Chapter Text
The Marine base in Mariejoia was large and formidable, though perhaps less so now that the marines were not a threat to Crocodile. He had recently been nominated as one of the pirate warlords and was now free and able to go wherever he chose without the usual trouble of the Marines. Such freedom came at a small price; some of his pirate earnings and a requirement to meet every so often. Which was the case for his visit today.
Though Crocodile was allowed to come and go as he pleased, he still did need an escort. If he was honest, in this occasion he didn’t mind it so much. The damned base was practically a maze, and he wasn’t entirely sure which direction lead where, or what was the best path to take. They had assigned him some lowly lieutenant rather than a commander, which surprised him.
The man--barely a man, really, more like a young adult--was mostly legs and had a certain awkwardness when he moved around. It wasn’t clumsiness due to nervousness, that much Crocodile could tell. No, this person seemed to be clumsy purely by nature.
But this man wasn’t afraid of him; not of his reputation nor the fact that he was a powerful pirate warlord. Some of the other trainees on base, Crocodile noticed, would tense in fear, whisper among themselves, or hurry away at the sight of Crocodile. The lieutenant did no such thing, and seemed unaffected when Crocodile sneered at him.
He wasn’t really in the mood to chat, but he decided to pry.
“Tell me,” Crocodile said, “what impression are your superiors trying to make on me by sending you instead of someone of importance?”
“Sengoku was planning to meet with you,” the lieutenant said, without skipping a beat, “but something else came up. He’ll be back shortly.” The young officer tipped his hat. “I’m Rocinante, if you need anything.”
The name was fitting, being as ridiculous as Rocinante was himself. In the ten minutes they had been together, Rocinante had stumbled on rugs four times and tripped over his own feet three times. He was a damned embarrassment to himself and others, and Crocodile wondered why he wasn’t dead yet. What kind of person thought hiring him was a good idea?
If he had any saving grace, it was that Rocinante at least knew very well where he was going.
“There are seven pirate warlords meeting here today,” Crocodile said. “What could be more important than that?”
Rocinante hummed. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you, unfortunately.”
“Of course not.”
The idle talk died down again. Crocodile wasn’t too interested in Rocinante, or at least not interested enough to maintain a lengthy conversation. He wanted to get this over with and return to his usual business.
For a while the only noise in the hallway was his and Rocinante’s footsteps echoing. Occasionally another marine, or two, or a group, would pass them by, and Rocinante would nod to them. The mere sight of Crocodile would make them move faster. The marine corps was made up of weaklings. How did anyone manage to accomplish anything?
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t scare our new recruits,” Rocinante said, making Crocodile snort indignantly.
“Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he said.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Crocodile,” Rocinante said, “but here you’re not at liberty to do anything you so choose. You may have an official pardon, but your behavior isn’t completely excused.”
Rocinante had enough backbone to stand up to him. But perhaps he wouldn’t, if the known safety of dozens upon dozens of marines wasn’t ever-present around them. It would have been interesting, Crocodile mused, to see this person outside of his element. Maybe then Crocodile would bat him around as easily as those new recruits.
The long walk through the godforsaken marine base came to a close as Rocinante showed Crocodile to the specified meeting room. Crocodile moved to open the door, but then paused to look at Rocinante. Rocinante was already leaving, his back turned to him.
Oh, it would be so easy to cut him down at this very moment. Didn’t Rocinante know better than to turn his back on the enemy?
A moment later, Rocinante came upon an uneven spot on the rug, tripped on it, and somehow managed to fall over backwards. Crocodile rolled his eyes, muttered to himself something about incompetent marines, and entered the meeting room.
It was just Crocodile’s luck that he would see Rocinante again.
Granted, the stretch of time between the first time and the next was roughly a year and a half, and in that time he’d completely forgotten the lowly lieutenant. But one look was all he needed to remind him again of Rocinante’s existence.
Rocinante greeted him with a knowing smirk and a half wave. He looked different, somehow. Perhaps it was the fancy new coat, or the haircut. He was even taller now, taller than Crocodile by nearly two feet. This made him feel slightly perturbed considering that Crocodile stood nearly three feet over the majority of marines.
“So we meet again, Lieutenant,” Crocodile said.
“Commander,” Rocinante corrected him.
“You’ve been promoted?” Crocodile said. “How kind of them to do so.”
He and Crocodile took a path similar to the one they had taken before. This time, however, Rocinante seemed to be more determined to avoid any other marines. Which was only a small annoyance, really. Crocodile already had one marine he could irritate, and he knew now that he could go above and beyond simple scare tactics with this one.
“You’ve been busy,” Crocodile said, though he wasn’t much interested in the answer.
“I have,” Rocinante replied. Then, after a pause, “Your hook is new.”
At the mention of the gold-alloy hook, Crocodile’s face hardened. A ghost of a feeling passed through the severed stub of an arm and he shifted uncomfortably. He rested his hook in his hand.
