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Chapter Text

An insect is floating in his lemonade.  A spindly-legged, winged little beast, struggling in vain to climb aboard one of his mint leaves.  

Mihawk’s lips pinch in disapproval.  He fishes the fly from his beverage with the point of his knife, flicking it free with a twist of his wrist.

“You were saying?” he prods, already weary of the man who’d approached his table just moments before.

“A proposition of business,” the man repeats, looking equal parts deceptive and eager.  He withdraws a hand from his pocket and leans in close—too close, though apparently Mihawk has irritatingly little say in the matter—to unfurl a handkerchief from around a golden statuette.

The background noise of the cafe hushes, flaring louder, brighter when it resumes.  An excited thrum pulses through the onlookers close enough to gawk.

Mihawk’s eyes flick to the artifact and away again, bored.  The forgery is insultingly amateur—the gold too brassy, the turquoise an appalling shade of blue.  The shoddy cartouche gouged into the statuette’s base has no meaning beyond pure nonsense.

“You must think me a fool,” he scoffs below the din of the crowd.  “Peddle this to someone with time to waste.”

The man's grin sharpens.  “He hoped you'd say that.”  Quick as a flash, he stows the artifact in his jacket again.  A slighthanded twitch of his fingers produces a calling card accented in gold. “Sandora Palace Hotel.”  The man slides the card across the table, coy now that the success of his mission is assured.  “You are requested to report at your leisure.”

Betrayed by his own curiosity, Mihawk frowns when he reaches for the card.  The embossed head of a crocodile glints in the low light of the cafe—an enticing promise of finery and intrigue.  

“At my lei—”  He glances up to find the man has disappeared into the crowd.

His hand curls around his drink, the bite of lime and mint cool on his tongue while he taps the crisp edge of the calling card on the table.  It isn’t often he’s approached.  His reputation is far too prickly to invite conversation unless the stakes are high.  His preference, quite honestly.  And yet, being summoned across town without so much as an introduction?  With close-up magic and a blatant forgery, no less?

Mihawk pushes his chair back, gathering his effects.  Perhaps he should show his respects.  If for no other reason than to discourage this kind of behavior in the future.

***

“But Sir,” the boy behind the front desk gasps, skittering around the counter to give chase when Mihawk strides towards the grand staircase.  “Mister Crocodile isn’t in!  He’s not expected back until—”

“Then I’ll wait,” Mihawk decides, his temper barely in check.  Dust clings to his boots from his journey through the bazaar, a fine layer of silt caught in the folds of his jacket.  He ascends the first stair, turning back in time to see the boy gaping at him in horror.  “Perhaps you might let him know I've arrived and request for him to return at his leisure.”

“Right-right away, Sir,” the boy squeaks, dashing back to his post at the front desk.  He scrambles for the telephone mounted on the wall, his voice panicked when he beseeches the operator to connect him with someone, anyone, as quickly as possible. 

Satisfaction twists the corner of Mihawk’s lips into a smirk.  Turnabout is fair play, afterall.  He reaches the top of the staircase, his footsteps soft on the bright, patterned carpets lining the hall.  The Sandora only has a single suite grand enough to match the ostentatious style of Crocodile’s calling card, and he’s quickly approaching his destination. 

As expected, the door is locked, but it opens willingly under the gentle tease of his tools.  Mihawk’s smirk grows when he slips into the room, the oil-soft hinges silent as he relocks the door behind him.  If Crocodile’s been bold enough to rummage through his life and demand an audience, it would be bad form not to return the favor. 

A lush parlor greets him, full of potted palms and decorative pillars.  The furniture is upholstered in deep, vibrant green—the same sinister shade as the reptiles who thrive in the turbulent depths of the Nile.  

Mihawk tilts his head at a grand painting of the pyramids mounted on the wall, critical of the brushstrokes and the strange angle of the shadows where they waver across the sand.  Gaudy.  The frame, however, is a delight.  Antique, if he’s not mistaken, the intricate wood gilded with the careful application of—

A thump sounds in one of the adjacent rooms, followed by a frantic scratching.

Mihawk’s hand leaps to his knife as a small dog skids into view, claws desperately skittering on the polished floor.  Momentum slings the animal’s trajectory towards a bookshelf, but it manages to redirect, coming to an eager halt with its front paws scrabbling at Mihawk’s boots.

Mihawk scowls, sheathing his knife.  “Shoo,” he instructs, giving the animal a deliberate nudge with his foot when it refuses.

The dog’s curled tail wags furiously, its eyes large with performative reproach when it starts to whine.

“Stop that,” Mihawk hisses, snatching the creature up before it can emit the noise again.  

He holds it an arm’s length in front of him, curling his lip when the dog wriggles harder, unable to contain its excitement.  For a precarious moment, he worries he’ll drop the damn thing and reluctantly brings it closer, gritting his teeth when the little monster manages to slurp its tongue along the entire length of his cheek.  Glaring his displeasure, Mihawk thumbs the engraved tag at the dog’s neck.  

Simosuchus.  An outrageous name for a beast so diminutive.  Scientifically named for the extinct pug-nosed crocodile, the Latin is irritatingly accurate considering the dog’s scrunched face and what seems to be an overarching theme scattered throughout Crocodile’s observable life.  It matches every gilded detail Mihawk is adding to his portrait of the man—grasping at greatness when simplicity would do. 

Scoffing under his breath, Mihawk returns the dog to the floor only to pick it up again almost immediately when it cries.  

“That is most unpleasant,” he informs it, exasperated when Simosuchus happily pants, content to be carried.  

Wrangling the creature under his arm, Mihawk’s fingers wander behind the dog’s ear, idly scritching while he continues his exploration of Crocodile’s suite.

The bedroom is as grand as he expects.  Plush bedding, a mountain of pillows, a rug larger than the size of his own modest bedroom sprawled beneath an ornate canopied bed.  A book detailing the history of the local region rests on the bedside table with a tasseled bookmark keeping place a third of the way through the pages.  He's tempted to call it the first honest thing he’s seen.  

He resists the urge to examine the wardrobe.  The information he could glean from rummaging through it might serve him, but he doubts he has enough time for a game of subjective analysis before Crocodile returns, no matter how diverting.

He enters the next room, arranged as a study.  Books line the shelves, leatherbound and ancient, a handful of knick-knacks scattered between them.  

Curious, Mihawk steps closer, returning Simosuchus to the floor to reach for a carved statue of a crocodile.  He turns it in his hands, weighing the stone, tracing the fine scales with the pad of his thumb.  Authentic.  Its quality is a far cry above the fake he’d been shown at the cafe.  He's barely replaced it when Simosuchus yips. 

Mihawk’s eyes dart towards the door, ears pricked for any hint of movement as Simosuchus barks again, his curled tail hopeful when it begins wagging in earnest. 

“Do you mind—” Mihawk starts when he spots the jar of treats on Crocodile’s desk.   

Sighing, he twists open the top, arching a brow when the dog eagerly sits and offers a paw to shake.  Never one to ignore good manners, he accepts it, giving it a few firm pumps before leaving Simosuchus to his treat.  He dusts off his hands, hoping the transaction buys him enough silence to finish exploring.

He smiles when his eyes land on the papers Crocodile has left stacked beneath the jar.  Perhaps the dog has been unintentionally helpful.

He thumbs through them.  An invitation to a private club, a few doodled attempts at a crest of some sort—a mishmash of wings and rapiers Crocodile seems to be trying at various angles.  A note, handwritten in spidery ballpoint and creased from multiple reads, praising a contribution to the advancement of archaeology. 

Mihawk rolls his eyes.  Fascinating.  Another pompous scholar willing to pay someone else to get their hands dirty.  As if the city wasn't crawling with them already. 

He shuffles the papers back into order, catching sight of the gilded frame of a diploma proudly displayed on the wall beside the desk.  He steps over to inspect the certificate, arms folded across his chest.

The ink has barely dried on Crocodile’s achievement, only a few months removed from the halls of a famous academic institution in Edinburgh.  The highest honors have been bestowed, a testament to hard work and dedication.  Or perhaps just pockets deep enough to entertain influential company.

But enough of what Crocodile’s willing to advertise to the casual visitor.

The top drawer of the desk slides open without resistance—a collection of fountain pens and extra nibs, envelopes and calling cards.  The drawer beneath it is hardly more exciting.  Except…  Mihawk runs careful fingers along the back of the drawer, rapping twice with a knuckle to confirm his guess.

A quick twist of his knife reveals the hidden compartment.  He can hardly say he's surprised, but it's satisfying all the same when he retrieves the treasure Crocodile’s seen fit to hide from prying eyes.  

These documents are far more interesting than the ones on his desk—rough edges and frayed papyrus, lines of faded hieroglyphics.  And a notebook.

Mihawk flips open the cover, scanning the cramped notes filling the margins.  He turns the page, aware of the exact moment his spirits fall.

A hidden treasure beneath the sands, a promise of power to whoever wields it?  He’s been summoned to play fetch in the tombs again.  No better than the dog at his feet.  

Disappointment settles like a stone in his stomach, the edge of intrigue he’d been clinging to despite the inconvenience of the evening crumbling like dust beneath his fingers.  He's not even sure what he'd been hoping for, but it isn't this. 

He flicks the notebook shut.  He’s not pouting when he sinks into Crocodile’s desk chair, petulant—no, defiant enough to throw his filthy boots up on the desk.  

He hardly expects Simosuchus to launch himself from the floor to his lap, his startled oomph when the dog lands on his stomach embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent suite.

“I could be home right now,” he informs the dog, resisting the urge to mirror the curious tilt of its head.  “Enjoying my wine, reading my book…”  He trails off, contemplating the red he'd uncorked the night prior, indistinguishable from any of the other bottles he'd finished last week.  Honestly, the book isn't much better.  The plot is barely more riveting than the sand caught in its pages. 

In all actuality, he'd be as bored with an evening at home as he is by this. 

Sighing, he lets his fingers find the hollow curve behind the dog’s ear, restless when he recrosses his feet.  

He'll stick around long enough to tell Crocodile off, entertain himself by refusing his offer face to face.  He’s not taking this job, and he might as well make his displeasure abundantly clear.

…the problem is, he hardly expects to fall asleep in the interim.

Mihawk wakes with a start at the click of shoes on the hardwood floor.  He has just enough time to blink the sleep from his eyes and rake a hand through his hair before Crocodile enters the study.

“Well,” Crocodile starts, his voice ringing with the same hastily concealed surprise Mihawk’s just managed to keep from his face.  Similarly startled, Simosuchus jerks upright in Mihawk’s lap, his ears perked in recognition.  Crocodile’s eyes rove over the dog, lingering on Mihawk’s feet where he’s yet to remove them from the desk.  “At least one of you comes when they’re called,” he remarks, striding over to a small bar cart by the bookshelf.  

Mihawk glares at Simosuchus, urging the dog from his lap the moment Crocodile’s back is turned.  Crocodile’s younger than he pictured, barely older than himself.  Dark hair frames his face, the ends left to curl at the nape of his neck.  A pair of rings decorate his fingers, the stones glittering in the low light emanating from the foyer.

“You’re not what I expected either, Dracule Mihawk,” Crocodile notes, eerily apropos.  A soft accent curls over Mihawk’s name, seductive and refined.  He selects one of the bottles from the bar and pours a measure into a glass tumbler, swirling it before bringing it to his lips.  “Though I must admit, it's a pleasant surprise.”

Mihawk pulls his feet from the desk, rising with the same, smooth audacity of the cats who lounge around the temples.  If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being caught wrongfooted, and he’s horribly sure falling asleep while waiting to scold someone has irreparably cost him the upper hand.

“I’m certain the pleasure’s all mine,” he returns so dryly there’s no hope of sincerity.  “I came to decline your offer.”

