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There's a werewolf standing in front of his booth.
Or at least, he's fairly certain. It's been decades since he's encountered a werewolf.
But one never truly forgets, despite how time passes.
The man, the wolf, stares back at him over the crates of produce, the tilt of his head so reminiscent of a curious pup that Mihawk almost laughs. Imagine, bumping into a mortal enemy at an event as innocuous as a Saturday morning farmers’ market. He can hardly believe it himself.
The silence between them grows, and the longer it stretches, the more sure he is. The scent is faint, but layered beneath the heady fragrance of the man's cologne and the smoke seeping from his cigar, the unmistakable musk of an alpha wolf prowls in the shadows.
“Can I help you,” Mihawk states finally. There's no need to be rude; he shouldn't forget his manners just because he's been confronted with an inconvenience.
The man arches an eyebrow. A crooked scar meanders across the bridge of his nose, his canines sharp when he smiles.
“Can I help you?” he counters, drawing attention to the severe frown Mihawk has only just realized he's wearing.
If he hadn't already identified the man for what he is, his voice would be a dead giveaway. Deep, rich, it carries the barest hint of a growl, though his expression conveys mild amusement rather than an intent to intimidate.
“I suspect not,” he decides, but the man seems so smug, so confident, that for a terrible moment, he wonders if he's actually correct.
“Stranger things have happened,” the man assures him with a grin Mihawk can't help but describe as baring teeth. “But for the moment, all I have to offer you is a compliment for your heirloom tomatoes.”
Mihawk blinks down at his produce. Out of all the vegetables he sells, his heirloom tomatoes are the only ones that keep secrets. It's a point of vanity how long he's managed to keep them alive—three hundred years of careful tending, all by his own hand.
“They're beautiful,” the man observes. “In fact, I've never seen anything like them… except for once.”
The pride blooming in Mihawk's chest instantly withers.
“Where,” he demands. Damn the frown, now he's scowling.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” The man's crooked smile grows when Mihawk's eyes narrow in suspicion. “Or maybe you would. A conversation for another time, perhaps.”
“Are you sure you’ve seen them elsewhere,” Mihawk challenges. It’s an absolute impossibility, he’s the only one who—damn it all, he knows as well as anyone wolves aren’t to be trusted. This is obviously a ruse to rile him up, get his fangs in a twist with the sole purpose of instigation. “Look.”
He selects one, so quick with his knife the tomato barely rests on his cutting board before he slices through it. Crimson coats his blade, the inside of the tomato a vivid hue of deep purple and burgundy.
The immediate appreciation on the man’s face cools his temper. Slightly.
Mihawk fetches a toothpick from the counter—a hand carved sliver of bamboo twisted into a sword, one of Zoro’s contributions after Perona insisted they adopt modern branding—and stabs it into the slice. He offers it to the man, careful to keep his fingers out of the way when the man reaches for it.
“I do consider myself a bit of a connoisseur,” the man confides as he lifts the slice of tomato towards his mouth. “I’ve always been fascinated by the study of—” The tomato makes a desperate leap from its toothpick and the man catches it, closing his eyes while he chews to savor the flavor.
“Lycanthropy,” Mihawk politely finishes.
The man chokes on his next swallow, growling to clear his throat. “Lycopersicum.”
“Is that not what I said?” Mihawk frowns, unsure as to why he’s been echoed. Perhaps it’s a wolf behavior, like howling at the moon.
“I assure you, it isn’t,” the man states a little gruffly, looking like he doesn’t know whether to take offense or laugh.
Mihawk squints back at him, replaying the last few moments of their conversation and—ah, he’s interchanged the scientific name for tomatoes and the study of werewolves, hasn’t he? How terribly awkward.
“My apologies,” he offers, dismissing any embarrassment with an elegant lift of his chin. “For some reason, I find myself most contemplative of their intersection at the moment.”
“A dangerous preoccupation,” the man softly muses. He shifts, and the heavy coat he's thrown over his shoulders falls just enough to reveal that his left hand has been replaced with a large, golden hook.
Mihawk gazes steadily back. He's never been opposed to a little danger, and at the moment he has the worst impulse to invite it, if only to be petty.
“Should I consult a subject matter expert?” he wonders, and the wolf's heart beats faster—not in fear, no, not anything close—he's enjoying this.
The man's smile grows, as keen as a dog scenting his quarry. “Would you like to?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Mihawk mimics. It's a flippant dismissal, though from the eager glint in the wolf's eyes, it's done more to encourage him than anything else.
“Then I eagerly await your invitation. But in the meantime, I’d like to buy a few tomatoes,” the man replies, returning his gaze with such blatant interest that Mihawk almost feels heat rise in his cheeks.
Is this wolf flirting? Surely he’s misread the situation.
“Are we arranging a playdate or a battle royale?” he wonders with an amused snort, gathering enough tomatoes to fill a pint box. He tips it towards the man, waiting for his approval before placing it on his scale to calculate the price.
“Which would you prefer?” The man reaches into his coat pocket for his wallet. It’s a deft balancing act with the hook, but the motion is fluid, so graceful Mihawk can only assume the man’s relationship with his unusual prosthetic carries a history all its own. “I was correct, by the way. I’ve had these before. I could never forget that incredible color.”
And as quickly as the tension between them has faded, it flares again, like a barb slipped under his skin.
Mihawk's hand closes around the bills and coins. “I promise you, you're mistaken.”
“And I promise you,” the man counters with a calculating smile, “I've never been more certain. But for now, it’s been a pleasure. Perhaps we’ll cross paths again soon.”
Mihawk watches the man depart, resisting the urge to call him back. The autumn breeze tugs at his jacket, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine.