“I suppose your little promotion makes you think you’re more worthy to chat with me, hm?” he said. “Your superior--”
“Sengoku has his full confidence rested in me,” Rocinante finished for him. “Maybe I wasn’t clear about this last time, but I’m not to be taken so lightly. I didn’t get my rank by chance, you know.” He eyed Crocodile. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Rocinante showed no signs of intimidation. He walked beside him as if Crocodile was any other person. Crocodile was not any other person. If he were, he wouldn’t have been able to so much as reach Marineford, let alone need a private escort. Was Rocinante even aware of who he was dealing with?
“You underestimate me,” Crocodile said.
“I don’t,” Rocinante said. “It’s not every day that someone becomes a pirate warlord, after all.”
The entire situation was ridiculous. Crocodile had seen firsthand that Rocinante was a hazard to himself and others. He had heard other marines whispering about him when he walked by, telling stories of how he had set himself on fire, or how he had knocked entire groups of people over. Such a pathetic person should have been below him--was below him. But intimidation didn’t work with Rocinante. That was that. He would have to find another way to get under his skin.
Base Commander Rocinante had an office in a secluded area on the opposite side of Marine HQ. Crocodile didn’t have any business on that side of the marine headquarters, as many marines so politely reminded him, but he didn’t care. He would do as he pleased. The nervous, sweaty marine officer they’d put in charge of him wasn’t about to stop him either.
Commander Rocinante himself was deeply invested in some disheveled mounds of paperwork. His right hand, the one propping up his head, was also tightly gripping his messy blond hair. He would write a few lines with his pen, pause, let out a huff, and then continue. A nearly finished cigarette was sticking out between his teeth.
He didn’t even seem to notice Crocodile in the doorway. How stupid of him. Crocodile could have easily overtaken him again. He cleared his throat as he entered the room. Rocinante looked at him irritably before seeming confused, then irritated once more. He pulled the stump of a cigarette from his mouth and ground it into the ashtray to his left.
“I don’t have time to escort you around today,” he said.
“If that were really true, you wouldn’t have sent a piss-poor replacement in your stead,” Crocodile said. He took the liberty of settling down in one of the free chairs. “You’re getting sloppy, you marines. I came all this way unobstructed. Not a single one of you even tried to stop me.”
Rocinante sighed. “We’ll need to have a word with the recruits around here…” he muttered.
“Do yourself a favor and find competent underlings,” Crocodile said.
Crocodile pulled out one of his specially made cigars from the box in his pocket and put it between his teeth. He searched the other pocket for a lighter and furrowed his eyebrows when his finger found a sizable hole in his pocket. Moments later, Rocinante was in his face with a cheap lighter. He flicked it twice and lit up Crocodile’s cigar. Crocodile eyed him, but said nothing.
The commander returned to his work at the desk and Crocodile meditated on the incredible silence of the room. It was unnaturally quiet. There were probably at least several thousand marines at the base; Crocodile expected there to be some level of commotion. Given that the warlords were around, the noise level should have been that much more intolerable.
But here in this tiny office, the silence pressed in on them. Crocodile could hear each stroke of Rocinante’s pen, and every tap of his finger, but nothing outside of their area. Crocodile shifted in his chair.
“You could hear a pin drop in this room,” he said.
Rocinante didn’t look up. “If you’re bothered by it then go somewhere else,” he said.
“It’s unusual, isn’t it?” Crocodile pressed on. “This base is so heavily populated, and yet…” He waved a hand. “I’d almost call it...suspicious.”
Exasperated, Rocinante set his pen down and looked at Crocodile. Then, he snapped his fingers.
In an instant, sound filled the room. A group of trainees was doing exercises just outside the window, the trainer shouting out commands to them. The distinct noise of ocean waves appeared as well, and the sea birds chimed in. Crocodile’s interest was piqued.
“You’re a Devil Fruit user,” he said.
“Yes,” Rocinante said. “But it’s not something I like to brag about.” He returned to his work, clearly annoyed about lowering the barrier separating him from the outside. “It does, however, have its uses.”
Being able to silence a room would have its perks, but the ability was also entirely situational. Not practical at all in battle. Perhaps in stealth, maybe. Crocodile took a long drag of his cigar and breathed out a cloud of smoke into the room. A nearly useless ability suited a nearly useless man like Rocinante.
The sound of dozens of boots hitting cement echoed in from the window. The trainer yelled commands, for everyone to turn right, and then left, and then to do twenty laps around the entire base--a command which some of the trainees groaned about. Crocodile eyed the window with distaste. He missed the silence, and he didn’t want to admit it.
A flurry of footsteps came from down the hall and stopped at Rocinante’s doorway.
“Commander!” he said. Rocinante looked up. The trainee paused, and then, almost grudgingly, saluted him and straightened his posture. “The pirate warlord, Crocodile, is--”
“What about me?” Crocodile chimed in.