“Oh?  Are you otherwise engaged?” Crocodile questions mildly, as though Mihawk’s just commented on the weather.  

Mihawk has seen the way the reptiles in the Nile wait for an opportunity to strike.  The same danger lurks beneath Crocodile’s calm exterior, just playful enough to hint he’s already a step ahead.  

“I don’t believe my affairs are any of your business,” he decides crisply.  

Whatever game is happening here, he doesn’t care for it.  He can’t even recall the last time he’s been so off-balance in a conversation, and the feeling is—

“Because it was my understanding your schedule’s been clear for quite some time now,” Crocodile continues, tapping a finger against his glass.  “In fact, unless I’m mistaken, you’ve not been employed since your partner skipped town to play pirate.”  He brings his drink to his lips, a sip of smug self-congratulation as Mihawk’s heart plummets into his stomach.

That can’t be correct, can it?  His mind races, searching for the error in Crocodile’s calculations.  It’s been months since he’s accepted a job, his dwindling funds a testament to fact, but surely the timing isn’t synced with Shanks’ departure.  Because that would mean he’s—

“Can I offer you a drink,” Crocodile states, less a question than a decision he’s already made.  He’s in motion before Mihawk can refuse, the libation measured, poured, and delivered with the undeniable air of someone used to getting their way.

Mihawk knows enough to categorize the heady scent of figs and apricots rising from his glass as cognac.  Hard liquor is really more Shanks’ area of expertise, but he’s absolutely not thinking about Shanks right now; he’s focused on the matter at hand.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” he reiterates, as displeased by the drink he’s inexplicably acquired as the flicker of amusement in Crocodile’s eyes.  “I have no interest in working for you.”

“Not ‘for,’ Dracule Mihawk. With,” Crocodile corrects, placing his empty glass on the desk.  ”You see, I like to surround myself with the best.”  He gestures around the room, an invitation Mihawk refuses to acknowledge.  Crocodile’s smile grows, lazy and satisfied, though his gaze sharpens when he spots the documents Mihawk has failed to return to their hiding place.  His hand lands on the notebook, his fingers drumming on the cover before he picks it up.  “And you are the best, are you not?”

Mihawk’s lips tighten.  His expertise is hardly a secret, especially not after Shanks has blabbed every detail of their exploits up and down the bloody Nile.  But he won’t be acquired like some sort of collector’s piece.  His irritation must show on his face because Crocodile laughs.  The rich sound goes down as smooth as the drink in his hand, self-assured and charming.

“Join me in the parlor,” Crocodiles proposes, a thinly veiled command as he ushers Mihawk from the study.  He selects a seat on one of the couches, one long leg tossed over the other.  Simosuchus hops up next to him, turning in three tidy circles before settling against his hip.  “Would you care for one?” Crocodile asks, offering Mihawk a cigar from the wooden box on one of the tables.

Mihawk declines, watching as Crocodile clips the end and lights it.  The process is careful, too measured to be routine—a deliberate demonstration of style and class. 

“As my associate indicated, I have a business proposition for you.”  Crocodile leans forward, cigar between his teeth and elbows on his knees, a predatory gleam in his eyes when Mihawk chooses an armchair.

“And as I've already indicated, it's been declined.”  Mihawk eases back into his seat.  At least he's leveled the playing field, no longer standing there like a fool interviewing for a job while Crocodile smirks up at him.

Smoke seeps from Crocodile’s grin.  “I feel certain you'll reconsider.”  He plucks the cigar from his lips, an elegant angle to his wrist when he gestures at Mihawk.  “Everyone has a price.  Name yours.”

“I never name a price without knowing what's expected in return,” Mihawk counters, managing to finish his cognac without coughing.  His throat burns from the effort.  Truly, he should have insisted on wine rather than let Crocodile dictate his preferences. 

Crocodile’s brow arches, amused.  “Perusing my personal notes while I was out didn't satiate your curiosity?  Regardless of if we move forward, I will pay for your discretion.  And what's more, I'm offering you the opportunity to settle this on your terms instead of mine.”  Warning glints in his teeth.  “Don't test how far I'm willing to reach to ensure my privacy.”

“Nor I mine.”  Mihawk places his glass on the table, abrupt when he stands.  He's not sure what cuts him deeper—the insult of being threatened or that Crocodile’s rubbed his nose in fact that he has no one to tell.  “I'll see myself out.”

He's halfway to the door when Crocodile cuts him off.

“My apologies, I think we've started on the wrong foot,” Crocodile tries, his cigar in one hand and a placating gesture in the other. 

“Really,” Mihawk snips, more dismayed than he cares to admit when he discovers Crocodile is almost a full head taller than him.  “I can't imagine what gave you that impression.”

Crocodile attempts a winning smile.  “We can sort it out over dinner—breakfast,” he amends, glancing at his watch.  “I'll send for room service.  Anything you'd like.”

Mihawk is tempted to voice that what he'd like is to be left alone, that what he'd like is a quiet corner and a good book, preferably something fraught with Gothic horrors so he can forget this whole damn evening.  But the sudden change in Crocodile’s demeanor is intriguing. 

“Please,” Crocodile adds, a word that sounds foreign on his lips.  He must realize it too, given the wry smile he offers Mihawk alongside it.  “As much as it pains me to admit, I need your help.”

The sincerity in his voice stalls Mihawk’s next step.  It shouldn't resonate the way it does.  He hates the way it resonates.  Being needed.  As if it were him and not his skills that have piqued Crocodile’s interest. 

“Resorting to pleasantries after threats and bribery weren't successful?” he challenges, watching Crocodile’s smile shift into something more honest, boyish and charming. 

“Is it working?” Crocodile asks.

Mihawk levels his chin.  “I've no intention of betraying your secrets, but I expect additional details before I make my final decision,” he announces, wishing now that he'd spent more time alone with Crocodile’s precious notebook.  But if Crocodile assumes he knows more than he actually does, he's willing to play along and see where this leads.  “Cappuccino and toast, eggs and jam if they're available.”  He excuses himself to the parlor with his head held high, leaving Crocodile to stare after him.

By the time breakfast arrives, he's ravenous, unwilling to guess when his last full meal actually was.  He's clinging to his manners, though he appreciates Crocodile’s polite disregard of how desperate he probably looks.

“You're familiar with the Valley of the Kings,” Crocodile establishes.  He toys with the edge of his saucer, one finger tracing the curve of his espresso cup.

“Would you have asked me here otherwise,” Mihawk queries, his tone dry enough to pull a rueful quirk across Crocodile’s face.  He's intimately familiar, truth be told.  The best in the business, as Shanks used to brag.

Crocodile places his notebook between them on the table.  “What I seek is beneath one of the tombs.” 

“Naturally,” Mihawk agrees, impudent enough to lean back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other while he balances his cappuccino and its saucer in his lap.

He's pleased to see the hint of exasperation wrinkling Crocodile’s brow, even more pleased he's regained his verbal footing after fumbling before. 

“I've found references in several texts, but the item's location is unclear.  Which brings me to you and your services.”  Crocodile wets his lips, leaning forward.  “On Saturday night, there's a charity fundraiser being held at the Alabasta Museum of Antiquities.  I believe one of the evening's exhibits might contain something of interest to me.”

Mihawk frowns.  Exploring a tomb is one thing, robbing a museum during a formal event is quite another.  There are traceable attendance lists, security, inventory records—

“You'll attend as my guest,” Crocodile proposes, letting his gaze trail over Mihawk where he's regally sprawled in his chair.  “Whatever form you would prefer that to take.”

Mihawk nearly chokes on his cappuccino.  He prides himself on being master of most things, but he can't stop the heat in his cheeks from flaring. 

“I'm not stealing a piece from the museum's collection,” he recovers, covering his surprise with professional affront.

“Oh?” Crocodile inquires, arching an eyebrow.  “Have you suddenly acquired scruples over breakfast?”

It takes Mihawk a moment to realize he's being teased. 

“I've no interest in acquiring it,” Crocodile continues.  “And in any case, this particular piece belongs to a personal collector.  If anything were to permanently befall it, my name will be the first he mentions to the authorities.  All I want is the opportunity to examine it privately before it returns to his home.”

“He isn't interested in sharing?” Mihawk clarifies.  In his experience, collectors are notoriously susceptible to deals, back alley or otherwise. 

Crocodile’s smile thins.  “He is.  But the cost of doing business isn't one I'm interested in paying.”

Mihawk stores this information, curious where Crocodile draws the line. 

“I would prefer not to overplay my hand.”  Crocodile meets Mihawk’s eyes, a hard edge of warning in his voice.  “I need access without letting him know I've gained access—I want him walking away from the evening none the wiser, and if he’s convinced he’s pulled one over on me, all the better.  Until I tell him otherwise.”

Mihawk considers.  He's aware of the parties high society throws—the fancy cars and caviar, elegant evenings full of wine and revelry.  If Crocodile is his key to a night of refinement, he can accept the terms.  

Even more intriguing is the dynamic between Crocodile and the unnamed collector.  He could try his luck at acquiring a guest list, grease the palms of the bellboys and drivers around town to find out his identity, but it may be more fun to play by Crocodile’s rules.  At least until he decides to deviate.

“And after Saturday?” he inquires, placing his empty cup on the table.

Crocodile’s gaze flicks away, guarded when it returns.  “Pending our success, I'd rather hoped we would continue working together.  If I'm able to locate the correct tomb, I'll need a guide.”  His smile is terse when Mihawk’s eyebrows raise in surprise.  “No offense intended, but my area of study is extremely specific.  I mean to be there myself.”

Mihawk purses his lips.  He’s never escorted an employer underground—no, not an employer; with, Crocodile has stated, not for— barring the handful of overpriced tours one of Shanks’ more questionable acquaintances once arranged when they were low on cash.  

“Only if you won’t be a hindrance,” he decides, cheeky enough that it pulls a crooked grin from Crocodile—unguarded again, sincere.

He offers his hand, a flicker of something he can’t quite define rushing through him when Crocodile leans forward to accept it.

***

The entire evening sparkles.  Chandeliers and diamond jewelry, endless glasses of champagne—even the cufflinks affixed to his sleeves shimmer when they catch the light. 

Biting the inside of his lip to keep from looking too satisfied, Mihawk runs a hand through his hair after catching a glimpse of himself in the curve of a polished vase.  

He hadn’t expected a delivery from the finest shop in Cairo before his evening at the museum, but here he stands, in a designer tuxedo cropped at the waist, tails trailing behind him.  He cleans up nicely—he's aware, why wouldn't he be?—and it’s drawn the attention of at least half the attendees milling around the foyer before they enter the museum proper.

“Dracule Mihawk,” Crocodile greets, one hand coming to grasp Mihawk’s while the other finds its place on his shoulder, drawing him in, friendly and familiar.  As polished as the marble floors gleaming beneath their feet.

“Crocodile,” Mihawk returns, fielding Crocodile’s assessment of his new clothes with an inspection of his own.  

A deep green cravat sits at Crocodile’s throat, the same shade threaded through his vest.  Confidence spills from his smile—he’s comfortable here, and popular too, given the bevy of cordial greetings he’s already received.

“So pleased you could join me this evening.” Crocodile guides him past a pair of waistcoated greeters checking names off a list.  “I hope you don't mind the liberties I took to ensure you were comfortably dressed.”

Mihawk shoots him a glance, suddenly wondering if he’s dressed the way he is for Crocodile’s benefit or his own.  The realization that either motive might suit him catches him off-guard, but there's no need to explore frivolity—he's here on business. 

