Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She hadn’t thought much of it when Sir Crocodile arrived on the island.

It wasn’t particularly uncommon for a Warlord to show up at port. The only thing worthwhile on the island was the massive Marine base, and given they, theoretically, worked for the Marines, Warlords would occasionally arrive at the port for some sort of meeting.

She had even met a few, if only briefly. Jinbe was always pleasant to everyone, though he didn’t come around very much, and Mihawk was polite, at the very least, when she’d been his server at the bar. She’d even had the misfortune of meeting Doflamingo once, too, when his designer shoe had been scuffed and he resolved he needed an emergency replacement.

She hadn’t actually spoken to Sir Crocodile at all, but she had seen him around, once or twice. Unlike Jinbe, who always tried to make some sort of good impression, or Doflamingo’s general obnoxiousness, he mostly seemed to want to keep to himself, and people generally only realized he was there because of the arrival of his ship, rather than seeing him out and about on the street. Aside from the briefest of exchanges with suppliers, he avoided the general populace like they might give him some sort of disease.

Exactly how and when her father, a cobbler of no particular renown, found the opportunity to speak with him, she wasn’t sure – but he’d managed, somehow, to spend enough time with the Warlord during his brief stay to convince him that marrying his daughter was a spectacular idea.

Within a week, she went from apprentice cobbler and sometimes waitress to the wife of a Warlord. One of the more powerful, and brutal, of them, if the rumors were to be believed, which hardly made the situation seem any better. Her father insisted that it was for the best for all of them, that Sir Crocodile would take care of her, and her mother had reminded her that their struggling family business wouldn’t need to go under – not with the bride price he’d paid.

It was pocket change for the Warlord, but it would pay off all their debts and keep the place running for at least another generation, and surely she, as his doting wife, would be able to convince him to keep the funding coming.

It was obvious what her parents were getting out of the arrangement. She couldn’t imagine what Sir Crocodile thought he was going to get, in return, and she had precious little opportunity to ask.

They’d met exactly once, midway through his week-long stay on the island, at the Marine headquarters. She had been crammed into her best dress – which wasn’t saying much, it was just a purple sundress – and pestered to wear her mother’s only pair of real diamond earrings, before being unceremoniously shoved into a room with the Warlord and a Marine Captain she only vaguely recognized by face. Sir Crocodile had said exactly nothing to her, instead staring down with his piercing gaze for just one long moment, before the Captain called for them to sign the paperwork.

She contemplated trying to destroy it. Rip it up, maybe even spit on it – but standing beside the Warlord, she couldn’t quite summon the nerve. He loomed, an absolute giant with arms as thick around as her torso, and the vicious tip of his hook hand was well within murdering distance if she managed to make him angry.

Instead, she joined him in his silence, standing in front of the Captain’s desk, and when the paper was passed her way, signed her name below his. There was no ceremony or celebration, at least not in the office itself – no reciting of vows or ritual performances while they promised one another their futures, or whatever stupid things people said when they got married. The Captain asked them both if they consented to the marriage, one at a time, to which they both gave the absolute minimum “I do”, then produced the necessary certificates for them to sign.

Once they had, the marriage was declared, and that was it. Sir Crocodile had spared her one last withering glance, looking nearly as perturbed as she felt, cigar still clamped between his teeth, and declared that she’d be expected at the docks at nine on Sunday with all her things.

She’d hoped that his seeming disinterest meant that she’d be left on the island, with him content to have a wife on paper and little else, so she could wither away in peace, but as had been the case since Monday, her luck seemed to be constantly working against her. Instead of being left to her solitude in some little house on the only island she’d ever known, she was destined to spend some unforeseen amount of time trapped on his damnable ship with him and his crew.

If her parents weren’t so insufferable after the impromptu wedding, she might have had the energy to be afraid of the prospect.

Instead, all she managed to feel was anger.

She was only a few steps behind Crocodile when they left the office – less than that, if his legs weren’t so incredibly long – but by the time she had stepped into the hall, her parents were all over him. He loomed above them, that look of abject condescension still imprinted on his face, as they thanked him, like he’d done them a great favor.

Which he had, she supposed, by paying them a seemingly absurd sum in exchange for the marriage – but it still rankled her nerves. They sounded almost relieved, like she was some troublesome burden they’d finally gotten free of. Neither had ever been an especially stellar parent to her or her siblings, but they hadn’t been bad parents, either, loving but preoccupied with work a lot of the time, which she’d never held against them. Their business had been struggling since well before her father inherited it, and she understood they had to work more often, and with more dedication, to make enough to keep the family afloat.

She never felt as much like an object as she did in that moment. The presence of an obscene amount of beri was enough to reduce her from a daughter to a source of income, expected to comply with the same amount of resistance as a pair of shoes.

Her new husband, at least, didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about their gratitude. He was polite enough to stand and listen for a minute, but seemed far more interested in his cigar than anything that they had to say, occasionally fiddling with it long enough to tap ash onto the Marine’s nice floor runner, leaving a distinctive grey mark near his feet. He spared her the briefest of glances, and for an instant, she thought she could hear him silently communicating that he, also, found them absolutely impossible to deal with.

He had the salvation of a meeting to spare him from the worst of it, though. It didn’t take long before a Marine appeared, calling for him, and he dismissed himself without another word. Without him to focus on, her parents had turned their attention to her.

He’d paid enough for their daughter that they could afford dinner out, that night. Normally, even the local diner was outside their household budget, but that night, they insisted that they dine at Sunnybrook – the most premier restaurant on the island. The only thing that prevented her from throwing a tantrum then and there was her sister, who was just as quietly horrified as she was, clinging to her arm in an effort to keep them both calm.

At least the waiter shared her displeasure. Her parents weren’t unpleasant people, most of the time, but as happy as they were, they were a little too rowdy for a place like Sunnybrook. The wine started flowing the second they sat down, and with it, they only got louder, laughing and bragging about how things had finally turned around. Everyone in the restaurant, apparently, needed to know that the Sir Crocodile had asked to marry their daughter.

She didn’t believe that for a second.

She had seen the man exactly twice before that day, both times in the most extreme definition of in passing. Almost two years earlier, she happened to be running to the store when he’d been trudging through the street on his way to the Marine base, alongside what had seemed like one or two members of his crew. They hadn’t so much as made eye contact, nor had they the second time, a little less than a year before, when he’d come into the store looking to get the damaged heel of his loafer repaired. She had been drifting in and out of the back room, stocking the shelves, while he talked with her mother for all of three minutes – exactly long enough to get a price and timeframe sorted, before he dropped the shoes and beri on the counter and stalked back outside.

He had no reason to even know she existed – never mind one to politely request her parents all but sell her to him. It seemed much more likely that he’d come in again for shoe repair, and somehow, one of her parents had managed to convince him marrying their oldest child was really in his best interest.

Her father, if she had to guess, was likely the culprit. He was always the more affable of the two, willing to make conversation with anyone and everyone, and it wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest if even a fearsome warlord fell victim to his gift of gab. No doubt, he’d run off at the mouth about one of her mother’s business ideas, about how if they just had the funding, they could become the most premier shoe shop in the East Blue, and Crocodile, supposedly a consummate business man in his spare time, had decided to make the investment.

Their marriage was just an early down payment on his expected returns – of which there would probably be none. There was no denying that her father was an exceptional cobbler, but he wasn’t the creative sort. That was her mother, though most of her creations were questionable, at best, and downright hideous more often than not. The few shoes she had designed that passed the muster of actually being shoes were, usually, unwearable abominations in practice.

Maybe he’d kill them, somewhere down the line, for their failure to deliver. The thought would normally horrify her, but as she sat in the restaurant, listening to them titter about how lucky they were, she couldn’t summon any feeling beyond pure, unbridled rage – mixed with the bitter tang of betrayal.

They didn’t even cry. Not once, during the days that she was still under their roof, did they shed a single tear. Her sister did – every night, after dinner, they both ended up quietly wailing together in her room, trying and failing to pack. Even her little brother ended up bawling, the night before she was supposed to leave, though he didn’t fully understand what was happening. All he knew was that they wouldn’t be able to go play on the beach anymore, like they usually did, and he’d thrown a tantrum through the entire night about how unfair it was that she had to go away.

Instead, they relished in their newfound wealth. Her mother insisted, the morning after the wedding, that they go out and buy some new clothes. Ostensibly, it was so she would have something more decent to wear for her new husband, to keep up proper appearances, but really, it ended up being for her mother. She spent most of the morning finding increasingly obnoxious clothes among the racks, doing her level best to give the likes of Doflamingo a run for his money, and she’d walked out with armfuls of bags that afternoon.

For her daughter, all her old dresses would have to do. They weren’t bad, by any means, but simple, almost all of them made by hand out of whatever bits of leftover fabric the seamstress was willing to part with. If Sir Crocodile cared about appearances – and she was reasonably sure by the way he dressed that he very much did – it would be his problem to sort.

Every night, for the rest of the week, they splurged on meals. Most of the time, it was vegetables from the garden in the back over rice, and maybe fish, if anyone managed to find the time to head to shore long enough to catch anything, but suddenly, they were dining from a hot pot full of choice cuts and whatever else the market had to offer that day. Her little brother relished at the opportunity to have cupcakes from the bakery every night, but like her sister, she didn’t have much of an appetite for sweets, despite how rare a treat they were in the past.

She was still angry when she arrived at the dock Sunday morning. A trio of strangers had shown up an hour earlier, claiming they were from Crocodile’s crew, and they’d all but let themselves in to start collecting boxes. She wondered, vaguely, if they were surprised by how little she had to bring with her – if not for the weight of her books, everything would have fit neatly into just one of the crates from the leather deliveries.

If they were, they said nothing, and they didn’t show it on their faces. Each one took one of the three crates, hauling them along while she dragged her feet. Her new husband wasn’t visible among the crowd at the docks, and she found herself standing on the pier, just out of the way of the workers busy loading Sir Crocodile’s ship with supplies.

There was a lot of wailing, on her mother’s part, but no actual tears, though she made a tremendous show of dabbing her eyes with her new kerchief. For the first time all week, Lily let herself show her real feelings, flinching away and holding up her hands when her mother dove in for a too-tight embrace. Her father had the decency, at least, to look away, seeming the faintest bit remorseful for just the briefest of moments.

While she contemplated flinging both herself and her mother into the water, soft but distinct footsteps trudged along the wooden dock behind them. She couldn’t see him, but she could smell his cigar on the salty air, smoke wafting over her head. Her mother must have seen him, because she squeezed a little harder and put on all the more of a show, dramatically wailing about “her baby”, while Lily herself did everything in her power to resist the urge to knee her in the stomach. Her sister, the only one with real tears in her eyes, had to intervene, too-roughly pulling their mother back by her shoulder. Her father took custody of his screeching wife, letting her hide her lying face in his shoulder as he contemplated reaching out – he patted her elbow, and she couldn’t resist this time, actively reeling back.

She felt Crocodile’s shoe under her heel. Thankfully, he didn’t react, continuing to stare down at the spectacle instead, though those terribly empty eyes flickered her way.

“Ready?”

It was a demand, but he phrased it like an offer. A new sort of rage started churning in her stomach, as her mind screamed that, as much as her parents were at fault, he was the one who took their deal. She scooted a step away from him, trying desperately and probably failing to keep her expression neutral – he must have noticed, but he said nothing, continuing instead to just stare down at her. She couldn’t form words without making a scene even more obnoxious than the show her mother was putting on, and though she really wasn’t, she nodded.

It was bad manners, but he didn’t seem to mind. With his real hand, he motioned lightly for her to move along – part of her expected a hand on her back, to guide her along, but instead, he just followed, maintaining a careful distance of one of his over-long steps. The only time he touched her at all was while she stalked across the gangplank onto the ship, lightly putting his palm on her shoulder when it teetered under the new weight. Just as swiftly as the contact had started, it ended, as soon as her feet were firmly on the deck of the massive ship.

He changed their positions, curling his fingers in a silent instruction to follow him. She’d never been aboard a ship before – not one bigger than a dinghy, at least – and she really had no idea what to expect as he led her to a large door, up some stairs but still beneath the wheel.

Helm, she reminded herself. It was just a wheel, but they called it a helm.

Through the doors was, oddly, an office space. It reminded her of the Marine’s office, dominated by a massive desk, where a den den mushi sat, blinking slowly at her, one round eye at a time. There were chairs arranged in front of it, and between that and the door, a massive, leather sofa and plain, but still opulent, coffee table. Sir Crocodile seemed to be a fan of nice liquor, based on the cabinet presumably mounted to the wall, glass doors secured with a golden bar similar in color to his hook, which she vaguely noted seemed to be a subtle theme throughout the room.

There was one door, along a side wall, not quite disguised but not nearly as noticeable as the massive window behind the desk. Crocodile himself had to stoop to move through it, ducking his head with the precision of a long-standing habit. The hall behind it was more subtle, almost claustrophobic, made out of the same light-colored wood as the rest of the ship, rather than the darker wood he seemed to have favored for his office. The Warlord barely fit, nearly touching the wall at either shoulder, making his way down the immediate handful of steps.

The hall was short, boasting four doors and almost nothing else, three on one side and one on the other, smack in the center. The only one that was distinct from the others was the first, which split in half at the middle – the top was open, revealing a small, but designer, dining and sitting room. There was a needlessly large table near the window, surrounded by six cushioned seats, while the rest of the room was dominated by bookshelves, their contents secured by golden rails.

Hers among them, she noted – they’d been unloaded and tucked away along one shelf, visibly different than the ones Crocodile possessed. Like everything else she owned, they were second hand, well worn and, in ways, well loved, while his hardly seemed to have been touched since the day they were printed. There was another door, tucked between the shelves, and she had no idea where it led, but she could smell something cooking on the air, and presumed it must lead to the kitchen.

Galley, not kitchen.

“The water closet.”

Crocodile’s voice snapped her to attention. His oversized hook tapped on the second of the three doors, simultaneously reminding her of its presence and pointing out the room at the same time. It made a ridiculous, heavy ting – it wasn’t hollow, like she thought, but apparently made of solid metal.

He stopped past the door to the third room, waving his hook at the handle.

“Your quarters,” He explained, looking all the more ominous as the small window behind him cast his face in stern shadows. “Mine are across the hall. The door stays locked. Just knock if you need something.”

The surprise on her face must have been obvious. She expected – with a great deal of reluctance and more than a fair amount of horror – that they’d be sharing a room. A man didn’t take a wife just to have one, and her mother had, despite giving her a sex talk once before, impressed on her that she should do her “wifely duties” as much as her new husband wanted.

Even if she didn’t want to.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he wanted to do cruel, hurtful, and embarrassing things.

If she didn’t keep him happy, the berries wouldn’t keep flowing. No one had said the quiet part out loud, but she knew that’s what her mother meant. She was to shut up and take whatever he wanted, keep him pleased, so he’d do her the favor of throwing yet more money at her parents in return.

For the first time, Crocodile’s expression shifted. The pinch in his eyebrows became a little tighter as they rose higher, and the corner of his mouth – the one not preoccupied with a cigar – quirked ever so slightly upward, revealing a small dimple.

“I’ve never forced myself on a woman before,” There was the slightest hint of amusement in his tone. “And I don’t intend to start now.”

She wasn’t entirely certain what to say to that, but he didn’t seem to want an answer. Instead, he reached for the handle, which was dwarfed by his massive hand, and pushed the door open for her.

It wasn’t a massive space, but it was a sprawling expanse compared to the room she shared with her siblings. There were surely more interesting things, but the first that she noticed were the walls – unlike the reds and oranges that dominated the rest of the rooms, they were painted a soft, cool purple tone. Everything else, she realized, had been made to match, from the faintly patterned rugs to the bedding, a complimentary sea blue that seemed somehow out of place.

It was odd, that the man she’d barely met would know her favorite color. And he had to have known, given the lingering, if faint, odor of fresh paint. He, or his men at his demand, had gone out of their way to make the room appealing to her tastes, rather than his own.

It wasn’t heavily decorated, but it was nicely furnished. The bed itself, which was excessively large for just her, hung from thick ropes from the ceiling, swaying vaguely with the gentle rocking of the ship against the waves. Her things had been unpacked for her – her few baubles lining the bare shelves, clothes hanging in an open closet deep enough for her to lay down inside. There was a plush looking pile of cushions in one corner near the door, beneath a hanging wooden chair that instantly reminded her of a bird’s nest, and in the other, a small desk, dominated by a very new – and expensive – sewing machine.

It ripped the bulk of her anger out of her chest. She still didn’t know Crocodile, and she was certain she still didn’t much like him, but the thoughtfulness was like throwing water on a fire when it came to her anger.

She opened her mouth to say something, a creaking noise working its way out of her throat, but the thank you she intended to offer refused to come out. From above her head, she heard a huff – not an angry sigh, but an amused puff of air, accompanied by a great cloud of sweet-smelling smoke.

“It’s nice,” She managed, finding a gap in her teeth with her tongue – the gentle bite settled her, just enough that she could formulate words. “Thank you.”

He hummed, low and brassy, and she could practically feel it vibrate in his chest.

“Meals are served at nine, one, and six,” She wondered, idly, if he didn’t know what to do with the gratitude, or if he just didn’t want it. “But you can reach the galley through the dining room whenever you need to.”

Hand on the doorframe, she turned to look at him in full. It hurt her neck to crane it that far back, something else that seemed to cause a little flicker of his lips. His smile, she thought, looked almost sleezy, like someone who wanted to sell her some overpriced junk, though she suspected he meant for it to be comforting, instead.

He wasn’t an unattractive man, necessarily. He was old enough that it was just barely starting to show, extra crinkles around the corner of his eyes and deepening lines around his mouth when he smiled, but he wasn’t old, either, not quite out of his prime. He had good, strong features – a firm jaw and strong brow, all clearly on display with his thick hair slicked back down his neck. Even his scar wasn’t necessarily off putting, blatant though it was.

It didn’t look very old, still in that strange phase where the skin was pinkish before it went pale. Part of her wanted to count the stitch scars, which looked almost haphazard, and she wondered if he’d stitched it himself.

“Are there any…rules? That I should know?”

His incredible shoulders shrugged, arms coming to cross along his chest.

“You can explore the rest of the ship,” He offered. “Just stay out of the crew’s way, if you do.”

His eyes drifted to the window as he stopped to think, all of his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“I don’t expect we will, but if we come under attack, stay in my office upstairs,” He shrugged again. “It’s secure, and I’ll know where to find you if I need to.”

His brows came together, then relaxed again, into their usual condescending glower.

“You can use the den den mushi to call your family,” This, of all things, seemed to annoy him. “But you’ll need to schedule it with me, until we get your own.”

“I don’t need one,” She admitted. “They don’t have one. Couldn’t afford it, and it’s not like we ever had anyone to call, anyway.”

There was another flicker of emotion on his face. Not amusement, this time, but something she suspected was closer to annoyance, thick shadows filling the lines of his face as he scowled down at her.

“I told them to get one,” His flat voice took on a distinctive edge. “It doesn’t seem like they took you shopping, either. I gave them plenty to purchase a new wardrobe for you.”

Uncomfortable and uncertain what would come out of her mouth, she shrugged her shoulder. His frown deepened, but it was impossible to know if the frustration brewing in him was aimed at her or at them, and the question made her stomach squirm.

“I’m sure they meant to,” She wasn’t, and she hoped it didn’t reflect in her voice. “It’s been a big week.”

His arms uncrossed. That hulking hook moved, not down to his side, but towards her, slowly but surely creeping closer. It was cold against the bottom of her chin, and even without puncturing the soft tissue beneath her jaw, she could tell immediately how viciously sharp it was. It could burst through without any effort on his part, if she didn’t let him tilt her face back, craning her neck until she met his gaze.

“Don’t lie to me,” The warning was clear, even as he shifted the hook so that the soft curve of the curl was against her chin. “It’s the one thing I can’t stand. And I certainly won’t tolerate it from my own wife, of all people.”

His hook shifted, gliding lightly up until it was settled beneath her lower lip – it was heavy, she could tell it was, but he moved it easily, keeping the pressure just soft enough for her to know that it was there.

“Tell me the truth, wife,” The cold metal tapped against her lip. “Do I need to go have a word with them before we set off?”

“I…” Angry as she was at them, the words she really wanted to say got caught in her throat. “Think you’d be wasting your time if you did.”

There was that little glimmer of amusement again. His body, which had grown taut beneath his heavy cloak, eased, shoulders drooping away from his ears. The claw fell away like it had never been there at all, settling at his side, and she suddenly felt like she could breathe again – she hadn’t even realized that she’d been holding her breath until it shuddered out of her lungs.

“You don’t think they’d listen to me?”

“I think,” She felt her own fingers digging into the gaps in her ribs. “It’d be a lot less effort to just give it a few weeks, is all.”

“And what’ll happen then?”

“They’ll find a way to call,” Her fingers dug a little deeper, nails pickling her skin through her dress. “Once they burn through however much you paid them.”

“So,” His hook clanked against chest as he crossed his arms again. “I should just let them take the beri I gave them for you, and do whatever they like with it instead? Let them take advantage of my kindness?”

“You can look at it that way, if you want,” She shrugged again, more obviously this time. “Or you can look at it like you paid in advance for me to be entertained.”

“How so?” There was a more obvious smirk, this time, and that dimple reappeared.

“Because when they call and ask for more money, and you tell them no, I’ll think it’s really funny.”

Chapter Text

Dinner was always awkward.

She supposed Crocodile didn’t mean for it to be, but she wasn’t very good with silence. Meals in her home weren’t particularly hearty, but they were always lively, filled with conversation about all of the nothing that had gone on that day. Unlike her family, however, the Warlord was apparently perfectly content with the quiet, and simply venturing out from his office to have a meal together seemed like all he needed to satisfy any need he might have for non-business related social interaction. Instead of conversation, the only sounds in the room were usually the quiet clatter of tableware, and whatever distant din of chaos was going on in the kitchen, which never seemed to rest.

That was probably why she nearly leaped out of her skin when he did open his mouth to talk.

“Garret tells me you’ve been watching the crew.”

For a long second, she was stunned into silence by his deigning to speak with her – then, for another, by wondering who Garret could possibly be.

She had met a few of the crew, but hadn’t learned anyone’s name. There were only a handful of possibilities, at least – one of the galley staff, of which there were three, or four or so of the crew who worked the decks.

She had taken to venturing out there during the day, after becoming immediately bored within hours of being brought on board. She couldn’t quite settle enough to read, and there wasn’t anything she particularly wanted to sew – especially not with the collection of very nice fabrics she had discovered stored near the desk, quietly afraid she’d ruin them before she got used to the process of using a machine rather than her hands.

Given she was destined to live on a ship more often than land, it had seemed like a good idea to familiarize herself with how things functioned. One of the galley hands had been nice enough to show her the lower decks, where there were a variety of well-armed pirates constantly hard at work, but it was difficult to observe them without being in the way in such tight spaces, so she’d relegated herself to the top deck. The helmsman – who was probably Garret, in retrospect – didn’t seem to mind her continual presence, or the abundance of questions about what things were what or what one of the men was up to. She didn’t really understand the entire process that went into sailing a ship, especially not one as large as the Gustave, but a passing idea was better than none at all.

“I’ve been trying to learn,” There was no point in lying – it wasn’t like what she was doing was harmful, anyway, sitting beneath the railing near the helm and firing off questions. “If I’m going to live on a ship, I should understand how it works.”

“You’ve never been to sea before?” He sounded, if only vaguely, genuinely surprised.

“Just near the shore,” Her mouth was dry from the shock of adrenaline slowly vacating her system, and she sipped her wine in the hopes it would help. “To fish. I’ve never been far enough out I couldn’t see the bottom.”

“Can you swim?” He couldn’t – not since he ate a Devil Fruit, at least, which was probably the only thing she actually knew about him for certain.

“Yes.”

With that, conversation again came to a stilted halt, feeling even more awkward than before. He seemed unbothered, continuing to devour his steak – it was a massive serving of meat, alongside enough mashed potatoes to feed her family for days, and an entire side plate of carefully blistered tomatoes with some sort of sauce. She’d been served similarly, sans the tomatoes, which were a constant at seemingly every meal for him, but in a much more reasonable portion for one person, even if it was still too much.

She couldn’t stand it. She had absolutely nothing to say, but her mouth couldn’t tolerate the silence anymore.

“Do you have a lot of businesses?”

Immediately, she felt stupid.

It was obvious that he did. Aside from his probably poor investment into her family’s cobbler shop, he had, from what she’d been told by the helmsman, a wide variety that made up the bulk of his income. Rather than pillage and plunder, he invested – starting, most likely, back when he had been the sort to ransack an entire village to get his hands on anything worthwhile. No one was entirely certain what encompassed all of his portfolio, but the helmsman had indicated that it wasn’t at all unusual for him to salvage failing businesses.

“You’re just…in your office a lot,” Internally, she desperately wished she could shut her mouth, but it was running away from her entirely. “It seems to keep you busy.”

His slight smile only made her stomach squirm with more nerves.

“I have several,” He must, the thought, feel like he was talking to a child. “Most of them run themselves, but they require oversight. Businessmen tend to be even less trustworthy than pirates.”

She hummed, an acknowledgement that she was listening, but she feared whatever stupid thing would come tumbling out of her mouth next.

“It’d be wise for you to learn how to manage them,” Perhaps because he eternally had a cigar between his teeth and was used to the feeling, he didn’t have the manners to completely swallow his food before her spoke. “When you’re ready. If something were to happen to me, it’d be for the best if you were prepared to take over.”

He took another too-large bite of his steak. It was an absurd amount of food to her, but sitting down, it was easy to forget just how big he was. She was barely as tall as his legs, and if she were ever to stare at him dead on, she would only ever see his belt instead of his face. He was bulky, too – his jackets often disguised just how big he was, like an optical illusion, making him seem marginally smaller by virtue of their own thickness, but really, his physique was absurd.

Not that she’d ever seen it properly. He was always dressed for the day when she saw him, in button downs and slacks and, usually, a cravat and vest, which also served to disguise his real stature on some level. Like his jackets, they created the illusion that his clothes were the reason he seemed so incredibly imposing, that he wore them to make his chest look broader or his shoulders wider, but she was acutely aware that wasn’t reality. The way his arms strained against his sleeves while doing something as simple as raising his glass to his lips was proof enough.

They seemed ready to burst at the seams. She didn’t doubt he could probably flex one of his button-down shirts into scraps, if he ever wanted to.

That sort of peacocking seemed to be the sort of thing he’d consider beneath him, though. He was, by and large, a man of calm composure – prone, according to the helmsman, to sometimes lose his temper, but not someone who felt the need to make a spectacle of himself, even when he was enraged. It was probably more menacing that way, she imagined, to present himself as someone who was eternally unbothered by even his enemies, smooth and professional rather than wild and unchecked.

“Have you used the sewing machine, yet?” Again, the question surprised her, and his lip seemed to quirk when she jumped and slammed her knee into the table leg. “The seamstress said you’ve been eying it for a while.”

Agatha, that traitor – the flicker of annoyance, however, was smothered by surprise at the idea he’d gone out of his way to speak with the woman in the first place, especially about her.

Agatha’s shop wasn’t the sort of place he would naturally find himself in. She was talented, but her style was not something she could ever imagine appealing to a man who wanted to present as a suave businessman. Most of what she made were simple tunics and loose breeches, the sort of thing anyone could work in, when she wasn’t busy repairing Marine uniforms. The boutique closer to the Marine base seemed more his style, catering to the husbands and wives of the soldiers who could afford to spend their days lounging around and socializing.

Someone had to have told him to seek her out. She had never even bothered to set foot in the other shop, for fear she would just get chased out – never mind that she couldn’t afford so much as a pair of socks there. If he had gone in there, they wouldn’t have even known she existed, and they surely wouldn’t have been able to tell him where she usually shopped.

In all reality, she hadn’t used it at all. She had sat and fiddled with it for a while, enough to make sense of how it worked – they had a similar machine at the cobble shop, for stitching soles onto shoes – but she hadn’t actually put it to work. She had plenty of cloth and no shortage of patterns to use, all of which he had supplied, but there was nothing she wanted to make. She had a handful of dresses, which seemed like plenty, even if it left her closet looking absurd for how empty it was.

“Not yet,” He grunted from across the table. “It’s nice, though.”

For whatever reason, the reply amused him. Done with his meal – he always kept the tomatoes for last, treating them like dessert – he produced a metal tin from his vest pocket, and pulled out one of several cigars.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about them. The smell had burned her nose at first, but the odor wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, at least while it was fresh. She had to keep the dining room window open most of the day to ventilate it, so the stagnant reek of smoke didn’t make the room uninhabitable, but like most things he owned, the cigars were high end, and they smelled accordingly.

He especially favored ones that smelled a little like citrus and brown sugar. He had an entire humidor of them in the dining room, tucked in neatly with his variety of dark liquors, none of which she could stand. Alcohol, in general, was typically reserved for special occasions, and she never had any particular taste for it. Again, it was one of the galley men to the rescue, and he’d arranged an entire tasting one afternoon, arranging a barrage of tiny cups with little sips of various drinks for her to sample until she found some she liked.

Straight liquor, in all its forms, was absolutely vile to her. It all tasted the same, like it was burning her tongue and throat, though it was fine when it was properly disguised by something else. There had been exactly two red wines she could tolerate, much to his relief – pairings were important, apparently, between wine and food, and she absolutely needed to be tolerant of at least one red for them to execute things properly – but she mostly favored white, especially the sweet ones.

He was adamant that they would teach her to appreciate a fine vintage eventually. Sir Crocodile hadn’t set the expectation, exactly, but he was a man of very fine tastes, and it would be for the best if she could keep up with him.

Or, at least, not scrunch her face up in horror and wretch like a cat if someone served her a glass of pinot noir at a dinner party.

The cigar he had picked almost smelled like graham crackers. Vaguely, she registered it was a different brand, one with bright red wrapping rather than the blue of the ones he favored, and she wondered if he was doing something similar, sampling a variety to find the ones he liked best.

“You have the right materials, don’t you?” The question sounded genuine. “The seamstress said she included everything you’d need.”

“She did,” Heaven forbid Agatha hadn’t – he might well turn the ship around and undo a week’s worth of travel just to give everyone in town a piece of his mind if someone else failed to live up to his demands. “I’m just not used to it, is all. I usually sew by hand, and the fabrics are all really nice. I don’t want to ruin them because I don’t know how to use it.”

“I’ll get you more if you do,” He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, rings glittering in the disappearing sunlight. “I thought you’d prefer to make what you like, but when we stop, I can take you shopping, instead. Canopy Green has better variety, anyway, and you need new shoes.”

Her instinct was to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but something in her bones told her he wasn’t going to hear it. She had no idea if he had always been a man of means, or if he’d developed his empire while clawing his way out of poverty, but regardless of his origins, the man across the table was one who cared about appearances. He was giving her some measure of freedom, in letting her make what she wanted if she so chose, but her appearance was a reflection of him.

He couldn’t have her looking like some scruffy street urchin while he was busy trying to present himself as more than comfortably wealthy.

“I’ll look through the patterns again tomorrow.”

Compliance tasted terrible.

If he was still listening, he didn’t acknowledge her at all. One of the galley workers opened the door a second later, scooping up their plates – his all empty, hers half finished – and scurrying away. As the door swung shut, Crocodile let out an incredible puff of smoke, seeming to summon it from somewhere deep in his lungs. A faint grunt accompanied the sigh as he moved to stand – the sort of grunt only an older man could make, the one that betrayed the existence of an aching knee or back.

Typically, that was how dinner would end. Crocodile would get up, affirm she didn’t need anything else, then declare he was headed either back to his office or, much more rarely, that he would be in his bedroom if she needed him. The galley workers would come in and finish cleaning off the table, taking off the tablecloth and undoing the centerpiece they always set out for dinner, specifically, and she would go find something to do on her own.

Usually, that something was a bath. The water closet wasn’t especially fancy, like the ones she heard they had in Wildwood Hotel near the base, but it was a far cry from what they had at home. The tub wasn’t especially large across, but it was deep enough she could sink all the way to her neck without sloshing over the sides, and above it was a large shower head that felt like rain. The cabinet beneath the sink was stocked with all sorts of things – bubble bath and foaming bombs that colored and scented the water, lotions of all sorts, some for dry skin and others seeming to exist just for the scent.

It was one of several things that, in her opinion, felt like overcompensation. There were some things, like the general design of the bedroom or the sewing machine, where Crocodile seemed acutely aware of what she’d be interested in, but other times, it was like he had no idea, and did entirely too much to make up the difference. The bath supplies, the books and drinks in her room, the array of fabrics – it was like he went into a store, realized he had no idea what she’d want, and just swept armfuls into his basket while muttering that there would be something in all the mess that she was happy with.

It was simultaneously frustrating and endearing.

Frustrating, mostly, because she didn’t want to find it so endearing that he put that much thought into making his purchased wife content and comfortable. The bulk of her lingering anger was still oriented directly at her parents, who she’d still absolutely love to punch in the mouth for what they did, but some of it was pointed at him, too.

Regardless of who instigated the deal, he was still the man who had bought her, like she was cattle at auction. It might have been her father or mother who convinced him that she was worth the berry, but he was the one who had paid.

It would almost, in some ways, be better if he was bad to her. She would fling herself into the sea before she let any man beat her, but if he was a little more neglectful, at least, she could settle more easily. A marriage of mutual disregard would be easy – unsatisfying emotionally, but she was used to that feeling, comfortable in it like well-worn shoes.

Instead, it was as if he wanted her to like him, or at least, that’s what it felt like. It was entirely possible it was just a matter of respect for the institution of marriage, that he would treat any woman the same way because it was what he thought was appropriate, but that explanation simply didn’t feel correct, despite a lack of evidence to the contrary. He seemed more the type to drop a bag of berries in a woman’s hand and tell her to sort herself out, rather than apply any measure of effort – even if that effort was ordering someone to buy bath supplies.

She got the distinct impression that he was trying to spoil her, to show off in his own way and prove their marriage was the correct thing for her. Look at me, look at all the things I can provide for you – it was the nonverbal equivalent of someone screaming for attention and adoration. It was, she suspected, why he made it a point to eat dinner together, despite being absent literally every other hour of the day.

Rather than leave, Crocodile made his way to the small bar, carrying his tumbler with just his thumb and forefinger. It was almost funny, how small it was compared to his hand, which could easily encompass her entire face and then some. He looked all the more hilarious as he crouched down, with yet another old-man grunt and a pop from one of his knees, fishing out a bottle of whiskey with a name she couldn’t pronounce. The room tray was laden with ice, although she’d never seen anyone actually fill it, and with an absurdly tiny pair of tongs, he tossed a few cubes into the glass before filling it near to the brim.

The couch creaked ominously when he dropped his weight onto it. Normally, he was the picture of perfect posture, back straight and shoulders back, even if he tended to sprawl his legs out wide, but he settled onto the sofa like someone had stuck a needle into him and popped him like a balloon. His hook hand draped over the back of the sofa, while the other idled on the arm, holding lightly onto the tumbler. He slumped into the cushions, hips pushed forward and legs falling to either side as he let his head loll back.

“Come sit with me,” He tipped his forehead at the empty half of the sofa. “I could use the company.”

That was very new. Crocodile was a solitary man in general, and he’d never once called for her. The only people he spoke to, outside their dinners and whoever he may call, were the helmsman and a handful of others from the crew, and they never talked for long.

Scooping up her glass, she made her way towards the sofa. He didn’t seem at all bothered that she settled at the absolute furthest end – she couldn’t imagine why he would be, when his arm was long enough to smack her in the side of the head with his hook if he so chose. His eyes remained closed, tumbler still grasped between his fingers as he relaxed, one leg moving to cross his ankle over his knee.

The door flicked open again. The galley worker visibly flinched when he noticed them, but scurried to go about his duties, hurriedly undoing the evening arrangements.

“Bring a bottle of wine,” The pirate jumped at the sound of his voice – she didn’t, thankfully, but she felt the compulsion, herself. “Whatever she’s drinking.”

Arms full of the tablecloth, the galley worker couldn’t leave faster, only to return with the open bottle of wine she’d apparently been served from. Yet again, the label was in some language she couldn’t make heads or tales of. He set it delicately on the table beside her, pulling a corkscrew from his pocket to open it before he almost tripped over himself on his way out.

There was an impressive clatter of pans and dishes hitting the floor from the other side of the threshold. Again, Crocodile huffed out a sigh alongside a massive plume of smoke, popping his head up just enough to observe as a different chef came to grab the centerpiece, while the other two started to shout at one another until the swinging door finally stilled.

She thought she might have heard Crocodile hiss out the word “idiots” before turning his attention back to his cigar.

“You’re unhappy with me.”

He hadn’t phrased it like a question, but it was obvious by the pause in the air that he was waiting for a reply. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of the cold emanating from his prosthetic, uncomfortably close to the back of her neck. Memories of how it felt, just barely poking into her skin, shot to life in her mind.

He didn’t want her to lie, but she desperately didn’t want him to tell the truth.

“I’m…not enthusiastic about the situation,” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was, technically, not a lie. “As a whole.”

“Why is that?”

She opened her mouth, but the only sound that came out was a little, wet click as her vocal chords betrayed her. Instead of talk, she took a too deep sip from her glass, downing what remained and turning to refill it in a bid to buy time. Looking away from him, she found, made it the slightest bit easier to formulate a coherent thought that wasn’t drenched with adrenaline.

“Nobody asked me.”

From behind her, the Warlord hummed.

“I thought about it,” Her hands were shaking, suddenly, and a bit of wine sloshed over the side of the glass. “You wouldn’t have said yes if I did.”

So I didn’t. It went unsaid, but she could hear it clearly on the air anyway.

Something about the admission made her hands stop. It felt almost like it made her heart, which had been hammering against her ribs, stop too, constricting her lungs and sending bile up to the back of her throat. The room was silent once again, just as silent as her brain, unable to comprehend what he meant.

A light wave of sand wrapped around the bottle, plucking it from her fingers before she could continue to pour it and make an even bigger mess. It rattled softly through the quiet, tinkling almost imperceptibly. In her peripheral, she could see his prosthetic, oddly malformed – a chunk of his arm was missing the at the wrist, which slowly reassembled itself out of the swirling grains of sand.

“You…” She was vaguely aware of the sound of her own voice. “Did you…want me to?”

“Yes.”

The ice in his glass clanked as he took a long, audible swallow.

“Why?”

She heard him open his own bottle again, and oddly, that was what compelled her to turn. Crocodile seemed as unbothered as ever, refilling the glass he’d apparently emptied in one sip. He twirled it between his fingers against the arm of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling as he puffed his cigar.

“I saw you,” He shrugged. “And I wanted you. I can’t afford to waste months stuck on some backwater little island. This was simpler.”

She hadn’t had much wine, but she had to wonder if she was drunk with the way her head felt. She was acutely aware, suddenly, of the gentle rocking of the boat on the waves, the way it swayed back and forth, coasted up and down. The window was still open, and she could suddenly hear the crash of seawater against the hull, the faint voices of the crew above, going about their evening duties.

“So you bought me?” The words poured out unbidden. “Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking me on a date, you thought the answer was to buy me? Because you saw me and decided yeah, that’s who I want, while knowing absolutely fuck all about me.”

His eyes lolled towards her. They revealed absolutely nothing about what he might be thinking, utterly impassive, just like the rest of his expression. It made the frustration in her chest burn all the hotter, a log tossed on a smoldering fire that heated her face and made her fingertips numb.

“I’m an adult,” The words were summoned by the inferno burning up her lungs, forcing itself up and out through her lips. “I can decide what I want to do. If I wanted to leave my home, I fucking would have. Do you have any idea how many Marines have offered to take me with them when they get deployed? I could be in fucking Dressrosa right now if I felt like it.”

The last bit was the only thing that seemed to summon any emotion in him, long furrows forming along his forehead. She wasn’t entirely sure when she got up from the couch, but she was, standing somewhere between him and the door to the hall, hands flailing about without her instruction.

It was too much. She was burning, boiling over, and she couldn’t stop herself now that her tongue had gotten loose.

“But instead, you just came along and decided for me, like I’m fucking cattle,” It hurt to breathe, like his hook was run through her chest, though the Warlord still hadn’t moved. “You and my fucking parents just traded me along like it was fucking nothing. And how much was I worth, anyway? A few thousand berry? Whatever you had in your pocket?”

He didn’t move, but his empty eyes tracked her as she crossed from one side of the room, then back again.

“And then you try to make it better by buying me shit?” She wanted something to throw, badly, but there was nothing in reach. “I don’t want stuff. I was happy with what I had. If I wanted more, I could have had it years ago. The fucking Captain who signed our marriage certificate has been asking me out for years. If I gave a shit about berry, we’d be married with three fucking kids by now.”

Unfazed, he pursed his lips and blew yet another cloud at the ceiling. For whatever reason, that was what it took to push her completely over the edge. A bottle was suddenly in her hand, and just as suddenly not, shattering against the wall across the room. Dark, sticky bourbon poured down the wallpaper, oozing into the carpet to the tune of her screaming every curse she knew.

Chapter Text

For the next seven days, she didn’t see hide or hair of the ship’s captain.

He’d said absolutely nothing while she threw her much-needed tantrum, sitting sprawled on the sofa while she abused anything and everything within reach. Several more of his bottles of liquor had gone flying, one straight through the unopened portion of the window, and she’d managed to, somehow, break one of the sturdy wooden chairs against one of the bookshelves. Whatever argument she might have wanted to articulate devolved into incoherent screaming and blurry, teary eyes that couldn’t fully appreciate the carnage she reaped. The only semi-solid thought she managed to hold that night was that she shouldn’t actively attack a Warlord, of all people, though a stray glass had been beamed straight at his forehead during her rampage.

It didn’t connect, as he casually moved his head to the side and let it implode against the wall behind him, which honestly only made her even angrier. It had been enough for her to storm out, slamming her way into her room and flinging herself onto her bed. The large, plush mattress only aggravated her more – her bunk at home was far from comfortable, just a sack stuffed with straw, too narrow even for her, but she missed it.

All the damage she’d caused was undone by the next afternoon – with the exception of the conspicuously missing chair and hastily patched window, at least. The only sign that her implosion was real was Crocodile’s decision not to materialize in time for dinner, instead sequestering himself in his office, and the look on Gully’s face when he came out of the kitchen with her dish. He said nothing, but she could guess that all three of the kitchen workers, who literally bunked in the room, had heard her throwing a spectacular fit.

Even the helmsman, who she was reasonably sure was, in fact, Garret, had thrown an odd look her way when she stalked out to her usual spot on the top deck, before getting into a long diatribe about the functionality of the mizzen mast.

She would be embarrassed, but she couldn’t summon up the energy to bother. At first, it was just exhaustion, after a night spent crying and maybe screaming into a pillow, but by the third day, it was just a by-product of a much needed catharsis. She’d burned a little too hot and managed to burn herself out.

She did appreciate, after dwelling on it for entirely too long, that Crocodile had seemingly just accepted her rage. Nothing except his lack of presence had changed – the ship hadn’t been turned around, and there were no rumors swirling of an impending annulment. Gully, the resident gossip, would have told her if there were, when he finally admitted half the ship was acutely aware she had spent something close to twenty minutes screeching at their Captain and didn’t die in the process.

They seemed, weirdly, to respect it.

Not a lot of people could get away with that sort of thing, she was sure. Why Crocodile tolerated it from her, she wasn’t sure, but it had finally gotten her out of her stifled state of eternal anger, and into a place of quiet contemplation. He was prone to bouts of completely losing his temper himself, so maybe, she resolved, he understood what it was like to need to freak out to get back under control.

She wasn’t usually prone to such extremes. Her mouth, well honed from years of dealing with obnoxious Marines, was usually quick to fire off whatever was on her mind, and that was more than enough. It probably would have been smarter to let it out sooner, to do what she wanted to do and scream at her parents instead, so that she could have had a semi-reasonable conversation with the legendary pirate she was currently calling her husband about the situation, but she just couldn’t manage it, at the time. The shock of learning they’d arranged to marry her off just to get their hands on a tiny bit of his wealth had left her unable to do much of anything at all.

Part of her did feel just the slightest bit bad. She didn’t agree with his reasoning in the slightest, but she could at least follow what Crocodile had been thinking. He was a businessman – most of his life, at least as it stood now, consisted of transaction after transaction. Marriage, in whatever form it took, was just another deal to make.

It was a little flattering, in a nebulous sort of way, that he’d been interested just from seeing her. And he had, at least, contemplated the notion of approaching her first. He wasn’t wrong to think she’d shoot him down immediately, as she made it a specific point not to get close to the Warlords when they came around – Jinbei not withstanding, he was always a delight – and she could at least see how that had led him to come to the conclusion he ought to go to her parents, instead. He wasn’t a man who was denied what he wanted often, so he’d done what he presumably always did, and gone about getting it in whatever way would work, even if it was underhanded.

He also wasn’t terrible to her. He had tolerated her fit in stoic silence, unbothered even when she nearly hit him, and there didn’t seem to be any lingering resentment. She was still treated the same by the crew, though they were a little more polite when they approached her, and he hadn’t retaliated in any way. If anything, he seemed to be giving her the space she desperately needed while she got her head screwed on straight.

By the second day, she resolved she should probably apologize. She wasn’t sorry that she was angry, by any means, but he didn’t deserve to have her trying to destroy his dining room, either. He was distant, but good to her, compared to what he could have been like. He made sure she was well kept, indulged her hobbies, and, most critical of all, never tried to touch her. He’d had his hand on her shoulder on the gangplank, but she definitely would have fallen without his support, and she was acutely aware of his hook hand, but that had been it. Since then, he’d maintained a careful distance – sitting on the sofa had been the closest he’d gotten.

Verbal apologies weren’t something she was very good at. They always felt hollow, so she never really bothered – it was one thing, to toss a casual sorry if she inconvenienced someone or said some thoughtless comment, but another entirely to formulate a proper apology for something more severe.

Instead, she convinced Gully to give her his measurements. Precisely how a sous chef went about that sort of task, she had no idea, but she had asked in the morning, and by afternoon, he had them in hand. She wasn’t sure if Crocodile would even really appreciate a gift, but he was a perceptive man – even if he didn’t like it, he would probably understand what she was trying to do.

He probably also knew that she was doing it to start with, but she resolved not to dwell on that.

It took hours to get used to the machine. It did in minutes what would take her days, and more than once, it felt like it was ripping the fabric away from her. Several meters of what she hoped was relatively cheap, plain blue fabric had been wasted while she learned what all the knobs and doodads actually did, covered in veering lines of various sorts of stitches. When she could at least manage a straight line, she resolved that she could start her project – there was plenty of extra fabric if she fucked it up.

She wasn’t entirely sure if Crocodile was the sort of man to even consider wearing a flower pattern, but the silk charmeuse was the only thing she had that matched his color preferences and his quiet obsession with appearing wealthy. It was a nice, neutral crème color, with daucus flowers in a muted red, light but not erring into pink, and it went well with the red dorset buttons she found in the drawer.

She had never made a vest before, but stealing one of his for reference wasn’t that hard. No one really questioned what she was doing when she made her way into the bowels of the ship and into the laundry room, nor what she could possibly be doing with one of the Captain’s vests. She either had his permission, or she was doing something spiteful – but she’d gotten away with plenty already, so it didn’t really matter if she was, and it would be her problem if he got angry with her.

Seeing one of his vests off of him was strange. It was massive, hanging all the way down to her knees when she held it up in front of her. She had to finagle two hangers to drape it properly against the shelf so she could see it in full, barely able to stretch her arms wide enough to hold it taut.

She fucked up the first one almost immediately. The stitching ran off track the second she started, veering wildly to the left, and instantly ruined the entire panel she’d cut. The second one got a little further along, but she had the machine on the wrong setting while managing one of the shoulder seams, and the material was completely ruined. She had already put the panels together, and fucked up a third time while separating them, forcing her to start over completely yet again.

Finally, by the end of the week, she had a vest that she was reasonably sure would do. There was some matter of debate in her head about his ludicrous size, and if she’d converted things properly to accommodate, but if it exploded because his shoulders were too damn big, that was his problem, at that point.

Walking up to his office door was almost more stressful than the entire process had been. She hadn’t entered it except the one time, and she found herself standing at the top of the stairs, silently debating if she really wanted to do so again. She tried to listen, to see if he was on the phone or meeting with someone, but she couldn’t hear much of anything inside, except a vague, quiet tune of string instruments coming from his record player.

He told her she could come in at her leisure, but something about just barging in felt inherently wrong – almost as wrong as knocking when she’d already been invited. He seemed calm about her meltdown, but there was always the chance that he was secretly livid and had absolutely no desire to see her except when flinging her off his ship at their next port.

“You can come in.”

The creaky floorboard had, apparently, given her away. Trying to shove the rest of her stress out of her lungs, she grabbed the doorknob, and promptly slammed her full weight into the door, which didn’t budge. Whoever designed the ship was some sort of sadomasochistic asshole, apparently, and set the door to swing towards the stairs, across the landing where there just wasn’t enough space for it and a person at the same time.

Ignoring her burning face, she slipped in through the gap, once she figured it out.

As expected, the Warlord was seated behind his over-large desk, looking exactly as he always did – bored, disinterested, and maybe faintly amused by her plight. She fiddled with the vest behind her back as she plodded closer, stopping near the chairs, at what felt like a polite distance. His eyes followed her the entire way, devoid entirely of any sort of emotion that might tell her what he was feeling. The only real indication she had his attention was the pen he laid down, pausing what seemed to be a letter he’d been writing. It was barely legible – his penmanship was abysmal, and she wondered if he was maybe left handed, originally.

“I…” She shifted from heel to toe, rocking away her nerves. “Should not have yelled at you.”

His face didn’t so much as twitch.

“I’m still not entirely happy with the situation, but,” She licked her teeth, desperately wishing she had a drink to wet her lips. “I shouldn’t have been…breaking stuff. Or thrown that glass at your head.”

His eternally neutral expression was only making things worse.

“I’m also really terrible at this, so, here.”

Finally, his eyebrows raised as she presented the folded up vest. With his good hand, he took it, pinching with two fingers as he shook it out to see what it was while she continued to bounce. It took a second for him to register what it was, maneuvering the curl of his hook into one of the arm holes to stretch it out to see it in full. It was absolutely impossible to know what he was thinking, but he took the time, at least, to fully look it over, thumb running over the material.

He used the table to fold it, a process she wasn’t entirely sure she followed, but one that resulted in a neatly arranged bundle of fabric sat on the corner of his desk, away from all the ink and papers.

“Thank you.”

His heavy metal hook banged off the desk. Not intentionally, but just by virtue of its weight, as he resumed staring her down while settling it on the surface. She got the distinct feeling she ought to just leave, but she couldn’t make her feet do anything but rock her back and forth, staring at the open ocean out the window behind his head.

“We’ll be landing at port in three days,” She wondered if he was just as awkward about these things as her, or was doing her the kindness of changing the topic just to spare her. “Stay on the ship unless I’m with you. Other crews maintain a heavy presence in the area, and they’ll know you can’t fight back.”

Ominous, but she resolved not to think too hard about it. It did mean, at least, that she wasn’t going to be dropped off on some unknown island and left to her own devices. She wasn’t necessarily thrilled with his assessment that she was a visible liability, but she also wasn’t going to argue. Regular sized men were bigger than her – even most women were taller, and while she’d gotten into a few short lived scraps, she wouldn’t even know how to fire a gun.

“Although if you react like you did the other night, they might reconsider.”

It took a long beat to realize he was teasing her. He wasn’t angry, though it had the potential to sound that way, with his usual tone, but there was the faintest glimmer of amusement in his usually dead eyes. A thick, uncomfortable heat blossomed on her throat and spread up to her face.

“I’m not usually that…violent.”

“It’s fine,” He fiddled around in his pocket, finding his cigar case. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t destroy my chairs next time. That set was custom made.”

“I’m sure Garret can find some empty crates for me to smash.”

He snorted a breathy chuckle, and it felt a lot like progress. With a nod, one she didn’t know the exact purpose of, she dismissed herself, scurrying to the door to disappear back into the void of the ship. She didn’t have any particular plans for that day, but having successfully completed the vest, she thought maybe she would try her hand at a dress. There were a few fabrics she’d found that she particularly liked against her skin.

It was better than dwelling on why he’d instigated the fight to start with.

She didn’t get the impression that he was lying, necessarily. She didn’t doubt for a second that he could get away with just about any lie he pleased, and she’d never have a clue, but he didn’t really have any reason to. He could have just as easily pushed blame off onto her parents, instead of making himself a target, if all he wanted was to get some sort of reaction. She was well aware that he wasn’t giving her the full truth, either, but there was no benefit in potentially making her dislike him more than she already did.

That evening, he resumed his usual habit of lumbering into the dining room. She was quietly grateful he accepted her apology for what it was, rather than make her grovel, or continue to talk about it now that it was sorted. Without any evidence to support her theory, she got the distinct impression that he functioned the same way, exploding with frustration and making amends in some vague way, if he bothered to make amends at all.

He didn’t seem the type to even let the word “sorry” come tumbling out of his mouth, no mater how egregious the infraction, but it put his attempted caretaking into a more flattering light. It was, on some level, his way of apologizing for her distress.

It didn’t make up for the fact he had dragged her into the arrangement, but it was something that she could understand. Guilt didn’t seem like an emotion he felt often, but if he had the capacity to feel it at all, then she couldn’t quite consider him a complete monster. His endgame was still a mystery – there was no way she’d ever believe it was something as innocuous as infatuation at first sight – but there was a line, somewhere in his head. It was a line he was obviously willing to cross if he had to, but it existed, nonetheless, which was more than she could say about some people that she’d met in her life.

“If I ask you to sit with me, are you going to destroy the other window?”

He was halfway across the room, helping himself to another drink while she poked and prodded at the gelatin-based dessert she’d been served. She absolutely loathed gelatin, from how it was made to the texture on her tongue, and though she was immediately leery of rejoining him on the sofa after last time, anything was better than trying to stomach a bite of the jiggling abomination on her plate.

“I might,” If he could tease her – and that’s what it was, teasing, she was sure of it – she could do it back. “You never know.”

He didn’t laugh, but he did snort, massive shoulders bouncing as he poured his drink.

“Why don’t you just get bigger glasses?”

The question tumbled out before she could stop it, carefully cradling her glass as she hurried to take up the end of the sofa. In response, her husband hummed, not quite following the train of thought as he corked the bottle.

“You’re…large,” His cold eyes flicked towards her, absolutely unreadable. “They make bigger glasses. For people your size.”

“I like to at least pretend to be humble, sometimes,” His reply was accompanied by the groaning of the sofa, and the crackling of his knee. “And I’m not fond of getting drunk.”

“I’ve never seen you drink anything but hard liquor.”

That dimple made a brief reappearance, disappearing as swiftly as it had arrived.

“I have coffee in the mornings,” That wasn’t water, but she didn’t care enough to fuss at him for it. “Espresso at night, if I’m working late.”

She must have screwed her face up at the word espresso, because his reptilian stare shifted over to her once again. His eyes flicked this way and that, taking in the entirety of her face – which Gully insisted was hilarious when she disliked something, like a kid who’d just taken a big bite of a lemon – before he returned his gaze to the far wall. Rather than speak, he took a long sip from his glass, and she again wondered how annoying it had to be to be someone of his size.

A single sip for him meant draining half the glass.

“Not a fan?”

“Its bitter,” Her wine, however, was sweet. “I’ve never liked things that taste bitter.”

“What do you like?” His tone was bored, but her gut registered the question as genuine, which surprised her. “Tea?”

“Never had it,” There were a lot of things, she suspected, that she’d never had – things that, to someone like him, didn’t even register as a luxury anymore. “Couldn’t afford it.”