The trainee jumped when he heard Crocodile’s voice. He stared at Crocodile in horror, clearly not expecting the fearsome pirate to be lounging around in Rocinante’s office as if he’d been welcomed in. Crocodile chuckled darkly.
“Tell Sengoku that I’ll take care of Crocodile myself,” Rocinante said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get up to anything in the meantime.”
Crocodile lolled his head to look at Rocinante, a smirk on his face. “Will you now?”
Rocinante smirked right back at him, though it was more serious than diabolical. The trainee stood in the doorway, sweating and shaking, until Rocinante waved his hand and dismissed him. He ran away like his pants had caught fire. Crocodile laughed.
“My point exactly,” he said. “Spineless little…”
Crocodile paused when he heard Rocinante’s chair scrape against the floor. The base commander stood up, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and putting it over his shoulders.
“We should be going,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to keep Sengoku waiting.”
He walked over to Crocodile and tapped his shoulder with two fingers. Crocodile shrugged his shoulder and wrinkled his nose at Rocinante, who let out a quiet chuckle. He stood in the doorway as he waited for Crocodile to get up. And he did, reluctantly. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to some pompous pirates and a few elderly marines talk to him about things he barely cared about.
The walk felt shorter than normal, and Crocodile couldn’t quite place why. It wasn’t because they talked the silence away, or because they walked a little faster, no, something was different. It was unnerving, and because of this, Crocodile decided to deliberately take a few wrong turns as if it was his first time traversing the place.
“We’re going the wrong way,” Rocinante said as they took a left instead of a right.
“You say that as if I don’t know what I’m doing,” Crocodile said. “Perhaps I wanted to take a longer walk this time.” Then, he smirked again. “You certainly had plenty of work to do, didn’t you?”
The two of them came upon an older marine who was mopping the hallway. The man glanced up at them and did a doubletake when he saw Crocodile. He clenched the mop tighter, picked up the bucket, and shuffled out of their way. Oh, that power certainly felt wonderful. He straightened up a bit more, side-eyeing the old man with judgemental eyes.
“Feel better now that you’ve thrown your weight around?” Rocinante said, tone disapproving.
“These people ought to know where they stand,” Crocodile said.
“Hmm…” Rocinante glanced down at Crocodile. “You’ve certainly got a foul mouth.”
Crocodile rolled his eyes. Rocinante was dealing with a damned pirate, what was he expecting? He stopped roughly five feet from a large puddle than the mop had left, and watched as Rocinante obliviously walked into it, slipped, and fell into it with a dull, wet thud. Crocodile openly laughed.
“Kuahahaha! You damned idiot,” he said. Rocinante looked up at him with an intense scowl. “Can’t even watch where you’re walking.”
As Crocodile continued to laugh at him, Rocinante got back up, took off his now soaked coat and put it over his arm, and then continued walking. Crocodile carefully avoided the puddle and followed after him with a new bounce in his step.
They neared the meeting room within five minutes. But before Crocodile left, Rocinante put his hand on Crocodile’s shoulder. Crocodile tensed under the touch and glared back at him.
“Stop doing that,” he commanded.
Rocinante smiled an innocent smile. “Calm,” he said, “You spend too much time insulting people. You ought to take some time to find something nice to say.”
Crocodile tried to make a retort to that, but as he tried to say something, nothing happened. Shocked, he reached up and touched his throat. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. His mouth moved, but no words formed. What the hell had he done to him? He looked at Rocinante, who was hurrying away, and--oh, he couldn’t yell at him, either, could he?
Sengoku found him standing outside and ushered him into what would be one of the most awkward, confusing warlord meetings he’d ever had to sit through.
Shortly after that, something strange began happening at the Marineford base.
Commander Rocinante stepped out of his office and returned to each and every piece of paperwork he’d been diligently reading turned to neat piles of sand on his desk. There was only one real suspect, as nobody else would have had the nerve or the ability to do something like that. Crocodile had loved the furious, exhausted look on his face when they reunited later.
Soon it was almost a game that they played. Rocinante sent Crocodile false information about scheduled meetings. Crocodile stole one of Rocinante’s transponder snails and had one of his subordinates talk his ear off. Rocinante placed a water bucket trap about his door--the oldest damn trick in the book--and Crocodile had fallen for it. He turned Rocinante’s desk to sand and blew it out the window in a small act of revenge.
If he could, Crocodile would have strangled the life out of him. Yet, he was under oath. He couldn’t kill Rocinante without there being consequences. So Crocodile was going to have the last laugh if it killed him--this ridiculous marine wasn’t going to get the best of him if he could help it.
But Rocinante had merely laughed when his desk had disappeared, which irritated him to no end. And then he didn’t do anything. That was what bothered Crocodile the most. As quickly as their little passive aggressive prank war began, it ended. He waited for Rocinante to do something, but there was still no response.
