Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us.”

-Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband, Act II

Crocodile gets off the bus, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirtsleeves. His clothes reek of smoke and alcohol—some customer who was too drunk to stand spilled beer all over him. Honestly, they don’t pay him enough for the shit he has to put up with.

He begins the walk back to his apartment through the severely neglected public park that borders it. A couple of people are playing chess at one of the tables and a few teenagers are smoking on the jungle gym, but other than them, the park is mostly deserted. Crocodile skirts something that is possibly vomit and walks down one of the side paths, poorly maintained and covered by trees. There usually aren’t any people here; Crocodile prefers it for the peaceful alternative it offers to the main thoroughfare. 

About a quarter of the way down the path, there’s an old bench. Some of the wooden slats that make up the backrest are broken, and its seat is covered in the black spotting created by old gum. It’s usually empty for these reasons, but today someone is sitting there. 

Crocodile glances at them briefly, looks away. Then stops walking. Looks back.

They’re incredibly tall—at least 7’5”. They’re wearing bedraggled flats, a pair of bright pink leopard patterned leggings, a red and white sequined shirt, and a ragged pink coat that looks like it’s made of faux fur. Partially visible on their chest is a tattoo of a familiar Jolly Roger. 

They’re turned away from him, but it doesn’t really matter. Crocodile knows who this is.

He sits down next to them on the bench. He is ignored, the person continuing to stare off into the trees and smoke their cigarette.

“Donquixote?” he says, quietly enough to be dismissed if he’s somehow wrong.

The person whips their head around to face Crocodile, eyes wide behind cheap, pink sunglasses. They blink, looking Crocodile over. They offer a crooked smile.

“Wani?”

Crocodile nods and leans back against the bench.

So, it is him. He looks… different. Worse. He’s clearly been living outside, judging by the state of his hair and clothes. He has nowhere near his former physique—Crocodile can see the jut of his collar bone, the ribs pressing against his skin. The bones of his face are too sharp, his eyes too sunken; Crocodile wonders about the last time he ate.

Donquixote sits in the frame of a huge window, a cruel grin on his face as he toys with some marine. He is massive enough to fill the whole space, were he to stand, and only fits horizontally by bending his legs and leaning his back against one of the sides.

“Do you have any more of those?” He asks, gesturing to the cigarette. Donquixote reaches down to a dirty pink duffle bag sitting between his feet to retrieve a carton, which he tosses to Crocodile.

“Keep it. They don’t smell right.”

Crocodile doesn’t know why Donquixote would be picky about the smell, of all things, but nods his thanks and lights up. 

This close, Crocodile can see that Donquixote’s torso is covered in tattoos of things from the other place: symbols and fragments of maps, devil fruits, ships, a sea king. He’s essentially made himself into a giant neon sign for people who remember.

“Have you met anyone? From before?”

Donquixote nods.

“Plenty. Some who knew, some who didn’t. You?”

A woman walks up to him, a white cowboy hat shading her eyes from the harsh sunlight. She smiles enigmatically and tells him she can help him find what he’s looking for.

“A few. A woman who used to work for me.”

Donquixote raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Nico Robin.”

“Oh, that one,” he wrinkles his nose, as though he has smelled something unpleasant. “Does she know?”

“She does. She wanted to see if I was keeping out of trouble.”

“And?” he smiles. In this life, it is so much wearier. “Are you?”

The rush of battle, the desperate knowledge that he is outmatched, and the final, searing pain ending in the reprieve of death.

“I’ve had enough of trouble.”

“Fair. What do you do instead?”

He smiles crookedly.

“Manage a casino.”

Donquixote laughs, low and wheezing. It ends in a cough.

“Couldn’t stay away entirely, I see,” he teases, shaking the ash from his cigarette before returning it to his mouth.

“It’s… a good reminder.” 

He sits in his office at Rain Dinners, filled with the scent of cigars and expensive whiskey, surrounded by the mesmerizing blue of the water and his beloved pets. Below him, the rabble gambles away their earnings into his pockets to make themselves feel something.

“It seems you understand the desire well enough,” he says, indicating Doflamingo’s tattoos.

Donquixote looks down at his hands. Traces the tiny symbols of the card suites that run up his right pointer finger.

“You could say that,” he concedes eventually.

They sit in silence for a while, smoking. The sun sinks slowly, the waning light filtering through the protective grove of trees and casting shadows over them.

“What do you do, instead of making trouble?” Crocodile asks, for want of something to say.

Doflamingo looks at him incredulously, as if he’s said something foolish.

“Whatever I need to. Whatever pays.”

He nods. He supposes it was rather obvious. A breeze ruffles the trees; Donquixote shivers and pulls his coat tighter around himself.

“It’s getting late. Shouldn’t you go home?” 

“I suppose. Do you—” he clears his throat, not entirely comfortable with what he’s about to ask. “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

“The great outdoors, I expect.” He shrugs, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground. “Or a hotel, if I’m lucky. Jail, if I’m not.”

“How do you feel about pull-out couches?”

Donquixote narrows his eyes at Crocodile, his sunglasses not quite opaque enough to hide it.

“What do you want for it?”

“Your time. A conversation, perhaps.” Crocodile crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. “I haven’t spoken to anyone who remembered in quite a while. I think we may… have some experiences in common.”

In truth, he’s felt… adrift. Alone. There is no one he can speak to; anyone who remembers would naturally condemn him, and everyone else seems… hollow to him. Lacking depth. But maybe. Maybe this time is different. Maybe Doflamingo is the answer.

For a minute, Donquixote doesn’t say anything. Then, he reaches down, picks up the duffel bag, and stands up.

Crocodile follows suit, crushing the remains of the cigarette under his heel.

He has underestimated Doflamingo’s height; Crocodile is a very respectable 6’7”; Doflamingo must be at least a foot taller.

“Alright. Thanks, Croco.”

Crocodile nods, beginning to walk again. He pulls out his phone to order Chinese; since Donquixote is clearly hungry, he won’t subject him to microwave dinners.

“What do I call you here?” he asks, realizing there’s almost no way he has the same name.

“Dorian. But Doflamingo’s fine when no one’s around. And you?”

“Carlisle,” he answers. “But I prefer Crocodile.”

Doflamingo nods, then giggles after a moment.

“Carlisle. Like that fucking vampire book?”

“Shut up,” Crocodile huffs, pushing Doflamingo’s shoulder. “It was mine first.”

Donquixote cackles.

Crocodile unlocks his apartment door, throwing his keys and wallet on the table just inside the entrance. Doflamingo drops his bag on the floor.

“Shower?” he asks immediately. Crocodile shows him the bathroom, finding him a disposable razor and some of his old clothes to borrow.

Crocodile changes out of his work uniform, although he can still smell alcohol on himself. There’s a knock on the door, heralding the arrival of the food; he goes to pay for it.

He eyes the dinner table covered in old junk mail, paperwork, newspapers, and unwashed cups. He opts for the coffee table instead, laying out the food and then sitting down on the floor to watch TV while he waits. He flips channels for a minute, settling on Jeopardy.

Doflamingo joins him shortly, looking considerably better but somewhat ridiculous in clothes that are much too short for him. He ties his hair back as he sits next to Crocodile.

“What is the Engarve Disaster?” he says, the host parroting him a moment later.

“Can I have some?” he asks, gesturing to the food.

Crocodile nods.

“Help yourself.”

Between them, they finish everything and guess a good two-thirds of the answers before the contestants. Doflamingo leans back against the couch, stretching his legs out under the table and crossing one over the other.

“Whiskey?” Crocodile offers, clearing the mess and heading for the kitchen.

“Please.”

He grabs some disposable cups and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s someone gave him, setting both on the table. Doflamingo pours each of them a generous amount.

Crocodile doesn’t know what to say exactly, so he opts to get as drunk as possible as quickly as he can.

Part of him wishes he’d found a different drinking companion. While he’d always been able to tolerate Donquixote better than most—had even found him rather amusing, at times—he had been one of the more volatile of the Warlords.

Then again. The others wouldn’t really understand, would they?

“Hey,” Doflamingo says, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He turns the volume down.

“Do you miss it?”

Crocodile is still for a moment, staring into his drink. He sighs.

How does he answer that? How does he— what could he say that would be sufficient?

He dreams of it, ceaselessly. It seems to echo throughout his days; he cannot let his mind drift too far, lest he fall back into it. He has to cling to this world, like a drowning man to a raft, though it rarely feels worth the effort.

This place is a greying husk; the sea and sky pale versions of what was, the people, the plants, and animals— everything, like a grotesque imitation of what came before.

And yet. There’s the matter of Alabasta. Of Impel Down, of Marineford. 

He misses that place; he longs for it; but thinking of it is like walking through a minefield.

“So much,” he says. “But…”

“Yes,” Donquixote says, still looking fixedly at the television. “The— what happened there. What he did, there.”

Crocodile drinks.

“I won’t pretend I’m particularly virtuous now, but that was— what h— I did there was—”

“I know, yes,” Doflamingo picks up again, shifting agitatedly. “It’s s— it’s so much, too much. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t—"

“I know. I don’t understand how I could’ve— but then, sometimes I can. And that’s…”

“Terrifying.”

“Yes.”

They look at each other for a moment. Doflamingo drops his gaze first, picking up the bottle to pour them each another glass. They go back to Jeopardy. The clock chimes ten.

Something in Doflamingo’s duffel bag begins to make noise, startling them both for a moment. Doflamingo blinks and cocks his head, seemingly confused about what it is, before his eyes widen, and he stumbles to his feet with a muttered,

“Aw, fuck.”

Crocodile watches him rummage around in his bag until he finds a battered pink flip phone. It’s already stopped ringing, but Doflamingo opens it anyway and walks toward the kitchen saying,

“I need to call him back.”

Crocodile nods and turns the volume back up.

It’s not that he’s not curious, but he remembers what Donquixote is like when he’s drunk and angry. It’s not something he wants to deal with.

It seems like it takes a while. The pitch of Doflamingo’s voice rises and falls; it sounds like he’s arguing with someone. When he comes back, he tosses the phone onto the table, grabs his neglected cup, and downs the whole thing before sprawling on the ground.

“Trouble?” Crocodile asks, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Doflamingo exhales noisily, then sits up to pour himself another drink.

“It was my brother. I call him every week.”

Crocodile’s eyebrows shoot up.

He had assumed that Doflamingo’s family was either dead or in some way estranged. Admittedly, he’s never known much about them, but it seemed the most logical reason for Donquixote’s situation.

“Does he— is there some reason you’re not living with him?”

Doflamingo laughs, short and bitter.

“Do you know what I did to him?”

Crocodile shakes his head.

“I killed him!” he bursts out, then turns away and seems to shrink, as though he expects retribution. “And my father. I killed them both.”

“And do they… know that?” Crocodile asks cautiously, aware he’s in dangerous territory.

“No,” he sighs, “they don’t remember. Small mercies, eh?”

“I suppose,” he concedes. But of course, the price of that is isolation, secrecy, knowing people would not— should not— treat you as they do in their ignorance. Still, though. Surely enduring that is preferable to living on the street?

“If that’s the case,” Crocodile says, fiddling with the remote, “why don’t you—"

“You know why!” Doflamingo growls, rounding on Crocodile. “You have to— haven’t you met anyone from before, who doesn’t know? Don’t you know how hard it is to— to look at them?”

Crocodile looks down. He is denting the cup with his fingertips.

“Yes,” he says.

“Then, you— don’t ask why I can’t go back. You know why.”

Doflamingo hunches in on himself, pulling his knees up so he can rest his arms on them and determinedly staring at the TV.

He does know. Knows the guilt and the terror of meeting the eyes of someone who loves you with everything they are, but shouldn’t. Who you loved that way, once. Before you knew. Knows how it aches, in you.

“I apologize,” Crocodile says abruptly. “That was invasive. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine,” Donquixote snaps, waving him off. “I shouldn’t talk to you like that. Sorry.”

They lapse into silence. There seem to be an endless number of episodes of Jeopardy. Crocodile wonders if they mean to play it all night.

“You don’t need to—" he says, after a while. “You don’t owe me anything for having you over. I just wanted someone to talk to.”

Doflamingo snorts derisively.

“Yeah, and I’m being such a great conversationalist.”

“Well, you—at least you understand. I don’t have to pretend around you, and you don’t look at me like—like—"

He sees it in their faces, every time he confirms his identity: the disgust, the loathing. He cannot defend himself—it is their right. The only armor which remains to him is to wrap himself in the old layers of disdain and condescension; to feign indifference until it becomes the truth again.

“Like that, yeah. It’d be pretty hypocritical.”

The clock chimes twelve accusatorily. Crocodile has a shift tomorrow.

“I left, too,” Crocodile says, wanting to offer something, “because my father is—was—Whitebeard.”

“Ha!” Donquixote says, slapping the table, “I knew it! I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it.”

He drinks then turns to Crocodile.

“So, what’d he do?”

“Besides cut off my hand and slice my face in half?” He asks drily.

“Shiiiit. He did that?”

Crocodile shrugs.

“I did attack him. And I’d already disavowed him, so I suppose it was fair. I do wish he’d done something less painful.

“Yeah, I bet,” Doflamingo chuckles. “Does he remember?”

“No. But the same cannot be said for his ‘sons.’”

Donquixote makes a face.

“So no going home for you either, then?”

Crocodile shakes his head. 

“That fucking sucks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs again. Goes to refill his glass and finds the bottle empty. Upon returning to the kitchen, he finds tequila and figures that’ll work. He pours them both more and sits down.

“I mean, I suppose we deserve it,” he says idly, picking up their previous conversation. “Considering…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “Considering. Do you think it’s meant that way? As a punishment?”

Donquixote laughs then takes a large swig of his drink and wipes sloppily at his mouth.

“Well, what else could it be? It’s just like—fucking, like, a weird version of hell or something, right? Like, we can’t discuss it with anyone, or they think we’re insane, and we can’t talk to anyone who believes us because they all hate us. I would literally kill someone to be able to see a therapist who wouldn’t immediately tell me I’m hallucinating and lock me in a psychiatric ward.”

“That’s not—" Crocodile interrupts himself to take another drink. “That’s not possible. For us to be hallucinating, it’d have to be mass psy—psychogenic illness, and that’s not how it works. I checked.”

Donquixote giggles.

“You thought you were crazy too, then, huh? I was like fifteen years old googling common delusions or whatever the fuck, trying to figure out if anyone else had ever heard of fucking Raftel. God! God, what a fucking, um…” he trails off, tipping his head back onto the couch to stare at the ceiling. Crocodile contemplates trying to pour himself more alcohol and opts to drink straight from the bottle, passing it to Doflamingo when he’s done.

“Even if they knew, could you...um, I’m not sure I’d be able to...because of the—when you meet someone, from there—"

“Yes!” Doflamingo exclaims excitedly, trying to sit up but listing back against the couch almost immediately. “Yes, the— it’s so hard to like, stay here? Or something? Like, it gets very, uh... “

“It’s too many memories.”

Doflamingo snaps his fingers and points in Crocodile’s general direction, then hands him back the tequila.

“That’s why it’s so... bad for me at my house. Or, it was when I left. I’ve been gone—" he takes a minute to stare at the ceiling, furrowing his brow in concentration, “ffff—four years now. Yeah.”

Crocodile looks at him, confused.

“Wait, how old are you? You look, uh, like you did when you were a kid.”

“I mean like, I dunno. Cuz of before, but uh… maybe like… twenty? Has it been October yet?”

“Twenty!” Crocodile yells, accidentally spilling tequila on himself as he straightens abruptly. Doflamingo giggles at him.

“You’re like a, a fucking baby!”

“Pfffffft, Croco, don’t be…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Don’t be like that. You’re like, not even that old, I bet.”

“‘m twenty-five.”

“See! That’s not old.”

“You’re not even allowed to have alcohol, though. You made me commit a crime,” Crocodile accuses crossly, taking another drink.

Doflamingo laughs wildly, collapsing forward and laying his head sideways on the table. Crocodile watches for a few minutes, amused. 

“You’re so funny, Croco. You— we’ve done so many crimes.”

“Yeah, but I wanna do crimes on purpose.”

Doflamingo giggles, reaching for the bottle. Crocodile hands it to him.

“I missed you, Wani. You were always… you always made me laugh.”

“Everything made you laugh.”

“Yeah, but like… it wasn’t always funny, you know? I was laughing ‘cuz of… I dunno.” He frowns. “We did that a lot. It freaked people out.”

Crocodile steals the bottle back from Doflamingo and finishes it off, letting it roll away across the floor.

“It’s gone,” he laments. The clock chimes and Crocodile tries to remember what time it is but can’t.

“Time is it?” he mutters. 

Doflamingo reaches blindly across the table for his phone, his head still resting on the surface. He flips it open.

“‘s two.”

“Fuck,” Crocodile groans. “I have work in the morning.”

“Oh, shit,” Doflamingo giggles. “You should sleep.”

“Don’t wanna move.”

“Me neither.”

They sit, staring at the ceiling for a while, Jeopardy’s host continuing his relentless questioning in the background.

“Doflamingo?”

“Yeah?”

“You should stay here. With me,” Crocodile says, still staring at the popcorn ceiling, “‘til you get a job and stuff. I have money, and… you can sleep on the couch, or something. We’ll figure it out.”

Doflamingo doesn’t answer for a minute.

“You don’t gotta… feel bad for me, or whatever, Croco. It’s fine. I can take care of myself.”

“I know that, but I…” 

He means to say something like you shouldn’t have to, or you’re too young, or I want you here, but he loses his thoughts to the soporific haze of alcohol.

“How about you just stay for… for a week, or something? And you can get food and cut your hair and stuff. And then if you wanna leave… I guess you can. Okay?”

He hears Donquixote shift, falling back against the couch. Crocodile turns his head, so they’re facing one another. He can see the little white spots of glue where Doflamingo’s sunglasses used to have rhinestones on them.

“Why are you… why, Wani?”

That’s a good question. He feels like it’s something to do with how they’re very similar, or that Doflamingo understands his life better than anyone else, or that he’s just missed having someone to actually talk to. But in the end, it’s sort of a vague desire, a persistent thought that he wants Doflamingo to stay. That he needs him to stay. He has something Crocodile wants, needs, of what he has lost.

“I don’t… I’m not really sure,” he admits, “but you remind me of… of the ocean. Of the sky.”

Doflamingo grins lopsidedly.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, not really. But you should… stay anyway. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, eyes already closed, “for the week.”

Crocodile nods, smiles contentedly, and drifts off to sleep, leaving the TV to play on through the night.

Chapter Text

“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Crocodile checks the clock again. It’s three a.m.

Doffy has repeatedly insisted that he shouldn’t wait up, but it’s become a habit. Once every few months someone attempts to mug Doflamingo on his way back from work or the gym. It’s ironic, really, because he rarely has anything of value with him besides his bartending tips. But people are desperate and hungry, and Doflamingo appears wealthier than he is, so perhaps they believe him an easy target— a misapprehension of which he is quick to disabuse them.

Crocodile returns to the novel. Having absorbed little of the section, he begins it again.

“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin…”

He yawns, leaning back against the couch.

“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind…”

He closes his eyes.

He walks among the endless expanse of the Alabastan Deserts; they sing to him of glory, of dreams fulfilled. A treasure lies beneath them, a weapon lost to the world. He reaches out, and the sand parts, revealing—

The sound of the key in the lock startles him awake. He runs a hand over his face and retrieves his book from where it has fallen to the ground. Doflamingo enters, phone held between his shoulder and his ear, fresh from the gym.

“Yeah. Yeah. So, just use the same formula you used on the first one with the numbers from the second. Mhmmm. Mhmm. Okay, well, go to bed when you’re done, alright? Yeah. Goodnight.”

He hangs up the phone, setting the stilettos he’s carrying on the shoe rack and toeing off his sneakers. Doffy has more shoes than they have space for in the closet and front hallway combined, so they stay on the doormat.

“Croco!” He greets, throwing himself against the door so it will close properly, and he can lock it. “Why the fuck are you awake? You have work in like, six hours.”

Crocodile doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he points at the kitchen without looking up from his book, knowing Doffy won’t have eaten. A few minutes later he returns with a protein bar and sits down on the couch, which protests loudly. Crocodile honestly doesn’t know how Doflamingo’s continued to sleep on the thing for two years; the sleeper section has become progressively lumpier and sometimes refuses to fold out at all. But he never complains.

Doflamingo leans back for a moment, letting out a contented sigh. He opens his phone, messing around with something. Crocodile’s phone pings on the side table; he looks at Doflamingo suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

“Go on,” he says, grinning rather mischievously.

Crocodile picks up the phone, abandoning his book on the couch between them. Doffy has sent him a contact. 

Bon!!!! 😀😍😎😘😈😇😆😛😜😼😻😚

It reads, and then several emojis that have turned into boxes on Crocodile’s phone. He looks up sharply.

“Is this—"

“Yup,” Doffy says, still smiling. “Met them on the bus.”

He’s been looking for Misters 1 and 2—rather fruitlessly—for several years. Of course, Doflamingo would be much easier to identify; he’s continued to add to his tattoo collection since he secured a job. Crocodile’s favorite is the stylized Log Pose on Doffy’s wrist.

He adds Bon to his phone, opening up a text thread. The cursor blinks up at him. He stares down at it blankly.

What does he say?

What can he say?

Does Bon want to speak to him? It was technically Crocodile that had landed them in jail before, and they were friends with that Mugiwara brat, besides. Perhaps they only offered their number out of courtesy, or because Doflamingo pestered them into it.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he startles, looking up at Doffy.

“They were really excited when I said I knew you,” he reassures quietly.

Crocodile nods. Looks away. He knows he’s being irrational, but there are just so many people who hate him. People he doesn’t even recall meeting before. It’s always a risk, talking to someone who remembers.

“Gonna shower,” Doffy says, turning away and heading for the bathroom.

“Yes, please avail yourself of the soap,” Crocodile snarks. Doffy throws his disgusting shirt at Crocodile’s head, but misses. 

He looks back down at his phone.

Bon Clay. How are you?

He sends it before he can second guess himself. Before he can set it down, the phone immediately starts vibrating.

ZERO-CHAN!!!!!!!!!

He nerves subside; he smiles.

The newly named Mr. 2 waltzes into Crocodile’s office, wearing something so outrageous it defies description. They put out their manicured hand and introduce themselves as Bentham. Crocodile congratulates them on their promotion and asks if they have a partner in mind. They smile.

OMG I CANT BELIEVE ITS U !!!!!

IM SO EXCITED!!!

HOLD ON

A notification pops up for a group chat with himself, Bon Clay, and a third, unknown party. 

ITS TTLY ZERO-CHAN

I TOLD U IVA!!!

Crocodile groans. Of course Ivankov had to remember.

He comes before the Queen unbowed. He hates to have to ask favors of anyone, but they are the only one who can do as he wants, the only one who can correct the mistakes of nature and reshape his body. They smile when he asks and say they’ll help, of course, but everything comes at a price, doesn’t it? Crocodile just has to answer a little question in exchange for Ivankov’s generous assistance.

His phone buzzes again.

croco-boy?????

He debates just not answering or telling Iva to fuck off. But Bon has always worshipped them, and he supposes they are owed courtesy. He sighs.

Ivankov.

aw darling arent u excited 2 see me?

I expected a better reception 💔😾

Perhaps you shouldn’t have blackmailed me, then.

OMG ZEEEEEERO-CHAN THAT WAS LITERALLY LIKE

A WHOLE ENTIRE LIFETIME AGO

STOOOOOOOOOOP

it got u out of prison didnt it?

So ungrateful! I think I may faint…

IVA NOOOOOOO 😲😭

Crocodile sighs and gets up to throw Doflamingo’s shirt in the washer, holding it pinched between two fingers. 

I was just kidding! Im fine! Hee-Haw!

LMAAAAAAO XD

IVA U GOT ME THAT WAS SO GOOD

He closes the lid, grabbing the wrench they use to turn the knob on the washing machine. The plastic broke off last year—the landlord keeps saying he’ll fix it but, predictably, hasn’t.

Are you done being ridiculous?

I see youre still no fun croco-boy =P

but enough about us

u must tell us everything abt urself

OMG YEAH ZC !!!!

I MISSED U!! SO MUCH!!!

IVE BEEN LOOKING 4 U 4 LIKE

4EVER BASICALLY

Crocodile smiles, glad to find he hasn’t been alone in his search. Glad to have been missed.

He bangs on the bathroom door.

“Doflamingo.”

“Yeah?” Doffy shouts back. “What is it?”

“I want to run the washing machine. Are you almost finished?”

“Just go ahead. Hot water’s broken again, anyway.”

Crocodile groans and returns to the washer, punching the start button.

I’ve been searching for you as well, Bon. Rather unsuccessfully, I admit. How lucky you happened to run into Doflamingo.

we wouldve found u eventually anyway 

your father thought u might be around here

The pit drops out of Crocodile’s stomach.

Why the fuck were you talking to my father?

*gasp* language croco-boy =P

HES WORRIED ABT U ZERO-CHAN 😭

HE MISSES U 

HE ASKED US TO FIND U AND MAKE SURE U WERE OK

I don’t care. Don’t tell him you’ve spoken to me.

Y NOT ??????

DID HE DO SOMETHING ???????

In this world? No.

croco-boy surely ur not still mad about /that/

I am.

thats ridiculous

Why? I think it’s entirely sensible. I seriously doubt you’d be willing to forgive someone who violently amputated your hand and permanently scarred your face.

I mean if it were MY face thatd be a fucking crime against humanity

but like 

idk ppl have forgiven u so like

you could at least think abt it

Crocodile snorts derisively, making his way back over to the couch. He stretches his legs out, pushing lightly against the other armrest before remembering the thing came loose a week ago. It falls to the ground. He sighs and gets up, going to the kitchen for duct tape. 

No, they haven’t. Trust me.

that girl

IVA DONT. NOT TONIGHT.

vivi

she does

Crocodile’s hand stills on the drawer. He stares at the screen.

There could hardly be anyone worse. Others might have hated him more, but the Nefertari girl was the one who had done something about it. He scowls, turning away to lean against the counter, fingers hitting the keys with more force than necessary.

That’s ridiculous. She was lying.

I DONT THINK SO

SHE WAS SUUUUUUPER NICE 2 ME EVEN THO I LIKE

HELPED KIDNAP HER DAD N STUFF

You recall she was capable of infiltrating BW, as well; she was probably deceiving you.

He heads back to the living room with the tape and kneels in front of the couch. Ripping off a strip with his teeth, he starts to haphazardly reattach the arm. 

