sad because of Crocodile?”

Buggy sighed deeply, still staring into his drink. “It’s not just that… It’s so exhausting.”

Alvida raised an eyebrow, curious. “What’s got you all twisted up now?”

Buggy hesitated, then blurted out, all while trying to keep his voice down, “He’s such an asshole! He’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure he hates me now… but why does he have to look like that?”

Alvida leaned in, clearly intrigued. “Look like what?”

"Like that."

"Like what exactly?"

"You know like what."

Alvida, pressing him further. “No, I really don't.“

Buggy threw his hands up in frustration. “Like...like he’s handsome! Argh! There, now I said it!”

Next to him, Galdino made a chocking noise, sputtering as his drink shot out of his nose, splattering his shirt and glasses in the process.

“Ew, watch yourself, Galdino, seriously! Are you nine?” Buggy groaned, scooting a bit away from the former Mr. 3.

Galdino, wiping his face and shirt, stared at Buggy in disbelief. 

“The boss!? Have you absolutely lost your damn mind?!”

Buggy flinched, glancing around in a panic. “Shhh! Keep your voice down, stupid!”

Galdino leaned in, still wide-eyed. “You were loud yourself, idiot!”

Buggy groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. "I don’t know, maybe…maybe my brain’s just subconsciously trying to distract me from someone by focusing on someone else." His voice trailed off, as if he wasn’t even convinced by his own words.

"That‘s fucked up.“

"Shut up Galdino, I know that!“

Alvida smirked, though the amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Messy mix, Buggy," she said, almost knowingly. 

Only, she most certainly couldn’t know who else he was referring to. Right? … Right?

Buggy glanced at her warily.

Alvida softened her tone, taking a casual sip. "But I guess you’re not wrong. He’s got that brooding, dangerous vibe. Not really my type, but I can see the appeal."

Buggy let his head fall forward. "See? It’s not just me!" He glanced at Galdino. "But these last few days, he’s been so prickly. And honestly, I kind of hate him for it."

Galdino shook his head, looking thoroughly freaked out. “This is seriously messed up. You’re crushing on the guy who’d probably laugh while feeding you to the Sea-Kings.”

Alvida grinned, clearly enjoying the situation. “Well, complicated feelings are a thing, silly. Just don’t let them get you killed. Or worse, heartbroken.”

Buggy paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I really thought things were getting better between us, you know. They really seemed to respect me more now.”

He managed a weak grin. “But I should probably just let it go, shouldn’t I?”

Alvida smiled, the clink of ice faint as she tilted her head in sympathy. "Might be wise," she teased. "But then again, I never thought wisdom was really your thing."

Buggy snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in."

Alvida chuckled, setting her glass down. 

"Anyway, boys," she said, her tone shifting to something more casual. "The newcomers are planning their little party tonight—there‘s gonna be a show, too. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna get myself ready."

She got up, then turned to the blue-haired man with a grin. "Maybe this'll take your mind off all those messy feelings."

***

The lounge tent was bathed in the warm glow of lanterns, the light reflecting off the dark wine in their glasses. 

Crocodile and Mihawk sat across from each other, the silence between them comfortable and familiar.

The bottle of wine between them was half-empty, a sign of the time they’d already spent here, while quietly enjoying each other’s company.

Crocodile took a slow sip, his eyes wandering over Mihawk’s familiar features. 

The years hadn’t changed him much. Still as sharp, as intense, as controlled as ever. 

The same could be said for the way Crocodile felt around him. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a drink like this, and likely wouldn’t be the last.

Mihawk’s gaze was steady, focused on his glass, the liquid swirling gently under his thoughtful movements.

Crocodile couldn’t help but remember the last time those calloused hands had touched him, a memory from their younger days, back when life seemed less complicated—or perhaps when they were simply better at ignoring the complications.

The silence had settled back in for a while now, but it was the kind of silence that spoke of familiarity. 

There was no need for forced conversation between them, no need to fill the air with meaningless words. 

And it was one of the things Crocodile appreciated most about Mihawk.

After a moment, Mihawk’s eyes flicked up, meeting Crocodile’s.

There was a brief moment where neither looked away, a subtle acknowledgment of something deeper. 

He knew Mihawk likely didn’t dwell on those memories the way he did. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” Mihawk observed, though there was no accusation in his tone, just curiosity.

Crocodile shrugged, leaning back in his chair, smirk still lingering. “Just enjoying the company,” he replied, keeping his tone casual. 

Mihawk seemed to consider this, his eyes not leaving Crocodile’s. After a moment, he set his glass down and remarked, “That Straw Hat boy, he’s been making quite the name for himself recently. Seems like every other pirate I cross paths with has something to say about him.”

Crocodile tried to keep his expression neutral. 

He didn’t even bother asking why Mihawk chose that topic right now.

“He’s got a knack for attracting attention,” Crocodile replied, his tone deliberately indifferent.

Mihawk nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “He’s reckless, but there’s something about him. If you don’t pay attention, you might find yourself caught off guard. Even the World Government is paying closer attention.”

Crocodile took a slow sip of his wine, the liquid a welcome distraction. 

“Reckless is one way to put it,” he muttered, his voice carrying a hint of something Mihawk couldn’t quite place. “But the sea’s full of reckless fools.”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, if he sensed the shift in Crocodile’s demeanor then he clearly chose not to press the issue.