Soon Rocinante was on his mind far too often for his liking. What should he care about some freakishly tall marine?
Whenever Crocodile went about his business he would linger on that little transponder snail he’d stolen. It had a bunch of tiny hearts on the shell and a little red hat. It more than likely meant to mirror the person on the other end, but Crocodile associated Rocinante with that marine uniform more than anything.
Rocinante had never asked for Crocodile to return the snail. Not that he would have given it, but the point still stood.
There was only one time that he would need to use it; to announce that he would be coming to Marineford, whatever the reason. This was only an occasional thing, really. Crocodile prefered not to call. But when he did, Rocinante would sometimes talk back about something else, or would ask him personal questions, and sometimes Crocodile would respond.
The majority of the time, the base commander’s help was always needed somewhere that didn’t involve high bounty pirates, and soon enough Rocinante ceased meeting him altogether. Crocodile didn’t care. No, of course not. He still had his fair share of young marines to harass.
Somehow his feet would lead him to the base commander’s office, even when bad intentions weren’t on his mind. He’d find Rocinante’s room even more of a sty than usual, the ashtray packed to the brim with cigarette butts. He was stressed.
Was Crocodile causing that stress? He hoped so.
There was an odd phenomenon surrounding Rocinante that Crocodile came to notice; in most scenarios, when Crocodile met with him, there were no other marines.
He had assumed it was from Rocinante not being intimidated by him. But even admirals would allow themselves plenty of back up in the case of trouble. Rocinante seemed to purposefully avoid it. Occasionally a trainee would give him a message, or someone would nod to him in passing, but Rocinante was spectacularly alone in a base full of marines. He wondered if the reason why also had something to do with the fact that the commander’s office was away from the main offices.
It was strange, but of course not strange enough to warrant Crocodile’s attention for too long.
When Crocodile stopped by on no particular occasion late one afternoon, Rocinante was standing next to the room’s one window and smoking. He glanced at Crocodile, nodded to signify that he had noticed his presence, and then went back to studying something out the window. There was no work on his desk, nor did it seem like he had much of anything going on.
Crocodile glanced at Rocinante’s outfit. He was dressed casually, a loose-fitting pink shirt covered in hearts, a floppy red hat, and a pair of slacks. It didn’t match Rocinante’s pensive, serious expression and he snorted.
“I see that without proper guidance you cannot manage to dress yourself,” Crocodile said.
“Says the man in an orange waistcoat and green fur,” Rocinante retorted.
Crocodile frowned deeply at the comment. This was one of his favorite outfits, a design from his private tailor made for him and him only. It was well made with the highest quality fabric--he was prepared to give Rocinante an earful, but then Crocodile noticed there was something different in his eyes. Rocinante’s gaze was friendly, soft. Soft. Soft. Crocodile bristled uncomfortably. What was he even playing at?
“I would not expect someone like you to understand fashion,” Crocodile said finally, having lost interest in harassing Rocinante completely.
“I don’t pay too much attention to what’s trending,” Rocinante said. “I wear whatever makes me happy.”
“With that mindset, no one will ever take you seriously.”
Rocinante was silent as he took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and smiled. He stared out the window, as if Crocodile wasn’t even there, apparently lost in thought. The usual batch of marines wasn’t doing their exercises, so there was no need to silence the room. It was quiet, but this time a natural quiet.
“I wonder, Crocodile,” Rocinante said. “Of all the marines you could choose to visit of your own devices, you come here. Why is that? You’ve said yourself that you don’t bother with people from whom you cannot gain something from. What do you possibly have to gain from being here?”
“There’s nothing special about you, in particular,” Crocodile said. “Don’t go assuming there is. I can go wherever I so choose, and this spot happens to be quietest.” Rocinante didn’t stop smiling. Crocodile found it irritating. “What the hell are you grinning about?”
“You,” Rocinante said, before he tensed and then added quickly, “That is to say, you’re always trying so hard to insult me.”
“As I do everyone. I fail to see what’s so funny about that.”
“That’s just it--you insult everyone,” he said. “But it feels like you’re trying extra hard to make me feel bad.”
“Have you ever considered that it is because I don’t like you?” Crocodile said, deadpan.
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.” Rocinante said. “I feel like, if you truly disliked me, you would have done something by now. Something more brutal than turning my desk to sand and laughing when I trip. That’s why it’s so strange to me that you willingly come in here, sit down, and try to chat with me. You’re a pirate warlord, after all.”
“You talk as if I don’t have a deal with you marines,” Crocodile said. “If I were not under an oath, perhaps things would be different.”
Rocinante glanced at him, his face hardening. “I see,” he muttered.
Again with the uncomfortable silence. Crocodile watched Rocinante boredly, tapping some ashes from his cigar. The commander turned away from him again. He was frowning at nothing, or at least as far as Crocodile knew there was nothing too interesting out of that particular window. Crocodile grunted.