His thoughts, business-related or otherwise, skid to a halt when they enter the museum’s great hall.  The vaulted ceiling soars overhead, the grand pillars supporting it carved to mimic the temples scattered along the Nile.  An enormous sphinx rests just to their right, gazing out over the sea of suits and dresses with an air of detached supervision.  Music rises from one of the corners—a string quartet tucked beneath a diorama of a pharaoh and his queen.

The sight steals his breath.  He tears his gaze from the opulence filling the hall to find Crocodile studying him.

Mihawk wonders what he sees, wonders what he should be looking for in return.

“Something to drink, perhaps?” Crocodile proposes, breaking the spell when a waiter wanders near.  He selects a tumbler of something deep amber over ice, about to offer Mihawk the same when Mihawk plucks his own glass from the tray.

“To the success of our evening,” Mihawk toasts.  He's not choking down more liquor when there's perfectly good wine available. 

The flicker of surprise on Crocodile’s face eases into a genuine smile.  Mihawk returns it, relieved he's not the only one off-balance.  Their back-and-forth is stuttering, a game of cat and mouse where both have more practice playing the cat.

“You've visited the museum before?” Crocodile asks, raising his drink to his lips. 

“No, actually,” Mihawk admits with half a laugh.  He supposes he should have, if only to check on all the artifacts he's retrieved for patrons with more important names than his, but it's ironically over his budget.

Crocodile’s smile is sly, interpreting what he hasn't said.  “How many of these exhibits are you responsible for?” he murmurs, shifting close enough to keep the number secret. 

Mihawk arches a brow at his interest, on the verge of bragging when Crocodile’s eyes dart past him.  He turns too, searching the crowd for whatever’s drawn his attention when Crocodile’s hand finds the small of his back.  There's a possessiveness to the gesture, a warning of some kind, though not for him, Mihawk realizes—there's a man approaching dressed in a flurry of pink, irritation plain on his face.

“Crocodile, darling, you look exquisite this evening.”  The man’s eyes are shaded by rose-tinted glasses, but the path they climb up Crocodile’s lean frame is clear. 

A mask of polite disinterest falls over Crocodile's face.

The man turns to evaluate Mihawk after a deliberate pause.  “And you are?”

“Dracule Mihawk,” Crocodile supplies.  “Meet Donquixote Doflamingo, one of our esteemed benefactors for the evening.”  His voice has gone cold, laced with disdain despite the compliment. 

“Dracule Mihawk,” Doflamingo muses, running his tongue over Mihawk’s name.  Crocodile bristles, the tension between the two of them palpable as it rises.  “We've done business?”

“I think not,” Mihawk answers softly.  Now that he has a name to match a face, he knows who this is.  Doflamingo’s reputation around the tombs isn't one he cares to associate with, though deliberate avoidance probably better describes it. 

“No matter,” Doflamingo laughs, dismissive.  His hand closes around Mihawk’s, too firm to be cordial.  “I'm sure I'll figure out where I know you from by the end of the night.  You're here with someone?”

“I'm here at Crocodile’s request,” Mihawk replies, willing to parry.  He's delighted when Doflamingo’s jaw tightens, curious enough to press his advantage.  “As his date.”

“Fascinating.”  A shrewd squint narrows Doflamingo’s eyes.  “And are you enjoying the festivities, Dracule Mihawk?”

“I was,” Mihawk decides.

Doflamingo’s lips twist into a wicked smile.  “I hope Crocodile’s been courteous enough to give you a tour.  Has he told you all his favorite pieces are from my collection?”

“It hasn't come up,” Mihawk shrugs, taking an innocent sip of his wine.

“Then let me be the first to broach the topic.”  Doflamingo turns, grinning at a joke only he finds humorous.  “Crocodile, dear, you've heard the rumors regarding tonight's exhibit, yes?  I do hate to ruin a surprise, but I've made a donation in your name—a certain little treasure box you've always admired.”

Crocodile tenses, his fingers twitching where they've tightened around Mihawk’s waist. 

“I just thought, why not display it somewhere you can enjoy it whenever you wish?  Shame it'll be behind glass, of course,” Doflamingo tuts.  “And then there's security to contend with, but I need my investments protected.  You understand, don't you.”  He tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth.  “Though, I suppose, you could just admit you want it,” he offers, teasing.  “Say the word and it's yours.”

Crocodile scoffs.  “I've killed for less than what you're doing,” he remarks so casually it can only be true.  “Which you might do well to remember.”

“Haven't we all,” Doflamingo laughs.  “Share with the group, darling—my blood on your hands is one of my favorite fantasies.  Would you at least do it yourself?”

In a flash, Crocodile’s hand hovers just beyond Doflamingo’s throat, an inch from violence.  “I would if it was worth my time,” he murmurs, reaching out to adjust Doflamingo’s bowtie with a disdainful pinch of his fingers.  “Now, run along.  I have company to entertain.”

“Don’t entertain him too long,” Doflamingo calls when Crocodile steers Mihawk towards the nearest gallery.  “They're unveiling the new exhibit at midnight and I would hate for you to miss it.”  

The gallery they've entered is hushed and dim, empty except for a circle of display cases shrouded in cloth.  A larger pedestal sits in the center and Crocodile stalks towards it.  The glass case on top of it is empty when he yanks the cover away.

“Bastard,” he mutters, glaring at the pedestal while he retrieves his pocket watch.  “Now we need to find the damn thing—time is not on our side.”

Mihawk lifts the cover on the pedestal nearest to him, raising an eyebrow at the placard bearing Doflamingo’s name and a brief description of the statue housed inside the display case. 

Pauper or prince, there's truly not much variance to human behavior—playing hide and seek in a museum is hardly different from doing the same in a tomb.  If whatever Crocodile wants is as important as Doflamingo seems to have guessed, he wouldn’t take chances with an unguarded exhibit hall.

“It's secured in an office,” he states, a little bored with how obvious the answer is.  “Wherever those are.”

Crocodile gives him a shrewd glance.  “This way.  We'll take the back stairs.”

A spiral staircase takes them to the fourth floor of the museum.  Offices line the hallway, stretching into the darkness.

“We don’t have time to check all of these,” Crocodile grits, eyeing the closest door.

“We won’t need to.”  Mihawk strides down the hall, inspecting the names and titles mounted beside each office.  If he's seen it once, he's seen it a hundred times underground—men like Doflamingo are almost always betrayed by their egos.  “It’ll be in the biggest one.”  

He halts in front of the chief curator’s office, jiggling the handle before reaching into his pocket for his lockpicks.  He preens at the impressed look on Crocodile’s face when the door swings open in less than a minute.  Truth be told, it was hardly a difficult lock, but that secret can stay between him and the door.

The chief curator’s office is as grand as he expects.  Urns and artifacts line the walls, a collection of portraits and landscapes hung in between.  A safe rests behind the elaborate desk at the far end of the room.  The moonlight streaming through the windows is more than he's used to having underground, and the air of elegance it lends to his task is charming.

“You could keep watch,” he suggests, skirting a few chairs arranged for a meeting as he heads for the back of the office.  

He doesn’t want Crocodile hovering.  As familiar as he's gotten with breaking and entering lately, he’s hesitant to admit that while he understands the basic theory, he’s never actually cracked a safe.  There’s a romantic allure to skirting ancient safeguards; modern engineering doesn’t hold the same thrill.

“Why?” Crocodile inquires bluntly, too close for comfort where he's followed.

“Because I don’t require supervision,” Mihawk retorts, hands on his hips while he studies the dial.  

Manipulating the lock seems the purest form of entry.  If he’s been hired for his skill and discretion, he would prefer to uphold his reputation rather than force his way in.

Crocodile hums, the sound too neutral to indicate if he agrees.

“Do you mind?” Mihawk hints when he fails to leave, wishing he didn’t need to tip his chin up to meet Crocodile’s inscrutable gaze.

A skeptical arch of Crocodile’s brow is all he receives as an answer before he’s left alone in the room.

Sighing, Mihawk steps up to the safe, pressing his ear against it while he gingerly turns the dial.  He’s rewarded with a soft click when he catches a contact point.  This seems favorable, so he continues, able to find a second and third before spinning the dial the opposite way to reset it.

He’s just finished mapping the second direction when Crocodile returns.

“We are running dangerously low on time.”  Impatience roughens Crocodile’s tone, a glimpse of his temper on the horizon.

“I’m aware.”  Mihawk scowls when his first combination fails.  He resets the dial with a flick of his wrist, ready to begin again.  “For your information, this is not how I usually work.”

“Really,” Crocodile mutters, checking his watch.  The movement is sharp when he returns it to his pocket.  “How does a thief usually work?” 

Alone, without someone micromanaging him, Mihawk almost snaps.  “I'm not a thief; I explore tombs,” he corrects when his second attempt fails as well.  This is precisely why he didn’t want Crocodile standing over him.

“And do you or do you not remove the items you find in said tombs for personal gain?” Crocodile inquires with a demeaning edge of superiority.

“That was not what I meant,” Mihawk glares up at him, too focused on his task to form a better argument.  He tries a third combination, growling under his breath when it fails.

“Does breaking into my rooms fall within your job description?” Crocodile muses in the same snide tone.  “Or did you confuse the hotel for an excavation site?”

“You invited me to call at my leisure,” Mihawk grits, aware he’s pushing the boundaries of polite interpretation.  He resets the dial again, willing his fourth try to succeed.

Crocodile scoff is incredulous.  “Then consider yourself cordially invited to open this damnable safe within the next two minutes.”

Mihawk is about to retort when the dial clicks beneath his hand.  He stills, holding his breath, praying he's truly done it when he spins the lock.  The safe opens, revealing—

“Shit,” Crocodile curses, yanking the door wider to confirm that absolutely nothing has been secured inside.  “That miserable fucking flouncy—”   He cuts himself off at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

His eyes fly to meet Mihawk’s.  They're irreparably guilty—huddled in front of an open safe with the lights off, nowhere to hide.

The door to the office opens before they can move.  Doflamingo’s silhouette fills the frame as Mihawk—

Mihawk wheezes out what he's sure is a very seductive mmmph when Crocodile tips them sideways, pinning him against the floor.  

“The safe,” Crocodile mouths at him, just visible in the moonlight. 

He can understand the need for subtlety, but this borders on ridiculous.  Glaring up at him , Mihawk adjusts his leg, sliding it up until slowly, slowly he manages to ease the safe door closed when he tips his knee out to the side.  

The result is stupidly intimate.  Crocodile’s slotted between his legs, pressed against him nose-to-nose while they await Doflamingo’s next move from their hiding place behind the desk.  

Crocodile's hair falls over his cheeks, his eyes sharp where they hold Mihawk in place.  His cologne teases Mihawk’s nose, warm and earthy, tinged with smoke.

Mihawk swallows.  He knows this is business, a charade they're playing for the evening, but the lines are beginning to blur. 

Doflamingo’s footsteps place him by the left side of the office, hesitating before they recede again, more purposeful when he returns to the door.

Frowning, Crocodile tilts his head, trying to guess Doflamingo’s intention when light floods the room. 

In the split second Mihawk flinches, Crocodile's lips press against his.  Surprise jolts through him, too stunned to resist when Crocodile's fingers card through his hair, tugging with just enough urgency to tip his head and deepen the angle.

If Shanks had kissed him with the carefree ease of the sea, Crocodile meets him with all the heat of the desert.  But he's not thinking about Shanks right now, he's—

Breathless when Crocodile rucks his shirt from his trousers, gliding his palm along Mihawk’s side, fingers spreading to explore his chest.  He can't help but press back when Crocodile's hips subtly rock against his, reminding himself this is just business, no matter how much he's buying his own con at the moment.

He's all but lost track of Doflamingo until a throat clears somewhere above them.  

“Naughty, naughty,” Doflamingo tsks.  “And in the curator’s office, no less.  I hope I'm not interrupting.”