…….NO OFFENSE ZC BUT LIKE

U NVR RLY TALKED 2 UR EMPLOYEES?

IT WASNT THAT HARD 2 TRICK U

SHES A RLY BAD LIAR

Don’t tell her you know me.

SIIIIIIIGH OK OK

W/E

BUT SHES LIKE ALWAYS @ THAT BAR WHERE MINGO-CHAN WORKS 

SHES GONNA MEET HIM EVENTUALLY

Doflamingo won’t engage her. He wouldn’t do that to me.

Of that he is quite sure.

The arm sags towards the ground again. Crocodile starts to wrap pieces of tape around from the back of the couch to give it a more stable anchor.

hey cb 

whats up with u guys anyway

What do you mean?

MINGO-CHAN SAID HES BEEN LIVING IN UR APT FOR 2!!!

WHOLE!!!

YEARS!!!

So? He needed a place to stay, and I offered. What’s so unusual about that?

….RLY?

Doflamingo wanders out into the living room then, heading for the kitchen.

“Did that fall off again? Just leave it, it's not worth putting back. Stupid piece of junk.

“Want pancakes?”

“Sure,” Crocodile says absentmindedly, leaning his back up against the arm in an effort to get it to stay for at least a few minutes. He can hear the tape slowly peeling away from the fabric.

Neither of you are making any sense.

what bon-boy means to ask is are you fucking him

Crocodile looks quickly towards the kitchen and is immensely grateful he hadn’t decided to call Bon. 

No. And I don’t see how it’s any of your business, anyway.

WAIT RLY?!?!

….U GUYS DIDN’T EVEN LIKE

HAVE AN AWK 1 NIGHT STAND U PROMISED NEVER TO TALK ABT AGAIN?????

NOTHING??? 

REALLY???????????

Of course not. Why would you even think that?

U TOLD ME HE WANTED 2 FUCK B4 !!

That’s true. Doflamingo had always been rather irritatingly obvious with his affections. But he’s never made any advances like that here.

Yes, but this is an entirely different situation. He’s just staying until he gets back on his feet.

darling hes on his feet

hes waiting for you to get on your knees

Crocodile mutes the conversation, silencing his phone and slamming it down against the floor. It continues to buzz—messages from Bon Clay or Ivankov separately, maybe—but he determinedly ignores it. 

He knows Ivankov was trying to rile him on purpose; that’s always how they’ve been. But it just feels so—so vulgar. So cheap, so base a way to describe them. It’s worth more than that. What they are, what they provide for each other is beyond some— some brief physical desire. He needs—they need each other. When things are difficult, when they are lost, they reach for one another: as one starving would reach for food.

“Hey, the pancakes are—" Doffy says, stopping abruptly when he sees Crocodile. “Everything okay?”

Crocodile looks up, realizing he’s been glaring at the floor as if it has offended him.

“What? Yes, fine.”

He begins to rise, but Doffy shakes his head.

“No, stay. The table leg is coming loose again, and I don’t wanna deal with it.”

Crocodile sighs as Doffy sits next to him, passing over a plate of pancakes.

“This whole fucking house is falling apart,” he grumbles, shoving a bite into his mouth. It has an… interesting flavor.

“What kind of pancakes are these?”

“Rosewater. What do you think?”

Crocodile shrugs.

“I don’t hate it.”

Doffy giggles, then takes an enormous bite.

“So, how’d it go?” he asks, still chewing.

“As well as could be expected, I suppose, with Ivankov there.”

Doffy raises an eyebrow.

“From the Revolutionary Army? Didn’t know you knew them.”

“I needed their Devil Fruit, last time.”

“Oh, yeah. Hadn’t thought of that. Well, what’d y’all talk about?”

Crocodile doesn’t answer for a moment, instead cutting his pancakes into fourths.

“They gave me some news concerning my father and… other people. And they asked about you.”

“Me? Why? I barely even knew them before.”

“No, they had questions about you now.”

Doffy doesn’t answer him. Crocodile looks at him out of the corner of his eye; sees the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“They didn’t want anything,” he says gently. “They were just asking why you were here, with me.”

Doflamingo nods, still silent. He takes another bite of his pancakes.

“What did you say?” he asks, eventually.

He’s trying to gauge Crocodile’s reaction; get more information to moderate his own. Old habits.

“I told them you were just staying until you found your own place.”

“…Hmm.”

Crocodile guesses it sounds as fake to him as it did to the others.

Doffy finishes his food and moves to the window, removing the piece of wood they use to keep it shut and lighting a cigarette.

The scent, somewhat soothing to Crocodile’s mind, slowly permeates the room. He leans back against the couch, feeling the arm give beneath his weight.

Something is bothering him about his talk, besides the matter of Doflamingo. It is, of course, always upsetting to hear that Whitebeard persists in his attempts to contact Crocodile, though they have not spoken in nine years. But that is something he is always prepared, if displeased, to hear. 

The business with Nefertari Vivi, however. 

He had truly hoped that she would not remember. There is very little he would enjoy less than being confronted by her, as there is absolutely nothing he can say in his defense. Having to stand there and listen to such a tirade as he imagines she has for him sounds unbearably humiliating— he is self-aware enough to concede that such castigation may be deserved, but that does not stop him from dreading it. And now that he knows she is here and aware of their past, the confrontation seems nearly unavoidable. 

It is an unpleasant reminder that the world has continued to move, though he has done his level best to hide from it. Has secreted himself away in a slowly deteriorating apartment, with only Doflamingo for company, in the inevitably vain hope that the rest of the world would simply leave him alone. That Whitebeard would stop looking for him, that whatever vindictive force has trapped him here would stop sending phantoms after him to berate and upbraid him for actions of which he is no longer proud, and can do little to remedy. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, though. One can only sail for so long without the wind behind them.

He is startled from his thoughts by a package of cigarettes landing on the floor next to him.

“Still wrong?” he asks, handing Doffy his plate.

“Yeah. Can you move the table? Gonna put the bed down.”

Crocodile nods, shoving the table up against the wall and removing the throw pillows while Doflamingo puts the dishes in the sink. They lower the bed together when he returns, the elderly mechanisms screeching in protest. Doflamingo reclines, feet dangling off the end. Crocodile sits on the edge.

“We should find a new apartment,” he says absently.

A beat of silence.

“Why? Nothing wrong with this one.”

Crocodile turns to look at him incredulously. Gestures to the arm of the couch, which is now halfway to the floor.

“Well, alright, it’s kind of falling apart,” he amends, “but it’s livable.”

“Surely—" Crocodile starts, then pauses, worrying the fraying edge of the blanket. “Surely we deserve better than ‘livable?’ We can afford it, now.”

“I mean, yeah, but like… it’s fine. We’re fine here, right?”

“I… I don’t know,” Crocodile says quietly.

“Well, we have food and water, and like, a roof. We’re safe. Mostly,” he corrects, at another glance from Crocodile. “Mostly safe. It’s not bad.”

“Granted. But it’s not—we’re not—we had better than ‘safe’, once. We had better than not starving or freezing to death. We had so much more than just—just surviving. And I don’t—are you satisfied with—with this? Just this?”

Doffy shrugs.

“Satisfaction is relative. Besides, it’s not—all that’s in the past.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t need—want—those things. I’m not—I’m not him, anymore.”

Crocodile frowns.

“You are,” he contradicts. “We are. There’s no point denying it.”

“Maybe I’m not. How would you know?” Doffy snaps, running an agitated hand through his hair, “How can you be sure—"

“Because we are the same!”

It comes out rather more loudly than Crocodile intends. He stops himself, taking a breath and repeating more quietly,

“You and I are the same.”

They have to be the same. Crocodile needs them to be—desperately, completely. He needs Doffy here with him, in the same situation; he needs him because—because he understands, and because Crocodile can look at him without dreading it, and Doffy will look back without disgust, and he can just—just relax. Just rest. For a moment.

Doffy searches his face. 

“If we are,” he says quietly, holding Crocodile’s gaze, “then what are you waiting for? You’ve been here longer than I have, in the same house, the same job. Why are you still here?”

“Because I…” Crocodile hesitates, disliking the vulnerability. “Because I want to— to feel like I did on that day again, when Roger died. When I left for the Grand Line; when I knew I would be King. I want Gustave’s deck under me, I want to smell that ocean, I want to feel—to feel moved. And there’s nothing, nothing in this world like that. Not for me.”

Doffy looks away.

“If there’s nothing like that here,” he says, a peculiar urgency to his voice, “if you’re waiting for something that will never come, how can you keep going? How can you or I move forward if what we want—need—is something which can’t exist?”

“I don’t know,” Crocodile admits, “but it’s— we have to keep going. We have to try.”

“Do we?” He looks back up, eyes fierce. “If we can’t find what we need, what’s left to us but to be who we were again? Is it worth it to just live as some— some shadow, some facsimile, of those people? To never be able to do anything differently than them, to just—just act out some pale imitation of every mistake and never have a choice—”

“We have a choice,” Crocodile says loudly. “We have a choice. We were—are—them but—but they are also dead. They can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Doffy’s eyes dim. He looks at Crocodile desolately, hopelessly. 

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because I tried so, so hard not to be him,” he says, pain evident in his voice. “I wanted so badly just to have a normal, boring life with my family—to not let what he did affect us. But I couldn’t.

“I would find myself so angry at them for every little mistake, but it wasn’t them I was upset with, and it wasn’t my anger. I was mad at Rosi for betraying me, but he’s never betrayed me. I was mad at Mother and Father for ruining our lives, but they never ruined them. But every time, every time something happened, I was back there. I was him. And I lost them, again, because I couldn’t stop being him—because I couldn’t not make that same fucking mistake.”

He seems angry for a moment, but it drains from him almost immediately, leaving him deflated.

“How do I stop him, Croco?” he asks, searching Crocodile’s face almost desperately. “How? I just wanna—I wanna be free of that. Him. Me.”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Crocodile replies, helpless.

He’s never managed it, himself; never done better than shoving the thoughts away when they come to him. He wants what he had, still, and he wars with himself endlessly over it. It is wrong, he was cruel; he knows this. But still. He was a Royal Warlord; he dreamed of power and glory beyond any seen in a century, and that ambition lives in him still.

It seems obvious, suddenly—the answer to Doflamingo’s question about why he has remained here. Why he puts up with the stove with only one working burner, with customers who shout at him drunkenly.

Because wanting things, demanding better, feels too much like who he was—and who he is afraid to be again. In trying to become another person, to hide from himself and the rest of this world, he stripped himself of everything he was.

But maybe that wasn’t necessary. There is merit in ambition, in cunning and ingenuity and perseverance, which he had in abundance. There were things in him—in both of them— worth keeping.

“I understand what you—wanting to leave yourself behind. I have wanted it, too,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “however, I… I don’t think it serves us, to—to refuse to live, for fear of repeating ourselves. I think that we can build something meaningful in this world, without denying who we were. And I…” he falters, looking over at the coffee table. “I would like to build it with you. If you’ll permit it.”

He desperately wants to— finds he can’t imagine it without Doflamingo, in fact.

Doffy doesn’t answer for a while, continuing to stare pensively at the ceiling. Crocodile shifts anxiously on the bed. 

And then the leg breaks and he crashes to the ground.

He’s not hurt, really, just shocked. He lies there, perturbed, for a moment. And then Doffy starts laughing.

“Oh my god—" he gasps. “Oh my god, Croco, are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s just so—so ridiculous. Oh my god.”

He keeps laughing, and Crocodile finds himself joining him.

It is ridiculous; the window, the washing machine, the stove, the couch, the door, the refrigerator that won’t close unless you slam it. It’s absurd that they’ve put up with it for so long, that they’ve trapped themselves here out of fear of what’s to come. 

Doffy stands, reaching out a hand to pull Crocodile to his feet. He’s still smiling, wiping tears from his face with his free hand.

“I’ll look for a new place while you’re at work,” he promises. 

The sun has already started invading the room. Crocodile hasn’t slept, and he’s expected at work in four hours. He needs to shower, and there’s no hot water, and he’s forgotten to put the laundry in the dryer, and still, against all of that, he feels— he feels so much lighter.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun streams through the passenger side window. Crocodile watches Doflamingo drum his fingers on the steering wheel of their used sedan, bouncing his left leg up and down. 

Last week was Doflamingo’s brother’s birthday. As he does every year, Doffy called him to wish him well and let him know his present was in the mail. Doflamingo’s brother asked— as he does every year— for Doffy to come home; a request he refused. It had seemed a relatively uneventful conversation.

Two days later, Doffy’s brother had called back so distraught that Crocodile could hear him on the other side of their apartment. They argued for hours and in the end Doflamingo had capitulated, which is how they find themselves on their way to Doflamingo’s parents’ house for dinner. 

There was never really a question of whether Crocodile would come; when Doflamingo had knocked on his door, exhausted and defeated, Crocodile had simply asked when they were going. The whole situation sounds like a complete nightmare— not something Crocodile would be willing to let Doffy walk into alone. 

“Remember, my brother’s name is Rosaire,” Doflamingo says, for the eleventh time today, “And my father is Noble. And—"

“And your mother is Dulce.”

“Sorry. I’m just…”

“I know.”

Crocodile reaches out, putting a hand on Doffy’s shoulder for a moment. He flashes a quick, exhausted smile in Crocodile’s direction.

Crocodile suspects he hasn’t been sleeping well the last few days. He was up when Crocodile went to work yesterday, and his bedroom light was still on when Crocodile came back. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he reassures, although more from hope than certainty.

Honestly, he doubts this is a good idea; Doffy certainly wouldn’t have decided to return if Rosaire had not intervened, and Crocodile fears the fallout of such a hastily arranged reunion. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Doflamingo says, voice lacking conviction. “Just—hey, um, I forgot to ask, but how should I introduce you?”

Crocodile frowns, confused.

“With my name, I expect. I hope you haven’t forgotten it.”

“No, Wani, I mean… should I say you’re my friend, or my roommate, or what?”

Another brief, nervous glance in Crocodile’s direction.

“Ah. Well,” Crocodile falls back into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest, “however you like, I suppose. Whatever makes you… comfortable.”

“Hmm.”

Doflamingo stares fixedly at the road even when they reach a red light, fingers like a vice on the wheel. Crocodile watches him.

It’s a good question. What are they?

Crocodile certainly finds him… necessary. Important. He feels more present with him, as though the world is more real. He is the mooring that keeps Crocodile from drifting. He needs him. And he wants…

Well, that’s the issue, isn’t it? What do they want, exactly? They’ve never discussed it. Too delicate a subject.

Crocodile would not describe them as ‘friends.’ It feels inaccurate. While he will admit to enjoying the company of his friends, he has never needed any of them. It’s not even romantic or carnal at this point (as he has repeatedly informed Bon and Ivankov). It’s just… they’ve grown together. Their roots are intertwined.

The light reflects off Doflamingo’s sunglasses. They are rose-tinted with gold frames; Crocodile gifted them to him on his last birthday, half-jokingly. But Doffy wears them near constantly. 

They flatter his face, admittedly; in this life, it is slightly thinner and more angular. Crocodile likes that— the subtle differences he can see on Doflamingo; his freckles and the shape of his nose and how his shoulders aren’t quite as broad. His voice is less nasal; he doesn’t eat lobster anymore. Those kinds of changes are difficult to perceive in oneself, but Doffy’s remind him of this world’s tangibility; that they are new images overlaying the old and not merely poor copies.

They pull up in front of a frankly enormous house. It’s not quite as big as Whitebeard’s main one, but certainly much too large for the three people inhabiting it. It seems vaguely Spanish in design, white, with terracotta roof tiles. Arches and windows abound, as well as at least three balconies Crocodile can see from the front. Their car looks comically out of place on the huge, circular driveway with a fountain at its center. 

Doffy parks somewhat haphazardly. They get out and he leans over to adjust his hair in the side view mirror. Crocodile comes to him, gripping his forearm gently. Doffy looks up. This close, Crocodile can see the dark circles under his eyes, carefully concealed by makeup and sunglasses.

“It’s going to be fine,” he reiterates.

Doflamingo nods. Bites his lip.

The house’s massive front doors are flung wide so violently that one door handle hits the outside wall. A gangly blonde teenager immediately trips on the steps, catching himself on his hands at the last second. He gets back up and runs full tilt into Doflamingo who grabs him up in a fierce hug, swinging him around and laughing with abandon. And, oh, Crocodile does not believe he has ever seen Doflamingo quite this happy; has never seen him smile like that, certainly. Without pain. 

He is breathtaking in his joy.

“Rosi,” he finally says, putting his brother down and placing hands on his shoulders. “How are you? God, you’re so tall!” He shakes his brother slightly, grinning all the while.

“I’m—I’m good. Dori, I’m—I’m fine, I— you’re home.”

Tears clog Rosaire’s voice. He hugs Doffy again, and Crocodile turns away, wanting to afford them a little privacy. He looks at the entrance to find Doffy’s parents standing there. Noble has his arm around Dulce, who is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Crocodile steels himself and decides he’ll save Doflamingo the trouble of introductions, walking up to the door wearing the most charming smile he can muster. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Dalì, I presume?” he asks, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Carlisle Newgate, a friend of your son’s.”

Mr. DalÌ shakes his hand firmly, smiling in a somewhat distracted way; his gaze keeps flicking between his wife and his sons.

He’s nowhere near as tall as either of his children. A thin, awkward-looking man with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes; he’s ‘dressed down’ in the manner of rich people, which is to say in a monocolored dress shirt and slacks made of materials much too fine for any average person to afford.

“Call me Noble. Nice to meet you.”

“And you must call me Dulce, of course. Please excuse me, I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment,” the woman says, nodding at Crocodile in greeting and wiping at her eyes.

She is slighter than her husband, her hair so blonde it’s almost white. The years look well on her; Crocodile finds himself hoping idly that Doffy will wear them as gracefully. She has kind, reddish-brown eyes and Doflamingo’s long, elegant hands.

“It’s completely understandable,” he assures. “Dorian mentioned he hasn’t returned home in some time.”

“It’s been seven and a half years,” she says, ducking her head as her eyes well up again. “I’m so sorry, please give me a moment.” She flees into the house, disappearing down a hallway to the right side of the foyer.

“You’ll pardon me, as well, I hope,” Noble says, already turning to hurry after his wife.

“My father was always trailing after my mother. He almost never left her bedside the whole time she was dying.”

Some things, it seems, are constant beyond the cage of a lifetime.

Doffy and Rosaire come over, the former with his arm slung over his brother’s shoulder.

“Rosi, this is Carlisle. Carlisle, Rosi.”

“Nice to meet you.” Crocodile offers his hand; Rosi shakes it awkwardly.

He has the family’s signature blonde hair, his mother’s eyes, and the sort of gangly awkwardness of someone who has recently experienced a growth spurt and hasn’t quite adjusted yet. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Rosi replies, sounding somewhat robotic. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself back there. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I just, um—”

“It’s quite understandable,” Crocodile waves him off, “Dorian, you might want to see to your parents. They were somewhat… overwrought.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doffy fiddles with his glasses, removing his hand from around Rosi’s shoulder. He clears his throat.

“Ro, why don’t you go on and show Carlisle the living room? I’ll talk to Mother and Father, and then we can leave for dinner.”

“Oh, uh.” Rosi makes a face like he’s smelled something terrible. “We’re not— Mom made dinner.”

Doffy turns to him, looking vaguely horrified.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“No. Unfortunately.”

“Oh my god,” he turns to Carlisle. “I’m so sorry. Listen— try not to eat too much of it. It will give you food poisoning.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“She’s just— like, I love her, but she’s a terrible cook. I don’t know why they didn’t just have the chef over if they wanted to eat in.”

“She wanted to do it herself. So it’d be special, you know. For you,” Rosi says quietly.

“Yeah, I—" Doffy cuts himself off with a sigh. “I know. It’s— I mean, it’s a nice—nice thought. Anyway, Rosi, show Carlisle inside, and we’ll all be down in a second.”

“Okay, um,” Rosi says, stepping forward a bit and turning to Crocodile, “right this way Mr., uh...?”

Doffy cackles, returning his hand briefly to Rosi’s shoulder, “It’s Newgate, but don’t call him that unless you want him to bite your head off. Thanks, I’ll just be a minute.”

With that, Doflamingo disappears down the same hallway as his parents, leaving Crocodile and Rosaire in awkward silence.

“Well, um, it’s just this way, so if you wanna follow me?”

Crocodile nods assent, and they make their way down a hall into a lavishly decorated parlor containing the sort of furniture one hesitates to sit on for fear of damaging it.

“Um, do you want anything to drink?” Rosi seems to be a nervous fidgeter, shifting from foot to foot and playing with the hems of his sleeves.

“Water would be lovely, thank you.” Honestly, he’d rather have whiskey, but someone needs to drive back and Crocodile has graciously decided to abstain in case Doffy needs alcohol to make it through the evening.

Rosi returns with his glass, sets it on the coffee table, and sits on the couch across from Crocodile, still visibly nervous.

“So, um, you’re— you live with Dori, um, I mean Dorian?”

“We’re roommates, yes.” 

Rosaire pauses, continuing to fidget. He keeps looking up at Crocodile, opening his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then giving up.

“He said… well, he said you found him, somewhere. He wouldn’t say where,” he finally says, rushing through the sentence. His eyes are fixed determinedly to Crocodile’s right.

“I did,” Crocodile replies slowly. “Although, the arrangement is very much equal if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“No, um. I just, I. I wanted to say thank you. For helping him. I know he wasn’t… he didn’t have anywhere to stay— or, well, where he would stay— before he met you.”

Crocodile smiles gently.

“You’re very welcome. He just needed a… safe harbor, if you will. I was happy to provide it.”

It’s not something he would necessarily say in front of Doffy. The phrase “safe harbor” means something different to them. In this world, it simply indicates a refuge. But before, when they could spend months at sea at the mercy of the Grand Line’s capricious weather patterns not knowing if they’d run out of food or if the next port would welcome pirates, it meant something else. There is an enormous relief associated with it; Crocodile knows Doffy would have the same visceral reaction as he; has had experiences that make the idea so much more than the simple reality it conveys.

He wouldn’t want to presume on Doffy by using such a weighty phrase in a context where he might feel forced to agree, but for Crocodile’s part it feels… right. Feels like the answer to what they are to each other. A sanctuary. A place to heal and restore oneself.

“He talks about you constantly, you know,” Crocodile offers, trying to keep up the conversation. “How proud he is of you; how happy he is for you.”

“Really?” Rosi asks. “He’s—he’s proud of me?”

“Well, of course,” Crocodile says, a bit confused. “From all I’ve heard, you are very accomplished. And he loves you; naturally, he is proud.”

“But if he— if he lo—" Rosi balls his hands into fists and stares at his lap.

Crocodile is honestly rather surprised. He has spent countless hours listening to Doflamingo talk about how smart Rosi is, how kind he is, how talented he is, how successful he’ll be one day. He would have expected Doffy to be, if not quite so effusive to Rosi’s face, at least complimentary. 

“I don’t…” Rosaire picks at the cuticles of his left hand.

“I don’t mean to, um, pry, or anything, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I was wondering… he never told us why he left, or why he wouldn’t come back. Did he um… say anything about that? Did I… did we do something wrong?”

Crocodile sighs and wishes he had asked for alcohol.

That’s the problem with knowing about before. It was them, and it wasn’t. They did something, but they also didn’t, and they don’t remember, anyway. So it’s about Doffy, but also it’s not; it’s about this great, grand sea that existed somewhere else and the things that happened there which have poisoned their lives in this world.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, carefully, measuring each word before he speaks. “Dorian was simply having… a difficult time. He was experiencing a crisis that you cou— that he believed you couldn’t help with, and he thought it might… cause him to do or say something unkind. He wanted to protect you.”

“But we would’ve understood. We would’ve helped him!” Rosaire looks very fierce, meeting Crocodile’s eyes for the first time today. Crocodile sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sure you would have. But it might not have been possible for him to— to describe what was happening to him so that it was comprehensible. He was afraid that he would hurt you without being able to provide a satisfactory explanation as to why, and he wanted to avoid that. Very desperately.”

“But— but if we didn’t do anything, and he loves us, then why— why couldn’t he trust us to help? Why didn’t he—w-why—” Rosaire struggles through the sentence, seemingly overcome.

“Weren’t we good enough?” 

He sounds as though he’s near tears again, and part of Crocodile begins to quietly panic at the idea of being trapped in a room with a hysterical teenager. 

“I—” Crocodile begins, trying to come up with a satisfactory answer, when whatever deity has trapped him in this hell takes pity on him and Doffy walks into the room.

“Hey, guys. Everything going good?” he says, a distinctly fake cheer to his voice.

“Hey. Uh, yeah, um, we’re good,” Rosaire replies lamely. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“Oh, they’ll be here in a second,” Doffy says, ruffling his brother’s hair as he makes a beeline for the well-stocked bar in the corner. 

“You want anything, Carlisle?”

“No, thank you.”

He pours himself a generous glass of wine and then sprawls on the couch at Crocodile’s side.

He’s tense. It’s in the way he’s holding himself; to anyone else, he’d seem fine, but Crocodile notices.

“So, Rosi, how’s school treating you? Going okay?” he asks, downing a good third of the alcohol.

“Um, it’s good, Dori. Got all A’s and a B last semester.”

“That’s great! Math still tripping you up, huh?”

“Yeah, um, I’m not much better at Calc than Algebra. Actually, I was wondering if— if you have time after we eat, I was working on some practice problems for my SATs, and I was wondering if you could help?” he says, with more trepidation in his voice than the relatively simple request deserves.

“You’re doing homework during the summer? Damn. Sucks. But, yeah, I’ll take a look for you.”

“Oh, good! I mean, that’s great, thanks!”

To Crocodile’s eye, Rosi seems much too excited about Doffy helping with math— rather, the prospect of spending time with his prodigal brother seems more likely. The strained smile Doffy offers Rosi suggests he’s guessed, as well.

Dulce and Noble come into the room together. Crocodile rises to greet them, shaking Dulce’s hand.

“Please excuse me, Carlisle, it was terribly rude of me not to welcome you into our home,” she says, smiling warmly.

“Not at all. Rosaire has been a charming host.”

“Has he? What a pleasant surprise,” Dulce teases her son, who blushes.

“So, Carlisle Newgate, is it? What do you do?” Noble asks. He’s smiling, but it has a somewhat rigid quality that suggests to Crocodile this may be a kind of interrogation.

“Real estate,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his card case. He’s rather glad Doffy waited to visit until they’d both changed occupations; real estate investor and radio host are somewhat more palatable professions than casino manager and bartender, he suspects.