“...I suppose there are worse places in this miserable wasteland. I could have chosen a worse office with an intolerable commander to waste my time visiting,” Crocodile said. Rocinante brightened again, and Crocodile gave him a look.
“I’m...tolerable?” Rocinante said. “Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”
Crocodile shrugged. “Take it as you will.”
Rocinante’s frown was replaced with a small smile. “It’s nice to hear you say something decent,” he said. “Does that mean you thought a little about what I said?”
“Of course not,” Crocodile said. “Why would I throw away my precious time doing that? You’re just another marine, after all.”
“Do you really mean that?”
Rocinante was close to him now, too close. Crocodile had half a mind to, essentially, tell him to fuck off and give him room to breathe. Or cut him down again to get rid of that irritating smile he had on his face. But he said nothing, and did nothing, and something inside Crocodile stirred uncomfortably.
Without warning, Rocinante leaned down a bit too quickly and the bridge of his nose managed to collide with Crocodile’s head. Both men hissed and held the spot where they’d been bumped, taking a step back from each other. Crocodile rubbed his forehead.
“What...the hell was that about?” he grumbled.
“I was trying to…” Rocinante paused, put a hand to his mouth, and then shook his head. “No, nevermind.”
He turned away from Crocodile and remained quiet for a couple minutes. Crocodile watched him curiously. Rocinante’s face was flushed, but he was trying his best to hide it. Crocodile’s eyebrows rose when he realized what had just happened. Then he shook his head. Despite his height and rank, Rocinante really was no better than a schoolboy on his first date.
“If you’re going to try something like that, at least do it properly.”
Rocinante looked at him. Crocodile reached up and wrapped one of the heart tassels on his hat around a finger. Then, he pulled Rocinante’s face down to meet his and caught his lips in a gentle, but still forceful kiss.
For a moment it seemed that Rocinante was too shocked to do anything, but, slowly, he raised his arms to the sides of Crocodile’s head. Crocodile felt his fingertips run through his hair. With a smirk, he ran the tip of his tongue over Rocinante’s chapped bottom lip. He felt Rocinante quiver slightly, his nose bumping up against the side of Crocodile’s face.
The considerable height difference made things awkward; Crocodile had to stand on his toes and Rocinante had to bend down two feet to meet him. Though it was obvious that Rocinante was enjoying it, he pulled back. His face had gone red and he was smiling an awkward, lopsided smile.
They came at each other again, this time Rocinante initiating it. It was sloppy and awkward, a mess of moving lips, tongues, teeth against teeth, and too-long noses bumping each other.
Crocodile moved back to perch on the edge of Rocinante’s desk. Something fell off of it when he did, but neither of them cared much. Crocodile could feel Rocinante smiling. Genuinely smiling, not smirking. He held Crocodile around his midsection, gripping large fistfuls of his waistcoat. Crocodile pushed Rocinante’s hat away and grabbed a handful of his hair. It was soft and well cared for, which only tempted Crocodile to leave it disheveled.
If they had been left alone, perhaps the frenzied kissing might have gone on for longer. But the familiar sound of a transponder snail forced them to break apart, panting, so Rocinante could answer it. They looked at each other for a long moment before Rocinante wiped some drool away from the corner of his mouth and walked off. He picked up the transponder.
“Commander Rocinante’s office,” he answered, trying not to sound out of breath. The person on the opposite side talked in a hushed voice, low enough that Crocodile couldn’t understand what they were saying. “...I understand. ...Yes, right away sir.”
Crocodile stood up and readjusted his waistcoat while Rocinante was busy. He noticed the ashtray on the ground, its contents spilled all over the tile floor. The transponder snail went silent, and Rocinante put the receiver back into place. He looked at Crocodile for a moment before smiling a little and shrugging.
“Duty calls,” he said. He picked up his marine coat from the coat rack it was hanging on. “I can’t have you in my office while I’m not around, so if you would--”
“As if I would want to linger in this cardboard box of an office for longer than I had to,” Crocodile said gruffly.
Rocinante laughed quietly. “It is sort of a box, isn’t it?” he said, pulling his coat around his shoulders. “But it’s my box. I almost didn’t have an office at all.”
“Where else would they put you?” he asked. “A broom closet?”
Rocinante paused to formulate a response. “I would serve my purpose elsewhere,” he said. “I go where Sengoku needs me to be.”
“Ha. Nothing but a government dog, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Rocinante forced out a chuckle. “I’m just another marine.”
That was all Rocinante said before he left, and the artificial comfortable silence of the room left with him, replaced once more with the sounds of unknowing marines going about their daily business.
Even with Rocinante gone, Crocodile lingered.
At some point, Crocodile didn’t know when exactly, Commander Rocinante disappeared from base. He asked about it in passing as if it were only a casual question. He’d been told that the information was classified, but that Rocinante would return in time. Time passed, and Rocinante never returned. The little closet of an office remained neat and tidy, the ash tray empty, and all signs of activity removed.