“Naturally. Still, it’s impressive how far they‘ve come in such a short time.”

Crocodile shrugged, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Impressive, maybe. But that kind of attention can be a double-edged sword.”

Mihawk took a sip of his wine, his gaze focused. “What intrigues me most is his crewmate. Roronoa. I am sure you can imagine that I’m looking forward to crossing blades with him again.”

Crocodile raised an eyebrow, noting Mihawk’s interest. Ah, their swordsman. "I’ve heard he’s got potential.”

Mihawk’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. It was endearing. “He’s indeed strong, and already possesses the qualities of a fine swordsman. Soon he might pose a true challenge, I am certain.”

There was a pause, the air between them thick with unspoken thoughts.

Crocodile merely hummed in agreement, his thoughts elsewhere, a mixture of pride and worry that he’d never dare express. 

"Time will tell," Crocodile then said and gave a curt nod. 

Crocodile reached for the wine bottle, pouring himself another glass, letting the quiet settle between them while using the familiar ritual to steady himself.

And as the evening wore on, the wine continued to flow, bringing with it the comfortable camaraderie they had long shared.

There was no need to revisit the past, no need to define what they had or what they didn’t have. It was enough to just be, to share a drink, a glance, a moment.

Crocodile had convinced himself that he needed nothing more than this.

For now, it was enough to simply sit with Mihawk, to enjoy the wine and the silence, to be content with what was, even if it wasn’t exactly what it used to be.

***

“You think I don’t know my pirate trivia?” Buggy boasted, slurring slightly, a glass of Gin Tonic dangling precariously from his hand. “I’ll have you all know I’m an absolute trivia master!”

The party of the newcomers was in full swing. Air thick with the scent of spiced meats and strong alcohol, while laughter echoed through the large tent. 

The Buggy Pirates had spared no effort in making the night unforgettable, with music blaring from every corner, tables packed with food, and far too much gin and ale flowing.

Standing proudly on top of a table, Buggy had his arm around Alvida, who was laughing despite herself as he rambled on.

Alvida rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Buggy, you’ve gotten half of them wrong so far.”

“Nonsense, Alvida!” Buggy waved his hand dramatically, nearly spilling his drink. “Name one I got wrong. Go ahead!”

“You thought Garp used to be a pirate.”

“Well, who’s to say he’s wasn’t, huh?” Buggy grinned wider, swaying a bit as the music picked up. “That guy’s always meddling in pirate business!”

Before Alvida could argue, Buggy turned to the crowd, raising his glass. “Alright, next question!” he bellowed, his voice rising above the din with pride. “Who was the first pirate to reach Raftel?”

Several voices shouted out, “Gol D. Roger!” Buggy’s trivia game had quickly spiraled into a wild drinking challenge, where the penalty for a wrong answer was chugging whatever drink was on hand.

Naturally, the more wrong answers there were, the rowdier the crowd became.

Alvida leaned over, trying to talk to Buggy through the noise. “I have been thinking about what you said—“

“WHAT?” Buggy shouted, cupping a hand to his ear. “CAN’T HEAR YOU, ALVIDA! TOO MUCH FUN GOING ON!”

“I SAID, THERE’S SOMETHING—” Alvida tried again, her voice barely carrying over the drunken cheers of the crew.

Buggy blinked at her, squinting as if focusing would help him hear better. “YOU NEED ANOTHER DRINK? I CAN GET YOU ANOTHER DRINK!”

Alvida sighed, realizing the conversation was a lost cause for now. “Never mind,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, as Buggy resumed barking out trivia questions, now wildly inaccurate.

At some point, Buggy decided juggling would be the next great addition to the party. He tossed wine bottles and plates into the air with wild abandon, his Devil Fruit powers allowing him to detach and reattach his limbs at will. 

Alvida rolled her eyes but couldn’t help giggling as the crowd roared with laughter.

Just as Buggy’s act was reaching its peak, Alvida spotted something out of the corner of her eye.

Cabaji, slumped near the edge of the crowd, looking dazed and out of sorts. Her smile faded slightly. “Hey, Buggy, I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder, but Buggy didn’t notice, too busy juggling whatever he could find, his drunken audience roaring with approval.

“THAT’S RIGHT! I’M A MASTER OF ALL THE TRIVIADAS!” Buggy declared loudly, his grin wide as he butchered the poor word.

Alvida slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the sea of drunken pirates to check on Cabaji. 

As she did, Buggy’s juggling took a slightly chaotic turn. Somewhere in the midst of the flying plates and bottles, his right pinky detached and spun through the air, unnoticed by everyone, including Buggy himself.

It landed gracefully on a nearby platter of food, which one of the newcomers, a clueless young pirate, grabbed without thinking. 

The pinky was swept away with the rest of the hors d'oeuvres, as the newcomer wandered off, chatting with the rest of the crew, completely unaware of the extra finger food on the plate.

Buggy, too far gone to realize that a part of him was missing, continued his performance. 

When Alvida reached Cabaji, she noticed the half-empty glass of alcohol that sat almost mockingly beside him.

He seemed to be still conscious though clearly disoriented. 