“Your home is exquisite, incidentally.”

“Thank you so much, Carlisle,” Dulce beams. “Would you like something to drink? Noble can make us something.” She reaches out to touch her husband’s arm briefly, and he smiles at her adoringly.

“He’s not having anything, Mother,” Doffy dismisses. “What d’you want, though? I can make it.”

Dulce frowns.

“Oh, nonsense, Dori, you’re our guest.”

“Port, Father?” Doffy asks, ignoring her and going back to the bar. “Let me make you something, Mother. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Oh, well, if you insist, dear.”

Noble and Dulce take seats on the couch next to Rosi, bracketing him between them.

“So, Dori tells us you’re an old friend of his,” Dulce says, “Where did you meet?”

“It was at a school thing,” Doffy says, before Crocodile can come up with something. “Don’t interrogate him, Mother, I told you we’re just friends.”

Doffy delivers his parents’ drinks, ignoring their protestations that they weren’t doing anything of the sort before flopping back onto the couch and taking another gulp of wine. 

There is quite obviously something wrong. Doflamingo rarely takes pains to hide how he feels, but he keeps determinedly pretending to be interested in the banal and stifling small talk that his parents are engaging in— asking about work, talking about the weather and traffic, of all things. While the Dalìs are distracted, Crocodile takes out his phone and discreetly texts him. 

Are you alright?

He sees Doffy type something rapidly, still talking with his parents.

i mean kinda and also no lmaaaaaaao 

ill tell u abt it l8r

r sure u dont want anything 2 drink

You look like you need it more, and someone has to drive us home.

ur the best ilu 💖💖💖

Doffy puts his phone away after that and, finished with his drink, heads back over to the bar to pour another.

“So, I heard you made dinner, Mother?” he says brightly, still with that same forced cheerfulness. “Should we eat now? Wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Dulce agrees. They move to a giant, formal dining room taken up by a table that almost spans its length. Consequently, no one sits close enough to anyone else to actually have a private conversation; the stilted continuation of the previous discussion is little better than the atrocious food. Crocodile does his part to keep things going but is frankly relieved when the dessert course is over. He’s about to follow Doflamingo and Rosi upstairs when Dulce calls him back.

“I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but would you mind terribly helping with the dishes? Noble needs to attend to some things, and it’s much faster with two,” she requests, smiling sweetly at him.

This is undoubtedly a trap, but he can’t refuse without being unbearably rude, so he reluctantly agrees.

Crocodile volunteers to wash, since he expects Ms. Dalì is little better at dishes than cooking. They chat aimlessly for a few minutes before she turns to him, a determined look on her face.

“You’ll have to forgive me for my rudeness in asking you to help, but I do have a few things to say to you.”

“Of course,” Crocodile says, pausing while cleaning a knife to look over at her, “I suspected you might.”

“Yes, well, firstly, I must thank you, of course, for taking care of my darling little boy. We’ve just been worried to death over him since he left home; Noble’s developed all sorts of health problems, the poor dear, not to mention the toll it’s taken on sweet Rosaire,” she pauses there, staring intently down at the spoon she’s polishing before continuing. “It’s just been horrible. We are immensely grateful to you, of course, and if you ever need anything, you’ve only to ask.”

“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I shall keep that in mind.”

“Oh, it’s Dulce, dear, none of that formality between us,” she smiles at him, genuinely, for what Crocodile suspects is the first time this evening.

“I wanted to ask you something about him if you don’t mind,” she says, tone carefully casual.

“Of course not,” Crocodile says, rinsing the knife and handing it to her, “I will do my best to answer you.”

“Thank you. I was just wondering… I know he’s living with you, now, and you mustn’t—you mustn’t take this the wrong way, but I just want to know if he’s... well, is he— is he alright? I mean, health-wise, and… when he left, he was just so—so upset all the time, and, I mean, we tried therapy and psychiatry, and— well, just none of it seemed to work, so I just—"

“There’s no need to explain. I understand entirely,” Crocodile interrupts. “I… believe he is.” 

He picks up a bowl and begins to scrub at it, trying to formulate an answer that will both satisfy Ms. Dalì and preserve Doflamingo’s privacy.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending he was well when we met,” he eventually continues. “But then, neither was I. And I think I— we have managed to— to assist one another, in that regard.”

“That’s—that’s— I’m so glad,” she says, then wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you for telling me, dear.”

“Of course,” Crocodile says, smiling. He turns to hand her the bowl, but she doesn’t take it.

“There’s one more thing,” she says.

Crocodile has never been given to speculation on where, exactly, Doflamingo had acquired the ability to terrify people out of their wits. He’s suddenly enlightened when Ms. Dalì glares at him, still smiling and continuing to dry what Crocodile now notices is a very long and dangerous-looking knife.

“Yes?” He says warily.

“Noble was very adamant I not mention this to you, so it’ll just be our little secret, alright?” She waits for Crocodile to nod and then continues. “Good. I want you to know that if you ever do anything to hurt Dorian, I will make your life an endless, living hell. I have a lot of money and a lot of time, and I’m perfectly willing to use those things in pursuit of utterly destroying you—something I am capable of both getting away with and feeling no remorse for whatsoever. So don’t fuck it up, okay?” she says, still smiling at him.

Crocodile nods mutely, not quite able to think of a response.

“Wonderful! I just wanted to make sure we understood each other, where it concerns him. Oh, by the way, would you like me to make you some coffee when we finish up? Noble just bought this lovely, imported stuff I’m quite eager to try, and Dori mentioned how much you like it.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you M—Dulce,” he replies, on autopilot. Fortunately for him, Dulce continues chattering on about mundanities, so Crocodile isn’t forced to participate beyond occasional affirmations. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself holding a cup of coffee and being led by the arm towards the stairs as Dulce expounds about gardening.

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Might I have a word with Carlisle, if he doesn’t mind?” Noble says from behind them as they approach the foot of the stairs.

Crocodile takes a deep breath, not particularly enjoying being passed between family members like a football, and then turns around to face Noble, fixing a polite smile on his face.

“Of course, I’d be happy to speak with you.”

“Wonderful,” he says, gesturing down a hallway that adjoins the foyer. “If you’ll come with me.”

Crocodile follows Noble to a wood-paneled room that appears to be an old-fashioned study; the walls are lined with glass-fronted bookcases and there’s a large, mahogany desk near a bank of windows. Noble leads Crocodile over to a small sitting area. He opens a side table drawer and pulls out a familiar variety of box.

“Would you like a cigar?”

“Please,” Crocodile says, genuinely eager. He mostly smokes cigarettes now, as they’re more convenient and Doffy near-constantly has cast-offs for him, but he misses the indulgence.

Noble prepares one for each of them and pours himself a whiskey before taking a seat adjacent to Crocodile. They smoke and drink their respective beverages in silence for a few minutes. It’s the most relaxed Crocodile has felt all evening. 

“I’d like to apologize if my wife was— if she said anything that made you uncomfortable. She’s rather...overprotective. Especially of Dorian, you understand.”

Crocodile nods.

“It’s nothing to worry about, but thank you.”

“I expect you’ve found yourself a rather popular conversation partner this evening,” Noble says, smiling knowingly at Crocodile. 

He snorts.

“A popular interrogatee, rather.”

“I’m sorry for that, as well, then. You are our guest and should be treated with more courtesy. It’s just been very— very hard for them. For us all. And Dorian has always been quite… reticent about his circumstances.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“…I know he has not spoken to you or your wife in some time.”

“That would be one thing. I could— I could live with that, though it wouldn’t have been enjoyable,” Noble sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But he wouldn’t even tell Rosaire where he was or if he was safe. We didn’t know he had been homeless at all until he was already living with you.”

Crocodile doesn’t answer for a moment, surprised. He knew Doffy wasn’t particularly forthcoming with his family, but that was rather extreme— surely, he’d want them to know he was safe?

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, “had I known, I—"

“No, no,” Noble waves his hand in a gesture very reminiscent of his son, “you couldn’t have done anything. I merely meant to offer some explanation for why we’re all so very… demanding today.”

“Well, thank you,” Crocodile says, ashing his cigar. “Was that all you meant to say, or did you also have a question for me?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Noble chuckles, eyes twinkling. “If you’ll indulge me.”

Crocodile nods, smiling slightly.

“I just want to ask… do you think that he’s happy?”

Crocodile sits quietly for a moment, thinking of nights spent drinking and watching terrible sitcoms, visiting museums and gardens. Arguing about nothing, futilely attempting to keep their previous apartment together, eating at terrible restaurants in the middle of the night, drunk karaoke. The time their car broke down in the middle of the highway and they pushed it two miles to a gas station.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “but I like to hope so.”

“Well,” Noble says, a little sadly, “that’ll have to be enough. Thank you.”

He stands, clapping his hands together,

“I expect he’ll be wondering where you are by now; why don’t I show you up to Rosaire’s room?”

Crocodile assents and finally makes it up the staircase, where they run into Doffy on his way back to the foyer.

“Carlisle! There you are! I was looking for you. Come with me a minute? I need your help.”

He links arms with Crocodile and starts walking them down a hallway without waiting for a response, giving his father an awkward half-wave as he does.

“Where are we going?” Crocodile demands, feeling somewhat impatient after being constantly dragged this way and that all evening.

“My old bedroom. Need to grab some stuff— I thought you’d wanna see it.”

He is admittedly curious and makes no further protest as Doffy leads him down a series of convoluted hallways. He opens a door, which creaks from lack of use, and strides into a frankly enormous room. 

The furniture has been covered in white sheets, but the walls, plastered with posters, photographs, and drawings, remain visible. Crocodile walks over to inspect some of them while Doffy makes a beeline for the desk.

The posters mostly showcase an eclectic collection of folk, rock, and metal bands, interspersed with occasional pictures of extreme sports.

“Do you know how to snowboard?” He asks idly.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I used to snowboard, ski, skateboard, skydive, do gymnastics—I was really into all that kind of stuff after I remembered.”

“Why?”

“Felt like flying. Or, close to it.”

“Hmm.” Crocodile walks over to where Doffy is shoving a bunch of notebooks and papers into an old messenger bag. He takes it without comment and holds it open.

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Did you draw these?” he gestures to the pictures tacked up haphazardly above the desk. They’re all of things from before, rendered in exquisite detail, some with diagrams explaining their functions. 

“Of course. Who did you think designed my tattoos?”

Crocodile pulls one off the wall; it’s a Sea King, the kind that looked like a snake. It winds across the page, each scale lovingly drawn and shaded.

“Impressive.”

Doffy shrugs noncommittally and pulls a drawer open, grabbing a handful of USB drives.

“I felt like it was important to—to document it all, as best I could remember. As far as I knew, I was the only one in this world who had seen it.”

Doffy quickly removes the rest of the sketches from the wall and shoves them in the bag. Crocodile folds the Sea King up and puts it in his pocket.

Apparently finished with the desk, Doffy motions for Crocodile to follow him over to the massive four-poster bed. He kneels on the floor, rummaging around under it and pulling out some boxes. Crocodile looks up to the wall once more, where dozens of photographs are taped.

“Are these friends of yours?” he asks, reaching out his hand to run a finger over a faded picture of some kids at the beach, one of whom looks like a younger Doffy. He hadn’t meant to turn this little excursion into an interrogation, but he finds himself somewhat fascinated by these relics of who Doflamingo used to be.

“What?” he looks up in the of sorting through one of the boxes, then stands. “Oh, yeah. Those were some kids I met at summer camp. We were really close.”

“And what happened to them? You haven’t introduced us.”

Doffy frowns.

“I don’t know. I stopped talking to them after I remembered.” He begins to pull the photos from the wall and hand them off to Crocodile, who looks through them.

There’s a lot of the Dalìs on vacation, fishing, swimming, climbing trees, and— surprisingly— at what looks like a soup kitchen.

“Did you— are you— volunteering in this picture?” he asks incredulously.

Doffy laughs.

“Yeah! My parents used to take us to volunteer at like, homeless shelters and soup kitchens and stuff every weekend, as soon as we were old enough to understand what was going on.”

He gets up on the bed and pulls a photo from near the ceiling, blowing on it to dislodge the dust.

“Here’s us building a house for someone,” he says, handing the picture down to Crocodile. The family is all in matching blue shirts, faces smeared with dirt and sweat. They smile up at him.

“You look happy,” he comments, thinking of Noble.

“I was. It was actually fun to like, know you were helping and stuff. People were really grateful for it, like even if you were just nice to them or talked to them for a few minutes. I think my parents still might help at the soup kitchen. I stopped when… well, you know.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Crocodile looks up from the picture to see him staring off into space.

“Doflamingo?”

“What, yeah? Sorry, Wani. Just thinking.” He jumps down from the bed, removing his glasses to wipe at his eyes quickly. 

“It’s dusty up there.”

“Hmm.”

Crocodile has his doubts about the veracity of that statement but allows Doffy the refuge of deceit.

Doffy finishes gathering the pictures and possessions in silence. Crocodile closes the overflowing duffle bag as best he can as Doffy sprawls on the floor in front of the bed, exhaling loudly.

“I want a smoke. Join me?” he asks after a moment. Crocodile nods.

Doffy heads over to a set of double doors, producing a key and unlocking them. They walk out onto a balcony; an ancient, sun-bleached furniture set sits in one corner. Doffy takes a seat and lights up— the cigarettes smell like they might be clove, this time.

“I’m sorry for making you witness this shitshow, Wani. Wouldn’t have asked you to come if I knew it’d be this awkward,” he says, after a few minutes of silence.

“I mean, it seems rather obvious. You haven’t been home in seven years.”

Crocodile holds out his hand for a cigarette, which Doffy hands over.

“Yeah, but like…” He gestures vaguely. “I just didn’t think Mother and Father would miss me that much, you know? Like, I was a really shitty kid after I remembered all that stuff. I just figured they’d be glad to get rid of me.”

Crocodile lights up and begins to smoke, thinking carefully about what to say next.

From what he’s seen, Doffy’s clearly lying. But saying that outright won’t do anything for the situation.

“I wouldn’t presume to say I know your family better than you after a single evening, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but they seem to love you very much,” he finally settles on.

“I mean, yeah, they do. I know— I know that, but I—" Doffy falls silent, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your brother asked me,” Crocodile says, after a few minutes, “why you left. Why you didn’t come back.”

“You—You know why—"

“I’m sure that was part of it. But you stayed here for a year after you remembered, by my calculation. So it wasn’t bad enough that you left immediately.”

Crocodile mimics his posture. Giving Doffy space.

“No,” he admits. “No, I—I didn’t want to leave. Because I knew it’d— Rosi was little. And he was so hurt, anyway, that I didn’t want to hang out with him or talk to him as much. I was avoiding him. I knew that if I left, I would— it would fuck him up.”

“But something changed,” Crocodile prods gently.

“Yes,” Doffy sighs. He slides the cigarette carton over the table to Crocodile, who pockets it without comment.

“My parents— they were so worried when it— when I remembered. They took me to the hospital the day it happened, and like so many therapists,” he says, smiling melancholically at the memory. “They were always hovering. They wouldn’t leave me alone in the house, and they didn’t make me go to school. I think they thought— they were worried I would kill myself if I was alone, or something.”

Crocodile’s stomach lurches unpleasantly.

“Were they—"

“Of course, they were right to be worried,” Doffy snorts. “I was thinking about it. I thought— I thought I was in hell, alone with what I had done, surrounded by people who loved me but shouldn’t. I wanted— I wanted to end everything so badly. I figured there couldn’t be anything worse. What could happen? They’d send me back again?”

“But you didn’t,” Crocodile says softly.

“No, I… couldn’t. Rosi loved me. My parents loved me. Whether or not I deserved that, they did, and it would have destroyed them.

“But, of course, I hurt them, anyway, when I left.”

Doffy slumps forward in his seat, resting his head on his folded arms. Crocodile reaches out and puts a hand on top of his forearm. He smiles lopsidedly.

“I left because they loved me. Because every time I looked at them, I could see their pride, their love, their hopes for me, and I had already failed them. Before I was born, I was already a person they could only ever be disappointed in; I was already rotted. I couldn’t stand to see how they cared for me when I knew I wasn’t worth it.”

Doffy blinks several times and inhales raggedly. Crocodile squeezes his arm.

They sit there in silence, the night growing blacker around them; the stars twinkling overhead.

“Hey,” Doffy says, eventually. “Do you want Pad Thai when we get home? I’m fucking starving.”

Crocodile chuckles.

“Sure.”

“You’re sure you won’t stay the night?” Dulce asks them as they’re getting ready to say goodbye. “It’s really no trouble. We have the guest rooms made up.”

“Sorry, Mother, we have work in the morning,” Doflamingo lies. “But, um. You guys still have Friday movie nights?”

“Yes!” Rosi volunteers.

“Then, uh, I could join you? If that works.”

“Oh, absolutely, dear,” Dulce assures, looking like she’s close to tears again. “You’re welcome any time.”

“Cool.”

He goes to hug his brother, and Crocodile turns to Dulce and Noble, inclining his head slightly.

“Thank you for your generous hospitality. It was a pleasure to meet you all.”

Dulce beams.

“And we were delighted to meet you, sweetie! Please come back whenever you like.”

Doflamingo hugs her as well, dwarfing her in his arms. When he comes to his father, he puts a hand out awkwardly.

“Well, Father, uh, thanks for—”

Noble cuts him off by throwing his arms around his son and pulling him into a hug; after a moment of shock, Doffy tentatively reciprocates. Noble says something Crocodile doesn’t catch, and Doffy nods.

Crocodile takes the wheel without comment, and the Dalì family waves to them as they drive off.

Doffy is uncharacteristically silent during the drive, but Crocodile suspects he has something more to say, so he doesn’t turn on the radio.

“When I sent you and Rosi went to the parlor,” he begins abruptly at a stoplight, “I thought I’d just go let my parents know I was okay, and like, I dunno, apologize for running off without warning. But I got over to them, and they…” he trails off. Crocodile looks over to see him staring fixedly out the window into the darkened streets.

“I’ve never seen my mom cry like that. She’s not usually that emotional. And I just asked what was wrong, you know, automatically, and my father like… blew up at me. He’s never done that before, either; it’s usually the reverse. And I just didn’t have a good explanation that didn’t make me sound fucking crazy, so I just kind of… left. And went to follow you guys. And I heard you.”

Crocodile sits, frozen. Unsure of what to say.

“Light’s green.”

He startles, turning back to the road and pressing the gas pedal hastily, although, fortunately, there isn’t anyone behind them.

“I didn’t come in because I was just having a hard—a bad time, for a second. My father and I only really ever fought before, when we were homeless. So it just. I was falling back there a little bit. But then you were… talking about me, with Rosi, and about like, being a safe harbor, for me. I knew what you really meant. And I just focused on your voice. And it got better.

“I want to tell you… I— you’re right. And thank you. For being that, for me.” 

Crocodile doesn’t say anything for a moment. Grasps futilely for something meaningful, something that will help. Eventually, he reaches across the console and finds Doffy’s hand, covering it with his own. Doflamingo doesn’t move.

“You are, too,” Crocodile says softly. The streetlamps pass overhead in bursts of illumination, creating an alternating pattern of light and darkness within the car. “For me. You are, too.”

Doflamingo doesn’t say anything else on the way home, but he turns his hand over, so their palms are touching, and twines their fingers together.

Chapter Text

Crocodile moves deftly through the throngs of people crowding the club, returning to the table with his new whiskey and the refill Doffy had requested before promptly disappearing into the crowd. He sighs and takes a seat on the barstool, checking the time to see when he can reasonably leave.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Crocodile would honestly prefer to be at home reading, but Iva and Bon had invited them both to join in the festivities at the bar and Doffy had enthusiastically accepted before Crocodile had a chance to object. He could have stayed home, of course, but he finds it hard to refuse Doffy his whims recently— even when his suggestions are atrocious.

And besides, they’ve been very stressed— with moving into their new house and Doffy switching radio stations. He will grant that they deserve a break.

“Enjoying the show, Croco-boy?”

Crocodile scowls and turns to see Iva and Bon pulling barstools up to the table, quite without his permission. As it’s their bar, however, he supposes he doesn’t have the right to complain.

“It’s too loud,” he gripes, instead.

“It’s a club, honey, that’s the point,” Iva says drily, putting their rainbow slush concoction on the table.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Zero-chan,” Bon chides, settling their barstool on Crocodile’s right and throwing an arm around him. Which Crocodile tolerates because, well. It’s them.

They’re wearing a glittery blue and pink catsuit with a collar made of white feathers tonight. Crocodile shoves Bon away when it ends up in his face.

“You don’t like my delightful Candies?” Iva pouts, fluttering their eyelashes. 

Crocodile turns slightly to observe the drag queen currently performing. He sees Doffy reaching out a hand to give her money; she bends over and kisses him on the cheek. He turns back abruptly.

“She’s adequate. Her wig could use some work.”

They both make scandalized noises.

“It’s true,” Crocodile says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Impossible,” Bon says, sipping at some glowing thing that probably contains enough alcohol to floor an elephant,

“But tell us how you’ve been! We haven’t seen you in aaaaaages.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“It’s been three weeks at most.”

“A lot can happen in three weeks. That is, I believe, around the same amount of time it took for Mugiwara-boy to completely disrupt all your plans and put you in prison,” Iva points out, smiling cheekily.

Crocodile glares at them. They laugh.

“You don’t scare me, little alligator. Come now, tell us what you’ve been up to.”

He sighs.

“We moved.”

“What?” Bon screeches directly into Crocodile’s ear, making him wince. “And you didn’t tell us!”

“We were very busy,” Crocodile says, taking another sip of his drink. He’s just pleasantly buzzed enough to continue this conversation instead of pretending he has to go to the bathroom.

“Firstly,” Iva says, putting up one perfectly manicured finger. “I demand you send us your new address. We are coming over this week. Secondly, did you buy, or are you still renting?”

“Firstly,” Crocodile echoes, “no you are not. No one is coming over until the housewarming party. And secondly, we bought it. The market was excellent; it seemed an opportune time.”

“That’s a very serious commitment to make with a friend,” Iva says, wiggling their eyebrows.

“I suppose,” Crocodile retorts, refusing to give them an inch.

“Zeeeero-chan, you know what they mean,” Bon says shaking Crocodile slightly, “did you guys finally get your shit together?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Honestly, Croco-boy, you’re impossible,” Iva laments, putting a hand to their forehead, “I may faint from the suspense. Did you and Doffy-boy fuck, or not?”

Bon Clay cries out Iva’s name in distress, Crocodile opens his mouth to say something very rude, and just at that moment the topic of their discussion comes sauntering over to the table.

“Iva! Bon! How are you?” Doflamingo says, beaming. He settles his arms on the back of a chair and leans down.

“Wonderful Doffy-boy. Enjoying the party?” Iva asks, without a hint of shame for just prying into his private life behind his back.

“It’s fantastic, yeah! Love what you’ve done to the place. Much better than when I worked here. 

“Hey, Croco, heads up.” 

Without looking, Doffy tosses Crocodile a box of cigarettes, which he catches. He pulls one out; Doffy leans over the table, opening the rose gold lighter that Crocodile gifted him, and lights the cigarette. Crocodile grabs his chin before he can retreat, scrubbing off the lipstick mark on his face with a napkin.

“Gonna have to take off pretty soon, unfortunately,” Doffy says, when Crocodile is finished. He picks up his new drink, downing half of it, then rummages around in his coat for his phone.

“Aww, but Mingo-chan, we’re going to have a dance competition! I was hoping you’d join with me,” Bon says petulantly, crossing their arms over their chest.

“I’d love to, but I promised my parents I’d get over to their party before midnight. Raincheck?”

Bon pouts at him.

“I guess.”

“It’s not like you need me to win, anyway. Send pics of the trophy, will you?” He turns to Crocodile, still typing on his phone.

“I’m not gonna make it back to the house tonight, so you’ll have the place to yourself, Croco. Have fun!” He shoots Crocodile a quick grin and a wink before returning to his phone.

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“Sleeping?”

“No, old man,” he says, exasperated. “I mean like, I dunno. Bring someone home! Just make sure they’re not wandering around naked when I get back. Unless, you know, they’re really hot.” He smiles salaciously.

Crocodile’s expression does not change to reflect the… unpleasantness he feels when Doffy says that. He’s had a lot of practice. 

Over the five years they’ve lived together, there’s near constantly been a veritable parade of people in and out of Doflamingo’s proverbial bedroom; he goes through lovers like most people go through paper towels. It hadn’t bothered Crocodile, at first— it was Doflamingo’s business, who he slept with— but as time went on… well, frankly, he wishes Doffy would stop. But he can’t very well say that, now can he? Doffy might ask him why.

“Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs.

“I’m not!” Doffy protests, “You haven’t gotten laid in ages. Seriously, you should see if anyone catches your eye; I’m sure they’d be flattered. You look gorgeous tonight, you know.”

He looks up when he says it, smiling. The lights from the stage limn him. He’s wearing one of the most hideous outfits Crocodile’s ever seen, he’s covered in body glitter, and there’s still a smudge of lipstick on his cheek, and even so, Crocodile cannot say he’s seen anyone more beautiful in all his life. He finds himself unable to speak.

Doffy’s phone chirps.

“That’s my ride. See you later!” He chugs the rest of his drink, then walks away, putting up a hand in farewell as he’s swallowed by the crowd.

“Oh my gooooooood,” Bon moans, dropping their head to the table dramatically, “What the fuck! That was so fucking gay, oh my god. Seriously, this is painful to watch.”

“I agree.” Ivankov pulls the umbrella from their drink and points at Crocodile. “Now, don’t bullshit us again. When are you going to talk to him about it?”

Crocodile crosses his arms over his chest.

“Never.”

Bon screeches in frustration and punches his shoulder.

“Why!”

Crocodile ashes his cigarette.

It is simple and complex, equally. Simply, he loves them as they are; he needs Doflamingo and vice versa; they make each other better. Crocodile would do anything in his power not to jeopardize the arrangement. But it’s more complicated than that.

By increments, “he and I,” has become “we.” They do almost everything together—they don’t even need to speak to one another half the time to communicate. Doflamingo knows his coffee order at seven different shops; Crocodile knows his inseam measurement. It’s ridiculous, honestly—this has never happened to him, in either lifetime. He dislikes contemplating the level of intimacy they’ve achieved; to acknowledge that someone knows him so completely is uncomfortable.

It feels dangerous to him to make it romantic, somehow, like it could ruin what they have already built together. Crocodile has never given anyone so much of himself—if he takes this risk and it goes poorly, what will be left of them to salvage? He feels that what they have now is beyond the inherent transience of love, beyond the boundaries of time. And he’s… afraid to alter that. To risk what he has with the only person in the world who is capable of understanding him in his entirety.