Mihawk finally tears his focus from where Crocodile’s hand has settled against his skin.  Heat warms his cheeks, mirroring the hunger in Crocodile’s eyes. 

With a performative sigh, Crocodile props himself up on an elbow.  “It’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“Then don't stop on my account,” Doflamingo laughs, too loud when it bounces off the walls.  “Hell, do you have room for a third?”

“Even if we did, there's no earthly reason it would involve you,” Mihawk declines, feeling Crocodile’s little snort of amusement against his chest.  He clears his throat, surprised to hear his voice so rough.

Doflamingo’s chuckle is dark.  “Your pretty little bird is flying very near to the sun, Crocodile.  You’d better hope he doesn’t get too close.”

“And you'd better hope that's nothing more than a tasteless joke,” Crocodile snaps.  He rises to his feet, brushing the safe’s locking mechanism with his elbow when he offers a hand to Mihawk. 

“And if it's not?” Doflamingo smirks.  

“I would turn my attention away from the sun and closer to home if I were you,” Mihawk suggests, somehow managing to convey mild disinterest despite how quickly his heart is still beating.  

He runs a hand through his hair.  He probably looks a mess—hardly the manner in which he's used to addressing threats.

“Sing, little bird.  Tell me why,” Doflamingo croons, holding up a finger to warn Crocodile back.

“The statue of Horus in the exhibit downstairs.  The one they're unveiling in—”  Mihawk cues Crocodile with a wave of his hand, praying he'll play along as well as he just has.

“Half an hour,” Crocodile supplies, his expression unreadable. 

“What of it,” Doflamingo sneers. 

“You're aware your counterfeiter misspelled the inscription on the base?”  Mihawk shifts just enough to catch the slight arch of Crocodile’s brow in his periphery.

Doflamingo barks a laugh.  “You're a bold one, Dracule Mihawk.  The certificate of authenticity in my files claims otherwise, but I applaud the attempt.  Did you put him up to this, Crocodile?”

“I think you'll find that your certificate is also a forgery.”  Mihawk’s smile is cold.  The idea of being put up to anything is entertaining.  “The real statue is in a museum in London.”

“Bullshit,” Doflamingo scoffs.  But his foot shifts towards the door, betraying his uncertainty.

Mihawk gazes back at him, indifferent.  “I can’t imagine the museum will be pleased.  Imagine the scandal.”

“Tick tock,” Crocodile murmurs.  “Best to check—I’d hate to forget myself and let it slip during your grand announcement.”

“You'll be hearing from me,” Doflamingo snarls, spinning on his heel to head for the door.

“As will your supplier, I'd imagine,” Mihawk remarks, idly aligning a pile of papers on the curator’s desk with his finger.

With a furious glare back at him, Doflamingo wrenches the door open, leaving it ajar when he stomps down the hall.  The sound of his footsteps fade, leaving them alone in the dark.  

Mihawk turns, catching Crocodile’s gaze when it lands on the untucked hem of his shirt, lingering for a moment before it climbs to meet his eyes.  Just business, he reminds himself, refusing to let his attention stray to where Crocodile’s hair has escaped from behind his ears to frame his face.

“I will not tolerate being spoken to as if I'm your subordinate,” he declares instead, shoving the inconvenience of whatever the hell else is happening away until he's finished this job.  “I am fully capable of completing a task to schedule without your oversight.”

He wishes he weren’t simultaneously shoving his shirt back into his pants.  It ruins the impact of his delivery, but standing around half-dressed is hardly any better.

Crocodile draws a breath, stalled on the brink of replying when Mihawk suddenly realizes— empathizes, even—that he's managed to catch him off-guard.

“Noted,” Crocodile concedes quietly, reaching up to smooth his hair back into place.  “Is it true about the statue?” he asks after a beat.

It's not an apology, but Mihawk intends to hold him to it.  He lifts his chin as he fusses with the lay of his jacket over his shoulders.  “Yes.  I sold the real one six months ago.”  Amusement softens Crocodile’s face, another glimpse of the boyish charm he seems intent on outgrowing.  “I doubt that meeting will end well,” he adds dryly.

“Depends on which party you’re referring to,” Crocodile counters with a wry smile, adjusting his cravat with a practiced tug.  “I’m sure Doflamingo will have a splendid time.”  

Mihawk nods his agreement, his thoughts drawn back to Doflamingo at the mention of his name.  He tilts his head, studying the office's entryway.  Rather than make for the safe at the back of the room, Doflamingo had entered, stepped to the left…  likely heard them behind the desk, returned to the door for the lightswitch beside it.

He crosses the room, mirroring his steps, searching the statues, the framed artwork.  He halts in front of a painting of an oasis.  

Crocodile clears his throat.  “As much as I appreciate your interest in the decor, time is—”

“I was hired to do a job, and I'm doing exactly that,” Mihawk replies as he reaches for the frame.  His fingertips glide along the edges, looking for—

He'd smile if he weren't so irritated with himself for not realizing sooner.  He knows better than to assume the greatest treasure is in the most obvious place.

He eases the picture frame away from the wall, revealing a lockbox embedded in the plaster behind it.  He makes quick work of the latch sealing it—astoundingly simple, they really ought to be ashamed of themselves—inviting Crocodile to approach with an elegant wave of his hand. 

Success illuminates Crocodile’s face when he withdraws the treasure box.  He cradles it in his hands as he steps into the moonlight spilling through the windows.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” he marvels, beckoning Mihawk nearer.

Mihawk shakes his head, likewise impressed.  Similar, perhaps, but nothing as intricate.  Hieroglyphs spool over the sides, their condition pristine for as old as the piece must be.  Small wonder Crocodile wanted to examine it.

“If I’ve translated correctly, there should be something inside.”  Eagerness fills Crocodile’s voice when he holds the box up to capture the light.  He traces the carvings, following the seamless corners, trying to find a workable angle.  “But I don’t—”  He breaks off when his thumb slips over the depiction of a scorpion, catching in the curve of its tail.

Mihawk barely sees the slight shift when the short side of the box moves.  Crocodile’s eyes dart to his—vulnerable in how much hope suddenly fills them.  

“Here, let me…” Mihawk offers softly, stepping even closer.  His fingers brush against Crocodile’s when he eases the top panel towards the depression Crocodile’s just created, tipping it in until the opposite side springs free.

Crocodile removes it, holding his breath when the box slides open.  A bundle of cloth fills the hidden chamber, the linen still intact when he pulls it from the treasure box.

The faint sound of laughter twists through the silence, the easy back and forth of a discussion—

“They’re in the stairwell,” Crocodile realizes.  “We’re out of time.”

Mihawk snatches the box from his hands, fingers flying when he reassembles it.  He presses the lockbox closed, reseating the frame.  

“The next office,” he hisses, shoving Crocodile into the hallway and locking the curator’s door behind them.

He just manages to pick the lock in time, yanking Crocodile inside after him before he quietly presses the door closed.  His heart is racing, his hand still clutching the front of Crocodile’s jacket when a pair of men enter the room they've just vacated.  Bits of their conversation drift through the wall—a running commentary on the refreshments, the plunging cut of someone’s dress, the donations the evening has generated.

Mihawk swallows, staring up at Crocodile.  They’re both breathless, pressed into each other with Crocodile pinned against the wall, silent while they wait.  It's irritating how tempted he is to close the space between them again, even more so when he wonders if Crocodile feels the same.  

Slowly, carefully, Crocodile breaks Mihawk’s hold on his clothing to bring his hand between them.  The little bundle of linen rests in his palm.

“We'll open it after,” he breathes.  The words shiver over Mihawk’s skin.  “Celebrate with champagne.”

Mihawk nods, snared by the intimacy in Crocodile's smile.  He admires Crocodile's confidence, too self-assured to worry that what he holds might not be what he actually seeks. 

The office door beside them closes, the happy chatter of the men fading as they descend the stairs. 

Crocodile clears his throat, tucking the bundle into the pocket inside his jacket.  “The second part of our evening awaits,” he invites, straightening his vest before gesturing at the door.

Mihawk keeps pace as they leave the darkened offices to skim down the stairs.  He falls back when the sea of revelers parts for Crocodile, lingering at the edge of the crowd while he steps into the spotlight.

Applause echoes through the museum when the treasure box is revealed, a chorus of delight rising from those close enough to admire its intricate details.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Crocodile steps forward to shake Doflamingo’s hand.  Charming, gracious, he grasps Doflamingo's shoulder, leaning in close to murmur into his ear.  Doflamingo’s smile freezes, clenched in place while they pose for a photographer.  Crocodile claps him on the back, nodding his acknowledgement of the crowd’s appreciation when he steps from the center of the room.

He snags two glasses of champagne from a roving waiter, nothing short of gleeful when he guides Mihawk towards a quiet corner of the near-empty lobby.

“What did you say to Doflamingo?” Mihawk asks, undeniably curious. 

“I thanked him for his generous donation,” Crocodile smirks when he hands Mihawk his champagne.  “And told him it was even more exquisite up close.”  He tips his glass against Mihawk’s.  “To the success of our evening.”

“Cheeky,” Mihawk comments, taking a sip.  The champagne sparkles on his tongue, tickling his cheeks. 

“Elated,” Crocodile corrects, shifting so no passersby are able to see the space between them. 

He places his glass on a table, dipping his hand into his pocket to retrieve the little bundle.  The linen peels away, flaking at his touch to reveal an intricate amulet carved in the shape of a cobra.

Mihawk's eyes widen.  The stone is the deepest blue-green he's ever seen.  It captures the light when Crocodile turns his hand, glowing as if illuminated from within.  

“Genuine?” Crocodile asks, his focus intent on Mihawk’s reaction when he offers him the amulet.

“Magnificent,” Mihawk murmurs.  The cobra rears to strike an imaginary foe, its delicate hood flared in warning.  There's writing along the base—cramped hieroglyphs too small for him to read.  He traces the cobra’s open jaw, sliding his fingers along its scales.  

The smile Crocodile gives him is sincere, filled with as much light as the carving in his hand when he accepts it back.  

“My compliments on a job well done,” Crocodile offers quietly, inclining his head when Mihawk nods his thanks.  “Do you have other plans this evening?”

Mihawk almost laughs.  “None that come to mind.”

“You should stay,” Crocodile suggests, tilting his head to study the effect of his offer.  “I'd love to have your opinion on the temple reconstruction in the east wing.”

“I'm sure I'd love to share it,” Mihawk decides. 

He raises his glass to his lips, unable to conjure a single reason why he shouldn't indulge.

***

The next day begins much later than he intends and with three times more trouble. 

Of all things, he’s picked up a tail.  He has little doubt Doflamingo’s sent them—no one else would dare.  He just wishes he was more surprised.

They’re vaguely entertaining, at least.  He’s been weaving in and out of cart stalls and shops for the past hour, drawing out their inevitable meeting just to test their level of commitment.

He enters his usual cafe, nodding at the waitstaff to order his regular, and sits, feet tossed up on the table while he regards the trio.  They’ve been bold enough to follow him inside, noticeably uncomfortable when they all crowd around a table slightly too small for their size.  He raises his glass when it arrives, toasting their flushed faces.

They've come all this way, endured the blazing Egyptian sun, kept track of him through the dusty streets—it would be a shame to deny them his company. 

Besides, it's been ages since he's had a good spar.  Best to make sure he's retained his form.

Mihawk tips back the last of his drink and wipes his mouth on his napkin.  The trio mirrors him when he rises to his feet. 

“Gentlemen,” he acknowledges as though they've all been at tea, breezing past them for the door. 

For a moment, he wonders if they've lost their nerve, but the second he steps into a dead-end alley, their shadows darken the street behind him 

He turns, knife in hand, sliding his gaze over each of them in turn.  Unwashed clothes, greasy hair—as if a trio of street thugs would pose a legitimate threat.  He hates being underestimated.  Doflamingo ought to be ashamed, sending these men on a fool's errand.  