Crocodile persuaded himself that he didn’t care, distracted himself with other plans he had in the works. That marine had no place in Crocodile’s plans; they had a moment, one moment, nothing more. Rocinante didn’t call him, and he didn’t call Rocinante. Time passed, life went on, Crocodile dealt with rival pirates accordingly, and went about his business.
He found Commander Rocinante in the North Blue.
Crocodile was there on the small island to settle a deal. Nothing more, nothing less. The matter had been seen to and he was preparing to leave again. In passing, he had seen a tall man in a feather coat leaning up against a wall with a cigarette in his mouth. It took Crocodile a moment to register the man’s presence. When he did, he realized that something about him was all too familiar.
He squinted to get a better look at the man’s partially obscured face. In an instant he realized that the awfully dressed man was actually Rocinante, which Crocodile found rather bizarre. What was the marine commander doing so far away from the base?
“You’re still not paying attention to your surroundings,” Crocodile said. “I could have ended your pitiful existence yet again.”
Rocinante turned toward him, eyes wide with surprise. His mouth gaped, and the lit cigarette fell to the ground. “Crocodile?” he said. “What are you doing so far from Grand Line?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Crocodile said. He approached Rocinante slowly, taking his time. Then, he gestured to Rocinante’s face paint and coat with his hook. “What the hell do you call this?”
Rocinante looked down at his shirt and chuckled good-naturedly. “Ah, that’s...It’s a long story,” he said.
“Clearly,” Crocodile said. “I can’t imagine what those idiots in Marineford could possibly have you doing out here in the North Blue dressed as a clown.”
“It’s more important than it seems,” Rocinante said. “But I suppose you’ll hear about it in time. I can only imagine the newspaper headline for it...” He smiled, but only a little. “Speaking of which, you’ve been showing up in the papers lately. Still trying to make a name for yourself?”
“More like I was disposing of some trash,” Crocodile said.
“Even to your fellow pirates you are still unkind,” Rocinante said. “Sometimes I wonder exactly what it is you’re after. Not that it’s any of my concern.”
“It isn’t,” Crocodile added.
“Hey, Mr. Cora.” Crocodile and Rocinante both looked down. A boy no older than thirteen was standing next to them with a brown paper shopping bag filled to the brim with food. “They didn’t have any lettuce, so I got cabbage instead,” he said.
“That’s fine, Law,” Rocinante said in a lighter, friendlier tone than what he used with Crocodile. “I like cabbage just fine, too.”
Law looked at Crocodile, scrutinized him, and then turned back to look at Rocinante. “I’m gonna head back to our campsite now,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rocinante said.
With that, Law hurried away, carrying the heavy looking bag like it was nothing. Rocinante watched him leave with an unreadable expression. Rocinante seemed different. Not only in appearance, but in demeanor. His expression, once at least somewhat formidable, was reduced to goofy smiles and hopeful eyes.
Crocodile eyed Rocinante with a raised eyebrow.
“Babysitting,” Crocodile said, deadpan. He took a drag of the cigar. “What a productive use of your time.”
“This is...something else I have to do,” Rocinante said. He wasn’t looking at Crocodile, eyes still focused on the little retreating figure. “What I’m doing here with Law is more important than my mission.”
Crocodile snorted. From what he had seen back at the marine base, it was out of character for Rocinante to abandon his post. It was out of character that he would even try to disobey his beloved Sengoku, whom Crocodile imagined had Rocinante licking his boots. He imagined the marine admirals stripping Rocinante of his title and throwing him to the real world, or them demoting him to the place of some lowly trainee.
More importantly, it was out of character for Crocodile to be caring about this.
Rocinante closed his eyes. “...This will probably be the last time we see each other. I won’t be returning to Marineford after this,” he said. He looked at Crocodile. “Send Sengoku my regards next time they force you in.”
“And if I don’t?”
Rocinante shrugged. “Sengoku might appreciate knowing that I’m still alive and well.”
Which was an odd response, and was enough to make Crocodile wonder as to what Rocinante had been doing before this moment in time. There were plenty of stronger, smarter, faster, more deadly enemies in the world.
Crocodile pulled the cigar from his mouth. “Who did you piss off?” he said. “The marine admirals? The world nobles?”
“Something like that,” Rocinante said. “You could say I’ve become everyone’s enemy.”
For a split second, Crocodile considered the idea of giving him sanctuary. Perhaps he could be an underling of his, no one of importance, somewhere where he couldn’t cause trouble. The marines wouldn’t come after him nor would any pirates dare challenge a pirate warlord. Yet the idea never left his lips.
There was something briefly like a moment between them, where Rocinante eyed him in that way again; like something unexpected would happen. But nothing did happen. And when that moment passed, Rocinante decided to turn away again.
“...I should be going,” he said. “It was nice to see you again.”