The wolf is a sure sign of trouble, a threat to the idyllic little world he's built. But he finds he's not entirely adverse to the idea.
It's been ages since anyone dared.
***
He haunts the evening alongside the setting sun, clinging to the shadows until it sinks below the horizon. A few quiet crickets accompany his walk to the greenhouse, the chill in the October air just cool enough for him to feel warm by comparison.
The earthy scent of compost reaches his nose before his hand even finds the door. Once inside, the humid air smears the pungent spice of his tomatoes with a haze of water and terracotta, layered with delicate florals and an undercurrent of vibrant herbs.
Grounding and familiar, he breathes it in, thankful as he always is that the senses of a predator come with this unintended blessing. Each of his plants is a memory of a person he’s been, every careful curation a warning not to forget.
And then he buries himself in his routine—testing soil, fetching water, pruning back the unnecessary so they all flourish. The hours pass with the blink of an eye, his concentration so complete that the sudden scent of wolf intertwined with his lavender startles him into a snarl.
He bristles when the man from the market ducks through the greenhouse door .
“Are you lost, wolf?” he accuses. A chance meeting in public is one thing; tracking him back to his home is quite another.
The man smiles, confident but cautious when he halts just inside the doorway. He's left a respectful distance between them, but the tactical advantage could shift either way.
“There's an address on your business card,” he begins, reaching into his pocket for proof. “I did attempt to call ahead, but no one answered.”
Mihawk arches an eyebrow. He's never taken to carrying a phone—it's probably in the house, silenced and sulking wherever he's left it. It's a more mundane explanation than he expected, not to mention surprisingly reasonable.
In his thoughts, he reaches out, letting his awareness brush up against the wolf's. He wants the real reason the wolf is here and fully intends to seek out the answer—
—when he's unceremoniously shoved out of the wolf's mind and back into his own.
“I have no doubt you could steal my secrets if you truly wanted,” the man states, warning rumbling in his throat. “But I will provide you the courtesy of honesty if you'll allow me my privacy.”
Mihawk purses his lips. An interesting development, but at least the wolf knows when to concede a victory, however slight it may be.
“Very well.” He folds his arms over his chest. “What was so pressing that you took it upon yourself to visit in person this evening?”
“I'm out of tomatoes,” the man confesses with a hopeful smile.
Mihawk's frown is suspicious. It's a significant risk for a wolf to wander into vampire territory, especially over something so trivial. He can't quite decide if this is a display of hubris or irreparable stupidity, but either way, no one stakes their lives on tomatoes. There must be an additional reason.
“Bold of you,” he murmurs, unconvinced.
“Fortune favors the bold,” the man shrugs. “Moreover, you piqued my interest at the farmers’ market. I thought it would be best to have a more discreet conversation.”
Mihawk can feel the exact moment his face settles into a scowl. And now comes the inevitable threat. With one wolf sniffing around, more are sure to follow. He can defend himself—it certainly isn't as though he's ill-equipped—but by sheer numbers, the equation isn't in his favor.
“Is this a courtesy call, then?” he challenges. “Should I be expecting a visit from your pack as well?” He braces for the saccharine scent of deceit when grief reaches him instead, bitter and hollow where it clings to the humid air.
The flicker of loss in man’s tight smile confirms what he's sensed. “No pack.” He spreads his arms, his palm displayed in a show of good faith. “I have no intent to harm, though I won’t hesitate to defend myself if you strike first.” He takes a step closer, the slight incline of his head just enough to convey a friendly submission. “We both know that if you didn't want me here, I'd be gone already.”
Mihawk's lips press tight. True enough. By the wolf’s own admission, he has the advantage when it comes to sheer willpower, though brute strength is a different matter entirely.
But from the steady pace of the man's heart, honest and unbothered, there's no immediate harm in letting him stay. If only for a moment.
“Tomatoes?” he repeats, tacking on a weary sigh the man interprets as an invitation to approach. “Truly? You’re telling me you've eaten them all so soon?”
“You only gave me five,” the man protests with a little laugh. “If anything, I’ve shown incredible restraint—take it as the compliment it is.” His overcoat brushes against the plants on either side of the aisle when he comes to a halt an arm’s length away. “Crocodile,” he offers, extending his hand.
Mihawk hesitates before shaking it. Even after all these years, the cooler temperature of his hand in Crocodile’s is jarring. He appreciates that Crocodile is polite enough not to call attention to it.
“Dracule Mihawk,” he states in return. Something unreadable flashes through the wolf's eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Is it more heirlooms you're after?”
“Do you have others too?” Crocodile asks, so eager Mihawk can almost picture his tail wagging. For as well as Crocodile carries himself, tonight he's practically begging.
“A few,” he admits, amused. “You're welcome to whatever is ripe.”
Crocodile gives a low whistle of appreciation when Mihawk leads him further into the greenhouse.
The lemon trees are blooming, the sharp scent of citrus bright in the air when they pass by. Figs and orchids, tumbling ferns and vines lined with buds ready to open at the first breath of sunlight… and his beloved tomatoes. Green, yellow, red, and every shade in between.
He has a few heirlooms ready to be picked, heavy where they droop from their vines.
“Perhaps while you're here, you could admit you were wrong about having these before,” Mihawk remarks, his tone just light enough to tease when he lifts the leaves to find the best few.
“Is that the price for having them?” Crocodile clarifies with an entertained laugh. “I can't give you what doesn’t exist. Ask me for something else.”
“Are you a genie now as well as a wolf?” Mihawk crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed while he studies Crocodile. “Why tomatoes? Why these in particular?”
“I like what I like, and I indulge myself as I please.” Crocodile’s smile sharpens, less playful than before. “Much like you, I'd imagine.”