Again, he stared at her from the corner of his eye. She wasn’t strictly ashamed of being poor, it was a fact of life and her family was far from the worst off, but he managed, without a word, to make her squirm.

“Your father is the only cobbler within three weeks travel from the base,” A man with shoes like his, she supposed, would know. “I’m surprised he doesn’t get more business. His work is adequate.”

“It’s not that he didn’t get business,” One of her knees came up to meet her chest – an unladylike habit, her mother had always fussed, but one that made her more comfortable. “Marine boot repair is his bread and butter.”

He didn’t speak, but it was clear he was waiting for her to go on. Rather than let her pour herself more wine, he did it for her – she had somehow missed when Gully delivered it, though she could see his mop of red hair spying through the porthole with abject terror in his eyes.

“My mother’s not the financial genius he thinks she is. She’s prone to…fantastical ideas.”

He downed the second half of the glass, and rose to get more. This time, he stopped to fiddle with the humidor, finding one of the cigars that he tended to favor – the ones with the blue wrapper that smelled faintly of oranges. Seemingly out of habit, he raised his hook hand as he lit it, like anyone else when they cupped their hand around a smoke to block the breeze, and she had to wonder how recently he’d lost that hand.

“How so?”

“Every few months, she gets into something new. She’s been a painter, a sculptor, a fashion designer. She always says it’ll finally be how we make our way up to the top.”

Ice clanked against his glass.

“She’ll get really into it for a couple of months. Then give up on it and move onto the next thing when it isn’t as easy as she thought it was.”

“Is that why you worked at Duke’s?” He settled a little more comfortably on the sofa this time, sprawling out again, and she didn’t miss that he’d brought the bottle with him. “Your father couldn’t pay you for your work at his shop?”

She nodded, mostly because there wasn’t anything more to say. If she wanted to have money, she had to earn it outside the family business. Duke, the owner of the aptly named bar, couldn’t really afford to take on extra staff beyond himself, either, but with age slowly ruining his hip, he’d needed a someone who could move around the tables so he could bunker down behind the bar.

She would never get rich working there, but it was money in her pocket. Her sister, too, had gotten a job down at the docks, handling supply manifests.

Remembering her sister brought a horrible feeling to her gut.

They weren’t especially close friends, the way some siblings were – not with how their personalities contrasted – but they did love one another. Only a few years apart in age, it was usually just the two of them, while their parents worked.

“What is it?”

Apparently, her horror was written on her face. Crocodile had turned his head to face her fully, his pinched brows drawn down slightly in what might have been concern. He might even have been frowning, though it was impossible to tell, given that seemed to be his default expression.

“Rose,” He grunted, not recognizing the name. “My sister. She’s technically an adult.”

There was a long, heavy pause. She couldn’t form the words to express the thought that had suddenly wrapped around her heart like a vise. Sir Crocodile appraised her in the quiet, trying to calculate what she meant, before he leaned back into the sofa with a sudden sigh.

“You’re worried they’ll arrange a marriage for her, too.”

She managed a nod.

Things with Crocodile didn’t seem too terrible, in the grand scheme of things – but there was no telling what kind of man her parents would pick for her sister. They’d managed to sell her off to a Warlord, so it stood to reason they’d try to do the same thing a second time, either when Crocodile’s money dried up or just because it would be worthwhile.

“I can buy her.”

The word made her flinch – him, too, his brows shuddering for a moment at his own phrasing.

“I don’t keep slaves,” He noted, impressing the point with the weight of his voice. “But I can convince them to have her sent over, once there’s somewhere to send her.”

“Why would you do that?”

There was no benefit to it. A marriage she could wrap her mind around, if only vaguely, but there would be absolutely nothing in it for him to bring her sister over just because she wanted him to. With a wife, there was some tangible benefit, even if it were only sex without the need to track down a prostitute or waste time flirting at a bar – if not producing an heir, or using her largely unassociated name to commit some sort of fraud.

In response, he shrugged one of his massive shoulders.

“You’re my wife.”

Chapter Text

It felt weird to be on solid ground again.

She wasn’t sure the name of the island they’d landed on, but it was far larger than the one she’d come from, with a city to match. It wasn’t the opulence of some places she had heard of, with white stone streets and gold everywhere, but it was pleasant and lively. Vendors had started to call out hearty welcomes well before the first set of feet had reached the docks, trying to ply their wares – fish, mostly, though some boasted spices and other luxuries for those who lived at sea.

None directed those calls at the hulking man who loomed by her shoulder, though. It wasn’t clear if they identified him as a Warlord, or if they simply felt in their bones that they ought to not test him, but they gave him a wide berth as they made their way off the docks. By default, that seemed to mean they avoided her, too – she stood too close to him to avoid being wrapped up in his aura.

For the third time, he was touching her.

It wasn’t a particularly intimate hold, just his massive hand on her upper back, and the utility of it kept her skin from crawling. Part of her wanted to be offended that he seemed to think she couldn’t navigate such a large city without being led around like a dog on a leash, but that part had withered and died at seeing the expanse of the city well before they had docked. Her home village wasn’t small, but it was neat and orderly, firmly segregated between those who were part of the Marines and those who weren’t, while the one in front of her bustled with all variety of people, from civilians to obvious pirates.

They were only in the city to resupply. Realistically, they had plenty, but Garret insisted that it was normal for them to stop fairly often for that sort of thing. If they ever ended up adrift because of a storm, it behooved them to have extra supplies on hand, to keep them fed and maintained until they could sort themselves out. It was a habit formed from spending a great deal of time along the Grand Line, where islands could be exceedingly far apart and navigation was, for whatever reason, exceptionally difficult.

Still, Crocodile had said he’d take her ashore, and he seemed intent on following through. He had obviously been to the city in the past, confidently leading the way through the streets to some boutique he knew of but hadn’t named.

Weirdly, she was pleased to be going. She still didn’t particularly want new clothes, and honestly couldn’t care less about actually shopping – but they were headed for a boutique well beyond anything she’d ever been able to afford, and he was wearing the vest she had made.

It fit him better than she expected. A little loose beneath his arms, to accommodate his overall bulk, but not to the degree anyone would notice. He had dressed to match it, with a similarly red button down beneath it, donning a brown fur coat rather than the green one he usually favored that blended well with the cream color of the base.

She didn’t want to accuse him of trying to show off. It wasn’t anything more fantastic than the clothes he usually wore – lesser, realistically, with her limited skill on the machine – and really, there wouldn’t be a reason for him to want to flaunt it. Instead, she presumed it was his way of showing her, specifically, that her meltdown was forgiven. He hadn’t worn it before, and she honestly hadn’t been confident he intended to do anything more with it than leave it in his closet, but given he’d surely heard she had been concerned she might be ditched on an unfamiliar island, it seemed like a way of offering her a sense of security.

They walked for a while in comfortable silence. The crowded streets parted like the sea as they passed, everyone veering around his giant form – some visibly frightened, others seemingly out of respect. She tried not to look like a complete tourist, but she couldn’t stop herself from craning her head this way and that, taking in the sights and signs around them. Despite not being blatantly rich, the businesses, which ranged from a watch maker to a pub to jewelers, seemed to be doing well.

Occasionally, she could feel Crocodile spare her a glance from the corner of his eye. He seemed a little amused to watch her swivel her head around, puffing on his cigar as he lightly led her along.

Either that, or it was how she had to practically trot to keep up with him. He didn’t walk particularly fast, but his legs were almost as long as her entire body. He could clear in one step what took her at least three, even when he slowed himself down to try and accommodate her.

Finally, they came up on the shop he had in mind. Both men and women’s apparel were on display in the window – suits and dresses, mostly, though gazing through the glass, she could also see various accoutrements for people intending to enjoy the beach, though it clearly wasn’t their primary source of income. As always, he had to duck to pass through the threshold, twisting his upper body slightly sideways to fit his shoulders within the doorframe.

The ceiling inside was just barely tall enough for him to stand properly without getting smacked by the wooden ceiling fans. His shoes clicked against the tile, making her acutely aware of the strange sound of her straw sandals scraping against it, and she was instantly struck with the sensation of being acutely out of place.

“Buongiorno!”

Before she could even glance at the racks of clothes, an entirely too chipper sales woman had closed the distance, nearly toe to toe with her as she peered over her glasses with a friendly, but critical, eye.

“Welcome back, Sir Crocodile,” Her voice was immediately grating, too high-pitched for comfort. “And who’s this?”

“My wife.”

He certainly had no grievances with admitting it out loud. The saleswoman let out a scandalized gasp, dramatically covering her mouth with her hand, displaying well manicured nails painted a garish shade of green.

“My, my, Sir Crocodile himself is no longer on the market,” She might have been teasing, but it was difficult to tell – he was clearly used to it, though, displaying absolutely no reaction. “How the women will weep.”

“She needs a new wardrobe,” He pushed through her nonsense. “The start of one, at least.”

“Oh,” She tittered, immediately snatching Lily’s hand and dragging her forward. “Of course! Come along, dear.”

While she cast a concerned glance back over her shoulder, her giant of a husband collapsed into a cushy chair in the corner. A young man she also hadn’t noticed hurried towards him, a glass and decanter of what was probably whiskey on a silver tray. He, too, greeted the Warlord by name and title, unbothered by the plumes of smoke no doubt tainting their selection of clothing and his lack of reply.

“You have such a good figure, dear. I can already see you in one of the dresses from our summer selection.”

The woman – Ruth – was quick to make her initial selections. Despite her over the top behavior, she did have a good eye, selecting a dress and holding it up before returning it to the rack or adding it to the pile accumulating on her arm. Most, thankfully, erred on the side of casual, though still more ornate than the simple wrap she had on. They weren’t all to her taste, necessarily, but none were by any means unpleasant.

Ruth also didn’t force her to parade herself around for her husband. Most of the casual dresses she was willing to decide for herself, joining her in the fitting room to make her selections. Whatever she disapproved of was casually flung over the door, presumably spirited back to where it belonged by the other attendant.

The only ones that Lily herself was willing to outright reject were those with high collars. There was no particular reason, except that she didn’t like the feel of the starched collar against her neck. Short dresses, long dresses, most of them light and airy, all slowly collected in a pile on the chair in the corner, until at long last, she thought they might be done.

“You’ve got lovely hips,” As she spoke – more to herself than anyone else – the older woman took hold of the aforementioned body part. “Tyler! Bring me the Mikado print.”

The only reason she didn’t shove Ruth away was the fact that she was clearly calculating something.

“And some proper lingerie, too!”

“Beg pardon?”

“I can’t put you in one of my designs wearing that,” Ruth waved her hand vaguely at her body, mortally offended by her rather boring panties and bra. “You need to be dressed properly, dear, down to the last detail. Especially to the last detail, with a man like that waiting on you.”

Before she could splutter out a reply, a heap of fabric came flying over the doorframe. It was a deep, green silk, emblazoned with tropical flowers in a vibrant, but still tasteful, way – accompanied by a black strapless bra and tiny panties that were exclusively made of lace.

“Come on now, try it on,” Ruth shoved the lingerie at her chest. “It’s nothing I’ve never seen before, dear.”

She desperately didn’t want to be standing in a dressing room, pussy out in front of a stranger, but she couldn’t fathom how to get out of it. She couldn’t make out the cut of the dress, but if she were willing to admit it – and she wasn’t – the fabric alone made it more than a little tempting. It would have been weeks and weeks of work to afford even a meter of that sort of material, and she couldn’t quite resist being able to wear it, just once.

After she reluctantly exchanged her underclothes, Ruth helped her into the dress. It was a simple tube, really, with a high seam that cut across her belly button and some mild boning in the strapless top to give it shape. Pulling back, Ruth assessed her for a moment, before again calling for the other attendant to bring her a specific pair of shoes. They were strappy black sandals, with a wide heel, a little uncomfortable but only because they hadn’t been worn enough to start to break in the firm material.

“Oh, you look perfect,” Ruth cooed, before shoving her at the door. “Sir Crocodile absolutely needs to see this. I’ve really outdone myself.”

Against her will, she was pushed towards the front of the shop. He was exactly where they’d left him, head tipped back towards the ceiling as he puffed on his cigar – the only indication he’d moved at any point was the decreased liquid in the decanter. Before Ruth could call his name, his attention was on them, appraising her slowly from foot to neck.

It had the potential to make her deeply uncomfortable, but the stare didn’t exactly feel sensual. It was more like he was appraising a potential business offer, entirely unbothered except the faintest flicker of his brows. She mouthed the word help at him, which was the only thing that summoned any real reaction, quirking the corner of his mouth as he silently refused her plea.

“Looks nice,” He resolved, and the simple, smirking reply sent Ruth into another bout of joyous tittering, while mercifully sparing Lily any greater horror.

“She’s lovely,” Ruth declared, and again, her hands found her hips, commanding her to spin. “Just lovely. I can see why you married her.”

There was a small battalion of other ornate dresses for her to try on, after that. Then pants and blouses, then, to her abject horror, an onslaught of lingerie that would surely “have Sir Crocodile ready to have his wicked way with her”.

A statement that was delivered at entirely too loud a volume for the otherwise quiet store. Over the hum of the fans, she could hear him chuckling to himself, low and rumbling like thunder – either at the statement, or, more likely, at the strangled noise she let out in response. Before she could clamber over the door, still in the lace nothing Ruth had commanded her into, and flee into the streets, she was allowed to dress – specifically in one of the new dresses, plain red but complimentary to how he was dressed for the day – and dragged to investigate the shoes on offer.

That seemed to be Tyler’s area of expertise, as he took over for Ruth while she gathered the purchases she had approved of. He had her sit on a low, cushioned ottoman while he traded out one shoe after another, slowly accumulating a stack of boxes on the floor as he approved or denied them in turn. Whether or not she thought she’d ever wear them – particularly the tall spike heels – didn’t seem relevant to his decisions. He seemed to be in charge of coats, too, silently selecting from amongst various boleros and shawls to add to the collection.

“We’ll have everything delivered by this afternoon,” She could hear Ruth at the counter, where Crocodile had meandered off to, despite not having everything together for him to pay. “I must say, I never thought I’d see the day you settled down. Especially not with a pretty young thing like that.”

His rumbling hum was his only reply. Finally, after finding a pair of shoes he resolved complimented the dress well enough, Tyler let her abscond towards the counter herself. Sir Crocodile glanced at her, just briefly, as he fished around in the inner pockets of his overcoat.

The stack of berries he produced was more than she’d ever seen in her life. Even the Marines who came into the bar with every intention of flaunting themselves hadn’t produced billfolds with that much cash, despite how much they waved it around. Despite the genuinely obscene amount of purchases, it didn’t even put a dent in the collection of bills, as he casually flipped through to produce enough to cover the cost.

Finally, they were free to leave, Ruth’s high pitched farewell following them onto the street. They both stood there for a moment, while he produced his cigar tin – this one was less pleasant, dominated by the scent of burned wood, making her nose itch in response.

“Never make me do that again.”

His coat bounced as he scoffed out another laugh.

“We still need to stop by the jeweler.”

“Please no.”

Ignoring her displeasure, his hand fell onto her upper back once again, lightly pushing her along.

“Yes,” He didn’t sound annoyed, though he seemed more bored than usual. “You need something to wear with all those pretty dresses I just bought you.”

“You could un-buy them,” She offered, though she knew he wouldn’t.

“No,” He seemed marginally better about slowing down for her, either finally starting to acclimate or just acutely aware she had never worn heels that tall, chunky as they were. “Jeweler, then lunch. Then back to the ship, unless there’s anywhere else you want to go.”

“Bookstore, maybe?”

“Getting comfortable with spending my money already?” Again, that dimple appeared, deeper this time as his serpentine smile briefly danced over his face.

“We’re married,” She noted, still acutely aware of how he’d introduced her. “Doesn’t that make it our money?”

For the first time since they’d met, she heard him actually laugh. It wasn’t especially dramatic, not hilarious to the point of throwing his head back to cackle, but a proper chuckle. It sounded a little strange, almost inverted from the norm, though she was the last person with the right to judge, not with her terrible laugh that was all squeaks.

“Suppose it does.”

Jewelry shopping wasn’t nearly as much of a hassle as the boutique had been. She didn’t need to try anything on, except the occasional ring, and she genuinely didn’t have any mind for what they were buying. She hadn’t owned so much as a simple chain in her life, and she knew absolutely nothing about gemstones or what was fashionable. Almost as if to compensate, Crocodile himself took the lead, appraising each display while the employee waited on baited breath.

None were, she noted, meant to be an engagement ring, or even wedding bands. He indicated, when asked by the worker, that he was having those made – likely, she assumed, to accommodate his massive fingers, which no reasonable shop would ever think to prepare for. He wasn’t as keen to buy as much, either, his eye incredibly discerning for any flaws in the stones or metal.

While he went about his business, she meandered, vaguely inspecting things to at least acquaint herself with what was currently popular. There were all sorts of designs and colors, some ornate to the point of obnoxiousness, others so subtle they’d be easy to miss. The selection seemed to be sorted by the type of stone, and as she perused, she found herself drawn to a specific tray.

The stones inside were unlike the others, which were colorful but clear. These were more milky, vaguely white but swirling with tones of blue. Even without moving them, they caught the light in a different way, shimmering and shining across the surface as she moved closer. Distantly, she was aware of the chattering happening across the store, while she was quietly enthralled by the way the unusual stones glittered, idly moving around to see it continue to glimmer.

“You like moonstone?”

Her heart nearly shot into her throat. For a giant of a man with a seemingly creaky knee, Sir Crocodile was capable of moving silently when it suited him, and she wasn’t at all prepared to hear his voice rumble over her head like a storm. Her hand slapped noisily off the glass counter, startling the staff member in turn, before registering that he was stood directly by her shoulder.

She craned her neck back to look up at him, nearly folding her own spine.

“Is that what they’re called?”

He nodded, subtle but clear enough for her. There was no way to understand what he was thinking, his expression utterly impassive as he appraised the display. The attendant hurried over, sweating and nervous but doing her absolute best to seem proper, as she produced the display tray for her to look at more closely. There was one ring she particularly liked, with a small black stone on one end an white on the other, surrounding three milky stones in the center, shifting from black and blue, to grey, to almost white, and it caught her eye immediately. There was a necklace it seemed to match with, though it was far enough apart it didn’t seem to be a set, a large milky moonstone in the inner arch of a crescent moon, which was hollow and filled with those black and white stones. There were studs, too, a single moonstone surrounded by little black and white dots.

It reminded her of the night sky, the one she stared at almost every time she walked home from the bar, and suddenly, she was seized with wanting them terribly. Her pride, however, wouldn’t allow her to ask Crocodile, despite him apparently being content with serving as he walking bank for the day, and she lightly set them back down. She resolved to move along, to look at something else, vaguely enchanted by other displays, but none impressed her like the moonstones had.

They did, as he suggested, order lunch at a nearby café, before moving along to a bookstore. He loomed over her shoulder the entire time, silently observing as she perused the shelves. There were four or five titles that she had longed for, back on her island. Most of the books she had purchased in the past were children’s books, really, stories of varying difficulties meant to lull her or her sister to sleep. As she got older, Rose had gotten her hands on a romance novel that she insisted Lily simply must read, and though it was embarrassing, she snatched it the moment she recognized the spine.

“Interesting choice,” His continued teasing, she suspected, meant he wasn’t nearly as inconvenienced by the trip as he looked.

“Rose loves this one,” Her face warmed a little, having forgotten his presence for the briefest moments. “She used to insist I read it, but I never had time.”

Without a word, his long finger reached out, hooking into the spine of a second book at the edge of the gap she had created. It was by the same author and, from the title, must be some sort of sequel. He dropped it into the pile in her arms, paused, then did the same with a third.

“You know I have no idea if I even like these, right?” She shifted the bundle, which was growing annoyingly heavy, and he scooped them up without a word, balancing them against his forearm above his hook. “I might hate them.”

He shrugged, a sure sign he wasn’t going to engage in the topic further. He had decided that he was going to buy them for her, and that was that.

She was oddly happy to see the ship reappear on their venture back. Despite her lack of enthusiasm about her situation, her feet hurt and the lace bra she’d been forced into was starting to itch from the sweat, and she was ready to be done. A hot bath sounded ideal, alongside maybe a little lounging with one of her new books. She had selected a variety, all things she’d wanted to study at home but hadn’t had the time or money for – introductory books to cartography and ships and various sea creatures and new dress patterns.

As promised, her wardrobe had been delivered before they returned. It was left in bags, all stacked neatly within her closet for her to arrange as she liked. The more ornate dresses had already been hung, though, concealed with protective sacks that made it impossible to know which was which without opening them, obviously to keep them protected from any damage. Two of the bags even felt like they might be waterproof.

Crocodile abandoned her at the door of his office in favor of work, so she was left to unpack by herself. Although she had something approaching a friendship with Gully, the youngest and boldest of the kitchen staff, he had made it a point to say he would never enter her room without Sir Crocodile’s permission. The man himself hadn’t banned such a thing, but it was, as far as anyone else was concerned, wildly inappropriate for a man to be in a woman’s room for any reason.

“He really did it.”

She almost ripped the strap of the dress in her hand at the sound of a woman’s voice. She stood in the doorway, distinct an unfamiliar. Tall and pretty, dressed in a black leather dress that displayed her considerable assets, lined with a similarly cut polka dot dress, or maybe just a long button down, underneath, with a matching cowgirl hat on her head. The look on her face was placid, not happy but calm, but she still somehow oozed danger in the same way Crocodile did.

“Sorry to startle you,” She stated, her voice smooth and even as she extended a hand. “Miss All Sunday. I work for your husband.”

For whatever reason, Lily hesitated to accept the hand – Miss All Sunday, in return, giggled in amusement.

“He said you were smart,” She was oddly pleased, flashing her palm, where a thin strip of green paper was tucked between her fingers. “It’s a mild paralytic. Nothing that would leave you with any lingering harm, just leave you napping for an hour or so.”

She flicked the apparently poisoned slip into the nearby trash can, inviting herself deeper into the room.

“I just needed to be sure,” She continued, unperturbed by the lack of response. “You have good instincts, at least. I can work with that.”

Thankfully, Sir Crocodile seemed to sense something amiss, and materialized in the doorframe behind her. He glowered down at his apparent employee, but not with any real heat or aggression – she was meant to be there, then, though why, Lily still had no idea.

“Miss All Sunday,” He nodded briefly at her as she settled on the edge of her desk. “You were meant to come by my office first.”

“You can’t blame a girl for being curious.”

He could, and he would, but he didn’t seem to want to. His attention drifted instead to his wife, who was still clutching one of the dresses firmly in hand as if she might use it to protect herself.

“Miss All Sunday is a trusted associate of mine,” He stated plainly. “I asked her here to train you.”

“To fight?” She had gotten in playground as a kid, and she was a local legend when it came to smacking people with her serving tray, but she was far from a fighter – nor did she particularly want to be one.

“To defend yourself,” Crocodile agreed with a shrug. “Just to be prepared. The Grand Line is a far cry from anything you’ve ever seen.”

“Mostly, though,” Miss All Sunday took over the conversation. “I’ll be your tutor for the next few weeks.”

She tittered at the look Lily must have cast her.

“Nothing very intense,” She stated. “Proper manners for galas, dancing, that sort of thing. It’s important you present yourself properly if you’re going to be respected by your husband’s…associates.”

Chapter Text

“Men aren’t complicated creatures.”

It was a statement that Miss All Sunday had parroted often, during the weeks she was present on the ship. It didn’t much matter what they were doing, sparring with blunted weapons or exploring dossiers of Sir Crocodile’s associates or discussing proper table manners – she would say something to similar effect nearly every day.

“They’re simple minded,” She had said over a glass of wine during their lunch. “And even if you can’t physically fight them, there’s always a way to manipulate them to get what you want.”

Lily had resolved she rather liked Miss All Sunday. They weren’t exceptionally close – that wasn’t the purpose of her presence, and it was hard to trust someone obviously working under an alias – but they got along well enough, and it would be a lie to say she didn’t admire the other woman, in some ways. She was pretty and confident and brilliantly smart, the sort of person Lily would like to be, and she was keen to accept her guidance, despite being relatively close in age.

“You need to always seem like you have something they want, even if you don’t have anything at all,” One of her extra hands scooted Lily’s elbow off the table. “Information, sex – it doesn’t matter. They need to want something from you, and they need to believe the price of it is high enough that they hesitate. That’s where you get your opening.”

Still listening, Lily tried to remember which fork she was meant to use with the first course. She selected one, only to be blocked by one of those extra hands, which lightly smacked her fingers until she found the correct one.

“You’re young and attractive,” The other woman continued. “But strong willed. Those are your best assets. Men will be drawn to you, and you won’t always be able to rely on your husband’s reputation to protect you. There are plenty of men out there who don’t respect the concept of marriage.”

She took a delicate sip of her drink, laying her chin in her hand.

“Learn to read them, lead them along until you know what they want,” She swirled the red wine in her glass. “And while you’re entertaining their offer, do what you need to do. Poison them, brush them aside, threaten them with violence or blackmail – it doesn’t matter, as long as you make the right call to make them hesitate.”

“You make it sound easy.”

Miss All Sunday smiled, placid and content.

“It comes with practice,” She shrugged. “And you have a Warlord to get plenty of practice on. He’s utterly besotted with you, you know.”

“Is he?” She laid her silverware down, suddenly much more interested in her drink than her appetite, which had shriveled and died. “I feel like he barely wants to talk to me, most of the time.”

The woman across the table hummed. Without another word, she rose, lightly taking her by the elbow to lead her out of the dining room. They made their way to her bedroom and into her closet, where the two of them had unpacked all her things – it still only consumed less than a quarter of the available space.

Without explaining her intention, Miss All Sunday sifted through the clothes, obviously searching for something specific. She found a relatively simple one, which Lily herself wasn’t all that fond of, tight all the way up and down with ruched off-shoulder sleeves. The style itself wasn’t terrible, but she wasn’t overly fond of the mint green color – pale colors, as a general rule, weren’t something she thought looked particularly good on her skin. Unbothered, the other woman draped it over her arm, fishing around for some lingerie that would fit beneath it, and a pair of heeled sandals with a lemon pattern along the straps.

“He treats that vest you made like it’s made of glass,” The woman declared, while forcing her into the washroom by the shoulders. “Someone spilled some beer on it other day, and he nearly killed him for it.”

There was a small stool in the bathroom, meant to be used for changing, but Miss All Sunday dragged it over, plopping her down in front of the mirror. Laying the clothes on top of the hamper, she started fishing around in the drawers – there was a variety of makeup that hadn’t been there before, and she got the distinct impression it was the other woman who’d made the purchases.

“He was livid someone had almost ruined something his wife had made for him.”

For whatever reason, Lily complied with the woman’s instruction to hop in the shower while she got everything arranged on the counter. She didn’t really need one, but All Sunday wanted her hair wet so she could trim and style it properly, and once it was rinsed, she found herself seated at the sink counter in an annoying silk robe. She trimmed the edges, evening them out, before skillfully wrapping them in curlers and moving along to her makeup.

She had a little bit that she used to wear. Two tubes of lipstick and some eye liner – nothing fancy, and mostly gifted to her by Agatha, who had decided they didn’t work for her. She only ever wore it to work at the bar, finding that a little bit of liner and pink on her lips helped with her tips. Miss All Sunday, on the other hand, intended to go the entire yard – foundation and contour and blush and glittering eye shadows.

The entire time, she instructed Lily how to wear it, herself. How much of each to put and where, how to apply it correctly without pulling on her skin. When she was satisfied with her model, she moved onto her hair, forcing her under the hot spray of air from the hair drier, until she was satisfied with that, as well, and started to uncurl them section by section. She brushed them out, applying this product and that, until her long hair was left in gently flowing waves that poured down her back.

“What do you know about him?” Miss All Sunday propped her hip against the counter, searching through the perfumes.

“He’s a Warlord, and a businessman on some level,” That, at least, got a titter out of the taller woman. “He likes cigars and whiskey, too, but that’s really it.”

“The cigars, what do they smell like?”

She had to pause and think. He was always changing his taste, but still, she could recall the humidor full of those citrusy ones that he seemed to favor.

“Citrus and brown sugar, usually. Sometimes graham crackers or coffee. He has other ones, but he doesn’t seem to like them as much.”

All Sunday nodded, starting her search amongst the bottles of perfume on the low shelf. She sniffed one after the other, occasionally selecting one to set on the counter but usually putting them back, until she had four final selections.

“Find the one that smells the most like those cigars.”

Feeling more than a little confused, Lily obliged. The first erred too heavily into the scent of oranges – his cigars smelled a little sharper, like lemons and limes, not quite sour, but close. The second was more correct, but lacked the warm tones of brown sugar. The third was completely off, reeking like sugar cookies, but the fourth was also something close, warm and soft brown sugar and cinnamon.

She set the two closest ones aside, returning the others to their place on the rack.

“If you mix these two, I think, it’s pretty close.”

To test her theory, she took a slip of toilet paper and sprayed each one once. After a moment, to let the irritating mist in the air settle, she sniffed, and was satisfied with what she found. It lacked the smokey smell of his cigars, but it matched the undertones, and she presented it to All Sunday for confirmation. She applied the perfumes lightly, at her ears beneath her hands, on her wrists, and cheekily even spritzed her chest.

It would be overwhelming to smell, but All Sunday knew what she was doing, holding the bottles at a distance so she only received the lightest misting.

“He doesn’t talk to you,” She continued. “Because he knows you’re not happy being here.”

Much of Lily’s relaxation suddenly fled, leaving her muscles to tense and her stomach churning. All Sunday was unbothered, replacing the perfumes and instead working a scentless lotion into her arms.

“I heard all about that fight,” She laughed. “Honestly, I’m upset I missed it. You really let him have it. Not a lot of people have that much nerve.”

“I may have snapped a little.”

All Sunday just laughed.

“Believe it or not,” She presented the lingerie for her to put on, politely turning towards the tub. “He does want you to be happy with him. He’s had his eye on you for a long time, now.”

“The first time we spoke was literally on our wedding day.”

“I know,” She shrugged. “But he’s a man who knows what he wants. You’ve had his attention for years, ever since you cracked two of the Billions over the head with a tray.”

Vaguely, she could recall the incident, though she hadn’t realized they were part of his crew at the time. She also hadn’t seen him in the bar, but his ship had been docked, at the time, and it made enough sense he had somehow found out. Two of his men had gotten too handsy, first with Duke’s daughter, the other waitress working that night, and then later, with her when she agreed to take over the table.

Unlike Yuna, Lily had precious little tolerance for disrespectful groping. One had grabbed her, sending the drinks she was carrying to the floor, leering down while he pulled her against him with one, fat hand firmly on her ass cheek. He promised to pay a good price for her to keep him and his friend entertained that night, chattering over her firm warning not to touch her.

When he didn’t let go, she cracked him in the face with her wooden serving tray. He toppled to the floor, and when his friend shot up, reaching around at his waist for his pistol, she smacked him too. Drunk as they were, neither could handle the sudden disruption to their equilibrium, leaving them sprawled on the floor. A duo of Marines who tended to hold up the bar each night had intervened, then, instructing some of their less-drunk fellows to drag them back to their ship.

As she reluctantly finished with the white lingerie, she grabbed for the dress, undoing the buttons on the back and slipping it on. As if she were watching the entire time, All Sunday spun around, helping to do up the back and adjusting the shoulders to sit just right.

“From what I understand,” The other woman continued. “His plan was to invite you to join him on a tour across the East Blue, to try and win you over. Your mother was the one who demanded a wedding first.”

That admission made her pause.

“He said it was his idea.”

“It wasn’t,” All Sunday laughed again. “He went with it, because it was the only way, but I was there. Your mother threatened to report him for kidnapping you if you set one foot on the ship.”

“I’m a grown adult,” She huffed, uncertainty swirling in her brain. “If I wanted to leave, there’s not much she could do about it.”

“He’s not the first one she’s tried to arrange a marriage with,” All Sundy continued, fiddling with her hair to pin some of it back. “She was in talks with Doflamingo. It would have ruined everything, if you ran off with Sir Crocodile instead, even if you came back in the end. Claiming it as a kidnapping would be the only way to keep that deal alive.”

A shudder wracked up and down her body. All Sunday felt it, too, soothingly stroking down her arms. The very idea Doflamingo even knew her name was enough to send bile shooting up her throat. Peeling herself away, she threw on the sink and cupped her hands, greedily swallowing the water to push it back before she could vomit.

“It was either pay a better dower,” Unbothered by her sudden fit, All Sunday offered her a glass, which she filled and downed and filled again. “Or let that monster be the one to have you.”

“Why’d he take the blame, then?”

“Because you needed to get that anger out of your system,” Gently, she cupped Lily’s cheeks, touching up her lipstick briefly before forcing her to look at him. “And he was an easier target than your family. Really, I promise – he was just trying to help.”

She didn’t realize she was crying until the other woman blotted her tears with a towel.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” She stated firmly. “Sir Crocodile is not a kind or gentle man. He’s ruthless, manipulative, and selfish, and everything he does is for his own gain.”

She set the towel on the counter, sighing.

“You’re sweet, but you’ll need to learn to do the same, or he’ll start running roughshod over your life, even if he is fond of you.”

All Sunday dropped onto the stool, commanding her to give her one of her feet – not to put on her shoes, but to paint her toenails a muted green.

“That fondness is your advantage,” She was obviously practiced, the work done cleanly and swiftly. “Learn when to push back against him and when to let him do as he pleases. Give him a little affection, just a taste – and if he wants more, which he will, make him work for it. You’ll have him wrapped around your finger in no time.”

They swapped feet, and she had to lean against the countertop while she kept her toes spread to dry.

“You don’t sound like you like him much.”

“I respect him,” All Sunday shrugged, focusing on her work. “Though, I don’t much like men in general.”

There was a hint of subtext there that made her face feel hot. All Sunday giggled, squeezing her ankle for a second in a way that was almost sensual, before immediately backing off – a joke, not a real advance, but it was enough for her flush to spread down to her chest.

“He doesn’t want a pretty, stupid woman hanging off his arm,” She continued. “He wants a partner, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. Someone who can keep up with him and his various endeavors, someone who’s his equal. He’ll respect that, and you, far more than he would if you just comply all the time.”

The two of them briefly stalled, unable to do anything more while the varnish dried. All Sunday leaned back in her seat, giving her another once over that ended with a nod.

“You’re going to start proving that to him today,” She resolved. “I’ll only be on board a few more weeks, but I’ll make sure you’re ready by then.”

She was dragged back to her bedroom, where All Sunday immediately went to fishing through her jewelry box. Setting it on the bed, she dug around, producing various pieces that Lily herself genuinely hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t overly interested, but watched for lack of anything better to do, before she noticed one that surprised her enough to make a sound.

All Sunday had been prepared to put the necklace back, but stopped, appraising her as she watched the pendant spin idly in the air.

“That’s moonstone.”

“It is.”

It took a long moment for her to realize All Sunday hadn’t been with them in the jewelry shop.

“He caught me admiring it in the store,” Lily explained. “I didn’t want to ask for it because it was so expensive, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever wear it, but he bought it anyway.”

All Sunday’s smile this time seemed a little more genuine.

She draped the necklace on the bed, rooting around until she produced the earrings and ring she’d been eyeing, too, the ones with the shiny moonstone and black and white diamonds. Satisfied with her selection, she pulled Lily off the bed, returning to the closet to fish through the clothes once again. She pulled out a different dress, white with an intricate blue print, and motioned for Lily to change into it while she tracked down a different pair of shoes.

Satisfied once she’d changed, she picked up the moonstone necklace and brushed her hair aside to clip it around her neck. Lily refused to let her install the earrings – her piercings were done herself, with a burned safety pin, leaving the front and back unusually misaligned, and while she had tolerated the babying, she wasn’t about to sit while someone fished around with a piece of metal for five minutes. The ring fit neatly onto her right hand, and she couldn’t quite stop staring at it, twisting and turning it in the light.

“There’s more in there, you know,” All Sunday drawled with amusement. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he bought the entire display.”

Lily wasn’t sure what to make of her own emotions, in that moment. Vaguely, she realized it was happiness, something she wasn’t overly familiar with, if she were honest with herself. She’d felt it sometimes, in brief bursts, while spending the day at the beach with Rose, or when her little brother ran up to her in excitement with a particularly nice shell he’d found in the sand, but never so intensely.

It almost made her feel sick from its intensity.

He had completely ignored the display, at first. She’d even heard him declare that moonstone was hardly “suitable”, cheap compared to other options as she wandered off, more interested in the clear, shining stones with steep price tags.

He had gotten it solely because she liked it. Peering into the box, there were other, similar pieces – plenty of those ornate, clear stones that he favored, but also others that he’d previously rejected. She vaguely recognized the pitch black of pieces of obsidian, but there were others she didn’t have the names for, all milky and shiny, some red and some pink or even violet and teal.

“Stop crying or you’ll ruin all my hard work.”

All Sunday dabbed at her eyes again, this time with the corner of the sheets.

“Sorry.”

Again, All Sunday offered her that genuine smile, looking stunningly like a pleased mother.

“I guess that brute can actually be pretty thoughtful, when he wants to be.”

When she got herself back together, All Sunday took her by the upper arms and gave her one last pep talk. She was going to go into his office, and with whatever excuse she came up with, ask him to spend some time with her. She was confident that he wasn’t as busy as he was pretending to be, and she was equally sure that he’d accept.

An arranged marriage, she asserted, didn’t have to be an unpleasant entanglement of two strangers. She had seen plenty, and some couples were even happier than those who’d married for love. They’d both be better off if they could start to bridge the distance between them, even if it never resulted in real, genuine love. They could be friendly, at the very least – comfortable with one another’s company, rather than strangers eternally dancing around the broken glass of their relationship.

Admittedly, Lily wasn’t entirely sure what to do, as All Sunday pushed her towards the stairs. She felt the thrumming of anxiety yet again as she approached the threshold, listening carefully for any sign he was, despite the woman’s assertions, actually busy. As it was before, though, she could only hear the low, steady thrum of a string instrument quartet, pouring from his record player. No chattering on the phone or annoyed shuffling of papers.

At the bottom of the stairs, All Sunday waved her along with a nod and a pleased grin.

She at least dodged the door, this time.

Crocodile was precisely where she expected him, sprawled out behind his desk. Instantly, she could feel his frustration, chin supported by the curve of his hook as he glowered at his den den mushi. She was getting a little better, she thought, at reading his miniscule expressions. Most of his emoting happened with his eternally pinched eyebrows, raising and lowering in response to how he was feeling, and they were particularly low at that moment, creating a few shallow lines in the expanse of his forehead.

Rather than say anything, she tried to do what All Sunday had suggested, and appraised the situation. He was annoyed with a recent phone call, if she had to guess, but more than that, he didn’t have his usual cigar or drink on his desk. That, she decided, would be her peace offering first, and she made her way as quietly as possible to the modest bar. She could feel his stare, tracking her every motion as she poured a tumbler full of whiskey, and crouched down to find a humidor with the blue-banded cigars. To her private delight, she also found a gold-plated lighter.

His head tilted her way as she set the drink down. He didn’t seem to know what to make of what she was doing, but didn’t indicate he wanted it to stop, as she passed him the rolled paper and tobacco. Obliging her, he puffed on it to get the cherry to light, letting out a great, heavy half-sigh, half-groan as he stretched out in his chair.

“Long day?”

“Very.”

He didn’t articulate further. Instead, he gave her another up and down, stalling at her clavicles. That vicious golden hook rose, gently tapping against the metal of her necklace, and the heaviness of his brow seemed to ease just a little. That single dimple replaced it, the corner of his lips quirking in response to his discovery.

“It looks nice on you,” That, she thought, may very well be the first real compliment he’d ever given her. “Miss All Sunday put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“Kind of, but she does make a good point.”

Hoping he wouldn’t mind, she seated herself on the edge of the desk, gently kicking her feet instead of making the mistake of rocking while aboard a rocking ship. He didn’t seem perturbed, but his arm did move, like he thought he might need to brace her, until he was sure she had settled on the miniscule ledge beside his den den mushi, who had drifted off to sleep.

“We’re married,” She elaborated. “Which, I’ll state again for the record, I’m still not overly enthusiastic about. But I would have thrown myself out the highest window I could find by now if it were with that shitter Doflamingo.”

His brows twitched – he didn’t seem all that happy she knew about the other Warlord, or maybe he, like her, hated the flashy asshole. Either way, he stayed silent, drawing the tumbler into his hand.

“Sunday told me what my mom was up to,” Another flicker, this time one of genuine frustration as he glowered for just a moment at the desk. “You…did what you had to, so I didn’t have to deal with that mess.”

He didn’t agree or disagree, instead draining his glass in one big gulp, like he was the uncomfortable one, now.

“I owe you for that.”

“No, you don’t,” She pushed herself up, wandering over to grab the decanter on the bar, which he accepted before pouring himself another drink. “I wanted you, so I took the opportunity to have you. I didn’t do it just to save you.”

“I know,” Her heels clicked as she settled back on the counter, clacking quietly against the pads of her feet. “But it was still part of it, right?”

No answer, but she didn’t honestly expect one. Getting him to admit to anything, she suspected, was more difficult than pulling teeth. Still, she knew she was correct, if only by the way he refused to so much as glance at her direction.

“Where were you planning to go on that tour around the East Blue?” Again, he twitched, and she got the distinct impression All Sunday would be in for a hell of a talking to later – which she probably expected. “What’s here that’s so nice?”

“A few islands,” He held his glass near his mouth, but didn’t sip it, staring at the door opposite his desk. “Depends.”

On what you wanted to see.

Pride bloomed to life inside her. She was getting better at interacting with him, reading him, something she was sure would never happen.

“I like fish,” She volunteered. “Some of the sailors told me there’s an island where they gather up all the nicest ones they can find and put them on display in tanks. Supposedly, they even have a small Sea King.”

“The aquarium,” He hummed. “They have a Sea Bear. Completely different than a Sea King.”

“A Sea Bear?”

“Most sea beats resemble land animals.”

“And this one is a bear?” He nodded, twirling the tumbler in his hand in response to her excitement. “Bears are my favorite.”

He snorted. It sounded like disbelief, but her enthusiasm was genuine – bears really were her favorite animals. They were speckled around her home island, small and generally docile, except during their breeding season. One of the higher ranking Marines she knew ever kept one as a pet, after it had to have its leg amputated. Every now and then, he’d bring Button with him to the bar, and she’d spend her shift giving the little creature pets and sneaking it treats.

“I’m serious,” Pouting wasn’t really her style, but she tried it, regardless. “We had chisakuma all over Gureirokku. Is there a…place that just has bears?”

“A zoo,” He volunteered. “And there are a few. They don’t keep bears exclusively, though – and you can’t pet them.”

That was mildly disappointing to hear, and she visibly deflated. She did know that there were larger species of bear speckled throughout the world, most far more prone to violence than the chisakuma, but she still wished she could pet one, anyway, if only to compare their furs.

“Have you ever seen a crocodile?”

“I’ve seen you.”

That got a chuckle, to her surprise. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed into his glass, a low and soft series of ah ah ah sounds, a grin on his lips.

“They’re an animal, too.”

She supposed they were, but they had never appeared in any of the animal books she borrowed from the local shop. The only books they had were about local creatures, with occasional references to distant other species that were related to them – meant as a guide for visitors or for fishermen and hunters to reference, not for someone looking for more information on the wider world.

“They have them at the zoo, too,” He stated. “They keep all sorts of things there. I’ve been told they have dedicated exhibits for insects and smaller reptiles, as well.”

“Can we go?” He was difficult to read, but her excitement was impossible to contain. “It’s not too far out of the way, is it?”

“Just a few days,” He took another sip of his whiskey. “We can spare the time. I have some associates on a nearby island, anyway, and they’re overdue for a check in.”

Chapter Text

No one called it a date – but it was, definitely, a date.

A man like Sir Crocodile wouldn’t subjugate himself to the torment of meandering around a zoo of all places if it weren’t. The place obviously held absolutely no appeal to him, his overall disinterest in the various exhibits transparent despite his lack of complaining. He meandered around behind her, hand constantly on her back as they weaved between the crowds, and when she stopped at something she found particularly interesting, he would drop heavily onto a nearby bench and let her get her fill of staring while he occupied himself with his cigar.

Still, she was having plenty of fun. Not every animal was all that interesting, most of them contentedly meandering around their enclosures at a distance, unbothered by the constant cajoling of the crowd that flowed around them, but some were absolutely enthralling. The big brown bears held her attention for several long minutes, and one, sat with its back legs outstretched while it chewed on a plant, had even learned to wave back at people – likely in the hopes someone would fling it a tastier snack. The giraffes, too, were delightful – not overly interesting on their own, but there was hay on offer for people to feed them, and she was able to satisfy her deep urge to pet while one nibbled away at the pile in her hand.

The most entertaining part was the whispers, though. More than a few people recognized her quasi-chaperone by face, and though they tried to stay out of his earshot, she still caught the whispers. He wasn’t exceptionally bothered by his age – if anything, he seemed proud of it, of having survived the life of a pirate long enough to reach something approaching middle age – but he wasn’t fond of hearing people discuss his visit with his daughter.

She wasn’t that much younger than him, really, at twenty five. She didn’t look much younger than her age, unlike her sister, who was more cherubic in features and likely wouldn’t ever look her age, but she supposed she looked young enough that it was hard to tell when the two of them were next to one another. He wasn’t heavily wrinkled or grey, but subtle lines were starting to appear on his features, furrows above his brow and divots around his lips. His eternal glower of boredom, too, did nothing to make him seem like anything less than a mature man.

Beside her, a woman who had yet to start showing the distinctive signs of aging, they both must seem to be at more extreme ends of the spectrum.

Pulling herself away from the tigers lounging in the sun, she noted they’d gotten closer to the aquarium portion of the exhibits. The change was subtle, the trail of animals shifting towards the more-semi aquatic as they got nearer and nearer to the grand sign.

Crocodile sat on a bench on the far side of the walkway, calmly observing the middle distance – keeping her in his line of sight, but not hovering. As she approached, to indicate that they could again move along, she spotted a sign for another exhibit two down from the tigers. The front of the glass was empty, except a relatively shallow pool of water, but she could see waves moving along the top, indicating something was moving inside.

“Come on, old man,” She drawled, and he glowered at her in turn. “I think I found your namesake.”

She couldn’t hold his hand. He was simply too big for it to be comfortable, even with their fingers laced – not that she’d tried, but it was obvious, as even seated, he remained several inches taller than her. Instead, she grasped onto two of his fingers, tugging on him to hurry up and stand.

It was a new sort of contact for them both. All of their limited touches were ones he instigated, and never born out of any sort of intimacy, romantic or friendly. He kept his hand on her upper back to keep her close in the crowds, to guide her along and prevent her from being swept away – there was no intent behind it, and he always kept his touch light, easy to slip away from if she really wanted to.

Holding hands, such as it was, almost felt juvenile. It was the sort of thing young people did, an active display of affection – an affection she still didn’t really hold for him, and one she wasn’t entirely sure he held for her, either. As soon as she did it, it occurred to her that it was the sort of thing he might even think was beneath him, and she contemplated pulling away before she realized he hadn’t.

Instead, he pushed himself up with his prosthetic, leaving his duo of fingers firmly locked in her hold. He moved to stand almost beside her, nearly against her shoulder, waiting for her to lead him along.

Rather than find somewhere to sit and glower, he joined her at the glass of the crocodile exhibit. They were bigger than she expected, one just as long as the man was tall, thick and heavy with muscle and durable green scales. A smaller one floated in the water, letting just its eyes and nostrils protrude from the surface as it observed the crowds wandering past.

The disinterest in its stare was familiar. It’s closed maw of ragged teeth reminded her of a certain scar she was becoming increasingly well acquainted with. Even the way it was built, thick and broad with an obscenely long tail, covered in small spines that made it immediately obvious it wasn’t to be touched, reflected in the man standing by her shoulder.

“I can see the similarities.”

One of his eyebrows quirked at her. Despite the frown on his face, she suspected he was having a better time than he’d ever admit. It wasn’t obvious from his expression, but his posture, shoulders comfortably drooped despite the constant straightness of his spine.

“Don’t be a brat,” He groused. “Or I’ll throw you in.”

“I’m not,” She countered. “I’m being serious. You could be cousins.”

He was too mature to roll his eyes, but she could sense in her bones that he wanted to. She was teasing him, but in all honesty, she meant what she had said. It was especially obvious in the way they stared – bored, disinterested, but always calculating, always on the hunt for prey. Unlike the reptile in the enclosure, however, the Warlord’s eyes sometimes softened.

Just a little, but she could see it, sometimes, when he looked at her, including in that moment. His two fingers curled, wrapping over hers with ease, and he tugged her along with a gentleness no one would expect from a man of his sheer size.

“Let’s find your sea bear, little girl.”

Finding the sea beast wasn’t, in the end, much of an adventure. The majority of the aquarium was one long tube, inhabited by all variety of fish that wouldn’t predate one another, with a single path for people to meander through at their leisure. Shiny fish, colorful fish, fat grey seals and even stingrays, all slowly drifting in one huge circle, between tall pillars of rock and coral.

It spat them out in the sea bear exhibit. It had a massive enclosure all to its lonesome, dug deep into the ground and barricaded by tall, thick fences rather than glass – presumably because it could readily break it. At a glance, the lounging creature looked like a regular bear, coated in thick white fur, with the exception of a long, thin green spine down its back. As it rolled over, however, the differences became more obvious. Thick scales traveled down its belly, and its four limbs ended in fins, rather than clawed paws.

It was obviously content with its life, sprawling out on a rock while an Fish Man employee tossed treats into its mouth from a healthy distance. Despite its massive size, her first thought, honestly, was that it looked a little dopey, rather than the intimidating creature she expected.

“They’re more fearsome in the wild,” Crocodile’s curled fingers twitched against hers. “This one was raised in captivity.”

“You ever fight one?”

“Not a Sea Bear, no,” He drawled. “But some other beasts, on occasion, and a Sea King or two.”

“You’re lying.”

“I never lie,” That, she was sure, wasn’t true. “The first time my crew left the Grand Line, we weren’t prepared for the Calm Belt. It was fight, or die, to make it through the other side.”

The Calm Belt was one of the few things she knew about the Grand Line. Two strips of the sea, without strong winds or currents, where all manner of beasts liked to nest. The only ships she knew that were able to cross were those with Seastone lining their hulls, which they claimed prevented them from being noticed – most of the time – by the terrors that lurked under the surface. They were all self-propelled, too, to compensate for the lack of motion in the water or air.

The Gustave had a similar engine, she had learned from Garret. They preferred to rely on the sails, though, as it consumed a considerable amount of fuel and effort to operate. Men would need to shovel coal day and night to keep the massive furnace fed, and they simply couldn’t keep enough coal or men aboard to keep it operating day and night. The sails were slower, but far more efficient in the long term.

“You actually fought a Sea King? Did you have an armada with you?”

“Just the Gustave.”

She let out a low whistle, still not completely certain she believed him, but also not positive that she doubted him. He was, after all, a pirate so powerful the World Government had decided it was easier to make him an ally than continue to have him as an enemy. Attaining a status like that surely required some superhuman feats.

“We had one make a nest off the shore a couple years ago,” It had, at the time, been a massive crisis – people panicked less during tsunamis. “The Marines had a whole fleet after it for weeks. They couldn’t kill it, but I guess they were enough of a nuisance it decided to move along. That one wasn’t even that big, I guess – they said it was a juvenile.”

Above her head, Crocodile snorted in amusement. Despite working alongside the Marines with some regularity, he didn’t respect them much, if at all. He hadn’t said as much, but she suspected he took the title of Warlord solely for his own convenience, rather than for any sort of prestige or reward. It had to be easier to go about his business without them trying to arrest him all the time.

They moved along, in light of her vague sense of disappointment at the sight. There was a second tunnel, this one built much the same, but with distinct divisions between the various exhibits, keeping the predatory creatures it housed separated from their natural enemies. Sharks of all sorts, and eels of various shapes and sizes, some no larger than her arm and others longer than Crocodile was tall. There was even a particularly massive enclosure filled with what she initially thought were excessively large crocodiles, which seemed to be the first, and only, thing her companion was interested in. As one swam by, she vaguely registered the distinctly banana shaped protrusion on its forehead, denoting them as something else entirely.

They were Bananawani, according to the plaque nearby – native species of a Grand Line island called Arabasta. The name was vaguely familiar, and after a moment, she recalled hearing both Crocodile and All Sunday mention it in recent weeks. Although they were on a meandering path back to the Grand Line, if she understood correctly, the desert island was their ultimate destination.

“Are you from Arabasta?”

Crocodile hummed, flicking his eyes at her for the briefest moment before resuming his observation of the Bananawani swirling around above them.

“No,” He ultimately drawled. “But I’ll be opening a casino there soon enough.”

“A casino in the desert?” She questioned. “Doesn’t sound particularly lucrative.”

“It’s all about the location,” He replied simply. “Rainbase survives off its gambling industry, though Rain Dinners will put them all to shame, once construction is finished.”

Eventually, the tube spat them out into the real money maker of the zoo – the shops and restaurants. Most of them were oriented more towards children than adults, designed to draw young people’s eye and pressure them into tantrums until their parents forked over the beri for whatever cheap toy or novelty had gotten their attention. The restaurants were heavily themed, one designed like a thick jungle, complete with recorded animal noises, directly across from one meant to depict a desert oasis.

None were particularly appealing. Part way down the path, with the exit vaguely in sight, Crocodile started to veer off, lightly pulling her along with their still looped fingers. Unsurprisingly, his attention was on a bar, more subdued than most of the rest of the structures, and, in the early afternoon, sparsely populated compared to the rest. She hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but she was getting hungry – she would have been fine eating back on the ship, but she also didn’t mind escaping the sun for a bit.

How Crocodile hadn’t melted under his fur coat, she wasn’t sure, but the skin on her shoulders had started to grow tight, sweat itching along her scalp.

For the first time in an hour, their hands separated, as he dropped heavily into a booth in a quiet corner. He managed to smother his grunt, but she heard his knee crackle again. It was always the right one, never the left, and she was suspicious it had been injured at some point. He never limped or let on that it gave him trouble, but he was a heavy man, which was never easy on the knees or hips or ankles, and it surely didn’t help, even if the problem was overall something minor.

It was a little weird for her, to be the guest and not the server. She appraised the menu, internally flinching at the prices – although not nearly as high end as Sunnybrook, the prices were uncomfortably similar. She knew Crocodile had plenty to spare, and that he never seemed overly bothered when it came to spending, but she couldn’t quite manage to get comfortable with the prospect.

“Order what you want,” Apparently, her discomfort was written on her face. “Stop worrying about the cost.”

Ultimately, she settled on a burger. Crocodile, perhaps not at all surprisingly, managed to find an obscenely large steak listed on the menu on a page she hadn’t even bothered to skim. It no longer surprised her how much food the man could put down in one sitting, though she noticed the waiter’s brows rise in surprise – realistically, the steak and sides wasn’t even a real meal for him, though he seemed to be minding his manners in public.

He insisted it didn’t, but his image mattered a great deal to him. He was marginally more lax on the ship, when it was just the two of them, but whenever someone else was around, he was more strict with his behavior. Not that she had a great deal of experience being out and about with him, but they ate dinner together practically every night for just over a month, and it made the differences glaring.

On the ship, he would let his elbows rest on the table. He would take bites that were too big even for him, and sometimes talk around the food in his mouth, or take a massive swallow of liquor at the same time to wash it down. He was never completely without manners, but more lax, at ease and comfortable in his own domain, where he could eat and drink his fill without worrying about the effect any poor behavior would have on his reputation.