He shrugs.

“I can’t explain.”

Bon throws up their hands.

“Try,” Iva demands.

“It isn’t… necessary. For us,” he settles on, in lieu of trying to describe his feelings on the matter.

“I mean, fucking duh! Of course it isn’t necessary!” Bon says frustratedly. “But you guys are like… fucking in love, or whatever! So you should do something!”

“Perhaps that is your attitude on the matter, but that’s simply not how I do things,” Crocodile snaps, getting rather annoyed with the whole conversation. It’s not their business how he and Doffy choose to navigate their relationship.

“It’s a rare sort of thing, Crocodile,” Iva says, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “to find something like what you have with him. Trust me. I wouldn’t let it slip away so easily, were I you.”

They pick up their glass and stand.

“C’mon, Bon-boy, the show’s almost over and we have a performance to give,” they say, gesturing for Bon to follow them. “See you later, Croco-boy.”

Bon makes a face at him as they leave, and Crocodile rolls his eyes.

When the song ends the duo comes on stage to give their speech about new beginnings, or something like that. Crocodile doesn’t listen. He gets another drink while everyone is distracted and lets the bustle of the evening wash over him while he sits alone.

Ivankov may have a point. He may be risking the greater potential of what they could become for fear of losing what they are. Perhaps it’s worth taking the risk.

He can hardly imagine them together in that way, but he would give… so much to find out—just not Doffy. 

There’s no guarantee that would even be the case, however. It’s possible—likely, even—that Doflamingo desires the same thing. So why won’t he try? He doesn’t entirely understand his own reservations.

When he considers it, he feels a certain kind of… dread. You pay for love; you pay for affection, after all. There is always a price. To balance joy there is pain, and he can’t know that the potential reward will be worth its inevitable toll.

It’s the same feeling he used to get when he thought about improving his circumstances—a kind of hopeless apathy, mixed with fear.

“Sir Crocodile,” someone says behind him, startling him from his thoughts. 

He turns, and suddenly feels as though he’s touched seastone.

A small child with bright, inquisitive eyes smiles up at him from near her father’s throne. He kneels to introduce himself to her and she giggles, ignorant of his purpose in her country.

Nefertari Vivi.

It’s undoubtedly her, despite the minor changes; the long, blue hair falling in curls over dark skin, the piercing eyes, the way she carries herself. Crocodile could not mistake her.

“Princess,” he says, doing his level best not to betray his shock.

She doesn’t look angry, although it could be an act. She gestures to the empty seats at his table.

“Mind if I sit?”

“I can’t stop you,” he says warily, watching her. She takes the seat without saying anything else, eyes on the stage. Iva and Bon are just finishing their speech and announcing that the dance contest will soon begin. The lights go down, and the DJ plays another vapid pop song.

“I saw you, earlier,” she says, without looking at him, “but I wasn’t sure if you’d know me. Still, I thought it was worth a shot.”

“Was there something in particular you wanted?” he asks stiffly. Hopefully, she’ll get to the point and they can end this conversation.

She laughs, shifting in her chair so she’s more directly facing him. 

“Charming, as ever,” she says acerbically. “Not really. I mean, sort of, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t—I mean,” she leans back, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, “I guess I just wanted to talk to you. See what you’re like now.”

Crocodile snorts derisively.

“Why?”

She glares at him.

The girl on the other side of the table launching herself at him with fury in her eyes; he laughs. She can’t touch him.

“—didn’t need to call the police!”

He blinks. Losing part of a conversation to his memories hasn’t happened since… he actually can’t remember the last time that happened. It used to, rather frequently, but never in the last five years, at least. It’s unsettling.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” He takes another drink of his whiskey. He has a feeling he isn’t drunk enough for where this conversation is going.

“I said I was trying to make sure you weren’t taking over any more countries!”

“Oh,” he chuckles, amused by the thought. “No. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Well, good!” She huffs. She turns her attention to the dance floor, which is slowly beginning to fill with people.

“Do you… well, what do you do now, then? Instead of being a pirate, I mean?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, considering how the information might be used against him before deciding it’s probably safe.

“I’m a partner at a real estate firm. It’s exceptionally dull.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Huh. That’s… more normal than I was expecting.”

“What, you thought I’d be some supervillain, cackling madly about poisoning the town water supply?” He stabs his cigarette out in the ashtray with perhaps a little more force than necessary. 

“Well, yeah, I guess I did!” she says, defensive. “I mean… I dunno, what else was I supposed to think? That you just gave up being evil?”

“Perhaps you might consider,” Crocodile counters, trying very hard to keep calm, “that circumstance determines much of who we become, and that mine in this life would have necessarily been different.”

“Okay, then.” She turns to face him again, a determined look in her eyes. “If that’s true, do you regret it?”

Crocodile pauses to think. Drinks more whiskey.

It’s hard to say, really. Some days, he doesn’t. That world was one of taking—he was merely doing what was natural there. Part of him is galled at the idea that he, a pirate and a warlord, would regret any action he took to further his own power. 

But yet.

Sometimes. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, having dreamt of killing; of enjoying it; of wanting to do it again. Sometimes he has to sit up until three a.m. mindlessly watching Lifetime movies until he’s too exhausted to be horrified. Sometimes he sees people on the street who look like a person he remembers killing, and he wants to hide in the house for a week to prevent such specters from finding him.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “When the mood strikes me.”

Vivi laughs bitterly. Drinks her champagne.

“Well, I guess that’s something, anyway. More than I expected.”

She turns back to the dance floor, although she seems disinterested in the activity. Crocodile pulls out his phone to get an Uber.

“Why do you think we remember?” she asks, still facing away. “Why do you think we know about it when so many others don’t?”

Crocodile lets out a bark of laughter.

“Well, I won’t speak for you, but as for myself, it’s undoubtedly a punishment. Seems the universe does have some inherent concept of justice, after all. Who would have thought?” 

He smiles crookedly when her gaze shifts over to him, inviting her in on the joke.

“Hmmm. I don’t know about that.” 

Her eyes wander around the room, eventually fixing on a girl on the dance floor with red hair. She smiles dreamily.

“I think we came back so we could be… free, you know?” she pauses there, seeming to consider her words. “Like, I had a good life before. I had my dad, and my friends, and my people. But I could never really be free. I had a responsibility to my country; I couldn’t ever just live for myself or give the people I loved everything they deserved because I always had to give most of myself to Alabasta.

“But here I can just… live. Just be. And I think, maybe, I remember so that I can really appreciate everything that we’ve been given now, you know? Like, I don’t think I’d be as grateful to just be normal if I didn’t know. And now I can give her everything,” she gestures to the redheaded woman, who Crocodile thinks is probably one of the Strawhats, “everything she deserves and didn’t get before, and it makes me even happier to give it, knowing what she’s been through.

“And I think—" she turns back to him abruptly, continuing passionately, “I don’t think you’re being punished. I think this is your chance to be free, too. Because, like you said, circumstances affect who people become, and now you don’t have to go through those things again. You don’t have to be bound by your pain, and what that world said you should make it into.”

She stops again, taking a deep breath. Crocodile sits, silently surprised, not having expected this turn in the conversation.

“The other thing I wanted to say to you tonight was that I forgive you. I mean, I can’t forgive you on behalf of my people or my father, or anything, but I can for myself. And I do. I thought about it a lot, and I just don’t think my anger towards you is worth holding onto. I don’t think it’s healthy, and I don’t want to be that kind of person, I decided. I doubt we’ll ever be friends or anything, but since you remember what happened before, I just wanted… to tell you it was okay.”

She smiles at him then, utterly sincere, and for a moment Crocodile understands why the people of Alabasta had cherished their princess so deeply.

“I hope you can let go of all of that. I really do.”

She puts out her hand.

“I wish you all the best, Sir Crocodile.”

He’s still for a minute, stunned.

Then he reaches across the table to shake her hand, with all the gravity the act deserves.

“And I, you, Nefertari Vivi,” he says, finding himself sincere. 

She nods, decisively, then gets up and walks towards the redheaded girl as the countdown to midnight begins.

Crocodile sits quietly, lost in his own thoughts, as the new year arrives.

Chapter Text

“This is ridiculous,” Crocodile grumbles.

He’s sitting, blindfolded, in the front seat of Doffy’s new Lamborghini. It’s Crocodile’s birthday in three days, and apparently this is necessary to maintain the surprise.

Whatever the gift is, Crocodile suspects it must be somewhat elaborate; Doffy’s been sneaking off every weekend for the past two months to do something. Crocodile had thought it related to his work, but an elaborate birthday celebration seems to make more sense in light of this performance.

Doffy giggles.

“Don’t worry, Croco. We’re nearly there; you’ll only have to put up with it for a little while longer.”

Crocodile sighs, folds his arms over his chest, and leans back in his seat, resigning himself. The car hums underneath them as they turn a corner, its overpowered engine making the movement unnecessarily dramatic.

“I still don’t understand why you bought this thing. Your old car was perfectly serviceable.”

“I mean, sure, but I’m gonna be on national television now. I gotta look the part.”

Crocodile can hear the smug grin he’s been wearing ever since the company signed him.

“You have a talk show, not a movie deal,” he dismisses. “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

Doffy cackles.

“You’re a lifetime too late on that one, Wani.”

The car takes a left, probably faster than is strictly necessary.

“I still think you should get a new one, too; CEOs have to look respectable,” Doffy says—he’s been needling Crocodile about it since they got the news last week. 

Crocodile’s personally rather unenthused; it’s not as though he actually cares— or has ever cared—about real estate. He only entered the industry because he knew he could make money quickly. They’ll be able to afford a larger house now that they’ve both found success, which will probably be advantageous. Since Daz and Vergo returned they’ve practically moved in; if more of Doffy’s family shows up there won’t be adequate room. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the sedan.”

“It’s fucking ten years old!”

“It still runs.”

“Sure,” he snorts, “about as well as a horse with a broken leg. Put the thing out of its misery, won’t you?”

Crocodile feels the car come to a stop, and Doffy pulls the parking brake.

“We’re here!”

“Good. Can I take this stupid thing off now?”

“Not yet! Just wait a sec and I’ll walk you there.”

Crocodile huffs indignantly but acquiesces.

They’re near the ocean, on a pier or a dock. The air smells salty; seagulls cry out in the distance. He knows the sound old wood, saturated with seawater for decades, makes when you step on it. Without his sight, it almost feels like he could be back there.

They stop.

“You can take it off.”

Crocodile pulls the blindfold away and finds himself in front of a pristine sailing ship.

She’s brand new, he would guess; her mast rises proudly from the deck, supporting the iconic, triangular sails. He can just spy the helm from here.

“You… rented a ship?” he hazards, thinking it the most likely explanation.

“I bought you a ship,” Doffy corrects proudly. “Do you like her?”

Crocodile whips his head around to look at Doflamingo, eyes wide. He’s smiling, ear-to-ear.

That’s absurd. He can’t have.

“You—you can’t be serious. This has to cost—”

“Do you like her?” he interrupts.

Crocodile looks back at her. Something flutters in his chest, something he thought dead.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

Doffy’s smile softens.

“Good. Why don’t you look around while I go get the car squared away?”

Crocodile nods, absentmindedly, too preoccupied to really listen.

He climbs aboard, running a hand along the exterior railing as he walks the deck. It doesn’t take long; the boat is relatively small, probably meant to be crewed by two people.

The entrance to the interior is in a lowered area with leather couches around the perimeter and a large table in the center, the whole thing covered by a spray hood. He takes the stairs down into the cabin and it’s just… gorgeous. There is not an element that Crocodile himself wouldn’t have chosen, down to the presumably custom finishings. The stairs land in a living area, featuring a raised table surrounded by couches, with a small electronics station in the corner. Crocodile turns left and walks through the galley—there are bottles of wine and covered dishes of food in the refrigerator, he notes. The bedroom has a queen-sized bed taking up the bulk of it, flanked by three seascape windows on either side. The head is attached; beyond that, a small room containing a washer and dryer. The circle completes back in the living area.

Dazzled, he makes his way onto the deck and returns to the helm, putting a reverent hand on the wheel. Footsteps, and a moment later Doffy is at his back.    

“So, what do you think?”

Crocodile runs a hand over the gleaming metal.

“She is perfect,” he says softly.

“Isn’t she, just?” Doffy says, delighted.

He steps around Crocodile into the lowered section and sits on one of the couches, propping his feet on the other.

“So, I’ve called your secretary and told her you’re going to be gone for a week on vacation,” he says, enumerating things on his fingers as he lists them. “I’ve hired Vergo to take the car back and look after the house, I got food for us, I packed your stuff already, and I got a license to captain this boat, in case anyone stops us. You wanna get going?”

He smiles up at Crocodile, blinding as the sunlight on the water.

Crocodile nods.

“There’s just one more thing I need you to do.”

“Hmm?”

“She doesn’t have a name yet. She won’t sail properly without one.”

Crocodile thinks for a moment. Remembers the day he pulled away from the harbor in Loguetown, surrounded by ships embarking on the same journey, filled with the same fierce, unquenchable joy in things yet to be done. Recalls one ship in particular.

“Numancia,” he decides, smiling a little at Doffy.

His face twists. He looks sad, and surprised, and just a little wistful, all at once.

Crocodile knows he has missed her.

“Are you sure?” Doffy asks, quiet and fond.

“Yes.”

“Alright, then.” He stands and claps his hands together. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

He comes over to adjust the navigational tools, obviously already having a heading in mind. 

“Doffy.”

He looks up from the dash.

“Thank you. I love her. She’s wonderful,” Crocodile says, with all the sincerity in him.

It’s inadequate, but Crocodile knows Doffy understands him, in this; having the means to return to the sea, the place which had birthed both of their hearts, is a gift beyond price.

Doffy smiles, in the way he does sometimes when they are alone together. Soft and bright and just a little sad.

“Of course. Of course, I—well, you deserve her.”

He returns to the couch, and Crocodile steers his ship out of the harbor and into the wide, welcoming sea.

They sail for most of the day, letting their conversations wander aimlessly and occasionally peter out. Crocodile spends the silences enjoying the familiar sounds of the ocean, the smell of the sea and the movement of the water as they pass through it. He cannot remember being this extraordinarily content.

They stop for the evening around dinnertime, and Doffy goes down into the cabin to retrieve the food—a selection of Crocodile’s favorites. They sit at the table on the deck eating and drinking champagne as the sun sinks below the horizon, turning the sky and the water below a series of brilliant jewel tones.

“To you,” Doffy toasts. “May the next year bring all that you desire.”

When it’s dark, Doffy removes the remnants of their meal and insists they lie on the deck, staring up at the vast blanket of stars. In the city, most of them are invisible to the naked eye, obscured by skyscrapers and light pollution. But here they are countless.

“Oh, hey! I almost forgot,” Doffy says suddenly, after they have been silent a while. He sits up, rummaging around in the pockets of his coat until he produces a rectangular box. He offers it to Crocodile.

“Happy birthday! Again!”

Crocodile takes the box but feels compelled to say something about the extravagance of this celebration.

“Doflamingo, this is absurd; you’ve spent entirely too much—”

“Oh, shut up and just open it,” Doffy interrupts, waving off his objections.

Crocodile sighs and opens the box to find a tiny, perfect replica of his pet bananadile, Artemisia. He had always loved her best; she had bitten her first owner in half and killed the men who tried to put her down. That’s when he had acquired her—there could be no better companion for him. 

“She was your favorite, right?”

“Yes,” he says, running a finger down the scar on her tiny flank. “She had so much spirit.”

He looks up. Doffy’s smiling at him, lit softly by the deck lights.

Crocodile can’t believe he remembered. There was no way Doflamingo had seen his pets more than three or four times, and it was so long ago. For him to have been able to recall her in such detail shows a level of regard for Crocodile that he was never aware of Doffy possessing. It’s so—It’s such a perfect gift—perhaps better than his ship, even. There is so much thought in it, so much—

God. God, it hurts to be loved like this.

“Do you like it?” Doffy asks, smiling.

Crocodile grabs the collar of his shirt, yanks him forward, and kisses him.

For a moment, Doffy is perfectly still, and Crocodile wonders if he’s somehow mistaken his intent all this time. But then, of course, he responds—enthusiastically.

Crocodile pushes him back onto the deck, bracing himself on his hands over Doffy. He means to stop so that they can have a proper discussion, so they can decide what this means and what they want, but it doesn’t seem a pressing enough reason. Each kiss is like taking a shot, and he begins to feel as though he is drugged; floaty and languid and adoring.

When they finally pause to gasp for breath, still close enough that their noses touch, Doffy giggles ecstatically and reaches up to loop his arms around Crocodile’s neck.

“Finally! Finally! Darling, I thought you were going to make me buy you an island!”

“Oh, shut up,” Crocodile says, unable to keep himself from smiling. “You could’ve said something. I’ve never known you not to pursue what you wanted.”

“I did!” he says indignantly, the tone ruined by the grin on his face. “I was flirting outrageously; you must have noticed! But I had to be sure.” He pushes some unruly strands of Crocodile’s hair back behind his ear. “You are too important. I had to be sure.”

Crocodile frowns slightly. Sits back on his heels, forcing Doffy to release him.

“We should discuss this. What we are, what we want to be.”

“I mean, I feel like it’s pretty obvious, from my end at least,” Doffy says, propping himself up on his elbows, “I wanna be with you. I wanna take you everywhere; I want to give you everything; I want to make your life the dream you didn’t know you could ask for. I want you. What do you want?”

Crocodile looks out onto the darkened waters.

He does, obviously, want Doffy. This is the best possible outcome to this scenario he could have imagined—but there is still the matter of risk. 

“I want you. I have for quite a while. Only, it’s very… It’s a big risk to take, isn’t it?” He sounds nervous to his own ear and hates it.

“How so?”

“Well, if you are—if we become—If there’s some, some issue with it, then… then what will we be left with?”

Doffy gets up and moves to sit next to him but doesn’t make Crocodile look over, for which he is grateful.

“I don’t follow.”

“I mean if we…” He runs a hand through his hair, struggling with the right words for something he’s never experienced. “If we find we can’t stand each other. That we’re incompatible, in that way, then… then will it have been worth giving up what we have now? I…I don’t want—you are important to me, as well.”

Doffy is quiet for a moment. He sighs.

“I mean, I don’t know if it’ll be worth it. Maybe it won’t work and we’ll never speak to each other again. I can’t promise you that won’t happen.”

“And you’re—" Crocodile still doesn’t look at him, desperately not wanting to see his expression. “You find that risk acceptable?”

“No,” Doffy snorts. “It’s fucking terrifying, honestly. But I want you. There’s not—for me, there’s nothing that could conquer that. I have always wanted you; for two lifetimes, I have wanted you. Nothing as trivial as fear could compare.

“I’m not asking you not to worry.” He reaches out, gently taking Crocodile’s hand. Crocodile looks back over at him, and he looks so… full of hope, in that moment. “I’m asking you if it’s…  something you want enough to take a leap of faith. Something important enough to you to justify that risk.”

Crocodile looks back out onto the black waves. He thinks about before. About setting out from Loguetown to do something so dangerous he might not come back, to find something that might not exist. Surely this is no greater challenge?

But this time… this time there is something to lose. Something that he would be forced to go on living without. Somehow, it feels like a more fraught decision than setting sail to find the One Piece.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, so quietly he thinks the night might have swallowed it. “Let me think on it. But I—" he pauses there for a moment, unsure of what he’s going to propose now, “I want to try—being with you, here, while we’re on this trip. Let’s see how we are, and then… then I’ll decide.” 

While they are among the waves, on the sea. Where it is safe.

“Of course,” he says, and kisses Crocodile again on the corner of his mouth, “whatever you need.”

He’s silent for a moment, and Crocodile counts the seconds until he asks the inevitable question.

“Okay, but does like ‘trying this out’ include sex, because I was really hoping—"

Crocodile shoves him back onto the deck, pinning his shoulders.

“Absolutely, it does,” he promises, smiling wickedly.

Crocodile spends most of the second day asleep, as neither of them got any the night before. It turns out that having multiple lifetimes of sexual experience to draw from makes for an incredible time.

Doffy staggers out of bed at around eight to continue sailing, insisting that they have somewhere they need to be. Crocodile makes a token effort to get him to stay but quickly gives up and sleeps until dinner. 

He wanders out into the galley, passing Doffy as he heads to the cabin. He catches Crocodile by the waist as they pass, kissing him briefly and saying to wake him up when he’s finished eating. Crocodile nods sleepily, pulling the previous night’s leftovers and the unfinished bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. He makes it through dinner half-awake, then showers and returns to the bedroom. 

Doffy is out cold, naked, on top of the covers, taking up a good two thirds of the bed. Part of Crocodile wants to wake him, as requested, but he can’t have gotten more than a few hours of sleep total. Instead, Crocodile grabs a book from the nightstand and settles onto his side of the mattress. 

He’s reading quietly when Doffy shifts, turning over onto his stomach. Crocodile looks up briefly to check if he’s awake, and then stops. Stares at Doffy’s new tattoo.

Doffy continuing to decorate himself is not in itself unusual. Rather, it’s the subject that intrigues Crocodile. Doffy has had his own Jolly Roger on his chest since before they met, but he’s never gotten anyone else’s—presumably out of a sense of pride. But on his shoulder, the skin still red in places, is Crocodile’s.

He reaches out to run gentle fingers over the image.

It’s so much; the enormity of Doflamingo’s love for him. He restrains himself, but Crocodile can tell; it bursts from the seams of him. This ship alone proves it; the weeks and weeks of dedication it took to get everything ready, the attention to detail in every element; how the seascape windows in this cabin make him feel like he’s surrounded by water, just as he was in Rain Dinners. There is thought, and love, and consideration in every inch.

It overwhelms him, like a towering wave, but Crocodile wants to welcome it.

He has been considering what Princess Nefertari suggested to him for the last nine months. Much as he is loath to admit it, he supposes she may have a point; perhaps he was being overly pessimistic in his assessment of his circumstances. And if she’s right, then… he is free to do as he wants. He is free to create something truly magnificent with the man he desires above all others. If he can just make the leap.

He moves his hand up to slowly card his fingers through Doffy’s hair and sits there, thinking, for a long, long time.

On Crocodile’s birthday they finally reach the destination about which Doflamingo has been so secretive. They dock the Numancia in the harbor of a charming little town which conspicuously feels like an Alabastan port. The desert surrounding it is of a different kind—mostly covered in rocks and scrub and lacking the characteristic sand dunes—but the buildings are the same low, circular style in a variety of shades of brown.

Despite the differences, it feels… safe, to Crocodile. Inviting. As he suspects Doflamingo hoped it would. 

Doffy immediately whisks him away to a beautiful hotel, twenty-seven stories high, which towers over the nearby buildings. They drop their bags in the lavish suite he’s rented before hurrying to the spa to make the appointments Doffy has booked. They remain there for several hours, being pampered and relaxing together in large communal baths scattered with floating rose petals.

They eat at a seaside cafe for dinner then wander through an open-air market, trying the local delicacies. Eventually, Doffy takes them down to a mostly deserted beach, pulling out towels from a bag he’s been carrying. They watch another spectacular sunset and smoke some pleasantly herbal cigarettes.

Crocodile lies back on the sand, content. Eventually, he spies something moving on the beach out of the corner of his eye. After a while, he sees a tiny pair of flippers pushing at the sand.

“Look,” he says, pointing. Doffy stands up and walks over slowly, crouching down next to the animal. 

“They’re baby sea turtles,” he says, delighted. 

Crocodile is content to stay where he is, but Doffy is fascinated by the little things and won’t return to the towels. He watches them push their way out of their shells and frantically make for the ocean. Suddenly, a brazen seagull lands on the beach near them, waddling up with the clear intent of acquiring an easy meal. 

“Hey!” Doffy shouts at it, waving his hands. “Fuck off, bird!”

Crocodile laughs as Doffy gets up to chase the thing away across the beach—frankly, it doesn’t look impressed, but it eventually gives up and flies off. Doffy returns to the babies and continues to guard them until they make it to the water.

“They might still be in danger, you know,” he teases, when Doffy comes back to him. “Maybe you should follow them out there.”

“In September? No thanks,” he quips, sitting down on the towel. “I bet they’re the last ones to hatch this season. I guess they’ll probably die, anyway, but… they deserve a chance to try, hm?”

Crocodile is about to reply when Doffy points up at the now darkened sky and says,

“Look!”

Crocodile looks skyward and sees the bright trail of a firework making its way to the stars. It reaches its apex and explodes in a circle of brilliant white lights.

“Happy birthday, Crocodile,” Doffy says. Crocodile looks over at him, eyes wide.

“Did you really—?" he begins to ask, but Doffy is nodding before he’s finished his question. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, eagerly.

It is wonderful. He’s wonderful. 

This vacation has truly been one long, magnificent gift; love writ large in time, money, and countless tiny efforts. He thinks of all that has preceded this; of their years together, of their arguments and celebrations and the mundanities of their everyday lives; of the joy that Doffy has brought to him. He considers all that they have built. 

And he leaps. 

He leans close to Doffy’s ear so that he doesn’t have to shout.

“Yes. Yes, I want you; I want us, I want—" He says, bursting with the need to say something, to match the love he has been given.

Doffy interrupts him, bowling him over into the sand and kissing him, ecstatically, as the fireworks dance in celebration overhead.

Chapter Text

“Croco-boy, I need a favor.”

Crocodile turns away from the sidewalk he’s shoveling to raise an eyebrow at Ivankov.

“You mean another favor?”

“Nonsense,” they say, waving a hand dismissively, “community service isn’t a favor. Think of it as repayment for all the time you didn’t spend in jail.”

Crocodile glowers at them, but they are, as always unfazed.

“What, then?” he snaps.

“Well, you know we have a lot of guests at the shelter right now,” they say, gesturing to the building they’re standing in front of. “But this kid showed up today. He says he can’t go home, and he doesn’t have a place to stay over the holidays. I know you and your bird have space; will you take him? Just until the month is out? Gin just got a job, so there should be room after that.”

Crocodile grabs his shovel and goes back to clearing snow, turning away from Iva.

“I’ll have to ask Doffy.”

“I did. He said he would be delighted, but to ask you first.”

“Of course he did,” Crocodile grumbles, “as if there aren’t enough people in our house, anyway.”

“I’m not hearing a ‘no’.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Crocodile sighs. “You can bring him over tomorrow; we’ll need to get a room set up.”

