Archive of Our Own

Sir Crocodile worked hard; so hard he barely spent time at home, with you. You were often alone during the days. When you woke up he would usually already be gone, but the coffee made for you will not be steaming or cold but perfectly suited to your tongue. As if planned, as if calculated.

How lucky you are.

Few were as lucky as you. You had much more than most.

An attentive and doting lover. Your home was a grand place—tailored to your liking, refined to your taste. He gave you enough money to invest in thirty different acres and it would still be enough for spending leisurely.

Truly, you are so lucky.

Lucky people should be happy people. Or so you’ve liked it to be.

It’s been months since he found out—months since you restrained yourself, you pretended to think of other things as you daze off into the blue, and months upon months of time to pent up the frustration, the need, all hidden away in the corner of your mind, of your heart. Tucked tight behind locked chains and sealed doors.

You always wanted it the most when you were finally fine. You wanted to feel it—a cold tingling sensation running down your skin—it would be nice wouldn’t it?

Just this once, you told yourself, like all the other times. Just this once and you’ll quit, you have the control. Truly, you did. Just not the care for it.

You had promised him not to do it again. You promised to be better than your urges, you promised you’d try and that there was nothing to worry about this time, you promised you’d change. You promised and you promised.

And thus, the chains grew tighter, your heart and mind delving darker and deeper into your frustrations, your fear of rejection, of disappointment and humiliation.

This is why you didn’t want him to find out, didn’t want him to witness your repetition of shame.

After all, you always ended up in the same place. Ashamed and disappointed in yourself.

And ashamed you were.

For the first time in months, when the seasons grew colder for your benefit—you wore the long sleeves again.

You didn’t bandage it this time either. You couldn’t be bothered to care for it.

The days went by, and you continued with the sweaters, the shirts, the temporary habits of reliefs.

“It’s freezing lately!” You had burred out when you were taking a walk with him, your arm wrapped around his.

He would hum in agreement, smoke swirling from his cigar before turning to you, adjusting your coat, tightening your scarf.

Yes, indeed it was freezing. You had purely just said it to drive off any potential suspicions towards your longer sleeves—as if to prove your innocence before the trial ever started. You had smiled at him then as he adjusted your scarf, a smile almost mockingly innocent.

But one day—your arrogance substantially increased—growing comfortable yet again.

He was finally back home and today was a long day for you both.

Crocodile was waiting for you in the living room —polishing his hook as you bring the usual tea set upon the table. Today was a lavender brew you’ve never tried before! You bristled with excitement.

“You seem to be in a good mood today.” He says, wiping down the hook. “Mmmh, can you blame me? It’s not like I have anything to not be in a good mood for.” You hum, pouring the two of you a cup.

He looks to you then, brows pulling together at that innocent reply, for innocent it was, and yet, ever since last time—he never knew how much of your happiness is truly real, or just another facade to keep you from guilt, from the rotting secret you had allowed him to know.

Ever since, he’s never known what to truly do for you. Overwhelm you didn’t seem wise. But ignoring it wasn’t an option either. At times, when he did find you helpless and alone, he’d hold you just a little bit closer, just a little bit tighter. Ever since, he made sure you knew his devotion, his love for each passing moment.

When you turn to smile at him, he snaps out of his reverie. He takes a puff out of his cigar, burning the last of his embers.

“It seems I left the package and lighter in my jacket. Be a doll for me and bring it here.” He says, drilling the cigar down onto the ashtray. His words were a demand but his tone was soft. Crocodile isn’t a man that asks but for you, he’s willing to be polite about it. And you were happy to help either way.

You gave him his package, and as he stuffed one in his mouth—you had offered to light one up. A sweet, loving gesture for your one handed man.

Truly, you were a lucky woman. So lucky. There is hardly anything you should have to worry about. Anything but a small roll of your sleeve coming up.

The lighter drops onto the floor, clattering against the carpet as you wince—his hand clasped around your wrist. Not soft, not gentle but firm, tight. As if to give you no chance of escaping.

He slid your sleeve down, and silence fills the room. Pure, utter silence.

Your face drains of colour, lip curling down as the shame hits you in the gut.

Hot white noise rings in your ears as a choking dread washes over you. You’ve had this experience before, with other people, in another place and another time. You know how this goes.

For each silent moment that passes, his clasp around you comes harder, hand wringing around your wrist like iron and you writhe in place. Not from the pain, but the sheer embarrassment. Your chin falls low.