She tried to do the same. It didn’t feel natural, but she recalled Miss All Sunday’s lessons, and tried to emulate them. A burger wasn’t really the best choice for someone meant to eat with a demure sort of delicacy, but she did her best – he snorted at her, but said nothing, which she presumed meant she was doing well enough.

Vaguely, she noted he was wearing the vest again. She wasn’t sure if it was happenstance or intentional, but it matched her dress this time – a simple red summer dress, flattering but overall plain, in the same hue as the print of the vest. She couldn’t tell if he genuinely liked it – the color was flattering on him - or he was trying to please her in some way by wearing it out, but she resisted the compulsion to ask.

Instead, she resolved to make another one. With her new wardrobe, she didn’t feel any compulsion to make anything for herself – especially while she still wasn’t totally comfortable with the sewing machine – and if nothing else, it would be good practice. If she made him a few, though, and he put them into his regular rotation of outfits, it would answer her burning curiosity.

“Do you own a lot of casinos?”

As usual, his initial answer was a low hum. Despite having more food than her, he finished first, savoring a glass of whiskey while he waited for her.

Or something like that, anyway, though she got the distinct feeling he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the brand. It was one of the things he was especially particular about – as much as he enjoyed dark liquor, like his cigars, he had specific taste, and even subtle flaws would put him off. She couldn’t imagine a zoo, of all places, carried the high end brands that he favored.

“A few,” He replied, swirling his drink around his glass as if it would solve the problem of its taste. “None of the same caliber as Rain Dinners, however. They’re easy money, if they’re run properly.”

Rigged, he meant – easy money if they were rigged. They had one small one on Gureirokku, which, like many things, catered to off duty Marines. She had never been inside, personally, but she heard many of them grousing at the bar about losing at the slot machines or card tables. Most winners only walked out with a little more than they’d started with, and it was only on rare occasion that someone won the “grand prizes”, once or twice a year at most.

“We’ll be at one tomorrow, actually.”

“Something happening?”

“No, but I don’t spend a lot of time here,” Which was true, she supposed – the only reason for someone like him to come to the East Blue was to deal with the Marines. “It’s overdue for a check in, that’s all.”

It occurred to her, after a long second, that he’d said we.

“I’m…going with you?”

“I told you,” There was a sign right by his head that said no smoking, but no one had the nerve to approach as he lit a cigar. “I intend to teach you how to manage my businesses. This one is a simple enough place to start.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. Numbers, as a general rule, weren’t really something she was skilled at managing. She helped Duke, sometimes, but he ran a tiny dive bar on a modest island – it wasn’t exactly difficult to balance his books when he only kept a small variety of low end liquors to serve the same regulars every night.

A casino, even a modest one, was an entirely different beast.

“You’ll do fine,” He asserted. “It’s not as complex as you think. We’ll go over the financial reports this evening.”

“Did you marry me just to have an on-demand manager?”

The table nearby, still waiting on their food, scurried out at the sound of his laughter.

“No,” He shook his head, smiling broadly. “Though I won’t deny, it is a nice perk.”

Chapter Text

The Ferry was an absurd place.

Although certainly nice, in terms of quality, it reminded her more of a funhouse than a casino. It was opulent to the point of hilarious excess, gaudy and vibrant and absolutely not the sort of place she would associate with someone like Sir Crocodile. It was one of his earliest investments, gifted to him by the previous owner in lieu of paying a debt he owed, and by his own admission, one of the most neglected, to the degree he sometimes briefly forgot he owned it in the first place. It was a quiet, slow money making machine – the profits he earned from it were relatively small, but consistent, never worth the effort of bothering with something as costly as a remodel but producing enough beri for his pocket that he couldn’t be bothered to sell it, either.

She had watched it approach on the horizon for the better part of three hours. Rather than an island, like she expected, the Ferry was, as its name would indicate, a massive ship sat in the middle of the sea, surrounded by a makeshift port with ships going to and fro. Several brandished the flags of off duty Marines, while others were clearly private vessels, most of them just as gaudy as the casino itself – one was nearly encapsulated in gold, and she vaguely wondered how it managed to stay afloat while All Sunday scuttled around her room.

Being the other woman’s personal doll wasn’t exactly her favorite pastime, but she couldn’t deny – All Sunday had good taste.

“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” She snickered from the other side of the bed, once again fishing through the jewelry box Lily couldn’t quite remember receiving. “The décor was outdated when it was new.”

“Honestly, if there isn’t a giant gold statue of Crocodile in the main lobby, I’m going to be severely disappointed.”

All Sunday snickered, breezily draping a necklace over her collar.

“Wait until you see Rain Dinners,” Her laugh was barely smothered on her voice. “He’s commissioned a giant gold Bananawani for the top of the pyramid.”

That, honestly, didn’t surprise her much, as absurd as it sounded.

As much as he kept it private, he was clearly fond of giant, murderous reptiles if one cared to look long enough to notice. Aside from his subtle admiration for the Bananawani at the aquarium, there were subtle clues she was surprised that she’d overlooked before – a paperweight shaped like a coiled snake on his desk, a painting of a crocodile pond in the dining room. He leaned into his namesake far more than he’d ever willingly admit, or than he was probably consciously aware of.

“Is the pyramid also gold?”

“Mostly.”

She was, ultimately, disappointed by the absence of any giant golden statues of Sir Crocodile. There were plenty of other statues, though – well maintained, for the most part, but the one of the siren pouring water in the lobby had just barely started to tarnish beyond help. Everything was draped in crimson red and gold, from the literal drapes to the seams between the panels and wallpaper, which was a hideous black-and-white Damascus that was entirely too busy as a backdrop for the sheer number of people inside.

The whole place was a visual abomination from top to bottom – which was just a little ironic, considering the sorts of people who patronized the casino. They were, in a lot of ways, just as obnoxious as the décor, dressed in fine suits and absurd dresses that were, supposedly, the height of modern fashion. There was one woman, in particular, that she was reasonably sure had driven an entire species of bird to extinction, in order to have her dress made out of so many purple feathers and precious little else.

“You should really spend the beri on a new interior decorator,” She leaned towards the furry mass at her shoulder, keeping her voice low. “This place is hideous.”

From above her, the Warlord let out a low huff of amusement. He didn’t seem any more enthused by the place than she was, staring out over the sea of bodies and slot machines and card tables with his usual impassive stare, but there was a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, just for the briefest second. They weren’t touching, exactly, but he hovered more closely than usual, the fur of his coat brushing the bare skin of her arm.

“Are you offering?”

“Absolutely not,” She hissed. “But I can set fire to the drapes if you want.”

Unbothered by the fishman working the door, he started moving, trudging along through the foyer. His posture was perfect, rather than the slight slouch he allowed himself when moving through their private quarters on the ship, strutting along like a prowling cat. She felt like a toddler next to him, half-dragged along by the hand he subtly tucked into his elbow, doing her level best to pretend that she wasn’t struggling to keep up.

Everyone was looking at them. Most of them were pretending not to, and doing a terrible job of it, peering out of the corners of their eyes or over the edge of their drinks the moment his foot met the stupid red-and-gold carpet that lined the casino floor. It wasn’t just the patrons, either, but the staff, men in bowties and ladies in too-small black dresses, weaving through the crowd with trays of drinks and doing their best to seem smaller than they were.

“Sir Crocodile!”

The man she assumed was Dalton, the manager, was a squat little man. Badly balding, with his greasy hair hastily combed over the top of his head, he was no taller than her, but easily twice as wide around. Nothing about him seemed to fit right, from the length of his torso to the fit of his check-patterned suede suit, his nose fat and flushed but his eyes beady and small.

He was seated in a corner booth, up and away from the general rabble. Two women – prostitutes or waitresses, she genuinely wasn’t sure – were with him, one on either arm. One of them, the younger of the two, visibly tensed, white knuckling the stem of her martini glass as the Warlord stalked closer.

The other, Lily resolved, she would like to punch in the mouth.

The other woman made absolutely no effort to conceal the way she looked at Crocodile. Hungry, eager, and just a little too familiar. She knew in her gut that the two of them had slept together at least once before, which was fine – she didn’t expect a pirate nearing forty to be some innocent virgin waiting for the “right one” - but the look in the older woman’s eye was one that screamed that she thought it would happen again.

Preferably that night.

Possibly right there on the table.

Then her gaze flickered to Lily, and stared at her like she was nothing- a gnat to be batted away.

In all reality, she wasn’t attached enough to her marriage, or her husband, to actively care if he did sleep around. They had reached a comfortable level of tolerance, but she certainly didn’t care about him enough to experience something as severe as jealousy when it came to how he got his rocks off. He could fuck whoever he pleased, and, most likely, probably did. All Sunday had made it clear she wasn’t interested in him, or anyone of his gender in general, but there were a handful of other women who worked on the ship, and it wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest if he regularly defiled the sofa in his office with at least one of them.

The issue was her ego. He could sleep around as much as he liked with whomever he pleased, but the idea of being blatantly disrespected by anyone was like holding a match to a pile of hay. It had happened a few times before, when she’d bothered with the concept of dating, and she could still recall the way Tashigi had looked at her when they first met, that flicker of abject disapproval in her stare, like she thought her Captain was lowering himself, though she had the good graces to pretend otherwise.

The fist fighting could come later, though. As it was, a massive wooden table was between them, and scrambling across it to slug a stranger in the face would be too much of a spectacle. Almost as if he could sense she was primed to implode – again - Crocodile kept a heavy hand on her as they sat. It was casual, like he had done it without thinking, stretching his arms across the back of the velvet booth and coincidentally finding her shoulder with his finger tips.

“And who’s this lovely woman with you?”

The silent war brewing between her and the other woman was interrupted by the distinctive sensation of disgust. Her dress wasn’t all that revealing – it was the green one she’d been forced into at the boutique – but she still wished she had a jacket to pull closed over it as Dalton gave her a terribly slow once over.

“My wife.”

The reply was simple, untargeted, but Dalton instantly reeled back. He tried to disguise it, but he wasn’t a very good liar, instantly and hurriedly averting his eyes with a nervous laugh. The younger woman flinched, too, taking a too-big gulp of her drink while staring anywhere but across the table.

The other didn’t even blink. She didn’t make a sound, but her shoulders moved like she was keeping a chuckle deep in her chest. The vibrant red of her lips quirked, thick with lipstick and confidence, and Lily found herself wishing she had a glass to throw. Instead, she tried to keep her expression neutral, the way All Sunday was always chiding her to do, averting her gaze to the obnoxious wallpaper instead.

No one ordered anything, but fresh drinks were delivered before anyone had the opportunity to speak. She supposed All Sunday must have made her way to the bar, as a cool glass of white wine was delivered alongside a bottle of bourbon. Crocodile was a lot of things, most of them terrible if his reputation was to be believed, but he was far from conceited enough to call ahead just to express her drink preferences to the bartender for the sake of showing off.

“I hadn’t heard,” Dalton was sweating, despite the relatively cool air pouring from a nearby vent. “Sir Crocodile, married. My congratulations.”

He seemed like he might try to toast the occasion, but when Crocodile failed to move, he hurried to recalibrate, downing half his glass in one messy gulp.

“You have this month’s profits?”

“Of course,” A little too roughly, he prodded the older woman. “Selene, be a dear and grab the reports for me.”

Without a word, she slid out of the booth and strutted into the crowd. In a vague way, she registered that the other woman wasn’t unattractive – shapely, in a flattering, if skimpy, red dress, with a luxurious mane of blond hair tumbling down her back. It didn’t remove the compulsion to crack her across the head with the bourbon bottle, but seeing her in full, she could understand, at least, where her confidence came from.

Crocodile, for his part, hardly seemed to notice. His bored stare had flicked to Selene only briefly, drawn by the motion of her standing, before it immediately returned to his drink. His hand briefly abandoned its spot on the back of the booth, gulping down half his glass before it looped back around her shoulders. The glass lightly tapped against her bare skin, unpleasantly cold and dripping in condensation, but oddly soothing at the same time.

Selene made her way back just before the silence became too much to tolerate. In her hand was a plain folio, just like the millions Crocodile had in his office, neatly tucked into the drawers of a cabinet he kept in the corner. They were delivered often by Coos, sometimes dressed in proper News Coo uniforms and other times clearly belonging to independent groups, seemingly at random – there was a pattern, she was sure, but after only a few weeks aboard the Gustave, she had yet to work out precisely what.

The woman leaned in entirely too far as she presented the file. Her breasts threatened to spill out of the top of her dress, restrained solely by two thin straps fighting with their all against the force of gravity. A seductive smile appeared on her red painted lips, skimming the soft fur of Crocodile’s favored green coat with the back of her hand.

Crocodile, however, didn’t move. His arm remained a heavy presence behind her head, sweating glass carefully caged by his fingers. She had approached on his other side, close to the hook idly hanging off the edge of the seat, but the limb didn’t so much as twitch with the instinct to grab it, the way it sometimes would when he seemed to forget it was a prosthetic.

Dimly, Lily reached out to grab it. A deep sense of satisfaction settled in her gut as the woman’s face flickered, unerring confidence giving way to absolute displeasure and confusion for the briefest instance as she pulled it away. The Warlord was focused entirely on the folio, rolling his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other as she popped the folio open. She wasn’t, in all honesty, certain it was the right call, but he made no effort to stop her as she pulled the papers free.

He had shown her a few similar reports the night prior. Some were complex, filled with various equations and notations, but the ones for the Ferry were relatively straightforward. It was line after line of faded, typed print, denoting the profit or loss for each day over the course of the previous month. Miscellaneous expenses, staff wages and the tip pool, basic maintenance and repairs. It was simple enough to read, though if there were something amiss, she would have no idea – detecting things like embezzlement simply came with practice, of which she had functionally none.

Over her shoulder, the Warlord perused the forms. He couldn’t possibly be reading them closely, skimming his gaze over the numbers as she slowly flipped through page after page. He didn’t seem to find anything amiss, judging by the lack of irritated rumbling, his posture easing so slightly she wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t directly beside one another.

“Everything is in order, I assure you,” Dalton dabbed at what used to be his hairline with a stained handkerchief. “Business has slowed a little the past couple of weeks, but that’s no surprise. The Arlong Pirates have been keeping the Marines busy recently, or so I’ve heard.”

She had heard some of the Marines on Gureirokku complain about the group before, especially in recent years. They were a strong enough group that the Marines had found it better to ignore them, rather than continue ineffective campaigns against them, and while that strategy had worked at first, it only served to embolden them in the end. The Conomi Islands were firmly under their control, and they were continually pressuring the surrounding islands for more, slowly but actively attempting to expand their territory. She had heard plenty of Marines, too deep in their drinks, complain that they were going to be deployed to the area, concerned that Arlong may finally snap and make an active attempt against the fleet that was just barely keeping them contained.

It would be akin to declaring open warfare against the World Government, which they all suspected was the only reason he hadn’t bothered. As powerful as he was, he wouldn’t have any hope of success if the Marines deployed a full and proper assault – never mind the damage a Warlord could do, if they were to call one in. As long as he stayed relatively quiet, however, and relegated his dirty work to his crew with the plausible deniability they were acting on their own, it was impossible to get the permissions necessary to mount a proper intervention.

“So they say,” Crocodile agreed, sounding distinctly disinterested. “They’ve also been complaining about some clown who destroyed Peariburg recently.”

“Buggy,” Dalton noted, easing the tension in his tie. “He’s come through with his crew a few times. Always an obnoxious bunch. Not an ounce of class between them.”

The name meant absolutely nothing to her. She had seen a wanted poster for someone called Buggy the Clown, but she hadn’t heard much about him, otherwise. His bounty wasn’t particularly high, either, if she remembered right, sitting somewhere around five million, though if he really had razed an entire island to the ground, it was likely higher now. All she had heard about him was that he was particularly squirrely, quick to flee the moment the Marines made their presence known, and on the rare occasion he had come up in conversation, the Marines she spoke with generally seemed to find him more annoying than threatening.

“I’d ban them, but their beri spends the same as anyone else’s,” Dalton continued, unperturbed by the distinct air of boredom emanating from the man beside her. “He’s particularly fond of Sugar, here.”

He rubbed his hand down the arm of the younger woman. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t lean into his touch the way Selene did, disguising her frown with a sip of her drink. Sliding the report back into the folio, she recalled that she had a drink of her own, which had sat completely untouched. She resisted the urge to shoot it back, instead drinking it slowly as she contemplated the situation quietly unfolding across the table.

She had no inherent opposition to prostitution. It wasn’t a profession she could tolerate, personally, but she didn’t begrudge the people who did. While it wasn’t legal on Gureirokku, they had a few not-brothels, that operated around the specific letter of the law – it was perfectly legal to rent a room for sex, and there was nothing barring the exchanging of gifts, which enabled the working girls to navigate around the technicalities of their profession. She knew a couple of girls who worked in one, who sometimes plied their wares at Duke’s if business was particularly slow, and by all accounts, they were as satisfied as they could be with their employment. The madame who ran the brothel was fair to them, letting them keep their profits, minus the very reasonable cost of rent and meals, and quick to take up in their defense if someone got violent.

She sincerely doubted that was the case on the Ferry, however. It wouldn’t be at all surprising to learn they did provide escort services, but there was nothing in the documents that she could place as being part of their income. They wouldn’t label it outright, of course, but she had a vague notion of what the girls made at the brothel, and there was nothing close to that amount on the report.

Quietly, she slid the papers back out, flipping through them more carefully. Crocodile’s head cocked lightly in her direction, silently wondering what she was up to as a bit of ash fell onto the document.

“Something wrong?” A fresh wave of sweat started to spawn on Dalton’s forehead.

“Just double checking.”

Again, Crocodile shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. His expression was neutral as ever, but she could tell he didn’t understand what she was looking for by the faintest pinch in his brow. She resisted the urge to say it out loud, just in case she misunderstood the situation – it was entirely possible that escorts weren’t an official service, that it was just something that the women did on their own to earn some extra beri on the side, and she didn’t want to cause them any trouble unnecessarily.

There was nothing in the report that made sense, if it were official, however. If Orin was able to make a few thousand a week on her own, then surely a place like the Ferry would pull considerably more than that.

She had to sit up on her knee to get close to his ear. His legs were the longest part of him, but even seated, he was an incredible presence, and she barely sat as tall as his pectoral. There was a low hum in his chest, the only tangible sign of his curiosity, as she placed her hand on his shoulder to balance.

“Are escorts a service here?”

She was entirely too close. It was the only way to keep her voice low enough and still be heard without being overheard, and that was hardly his fault, but she felt a squirming in her stomach, regardless. He was uncomfortably warm, heat pouring off his skin, and her mouth was too close to his ear, the edge of her lip catching, just for an instant, on his single earring.

In response to her question, the timber of his rumbling changed. It was a low, nonsensical sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest, but it was one that she heard often enough to know it meant agreement.

“If it’s supposed to be official, I don’t see anything that looks like their profits,” Under her palm, she could feel his shoulder tighten. “There’s no way they aren’t pulling thousands a week.”

As she settled back into her seat, he started to move. The arm that had been a constant presence at her back unwound, dropping the glass on the table with a quiet clatter before he reached for the report. Unlike before, he studied the papers like he would be quizzed on them later, his heavy brow twitching on occasion, sinking lower and lower in visible annoyance as he reached the end.

“Good catch.”

“Is there something wrong?” Dalton’s throat bobbed as he dabbed his forehead.

“The working girls,” Crocodile made a production out of setting the papers down, tapping them with his finger. “Their income is missing.”

“Is it?” More sweat, a thick sheen of it, glittered in the low lights. “I’m sure it’s there.”

With a trembling hand, the manager pulled the papers towards him. He produced a thin pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, propping them up on his oversized nose as his little eyes scanned the papers.

It was all an unnecessary production, though. Both Selene and Sugar gave him away immediately, with the way they reacted. The younger woman frowned, downing the last of her drink in one big gulp, but there was an air of relief to her, subtly deflating as she looked out at the sea of people. Selene, on the other hand, grew tense, drawing her arms tight against her ribs as she did her best to still seem casual, toying with the toothpick of olives in her glass.

Everyone at the table knew, but Dalton still pretended, running his finger down each line.

“Ah,” He finally declared, turning the pages back towards the Warlord. “Right here, the turndown service fees.”

She had seen the line, and it still didn’t make sense.

“They only make two thousand beri a week?” Her tongue had, once again, gotten loose from her control. “Working girls on the street make more than that.”

“As I said,” There was a tremor to his voice now – fear, but tinged with irritation. “Business has been rather slow the last few weeks, what with the Marines being occupied.”

“Not slow enough to stop them from making almost exactly two thousand a week, though.”

“Perhaps,” His face was deferent, but the anger in his eyes was aimed firmly at her. “There’s been some sort of mistake. Selene, you’re in charge of the girls. Is there something we missed, maybe?”

He was quick to throw her under the bus. It seemed to catch her off guard, her entire body taught like she might try to make a break for the door. Sugar seemed almost resigned, staring into her empty glass as if it had all the answers.

Something skimmed across her thigh, airy and light and itching. She reached down, thinking maybe it was a fly, and instead, she found tiny grains of sand against her fingertips. An entire pocket of Crocodile’s torso had disappeared, leaving a craterous shape along his side just below the table, slowly growing deeper as the sand trickled away. It looked like Crocodile himself was made out of sand, covered by a thin veneer of flesh that let him disguise himself as human.

Across from them, Dalton’s sweat suddenly started to dry. Sand skated on the air around him – all the liquid in Selene’s glass seemed to evaporate like smoke, vanishing into the golden cloud contorting around them.

As slowly as it had creeped, the effect was instantaneous. The smooth skin on Selene’s face started to wrinkle rapidly, aging decades in a matter of seconds. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out – just a withering rasp, and she slumped suddenly into her seat, eyes empty and sunken.

Dalton followed just a moment after, his husk collapsing against the table.

There was a gasp, from somewhere else in the room, and suddenly everything was silent. The eternal jangling of coins stuttered to a halt, conversation stilling on people’s lips, a discordant sound of string instruments grinding to an abrupt stop as the quartet in the corner realized what had happened.

It took her entirely too long to realize that they were dead. She had thought it was just some sort of torture, at first, before it registered that neither of them were moving – that they weren’t breathing.

It happened so quietly, but so swiftly. It hadn’t taken him any effort at all – as his side began to reform, he sipped his glass like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ripped away the lives of two people in a matter of seconds.

Like he couldn’t have done exactly the same to her that night she’d been screaming and destroying his dining room.

Chapter Text

Things on the ship were strange.

Not for anyone else, but for her, returning to relative normalcy on the Baroque Gustave was next to impossible. She had always been aware that Crocodile was dangerous, but it had always been a vague notion, something she had never had to confront directly. Everyone knew the Warlords were dangerous, but she had only ever heard stories, tales passed from Marine to Marine until they finally made their way to the bar, to be shared with the patrons. They always seemed exaggerated, twisted and turned on themselves to make the Warlords all the more intimidating, like monsters in little kid’s stories, meant to keep the regular folk far away so they couldn’t aggravate them.

She knew Crocodile was a more than competent killer. He had to be, for the World Government to bother giving him the title of Warlord – but she didn’t think it would be quite that easy. He had done it so casually, like it wasn’t any more inconvenient than lighting his cigar, and it had happened so quickly. Even if she’d understood what he was doing, there had been no opportunity to stop him. By the time she could have gotten the words out, the duo across the table would have already been dead.

He had let Sugar – Ria, actually – live, at least. Entirely unbothered by the two corpses at the table, he’d declared she was in charge, now, suddenly and abruptly elevating her from waitress and escort to manager of the entire casino. All Sunday had been left to help her out, for a few days, to ensure everything was in order and that the place would continue to run smoothly under its new management.

It was nothing to him, absolutely nothing at all.

He admitted, later, that he’d been suspicious of Dalton for a while, but like the Ferry itself, bigger and more important things tended to keep him from bothering to investigate. He seldom left the Grand Line as it was, and venturing all the way to the East Blue to look into a few thousand missing beri wasn’t something he could be bothered with. To him, the missing money was little more than pocket change – if he could find it, then all the better, but he wasn’t going to waste his time searching the metaphorical cushions for scraps.

It was difficult to shake the image. The idea had gotten into her head that if she could remove it from her mind, the cold hand that had wrapped itself around her throat might finally leave her in peace, but she had no idea how to manage such a thing. With All Sunday absent, she had tried to talk to Garret about it, but he hadn’t been all that helpful, in the end.

“It’s just how it is,” He had claimed. “People live and die all the time, especially when pirates are involved. Best to just make peace with it and move on.”

Making peace with it, however, was an impossible task. If it were just the deaths of two relative strangers, then it was maybe something she could accomplish with the benefit of time, but it was her own, suddenly very tenuous, grasp on her own mortality that made it a greater struggle.

Being threatened by his claw that first day was nothing compared to what he could have done. At any moment, the second she aggravated him just a little too much, he could strip her of all the water in her body – and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. She couldn’t outrun him. She couldn’t fight back. She couldn’t even hope to talk him out of it.

The second he decided to kill her, she would be dead, and there wasn’t a single thing that she could hope to do to save herself.

Every second felt like she was on a timer she couldn’t see. She could hear it ticking, but she couldn’t find it – and when it eventually ran down to zero, it would all be over. She tried not to think about it, to remind herself that he wouldn’t have invested any of his precious time or money if he thought it at all likely that was how everything would end, but like all things, actively trying not to think about it only made her think about it more.

“You’re doing it again.”

She jumped, pulling herself away from the book she had been trying and failing to read. It was one of several log books Crocodile kept on hand, from sailors and pirates and Marines, describing the strange and unusual circumstances of their own explorations of the Grand Line. Given it was their ultimate destination, learning more about the environment seemed like the best use of her time, and this particular journal contained a year’s worth of details on Arabasta, specifically – various local customs and beliefs, the native flora and fauna of the desert.

“I’ve told you,” Crocodile drawled from the far end of the sofa. “Stop thinking about it.”

For a man who had a tendency to leave her alone the majority of the time, he was adept at figuring her out. He had realized, before she’d even thought to say anything to anyone, that the scene at the casino had disturbed her.

He had even apologized for it in his own way. The word “sorry” never came out of his mouth, but he had noted out loud that he ought to have sent her to join All Sunday at the bar before he had acted. By the same token, however, he believed it was best she get used to the concept of people dying, because it was bound to happen again. He had absolutely no illusions about what he was, what he had done and what he would do in the future, and in a way, it was a good lesson.

She knew exactly what he would do to someone who betrayed him. He hadn’t said out loud that he thought it would keep her in line to have a concrete vision of what he would do if she ever turned on him, but it was clear that had been what was on his mind.

Not that she had any intention to do so. Realistically, the moment their marriage certificate was signed, her life was placed on one very specific past. Even if they got divorced, or he died in some battle, being married to a Warlord would be a glaring stain on her personal record for the rest of her existence. She would always be met with suspicion by the Marines, and any regular people who knew her name would only ever view her as Sir Crocodile’s wife. Some would be threatened by the very idea, others would be scheming to access his riches, and she wouldn’t be able to trust anyone, not completely, ever again.

There was no benefit in betrayal. The far simpler option was to maintain a cautious distance from whatever schemes her arranged husband was cooking up – and she was sure he was up to something, it wasn’t in his nature not to be – and plead for a pardon if it imploded in his face. At least then she would still have access to his legal assets, and she could set herself up on some little island and live in isolation for all eternity, without drastically increasing her odds of being assassinated in the meantime.

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it already.”

They’d had the same conversation three times already. The words drawled out of him, oozing with boredom and the faintest hint of annoyance, rumbling through the otherwise quiet dining room.

“I know.”

“Then stop worrying that I’m going to,” He was drinking a little more than usual – enough to have a regular sized man well on their way to tipsy, though it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. “You keep working yourself up over nothing.”

“Seeing two people drop dead isn’t nothing to me. I’ve never even seen a dead body at a funeral before.”

His dark eyes rolled in her direction, cutting and appraising all at once, calculating his response to the admission. As quick as he could take a man’s life, he spent the rest of his life moving at a crawl – a crocodile basking in the sun, just below the water, watching and waiting for something to come along and get too close to his teeth. He mulled everything over before he reacted, his mind working like a bookie, determining the best odds to get what he ultimately wanted.

“You’ll see more,” The reply was accompanied by the emptying of his glass. “Stop thinking about them as people. They were traitors.”

Traitors seemed an extreme label to apply to someone who skimmed a few thousand beri, but she pressed her lips shut.

“Besides, you seemed pretty offended, yourself,” His bottle of whiskey was half empty, and the ice in the glass had long ago melted. “If it doesn’t bother you that they stole from me and you, remember what they were doing to the other escorts. Do you really think someone who’d take advantage of desperate women that way deserves a second chance?”

“You don’t really expect me to think you care about that, do you?”

Despite his tangible annoyance with the conversation, her reply managed to make him chuckle. It wasn’t a real laugh, just a breathy huff, but it pulled some of the tension from his shoulders.

“No, but you do,” He stubbed out the remains of his cigar, and immediately lit another, the two smells discordant on the air. “You were so riled up when you figured it out, I thought you might jump the table.”

“Thought about it,” She admitted, sliding a clip onto the page of her book before she shut it. “I get what it’s like, being made to do something you don’t want to.”

The still sore wound of their relationship was, oddly, the one thing she was confident wouldn’t offend him. They hadn’t talked about it much, but she made more than her share of barbs about it, if only to release a little of the steam that churned behind her tongue when she thought about it for too long.

Actually interacting with him on a regular basis had helped to abate most of her frustrations with him directly, but the situation as a whole still got under her skin.

“I know,” He nodded, settling deeper into the sofa with a soft sigh. “But I’ve treated you well, haven’t I?”

He knew that she agreed. She had made it clear enough, through all of her grousing, that he was far better to her than she had ever anticipated. She didn’t know him particularly well, and there was no deep emotional investment between them, but he had never been cruel to her, either, when he very much could have been.

There wasn’t exactly anyone on the ship who was going to stop him if he decided he wanted her to perform her “wifely duties”, as her mother had so tactfully put it.

Before he could continue, there was a faint rumbling from the hallway. It took a second to register that it wasn’t an alarm of some kind, but the den den mushi in his office, entirely too close to the dining room door. He usually shut his office door when he left, but he must have left it partially open, as the bleary eyed snail slowly crawled into view, rattling away.

Crocodile accepted calls at all sorts of odd hours, but he was extremely particular about making sure they never came through during dinner, or the hour that followed. He had outright stated, when she asked, that he didn’t want to be interrupted. It wasn’t just an effort to spend some sort of time together, though he did state that was part of it – it was also his only opportunity to relax, and he greatly enjoyed it, whether she was present or not.

Unbothered by his glower, the snail continued to scoot closer. It stopped suddenly, in time with the end of its rattling, for a long moment, then just as quickly, resumed what it had been doing. It crept closer to Crocodile’s oversized feet, and the behemoth on the far end of the sofa let out a loud grumble of displeasure, tilting his head back to stare a hole into the ceiling. With obvious reluctance, he picked the creature up, settling it on the side table before he bothered to pick up the receiver.

“Lily?”

It was her mother. Crocodile glowered at the snail as if it had personally offended him by echoing her voice, dropping it lightly onto the sofa between them without a word. He held out the receiver, as she actively debated if she wanted to take the call in the first place, but he clearly wasn’t going to engage with it, leaving her with little choice.

“Hello?”

“Oh, good! I was worried I got the number wrong,” Despite her words, the snail was grinning broadly. “Alder spilled milk all over the paper and it got smudged. How’s everything going?”

“Fine,” Any other reply would have led to another implosion – as if he could sense it coming, Crocodile breezily took her glass from her other hand. “Why?”

“I just want to know how you’re doing,” He snatched the bottle of wine from the side table, too, with a small wave of sand. “I know it was sudden, but you’re having a good time, right? Sir Crocodile is treating you right?”

“Sure,” There was a long pause, as she struggled to come up with anything to say. “It’s…great.”

“I knew it,” She resisted the urge to kick the unfortunate den den mushi, who reflected her self-satisfied smile on its wide mouth, reminding herself that the poor thing was just doing its job. “I told your father he was the right choice. He was all hung up on that Don-flaming-go guy.”

Crocodile, who still hadn’t moved his head from the back of the sofa, tilted his head just enough to glance at her. Doflamingo’s name alone was enough to irritate him, on the rare occasion it came up – he absolutely loathed the man, though he’d never said precisely why.

“He was so sure we made a mistake,” Her mother continued to blather. “I mean, sure, you could’ve been a queen, but he’s so loud and pushy. I knew you’d like Sir Crocodile better. He’s a lot like that one guy you dated for a while, isn’t he? The one that was always frowning.”

“Smoker?”

The name clearly registered with Crocodile. His eyebrows twitched, raising a little higher on his long brow, and his curiosity was obvious in his stare.

“That was his name,” Her mother sighed like a great weight had been lifted. “Captain Smoker.”

In a vague way, she supposed the Marine and Warlord shared some similarities, at least on the surface. They were both serious men, and both a decent bit older than her – and they were in command of a crew, though it was on vastly different ends of the political spectrum. That was where the likenesses ended, however, and she’d never personally try to claim they were anything alike.

“I knew Sir Crocodile would be the better match,” She sounded entirely too pleased with herself, and she was glad that Crocodile had the good sense to take away anything she could throw. “So, tell me everything. Did he get you a nice ring? What about his ship? Is it as nice as it looked?”

There was no wedding ring to talk about. He had mentioned getting one, but they were being custom made, and she hadn’t heard anything more about them. Given his lack of a hand, she wasn’t entirely sure he even intended to have one of his own, and he never talked about what he was planning for her to wear, though she was reasonably sure it would be just slightly too ostentatious for her personal tastes.

“Is he good in bed?”

Heat bloomed on her face as he broke into a laugh, just barely low enough the den den mushi didn’t pick it up. A breath of smoke caught in his throat, his strange laughter turning into a cough as he staggered up from the sofa towards the bar to grab the bottle of water that was always sitting in the corner.

“I bet he is,” Her mother continued. “I can just tell. A man like that-“

“Please stop.”

“Oh, come on, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” The snail continued grinning. “I’m your mother. I’ve caught you and Rose sneaking boys out enough times to know you’re active.”

“I really don’t want to be having this conversation.”

Crocodile, on the other hand, seemed genuinely delighted by it. After guzzling the water, he made his way back over, the picture of relaxation as he sprawled out on the sofa, a wide grin on his face.

“You’re no fun, you know that?” Her mother tutted. “I just want to make sure my little girl is really being taken care of, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” She tossed her book at his shoulder when he started chuckling again. “I’m not talking about my sex life with my mother.”

There was another tut as her mother clicked her tongue against her teeth.

“If you insist,” She huffed. “I’m just saying. I love your father, but if I were in your shoes…“

“I’m going to hang up now,” The snail’s grin shifted into a frown. “I need to throw myself into the ocean.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Her mother said the word like it was stupid she even bothered to feel any ounce of shame. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in. I figured a couple of weeks was enough time to settle in.”

“How’s everything going over there?” She didn’t really want to know – but she was curious, at least, how her siblings were doing.

“Oh, it’s been great,” A little shame, she thought, would do her mother a world of good. “Your father’s been making some of my designs. I’ve been trying to get Rose to wear them to work, but you know how she is. I even made my first sale last week.”

Second sale. Her first real sale was selling her daughter to a Warlord.

She was glad Crocodile had the presence of mind to take away her glass, or it might have met the far wall. As it was, the moment the call was over, she would be making her way onto the deck to smash something. Garret kept a variety of otherwise unusable crates and barrels tied up in the corner specifically for her to hit with his mace whenever she felt the urge to get violent.

“That’s great,” It wasn’t. “Everything good with Rose? How’s Alder?”

“They’re both doing fine,” Her mother’s earlier enthusiasm had suddenly faded. “Alder asks when you’re going to come back, sometimes, but he’s adjusting. Oh, and Rose had a date the other night. I think it was with Captain Morgan’s boy? I think he’s insufferable, honestly, but he seemed to treat her well.”

“Helmeppo,” Crocodile rumbled lowly – out of the public eye, he was willing to actually roll his eyes. “Spoiled little shits, him and his father.”

The fact she was letting Rose date seemed like a good omen. No one had banned Lily from doing the same, even while secretly attempting to arrange a marriage, but she would cling to whatever hope she could.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” She swallowed thickly. “Doflamingo? Have you told him anything?”

“Oh, yeah,” The snail huffed. “I just got a message back from him the other day. He isn’t exactly happy, but he seemed to understand. First come, first serve and all that.”

Crocodile’s amusement rapidly shifted into something else. Anger, tinted heavily with concern, maybe – a little bit of horror, even, though she couldn’t say for certain.

“I thought maybe he’d be interested in Rose, but he insisted you’re the one he wants,” She said it casually, as if she was talking about the price of groceries. “He was talking about bringing us all to Dressrosa when you got married, but you know your father. He’ll never give up the shop, so it’s just as well, I guess.”

He stopped her before she could launch his unfortunate snail out the window, the heavy weight of his hand pressing her chest back into the sofa cushions.

“Wouldn’t it have been something, though, living in a place like that?” The snail was grinning again. “Especially if one of my daughters was the queen, of all things. I hear it’s beautiful there. Maybe if he changes his mind about Rose, we could all visit.”

It would be a visit that would start a war, if Crocodile had anything to say about it, judging by the dark look on his face.

She didn’t have anything left to say. There was plenty on her mind, but none of the thoughts connected to her mouth, which was usually quick to escape her control.

“Yeah, that’s…that’s too bad,” Her chest was tight, beyond the pressure Crocodile was still applying. “Listen, I’ve got to go. We’re…we’re about to dock at the Baratie.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what the Baratie even was, but she’d heard it mentioned a few times, and it was the first thing she could latch on to. It wasn’t too terribly far from where they intended to enter the Grand Line, and Gully hadn’t stopped talking about hoping they would stop there, though he seemed to find it unlikely. As best she knew, they were on a straight course to Loguetown for one last resupply, and to pick up All Sunday, before they hit Reverse Mountain and entered the Grand Line.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there,” Her mother cooed. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. I hear the food there is to die for.”

A minute later, she was up and off the sofa. He made no effort to stop her, scooping up the den den mushi in one hand, following long enough to drop it on his desk where it belonged. Garret, seemingly ready to trade off with his second for the night, perked up at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and by the time she reached him, his mace was in his hand, ready for her to take.

She only stopped when there was nothing left to destroy.

She still didn’t feel better. Physically, she had run completely out of steam, struggling with the weight of the weapon in her hand and an uncomfortable stinging in her spine, but her emotions were still running entirely too hot. Her eyes stung and her nose was wet, and it absently occurred to her that All Sunday had constantly reminded her not to show any sort of weakness in front of the crew as she handed the mace back to the helmsman, who’d observed in silence from the nearby railing. Rage was fine – acceptable, a good idea even, if only to impress upon the more unscrupulous members of the brigade that trifling with her would be deeply unwise – but tears were to be kept private.

Crocodile wasn’t in his office, where she had half expected him to be, when she trudged back inside. She felt the compulsion to start smashing up the room, but resisted, instead glowering at the stupid snail, blinking at her with one eye at a time before she slammed the door behind her. A thin cloud of smoke poured from the open dining room door, accompanied faintly by the music he was always listening to. He had returned to the couch, elbows pressing into his knees as he stared into the wallpaper.

She had intended to make her way to her room, where she could scream and sob, but she stalled out at the door.

“If you still need something to break,” He rolled his cigar between his teeth. “I’ll have Gully bring you some cheap plates.”

“I don’t know what I need.”

He inclined his head, offering her the spot beside him. Part of her still wanted to throw herself on her bed and screech until her throat went raw, but she found herself dropping down beside him, cradling her forehead, which had started to throb in time with the thundering of her heart. He shifted, and suddenly, the heavy weight of his coat was draped along her back.

The dam broke. A wet, heavy sob rattled her ribcage, threatening to break her bones as it shuddered out of her throat. She wasn’t sure if she was screaming or crying or some amalgamation of the two, but the echo of her voice in the room didn’t sound human. There was a comforting weight wrapped around her shoulders – Crocodile’s arm, looped around to hold her arm and gently press her into the soft material of his vest.

It was nice.

She felt secure, for the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, even as her broken breathing left her hiccupping for more air. His long fingers stroked up and down the length of her spine, pinging out a discordant rhythm when she struggled to catch her breath, unable to fill her lungs. He was warm and solid, accepting the slapping of her hands without so much as a grunt when the anger started to bubble up again, pressing her a little more firmly into the heavy muscles coiled through his side.

He didn’t say anything the entire time. Even when she started to peter out, anger and fear and absolute heartbreak giving way to exhaustion, he stayed quiet. She tried to move, once, thinking to bury herself in a pit of blankets in the dark of her room, and his gentle hold tightened. He kept her pinned there, fingers threaded into the hair at the back of her skull, softly scraping his nails against her scalp until she gave in and pressed deeper into his silken vest.

Chapter Text

The Baratie, as it turned out, was a ship based restaurant.

In the most technical sense, it was a pirate vessel. The owner, according to Gully, had been a ruthless pirate in his younger years, and there had never been any official pardon by the government, meaning he was legally still considered a pirate by the letter of the law. He had, however, largely gone overlooked since establishing the restaurant, as he’d quietly removed himself from his previous lifestyle in favor of his work as a chef. He wasn’t considered an active threat, maintaining the restaurant completely above board and following all the necessary regulations, and the government had just as quietly removed his bounty in return.

Although still a pirate, and thus subject to being arrested at any point if the Marines were so inclined, there was simply no purpose in bothering him. There would be no reward for it, and there wasn’t much glory to be had, either. Gully, in his apparent hero worship of the retired pirate captain, had noted that he had been somehow disabled in an incident shortly before he left the pirate life behind, and there was no fantastical fight to be had with him anymore.

As a result, both pirates and Marines treated the Baratie as a sort of neutral ground. Both sides of the law could come and go at their leisure, and it was expected that they wouldn’t engage in any fighting within the bounds of the restaurant, both as a general courtesy and because the staff were known to get violent, themselves, if anyone caused trouble. It was used often as a meeting place between the two sides – Marines were a common presence, and it was the ideal location for one crew to sell out their rivals without taking on the considerable risk of being arrested themselves.

The Gustave hadn’t been on route to make a stop there. Crocodile had no particular dislike of the place, but it would add a couple days of travel on their route to Loguetown, so he hadn’t been inclined to bother. The food was exceptional, but not enough to derail him from his ultimate goal of reaching Arabasta sooner rather than later, to oversee the construction of his precious Rain Dinners.

Detouring their plans to attend, however, was meant to be a gift.

He wouldn’t ever admit out loud that he was capable of any emotion besides greed and rage, but gift giving seemed to be an acceptable alternative to words. To outsiders, there was little more to it than him spoiling his woman, letting him easily dodge the accusation that he was a real person capable of actual emotional depth and keeping any exploitable weakness well out of reach. There were no amount of moonstone necklaces or fancy restaurants that would make the metaphorical bleeding in her head stop, but it was still effort, and that was something she could appreciate.

He was trying to make her feel a little better, if only for a short while.

He was wearing another vest she had made, too. It might have been a show of appreciation, orchestrated to lift her mood the slightest bit further, but she had noticed he favored it more than the rest. Gully was the one who had found the fabric, while ashore to purchase general goods for the ship, and he’d been quite proud of himself when he presented it to her. The dark teal silk had a subtle pattern, but a distinctive one, little clamshell shapes that were reminiscent of a lizard’s scales, just the slightest bit iridescent in the right lighting. Of the three she had managed to complete, during her recent dire efforts to keep her mind busy, it was the only one that made it into his regular rotation, usurping the plain grey one he typically wore on Thursdays.

It was cute.

He would huff and grouse at her like an old man if she said so, but that didn’t change the fact that it was kind of adorable how he quietly favored things that were reminiscent of his namesake. It made him seem more human, like he wasn’t just some imposing mythical figure, but a person with likes and dislikes and wants and needs.

Heels were a poor choice for the docks. Unlike most ports, which had their docks firmly mounted to the ground, the Baratie’s were left to float, pallets of wood fastened together in an almost nonsensical order. They bounced and waggled under even the smallest amount of weight, gently swaying with the current beneath the surface.

She managed one step before she started to totter wildly. If Crocodile hadn’t already had his hand on her back, she likely would have been sent careening into the sea, but instead, he moved swiftly, sliding his hand from her shoulder to her ribs. With no effort at all, he took on most of her weight, holding her upright against his side. His grip only eased once they made it to the main deck, a solid fin-shaped platform occupied by a handful of other patrons either coming or going, though he didn’t let go entirely, either. Instead, his massive hand remained where he’d left it, idly cradling from the bottom of her ribs to the top of her hip.

There was a small line inside. People gathered around the singular host stand, chattering between themselves over the low din of music. A couple was at the podium, quietly but obviously arguing with the fishman behind it, and it vaguely occurred to her that the man was familiar, though she couldn’t place why. The woman with him turned to look, attention drawn by Crocodile’s heavy footsteps, and her face immediately went pale. She tugged on her partner’s arm, whispering at him and tugging on his arm.

“Oh,” She blurted, more to herself than the man beside her, though he hummed regardless. “That’s Fullbody.”

“Do you know every Marine in the world?”

“Probably.”

“Tell me you didn’t date this one, too.”

“No,” She paused. “I mean, we hooked up a couple of times.”

“Of course you did.”

Finally, his date succeeded in drawing Fullbody’s attention away from his argument about their reservation. He turned, blanching at the sight of Crocodile looming just a few steps behind him. He had gained a scar since the last time she saw him, running down his cheek – a bit older than the one on Crocodile, which was still a bright shade of pink, silvery against Fullbody’s tan skin.

The lieutenant averted his stare, landing directly on her, instead. She could see him struggling the same way she had, registering that he knew her face but being momentarily unable to place it. They had never been close – he had been forced to dock for repairs for a couple of weeks, and their one actual date had mostly been unnecessary pretense for a few casual hook ups while he was ashore.

“Oh,” The sound was strangled, and he aggressively cleared his throat as he tried to steel himself. “Sir Crocodile. Lily, it’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Ignoring the conversation going on next to him, Crocodile turned his attention to the host, who did a much better job of schooling his expression than either Fullbody or his date. He didn’t speak, just idly motioned with his fingers that there would be two of them. Some of the crew might decide to dine later, though most of them had ventured off to the bar at the bow of the ship.

It finally seemed to occur to Fullbody that her presence next to Crocodile might not be purely coincidental, his eyes honed in on the broad hand resting on top of her hip. His mouth worked like he wanted to ask, but no words managed to come out, his lips forming a thin, pale line as he clamped them between his teeth. Thankfully, the host spared him any further discomfort, calling them to join him as he started for the stairs.

It was just the two of them, but with Crocodile’s massive size, the only tables suitable for him were the large booths lining the walls. He led them to one tucked away near the kitchen doors, away from the din of people chattering over their meals. Draping his heavy coat on a nearby hook, the Warlord nudged her into one side before settling opposite, where he could keep the main doors – and the few members of the crew who had start to trail in behind them – in his line of sight.

“Are there any other Marines I ought to be concerned about?” His voice was serious as ever, but she had started to learn the subtle tone of his teasing. “The Fleet Admiral isn’t going to come knocking down my door because I stole his woman, is he?”

“Yeah, Sengoku’s real broken up about it,” She taunted back, and he huffed out a brief laugh, shoulders bouncing as he perused the menu. “But no, you didn’t steal me from anyone. What about you? Any angry pirate queens waiting to get revenge on the man who abandoned them?

“No,” His dimple flickered to life for a moment. “Charlotte Linlin approached me about marrying her daughter Smoothie a few years ago, but that’s the closest I’ve come to a relationship in years.”

“Oh, so just a trail of heartbroken one night lovers to watch out for, then?”

“Hardly,” Their drinks clinked as they were deposited on the table. “I prefer to focus on my work, not finding someone to keep my bed warm.”

“And yet here we sit.”

The conversation died off as the waiter reapproached. While Crocodile rattled off an order she was reasonably certain wasn’t actually on the menu, she scoured it for something appealing. Most of it was nonsense to her, filled with phrases she had never heard of before, and as if sensing her confusion, the Warlord opted to order for her, rather than let her struggle.

She didn’t particularly like the feeling that came with his decision, but she pushed it down and away. He had spent weeks watching her vacillate between eagerly devouring meals or idly pushing them around her plate, depending on what was served, and she didn’t mistrust that he would know better what she liked than she would, this time.

“You say that like I’m dragging you into my room every night,” His tone had shifted slightly, dropping low with what might have been irritation, but the dimple remained. “If all I wanted from you was easy sex, I wouldn’t have gone through the effort of getting married to begin with. There’s always a woman in every port eager to run off on an adventure, even if she does spend most of it on her back.”

“Sure, sure,” His eyebrows twitched at her reply. “I still don’t really understand what you’re getting out of this otherwise, though. It’s not like I have…anything.”

“I know what I want,” It was his turn to shrug. “And I knew I wanted you as my wife. You may not believe it, but it really is that simple.”

“Yeah, I heard all about the romantic cruise you had planned,” She snickered at the annoyance that knotted his forehead. “Sailing around the East Blue, wining and dining me so I’d just have to fall in love.”

He rumbled out a sound that might have been agreement, unable to articulate a reply that wouldn’t leave him just the slightest bit vulnerable.

“It wouldn’t have worked, anyway,” She offered him the out, instead of try and make him squirm. “I wouldn’t just hop on your ship like that. Sounds like a good way to end up actually getting kidnapped.”

“Not even if I promised to take you to every zoo in the East Blue?”

“Maybe, if you got me an actual bear at the end.”

“There’s hardly room on the ship for a bear,” He drawled. “Though once we’re in Arabasta, you can name my Bananawani.”

“Did the great Sir Crocodile just make a dick joke?”

It pleased her, in a strange way, to see him laugh again. It was more hearty this time, drawing attention from a few nearby tables – including, she noted, Fullbody and his date, who glanced furtively in their direction.

“Rain Dinners is being built on top of an oasis,” He clarified, twirling his cigar in his fingers to prevent himself from choking again. “I intend to keep a few Bananawani, for security.”

“Is that safe?”

“They’re far smarter than you think,” He leaned back, sprawling his arms across the seat, one of his feet sliding between her own. “Training them isn’t difficult. They’ve lived in that oasis for decades without troubling the people of Rainbase.”

She started to say something else, but her attention was drawn to the kitchen door, instead. People had fluttered in and out the entire time, but never accompanied by the distinctive clack of wood against tile, and it drew her attention in an instant.

His hat was absolutely absurd, nearly as tall as the man wearing it. His moustache jutted out to his shoulders, neatly organized in two tight braids, and yet, the most notable part of him was his leg. It had been severed just below the knee, and replaced by a simple wooden peg, leaving him with a distinctive hobble even as he easily balanced a tray of dishes on his arms.

“Been a while since I got an order this obnoxious,” He groused as he closed in on their table. “Putting my staff through their paces again, Crocodile?”

“It’ll be a while before I’m back this way,” He countered, unbothered by what sounded, to her, like blatant disrespect. “I want to get my fill before we leave.”

The aging chef snorted, breaking into a wry smile as he meticulously arranged the plates across the table. It seemed like he might have ordered half the supplies in the kitchen, various plates laden with thick cuts of barely seared meats, pork and beef and various cuts of fish, surrounded by an array of vegetables. Tomatoes, mostly, some sauced and sauted, others blistered or roasted, speckled with seasonings of all sorts, all artfully arranged.

“I assume this is for the lady?”

The last plate left was relatively simple, by comparison to Crocodile’s menagerie, but no less meticulously prepared. A perfect ring of carefully diced strips of vibrant red tuna, mixed together with little slivers of peppers and herbs, balanced on pristine white rice and bright green avocado. There was a bright yellow smear of something not dissimilar in color to ginger, though it smelled like fresh mango, alongside a spread of thin slices of cucumber and a smattering of some sort of delicate greens.

“Yes, thank you.”

His smile was a little more friendly than it had been, even as something loudly clattered in the kitchen behind him, accompanied by no shortage of shouting.

“At least you have some manners,” He noted wryly, returning his gaze to the Warlord, who hadn’t hesitated to cut into a mighty slab of prime rib. “Teach this one to respect his elders, would you?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a lost cause.”

Somehow, his absurd hat managed to stay on his head as he threw his head back with laughter. The only one who didn’t flinch at the sudden uproar was Crocodile himself, focused instead on devouring as much as possible as quickly as he could, without abandoning his table manners in the process.

“Finally found someone who’s not afraid to talk back to you, eh?” He clapped Crocodile a little too firmly on the shoulder, though it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. “It’s about time.”

“You should see her when she’s angry,” The Warlord drawled. “She puts your tantrums to shame, Zeff. My men are afraid she’ll try to sink the ship out of spite one day.”

Again, the chef was set to cackling. Behind him, someone poked their head around the swinging kitchen door – a kid, somewhere in his early teens, with a mop of blond hair and a strange curl to his one visible eyebrow. He stared, observing silently as the two men continued their back and forth, but his real interest seemed to be on the plate sat in front of her.

It was almost a shame to ruin the display by taking a bite, but she had never been one to waste food, either. Just like the way it was presented, it tasted amazing – better than anything the galley on the Gustave had ever produced, though she’d never tell Gully that, for fear of destroying his ego. The kid’s face was all anticipation as he watched, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for some kind of reaction.

She decided to flash him a thumbs up. He was likely an apprentice, learning how to work the line from the rest of the chefs, and clearly eager for some sort of praise, which she didn’t doubt was difficult to come across at a place run by a retired pirate.

To her surprise, the moment his face lit up, he kicked the door open so hard it banged off the wall. The entire restaurant fell into shocked silence – she wasn’t the only one who jumped, though Crocodile, notably, didn’t so much as blink.

“I told you I did it right, you old bastard!”

“Sanji!” Zeff’s head shot towards him, glowering, annoyed but not hateful. “You tried to leave out the oregano, you little brat! There’s nothing right about ruining my recipes! And you overcooked the pork belly!”

“Oregano is for savages! It ruins the taste of the tuna!”

“Just eat,” Crocodile drawled as Zeff hobbled away, still screaming at the child, sticking another forkful in his mouth. “They’ve been having this argument for years.”

As Zeff hauled the boy back into the kitchen, the entire restaurant, which had gone quiet, slowly started to thrum back to life. Eventually, between his devouring, he explained his relationship with Zeff, which had mostly occurred through sheer happenstance. He had been en route to back to the Grand Line when he’d found both Zeff and Sanji stranded on a skerry, on the verge of dying of starvation. He, admittedly, had only bothered to help because he knew Zeff by reputation, and had hoped to have the ruthless captain owe him a favor. Unfortunately, Zeff had lost his leg by then, and had resolved to retire from piracy entirely.

He was, she suspected, the closest thing to a friend that Crocodile had.

He wouldn’t use the word, but the two shared a mutual respect for one another. Before his injury, Zeff had been the highest bounty in the East Blue by a wide margin, and he’d made a modest, but respectable, name for himself during his year on the Grand Line. They weren’t in regular contact with one another, or even close by any measure, but Crocodile was careful to avoid his usual terms for the people around him, like asset or informant, which was unusual for him. Even All Sunday, his second in command, didn’t receive that level of respect.

On some level, even she didn’t receive that much respect. He treated her far better than he did most people, but he seldom referred to her by name. Both in private and public, she was “wife”, and her name was reserved solely for the times her emotions were running especially high, used as a signal to bring her back down to a more manageable level.

It had the potential to be extremely objectifying, and had absolutely seemed that way at first, but that feeling had long since passed.