“Perfect!” Iva says, clapping their hands together. “Come see me when you get done with this and we’ll sort things out. I’m afraid he’s already gone home with Bon-boy for the night, so you won’t be able to meet him today.”

Crocodile nods his assent and Iva retreats inside, clutching their impractical coat tightly around them.

Crocodile shovels for about twenty more minutes, then steps back to inspect his handiwork for imperfections. The sidewalk is pristine, but the building. It’s terribly gaudy, especially with the purple Iva’s insisted on painting it and the rainbow lettering, ugh. At least no one is likely to miss it.

He drops off his equipment with Kiku and heads to the study room, where Doffy is helping a bunch of people with homework and job applications. He raps on the door; Doffy glances up from where he’s helping some kid. His face lights up.

A year and some it’s been now, and still, every time he sees Crocodile he looks at him like that. Like he’s hung the stars.

“Darling! Did you need something?”

“Iva wants to see us about that kid you’ve agreed to bring home,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest.

Doffy frowns.

“We don’t have to. I told them—”

“They asked me.” Crocodile waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. Let’s go.”

“Oh, so you were just being a shi—” Doffy stops suddenly, looking down at the child he’s helping. “…Meet you there? Gotta finish helping Yamato with his homework.”

Crocodile agrees, then walks down the hall to Iva’s door. It’s covered in photographs of Iva, Bon, and Inazuma with the various people they’ve helped; they smile up at him, captured in the midst of getting ice cream, playing board games, having snowball fights. He knocks, pushing the door open without waiting for a response.

Iva’s behind their old wooden desk, its surface piled high with files and paperwork, so that only their hair is visible over the stacks.

“Croco-boy! Just a minute, I’m looking for something. Sit down,” they point in the direction of a motley collection of armchairs and loveseats occupying a corner of the room. He takes a seat on the couch, nodding politely at Inazuma.

“Here it is!” Iva says, holding up a yellow folder triumphantly.

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you said the boy arrived today.”

“He did.”

“And you somehow managed to lose the folder in that time? How Dragon ever trusted you to run the Revolutionary Army is beyond me.”

“Oh!” Iva cries, holding a hand to their forehead. “How cruel! I may collapse!”

Nobody reacts as Iva dramatically falls to the floor.

“Are you done?” Crocodile asks, unimpressed.

“Come on!” Iva whines, sitting up. “That was good!”

They come over to take a seat next to Inazuma, passing Crocodile the folder.

“You can look that over while we wait for Doffy-boy.”

Crocodile skims the information quickly, not particularly interested in the details. There’s a picture of a kid, probably in his teens, wearing jeans and a long winter coat with a hood. He has his face downturned, so it’s hard to make out any features.

The profile lists name, height, weight, etc., but Crocodile is more interested in the notes section—that’s usually where Iva puts things like dietary restrictions. ‘GLUTEN FREE’ and ‘KOSHER’ are written in Bon’s scrawl, and below them ‘PTSD/ANXIETY/DEPRESSION??? SCHED APPT’ is circled several times.

“Would it be best, in your opinion, if it were just us in the house?”

If the child has undiagnosed mental health issues, it may be better to avoid introducing him to their very large (and somewhat unruly) group of friends.

Iva leans back, tapping their fingers on the arm of the chair.

“I didn’t do the intake, so I’m not really sure. I’ll text Bon-boy about it, but I wouldn’t put him in any stressful situations right away.”

Crocodile nods, making a note in his phone. There’s a knock on the door, and Doffy comes in, greeting Iva and Ina on his way over to the couch. He sprawls next to Crocodile, putting an arm around his back casually. Crocodile leans back against it but doesn’t look up from the file.

“He’s Jewish,” Crocodile observes. “Practicing, I assume, by the dietary restrictions. Isn’t Chanukkah soon?”

He glances at Iva and Ina, who both shrug.

“Okay, Google,” Doffy says to his phone. “When does Chanukkah start?”

“Chanukkah starts tomorrow,” the phone chirps.

“Shit. We’ve got some work to do, then. Anything else, Croco?”

Crocodile briefly relays what he’s already learned.

“Mkay, we can go shopping on the way back,” Doffy says, already texting, “and I’ll let my people know to take off. You got Daz?”

“Yes,” Crocodile says, abandoning the folder on the couch. He sees Doffy pick it up out of the corner of his eye.

“Huh…” he says, after a minute. Crocodile looks up.

“What? Is there a problem?”

“No, no,” he says slowly, staring intently at the picture. “I just… he looks familiar.”

He stares for a few seconds, then shrugs, dropping the folder.

“Maybe I met him on a set, or something. Anyway, what time tomorrow, Iva?”

They coordinate, deciding on two in the afternoon, then say their goodbyes, Doffy rushing Crocodile so that they can visit the nearest Jewish deli before it closes.

The doorbell rings at 2:05 the next day. They were cleaning practically until two, and Doffy’s still in the kitchen rearranging the refrigerator, so Crocodile is the one to answer the door. He opens it to find the kid from the picture still, wearing the same coat, and hunched forward, obscuring his face.

“Zero-chan!” Bon calls from over by the trunk of the car, waving at him. “Be there in a second! Just getting his stuff.”

The front door of Ivankov’s monstrosity of a car opens and they appear, starting to trudge towards the house.

Crocodile smiles politely at their guest, extending a hand.

“Lavi, correct? A pleasure to meet you.”

The kid pulls his hood back and looks up. He has piercing, charcoal-colored eyes, disheveled black hair, and small golden hoops in his ears. He looks tired, and slightly skinny, but Crocodile doesn’t imagine he’s been living on the streets for too long. He studies Crocodile’s face with a somewhat unnerving intensity.

“You can call me Law, actually,” he says, after a moment. “Trafalgar Law, Sir Crocodile.”

Crocodile’s mind goes blank as a wall of blind panic slams into his chest.

“Hey, are they he—” Doffy says from behind him. Crocodile whirls around to face him, eyes wide.

For a moment, Doffy’s face reflects the same shock as Crocodile’s, but then it just goes blank. His eyes narrow behind his sunglasses.

He smiles.

“Law,” he says, hunching over as he sidesteps smoothly around Crocodile, his frame filling the doorway. “What a surprise. It seems you’ve come crawling from the gutter to my doorstep yet again.”

Crocodile doesn’t move.

“Doflamingo,” Trafalgar spits, animosity in every syllable, “I was hoping you remembered.”

“Oh, you were? How flattering,” he says, giggling. A menace Crocodile had nearly forgotten radiates from him as he steps closer to the boy, invading his personal space. “What do you want, brat?”

Crocodile follows him out onto the porch, warily keeping an eye on the situation.

“Where’s Cora-san?” Trafalgar asks, glaring up at Doflamingo. He has refused to retreat, and the two are practically standing toe-to-toe.

Doffy is silent for a moment, then begins to chuckle darkly.

“Where do you think?”

Trafalgar’s face twists with rage and he reaches up for Doflamingo’s collar with one hand, starting to pull the other from his pocket, when Iva runs up behind him, grabbing his collar and yanking him backward.

“What the fuck is going on?” they demand of Doffy, furious. But he doesn’t take his eyes from Trafalgar.

“We knew each other before,” he says, a vicious and unpleasant smile splitting his face. “I—"

“He killed Cora-san!” Trafalgar bursts out, jerking away from Iva’s grasp. “My fath—”

“He was mine first,” Doffy growls. “My brother. My executive. Mine to do with as I wished—as you should have been.”

“You killed him in front of me!” Trafalgar shouts back.

Iva’s jaw goes slack. For once it is not an overreaction.

“Did you r—"

“He needs to go,” Crocodile interrupts, stepping towards the group. “I’m sorry, Ivankov, but he can’t stay—”

“No, no,” Doffy interrupts. “No. He can stay if he wants.”

Crocodile stares at Doffy incredulously.

“Doflamingo, there’s no way—”

“We said he was welcome, Crocodile. So, he’s welcome. Besides,” Doffy says, stepping forward again and leaning into Trafalgar’s personal space, “he’s family, after a fashion. And you know how I feel about family.

“So how about it, brat?”

Trafalgar is shaking visibly, but, again, stands his ground.

“Do you know where Cora-san is?”

“Yes,” Doffy confirms, “and he’s very much alive.” He giggles again, sounding unhinged. “I was just having a little fun with you. For old time’s sake.”

“I’ll stay, if you’ll let me see him,” Trafalgar says, warily.

“Sure, we can work something out,” Doffy says, nodding. “Just need to take care of one little thing, before you come in.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing Law’s forearm and yanking his hand out of his pocket. Trafalgar cries out furiously and tries to wiggle away, but Doffy holds him fast and takes whatever Trafalgar had with his other hand.

“A switchblade,” Doffy says, snapping the knife open, “you should have brought a gun. You could have shot me while we were arguing.”

Crocodile suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

“Guns are harder to come by in this world,” Trafalgar says, yanking against Doffy’s grip again.

Doffy makes a tsking noise in the back of his throat, a look of mocking disappointment on his face.

“How sad. I expect more ingenuity from my protégés.”

He closes the blade and tosses it to Iva, who nearly fumbles it.

“Bon, would you mind terribly going through his things and making sure he doesn’t have any other little surprises for me?”

Bon nods, having arrived on the porch a few minutes ago with Trafalgar’s suitcase, which they dump unceremoniously on the ground and begin to rummage through with a grim expression on their face. A cursory glance reveals that there are, in fact, several weapons in it.

Doffy lets the boy’s arm go, and he pulls it to his chest, rubbing at his wrist.

“How can I be sure you won’t kill me?”

Doffy makes a pensive sound, pretending to think about it.

“I swear on his life,” he says, pointing at Crocodile, “that I won’t lay a hand on you while you’re here.”

Trafalgar is silent for a moment.

“Swear on yours,” he demands.

“As you like.”

“Doflamingo, this isn’t—we can’t—” Crocodile says, desperate to get him to see reason. This is a terrible idea.

“It’ll be fine, Croco,” Doffy says, without looking at him, “trust me.”

Crocodile doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. Not right now.

He looks over to where Iva is sort of hovering behind Bon, looking immensely distressed.

“Ivankov, a word,” he snaps, jerking his head to indicate the far side of the porch.

Ivankov follows, and as soon as they’re far enough away not to be overheard, Crocodile grabs their arm.

“Did you know who he was?” Crocodile hisses, “I swear, if you fucking—”

“I didn’t. I promise I didn’t, Crocodile,” Iva interrupts, serious for once. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Crocodile exhales, trying to keep calm.

“Alright. Alright. Is there really nowhere else for him to stay?”

“Not really,” Iva says, anxiously looking back over his shoulder at the other group. “I’m full at my house, and Bon’s getting another one in today from a different shelter. I can ask around—”

“Do that,” Crocodile orders. “In the meantime… in the meantime, I suppose we’ll figure something out. Call in some favors. But I want you to take him as soon as possible, you understand?” He says, shaking Iva’s arm a little. “There’s something wrong with Doflamingo. This isn’t good for him.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Iva says nervously. “We’ll get started this afternoon. I’ll text you as soon as I hear anything.”

“Good. Okay.” Crocodile takes a deep breath, then marches back over to where Bon has closed the suitcase and handed it off to Law.

“Well, Trafalgar,” he says stiffly, “come inside and I’ll show you to your room. Doflamingo, a word with you, after.”

Doffy cackles and says something Crocodile doesn’t catch as he hurries Trafalgar up the stairs, gesturing perfunctorily to the guest room before heading to the one he shares with Doflamingo. He shuts the door, taking a moment to lean his forehead against the wood and just breathe.

Crocodile doesn’t know what that was. It’s never been this bad, not once in the whole time he’s known Doffy. He knows Law’s significance in Doffy’s life, of course, and the circumstances of their reunion were certainly less than ideal, but he hadn’t anticipated Doffy’s reaction would be so… intense.

He steels himself and turns around.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he demands. “He had a knife! You knew he had a knife! He could have killed you!”

Doffy is standing over by the large glass doors that lead onto the balcony. He laughs and turns to face Crocodile, backlit by the sun. His expression is… disturbing.

“Kill me? Kill me?” he snarls, advancing across the room. “That useless little shit gave everything he had to try and kill me, and all it got him was a severed arm! He couldn’t even kill me with the strongest Devil Fruit in the world. Kill me?” He’s inches from Crocodile’s face now, expression contorted with fury. “Do you know who I am?”

Crocodile’s instinct is to retreat, but he can’t. One does not back down before the Heavenly Demon.

“Yes,” he says, as calmly as he can, “although it seems you may have forgotten.”

He reaches up, slowly, to remove Doffy’s glasses.

“Doflamingo. Please. That’s enough. Come back, now. Come back to me.”

Doffy continues to glare at him silently. Crocodile doesn’t breathe, hoping it will be enough, hoping that refusing to fight is the right choice and that he won’t have to—  

Doffy blinks. Shakes his head. Relaxes his shoulders.

Crocodile exhales.

“Fuck,” Doffy says, running a hand through his hair, “fuck, I’m sorry, Croco, I don’t know—I didn’t mean—"

Doffy turns away from him, but Crocodile catches his hand, stopping him from leaving.

“I know. I know that. It’s alright.”

“It’s not!” Doffy insists, a hint of hysteria in his voice, “It’s—I’ve worked so hard to—how could I have—”

“Hush,” Crocodile soothes, pulling him into his arms, “I know. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Doffy buries his face in Crocodile’s shoulder. Crocodile runs a hand through his hair.

“Doffy,” he says, when Doflamingo’s breathing has evened out, “Don’t do that.” He takes a step back shaking Doffy by the shoulders for emphasis, “Don’t do that again, you understand me? He could have killed you.”

It would have been such a ridiculous thing to say, before. But here, now, they are relatively defenseless, stripped of their powers and weaponry; Crocodile cannot ever remember having felt quite so panicked as he had while standing on that porch, realizing what Trafalgar had nearly done.

“I know,” he says, reaching up to put a comforting hand on Crocodile’s forearm. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking.”

He’s lying. His eyes always give him away.

Crocodile suspects he knew exactly what he was doing; he’d spotted the knife and put himself between the threat and Crocodile. Which is—frustrating, but. But Crocodile would have done the same.

“Clearly,” Crocodile huffs, dropping his hands to his sides. He elects not to challenge Doffy on that particular falsehood—they have enough to discuss. “Why did you invite him to stay? This is going to be a disaster.”

“I don’t… I’m not sure,” Doffy says, moving away a little and beginning to pace. “It was… well, for one thing. For one thing, he’s so much like me, you know? He’s probably run away. I know he had a family, before, and I don’t see why they’d be dead now…”

He stops by balcony, cracking the door and lighting a cigarette.

“So what?” Crocodile dismisses, “It’s none of our business. He came here to kill you; let him sort out his own problems.”

“Well, I mean, sure, but I also…” Doffy trails off. Sighs. “I want—I need to be able to do this. You—you met with that girl, right? And you talked, and nothing bad happened. And it helped.”

“It did,” Crocodile admits. “But the princess didn’t try to bring knives into our house.”

Doffy laughs briefly.

“That’s just Law. He’s always been… confrontational. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea to him.”

“Look,” he sighs, “I just want to do this, for me. To prove I… that I’m not—that I can—”

“I know what you mean,” Crocodile says, waving his hand impatiently, “but you don’t have to prove anything. Besides, he clearly hates you. How is him living here going to do either of you any good?”

“I don’t—” He shakes his head. “Maybe it won’t. But he’s… he’s my responsibility, Croco. I was—he’s not wrong to be angry. I ruined his life. He spent thirteen years planning revenge against me—expecting to die in the attempt. I took more than Rosi from him.”

He breathes out a cloud of smoke, then looks over at Crocodile eyes bright with determination.

“I need to help him. I need to try.”

Crocodile sighs. Rubs his hands over his face.

“He can stay until Ivankov finds somewhere else for him,” he concedes. “But there’s not going to be—if he tries to hurt anyone—”

“Then he’s gone. I agree completely.”

Doffy opens his arms in invitation, and Crocodile goes to him.

“It’s going to be fine,” Doffy says quietly, running a hand through Crocodile’s hair. “We’re going to be fine.”

Crocodile doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around Doffy and worries for what they have built.

Crocodile spends the rest of the first day and the second doing his best to avoid Trafalgar. He holes up in their bedroom with their alcohol cart, informing his secretary he’ll be out for the rest of the week.

By extension, he doesn’t see Doffy nearly at all, since he spends most of the time trying to get Trafalgar to talk to him. From what Crocodile has observed, it’s extremely awkward; Trafalgar would clearly prefer to be left alone but won’t say so for whatever reason.

On the evening of the third day, Crocodile is sitting in the kitchen reading the newspaper and drinking a glass of whiskey when the boy slinks into the room, looking as though he’s doing his best to avoid encountering anyone.

“He’s at work,” Crocodile says, startling him.

The kid nods warily. He turns on the stove and starts pulling ingredients out of the cabinets.

“Do you, uh… want any?” he asks, gesturing with a frying pan.

“No, thank you.”

He’s wearing the hideous oversized Chanukkah sweater Doffy had insisted on buying, with the sleeves rolled up. He wanders around the kitchen, combining ingredients with practiced ease.

“Is everything… satisfactory?” Crocodile asks, gesturing broadly to encompass the kitchen.

“What? Oh, yeah,” Trafalgar says, pushing loose hair behind his ear, “thanks. It’s really… it was nice of you guys. More than I expected. Thanks.”

“Mm.” Crocodile turns the page. “Happy Chanukkah.”

The scent of frying garlic and onions fills the kitchen, followed by the hiss of something hitting oil. Sometime later Trafalgar comes over to sit at the island to eat. Crocodile ignores him and pours himself another drink.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

Crocodile bends the top half of the paper over and raises an eyebrow at the boy.

“Depends.”

“Can you…” he trails off, dragging his fork back and forth through his food. “Can you tell him to stop—stop talking to me?”

Crocodile flips the paper back up, stifling his irritation.

“Tell him yourself.”

He’s not this boy’s babysitter, and he’s certainly not about to go against Doffy for him. If it’s important enough, he can say it himself.

“But what if he does something, or like, hurts—”

“He won’t,” Crocodile snaps. He pours himself another drink and reminds himself that shouting at a fifteen-year-old is beneath him.

“How do you know?” Law demands. “Before, he—”

“I’m aware of what he’s done. I’ve lived with him for seven years.” Crocodile forces himself to relax his grip on the newspaper.

“He’s dangerous!” Trafalgar’s, fist hits the counter for emphasis. The silverware jumps.

“Oh?” Crocodile says, folding the paper in half so he can look Trafalgar in the eye. “You’re sure? Between the two of you, I recall only one attempted homicide in recent memory.”

“He deserves it,” Trafalgar says, glaring at Crocodile. “Prison was too good for him.”

“That’s your opinion.” Crocodile takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay calm—it’s much easier when it’s not Doffy being insulted.

“It’s not,” Trafalgar insists, nearly shouting now. “He’s a fucking mur—”

“He was,” Crocodile cuts him off. “That’s not relevant now.”

“It’s relevant to me!” The boy yells, standing up. The barstool screeches against the tile. “There’s no one else left to hold him accountable; I have to—"

“A warning, Trafalgar,” Crocodile growls, standing. He towers over the child.

He feels cold. He feels powerful.

He feasts upon Alabasta. He drains it; he takes the rain; he takes the crops; he takes the people’s trust. The death that awaits them, that haunts their eyes, is what nourishes him. He takes everything from them, and they fall before him in gratitude, ignorant.

“If you touch him, you will regret it; I will make you regret it.” He leans over Trafalgar; can see the fear in his eyes. Relishes it. “Perhaps you recall that I’m quite dangerous myself. And I never promised not to hurt you.”

He lingers there, watching Trafalgar’s eyes go wide. Satisfaction curls in his chest at the sight—he’d forgotten how much he’d missed this. There’s nothing so intoxicating as another person’s fear.

He lives in that exhilaration for a moment. And then, the fall. The horror, consuming him.

He steps back.

“Have a pleasant evening,” he says, nodding courteously before exiting the kitchen.

Upstairs, once more ensconced in his room, he sits down on the floor, back to the door. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. His hands shake around the half-finished glass of whiskey.

No.

No, no, no, he shouldn’t have—he shouldn’t have yelled, he shouldn’t have lost his temper.

It shouldn’t have felt good.

It’s not supposed to be like this anymore; it’s not supposed to be hard to stay here, he’s not supposed to lose control. He can’t lose control, not now. He needs to be stronger than this, he needs to—to—

Damn it. Damn it. All that work, all that effort.

For nothing. For failure.

Like before.

He hurls the glass against the nearby wall, shattering it. The whiskey runs slowly to the floor.

Doffy doesn’t return until near midnight. Crocodile has been sleeping fitfully, curled into a ball on his side. He steals into the room, and although Crocodile hears him, he doesn’t react.

Eventually, Doffy comes to bed, smelling like cigarettes and shampoo.

“Darling, did something happen?” he asks quietly, wrapping his arms around Crocodile’s chest.

Crocodile shuts his eyes and doesn’t move.

He feels Doffy sigh.

“Alright. We can talk later. G’night; I love you.”

Crocodile lies awake long after Doflamingo falls asleep.

He doesn’t leave the master suite at all on the fourth day. Doffy comes in and out anxiously, trying to coax into coming down for food. Crocodile ignores him.

On the fifth day, he goes to the kitchen to restock the liquor cart and heat up leftovers, only to walk in on an argument.

“How fucking dare you steal from me!” Doffy shouts, a vein pulsing in his forehead.

He’s standing on one side of the island, his phone on the counter in front of him; Trafalgar is on the other side, arms crossed over his chest.

“If you’d just tell me where he is—!" he yells back.

“You’ll get your information when I say you will. Understand?”

Crocodile can tell from the way Doffy is holding himself that it’s taking all of his willpower not to start a physical fight with Trafalgar. The kid doesn’t answer, and Doffy advances a step, startling him into a retreat. Doffy stops. He takes a deep breath.

“I will tell you. I said I’ll introduce you, and I will. You just need to give me time to arrange it.”

“When?”

“When I—” Doffy abruptly turns away, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter.

“Soon. Just be patient for a few more days.”

Trafalgar glares at him for a moment longer, then flees the room.

Crocodile walks over to Doffy and puts a hand on his arm. He looks up. Offers a crooked smile.

“Wani.” He turns towards Crocodile, putting a gentle hand on his face. “Are you alright? You look sick. Have you been sleeping?”

He has not.

“I’m fine,” Crocodile dismisses. “What was that about?”

“Law took my phone,” he says. He tries for calm, but Crocodile can tell he’s still angry. “He was trying to get my brother’s information.”

Crocodile purses his lips.

“I see. Let’s go upstairs.”

Crocodile doesn’t normally spend so much time in their bedroom, but the rest of the house feels unsafe to him, at the moment. He dislikes the idea that they might be overheard.

Crocodile closes the door and sits down on the bed next to Doffy.

“Why don’t you just introduce him to Rosi, if that’s what he wants?”

It doesn’t seem a difficult favor, and besides, perhaps getting what he came for will motivate Trafalgar to leave.

“Because I…” Doffy bites his lip, “because he’ll tell him. I know he will.”

“And then he’ll think Trafalgar’s crazy. What’s the issue?”

He wishes Doffy would stop being so irrational about this.

“What if he doesn’t?” Doffy looks at him. It doesn’t seem like he’s been getting much sleep either, hair uncharacteristically disheveled with dark circles under his eyes. His fingertips are bleeding where he’s been biting at his nails.

“Monet believed Sugar when she told her. She says she sort of remembers. What if Rosi does, too?”

Crocodile sighs internally. Doffy’s been worried about this since the pair of them showed up, but in Crocodile’s opinion, there’s very little evidence to support Monet’s claims.

“Monet has dreams. She doesn’t remember; she just wants to.”

“You don’t know that,” Doffy says, getting up to pace the room. “I’ve worked so hard with him, Croco, to get him to trust me again. What if Law ruins it?”

Crocodile puts a hand over his eyes.

“I don’t think he will, Doffy. I don’t think someone Rosi considers a stranger could get him to hate you.”

“But it’s all true. Everything he’d say about me would be true; I killed him. How could he trust me after that?”

“Doflamingo, come here,” He says, beckoning. Doffy comes over, kneeling on the floor in front of him so that they’re face to face.

“Darling, are you sure you’re alright?” Doffy says, eyes anxious behind his glasses. “You look tired. We shouldn’t talk about this now. Why don’t you sleep?”

“I said I was fine,” Crocodile snaps, waving an impatient hand. “Look. If you’re so worried, just don’t take him. Tell him you can’t and let him be angry. Why does it matter?”

“I can’t do that. Rosi loved him, before. How can I take that away from him again, Croco?”

“You wouldn’t be taking it away,” Crocodile points out, somewhat exasperated. “He doesn’t know he’s missing anything; he doesn’t remember.”

“But I’d know what I was doing. It’s—I’m trying to be—”

“Different, yes, I know,” Crocodile interrupts, raising his voice slightly. “But this isn’t—you don’t have to do something this drastic to prove you changed, Doffy. This isn’t working.”

“It’s just a few more days,” Doffy promises. “I’ll take him on the weekend. I can do this; trust—”

“No!” Crocodile shouts, finally snapping, “I don’t trust you with this. You almost attacked him down there—don’t try to deny it—and you’re hoarding your brother away like he’s something that belongs to you, instead of a person with his own opinions. You are acting exactly like you did before, and you’re not fucking listening to me.”

Doffy sits back on his heels for a moment, frozen and silent. Then, his eyes narrow.

“Oh, and I suppose you think you’re better?” he sneers, a nasty smile splitting his face. “Threatening him. Hiding things from people because you can’t deal with your own emotions. Holing up in here and drinking yourself into oblivion because you don’t want to face what you are. Hypocrite.”

He stands abruptly, moving to the closet.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile asks, staring at the carpet where Doffy had been.

“Going to Vergo’s,” he says, coming out with a duffel bag over his shoulder. He strides over to the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.

“Back tomorrow,” he promises softly. “I love you.”

He walks out.

Crocodile continues to stare at the floor until the sun begins to sink. He hears Trafalgar singing something from down the hall, waking him from his stupor.

He gets up and goes over to the bar cart. He pours himself another glass of whiskey, then sits in the chair by the windows.

Ivankov. Please tell me you have something.

sorry, cb, not yet

we’re trying

Well fucking try harder.

…

r u ok?

Crocodile doesn’t answer.

On the seventh day, Daz texts him and insists he come to lunch.

He seriously considers refusing, but he hasn’t left the house since Trafalgar arrived and being trapped here a minute longer sounds like torture. Doffy returned yesterday, as promised, but they haven’t spoken to one another. He slept in one of the guest rooms.