His eyelids fluttered, and he groaned softly, his body slumping further as if he was struggling to stay upright.

“Cabaji?” Alvida crouched beside him, shaking his shoulder gently.

His eyes blinked open slowly, looking at her with confusion. “Wha-what happened?” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly.

Alvida’s eyes flicked to the glass beside him, a faint, bitter scent lingering in the air. It wasn’t unusual for Cabaji to have a drink, but he was never the type to overindulge. 

She eyed him critically for a moment, then glanced back at the party. No one else seemed to notice, least of all Buggy, who was now in the middle of a loud, exaggerated story that had the crew howling with laughter.

“Did you drink too much, Cabaji?” Alvida asked, though her tone was more teasing than accusatory.

Cabaji blinked again, as if trying to piece things together, his brow furrowing. “I... I don’t think so,” he muttered, his voice groggy.

She couldn’t help but smile slightly, her hand resting on his shoulder. “Come on, you’ve had enough excitement for one night.” 

It was easier to assume he’d simply had one too many drinks. After all, the crew was known for enjoying themselves a bit too much at these kinds of events.

Still, the last thing she wanted was to stir up concern. Buggy was having the time of his life, and there was no need to interrupt that. So, she waved off the uneasy feeling, deciding it was just her imagination.

With a soft grunt, she helped Cabaji to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. “Come on,” she said softly, “let’s get you to your room.”

Cabaji leaned on her for support, still trying to shake off the daze.

Alvida guided him through the tent, slipping through the edge of the crowd where the music and laughter drowned out any sense of concern. 

As they passed the lanterns’ dimmer glow, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, half-expecting someone to notice. But no one paid them any mind.

When they reached his quarters, Alvida helped him into bed, where he collapsed with a sigh. She stood there for a moment, her hands resting on her hips as she looked down at him.

“Get some rest,” she said, her voice soft but still commanding. “You’ll be back on your feet in the morning.”

Cabaji mumbled something unintelligible in response, already drifting off, his breathing becoming more even. Alvida eyed him for another second, the nagging feeling still tugging at her mind, but she brushed it aside. He’d be fine by morning.

By the time she made her way back to the party, the atmosphere had only grown more lively. 

Buggy was now leading a chorus of singing pirates, his booming laughter echoing through the tent. His face was flushed from the wine, but his eyes sparkled with the thrill of the moment.

“ALVIDA! Where’ve you been? You missed the best part!” Buggy called, wobbling slightly as he waved her over.

Alvida waved him off with a grin, her earlier uncertainty buried beneath the noise of the party. “Oh, nowhere important,” she replied casually, sliding back into the mood of the festivities. “Everything’s fine.”

But as she glanced at the still-dancing crowd, the nagging feeling didn’t completely disappear. 

Cabaji wasn’t usually the type to drink himself into a stupor, and the way he had looked so confused, so disoriented still lingered at the back of her mind.

Buggy threw an arm around her, nearly knocking his drink out of his own hand. “You should’ve been here! I was amazing!” he declared proudly, completely oblivious to the fact that he was now missing a finger.

“Yeah, I’m sure you were,” Alvida replied. She didn’t mention Cabaji’s odd behavior, brushing it off for the time being. The night was too loud, too chaotic for anything serious.

***

Mihawk took a measured sip of his wine, his eyes briefly wandering over to Crocodile, who was quieter than usual tonight. 

Not that Crocodile was one for idle chatter, but there was a distinct weight to his silence. Mihawk didn’t mind it, though. It was one of the reasons he enjoyed Crocodile’s company after all these years. There was a calming simplicity in just existing together, something Mihawk hadn’t encountered often in recent years.

The lantern light flickered softly, casting shadows over Crocodile’s features. 

Mihawk watched the way the light danced along his jawline, wondering briefly what, exactly, was on the man’s mind. 

The past always had a way of leaving marks, especially for men like them.

Crocodile’s history wasn’t a mystery to Mihawk. A tangled mix of power and desire with a certain pink-feathered menace. 

Crocodile never spoke of it, and Mihawk had no reason to pry. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder from time to time. Could someone like Crocodile ever find this kind of quiet ease with a man like Donquixote Doflamingo? It seemed unlikely.

Mihawk swirled the wine in his glass, his gaze drifting away from Crocodile, and for a brief moment, a flash of red came to mind.

That damn letter.

A soft sigh escaped Mihawk before he could stop it. The letter had arrived only a few days ago. 

Mihawk had opened it, of course, and the contents had weighed heavier than he expected. 

He tried not to think about the nuisance, wrapped in the all-too-familiar scrawl. 

But the implications of intentions gnawed at him. 

He knew the matter would have to be addressed soon. 

But for now, he preferred to push it aside.

Mihawk had always prided himself on his discipline, yet the thought of Shanks lingered longer than he liked. 

It was rare for his mind to wander like this, and he found it almost unsettling.

His fingers tightened slightly around the lukewarm stem of his glass as his thoughts shifted, almost deliberately, to Shanks’ protege. 

Straw Hat Luffy.

To dispel the unwelcome distraction of the red-haired, Mihawk spoke up. “That Straw Hat boy,” he said, his voice steady as ever. “He’s been making quite the name for himself recently.”