He steps closer, and something new reaches Mihawk's nose—curious, wistful, it spices the air with the intricate promise of a secret.
“But with these, I taste a world that doesn't exist anymore,” he continues softly. “And I can't help but wonder why that is.”
“Because I use the corpses of my enemies as compost,” Mihawk deadpans, refusing to add more space between them.
Crocodile blinks. “Really?”
“Of course not,” Mihawk tuts. “With the advancements in modern forensics, it would be a nightmare to maintain.”
Crocodile’s laugh fills the greenhouse, warm and appreciative.
Mihawk gives him a little smile in return before turning to contemplate his cherry tomatoes. The actual truth is another story, an inescapable reality he's never been able to overcome. But for now he’s managed to redirect the conversation.
There are enough ripe tomatoes to fill his palm when he collects them. He's careful not to let them roll when he places them next to the heirlooms.
Crocodile’s expression is thoughtful when Mihawk glances back up again, evaluating him with that same, slight tilt to his head as at the market.
“What's the real reason?” he asks.
“What makes you so sure there is one?” Mihawk counters. As far as parrying goes, it's sloppy. He should have closed the topic entirely, but—
Crocodile arches an eyebrow. “It's as clear to me as all my emotions probably are to you. Do you think I haven’t paid you the same attention you’ve given me?”
Apprehension tugs at Mihawk's nerves, itching in his teeth when Crocodile takes another step closer.
“Did you assume I blundered in here without first assessing the risk?” Crocodile continues with a hint of reproach. “You’re not the only one with a sense of smell. Or perhaps you'd like proof.”
He's near enough now that Mihawk needs to tip his chin up to hold his gaze, a detail he finds profoundly irritating.
“I must admit, I was surprised to find you alone,” Crocodile confides. “There are two other signatures on your property, but neither is as strong as yours. No coven?”
“No coven.” Mihawk's jaw tightens. He's never been convinced by the concept of community and has even less use for politics and power grabs. The two he’s taken in are different.
“But no one took them from you like they did me,” Crocodile observes, his eyes sharp on Mihawk's face. “Yours was a choice you made without regret—a decision based on pride.” His smirk bares his teeth. “Should I keep digging?”
“Perhaps next time, I'll bury some bones in the yard for you to unearth since you seem so keen,” Mihawk snips back.
“Charming,” Crocodile chuckles, more amused than anything. “All this fuss over a simple question about tomatoes. I was honest with you—can you do the same?”
Mihawk stares unhappily back at him. By rights, Crocodile’s earned it. He can probably even offer him the honor of his begrudging respect after so thorough a riposte. But now that it's become a challenge…
“I hope you find it worth the effort,” he mutters, casting a glance at the pile of tomatoes he’s collected. “Unfortunately, what I assume you're so enthralled by is my doing, however inadvertent.” He selects one of the heirlooms, holding it up between them. “Life was never meant to be savored by the dead. No matter what I do, this tastes like a suggestion of what it should be—it looks and feels like reality, the scent and texture are correct, but it can't provide me the visceral satisfaction of eating. Like a memory without all of its meaning.” He lets the tomato fall into Crocodile’s palm. “These are my best attempt at capturing the flavors I remember.”
The victory splashed across Crocodile’s face shifts, and to Mihawk’s great horror, he finds it filled with empathy instead.
“How easy it is to forget. Man wasn’t made for immortality,” he quietly agrees. “No wonder you’re so fond of them.”
Mihawk lets his fingers wander the curling edge of a leaf. He supposes he finds some ironic pleasure in it—tethering himself to his humanity with something as innocent as a hobby, holding his own monstrosity at bay with a simple pastime.
“The heirlooms I can almost taste as they were,” he confesses, spurred on by the sincere appreciation in every beat of Crocodile’s heart. They’re his favorite—his first effort at preservation before his childhood memories slipped out of reach. “Cultivated correctly, a suggestion can be persuasive enough to believe.”
“Manipulating the memory by way of taste and smell is a fascinating way to hold the entire olfactory system in thrall,” Crocodile muses. “It seems I’ve underestimated the power of the vampire.”
“Not a mistake to make lightly,” Mihawk notes, though he must admit he’s never quite thought of it that way. He retrieves a bag, gentle when he nestles the evening’s harvest inside and hands it to Crocodile.
“But perhaps one to make deliberately.” Crocodile shifts the bag to his other arm to reach for his wallet, guiding them past the moment before Mihawk has time to fully consider his statement. “What do I owe you?”
“These would be overripe by the next market—you’re saving them from becoming compost,” Mihawk dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I trust you have enough to satisfy your craving for the next several days.”
Crocodile gives him a toothy grin. “And if not, I know where to find you.”
“Try to resist the temptation,” Mihawk advises dryly. But it's an empty threat, which he's sure Crocodile recognizes given the knowing smirk that spreads across his face before he departs into the night.
More contemplative than before, Mihawk turns back to his heirloom tomatoes, slipping his hand beneath the leaves to pick one that's almost as ripe as the harvest he's given Crocodile. In a few more days, it would have been perfect, but he's already had a lifetime of patience while time runs without end.
He lifts it to his nose, breathing in the tomato's bitter skin and the floral sweetness beneath it, the pungent musk of its leaves, the scent of the soil, the water…
With his first bite, he can feel his cheeks warm from the summer sun, his skinned knuckles from brawling in the alley, the cobblestones beneath the thin soles of his shoes. The pigeons scatter when he lunges with the stick he's fashioned into a sword, fluttering out of reach to find less aggressive company. His mother's voice calls his name and he—
—sees the first warning rays of the sunrise through the greenhouse glass when he opens his eyes.