“I would only ask that you refrain from wasting my time,” he requests, bowing to start their duel. 

One of them moves to return the gesture, jerking upright when his neighbor jabs an elbow into his side. 

Mihawk sighs.  Imbeciles, then.  Honestly, he shouldn't have bothered. 

He lets the first man approach, countering his clumsy attack so quickly that the man goes down before he even realizes he's lost.  Mihawk steps over him.  It'll be another nine seconds before the man bleeds out entirely. 

The other two scramble back to regroup, more cautious than their fallen friend.

He spins his knife in his hand, allowing them their moment.  Shanks has teased him about being cocky, but it's not as though he hasn't earned the privilege of arrogance.

They decide to attack in tandem.  He gives them minimal credit for the strategy—it's slightly more entertaining than dispatching them one at a time.

His elbow connects with the side of one man's head when he turns, ducking out of reach from the other's blade.  He blocks a slice at his ribs, striking his opponent's hand so sharply the man fumbles his knife. 

“You'll want to hold onto that,” he advises as his blade dances over the man's arm, a game of cumulative damage rather than heading straight for the kill. 

He can admit he's playing with his food, but it's less about deliberate cruelty than optimizing the afternoon's inconvenience as a training scenario. 

What he doesn't anticipate is the lucky strike his opponent sinks into his stomach, just above his belt buckle, slightly off to the side.

He's every bit as shocked as his assailant, a detail he finds particularly infuriating.  Cocky, Shanks’ voice tsks in his thoughts. Toldja so, Hawksy.

Snarling, he spins, flipping his blade, slamming it into a downward slash that nearly cleaves the man's chest in two.  Blood splatters his face, staining his jacket.

He backs the third man up against the wall, breathing hard.  Blood slicks the man's arms, a few superficial slices on his torso. 

“Move and it's the last step you take,” Mihawk bites out, glaring him into compliance. 

He kneels in front of the corpses in the alley, ignoring the warmth spreading across his shirt, fighting the urge to clamp his hand over the wound until he's finished.  

It shouldn't be fatal—intestines have a fascinating habit of sliding out of the way when confronted with a blade—but it hurts like hell and he needs to focus. 

“Tell Doflamingo Dracule Mihawk sends his regards.”  He grabs the man's wrist, wrenching it palm up.  “If you hurry, you'll make it there before you die in the street.”

The man stares back at him, stunned.

For a moment, Mihawk almost feels pity.  It's a crass gesture, definitely not his most eloquent—but the message four severed middle fingers conveys should be abundantly clear.

“Before I change my mind,” he snarls, baring his teeth as the man stumbles out of the alley and back into the street. 

He sags against the wall the moment the man is out of sight, eyes closed, clutching his stomach.  There's a disconcerting amount of blood staining his clothes—he's not sure how much of it is his.

Gritting his teeth, he lifts his jacket, peeling his shirt away from his skin to find a single cut, the width of a blade.  It's deceptively unobtrusive.  He's in no state to face additional adversaries this afternoon, and if Doflamingo’s sent others, he runs the risk of leading them to his apartment.  Best to keep pretending he's come out unscathed and find help elsewhere. 

His thoughts blur and he forces them straight again.  Anyone he knows well enough to trust has been gone for months, everyone except—

Heading to the Sandora is certainly a choice, but he can justify it with any number of flimsy excuses.

He skirts the front desk, heading for the stairs that lead to Crocodile’s suite with so much self-assurance that the bellboy merely nods his head in greeting.  

Simosuchus starts barking as soon as he reaches the hallway.  He’s just raised his hand to knock when the door swings open.  It takes him a dizzy second to realize Crocodile’s already asked what he's doing and is awaiting an answer. 

“If I could use your washroom, it would be most appreciated,” he proposes, stepping inside when Crocodile invites him to enter.

Perhaps it’s rude to escort himself there, but it’s not as though he’s unfamiliar with the layout of the suite.

He’s more disheveled than he'd expected when he finds himself in the mirror.  Sweat clings to his hair, his face pale despite the heat.  Dried blood speckles his hairline, caught in his sideburns—apparently cleaning himself up in the alley hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped.  His jacket is torn, the front of it saturated when he shimmies out of it, letting it fall to the floor.  Red stains his shirt, spreading up towards his chest, creeping around his side. 

“Is everything alright?” Crocodile inquires.  His voice is close—he must be hovering just outside the door. 

Mihawk eyes his reflection, considering.  

“Yes,” he decides.  He can stitch himself up if Crocodile has the necessary items, but his shirt and coat are a regrettable loss.  He starts on the buttons of his blouse.  “Do you perhaps have a medical kit?”

“A medical kit?”  Crocodile's frown is apparent even without the visual.

Mihawk’s shirt joins his jacket on the floor.  “Yes, I seem to have—”

“Gotten stabbed?” Crocodile finishes, his voice suddenly less muffled when the washroom door opens. 

Mihawk blinks at him.  Stupidly.  At a loss while Crocodile’s eyes skim over his bared torso, taking in the pile of bloodied clothes on the floor before returning to his face.  

“How emergent is this?  Should I be sending for a doctor?”  Crocodile steps into the washroom, sliding Mihawk’s ruined clothing aside with his foot to retrieve a small metal box from the bottom drawer of a cabinet. 

“That depends on your comfort level with stitches.”  The little laugh Mihawk tries is less convincing than he'd like with his hand clamped over his stomach, but he's still fairly sure the wound looks worse than it is.

Crocodile's expression shifts unreadable again, an occurrence Mihawk is beginning to find irritating.  He's not bad at reading people—quite the reverse, actually—but the difference between Crocodile and the open book of Shanks’ puppy dog eyes is throwing him.

“Would you care to explain?”  Crocodile places Simosuchus on the floor and steps up to the sink, letting the water run until steam rises from the basin.  He turns, a washcloth and soap in hand, evidently torn between performing the task himself and letting Mihawk take over. 

Mihawk isn't sure either, a new sensation fluttering to life in his stomach that has nothing to do with the dull throb of his injury. 

He opens his mouth, certain he should offer something more productive than an awkward silence when Crocodile presses the cloth against his skin.  The garbled sound he emits instead is thoroughly humiliating.  He clears his throat, the tips of his ears unpleasantly warm.

“A party favor.  From your friend last night,” he states lightly, wincing when Crocodile traces the edge of the wound.

Crocodile’s face immediately darkens.  “Doflamingo did this?”

“Not directly,” Mihawk amends, fighting the distraction of Crocodile’s fingers when they brush over his stomach.  Surely he has more focus than this—he's been fucking stabbed, for goodness’ sake. 

Crocodile’s jaw is clenched when he straightens, fury in his eyes.  Mihawk can appreciate the sentiment, but doesn’t need the violence it promises.  He’s more than capable of handling his own business.   

“I’ve already sent a message expressing my thoughts on the matter.”

“Which was.”  The snarl in Crocodile’s voice tips his inquiry into a demand.

Mihawk’s mouth twitches when he uses both hands to offer Crocodile the same succinct reply he’s just sent Doflamingo.

Crocodile considers the gesture a beat before bursting into laughter.  The rich sound echoes in the washroom, loud enough for Simosuchus to stop panting and quirk his head.

“Should I ask how you communicated that?”  The anger has eased from his voice, something like fondness etched there instead. 

Mihawk can't keep from grinning back at him.  The effect is impish when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.  His hair is wild where it feathers out from his head, his face covered in grime and still too pale where he stands, half-dressed in the Sandora Palace Hotel’s nicest suite with Crocodile smiling down at him.

“Graphically,” Mihawk provides.  He can't quite capture the dry delivery he'd intended, his voice too soft, too intimate in the close quarters of the washroom.

Crocodile shakes his head, fondly—Mihawk’s sure he's interpreted the expression correctly this time—when he rinses the washcloth. 

“I can't say I've any great experience with stitches,” he warns.  “That medical kit is probably good for a few bandages and an antiseptic, but that's it.”

Mihawk frowns.  Less than ideal.  “Do you have a needle and thread?  Preferably silk?”

“That I do have,” Crocodile smiles.  “Any preference on color?”

“Black,” Mihawk replies without hesitation, shrugging when Crocodile arches an eyebrow.  “It’s the easiest to see when they’re removed.”

“Consider it done,” Crocodile promises, handing him the cloth before exiting the washroom.  “If I might propose we move to the bedroom?”  His voice drifts from the study, accompanied by the quiet clink of glassware.

Mihawk presses the cloth to his stomach, holding it there while he navigates to Crocodile’s bedroom, lingering in the doorway.

“Sit on the bed,” Crocodile states, right behind him with a drink in hand.

Mihawk complies, wondering if there’s any irony to the fact that Simosuchus obeys as well.  He's sure he doesn't look as eager as the dog happily waiting for Crocodile’s attention beside him, but he’s still measuring their differences when Crocodile hands him the drink.  He doesn’t even realize he’s pulled a face until Crocodile laughs.

“I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable after being given a vintage single malt,” Crocodile chuckles.  “It’s the highest proof I have—I thought it might take the edge off,” he adds a little more kindly.  “I can send for wine, if you prefer.”   

Mihawk resists the urge to curl his lip at the fumes rising from his glass.  It’s a generous pour—probably too generous given the amount of blood he's lost—but he appreciates the gesture.  It also isn't the worst idea, given the circumstances.  Sighing, he upends the drink, shouldering through the burn in his throat until it blooms in his stomach. 

“Good,” Crocodile approves as he fetches a chair to place next to the bed.

Mihawk plunks the empty glass onto the nightstand, willing himself not to cough when Crocodile sits down across from him. 

“What's the best way to do this?” he asks, apparently invested in helping now that he's been involved.

“I don't—” Mihawk starts, ready to explain he can do this task himself; it was merely a private place and the raw materials he needed.

“Maybe if you lie down,” Crocodile decides.  “But if you wouldn't mind removing your boots first.”

Mihawk squints back at him.  Of course the world has chosen this moment to smear, the outline of Crocodile’s face slightly blurred when he tries to pull it into focus.

“Unless you mind,” Crocodile adds easily, studying Mihawk’s frown. 

His delivery sounds like a challenge, daring Mihawk to disagree.  Offering him a chance to withdraw the consent he seems to have surrendered the moment he walked through the door.

Mihawk balances against the abrupt motion of toeing off his boots.  

“It’s just business,” he dismisses, arranging himself on the bed with his legs crossed at the ankles.

“Is it?”  Crocodile sounds amused enough for Mihawk to lift his head.  He's balancing a small sewing kit in his lap, needle and thread in hand.  “Is there a difference between a business stabbing and one intended personally?”

“Yes, actually,” Mihawk snips, letting his head sink into the pillows again.  They're soft, crinkling in his ears when the feathers shift.  He wishes the canopy above him wasn't swaying; the motion is making him feel slightly ill. 

“And in the case of Doflamingo, which was it?” Crocodile wonders as he strikes a match, sliding the needle through the flame. 

Mihawk scowls.  Of all the times to be teased.  His suffering truly knows no bounds. 

“Personal motive masquerading as business,” he mutters, unable to resist answering. 

“Ah, a secret third option,” Crocodile notes, nodding as though he agrees.  He flicks his wrist, extinguishing the match.  “Personally, I'm of the mind that nothing is ever purely business.”

Mihawk braces for the next, inevitable question: which motive applies to him this evening?  He's let himself be backed into a proverbial corner.  Is any trap worse than the one he's set for himself?  

He's not even fully sure what his answer will be while he watches Crocodile thread the needle.  