She understood introducing her to others as his wife. It was a quick, effective means to establish her level of importance, and the respect he expected she be treated with, while serving as a social barrier. Leaving out her name was both a means to protect her family, making it more difficult for someone to sort out who she really was and where she’d come from, but more than that, it protected her. She was important to him, on some level, establishing immediately that she wasn’t just some pretty thing hanging off his arm just for him to show off, but also that she wasn’t there to become a friendly acquaintance or associate. She was just his wife – not his business partner, not someone that should be approached about some new opportunity they were hoping she could convince her husband to invest into.

Even in private, she didn’t mind anymore. It would have frustrated her, but the word had taken on the same air as a term of endearment. He didn’t boss her around or make her cater to his whims like some subservient little waif. When he called out for her to get him a drink, it was when she was already near the bar, the same way someone might call for their “dear” or “honey” to bring them something when they were already in the kitchen.

She suspected he just enjoyed hearing it - being reminded, even by himself, that she was his wife. His supposed infatuation with her was something she felt she’d never understand, not unless she developed the ability to trawl her way through his brain and experience his innermost thoughts, but she did, on some level, believe it existed.

Part of her couldn’t quite commit to the idea. It still seemed absolutely absurd that anyone of his power would be interested in her, a woman with no assets and no real potential power, and she couldn’t make herself let go of the idea that it was all some elaborate setup for some obscure purpose she couldn’t hope to fathom until it smacked her in the face.

Still, he was slowly winning her over, mostly against her own will.

There were some things that even the best liar couldn’t fake, especially being stuck in such close quarters all the time. The way his expression softened, just the slightest bit, when he was looking at her. The hard edge of his voice was always a little dull with her, even when they were bickering. Sometimes, she would even swear that she could see affection in his dead, reptilian eyes, during all the time he spent staring at her, especially in the days following that miserable phone call.

He did sweet things in silence, never mentioning them or asking for her adoration or gratitude in return. He bought her moonstone jewelry, even though he considered it cheap, just because she liked it. He wore the vests that she made, even though he surely had better options, especially when they ventured off the ship, like he wanted to flaunt them. He kept track of the foods she liked, what wine she preferred, even what songs she enjoyed more than the rest, and made sure they were always available. He was patient while going over various documents, even when it was all gibberish to her and she clearly didn’t understand a word.

He had held her for hours when she broke down in tears. He hadn’t said anything, just kept her pressed into the bulk of his side, where she felt safe for the first time in a long time, and when she cried herself into exhaustion and drifted off into a fitful sleep, he had carried her to bed so delicately she hadn’t even noticed.

He even left his fur coat and hadn’t once asked for it back.

She would never tell him she’d been sleeping under it since. It was soft and warm and heavy, and since that night, she found that she couldn’t sleep without it. Left alone at night, her mind always started to race, and while she’d normally pace, the burden of his coat calmed her, let her settle.

It made her feel safe.

Chapter Text

Loguetown was a busy place.

Between the heavy Marine presence, and its location near Reverse Mountain – the arguably safest route into the Grand Line – it made sense that it would be bustling with people nearly every hour of the day. They’d come to port late in the night, when one would assume most people would be asleep, but she’d been snapped awake by the loud cheering of bar goers and general clatter of shiphands at work.

It would be a fairly straight shot, once they left, to Arabasta. They stopped only to fill the ship’s stores to the absolute brim, in an effort to avoid diverting along the way – the only islands along the route were less than appealing, according to Garret. Whiskey Peak wasn’t so terrible, but it also wasn’t very far from Reverse Mountain, and the people who lived there weren’t exactly drowning in over abundance. Kyuka Island was much the same, boasting a resort and little else, and Drum Island was, for lack of any better phrase, “a fucking wreck” thanks to its king, Wapol. Nanimonai was, literally, made of giant goldfish shit, and Little Garden was a dangerous, overgrown hell pit.

He had spent a few hours the morning before, explaining to her how navigation on the Grand Line worked. Unlike the main seas of the world, the only way to safely make it from island to island was via something called a Log Pose. The environment along the Grand Line was constantly in flux, shifting from clear skies to crippling thunderstorms within minutes, and there were no steady headwinds to follow. Even islands just days apart from one another could experience drastically different ecological events – Little Garden was a lush, tropical rainforest, while Drum Island, it’s closest neighbor, almost never experienced a thaw.

Normally, one would need to stop at each island on their set path. It took time for a Log Pose to start to adjust to the magnetic field of the next island, sometimes over the course of hours or, in places like Little Garden, requiring an entire year to settle. Anyone who regularly navigated throughout the Grand Line, however, would have an Eternal Pose, and, naturally, Crocodile had one that pointed exclusively towards Arabasta, negating their need to stop and wait.

It wasn’t an exceptionally long journey from Reverse Mountain to Arabasta. Only a couple of weeks, if all went well, but in the Grand Line, it paid to be prepared for things to never go according to plan. It was rare, but the Eternal Pose could fail, if the magnetic fields on any of the other islands had changed too much, or they could run afoul of something that delayed them, be it a giant sea creature that damaged the ship or extreme weather that knocked them severely off course – potentially even into the Calm Belt.

That, Garret noted, had happened twice in his years on Crocodile’s crew. There was simply nothing to be done, if extreme winds and currents decided to drag them astray, and more often than not, they led to the currentless waters of the belt. Any ship ill-prepared for such a thing would be devoured by the Sea Kings that populated the area long before they could escape back to the relative safety of either the Grand Line or the nearest sea. Such an eventuality was why the Gustave was equipped with a coal engine.

Early in his days as a pirate, back before Crocodile had ever been in consideration for the role of Warlord and long before he’d owned the Gustave, they had ended up adrift in the Calm Belt once. They’d had to bust out the boards and create makeshift oars in order to slowly row their way out over the course of several weeks, escaping and making landfall just days before deaths from starvation would have begun in earnest, though there were still a handful of crew members who hadn’t made it after the rationing had begun. A lack of food, limited water, and sheer exhaustion was a lethal combination, especially for those with a less hardy constitution.

Garret hadn’t been the helmsman, back then, just a young ship hand. He admitted to spending those weeks debating with himself if life on the high seas was really what he wanted, and he credited Crocodile for the career he’d ultimately claimed. Despite the circumstances, he had been utterly composed the entire time, and it had taken him no time at all to sort out a solution. He was callous, in a lot of ways, casually heaving bodies of the dead overboard, to be devoured by the horrors beneath the surface, but he had been kind, too.

He had done without in order to make sure that the younger members of his crew, like Garret himself, had enough to survive. Crocodile’s comment that he’d fought a Sea King had been severely underselling what had happened, and from what Garret remembered, they had been attacked by no less than three, in the end, and not once did he make the crew fight or struggle. Exhausted and hungry himself, he had fought them alone – and his control of his Devil Fruit power was nothing at all close to the mastery he had later developed, back then.

He could be a callous, ruthless man – but he wasn’t, Garret believed, a monster. He wasn’t like some other pirates he had seen, only concerned with whatever indulgence had their attention that day and saying to hell with the consequences, be it women or riches or seeing blood pouring out of his most recent victim. People were disposable to him when it came to his grand plans, but they were still people, and Garret didn’t know many pirates with that level of conscience.

There wasn’t anything that she needed from Loguetown, but she wasn’t going to refuse the opportunity to stretch her legs, either. Crocodile had things that required his immediate attention, but Miss All Sunday had met them at the docks, and he resolved that the other woman was a sufficient guardian for Lily to wander around with for a few hours. Thankfully, she wouldn’t be put to use as a human dress up doll – All Sunday was content to shop for herself, though there were a few errands she wanted to run. Lily was still far from a warrior, but it was time to get her a weapon, if only to defend herself, and a few other things to keep herself occupied in Arabasta.

It was a pleasant country, with a wide and varied culture, but some things were still limited, especially outside of the capitol of Alubarna. Stocking herself with books and weather appropriate fabrics was a wise idea, given Rainbase was several days from Alubarna – she couldn’t just take a day trip at her leisure to go buy more linen if she didn’t like the patterns available in Rainbase.

“You two seem to be getting along.”

Lily hummed, but realistically, she couldn’t deny it was true. She still wouldn’t claim they were especially close, but things had been less tense between them, after her mother’s phone call. It had confirmed at least some of All Sunday’s claims, that he hadn’t just leapt to marriage as his first choice in securing her attention – had her parents not been orchestrating what would have surely been a living nightmare, he would have at least tried to win her over first.

The revelation that he’d spared her from whatever Doflamingo had planned had helped to abate a considerable amount of the guilt she wanted to apply to Crocodile. She still wasn’t completely over being forced into a marriage, in general, but it was a healing wound, stitched and treated rather than left to fester.

“Tell me,” All Sunday grinned as she looped their arms. “Should I be expecting a godchild in the next few months?”

“Absolutely not,” Lily scoffed – even if they had gotten that far, she had another couple years left on her implant. “Still sleeping in separate rooms.”

“I didn’t ask about where you sleep,” The other woman giggled, but let the topic drop. “Anyway, I was thinking you’d do well with a war hammer.”

“Pardon?”

“A war hammer,” She repeated, trudging up the cobblestone hill. “They’re light enough you shouldn’t have much trouble using it, but it suits your penchant for smashing, and it’ll give you a little bit of extra range.”

She resolved to just trust All Sunday. She didn’t know much about weapons, really – training together was the first time she had even held a sword, and she wasn’t especially graceful with it, either. If it hadn’t been purposefully blunted, she’d probably have taken her own head off with it. Most of the pirates on the crew seemed to favor them, though, especially curved sabres, though a few carried straight longswords or knives, instead, and Garret, specifically, had a morning star.

All Sunday, herself, didn’t seem to carry any weapon at all. Every now and then, she would strap a flintlock pistol to her thigh, but she never carried it on a consistent basis, at least not openly. Lily had never asked, but assumed that it was her Devil Fruit power that she relied on instead, not unlike Crocodile himself. Technically, he had his hook hand, but that seemed to be more for convenience, or as a backup plan, than something he actively relied on.

“We’ll find you something suitable,” All Sunday continued. “People in the Grand Line tend to be a little on the bigger side, so definitely something with reach. I’ve seen some that make Crocodile look like a toddler.”

Given he stood around two and a half meters tall, that was a horrifying prospect. It did, though, explain Doflamingo and his followers, who she had only seen once – they were all three meters or taller, including one who stood well over four and was easily as broad across the shoulders as she was tall. Against Doflamingo himself, she was no taller than his hips, and recalling that, she resolved something with range was probably the correct call.

“A pistol, too,” The other woman chimed as she opened the door to Ipponmatsu’s Sword Shop. “You know, Crocodile used to be quite the marksman.”

“What happened?”

In response, All Sunday raised her left hand and made a chopping motion.

“It was his dominant hand,” Her theory, at last, was confirmed. “He got his Devil Fruit powers not long after, so he never bothered to learn to shoot with his right.”

The shop owner called out a not-quite-cheerful greeting, but largely left them to browse. There weren’t many other people in the shop, but there was one, with cropped dark hair, standing by the counter and seemingly deeply engrossed in conversation with the man. She didn’t so much as look up when they entered, and listening to their hushed chatter, it was clear they were arguing over the price of something – presumably the katana she had in hand.

She idled around for a few minutes, simply looking over the selection, before All Sunday found the display that she wanted. There wasn’t a wide variety, but there were still several of what she assumed to be war hammers hanging on the wall. She selected one that was pure metal, first, and almost immediately, Lily felt herself tottering under the weight of it, much to Sunday’s amusement. Unbothered by the weight, she popped it back onto its hanger, and began to peruse the ones with wooden handles, instead.

“It’ll need to be a little heavier than you’re used to,” She resolved. “It needs some weight to do damage effectively, especially since you aren’t all that strong.”

One was incredibly light, which led to it being immediately vetoed. Another simply wasn’t the quality Sunday wanted it to be. They could, eventually, get her something custom made that would be, in her words, better than any of the dreck available to them in Loguetown, but it was unwise for Lily to continue to walk around without some sort of self-defense. Word would eventually get around that Crocodile was married – especially with him so readily declaring it – and even just the implication that she could defend herself would keep the “riff raff” from pestering her.

As she tested another one, which was just heavy enough to be uncomfortable, she heard a quiet gasp from across the store. Glancing up, she immediately recognized Tashigi, staring at her from near the counter as the owner tried to hand her back her change.

They never really got along. At first, it hadn’t been personal – Tashigi had caught her slipping out of Smoker’s quarters early one morning, and had mostly seemed offended by the prospect that her Captain was a man who occasionally liked to have sex, rather than live as a monk to prove his dedication to his career. She had caught them bickering, however, one too many times for it to stay that way, particularly when Tashigi had hissed that he had “better options”.

She didn’t hate Tashigi, though. They could get along in short bursts, and things between them had simmered to a sort of polite acquaintanceship, once things with Smoker had started to become more serious. Despite her initial grievances, Tashigi had even tried to convince her to come to Loguetown, rather than end the relationship, for the sake of her Captain, who was more fond of her than he was willing to admit.

The fact he hadn’t been willing to admit it, though, was why she had ended things instead. He wasn’t the most emotionally available man in the world, and she was fine with that – she knew he cared about her, and she had cared about him in return, so much so that a certain little word had been on the tip of her tongue for months. The trouble had been that he couldn’t admit how he felt, even when trying to convince her to come with them. She wasn’t looking to settle down and start popping out children, but she wasn’t willing to travel across the sea just to be with someone who’s only argument had been that they “had a good thing going” – especially when that thing was mostly sex.

“Lily,” Tashigi blurted, seemingly in spite of herself. “I…you’re in Loguetown.”

“I am.”

She wasn’t being obstinate on purpose. Under different circumstances, she would be fine having a polite conversation – but she had absolutely no desire to explain to a Marine that she’d gotten married to a fucking pirate, sanctioned or not.

“You,” The other woman cleared her throat. “You look nice. Is this…your girlfriend?”

“Just a friend,” All Sunday chirped, handing her yet another weapon to ineptly swing around. “I don’t have any interest in being on the business end of Crocodile’s hook.”

She glowered at her companion, who looked all too pleased with herself as she started rooting through a barrel of loose knives. Tashigi’s forehead pinched, her confusion on full display as she tried to make sense of the statement, and Lily sighed heavily.

“My parents arranged a marriage for me,” Tashigi flinched – she looked remorseful, at least. “To Sir Crocodile. We’re headed for the Grand Line, so…I need something for self-defense.”

“I see,” There was a long, uncomfortable pause, as the Marine seemed to go through all the stages of grief in one brief instant. “It’s…it’s good to see you again. You seem…well taken care of.”

“I am,” Lily shrugged, lightly swinging the hammer like a golf club. “I mean, it’s fine. He’s…respectful.”

Tashigi seemed to understand what she meant, frowning but not saying anything more as she nodded, more to herself than anyone else. After another tense moment, she said her goodbyes and hurried out the door. Despite keeping herself together, she set to sprinting the moment she hit the street, flying towards the Marine base – no doubt to tell Smoker what she’d just learned.

“That going to be a problem?” All Sunday questioned, more serious than she had been all day.

“I don’t think so?” She admitted with a shrug, swinging the hammer more earnestly this time. “Her Captain and I used to date, before he got reassigned.”

“Was it serious?”

“Eh, getting there,” There was no better way to put it – it wasn’t just an idle hookup, but it hadn’t had the opportunity to develop beyond that. “Smoker can be a bit of a hot head, but he’s not stupid. Besides, it’s been a couple of years. He’s probably moved on by now.”

All Sunday hummed but refrained from saying anything more. Instead, she set to finding a suitable back up weapon, something small that she could hide beneath her clothes just in case. Eventually, she settled on a thigh sheathe that fit a small knife, just long enough to do some real damage but overall relatively small. It was a little uncomfortable, at first, feeling it strapped tightly to her upper thigh – and nearly giving the owner an accidental peep show when Sunday just casually pulled up the skirt of her dress – but not intolerable.

She was firmly instructed to get in the habit of wearing it at all times. Even if she didn’t carry the war hammer around, she absolutely needed to keep the knife on her, even aboard the ship. No one on Crocodile’s ship was dumb enough to attack her, but if something happened – unlikely, but always possible - she wouldn’t be completely defenseless.

Satisfied with the purchases, one of which weighed heavily on her back, All Sunday set to more casual shopping without an ounce of shame about spending her Captain’s money. Lily herself wasn’t interested in any more clothes, though Sunday did force her to buy a few light dresses suitable for the desert, but she had a small collection of new books and patterns, in the end, alongside plenty of soft yarn. Crocheting and knitting weren’t something she was super talented with, but she could manage simple projects.

It was something to do while sitting with Crocodile. He made it a point not to enter her personal room, not even when he was lounging around in her presence, and the sewing machine was too inconvenient to move to the dining room every night. She was always more comfortable if she had something to fiddle with, and some of the yarn was especially warm and fluffy – it would make a nice throw blanket.

They had just gotten comfortable at a café, sitting outside and enjoying the good weather, when Crocodile’s hulking form made a reappearance. He didn’t say anything, instead staring them both down for a brief moment – particularly the bags at All Sunday’s feet – and she could again feel him desperately wanting to roll his eyes. Casually, he reached out, finding an empty chair at a neighboring table, twisting it around like the metal seat weighed nothing at all as he repositioned it beside her.

His day hadn’t been all that complex – he had indicated he was only overseeing some supply orders, a task he usually left to Yannis, the most elder of the trio who worked the galley, and finding someone to do some very minor work on the Gustave – but he still rumbled when he sat down, like he’d been run ragged all morning and finally got the opportunity to relax.

It didn’t take long for Sunday to dismiss herself. She scooped up both her bags and Lily’s with her myriad of extra arms, trotting off and down the hill towards the docks.

“She’s worse than you are,” Lily declared, once she was sure Sunday was out of ear shot, and he grunted to show his interest as a very nervous waiter reluctantly approached. “If I see one more lace thong, I’m going to strangle myself with it.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, making the waiter all the more tense, before he settled on a chocolate croissant and coffee.

That was one of the few things she knew about him. Tomatoes would likely be his first and truest love, but if food could be someone’s mistress, it would be chocolate. Dark chocolate, in particular, the kind that came wrapped in no less than three layers, and he especially enjoyed the ones that had extra little bits, like sea salt or orange zest. She wasn’t personally a fan of most of them, but she did enjoy the ones with dried raspberries – his least favorite, if she had to guess, as he’d broken off one piece of one before immediately passing it off too her while glowering at the wall.

“Settled on a war hammer?” He noted the weapon leaning against her leg, reaching for it to better investigate it.

“Sunday makes a good point,” She shrugged. “I do enjoy smashing things.”

There was a quiet murmur from further up the hill. While he turned the weapon over in his hands, she perked up, straining to listen. Faintly, she could hear Tashigi’s voice, shouting something indiscernible as people turned to stare at whatever was happening just beyond her view.

“Fucking…” She huffed, dropping back into her chair with an unladylike sprawl. “Damn it, Sunday.”

“What’d she do now?”

Uncomfortable, she picked at the remains of her scone. She’d never had one before, but she’d heard about them, and her initial excitement had quickly given way to disappointment. Honestly, she never knew food could be so dry. It was almost what she imagined it would be like to lick Crocodile, gritty and annoying, and entirely too sparse on the berries the menu had promised.

“My ex may be the Marine Captain here,” She finally huffed. “And Sunday may have told his second about…”

She waved her hand between them. Setting the weapon down, he didn’t so much as blink at the admission. He stared at her for a long second, appraising her, as if he was using her reaction to calculate how he should respond to the development himself.

“Smoker,” He eventually drawled. “The two of you dated for a couple of years, didn’t you?”

“How could you possibly…?” The question died on her lips, as she reminded herself that he had eyes and ears everywhere – especially within the Marines. “Yeah.”

The ruckus was getting closer. She could hear Smoker’s gravelly voice now, too, demanding Tashigi not tell him what to do.

“Seems he’s not completely over you.”

“He’s…” She sighed again, reluctantly righting her posture. “I’d be worried too, if I were in his shoes. So, maybe don’t antagonize him?”

Crocodile hummed, refusing to agree either way, as he turned his focus to his croissant. It was better than nothing, and she resolved to just take it, rather than continue to push. She still cared for Smoker, on some level – she likely always would – but she didn’t want Crocodile to think that she was still in love with him, either. She wasn’t sure what his jealousy would look like, if he felt it at all, and she didn’t want to turn the situation into something that it didn’t need to be.

Finally, the situation up the road made it’s appearance. Smoker – two cigars crammed between his teeth – stalked down the road, immediately honed in on her presence at the table, Tashigi hot at his heels as she, more quietly, tried to convince him to turn around. The Warlord, unflappable as ever, downed half his coffee in one giant swallow, washing back his too-big bite of croissant.

“You’ve got chocolate on your mouth.”

While he idly wiped the filling away from the corner of his lips, Smoker continued to get closer. He looked ready for a fight, fists balled up tightly at his side and fire in his brown eyes, though thankfully, as he got closer, he seemed to slow, reeling in his temper. She continued to pick at the scone, slowly tearing it apart with the tips of her fingers as the waiter, who’d come by to refill her coffee, hurried to scramble back inside without actually pouring anything from the steaming pot in his hand.

“Lily.”

Smoker came to a halt at the far end of the table, slamming his hands down spreading his fingers across the metal surface. Crocodile’s eyes flicked at them, quietly perturbed, but he said nothing, continuing on with his snack. Still, she flinched, mostly from the noisy clatter he made – but, on some level, from the remorseful look on Tashigi’s face, blending readily into abject disgust as she stared down at the behemoth contentedly devouring a pastry.

Despite how quickly he had approached, Smoker seemed to stall out for a moment, like he couldn’t find the words he wanted to say. He appraised her, instead, looking up and down her exposed arms and especially at her throat, before settling on her face, like he expected to find fresh cuts and bruises.

That did happen, occasionally, though never out of maliciousness. Crocodile was always careful of his hook, but not so mindful of its weight, and more than once, he’d accidentally tapped her with the bulky piece where it connected to his wrist, which was all it took to leave a light bruise on her skin. He was getting more and more careful with it, but she suspected he still wasn’t used to it – the amputation was old, but she vaguely remembered him having a considerably more subtle, traditional prosthetic when they’d passed one another on the street a few years prior.

The most recent time, he had clocked her in the back of the head with it when someone came rushing in from the kitchen to call for him. They had come across a Sea King in the distance, and though it ultimately left their ship alone, he had been needed on deck in case it noticed them. In his hurry to get up, he hadn’t quite given himself enough room, and the lower edge of the bulky wrist piece pinged off the top of her head. He didn’t even seem to notice it at the time, but later, he’d quietly held the bottom of his icy glass against the small knot that had developed.

Rather than speak to her, Smoker turned to look at Crocodile, who had downed his coffee and motioned the poor waiter over to refill his mug, as if ignoring the entire situation. His glower deepened as their eyes locked – Smoker leaned more heavily against the table, threatening to tip it over, while the Warlord was the picture of ease, reclining in his chair as he crossed his ankle over his knee.

“Captain,” He greeted lowly – there was a vicious sort of amusement beneath the boredom, and she nearly kicked his leg on instinct. “Something you need?”

“Not from you,” Smoker wasn’t quite as effective at hiding his mood, all but growling as he turned back to her. “Lily…are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” She struggled to find anything more to say – not because it didn’t exist, but because she was acutely aware she was suddenly on a tightrope, trying to quell Smoker’s agitation without aggravating Crocodile. “Everything’s…fine.”

“Hardly,” He scoffed. “Your parents, did they really…?”

“Yes,” Crocodile noted unhelpfully, and this time she really did kick him in the shin. “I offered, they agreed.”

“I just asked you not to be a dick.”

He didn’t dignify her with a response. Smoker, on the other hand, seemed to collapse a little, sagging just slightly against the table as a great plume of smoke poured from his mouth.

“And you,” He questioned, unconcerned with decorum. “You’re alright with it?”

“Could be worse,” It wasn’t untrue, and Smoker’s furrowed brow flinched. “I could’ve been on my way to Dressrosa by now.”

There was another grunt from her right elbow, a subtle warning she may be stepping slightly too far, and a less than subtle gasp of horror from Tashigi.

“I’m not going to pretend I’m thrilled about it,” He made a conciliatory sort of sound, a thundering sound of understanding and displeasure in equal measure, as Smoker puffed out a relieved sigh as he put the implication together. “But I’m fine. Really. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

She could tangibly feel Crocodile’s displeasure, but that was a problem for later. Her bigger concern was Smoker, who seemed to lose much of his steam, finally easing back and away from the table to stand straight.

“You’ll call me,” She wasn’t sure if it was a demand or a question, and he didn’t seem certain, either. “If something happens.”

“Trying to steal my wife, Captain?” The barb was accompanied by another, slightly too noisy sip of coffee. “I assure you, she’s in good hands.”

She glowered at the side of his head, but he wasn’t paying her any mind, instead staring at the Captain. The two men were quietly at war for a moment, each one waiting for the other to back down, and it was only when Tashigi stepped in the way that they stopped. Smoker clearly wasn’t pleased, but he’d been quelled, enough that a fight wasn’t going to break out in the street, at least.

Finally, the Captain turned his attention back to her. It was clear as day that he wasn’t happy about the situation, but unless she asked him to get involved, his hands were tied. If she really wanted him too, she was sure he would find some excuse to keep them at Loguetown until he could forcibly extricate her from her situation, but she couldn’t ask that of him – especially knowing what would happen, if she found herself available again.

Until she was twenty six, her parents had the legal right to marry her off to whoever they pleased. They’d surely burned through a sizeable portion of the dower, and if they were to have to pay it back because she and Crocodile divorced, then it would only happen if they received one of even greater value – and there was only one person who could offer up that much beri at once.

And, if she were honest with herself – she didn’t particularly want to leave.

Chapter Text

Reverse Mountain was objectively terrifying.

Garret had called her up to the deck to see it, when they’d started their approach. The current ran in strange ways there, carrying ships up one side of the mountain and jettisoning them down the other side, and it was jarring to see, even at a distance. It was interesting enough that Crocodile had even been summoned from his office, observing from near the helm as they navigated their way into the current that would take them up the mountain. It was a difficult venture to make, the helmsman explained, and more than a few crews had died just trying to make the trip, unable to manage the extreme currents, which were entirely too strong for any ship rudder to work against. They had to enter at a precise angle, if they wanted to make it through safely.

She settled at the railing in front of the helm, dangling her legs between the rails. He seemed completely unconcerned, but Crocodile moved to stand nearby – for him, it was a blatant display of worry, keeping her nearby in case something happened. He couldn’t swim, but it didn’t much sound like that would matter, and she imagined he expected to abscond into the air if the ship crashed, instead, though what would happen from there, she wasn’t sure. The mountain was clearly barren, without a single plant or structure to be found, and she couldn’t fathom what he thought they’d do if they were stranded there.

She expected it to be slow going. Despite the speed of the currents, they were fighting against gravity, and she anticipated a slow, difficult crawl up the side of the mountain. Instead, she found herself white knuckling the railing struts as they were practically jettisoned towards the sky, soaring up between the rocks. Someone screamed – probably her – for the briefest instant, and in no time at all, they were briefly idling at the top, before being shot downward towards the sea.

Adrenaline made her giddy. She was giggling the entire way down, not really amused but her heart was thundering and her body didn’t know what else to do with the sudden influx of energy. Idly, Crocodile laid his hand on her forehead, preventing her from smashing her head into the rail when they came to an abrupt stop at the bottom, ship jostling from side to side as they settled on the waves.

That was the most exciting part of the trip, though. Garret would let her know when they were passing an island so that she could come out and see it, but they never stopped at any of them, leaving her with the vaguest impression of what they were like. The only one she wasn’t allowed to see from the outside was Little Garden, as Crocodile had noted the presence of all sorts of wildlife that might attack the ship, and they didn’t have the means to treat the obscure diseases the island was known for, like that carried by Kestia. It was interesting, but not exceptionally engaging.

Arabasta was immediately unpleasant. Not because it seemed terrible, but because the moment it came into view, the air became entirely too warm for comfort. Even in a simple sundress, she felt like she was melting well before the ship started to navigate up the Sandora River. The city didn’t have a proper port, but there was a small one that had developed along the river where they intended to disembark, about a half-day’s travel through the desert from Rainbase. It was more efficient than going through Elumalu, the city they’d already passed along the southern shore, a route that would ultimately take them two, almost three, days.

She felt like she was baking alive as they slowly made their way up the river, and all the more so when she set foot on the sandy terrain. Even through her shoes, she could feel the heat emanating from the ground after soaking up sunlight the entire day, and the light cloak Sunday had thrown on her did precious little to shade her.

They splintered away from the main crew, then. She expected to have to trudge through the sand, but instead, Sunday had presented her with a comparatively small – but still quite large – Bananawani, equipped with a saddle and harness. It was an F-Wani, a closely related cousin to the giant creatures Crocodile was so fond of, and a fairly common means of navigating through the desert, for those with the nerve to try and tame one. It was more than capable of hauling them both to Rainbase in record time, while Crocodile and the crew oversaw the unloading of the ship.

Most of the crew would be staying behind. Rather than keep them stuck ashore, Crocodile intended to send them out to sea, to accomplish some other, secret tasks that didn’t require his direct attention. That was, All Sunday explained, fairly common for the Warlord, who didn’t require a ship or crew in order to travel.

His sand was more than suitable to skip from island to island, if he was so inclined, and he typically reserved use of the Gustave for long journeys, more for comfort than necessity. Most of his crew operated independently, each ship flying under his flag but going about their own business. Her F-Wani could do the same, though it wasn’t quite as efficient – it was, however, often ignored by creatures of the sea, as even the smaller F-Wani could kill a Sea King if it wanted to.

Flying through the desert was almost as exciting as careening over a mountain. Sunday joined in her anxious laughter, obviously amused by her stress as they rushed along. It only took a few hours for them to come up to the outskirts of Rainbase, a relatively small, but otherwise bustling, city. Most of the buildings on the edge were constructed from adobe, square and squat and not all that impressive, but as they slowly rode along, they became increasingly more opulent, with big glass windows and bright paint patterns.

There were all manner of businesses bustling with customers, all with increasingly obnoxious signs. Some seemed like they might be casinos, small and tightly packed with low stakes slots, while others reminded her of Wildwood Hotel, their card tables hidden behind a beautiful veneer. Clothes shops, perfumeries – the deeper into the city they went, the more specific the shops became, shifting from unfocused general goods to things like separate salons for nails and hair and makeup.

Rain Dinners was the most obnoxious of them all. A massive pyramid, striped with blue and gold and topped with a fat golden Bananawani, seated in the center of the massive oasis the city relied on. From the outside, construction seemed complete, and as Sunday dismissed her F-Wani to join the others circling beneath the water’s surface, Lily tried to assess what could still need to be done for it to be considered complete.

“I told you.”

“It’s fucking hideous,” Lily noted, trailing behind her as they crossed the stone bridge to the entrance. “Why is it fat?”

All Sunday just laughed.

There was a sign across the main doors, declaring the casino closed, along with a barricade of silken ropes and metal poles. They both ducked beneath it as All Sunday produced a key, slipping one of the doors open.

The inside was nice, but barren. Mostly white, from the floor to the ceiling, with relatively subtle gold detailing and strange, blue circles amongst the tiles. A few were occupied by various game tables and slot machines, hastily covered in old tarps, and in the distance, she could hear someone hammering something.

“The restaurant is still under construction,” All Sunday explained. “And we’re waiting on some more tables, but the hotel is complete.”

Down a quiet hall, they came upon four elevators. One readily popped open, and All Sunday again inserted her key, this time below the button panels, before hitting the last one in the list. Removing her key, she handed it to Lily, who confusedly tucked it into her bra.

“The penthouse is private,” She stated. “You need a key for the buttons to work.”

There was more space in the penthouse than she’d ever seen. Like the rest of the interior, it was mostly white, and seemed almost sterile, like it had never been used before. Behind the main doors, which had a code lock, was a sprawling expanse, lightly and sparsely populated by the bare minimum furniture. The kitchen alone was larger than her room on the Gustave, with a massive oven and no shortage of blue cabinets, none of which contained anything at all, and a refrigerator she could comfortably curl up inside of. There were a duo of couches near the massive windows that made up one wall, with a comfortable view of the city and the desert beyond.

There were five white doors, two on one side of the space and three on the other, which All Sunday left her to investigate. The first she opened, if she had to guess, Crocodile’s bedroom, and the only one that looked like it had ever been occupied, if only because of the small selection of clothes hanging in the deep closet. Although the structure was mostly white, it had his preferred scheme, with a dark wooden bed and deep green linens on the bed, the bedside tables and dressers speckled with various bits of gold accents. There was even a vanity, with a large round mirror and cushy stool tucked neatly beneath. It had a private bathroom, as well, with a massive glass shower that sprayed water from all variety of angles, and a bathtub laden with various jets, deep enough for her to drown if she were to sit in it while it was full.

Beside it was what she supposed was her room. Like her space on the Gustave, some effort had been made to make it comfortable for her, though not quite as thoroughly. The gauzy curtains were her favorite shade of purple, and the cool tile floor was speckled with brightly patterned rugs. There was a light wood desk in the corner, looking rather barren without a sewing machine on top of it, and plenty of shelving and storage, all of which was equally empty. She had a bathroom of her own, too, no less ornate, but scaled down to suit someone closer to her size – one of the shower nozzles would still hit her in the eye if she wasn’t careful, however.

One of the other rooms was Crocodile’s office. Unsurprisingly, the view was incredible, and she noted that it also had a glass door that connected to the sprawling patio beyond. She didn’t investigate it long, but it reminded her both of his room and his office on the Gustave, muted but comfortable and furnished for an absolute giant. A third bathroom, less opulent than the other two, with a washer and dryer replacing the tub, carefully hidden by ornate cabinetry.

The last room seemed to be a catch all, for everything that didn’t fit neatly into the design of the rest of the space. A small sauna, tucked neatly into the corner, and perhaps surprisingly, a smattering of workout equipment – no machines, but various weights, some of which were utterly absurd.

It made sense, but she hadn’t thought about it before, that Crocodile had to actively work to maintain his physique.

There were a handful of weapons, which seemed more like trophies than something he actively used – a sabre, a spear – with placards beneath that she didn’t get close enough to read. There was a mace, though, that looked like it might still have old blood on the metal spines, making it obvious that he wasn’t concerned with maintaining them.

“The crew will bring your things by later,” Sunday stated. “In the meantime, you and I should hit the shops in town. This place desperately needs a woman’s touch.”

“Is shopping the only thing you people do?”

Despite her grousing, she obliged Sunday’s suggestion. It was as much to get necessary accoutrements, like plates, as much as it was to start to learn the town. They’d be staying in Arabasta for a while – years, from the sound of it – and it seemed wise to learn the layout sooner rather than later. Crocodile likely wouldn’t let her wander around without an escort, but she would rather know her way around, just in case. If she ever needed to make a quick escape, be it from Crocodile or one of his enemies, she would like to not be totally lost.

People around the city seemed to recognize Sunday. They didn’t know her well, but a few people knew her by her alias, and questioned if Sir Crocodile had returned. They seemed excited by the idea, happy to see him returning, and Sunday explained that he’d intervened in a pirate raid or two, before he’d been called to the East Blue. He was something of a local hero, especially in Emumalu and Nanohana, the two major shore cities.

Lily didn’t believe that was the full truth of the situation for a second. She wasn’t sure what Crocodile might be up to, but he wasn’t the sort of man who’d do that sort of thing out of the goodness of his heart. If Rainbase came under attack, then perhaps, if only to keep his prized casino safe and secure, but she couldn’t imagine he cared in the slightest about what happened elsewhere.

Still, she remained of the mind that it was better to stay out of his business. If it backfired horribly, she had the benefit of plausible deniability when the Marines cracked down.

She was unloading various groceries when he ventured into the suite. His head cocked in her direction, as if he were confused by what she was doing, before he honed in on the bottle of bourbon sitting on the kitchen island. Leaving his coat on the hanger near the door, he settled onto one of the seats, waiting patiently for her to slide him a glass from one of the many boxes that had been delivered from the impromptu shopping spree.

“You certainly aren’t shy about spending our money.”

He was teasing again, observing as she tucked various vegetables into the fridge drawers.

“Sunday, you mean,” His chuckle was like rolling thunder in the distance. “Besides, I’m going to be here a while, so I may as well get what I like.”

He wasn’t perturbed, instead content to sit and watch while she went about the process of unpacking. While she was unloading dishes and cookware, a small handful of the crew came wandering in, carting along various boxes and trunks, stacking them neatly near the door. With his stuff finally present, Crocodile moved, briefly shuffling through them to determine what went where.

Even one handed, he didn’t struggle nearly as much as the crew had. He was able to haul a trunk that had taken two men to carry like it was a shopping bag, drifting into and out of various rooms before ultimately disappearing into one of them entirely after checking the manual locks on the inside of the door. She didn’t pay him much mind, going about unloading the various things Sunday had convinced her to purchase until well after the sun had started to set.

She was a little surprised not to find him in his room, when she went to stock his bathroom cabinet with towels. She had figured that was where he had gotten off to, unpacking his things, but he was suspiciously absent, and she was reasonably sure he wasn’t in his office, as he’d largely ignored that side of the suite, except to drop off his den den mushi at his desk, along with its dinner of mixed vegetables.

Venturing into her room, she found him standing in the center, surrounded by an orderly stack of empty containers, a handful of garments hanging from his hook. Her sewing machine had been arranged on her desk, a small array of makeup and skincare products lining the vanity.

He had unpacked for her, which was surprisingly sweet unto itself, but it was the look on his face that made her heart flutter. He looked decidedly displeased to see her, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. She would have known anyway, the moment she realized everything was done, but it was like he was horrifically uncomfortable being caught in the act of actually doing it.

Embarrassed – he was actually, genuinely, embarrassed.

Her first instinct was to tease him for it, but she swallowed it back. She didn’t want to make him actually uncomfortable, like he’d done something wrong, when in reality, she genuinely appreciated the effort. Instead, she turned away like she hadn’t seen anything at all, stuffing the towels into her bathroom cabinet and stalwartly ignoring the sudden sense of domesticity of the whole interaction.

“You want anything specific for dinner?”

“…Whatever you make is fine.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and he resumed what he was doing while actively keeping his gaze away from her.

He drifted back out by the time the rice had finished. She wasn’t a professional chef, by any means, but she had spent a fair amount of time watching the kitchen workers, and she wasn’t completely hopeless in the kitchen, in general. Stir fry and rice wasn’t exactly complicated, though she was vaguely aware that it was a far cry from what he typically ate – she anticipated eating a lot of meals from the restaurant, in the future, or perhaps some private kitchen elsewhere in the hotel, once construction was finished and staff was hired.

He didn’t complain, though. He bunkered down at the kitchen island with his plate and his drink and ate with the same gusto as always, like he was privately starving but doing his best not to act like a savage at the same time.

Despite his refusal to talk, she didn’t miss the pleased way his features softened when she dropped a plate of blistered tomatoes beside him.

She hadn’t actively tried to learn the recipe, but the galley made it nearly every day, and she’d absorbed it, regardless. It wasn’t complicated – oil and a handful of herbs, and a fistful of cherry tomatoes, sometimes with a bit of feta cheese and other times without, which seemed to be the only variety he was interested in. She wasn’t really a fan of tomatoes herself, except occasionally on a sandwich, but she had assumed he would miss them if he didn’t have them.

In return, he poured her a glass of wine. He couldn’t be bothered to actually get up to do it, but briefly transformed his damaged arm to sand, leaving the hook laying on the table while a small trail of glittering particles fished through the cabinets to find an appropriate glass and rattled around in the fridge until he found the bottle.

It was difficult, suddenly, to look at him. Her heart picked up tempo, fingers jittering, and for most of the silent meal, she was left wondering what in the world was wrong with her.

While she was standing at the sink, rinsing her dishes, the revelation struck her like lightning. Crocodile came up behind her, quietly depositing his own in the sink, easily maneuvering his arm around her. He was close enough for her to scrape her elbow against his abdomen, but not quite close enough to touch, an obvious but unobtrusive presence at her back for several long moments. He moved away just as quickly as he’d arrived, but over her shoulder, she could hear him moving around, gathering up both his glass and hers as he migrated to the sofas.
She was nervous.

She was never nervous. Or, to be accurate, she was always nervous, but it was never accompanied by the sensation of excitement, of anticipation, of wanting someone to like her. Even overeager pirates didn’t intimidate her – though, admittedly, there was also the security of knowing Marines were eternally somewhere nearby, if cracking them with her serving tray wasn’t enough. She hadn’t been nervous when Fullbody had hit on her the first night in the bar. She hadn’t been nervous when she decided she flirt with the eternally cranky Captain Smoker.

She hadn’t even been nervous when she lost her virginity.

She had a crush. It wasn’t like what she was used to feeling when she found someone attractive. That was always physical, at least at first, and she was comfortable with that feeling, warm and heady, as much as she was with the potential sting of rejection.

Crocodile wasn’t an unattractive man, necessarily, but the sensation was completely different. It was light and sharp, like sparks, and she abruptly understood what Rose was always on about, whenever she found herself with a crush on someone. She wanted to talk about it, with anyone and everyone who might listen, about how secretly sweet Crocodile could be when he thought no one was paying attention. How he was quietly attentive, how he was always paying attention to what she liked, how he did nice things for her without being asked.

How embarrassed he was to be caught doing them, like it made him feel the same way she was feeling.

Throwing herself off the balcony seemed like a good way to resolve things. She resisted the compulsion to dodge her emotions via a horrific death, however, and dropped down onto the far end of the sofa. It was a little larger, she realized, than the one on the Gustave – not massive, but the cushions were longer, the back a little taller. She wasn’t quite tall enough to sit all the way back and still have her feet touch the floor, though admittedly, it was overall more comfortable, thickly padded and made out of plush velvet.

“I’ll be gone in the morning,” Crocodile noted, staring lazily out the expansive windows. “Don’t worry about breakfast. Just make whatever you want for yourself.”

“Something going on?”

“Just checking how construction is going,” He stretched out, stacking his feet on the coffee table. “Rain Dinners was meant to open a few months ago, but we ran into a few issues receiving some of our orders. The construction crew is rushing to catch up. I need to make sure they haven’t half-assed anything.”

“I need to ask, by the way,” He hummed in response. “Why is the Bananawani statue so fat?”

He laughed, but ultimately, never answered. Instead, he shifted the conversation, indicating that she would be spending the following day with All Sunday. The other woman would be managing the casino for him – or, managing the managers – but he wanted her to be fully involved, as well, to at least understand the inner machinations of how the casino operated. If she could run Rain Dinners, then she could manage the rest of his legitimate businesses without an issue.

She didn’t foresee herself becoming a casino mogul, but it wasn’t as if it was a terrible idea. If nothing else, she could help when All Sunday was shipped off to do whatever else the two of them were up to, or if he was called away by the Marines for a time. More often than not, they summoned whatever Warlord was nearby, but it wasn’t as if they didn’t have a presence in the local area – both on Arabasta and on some of the neighboring islands along other routes.

At some point, Crocodile had been summoned from his spot by a call, and when it became obvious he’d be on the line for a while yet, she made her way into her bedroom.

He had arranged it like he’d memorized her quarters on the Gustave. Her various bolts of fabric were neatly arranged on the nearby shelf by type, silk with silk, linen with linen, rather than in the basket she had largely started to use as a garbage can. All of her books had been mostly alphabetized, except when there was a sequel or two, and her clothes had been arranged by length, just the way she liked them.

Her heart jumped again, and determined to ignore it, she made her way to the bathroom.

He had already put up her favorite soaps.

Chapter Text

Some of her days were incredibly boring.

Most of the time, there was something to do. Mostly, it consisted of following All Sunday around and trying to make sense of various invoices, but after a week, it had become increasingly obvious that at least some of the time, she would have absolutely fuck all to do. Sunday was away from the island on an errand of some sort, and Crocodile was busy ensuring that things were arranged precisely to his liking by terrorizing the work crew with his presence, while waiting on their suppliers to finally deliver the remaining game tables. She could have ventured down to annoy him, but while pinwheeling around the suite that morning, she had realized that the balcony had a pool.

A delightful treat while stuck in the desert. Despite everyone’s best efforts, even the interior of the casino remained unpleasantly warm, though notably much cooler than the world outside. While opening the windows in a desperate hope of creating an effective cross breeze, she spotted the crystal clear water glittering in the blistering light of the sun, and was immediately lured in. Though open to the elements, the structure of the casino meant that at least part of the pool was left in the shade, creeping ever so slowly outward as the sun moved across the sky.

Vaguely, she heard Crocodile arrive, letting the main door noisily rattle shut behind him, but the bulk of her focus remained on her book. She didn’t really get what Rose thought was so amazing about it, but she had committed, and she wasn’t about to get out of the pleasantly cool water long enough to find another one. Her ass was going to remain firmly planted in the hole of the floating donut until one of the Celestial Dragons themselves ventured down to drag her out – and even then, it wouldn’t be without a fight.

He shuffled around for a while, going about his usual routine. He had started to get into the habit of partially undressing since they arrived, stripping out of not just his jacket, but his vest and shoes. Although more tolerant of the heat, even he wasn’t completely immune, and his days had were spent silently suffering, all for the sake of fashion.

It wasn’t always going to be that stiflingly hot. They’d arrived during the dry season, when the heat was at its absolute worst, but the rainy seasons would be notably cooler, though still not what anyone would consider cold. As it stood, however, they’d entered an especially brutal heat wave, and she wasn’t the only one desperate for relief. From the balcony, she had seen no shortage of people milling around the edge of the lake, despite the known presence of Bananawani deep below the surface, splashing around in the shallows in an effort to cool down.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him wandering around, seemingly looking for something, before he spotted the open patio door. He loomed at a distance, just inside the suite, staring down at her for a long moment.

“It’s hot,” She groused, pushing herself closer with the foot she’d kept planted on the edge. “You should get in, instead of stand there melting.”

“You know I can’t swim.”

“Nobody’s asking you to swim, old man,” Folding her page, she clapped her book shut. “You can at least sit on the steps and cool off for a minute.”

He grunted, refusing to actually reply. He turned on his heel instead, disappearing back behind the gauzy curtains while he went off to do whatever the unfortunate souls who couldn’t swim did to cool down. Perhaps he was ordering something for dinner – she hadn’t quite meant to leave him to his own devices, but she couldn’t imagine spending any time standing in front of a hot stove until the heatwave finally broke. She’d ended up making herself a salad, instead, and though there was plenty left over, he wasn’t the sort to accept that as a meal.

She readjusted, hopping out of the donut and into the depths for a moment, before popping back through the center. Wiping her hands on the nearby towel, she leaned back, supported by her armpits as she resumed trying to read.

Bananawani couldn’t climb, but when the water shifted, her first thought was that one had crawled into the pool. Her book nearly tumbled out of her hands as she jumped, prepared to fling herself over the side before it could consume her, only to find her giant of a husband meticulously making his way down the steps.

The effect it had on him was both immediate and obvious. His usually sure steps were slow and cautious, his hand gripping the rail more tightly than strictly necessary, as if he thought he would topple over at any moment. He refused to actually enter even the shallow end of the pool, instead stopping halfway down the steps, barely submerged to his knees. Settling down to sit on the stairs came with a lot of shuddering, and a particularly loud crackle of his knee, which, she realized, bore a series of pale, puncture like scars.

“Imagine what I could get you to do if I asked nicely.”

He grunted, glaring at her, but she could see him starting to relax, leaning back and stretching his arms out against the cement. Holding her book aloft, she kicked her way closer, until she could find the bottom with her feet. Even for her, the shallow end was low enough that it only reached her upper thighs, just barely enough for the donut, which had hooked around her hips, to stay touching the surface.

She had never seen him without a shirt on.

For a man who never seemed to grow facial hair, his body was covered in it. Like the hair on his head, it was thick and dark, spread across his broad chest and down his forearms. Even through the rippling water, she could see a similar array running up and down his legs, and at long last, it possessed her that he wasn’t wearing pants.

“I didn’t know you even owned shorts.”

He grunted at her again, though with far less malice than the first time.

“Did you think I’d get in the water with my slacks on?”

“I didn’t think you’d get in at all, honestly.”

She kicked her feet up near his hand, preventing herself from drifting away as she once again got comfortable. Her book was quietly calling to her, but the sight of Crocodile, tangibly uncomfortable in a pool up to his belly button, was far more interesting than the will-they-won’t-they of Princess Anya and her theoretically charming paramour, Captain Chartreuse.

“Even I’m not completely immune to the heat,” She had completely missed that he had brought his glass and bottle out with him. “I didn’t have the pool installed just so you could laze around in it all day, you know.”

“Planning a lot of pool parties?” She questioned, swaying back and forth with one foot. “I can see it. Mean old Crocodile beneath a sun lounger, pretending you’re too good to watch the girls playing volleyball in their bikinis.”

He scoffed, but it came accompanied by a smile and a slight shake of his head. He dared to lean back, letting his scalp sink below the surface, just for a moment.

“If I didn’t know better,” He drawled. “I’d think you’re a little jealous, the way you talk about other women.”

“Hardly,” She twisted until she could put her book down on the concrete, leaning forward against the donut. “What’s there to be jealous of?”

“You wouldn’t be upset to see your husband ogling other women?”

“Not even remotely,” She let her feet drag behind her as she drifted along the surface. “Don’t act like you and Smoker weren’t about to slap your dicks on the table and see who’s is bigger the other day. Me thinks you’re the one who’s jealous.”

“He’s hardly competition.”

“Now I know you’re making a dick joke this time,” She snorted. “The great Sir Crocodile, reduced to such low brow humor. Is the apocalypse coming?”

“It’s my wife,” He sighed contentedly, leaning back against a towel he folded against the lip of the pool. “She’s a terrible influence. Spoiled rotten and always nattering on about other men’s genitals.”

“I can describe at least four Marines in graphic detail, if you want to play that game. Measurements and all.”

“Spare me,” He groused. “I have no desire to hear about your past conquests. I need to at least pretend I take the Marines seriously.”

“Oh, two in one day,” She flutter kicked her way from one side of the pool to the other. “There wasn’t exactly a lot else to do back home but fuck or be bored out of my mind. I’m sure you were just as bad in your early days, old timer.”

“I was hardly as prolific as you, from the sound of it,” The cap of his bottle clattered noisily against the concrete, rolling away and vanishing beneath the guard rails. “To think my wife used to be a barrack bunny.”

“Buyer’s remorse already? It’s barely been two months,” He let out a breathy chuckle despite himself. “I think if you return me now, it’d still be covered by the warranty.”

“Too much effort to get the deposit back,” His reply was a little slower, and she was slightly suspicious that he was starting to fall asleep. “I ordered dinner, by the way. I assume you already ate?”

“I can’t cook in this heat,” She drifted past him again, skimming her toes against his shin before he could pass out and drown. “I would literally melt if I tried. There’s salad if you want it.”

He hummed, fully relaxed for the first time since she’d met him. Even his chest had deflated a little, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he breathed. He wasn’t a well toned man, not in the way men like Smoker and Fullbody were, and it was clear that he didn’t bother to worry about the aesthetic results when he did work out, putting all of his attention on pure functionality. It didn’t detract from his clear strength, however, his muscles bulky and obvious beneath his skin. There was a fine layer of fat, too – not the kind that came from a life of excess, but the sort that started to develop naturally with age, subtly softening the edges just above his hips and the sheer mass of his arms.

“Is your birthday any time soon?” The question burst out unbidden, as she abruptly recalled that she wasn’t entirely confident in something as simple as his age. “How old are you, anyway? A thousand?”

“Thirty nine, little girl,” He perked up just enough to take a long sip of his drink, before settling back down with a little shuffle of his shoulders. “And yes, September 5th. Yours is in December, isn’t it?”

“Three days before Christmas, yeah,” A chill made its way down her back, as a particularly strong breeze cut across the balcony. “Don’t cheap out and try to shove them both together, either. I expect the full princess treatment for both.”

“Spoiled brat.”

They idled in the water for a little while longer, before there was a knock at the door. Instantly, Crocodile tensed, seeming to suddenly recall that he was half-submerged and, without a doubt, absolutely vulnerable to attack. He moved to get up, regardless, and she decided that she could spare him the indignity of answering the door in a soggy pair of shorts. She made it out of the water before he could properly stand, braced against both the rail and the side of the pool as he visibly dragged himself towards the concrete.

As expected, it was All Sunday, holding a basket that contained the distinctive scent of curry. She smiled slightly, breaking into a wide grin when she spotted the behemoth slowly hauling himself out of the water, giggling quietly behind her hand.

“I told you he’s infatuated with you,” She teased as Lily struggled not to drop the surprisingly heavy basket. “The man won’t even shower if he thinks someone’s nearby, and you managed to get him in the pool, of all things.”

“I was trying to convince him to have a pool party,” She cringed to herself, refusing to acknowledge Sunday’s statement. “Lots of hot women in bikinis bouncing around in the water, maybe a few other old men to leer and make it extra creepy.”

“Oh, make sure I’m invited,” Sunday snickered, purposefully and obnoxiously flicking her stare down to Lily’s chest. “If you think the old men are bad…”

“If I wasn’t married, Sunday, I’d take you on a ride you wouldn’t survive.”

His bedroom door was just clicking shut when Sunday wandered back towards the elevators, still laughing, a soggy trail of oversized footprints left in his wake. She tossed her towel on the worst of them, before he could stick his sock in one of them when he wandered back out, and set to arranging the various sealed bowls across the kitchen island. She wasn’t sure what was hers, if any of it was – she still wasn’t especially hungry, so she hoped the assortment was all for him, leaving it near his preferred seat while she drifted off to find a robe.

He was seated by the time she returned. She didn’t particularly care for the silk robe, nor did she know exactly when it had joined her menagerie – she got the distinct feeling that Sunday was sneaking in at night just to hide new things in her closet. Notably, he had abandoned his drink, and she veered off to fetch it before she settled at the far end of the island with a drink.

The man could eat. It wasn’t really all that surprising – he was both generally huge, which meant he surely needed more than the average man just to feel full, and a Devil Fruit user. Although her sample size was just one other person, it seemed like an increased appetite was a largely unspoken byproduct of consuming one of the fruits. Smoker was the same way, though not quite as bad, and he had stated that he naturally burned more energy since he’d gained his powers, even if he didn’t use them, and needed to eat more to compensate.

He had ordered something for her, as it turned out, rice and mildly spicy curry with potatoes and chicken. It was delicious, but she didn’t have any room in her stomach for more food, and ended up mostly pushing it around into one grand mass of bright red starch as she sipped her drink.

“Does it bother you?”

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, flicking his eyes in her direction before continuing with his devouring.

“That we don’t…” She couldn’t quite manage the words, but made a motion with her hands, sliding one finger in and out of the circle she made with the other hand.

“No.”

For a long minute, she thought that was all he had to say on the matter. He all but inhaled the first bowl, and she had to wonder if his unusually hurried eating was a byproduct of sitting in the water with her. She knew still water sapped a Devil Fruit user’s strength, but she wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, except that they couldn’t swim. Smoker had only ever showered, when they were together, and had outright stated that they didn’t count – it only happened with bodies of water, not the flow of a shower or rain. She’d never thought to ask what would happen if he were partially submerged, as Crocodile had been.

Pushing the empty dish to the side, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, busying himself with his drink as he stared at the cabinetry.

“It isn’t something I need,” He elaborated, seeming to carefully parse his words. “I certainly wouldn’t mind if you wanted to, but it’s hardly a priority.”

“If it happens, then it happens?”

He nodded in response, turning towards another plate to consume.

Personally, she couldn’t see how it could happen. Not because she was unattracted to him, or because her feelings would never come full circle and leave her wanting to – but physically. She was barely more than half his height, and her widest points were no further across than his narrow hips. She hadn’t exactly gotten a close look at his measurements, but just from the way his clothes fit, he certainly wasn’t lacking.