He leaves the tomato in the yard on his way back to the house. Whatever creature is bold enough to venture from the woods can have it.
***
The next afternoon, he’s torn from his repose by the sound of his doorbell.
He jams one of his pillows over his ears and rolls over, but the bell refuses to cease, its demand so adamant that he throws back his covers and storms from his bedroom.
A vicious snarl carries him down the stairs and towards the foyer where he stops short, hissing at the sunlight streaming in through the windows when it touches his skin. Who could possibly need him at this ungodly hour? He should be upstairs, asleep, but—
The bell rings again.
Cursing, Mihawk grabs the first hat he finds in the coat closet and an enormous pair of sunglasses, wrangling his dressing gown over his shoulders by the time he finally reaches the door.
“Do you mind,” he demands of the young man standing outside, his eyes squinting nearly shut in the brilliant sunshine. Honestly, if he had any less control, he'd be devouring this imbecile without a second thought.
Shock registers on the young man's face when he takes in Mihawk's haphazard state of dress.
“Delivery for you?” he asks, offering Mihawk an enormous bouquet of flowers wrapped in tissue paper.
“I didn't order anything,” Mihawk snaps, not bothering to move from where he's clutching the door for support.
It must be the world's brightest autumn afternoon for how miserably sunny it is. He can already feel a headache coming on.
“Are you some kind of celebrity?” the young man blurts, his mind racing to identify Mihawk as an eccentric musician from a list of bands so obscure Mihawk's sure he's never heard of them.
“Yes,” Mihawk decides, gritting his teeth when he forces the young man's skittering thoughts to a halt.
He can only guess how he looks—exhausted, pale, dressed in the eccentric ensemble he's thrown together en route—but if that explains his appearance without any further effort on his part, so be it.
“Delivery for you,” the young man repeats, a little dazed when he blinks back at Mihawk's scowl. “Please. Sign here.” He reaches for an electronic signature pad, motionless while he waits for Mihawk to complete the task.
“It's time for you to go now,” Mihawk instructs when he makes no move to depart.
The young man nods, a stiff automation to his movement when he turns and walks back to his delivery truck.
Powder soft, sweet and floral, the fragrance of the flowers fills the foyer when Mihawk closes the door. Frilled black irises spill over his fingers when he peels back the tissue paper. Iridescent when they catch the light, the petals shimmer deep purple and burgundy, shifting back to black when he removes his hand.
He fetches a vase and fills it, arms crossed over his chest while he contemplates the bouquet on his entry table. He knows their symbolism—mystery and elegance, intrigue, rebellion—but hardly expects their sender to be the wolf.
A curious gesture. And certainly unexpected.
He concludes that Crocodile must enjoy tomatoes more than he'd originally guessed, and writes it off as a gesture of gratitude with inconvenient timing.
The following day, his doorbell rings again.
Mihawk glares up at the canopy draped above his bed, wishing a hellish end upon the hapless soul who's dared to disturb his slumber a second time.
Dragging his dressing gown from his hook and donning the first hat he finds—black, wide-brimmed, with a luxurious cascade of feathers affixed to the band—he stumbles down the stairs to answer the door.
Today, a van from an antique store sits in his driveway.
The delivery woman offers him a cautious smile alongside a paper-wrapped parcel. She accepts his signature, much less curious than the young man from the day before. Perhaps she's used to eccentricity.
Once back inside, Mihawk opens the enclosed card first. He should have guessed Crocodile would be the guilty party again, though the tone of his letter is friendly, full of enigmatic good will where it expresses hope that he'll enjoy the piece.
He removes the wrapping paper to find an antique painting. Pale pink clouds drift through the morning sky while a pair of workers toil aboard a small boat they're about to slide into the river. Two stucco towers topped with terracotta tiles sit on the opposite bank, raised from the trees and rocks dotting the hills around them.
It's old, given the style and sweet scent of the aged wooden frame, perhaps even as old as he is, which comes as a shock with how accurately Crocodile seems to have guessed.
Mihawk tosses the card onto the table, frowning at the painting. He does enjoy it. If he lingers too long on the details, he can almost feel them come alive, like revisiting a place he knows from a dream.
But he can't discern a motive beyond the mischief of disturbing his sleep. It feels pointed, deliberate, almost as though Crocodile's sharing a joke with a punchline he ought to recall but can't quite remember.
He carries the painting to the living room, careful when he leans it against one of his bookshelves. He’ll hang it once he’s more rested.
The next morning, he's forced awake again by his doorbell.
Mihawk stares up at his canopy. He's too exhausted to summon anger, but he's proud of the dramatic sigh he manages to heave when he wills himself from the bed.
To his immense irritation, he can’t find any of his hats and settles for a winter coat with an enormous fur-trimmed hood he pulls down low over his face when he answers the door.
The delivery man stifles a snort of laughter when he hands Mihawk a small box, imparting an overly chummy, ‘Have a good day, buddy,’ when he leaves.
Mihawk scowls after him, lingering outside just long enough to disconnect all the wires to his doorbell. Whoever tries next can destroy their knuckles knocking. He doesn't give a damn about returning their insufferable modern convenience to the dark ages.
The box contains a book, leatherbound with an elegant ribbon marking a chapter discussing the history of tomatoes and their sordid involvement with werewolves in Europe.
There's a cheeky dedication scrawled inside the front cover: Thought you might like to consult an expert. —Crocodile
Mihawk scoffs. Initially. But he’s fully engrossed in the text by the time he wanders to the living room and sinks into his reading chair.
Wolf peaches, they'd been called, a mis-transcription turned scientific classification as the years had worn on. He’s amused to find confusion as to whether tomatoes had been used to summon werewolves or drive them off, while a confounding third theory suggests ingesting tomatoes can turn the avid enjoyer into the monster for which they're named.