“What is this.” His voice is sharp, almost cutting. His gaze goes over each new wound like a hurdle, eyes hardening for each crude line you’ve done on yourself.

“You’re hurting me. Please let go.” Your voice is defeated, face hangs low even as he loosens his grip on you. You shove your wrist back into your sleeve.

A deep rumbling sigh leaves from the pits of his chest, rubbing his temples as he tries to figure out where to go from this.

He calls your name but you won’t look because if you did, you’d have to bear witness to his disappointment, his annoyance. You didn’t want that. Not from him.

“Look at me.”

You press your lips, head slowly rising, eyes still adverted. His hand makes it to your chin, tilting it up. “I said: look at me.”

You don’t, not yet.

He pulls his brows together as he sees the expression on your face—it’s blank. Cold and unbecoming.

“It seems promises have been made on false attempts.” He says it in a way as if he’s not surprised—after all a man of his making faces disappointment more often than attainment. And the fact that you too fall under that category, stings.

You feel like the worst human being alive—a walking failure, a rotten wound. You feel tears welling your eyes.

He gently lifts your wrist, tugging your sleeve away. He looks the wounds over, scanning each barred line like a piece of document.

Your eyes flick up, tears blurring your vision but you blink them away. “I’m sorry. I really tried. I really did.” Your words grow strainer, pulling your wrist away from his grip.

Your hands have run cold, your fingers clutch to the warmth of your chest, bracing yourself for the oncoming lecturing and scolding.

But Crocodile says nothing. His eyes only narrows, brows pulls only higher. He hums, reaching down for the lighter on the floor and lit his cigar up. He takes a moment to think, to assert what you need, what you want.

He gets on his feet, swiftly and leaves you to your own misery.

You hear rumbling from the cupboard, and when he returns it is the exact same tray from before, but the set of bandages are new and the alcohol of a different brand—one better in quality. You had never noticed, as if he…

As if he knew this could happen. As if he considered the possibility of it.

You feel yourself curling into yourself—how your heart crumbles at his distant attentiveness, at his quiet worry and care for you. It makes you feel so stupid for fretting, for hiding and fearing for his patience.

Firm but gentle, he lifts your wrist and gets to cleaning.

The alcohol stings, but you say nothing and neither does he. His movements are sure, steady and smooth even with just one hand.

“Tell me if it’s tight.” Is all he offers before tying the knot. You two sit there, quiet for awhile. Crocodile watches each move of yours, as if trying to figure out a puzzle.

“I tried.” You break the silence with, “I really did try.” You feel the sobs piling up and he leans in, “then why did you not come and find me? Did I not tell you from before—that I wouldn’t avail you nothing?”

You blink as tears streams down your face.

How could you—when for so much of your life you’ve been shunned, shamed and discarded for being a burden? A liability? An instability? A problem and a worry? How could you find him—when he’s never even here?

You flinch when he strokes a lock of hair away from your face, and your gaze rises. Witnessing the way he looks at you—eyes low and quiet, as if you’re something dangerous, as if he’s trying to catch all the details to your puzzle of chains and secrets. As if to see the cogs and working of your heart. So not to toil it, so not to push and break it. And perhaps, it is that—the intimacy, the care and attention to detail that unchains all your secrets, all your frustrations and worries.

You tell him how you feel, sobbing, mewling, hiccuping. You tell him you try, you try so hard but at some point it becomes unbearable. That it starts to fester and rot from within. And for each confession, each given puzzle piece—Crocodile comes to understand. And he tells you that. He tells you, and he shows you.

He doesn’t sigh in disapproval, he doesn’t click his tongue at you or narrow his eyes in disappointment. Instead, he pulls you closer, lets you sit on his knees, falling back into the sofa as you lean your head against his chest.

He lets you unravel—does not poke, does not prod. He won’t smother you in loving words, just rub your back as you lay on his shoulder with slow, circling motions. He kisses the sides of your hair when your hiccups get too bad. Hands you a handkerchief when your snoot runs down your chin.

And when at last you calm down, and your sobbing comes to a close, only then does he place a hand under the back of your neck. Pulling you closer still, his eyes stuck on the ceiling as he watches the smoke go up.

“I know you tried. I know you did.”

Two sentences. Two. And it undid all your doubts, all your fears.

Slowly, surely—you put trust in his words. Feel love in his warmth.

And deep down, in your heart, you can hear the chains unshackling, the fear of rejection and disappointment coming to an end. For with him, you do not need to pretend, do not need to hide like a wounded animal. With him, you can be whole, you can be seen—seen and loved.