Chapter Text
Crocodile is not an impulsive man by any stretch of the imagination. No, every choice Crocodile makes is excruciatingly thought through, every possible outcome noted and organized into neat mental columns. Crocodile is not an impulsive man.
So he tells himself. But, looking at the little girl— she can't be more than ten or eleven, and shaking like a leaf— he begins to question this observation.
He'd found the little girl on a densely-populated island in the West Blue— the kind with sprawling, filthy cities that remind Crocodile of his own childhood. She'd been asking, no, begging for work, willing to do anything for some food or a dry place to sleep. Crocodile saw her, saw the looks on the faces of the men she passed. He knows intimately what kind of trouble desperation like that could bring.
It shouldn't have affected him. Hadn't affected him before; he'd walked by other scenes like it in the past, turning a blind eye. The life of a kid on the street is a difficult one, who is Crocodile to interfere? But something in his chest tightened at the sight, made him swoop in, pretending to be a concerned parent.
"Sweetheart, where have you been? I was worried sick!" Crocodile put on his best mask of fake-concern. The girl went with him— confused and suspicious, of course. She'd clearly been on the streets for a while, had picked up a hardened distrust of anyone unfamiliar. Smart girl.
The hotel attendant didn't question him. Crocodile was tempted to give the young lady a piece of his mind— a fully-grown man taking a young girl to a hotel was suspicious! He could have been anybody!
The girl looked like she was going to bolt, though, so he settled for a glare.
The girl's (and he really needed to get her name) eyes widen as she takes in the hotel room. In the light, Crocodile can see her better: stick-thin with wide, intelligent grey eyes and a straight nose. Grimy and bruised. Her clothes are rags. Still, she carries herself with a strange elegance, sitting on one of the beds. She’s small. Had he ever been that small?
"What's your name?" he asks. He should probably say it a little softer, tone down the angry gravel that coated his voice. The girl flinches.
"R-Robin. Sir." Her voice is small, but she meets his eyes.
"None of that sir shit. I'm Crocodile." Sure, it’s nice to know she's been raised to respect her elders, but the girl— Robin, he reminds himself— looks as if she expects to be hit.
Crocodile is a lot of things, very few of them good. A pirate. A bloodthirsty criminal who would sell anyone out for his own survival. But he is not the kind of man to hurt a child. At least not actively. He wouldn't go out of his way to protect one (this was a fluke, a momentary lapse in judgment. He'd leave as soon as she was cleaned up and had something to eat), sure, but he would never participate.
Robin simply nods. The initial shock of being taken in seems to have faded, wonder in her eyes slowly replaced by suspicion. Her unspoken question hangs in the air: what are you going to do with me?
Crocodile doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, "There's a shower. Get yourself cleaned up. I'm afraid you'll have to keep wearing those rags for now, but we can get you new clothes tomorrow."
Robin nods and stands, rushing to the bathroom. She seems eager to get out of Crocodile's line of sight.
It takes all of two minutes for Crocodile to start questioning what the hell he’s doing. He’s a stone-cold killer, damn it, a fucking Warlord of the Sea! He’s out for himself, and only himself, not a child who probably can’t even fight. He curses whatever latent maternal instinct the brat has awoken in him.
Maybe it’s her face. Those wide, bright eyes remind him so much of his baby, the one that had been taken from him—
No. No, he is not going to think about that. That’s a dark alleyway in his mind that he is going to resolutely avoid, because he has self-preservation instincts and doesn’t want to get shot point-blank by the thoughts in it. Fuck that.
Still, he has to admit that Robin looks quite a bit like… like Dragon. Her eyes hold a similar fire, her skin the same dark olive. They have the same dark hair. Maybe that’s why he went out of his way for her.
Or it’s the quiet distrust in her eyes, constantly shifting, looking for open exits and weaknesses. That isn’t Dragon, though, that’s him. Fear turned into a weapon they can wield as easily as a sword. Possibly easier.
Crocodile sighs. What’s wrong with him? A child is a liability, one he can’t afford. Not with how new he is to the Warlord position. He needs to get rid of her as soon as she’s no longer starving, then he’ll be free to keep looking for the Ancient Weapon. He'll find it, get his revenge on the World Government, then never think about the girl or any of the people she reminds him of ever again.
Robin looks even younger now that she’s clean, if that was even possible. Her knee-length dress seems even filthier in comparison. Crocodile frowns, then points to the bed nearest the door. Like hell is he going to give her the chance to sneak up on him in the middle of the night. If she wants to escape, then she’ll escape. Not his problem.
She looks at him, eyebrows furrowing. That long black hair isn’t so black without dirt in it; instead, it’s a dark brown.
"Sleep," Crocodile says simply. Robin's eyes widen and she nods.
The girl looks tiny under the thick blankets and sheets. How old is she? Ten? Eleven? How big are eleven-year olds supposed to be? How big would his kid be, if he was allowed to grow up?
Seas, he needs a drink.