“It's a curious thing to rely on another person's expertise while in pursuit of your own goal,” Crocodile remarks instead, snipping the ends of the thread and tying a neat knot.

Mihawk's brow lifts.  Not the direction he expected—he's on his toes again rather than against the wall.  He's all but sworn off relying on others for anything, and yet here he is, at the mercy of someone he's known less than a week.  Despite the whisky muddling his thoughts, his nerves are as taut as the silk between Crocodile’s fingers.

Crocodile places the sewing kit on the bedside table, reangling his chair closer to Mihawk's side.  “There's an inherent sort of danger to it, isn't there?”

Mihawk eyes him, trying to decipher the intent behind Crocodile’s smile—not cruel, no, it's playful.  Hopeful.

“What's life without a little danger?”  Mihawk stills when Crocodile’s fingertips graze his stomach, deep olive on ivory.  His reply drifts on the surface, teasing whatever lurks in the depths.

“I assume it would look more like a quiet evening of research without a stabbing and subsequent aftercare,” Crocodile guesses dryly.  The needle hovers above Mihawk's skin.

“Touché,” Mihawk concedes with a little laugh, savoring the crooked smile it pulls from Crocodile.

He wonders if either of them is truly ready for the first stitch when it happens.  Injuries fade, but scars linger—Crocodile’s signature forever on his skin.

Simosuchus whines beside him, a worried, empathetic quaver in his throat.  He quiets when Mihawk's hand settles on his head, curving around to find the soft fur behind his ears. 

“Did you know they've discovered stitches on a mummy?” Crocodile asks, breaking the silence.  “I had the opportunity to see them; it was really quite fascinating.”

Mihawk gives a thoughtful hum.  Crocodile’s fingers are gentle, cool against his skin wherever they touch.  It gives him a focal point for his breath, grounding beneath the flare of pain wherever the needle prods. 

“Are you giving me historically accurate stitches?” he inquires, exhaling to keep himself still.  Sweat prickles along his forehead, collecting at the small of his back.

“I told you I didn't have much experience,” Crocodile laughs.  His breath teases over Mihawk's stomach.  “They're my only reference point.”

“Glad I could provide you with a practical application.”  He can't quite keep the wince from his reply.  He closes his eyes, willing the unsteadiness from his breath. 

At some point, he loses the plot of Crocodile’s historical narrative, drifting instead in the rich sound of his voice, the gentle curves of his accent. 

It's curious to be taken care of so kindly, even more curious to find himself so willing to accept it.  It's not that he doesn't feel he deserves it—if anything, he's acutely aware of what he brings to any table—but the implication here is that he's more than an asset, not just a means to someone else's end.

He might be more convinced that he's mistaken medical attention for physical affection if it weren't for the way Crocodile stays close once he's finished, how his gaze lingers, careful and deliberate when he finally meets Mihawk's eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Mihawk glides his fingertips along the neat line of stitches, pleased to have finally stopped oozing.  “Appreciative,” he offers with a quiet smile. 

The room spins when he presses himself up into sitting, the ache in his stomach pulling sharper until he leans back on his hand.  He blinks, forcing all three of the Crocodiles sitting by his bedside back into a single human. 

He's not drunk—certainly nowhere near any benchmark Shanks has ever established—but the way his world sways is reminiscent of the sea, unsettling enough that he prefers to keep his hand planted on the bed.  

“That may have been a heavy pour,” Crocodile interprets, amused. 

Mihawk can't quite bring himself to nod.  It feels too much like admitting defeat.

“Can I get you some water?” Crocodile asks, rising to his feet.  “Something to eat?”

Before Mihawk can decline, he steps from the room, returning with a platter and a pitcher of water.  Mihawk casts a glance at the decadent array of dried apricots and figs, olives and pistachios, the pile of flatbread topped with spices when he reaches for a glass.  The light scent of roses tints his drink.

“A shirt too, perhaps?” Crocodile asks next. 

“While I appreciate all this, I'm not a convalescing invalid,” Mihawk protests.  The whole evening has become shamelessly domestic.  He's never been cared for, catered to, like this.

But he can hardly sit around half-naked in Crocodile's bed either. 

“So you'd respond differently if I arrived at your door in the same condition?” Crocodile challenges from where he's rummaging through his wardrobe.  “Would you turn me away?”

Mihawk frowns.  “No, but—” He sits up again, steadier than before.  “It's not as though I didn't walk here independently.”

“Ah, so we have the same memory then,” Crocodile notes pointedly, handing him the shirt before stepping from the room.

Mihawk aims a dirty look at his back.  Very nice, he's stepped right into that one, hasn't he?  Now he's drawn even more attention to the tangled motives that brought him here in the first place.  With an exasperated sigh, he pushes himself fully upright. 

He practically swims in what Crocodile's given him, their difference in size more obvious than ever with the waifish way the shirt keeps slipping off his shoulders.  He settles for leaving the neck open, cuffing the sleeves to keep them from sliding over his hands.

The most fascinating development is the way it seems to affect Crocodile. 

He stops short upon re-entering the bedroom, stalled in the doorway.  Possessive, Mihawk realizes, determined to interpret the nuance written on Crocodile’s face before he tucks it away.  A touch of smug satisfaction, desire—and self-control.

Crocodile sets his jaw, nods his approval, crosses to the chaise lounge across from the bed, and sits facing Mihawk.  He places a neat pile of reference books and notes on the table beside it, snapping his fingers for Simosuchus to join him.

Mihawk tilts his head.  Interesting.  How comforting not to be the only one exposed. 

“Do you mind?” Crocodile inquires, holding up a cigar.  He lights it when Mihawk shakes his head.  A lazy curl of smoke drifts from his lips as he turns his attention to his studies. 

Mihawk leans back against the pillows, content with the easy lull in conversation.  He selects a fig.  Sea salt clings to the pistachios he reaches for next, savory against the lingering sweetness on his tongue.

There's an intensity to Crocodile's work he admires.  A pattern emerges: a little furrow between his brows as he chases a theory through the pages of his books, a pleased, crooked half-smile when it aligns.  Mihawk appreciates his diligence, but he's even more entertained when there's a deviation. 

Almost on cue, Crocodile clears his throat—the third time in as many minutes, if Mihawk's counted correctly—redirecting his eyes from where they've strayed to the open collar of Mihawk's shirt where he reclines in the bed.

He plucks his cigar from between his teeth, an irritated little jiggle to his foot when he exhales, licking his lips before dragging his focus back to his notes. 

Mihawk can't resist.  He doesn't need to feign exhaustion—truly, with the excitement of the day receding and the buzz from Crocodile’s whisky beginning to fade, it's a genuine sentiment—but the extra stretch he tacks onto his next yawn is nothing short of coquettish.  It's a bit shameless, but he's been toyed with all evening.  Fair is only fair. 

It's worth the pull in his stitches when Crocodile's gaze immediately jumps from the book in his lap to the bed.  The glare Crocodile gives him in response is deliciously self-aware: reproach tinged with encouragement, a warning tangled with invitation.

He could play at innocence, but a smirk is so much more satisfying. 

“Perhaps you’re bad for business,” Crocodile mutters around his cigar.

“I think you'll find I'm the best,” Mihawk counters smoothly, tucking his hands behind his head when he sinks into the pillows.  “Why else would you want me?” 

He smiles when Crocodile scoffs, relaxed enough to close his eyes and drift in the rasp of turning pages, the sweet scent of Crocodile’s cigar.  It isn't long before he falls asleep.

***

The sunlight creeping through the window the next morning coaxes him awake.  The angle is wrong, the bed beneath him unfamiliar, and the snoring in particular is—Mihawk frowns, cracking an eye open to assess his surroundings. 

He's still in Crocodile’s bed, still wearing Crocodile’s oversized shirt.  Tucked beneath what seems to be the half of the duvet he's not currently lying on.

Mihawk runs a careful hand over his stomach, tracing the stitches with his finger, pressing just hard enough for it to hurt.  His empty glass sits on the nightstand, which must mean—

He turns his head, taking in the sight of Crocodile asleep on the chaise lounge beside the bed.  He's too tall to fit.  One of his feet dangles off the end of the cushion while the other rests on the floor.  His shirt sleeves are rolled up around his forearms, his top few buttons and vest left to fall where they will.  Simosuchus is wedged into the crook of his arm, on his back with his legs splayed, tongue out while he snores. 

The picture they paint is unequivocally charming, so honest and unguarded it causes a soft ache in his chest.  The feeling grows the longer he stares, lingering even after he gives his head a little shake, willing himself to focus.

As silently as he can, Mihawk slips into the bathroom.  His reflection scowls back, as sour as the miserable taste in his mouth.

He gulps down a few handfuls of water, running the excess through his hair to try to tame it.  By no stretch of the imagination would it be permissible to wear Crocodile's shirt home, so he shrugs it off, leaving it neatly hung on a hook before forcing himself back into his dirty clothes. 

His reflection seems vaguely convinced by the time he's redressed. 

He finds his boots and tucks them beneath his arm, thrilled Crocodile's door is willing to keep secrets when he slips outside, gently closing it behind him. 

He makes it as far as the staircase, sinking down onto the top step to shove his feet into his boots.  His stomach grumbles, as strong a complaint as the dull ache at the base of his skull, the soreness pulling around his stitches.

He could stay.  It would be just as easy to let himself back in, slip into bed as though he'd never left.  Be vulnerable enough to see where the morning might lead. 

He’s halfway home before he decides he’s made the wrong choice.

***

It’s another week before he hears from Crocodile again.

He’s back at the cafe, nose tucked into a book, boots up on the table, immersed in the hazy, drifting task of pretending to read while idly eavesdropping.  He looks up when a shadow falls over him, about to scold whoever’s stepped into his light—and instead closes his book.

“Do you mind if I join you,” Crocodile proposes, waiting until Mihawk’s feet are appropriately stowed beneath the table before sitting.  “You're looking well,” he comments.  “How’s your—” he gestures at Mihawk’s stomach.

“Party favor?” Mihawk supplies dryly.  “As well as it can be.”

It’s interesting to observe Crocodile out of his natural habitat.  He’s overdressed for the casual dust of the cafe, but no less at ease when he calls a waiter over and orders the same drink Mihawk’s been nursing for the past half hour.

“Well enough for an excursion?” Crocodile clarifies.  There’s an air of playfulness to the question, something smug just beneath the surface.

Mihawk tilts his head.  “Do you have something specific in mind?” 

Crocodile fishes into his jacket for his notebook and places it between them on the table, waiting for Mihawk to bite.

Mihawk gives him a flat look when he reaches for it.  They both know he'll fold; there's no need to play coy. 

Crocodile’s handwriting spills over the pages: notes and sketches, hieroglyphs with multiple meanings in bulleted lists, wordplay—

“This is fascinating,” Mihawk murmurs, enchanted.  It isn’t treasure Crocodile is seeking, it’s a key of some sort—the terms he’s used are just vague enough to intrigue.

“High praise.”  Crocodile takes a sip of his drink, fingers tracing lines in the condensation.  “Tell me what you think of the last page.”

Mihawk's eyebrow arches when he scans Crocodile’s meticulous conclusion: a forgotten temple hidden beneath one of the city's largest excavations.  

He wants to believe it’s possible—Crocodile clearly does, from the unassailable confidence in his smile.  And it's certainly not impossible.  He has enough firsthand experience to know how often traps and clever puzzles keep valuables just out of sight in the tombs.  But an entire temple?  He’d love to see it for himself.

“You're aware this is a government sanctioned dig site?” he inquires, his voice low enough for privacy.

Crocodile leans forward.  “Is it a problem?”

“Not for me,” Mihawk states.  “But my name isn't the one on all the high society guest lists if there’s trouble.”