“Nice isn’t a word you should be using to describe me,” Crocodile said.
“Maybe not. But I still think it was nice.”
Rocinante left him alone in the street, hurrying away to the little figure in the distance. On the way, he tripped over a rock and stumbled. Law stopped walking, turned around, and came back just as fast as he left. Crocodile frowned as he watched them walk off awkwardly hand-in hand with each other in some disgustingly sweet display of friendship.
After a few nominations and a short selection process, Marine HQ announced a new pirate warlord. They called together the others to introduce the new member; Donquixote Doflamingo. Crocodile had heard his name a few times in passing. But in reality he didn’t know much about him outside of the fact that he had a peculiar taste for flashy clothing and was particularly ruthless.
It was Sengoku himself who greeted Crocodile when he disembarked. Rocinante was nowhere in sight, as to be expected. He wondered how Sengoku had reacted to his most loyal man betraying him, and smirked.
“So, you finally decided to find the dignity to meet me in person,” Crocodile said. “Or perhaps you are only here because you lack a suitable replacement to that walking hazard?”
Sengoku eyed him for a long moment, probably trying to size up what Crocodile’s intentions were. “I have no idea who you are referring to,” he said.
“Why, Commander Rocinante, of course,” Crocodile said. “He was under your jurisdiction, was he not?”
Sengoku said nothing, nor did he react. For once, Crocodile didn’t have a sharp retort or a perfectly timed clever insult. Nor did he have the time to find what he wanted to say to Sengoku before they arrived in the round meeting room. There was a heavy silence over both of them that was eventually broken by with the sounds of chatter from the room.
A too-tall man in a tie and a feather coat was smiling a too-big smile. Doflamingo. He spotted Crocodile from across the room and, intrigued, made his way over. Crocodile could already feel that he was going to regret showing up.
“Fufufu,” Doflamingo laughed. “Nice to see you again, Croco-man. It’s been too long.”
Crocodile grunted. “Have we met before?” he asked.
“What? You don’t recognize me?” Doflamingo put a hand to his chest dramatically, but it was ruined by his stupid grin. “I’m hurt, Croco-man. I thought you and I really hit it off back in Loguetown.”
“I don’t remember meeting you in Loguetown,” Crocodile said. “That either means the instance was so unmemorable that I ceased to care about it, or that it never happened.” He raised an eyebrow at Doflamingo. “Which answer do you prefer?”
Doflamingo’s smile didn’t falter. “Alright, so maybe it was another time I’m thinking of,” he said. “But c’mon, surely you recognize me a little? I’ve been all over the papers recently.”
The man was familiar, if he was honest. But not because Crocodile had seen his picture in a paper or had met the man on the street. Now that he was in close proximity to Doflamingo, something dawned on him. His face shape, that crooked nose, that feather coat, the way he smiled--it was all too familiar to him. So much so, that it was almost disturbing.
He looked like an older version of Rocinante. Almost identical, in fact, with the exception of his hair and sunglasses.
“...There is something oddly familiar about you, I will admit,” Crocodile said. “Tell me, Doflamingo, do you have any siblings?”
Doflamingo was clearly assuming that Crocodile was going to ask something else, as the question silenced him. But then his smile widened, which signalled Crocodile that he had brought up uncomfortable topic, and he shook his head.
“You must be thinking of someone else,” he said. “I’ve got lots of family, but I don’t have any blood relatives.”
Crocodile furrowed his eyebrows. Doflamingo was flat out lying to him. There was no way that the two weren’t related. He wanted to be able to see behind those rose-colored sunglasses, to see just how far the similarities extended.
“I’ll be blunt,” Crocodile said. “Does the name Rocinante mean anything to you?”
Doflamingo’s ridiculous grin slipped from his face, and for a solid minute the atmosphere changed completely.
“No,” he said forcefully. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Crocodile had spoiled his good mood, it seemed, as Doflamingo decided to ignore him in favor of one of his subordinates, who was on the opposite side of the room. Doflamingo continued to ignore him for a good while before they began talking again and his overbearing demeanor returned. Crocodile decided to leave early, earlier than anyone else, much to Doflamingo’s dismay.
But he didn’t leave just yet.
Down a little hallway in a poorly lit section of the base was a glorified closet that once housed a marine commander. The office was unlocked, and nobody stopped him from intruding. It had become more of a closet than ever before. Someone had piled up boxes and boxes of things, file folders, cabinets, and had made the room even more cramped.
Crocodile paused before entering, wondering to himself why on earth he was visiting when there was no reason to. He didn’t have an answer.
He made his way over to Rocinante’s old desk and poked through the drawers. Old cigarettes, unused letters and stamps, inkwells and quill pens. One drawer had a lock on it, but Crocodile simply turned it to sand. The contents spilled out of it; old paperwork.