She contemplated jokingly asking to see it, just to get some idea of if it was even possible, but she got the distinct impression his response to her nonsense would be to actually do it, just to see if she would.

A lot of their conversations happened in a similar way. She would say something stupid, and he’d barb her back, both of them looking to get the last word as they went back and forth until one of them admitted defeat. It wasn’t a cruel thing, and he seemed to like it, too – most people probably didn’t have the nerve to sit and exchange verbal barbs with him.

Their dinner was interrupted by the call of his den den mushi. Everyone he interacted with on a regular basis knew better than to call at that hour – she doubted he’d said it was something as innocuous as dinner time with his wife, but she’d heard him state more than once he simply wasn’t available between six and eight for anything less than an emergency. He hesitated, debating if he even wanted to drag himself to his office to answer it – if it were an emergency call, the snail would have been wailing, rather than boredly purring.

“It’s probably my mom,” She resolved – it seemed the most likely answer. “I can get it.”

He nodded, and she plodded into his office. She had absolutely no desire to speak with her mother, but she hoped it might be Rose. Things between her and Helmeppo were moving fast, but she had been trying to convince her parents that they should let the two of them get married. Apparently, after he’d been told what happened to Lily, he had broached the idea – he freely admitted that he thought it was early, but he cared about her sister, and he did want to be with her for the long haul. He would gladly leap into marriage with her, even if it was just to keep her safe from the hands of other Warlords and pirates.

“Hello?”

There was a long, surprised pause – then a strange, vaguely familiar laughter.

“If it isn’t my favorite girl in the world.”

Her heart fell like it fell out of her ass. She had only heard him talk once, but she was always good with remembering voices.

“Doflamingo,” She hadn’t said it loudly, but there was an immediate clatter in the kitchen. “Is there something you need?”

“Aw, don’t be so formal, mami,” Reflecting his wide grin seemed to almost hurt the den den mushi, who looked at her with concern in its usually vacant eyes. “Call me Doffy. Tell me, how’s old Croccy treating you? Boring you to death, yet? You know, it’s not too late to change your mind.”

Crocodile’s giant body came up behind her before she could formulate a reply, lightly taking the receiver from her hand as he boxed her in against his desk. True frustration emanated from every inch of him, his hook lightly, but firmly, bracing around her hip.

“What do you want, Donquixote?”

More laughter – bitter, this time.

“I didn’t take you for the jealous type, Croccy,” Doflamingo tittered. “Don’t want your wife talking to another man?”

Wife – he spat the word out with utter loathing, like it tasted terrible on his tongue. His anger at being outmaneuvered clearly still ate at him, burned him up in ways he couldn’t suppress.

Crocodile, wisely, didn’t dignify the reply with an answer. It was best to leave Doflamingo with the wrong impression of what happened, that Crocodile had only been acting out of spite for their unpleasant history – that Lily herself didn’t matter, that it had just been an opportunity to get one over on his fellow Warlord.

“You’re no fun,” The King of Dressrosa sighed. “I’m trying to be nice, you know. After you stole away my queen, the least you could do is let me offer her my condolences in peace. Do you do this often? Eavesdrop on her conversations with friends? Tch. So insecure.”

His hook tightened. The vicious point was angled away from her, but the heavy metal prosthetic pressed into her lower abdomen, instinctively pulling her tight. His long leg pressed into her back, hot and powerful against her spine, and in an effort to get as far from the den den mushi as possible, she leaned he head back into his abdomen. He moved almost like he expected someone to burst through the windows, like he thought he needed to keep her tight against him so he could protect her from some assassin waiting in the wings.

“I sent a gift, by the way,” Doflamingo continued, and she could hear his chair creak as he adjusted. “I was going to give it to her when we got married. Looked all over the Grand Line for months just to find it, so I’d hate to see it go to waste. It was meant for her, after all.”

He pressed her just a little closer, like he thought he could absorb her into him, and the plastic on the receiver started to crack.

“Maybe it’ll even come in handy,” Doflamingo cackled again, this time at his own private joke. “When she decides she wants to run away from you.”

Crocodile lowed, low and deep. The sound rumbled through her, a heavy crack of thunder that, oddly, soothed away some of the tension that had started to build in her muscles. In return, she laid her hand on his damaged arm, idly running her fingers through the thick hair. She could feel the swell of his muscle start to relax, not completely eased, but enough that the pressure against her waist started too abate.

“My door’s always open, baby,” Doflamingo drawled, as if he were aware she was still in the room. “When you finally get tired of mean old Crocodile, there’s plenty of room in my bed.”

She was glad she hadn’t eaten, or it might have all come back up on Crocodile’s desk. His words weren’t too terribly vulgar, but the tone of them set her skin to crawling, like it wanted to scramble off her bones and find a dark corner to hide in.

“Tell me, Croccy,” He wasn’t at all bothered by the silence on the other end of the line, still laughing as he rambled on. “Does she sound as sweet as I imagine?”

“Is this all you called to say?” Despite his obvious anger, he kept his voice even. “My dinner is getting cold.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Doflamingo pouted. “If you’re going to steal my woman out from under my nose, the least you could do is give me a little taste.”

A gag threatened to escape her, still tasting of salad dressing, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to smother it.

“Fine. I just wanted to make sure my little gift gets where it’s going,” The distant Warlord sighed. “Let me know when it finally arrives, hmm? Bellamy is bringing it direct to Rain Dinners. Should be there in the morning.”

Crocodile grunted, clearly unhappy.

“Oh, and before I forget,” His mood shifted almost immediately, resuming the roll of grinning mad royal just as readily as he had abandoned it. “It’s my birthday in a few months. We’ll be having a party, naturally. I’ve rented all of Kyuka Island, this time. Bellamy has invitations with all the details. I expect to see you both there.”

She got the distinct impression that the choice in location was an intentional one. Kyuka Island was tiny island treated by many as a choice vacation spot, with no shortage of fanciful hotels – and it wasn’t far at all from Arabasta. Crocodile seemed to think the same thing, maneuvering his hook to wrap around the far side of her waist, as if he expected someone to try and rip her away.

“I’ll consider it,” Came Crocodile’s reply, all but declaring he wouldn’t.

“I can’t wait,” Doflamingo teased in return, unbothered. “Ta-ta, you two.”

With that, the line went dead. A massive breath rushed out of her lungs, one she hadn’t realized she was holding, and she extricated herself from Crocodile to sprint for the sink. Nothing ultimately came up, but she spent several long minutes dry heaving into the stone basin – long enough for Crocodile to make a quick call to Sunday, warning her to check the gift for poisons or explosives, before he came up beside her. His hand rubbed the space between her shoulders, while his sand tittered around above her, filling a glass with water.

“I never…I never flirted with him, or…” Her chest was tight, and it was hard to get out enough air to speak. “I don’t think I’ve even talked to him, before today.”

“I know.”

“I don’t understand why.”

“Neither do I,” Crocodile admitted, forcing her to take the glass. “I doubt anyone does. Even him, most of the time.”

“We’re going to have to go to that fucking party, aren’t we?”

“Most likely,” He admitted. “Or he’ll just throw a fit and show up here, which I’d prefer to avoid.”

His heavy hand pressed against her, tucking her into the expanse of his side. His long, wide fingers stroked through her damp hair as he maneuvered them away from the counter. Instead of the sofa, he brought them to her room, into the private bathroom, where he gently urged her to sit on the dressing chair. He fiddled with the controls of the tub for a moment, like they were unfamiliar despite having the same setup in his own room, and tested the steaming water until he seemed satisfied. With his claw, he unwrapped one of the bath bombs that he’d left in a basket on the edge, tossing it in and letting it foam and froth beneath the jets, filling the room with the scent of white tea and lilacs.

“Take a bath,” He instructed. “Try to relax. I gave you my word – you’re safe with me.”

Chapter Text

She woke to the smell of something burning. Shooting upright in her bed, she could see trails of black smoke, softly billowing through the cracks in her bedroom door. Flinging herself out of the bed, she checked the handle, relieved to find the metal still cool, and threw herself into the main suite.

There was no immediate sign of a fire. Just Crocodile, standing at the stove with his back to her – the stove which was, notably, billowing out massive clouds of black smoke. Closer now, she could smell the distinctive tang of burned fat caking itself onto the metal pan, herbs that had gone black, and creeping closer still, she noted the presence of an egg crate on the marble counter top, missing half of the occupants, which she was pretty sure were there the night before.

Crocodile was trying to make breakfast.

He was usually gone for the day, by the time she rolled out of her obscenely comfortable bed – or Sunday, literally, kicked her out of it for their usual round of dress up. She knew he ate breakfast, but she assumed that the recently completed kitchen provided it, or that he ordered something from one of the many nearby restaurants. She’d seen two that marketed themselves specifically for breakfast and lunch only, when she’d first arrived, both within ready walking distance of Rain Dinners, so it wasn’t as if he was lacking for options.

His head was down, glaring at the pan like it had personally disobeyed him by doing what it was supposed to – absorbing all the heat from the fire beneath, which was cranked to its maximum setting. A laugh threatened to burble out, but it was stilled, by the sheer oddity of the sight of the Warlord trying and failing to make scrambled eggs.

It was the same thing she ate most every morning. Scrambled eggs and toast with jam – easy and quick, so Sunday wasn’t left waiting on her, and because she simply couldn’t be bothered to put in the effort to make anything more complicated just for herself.

She felt that fluttering again, deep in her chest. He had never, since the day they met, cooked anything, and from her time in the kitchens, she knew full well he couldn’t stand scrambled eggs. He barely liked eggs at all, and preferred smoked fish dishes for his first meal.

If he was cooking scrambled eggs, he was making them for her.

“I’ve never been much use in the kitchen,” He noted dryly, as she reached around him to turn the heat down and snatch the pan. “I don’t think I even used a stove until my twenties.”

“Nine times out of ten, you want the middle setting,” She replied, pulling a clean one from one of the lower cabinets. “The only time I ever use the highest is to get water to boil for pasta.”

He grunted, taking one small step back as she insinuated herself to take over, leaving the fresh pan to warm and melt the thick pad of fat she had dropped into it. There was a variety of local fish in the fridge, wrapped in waxy paper, and she tracked down a filet of smoked salmon for him. He could eat it as it was, if he wanted to, but he preferred his meals warm, and the skin crispy.

His presence was a distinctive weight over her shoulder. His expression was still one of utter frustration, but he was watching closely as she went to work, observing everything she did with her hands like it was some grand new thing. In his pan, the salmon filet, skin side down, along with a healthy fistful of tomatoes left to blister, and in another, smaller one, her eggs, and, with those done, her bread, soaking up the extra butter as it crisped.

He still seemed displeased by his failure, but accepted the offering.

“I don’t mind cooking, you know,” She volunteered, settling across from him. “I like to do it. You can just ask, if you want me to make something.”

She got the impression that wasn’t what he’d been up to that morning, however. It was one of those things that they didn’t talk about, a time when he felt badly that she was upset, and so he tried to make it better without ever admitting that was what he was doing.

She had been in a state the night before, after the uncomfortable call with Doflamingo – not a full meltdown, but close. They had both been under the general impression that he wasn’t really all that attached to her, that he’d decided he wanted her in his harem of concubines and a handful of beris was an easy way to make it happen. The call, though, had proven it was something much more extreme.

He was obsessed. How severe it was, she had no idea, but it was clear in the way that he spoke. Somewhere in his brain, he had already convinced himself that she belonged to him, and it was some of his comments that had proven it was worse than simple physical attraction.

He talked about her being his Queen.

She was certain he didn’t run around making those sorts of statements to just anyone, either. Invite them to his castle with the promise of lounging around the pool as subtext for sex, sure, that seemed precisely like something in his wheelhouse, but he was a legendary consummate bachelor. He liked to fuck and party and revel in his power – he wasn’t the type to make the offer to share it, not even as a joke.

That was what made him terrifying, really.

He was more powerful than most, but she was used to men getting ahead of themselves, overeager to get laid with a woman they found attractive. It could go incredibly poorly, but it also wasn’t something that was inherently dangerous – most would back off after a firm rejection, or, at worst, once they got smacked down by the business end of a heavy wooden serving tray. She couldn’t imagine it was that easy with Doflamingo, but it was still something that she could manage.

It was clear that wasn’t what he wanted from her, however. Absolutely, he was looking for sex, he’d implied that much – but he wanted more than that. He wanted to own her, possess her, considered her somehow important to him in his grand delusion. He wouldn’t back down easily, not when he had it in his head that they were meant to be, that she somehow belonged with him, to him.

Crocodile was less obvious about it, but he clearly wasn’t comfortable with the revelation, either. After drawing her a bath, and leaving her to cry in relative peace, she had found him loitering around in her bedroom for the second time, fishing through the closet. He eventually found a particularly plush set of shorts and a comfortable t-shirt, which she kept tucked away to avoid Sunday tossing them as unsuitable, and while studiously averting his gaze from her towel, had offered them to her to change into.

They had sat on her bed, for a while. She had gotten comfortable beneath the blankets, pressed up against her mountain of pillows, while he sprawled out along the far end. He didn’t talk about the call, but instead, tried to make lighter conversation – they had finally gotten the last of their slot machines installed, some of the Bananawani eggs had just hatched, he was looking into finally starting to hire a proper staff in preparation of opening during the next month. It kept her mind busy, away from the unpleasantness of the phone call and the quiet fear skittering up and down her spine.

There was a knock on the door, just as she got up to make him a cup of coffee. He’d been right to suggest tea, and she found herself fond of green tea with honey and lemon, and water for them both had just started to set the kettle to whistling when someone approached. The only other person in the building with a key was Sunday, who, at his urging, let herself in.

She had a chest, carrying it along on a series of constantly reappearing and disappearing hands in a way that looked eerily like a dog on a walk.

“It’s safe,” She declared, and for the first time, her gentle, eternal smile had vanished. “I checked it twice.”

In one of her original arms, she had a thick, glamorous envelope. It was addressed, in excessively ornate cursive, to Sir Crocodile and Miss Lily, an obvious and intentional dig at their relationship. She tossed it down beside the warlord, who grumbled under his breath as he opened it viciously with his claw.

As expected, it was the aforementioned invitation. They were invited to Doflamingo’s 34th birthday party, to be held on Kyuka Island, for the entire week of October 23rd. It was absurdly long, and peering at it, he’d outlined the various events happening, and the expected dress code – which, she suspected, was a little different for the two of them than it was everyone else.

Lots of demands for her to wear pink. A pink summer dress the first day, a pink bikini for the pool party – his color, pink, pink, pink. He didn’t much seem to care what Crocodile wore, just indicating vaguely what would be appropriate for the other man, in lieu of his usual dark clothes, like he didn’t want them to match in any way. She’d be there with her husband – a husband she was quietly becoming more than a little fond of – but Doflamingo wanted her to match him, instead.

Crocodile came to the same conclusion, rumbling in his chest as he visibly contemplated burning it at the stove. Instead, he laid it down on the counter, pushing it away with one finger like it offended him on a personal level, and instead turned his gaze to the chest taking up the bulk of the space on the counter.

All Sunday popped it open. Lily had vaguely expected a pile of gold or, just as likely, a dildo molded like Doflamingo’s dick. Either one seemed as likely as the other for him, if she were honest. The gold she would just deposit with Crocodile, into one of his many secret stores of riches – he kept them all over the Grand Line, in case something were to ever happen to his cash, ready to be used to sustain the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to. Even the dildo would be kind of funny. She wouldn’t use it, but it would be fun to hide around the suite to aggravate Crocodile.

Instead, it was a large fruit. It looked vaguely like a raspberry, covered in bubbly shapes and distantly pyramid shaped, but that was where the similarities ended. It was pure black, etched with subtle but visible black swirls, and topped by a long green stem that curled around itself. It was also massively large, one of the bubbles as large as a ripe cherry, too big for her to easily pick up in one hand.

It was a Devil Fruit. She’d never seen one, but she had been told how strange they looked, distinct from even the most exotic fruits, and there was no doubt in her mind that the one in the chest had to be one of them.

Crocodile’s eyebrows shot well up his forehead. All Sunday looked at him, her expression pinched, like they knew more than they were saying.

“What is it?”

“That’s the Naiyo-Naiyo no Mi.”

She continued to stare at Sunday, waiting for further explanation.

“The Matter-Matter Devil Fruit,” She folded her arms, betraying her discomfort. “It lets the user control their density. I’ve seen it used once before, when Captain Cross was still alive.”

“The Marines have been searching for it for more than a decade,” Crocodile noted, though his tone was so flat, it was impossible to know what he was thinking. “His crew made it a point to hunt it down and hide it after his passing.”

“Why not just use it?”

He shrugged.

“It’s an incredibly powerful Devil Fruit, in the right hands,” Sunday noted. “I suppose it was more important to keep it away from the Marines than it was to use it, at the time.”

Something she was sure the crew regretted now, given who had gotten his hands on it. It was surely a bloody affair.

“Why give it to me?” She questioned, staring down at the large fruit. “If we were married, I guess I’d understand, but I have no loyalty to Doflamingo. He’s not worried about it being used against him?”

“He’s arrogant,” Crocodile groused. “And if he’s as delusional as he seems, I’m sure he thinks this is just a means of winning you over.”

“Should I…should I eat it?”

She didn’t particularly want to, if she were honest.

As much as she could bitch and moan about her current circumstances, they weren’t uncomfortable. There were plans in place, to make sure that she was comfortable and taken care of, if something were to happen to Crocodile, be it his death or his arrest, and she was comfortable with the idea of spending the rest of her life on some little island, overseeing his more legitimate businesses from a distance while relaxing in relative isolation.

She had no desire for power, personal or otherwise. She didn’t want to be some overlord with crazy Devil Fruit powers, constantly accosted by Marines and pirates alike. She had no desire to enter the world of piracy – or, at least, to get any closer to it than she already was. There was nothing that she wanted that the Devil Fruit could offer her.

On some level, it would offer her some security, a better guarantee that she could escape when things inevitably went poorly, but it felt more like a leash than anything else.

“It’s not poisoned,” All Sunday noted unhelpfully. “So you can, if you want to.”

“It’s your decision.”

The fruit tasted absolutely terrible. Pungent sweat and uncooked brussels sprouts and dirt – her immediate instinct was to spit it back out, stopped only by one of All Sunday’s hands gently holding her jaw shut.

“They all taste that way,” She smiled gently. “It only takes one bite. Just swallow, and it’ll be done.”

She almost couldn’t. Her throat refused to allow the unholy abomination of flavors to venture down into her gut, returning fire with a volley of bile and eggs. She snatched Crocodile’s coffee mug from his hand, tossing back an entirely too large and much too hot swallow of the plain black liquid, forcing both the potential vomit and her too large bite of the fruit down in one motion.

She didn’t feel any different. There was no immediate sensation of power, or strange feeling in the back of her skull, or even anything notably different about her physical self. If left to her own devices, she was certain she would have no idea how to even begin to access these supposed new powers.

Crocodile and Sunday seemed pleased, however. After several long seconds, the fruit in the trunk seemed to start to wither away, slowly morphing into itself as it rapidly devolved into ash.

“I’ll teach you to use it,” Crocodile stated, smiling to himself. “Having a Devil Fruit power and mastering it are entirely different, and it won’t do you any good without skill.”

“I don’t have to tell him thank you, do I?”

Crocodile chuckled, shaking his head as he returned his attention to his tomatoes.

“It would only feed his ego,” He noted. “That’s the last thing he needs.”

“Speaking of,” Sunday chimed – she’d somehow gotten her hand on the invitation. “Looks like I’ll have to take you shopping for something…I hesitate to use the word appropriate, considering.”

“Is there nothing better to do around here?” She sighed – she was so incredibly sick of shopping. “I’d rather, I don’t know, mop floors?”

“This may be the one time I agree,” Sunday tucked the invitation into her shirt, lightly pushing her towards her bedroom. “But we can still have some fun. We’ll have to coordinate your clothes with Crocodile’s.”

She couldn’t imagine the Warlord ever wearing hot pink. Every now and then, he would wear something bright, like the orange wool vest he sometimes favored, but he was never one for fluorescent or pastel colors. She highly doubted that was what Sunday had in mind, either, as Lily allowed her to use her as a personal dress up doll for the bulk of the morning.

Rather than shop for clothing, however, Sunday’s immediate destination was a fabric shop.

“He’ll never admit it,” Sunday stated, holding various strips of fabric up against her skin to check the tone. “But your husband loves to show off.”

“I got that much.”

“He especially,” Sunday tutted, tapping a finger against her lips. “Loves to show off those vests you made him.”

“Why?” She questioned as she climbed onto a stool, eager to reach for a roll of shiny blue silk.

“Because it makes him feel close to you.”

She paused, tottering on the step stool – a trio of hands shot out, righting her before she could topple over backwards. They carried her and the bolt of silk down to the floor, breezily taking it from her hands to join the collection growing in the corner.

“I’ve told you, he’s a difficult man,” Sunday held up another swatch, this one a warm pink emblazoned with royal blue flowers. “But he does care about you. He wants you to want him, the way he does you.”

Ignoring her stare, Sunday continued to lightly flit through the bolts in front of her.

“He knows you don’t, of course,” Her hands carried away another roll, like it was crowd surfing across the floor. “But every time you make him something, it proves that you care, even if it isn’t in the way he wants.”

“It isn’t like…” She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to say. “I don’t hate him.”

“I know.”

“I even kind of like him, most of the time.”

“I know.”

“It just…”

“It isn’t what you wanted?”

She shook her head, looking away as Sunday raised a curious brow.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still get pissed when I think about the whole…arranged marriage thing,” She admitted. “But that’s really between me and my parents, at this point. He’s been…pretty great, honestly.”

“So,” Sunday sidled up beside her, shoulder to shoulder, lowering her voice. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know anything about him?” A sigh escaped her – the material in her hands suddenly a bit less pretty than it had been a moment before. “I just…I’m never really sure what he’s thinking.”

Sunday smiled, that genuine and almost peaceful smile that rarely made an appearance. Clasping her face in her hands, a third hand stroked through her hair as Sunday pulled her into a light, surprising embrace.

“He’s thinking,” Sunday resolved, snuggling her cheek into the top of her head. “That he has a sweet little wife he absolutely adores, who thinks too fucking much.”

She made an excessively loud kissing sound against the top of her head as she pulled away, breezily returning to the tables of fabric.

“You’ve got a brilliant little brain up there,” Sunday poked at her temple. “But you’ve always got it running over time. Give it a break every now and then.”

The only thing Lily could do was stare. It seemed like simple advice, but she had absolutely no idea how she might even start.

“It’s easier than you think,” Sunday tittered. “You like sex, don’t you?”

“Most people do.”

“So, fuck your husband,” Sunday shrugged. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Nothing helps you stop thinking like a mind blowing orgasm or two.”

“Sunday,” She hissed, but no one was listening – she wasn’t even certain the girl at the counter was still in the shop. “In what universe would it even fit?”

In response, the other woman simply cackled.

“You’re stubborn,” She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Chapter Text

The grand opening of Rain Dinners was a spectacle unto itself.

She had known it would be a big deal. It was the largest, most ornate casino to be found on the entire island, and it was no secret that people had been impatiently waiting for it to finally open its doors, if only so they could get a look inside. She wasn’t entirely shocked, either, when the announcement finally went out that they’d be opening, and she was suddenly inundated with calls to reserve various suites in the hotel and tables at the restaurant.

It was who called that surprised her, more than anything.

Dracule Mihawk had been among the first. He hadn’t been requesting a room, so much as he demanded one, in a placid sort of way – he would be in the area, so he would be staying. Neither Crocodile or Sunday had seemed all that surprised by his declaration, noting that he’d be content with whatever room she could spare, so long as it had a bed and room service was prompt to deliver his wine. The Marines had followed shortly thereafter, scrambling to make reservations for themselves, along with a variety of names she only dimly recognized.

King Wapol of Drum Kingdom – an arrogant ass, who Crocodile had pettily downgraded from one of the higher suites to one just barely above the regular rooms. Sterry and Sarie Nantokanette, King and Queen of the Goa Kingdom. Queen Mororon, King Ham Burger – Charlotte Linlin, despite not attending herself, had apparently even saw fit to send some of her small army of children.

Not really as guests, of course, but to offer a renewed marriage proposal. Entirely oblivious to who she was speaking to, Linlin had proudly stated that she had figured out why Crocodile had rejected a marriage to Smoothie some years past, proclaiming her intention to have the Warlord, at last, marry into her expansive family now that she’d figured out his secret.

Clearly, the then twenty five year old Smoothie had simply been too old.

Linlin had heard that he’d married some “young tart”, and had quickly concluded that he had been seeking someone who could give him children for years and years to come – which was ideal, given her desire for more grandchildren. Given it had been several months without so much as a hint of his “strumpet” of a wife giving him children, he’d be quick to toss her aside in favor of Myukuru, who was both younger – barely an adult, really – and eager to have children of her own.

Crocodile had scoffed when she presented him with the information. That dimple, the one she was slowly starting to find delightful to see, had reappeared as he chuckled while reading over the transcript.

“I didn’t realize you were so baby crazy.”

His chuckling grew more hearty, into something approaching a proper laugh, as he shook his head.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” He drawled, tone thick with amusement. “That’s why I’ve kept you barefoot and pregnant from the start.”

They didn’t talk about having children often. It had come up once, when they were still in the East Blue, and he’d roundly rejected the idea of having any offspring of his own any time soon. He wasn’t inherently opposed, but cited it was a bad time – that he was busy, and would be for a while yet, and children were only a theoretical thing he might like to have, somewhere years down the road, when he was closer to retirement.

It was something they agreed to readdress in a few years time, in the end. She wasn’t any more eager for a child than he was, so they’d resolved the matter was settled for the time being, opting to readdress it somewhere down the road when it became relevant.

“Should I be worried about assassins?”

“It’s unlikely,” Crocodile shrugged, settling comfortably back into his arm chair. “Linlin is rarely capable of thinking that far ahead.”

“Isn’t she a Yonko?”

“Only by luck,” His hand went searching for a glass, only to find it empty, and she moved to get his decanter. “She’s always been physically strong, and her Devil Fruit is useful, but she’s not particularly intelligent. And I’m not worth the effort.”

“It’s not like you to admit you’re not the gods’ gift to the world.”

He snorted into his glass.

“Linlin hopes to one day unify all races of the world,” He stated simply. “It’s why she’s constantly tossing aside one husband for a new one or marrying off her children, to collect them all like trophies. Fortunately for me, I’m not special in that regard. She just wants the convenience of having a Warlord to hide some of her more…unsavory activities behind.”

“Too bad Doflamingo isn’t going to be here,” She leaned against his desk. “We could pawn them off on one another.”

He chuckled again, slowly pushing himself out of his seat. The round end of his hook tapped against her hip – she wasn’t in his way, but he started moving towards the door, subtly but bodily pushing her out of his office.

“A tragedy, truly,” His knee popped noisily, and he let out a breathy sound of relief. “Go get ready. Wear that black dress.”

“I have more than a dozen black dresses,” His hook tapped against her back, a teasing warning for her tone. “I’ll need you to be more specific.”

“The strapless one,” He huffed, bullying her towards her room. “With the glitter.”

She knew the one. She hadn’t worn it except at the boutique – it was one of a half dozen dresses she had been forced to parade around in, and in all honesty, she hadn’t thought Crocodile had even noticed it. He hadn’t seemed all that interested in anything she’d been shoved into, giving them all a vague, critical once over before returning to whatever he was contemplating, sometimes with a disinterested compliment, but often without.

“You’re being bossy all of a sudden.”

“Excuse me,” He drawled, finally veering off – in favor of the humidor in the corner. “For wanting to show off my pretty wife.”

Her heart fluttered.

As much as they’d developed a comfortable banter, it wasn’t often she got the impression that he was flirting. On the rare occasion it happened, it had seemed incidental, like he hadn’t fully considered how he may come across before he spoke.

This, however, was purposeful. He still had a wry smirk on his face, even as he bit down on the end of a cigar, studiously and purposefully ignoring her as he waited for some snarky retort. She didn’t have one, though, her tongue suddenly too big for her mouth as her face became several degrees too warm.

She skittered into her room, instead, vaguely aware of his quiet laughter from the other side of the threshold.

The idea that Crocodile was attracted to her was one she still hadn’t quite acclimated to. She believed him – or, more accurately, believed All Sunday – but it was difficult, to consolidate the prospect with the way he typically acted. There was no question that he favored her, tolerated her nonsense with a comfortable ease, but he seldom gave the impression that he was really all that interested in her. On rare occasion, he might ask a personal question, but it was always tied to the conversation they were already having, like it was an afterthought that popped out before he could stop it rather than something he actually cared to hear about. He rarely talked about himself, either, unless she prompted him somehow, and even then, the answer was always stilted, as if he expected her to already know.

Her face was still hot by the time she was ready. Part of her had considered not wearing the dress at all, purely out of spite for his making her feel so flustered, but she had to admit, it was a nice choice. It was relatively plain, but fit her spectacularly, solid black with a panel of sequined lines along one side, where it slit almost to the hip.

The idea of being flaunted shouldn’t have made her feel so pleasant. Applying her makeup was more of a struggle than it needed to be, her hand trembling just enough that she had to thicken her eyeliner to cover the ragged edges. No matter how she tried to settle, her heart continued to ping around in her ribcage like it wanted to escape. It picked up the pace even further when she went fishing around in her jewelry box, landing on the moonstone jewelry he had gotten just to please her.

It was almost like she was possessed, when she slid the ring on her left hand. She always wore rings on the right, keeping them well away from the spot her wedding band was meant to go. She had tried it a few times, but it had always been uncomfortable, seeing something flash in her peripheral when she still hadn’t quite settled in with the idea of being married to start with.

Staring at it now, though, it made her warm. Warm and fluttery, and eager to chatter someone’s ear off about how nice it was and how thoughtful he could be.

“Oh,” Sunday’s voice drew her out of her thoughts, as the woman appeared in the doorframe. “Someone’s in love.”

Thankfully, she could just barely hear Crocodile in his own rooms. The walls were thick enough sound didn’t travel between them normally, but there was a distinctive thrum of the pipes whenever he turned on his own shower.

“Don’t start.”

“Too late,” The other woman grinned. “I could hear your heart skip a beat from the hallway. You’ve got a serious crush.”

“On my husband. That’s weird, right?” Sunday snickered as her mouth started to move on its own. “It sounds weird.”

“Just a little,” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a cloth, swiftly removing an errant bit of eye shadow. “But you’re both weird, so I think it works out.”

Sunday spent a few minutes making a few small adjustments to her face, grinning all the while. Notably, she had changed out of her usual cowgirl style getup, in favor of something more appropriate for a black tie affair, though it still had her preferred vibrant color scheme.

“If you don’t fuck soon, one of you is going to combust.”

As she spoke, she shimmied Lily’s dress, purposefully but politely readjusting her bust to look especially round.

“I don’t…” She sighed, twisting the ring on her finger. “I can pick a guy up at a bar no problem, but…how do I hit on my own husband?”

In response, Sunday simply laughed, deep and hearty, throwing her head back.

“This is too cute,” They wandered out into the main room, settling on the sofas opposite one another. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m serious,” She disliked the way her voice came out like a whine, which only made Sunday laugh harder. “Help me, damn it.”

“Okay, okay,” The other woman covered her smile with her hand, still giggling to herself. “It’s easy.”

There was a quiet clatter from the other room. It sounded specifically like ripping fabric, and she wondered if he tried to put on a shirt without taking off his prosthetic. It had happened twice before, his mind drifting off to other things and completely forgetting that it wasn’t a real hand that could easily fit through his sleeve.

“All you need to do,” A glass of wine was ferried from the bar to Sunday’s waiting hand. “Is climb on his lap and go for it.”

“Sunday…”

“I’m being serious,” It didn’t sound like it. “He’s waiting on your go ahead. Once you give him that, all you’ll need to do is lay back and take it.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m your best friend and you know it.”

It wasn’t a lie. She had never been particularly social, and she would firmly place most of her friends firmly into the fair weather category – people she liked well enough to regularly associate with, but not anyone that she would trust too deeply.

There had been a time where she would consider her sister as her best and closest friend, but since she had left home, a sense of distance had started to develop. It felt like a good thing, though, not something to mourn over – Rose was moving forward with her life, towards better things than either of them would ever have had access to if she stayed stuck in their home village. It was a completely different path than the one Lily had found herself on, and being further apart seemed like the wisest thing, if only so Rose and Helmeppo were never inadvertently associated with piracy, which could easily ruin both their futures, despite them both, technically, living as civilians.

Sunday was the only person she consistently associated with, anymore – the giant Warlord in the other room not withstanding. There was the girl who’d ended up working as her secretary, too, but she knew better than to get too close to employees, regardless of how genuine they seemed. She knew the other woman was keeping more than a few secrets, and she was hesitant to extend her full trust because of it, but there were still flickers of genuine companionship between them.

“He’s not a fucking camel,” She groused, sinking deeper into the cushions. “I can’t just…hop on and ride.”

“I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

Spontaneous combustion seemed like a genuine possibility. Naturally, Crocodile had chosen that exact moment to venture out into the main room, completely unbothered by what he’d heard as he moved towards the humidor to refill his cigar case. Sunday burst into another round of raucous laughter, throwing herself back against the sofa. Lily, on the other hand, was reasonably sure she could feel steam pouring off her scalp as a vicious heat made its way up her throat.

“Eavesdropper,” She threw the accusation at his broad back, and he hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t bother to even pretend to deny it. “How do you know I was even talking about you, anyway?”

“Do you think I can’t tell when a woman is attracted to me?”

“I think you’re both the worst people I’ve ever met.”

Any further teasing was put on hold to venture down to the main floor of the casino. Through the main doors, the crowd that had assembled was obvious. They were doing their best not to seem too eager, loitering around the stone gardens of the artificial island rather than lining up at the doors, though as the clock ticked down the last few minutes before the doors would be opened, a few started to migrate towards the silk barricades.

The staff were all waiting. Most of them had arranged themselves in two lines, flanking the doors, while others were already at their positions – behind the game tables or the bar, quietly going through the last of their preparations. The Koala Mercenaries, who had come functionally begging Crocodile for a job some weeks earlier, looked particularly out of place in their suits. One flanked the doors, while the other two had distributed themselves in much the same way as a pit boss, one by the hall that led to the elevators and the other near the steps to the restaurant.

There was no grand opening speech. She half expected one, given Crocodile’s propensity to subtly peacock, but instead, he kept it quiet and brief, welcoming the casino’s guests and inviting them to enjoy Rain Dinners and little else. There was still much oohing and ahing from the crowd that funneled in, but it was oddly subtle for the Warlord.

She might have thought he was in a bad mood, if not for how obviously pleased he was with himself. It happened occasionally, when something went awry with the mysterious business he got up to in his office, or one of his old injuries was particularly achy. He never took it out on her directly, but he was always more taciturn than normal, with precious little patience for anything but a comfortable quiet.

She could feel the satisfaction pouring off of him in waves, however. He was grinning, obviously pleased by the turnout on the casino floor below. The hand he had on her hip gave a gentle squeeze against the bone, seemingly unconsciously, as the tables started to fill up with card players and the racket of the slot machines began to drown out the quiet music playing from the speakers.

It was only a few minutes before Sunday materialized by the stairs to the balcony. A man she didn’t recognize trailed behind her – tall and tanned, with a neatly tied beard and a relatively simple, but clearly quality, robe.

“King Nefertari,” Crocodile rumbled, nodding his head in the man’s direction. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Sir Crocodile,” More humble than she’d expect of a king, the man offered a shallow bow. “My lady. You’ve gathered quite the impressive crowd.”

“The credit goes to my wife,” His massive fingers squeezed her hip again, more purposefully this time. “She ran quite the advertisement campaign.”

She really hadn’t done anything all that special. Rain Dinners had functionally advertised itself, but she had been peripherally involved with the marketing for the grand opening. It had mostly consisted of approving some posters to be pasted up around Arabasta and coordinating a small fireworks show – nothing especially complicated, and certainly not worthy of any real credit.

Crocodile had a tendency to do that, though - overstating her abilities and involvement. The only one of his businesses that was fully in her hands was the Ferry, a simple and easy venture to oversee, but he often talked to the staff like she was in charge of everything. It wasn’t ever meant to be a compliment to her – it was meant to force respect, and, in some ways, to pressure her directly into his eternal lessons about business dealings and financial management.

“Impressive work,” The King offered a small, gentle smile. “I may ask for your assistance during our next festival in Alubarna, if this is the sort of turnout you’re capable of.”

The urge to jab Crocodile in the ribs was almost overwhelming. She had to settle for subtly driving her elbow into the soft flesh below his ribs – it only earned her another rumble of his chest, and a wry chuckle he hid behind a fresh cigar. His hand remained in a polite position, draped over the swell of her hip, but he found a bit of flesh, pinching it between two of his fingers in a quiet warning to behave.

“I’d be delighted,” She wouldn’t be, but the king of the entire island didn’t need to know that. “Although I’m not sure I’d be much help. Even in the East Blue, people talk about the Mataheb.”

The king smiled a little more broadly, as if somehow put at ease – pleased to be talking about his homeland, which he very clearly adored.

“I hope the two of you will find the time to attend,” The pleasure in his voice faded slightly. “The festival is always more lively after particularly difficult summers.”

“I’ve made arrangements,” Crocodile drawled, catching onto something in the statement she didn’t fully register, herself. “To increase the deliveries to Yuba. Hopefully, the sandstorms will end soon, but the extra water should give them some relief, in the meantime.”

“I’m grateful,” The king nodded his head, easing slightly. “You have my thanks.”

It wasn’t much longer that King Nefertari dismissed himself, noting that his daughter was waiting for him at the restaurant. As he disappeared back down the stairs, Crocodile answered her unasked question, noting that the entire summer had been especially dry, and Yuba, in particular, had suffered for it. The prevailing winds on the island always ran the same direction, from north to south, and combined with the complete lack of rain, Yuba had been assailed by an unusually high number of sandstorms coming from the desert.

Rainbase and Alubarna, being so far north, were largely unaffected. Unlike the rest of the towns on the island, they were consistently supplied by the water streaming down from the mountains. There were some waterways deep underground that some of the other towns, like Nanohana, were able to tap, but Yuba wasn’t near any of them – at least not ones they could readily access.

“Don’t think for a second that I believe you’re sending water to Yuba out of the goodness of your heart.”

“My wife is so cruel to me,” Crocodile teased lowly, leaning down towards her, though there was no one nearby to overhear. “Of course I’m not, but I thought you preferred to be kept out of my side ventures. Don’t tell me you’re getting nosey now.”

“I’m not,” She jabbed him with her elbow more earnestly this time. “Just warn me, when whatever you’re up to starts to go sideways. I could use the extra time to get clear before it blows up in your face.”

“Going to go running back to the Marines?” He taunted – the hand on her hip tensed, pulling her firmly against his thigh. “I’m surprised that Captain of yours isn’t here already.”

“And you say I’m the jealous one.”

“I’ve never denied it,” He rumbled. “I’m a selfish man. I don’t want anyone near what’s mine – especially my wife.”

Chapter Text

King Nefertari was only the first of several people she had to meet that night.

Most of the royals only bothered out of necessity. It was clear that none of them particularly wanted to talk to anyone but themselves, and they’d only bothered to show up because it was the fashionable thing to do. It was bragging rights for them, being within breathing distance of a Warlord, being seen at a grand event like they were specifically invited rather than desperately calling to secure their spot.

Crocodile wasn’t near as polite to them as he had been King Nefertari. He was courteous enough that the likely hadn’t noticed, but having spent nearly two months in his company every day, she was used to the quiet shifts in his mannerisms. He was a professional schmoozer, capable of comfortably inserting himself in amongst the royals as if he belonged there, but it was clear, to her at least, that he could barely stand their presence.

Wapol was easily the worst. His unearned arrogance practically seeped out of his pores, and he was entirely unable to stop himself from eternally veering the topic of conversation back to himself, bragging about all the ways he enforced his rule. It oozed of insecurity – rude as he could be, he clearly wanted the Warlord’s approval of his most recent scheme, restricting the people’s access to medical professionals, the thing his kingdom was best known for, in order to force their loyalty.

The one good thing about him was that he didn’t think much of her. He had vaguely acknowledged her once, immediately presuming she was an escort and questioning how much she cost for the night. Annoyed as Crocodile had been, he contained himself, sending her off with his empty glass while he corrected the other man’s presumption – by the time she returned, Wapol refused to look at her.

She ended up sitting on the sofa with Mihawk as Wapol continued to yap. The swordsman had shown up, offered the most cursory greeting, and immediately made himself comfortable on the end of the sofa with a glass of her wine. He and Crocodile had exchanged about ten words since his arrival, before setting about to ignore one another entirely.

Oddly, they seemed to like one another better than most anyone else who’d made their way up to the balcony, despite their abject disinterest in one another. It was a little odd, given that Crocodile didn’t seem to respect his fellow Warlord’s much at all, but like she had thought of Zeff at the Baratie, it seemed like they might be something approaching friends.

Friends who would betray one another at a moment’s notice, surely, but friends, nonetheless. They were a lot alike – taciturn, well educated, affluent. Mihawk was a little more exaggerated than Crocodile, with his eye catching apparel, but they had similar mannerisms, which surely led to them having a better tolerance for one another than they did the rest of the Warlords, if only because their tastes tended to align.

“How much for you to stab that guy?”

She kept her voice low, toying with her own glass as Wapol continued to loudly chatter at Crocodile, who was growing visibly more bored with every passing second. It wasn’t the best way to start a conversation with a man who had, until that point, completely ignored her existence, but the combined noise of Wapol’s blathering and the casino below was starting to give her a headache. She needed to vent some of the annoyance before her brain exploded.

To her surprise, the Warlord laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh, but a single huff of amusement, the corners of his lips tilting vaguely into a smile.

“I’d do it for free,” He replied smoothly, uncrossing his legs to swap their position. “But I don’t feel like dealing with your husband’s ire if I ruin his event.”

His glass, she noted, had started to run low, a single sip of wine lingering in the bottom. Silently, she waggled the bottle at him, trying not to shrink under his strange, piercing gaze. After a long second, he held the glass out to her, and she poured him a fresh drink before topping up her own.

“He’s trained you well, I see.”

“Barely,” She barbed back. “I still haven’t learned not to bite.”

Another huff of amusement puffed out of him.

“It does seem like you have a difficult time controlling your mouth.”

“You should see what else it can do.”

An actual laugh echoed out of him this time. It only lasted for a second, but it was enough to draw the eye of both other men on the balcony. Wapol notably seemed stressed, warily appraising them before settling, when he realized their attention wasn’t on them. Crocodile, on the other hand, glowered in that bored way he always did from the corner of his eye, though it was impossible to know which of the three of them had frustrated him.

Finally, he was able to cajole Wapol into leaving, offering him a few free rounds at some of the tables, which was more than enough to satisfy his ego as he trundled towards the stairs. As he disappeared, Crocodile released a heavy sigh, visibly drooping as he took a moment to collect his temper. Peering out at the casino floor one more time, he turned, stalking towards the sofa the two of them occupied. Mihawk, already at one end of the sofa, barely acknowledged him, though she scooted purposefully aside to make room for his bulk to settle between them.

“Your wife,” Mihawk droned after a long moment of silence. “Has quite the sense of humor.”

“I’ve noticed,” The other Warlord shifted, settling more comfortably against the cushions as he carefully laid his hook hand behind her head. “Though I didn’t realize you had one, Hawkeye.”

“Perhaps that’s because you aren’t very entertaining.”

They settled into a relatively comfortable silence, after that, at least for the two of them. For her, the casino was still much too loud. Chatter and the clatter of coins echoed up against the too-high ceiling, seeming to make the sounds all the louder, and despite her best efforts, she could feel a headache starting to build in earnest.

She’d like to make a great escape, but Crocodile would never allow it. It would be at least another hour before she could flee to the quiet of the suite – after the fireworks, which were due to go off shortly after dark. Crocodile would surely remain on the balcony, relishing in the success of his latest venture until it started to grow quiet in the late hours of the morning, but he wouldn’t grouse at her if she absconded once the celebration was technically done.

As if he could sense the throbbing building in the base of her skull, he shifted his arm, gently pressing the cool base of his prosthetic against the back of her neck. It soothed the ache immediately, not completely eliminating it but taking the edge off the ache. She was tempted to curl up against the arm of the sofa the way she usually did, but refrained, not wanting to accidentally flash whoever wandered up the stairs next.

“I see Linlin hasn’t given up.”

She perked up at Hawkeye’s comment. Peering down at the doors, she didn’t see anything, at first, that would prompt his comment, before it registered that there was a man who was entirely too fucking tall. He loomed over the crowd, none of whom were taller than his knee, thick with muscles he seemed more than happy to put on display. He had a massive scarf draped over his shoulders, covering the bottom half of his mouth, but only wore a vest and leather pants, revealing not only his absurd muscles, but his vibrant tattoos.

At his side was a woman – girl, really – of a much more reasonable stature, though there was something distinctly wrong with her arms. She couldn’t figure out what, as they passed through the crowd and vanished beneath the balcony, but as they appeared at the top of the stairs – the giant folding himself into a crouch to fit through the threshold – she realized it was because they were obscenely long. Her hands reached just past her knees, and her arms themselves had one too many joints, a second set of elbows halfway down her forearms, accentuated by vibrant jewelry.

“Katakuri,” Crocodile rumbled with a slight inclined of his head. “And Myukuru, I assume.”

He didn’t bother to stand to greet them. The smile on the girl’s face faltered just for a moment, but if they were truly offended, neither of them showed it.

“Sir Crocodile,” The girl’s voice reflected her age, light and airy, as she moved closer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She offered one of her hands, holding it out in that princess-like way Crocodile was always complaining Lily didn’t do – apparently, she insisted on shaking hands like a man, something that simultaneously frustrated and amused him. He set his glass into Lily’s hands just enough to accept it, but unlike most of the royals she had been introduced to that day, made no motion to kiss her fingers, or even bring it anywhere close to his mouth. He let go after just an instant, enough to be polite, but nothing more.

Myukuru settled on one of the available chairs, primly tucking her skirt around her thighs. The giant – Katakuri – on the other hand, loomed near the railing, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at all of them.

The polite thing to do would be to offer the girl a drink, but it didn’t feel appropriate. She was just barely nineteen, only a couple of years older than Rose – barely an adult, and certainly, at least in Lily’s opinion, not nearly old enough to be indulging in alcohol. She knew that young people did it anyway, having been one herself, but their five year age gap suddenly felt like decades worth of years between them, the way it often did with Rose.

Crocodile didn’t seem at all offended by her poor manners. Mihawk, eternally unbothered, silently sipped at his glass, staring into the distance as an uncomfortable silence settled between them all. Myukuru continued to smile, but there was a visible struggle in her eyes, as she tried to calculate the best way to move forward. She stared at Crocodile, and only Crocodile, until Lily shifted, swapping her legs around as one started to go numb.

“Oh,” Myukuru chimed, finally registering her presence on the sofa. “You must be Lily.”

“I am.”

She fought the urge to clear her throat. Myukuru herself didn’t make her uncomfortable, but it was impossible to ignore the reason for her presence, and it made her throat a little dry. There was another long pause as the girl stared at her, and she got the distinct impression that the girl desperately wanted her to leave – the giant all the more so, turning his glower directly onto her.

When she refused to budge, it was Myukuru who cleared her throat. Her smile was tighter after she delicately grunted into her fist, subtly but clearly frustrated.

“I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“I do,” She agreed, and Katakuri tensed just the slightest bit more, like he was ready for a fight. “Your mother made it very clear.”

“I don’t mean any offense,” Myukuru continued to smile. “But I’d like to speak with my fiancée privately, if you don’t mind.”

Her glass nearly shattered in her hand. From the far end of the sofa, Mihawk made a curious sound, humming with intrigue. Crocodile tensed the slightest bit, belaying his surprise, though it never made it to his face.

“My husband,” It wasn’t the girl’s fault, she tried to remind herself – it was Linlin, getting ahead of herself. “Is not your fiancée.”

Myukuru’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, she seemed pleased by the frustration that had leeched out of her voice, as if she had just won a grand prize.

“I was told,” Her empathy for the girl gave way to irritation, as she was suddenly reminded of her teenage years, and all the pettiness that had gone on. “He’s already filed for divorce, because of your infertility.”

Crocodile let out a low rumble, not loud enough for anyone to hear, but she could feel it vibrate through him. Mihawk, still watching with the faintest hint of eagerness, made another sound into his wine glass – a scoff, or perhaps a hastily disguised laugh. She wanted desperately to fling her glass, struggling to restrain herself.

“That’s what Donquixote Doflamingo said, anyway.”

That explained a lot, at least. This time, Crocodile’s rumble was audible to them all, causing Katakuri to leave his post at the railing, taking a cautionary step closer. Mihawk let out a quiet “ah” of understanding – she was sure Crocodile hadn’t shared anything about that particular issue, but she was equally sure Doflamingo wasn’t quiet about his displeasure at being snubbed.

“I wouldn’t take anything he says on faith,” She set her drink down before she could fling the glass at someone. “He has a tendency to exaggerate.”

“So you aren’t a barren old hag desperate for Sir Crocodile’s money?”

Crocodile’s hook got her around the upper arm before she could move. Katakuri still noticed, moving up beside Myukuru as he glared down at her. Despite his size, her unbridled rage made him far from intimidating – if she had her hammer, she’d swing it directly at his stupid knees. Instead, she was firmly pressed back into the couch cushions by the pressure of Crocodile’s prosthetic, his arm tense against her shoulders.

“I have no intentions,” Crocodile finally spoke, though it seemed to be aimed at Katakuri, rather than the girl. “Of leaving my wife. Nor am I going to listen to her be insulted.”

That was the first thing to break Myukuru’s smile. She had been confident, but as his statement registered, she seemed to shrink, curling her shoulders around herself as her grin faltered. Katakuri didn’t quite relax, but he eased slightly, leaning back to stand fully erect like a statue, rather than hunch forward like an animal ready to strike.

“Give Linlin my condolences, but she’s been misled,” Smoke rushed out of his mouth as he sighed. “I have no desire to have children, and especially no interest in bedding them.”

Myukuru fully deflated then, visibly pouting in her chair. Her cheeks puffed and her lips pursed, looking more like a child than ever, especially as she crossed her too-long arms over her stomach. She opened her mouth to say something, after a moment, but was interrupted by her giant body guard, who’s hand consumed her entire shoulder. He didn’t speak, just shook his head, and she clamped her mouth shut again to continue to pout.

“Our apologies,” Katakuri’s voice was like a landslide, a tree crashing to the ground, even though he seemed to be trying to speak quietly. “For the misunderstanding.”

Crocodile nodded, as if to indicate he understood, though his anger was palpable. He kept it contained, his expression bored as ever, but she could feel it in the way his muscles flickered, like he was struggling not to rage the same way she had on the Gustave.

Her anger abated quickly, though, seeing Myukuru’s face. Despite her pettiness, it was obvious that the girl was legitimately upset, her eyes starting to water and her lip trembling as Katakuri gently helped her to stand. She wasn’t sure if it was because Crocodile, specifically, had rejected her, or if it was because she simply wasn’t getting married like she thought – if she thought she’d get in trouble for returning home empty handed.

They left as swiftly as they arrived. Wisely, they made their way directly towards the door, the crowd parting like the sea as they passed.

“Would you kill Doflamingo for free, too?”

“Perhaps,” Mihawk was entirely unbothered by the irritated giant between them, and the vicious glare he cast his way. “You’ve found a vicious one, Crocodile. That’s two names in one night. Nearly four, I suspect.”

The behemoth between them grumbled under his breath. In slow increments, he started to ease, reclining in a way that was normally reserved for the privacy of the suite, like a giant grumpy bear.

“Three,” She huffed. “But only because I doubt I’m strong enough to do much against a giant like that.”

The hook wrapped around her upper arm finally released. The tip of the blade skated over her skin, leaving a faint red line in its wake, before he pushed himself off the sofa entirely. Leaving his glass on the end table, he took hold of her wrist, not applying pressure but clearly indicating that he wanted her to join him.

“We’re going to walk the floor,” He declared, seemingly for Mihawk’s benefit, as he pulled her up against his side, more firmly than before. “Enjoy the bar, Hawkeye.”

“I’ll try,” The other Warlord was entirely unbothered. “Considering the paltry wine selection.”

Her feet were aching by the time the fireworks were due to go off. To the guests, Crocodile had seemed like the perfect, charming gentleman, but he desperately needed to move, to walk off his frustrations, and she was, for whatever reason, obliged to come with him. They didn’t talk about the unpleasant interaction at all, but he kept her close, hand draped over the one he insisted remain hooked around his elbow.

Despite the unpleasantness, the night had gone well. As people funneled out, more wandered in, and the line to get inside remained long enough to travel across the bridge and into the sand, despite the increasingly late hour. They passed by All Sunday as she left the restaurant, not stopping to speak, but she seemed pleased as she nodded their way, and the Koala Mercenaries seemed to be doing well, despite her reservations about them. Being professional was clearly new to them, but they were managing to hold it together, even when some of the guests started getting too deep into their drinks and had to be gently removed.

The fireworks show itself wasn’t designed to be anything all that spectacular. It existed as an announcement that Rain Dinners had officially opened to the public, after the VIPs got their opportunity to enjoy the amenities without being pestered by the local rabble. It wasn’t meant to be a long, artful display – just a few vibrant blasts, though one of the fireworks was meant to go off in the shape of a Bananawani as the finale. She still didn’t understand Crocodile’s obsession with the creatures, but he’d made them the symbol of his casino, so it had seemed appropriate.

Crocodile, at least, had settled down. His grip was less severe, relacing and letting her drift away from the cage of his jacket, which was a massive relief. Despite the best efforts of everyone to keep the casino cool, and the drop in temperature the desert suffered at night, the sheer mass of people made the building almost unpleasantly warm. Crocodile himself put off heat like a furnace most of the time, to the point she occasionally wondered how he wasn’t eternally drenched in his own sweat, and being partially enclosed by his fur coat was its own form of torture.

She immediately wished for it back, however, when they stepped onto one of the lower balconies that lined the pyramid-shaped structure. The night, as it always was, had turned bitterly cold almost the instant the sun dipped below the horizon, bringing with it a sharp breeze that cut through her skin in an instant.

Crocodile, as he always did, noticed her discomfort almost immediately. His heavy arm settled over the back of her shoulders, drawing her back into his side beneath the thick bulk of his coat. Her headache was still pulsing, eased marginally by the relative quiet of the outdoors – people were still chatting below, and the fireworks were sure to be a nightmare, but it was nice, to get some momentary relief from the noise.

Tall as he was, his arm was long enough for his hand to reach her elbow – a little further, even, if he were to fully stretch out. His thumb idly stroked over the soft skin of the joint, a barely there sensation, but enough for her to become acutely aware of how dry his skin was. Part of her expected it, given his Devil Fruit powers, which seemed to dry him out, but he was also calloused, the way a swordsman or musician might be, after years and years of effort.

“You’re awful touchy-feely today,” She noted, though she wasn’t bothered – his gentle touches were rather pleasant, though her mouth refused to let her admit it.

“Mmm,” His chest rattled against her shoulder. “Suppose I am. You don’t seem to mind.”

“Guess I don’t,” A waiter from the bar briefly appeared, hurriedly passing off two glasses of champagne, something she resolved she didn’t like in the slightest. “As long as you’re not up to something.”

“I’m always up to something,” He chuckled. “But this time, I’m just enjoying spending time with my wife.”

