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Buggy's crew are like no other that Crocodile and Mihawk have seen - obscenely colourful, covered in makeup, favouring acrobatics over raw strength. Thanks to them Karai Bari island lights up every night without fail, all carnival music and garish spectacle (too loud, too bright, too much) with Buggy usually right in the middle of it, being slapped on the back or outright bowed to, handed endless mugs of ale.
It's absurd how they flock to him, circusfolk and escaped prisoners alike. People of all walks of life united only in two things: piracy, and an unparalleled devotion to their Captain (now Emperor, now his coworker thinks Mihawk in disbelief, as he and Crocodile watch from the shadows). Buggy grins, something slightly desperate and manic in it, if one looks closely as they are, and gesticulates wildly as he begins some rousing speech or tale that has everyone nearby hanging on his every word.
He knows how to work a crowd. Pauses at just the right moments, raises an eyebrow here and there to elicit roars of laughter. He makes sweeping gestures and takes up space befitting his bravado, an entire garish spectacle on his own. Mihawk's lip curls in distaste. He hears Crocodile scoff.
Then Buggy shakes out his hair, a heavy curtain of cerulean as bright as the sea whose ends swish against the small of his back. He reaches up to push a few loose strands from his face, and as he does so the muscles of his arms are sculpted by the light. Mihawk remembers suddenly that Buggy's not just a clown but a pirate, one who's worked hard shifts beneath an unforgiving sun, pushed his body to its limits hauling rope for rigging, endured his fair share of combat. He steps onto the table and his thigh muscles strain the fabric they're wrapped in. There's just... something, in that moment, that makes Mihawk bite his lip. Something sudden and sharp as a gleam of gold.
Beside him, Crocodile gives a sharp exhale that's nothing to do with his cigar.