“How considerate of you to worry about my reputation,” Crocodile teases, pulling an envelope from his jacket and sliding it across the table.

Mihawk scans its contents—a carte blanche inviting Crocodile to explore the site as he pleases, with the highest compliments for his interest.  

“Where’d—”  His eye falls on the official government seal, the calligraphied signature at the bottom.  “How'd you get this?”

“My high society parties aren't just for fun.  You of all people should know that by now,” Crocodile remarks, dragging his finger around the rim of his glass.  “Perhaps you should attend more frequently.”

“Perhaps if I were invited,” Mihawk counters.  His question has gone unanswered, but if Crocodile is willing to openly flirt, he can provide the same courtesy.  “Is discretion still a priority?” 

“Always,” Crocodile smiles.  He retrieves his letter, stowing it back inside his jacket pocket.  “As far as the government is concerned, I’ve promised to mention how helpful they’ve been when I publish my next paper, but I don’t intend for anything you and I have discussed to ever reach print.  This stays between us.”

Mihawk nods.  He has no use for government doublespeak—if he dealt with them on any sort of regular basis, he’d keep his motivations quiet as well.  Despite the intimacy of a shared secret, he wonders how much Crocodile’s done the same with him. 

“What’s your timeline?” he asks instead, shifting the topic back to pure interrogatives.

“That rather depends on you,” Crocodile replies, raising his glass to his lips.  “I can be ready as soon as this evening.”

Mihawk leans back in his chair, tapping a finger on Crocodile’s notebook while he thinks.  The night should be a clear one, full of light with the waxing moon.  Crocodile’s permission slip is nice insurance, but it'll be more entertaining to slip past the guards.  He's familiar enough with their patrols—the plagues themselves couldn’t disrupt their clockwork timing.  All in all, it could be worse.

“Tonight,” he agrees.  He can be ready as soon as he fetches his supplies.  “We’ll meet two hours from now, at the bar behind your hotel.  Make sure you dress for the occasion.”

***

Crocodile’s arrival is prompt.

He smiles when Mihawk steps from the shadows, running his eyes over the clothing Mihawk's worn so often below ground it’s practically his uniform.  

Mihawk spares himself a glance, half curious what Crocodile makes of his dark button-down and trousers, his favorite leather boots, the worn canvas satchel filled with his supplies.  If anything, it’s utilitarian.  Deliberate.

He’s not sure why Crocodile bothered with designer labels; they’ll be covered in dust within the hour.

“Once we’re below ground, you’ll stay close and do as I say,” Mihawk instructs as they set off for the dig site, glancing up at Crocodile in time to catch the amusement in his smile.  He glares a warning—now isn’t the time.  “I'm not responsible for the consequences if you choose not to listen.”

Crocodile’s smile grows, entertained by his snippy reproach. “I can’t imagine anyone choosing not to listen to you.”

“It’s not usually a mistake people make twice,” Mihawk states icily, guiding them towards a cluster of palm trees.  

He waits in the shadows until the guards on the hilltop turn away, beckoning for Crocodile to follow when he skirts a pile of rubble, slipping behind the cracked remnants of a pillar.  They have two minutes to wait, another four to make it inside the tomb before the patrol turns around.

There’s a chill in the air as the evening creeps further towards night, shivering through his clothes, teasing his breath into fog.  Crocodile’s arm brushes his side when he shifts, an instant of warmth before it fades back to cold.  

He gestures for Crocodile to stay low when they move.  They dart for the shadowed facade of the tomb, their footsteps muffled by the sand.  He leads them through the rubble to reach the entrance, cautious but quick on the loose rock.  Plywood bars the entry, a few haphazard planks nailed into place.

Mihawk resists the urge to roll his eyes.  Lazy.  Honestly, why even bother?  He reaches for his crowbar, easing the makeshift door away to reveal the darkness beyond it. 

“In,” he directs in a whisper.  He slips through the opening after Crocodile, hauling the door back into place so it leans over the entrance.  

He can hear Crocodile beside him in the shadows, feel his breath shivering over his skin.  His flashlight illuminates the excitement on Crocodile’s face.

“What would you like to see first?”  Mihawk resettles the strap of his bag over his chest.  

This is his kingdom—the danger in the darkness, the magic of underground secrets—he’s as untouchable here as Crocodile is in his world of sparkling chandeliers and parties.

The eagerness in Crocodile’s eyes glitters like treasure in the dark.  “The king’s chambers,” he says without hesitation, stepping back so Mihawk can squeeze past him in the passageway.  

The walls press close as they ascend the steep ramp, the air thick with humidity and dust.  They're breathless by the time the corridor plateaus into the antechamber.  A light breeze stirs through Crocodile’s hair where it’s escaped from behind his ears, lifting Mihawk’s damp shirt away from the small of his back.

“One of the ventilation ducts,” Mihawk provides, anticipating the question.  He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm.  “The king’s chambers are just ahead.”

Granite slabs replace the worn pathways underfoot as his flashlight jumps over the brilliant frescoes painted on the walls.  Crocodile grabs his arm, pulling him back when he tries to press onward. 

“Wait,” he breathes.  A lifesize figure of a woman fills the wall beside him, joined by gods and goddesses, animals and hieroglyphs—disappearing into darkness when Mihawk shifts his light.  “These are incredible, I—”

“I can bring you back,” Mihawk offers softly.  He almost hates to force them forward, but they’ve come with a specific task in mind and he has no idea how much time it will take.  “All of these chambers have already been mapped—you could come here with your permission slip.”

Crocodile purses his lips, reluctant to drag himself away from the artwork.  “Without the added allure of breaking and entering?  Everything else pales in comparison.”

Mihawk’s tempted to scoff, but secretly, he agrees.  He’s lost track of the number of times he’s broken into the tombs just to wander, either alone or with Shanks, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.  He wonders if Crocodile would enjoy the same—it’s a far cry from a museum gala among the elite, but the experience holds a magic all its own.

“I can hardly be held responsible for your future disappointment,” he decides, stepping into the king’s chambers.  

A carved sarcophagus lies at the far end of the room, surrounded on all sides by frescoes decorating the walls.  Pillars support the painted ceiling, plastered white and painted to depict the reeds along the Nile.  In the rushes, a crocodile waits with only its eyes visible above the water, a black heron by its side.

“I’m certainly not disappointed this evening,” Crocodile murmurs, a rejoinder so soft Mihawk almost misses it.  “May I?” he asks, extending his hand for the flashlight.

Mihawk gives it to him, fishing into his satchel for his spare while Crocodile makes his way towards the back wall behind the sarcophagus.  His finger follows the hieroglyphs, hovering just above the plaster when he steps back, the same curious tilt to his head as the one Simosuchus wears.  

“Can you put your hands here?”  Crocodile demonstrates, pausing while Mihawk gets into position.  “I think it's a false wall.”  

It's obvious almost immediately that the plan won't work.  Mihawk shifts, pressing his shoulder into the wall instead while Crocodile leans over him, straining against the slab of rock. 

He reaches for his crowbar next, wedging it into the corner seam next to where Crocodile had indicated.  He presses with all his weight, his boots slipping on the gritty floor. 

“Move, damn you,” Crocodile growls, shoving with his shoulder.  His breath warms the back of Mihawk’s neck, swirling in the heat and dust trapped between them.

He’s about to ask if Crocodile truly believes something will happen when the stone suddenly shifts, grating across the floor as the corner folds in on itself.  

Mihawk stumbles, catching himself as he steps into a corridor beyond the king’s chamber.  He fetches his flashlight, wiping the dust from his hands as he shines it over the walls.

A few steps in, the masonry fades into the unfinished surface of a natural cave.

Excitement swells in Mihawk's chest, the last of his detachment from the evening sharpening into high alert.  This is uncharted territory—here all along, right beneath everyone's noses.  He's delighted.  

“We must be in the cliffs beyond the dig site,” he realizes, turning to capture Crocodile with his light.  “Stay close.”

His pace is cautious but efficient when they set off.  He's ready for traps and false ends, hopeful for them even.  It's been ages since he's explored anything new. 

Dampness hangs in the air the further they travel, the temperature cooler than in the tomb. Water trickles down the rocks, the grit beneath their feet pocketed with puddles.

“A natural spring?” Crocodile guesses, panning his flashlight up towards the ceiling.  Droplets of water glitter like diamonds, clinging to each other before they fall.

Mihawk nods.  Their path takes a sharper angle of descent, twisting around a corner.  He skirts a large puddle, angling sideways when his boots slip on the slick gravel.  Darkness looms, impenetrable beyond the beam of his flashlight when Crocodile's footing suddenly skids behind him.

Crocodile bites out a curse, stumbling into him with enough force to knock them both down as the stones shift under their feet.

Mihawk twists, one hand on his flashlight, the other grasping at anything he can find to stop their slide.  His boots scrabble for purchase when Crocodile grabs his arm, finally slowing them to a breathless halt just before the earth gives way to darkness. 

“Shit.”  Crocodile's hand stays clamped around Mihawk's wrist. 

Mihawk's heart beats a wild pace in his chest.  He takes a breath, letting his head tip back to rest on the ground before he exhales.  Water seeps into his shirt, cold where it saturates the seat of his pants. 

“When I requested for you to stay close, should I have clarified that on top of me is too close?” he asks.  An unpleasant ache curls across his stomach and he presses a hand to it, hoping he's not torn his stitches. 

Crocodile manages a chuckle as he fumbles for his flashlight.  “I can think of worse places.”

“Does the bottom of this pit come to mind,” Mihawk wonders dryly, gingerly pressing himself upright.  His palm stings, scraped raw from the rocks.  

He inches closer to the jagged lip of the shaft, shining his light over the edge as he nudges a rock into the abyss.  An unnerving silence stretches before a distant clatter indicates an impact.  

“If you've no objections, I'd prefer to end my evening a little less abruptly,” he assesses, turning to Crocodile.  

A touch of unease tinges Crocodile’s face when he shakes his head.  He offers Mihawk his hand, pulling him up to standing. 

Mihawk adjusts his satchel, getting himself in order.  “We need to backtrack.  If this is a true tunnel, we've missed the off-shoot.”

The climb up is more difficult than their chaotic slide downwards.  Mud oozes from beneath the rocks they’ve disrupted, clinging to the bottom of Mihawk’s boots.  Scowling at the inconvenience, he scrapes his soles against an outcropping, finally spotting where they should have turned.  A tangled web of roots shields a narrow aperture, snapping and brittle when he forces them aside.

“Look.”  Crocodile aims his flashlight at the stretch of frescoes adorning the cavern walls.

Water seeps from the darkness above them, carving faded pathways through the plaster and paint.  In the first panel, a group of graceful dancers reach towards the sky, their palms upturned as they ask for a blessing.  Rain spills from the clouds in the next sequence—lines of brilliant blue streak the dancers’ costumes as flowers bloom at their feet.

“We’re headed the right direction,” Crocodile confirms.  Eagerness fills his voice, shining in his eyes when he glances down at Mihawk

The next corner they turn ends in a small chamber.  A statue of a winged cobra fills one side of the room.  It faces a shallow fountain, the basin tiled in squares of blue.

The trickle of water is louder here, more deliberate where it spills into the basin from a trio of pipes, its surface glittering black.  

“We found it,” Crocodile breathes, shining his light over the statue.  The serpent rears to strike, carved from the same brilliant blue-green stone as the amulet from the treasure box.

He brushes the worst of the grime from his hands before pulling his notebook from his pocket.  Pinning his flashlight under his arm, he flips through the pages. 

“ But I don't—I thought there'd be—”  He frowns when he glances up at Mihawk.  “I beg of thee, bestow thy blessing, stay thy judgment upon my hand.  I beseech of thee to impart thy divine knowledge—"

“Are you invoking a ritual?” Mihawk asks.  The gods here are not the ones he worships, but that doesn't render them powerless.