“Still thinking about my conversation with Sunday?” Despite her loathing of the drink, she swallowed back the bulk of the glass. “The one you weren’t supposed to hear, about things that definitely aren't happening?”

“Might be,” He shrugged, absolutely unrepentant. “Any man would, hearing a lovely young woman call them desirable.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I still don’t have that custom wedding ring I was promised.”

“I have it,” He admitted lowly. “I thought I’d hold onto it until you wanted to wear it. My pride can only take so much of a beating.”

“Who says I do?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed what finger you’re wearing a ring on right now.”

She clicked her tongue. He was right, but her pride – and suddenly very frazzled nerves – refused to let her admit it.

“I have to at least pretend like my husband has the decency to give me a wedding ring,” He chuckled at the reply. “Otherwise, everyone would think you’re a cheap old bastard.”

Reaching completely around her, he fished his cigar case out of the pocket of his slacks. He had to stoop, to bring one of the citrus-scented cigars to his mouth, putting his face uncomfortably close to her own. Sparing him the effort, she dug one of the lighters she absolutely didn’t carry around for his convenience out of her bra, offering him a light before he could start fishing around for his own.

He rumbled again, the noise thick with contentment, like the purr of an oversized cat. To the relief of her nerves, he didn’t linger, straightening up rather than continue to invade the space near her cheek.

Before either of them could say something, the first volley of fireworks shot into the sky. They whistled past the balcony, rocketing towards the night sky before shattering into a noisy burst of golden glimmers, fizzling as they drifted down. Behind them, several more shattered into long, green trails that coasted gently across the dark. The hubbub below them settled into a gentle sort of quiet, as the guests turned their attention to the show.

Even the giant next to her stopped to observe. His ever impassive expression remained – he certainly wasn’t enthralled, but interested enough to continue to observe as the next round of fireworks ripped past them. It was, admittedly, a nice display, despite the simplicity, with colors orchestrated to reflect the greens and blues and golds that the casino itself favored. They reflected beautifully off the oasis below, and in the brief bursts of light, she could make out a particularly curious Bananawani, sticking its snout out of the water in curiosity.

The third array was the most intense, firing off rippling bursts of gold sparkles and vibrant blue streaks, before the big finale shot up. Crocodile made a quiet sound, when the great green Bananawani lit up the sky, a surprised grunt that managed to slip out and betray him.

She squealed as her feet abruptly left the ground. Crocodile’s upper arm braced against her back as his hand looped around her legs, just barely wide enough to span across the backs of both thighs as he turned to cart her inside. Through the windows, several people observed – some slack jawed in awe, others giggling behind their hands.

“You’re taking a lot of liberties with my person, sir.”

“Quiet, or I’ll toss you into the lake,” He grumbled, sounding just the slightest bit embarrassed even as he easily carried her across the casino floor. “Better yet, I’ll keep that ring for myself.”

Chapter Text

“Shut up.”

From across the pool, All Sunday cackled.

Initially, she had dropped into the suite to deliver a handful of confidential documents, but even Crocodile’s second couldn’t resist the allure of the water. It had gotten Lily before she had even woken up, drenched in sweat and absolutely miserable from the oppressive heat of the desert. Despite the new risk of drowning, she refused to suffer while the air was both unreasonably hot and damp from the nearby rain clouds, and had plopped herself down in her donut from the stairs, resolving to work while floating around in relative comfort.

By work, she mostly meant admiring her new ring – which the ever perceptive Sunday had immediately noticed.

Even at a glance, she was positive it wasn’t the original design Crocodile may have wanted. He had made his displeasure with cheap gemstones well known on more than one occasion, sometimes grousing about the fact she favored the milky moonstones and quartz over the diamonds and rubies and sapphires that he had spent a small fortune on – and which were slowly increasing in volume in her jewelry box, something neither of them addressed. His taste in jewelry was flashy, not obnoxious but meant to show off his wealth without actively shoving it directly into people’s faces, and she was certain his initial plans were for something similar to the rings he always wore.

Whoever he hired must have lost their mind when he changed his demands. She could only imagine what ornate bullshit he had wanted at first, only to turn around and completely change his mind.

It was silver, rather than gold, and surprisingly simple for how intricate the work must have been. The diamond wasn’t negotiable, apparently, but rather than an oversized stone, it was relatively small, nestled into the center of a metal lily flower that had been painstakingly textured, the shadows reflecting like the little dots often found on the flower’s petals. The actual wedding band, too, was relatively simple, slim and shiny, with a tiny engraving that looked suspiciously like a crocodile.

“Come on,” Sunday drawled, kicking some water in her direction. “I’ve spent nearly three months being tortured, watching you two dance around each other. Let me enjoy this.”

“If I see that camera again, I’m leaving it at the bottom of the pool.”

Sunday snickered but surreptitiously shoved her tiny camera den den mushi deeper into her pocket, even as she fiddled with her ring again.

“Besides,” Sunday leaned back onto her hands. “You won’t tell me how he was in bed last night. Consider it payback.”

A few droplets of water managed to hit her the second time, at least.

In reality, there wasn’t anything to tell. Despite being comfortable enough to get a little more handsy than usual, Crocodile remained respectful of her boundaries – and the fact that she was decidedly drunk by the end of the night. He had hauled her back to the balcony where Mihawk had situated himself, and despite his warnings about the other man’s capacity to drink, she had ended up in something of a drinking contest with the swordsman. He had claimed he had gotten bored, resulting in a raid on the wine cellar, and had decided to educate them both about proper wine vintages.

Thinking about it made her stomach churn. She hadn’t thrown up that morning, but even by early afternoon, she wanted to, if only so the queasiness every time she turned her head would let her relax in peace.

“Why are you, of all people, interested in knowing what a man is like in bed?”

“Morbid curiosity,” She shrugged. “Most, as I’m sure you know, are terrible lovers, and I need to know if he’s one of them. I’m hoping yes. I mean, it’d be sad for you, but I could use the laugh.”

Whatever smart reply she might have had died as thunder clapped directly overhead. It had been an exceptionally cloudy day, a rare and continuous rainfall for the dry season, but it had been settled over the Sandora Desert for most of the day. If she understood her geography right, she’d have expected it to travel south, carried by the wind – which would surely be a relief for the people of Yuba – but instead, it had migrated north.

She blamed the unusual weather pattern on the generally odd shit that happened on the Grand Line. It had been comparatively smooth sailing to Arabasta, given how it could have gone, but she’d seen enough to at least start to understand why navigation was so difficult without a Log Pose. Several thunderstorms had abruptly rolled over the ship, with mere minutes of warning before the deluge began, and at least once, they had to use the engine to keep the ship moving on course. Thankfully, they hadn’t seen any Sea Kings that decided they were hungry, though they had come across a giant Sea Cat near Arabasta’s shore.

It was massive, though Garret had noted it was still wasn’t fully grown. It was half as long as the ship itself, and while it seemed more than capable of doing severe damage to the vessel, it had been perfectly calm. It had bumped into the hull a few times, nudging against the keel a couple of times with enough force to rock the ship almost entirely out of the water, but it had ultimately just been curious, and left them in peace as they moved into more shallow waters.

Almost as soon as the storm registered, the rain finally began. There was no gentle sprinkling of raindrops, just an immediate deluge, pinging noisily off the concrete. Sunday made a sound of displeasure, having been situated in the open, rather than beneath the outcropping from the floor above, her clothes soaked before she could even start to move to cover. A ladder of arms protruded from the floor near her, reaching out and over the water to take hold of the donut and pull it towards the stairs far more quickly than Lily could have weakly kicked herself along.

She left almost immediately after, muttering about the leather of her jacket being ruined. With Crocodile still sequestered in his office, busy with those same mysterious documents, Lily meandered around for a short while, before she ultimately resolved to change and settle in with a book. She had finished the series Rose was so in love with, and hadn’t been all that impressed, swapping instead to one of the many log books Crocodile had collected over the years.

She was no prude, but it would have been nice to get through more than one chapter without hearing about Captain Chartreuse’s genitals, and what a glory it supposedly was to witness. As someone who had seen a man naked before – some of them rather impressive in their own right – she had never found a penis so interesting it was worth a page and a half of prose, to say nothing of the absurd amount of time dedicated to articulating the shape and size of his testicles.

She was reasonably sure a man who spent most of his days at sea, stealing from the rich to give to the poor and whatever other fantasies the author had about pirates, didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about trimming his pubic hair. She could barely shave her legs without cutting herself as the ship rocked on the waves. Trying to manage more delicate areas was just inviting a tragic accident.

With the rain came an uncomfortable coldness, blowing in through the windows, while somehow remaining unbearably muggy. Each time the wind blew, she found herself reaching for the slightly askew blanket she had knit, only to immediately toss it back aside when it settled, unable to get properly comfortable with the constant fluctuations in temperature.

She had just started to settle in properly when Crocodile’s office door banged open. He looked the way he always did – bored, a little tired – but his frustration flowed through the room like a tidal wave. He had bit completely through the end of his cigar, leaving the end still in his mouth flat and ragged, spilling a little bit of tobacco onto his teeth. For a split second, he paused to look at her, glaring down at her.

“Where’s Miss All Sunday?”

“I assume in her room?” She cautiously clapped her book shut. “She left a couple hours ago.”

He grunted, visibly displeased by the answer. It was odd to see him out of sorts – even when he was annoyed, he excelled as keeping his outward appearance calm. A long strand of hair had tumbled forward, dangling in front of his face, and he couldn’t quite stop shifting, maneuvering his weight from foot to foot. His knee audibly crackled, betraying that he wasn’t just frustrated by what he’d read in the reports, but that he was in pain.

“There are pirates approaching Tamarisk,” She wondered, exactly what she was meant to do with that information. “I’ll be taking her F-Wani part of the way, past this infernal rain.”

She had largely forgotten that Crocodile had more trouble with water than most Devil Fruit users. In the desert, it wasn’t something that came up often, but unlike most, who were fine in the rain, his powers suffered greatly. He wasn’t completely unable to use them, but it required an excessive amount of effort to manage even the most innocuous of his abilities, preventing him from readily shifting into sand. She hadn’t seen it, but he’d referred to it being his preferred way to get around the desert – he could move quickly in the sand, enough to cross all of Arabasta in an hour or so, far faster than the already speedy F-Wani could manage.

“I’ll let her know if I see her.”

He grunted again, vaguely acknowledging the reply as he trudged towards the door.

“I’ll be back late,” He noted almost absently. “Well after dinner.”

It took a second to realize what was, at least in part, angering him. He was always stringent about the two or so hours around dinner. Except for her explosive fit on the Gustave, he was absolutely adamant that they sit and eat together every night, and get at least an hour of uninterrupted social time, even if that time was spent in silence.

“I can manage by myself for one evening.”

She wasn’t sure if that idea was comforting to him or not. It didn’t seem to be, judging by the tone of his grumbling, as he fished around the holder near the door for his umbrella.

“I can stay up,” She offered. “If you want.”

“You don’t need to wait on me.”

She didn’t bother to tell him it wasn’t a huge chore to wait up a couple of hours. Nothing was going to make him feel any better about his evening plans being ruined. Seemingly determined to get the task of pretending to be a hero done and over with, he trudged out the door, silently grousing about his misfortune.

She still had no idea what he was really planning. He didn’t do anything to simply be kind, especially not playing the part of a savior for the people of Arabasta when it meant he was being inconvenienced. There was no question that some grander scheme was happening, and if she were the nosey sort, she would take advantage of his unlocked office door to investigate while she had the opportunity.

Instead, she popped her book back open and continued to read.

It wasn’t as if it wasn’t tempting. Crocodile didn’t seem inherently opposed to her knowing, but she had no desire to put her own head on the potential chopping block. Although she didn’t associate with the higher echelons of the Marines often, she had heard what they were capable of, especially when it came to interrogations. As long as she kept herself away from the pirate’s more unsavory activities, she wouldn’t be lying if she ever had to claim she was just an innocent bystander.

As much as she liked Crocodile, she wasn’t going to increase her personal risk of being stuffed in a Marine prison for his crimes.

It stormed on and off for the next few hours. It seemed to ebb and flow like the sea, sometimes clapping overhead like a heavy drum, other times rattling away in the distance. Lightening would cut through the dark sky at random, cracking back to back and nearly striking the patio before disappearing for long swaths of time.

When she started to drift off on the sofa, it seemed like a reasonable time to get up. Despite what he’d said, she had quietly decided to wait for Crocodile’s return, at least for as long as she could. He would likely find something to eat on his own, but he specifically seemed to like when she cooked, which was often, if only to have something to do. She still wasn’t sure when he’d be returning, but she could at least make something that he could warm up, if he wanted it.

She was standing in the kitchen, a massive steak searing in the pan, when the doors reopened. Crocodile was, despite his efforts, drenched to the bone – possibly literally, in his case, considering how his powers worked. His fur coat was absolutely water logged, dripping across the floor, rivulets streaming down his forehead and making his already aggravated features all the more exaggerated. He didn’t even seem to register that she was there, stomping along to his bedroom.

He couldn’t even be bothered to actually shut the door. Over the sizzle of the pan, she could hear his soggy movements, trudging into and out of his closet and slinging his wet clothes to the floor. He was typically more orderly than that, but given her destructive fits, she wasn’t about to pester him about having a little one of his own. It wasn’t like she would have to clean it – he was typically orderly to start with, but there was also a dedicated housekeeper who would handle it.

When he came stalking back out, he almost didn’t look like himself. A towel was draped over the top of his head, soaking the excess water out of his hair, and it took a long second to realize he wasn’t in his usual button down and slacks. There was nothing scandalous about his clothes, but it hadn’t occurred to her that Sir Crocodile, of all people, might even own something as low class as a pair of sweat pants. The collar of his long sleeved t-shirt was stained by water droplets, and he had even forgone shoes, instead tromping over to the humidor in bare feet.

It was only after he got a fresh cigar and a drink that he seemed to realize she was standing in the main room. It wasn’t all that late, close to nine, but she was usually in her room by then, fiddling with some project at the sewing machine or getting ready to go to bed. He paused, halfway to the sofa, when he spotted her, also in sweat pants, a cast iron pan in her hand.

“I told you,” His voice was lower than normal, thick with exhaustion. “You didn’t need to wait.”

“I didn’t. I already ate a couple of hours ago,” He grunted at her reply. “But I figured you might be hungry, and since you can’t cook for shit…”

“I could have gotten room service.”

He almost sounded like he was chastising her, but at the same time, he made his way over to the kitchen island. He leaned his thigh against it, crossing his arms as he observed what she was doing.

“And I could have let the last gator steak go bad,” They’d actually been delivered that morning, while he was otherwise occupied, but he didn’t go in the fridge often enough to know what was in there – otherwise her secret drawer of chocolate would have been pilfered. “Sit and stop complaining, or I’ll stop doing nice things for you.”

He grunted again, when she lightly thwacked his arm with a pair of tongs. The way he stared down at her, a frown on his face and his eyes cold as ever, she almost thought she had finally found the limits of his patience. Refusing to let him cow her when she was just trying to do something pleasant, she spun on her heel – not at all almost slipping in her socks – and resumed trying to make him dinner, stirring around the tomatoes that he liked so much.

A giant arm wrapped around her waist. If Crocodile actually ever put his full weight on her, they’d both topple to the floor, but he came as close as he possibly could. Both of his long legs pressed against her back, his bulky body arching over the top of her head, as his long fingers sank into the meat of her hip. A giant plume of sweet smoke joined the steam in the air, the rumbling in his chest just loud enough she could hear it over the popping of the fat in the pan.

He didn’t say anything, just continued to lean against her, making the occasional noise of contentment or faint grunt when she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. Even when she got everything onto plates, he refused to budge, wriggling his fingers as he tightened his grip around her side.

She was half ready, this time, when he abruptly pulled her from the floor. He didn’t swing her into his arm, instead cradling her around the ribs, before dropping her onto the barstool next to his preferred spot.

“You’re not nearly as mean as you pretend to be.”

“I assure you,” Rather than return immediately for his plate, he fished around in the cabinets for a wine glass. “I mean every threat I make.”

“As if you don’t terrorize me enough,” He drawled, sliding the freshly poured drink in her direction before he bothered to grab the plate. “I spend my days in fear my wife will finally snap and try to hit someone.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t get into a fight to protect me if I did?”

“I’m more concerned,” The barstool creaked as he settled on it. “About who. Gods forbid you ever meet a Celestial Dragon. You’ll end up starting a war I’ll have to finish.”

“That may be the best compliment I’ve ever received,” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was teasing or flirting, despite being the one talking. “I’ve never had someone say they’d overthrow the World Government for me before.”

“Don’t get excited,” He warned as he shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth. “If I have to work with those insufferable revolutionaries because you punched a Celestial Dragon in the face, I’ll spank you so badly you won’t be able to sit for a year.”

“Is that what you’re into?” She was so caught off guard, she couldn’t stop herself from giggling. “You’re not going to tell me to call you daddy, are you?”

His eyes cut viciously in her direction.

“Sir.”

“Pardon?”

“I prefer ‘sir’,” He had absolutely no compunctions about the admission, casually resuming his meal. “And I’ll call you whatever I want.”

A baffled laugh bubbled out in lieu of a reply.

It wasn’t as if what he’d said was a completely new experience for her – she just didn’t anticipate it being said by Crocodile. It wasn’t exactly a surprising admission, not for a man with obvious control issues and an overinflated ego, but she didn’t anticipate hearing it out loud. He wasn’t the first man in her life to have kinks, especially when it came to dominating his partner, but he was the first one to admit to them out loud without an ounce of shame.

“Good thing I’m into being manhandled.”

He hummed, refusing to agree or disagree, though she caught a flicker of his lips that gave him away. It didn’t take much longer for him to finish, tossing his plate and utensils into the sink. Again, she was lifted into the air, but rather than carry her in his arm, she found herself suddenly staring at the floor. His massive shoulder pressed into her abdomen, thick with enough muscle that it was oddly comfortable.

She expected him to head to his room. She wasn’t opposed to the idea, despite her reservations about how it would ultimately work, physically, and was surprised to see her own rugs pass beneath them.

“I’m exhausted,” He drawled, slipping her off his shoulder to drop her on the bed, as if he knew what she was thinking. “And it’s too late in the day for everything I’m going to do to you.”

Chapter Text

Crocodile didn’t particularly care about his birthday, but everyone else did.

She wasn’t sure how so many people knew the date. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d normally talk about, given he didn’t much care to celebrate it, but he was also rapidly becoming known as the hero of Arabasta. It wasn’t all that shocking that the people of the island would do what digging they could, in order to find an excuse to celebrate the man who protected them from pirate raids with a brutal efficiency. Various gifts were vetted, then piled outside the door by Sunday, only to be completely ignored by the Warlord, who had grumbled something about dealing with them later over breakfast.

All he wanted for the day was to relax. He didn’t complain about the chocolate cake she had quietly ordered from the kitchen that morning, but he insisted the only thing he actually cared to receive were a few hours of long-earned peace and quiet. As much as he enjoyed his work, both legitimate and illegal, even he needed the occasional break from his eternal scheming.

For the most part, relaxing involved laying out in the sun like an oversized cat. He spent most of the morning in a sun lounger, long limbs splayed in every direction as he soaked in the comparatively gentle sun. When the heat started to build in earnest, he even sat in the pool for a while, feet kicked up on the side of her floating donut while submerged nearly to his pectorals. She spent her own day lingering nearby, though they didn’t interact much – it was easier for her to get in and out of the pool, given she was barely in the water, so she occasionally wandered off to get him whatever it was he was craving at the time, but aside from those brief instances, he was content to with the silence.

Eventually, she migrated back inside, when the shadows of the floor overhead were cast at their thinnest. It was entirely too hot for even soaking in the pool, without the faintest hint of a breeze to help alleviate the oppressive temperature. Somehow, it was more comfortable to lounge around inside – where the heat wasn’t reflected in earnest by the stone floor – in a linen robe. It was thinner than the silk one that Sunday had snuck into the closet, and infinitely more comfortable than any of her other clothes.

She hadn’t bothered to buy him anything for his birthday. It would just be purchased with his beri, anyway, which he would rather keep in lieu of a gift he’d never get much use out of. She had made it a point to track down the particular brand of cigars he liked to refill the humidor, which had required entirely too much effort. They were, she learned, produced in the New World, on the far side of the Red Line, making them somewhat difficult to procure. There were only a handful of companies that regularly made the trek back and forth through Mary Geoise, though the trade market between Paradise and the New World was a lucrative one, and actually getting the cigars had required weeks of negotiating, and vaguely threatening, with the trader the tobacconist had connected her with to get them to Rain Base before Crocodile’s birthday passed.

She had gotten him two bottles of the whiskey he preferred, too, though that was a much simpler task. She had gone to Mihawk about sourcing some before he left, given he had also seemed to enjoy it despite his insistence otherwise, and the Warlord had given her the contact information for the producer. It was made on one of the many tiny islands of the Grand Line, the ones too small to sustain any major civilizations – the entire island was dedicated exclusively to farming various grains, with the only structures being the actual production plant and housing for the workers. He had suggested a handful of brands that were far superior, in his estimation, but Crocodile had a specific fondness for one type of scotch whiskey that they made.

If she had the time, she would have liked to have made him something. With the benefit of practice, she had a much easier time managing the sewing machine, and it had occurred to her more than once that he might appreciate being gifted yet more apparel. She had gone as far as to pilfer one of his button down shirts, to ensure she got the measurements right, but she hadn’t been able to dedicate herself to the project. Out of nothing less than sheer pettiness, she had been focused on making matching-but-not apparel for Doflamingo’s week long birthday celebration.

It was enough work she had contemplated commandeering a seamstress, but she had difficulties finding one. She had found several who had the skill, but the cuts and patterns she intended to use were well outside their usual wheelhouse, and it had ultimately proven simpler to do it herself to get precisely what she wanted. It needed to be done exactly right, to both comply with the insane Warlord’s demands and shoot him a subtle middle finger at the same time.

That, and Crocodile’s absurd measurements were something most people weren’t qualified to handle. He had a specific seamster that he employed to make everything he wore, after entirely too many experiences of receiving something that was slightly off, with the sleeves too tight or the cuffs too short. He wasn’t just tall, but oddly proportioned – from some angles, he looked long and lanky, but he was absurdly broad, both across the shoulders and from sternum to spine. She was slowly getting used to it, but she also had access to his entire wardrobe, and the man himself, at her leisure to confirm she had the numbers correct.

While she read on the sofa, she kept a vague eye on the pool, just to be sure he hadn’t drowned.

Not that she’d be much help if he did. It wasn’t like she could dive in after him, but there was a net scoop she could use to at least try and get his head back above the water if he slipped too low.

Thinking about her Devil Fruit was always odd. True to his word, Crocodile had begun to teach her to use it almost immediately, but it didn’t feel like she was making much progress. It was a Logia fruit, something that meant precious little to her but, ultimately, meant Sunday wouldn’t be much use in attempting to help train her. The way the woman had explained it, a Logia fruit made someone into something else, some other form of matter – Crocodile had a solid human form, but he was, in a technical sense, a sand-person. Her fruit functioned differently, and while using all types of Devil Fruit powers were somewhat similar, there were simply things that she wasn’t capable of that Logia users were.

The Matter-Matter fruit didn’t make her structurally any different, but it was still a Logia, because it enabled her to control her mass. In theory, she could become so intangible as to become invisible, unable to be seen or touched, which had been Captain Cross’ signature. He would turn his entire fleet invisible and wait in an ambush, catching his victims completely unaware until the canons had already fired or the ship had veered into boarding distance. It could do the opposite, too, and make things, including herself, more solid than stone – but that had proven to be the far more difficult ability, between the two.

Not that she could turn invisible, either. Making herself partially intangible was relatively easy, once she had a little practice with it. She could put her hand through the fridge door to grab something without opening it, and other similar, small things, but she couldn’t completely phase herself out of existence, and even the relatively simple ability to move one object through another was something that remained hit or miss.

Crocodile still laughed about her getting her arm stuck in the oven door.

It hadn’t hurt at all, but she had been trying to practice, phasing herself and the oven mitt through the metal door to grab the sheet pan full of roasted vegetables. Whatever part of her brain controlled her ability had misfired as she went to pull her arm back, and seeing her limb partially disappear, despite knowing it was fine, had disturbed her to the point of starting an unconscious panic. He had wandered back into the suite to find her with her arm still stuck in the stove, both feet braced against it as she tried in vain to pull herself free. It had taken him a solid twenty minutes to get her to calm down enough to get her ability back under control, at least half of which was spent cackling at her expense.

Maintaining any measure of intangibility was far more difficult than doing it for an instant. She could only hold the state for a few seconds – thirty or so, if she really sat down and focused – unlike the Warlord, who seemed to keep his ability in a constant state of use, more instinct than conscious effort. Even lounging in the pool, which stripped him of the bulk of his powers, trying to harm his exposed neck or arms would be met with failure. It was only when he was actively wet that he struggled, able to absorb some damage but not quite able to actually shift into a sandy state.

His solution to that issue had been to prod her with his hook. He never used the point of the weapon, but she would randomly find herself being jabbed in the kidneys by the curve, just enough to hurt but not quite enough to leave a bruise. On rare occasion, he would hook the weapon around her arm or neck, applying slowly increasing pressure until she shifted states enough to let it pass through her body. The couch had suffered greatly for that, and she’d had to hunt down a specific bolt of fabric to patch the holes his hook left behind without making it obvious.

Eventually, when the sun shifted far enough to cast the entire pool in shadow, he decided to head inside. Watching him quietly struggle was always entertaining, as much as it was concerning. He was always confident, and it reflected in the way he moved, each step sure and steady, except when getting out of the water. His hand gripped the metal rail hard enough to bend it, terrified he’d be sent careening into the water as his long legs trembled under his weight. It only lasted a few seconds, getting easier with every step towards dry ground, and by the time he was on the balcony proper, he was back to the way he always was.

Big, steady – oddly hairy. It wasn’t a terribly thick coating, but it was a far cry from most of the men she had seen shirtless. The most blatant was the thick trail that led from his sternum to his hips, growing thicker and darker the lower it went, though there was plenty spread across his pectorals and even lightly over his abdomen. It was on his back, too, much thinner but still obvious, especially towards his shoulder blades.

Despite the care that went into the hair on his head, and his meticulous shaving of his face, it was almost like he couldn’t be bothered with the rest of himself. He was a clean man, never stinking of sweat and showering regularly, but maintaining his body hair never seemed to occur to him.

In fairness, however, she was generally the only one who saw him in anything less than his precious suits. He refused to leave the suite in anything less than a button down and slacks, dressed for the day regardless of the hour. Sunday had gotten a peek a time or two, entering the suite to deliver something while he was lounging, but never for long, and never as clearly.

She had thought it might bother her, but she found she actually liked it. It wasn’t as if she spent a lot of time touching his bare skin, but she liked the texture, at least on his arms and legs. She would never tell him, but it reminded her of the tiny bears on Gureirokku, soft and coarse at the same time, and it satisfied some deep compulsion to have something warm to snuggle.

When he came out of his room, he remained committed to his demand that he be left to relax for the day, exchanging his shorts for light linen sweat pants and a similarly loose, comfortable shirt. On his way through the room, he stopped to scoop up another slice of cake, setting it on the coffee table before venturing over to the bar. For most of the day, he had been content with water, and at some point the excess from a smoothie she had made, but now that it was encroaching evening, he had seemingly decided it was time to start drinking.

So had she, admittedly. She didn’t drink at nearly the same level as Crocodile or Mihawk, but now that she had gotten used to having liquor available at all times, a glass or two of wine had become a regular part of her evening routine.

She abruptly noticed he didn’t have his giant golden hook on. She had never seen him without it before, and she couldn’t resist investigating the nub of his wrist. It didn’t look as nasty as she expected, all raw flesh and uneven cuts, with one long, uneven scar traveling across the very end of his limb, where it had been stitched together. It had been severed at the wrist, not further back on the forearm like she assumed, leaving the little round bones to protrude against the skin. Some patches of skin were just the slightest bit pink, where whatever internal mechanism he used to hold it on had irritated it, and there was a strip of flesh where his hair seemingly didn’t grow at all, presumably from the eternal pressure of a strap used to hold the prosthetic on his limb.

He noticed her looking, but didn’t comment. He seemed to have a slightly easier time managing the nub of a limb than he did the hook, easily balancing his plate on his wrist so he could tuck into yet another slice of chocolate cake. Eventually, she would need to get up and make dinner – she had gotten Gully to teach her exactly how he liked his gator steaks, and two were marinading in the fridge – but she was both comfortable and nosey, watching him navigate while completely lacking his hand.

As he settled against the cushions, his fingers dug into the muscle where his left shoulder met his neck. She hadn’t noticed him favoring it, but his hook was heavy, and it wouldn’t surprise her if even a man with his bulk felt the strain of it constantly weighing down his arm.

“Want me to walk on your back?”

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth, to cut his eyes at her.

“What good would that do me?” If she wasn’t used to him, she would think he was mortally offended by the suggestion – his boredom and his curiosity tended to sound remarkably similar.

“Smoker used to ask me to do it all the time,” He frowned, and despite his insistence to the contrary, she knew full well he was jealous. “It’s not a sex thing. It’s just easier to get at the knots if I can put my full weight on them.”

His cold eyes shot back to the wall as he contemplated the offer. Finally, he grunted, seemingly amused by some thought she wasn’t privy to, and reluctantly rose from the sofa, favoring his injured knee. She handed him a throw pillow, and to her eternal surprise, the massive, powerful Warlord ended up on the floor of the suite, face partially buried in a throw pillow.

Using the back of the sofa to brace herself, she placed her foot near his shoulder blade, and cautiously started to leverage her weight onto it. There was always the chance it would be more uncomfortable than beneficial, and she didn’t want to bear down without warning. As she pressed down with her heel, there was a series of cracks and crackles so intense she could feel it travel up her leg. The giant on the floor let out the heaviest sigh she had ever heard, instantly becoming almost boneless beneath her, rumbling in contentment.

His back was a mess of tension. Every time she dug her heel down, there was another crack or pop, accompanied by more pleased grunting. Up near his shoulders, she pressed with her toes, finding the knot that had been giving him grief. It refused to release, even when she put her full weight against it, and she gave up for the moment, resuming her slow stomping against his ribs. When his back finally went quiet, she carefully stepped down, sitting herself on his upper back before he could get himself together enough to try and stand. He made a sound that might have been confusion, before her fingers dug into the problem at his shoulder, and his content rumbling picked up in earnest.

It almost seemed like he’d fallen asleep, eyes closed and head turned to the wall as she pressed against the massive knot, driving her fingers in as firmly as she could before releasing it, over and over in the hopes it might finally release.

“You know,” He drawled lowly, disrupting his purring. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined you’d end up on top of me.”

“I’ve warned you about complaining when I’m doing something nice.”

“Not complaining,” He scoffed, flinching as the knot finally gave way with an audible pop. “Fantasizing.”

“Since when does the great Sir Crocodile fantasize?” She found another, smaller one near the first. “Isn’t that sort of thing beneath you?”

“Not when it’s about my pretty wife riding my cock.”

It was a topic they had been dancing around for the better part of two weeks, since the casino had opened. He would flirt, and she would flirt back, but neither of them had made a move to actually push for more.

On her end, it was an issue of nerves. She was perfectly capable of being the forward one most of the time, but that had always been with in situations where they could both walk away from one another at any time if things went poorly. With Crocodile, it was rare they went longer than twelve hours without seeing one another, and there was no quick, easy way to escape if falling into bed together didn’t work out the way they both wanted it to. If he had some weird proclivity she couldn’t tolerate, there wouldn’t be any way to get out of it – not that she thought he’d force her to comply, but it was either that, or nothing at all.

Unless she had an affair, but she wasn’t interested in that. That would take entirely too much effort to maintain, and she didn’t doubt for a second someone would end up dead if she even thought about trying.

She wasn’t sure why he was refraining, though. He didn’t seem nearly as nervous about the idea as she was – he rarely, if ever, seemed nervous about much of anything. She knew he respected her boundaries, but at the same time, she thought she had dropped enough blatantly obvious clues that she was interested. He didn’t seem like the sort to hesitate, at least not if he was interested, and he certainly seemed to be.

She wasn’t sure what to do with his reply, except continue to search for more knots. In response, one of his arms, which had been laying limply at his side, moved. His fingertips found the outside of her thigh, skittering over the skin. He made a different sort of groan when he found her hip, and it occurred to her she hadn’t bothered to pull on any underwear, just the long robe. Not out of any desire to be sensual and sexy, but because it was entirely too hot to wear anything that sat that tight against her skin.

“I’m taking you to my bed tonight,” He declared abruptly. “Unless you have any complaints.”

A fresh, different sort of heat shot over her face, fingers stilling on his skin. His eye popped open again, staring up at her as he assessed her expression, and whatever he found seemed to please him. His lips pulled into a wry smirk before he pressed deeper into the pillow, returning to his earlier state of full relaxation.

“What if I do?”

“You’d be lying.”

The jumping in her chest kept her from formulating a proper reply. He chuckled at her expense, all the more so when she scrambled off him with the vague declaration of making dinner. For a few minutes, he lingered on the floor, rolling onto his back and stretching out his long limbs, before he wandered towards the kitchen. He had a tendency to sit and watch her cook, if he could, stationing himself at his usual spot at the island to observe in silence.

“There isn’t any reason to be nervous.”

She almost snapped that she wasn’t, but the voice always chittering in the back of her head took control, reminding her that would not only be a lie, but an incredibly obvious one.

“You’re the one who declared we’re having sex like it’s another appointment on your calendar,” She snipped. “And I thought I was bad.”

He chuckled into his glass, faintly shaking his head.

“If I leave it to you,” He replied smoothly. “You’ll keep talking yourself out of it for the next five years. You do have the option to say no, of course, but it’s obvious what you want.”

“That’s not…” Her words morphed into a strange sound she’d never made before, a deep and guttural sound of pure frustration, aimed almost entirely at herself. “Will it even fit?”

“What was that?”

“Will it fit?” To avoid looking at him, she focused on the steaks, dropping them into an excessively large, and heavy, pan. “You’re almost twice my size.”

His laughter poured over the back of her head. He’d been doing that more and more often, she had noticed – laughing. It never felt vindictive, like he was mocking her as a person, but more like he’d begun to become comfortable in their interactions, enjoying the sometimes insane things that came tumbling out of her mouth. She often wondered if he hadn’t done it at first because he wasn’t sure when she was trying to deflect her discomfort with humor, or if he had secretly been just as uncomfortable with her as she had been with him, and he was starting to relax.

“It will,” He taunted. “With proper preparation.”

“I’m just saying,” She shrugged, an expression that felt very strange when her shoulders were already halfway to her ears. “Even with plenty of prep, it can still be difficult, and I assume you’re…proportional. I can only stretch so much.”

He laughed again, and she could hear it be partially muffled by the arrival of a cigar between his teeth.

“Then you haven’t been with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Pretty sure I know what I’m doing down there,” She still couldn’t look at him, but at least she could pretend the sweat beading on her brow was from the hot stove. “But you can’t dock a cruise ship in a boathouse.”

“I’ve been a pirate for almost thirty years,” He teased in return. “You’d be surprised where I’ve docked, and I’ve never had any complaints.”

“I hate this conversation.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“And now the gods are punishing me for my sins.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. He was obviously content, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him – the tension he carried wasn’t obvious, until it was suddenly no longer there. Despite being intentionally unaware of his more illegal business dealings, she wasn’t unaware of how his days went, and there was always something happening that frustrated him. Sometimes it was his legitimate businesses, some of which did not care for being put under the supervision of his woman, and other times it was whatever secret things he was up to not quite going his way.

All she really knew was that he disliked most of the people who worked for him. It wasn’t personal, necessarily, but he was a man who was brutally efficient and more than competent at whatever he felt like doing – despite their skills, not everyone was, and he was always frustrated when they somehow failed. He had, more than once, voiced his displeasure with their incompetency, though what things they failed at remained a mystery, at her request. She knew that at least some of them were bounty hunters, sailing through the Blues in search of targets, and that he had a fleet somewhere that was often a thorn in his side, what with how often one or two of the ships got up to typical pirate nonsense, but otherwise, she remained intentionally and blissfully unaware of what they were doing.

It was so calm, she almost forgot about their earlier conversation. She started washing the dishes, a task she disliked but one she’d fallen into the habit of doing, expecting the night to follow the same flow it almost always did, with the Warlord drifting over to the sofa to receive his hour of socialization.

Instead, a giant arm wrapped around her waist while she scrubbed his plate. That wasn’t all that unusual, recently, but rather than stand there, surrounding her with his bulk in a strange display of affection, she was lifted into the air and twisted around at the same time. Her ass landed on the round, cold metal of the base of his prosthetic, knees pressed into the thick muscle of his chest as she scrambled to grab hold of his jacket. His other hand offered her some small security, holding on tightly to her waist, digging the tips of his long fingers into her back.

He tasted like smoke and alcohol, sharp and acrid, his cigar and drink lingering on his lips.

It was a softer kiss than she expected. Slow and smooth, enough to feel but without any demands behind it, his thin lips slotted over hers. When she didn’t immediately pull away, he pressed more firmly, a hint of his teeth finding her bottom lip forming the faintest sensation of a bite.

Kissing was never something she felt good at. She never knew quite what to do – when to open her mouth, how wide to do it, always caught up by the feeling that she was just slobbering all over someone’s face. Crocodile refused to allow that, instead giving her silent instructions, taking her lip between his teeth and gently prying it open to get what he wanted. If she had thought about it, she wouldn’t be surprised that his tongue was large and long, but it still startled her for a moment, as the obscenely large muscle skated over her teeth.

Her nerves withered and died.

She abandoned her grip on his jacket, following the smooth fur to the thick muscles of his throat and the slick, soft strands of hair that hung down the back of his neck. His good hand slid down her side to grab at her hip, refusing to pretend that was all he wanted as his fingertips sank into the meat of her backside. His chuckle rumbled through them both as her mouth began to move in earnest against his.

She was vaguely aware of him moving, but she didn’t think about where they were going, until his hand left her to fiddle with the door handle. It took him a few tries to get it, refusing to separate long enough to look, and the hinges squealed noisily as it finally gave way.

There was no opportunity to look over his private room. The thought didn’t even flicker through her mind, as she found herself suddenly dropped onto a plush, silken mattress. He loomed over her, only pulling away long enough to drop his jacket from his shoulders before he was kneeling over her with a wide, satisfied smirk. He knelt over one leg, straddling her thigh, as he paused to fiddle with his prosthetic.

It clanged noisily off the tile floor, no doubt shattering some of the ceramic. Utterly unbothered, his mouth found hers again, sealing together for a moment before they began to skate over her jaw. His bulky fingers fiddled with the tie of the robe, easily undoing the knot, though she wouldn’t have noticed, infinitely more interested in the feeling of his lips as they attached to the pulse of her throat. She barely had the consciousness to think, hot and thrumming with anticipation, vacantly searching for the buttons of his shirt before recalling he didn’t have any.

He chuckled again as she quested for the hem. He pulled away, lifting her with him by his damaged forearm, just high enough to slide the robe off her arms.

The room was cool and warm at the same time. A breeze skated over her, so oppressively hot it felt almost like a second set of hands, as the massive man kneeling over her took a moment to slide his own shirt over his head, letting it fall to a heap on the floor with his prosthetic. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, grinning as his cold eyes took in every inch of exposed skin.

She opened her mouth to speak – to say what, she had absolutely no idea – and he refused to allow it. His mouth settled on the column of her throat, laving her skin with wet, sucking kisses. His dry hand pressed into her thigh, gripping tightly as his mouth slowly worked its way lower, over her collar bone and the top of her breast. Every muscle in her jumped as he found one of her nipples, tugging lightly with his teeth, flicking with the tip of his tongue. The hand on her leg moved, dancing over the skin, sliding ever closer to the center of her thighs. Desperate for something to cling to, she dug her fingers into the air on his chest, nails scraping over the flesh beneath, earning a pleased rumble from deep in his throat.

Later, she would be embarrassed by the whine that erupted from her mouth when he pulled his lips away. It only served to make him chuckle.

For the first time since she knew him, his eyes seemed alive. His pupils had grown a little wider, amusement and something indescribable and heady reflecting down at her as he pried her hands away from his chest. Capturing both wrists in one hand, he pressed them into the mattress, bearing down until she had the pillow firmly in both hands.

“Keep them there.”

He didn’t wait to see if she listened. Sliding further down the bed, he leaned over, gluing his mouth against the flesh just below her breast. He bullied her thighs apart with his forearm, pushing them up and out as his other hand settled on her hip. Licking and sucking at her skin, he moved further and further, slipping off the bed entirely to settle on the floor.

She expected a finger – not the hot, wet pressure of his tongue. There was no searching, no acclimating, for him. He found precisely the spot he meant to, sealing his lips around her clit with a delightful stomach churning level of precision. The tip of his tongue danced over it, her entire body jumping out of her control. His broad forearm looped around her, pinning her hips in place.

Just one finger almost felt like enough. He toyed with her for a moment, investigating the new flood of moisture accumulating near his chin, before he cautiously began to press against her entrance. Slowly but surely, slickening his dry skin, he pressed onward, slowly stretching her open. His fingers were long enough to reach all the parts of her, easily finding her cervix and attempting to gently press beyond it, not up and through but trying to stretch her deeper. It wasn’t enough to feel full, but it was close, just wide enough to feel the pressure as it moved.

It might have hurt, but she couldn’t fathom having the will to care. His mouth refused to stop, the gentle pressure of his lips combining with the artful waggling of his tongue, drawing what might have been the letters of his name. Each movement was electric, shooting up her abdomen and down her spine. It was absurd, how quickly the coil started to build, while he completely ignored the idle kicking of her feet against his shoulders as she tried to force him away before it was all over too soon.

He seemed to take it like a challenge, pressing harder against her hip bones and driving up the pressure of his tongue. She opened her mouth to warn him, to suggest that he stop, but the only sound she could make was a moan that echoed off the ceiling. He smiled against her as the rope snapped, sparks shooting down her limbs, a thick, comfortable haze settling in her brain. It couldn’t settle in her bones, as he refused to pull away, persisting even though the pressure of her feet on his shoulders. Something that might have been an inarticulate plea for him to stop poured out of her lips, earning a chuckle that sent another series of sparks down to her toes.

“Brat,” He laughed, pulling away just enough to speak – his finger, too, and he reached for a bedside table, pulling open the drawer as he blindly searched for something. “Sit still and behave. I’m far from done, and you’re not nearly ready.”

Cold gel made contact with her core. One damp finger had been joined by another, smearing what she belatedly realized was lube around her entrance. A spear of anxiety cut through the comfortable delirium, acutely aware of how much his lone finger had been, that little voice in her head calculating exactly how much larger two would be.

“Relax,” He drawled, staring up at her over her pelvis as his fingers continued to swirl, a barely there sensation. “Stop thinking.”

“I can’t control my brain.”

He huffed, grumbling something she didn’t quite catch. His middle finger pressed just past her entrance, a comfortable but noticeable breech, while the other lingered, applying the slightest pressure.

“You’ll be fine,” He declared, more firmly than before. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you, and I meant it, but you’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t relax. Close your eyes and breathe.”

She forced herself to listen. She breathed deeply, taking a heavy swallow of dry desert air, and as she pushed it back out of her lungs, he increased the pressure of his other finger. It didn’t sting and burn, but it stood right on the line of being too much. From the floor, he grunted, the nub of his wrist coasting over her stomach.

“Just like that,” He rumbled. “Just be good and do what I say.”

That shouldn’t have sent a strike of excitement through her. She had played those sorts of games before, and while they were fun, the most enjoyable part was always being disobedient, playfully aggravating her partner rather than complying. With Crocodile, however, she felt a deep compulsion to obey, draping her ankles over his shoulders as she gripped tighter to the pillow.

He made a pleased noise, stroking her abdomen one more time before pinning her hips back down against the sheets.

“Good girl.”

He moved slowly, intentionally. He pressed forward in small increments, only to draw back, until she could finally feel the cold metal of one of his rings scrape against her. It hurt, but only just, not enough for her to contemplate the idea of actually refusing. His fingers arched and curled, pressing firmly against her front wall like they were searching for something as he kept them tightly pressed together.

It was only when he found the spot, hearing her gasp, that he started to relax them. He kissed the inside of her thigh, letting his fingers start to spread apart. That, she found, did hurt, the muscles slightly overextended, but it was no more intense than the gentle pleasure of his fingers persistently caressing that unusual spot. He stopped each time she flinched, maintaining pressure, the same way she did when rubbing the knots in his shoulders. The thrusting would stop, and instead, he would hold his fingers where they were, curling and pressing with the tips of his fingers to keep the worst of the ache at bay, until it slowly faded away in its entirety.

His fingers squelched as he slowly pulled them away. His entire body moved as he wiped them on his pants, thumb dipping beneath the hem. The still cognizant part of her mind made the swift decision to close her eyes before he could drag them down, earning another amused chuckle before the fabric softly fell to the floor.

The bed creaked, the mattress immediately dipping beneath the weight of him. He moved slowly, purposeful and almost clinical, stroking her thigh as he pulled them further apart. He lifted her hips with his damaged arm, laying them on his broad thighs, leaving only her shoulders to lay against the sheets. There was a faint, wet sound – his hand, working lube over himself, stroking for several seconds too long, betraying his own enthusiasm.

The pressure was subtle, at first, slow and gentle, but quickly gave way to nearly being too much. There was a high, keening sound in the air that she didn’t quite realize was from her until he hushed her. Whatever he said was absolute nonsense in her ear, incomprehensible noise, but still soothing, compelling her to breathe. His hulking torso settled over her, held aloft on one elbow. He eased back and forth, pressing forward just enough to make her breath catch, holding it for a moment before relaxing back, only to try again.

His deep groan reverberated off the walls as the head of his cock finally pressed through. The stretch was spectacular and awful all at once, glorious and miserable for several long breaths.

“That’s a good girl,” His voice was tight, creeping through clenched teeth. “You can take it.”

She had never felt so full in her life. He thrust forward slowly, trying to be gentle but refusing to give the ground he had earned, stopping only when she couldn’t accommodate him any deeper, where he stilled.

She dared to pop her eyes open. Crocodile was contorted over her, his back completely curled over to keep his face close to hers, breathing against the sweat building beneath her ear. Unlike her, his eyes had been wide open the entire time, and he grinned when she caught his stare. He had instructed her to keep her hands on the pillow, but didn’t complain in the slightest when her nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, scrambling for some semblance of purchase.

His I-told-you-so hung silent in the air as the stinging pain faded away.

He offered her a brief kiss, catching her bottom lip between his own, before his hips started to move. Each thrust forward knocked the breath out of her lungs, too full then too empty. His giant hand held her hips still, one long thumb searching for her clit, as his mouth moved across her jaw.

She could see him moving under her skin, swelling just beneath her belly button each time he thrust. He moved slowly, huffily smothering his own sounds, while hers came pouring out of her mouth unbidden.

The moment the pain finally gave way to pleasure was a glorious one. His gentle motions picked up their pace, firm enough to send her scooting over the sheets if not for his iron-clad hold. Her feet couldn’t find any purchase, dangling uselessly over his hips. He was steely and hot above her, inside of her – she could almost swear that she could feel the veins, pressing against her, pulsing. Cold electricity shot up and down her limbs, curling her toes and numbing her fingers.

With his damaged arm, he pulled her upper body off the bed. His wiry chest hair scraped against her nipples, itching and rough against the suddenly sensitive flesh. Suspended in the air, she latched her arms around his shoulders, supported almost entirely by his massive arms as her toes skittered over the silk sheets. Just one hand was enough to cover half of her backside, the blunt end of his nails digging into the flesh and fat as he kept her precisely where he wanted her.

“Touch yourself,” She barely registered his order over the wet sound of skin. “Be my good girl and get yourself off on me.”

Her hand barely fit between them. She was startled, for the briefest instant, to feel them together, the absurd size of him stretching her apart. Her own sex felt almost foreign, pressed to its limits, distorted, and she struggled to find her own clit for a moment, fingers sliding around the excess wetness, from the lube and from herself.

Her clit still throbbed from the fist orgasm, protesting the new contact with arcs of painful overstimulation. Her chest was tight and her throat felt swollen, like he was bullying her organs up and away to make enough space for him to fit. She had never been someone who could get off back to back, but her body refused to ignore him, pressing more aggressively against the sensitive nerves to force her way past it.

Her walls fluttered, trying desperately to squeeze down but not strong enough to manage. Still, he felt it, groaning lowly into her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth. He was almost too rough, banging the tip of his cock against her cervix in a way that would surely agonize her later, chasing after his own release.

There was nothing, no build up except the screeching of her nerves, then suddenly, she felt everything. Her second orgasm crashed into her like a tidal wave, without any warning or gentle build. It ripped away all her strength, boneless and weak against Crocodile’s broad chest. Her head was empty, unlike her body, which felt like it had burst into a million little pieces.

He stilled, buried as deeply as he could go, throbbing against her straining muscles. The sound he made almost seemed surprised, as if caught completely off guard by his own orgasm. Thick and cool and heavy, it flooded through her like a river bursting through a dam.

It took him a moment to lay her down. It was worse, somehow, to feel him pull out – she had been so full, and she wanted to stay that way. He chuckled at her whining, carefully and slowly stepping off the bed. Some of his hair had been tousled, she noted, dangling in thick strands in front of his face, and there were small beads of bright red along the side of his throat in the shape of her fingernails.

He disappeared into the bathroom, immediately turning on the sink. It occurred to her to follow, to at least try and pee, but her legs refused to cooperate. Thankfully, he returned a moment later with a damp cloth, moving like he intended to hand it off to her, but her fingers were no more cooperative than her lower extremities. He wiped her down gently, careful not to press too hard, until he was satisfied she was clean enough, letting the cloth join the rest of the mess scattered on his floor.

Even half-flaccid, his cock was absurd. Long and wide – too wide to get her fingers all the way around. He wasn’t cut, either, the broad, angry red tip slowly vanishing behind the excess skin. He was utterly unabashed about leaving it on display, scoffing in amusement when he caught her staring.

“I can’t feel my legs,” He chuffed, clearly amused as he kicked the mess aside. “Or any other part of me.”

Ignoring her, he pulled down the blankets on the other side of the bed – silk, the same color as his namesake. He jabbed her with his wrist, pushing until she managed to roll over into the open space. He climbed easily into the now vacant spot – closest to the door, she noted – but didn’t entirely lie down, leaning against the headboard as he fished around with the end table.

Not at all shockingly, he produced a cigar and lighter. She managed to reach up long enough to light it for him, as the breeze pouring from the windows continually tried to extinguish the flame.

“Good girl.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Chapter Text

Any other time, she would relish in the opportunity to escape the infernal heat of Arabasta’s desert.

The fact that they were only leaving for the sake of attending Donquixote Doflamingo’s week long birthday celebration, however, ruined any excitement she may have felt. Crocodile felt the same way, occasionally muttering his irritation under his breath, but it was a necessary evil. Even removing her from the equation, Doflamingo had a strange level of interest in Crocodile, eternally eager to team up together or to fight to the death – either option seemed satisfactory.

It was, Crocodile suspected, because they were the only two Warlords who existed in overlapping social circles, rubbing elbows with royals and Marines, making him a rival and an asset at the same time. Doflamingo’s influence in the Paradise half of the Grand Line was fairly limited, much like Crocodile when it came to the New World – if they were to team up, they’d control the vast majority of the Grand Line, but it would never happen. Crocodile wasn’t especially interested in the region to start with, and it certainly wasn’t worth being Doflamingo’s pawn.

Still, it was necessary to occasionally capitulate to his demands. Doflamingo was nothing if not petty, and when he wanted attention from someone, he would do whatever he needed to do to get it. If they didn’t attend his birthday celebration, then he would show up at Rain Dinners and most assuredly cause some sort of problem. He likely wouldn’t make an obvious scene, but he would try to insert himself into Crocodile’s secret operations, and he was, in the Warlord’s words, just barely smart enough to create a massive inconvenience.

The island, at the very least, seemed nice enough. It was temperate, erring towards being just slightly too warm, though it was still a pleasant departure from the oppressive heat of Arabasta’s dry season, speckled with all sorts of resorts. All sorts of people were on the street, venturing from their rooms to enjoy the amenities in the late morning, wandering towards cafes or restaurants or the beach, which was already unpleasantly thick with sunbathers.

Crocodile was in far from the best of moods. That morning, he’d woken up to his knee aching more than usual – something that tended to happen when the barometric temperature changed, and he’d claimed once it was a more accurate predictor of the weather than any machine. Combined with being forced to attend a week of Doflamingo’s nonsense and his apparent obsession with her, he was clearly contemplating the merits of turning the entire island into a desert full of desiccated corpses and being done with the entire situation.

The only thing that seemed to keep him together was learning of the petty little plot she had concocted with All Sunday. She had spent days painstakingly picking out fabrics that would comply with Doflamingo’s specific demands of her, matching them to the sort of things she knew Crocodile would prefer, putting together a subtle but effective show of her allegiance.

It would probably only aggravate the King of Dressrosa, but given he’d practically forced them into spending a week pretending to care that he was turning thirty-something, it seemed like fair play.

Her dress was simple – thin straps with a loose skirt, suitable for the supposed garden party that would kick off the festivities. It was, as requested, technically pink, but the deep blue flower pattern had been meticulously matched to the blue silk of the vest she had stitched. Even her jewelry had been specially selected, sapphires chosen specifically just for their color, and she’d found a blue eyeshadow that was in the same hue to further the point.

A week’s worth of clothes, all designed the same way. Her fingers might never recover, but the satisfaction of sticking a metaphorical needle under Doflamingo’s skin was worth the eventual arthritis. A fitted baby pink cocktail dress with golden flowers, matching the swirling gold patterns on his shirt. A strapless, slitted evening gown overlaid with black lace with the same spider-web design as the black and grey button down.

Crocodile was far from pleased with Doflamingo’s less than subtle attempt to make it seem like they were somehow together, but he could be just as petty, when he wanted to be.

They weren’t the only ones making their way to the same hotel. One of the largest, most luxurious resorts had been completely rented out for all of Doflamingo’s precious guests, and ahead of them, several small groups moved towards it with too much purpose to simply be curious observers. She didn’t recognize any of them, but she was vaguely aware that at least a couple of them were royals, if only because of their appearance.

All Sunday had taken to teaching her to read people. They would spend hours on the balcony, looking over the casino floor while pretending to just be attentive management, while she selected one person after another, demanding Lily assess them at a distance. Who actually had money, versus who was just pretending, who could be bribed and who would demand other favors. Royals, even the ones on the lowest end of the spectrum, carried themselves in a particular sort of way, similar but inherently different to Crocodile’s usually straight posture.

There was a subtle, but distinct, difference between self-confidence and self-importance. Confidence was softer, more quiet – there was no need to flaunt, because people would always notice anyway. It was insecurity and ego that demanded attention, stepping with the intent of making their shoes click to draw people’s eyes, holding themselves so that their clothes were at their most flattering and clearly on display, talking just the littlest bit too loudly to force people to listen.

“We could always pretend I have terrible morning sickness and just hang around the room,” She leaned closer to his side to keep her voice low. “It might give him an aneurysm, if he thinks you got me pregnant.”

He chuffed, but there was no accompanying smile. Crocodile kept his eyes dead ahead, on the distant glass doors of the resort, as if he was hoping he could set it on fire by wishing for it hard enough.

“I refuse to deal with that idiot in a few months,” He groused. “When he comes around demanding to be the god father.”

“Not a fan of pink feathered onesies?”

“Behave,” He warned lowly. “Or I’ll spank you where everyone can hear.”