It’s ironically similar to his own convoluted experience, though all his tomatoes have managed to do is transform a werewolf into a perennial pest.
He places the book on his side table once he’s finished, drumming his fingers on the cover. Rather than guide him back towards sleep, it's given him a curious desire for more information. Surely he has a tome about werewolf behavior somewhere in his extensive collection. It seems the practical sort of content he'd include in his library.
He’s almost finished searching all the shelves when he spots a book wedged into a corner the lamplight barely reaches. He retrieves it, arching an eyebrow at the scantily clad vampire clinging to the well-formed arms of a werewolf on the cover, but decides the contents might prove to be informative and settles back into his chair to read.
The most immediate mystery the book provides is that he can’t quite determine if the book belongs to Zoro or Perona. There's ample bloodshed and a considerable number of enchanted swords, but neither detail does much to implicate one of them over the other.
The romantic plot is middling, but the physical aspects of the vampire-werewolf relationship are… Mihawk squints at the pages, unsure of how to best categorize what he’s just read. Spirited? Thorough? Perhaps it’s better not to know which of his wards acquired it and placed it in the library for safekeeping.
The other issue is that he can't help but note some distinct similarities between Crocodile’s behavior and the courtship rituals of the werewolf in the novel. He appreciates that a bloody carcass hasn’t shown up on his front porch, but flowers? A display of means and thoughtfulness? Emphasis on a shared interest?
Suspiciously heavy-handed if all Crocodile intends is gratitude for a free bag of tomatoes.
It’s only when he finishes the final chapter that he realizes he’s stayed up all day reading. And inconvenient though it may be—certainly against his better judgment, if nothing else—in the damnably romantic moment when dusk creeps over his estate and his world comes alive once more, he’s tempted to conclude he’s being courted by a werewolf.
It's a curious idea on all fronts, unprecedented even, but the longer he ponders it, he finds he's not necessarily opposed. There’s a certain sort of thrill to being chased, hunted, and at this point, he can probably even admit to a little mutual intrigue, if he's honest.
The entire thing would be easier to confirm if he had empirical evidence rather than a trio of gifts and a salacious cover illustration to sway his mind, but it's hardly serving him to moon over something he can't even be sure exists. He rises from his chair, careful to at least flip the book face down when he leaves the living room to get dressed for the evening.
The night sings with promise when he steps outside. Coquettish clouds caress the moon, tugged away by the breeze before they can linger.
He breathes it in, teasing out the rain in the distance from the musky sweetness of the fallen leaves. In the woods beyond his greenhouse, the fragrance of a final harvest before the coming frost beckons to the wildlife, urging them to visit one last time before winter.
But hidden beneath the usual scents of an autumn evening, something new catches his attention.
Mihawk reopens his eyes, studying the shadowy outline of his manor. Mixed in with the floral warmth of the apple orchard and the earthiness of his garden is the distinct musk of a damnably persistent wolf.
Shaking his head, he leaves the greenhouse door ajar when he enters, already busy tending to a particularly fussy mountain orchid when Crocodile joins him.
“Back so soon?” he inquires, glancing up from his task. “Your appetite is outpacing my garden.”
“I’m afraid I’ve an insatiable hunger.” There's a shameless air to Crocodile’s smile when he wets his lips, bold enough to amble closer. “Surely you know what that’s like.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that restraint is a particularly powerful weapon,” Mihawk returns, stepping back from the orchid to admire his work before turning his attention to his crop of oyster mushrooms. He lifts the lid on their terrarium, checking the soil before offering them a generous misting with his spray bottle. “A concept you might well do to consider.”
Crocodile gives an amused huff in return, curious enough to approach. “Are those mushrooms?” he inquires, hovering over Mihawk’s shoulder. A heady blend of pheromones mixed with smoke and cologne crowds out the earthy smell of the decomposing soil, whispering temptation into the humid air. “I didn’t realize they could be grown indoors.”
“They’re not all that difficult,” Mihawk states, suddenly hyper-aware of the sultry heat clinging to his skin. From the curious look on Crocodile’s face, he must be adding something to the mix as well. He’s always hated overplaying his hand—how dare his own greenhouse betray him this way. “If you like these, the woods are full of them. Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks, suddenly desperate to escape the stifling humidity.
It’s only in the beat of silence that follows that he realizes he's just offered someone with canine inclinations an outdoor jaunt.
From the amused cant in Crocodile’s smile, he's noted the same. “Is this the part where I jump around and wag my tail?” he inquires dryly.
“I’m not sure that’s an image I can unsee now that you’ve conjured it.” Mihawk bends to retrieve a basket from under one of his tables, all too conscious of the delighted undercurrent threading along Crocodile’s pulse. The sooner they’re outside, the better. Every subtle shift in Crocodile's mood hangs in the air like a beacon; he can only guess the same thing is happening to him. “Though I must admit, I’ve never seen someone so motivated by organic produce.”
“You don’t have hobbies you enjoy?” Crocodile challenges, following him towards the door. “Did you or did you not read a book about tomatoes this week?”
Mihawk turns, frowning up at Crocodile’s smug grin. “You sent me a book on tomatoes this week,” he defends with equal parts admission and accusation.
“Which you immediately read,” Crocodile guesses, victorious when Mihawk scowls back at him. “How was it?”
Mihawk opens his mouth, fully prepared to shove his moment of vulnerability beneath a scathing layer of sarcasm when instead he bites his tongue.
“Compelling,” he offers instead, thankful he’s lost the ability to blush when he turns to close the greenhouse door behind them. “I appreciate how thoroughly you’ve managed to cater to my interests this week.” He can practically taste Crocodile’s satisfaction as they set off for the woods.