He felt Crocodile’s eyes on him, but Mihawk decided not to look up. “Seems like every other pirate I cross paths with has something to say about him.”

The words felt oddly forced, as if his tongue moved ahead of his usual restraint. Perhaps it was to steer his thoughts away from Shanks. He couldn't bring himself to care.

Crocodile’s response was casual, but Mihawk noticed the subtle tension in the way his grip on the glass tightened. “He’s got a knack for attracting attention,” Crocodile muttered. 

And for a moment, Mihawk suspected that the scarred man he’d shared years of friendship with might know more about his history with the red-haired pirate than he was letting on.

Mihawk nodded, letting the conversation flow without much thought. “He’s reckless,” he continued, still swirling his glass, “but there’s something about him. If you don’t pay attention, you might find yourself caught off guard.” He paused, briefly reflecting on the first time he crossed paths with Luffy. “Even the World Government is paying closer attention.”

He could feel Crocodile’s thoughts were elsewhere, but Mihawk didn’t press. He wasn’t in the mood to push deeper either. 

This was enough. A simple distraction.

“And that crewmate of his, Roronoa,” Mihawk added, his tone shifting ever so slightly. 

“Ah, the swordsman,” Crocodile remarked, setting his glass down with a soft thud. “I’ve heard he’s got potential.”

Mihawk’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass. “He’s indeed strong, and already possesses the qualities of a fine swordsman.” He let the thought linger briefly, acknowledging the familiar spark of potential in Zoro without allowing himself to dwell on it too deeply. 

“Soon he might pose a true challenge, I am certain.”

The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the soft clink of the wine bottle as Crocodile reached for it again, pouring himself another glass.

The night wore on, the lanterns burning steadily, and the wine flowed easily between them. The familiar silence and quiet companionship were enough for Mihawk, even as his thoughts occasionally flickered back to the letter still tucked away in his coat, waiting for him to address it.

But not tonight. For now, the wine and the quiet were all he needed.

***

At some point during the newcomer’s welcome party, Buggy was certain he was going to throw up.

Well, actually, that was putting it mildly.

He had felt like throwing up several times.

And it wasn’t until he actually did —in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet with Alvida beside him— that he realized it might be time to call it a night.

"Thanks, Alvida," he muttered, gripping the toilet bowl for support. "And sorry for, you know, dragging you into this."

Alvida just gave him a soft smile, her hand resting reassuringly on his back. "It’s alright. You really let loose tonight, huh?"

Buggy managed a weak nod, still dizzy as he held onto the porcelain, the room spinning in waves around him. Yeah, he had definitely let loose.

Alvida sighed, her own tiredness creeping in, though she kept her gaze steady on him, equal parts amused and sympathetic. "Let’s get you some water, then I think it’s time to call it a night." 

She wanted to tell him tomorrow, once he’d sobered up, that she’d stayed to keep an eye on him, not wanting to leave him alone after what had happened with Cabaji earlier. 

But tonight wasn’t the time. She gave his shoulder one last pat, guiding him as they slowly made their way to the kitchen.

With each step, Buggy swayed and leaned heavily on her, mumbling occasionally, the guilt of his drunken state bubbling up. When they finally reached the kitchen, they each gulped down a glass of water, the coolness grounding him, if only for a moment.

"Nope, not enough," Buggy groaned, refilling his glass.

"By the way, you didn’t have to stay up so late just for me," he looked at his glass, looking a little sheepish.

She chuckled, waving it off. "Oh, I was up for a bit of fun too. Besides, someone has to look after you in… moments like these." Her smile held a hint of warmth, one that Buggy, even in his haze, appreciated.

She then yawned. "Hey, you gonna be alright? I think I’m headed to bed."

"Yes, of course, thank you, Alvida, for, well, saving me," he slurred, giving her a crooked grin.

"Anytime," she said, already turning toward her quarters. "Sleep well, Buggy."

"Yeah, you too… see you tomorrow," he mumbled, already gulping down the other glass of water. He sighed into the silence, a little woozy still. "I need more."

After a few more sips and a moment of steeling himself, Buggy finally made his way to his quarters, every step down the dimly lit hallway feeling longer than the last. 

Without Alvida’s steady hand, he found himself swaying into the walls more than once, and the spinning in his head seemed to pick up pace. But he pressed on, occasionally pausing to catch his breath.

Finally, he reached the door to his tent, an overwhelming wave of relief washing over him. 

He didn’t bother with his makeup, nor with changing out of his party clothes. Those were concerns for tomorrow. 

He collapsed onto his bed, sighing as he sank into the familiar comfort, silently thanking his past self for at least clearing his makeup from the sheets before he’d left for the party.

As he lay there, staring hazily up into the darkness, he felt his exhaustion settle over him like a heavy blanket.

***

The cool water against Crocodile’s face was soothing in a way he’d never admit to anyone, especially himself. Water wasn’t exactly his favorite element, but tonight it was a relief. 

His sleep had been shallow, his mind stirred by the same whispers that had plagued him all week, like restless echoes rattling through his dreams. He’d been lying there, caught between wanting to ignore them and being too alert to sleep through them. It was ridiculous; ever since he’d gotten that vivre card, he should have felt more at ease. But instead, each night had him pacing, trying to put the thoughts to rest. His birthday was already over. But maybe he just needed a bit more time to settle. Or maybe it was the drink he’d had in Mihawk’s tent that had put him on edge.