“I’m pretty sure your best buddy would take that as some sort of invitation.”

He glowered at her, though it lacked any real heat. He wanted to be amused, but he was entirely too annoyed to even be on the island to let it happen. It wouldn’t stop her from occasionally needling him, but it was enough she let the topic drop, especially as they started to get closer and closer to the hotel, not wanting to be overheard. The crowd of guests was visible through the fence off to the side, milling around an array of glass tables. A buffet of canapes had been laid out on one long table, attended by men in bowties and suit jackets with long tails, who smiled entirely too sweetly while doling out flutes of champagne.

She forced herself to act right. It went completely against her nature – to be loud and mouthy and just the littlest bit aggressive – but All Sunday’s constant lessons rang loud and clear in her mind. It would be a social embarrassment for a man like Crocodile, always cool and in control, with pockets almost as deep as his influence, to have a wife who clearly disrespected his authority. She was to be quiet and pretty, an attractive thing on his arm for everyone else to ogle, while toing the finest line of asserting herself as someone not to be challenged.

Attend his needs – keep his glass full, his cigar lit. Listen carefully to every conversation, but keep her mouth shut unless he invited her to talk. Nod, but don’t bow – don’t place herself beneath them by showing too much respect, but don’t disrespect them outright, either. Don’t rely on him for anything, don’t ask anything of him, show him due deference without offering it entirely to anyone else.

She wasn’t a person to these people, just an extension of her husband.

The lobby was simple, but ornate at the same time. Much like Rain Dinners, it was bathed in white and gold, with the faintest hint of a beach theme, speckled with light blues and yellows and the occasional splash of green. A handful of people were gathered in the lobby, orchestrating the delivery of their bags to their rooms, haranguing the two women attempting to keep the desk in proper order because their room wasn’t fancy enough for someone of their importance.

She resisted the urge to look at them in earnest. That would be showing too much interest, make them think that she was curious – which she was, but they couldn’t know that, or they’d convince themselves that she was somehow impressed by them on sight alone. She kept her stare dead ahead, focused on the stone wall as they waited patiently for someone to finally shut the hell up and let the poor desk workers get on with their day.

It took a third person, a man in a slightly too-large suit, to actually get anywhere. Despite being third or fourth in line, he called to Sir Crocodile by name, luring him over to the corner of the desk. She heard a scoff from one of the other poor souls left to wait, and felt the urge to horse kick him in the shin as they passed. Their things, at least, had already been delivered by the crewmen on the Gustave, and they were swiftly passed a golden key, which Crocodile silently slipped into his coat pocket.

They’d been booked in the honeymoon suite, a declaration that earned a low rumble of annoyance she felt more than heard. It was a petty dig, and she was quietly vindicated in her decision to be pre-emptively prepared to be petty herself.

Rather than head for the room, he stalked along to the garden. Despite his best efforts for forcibly delay them until they were more than fashionably late, they’d arrived early. The bulk of the guests had already arrived, scattering about as they socialized with one another. The garden itself wasn’t much of anything, mostly paved with marble stones, except a small array of bright, tropical flowers lining the stone and metal fence. There was a fountain to one side, designed to replicate a quiet waterfall, separating the sitting area from the pool.

She had forgotten how large Doflamingo really was.

He sat at the edge of the patio, sprawled out on a shaded wicker sofa. Despite being specifically designed for the giants of the Grand Line, it was still too small for him, and he took up a good two thirds of it, leaving just enough space for the women who flanked him on either side, giggling at whatever he’d just said while sipping large, fancy drinks. Both were dressed in obscenely small dresses, displaying their long legs and considerable assets.

One, she noted, looked uncomfortably familiar. They didn’t look exactly the same – the other woman was taller and much bustier, with a smaller nose and thinner lips, but she came uncomfortably close to looking like the face she had seen in the mirror just a few hours earlier.

“Did you notice…?”

“Yes,” Crocodile’s mood soured all the more, only vaguely glancing in the direction of the trio as he leaned to the side to mutter at her. “Ignore it. He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

He veered immediately towards the alcohol. There were attendants passing out champagne, but his focus was on the bar. People at the party tended to be less deferent than those she was used to seeing, not quite as nervous in his presence. Some seemed surprised to see him at all, but that was the limit of their interest, except for the occasional eye that never lingered on her face.

“Oh, Sir Crocodile,” A man at the bar called, before he could insert himself between the patrons to demand a bottle of whiskey. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Captain Souvide,” He drawled, as she slid between him and another, cranky looking woman to motion for the bartender. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Almost three years, I think.”

The man wasn’t in uniform. He’d exchanged his Marine dress blues for a simple button down and slacks, keeping his decorations subtle but tasteful – a pocket chain, brightly patterned socks that clashed against his khaki slacks and black shoes. There was no question he was a Marine, however, or at least had been one for a time, from the anchor tattoo on his forearm, faded against the grey hairs.

“And who’s this lovely lady on your arm? It’s not like you to bring a date.”

“My wife,” He gladly accepted the unusually large whiskey glass. “Lily.”

He stretched his hand out, and she swapped her own glass to her other hand to let him take her fingers. Thankfully, there was no wet kiss against her skin, just a polite nod and the slightest squeeze, before he released her.

“I’d heard rumors you had finally settled down,” The Captain chuckled, immediately turning his attention away from her. “You have good taste. She looks a bit like my fourth wife, you know. Hopefully this one is a better cook, though. Almondine couldn’t boil water, but she certainly was a looker.”

Crocodile ignored the topic entirely, taking a small swallow when he’d clearly prefer to guzzle the entire glass. Instead, he questioned the older man’s recent exploits along the Grand Line – he’d managed to arrest a handful of notable pirates, since the last time they’d met, and the Captain had no grievances with bragging. She stood silently, staring into the middle distance as she purposefully kept close to his arm, slightly behind the hooked limb like a good, well-behaved wife.

She didn’t miss the moment the birthday brat noticed them. His wide grin stretched further across his face, pleased but vicious like a snarling dog, staring them down from behind his red sunglasses. She tried to keep her gaze away from him, but he must have noticed anyway, and she saw him wrap his hand around her look-alike’s chest, capturing one breast in his giant hand as he tugged her into his lap. It didn’t take long before he sent her away, however, with a swift swat on the ass, and she sidled up to the bar to order what looked like a daquiri of some sort. Crocodile stalwartly ignored them both, continuing to vaguely listen to the Captain while he calculated the most effective means of escaping.

A delicate hand wrapped around her free elbow. She almost jumped, despite having seen the woman approach her in her peripheral, doing her best not to frown at her presumptuousness.

“The young master,” Gross. “Would like to speak with you.”

Her grip tightened as Lily tried to subtly move her arm free. Her first instinct was to smash her wine glass against the woman’s head, uncomfortable both with her insistence and being touched in the first place, but she managed to resist. More firmly, she dislodged her arm from her too-long fingers, hearing her gasp quietly under her breath.

“I’ll be with him in a moment.”

“Firey, this one,” The Captain cackled in delight. “I bet she’s a wildcat in bed, eh?”

Five minutes into the afternoon, and that was two people she’d love to hit in the mouth. It boded poorly for how the rest of the week would go.

“If you’ll excuse us.”

Crocodile again ignored his prattling and turned without waiting for a reply. His presence didn’t seem to be something the woman accounted for, her brows pinching for a moment before she skittered off to deliver the Warlord’s drink, whispering in his ear as she settled back into her spot on the sofa. She followed along, holding tight to his elbow beneath his fur coat, allowing herself that one slight slip as they slowly weaved through the crowd. A handful of other people greeted Crocodile by name as they passed, clearly wanting to speak with him, but all the same, it was obvious that he was on a mission.

There was a wide swath of open space around Doflamingo’s seat. No one but his own crew and his accompanying women wanted to get close, at least for more than a few minutes. Two of them were incredibly tall – one long and lanky, with long brown hair and a strangely distorted smile, the other wider across the shoulders than she was tall, with massive arms that nearly scraped the ground. There was a squat one, too, still more than double her height but short and almost fat by comparison, thick trails of clear snot dangling from his nose.

The pirate giggled as they got close. His eyes were hidden, but she could feel him looking her over from head to toe, his stare heavy enough to feel almost slimy against her skin. She regretted her dress almost immediately, feeling him linger on the exposed skin of her legs and clavicles, wishing she had a baggy full body suit to hide inside of.

“What a cute little present you’ve brought me, Croccy.”

His only reply was a distinct rumble of irritation. He had politely refrained from smoking around others, but he had hit his limit, pulling his case from his pocket as Doflamingo continued to chuckle at some joke only he understood. It was habit for her, by that point, to reach for a lighter, and he only laughed louder as she lit the cigar for him.

“And already trained,” There was a bout of snickering from the group surrounding the sofa. “You know just what I like.”

“You know how it is,” The anger that had is muscles tense eased beneath her fingers. “I see something I want, I’m going to take it for myself. You should’ve made a better offer, if you really wanted her.”

There was the slightest flicker on Doflamingo’s face. His smile didn’t drop, but it was tight, suddenly, one of his blond brows twitching. Just as quickly, however, he burst into laughter. He laughed loudly, like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world, pitching forward and slapping at his knee. The women with him giggled, too, after a moment, but they clearly weren’t quite comfortable, not understanding what it was he was so amused by, or if he was even actually amused at all.

“I didn’t expect you,” He replied easily. “Of all people, to take what’s mine.”

The statement was ominous, heavy, laced with barely concealed contempt. For a moment, she thought the two of them were going to fight then and there, but Doflamingo eased back, stretching himself out again, the picture of relaxation.

“It’s fine, though,” He chuckled. “Really. I always get what I want, eventually.”

Crocodile scoffed, entirely unimpressed with the threat, though his arm did tense.

“Did you like my gift, by the way?” Her stomach churned as his attention cut back on her. “I was going to give it to you as an engagement present, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

She hated herself for even speaking to him. She didn’t want to give him the time of day, fueling his already over-inflated ego or feeding into his delusion that they were somehow meant to be together by granting him even the most idle interaction. He wasn’t bothered by her rudeness in the slightest, grinning all the more broadly, like he was thrilled just to have her attention.

“When I heard about you and Croccy, I was thought about keeping it for myself,” He admitted. “But what else do you get the girl who already has everything?”

He said it like an insult. Between the two of them, Doflamingo was arguably the more affluent, being a literal king – even if he didn’t have liquid assets, he had an entire kingdom to exploit, which he surely did.

The women seemed confused, but the trio with him were not. They were the same ones that she’d seen traveling with him before, years ago, and she didn’t doubt they were a core part of his pirate crew, the way Sunday and Garret were for Crocodile. They had probably born witness to no shortage of the Warlord’s tantrums and ramblings about her and the Warlord who had gotten one over on him.

“Have a seat,” He motioned vaguely to one of several empty armchairs that circled his sofa. “Tell me, how’s Arabasta? I heard you opened a new casino there, Crocodile. I’m almost offended I didn’t get an invitation to the grand opening.”

“You have a kingdom to run, don’t you?” Crocodile sniped, reluctantly dropping into one of the chairs. “I’d hate to pull you away from your duties in Dressrosa.”

Rather than let sit in one of her own, he quietly nudged her with the weight of his hook, urging her to sit on the arm of the seat beside him. The bulk of it draped over her thighs, keeping her firmly within his reach, like he anticipated a potential attack at any moment – guarding her, while still presenting himself as a man just protecting his assets.

“I always have time for a party,” The Warlord laughed. “Even those boring galas you’re so fond of. I would have had a good dancing partner, at least – if you ever let her actually have some fun.”

They both ignored the obvious barb. Crocodile seemed as unbothered as ever, though the way he pulled more harshly against his cigar gave his true feelings away, to anyone who knew him well. The silence set Doflamingo to prattling on about some other party he’d recently attended, unconcerned if anyone was actually listening. Her attention drifted to the crowd, acutely aware of the sheer number of people taking subtle looks out of the corners of their eyes, eager to see what the two Warlords got up to when put together.

Mihawk was there, stationed at the bar, actively ignoring everyone and everything. There were a couple of other faces that she vaguely recognized, a couple of Marines who had frequented Duke’s while at port, a few others who had been at the grand opening of Rain Dinners.

There was one man who opted to remain in uniform, freshly arrived and making his way into the garden. He was tall enough to loom over most of the guests – even Crocodile, if she had to guess, though not by very much – and immediately distinct, with a solid metal jaw and a massive axe mounted in place of his right arm. The sleeveless jacket he wore declared him a Captain, though she’d never personally met him before.

Trailing behind him was a small battalion of people, all at war for who looked the most ridiculous. Her vote would be for a young man, with the hideous bowl cut in a terrible blue and violet paisley suit, though one of the women with them was a close second, with an absurd feathered hat and poofy orange dress, hanging off the arm of a balding little man in an ill fitted suit who clearly preferred to be anywhere else. He held the hand of a fussy child, loudly complaining that he didn’t want to wear the stupid shoes he’d apparently been forced into, his bright green vest clashing with the entire group.

Somehow, they weren’t the most obnoxiously dressed bunch, but they were close. There was a girl with them who was at least approaching normal, in a demure silk dress that vaguely matched with the bowl cut’s suit. She hadn’t bothered with the puffy bouffant the other woman had managed to shove her hair into, letting her dark hair flow over her shoulders, pretty but far from technically appropriate for a garden party. She was almost underdressed, compared to the rest, who were massively overdone, and for a moment, Lily thought she looked vaguely familiar.

When the other girl glanced their way, she felt all the breath rush out of her at once. Willfully ignoring Doflamingo’s continued jabbering, Crocodile hummed under his breath as her body stiffened, pulling his attention from the void to see what had her suddenly tense. His muscles jumped, belaying the same unpleasant sense of surprise as he realized the same thing she had.

Her family had been invited.

She hadn’t registered that Doflamingo had stopped talking until he burst into laughter. He cackled as he rocked back, long feet briefly leaving the ground as he tottered in his seat. His grin was all the more manic, putting all his teeth on display while his entire body shook with amusement.

“Captain Axe-Hand!”

He shouted across the lawn, waving towards the giant, who scowled in return, but obligingly started to trudge in their direction. The mass of people with him turned to follow, and she distinctly heard her mother’s voice loudly calling out her name, waving entirely too earnestly.

“Not excited to see the in-laws, Croccy?” Doflamingo didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t thrilled, dragging out each word. “You didn’t have the decency to invite them to your little casino, either, or so I hear. And after they so kindly arranged for you to marry their little flower.”

Before he could reply, a bundle of orange tulle was wrapped around her, squeezing her waist and wailing about her baby. She would have toppled over if not for Crocodile’s burly shoulder being driven into her back, the tip of his hook nearly being shoved into her hip by her mother’s weight.

The instinct to return the embrace was stifled by a deep rush of absolute rage. She had gotten good at keeping herself under control, taking hold of the anger and stuffing it down until she could let it out in a more appropriate setting, but it fought her every effort. Crocodile bore down with the weight of his prosthetic, little grains of sand shifting over her thighs in trails so thin they were all but invisible, prepared to restrain her.

Instead of shove her mother off, she held her hands up. Not violent, but clearly not returning the attention, which was the best she could manage – it was that, or shove her so hard she wouldn’t be able to manage to stay standing in her absolutely stupid looking shoes.

Chapter Text

“Eventually, I’m going to start charging you.”

She hadn’t said a word to Mihawk, but the swordsman already knew what was on her mind when she approached the bar, weaving her way in beside him to order another drink.

Elsewhere in the garden, her own personal waking nightmare was on display for everyone to see. Doflamingo had released her and Crocodile from his clutches, after exchanging a much too friendly greeting with her parents – referring to them by their first names, as if they were old friends, rather than people he’d exchanged a handful of calls and letters with while arranging to buy their child. And they, or at least her mother, had fawned over him in return, gushing about the party arrangements and how excited they were, how kind it was for him to send a ship just for them.

They had migrated to one of the larger patio tables shortly after, when another guest had approached to speak with Doflamingo, unintentionally granting them the means to get away from his attention for at least a few minutes. Unlike the day they were married, Crocodile had no excuse to simply ignore them and walk away, forced to sit and listen as her mother went on and on about the recent events of her home island at an entirely unacceptable volume. How she’d sold four pairs of her designer shoes, how some Marine’s wife had nothing but compliments and she was sure their business would take off soon, and how it was all thanks to his investment.

Axe-Hand, at least, had opted to ignore them. He’d joined up with Souvide and a couple of other Marines, holding up the far side of the bar as they exchanged war stories like old men. He and Crocodile had one brief exchange, laced to the brim with mutual dislike, reluctantly tolerating one another for a handful of seconds before he had found his excuse to stalk away.

He didn’t seem fond of her parents. The only one he seemed to tolerate was Rose, and even that was done with the deepest sense of disinterest, something he extended to his son, as well. He almost hadn’t introduced them at all, only remembering they existed at the last moment – to her relief, however, he mentioned Rose being Helmeppo’s fiancé. Her mother had taken over immediately, noting that they were planning a proper wedding this time, with flowers and balloons and cake.

“Not that your wedding wasn’t wonderful,” Her mother had added at the last minute. “But it’ll be months before Captain Morgan is reassigned, so we have time to put something together.”

Being a good wife meant she got the opportunity to run, while her husband remained firmly ensnared by Doflamingo’s trap. When his glass ran dry, she snatched up the excuse, all but sprinting to get him another one.

“Rude,” She clucked her tongue at the swordsman. “I’m asking a favor as a friend, here.”

“We’re friends now, are we?”

“The closest you’ll ever get to having any, at least,” Silently, she prayed for the bartender to continue taking his sweet time. “I might even feel a little bad when you and Crocodile inevitably betray one another.”

He scoffed into the rim of his glass.

“It’s a long list of names, and it gets longer every time we meet, my lady,” His tone didn’t change, but he’d never called her that before – he was either putting on a show for the benefit of the man eavesdropping, or he was joking. “The least you could do is cover my travel expenses.”

“Most of them are here,” To her disappointment, a large glass, and accompanying bottle, were placed down in front of her. “Are you going to charge me per step?”

“Per centimeter,” He replied breezily. “Not to worry, I’ll send the invoice to your husband.”

She could only imagine the rumors their conversation would cause. The man who had been seated next to him had clearly been doing his best to listen, and looked utterly scandalized by their easy conversation. There would be all sorts of rumors throughout the week about her, she was sure – and hiring the best swordsman in the world to murder some of the party guests likely wasn’t even going to be the worst.

Her family wasn’t equipped to be at an event with royalty. She would barely claim that she was, even after months of All Sunday’s etiquette lessons, and they stood out like a blaring neon sign amongst the rest. Everything about them screamed new money, an easy target for someone looking to make a quick buck, a walking, talking, social faux pas in real time. Even at a distance, she could hear her mother, still going on entirely too loudly about the juvenile sea beast the fishermen had hauled to shore – how the village was going to have a feast, had the local captain not intervened and demanded it be released.

Helmeppo seemed a little more familiar with proper behavior. He moved and spoke with a great deal of self-importance, but he was also acutely aware that he stood even lower than his father amongst the socialites, who was already close to the bottom rung, as a Captain who hadn’t been deemed important enough to be stationed along the Grand Line. He’d clearly had some conversations with Rose, too, about what to do. Her already quiet sister had been trying, at least, to seem like a respectable young woman, though he had to quietly instruct her more than once.

He didn’t seem pleased to boss her around. She had worried, when he first started talking, that her sister had found herself tied to an insufferable brat who would delight in pushing her around, but that didn’t look like the case. As arrogant as he seemed, he spoke to Rose quietly, using his best manners – when his glass ran empty, he had leaned in to whisper for her to please get him another, because that was what everyone around them would expect of a proper wife, offering her a quiet thank you when she returned.

It was obvious he was utterly in love with her sister. He wanted the best for her, which was all she could really ask. He seemed like the sort to buy some absurdly large diamond, just to brag about it to his friends, but she’d gotten a good look at Rose’s ring, and it was tailored to her sister’s tastes – small and simple, an oval diamond of perfectly reasonable size on a plain golden band.

“Oh,” Her mother chimed as she returned to her seat, carefully juggling Crocodile’s glass and bottle, as well as a fresh glass of her own wine. “Your ring, let me see it.”

She made grabbing motions, unable to wait until her hand’s weren’t full. Meticulously setting everything down, she made it a specific point to ignore the request, instead pouring Crocodile’s whiskey before she held out her hand. The bottle almost went airborne when the excitement on her mother’s face drooped slightly, grasping her fingers just a little too roughly while investigating the jewelry.

“It’s nice,” Which clearly wasn’t what she was thinking. “A bit more…subtle, than I was expecting, though.”

The giant beside her closed his eyes before he could be seen rolling them out of his head. Her father, who didn’t smoke, had joined him in puffing on cigars, seated by his elbow. He was usually just as chatty as her mother, but he’d been unusually quiet, trying to disappear rather than draw attention to himself, visibly uncomfortable and focusing on Alder, who was happily snacking away now that he’d kicked his shoes off into the grass.

“Compared to the rest of your jewelry, I mean,” Her mother tried to save herself, realizing her misstep on her own. “The sapphires look lovely on you.”

Personally, she thought they were obnoxious. Not because they necessarily looked bad on her, or because the jewelry was garish, but simply because they stood out with their vibrancy. She much preferred the softer tones of moonstone and tiger’s eye, but being a little flashy was expected – she was a model for her husband’s wealth.

She almost slapped her mother’s hand, when she reached out to touch her necklace. It had a too large charm that sat against her sternum, just heavy enough to be a constant reminder of its presence, diamond and sapphire petals meant to look like a flower and vine, much like her smaller, and more tolerable, earrings, and the ring sitting on the middle finger of her other hand. Instead, she downed a barely polite sip of her wine.

People had no doubt noticed the tension.

It was probably a good thing. She didn’t strictly want to make her parents into social pariahs, but it was better than seeming close.

In the first place, she was far from a fan of them. As close as she had become with Crocodile, as pleasant as their marriage was, the continued lack of remorse on their part still felt like a knife to the heart. He could have been a cruel monster, inflicting all sorts of abuse against her, and her mother still seemed like she wouldn’t feel an ounce of regret, if it meant they had money to burn. Her father acted like he might feel regret, but his obedience to his wife wasn’t something she could overlook, either, and she didn’t doubt if she ran to him begging for help, he’d simply tell her there was nothing they could do, that she had to sit and accept it for the sake of the rest of the family.

It was a double edged sword, though, and it protected them at the same time. Crocodile was a man of power and means, and taking advantage of his wife’s family would be an easy way to get him to comply with whatever plot some of the nobles were surely concocting. It was for the best that no one saw them as a weakness to exploit – especially Doflamingo, who was still delighting in his vices on the sofa, swapping saliva with her almost doppleganger.

“We’ll be having the wedding just after the new year,” Rose took advantage of the quiet to speak from her other side. “Do you think you’ll be able to attend? I wasn’t sure where to send the invitation.”

“We can spare a few days to visit,” Crocodile replied for her, carefully orchestrating his reply for the benefit of other listening ears. “Send the invitation to Rain Dinners. My assistant will coordinate everything.”

Rose flinched at his dismissiveness, hurt in her eyes.

She couldn’t say anything, not then and there. She very much wanted to, but the table behind her kept stopping and starting to listen in, and she couldn’t afford for them to overhear. Going to the wedding had to seem like a favor, not something she desperately wanted to do, or surely that giant pink bastard would stomp all over it.

“That’s your new casino, isn’t it?” Helmeppo tried to shift the topic, squeezing her sister’s hand – he understood, a sort of knowing in his eyes that promised he’d explain to Rose later. “Captain Torte said it was very impressive.”

Torte wasn’t someone she knew well, but they had met. He’d caught her in the hallway on her way out of Smoker’s quarters enough times that they had fallen into a vague acquaintanceship, enough to nod at one another and occasionally exchange hellos. She hadn’t specifically seen him at Rain Dinners, but he had been on the list of guests Crocodile had invited to the grand opening. They weren’t close, either, but maintained a business relationship – which meant the Captain was one of his informants, she was sure.

“I heard we missed the grand opening,” Her mother cut in. “I thought you’d forgotten all about us when we didn’t get an invitation.”

“It’s a long journey,” Five weeks, without accounting for various stops for supplies or detours if the weather went south. “You would’ve had to close the shop for months to be there and here.”

Realistically, that hadn’t even occurred to her. Aside from the occasional call with Rose, she had actively put her family out of her mind, and she’d had absolutely no desire to invite them to be anywhere close to her. Crocodile didn’t care about them in the slightest, himself – he was willing to intervene if necessary for Rose’s sake, but he didn’t want or need her parents anywhere near him.

“Ah, that’s right,” How her mother hadn’t thought of that, she wasn’t sure. “It is a little inconvenient, isn’t it? Still, maybe we can visit after this week. I’d love to see Arabasta. We’ll be just in time for the Mataheb, won’t we?”

The celebration of the rainy season would happen the first week of November, starting a couple of days after they were due to arrive back. In smaller settlements, it meant making a daily religious offering, but in places like Rainbase and Alubarna, there would be massive festivals. The grandest of them would be held at the capitol city, with vendors lining the streets and participants traveling from all over the island to see what was on display or join them in plying their wares.

King Nefertari wasn’t expecting them to attend, but Crocodile intended to visit for at least a day, as part of keeping up his image as a man of the people. It was a complete lie, of course, but she also wasn’t going to refuse to go, if only to be able to see it in person. Rainbase would be holding their own, smaller festival over the course of the weekend, which Rain Dinners would, naturally, be participating in. The casino never closed, but its doors would be wide open, for people to participate in various raffles and give aways and to enjoy a feast of various exotic goods at a very reasonable price per head.

Trying to host her parents at the same time felt like a nightmare. Helmeppo and Rose were capable of entertaining themselves, but her parents would require constant attention. Her mother had never been big on the concept of privacy, and the idea of her even setting foot in the suite was reason enough to be filled with dread. She could already imagine it, her mother rooting through her closet, gathering new ideas for her next shopping spree – pilfering nice things from her jewelry box because family was always meant to share.

She didn’t think she had changed much since leaving for Arabasta, but she had to wonder if that was really true. For most of her life, she hadn’t been all that bothered by her mother’s behavior – they had next to nothing, so it only made sense, to always share with the rest of them. Her boisterousness had been endearing, rather than a bother, and her constant flights of fancy had just been a fact of life Lily herself never thought twice about.

She wondered if she had become selfish, snobby – or if she had always felt that way, but hadn’t bothered to worry about it because there was just nothing she could do about it. She still felt like herself, like the same person she had been when she was working the bar and wearing hand-sewn dresses of cheaply made fabric, but she was different, at the same time.

Or maybe it was the anger that was coloring her view.

Crocodile’s reply was non-committal, rumbling out something akin to a maybe, though far more articulate than that. A much greater concern was Doflamingo, who’d decided he had enough luxuriating now that the garden party had started in earnest. He was making his way through the crowd, greeting various people as he made a lap through the grass, and he was uncomfortably close to their table.

Mihawk glanced at her over his shoulder. For a split second, she almost thought he was really going to do it, and she was fully prepared to pay a surely obscene amount of beri to see him cut the giant in half, but instead, he bypassed the King of Dressrosa entirely. Carrying a bottle of red wine, he settled in the metal chair her sister had just abandoned in order to find a restroom, entirely unconcerned with the unusual looks from both the surrounding guests and her parents.

“Bored already, Hawkeye?” Crocodile drawled.

“Exceedingly,” The swordsman swirled his glass for a moment. “Though I’m sure I’ll find something entertaining soon enough.”

They glared at one another without any real heat. Helmeppo shrank into himself for a second, before shaking off the nerves, quietly observing every interaction while putting on an air of confidence.

“Mihawk,” He offered his hand to shake, which the Warlord immediately snubbed – he flinched, but he was good, immediately shrugging it off. “A pleasure to meet you. Are you a friend of my eminent sister-in-law?”

“It appears I am.”

She was confident, this time, that he was joking. He had likely only joined them in order to get a front row view if she lost it – and, maybe, to serve as a quiet secondary line of defense, occupying the seat beside her before Doflamingo could take it. Not for her benefit, of course, but because a fight between him and Crocodile might destroy the bar.

Crocodile was level and calm in most things, but he did not like it in the slightest when someone got too close to her. He tolerated Sunday, despite being aware of her sexual orientation, getting handsy, but she was the only one allowed to get that close, and it surely wasn’t because he trusted her. He seemed to accept Mihawk being in her proximity, too, but there was no question he would go off if Doflamingo got near enough to touch.

“Aster,” Doflamingo’s large hands settled on the back of her parents seats. “Florian. Glad to see you made it. Enjoying the party so far?”

“It’s lovely, Doffy.”

Mihawk took her glass before she could fling her drink at them. She hadn’t noticed the bottle of white wine he’d brought with him in addition to his own, until he was pouring her more to drink, and she suspected he’d stolen it and hidden it in his overcoat. He liked to pretend he was above that sort of thing, but doing inventory after his raid on the wine cellar, they’d ended up missing three bottles of his favorite vintage.

Crocodile’s chest was vibrating again, growling too lowly for anyone to hear, as he grabbed for another cigar. While his case was on the table, Doflamingo reached down, pilfering one for himself while she fished the lighter out of Crocodile’s coat pocket. The casino mogul took the opportunity to move a little closer, leaning in on the auspices of lighting his smoke without ever fully settling back.

“Mind giving me a light, reina?”

Doflamingo leaned in entirely too close, that miserable grin still wide across his face. Every muscle in Crocodile tensed, and she silently scrambled for a resolution, both men waiting on a response. Cautiously – and only because it was the polite thing to do, as far as the rest of the party was concerned – she maneuvered the lighter towards him before flicking it to life.

She had done it often enough to know exactly where to hold it, but he wasn’t satisfied, a massive hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist. He pulled on it, almost to the point of over extension, holding entirely too firmly for her to get loose.

Her instinct was to phase her arm out of his grasp, but before she could, it possessed her what a terrible idea that would be. They had all agreed to keep her Devil Fruit powers securely under wraps for a variety of reason, but especially because of Captain Cross’ reputation. Crocodile’s status as a warlord would technically protect her from the Marines, but if they knew that she had his abilities at her disposal, after all the trouble he had caused during his life, there was no question they’d try to find some way to recover her allegiance, or find an excuse to put her in sea stone cuffs.

It served her best as a secret, as a trump card to be used only in the most extreme circumstances.

That, and Doflamingo didn’t need the satisfaction. As far as he needed to be concerned, the fruit was still sitting in a locked chest somewhere in Rain Dinners. Why he had really sent it to her was still a mystery, and until his motivations were sorted, it was best to not let him know that she had used it.

After an entirely too long second, he let go, but not before dragging his fingers across the back of her hand. His brow twitched again as they coasted over her ring, like its very presence on her hand offended him, though that grin didn’t so much as flicker. She wanted to burn the skin off – his hands were smooth and meticulously clean, but she couldn’t help but feel slimy. Instead, she tucked the lighter back into Crocodile’s coat pocket, taking a brief moment to wipe her hand on the fur before she pulled it back.

“Thanks, beautiful.”

Across the table, her mother giggled, swooning. Her father had gone pale, focusing all of his energy on her little brother, pushing him into a small tantrum by taking away his makeshift playset of napkins and silverware just to have an excuse to be preoccupied with anything else but what was happening. Rose and Helmeppo shared a look, silently communicating with their eyes before he laid a comforting hand on her shoulders, gently pulling her closer to whisper to one another. Even Mihawk cut his golden eyes at the giant, not quite glowering, but the air around him was thick with annoyance – likely not on her behalf, but because his space had been encroached upon during Doflamingo’s little display.

Crocodile’s cold eyes were firmly on the interloper. His expression was neutral as ever, but he was enraged, watching him like a predator about to strike. A true crocodile, ready to spring out of the water and snap its jaws around the bird that had been taunting it all day.

He only lingered for a little longer, chatting with her mother about the shoes she had sent. One of his crew, someone by the name of Baby 5, apparently loved them. Sparing her one last glance, Doflamingo moved along to the next table, warmly greeting the party goers. Subtly, Mihawk pushed her glass towards her as he reached for his own, and she only just managed not to chug the entirety of the contents.

It was just as well the lighter wasn’t in her hand anymore, or she’d have set his coat on fire while his back was turned.

She was ready to collapse by the time they were able to actually leave for their rooms. Crocodile hadn’t wanted to linger a second longer than necessary, dismissing them both just after the light evening meal was finished. He didn’t offer any excuses, except that he intended to retire for the night, ignoring her mother complaining that it was still early.

He collapsed in a heap the moment the door was locked, flopping down in one of the armchairs in the middle of the room. Normally, he would drag her with him, but he clearly wanted some space, gripping his damaged knee when he thought she wasn’t looking. There was a small fridge in the room, preemptively stocked with all sorts of drinks, and rooting around inside, she found a tiny freezer pocket with an ice tray inside. Wrapping some of the cubes in a spare undershirt she brought to sleep in, she passed him the makeshift ice pack without a word.

“Thank you.”

Sitting down always made his knee hurt worse. She would have thought putting weight on it was the real problem, but it had a tendency to lock up and even spasm, if he left it bent too long.

He had told her about what happened, once, during one of the rare times he was willing to talk about himself. He’d been shot by a musket when he was in his teens, while serving aboard some other pirate’s crew during a raid. It hadn’t been crippling, but some of the buckshot had been left in the wound for years, until he’d gotten his Devil Fruit and been able to remove it himself. The bone had been worn down in spots, constantly grinding against the metal, and the muscle had healed around the punctures, never quite returning to its proper state.

It always hurt, to some degree, but usually it was a low throb he could readily ignore. His missing hand bothered him far more, not nearly as painful but far more inconvenient. He often experienced ghost sensations, as if the hand was still there despite having lost it many years ago, and sometimes, even had phantom pains in the missing appendage. Wearing a prosthetic helped, especially one as heavy and bulky as the one he always wore – it didn’t much matter if he had a hand or not, when he had to mind the hook instead. It might have been easier had it been his right hand, rather than his dominant left, but it was difficult to resist the instinct to reach for something with the hand he’d used for everything for more than twenty years.

She still didn’t know how he lost it. He’d said the former was the reason he generally kept clear of the New World half of the Grand Line, admitting only that he’d bitten off more than he could chew when he was young and arrogant. The facial scar had happened around the same time, though in a separate incident – a fight with a fledgling bounty hunter by the name Daz Bones while he was still recovering, just before he had gotten his powers.

“Think a hot bath will help?”

“No.”

He hooked his claw around her wrist before she could walk away. Gently, he pulled it closer, pressing her fingers to his lips, silently apologizing for his sharp tone.

“There’s a bench in the shower,” She offered. “If that’s better.”

“Barely,” He grunted as he shifted his leg. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Letting him deal with his pain in private, she made her way to the bathroom. After making absolutely sure the blinds were down – it would be hard to peep into a room so far up, but she trusted nothing where Doflamingo was concerned – she stripped down and turned on the shower, letting it get hot while she wiped off her makeup.

She had just wet her hair when the door clicked open. Crocodile, half stripped already, visibly limped around on the other side of the glass. The shower was large, but the two of them barely fit together, and she had to press into the corner for him to slide around her to the bench. He stretched out, rubbing his scarred knee with his fingers as he settled under the deluge from the various shower heads, slowly starting to relax in the steam.

The blunt end of his arm found her hip. It had been odd, at first, to feel his wrist bones and muscles working beneath the skin, but it was something she had largely gotten used to. Once he was confident that she was comfortable being touched, he seemed to always want to, and his arm looped around her hip, tugging her to stand between his knees. His forehead pressed into her shoulder, sighing out his stress as his wrist coasted over her spine. She found the knot that eternally existed just beyond his neck, from the weight of his prosthetic, digging in with the tips of her fingers to his audible contentment.

Often, he didn’t actually lay down in bed. No matter how exhausted he was, he had a difficult time actually settling in to sleep – the moment he laid down, the insomnia hit, and he would roll around for hours trying to get some rest. He had developed a routine that helped, at least a little, sitting up against the headboard while puffing on his last cigar of the day while trying to get his own mind to quiet.

She sprawled out next to him, a leg thrown over his thigh as she tried to get comfortable on the too soft mattress. Just as she was starting to settle in, she became acutely aware of some distant sound, unpleasant and high pitched. A bed frame, she realized belatedly – a bedframe in the room above them was creaking in an unquestionable rhythm, and if she stilled her own breathing, she could just barely hear a woman moaning.

“Please tell me that isn’t who I think it is.”

“Unfortunately,” Crocodile huffed. “It is.”

“He did this on purpose, didn’t he?”

“Most likely,” He tipped his head back, blowing a great plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Try to ignore it. It’ll be hours before he stops.”

“Got a lot of experience with his bedroom habits?”

His cold eyes flicked down at her, one long finger flicking her hip just hard enough to sting.

“Not directly,” His damaged arm, the one he kept nearest to her every night, drew her thigh up a little higher. “But he’s never been shy. If anything, he likes the attention.”

“Want to have an obnoxious sex competition? We can pop the windows open, make a whole thing out of it.”

It was a warning slap to her butt, this time, not hard enough to hurt – especially not as he did it with his amputated limb.

“I’m just saying,” She snickered. “I’ve faked it enough to know what real moans sound like, and that isn’t it.”

“Not with me, I’d hope.”

“That’s my point,” Finally, for the first time that day, she managed to get him to smirk. “Be doing a lot of women a favor if he learned what it actually sounded like.”

“The last thing I need,” He replied breezily, shifting deeper into the pillows. “Is for him to be dreaming of the noises you make. I’m the only one who gets to hear that anymore.”

Chapter Text

When Doflamingo said pool party on the invitation, what he actually meant was a beach bash.

Half the guests opted to remain at the hotel. She could just barely see the courtyard from the window, and plenty of bodies had already made their way out despite the hour, milling around amongst one another. There were a few women dressed for the beach, but they artfully dodged around the pool, reclining in sun loungers and chatting amongst themselves. It was something the rich did – getting wet would ruin their aesthetic, which was almost worse than death.

Crocodile was among those who had remained at the resort. He outright refused to be caught dead in anything less than his suits, which were far from appropriate for a day spent laying in the sand and sun, but of greater importance was finally having the opportunity to mingle with some of the other guests. There were several he already had a passing association with, through his more legitimate business endeavors, and others still he was hoping to lure into his web.

It was best she not be with him. There were plenty of men who thought their various dealings weren’t a woman’s business, and more who would be reluctant to talk about such things in the presence of someone who didn’t have the security that came with the title of Warlord. Almost any illegal activity he could get up to was silently sanctioned by the government, turning a blind eye in order to keep him compliant with their occasional demands.

Going to the beach without him was a daunting idea, but she had precious little choice. Her mother had figured out what room was theirs, likely by badgering one of the poor desk workers all morning, and had come knocking before either of them were properly dressed.

Her excuse was that she wanted to coordinate – she’d brought several swimsuits, and wanted them to all match, as much as they possibly could, like they were on some absurd family holiday preparing for photos. In reality, though, Lily was sure she just wanted to snoop. Crocodile had dismissed himself to the bathroom once he was sure who was at the door, opting to shower rather than deal with the interaction while still in nothing but sweat pants, leaving her to handle it alone.

Only by bodily standing in the doorway, gripping the wood tightly in her fist, did she manage to avoid having their trunks dug through. Her mother tried to gently push her way in no less than three times, always finding an excuse to continue the conversation after being roundly dismissed, and it had ended up falling to Rose to get her to leave.

Her sister still looked out of sorts. Her eyes were ringed in a faint shade of red, making it obvious that she’d been crying the night prior – over what, specifically, Lily wasn’t sure, but she hoped Helmeppo had followed through on justifying Crocodile’s dismissiveness the day before. When her mother finally toddled off, less than impressed by her husband’s apparent searching for her, the two of them had stood awkwardly in the hallway, staring one another down.

After a minute, she had broken, and invited Rose into the room for a few minutes. She had obliged with her demands that she sit at the vanity, and feeling suddenly grateful to All Sunday, she started carefully applying concealer to hide the redness of her eyes and nose.

“Never let these people see you cry.”

It was advice Sunday always impressed upon her, and it had been her turn to share it with her sister.

“I didn’t want to come,” Rose admitted, after a long moment of silence. “Mom insisted. I think she was hoping Doflamingo would see me and change his mind.”

Thankfully, that hadn’t happened – yet, at the very least. He had largely ignored her, in fact, unconcerned with her or her fiancé, except a passing greeting. There was no doubt that his focus was still firmly on Lily, which was both a blessing and a curse.

“I doubt it,” Rose sighed, shuddering with relief. “But to be safe, stay away from him. Don’t give him any extra attention, and stay close to Helmeppo.”

The shower cut off, and she could hear Crocodile fussing around, doing a lot of nothing except killing time. She took her sister’s face in her hands, the same way All Sunday liked to do to her, appraising her work – it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t obvious, either, and would have to do.

“You need to act like we aren’t close,” She warned, as softly as she could. “If he thinks for a second that hurting you will get him to me, then he’ll do it in a heartbeat. I can’t act like I care about you, or it’ll put you right in the line of fire, understand?”

Rose nodded, despite her obvious confusion. She tapped her face lightly, unsure how well her message would be understood, but hoping it was enough. Rose wandered out, starting thoughtfully at the carpet that lined the hall, and as she clicked the door shut behind her, Crocodile strutted out, in towel draped over his wet hair and nothing else. She had already pulled out his clothes for the day, leaving them hanging off the side of the bed canopy after shaking out the wrinkles.

It matched her swimsuit cover up, in the same way that his vest had matched her dress the day prior. The swimsuit itself she had to buy, a simple strapless top with a rose in the center and high-waisted bottoms, in a paler pink than the one Doflamingo preferred. Though she wouldn’t mind wearing it in other circumstances, she had put together a cover up, a half-sheer pareo with tropical leaves that matched the tone of the green vest he liked so much.

She was in the midst of buttoning his shirt – he could do it himself, but without two hands, it was an unnecessarily tedious process – when there was another knock on the door.

“It’s Hawkeye,” Crocodile stared down at her, holding onto her hip. “He’ll be keeping an eye on you for me.”

“How much did he charge to babysit?”

“Nothing,” He shrugged the vest on, leaving her to manage it as he worked the internal straps of his hook around his wrist. “He’s bored, and for some reason, he seems to like you.”

“Don’t be an ass. I’m a likeable woman.”

“You do have a certain charm,” He plucked at her top with his hook, pulling it up just the slightest bit. “Like a raccoon digging through the garbage.”

Satisfied he was dressed enough, with the exception of his oxfords – why he insisted on wearing shoes that laced up when he could get ones with buckles, she’d never know – she moved back towards the door. Mihawk didn’t wait for a greeting, instead stalking into the room without so much as a nod, settling huffily on one of the armchairs while appraising the space.

“I almost feel disrespected,” He noted as she propped Crocodile’s foot up on her bent knee, working the laces far more easily than he could. “I certainly didn’t have anyone show up to help me dress this morning.”

“You,” She hissed. “Have all ten fingers. But it’s never too late to change that.”

The swordsman huffed, in that way he always seemed to when he found something funny, rather than actually dignify her with a laugh.

“Promises, promises,” He chimed, fingers wrapped elegantly around the handle of a World’s Best Grandma mug.

“You should try getting married, Hawkeye,” Crocodile barbed back – he was moving easier, at least, as he swapped one foot for the other. “If you’re so eager for a woman’s attention.”

“If all women are like yours,” He sighed. “I think I’d rather refrain. I have some rather expensive rugs, and I’d hate to spend my days washing out the urine after she marks her territory.”

“Watch it, or I’ll pee on you right now,” He scoffed again. “I could use an attack dog.”

“I hope you didn’t pay too much for this one, Crocodile. If you wanted a mangy stray, I could have gotten you one for free.”

They didn’t walk too closely. It was proper form to walk with her arm in his elbow, as he was technically her escort, and though he allowed it, they both maintained as much physical distance as possible. The absence of any of her family making a scene of themselves in the lobby implied that they’d already gone ahead, to her infinite relief.

It was one thing, for the rest of the guests to see her with Mihawk. There might be a little bit of chatter about the potential for an affair, but it wasn’t some grand faux pas, either. Women in higher social circles were expected to have an escort, a chaperone of a sort, for any event they attended – if their husband wasn’t available, then a friend or associate was a perfectly reasonable substitute.

It was another entirely to have to deal with her mother at the same time. Mihawk was more even keeled than even Crocodile, and he wouldn’t have any issue maintaining his decorum, but she had no desire to listen to the inevitable chatter about their supposed closeness. Even if she didn’t make a marriage offer on the spot, she could already hear the machinations that would be going on in her mind at the very idea of having access to not just one or two Warlords, but three.

They splintered apart almost the moment they hit the sand.

A wooden bar had been put up along the edge of the private beach, and Mihawk – still carrying his stolen mug – made a direct line for it. She spotted Rose and Helmeppo in the water, splashing one another and seemingly having a nice time, despite how the morning had started. Her parents had bunkered down beneath an umbrella, her mother lounging on a towel while her father oversaw Alder’s sand construction project. A variety of other faces were strewn about, most of them doing the same as her mother, spread out on sun loungers or blankets or towels as they bathed in the heat.

She found an empty spot not too far from her parents, two empty wicker loungers in the comfortable shade of a massive umbrella. With a drink and a book in hand, she was fully prepared to tolerate hours of mind-numbing boredom while lounging in the shade.

The ice in her drink had melted when the chair beside her creaked. She almost thought it was Mihawk, but he had seemingly become integral for the bar’s structure, still stuck in his seat like someone had bolted him down. Her next thought was that it was one of her parents, but as she peeled her eyes away from her book, she found them exactly where she’d left them – her father, asleep in the shade, her mother basking in the sun, while Helmeppo and Rose entertained Alder in the shallows.

It was Doflamingo.

He was alone, this time, though that somehow felt worse. A couple of the crew members she’d seen the day before were strewn about – the one with the long hair was pestering Mihawk, who was glowering at him in return, and the heavy-set one with the snot was actively focused on one of the few single women who’d been invited, much to her visceral displeasure.

He was grinning, clearly content to have found his opening to get close. Entirely too large for the lounger, his legs hung over the edge, toes digging into the sand as he laced his hands behind his head. Her instinct was to grab for her drink, to give herself an excuse not to talk, before it possessed her that he’d been loitering around for who knew how long. She didn’t think he’d gotten desperate to the point of poisoning her, but drugging her hardly seemed outside of his list of proclivities.

He noticed her hesitation to grab it, and let out a sharp whistle. One of the attendants at the bar immediately perked up, as did most of the guests, nodding hurriedly as he pointed at her glass of melted fruit and rum. Mihawk gave them a long look over, before cutting his eyes towards the bartender, watching carefully as he started to prepare a fresh one.

“Thank you.”

Ignoring him entirely would just make him angry. Engaging with him would only fuel the problem, but it was a manageable issue, compared to what he was capable of if she did too much damage to his fragile ego.

“It’s nothing, vida mia,” He shimmied as if to get comfortable. “For people like you and me, this is how it should be. Don’t tell me old Croccy doesn’t have people waiting on you hand and foot?”

“I’m well taken care of.”

Mihawk nodded slightly as the drink was delivered. There was always the chance he’d let her be drugged for the sake of an entertaining show, but she resolved to trust that he was good to his word.

“I noticed,” Doflamingo chuckled, and the tip of one of his fingers tapped against her earring. “I’m sure he’s been spoiling you rotten, what with all the pretty jewelry you were wearing yesterday.”

“My husband likes to buy me nice things.”

He giggled again, more lowly this time.

“If I knew that was all it would take to win you over,” His voice dropped an octave, sultry and threatening in equal measure. “I would’ve sent you a chest full of jewels.”

“I’m not that easy to buy.”

“Don’t I know it,” He sighed, stretching out once more – putting his crotch, which was hidden behind a barely decent swimsuit, on full display. “I spent weeks – months – winning your mother over before she would even consider my offer. My baby girl has a mind of her own, you’ll have to try a lot harder than that if you want her to give you the time of day.”

The last sentence came out through his nose as he put on a high, nasally voice that sounded nothing like her mother. He huffed out a wry laugh, a vein on his forehead twitching in barely concealed agitation.

“Then the old man comes along, and a couple hours later,” He snapped his fingers loudly again. “You’re gone. Sold off to a man twice your age, off to that rathole of an island and that shitty casino he’s so damn proud of.”

“Whatever you spent, I hope it wasn’t too much,” The bitterness came tumbling out before she could stop it. “I didn’t see any of it.”

“No?” He didn’t seem all that surprised. “I sent you all kinds of gifts. Flowers and jewelry and the best dresses on the entire island. Lots of pretty things for my pretty thing. Sounds like mommy dearest got a little greedy.”

For a split second, she worried she may have made a terrible mistake. She disliked her mother, but that didn’t equate to wanting her hurt, not in all the ways Doflamingo might have done. It was one thing, to cut their financial support – something Crocodile intended to do with the new year, once there would be no legal recourse for them to attempt to get her back – and leave them as destitute as they had been before, but she hardly wanted either of her parents dead.

Instead, the Warlord just laughed. He shimmied his shoulders, sinking deeper into the cushion, with his dangerous fingers tucked tightly behind his skull. His strings, Crocodile had told her, were difficult to see, but not invisible, and she didn’t see any of them reflecting in the harsh light of the sun.

“Should have never trusted that idiot Bellamy,” He resolved. “You know what they say, if you want something done right…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Despite her frustration, she couldn’t leave the target on her mother’s back. “I wasn’t exactly looking to settle down with anyone.”

“Poor baby,” He cooed mockingly. “Forced to marry that grumpy old lizard when you were just trying to live your best life. He’s trying to turn you into an obedient little housewife, isn’t he?”

He was off on another diatribe again, unconcerned with any input she may have had.

“It’s not too late, mami,” He grinned. “I wouldn’t tie you down like that. We could have some real fun together.”

“Flattering offer, but that’s not necessary,” His smile grew even wider – he likely expected the answer. “Where did your dates get off to, anyway? Wore them out last night?”

That made him laugh in earnest, his entire body shaking with delight, and he stomped his foot into the sand. People were looking at them again, most in curiosity, some with active concern.

“Of course,” He tittered. “Like what you heard?”

“I certainly heard it. Along with half the hotel, I’m sure.”

She didn’t like when he laughed. It was always a little bit of a treat, when she managed to get Crocodile to break, that made her heart beat the slightest bit faster. With Doflamingo, it sent chills down her spine. It was so fake, and at the same time, entirely too intense, fanning the flames of his delusion with the idea that they could have a pleasant conversation.

“And yet, I don’t think I heard a peep from the two of you,” She actively did not want to be having this conversation. “Croccy having a hard time keeping it up? Or is he just not that good?”

“I’m surprised you can hear anything after all that caterwauling,” His grin grew broader as he stared at her through his red lenses. “Besides, I’m the one who has a hard time keeping up with him. Stamina comes with age.”

Doflamingo seemed grossly delighted by the conversation, cackling at her response. Hearing a shriek, she turned to look at the water – everything was still fine, but Helmeppo had thrown Rose over his shoulder and dropped them both into the waves. Her parents were still giving her an unusually wide berth, focusing on Alder, who had started searching for sea monsters, collecting shells in his bucket.

“I’m sure you heard about your mother’s offer.”

“She’s mentioned it.”

She kept her tone as even as she could. He still cocked his eyebrows, but it wasn’t as if it were some great secret that she was annoyed by the idea of arranged marriages. She had already outright admitted that she hadn’t particularly wanted to marry anyone, and it wasn’t as if it would be unreasonable that she didn’t want that for her sister, regardless of their relationship.

“No need to be jealous, mami,” His tongue poked between his teeth. “You’re the only woman in the world who could be my queen.”

“You sound awfully certain,” She curled up a little, feeling her feet grow just a little too hot as the sun consumed more and more of her precious shade. “We never even met, before yesterday.”

“Your husband isn’t the only man who knows what he wants,” He hadn’t made any motions for it, but a large, red-pink drink was suddenly in his hand, replacing the empty glass he had swaggered up with. “Besides, it isn’t like I just pulled a name out of a hat. We did meet once before, remember?”

She did. They hadn’t spoken, though, and she’d hardly call it a meeting. He had barely squeezed his way through the door of the shop, complaining so loudly about the damage that had been done to his shoe by the uneven path that it had echoed upstairs and into the storage room. Her father had been quick to mollify him, promising that he could fix it so well that it would be better than when he’d bought them, offering a temporary replacement set to tide him over. She’d only come out of the back long enough to bring her father the replacement shoes – a pair he’d originally made for Aokiji, who had been deployed before he could pick them up.

They hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t even looked at him for longer than a second, just a brief glance to see who was making a scene in the middle of their otherwise quiet shop. It had seemed like he hadn’t even noticed her, loudly fussing at his snot-nosed companion about how badly he wished he could destroy their silly little village, but it wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause with the Marines.

“I knew,” He continued, the manic smile slipping from his face in favor of one that betrayed a terrible darkness just beneath the surface. “Right then, right there. A perfect flower, growing even in that dump of a village. I had to get you out of there, take you somewhere you could really bloom, the way you were always meant to. With me.”

Abject fear churned in her stomach. It was hard to breathe, and she couldn’t think, all while her mind rushed around in a flurry of noise. Even the hand wrapped around her icy glass started to sweat. His presence was heavy, oppressive, the light sea breeze weighed down beneath the weight of his existence.

“You’ll realize it too,” His teeth flashed, an animal baring its fangs at its prey. “Eventually. That bastard can’t keep you away from me forever.”

“Doflamingo.”

She wasn’t entirely sure when Mihawk had moved. He had been at the bar, actively ignoring what she realized, now, was a thinly veiled attempt to keep him distracted, but suddenly, he was beside her, frowning at the other Warlord.

“How’s it going, Hawkeyes?”

It was nothing to him, to swap back to the easy, boisterous veneer of a friendly, if arrogant, man.

“Same as always,” The swordsman drawled. “I’m afraid I need to borrow the little rabbit.”

“Oh?” He cackled. “But we were just starting to have fun.”

“We have reservations for lunch at the winery,” Mihawk wasn’t at all ashamed to roll his eyes. “And I won’t be late.”

“Trying to put the moves on the old timer’s woman?” Doflamingo bounced as he laughed, like he’d just been told the most amazing joke in the world. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Someone has to teach her to appreciate a proper vintage,” If she hadn’t moved when she did, she was sure he would have dragged her up by the arm. “I’ve met monkeys with better taste.”

Ignoring their posturing, she gathered her things, though there wasn’t much to collect. She shoved her book into her bag, trying not to seem too hurried as she pulled it onto her shoulder and crammed her toes into her sandals.

“Maybe I should join you,” The massive man behind her teased. “It’s not every day someone gets a lesson in wine from a connoisseur like yourself.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a reservation for two,” Mihawk pulled her up, neatly tucking her hand into his elbow. “Perhaps another time.”

Halfway up the street, she finally felt like she could breathe again. With the relief of being able to catch her breath, however, came a wave of crippling nausea. Unable to hold back her heaving, she abandoned Mihawk in favor of the nearest alley, where she could hide behind a few trash cans as the entire contents of her stomach came bubbling back up. Mihawk’s boots clicked on the stone behind her as liquor and juice and bile came pouring out of her mouth.

He gave her the most uncomfortable pat on the shoulders she had ever experienced, a brief, stiff pat of his palm directly between her shoulder blades.

“I’m surprised you managed to stay awake.”

“Did you let him,” Another heave interrupted her. “Drug me?”

“Of course not,” He huffed. “I’m not a savage like that cretin and his followers. Your doting husband hasn’t told you about haki, has he?”

She aggressively spat out the last of the bile that had scorched her tongue.

“No.”