“I'm not intending to,” Crocodile mutters, squinting at his notes. 

“Do you know what it is you're looking for?” Mihawk clarifies, empathetic enough to commiserate when Crocodile shakes his head.  “You're certain the translation is correct?” 

“It's my translation,” Crocodile points out, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Ah, so there couldn't possibly be errors,” Mihawk deadpans, ignoring the irritated twitch in Crocodile’s eye while he thinks.  Begging, beseeching—  “Kneel in front of the statue,” he directs, surprised at the little thrill of power that rushes through him when Crocodile immediately obeys.

From the unsettled expression on Crocodile's face, it's a thought they've shared.  

Mihawk clears his throat.  He's not sure Crocodile can see the warmth in his cheeks with how dim it is in the chamber, but he's determined to hide it anyway when he turns to examine the fountain. 

A trio of archaic pipes jut from the walls, each carved into the shape of a serpent.  Their features have changed over time, warped into a grotesque caricature by the constant flow of water.  

He steps closer to examine the stonework, wary when he shines his flashlight over their flaring hoods and fangs.  Nothing but poison flows from the mouths of snakes.  He peers down into the pool, going utterly still when something clicks.

One of the snakes in front of him gags— scraping wet and dry somewhere deep in the wall.  He takes a step back, his flashlight trained on its open mouth when the water trickling from it doubles, triples— The pipes beside it sputter as the water spilling from them does the same.

Crocodile is staring at him when he turns, wide-eyed where he's still kneeling in front of the statue. 

“A pressure plate,” Mihawk guesses, monitoring the steady rise of the water inside the pool.  He's not sure if it will drain or spill over.  “We might need to hurry.”

Crocodile nods. “Stay thy judgment upon my hand,” he repeats, studying the statue when he suddenly leans forward, his fingers outstretched towards its base.  “There's an opening—”

“Stop!”   Mihawk leaps forward, dropping to his knees to grab Crocodile’s wrist.  “Think first.  You've heard the stories about the curses in these tombs—never use your bare hands.”

“You believe in curses?” Crocodile asks, blatantly skeptical. 

“You're the one who invoked an ancient ritual not five minutes ago,” Mihawk glares, releasing Crocodile’s wrist and letting it fall.  “I believe there's a scientific explanation for mysterious deaths.  A cobra above ground is dangerous—down here is no different.”  He digs into his satchel, withdrawing a pair of leather gloves while he waves a hand at the chamber, highlighting the water spilling from the mouths of the snakes, the statue ready to strike above them.  “There's symbolism here with literal meaning.”

Chagrined, Crocodile dons the gloves.  He's careful when he slides his hand into the opening, rotating his arm to explore with his fingertips.

“There are fangs,” he realizes, slipping his hand free again to sketch their size and shape in the air between them. 

There's a wicked tinge to Mihawk's smile.  He resists the urge to say he'd already guessed there would be.  He's seen the aftereffects of the poison painted into certain hieroglyphs, the spores a careless hand can release when a tomb is unsealed.  Sometimes a curse is a just punishment for disrespecting the dead.

Crocodile edges closer to the statue, returning his hand to the opening.  “There's a depression at the back.  And I think—”  He pulls the amulet from his pocket, gentle when he fits it into the aperture and guides it in place. 

There's another subtle click and then a hollow gurgle from the fountain as the flow from the pipes slows and it begins to drain.  Visible when the water recedes, a coating of black slime ripples over the tiles, but the indentations have a deliberate pattern.

“There's an etching in the bottom of the basin,” Mihawk reports, able to see from his vantage point. 

Excitement blooms across Crocodile’s face, as full of hope as Mihawk has ever seen it. 

“That has to be it!” he grins, giddy when he beams at Mihawk.  He slides his arm out of the statue, snatching up his notebook to stand over the pool.

“I wouldn't touch that either,” Mihawk warns, still wary of a fountain filled from the mouths of snakes. 

“I can't read the hieroglyphs if I don't.”  Crocodile reaches into the basin, dragging a finger through the sludge.  A sickly smell leaks into the chamber, the fingertips of his glove discolored when he rubs them together. 

Mihawk's lip curls. 

“I'll buy you a new pair,” Crocodile soothes, apparently intent on ruining Mihawk's favorite gloves when he reaches into the pool again.  “A nicer pair.”

“I liked this pair,” Mihawk mutters sourly, tugging his scarf up over his nose.  “If I lend you a handkerchief, can you at least try not to destroy that as well?”

He rolls his eyes at Crocodile’s shameless grin, but dutifully reaches into his satchel for his spare.  Crocodile’s hair is soft beneath his fingertips when he brushes it out of the way to tie the handkerchief over the lower half of his face.  He's just able to catch the subtle hint of Crocodile’s cologne over the stench of ruined leather. 

His gloves are beyond salvage by the time Crocodile’s finished—their deep color bleached a depleted shade of bone, the fingertips utterly shredded.  Mihawk sighs when he nudges them with the toe of his boot. 

“You won't be able to get that amulet out without gloves,” he notes, willing to indulge in a bit of petulance on their behalf. 

“Then I'll use something else,” Crocodile dismisses absently, focused on transcribing the inscription. 

“Like my handkerchief,” Mihawk guesses flatly. 

“Whatever you'd prefer,” Crocodile agrees, not really listening.  “We can spend the entire day shopping if you'd—”

A grating sound echoes somewhere beyond their chamber, a clash of metal and rock grinding together. 

He looks up, meeting Mihawk's eyes. 

There's a thud, something heavy falling, tumbling—

A glug of water oozes from the mouths of the serpent pipes, heavier the lazy trickle dripping from them moments before. 

“Finish your notes,” Mihawk orders.  “I anticipate our time is about to be cut very short.”

Crocodile's pencil skitters across the page as Mihawk presses his ear to the chamber wall, able to detect the faint rush of water. 

“How are you with swimming?” he asks.

Crocodile’s hand stills for a beat before it jumps forward, his voice tense when he speaks.  “I don't.”  He leans over the pool, squinting down through the water as it rises. 

“You don't?” Mihawk repeats, a curl of dismay tightening his stomach.

“I didn't think it pertinent to share given that swimming in a tomb seemed unlikely.”  Crocodile glares up from his notes.  “I'm sure you have qualities you don't immediately disclose.”

“Obviously, but mine aren't currently posing a risk to my safety,” Mihawk agrees shortly.  He can't predict exactly what's coming, but something is—every alarm in his head is urging him to run. 

“I'm on the last line,” Crocodile mutters.  “If I could just—”  

A terrible crack echoes through the chamber as a fissure breaks in the wall behind the fountain.  Water spills down the painted face of the rock. 

He scrambles back as water gushes from the serpents’ mouths, filling the basin faster than it can drain.  

“Now.”  Mihawk grabs his arm.  “We’re out of time.”

“Not without the amulet,” Crocodile grits, tearing free.  He rips the handkerchief from over his nose, wrapping it around his hand as he drops to his knees in front of the statue.

The fountain overflows, spilling onto the floor. 

“Grab it already,” Mihawk snaps, dragging Crocodile to his feet the moment he pulls his arm from the statue and shoving him towards the exit. 

In the corridor, water pours down from the painted heavens, flooding the ground beneath the dancers’ feet.  A rush echoes from the chamber with the statue, growing louder—

A river surges from the chamber, curling around Mihawk's calves, tugging with enough force to knock him off balance. 

“Run!”  His hand presses against Crocodile’s back, grabbing at his arm when he almost trips.  “This will wash us into that shaft unless we get above it.”

They reach the mouth of the passage, fighting against the current as the torrent cascades down the slope, tumbling off the edge and into the darkness. 

He's soaked, shivering, one hand forcing Crocodile forward as they climb, the other clutching his flashlight.  Water swirls around his ankles, roots catching in his hair and tearing at his arms, but they're finally out of the worst of it.

“This isn't the way we came,” he realizes, barely getting the words out as he fights to catch his breath.  

He shoves past Crocodile, his heart racing as the beam of his flashlight wavers, fading into darkness.  He smacks it against his hand, willing it to overcome whatever water has gotten inside.  The light returns, faint but steady.  

They’ve climbed a moderate slope—similar to the one they descended, but the ground is rougher, less trod.  From the distant roar of the river they've outmaneuvered, retracing their original path isn't an option.

He absolutely refuses to be lost in a tomb.  He has too much self-respect. 

Mihawk takes a breath, steadying his nerves, going still as a thread of fresh air teases through the musty depths.  He prays that it isn't just a ventilation duct when he follows it. 

Crocodile's breath is rough behind him, as uneven as his own.  “You're alright?” he inquires softly.

“Fine,” Mihawk responds.  His hair is damp from sweat, a nagging strain across his stomach when he twists too far, breathes too deeply.  The breeze he's tracking has grown stronger, luring him towards hope.  “You?”

“The evening has been wetter than I anticipated,” Crocodile reports as though they've been inconvenienced by rain at the opera. 

Mihawk huffs a little laugh.  The evening hasn't adhered to his expectations either.  But there—he swears he sees a glimmer of starlight through the stones ahead.  His heart in his throat, he scrambles up a pile of rubble. 

“Hold this,” he directs, shoving the flashlight at Crocodile.  He hauls at the loose rocks, sending them tumbling down the slope they've just climbed until he's cleared an opening wide enough for them to wriggle through. 

The world is quiet when they emerge onto the rocky hillside, the air cool and the night full of stars. 

They're not where they started.  The lights from the government encampment glow in the distance—Mihawk places the entrance to the tomb somewhere below them, a fair jaunt to the left, if he's not mistaken. 

He sinks down, sighing when he lets himself lie back against the rocky ground.  The stars are brilliant overhead, the sky a beautiful shade of midnight blue.

A dozen different places clamor for attention and he tunes them out, placing a placating hand over his stitches to quiet them.  They can't linger here long—the air is too cold for wet clothes and he is dangerously near exhaustion.  But for the moment, this is all he needs.  All he wants. 

Crocodile lowers himself down beside him, content with a moment of silence before he speaks. 

“My compliments,” he offers quietly.  

Mihawk can hear the smile in his voice.  “And mine,” he returns, closing his eyes when Crocodile hums a soft acknowledgement.  

He's struck by how peaceful the night is, how full of life and light compared to the dust and darkness underground. 

“I can't imagine… trusting anyone else with this,” Crocodile states, a soft note of hesitancy in his voice.

Mihawk arches an eyebrow, not bothering to check whether or not Crocodile sees his surprise at how intimate his admiration feels. 

“You'll tell me if I've misread,” Crocodile requests.

The comment pulls Mihawk's eyes open.  Curious, he tips his head to find Crocodile gazing down at him.

Crocodile’s hand slips into his hair, smoothing it from where it clings to his forehead.  The back of his fingers skim over Mihawk's sideburns, along his cheek.

It's unspeakably gentle.  Mihawk almost assures him he's not going to break, but there's an entrancing fondness to the way Crocodile leans over him, lifting his chin just enough to guide their lips together.

He can taste the salt on his skin, feel the sand on his cheeks.  If anything, it's a grittier kiss than what he usually prefers, but the affection in it, the warmth of restrained desire promising to build to more steals his breath.

An elated thrill shivers through him when Crocodile's hand skims over his chest, settling around his waist.  His hand finds the small of Crocodile’s back, pulling him in closer as they ease towards something deeper. 

This could be something if he lets it, will be something if he caves to the temptation of stepping away from solitude to embrace a new adventure.  Perhaps it's not even all that different to the dangers he’s more familiar with—worth the risk for a treasure hidden just out of sight. 

He traces the angle of Crocodile’s jaw, slides his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

It really is a good thing that he's the best in the business.