Wringing the cloth in his hand, Crocodile dried his face before he ran it through his damp hair. 

Tomorrow would be another long day, with a full list of tasks to get through before he could leave for Verdelia. 

If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to swing by Sunset Port and drop off that present for Luffy, he thought, a hint of a smile touching his face for just a second.

He stepped out of the bathroom, feeling a touch more at ease, and was just about to slip back under the sheets when he froze. In the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the window, was a bundle of blue hair right in the middle of his bed, sprawled over his satin sheets.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. It was four in the morning. Not the time for the clown to be testing his patience. 

He could already feel a mild annoyance prickling as he glared at the sleeping Buggy, who looked all too comfortable nestled into his bedding. 

Logic told him to just shove Buggy awake and send him stumbling back down the hall, but the thought of waking up the whole camp, especially a certain swordsman who’d turn pissy if he didn’t get his usual amount of sleep, was even less appealing than dealing with the clown in his bed.

“Fine.” With a resigned sigh, Crocodile let a small current of sand slip under Buggy, lifting him gently from the bed.

The sand moved with careful precision, carrying Buggy down the hallway as Crocodile walked in front, his steps slow and purposeful. The quiet of the dim corridor felt grounding, the gentle rhythm of his steps allowing his thoughts to settle. 

By the time they reached Buggy’s quarters, Crocodile’s steps had slowed, his movements steady as he released the sand and lowered Buggy carefully onto the bed. The usual throbbing heat in his scarred tissue had faded, the tight ache easing as he moved with smooth, unhurried precision, settling the sleeping clown in place.

“You’d better be grateful for this, Jester,” he mumbled, as the sand shifted a few stray objects out of Buggy’s way and onto the floor, though it was too dark to see what they were.

When Crocodile returned back to his own quarters, he let the sand straighten and shake out his blankets before he lay down, his mind calm for the first time in days. 

As he sank into the sheets, the exhaustion he’d been fighting finally took over, and he drifted into the quiet dark.

But among the sleeping Buggy Pirates, one of their own moved with careful purpose, blending in perfectly with the crew. Disguised in their colors, no one suspected that he’d turned. That he was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike from within.

Chapter Text

Mihawk moved along the winding forest path, each step carrying the lingering ache of his morning training. A low, satisfying throb in his shoulders and arms, almost anchoring. 

The chill of dawn lingered under the dense canopy of pines, their branches stirring faintly in the fragile breath of morning air. 

Sweat cooled on his skin as he walked through the shadowed path beneath the dense pines. The chill had bitten at him earlier, his white shirt clinging uncomfortably to his body, but now, as the first tendrils of sunlight threaded through the trees, warmth brushed over his forearms, easing a tension deep within.

Through the thinning line of trees, the camp came into view, a pocket of sound and color just beginning to stir. 

The scent of pine and steel lingered as he approached the camp. 

It was a final trace of solitude he allowed himself before stepping back into the waking world.

The camp was awake, bustling with Buggy‘s men. 

They called out to him, nodding, waving, their chaotic energy like bursts of color against the tranquil edges of his morning calm. 

An odd assortment, loud and reckless, but familiar now. 

Mihawk found himself nodding back, a natural response he hadn’t even noticed slipping into his routine.

As he walked, a Buggy pirate in a questionable mix of colors and an absurd little red hat hurried over to him.

“Hawkeye Mihawk, Sir,” the pirate greeted him, looking flustered but otherwise determined.

Mihawk paused, glancing down at the pirate. “What is it?” he asked. 

The pirate straightened, gathering himself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning, Sir, but I wanted to inform you that we’ve successfully adjusted the figureheads of the Big Top Blaster according to the blueprints.” He gave a quick salute. “Ready for Operation Impel Down, Sir.”

Mihawk gave a small nod. “I’m pleased to hear that. Though, as it was Crocodile who provided the blueprints, might I ask why you’re informing me? I don’t usually involve myself in those matters.”

The pirate’s confidence faltered, his expression flickering with a hint of unease. He swallowed, glancing toward the tent where Crocodile’s office was, looking somewhat hesitant.

“Yes, of course, Sir. I’ll… I’ll let him know… later.” He gave an awkward little bow. “Thank you for your time, and… your feedback.”

Mihawk watched the pirate shuffle off, a faint crease forming in his expression. 

He had been heading to Crocodile’s office anyway, but now he couldn’t help but wonder what Crocodile had done to make the pirate look as if he’d narrowly escaped with his life.

When he stepped into Crocodile’s office, he was immediately met with the sight of the ever-growing collection of empty coffee cups scattered across his desk. 

Before heading out for his training, Mihawk had told Crocodile they’d talk when he returned. 

And Crocodile, already deeply absorbed at an ungodly hour at that time, had merely lifted a thumb in response, barely glancing up from a new pile of paper and folders.

Now, though, Crocodile’s head lay cradled in his arms, shoulders rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

Mihawk hesitated. 

There was an unusual softness to Crocodile’s face, a calm at odds with the tension that usually gripped his jaw.

It felt oddly private. As if he were intruding. 