Crocodile gets dressed, borrowing Doffy’s mirrored sunglasses trick to hide the bags beneath his eyes and downing a few Advil to deal with his hangover.

“Going out?” Doffy asks, as Crocodile grabs his keys.

“Yes,” he says, refusing to turn around.

“Well, then. Have fun. Love you.”

Crocodile nods slightly, then flees to the safety of his BMW.

They meet at a quaint little café that he and Doffy frequent. He spies Daz waving him over, Bon next to him. They must really be worried about him to tolerate each other for an entire meal.

“Good afternoon. How are you both?”

“Fine, boss.”

“We’re good, Zero-chan, but—”

They’re cut off by the arrival of the waiter, who takes Crocodile’s usual order.

“What’s going on at your house?” Bon asks agitatedly, the second he’s gone. “Mr. 1 told me that Vergo told him that Sugar told him—”

“We heard there have been some problems with the kid,” Daz interrupts. Bon glares at him.

“Trafalgar is… difficult,” Crocodile allows. He sips from the glass of water left on the table for him.

“Has he tried to hurt you?” Bon asks, visibly worried. “I thought we got all of the stuff in his suitcase, but—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—he doesn’t… he doesn’t bring out the best in us.”

Daz’ eyes narrow.

“Did Doflamingo hurt you?”                                                    

“No.” He thanks the waiter for delivering his coffee and drinks, stalling for time.

“We argued. He stayed at Vergo’s two nights ago. He was back yesterday, but… we haven’t… well. Have you or Ivankov found anything for the boy yet, Bon?”

“Maybe. I have someone who says they might be able to take him in two days, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet to confirm.” They stir their drink anxiously. “I don’t get how this is all related to the kid, though. What exactly happened?”

“He’s just… he’s too much of a reminder. And Doffy is obsessed with fixing things with him, even though Trafalgar obviously isn’t interested. Having him there is just… stressful. I… we are not ourselves. Or, perhaps, too much ourselves,” he says, smiling wryly.

“I can see how Trafalgar would make that worse,” Daz says, clearly choosing his words carefully, “but is this really an issue specific to him? Or has his presence simply exacerbated something that was already there?”

“I don’t—” Crocodile sighs. “I’m not sure. I’m too tired for this.”

The waiter interrupts again with their food.

“I’m sure you can understand the difficulty of reconciling oneself with… before,” he says, between bites. “It’s been… a process, for both of us. I think that he’s afraid Trafalgar is going to ruin that. But he views him as a sort of challenge, as well; he believes that by helping him he will prove that he’s overcome himself. But I don’t know that it’s helping.”

“And what about you?” Daz asks pointedly, never one to accept a change of subject.

“I can’t say I’m enjoying the experience, either,” he admits, cutting into some of the fresh fruit. “I didn’t want him to stay, in the first place. You know what he did when he arrived.” He gestures with his fork. “And he’s… I perhaps said something to him I shouldn’t have. He’s just too—too much of the past. He drags us back.”

“I mean, Zero, he’s a kid,” Bon points out, not unsympathetically. “It can’t have been that long since he remembered. I know when I did it was really confusing and difficult, and it seems like he went through a lot of shit before, you know? He’s probably just having a hard time processing.”

“I know that,” Crocodile says, impatient, “but I don’t understand why it has to be us dealing with it. He doesn’t even… he hates Doffy. There’s no way being around someone he viscerally dislikes is helping him at all; he’s only really staying because he wants to meet Doffy’s brother. But Doffy keeps insisting he can help or get him to actually go home or something.”

“Well, if you’ve told Mingo-chan you don’t want him there and he’s not listening, that sounds like something you guys should talk about? Like, if he’s just ignoring you ‘cause he’s so focused on his own stuff or whatever, that’s like, a communication issue. He needs to stop, or it’s just gonna come up again.

“I think you should just go back and talk to him.”

“Astonishingly, I agree with Mr. 2,” Daz says. Bon gives him a dirty look.

“I suppose,” Crocodile says, nodding slowly. “But Trafalgar needs to be out of the house. I don’t want—it’s private.”

“Okay,” Bon says, sounding much less anxious now that there’s a plan, “how about I come over and get the kid, and I’ll take him shopping or something? He has like, no clothes with him. I’ll see if I can like, I dunno, help him out with all the stuff rattling around in his head. Sound good?”

“I—fine.”

“Cool! Why don’t you text Mingo-chan, then, and I’ll drive over there after we’re done here, okay?”

Crocodile nods, texting Doffy while he continues to eat. He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he’d been.

Doflamingo.

whats up babe

Bon Clay is coming over to take the boy for the afternoon. They’re going shopping.

………..

k

any particular reason

I want to speak with you alone.

k.

u want coffee

going 2 dastardly fox

Yes, please. I’ll be home in about thirty minutes.

k

love you

Crocodile deliberately arrives home after Bon lets him know they’re already gone. The house is completely silent. His Rosethorn coffee is sitting on the table by the door.  

He exchanges it for his keys and heads upstairs, pushing open their bedroom door to find Doffy on his way out with a garbage bag.

“Oh, hey,” he says, pulling headphones out of his ears. “I’ll be back in a second, okay? Just throwing this stuff out.”

Crocodile nods, wandering over to sit in one of the chairs by the balcony doors.

It’s clean. Crocodile hadn’t really noticed they didn’t change the sheets or vacuum. It smells better; Doffy’s opened the windows. Crocodile notices a pile of cigarettes on the balcony ashtray.

He eyes the bar cart—when he left, it was well-stocked, but someone has removed all the alcohol. He sighs and takes a drink of coffee.

A few minutes later Doffy reenters the room, closing the door behind him and coming over to sit across from Crocodile. To his eye, Doffy is visibly tense.

“So, what’s up?”

“We should—” he pauses, making an effort to tread carefully; he suspects this won’t be an easy conversation. “It’s been brought to my attention that—that this thing, with Trafalgar, may be part of a larger problem. That we should discuss.”

“Okay. Okay, sure. So, then, um… what,” Doffy laughs, nervous. “I’m sorry, I don’t really think I can take the lead here.”

“I suppose not,” he says, then stops again. They should be methodical about this, address each point in a logical order. Firstly, nothing will get done without clearing the air between them. “To begin with, I apologize. For what I said two days ago. It wasn’t fair of me to berate you like that.”

“I mean, you weren’t wrong.” Doffy shrugs. “That’s why it pissed me off. I knew you were right. But I’m sorry, for what I said, too. I was being—I said it because I knew it’d make you feel worse, not because that’s what I actually thought. I shouldn’t have used something like that against you.”

“Probably not,” Crocodile agrees, “but you weren’t exactly wrong, either.”

Doffy laughs.

“I guess, then, what I mean is that I’m sorry for saying it that way. I’d meant to bring it up because I was worried about you, but I, well… I’m sorry, anyway. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Crocodile nods.

“I forgive you.”

“And I you, of course. Since about ten minutes after I left.”

Crocodile smiles slightly. Doflamingo’s never really been able to stay mad at him.

“So, then. What’s the other thing?”

He takes a breath. Drinks his coffee.

“Well,” he says slowly. “It’s—Bon suggested that we might discuss, ah. Communication.”

He’s almost reluctant to bring it up. What he wanted was to have things back to normal—but, he supposes, Bon and Daz may have a had a point about the whole thing, and he’d rather address the issue now than have it come up again in the future.

“Okay? Still not entirely following you.”

“I understand why you want Trafalgar here. Really, I do. But I have expressed to you several times that I don’t. And I know you’ve noticed he doesn’t particularly want to be here. But you’ve just kept doing whatever you wanted. That’s not… acceptable.”

Doffy’s quiet for a moment. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He removes his glasses; the dark circles under his eyes confirming he hasn’t been sleeping.

“I know—I know it’s not going well, right now. But I think I can—”

“This isn’t about you,” Crocodile interrupts. “It’s about your refusal to listen to me. This is my home, too, and I’m telling you he needs to leave. His presence is making you—making us both—act in ways I’m not comfortable with. I know you wanted to make amends with him, but I don’t think it’s working. It’s—there are some things that can’t be fixed, Doffy.”

Doffy shakes his head, and Crocodile’s stomach sinks,

“I can get through to him, just let me—”

“Doflamingo,” he says, sharply, “listen to me. This isn’t about Trafalgar, not really. It’s about you not respecting my boundaries or listening to me when I tell you what I need. If you can’t do that, then… then I think we should reconsider our relationship.”

Doffy’s eyes widen.

“Really?” he asks, voice cracking. “Wani, over him? Really?”

“I told you, it’s not about him.”

Doffy looks away from him, out onto the balcony. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, but Crocodile is willing to wait.

“Okay,” he finally says, standing. “Okay, I—I need to go for a walk. I’m not—I’ll be back. I’ll pick up dinner. Chinese okay?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. I’ll be back… later.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

He grabs his wallet from the dresser and leaves. Crocodile hears the front door close. He sighs.

His phone chirps at him.

YALL DONE??

TORAO-CHAN SAYS HE HAS CHANUKKAH STUFF TO DO

SO WE GOTTA COME BACK SOON

That’s fine, Bon. Bring him back whenever.

He texts Doffy to let him know Trafalgar is coming but doesn’t receive a response.

About half an hour later, a car pulls up in the driveway. There are footsteps on the stairs; a door closes quietly.

Crocodile watches the sun sink towards the horizon as he sips his slowly cooling coffee.

He doesn’t want to do this. He’s sick with the desire for everything to be alright; a part of him wants to take it all back.

He cannot afford to back down, however, and he won’t. The situation, left as it is, would eventually become untenable.

But god does he not want to lose Doffy. He hadn’t known quite how much before Trafalgar had come; he hadn’t really thought he loved him. He’d felt affection, yes, desire, need—but love. It is not a possibility he has entertained.

Doffy has never pretended he wasn’t in love with Crocodile but has also made it clear he doesn’t require reciprocation, which was a comfortable situation for them both. But now, on the precipice of losing him, it’s become clear to Crocodile his feelings towards Doffy are much more intense than he believed.

How ironic.

The sun sets. The stars come out. Still, Doffy does not return.

Crocodile eventually gets up; he may as well attend to the other piece of business, while he waits.

He walks to Trafalgar’s door and knocks quickly before he can think better of the whole affair. The boy opens it after a moment, eyes widening.

“May I come in?”

“It’s your house,” Trafalgar says warily, stepping aside.

He’s been very neat; clothes put away; bed made. Crocodile doesn’t venture too far past the threshold, intending the visit to be brief.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, folding his hands behind his back, “I should not have threatened you. You are a child; it was my responsibility to control my temper, no matter the situation. I am sorry.”

Trafalgar looks surprised. He takes a seat on the armchair in the corner, crossing his arms.

“I mean, I’m not really a kid. Worse shit has happened to me.”

“No offense,” Crocodile says, “but you are a child. I remembered at fifteen, as well, and it didn’t suddenly make me an adult.”

“But I feel—” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like I—like I’m already—”

“Like you’re old? Like everyone around you is terribly naïve and ignorant? Like they’re always making you angry because they don’t know how lucky they are to live peacefully?”

“Yes,” Trafalgar says, falling back against the chair. “None of my family know. They don’t remember—the Amber Lead, and the—they don’t remember what was done to them. I have to keep it all for them, and I don’t even have… I wake up sometimes, in the night, and I think I’m on my ship. I go looking for my crew, but they’re not there.”

He puts a hand over his eyes.

“They were the only ones I had. Just them, and Cora-san.”

Crocodile sighs. Goes over to sit on the bed adjacent to Trafalgar.

“You may well find them, in time. And,” he hesitates, choosing his words carefully, “I wouldn’t throw away your relationships with those who don’t remember. It’s—I know it’s harder to be around them. But I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“I know. I—it’s just so hard without anyone who—it’s so hard to be present.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive Doflamingo, but I don’t really want to kill him,” he admits. “Sometimes I just wake up and it feels like the day he killed Cora-san. Or it feels like one of the years I spent trying to get revenge, and I just can’t—can’t—"

“I know,” Crocodile says, unexpectedly finding himself sincere. “It gets easier the longer you live with it. And if you have others who can help.”

He pauses for a moment, considering.

“Obviously, you’d prefer not to talk to either of us—which is understandable. I may be able to assist, though, if you’re interested. You knew the Strawhats, correct?”

“Yeah,” Law says, looking over at Crocodile hopefully. “Do you—?"  

“I have Nico Robin’s phone number. She remembers. It’s possible she knows where the rest of them are, or that she can help you locate your crew. She’s always been very resourceful. Would you like it?”

Law agrees eagerly and thanks him, immediately glued to his phone. Crocodile returns to his room, content with the situation.

He is less content with the fact that it has now been several hours without a word from Doffy.

He turns on the record player and gets another coffee. Reads his way through four different albums and the rising of the moon before falling asleep in the chair.

He wakes in his bed. The clock on the nightstand says it’s one in the afternoon; there’s a slowly melting iced coffee and a note written in pink gel pen next to it.

Croco-darling,

Taking Law to see Rosi then back to his parent’s place. We had a talk last night; I think he’s gonna be okay (thx for your help ♥). Sorry I got back so late, but I’ll bring dinner tonight and we can finish our discussion.

Love you,

Doffy

Crocodile sits up and takes a sip of his coffee. Doffy charged his phone; he has several texts waiting for him.

SOOOO HOWD IT GO ZC? U NEED ME TO KICK MINGO-CHAN IN THE BALLS?

croco-boy how r u? doffy-boy called and said something about taking the kid home but I wanted to check w/ u

Good morning, boss. I hope everything went well.

Crocodile updates them to the best of his ability, then gets up and starts working, hoping to distract himself.

Doffy’s note had implied that he wouldn’t return until the evening, so Crocodile has an entire day to be apprehensive. He does some paperwork for the business, pays their bills, cleans the room Law was staying in, then takes a bath.

It sort of helps.

Around 5:30 Doffy texts him a picture of a carry out order from Crocodile’s favorite restaurant, covered in hearts and emojis. He’s home by six, carrying a bottle of wine Crocodile knows was hideously expensive.

They sit down at the kitchen table and begin the meal in somewhat awkward silence. Crocodile finds he doesn’t really know how to begin.

“It went well, with Rosi,” Doffy says, saving him, “they seem like they’ll get along, and Law didn’t start anything. Got him home alright and everything.”

Crocodile nods. Doffy sighs and looks down at his plate, playing with his food.

“I thought about what you said,” he says, looking at Crocodile seriously. “And you were right. I’m sorry. I got so caught up in my own head I forgot to consider what you needed. I won’t—well, I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But, you should tell me, if I’m doing it.”

The relief Crocodile feels is immeasurable. It had felt as though he was carrying some unnecessary, cumbersome object all day; an inescapable weight.

He smiles.

“Of course, Doffy. I—thank you. For listening.”

“I should’ve done sooner. But you’re welcome.”

“You said it went well, with Trafalgar?” Crocodile asks, quite eager to move on from such a fraught subject.

“Well, you know. It was fine. We managed not to shout.”

Crocodile snorts.

“I think… you were right about that, too.” Doffy sighs, twirling pasta around his fork. “I just… after I fucked up, the first day, I felt like… I had to fix my relationship with him. So that I would know I wasn’t still secretly the same person. That I really changed. But it wasn’t… I can’t do that. He’s never going to forgive me, and I guess that’s—I guess I’m gonna have to be alright with that.”

Crocodile reaches across the table to thread their fingers together.

“There are some things you can’t fix no matter how you try. But I’m… happy that you made the attempt. That’s all we can do.”

Doffy smiles sadly, then is forced to stifle a yawn in his elbow. He removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes.

“Didn’t you sleep last night?” Crocodile asks, concerned.

“Not well. Not without you.”

He frowns: Doffy’s nightmares tend to be worse when he sleeps alone.

“You could’ve stayed.”

Doffy shrugs.

“Didn’t feel right. I didn’t know if we were okay.”

“Well, come on, then,” Crocodile says, getting up from the table and grabbing the bottle of wine. “We’ll drink this upstairs and then go to bed, hmm?”

Doffy agrees. By the time they’re finished, he’s practically asleep on his feet, and stumbles his way over to the bed, collapsing face first.

“Take your clothes off. You’ll ruin them,” Crocodile scolds.

Doffy groans but rolls over onto his back and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“I know you actually just want me naked, old man,” he teases, removing his belt and kicking his pants onto the floor. Crocodile sighs and picks them up to put in the clothes hamper.

“As if I’d have to trick you into doing that.”

He comes back, and Doffy opens his arms. Pulls him to his chest immediately.

“Missed you,” he mutters, kissing the tattoo on Crocodile’s shoulder—the picture of the Sea King he’d taken from Doffy’s bedroom all those years ago.

“And I, you,” he says quietly. Then, after a moment’s pause, “Doffy?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

It’s not quite so difficult a thing to admit as he’d feared. Not when it’s true; not when it runs in his veins and touches every moment of their life together. Not here, where he feels safest.

Doffy smiles, delighted. He opens his eyes slightly, just enough to see, and leans over to kiss Crocodile, gentle and sweet.

“Love you too, darling,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to speak.

They fall into a peaceful sleep, tangled together.   

Chapter Text

Doffy comes to pick him up from the office for lunch around noon, a frequent enough occurrence that Crocodile isn’t surprised. He notifies his secretary that he’ll be back in a couple of hours. She says she hopes he has a good time—rather more cheerfully than usual. Outside, Doffy is leaning against his horrible car.

Crocodile raises an eyebrow at him.

He’s well dressed today—even wearing pants that cover his ankles. Maybe a few too many pieces of jewelry, but other than that, he’s actually presentable for a change; most of the time he looks like he’s wearing the contents of a thrift store bargain bin.

“Where are we going?” Crocodile asks, wondering what restaurant could possibly have inspired such a momentous occasion.

“Bird’s Eye,” he says, taking a seat on the driver’s side. “Got us a reservation.”

“Why?”

Doffy’s famous enough that they’re usually able to just walk in.

“It was really busy today.”

It is a very exclusive restaurant—situated on the top of a skyscraper and boasting the best views in the city—so he supposes that could be the case.

They arrive in about twenty minutes, talking about the topic for Doffy’s show tonight, and a merger Crocodile is working on for the firm. The valet takes their car, and they board the glass elevator. As they ascend, the city sprawls out before them, glittering in the summer sunlight.

When they arrive, Crocodile begins to become suspicious. There’s no one there, despite the time of day and Doffy’s prior assertion.

“I thought you said they were full?”

Doffy shrugs, smiling slightly.

“Guess everyone must have canceled. C’mon, we’re on the terrace.”

Crocodile frowns but follows him outside. There is a single table set for two, water glasses already full, a vase of flowers in the center.

“What are you doing, Doffy?” he demands as they sit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doffy says, tilting his head in a mockery of innocence.

Crocodile huffs, irritated.

“Fine. We can discuss it later.”

Doffy just smiles. A waiter fills their glasses with red wine of an obscenely expensive vintage.

They order, and Doffy continues to make small talk. The food is exquisite as always; a slight breeze keeps the heat from being overwhelming; the city bustles and hums below them, breathtaking in its breadth.

Crocodile takes a drink of his water.

“How do you feel about marriage?” Doffy asks.

Crocodile chokes.

After he’s finished coughing for a solid thirty seconds, he glares at Doffy who’s looking somewhat amused.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How do you feel about marriage?” Doffy repeats.

Crocodile narrows his eyes.

“Whose marriage?”

“Ours, of course.”

Crocodile doesn’t answer for a moment, stunned.

It’s not that hasn’t considered it. They’ve been together five years now, and though it’s obviously had its hiccups, Crocodile doubts he could be convinced to leave Doffy at this point. But it honestly feels like an unnecessary spectacle; they are partners in all but legality, and they have never needed the approval of a state to validate them.

“Why?” he demands. “We’re already essentially married. What’s the point?”

Doffy smiles, as if he’d been hoping Crocodile would ask.

“Well, firstly,” Doffy says, counting the reasons on his fingers as he lists them, “it’s very practical. I mean, think of the tax benefits. Not to mention the power of attorney stuff, buying houses. Everything just gets much simpler when you’re married.”

“Secondly,” he says, lowering his sunglasses just enough so that Crocodile can see his eyes, “weddings are very dramatic; the pageantry, the planning, everyone paying attention to you. I love it. I know you do, too, no matter what you tell Bon Clay.”

“And most importantly,” he says, pulling a ring off of his left hand, “I am completely, incurably, unendingly in love with you, and I want everyone to know.”

“So?” he asks, beaming as he proffers the ring. “What do you think?”

“Well, frankly,” Crocodile says slightly breathlessly, eyes glued to the offering, “I thought that if you did this it’d be much more ostentatious.”

Doffy laughs.

“I thought about it, believe me. But I didn’t want to push you into anything. If you say yes, I promise I’ll plan a much bigger public proposal.”

“Please don’t,” Crocodile says, reaching out to take the ring. “You’ve made some very convincing points, and I’d hate to have to change my mind. Incidentally, the answer is yes.”

Doffy immediately surges across the table, upending the salt and pepper shakers, so that he can take Crocodile’s face in his hands and kiss him. He tastes like the wine, smooth and slightly bitter; he kisses with an exuberance and relief that tells Crocodile more than he could ever say about how much the answer means to him.

Crocodile reaches up to run a thumb gently over Doffy’s cheekbone as he pulls away, staying close enough that Crocodile could count his eyelashes for precious seconds, before pulling back. He wipes at his eyes, then reaches over to right the fallen seasonings.

“Sorry, I know you hate PDA, b—”

“It’s fine. It’s—It’s fine, love.” He reaches over to take Doffy’s hand across the table, needing to touch him. The ring sparkles in the sunlight, gold inlaid with emeralds— it’s a perfect fit.

Doffy doesn’t seem to be able to stop smiling, and Crocodile finds himself in a similar predicament.

“I—are you done? Let’s get out of here.”

They pay and leave the restaurant. Crocodile would be content to wander aimlessly, but Doffy clearly has a destination in mind, leading them through the streets of the city until they arrive at a park.

They walk slowly along the paths, under the trees. Joggers pass them occasionally. Crocodile hears children in the distance.

“Recognize it?” Doffy asks, after a spell. “This park is where we met, this time.”

“I didn’t,” Crocodile admits. “They’ve done work on it, since. Is the bench still here?”

“No, they tore it out. I looked.”

They really have improved it. Someone has planted a garden. They pass a basketball court, and a mural, bursting with flowers.

A part of Crocodile misses the park as it was, odd as that is. It was undoubtedly worse, but—it was familiar. He had walked through it on his way home so many times that he’d become fond of it. And now it’s gone. But such beautiful things have grown in its place.

They end up on top of a grassy hill. They sit quietly, watching the clouds.

“Hey,” Doffy says, eventually, “I have a suggestion for you.”

“Another one?” Crocodile teases.

“Yeah. You probably won’t like it,” he admits, laying back in the grass, “but I was thinking that, when we get married, they’re probably gonna write about it in the paper no matter what we do to keep it quiet.”

“Probably.”

“Right, so. I mean, your dad’s gonna find out where you are.”

Crocodile grimaces.

“Ah. I suppose you’re right.”

“So I was thinking, maybe you—or you and I, if you want—should go see him. So there aren’t any unexpected surprises, on either side.”

Crocodile sighs, and falls back into the grass, as well.

“It’s much less appealing than your other idea.”

Doffy giggles.

“I mean, can’t say I’m upset about that. I don’t mean to…” he trails off. Props himself up on one of his elbows so he can face Crocodile. “I don’t wanna pressure you. We’ll do whatever you decide.”

“Hmm. I appreciate that.”

They lapse into silence, again.

It’s another thing he’s considered before. He had meant what he’d said to Trafalgar, about not cutting off one’s family. He doesn’t think that it’s been worth it, really; even if he hadn’t remembered, Whitebeard had still loved Crocodile—probably even more than he had before, ironically. But there are other reasons he doesn’t want to go back.

It’s not like Doffy’s family, who had welcomed him home enthusiastically, who had showered him with affection and entreaties to stay. There are monstrous ghosts in Whitebeard’s house.

“You know, I—” Crocodile says, after a long time. He stops. He can feel Doffy’s eyes on him, patiently waiting for him to continue. “The reason I left was because there were so many people there who remembered. I could’ve dealt with Whitebeard not knowing me, I think. But they came to him—so many of them—and they… hated me.”

He takes a breath. Still, mercifully, Doffy is silent.

“I can’t blame them, of course. But I hated… walking into the kitchen for food and having them glare at me. I hated that they were everywhere I went; that my father insisted we share everything. He didn’t know, obviously, how they were with me. They hid it from him. But I couldn’t stand that house, with them in it.

“And they’d still be there.”

He could probably handle them better, as an adult. Hopefully, they’ve grown up, as well. But he doesn’t know if he wants to.

Doffy reaches out to take Crocodile’s hand, running his thumb over the engagement ring.

“If you don’t want to see them, we won’t go,” he promises resolutely. “Whatever you want, we’ll figure it out, alright? It’s your decision.”

“Alright,” Crocodile says. He squeezes Doffy’s fingers. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They stay in the park until the sun begins to sink, lying side by side in the grass.

Crocodile is dreaming. He knows that.

He’s walking through a house. He knows it’s Whitebeard’s house, where he grew up, even though it looks nothing like it. It’s an old, dilapidated Victorian-style mansion with labyrinthine hallways. As he walks through them, the walls rot before his eyes; the house is being consumed. It writhes in agony.

He is looking for a child—his father needs a child. He walks into a room that is empty except for a metal crib. A broken window looks out onto a distorted yard, green and fluctuating constantly. He walks to the crib.

There is a child there. When he turns it onto its back, he discovers that it is a doll—a dead doll. It’s smiling grotesquely at him; its face is cracked like old porcelain and the same mold which infests the house is splattered on its bald head. He somehow realizes that it was once alive, and that when it was, it was the child his father wanted. He picks the doll up and walks out of the house just as it falls apart. He knows that he cannot go back.

Outside, a bunch of children stand in a circle around another crib on a patch of dead, gray grass. They are Crocodile’s “brothers”. He puts the dead doll in the crib. The children look at him.

His father is there, suddenly, and he looks at Crocodile, too.

Crocodile realizes that in order to bring the doll back to life, he has to die.

He accepts this. He smiles; he is at peace.

He jerks awake.

It is the Saturday after Doffy proposed, around five in the morning. Sunlight peeks through the curtains; Doflamingo is still sound asleep next to him.

He lays there, watching the light creep across the room.