Mist curls above the fallen leaves, a ghostly invitation to venture deeper into the forest. A soft growl of thunder rumbles in the distance, the eager chill of a storm on the horizon.
“The painting, in particular,” Mihawk starts, breaking the silence after a comfortable lull.
“Idyllic, isn't it?” There’s a hint of calculation in Crocodile’s quiet smile. “You can almost picture yourself there.”
Mihawk casts him a glance. It's an enigmatic statement. Crocodile’s tone invites questions, too deliberate in the way it teases answers if he pays in the currency of secrets.
“Almost,” he softly agrees, still debating how much he’d like to engage when a subtle note of sweetness in the air catches his attention.
He almost misidentifies it as the intrigue emanating from Crocodile when he realizes there’s a cluster of lion’s mane mushrooms growing on a decaying maple tree to their left.
Drawing his knife, he steps closer to the tree, handing the basket to Crocodile to hold. The thunder in the hills rolls a little louder as his blade slices through the base of the mushrooms, the wind more insistent when it tugs at the collar of his shirt.
Mihawk gives his head a self-chastising little shake as he moves on to collect another cluster. If he hadn’t been so eager to escape the greenhouse, he’d have dressed more appropriately for the weather. It’s an inconvenience he usually tries to avoid, but no matter. It’s not as though he’s capable of catching a cold.
“There are usually wood blewits in the clearing ahead,” he states instead. “But if you’d rather turn back, the option is yours.”
“I'm not particularly fond of rain,” Crocodile admits, holding his palm out when a few tentative drops spill from the sky.
“Then let's go back,” Mihawk decides, already thinking of the armchair next to his fireplace. “I can open a bottle of—”
Lightning streaks the sky, chased by a booming crack of thunder. As if cursed by the heavens, rain falls, pours, striking the ground and saturating their clothes.He’s soaked through in an instant. His elegant blouse clings to his skin, eager to reveal every pale curve of his body.
Mihawk grits his teeth. The cold he can tolerate, but the addition of wet leaches away the last of his warmth, dropping his internal temperature below the chill in the ambient air. He doesn't have the metabolism to raise it. Not unless he—
He forces away a shiver, riding it out with the pretense of control.
“There’s a cave nearby—” he tries, his voice torn away by the wind. “This way.”
His boots slip in the treacherous mud when he leads them around a curve on the trail. Lightning illuminates the jagged opening of the cave, a promise of shelter once they clamber over the slick rocks leading to its entrance. Thunder echoes through the hills, reverberating through the stone beneath his feet.
An icy gust of rain chases them into the cave’s grand vestibule, urging them away from the entrance and into the shadows.
Water drips from the ends of Mihawk’s hair, trailing down his cheeks. He’s drenched, so instantly, thoroughly miserable he’s tempted to call the storm a personal attack. It’s a perpetual nuisance, being encumbered by a flesh-bound vessel the way he is.
“How far does this go?” Crocodile asks, so doglike in the way he shakes the excess rain from his overcoat that Mihawk bites back a laugh.
“Far enough,” he decides, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. Truth be told, he’s never explored the depths, a little chagrined at his own lack of curiosity when Crocodile tips his head up to examine the rocks arching above their heads.
The cold aches in his fingertips, bites at the tips of his ears. If he hadn’t been so distracted when they’d set off instead of flirting about mushrooms, as fluttery as a fledgling on his first hunt—
“You’re shivering,” Crocodile observes, a catch of surprise in his voice when he turns around. “I didn’t realize—” he starts, aborting his sentence with a frown. “Aren't you—”
“Dead?” Mihawk finishes flatly, clutching at his arms to keep from shaking. It’s hardly convenient—he’s not even sure it’s particularly useful—but human attachments remain, no matter how many centuries pass.
“Do you want my overcoat?” Crocodile offers, already slipping it from his shoulders.
Mihawk shoots him a frown, ready to refuse. Beneath his coat, Crocodile is irritatingly dry, perfectly comfortable in his shirtsleeves and patterned vest.
“That’s not necessary,” he mutters, trying to stifle his next bout of shivering. “I just need to wait for it to stop.” Honestly, goosebumps barely serve a purpose for a living body, what function can they possibly have for a—
“Take off your wet clothes and put on the coat,” Crocodile instructs, sharper than before.
Mihawk barks a laugh. “And if I refuse?” he scoffs before he can stop himself. “Are you going to growl me into submission?”
“I will if it'll get you there faster,” Crocodile promises, stepping closer. “Can I appeal to your common sense, or is your pride too big an obstacle?”
“It’s not a matter of common sense; there’s just simply no need for it,” Mihawk scowls up at him. But with his next fit of shivering, his resolve wavers and then fails entirely. “You're not the one about to be naked in someone else's coat,” he snips, offering a final riposte when he finds his top button and flicks it open.
“I can be. Just say the word,” Crocodile offers with a smirk that bares his canines.
Glaring, Mihawk accepts the overcoat, letting it drape over his shoulders while he sheds his boots and pants.
Warmth envelopes him, a rush of protective, possessive heat seeping into his skin. The tension melts from his shoulders, the shivering subsides; his head spins, overwhelmed by the sudden shift in temperature.
It's an easy comfort he's not known for ages.
“Thank you,” he offers, a bit overcome. How startling it is to feel alive, if only for a moment.
He doesn't receive a reply.
Curious, Mihawk glances up to find Crocodile wearing the oddest expression. He’d categorize it as a strangled sort of interest, but its intensity raises the hair along the back of his neck.