This was the kind of thing Daz would likely handle, the only one permitted to see Crocodile’s exhaustion firsthand.

A stray strand of hair had slipped across his cheek, a quiet testament to how even his usually well-kept hair had already begun to fall out of place, though the day had hardly begun. 

Mihawk felt an odd urge to reach out and tuck the hair back, yet, for whatever it was worth, he held himself back, unwilling to linger or intrude any further.

He turned on his heel, deciding to leave him be. 

A shower could fill the time, and Crocodile looked like he could use a few more moments of rest. Their conversation could wait.

But as Mihawk moved to leave, he caught a faint stir behind him, the sluggish movements of Crocodile waking reluctantly. 

Crocodile lifted his head, his gaze landing on Mihawk with a quiet, unspoken question. “Did you just get here?” he asked, his voice rough. 

“Yes,” Mihawk lied, though not entirely sure why, as he turned back toward the sand user.

Strangely, this seemed to relieve Crocodile, who gave a brief nod before continuing, “Good. Do you need anything?” His tone was casual, and Mihawk couldn’t help but wonder if their planned conversation had simply slipped from Crocodile's mind.

Rarely did it happen. But lately, the air around Crocodile had noticeably shifted.

It wasn’t as if Mihawk felt disappointed, not when he’d seen the lengths Crocodile went to keep Cross Guild afloat. 

Mihawk respected that dedication, even if he himself couldn’t quite remember why he’d joined.

There was little convenience in being hunted by the Marines or being forced to live somewhere other than the island he’d known for so many years. 

Yet here he was, part of it all.

He watched as Crocodile shifted back into his usual posture, though Mihawk could see faint signs of strain in the set of his shoulders. 

No, he wasn’t disappointed nor surprised that Crocodile had forgotten their talk. 

Not with how worn he looked lately, working through endless hours, barely stopping to eat, while his temper was fraying at the edges.

Mihawk had noticed him lashing out at the crew a few times. Even at Daz, who had taken the opportunity to slip off with Buggy’s men on a supply run, perhaps seizing a rare chance for reprieve. 

Mihawk doubted that Crocodile had even noticed.

“Meet me in the lounge later,” Mihawk eventually said, his tone steady. “We’ll need to talk.”

Crocodile gave a quick nod. “Yeah, alright.”

The swordsman turned to leave once again, but Crocodile’s voice followed, laced with the familiar edge of impatience. 

“Have you seen Cabaji? He was supposed to report by now.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Mihawk replied, turning back just enough to see Crocodile’s jaw clench.

“If they still haven’t eaten by now…” Crocodile muttered, irritation settling in the hard line of his mouth as he cast a sharp glance at his small wooden clock. 

Mihawk already knew that Crocodile was likely referring to his overgrown pets.

So Cabaji had supposedly forgotten to feed them.

Mihawk felt a flicker of quiet amusement but didn’t dwell on it. 

In truth, it wouldn’t hurt Crocodile to step outside and handle it himself. 

A little fresh air might do him some good. 

His mind was hardly in the right space for serious conversation.

Besides, it wasn’t as though Mihawk was bringing especially good news.

“I’ll be heading off now,” Mihawk therefore said, leaving without waiting for a response from Crocodile. 

***

Buggy woke up feeling like his brain had been drop-kicked across the camp. 

His skull throbbed with a dull ache that pulsed with each heartbeat, and the sharp glare of sunlight poking through the window of his tent felt like needles stabbing into his eyes.

He squeezed them shut, groaning, half in regret, half in resignation. 

The all-nighter he’d pulled to finish that report, followed by last night’s celebration, was coming back to bite him, hard.

Grumbling, he rolled out of his cot. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and he shuffled toward the bathroom, every step protesting like a creaky old door.

He splashed some cold water on his face, scrubbing at his skin just enough to feel somewhat presentable. 

After a quick brush to get rid of last night’s taste of stale rum, he wiped his face, sighing. 

This will just have to do.  

His stomach grumbled, and he grimaced. 

He needed food. Something bland that wouldn’t send his stomach rolling. Toast would do. Toast couldn’t fight him back.

By the time he stumbled into the dining hall, it was nearly deserted. A rare sight given the raucous gathering they’d had the night before. 

A few stragglers lingered over their breakfasts, looking as ragged as he felt, with one man’s hair, whose name he forgot, resembling a bird’s nest caught in a windstorm. 

Buggy swiped a piece of toast, gnawing on it like a starving raccoon as he wandered toward his workshop.

Buggy stopped mid-chew as a wild whirlwind of sand, spinning toward the Bananawani enclosure, caught his eye.

At this time of day, Crocodile was usually deep into his work, often not emerging until late afternoon, sometimes even for dinner. Was one of the Bananawis possibly hurt?

Curiosity got the better of him, and Buggy wandered over to where Crocodile stood.

Hesitantly, Buggy hovered by the low railing overlooking the deep pit where the massive, scaly creatures prowled below.

Crocodile didn’t look up, but Buggy could sense the tension in his posture.

“Good morning, Croccy,” Buggy said, his voice wavering slightly.

The massive creatures stirred, sensing Crocodile’s presence, their armored tails swishing slowly through the dirt.

Buggy had seen these beasts up close before, but he still wasn’t entirely accustomed to them.