He thinks about his father. About his vast, ever-expanding family; about how any random shithead that showed up and asked to join was good enough; about how, for all that they fought, he had never once permanently injured his children.

He raises his left hand. Inspects it.

What was so wrong with him?

What in him was so broken, so useless, so unlovable that Whitebeard’s famous magnanimity had reached its limit?

Why, among every untalented, weak, sneering ingrate that had ever dragged their useless body onto the Moby Dick, had he, the only child of Whitebeard’s blood, been discarded?

He clenches his hand into a fist.

He remembers, clearly, the look on Whitebeard’s face when he had left Crocodile, gasping in agony, clutching his left forearm as he bled out on the sand. He remembers the disdain. The disappointment. The ice in that look. It had hurt more than his injuries, to see that. To see that he was unwanted.

That he wasn’t good enough.

“Doflamingo,” he says, rolling over and shaking Doffy’s shoulder, “wake up.”

“Huh? What? Croco? Is something wrong?” he asks, blearily.

“No. We’re going to my father’s house. Get dressed.”

“Whu—I mean, okay,” Doffy says, sitting up as Crocodile throws the covers off and heads for the bathroom. “But why now?”

“He won’t be working today. Do you need the shower?”

“Uh, yes, um. I’ll be quick. What should I wear? Does it need to be nice?”

“Not particularly. I’ll get it for you. Want coffee?”

“Please. Thanks, love you.”

Crocodile nods and works through his morning routine briskly, heading down to the kitchen to blend the smoothie concoction Doffy swears by for breakfast, and filling two thermoses with coffee. He eats while he waits.

He somehow feels both entirely focused, as though this visit is a project he needs to finish, and unmoored, as though he is floating. It’s an odd sensation.

Doffy comes down in about twenty minutes, wearing what Crocodile picked out. It’s very subdued, for him, but he doesn’t complain.

They’re mostly silent on the drive over; Doffy drinking his coffee, Crocodile trying to remember the way.

“Anything I should know before we get there?”

Crocodile drums his fingers on the steering wheel, considering.

“He and my mother are divorced, so don’t ask about her—they don’t speak, and I haven’t seen her since I was five. As I’ve mentioned, there are several people who remember living there, and I suspect they’ll likely hate you as much as they do me. You definitely tried to kill some of them during the Paramount War.”

He turns off onto a side road, lined with meticulously pruned trees.

“I might have to leave you alone for a while if my father insists on talking to me privately. Just do your best to avoid speaking with anyone who looks like they want to kill you, and I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’m hoping to keep this brief.”

He pulls up in front of the large wrought-iron gate that bars the entrance to the Newgate estate. Dread fills his stomach, but he squares his shoulders and presses the intercom.

“This is the private residence of Mr. Edward Newgate. May I help you?” a familiar voice asks politely.

Evan’s still here, then. He’s not surprised—it’s likely Whitebeard has retained the entire staff, although most of them don’t really do anything.

“Evan, it’s Carlisle. I’ve come to see my father. Can you open the gate?”

“Car—Carlisle? Is it—Is it, really?”

“Yes, Evan. Turn on the camera.”

The security camera on the top of the gate blinks to life, turning to focus on the car. Crocodile waves at it.

“Oh my god, it’s really you! It’s really—just a moment, I have to get Ruby!”

“Evan, could you open—” he starts, but he hears the sound of the intercom cutting off a moment later and sighs, exasperated.

Doffy laughs softly.

“It seems like they really missed you.”

“I suppose.”

He hadn’t thought they would. He was an ungrateful, unruly child last time he’d seen them, who’d left without a word over a decade ago now. He hadn’t even been sure they’d still recognize him, honestly.

“Lyle? Is it really you?” Someone says through the intercom a minute later. Doffy collapses in a fit of silent laughter next to him, and Crocodile punches him in the shoulder, glaring.

“Yes, Ruby, it’s me. Could you or Evan please open the—”

“I can’t believe you’re back!” Ruby says, sounding choked up. “I have to get the others! Just a moment.”

The intercom clicks off again and Crocodile puts his face in his hand.

“Hey,” Doffy says, mirth still evident in his voice, “cut ‘em some slack. It’s been a while, right?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Damn. So, yeah, I’d say they’re entitled to a little excitement. It’s not a big deal; we got time.” Doffy reaches over to squeeze his free hand briefly, then takes out his phone.

The reunions continue for about five minutes before Crocodile loses his patience.

“It’s lovely to hear your voices again,” he says, trying very hard not to snap, “and I’ll be happy to speak with you once I’m inside, but I did come here to see my father so would someone kindly let us in?”

“Us?” Emil asks, curiously. “Did you bring someone?”

“Yes, there’s a man in the car,” Evan explains. “Carlisle, I don’t know if… well, I mean, of course he’s welcome to wait in the sitting room, but I think your father will want to see you alone.”

“Oh, to the contrary, I think he’ll be quite interested in meeting him. Dorian is my fiancé,” Crocodile says blandly.

“What?” Ruby screeches, making the intercom scream feedback at them. “Oh my goodness! Evan, you have to let them in right now!”

The gate pulls apart in front of them at last.

“Finally,” Crocodile mutters, ignoring the continued chatter to pull up the driveway. They exit the car, and Doffy takes a few seconds to look around.

It is excessive. The exterior is white marble, and the sprawling wings of the house are bordered by meticulously kept gardens. It looks like something that would be featured in one of those horrible TV shows where they tour rich people’s houses so they can brag about their money.

“Impressive,” Doffy says, taking a step back so he can see the façade.

“Gaudy,” Crocodile dismisses. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

He goes up the front steps, but before he can ring the doorbell the door flies open and Ruby and Emil both barrel into him.

“Welcome home!” Emil says, tears streaming down his face.

“Thank you,” Crocodile replies, hesitantly returning their embraces.

They had both helped to raise him—Whitebeard always wanted to be there, of course, but he was busy with work. Ruby was the one to wake him up most days, make him breakfast, drive him to school. Emil would pick him up, help with homework, make dinner. There were so many days and evenings and weekends spent with them; he knows that they consider him their son, as much as Whitebeard’s.

He’d forgotten that. Perhaps on purpose.

“Dorian. Nice to meet you,” he hears from behind him. He turns his head to see Doffy shaking hands with Evan, an easy smile on his face.

Evan is his father’s chauffeur, with an especial affection for Crocodile; he used to sneak him cookies.

“Let’s go inside,” Crocodile says, gently pushing Ruby and Emil away. “Is Father busy?”

“Victoria’s gone to get him,” Ruby says, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. “You look wonderful, Lyle! So grown up!” She beams at him, then walks inside. Doffy catches up before they make the threshold, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m gonna call you that all the time, I hope you know.”

“I hope you’re ready to die, then.”

Doffy cackles and straightens up as they enter.

The foyer is full of what looks like almost the entire staff of approximately twenty people, in various states of excitement.

“Welcome back, Mr. Carlisle!” They chorus, and some part of Crocodile’s heart melts.

“Thank you all,” he says, smiling slightly. “It’s… good to see you, again.”

“Hey, Carlisle. Long time no see,” someone else says. Crocodile looks up to where a boy is leaning against the railing at the top of the stairs and sneers.

“Ace.”

“Where’ve you been?” Marco asks, from the other side of the split staircase. “And who’s your friend?”

“He looks familiar,” Jozu says, from the doorway to the sitting room.

Mercifully, no more of them appear. It’s possible they are out—they always used to go “adventuring” on Saturdays.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, actually,” Doflamingo says, stepping out from behind Crocodile. “I’m Dorian.  His fiancé,” he adds, giving them a shit-eating grin.

They are predictably swamped by the staff members after that, bombarded by questions. Crocodile makes his answers as vague and noncommittal as possible—no, they don’t have a venue, a theme, a date, even.

Honestly, it barely feels real. He hasn’t even told Bon, Daz, or Iva yet. He’s not entirely sure why, only… a nagging sense that it might dissolve. That it’s too good to be true.

Perhaps Doffy will rescind his proposal, or some tragedy will befall them, or they’ll be thrown in prison for some crime or another. Perhaps someone with a grudge will kill them. There are so many things which could go wrong; he doesn’t want to announce it until he feels sure.

After a few minutes, Victoria descends the stairs rapidly, running over to hug Crocodile. He puts a hand on her back lightly and looks up to the top of the stairs with a sense of resigned dread.

He looks… smaller. Older. Less imposing than Crocodile remembers. He probably still has five or six inches on Crocodile, but Doffy is definitely taller than him, now.

He’s using a cane, and Marco is at his side as he descends the stairs, looking at Crocodile all the while. He feels someone move at his back, smells Doffy’s cologne, and is silently grateful for the support.

Everyone quiets down as Whitebeard walks across the room, bodies parting like the sea. He makes his way over to Crocodile. He looks his son up and down, gaze sharp as ever. He nods slightly, not saying anything, and then looks up at Doflamingo, a challenge in his eyes.

“Did you come to ask for my blessing, then?”

There’s complete silence for a moment, and then Doffy starts laughing.

He continues for a good thirty seconds, the rest of the room frozen in confused mortification.

“That’s funny, old man,” Doffy finally says, baring his teeth wolfishly. “I like your sense of humor.”

Whitebeard raises his eyebrows.

“No respect for tradition?”

“Not particularly.” Doffy shrugs. “Honestly, you could throw me out of here and spit in my face and I’d still marry your son, as long as he wanted me.”

Doffy places his hand on Crocodile’s shoulder and meets Whitebeard’s gaze with the same ferocity with which it has been offered.

For a moment, there is a tense silence. Then the old man grins.

“Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

“Come on, boy. Let’s talk,” he says to Crocodile, gesturing the stairs with his cane. “Everyone else stay here. Elise, make sure our guest is comfortable, please.”

Crocodile moves to Whitebeard’s side to help him ascend the stairs, but he jerks his elbow away when Crocodile takes it.

“I can do it,” he insists. Crocodile rolls his eyes but makes no further move to assist.

They eventually end up in Whitebeard’s study. Crocodile recalls not being allowed to come in here in his youth; there are floor to ceiling bookshelves, an imposing mahogany desk in the center of the room, and a sitting area in the corner.

“Surely you’re not still working.”

“Consulting,” Whitebeard grunts, making his way over to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

Crocodile does, automatically serving them both tea when he sees it artfully arranged on the coffee table. Whitebeard nods when he hands him the cup, and they drink in relative peace for a few moments.

“So,” Whitebeard asks, “what do you want?”

Crocodile blinks caught off guard for a moment, then scowls.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

“For seventeen years. And you’ve never cared.” There’s an accusation in his tone, if not his words. “So, what do you want?”

“Dorian suggested I might get in touch with you before the wedding,” Crocodile says. It’s technically true, but not an answer.

“Are you inviting me?”

Crocodile hesitates.

He doesn’t know. Part of him thinks it would be fitting—proper for his father to be there, to see what he’s become, what he had discarded. But. But, he doesn’t know, of course, so it would be…

Whitebeard snorts derisively.

“I didn’t think so.”

Crocodile sighs, irritated, and sets his teacup down on the table.

“Dorian is on television. They will undoubtedly report on the event; I wanted to preempt any effort you might make to contact me afterwards.”

“You could’ve called and told me to leave you alone,” Whitebeard points out. Crocodile can tell he’s getting impatient.

“I know that, but it seemed—It’s not as though…” he trails off, struggling with the words. It seemed cruel, it’s not as though I hate you. But they won’t come.

“What, boy?” Whitebeard says, sweeping an arm out in exasperation, and—

The blade of the naginata slices through the air towards him. Crocodile instinctually puts up his hook to block the blow and tries to take a step back, but—

But, of course, there is no weapon. He has no hook. He ends up with a hand in front of his face, flinching backwards in his chair.

He blinks. Lowers his arm slowly. Whitebeard stares at him for a moment.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, in a rough whisper. “I never—I would never—”

You did, Crocodile thinks. But it’s not true, anymore.

“I apologize,” is all he can offer, a poor balm for the anguish in his father’s voice. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Then who?” Whitebeard demands. “One of the staff? One of the other boys? Who?”

“No. It’s—don’t worry about it. He’s dead. He died, a long time ago in a—a horrible accident.”

Whitebeard standing, unbowed, on the battlefield of Marineford with holes in his chest, facing thousands of marines for the sake of a single child.

“Good,” Whitebeard says, relaxing back into his chair. “Good riddance.”

Crocodile smiles tightly and takes a drink of the tea.

“I meant to say,” he continues, picking up his earlier train of thought, “that I felt you had a right to know. To hear it from me, and not some gossip rag.”

“Well, then. I’ve heard it.”

“Yes, I suppose you have.”

The conversation lapses into uncomfortable silence. Crocodile sips his tea and staring out into the garden. It’s bursting with life; he watches the tiny figures of the gardeners flitter around from plant to plant, nourishing them.

They used to play hide-and-seek out there. When he was young. Before the others came. Whitebeard would build him things, playsets and tree swings and secret little forts. He would take Crocodile out there and present them to him, would smile at his son’s excitement. They would play for hours.

“Why did you leave?” Whitebeard asks, startling Crocodile. He turns to look at his father. There’s a furrow between his brows that betrays his frustration.

“I was eighteen. It was perfectly legal,” he points out carefully.

“But that’s not why you left,” Whitebeard growls, “don’t treat me like a fool.”

Crocodile sighs.

“It was them—your children, in part. But there were other things, things I needed to work through on my own. It wasn’t to do with you.”

“You said they didn’t hurt you,” Whitebeard says suspiciously.

“True. But one doesn’t have to injure someone to make them uncomfortable. You know they don’t like me.”

“But not why,” he raises an eyebrow.

“Ask them.” Crocodile shrugs.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I do. But how they feel isn’t my responsibility; they can explain themselves.”

If they are intent on continuing to ostracize him, then they should have to live with the consequences.

Whitebeard gets up and walks over to his liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He gestures to Crocodile with it questioningly, and he nods. Whitebeard pours them each a glass and brings it over.

“I hate tea, but Marco keeps telling me not to drink so much alcohol.”

Crocodile chuckles and accepts the glass, nodding his thanks.

They drink in silence for a few minutes.

“I didn’t mean to drive you away.”

“I know that.”

“But I can’t give up the kids for you.”

“I know that, too. I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

“Well, then, son. What now?”

Crocodile glances over at Whitebeard, who looks back steadily.

“I don’t—tch.”

He swishes the whiskey around in his glass, trying to stall.

He cannot escape who he was before, here. His father and the others are too insistent a reminder; if he comes back, if he lets his father participate in his life again, there will be more moments like what just happened. There will be death glares from the rest of the family; there will be days when he is so exhausted by the confluence of two realities that he has to simply give up.

But.

There will also be… love. There are so many people who love him, here; Emil and Ruby and Victoria and all the rest, who watched him grow. And his father. Crocodile knows that his gruff welcome is in part due to Crocodile’s own actions. That he’d refused to contact him for seventeen years; the way he’d spoken to him, looked at him, the day he’d left.

But this White—Edward Newgate, his father, loves him. Crocodile knows he has only to ask for a place here, and all will be forgiven, because he is a Newgate and whatever he wasn’t before, however disappointing he was, he isn’t here. His father loves him, here.

Maybe that’s why he decided to come back. Because somewhere he knew that there was another home waiting for him; that he could have that love and affection back, if he only reached out and took it.

“Come to the wedding, then,” he says, at last. “Don’t bring the others. Well, Marco can come, I suppose. Since you can’t even descend a staircase anymore.”

Whitebeard grins at him. The way he used to when Crocodile was seven and got into trouble at school for fighting.

“What, no invitation? Where are your manners, boy?”

“You’ll get an invitation when we mail them out, you insufferable old bastard.”

Father laughs, slapping a hand against his thigh. He puts out his glass, and Crocodile meets it with his.

“To you,” he says, still smiling, “to happier tomorrows.”

They both down the rest of their alcohol in one gulp, then leave the room to rejoin the rest of the household. Father insists he can make it down the stairs himself but fails to object this time when Crocodile takes his elbow.

They hear voices in the sitting room and come in to find the entire staff arrayed around the couch where Doffy is sitting, apparently enraptured by a story he’s telling.

“So he was standing there, covered in glitter, and he looks up at her—”

Crocodile abruptly realizes just which story he’s telling.

“No, that’s enough,” he says loudly. “I told you never to bring that up.”

“You’re back!” Doffy says, beaming at him. “And the old man, too. Come here—Tyler brought cake and it’s just fantastic. You have to try it!” Doffy flashes a brilliant smile at Tyler, who blushes.

Crocodile rolls his eyes and goes to sit over next to Doffy, who immediately pulls him closer so there’s hardly any space between them. He hands Crocodile a piece of cake, and Mary gives one to Father.

“So, brat,” Whitebeard says, after taking a bite, “what do you do?”

“I’m on TV,” Doffy says, producing a card from his wallet. “Every weeknight from 8-9 eastern. You should tune in sometime. You do know what a TV is?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Father says, looking at the card, “they let shitheads like you on there nowadays? Sounds like the industry’s really gone downhill.”

“They do if they’re charming and handsome like me,” Doffy counters, grinning, and Crocodile hears giggles from a few of the people behind him. He sighs.

“So, how’s things? We heading out?” Doffy asks, turning a little to direct the question at Crocodile.

“Well, I—”

“Stay for dinner,” Father orders. “I want to talk to you before you marry my son.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted,” Doffy says, looking like he means every word, but that he won’t make it fun for anyone else, “Carlisle?”

Crocodile shrugs.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Actually, it’s very painful. It gives Crocodile a horrible headache, watching Doffy verbally spar with every single person who sits with them at the dinner table. The staff fawns over him the whole time. Crocodile has to have four whole glasses of wine just to make it through dinner, and when the dessert course is finally removed he absolutely insists they leave.

Of course, Calvin’s put his car away, so they find themselves waiting on the porch for him to bring it around which takes an inordinately long time. His father says goodnight (with assurances from Crocodile that he will call within the week), the staff disperse, and, suspiciously, only Father’s other children and the two of them remain.

“Okay, so you’re Doflamingo, right?” Ace asks, squinting at Doffy suspiciously. Crocodile groans, turning away from the conversation to light a cigarette.

“In the flesh.”

“You tried to kill my brother!”

Doffy shrugs.

“I mean, sure, but the brat came to my kingdom. It wasn’t anything personal.”

“You cut off my leg,” Oars accuses.

“Did I?” Doffy turns to Crocodile. “Hey, did I cut off his leg?”

“You did. At Marineford.”

“Ohh, you’re that one. Well, sorry, big guy; again, nothing personal. Just doing my job. At least it kept Moria from turning your corpse into a zombie.”

“You destroyed my homeland,” Izou says.

“Are you from Dressrosa? I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you. Crocodile, do you know who this is?”

“They’re from Wano.”

“Oh. Ooooh. Well, you’ll wanna take that up with Kaido, if you can find him. Can’t say I was that interested in whatever was going on over there as long as I got what I needed, frankly.”

“You—” Jozu starts.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Doffy says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re gonna have to get in line for that one. I definitely controlled several thousand people and made them do way worse shit than not attacking Crocodile.”

Marco steps into Crocodile’s line of sight.

“I don’t think I did anything to you,” Doffy says, smiling. Despite the accusations, he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

“No. Can I talk to you a minute, Crocodile?”

Doffy goes very still.

“Why d—” he begins suspiciously.

“It’s fine, Doflamingo,” Crocodile reassures, turning to leave the porch, “Of course, Marco. Let’s go in the garden.”

They walk over towards the rose garden as Crocodile idly wonders if Calvin’s driven the car into a lake.

“What did you need?” he asks, admiring the gardening rather than looking at Marco. The gardeners have really done a spectacular job; roses in a variety of hues are bursting with life along the pathways.

“You should stop smoking. It’s bad for your lungs.”

“I know,” he says, turning around to deliberately blow smoke in Marco’s face. “What did you need, Marco?”

Marco wrinkles his nose and fans the smoke away.

“I just—we decided we should talk to you.”

“And you drew the short straw,” he guesses, smirking.

“I volunteered, actually.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“I kind of remember you, from before.”

“Ah. Yes, I suppose you would.”

He’d been on the ship when Whitebeard had found the boy, when Crocodile was still a child himself. Not that they’d ever really gotten along—Marco was much too rambunctious for Crocodile’s taste.

“Well, I—that is, we just wanted to say, we’re not gonna try and stop you from coming to visit.”

Crocodile snorts derisively.

“As if you could.”

Marco frowns at him.

“Look, we’re trying to be nice. We know what you—”

“Yes, but he doesn’t,” Crocodile interrupts, a hint of smugness creeping into his tone, “and I know you won’t tell him, even if you didn’t think he’d call you crazy. Because then you’d have to explain everything.”

He knows Marco’s thinking of Marineford, too, by the way he breaks eye contact. Whitebeard’s crew would damn themselves to hell before telling their father they’d failed to save one of their own.

“Listen, Marco. You may not want me here, but I’m his son, for better or worse. Our relationship, such as it is, has nothing to do with you, and should you interfere I suspect he’ll be quite displeased. I know you don’t like me, and as the feeling is mutual; let’s just agree to all stay out of each other’s way, shall we?”

He puts out a hand. Marco stares down at it.

“You know he’s getting—he’s getting old,” he says quietly.

“Sure,” Crocodile agrees easily, not seeing the import.

“And he isn’t in the best of health.”

“Yes. So?”

“So he probably doesn’t have that much longer left, Crocodile,” Marco bursts out, finally losing his patience. “And I think he’d be much happier dying if we all made some effort to get along, don’t you?”

Crocodile blinks. Retracts his hand. Turns back towards the roses.

He hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t wanted to, perhaps. Of course, it was quite obvious that Father was slowly deteriorating—that he’d lost some of his characteristic vivacity. But it hadn’t seemed that bad to him.

The realization of his ignorance hurts more than he’d anticipated.

“How do you propose we go about ‘getting along’, Marco? I seem to recall the lot of you disliking me intensely,” he says to the roses.

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, and we probably won’t be like, having sleepovers and shit. Especially if you insist on marrying him. But we talked it over and we’re willing to try, if you are.”

Crocodile reaches into his pocket, leaning down to cut a deep pink rose free with his knife. His ring glitters in the moonlight.

“I’ll think about it. Let’s go back.”

They wander back over to the other group. Crocodile notices Marco pulling out his phone on the way, and the car has magically appeared by the time they arrive. The others are all glaring daggers at Doffy, who seems completely unfazed.

“Thanks so much, Calvin,” he says, walking over to the driver’s side. “Goodnight, everyone! See you around!” He smiles, seemingly pleased at the prospect of bringing Father’s children more distress.

Crocodile raises a hand in farewell as they pull away, Doffy setting the GPS and speeding into the night.

“So, that was fun,” he says, after a minute.

“For you, maybe. The others seemed less than pleased.”

“I mean, Law brought a knife to the house. They’re gonna have to try harder than that to piss me off,” he says, turning out onto the highway. “And anyway, I don’t care about what they think unless you do.

“How’d it go with your dad?”

“Fine, I suppose,” Crocodile allows, twirling the rose stem between his fingers. “He’s coming to the wedding.”

“Shit! sounds like it went great, then!” He smiles brightly at Crocodile. When he doesn’t return it, the expression melts into a frown. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t… perhaps. My conversation with Marco was… not a happy one.” He carefully begins prying the thorns off, depositing them in the cupholder.

“Okay,” Doffy says, slowly, “Is that… do you wanna talk about that?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he agrees, reaching out to turn the radio on. Crocodile stops his hand on the dial.

“Yes.”

“Alright,” he says, moving it back onto the wheel. “So, um. What’s up?”

“Marco wants the others and I to become… friends.”

Doffy laughs, leaning forward in his seat and nearly jerking them over into the next lane.

“That’s hilarious.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“Why?” Doffy asks, baffled. Someone honks at them. “They clearly don’t like you.”

“Because it would make Whitebeard… make my father very happy. And I suppose I… haven’t spent much time doing that. Ever.”

Doffy’s silent for a moment. Crocodile hears him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Okay, but—and you’ll forgive me for saying so—you haven’t really cared about that up to this point. So what changed?” Doffy asks.

Crocodile looks out the window, at the sun slowly setting over the city skyline.

“He’s very old, now.”

“Sure, but—oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry.”

The telephone wires blur before his eyes, the colors of the houses and the sunset running together like diluted paint.

“I have wasted so much time,” he says, and he can hear his voice crack on the last word, much as he’d like to deny it.

He has. And he can’t blame his father, not really. He made the choice, this time—he walked away. He left because he couldn’t face himself, because he was being useless, cowardly, ungrateful little shithead who threw a temper tantrum because he couldn’t deal with people being mean to him sometimes.

Pathetic.

And now… and now, he pays the price. But so does his father.

He bites his lip and inhales sharply, forcing himself back together.

The turn signal clicks gently. The car slows, pulls off onto the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” he says, making an effort to keep his voice even.

Doffy puts the car in park, gets out, and comes over to the other side. He opens the passenger door and leans down. Crocodile looks away.

“Wanna come here a moment, love?” Doffy asks, softly.

Crocodile reluctantly accedes to his own desire, leaving the car and burying himself in Doffy’s arms.

They don’t say anything. Doffy eventually wedges them back inside sort of awkwardly, sitting on the seat with his feet still out of the car and Crocodile halfway in his lap. Crocodile shivers, and reminds himself that absolutely nothing worth crying over has happened, and that he isn’t a child, anyway, and that this is completely mortifying and unnecessary—

“It’s okay,” Doffy says, quietly, pressing a gentle hand to the back of Crocodile’s head, “I understand. Don’t—just do whatever feels right, okay? Don’t worry about anything else.”

Crocodile balls his fists in Doflamingo’s shirt and tries to force the tears back, anyway.

There’s nothing for it. All those years, all that time they might have spent together is gone. Frittered away on resentment, jealousy, his own insecurity. God, but he’s been so stupid.

They stay like that until the sun has set, and the only sounds are the occasional roar of a car passing by and the crickets. Eventually, Crocodile gets up. Tries to put his hair back in place.

Doffy reaches up to wipe at his face with one of his thumbs. Smiles sadly.

“Let’s go home, huh?”

Crocodile nods, mutely, and they return to their seats, making the rest of the drive in silence.

When they reach the house, Doffy goes to take a shower. Crocodile puts on pajamas, retrieves his glasses, and places something on the nightstand for him to find.

He comes into the room a while later; pauses in the doorframe. Crocodile looks up from the book he’s reading. Doffy smiles at him.

“What?” Crocodile asks.

“Who put that there?”

Doffy gestures to the vase containing the rose.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Crocodile says, pretending to return to his reading.