Among it, however, was a picture of Rocinante himself. He picked it up. It was a record of Rocinante’s promotion, complete with a simple congratulatory message, but it seemed the matter was rushed. Sengoku had approved and oversaw it. But this was not what was interesting about it. On the top of the page read the name: DONQUIXOTE ROCINANTE.
“Fufufufu.” Crocodile looked up. Doflamingo was leaning in the doorway. “It’s rude to go snooping around where you don’t belong, Croco-man.”
Crocodile narrowed his eyes. He folded the piece of paper in his hands and tucked it away in a pocket. “Shouldn’t you be otherwise occupied?” he asked. “The admirals will be suspicious if you leave your own party to follow after me.”
“I said I needed some air,” Doflamingo said. “I went for a walk, and lo and behold I found a little lizard creeping around.” He stepped inside and looked around the room. “I’m curious, Crocodile. How could this little closet possibly be more interesting than my party?”
“Reciting the complete list would take too long,” he said.
“I saw you take something,” Doflamingo said, gesturing to Crocodile’s coat pocket. “You mind sharing?”
“I’ll pass.”
Crocodile approached him. Doflamingo blocked the door, but when Crocodile glared up at him, he moved out of the way. Determined to get away from him, Crocodile quickened his pace. The less time he had to spend with Doflamingo the better.
“Y’know, Croc,” Doflamingo called after him, “I wasn’t expecting to hear my baby brother’s name come out of your mouth.” Crocodile stopped walking, but stayed facing away from Doflamingo. “There aren’t that many people in this world that know that name. I’m curious as to how you even met him.”
“In passing,” Crocodile said. “The two of you look very similar.”
“So they used to tell me,” Doflamingo said. Then, after a too-long moment, “He died not too long ago.”
The answer didn’t surprise Crocodile. An enemy of everyone wouldn’t have lasted too long in the cruel and unforgiving real world. But he felt something--some stirring in his chest that made the idea unpleasant to hear, and he had half the mind to launch something at Doflamingo. He didn’t. Crocodile looked back, his face betraying no emotion.
“Am I supposed to offer my condolences?” he said.
Doflamingo smiled an unnerving smile. “No,” he said. “Don’t bother. The little shit got what was coming to him.”
In an instant, everything made sense. Crocodile’s fist clenched, but he remained silent. He wanted to say something, but no words came to him. Doflamingo’s sunglasses hid any regret or remorse he might have felt, but somehow Crocodile suspected there was none. Something about Doflamingo’s face made him feel disgusted.
“Fufu,” Doflamingo chuckled. “Enough about that. What I really wanted to tell you was that I felt like you and I really hit it off tonight. And I don’t just say that to anyone. You and I, we’re both very similar people. I think we would get along well.”
“What are you proposing, an alliance? Don’t make those sorts of suggestions, you damn flamingo,” Crocodile said harshly, maybe even more harshly than intended. “I don’t associate with fools.”
Deciding that he was finished talking to Doflamingo, Crocodile decided to escape through the window, solid form slipping to sand and disappearing through it effortlessly. The very thought of spending another moment with Doflamingo was unbearable.
With having many subordinates and many other contacts came the necessity of having many transponder snails to keep in contact with everyone. Crocodile had a fairly expansive collection gathered and no two snails were the same. Some he used fairly often, and some he didn’t use much at all.
Occasionally Nico Robin would inquire as to which snail went to which person, in the event that she had to call for him. Crocodile knew that by now there was no way that she didn’t know which one was which; it wasn’t that difficult, he could remember them all just fine. But he would humor her from time to time.
She always lingered on one of the smaller ones in his collection; a now older snail with a black shell and little red hearts on its pink body. The snail wasn’t very active, and she had never seen Crocodile use it once in the three years they had been together thus far.
“This couldn’t be a Baroque Works snail,” she said. “Is it for personal calls?”
“No,” Crocodile said. “It lost its purpose some time ago. I ought to get rid of it.”
“I see.” Robin picked up the snail and regarded it with interest, trying to imagine what sort of person might have given it to Crocodile. Crocodile eyed her carefully. “Should I let it go outside, then? I was on my way out.”
“Put it back,” Crocodile demanded. “I can take care of it myself.”
She did so, and then she quietly left. Crocodile’s eyes lingered on the transponder snail. It was looking particularly dull and lifeless today with its eyes staring ahead blankly. But what set it apart from the other dull, seemingly lifeless snails was that it was smiling. It always smiled, each and every day; always the same bizarre smile.
It hadn’t always done that. When he first got it, it was serious. It had been stoic, its eyestalks ramrod straight. The smile bothered him with how unnatural it looked. He’d hidden the thing in a box for a short while. Now he was used to it.
If he was honest with himself, he should have let Robin take the thing. It wasn’t as if anyone would ever come through the other line. It had been dead for over ten years now. It wasn’t practical to keep unusable transponder snails around.
Yet, when Robin returned, the little pink heart snail remained.