Work Text:
Crocodile puffed on his cigar and stared vacantly out at the endless sands.
He was thinking about Mihawk again. Thinking about the curve of his jaw. About the strength in his long, supple fingers. About smell of his cologne and beard oil mixed with the smell of blood and the scent of the sea.
For the sake of their pride they had not been together in years.
Crocodile pined.
Once again he thought about simply taking a ship, leaving Alabasta without a word, and throwing himself prostrate on the wet ground in front of his old first mate's gloomy castle.