“Of course not,” Doffy agrees indulgently. He comes to bed, grabbing Crocodile by the waist and yanking him over.

“I was reading,” Crocodile protests.

“Time for sleep.”

Doffy reaches over to turn the light out. Crocodile turns over so they’re facing one another, although his head is somewhere around Doffy’s collarbone.

“Thank you. For today,” he says, almost inaudibly.

“Of course. Always.”

Chapter Text

To: Bon Clay, Daz Bones, Emporio Ivankov

We’re engaged.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LRGN;ARGN;UAWBGUIERJGBUOA;RGNJERBGIJ;ERBUOWRBTUJB

KEJRBGJAWBGJIERBUOJBER

LAWRKBGIAWBGIJAERBGJIERJ;GBJWRGUOJ

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ZERO-CHAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Congratulations, Boss. Have you set a date?

Thank you, Daz. No, we have not.

finally!

hnstly I thought we were all going to have to die AGAIN before you would

you have to let me plan it, croco-boy

Absolutely not. We’re hiring a wedding planner.

Do you have someone in mind?

Poplar. I’ve heard excellent things about them.

Yes, I have, as well. Please let me know if I can do anything to assist.

Actually, I was hoping you would do me the honor of being my best man.

It would be my pleasure, Boss.

Wonderful. And Iva, if you would provide the entertainment?

!!!!

I’d be delighted croco-boy ♥♥♥

Thank you. Bon?

SKJBGIWBGUIWBEG YEAH?????????????

UR GONNA MAKE ME CRY IF U ASK ME ANYTHING

If you’ve the time, would you mind terribly getting certified to officiate the wedding?

IJ;BGEBRGRBGRSJBGJRSBGIJRBIUBIUBRIB

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

YEAH!!!!! YEAH!!!

OMG

OMG ZEROOOOO CHAN IM LITERALLY CRYING RN IM GONNA CALL U

Crocodile’s phone starts ringing. He smiles fondly.

“Please be quiet, Doflamingo is—”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ZERO-CHAN I CAN’T BELIEVE IT I CAN’T BELIEVE IT CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!” Bon shouts, ignoring him.

Doffy startles awake, sitting up and hitting his head on the headboard.

“Ow, what the fuck!”

Crocodile finds he can’t help but laugh.

Poplar is housed in a large black-and-gold building in the luxury shopping district. They are met at the doors by a young, redheaded man with large, guileless eyes and a peculiarly long, square nose.

“Well, hello there! Dorian and Carlisle, I assume?”

“Correct.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance! I’m Kauko!” He shakes their hands firmly and then whirls around towards the elevator. “If you’d kindly follow me, Kalifa is waiting for us upstairs.”

They shortly that Kauko is extremely chatty: complimenting them on their outfits, asking them about their plans and preferences. It seems to Crocodile they’ve somehow managed to provide him with an unsettling amount of information by the time they get off the elevator.

Their host leads them to a glass-sided conference room, where a severe-looking blonde woman is waiting for them.

“This is Kalifa; she’s the one who’s going to be taking care of all the organization. She’s a wizard with that kind of thing, just sensational. Kalifa, this is—”

“Carlisle Newgate and Dorian Dali, yes, thank you. Nice to meet you both.”

They shake hands with the woman as well—her grip is like a vice. Kauko excuses himself to retrieve refreshments, and Kalifa invites them to sit, immediately pulling out a tablet computer.

“So. Season?”

“Summer,” Doffy says.

“Fall,” Crocodile counters.

“I see,” Kalifa mutters, scribbling on her screen with a stylus. “Venue?”

“Outdoors.”

“Inside, preferably.”

She nods, continuing to write, “And the colors?”

“Pink and green.”

“Black and gold.”

“Dorian, we discussed this,” Crocodile says impatiently. “I’m not going to have it be an ostentatious mess, especially not with the paparazzi around. It needs to be sophisticated.”

“But Carlisle,” Doffy whines. “We’re only getting married once, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. Let’s have fun with it! Why shouldn’t it be extravagant?”

“Gosh, arguing already, are we?” Kauko says cheerfully, serving them their drinks and then sitting down next to Kalifa. She passes him the tablet, and he looks over it quickly.

“Well, how about spring for the season? All kinds of lovely flowers are in bloom, and our in-house florist is just amazing! We can show you some arrangements if you like.”

Crocodile’s about to object, but he stops, considering.

“Would it be possible to work off of the selection from a specific garden, if we wanted?”

“Oh, of course! Anything’s possible with Poplar!” Kauko leans over, clicking through some things on the screen.

“Might I suggest a rooftop for the venue?” Kalifa says. “The ceremony itself can be held outside, but we can also secure an indoor space for dining or in the event of unfavorable weather.”

Doffy snaps his fingers and pulls out his phone.

“That’s great, actually! I know just the place.”

Kauko turns the tablet towards them, showing off color palette selections.

“Can I point you in the direction of the pink, white, and gold? We can work in some accent colors, as well.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon going back and forth, arguing about colors and flavors and times. The staff are extremely accommodating, always managing to somehow resolve their disagreements. It seems that Poplar does much of the work in-house, and Kalifa assures them that they only contract with the best companies if they can’t do something themselves. Kauko leaves them with his phone number and an assurance that they can call him anytime they need something.

A few months out from the wedding, Crocodile’s father asks to meet him for lunch—specifically without Doffy. It isn’t too hard to arrange, these days; he’s almost always busy with some aspect of the wedding plans.

Crocodile slips off one afternoon while Doflamingo is on the phone about the flower arrangements, he hands off his car to Calvin and is about to join his father in the garden when he hears a very loud noise from the roof.

Backing up, he can see several figures with some kind of ridiculous-looking contraption standing near the edge of the roof.

“Ace!” he yells. One of the figures startles and turns towards him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, hey, um—” He scrambles over the tiles towards the front of the house. “N-nothing. Just, like… a school project?”

Crocodile snorts derisively.

“You expect me to believe you’re in school?”

“Okay, yeah. That was pretty bad.” He sits down on the edge, feet dangling over the side. “We had this idea for, like, a thing that could sort of let you glide—”

“I know you’re too old to think jumping off the roof is a good idea.”

“We’re not just gonna jump—”

“I’m going to have lunch with Father,” Crocodile interrupts, putting his hands on his hips, “and when I come back all of you had better be back on the ground safely. Or he’s finally going to find out who broke that $20,000 vase.”

“Ugh,” Ace whines, flopping back against the tiles. “You’re so fucking boring, old man.”

It’s a testament to the last few months that the worst thing Ace calls him is ‘boring’. While he and the rest of Father’s family have not quite managed friendship, perse, they’ve certainly moved into ‘acquaintance’ territory, as opposed to seething animosity.

“I’ll happily take that over unnecessary hospital visits brought on by your own stupidity. I’ll be back in an hour.”

He walks away, ignoring Ace’s continued complaints, to where his father has set up a table for them in the rose garden. It’s beautiful today, and they enjoy a leisurely meal meandering idly between topics for a while.

“So,” Crocodile eventually says, between sips of iced tea, “did you need something from me? Or did you just want to chat?”

“Can’t a man have lunch with his son?”

Crocodile rolls his eyes.

“Well, yes, but since you specifically requested—”

“I’m just fucking with you, kid,” he smiles, reaching into his pocket. “I uh, want you to have something.”

He drops an antique, rather plain-looking gold ring on the table.

“It was mine, when I married your mother. Bit of a family heirloom. I thought—well. You can have it if you want. For that boy of yours.”

Crocodile takes the ring, inspecting it. It’s actually engraved, although the pattern and inscription have been worn down.

He smiles softly.

Doffy had been right not to ask Father for permission to marry Crocodile; it would have been insulting. He’s hasn’t needed permission to do something since he was six. But, well. It’s nice to know that Father approves.

“Thank you,” he says, putting it away. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad,” Father says, smiling softly.

At five a.m. on the day of the wedding, the alarm goes off and Crocodile is instantly alert, scrambling for his phone.

“It’s sunny, with a light breeze predicted,” Doffy says, already awake. “Thank fucking god.”

Crocodile breathes a sigh of relief and reaches for his phone with less urgency. It’s been raining all week.

There’s a text from Kauko confirming their brief trip to the venue this morning to look over everything, and several excited congratulatory messages from various attendees. There’s also a suspicious text from an unknown number that just says:

😊

So that’s concerning.

He decides to ignore it for now; they have enough to worry about, anyway.

They speed through their morning routines with unusual focus and find themselves downstairs half an hour early. Doffy turns to him, smiling.

“Hey,” he says. “Good morning.”

He takes Crocodile’s face in his hands and kisses him, slow and sweet.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Crocodile says, kissing him again. A moment too short and somehow eternal. “Let’s go.”

Kauko meets them at the entrance to the skyscraper with cheerful congratulations, ushering them into the elevator which takes them to the eighty-fifth floor, where the food and drinks will be served. They check in with the head chef of the Baratie, who’s catering, the pastry chefs from Tottoland, the florist, the photographers, the head of security, and quickly inspect the roof before being rushed back down to the street so they can go inspect the reception venue, a ballroom in a nearby upscale hotel. Kalifa is waiting for them there and conducts probably the most efficient tour ever while noting their minor complaints on her tablet and calling staff over to take care of them. With five hours to go before the wedding they return to the skyscraper to prepare in earnest.

When they hand the car off to the valet they are faced with a horde of paparazzi, snapping photos and shouting questions at them. Doffy grins lazily and waves at the rabble while Crocodile makes his way inside as quickly as possible, ignoring everyone.

Inazuma meets them by the elevator, at which point they are separated and taken to different areas to prepare. Everyone seems to be constantly hovering—Bon Clay and Daz’ presences meaning there’s also a fair bit of arguing going on. Ina flitters in and out, a tape measure on her shoulders, making last minute adjustments to Crocodile’s suit.

It’s gorgeous—a complete triumph; Ina has outdone herself. The white fabric shimmers where the light passes over it, the fastenings a brushed gold, his tie an exact match to the pink scattered throughout the venue. The piece de resistance is, of course, the cape, long enough to touch the floor. It is trimmed with white fur, and delicately embroidered in gold. The jeweled fastenings twinkle as Crocodile closes them, pulling on gloves to complete the look.

“Thank you. The design is exquisite,” he says, nodding to Ina. She smiles.

“I’m glad I’ve met your exacting specifications.”

Her phone buzzes, and she frowns down at the screen.

“There’s a problem with Doflamingo’s outfit. Excuse me.”

She flies out of the room, which Crocodile suddenly finds empty except for a woman he doesn’t immediately recognize. She’s wearing a floor-length, deep purple dress and a wide brimmed black hat.

“May I help you?”

“I’ve just come to congratulate you, Mr. Zero,” Nico Robin says, removing her hat and walking over to stand next to him in front of the mirror. “I must say I was surprised to receive an invitation.”

“As I am that you decided to attend, Ms. All Sunday,” Crocodile replies, inclining his head politely.

She smiles enigmatically.

“I could hardly resist seeing such a… unique event for myself.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror for a brief moment. Crocodile looks away and begins to fiddle with his cape.

“Well. I’m glad we could amuse you.”

She turns to him, reaching out to adjust his collar.

“You’ve stayed out of trouble.”

“As I assured you I would.”

He looks back at her; she holds his gaze, her eyes the pure, fathomless blue he remembers.

“And are you happier for it?”

Crocodile stands quietly for a moment. Thinking of all that he has lost, what he has gained; how dearly it has cost him to arrive at today, to win for himself—for them—this life.

“Yes. I believe so,” he says, smiling at her. “I think that I may have… found what I was looking for.”

“Ah. So you didn’t need to topple a kingdom, after all,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I’m glad.”

She takes a step back and looks him over in the mirror then nods, and heads for the door.

“I think you’re about to have visitors. I’ll see you at the reception.”

The others return in a raucous gaggle to continue their incessant fussing and adjusting. In the whirlwind of activity, the remaining hour is swept away.

Crocodile finds himself waiting to enter the venue, anxiety humming in his veins. Father appears next to him, taking his elbow. Crocodile looks at him surprised; they hadn’t planned this.

“Let me walk with you?”

“I suppose,” Crocodile acquiesces, smiling.

Kauko gives the signal to begin, and they walk out into the hall. Crocodile’s breath catches at the sight of it.

The roof has a huge, glass atrium on top of it, inside which the guests are seated. The glass panes on the sides have been opened, allowing a light breeze to ruffle the draperies. Elaborate arrangements constructed from the flowers in Father’s garden adorn the tables, providing exuberant bursts of color amidst the white, gold, and pale pinks.

At the end of the long white carpet is a raised platform with a ramp leading up to it, placed slightly outside of the atrium. Bon Clay stands waiting for them there, in a cotton candy pink dress (they’d insisted on the color, and Crocodile hadn’t the heart to object). Around the circular platform is an intricately wrought metal sculpture, somewhat resembling a gate; the metal is twisted into flowers, birds, and in one of the corners, a golden crocodile.

The guests turn in their seats. Crocodile sees cameras flash, can feel the weight of the audiences’ stares. The music starts, and they process slowly down the aisle.

“Are you nervous?” Father asks in a whisper, drowned out by the chattering of the crowd.

“Perhaps somewhat,” he admits. Father smiles.

“I wanted to tell you,” he continues, still quietly enough that only Crocodile hears him, “that I’ve been looking into your work and everything you’ve accomplished. It’s incredible, kid.”

He looks over, and Crocodile could swear he sees tears in Father’s eyes.

“You’re amazing. I’m happy you found someone to share your life with, even if he is a bit of a shit.”

Crocodile smiles crookedly.

“Thank you for letting me be a part of this—of your life. I love you, son. And I’m so proud of you.”

He beams.

“Thank you,” Crocodile manages in return, somewhat choked. Father smiles at him, pats him on the arm, then returns to his seat.

Upon the platform Crocodile finds Bon Clay wearing an enormous grin, already wiping tears from their eyes. They squeeze his arm briefly, then retreat behind the altar to wait.

Daz is next, with Rosaire and Vergo following. They separate, moving to either side of the altar. Crocodile always feels less antsy with his right-hand man at his back, and he finds himself relaxing.

Dellinger and Sugar skip down the aisle, twirling and scattering flowers in their wake. Crocodile hears a few amused chuckles at their enthusiasm.

Monet enters, the rings held on a cushion in her lap as she drives her electric wheelchair up to the dais.

Then, finally, Doflamingo.

He had, of course, insisted on taking the place of the ‘bride’. It was, after all, the more dramatic role.

Crocodile hears the crowd shift in their chairs, the click of cameras going off. But he doesn’t see it.

Doflamingo looks… perfect. Ina’s tailoring is unsurpassed; the white suit fits him like a glove. Tasteful touches of gold adorn him at the neck and wrists, with his signature pink for the shoes and shirt. Like Crocodile, he is wearing a cape; and, truly, it is a work of art.

It’s clearly designed to function more like a train, the fabric thin enough that the wind pulls and twirls it in his wake. At the collar on the right side bright pink feathers stand dramatically, caressing Doffy’s jawline. Crocodile can see that they wrap around the shoulder, and imagines they continue onto the back, if the excited muttering of the crowd as he passes is any indication.

But Crocodile’s favorite surprise is the one thing Doflamingo has undoubtedly decided himself, which is to leave off his glasses.

Crocodile adores his eyes. They are the bright, astonishing blue of the true sky, darkening at their centers to the deep indigo of that endless, fateful sea on which they had both sailed. As Doffy comes up the aisle, flanked by both of his parents, he holds Crocodile’s gaze, seemingly enraptured.

He reaches the platform after what seems like an eternity, stepping up to stand across from Crocodile. Still looking at him.

Bon Clay begins to speak, thanking everyone for attending, talking about the importance of love born in adversity and triumphing over circumstance. Crocodile has heard it over and over in rehearsals and as he helped Bon practice, so often he could likely recite it himself. It goes perfectly, just as Bon wanted.

At last, the address ends, and eyes turn to Doffy. They have naturally both written their own vows, and this will be the first time Crocodile hears his speech.

He sees Doffy take a deep breath. And then he smiles.

“Darling.

“I kept trying to figure out what I should say to you; how I could tell everyone the extent of what you’ve given me, what you’ve done for me. But no matter how many guides and suggestions and lists I looked over, none of them ever had the right words for you.”

He reaches up to fiddle with his glasses, then realizes their absence. Crocodile stifles a laugh.

“Do you remember that night we were on that business trip, and we were driving that old car, and it broke down on that deserted stretch of road? There was no cell service, and we waited, but no one stopped. You had a meeting in the morning, so we started pushing the thing at like 9 p.m., and around ten it started to rain.

“God, it was terrible. And then I tripped and fell into some ditch on the side of the road that was filled with some nasty mud, and you—you laughed. You reached down and took my hand, pulled me up again. You were soaked, and there were grease stains on your clothes still, and I was miserable, but you were smiling, and I didn’t care why; didn’t care if you were laughing at me, or making fun of me, or whatever. It’d been so long since you smiled like that.”

He leans forward slightly, and Crocodile can tell he wants to reach out and touch him. But he restrains himself.

“That’s when I knew that I was in love with you. That there wasn’t going to be anyone else for me, ever again, not really. There wasn’t going to be anyone who could make that kind of day worth it just because of their smile.”

He takes a deep breath.

“This is it, love. You’re the one. You’re the only person I want, forever, and I promise you that nothing is ever going to keep me from you, in this life or beyond.

“I could spend a thousand years pampering you, and never give you a fraction of what you’ve given me, but I hope… I hope that today, my love is enough. It is all that I can offer you.”

There is silence for a moment, and Crocodile sees Doffy make an aborted movement with his arm, nearly reaching out for Crocodile.

He smiles. Without reservation, without malice, without disdain; there is no room for anything but joy.

“Dearest, I think we both know you have much more to offer than your love—this,” he gestures to the venue, “is testament to that.” There’s scattered laughter, but Crocodile barely hears it; the whole world is melting away. It’s just them, now.

“You have given me everything I could have thought to desire, and some things of which I had not dreamt; but there is nothing, in all that you have given me, which I value more highly than your love.”

“Even if from this day onward you never gave me another thing, I assure you that you would be enough. I would choose you, though I had the choice of anyone; though I had the greatest treasure in the world before me.”

They share a knowing look.

“You have spoken of what I have done for you, but not of the reverse. Darling, perhaps I have failed to make it clear, but you have saved me; there was nothing of me without you. Your will, your love has brought me farther than I ever thought to go.

“Ever I find myself reduced to simple truths before you, though you deserve much more. So, let me only say this:

“I vow to always find you; to keep hold of you through the vagaries of life and time, to never leave you alone again.

“I give you myself and my love, imperfect though they may be, and hope that you will keep them with you beyond the reach of all things.”

Everyone assembled seems to take a collective breath. And then the rings are before them, and Doffy takes his hand, placing one on his finger. And he does the same. And there is a pause.

“You may kiss—” Bon says, but they don’t finish, because Doflamingo grabs him, lifting him from the ground and kissing him as though he means to put every ineffable feeling, every moment of desperate wanting and desire he has ever experienced into a single act, and Crocodile can hear the crowd applauding, but it doesn’t matter, because—

—Because for a moment he transcends time, space, and possibility, and he knows they are on the deck of his ship, leaving the harbor for the first time with a new purpose, to traverse the great, grand sea—

—and as they pull apart, he opens his eyes to find Doflamingo before him, tears streaming down his face, and he realizes that everything he believed lost lives in the man in front of him; he is that world entire.

He realizes that they are found; they are whole; and that what they have built together transcends all that he once had. He laughs, and clutches Doffy fiercely, holding the universe in his arms, and—at last—he feels free.

Chapter Text

The sun sits on the horizon, painting the sea outside their home in bright, saturated colors. It is quiet, for once; only them.

Crocodile pours himself a cup of rosehip tea, and one for Doffy. He makes his way to the back porch.

Doffy sits silently in one of the white wicker chairs, staring out at the ocean. On the side table to his right, a cigarette burns slowly in the ashtray, unattended, filling the air with an earthy, somehow clean scent, like the smell on the air after rain. Next to it, an abandoned sketchbook is open to a page containing an unfinished drawing of a woman with a ridiculous hairstyle and a brightly colored dress. She is turned away from the viewer, obscuring her face. Under the book, some papers are haphazardly strewn, marked up with Doffy’s messy scrawl.

He isn’t wearing his glasses today, although the sun is probably bothering his eyes. He rarely does, anymore. Crocodile likes that; likes being able to see the crow’s feet that border his eyes now, as he likes the wrinkles on Doffy’s forehead and around his mouth; the streaks of white in his hair. He always pesters him to leave them, though Doffy complains.

He acts as if he doesn’t understand why Crocodile would want to see him that way, but he’s lying. Perhaps it’s odd but he loves the signs of Doffy’s age; loves that he can see and mark the passage of their years together. Last time, they never got old enough for them.

Crocodile silently passes Doffy his cup and goes to sit in the other chair.

Doffy sips his tea, and Crocodile waits for him.

“I found them,” he says absently, gesturing to the burning cigarette. Crocodile’s eyes widen.

“Where?”

Doffy chuckles.

“Do you remember that place I took you on the Numancia, that first time?”

Crocodile hums assent.

“We went to the market. We were mostly buying food, but I bought these on a whim. I just have the one pack.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a brown box of cigarettes, the label handwritten.

“We could try—”

“No. No, that’s okay,” Doffy interrupts, still staring out at the ocean pensively. “I don’t think I’d even remember the guy I bought them from if I saw him. I was too busy watching you, that day.” He doesn’t turn, but Crocodile catches the fond smile on his face.

“Besides, they make me kinda sad. I thought that they would… give me Rosi back. That if I found them, I would be reclaiming a piece of him, but…” he trails off for a minute. “But I have him now. And it’s better.”

Crocodile carefully places his teacup on the table and reaches out for Doffy’s hand, which he receives.

“I was thinking of leaving this house to him when we die. If it’s alright with you. He loves it so much.”

“That’s fine,” Crocodile agrees. “Rewriting the will again?”

“Just changing a few things. I talked with some of the kids, and none of them really want the other house. I’m giving it to Iva and Bon, for the shelter.”

Crocodile nods. Honestly, they’ll probably get the best use out of it. It’s much too big for a normal family; in the end, it had housed around ten people, on and off.

“It’s kind of novel, don’t you think?”

“Hmm?”

“Having a will. It’s sort of… satisfying, to get to make choices about what happens when you’re gone. It’s different.”

Crocodile shrugs. He doesn’t feel much about it one way or another; he lets Doffy handle most of those things. He just doesn’t care what happens to this world when they leave it, particularly. He’s left everything to Doffy, to distribute as he sees fit. If being reborn has taught him anything, it’s that physical possessions are next to meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

“Did you make an appointment with the lawyer, then?” he asks.

“Yeah, Friday.”

“We can’t. Dellinger wants us at her art show,” he reminds him. They’re both somewhat forgetful, these days.

“Oh, shit, yeah. I’ll reschedule.”

He smiles as he pulls out his phone.

“She’s so good now. Giolla would be really proud.”

By the way he says her name Crocodile knows she must have been part of the family, but he can’t quite recall her.

“Remind me who that was.”

Doffy gestures to the open sketchbook.

“She was so much fun. Great with the kids, very artistic, loyal, vibrant. Just… entirely, completely herself.”

He sighs.

“I can’t remember her face, anymore.”

The old world fades away from both of them, gradually. As time proceeds, faces, names, places get hard to remember. They crumble away until only fragments remain—a scent, a sound, a feeling.

It bothered Crocodile when it first started happening. He wanted those memories; they were the only ones who knew that that place had ever existed. Remembering felt like resurrection; like the brilliance and vivacity of that world given life once more.

But to focus on it, to keep it with them so strongly only served to drag them back, to make this world less present. So, Crocodile accepted it. Let his memories dissipate without protest, so he could have what he had worked so long for, here.

It still bothers Doffy. The whole of his family has never returned to him, the missing members either oblivious or unwilling. His memories are what he has left.

Crocodile squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

Doffy nods, looking out at the ocean once more.

“Well. Can’t do much about it,” he says wistfully.

They sit in silence. The waves lap at the shore; the seagulls cry and circle over the water; the wind rustles the trees.

“Can I ask you something?” Doffy says.

“Of course.”

“If we come back again, would you want to remember?”

Crocodile frowns, considering.

It would certainly be… harrowing. To have to remember two whole lifetimes of information, to re-experience all the pain and misery and confusion they contained.

But what he has won. What they have built, here. To have that, it would be worth it.

“I think I would, yes.”

“Really?” Doffy snorts. “I wouldn’t.”

Crocodile looks away.

He’s sure Doffy doesn’t intend it to be hurtful, but… without knowledge of their former selves, they would likely be separated. The odds of finding another person when you don’t even know you’re looking are minuscule.

“You wouldn’t want… us? To have this, again?”

“What? Darling, of course I would!” He brings Crocodile’s hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it. “I would find you. I will always find you—I promised you, didn’t I? I don’t need to remember you, or our past, to know you.”

Crocodile smiles softly at him.

“Still, it seems odd, from you. Reincarnation, as we know it, is a sort of immortality, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure.” Doffy shrugs. “But I don’t want…”

He sighs.

“I was thinking I’d like to really start over. Without all that pain. That I caused, that I felt, back then. It’s—we aren’t being held responsible for it, here, but it’s still… with us. And I hope… I just want once to live my life without waking up in the middle of the night all the time. I just want to be…”

“Free.”

Doffy looks over at him, smiling sadly.

“Yeah.”

Crocodile runs his thumb over the back of Doffy’s hand, thinking.

He doesn’t feel the same. He’s been free since the day they were married; Doffy freed him. Gave him the clarity to understand that this entire ordeal had been a blessing because it has allowed them to arrive here. Crocodile would not trade it for peace, for power, for anything.

“I understand that. But I think we could still be free, either way. As long as we remember this life, we’ll know we have built, and grown, beyond the first. Another incarnation would simply be a further opportunity to become more of ourselves.

“I don’t really mind, whatever happens, though,” he says. “As long as I have you.”

Doffy laughs and smiles so brightly that it matches the sun in its radiance.

“You do, my love. You will. Forever, throughout all of our existences,” he swears.

Perhaps once, Crocodile would have doubted him. Would have allowed his cynicism to overtake his faith, insisted on practicality and the cold, unyielding fact that life is forever unfair, no matter how many different ones you live. But he knows, somehow, that Doffy will keep this promise, whatever the obstacles. It is in him, a part of him, like that endless, eternal sea.

“I will count on it,” he says.