Crocodile draws a shuddering breath, an eager growl simmering in his throat. “You smell like—”
“You'd best rethink the end of that sentence,” Mihawk warns, barely getting the words out when Crocodile lunges.
Instinct bares his fangs, but there's no time to react further before Crocodile crashes into his space. Some minute part of him recognizes it isn’t truly a threat, realizes that body language for a werewolf must be different than that of a vampire.
But reason can't counter aggression, and the animal urge to defend-fight-win chases any other thought from his mind.
Hissing, he shoves back, savoring the victory of catching his opponent unaware. There isn't any need for inhuman strength in his everyday life, but unleashing it now feels divine. Anger drowns out the fading scent of lust in the air, filling it with the acrid smell of adrenaline, the eager promise of blood about to be spilled.
He's only on top for a second before Crocodile flips them again.
A grotesque transformation pulls Crocodile’s face halfway between human and wolf. He bares his teeth, snarling when Mihawk's hand seals around the back of his neck, forcing him closer when he tries to pull free.
He can almost taste the blood coursing through the wolf's veins, breathing it in open-mouthed as though the scent alone could slake his thirst. His lips brush Crocodile’s neck, his fangs ready when the bend of Crocodile’s hook slams against his throat instead, pinning him against the cave floor.
The unexpected chill of metal against his skin tears him from the haze of bloodlust.
“Stop,” Mihawk chokes, struggling to get his hand beneath the hook to push it away. If the word registers at all, Crocodile pays him no mind. “I said, STOP.”
The command echoes into darkness, layered with enough compulsion that Crocodile freezes, his eyes wild where Mihawk’s glare holds him in place.
Outside the cave, the thunder rolls again, grating against the rocks.
“I need you off of me. If you can,” Mihawk warns, fighting to keep his voice even. He barely has control of the wild impulse to sink his fangs into the wolf's neck, but if he can keep calm, if neither of them makes a sudden move— “Slowly,” he grits, when Crocodile shifts.
As much as he desperately needs the space between them, it still feels like a loss when Crocodile provides it.
With a ragged sigh, Mihawk lets his head tip back to rest on the ground. He closes his eyes, aware of the harsh cadence of Crocodile’s breath as it finally slows, the fading scent of adrenaline and aggression as it dissipates.
The rain continues to fall. The thunder echoes in the hills, softer as it begins a reluctant retreat.
Crocodile’s coat pools around his hips when he sits up, open to his waist where it’s come unbuttoned. All its lovely warmth has vanished, a consequence for letting his instincts get the better of him.
Glowering at the loss, Mihawk massages his temples with his fingertips. Retracting his fangs without feeding is always such a headache. Given the overall trajectory of the evening, it feels like an insult to injury.
Across the cave, Crocodile tugs his vest into place, smooths his hair. “I did not intend—” he begins, clearing his throat. “If I had anticipated—” he starts again, drawing a breath when his eyes land on Mihawk's bare chest. “It's the coat,” he concludes rather sheepishly, ducking his head when he meets Mihawk's eyes.
“I would hazard a guess that I'm not entirely innocent either,” Mihawk comments dryly. Hunger still fills his thoughts, an unsatisfied complaint that leaves him unsettled and hollow. He swallows it down, tries to force it to yield to reason. “I take it that wasn't meant as a threat?”
Crocodile's bark of laughter warms the chill in the air. “Not unless it was an unwanted advance. All these years, and I’ve still never determined whether nature is better conquered or embraced.”
“If the past several days are anything to go by, I’d daresay you’re more intent on deliberately provoking it,” Mihawk snorts. “You’re like a dog with a damn bone.”
“Provoked or otherwise, I've yet to observe any indication that you actually mind,” Crocodile retorts with a crooked smile. He’s cautious when he approaches again, slow to lower himself to the ground beside Mihawk and find a comfortable place leaned up against the wall. “You might say I'm blessed with carnal insight.”
“You might,” Mihawk corrects, though he can't quite keep his frown in place when Crocodile laughs.
He’s not proud of the startled yelp that escapes him when Crocodile hauls him closer with an arm around his waist. It’s an insistent sort of affection. Confident and unbothered, much like Crocodile himself.
But the monstrous urge to defend himself doesn’t rear its head this time. The warmth beside him is a comfort, and after a week of disrupted sleep along with the rain pattering down through the trees outside the cave, it’s enough to coax his eyes closed, if only for a moment.
And when one moment stretches to two, and two to three, he loses track, slouching further into Crocodile’s oversized coat until the only thing holding him up is the precarious angle he’s found leaning against Crocodile’s shoulder.
He's almost asleep when a curious scent weaves its way through his drowsy thoughts. Snugged up along Crocodile’s side the way he is, he can smell the faint spice of herbal soap, the idle traces of cologne and tobacco the rain hasn't managed to entirely wash away.
And something old, something ancient, so familiar it aches in his chest, but he can't—
He shifts, sitting up a little straighter. His hand curls around Crocodile’s neck, guiding him down while he breathes into the warmth along his collar.
“Careful,” Crocodile murmurs, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. “That's exactly what got me in trouble.”
But there's no real bite to the warning. He can feel the interest prickling beneath Crocodile’s skin as it warms to desire, the eager way his heart beats faster. His lips brush the turn of Crocodile’s jaw, spurred on when Crocodile lifts his chin, offering more and it's—
—the fresh, clean fragrance of dew in the morning grass before the sun calls it away, the stately balsamic bite of the cedar trees—
—welcoming him back to something he knows when the dizzy urge to taste it, consume it floods every thought in his mind.
He wrenches himself away, his hand splayed over Crocodile's chest to keep himself from leaning closer again. Crocodile’s eyes are nearly black, mirroring the same hunger that wants him, begs him, compels him to lose control.