Crocodile turned his head slightly, acknowledging him with a faint narrowing of his eyes. “Clown,” he replied dryly.

One of the Bananawanis slithered closer, its golden eyes focused on Crocodile, who seemed completely at ease with the giant. 

If Buggy was being honest, that Bananawani seemed perfectly fine to him. Though, he wasn’t exactly an expert. “Is something wrong with them?”

Crocodile’s jaw tightened, and he let out a short, annoyed breath. “No,” he replied. “They just need to be fed.” He pulled a sizable chunk of meat from the container he was carrying and tossed it into the pit.

“Oh, right,” Buggy said, nodding as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Crocodile grunted, saying nothing more, but Buggy noticed his shoulders relax slightly as he returned his attention to the creatures.

Buggy couldn’t help but notice the Bananawanis’ reaction to Crocodile. 

They edged closer, their scales glinting as they nudged and rumbled in appreciation, clearly pleased to see him. 

To an outsider, it might have appeared as hunger. 

Though, Buggy recognized it for what it was.

Adoration. 

Crocodile’s hand moved gently as he brushed one of the creatures’ snouts, which responded with a low, pleased rumble. 

It was surprisingly endearing. 

Intrigued, Buggy blurted out, “Didn’t peg you for an animal lover!”

“Didn’t peg you for a nosy fool,” Crocodile shot back, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

Buggy felt warm. 

Suddenly, a thought came back to him. “Oh, uh,” Buggy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You wanted to see me yesterday, didn’t you?”

Crocodile straightened, finally meeting Buggy’s gaze. “Yes, about that report you finished,” he said. “I was wondering how you managed to get it done so quickly.”

Buggy shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “Oh, you know, the usual. Late nights, energy drinks. Thought it’d be best to finish before the next meeting.” He flashed a grin, hoping to project more confidence than he felt.

Crocodile’s brow lifted slightly. “Well, not bad, Clown,” he said, his gaze shifting back to the Bananawanis. “But you missed a breakdown on supplier reliability and median costs. Details like that are crucial for evaluations.”

“Oh, uh right.” Buggy nodded. “My mistake. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.” He felt a hot flush creeping up his cheeks.

Crocodile gave a slight nod, his attention returning to the Bananawanis. 

The largest of the creatures nudged his hand, and he ran his fingers along its snout one more time, his movements calm and measured. 

Buggy watched, a small smile creeping onto his face as he took in the scene. 

Without turning around, Crocodile’s voice cut through the air once more. “Since you’ve somehow managed not to mess things up, you will be in charge of them while I’m gone.“

Buggy, blissfully oblivious to the backhanded compliment, felt a surge of pride as his heart skipped a beat. Was Crocodile really trusting him with his pets? Him out of all people? First, he’d actually been praised for the paperwork, and now this? 

He felt a grin spreading across his face, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Clown.” Crocodile’s voice cut through his thoughts, tinged with impatience.

“Yes, Croccy!” Buggy blurted, practically tripping over his words. “I’ll do my best! Th-thank you for trusting me with this. I won’t let you down!”

Crocodile gave a brief, almost dismissive nod as he dusted off his hands. “You’d better not.” 

With that, Crocodile turned and walked off, leaving Buggy standing there.

Buggy lingered awkwardly, his initial glow fading as he realized Crocodile wasn’t going to say another word.

“Uh… right, I’ll, uh… let you get going then!“ Buggy called after Crocodile, uncertain of what else to say. 

Crocodile didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “This way.”

“Yeah. Okay!” Buggy replied, breaking into a small sprint to catch up as he fell into step behind Crocodile, whose pace remained steady.

It wasn’t until they stopped in front of Crocodile and Mihawk’s tented lounge that Buggy’s confusion truly set in. 

This was their private retreat. A place strictly off-limits to everyone else. Crocodile wasn’t exactly the inviting type, either. So why bring him here?

Buggy felt an odd thrill of discomfort entering the dimly lit space. 

Mihawk was already inside, seated on one of the low couches, his piercing gaze shifting from Crocodile to Buggy, an eyebrow arching at the unexpected guest.

Buggy blinked, momentarily thrown off.

Had Mihawk just taken a shower? 

It was the first time he’d seen him with his hair damp, dark strands falling loosely around his face. 

He wore a simple black button-down, open at the collar.

It looked… well, kind of good on him. 

Buggy felt a flicker of embarrassment, quickly brushing the thought away. Shit.

“Star Clown’s here,” Mihawk observed, his tone flat.

Crocodile gave a dismissive shrug. “He can leave,” his tone implying it was Mihawk’s call.

The swordsman shook his head, his expression still unreadable. “No, actually, it’s fine. This concerns all of us.” 

“Very well,” Crocodile said, tilting his head subtly toward Mihawk as he took a seat. Buggy couldn’t help but notice that Crocodile’s gaze lingered on Mihawk a little longer as well. “I see you finally decided to read that.”

Buggy’s eyes trailed after Crocodile’s nod, landing on the letter in Mihawk’s left hand. 

Mihawk simply let out a quiet hum, clearly uninterested in giving Crocodile a proper answer.

Buggy’s brows shot up as he glanced between the two warlords, still utterly baffled. “So is no one gonna tell me why we’re meeting here, of all places?”