“What is that? What do you smell like?” Desperation clings to his voice, filled with so much need he almost cringes to hear it.
Crocodile's breath is uneven where his chest rises and falls under Mihawk’s hand. “Is it true you can see my memories if I was willing to—”
“I can make anyone willing,” Mihawk bites out. How easily compulsion clouds the senses—at the mere suggestion of what he wants, resistance becomes a distant memory. It hasn't always mattered, but it matters now. “You're playing a dangerous game, wolf.”
“No more dangerous than the one you’re playing—not five minutes ago, you scented a werewolf,” Crocodile returns, scoffing. “You're not any more entitled to your sense of control than I am. Do your worst.”
Mihawk wets his lips, a subtle motion that pulls Crocodile’s attention like a moth to flame.
He lets his hand fall from Crocodile’s chest. His fingertips glide over Crocodile's palm, tracing the soft inside of his wrist. The blood in Crocodile’s veins sings beneath his skin, offering a symphony for his enjoyment.
It’s a seduction too complete to counter, and he surrenders to it—overwhelmed by curiosity, by thirst, by the wretched craving for affection Crocodile’s managed to awaken despite his best efforts to deny it.
“And when I do, where will we be?” he wonders softly. Desire throbs in his teeth, aching when his fingers find the button at Crocodile’s cuff. He flicks it open, guiding the fabric back to bare his forearm.
And as his lips brush Crocodile’s skin, as his fangs pierce through and Crocodile gasps and groans beneath him, pure ecstasy floods his senses. Heat spills into him, warming his arms and legs, his toes and fingertips, racing to fill a need that feels greater than what his physical body can even hold.
He starts to pull back when the bend of Crocodile’s hook catches under his chin, lifting it until their eyes meet. Blood smears onto gold, oozing over the curve.
Mihawk blinks, slowly, in a haze as pleasure clouds his thoughts, unsure if the distant pulse of arousal throbbing in the air between them belongs to him or Crocodile.
Crocodile’s thumb traces his bottom lip, teases over his teeth, skims along one of his fangs and then presses.
The bright tang of iron meets Mihawk's tongue. His eyes roll back, fluttering closed as he drinks it in.
But this time—
This time, he sinks past himself into darkness, slipping through flashes of Crocodile’s thoughts and memories until a single image emerges.
He sees himself lounging next to his family’s produce cart in the piazza, ankles crossed with his feet up on a stack of wooden crates. Sunshine spills over the cobblestones, so bright he needs to shield his eyes with his hand when he squints up at the young man who’s just approached.
Whatever words they exchange are blurred, smeared by time, but he knows his own body language, forever the brooding teenager too bored to mind the family business when he’d rather be off sparring. But whatever the young man has said captures his interest. He sits up, as lithe as a cat considering its quarry when he pulls his feet from the crates. He doesn’t remember himself this cocky, has never seen the sly little smirk he’s wearing when he replies to whatever the young man has asked.
He stands, plucks one of the tomatoes from the basket in front of the cart. A quick pass with his pocket knife parts the skin. Crimson coats his blade, the inside of the tomato a vivid hue of deep purple and burgundy. He offers it to the young man, cuts a slice for himself and licks the juice from his fingertips, tipping his head back to laugh at whatever passes between them next.
He accepts a few silver coins in exchange for a handful of tomatoes, sees his own gaze flick down to the young man’s feet and then back up again, brazen enough to linger when the young man speaks again.
The scene blurs, offering him a view of the marketplace at large, the narrow streets, the green and white marble cathedral with its dome and golden spire before the young man’s focus centers on him again, a final glimpse of his own eyes staring back across the piazza before the memory fades into darkness.
A ragged gasp pulls him back to the cave. He resurfaces like he's drowned and this is his first taste of air.
As keen as a blade between his ribs, emotion swells until it catches in his throat. Tears are a distant memory—he's lost the ability among so many other things—but he's left with a tightness he can barely swallow.
To be given a piece of his past, a recollection so vivid of a place he's all but forgotten—
“You smell like home,” he realizes, barely louder than a whisper.
Crocodile’s thumb traces over the arch of his cheekbone. Wistful, full of promise, it lingers with the quiet desperation of an unmet need Mihawk’s not sure he entirely deserves.
“I always regretted not turning back that day,” he murmurs. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you standing there selling the same damn tomatoes. It was like you'd stepped out of my memory and come back to life.”
“Not entirely back to life,” Mihawk quietly amends. Desire still warms his veins, a languid heat that calls to the eager thrum of Crocodile’s heart. “But with you, it seems I can visit a world that no longer exists.”
He closes his eyes when Crocodile presses closer again. Instinct shivers through him, dulled by the satiated hum of contentment in his thoughts. He lifts his chin, savoring the thrill of teeth scraping over his throat, gliding along his jaw.
There's enough danger to pique his interest, enough safety to surrender when Crocodile's hand traces the scars etched into his skin, mapping an untold history under his fingertips.
“Did you just compare me to the way I described your tomatoes?” Crocodile realizes with a laugh that tickles against Mihawk's neck.
“Take it as the compliment it is,” Mihawk suggests, audacious enough to keep a straight face. “I've spent several lifetimes tailoring them to my specific tastes.”
“And mine, it seems,” Crocodile returns as his hand slips lower, trailing around the curve of Mihawk’s hip.
His eyes close again when Crocodile's lips press against his, a soft affirmation that promises to provide the best sort of bad influence when it continues. He wonders for a fleeting moment if he should document the unintended hazards of amateur horticulture, offer his own expert opinion on the behavior of werewolves and their curious relationship with tomatoes, but buries the thought for later.
There's nothing but time for whatever they are.