Mihawk turned his sharp gaze to Buggy. “Irrelevant,” he replied coolly. Then, after a pause, he continued, “If I’m not mistaken, you were a cabin boy on Roger’s ship. Alongside Red-Haired Shanks?”

Buggy froze, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Y-Yeah… I mean, yes. We were on the same ship.” He forced a nervous chuckle. “Why do you ask, Hawky?”

Mihawk’s mouth twitched. “Then today’s your lucky day.” He tossed the letter onto the table, the paper landing open for all to see. “It appears your childhood friend has decided to pay us a visit.”

Buggy felt his blood run cold.

“W-Wait, Shanks is coming here?” Buggy stammered, his face a mix of shock and dread. “He’s coming to Karai Bari?”

Mihawk nodded curtly. “Yes.”

Buggy’s gaze darted back and forth between Mihawk and Crocodile. “Okay, and.” He swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat on his forehead. “What do we uh think of that?”

Mihawk’s gaze remained steady. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice calm. “If Red-Hair wants to come to Karai Bari to visit an old friend who’s now a Yonko and could therefore pose a potential threat or ally, then who are we to stop him?”

“R-right.” Buggy stammered, then threw his hands up, clutching his hair in exasperation.

“Agh, seriously! Why can’t that red-haired menace just stay on his own side of the ocean? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“There, there.” Crocodile’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smirk. “Since you’re such old friends,” he drawled, “why don’t you take charge of the arrangements for his visit?”

Mihawk scoffed, crossing his arms. “No need,” he replied, gesturing to the letter. “He made his day of arrival perfectly clear.”

Buggy let out a strangled laugh, shaking his head. “Perfectly clear? Oh, great. So, we’re just supposed to wait around until he shows up, acting all casual? Like this is a friendly little reunion?”

Crocodile eyed Buggy, almost amused by his theatrics. “You look terrified, Clown,” he commented dryly. “Why all this panic over a childhood friend?”

“Terrified?” Buggy sputtered, his face suddenly feeling so hot. “I’m not terrified! It’s just… complicated! You two wouldn’t understand.”

Mihawk’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of amusement barely visible in his eyes. “Well then, enlighten us.”

Buggy opened his mouth to respond but faltered, the words slipping away. Memories of sailing with Roger and Shanks drifted through his mind. But so much had changed. 

Shanks was a Yonko now, almost as imposing as Roger had once been—a towering force in the world, legendary and untouchable. 

Buggy couldn’t shake the thought that their late captain would be so proud to see Shanks now. Meanwhile, Buggy… well, he felt more like an imposter, wearing a title that didn’t quite fit. 

Though it wasn’t just the difference in status that Buggy struggled with—though he couldn’t deny a tinge of shame over it. 

Shanks had been his first crush. His first kiss, too. They’d been more than just crewmates on Roger’s ship. Brothers, yes. And more. 

Back then, Buggy had felt things for Shanks that he hadn’t dared name, emotions that blurred with the sway of the sea and the fire of ambition in their youth. 

Buggy wasn’t even sure if he’d ever really gotten over him. Especially not with Shanks still reaching out, still trying to find a way back into his life.

After a moment, Buggy just looked away, muttering under his breath. “It’s… just complicated.”

Crocodile rolled his eyes, muttering to Mihawk, “All this fuss over a reunion.”

Mihawk gave a faint chuckle. It was obvious they didn’t care about Buggy’s distress.

“So, when’s the Red Force arriving?” Crocodile asked, tilting his head slightly.

“In a few days,” Mihawk replied. “You’ll likely be back by then, so if you want to handle any business with them, it’d be a good time.”

Crocodile raised an eyebrow. “Wait. Just to get this straight, you’re telling me Red-Hair and his crew will be arriving in a few days?”

“Yes,” Mihawk replied flatly. “That’s what I just said.”

Crocodile ran a hand over his face, exhaling in irritation. “Well then, good thing you finally got around to opening that letter, huh, Dracule? Your timing is… impeccable.”

Mihawk turned slightly away. “Save it. They’re coming, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.”

Crocodile scoffed. “Yeah, god forbid you start opening letters on time.”

Mihawk only huffed, brushing off the remark.

“Uh, guys?” Buggy piped up, raising a hand as if in class. “Can’t we just… cancel? I mean, this really doesn’t feel like the best timing for a get-together, you know?”

Crocodile shot him an incredulous look. “Cancel? You think Red-Hair is just going to turn around because we say so? He’s already on his way, clown.”

Mihawk crossed his arms. “Canceling wouldn’t stop Red-Hair, anyway. The man does what he wants. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Agreed,” Buggy said quickly, nodding.

Crocodile rolled his eyes, glancing between them. “Whatever. You two clearly have some issues to work out.”

Buggy glanced between the two as they bickered, but his mind was already elsewhere. 

Shanks coming to Karai Bari Island was a disaster. How was he supposed to act when he saw him?

Sure, they’d crossed paths at Marineford two years ago, but that had been different. Chaos everywhere, people all around. They hadn’t even really talked.

But now? The thought of facing Shanks alone made Buggy’s stomach twist. What was he even supposed to say? 

Of all the things to happen… why this?

Eventually, he slipped out of the lounge, realizing his two executives had already left long before him.

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.