“Naturally,” The reply was accompanied by another oddly vivacious roll of his eyes. “Come along. It seems wine isn’t the only thing you need to be educated on.”

Chapter Text

It was Crocodile’s turn to contemplate murder.

Unlike his wife, it wasn’t a joke. He had every intention of stalking down to the beach and murdering Doflamingo then and there, when Mihawk told him what had occurred. The swordsman, despite constantly declaring his disinterest, might have even joined him.

Doflamingo had used Conqueror’s Haki on his wife. It had only been a small burst, likely outside of his control, but the fact that it had happened at all was enough for him to decide enacting a violent death was the only appropriate response. Untrained as she was, even that little flicker of Doflamingo’s will could have easily been more than enough to cause her days of distress, to say nothing of what he could have done to her, while she was stuck in that fog of confusion and fear.

“She’s fine,” Mihawk drawled from his armchair. “A little drunk, but otherwise perfectly unharmed.”

When he’d returned to the hotel room, the swordsman and his wife were already there. Mihawk had politely waited outside the actual room, contemplating his glass of wine, while inside, he could hear Lily stumbling her way to the shower, giggling and talking to herself when she banged her hip off the counter. Acutely aware the swordsman had something on his mind – something he was certain he wasn’t going to like – he allowed him into the room, where he’d easily settled on the sofa before making his declaration.

“He shouldn’t have been that close to begin with.”

He could understand, logically, why Mihawk hadn’t immediately intervened. There was no way to do it without making a scene, and more importantly, it had been an effort to gather information on Crocodile’s behalf. Even from the bar, his observation Haki enabled him to listen in on what was being said, so he’d allowed the interaction to go on, until Doflamingo’s Haki had flared to life.

They were correct, to believe Doflamingo was obsessed. Precisely why remained a mystery, but he’d given more than a few hints.

The once-Celestial Dragon thought the world itself was beneath him. Even if they allowed him to regain the status that Homming had surrendered, it would hardly be enough. Lily, the daughter of a cobbler barely able to afford his home, ought to have been so negligible to him that she didn’t even register as existing. At the absolute most, even if he found her to be the most attractive woman in the world, he would never think of her as any better than the whores that flocked to his side.

Crocodile himself had looked over Lily’s history, when she had first gotten his interest. It had turned up nothing of interest – no distant ancestors of great renown, or strange happenings. She had seemed perfectly, utterly normal, but there was clearly something that he had missed. He’d assumed, at the time, that the woman who had violently smacked around two of his Baroque Works billions had been the daughter of a Marine, perhaps, and he’d simply been curious about her potential as an asset.

It had been a thorough background check, but there had clearly been something that someone missed – something Doflamingo had, somehow, figured out first.

He doubted Lily herself would have any answers. She was a terrible liar, and her fear of Doflamingo was genuine – he was more than familiar with her terror, after having it directed at him for weeks, and it wasn’t something that she could fake.

“I suspect,” Mihawk continued. “Her mother may have an explanation. Doflamingo seems to be keeping her close, even now. I can’t imagine he’d put up with the harpy this long if there wasn’t some benefit to him.”

Crocodile had already come to the same conclusion.

When he’d decided he wanted to court Lily, he hadn’t intended for her parents to be involved in the slightest. He’d gone into the store looking for her, and had found Florian, instead, who’d immediately become suspicious why a Warlord would be asking after his daughter. He had been the one to tell him Doflamingo had already laid a claim – something he’d clearly been less than pleased about, and when pressed, he had admitted that he didn’t approve. Lily would have no shortage of riches, and being a queen of an entire kingdom was far more than any of them could have ever hoped for her, but he was worried.

The things he’d heard about the man hadn’t exactly endeared him to his potential new son-in-law. He had been quietly terrified for his oldest daughter’s safety, and it was, admittedly, that fear that Crocodile had abused to get his way, instead.

His interest in Lily was genuine, but marriage had been a faraway concept he wasn’t especially invested in, preferring to test the waters and let things develop or fizzle away naturally. It had been the only way, however, to get her for himself. His reputation was far better than the overgrown bird’s – he was already the Hero of Arabasta, hailed for saving them from a considerable invasion that even their own army had struggled to stand against, and known to the general public as a level-headed businessman, rather than an egotistical man-child constantly consumed by his vices.

He had made himself into the clear choice, in Florian’s eyes. He would treat Lily well – it wouldn’t necessarily be a marriage of love, but one that would be stable and comfortable. She would be safe and well cared for, treated like a person rather than an object to be abused and admired.

It had been the cause of a massive argument between him and Aster, as Crocodile understood it. She was enraptured with the idea of her daughter being made into a queen, and all the other magical things Doflamingo had promised them. A place in his kingdom, where their business could flourish, if they even bothered to work at all, because of course he’d take care of his precious wife’s family like they were his own, oblivious to the fact that his brother and father were dead at his hands. They had already promised her to Doflamingo, and he had already spent so much time and energy and beri on her, it was clearly love at first sight, and it wasn’t fair to rip that away just because Crocodile had come along too little too late.

How he’d convinced Aster, Crocodile still had no idea, but he had. It seemed like it may have been the one time he stood firm against his wife and her fantastical ideas, but regardless of how it happened, in the end, the mogul had won. Florian had insisted that the marriage happen as soon as humanly possible, admitting over drinks that he feared what Doflamingo may do in retaliation. The sooner Crocodile got her away from Gureirokku, the better, and while he hadn’t been entirely pleased, in the end, Florian had been resolute that he was making the right decision.

Aster hadn’t been nearly as pleased with the arrangement as she pretended to be.

She put on a good show for Lily, but she hadn’t been able to hide it nearly as well during their few private conversations. She absolutely loathed the fact that her plans had been ruined by his interloping in their lives, and she made no secret of it. Doflamingo was royalty, had the blood of the Celestial Dragons, someone who’d clawed his way out of the mistakes his father made in order to regain what he should have had the entire time. Crocodile, on the other hand, was no better than any other “old pervert” on the street, a worthless pirate who’d managed to get lucky enough to be granted his station, eager to get his hands on some poor, uneducated young woman to pop out a few children before he exchanged her for a newer model and left her with nothing.

He was far more pleased with his marriage than he ever anticipated. He had anticipated finding some sort of mutual tolerance, at best, especially after how resistant she had been at first, but after she had warmed to him, he found himself far more fond of her than he expected. She was a clever woman, far more so than she’d ever give herself credit for, and he appreciated her attitude far more than it had ever annoyed him. He found he particularly enjoyed her attention, in a way he hadn’t with any of his past partners, in ways he’d never admit out loud.

He resolved he’d have to find an opportunity to needle the information out of Florian. He wasn’t as confident that her father knew whatever secret his wife was keeping, but he was the far softer target. Even if he didn’t know in the moment, putting a bug in his ear about it would get Crocodile the information he wanted, eventually.

He stood up, resolving to invite his father in law – a hilarious concept, given the man was only a handful of years his senior – for drinks at the bar, and Mihawk clicked his tongue.

“My babysitting duties,” The swordsman stated. “End when it comes to managing your wife while she showers. As fun as I’m sure it would be, fighting with you isn’t at the top of my to do list today.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“A little drunk,” As if to confirm his claim, there was a massive clatter of bottles toppling to the tile floor, followed by her giggling. “May be an understatement.”

“Trying to pry secrets out of my wife by plying her with drinks, Hawkeye?”

“So quick to assume,” The other man tutted. “After I so kindly rescued your little damsel from Doflamingo, we spent the afternoon at a winery. Someone needs to teach her to appreciate a good drink, and it certainly won’t be you. How you can stand that swill, I’ll never understand.”

He didn’t trust Mihawk, exactly. It was true that the two of them were more amiable with one another than any of the other Warlords, but there was no proper allegiance between them, either. He did know, however, that Mihawk absolutely loathed their fellow Warlord, and getting beneath his skin was something he’d never turn down the opportunity to do.

“I’ll leave you to deal with that,” The swordsman resolved, waving his hand towards the bathroom door, smoothly making his way towards the exit. “I have no desire to watch the two of you swoon over one another.”

With him gone, Crocodile ensured the doors were locked. It was hardly secure, but he couldn’t trust that someone – likely one of his in laws – would barge in, otherwise.

Sighing out his frustration, something that never worked, he decided that Mihawk was right, and he ought to at least check his wife hadn’t managed to kill herself on the slick tile. He wasn’t nearly ready to retire for the night, but he stripped out of his outermost layers, toeing of his shoes and leaving his vest neatly draped over the back of one of the chairs. The button down beneath it he cared far less about, pushing up his sleeves and, at the last second, resolving to take off his socks as well.

The bathroom was full of a disturbing amount of steam. He flicked the fan on as he eyed the glass wall of the shower, frosted just enough he couldn’t quite see what his wife was up to. She was chittering to herself, singing something off tune and badly out of key under her breath, and the entire room was filled with the oppressive scent of oranges from that soap she liked so much. He had to pop the window before he could even contemplate giving her his attention – he liked the smell, himself, but it was so thick his nose was burning.

Despite being drunk, she had the good sense to sit down on the stone bench. Her swimsuit and wrap were in a heap by the door, which she hadn’t bothered to shut, a wet heap that squished unpleasantly between his toes. Completely oblivious to her audience, she focused on her legs, soaping them down with a fluffy loofa – still singing, what he realized, was an old, popular sea shanty.

She was an attractive woman. Shapely, with legs longer than her miniscule stature would imply, and he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the view.

She popped up as he tapped his hook against the glass. Her face was flushed, either from the heat of the water or from the wine, and he could practically see her brain spinning from the sudden movement. It took her eyes, a little glassy, a long moment to finally focus on him, and a pleased smile fell over her features.

“You’re back early,” She wasn’t slurring, but she was close, and he silently decided that she was banned from drinking with Mihawk.

“I keep telling you not to try and keep up with Hawkeye,” He huffed, and she only laughed in return. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You don’t want to shower with me?”

“If you stay in here any longer, you’ll start to shrivel,” He let the soap flow off her legs before he cut the water, ignoring her moan of displeasure. “Let me take you to bed, pretty girl.”

It was always strange to him, the way he always wanted to be soft with her. He wasn’t cruel to his past partners, but it was inherently different with her – he wanted to be gentle, the way she always was with him. He hadn’t much liked it, at first, concerned that it was a weakness he’d have to rip out by the root, but he could never quite drum up the energy to try, and it had become too comfortable to stop.

He wrapped her in one of the towels, cajoling her away from the glass while she teetered on her feet. He braced her with his elbow, holding her upright as he worked the excess moisture out of her hair. There was no sign of her night clothes – she had probably forgotten them – and he noted that she still had her earrings in, when she was usually adamant about taking them out before she got anywhere near the water.

The only pieces of jewelry she never took off were her engagement ring and wedding band. They’d end up tarnished from the mistreatment, but she was privately pleased she was so adamant about keeping them on, even while they slept. He thought he might have done the same, sometimes, if he still had a finger to wear one on. He kept his own band on a chain, instead, that he often wore – something she’d yet to notice – tucked beneath his clothes.

Rather than try and walk her, when he was satisfied she was dry, he scooped her up by the backs of her legs. She had been teasing him, when she said she liked being manhandled, but he’d found she legitimately enjoyed it, though she refused to give him the satisfaction of saying so. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, knees pressed against his stomach as he hauled her into the main suite. Lightly, he kicked the small trash can from the bathroom along, until it was near her side of the bed, just in case she needed it during the middle of the night.

“You should’ve come with us,” She laced her fingers behind his neck, as he wondered what the hell she was on about. “They had all sorts of cheeses. The crackers were terrible, though. Mihawk says they’re supposed to be a pallet cleanser, but it was like eating dirt.”

“I was busy,” She refused to let him just drop her on the bed like he intended, wrapping her legs around his abdomen. “Let me get you some clothes before you freeze. Be a good girl.”

Normally, the phrase would immediately embarrass her. It was no secret that she loved it, which was good for him, as he very much liked saying it, relishing in the gentle dominance it let him assert. Rather than listen, however, like she usually did, her knees locked tighter into the flesh just below his ribs.

“I don’t want to get dressed,” She wasn’t quite coherent enough to actually find his lips, nose pressing into his cheek instead. “I want you to get undressed.”

He could accommodate that request. He refused to sleep naked, eternally concerned that someone would attack in the dead of night, but he wasn’t going to deny her, either. From the first time, she had never been especially forward, always flitting back when her nerves got to her, and it had been mostly on him to initiate their sexual interactions. She wasn’t against them, but he always had to take the lead – a position he was comfortable in, but he certainly didn’t mind.

A kiss was enough to distract her. He wasn’t a fan of the act, most of the time, finding it entirely too intimate when he knew full well his past relationships weren’t meant to last. She always tasted sweet, though, and he couldn’t quite resist.

She finally let him drop her to the mattress, a quiet squeal in his mouth as she dropped against the sheets. He stopped, fiddling with the straps on his prosthetic to remove it, not wanting to accidentally catch one of them on the vicious point. She was excited, eagerly fussing with the buttons of his shirt, though she wasn’t quite coordinated enough to actually undo them.

“Be patient,” His order fell on deaf ears, and he had to brush her hands aside to work the buttons himself. “I’ll take care of you, pretty girl.”

He undid his belt and slacks, too, rather than let her struggle with them. Stepping out of them, he joined her on the bed, crawling carefully over her constantly shifting legs. They stilled under the weight of his hips, her nails dragging over his chest just barely hard enough to sting as his lips found the bottom of her chin.

The first few times they’d been together, he had to take his time. She was tiny compared to him as it was, and he wasn’t a poorly endowed man – experience had taught him to take it slow, make sure his partner was ready, and he was especially cautious with her. It had gotten easier, though, with how consistently he brought her to bed, which worked out in his favor now, as she writhed and keened for him.

She was already wet, grinding against the tip of his finger. He thrust forward slowly, just enough to wet the tip before pulling back, chuckling at her simpering in displeasure.

“Please, Wani,” It was a nickname he’d never heard before, but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed hearing it. “Stop teasing.”

“Don’t rush me,” He warned, knocking against her hip with his wrist. “Don’t be a brat. Good girls are patient.”

She whimpered, but listened, this time, adjusting her legs to lock around his thighs. The blunt tips of her nails dug into his shoulders as he hovered over her – it wouldn’t be the first time she drew blood, and he liked seeing the little shallow scars whenever he looked in the mirror. He teased them both for a little longer, bathing his length in her wetness, unable to remember where the lube may have been or even if they bothered to pack it.

Her body accepted him so easily. She moaned, more loudly than he’d ever heard from her before as he filled her, rattling off the bedroom walls. She was like a vice already, warm and wet and tight.

There would be a day he’d convince her to let him just stay there. It was a fantasy he hadn’t had before, of her seated on his lap in his office, going about his business while buried to the hilt inside of her. Not moving, not chasing his high or hers, just relishing in the feeling of her squeezing around him for hours.

Her hips shifted. He could feel her feet, searching for enough leverage to move but unable to find it. Before she could start to gently rock against him, he pinned her, keeping most of his weight on his elbow but driving his forearm down against her clavicles. It wasn’t often that he genuinely missed his hand – the hook was inconvenient, but ultimately, beneficial – but in that moment, he wished he still had one, just to see his fingers wrapped around her throat. Not enough to hurt, but a warning, of what he would do if she continued to misbehave.

He liked her loud. He was used to her being more subdued, eager but still aware, and embarrassed, of the sound of her own voice. Drunk as she was, she had no control of her volume, no capacity to think about the noises that bubbled out of her as he started to move in earnest. With every thrust, she moaned in his ear, loud and guttural, clinging tighter against his skin.

Balancing his weight on his knees and elbow, he brought his hand down between them, searching for the bundle of nerves that would send her careening into her orgasm. With the tip of his finger, he circled it, avoiding touching her directly, trying to catch up with her. She panted against his cheek, breath hot and sweet, and he caught her bottom lip between his own, devouring her wails.

It was easy to find himself as eager for release as she was. He had stopped being the sort to chase his high in his early twenties, finding more excitement in dragging things out, but like all things, it was different with her. She was fluttering already, taunting him as she squeezed him all the more, and he hadn’t even fully touched her clit yet, still skirting around it as he felt his own desire building.

When he pressed down on the nerves, driving it back against her pelvic bone, he only managed a few more thrusts before her walls clenched. Too tight for him to keep moving, he let himself go, let the wet heat around him pulse and throb and drag out his own release.

“Oh, fuck…” Her face scrunched, lips moving against the sensitive flesh of his throat. “Fuck.”

He lingered, relishing in the feeling of complete relaxation that flowed through every last muscle. He wanted to collapse, but he was entirely too heavy. With great reluctance, he pulled away from her, carefully extricating himself from her limbs and glorious heat.

She always struggled to move, after. It stroked his ego to see her left boneless, though he knew it was, in part, just because he was too large. He stretched her legs too far apart with his hips, made her reach too high to grasp his shoulders. It fell to him to be the one to get up, to fetch a wet rag and clean them both up, something he hardly minded, viewing it as a sort of repayment for her allowing her to make a mess of her.

In the bathroom, waiting for the water to warm, he was vaguely aware of a distant sound. He didn’t think much of it, until he cut the water off, and realized it was the faint sound of clapping and giggling, coming from the open window. It poured off the balcony above them – from that miserable bird’s rooms. Faintly, he could hear his name, accompanied by a woman’s unbearably high pitched laughter.

His desire for murder renewed.

He clicked the window shut, cursing himself for not considering the fact it, and the bathroom door, were wide open. On the bed, his wife had already started to doze, ankles covered by the blankets she managed to kick down, only to immediately forget about them.

He couldn’t quite settle after he got her cleaned up. The sweet sense of ease that came after his release had been immediately turned to tension, realizing that cretin had been able to overhear. He never had any desire for an audience, and especially not one that was obsessed with his woman. Normally, he would sit in the bed, finishing his last drink and cigar and letting his mind slowly wind down, but there was no way that was going to happen now.

Instead, he checked the clock, and found the hour still relatively early. Pulling his clothes back on, and confirming Lily was soundly asleep, he decided to go check if Mihawk had made his way to the hotel bar.

Chapter Text

The first thing she did in the morning was vomit.

She had enough time to realize what was going to happen, and had shot up from the bed to sprint to the bathroom, only to trip on a small trash can and almost careen head first into the tile floor. Crocodile, who had been contentedly snoring away, caught her easily, wrapping his sand around her ribs. He pulled her back to sit on the side of the bed, at the same time dropping the trash can in her lap. The delay, and her own too-fast movements, meant there was entirely too little time to make it to the relative privacy of the bathroom, and she spent the next several minutes heaving up bile and cheese and gross, somehow still dry, crackers.

Behind her, Crocodile chuckled.

“How,” She gagged. “Do you two drink so much and not die?”

“I’m twice your size,” He snorted. “And he’s always been a lush. Learned your lesson, then?”

“Keep that man away from me.”

He chuckled again, a little more sympathetically this time. It was early in the day, still, the sky just barely starting to lighten into an array of pinks and oranges as the sunrise began in earnest. It was entirely too early for any of the events Doflamingo had planned, which mostly just included another garden party or more time at the beach, for which she was grateful – she needed time to not feel like death warmed over, if he expected her to act like a person.

“I need…” She started, unsure where the sentence was going. “…to die. That feels like a good idea, right now.”

“Brush your teeth first,” His wrist tapped her back. “And try having some breakfast.”

“Don’t talk to me about food, please,” Cautiously, she got to her feet – bringing the stinking trash can with her, just in case. “I never want to look at food again.”

He chuckled wryly at her discomfort.

He was an annoyingly handsome man, when he wanted to be. After brushing her teeth – then puking again, and brushing them again – and tying off the trash bag to set it outside the door for one of the staff to deal with, she was in a marginally better state. Enough to appreciate the view of him, sitting up in bed and fiddling with a cigar. The lower half of him was still covered by blankets, but his wide chest was bare for her to appraise, his long hair tousled from sleep and spilling against his shoulders. His heavy muscles flexed tantalizingly beneath his skin.

He spotted her staring, and that dimple she liked so much appeared.

“See something you like, pretty girl?”

“Can we talk about this after I find some painkillers?”

He snorted again, entire chest heaving with the sound. Easily, he slipped out of the sheets – the sight of his sweat pants was both disappointing and a reminder that she was stark naked, and just the littlest bit too cold. Her robe was somewhere in her trunk, and she’d thought he was going to find it when he began rooting around in her things, but instead, he presented her with some of the extra things she had packed as a backup. It was just a black skirt and a cropped top, both emblazoned with vines and roses and butterflies.

“Get dressed,” He ordered. “And we’ll find something for you to eat.”

She was still contemplating jumping out the window later by the time he settled on a restaurant. Her head was still thundering, despite the medicine she managed to find, and she had absolutely no desire to be out and about in town when she could be sleeping off her hangover, but Crocodile was insistent. Almost like he was punishing her, he had dragged her around what felt like the entire island, passing multiple cafes that had seemed just fine before settling on one that had chocolate croissants proudly listed on the menu.

“I hate you.”

He was unbothered, reviewing his news paper and sipping his coffee. She had ripped apart her own croissant, filled with blackberries and brie cheese, with the tips of her fingers – it was delicious, but swallowing anything was a trial unto itself.

“I warned you once about trying to keep up with him,” He sipped his coffee. “Consider this a lesson.”

“If you take me back to the room and let me sleep, I’ll never disobey the wise Sir Crocodile ever again.”

“We both know that’s not true,” She reluctantly tucked another piece of dough into her mouth. “You’ll be back to being a brat by dinner.”

“You’re merciless,” She hissed. “I got blasted by Haki yesterday. Have pity on my poor soul.”

In response, he just motioned for the waiter to refill his mug for a third time.

“You’re a cruel, cruel man.”

He forced her to get another croissant before they left. She had absolutely no appetite, and hadn’t actually finished the first one, but he was adamant she get another one to eat later. He was right, to insist that food would help with her hangover, but she hadn’t reached the point where she could fathom putting anything more heavy than water on her stomach.

He was merciful enough to decide she could stay in the room for most of the morning after that, however. It wouldn’t be a particularly grand issue if she was absent most of the day, as long as she could get herself together for that afternoon, and after the day prior, he was reluctant to leave her anywhere without him except in the relative security of the hotel room.

That didn’t mean he didn’t have things to accomplish, however. Laying around the room with his wife did sound nice, but there was a conversation that desperately needed to be had with his in laws. Once he got her back in bed, laying on top of the blankets with her clothes still on and her makeup smearing on the pillow case, he resolved to venture down to the main floor in pursuit of Florian. On his way, he passed Rose and Helmeppo, who nodded politely at him, seemingly on their way to the beach with Alder – he couldn’t stand the Marine’s boy, but they did seem happy together, attached at the hip, more so than they had been on the first day.

His wife’s warning seemed to have gotten through. He wasn’t confident that Rose actually understood the full implications of the situation, but her idiot fiancé had seen enough of how the rest of the world worked to put it together for himself, and he’d done as good a job as any at keeping his lover safe. They’d be moving to Shells Town soon, just after the wedding, which was all the better – they’d still have the relative security of being at a Marine base, but they’d be far from Aster, who seemed utterly unwilling to give up on her quest to be mother of a queen.

She was with Doflamingo. The other Warlord had settled back on his sofa, accompanied by his duo of companions, and his mother in law had settled across from them in an arm chair, loudly chattering away. At first, her husband was nowhere to be seen, but a cursory glance through the yard found him seated at a table, quietly picking at a salad while pretending not to guzzle the liquor he’d already started on, casting furtive glances at his spouse when he thought no one was looking.

“I hope you know, I have no intentions of divorce.”

They were far enough from others. They couldn’t speak freely, necessarily, but there was no one near enough to listen in if they kept their voices low. Florian jumped as he settled in one of the metal chairs, relaxing slightly as he digested what Crocodile had muttered.

“Good,” Florian crammed a cucumber slice into his mouth, silent and contemplative. “…She seems happy.”

“She is.”

He made sure of it. Keeping his wife content meant he was content – doted on, in a way he hadn’t been sure he would ever want to be. Homemade dinners and her feet on his back and he warm presence in his bed each night, pressed up against him all soft and sweet.

“He’s awfully intent,” Crocodile began carefully. “On getting his hands on her, isn’t he?”

Florian flinched.

He knew, then. He had to know the secret – perfect, more so than if he’d have to wait on his makeshift ally to worm the truth out of Aster.

“It’s strange,” He dropped his voice a little lower. “I’ve known that bastard for years, and he’s never been concerned with having a queen, of all things. He isn’t exactly the sort to want to share his authority, especially not with one of us lesser beings.”

Large beads of sweat began to build on Florian’s forehead. He looked anywhere and everywhere, except at Crocodile himself.

“I can’t help feeling,” He continued. “Like there’s more to this than a few hurt feelings over being snubbed.”

His father-in-law finally looked his way. He looked lost, desperate, fingers trembling as he laid his silverware down on his napkin.

“Not here,” He finally whispered, lightly shaking his head. “There are too many ears.”

Florian glanced at his wife, still happily nattering away. Doflamingo had a remarkable tolerance for her, nodding along avidly and grinning as always, but it was obvious that he’d started to tune her out, letting her inane chatter wash over him like white noise. She was oblivious to his disinterest, continuing along with whatever nonsense popped into her head.

After a moment, Florian nodded, more to himself than anyone else.

“I’d love to get a closer look at your ship,” He blurted suddenly, louder this time. “Do you think you can spare the time for a tour?”

Mihawk, who had stationed himself once more at the bar, caught Crocodile’s eye. Silently, he nodded, inclining his head towards the hotel, where he hoped Lily was still soundly sleeping off her hangover. The swordsman nodded in turn, before turning his attention back to the conversation around him, Souvide and Morgan and a handful of others all exchanging war stories for the hundredth time since they arrived.

The Gustave was precisely where he’d left it. The crew had been occupying themselves the past few days, enjoying some of the local bars and by-the-hour motels, and most of them were absent as they made their way down the docks. The only one he spotted was Garret, his long standing helmsman, overseeing two of the young deck hands he had recently recruited as they mopped the deck to spotless perfection.

They stepped into his office. He locked the door behind them, though he didn’t anticipate being interrupted. Florian, still wet with nervous sweat, settled on the sofa, still trembling with anxiety. In the hopes of easing his nerves, Crocodile offered him a glass of whiskey, and he tossed it back like a shot.

He settled into one of the armchairs arranged in front of his desk. There was another seat across the room, but staying closer, being a heavier presence, better guaranteed he would get answers.

“Lily can never know,” He blurted suddenly. “I’m not…even I’m not supposed to know.”

“I gave you my word, Florian,” Crocodile stated evenly. “She’s safe with me.”

The other man didn’t quite seem to believe him, focusing on pouring another few fingers of whiskey without spilling them on his slacks. In all reality, he was more than happy to go back on any promises he made if it benefitted him, but it depended heavily on what this secret was. He would take advantage of anything that helped him achieve his goals, but he wasn’t going to needlessly put Lily in danger, either.

“I wouldn’t be asking,” He continued, offering the other man a cigar. “If I didn’t think it was relevant.”

Still, Florian couldn’t muster up the words, but he was close to breaking.

“Donquixote,” Florian flinched again. “Is obsessed with her. I don’t think it’ll end any time soon, and I need to know what it is I’m protecting her from.”

“Lily…” The other man sighed, his entire body seemingly ready to collapse. “Lily isn’t…she’s my daughter, in all the ways that matter, but I’m not her father.”

He wanted to ask more, but gave the other man a moment. He was on the verge of tears, staring into his glass like it may save him before shooting it back. It was the answer he’d been waiting for the entire time, but it wasn’t quite enough – there were too many options, too many men who may have sired his wife, for him to be satisfied.

“Who is?”

“Oleander Cross.”

It wasn’t the name Crocodile expected to hear.

His familiarity with Cross was only through rumors. They’d never crossed paths – Crocodile had been just a little too young to meet the man when he’d been in his prime, sailing across the seas. By the time he’d properly founded his own crew, Cross had largely retired, living his days out in his territory deep in the New World, and by the time Crocodile had felt strong enough to consider crossing Whitebeard again, the man was dead.

It didn’t quite provide an explanation. Cross had been a powerful pirate, but not someone Doflamingo would consider all that important – not compared to himself. He was, at the end of the day, a regular man who’d become a pirate, and regardless of his reputation, he was hardly on the same level as the Celestial Dragons. There wasn’t enough status, enough prestige, behind his name to explain Doflamingo’s interest.

“I don’t…” Florian sighed again. “I don’t know why he cares about that so much, but he does. I’ve heard him and Aster talking about it.”

“What have they said,” Crocodile leaned forward, placing his elbows against his knees. “Specifically?”

The other man shook his head.

“Just that it makes Lily special,” He sipped his drink again. “I don’t know. I only ever get bits and pieces. Aster doesn’t want me talking to him, after I went over her head.”

There was more going on, but he could tell Florian wasn’t the one he’d get answers from.

“He keeps making all these promises,” Florian continued, the words flowing freely now that he’d made the initial admission. “About how great everything will be for us, once he has Lily. He says we’ll be family, that he’ll take care of us, that he’ll keep Lily happy, but I know it’s not true.”

Setting down his empty glass, Florian let his head fall into his hands.

“I thought when you came around asking for her, I found a way to get her away from him,” He admitted. “But he won’t let her go.”

“He’s a spoiled little monster,” Crocodile conceded. “It’s not often someone tells him no.”

“He’s got Aster all wrapped up in this fantasy,” It was a broken man who sat across from him, now – one who didn’t know where to turn for the help he desperately needed. “That we’ll live some glamorous life in Dressrosa, but I know he doesn’t really mean it. He’s been trying to get her to convince Lily to divorce you the moment she turns twenty six.”

Given Lily hadn’t mentioned the idea, he suspected Aster hadn’t gotten her chance to try.

He was confident that Lily wouldn’t agree to it. She was terrified of Doflamingo – even if she hated Crocodile, she would do anything to keep herself out of the overgrown man-child’s waiting hands. The fact that she was fond of him only furthered his certainty in what she’d do, when her interfering mother finally got her opportunity, though he could only imagine the chaos that would follow.

He made a silent note to have Garret prepare for another destructive rage.

“I gave you my word,” He parsed his words carefully, lighting a cigar to buy himself a moment longer to string them together. “That I would keep your daughter safe. That hasn’t changed.”

That seemed to help, though at the same time, he could tell Florian didn’t really believe him. He hadn’t believed him from the start, either, and had only accepted him as the lesser of two evils. The man didn’t want pirates, Warlord or not, anywhere near his children.

“Besides,” He continued. “She’s a willful one. I doubt anyone can really make her do anything she doesn’t want to. Even my crew are terrified to cross her.”

“She gives you a hard time, huh?”

Florian chuckled ruefully, and he found himself joining in his reluctant amusement.

“Always,” He agreed. “But I don’t intend to let go of her any time soon.”

He sat in his office for a while after the discussion ended.

He commandeered Garret to take Florian on a brief tour, not because he particularly wanted to, but because he suspected it would help ease the man’s nerves. When he accepted Florian’s offer, he’d gone out of his way to make sure Lily’s quarters would be as comfortable as possible, to keep her at ease while she adjusted, and he was sure it would please the man to see that he wasn’t simply bulldozing over her every hour of the day. There wasn’t anything, legally, that they could do to take Lily away from him – they could offer to return the dower in the hopes he’d agree, but his wife was, by the strictest definition, his property, and the final decision fell to him – but it would benefit him, in the long term, to keep Florian on his side. Aster may be dead set on undoing their deal, but it was ultimately Florian’s decision, according to the law, and having his father in law firmly in his pocket would spare him some future headaches, regardless of what schemes Doflamingo attempted to pull.

He didn’t quite have his answers, yet. The Devil Fruit, at least, made more sense, but the rest remained an irritating mystery. Doflamingo made no secret of his obsessions with bloodlines and birthrights, and he surely had it in his head that Cross’ Devil Fruit was hers simply because it had belonged to her biological father. There was no doubt he thought of it as some grand gesture, even if she didn’t actually understand it.

There was more to the situation. Given the late Captain Cross seemed to be relevant, he reached out to All Sunday – he was hesitant to drag her into the situation, but she would be able to move more subtly than he ever could. She was only too willing to start digging into the mystery surrounding Lily’s parentage, assuring him that she’d start digging around in their network of contacts to try to sort out what it was about the long-dead man that made Lily so interesting to Doflamingo.

Lily had still failed to materialize by the time he and Florian returned. She didn’t usually laze about until the early afternoon, too full of unfocused, nervous energy to sit still for that long, except on the days the heat of Arabasta sapped her of her energy. Mihawk had migrated to the bar inside the hotel, and as Crocodile passed, noted the only person who’d bypassed him was Aster.

It seemed she thought she’d found her opportunity. It wasn’t surprising – he intentionally kept his wife close, being deep as they were in a hornet’s nest. She had presumably been dissuaded from trying on the beach because of Mihawk, as the swordsman had established himself as a clear ally to Crocodile, but with both of them functionally absent, it had to seem like the most appropriate time to make her attempt.

He could hear his wife screaming from several floors away. She was, without a doubt, in a rage, and he picked up his pace just slightly when he heard glass shatter.

“Get the fuck out!”

A vase went soaring by his head as he popped the door open. Not surprisingly, the glass had been a coffee mug, presumably launched at Aster but missing by a considerable margin, left in pieces near the wall. Lily had gotten her hands on a floor lamp, brandishing it like a weapon as she closed in on Aster, who backed straight into his chest. She nearly leaped out of her skin when they made contact, staring up at him in fear that quickly morphed into anger.

“Do you mind?” She snapped – Lily, notably, tightened her grip on the lamp pole, knuckles paling under the strain. “I need to have a private conversation with my daughter.”

“You need to fuck off and die, is what you need to do.”

Aster glowered at her daughter, afraid for her physical safety but unwilling to back down. Crocodile ignored her, easily pushing his way past her to get between them before Lily could do something she’d ultimately regret.

“The conversation,” He stated firmly. “Is over.”

He moved a step closer, pleased to see Aster immediately take a cautious, unconscious, step away. She put on a good face, but there was genuine terror in her eyes, as he made a point of putting his hook on display, using it to motion her away with a flick of his wrist.

“I advise you not to test my patience,” He continued, as she still made no motion to leave. “I have little tolerance for anyone who upsets my wife, including you.”

Wisely, Aster took his warning. She puffed up for a moment, like she thought she could intimidate him – but she was hardly a threat, and she was infinitely less of a terror than his wife, who’s potential for violence was rarely a bluff. Spinning on her heel, she strutted towards the door.

“This isn’t over, Lily.”

The lamp went crashing into the door.

Chapter Text

They ended up leaving early.

It wasn’t uncommon, for either Crocodile or just people in general, and the constant influx of new faces and the absence of old ones made a little more sense once she understood. Because of the amount of travel time sometimes necessary to attend this gala or that celebration, it was typical for people to host long, drawn out events, and it was just as typical for the guests to only attend a relatively short portion. Given he had a relatively new casino to run, and ostensibly, an island to protect, it wasn’t at all difficult for Crocodile to drum up a perfectly reasonable excuse for them to abscond the day after Doflamingo’s actual birthday, which had fallen in the middle of the week.

Crocodile himself was a professional when it came to appearing and disappearing from these sorts of things. Souvide, who occasionally made it a point to venture over to chat, had expressed genuine surprise that he’d stuck around as long as he did, and he was apparently famous for showing up only for a night or two before vanishing with the wind.

He had only stayed as long as he did for her family’s sake. He was concerned that there might be some sort of backlash, if he denied Doflamingo her continued presence, but after the argument, he resolved that extricating themselves as quickly as possible was the best option. Not because he was particularly afraid of what might follow, but because it sent the clearest message – that they were together, regardless of what the insufferable duo may want, and moreover, that he’d protect his wife, be it from an argument with her mother or Doflamingo’s machinations.

It drew a firm line in the metaphorical sand. Doflamingo could want all he pleased, be a brat about it if he liked, but it would change nothing, and if the line was crossed, it would be war.

Thankfully, he found the means to forcibly remove her family from the island, as well. It wasn’t difficult to have Morgan called back to his station, not with his connections. Given they’d sailed in together, they had to sail back out the same way – if duty called Morgan to return to Gureirokku, then it was time for her parents to return to their shop.

Rose and Helmeppo, however, were invited to Arabasta.

It was a pre-emptive honeymoon, or so Crocodile had asserted, his way of congratulating the happy couple. In all reality, however, it was a means of keeping Rose away from Aster’s machinations.

During their argument, she had admitted to trying to convince Florian to arrange Rose to marry Trebol or Diamante. Both members of Doflamingo’s crew had expressed interest in her barely-adult sister, despite being more than double her age, and in Aster’s apparent desperation to be a part of Doflamingo’s family, it had become her backup plan. It wouldn’t give her the luxurious life the Warlord himself promised in exchange for Lily, but it would guarantee their closeness, until Lily or Crocodile could be convinced to change their minds.

The duo would stay at Rain Dinners, in one of the hotel suites, for a few weeks. Long enough to enjoy the Mataheb – and long enough to sign off on their marriage certificate.

Morgan didn’t particularly care if they were married or not, but he wasn’t pleased in the slightest with Aster’s efforts behind the scenes. It would be incredibly shameful for his son, as much as he disliked the boy, to be dropped in favor of a pirate, and the mere suggestion of that pirate being the snot-faced Trebol had been more than enough to get him on Crocodile’s side. He had quite literally left in the middle of the dinner party to pen a sealed letter affirming that he approved of the marriage.

She wasn’t sure how he convinced her father, but he had one from Florian, as well.

The duo would be married before they even hit the desert. As a Warlord, Crocodile himself had the same authority as a Marine Captain when it came to officiant duties, and could oversee marriages, so long as they didn’t involve himself as one of the parties being wed. It wasn’t a right he had exercised before, and one he doubted he’d ever use again, but it was the simplest solution to a rather complicated problem. After she’d told them what Aster had admitted, neither Helmeppo nor Rose had any grievances with signing their marriage certificate in Crocodile’s office on the Gustave, before the vacation island was even fully out of view.

“It’s nice in here.”

Although he was not a fan of having other people in his personal space, Crocodile had agreed to allow them to use her private room, rather than force them to bunk with the crew or try to negotiate making space. It wasn’t as if she used it anymore, anyway – it had taken all of one night to get used to sharing a bed. While Helmeppo was occupied with observing the crew on the deck, she’d given Rose the nickel tour, and her sister had settled on the side of the bed, appraising the bedroom.

“Did you paint while you were underway?”

“No,” It would take just a few days to get back to Arabasta, but she had unpacked at least part of Rose’s luggage, anyway – nice dresses should be hung up, not left folded in trunks to develop wrinkles. “Crocodile had it done before we left.”

“Really?” Rose seemed to flinch at her own tone. “It’s just…not what I’d expect of him.”

“He can be thoughtful,” She admitted, then immediately paused. “When he wants to be.”

“He’s…a little scary,” Her sister laughed nervously, ducking her head. “He looks mean, and he’s so big. It’s hard to picture him doing something…nice.”

“He is mean,” She found the white polish, only to realize it was empty, tossing the container back into the vanity drawer with a huff. “Mean, and ruthless, and calculating, and always scheming some terrible shit.”

Trying to justify what he was like suddenly felt like a losing battle. The Crocodile she experienced, the one she saw every day, was a far cry from the man most knew. He was much softer with her, far more kind and patient than the Warlord who would kill two people over what was ultimately just pocket change for him, who brutally executed entire crews of other pirates and hauled their bodies back just to feed them to his Bananawani.

“Is he…he doesn’t mistreat you, does he?”

“No,” Rose blinked at her expectantly. “It’s different. I’m his wife.”

It was the only explanation she’d ever gotten from him, and it clearly didn’t bring Rose any comfort. Somewhere along the way, though, it had started to make sense to her.

Being his wife was a specific sort of status. She still wasn’t sure entirely what that entailed, but she was certain that it was some special designation that existed in his mind that afforded her a certain sort of treatment no one else received. Trying to explain it would be pointless, though, especially when she was certain Rose would never really believe it.

Still, her sister accepted the explanation.

“Helmeppo,” She continued carefully. “He’s good to you?”

“Very,” Rose smiled a little, relaxing her posture. “I know he seems like a spoiled brat, but he’s sweet. I turned him down at first, you know, but he came by the house every day with flowers. He even got on his knees to beg me to give him just one date.”

Dinner that evening was quiet. Instead of her usual spot at the far end of the table, she ended up beside Crocodile, just off his elbow. Rose and Helmeppo sat at the other end, an oddly uncomfortable distance away. On occasion, Helmeppo would try to make conversation with one of them, asking questions about the ship’s construction, which usually received the vaguest acknowledgment from the Warlord. The Marine’s son was fairly knowledgeable on how ships operated, at least, though it wasn’t at all clear how much of that knowledge was theoretical as opposed to being practical.

Crocodile made no effort to linger once his meal was done. She felt the briefest flicker of discomfort, for a moment, hearing that voice in her head declare that he didn’t want to be around any of them, including her. Just as quickly, she put the idea out of her mind – he was absolutely dedicated to getting his hour of private time, even when he was in a terrible mood. He didn’t want it to be intruded upon – there were interlopers, ones that he had invited but interlopers nonetheless, and he absolutely would never let them get in the way.

“Thank you,” Helmeppo, uncomfortable with Crocodile’s abrupt exit, cleared his throat as Yanis started to clear the table. “For the meal.”

“No trouble,” Yanis, she had learned, didn’t speak the common language well – he could read and understand it just fine, but his accent was terribly thick, and he could almost never put together a coherent sentence, so he didn’t bother to try. “Digestif?”

“That would be lovely.”

She heard Rose quietly ask what a digestif was.

“You two enjoy,” She was uncomfortable in the room, suddenly, and couldn’t quite place why, knowing only that she needed to leave. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. I have some reports to look over.”

Not at all surprisingly, Crocodile was firmly planted on his office sofa. His irritated glare softened once he realized it was her, closing his eyes and blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. He hadn’t gotten himself a drink yet, so she fiddled around, pouring one – her favorite wine, she noted, had taken up a slot usually reserved for his backup brandy.

When she got close, he both accepted the drink, and pressed the flat of his hook into her hip. He pulled her closer, between his outstretched legs, gently bullying her to settle on his thigh, a limb so massive that for her, it was no different than settling on the sofa itself.

“Thank you,” She nodded her head towards the interior door. “For doing this.”

He was never good with gratitude. He didn’t express it, ever, himself, and he was never quite comfortable with receiving it, either. In response to it, he shrugged, refusing to look directly at her.

“I told you,” The cold metal of his prosthetic settled on her leg. “I’d make sure your sister is taken care of. You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“It’s good manners.”

“You don’t have manners,” She dug her fingers a little more harshly than necessary into the knot in his shoulder – he grunted, but if she wasn’t mistaken, seemed to like it by the way he shifted. “Good or otherwise.”

“It’s not going to kill you to not be an asshole for five minutes, you know.”

He hummed, entire body softening as the knot finally popped. Cool glass settled against the exposed skin of her thigh as he settled, leaning back into the sofa. His hips scooted forward, stretching his legs out onto the coffee table while barely jostling her, shoulders pressed into the leather cushions.

“My wife is always so mean to me,” He chuckled, eyes falling closed. “You might even be more cruel than I am.”

“Vengeance,” She retorted. “For making me put up with that shitshow for four fucking days.”

He didn’t reply, except for a low, content hum from deep in his chest.

“You had a little fun,” He argued in return, tapping her hip. “You even called me Wani.”

“When did I do that?”

It was something she thought about but never had the nerve to say out loud, after she caught him feeding his Bananawani the corpses of some pirates he had desiccated. The scene had been horrific and adorable at the same time, Crocodile stationed on the edge of the lake, cajoling a massive, bloodthirsty reptile into rolling over while using the wrinkled corpse of a full grown man as bait. He treated them almost like regular people treated beloved dogs, and hilariously enough, they acted like dogs, too, at least for him.

Crocodile wasn’t a man who seemed like he’d enjoy a cutesy nickname, though, and she knew herself well enough to know that if she got in the habit of using it in private, it was going to slip out in public.

“When you were blind drunk,” She could feel his self-righteous satisfaction. “And begging me to fuck you.”

She could vaguely remember that night. She hadn’t been completely black-out drunk, but drunk enough that most of the late afternoon and evening turned into a blur. The only certainty she had was that Mihawk had continually mocked her lack of alcohol tolerance while hauling her back to the hotel over his shoulder. He had unceremoniously shoved her inside with instructions to lay down while he found her some water – water which he never returned with, so she, in all her drunken brilliance, thought getting in the shower would be the next best thing.

“I did not.”

“You did,” He bent his leg, tipping her towards his chest. “It was cute.”

“Big mean Sir Crocodile likes being called Wani,” She teased in return, ignoring his warning tap against her hip. “Imagine the scandal if that sort of thing got out. People would think you’ve gone soft.”

“It’s hardly my fault,” He retorted. “I doubt there’s a man in the world who wouldn’t want to hear their adorable wife begging for their cock.”

“You’re so vulgar today,” She paused, and one of his eyes flicked open. “Wani.”

His hook slipped into the slit of her skirt, looping around her thigh. It just barely fit, the vicious point scraping lightly at the delicate skin of the back of her knee.

“It’s been a frustrating week,” He admitted through another cloud of sweet cigar smoke. “Donquixote was bad enough, and now we have to entertain those two for another month. It’s inconvenient.”

“They can handle themselves,” She took a moment to loosen his tie, listening to him sigh in contentment in return. “And if they can’t, you can always unleash Sunday on them.”

“I can hear my wallet crying already.”

He set his drink down, finding her back with his palm. She obeyed his silent request for closer contact, leaning against his broad chest and listening to him all but purr in return.

If someone told her, then and there, that Crocodile was a cuddler, she probably still wouldn’t believe them. It seemed like the sort of thing he would think was beneath him, or something that made him feel entirely too vulnerable, but in practice, it was one of his favorite things to do. He still wasn’t what she’d call sociable, and he spent the vast majority of his time in his office or doing whatever it was he did for work, but in private, he wanted more and more contact with every passing day.

“You know you don’t actually need to do anything for them, right?” He shimmied deeper into the cushion as she pushed an errant strand of hair out of his face. “You’ve done plenty already. I can handle keeping an eye on the two of them. Plus, I’ve got my own money now. Sort of.”

“What happened to it being our money?”

“You put three of your businesses in my name.”

Chapter Text

Crocodile didn’t generally leave Rain Dinners.

Like his namesake, he was generally content to stay in one spot, laying in wait for prey to approach him, rather than the other way around. Despite the pride he had in his largest business venture to date, he didn’t even venture down to the casino floor very often, preferring instead to spend his days in his office.

She had concluded it was a territory thing, after spending so long getting used to his habits. All of Rain Dinners was his domain, as was, arguably, all of Arabasta itself, but the suite was his nest. It was where he kept things that he cared about, like his trophies from past battles – and his wife – and he preferred to spend his time there, where he felt secure and comfortable. It reminded her of the Bananawani, when one of the females had laid a clutch, one of the giant lizards constantly laying atop the mound of sand and puffing their displeasure at anyone who got too close to their massive eggs.

Crocodile had let her name all the babies – all four of them. He had immediately come to regret the decision, once he realized some of his precious guard reptiles were named Sparkles, Sprinkles, Glitter, and Madame Tutu, and had resolved, out loud, that she was permanently banned from naming anything else, whether it was a pet or a theoretical future child.

She never bothered to try and drag him out of the suite. Although she did leave more often than he did, it was only to spend time with All Sunday, pouring over various documents, from income reports to delivery manifests, and she rarely ever set foot off the artificial island Rain Dinners sat upon. On occasion, she might venture over the bridge to hunt for something particular, like buttons that matched a swath of fabric or a specific spice they ran out of, but he never indicated that he cared to join her, content to leave her with All Sunday or Gully.

Not that Gully could put up much of a fight, if it came to that, but the boy could outrun just about anyone. Between the two of them, she was the far superior combatant, which wasn’t saying much, but she trusted him to haul his skinny behind back to Rain Dinners to get someone who could actually help.

She had gotten used to the weight of the war hammer, at least. She was, in Crocodile’s words, competent with it – not skilled enough to challenge someone like him, but effective enough to run off the average person.

He badgered her into sparring with him at random throughout the week. Even she could tell that he was holding back, that the difference in their capabilities was so vast it might be impossible to close the distance, but there was no question that he took it seriously. He was adamant that she be capable of protecting herself, forcing her into using both the weapon and her Devil Fruit powers with the hope that he would get her to the same point he had reached, using either on pure instinct.

Her Devil Fruit, outside of its destructive capabilities, was her greatest asset when it came to keeping herself safe. If she could make herself intangible as readily as he could shift to sand, then nothing could hurt her except the sea. That level of skill, though, would only come from persistent, constant practice, and he refused to let her be like all the other fools who got their hands on a Devil Fruit and called that enough. He intended to pressure her in its use until she was able to awaken the Matter-Matter Fruit’s true powers, the way he had with his sand – it would make her nigh unstoppable, the way Captain Cross had been.

He put on a good face, but she could tell Crocodile wasn’t thrilled as he trudged along beside her through the streets of Rainbase.

After a few days spent loitering around their hotel room, Rose and Helmeppo had decided that they wanted to go out to see the city. All Sunday was away from the island again, to check in with some of their “assets” at Whiskey Peak, which left Lily as the only one to escort them. Acutely aware that Crocodile did not care for it when she wandered off without telling him – she had done that exactly once, not wanting to interrupt his very important call to ask him to take her shopping for buttons, and he’d materialized out of the sand halfway to the store in a subtle panic – she had let him know they’d be heading out, and to her surprise, he had volunteered himself to go.

She had never really seen him in public before. Not on Arabasta, at least, and though she knew he was favored by the populace, she hadn’t quite realized what that would look like.

Everyone was whispering. Sir Crocodile almost never made public appearances, they claimed, questioning who he was with and why.

She wasn’t quite recognizable, yet. A few hushed voices noted that they’d seen her at the casino before, that she seemed to be a manager like All Sunday, but there were rumors, too, that she was more than that. Someone’s daughter had seen the two of them together at the grand opening, in a romantic embrace, and someone’s cousin’s friend had supposedly witnessed him holding her in his arms during the fireworks, exchanging passionate kisses in the relative privacy of the dark patio.

That was an exaggeration, but there was no point in trying to refute it, either. He had held her for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet that had come after the fireworks display, before he’d put her back on her aching feet and venturing back to the private lounge. He had made the mistake of leaving her alone with Mihawk, who’d raided the wine cellar by then, while he sought out a handful of faces it was wiser to greet than ignore, and come back to the two of them bickering over whether the cabernet sauvignon had notes of vanilla or dirty shoe leather.

Ahead of them, Helmeppo and Rose trotted along, unconcerned with their chaperones. The far more vivacious of the two, Helmeppo continually stopped and started, investigating the various stalls for anything that caught his eye. Lily had slipped him a billfold of beri earlier that morning, while Rose was still getting ready, letting him pretend that it was really his money responsible for buying her a vibrantly patterned shawl or sweet fried dough to snack on.

“They’re actually kind of cute together.”

Beside her, Crocodile grunted. He made no secret of his dislike of Helmeppo or his father, but he had built a begrudging tolerance for the younger of the Morgans. Despite his spoiled nature, Helmeppo wasn’t an idiot, and he made it a point to be as polite as possible to the Warlord, if only out of fear for what he could do. It only served to annoy Crocodile further, but so long as the boy minded his manners, he was willing to mind his temper.

A few stalls away, Helmeppo had found some fresh peaches. They didn’t grow on Arabasta, being imported in from another nearby island, and they were a fairly rare treat – as well as Rose’s favorite. He seemed to know that, instantly prepared to haggle over the price with steadfast certainty he would get his wife two of the best peaches the poor vendor had.

“They’re Rose’s favorite,” She explained, leaning towards him to speak a little more quietly. “It’s sweet, that he pays that much attention.”

“Are you implying I don’t pay attention to my own wife?” He prodded her back with the rounded part of his hook. “You aren’t exactly subtle about how much you enjoy grapes.”

“And yet,” She dug her elbow into his hip. “You’ve never hand fed them to me like that.”

Helmeppo, juggling the duo of peaches, had produced a small knife and begun to gladly peel one, cutting it into small slivers to pass along to Rose.

“It sounds like you didn’t learn a thing last night,” He accused, lightly tapping her backside with his prosthetic – she jumped, surprised by the lingering sting. “Don’t make me teach you another lesson about being spoiled when we get back.”

He had decided the night prior that she wasn’t allowed to cuss at him anymore. He didn’t really care, and she knew that, but it was a convenient excuse.

That was the thing he liked – being in control. It wasn’t a heavy sort of dominance, where he aggressively asserted himself and made demands, but a more subtle thing, like most everything that he did. She could do whatever she wanted, but it was always with the silent condition that he was allowing it, and spanking was just an extension of that. It wasn’t necessarily the act itself, but the fact that it let him assert control.

That, and, she had learned he was a man who appreciated buns and thighs more than anything else. He wasn’t nearly as subtle about that, and she barely noticed anymore when his hand made its way down to hold her leg or backside. Even in his sleep, he wasn’t happy unless he had a hand there – she had more than once woken up to him fruitlessly searching the sheets and grunting unhappily, still unconscious, when he couldn’t find her.

“Wait until I tell everyone,” The hook prodded into her preemptively. “The Great King of the Desert, Sir Crocodile, likes to hit his wife. The scandal of it all.”

“Hardly,” He drawled. “Once they figure out what a brat you are, they’ll thank me for keeping you in line.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t outed yourself. We both know how much you like to be worshipped.”

“I have to find adulation somewhere,” His eyes flicked, like he desperately wanted to roll them. “It isn’t as if my own wife ever pays me a kind word. My ego can hardly take the abuse.”

“I distinctly remember saying something nice about you this morning.”

“Telling someone their body hair reminds you of a bear isn’t the compliment you think it is.”

By the time Helmeppo and Rose resolved they were hungry enough to stop for dinner, she had just about reached her limit. The dry heat of Arabasta was bad enough, but being stuck in the sun – even with the benefit of a light cloak – was enough to have her contemplating joining the Bananawani in the oasis.

The adults had been trained not to attack her, Crocodile had seen to that, but there was always the hope one of the juveniles would be hungry enough to try.

She wanted to be in the pool. It was always a little more complicated now, given she couldn’t actually swim, but soaking in the cool water wasn’t impossible. On the rare occasion he used it, Crocodile had a tendency to stick to the steps, not daring to venture any deeper than the shallowest end, where the water was no higher than the tops of his thighs.

In theory, he could stand in the deepest end without a serious problem, but he was rarely willing to venture that far.

Different types of water, he had explained, produced different effects. All bodies of water would sap a Devil Fruit user of their strength, but fresh water was far more tolerable than sea water, by comparison at least. It was only when fresh water started to reach above the shoulders that it became a genuine risk, whereas it would only take a foot or two of sea water to render someone weak enough to drown. Given the deepest part of the pool was only seven or so feet, it was just low enough that he could stand without the serious risk of collapse, but at the same time, that would make him just the slightest bit too vulnerable.

A small battalion of pool floats had been collected for her to use, instead. She could keep enough of her body out of the water with them to avoid the imminent risk of death if she erred a little too deep, though it wasn’t like Crocodile wasn’t constantly watching. The pool was stationed directly beyond the glass doors in his office, and he had a stellar view from his desk – not that he’d ever admit to appreciating it, despite the number of times she’d caught him staring while on the phone, and the fact he’d spun his desk around to face the window instead of the wall.

It wasn’t much cooler in the restaurant. Any benefit of shade it may have had was undone by the presence of too many bodies, though the stone wall was blessedly cool against the back of her head, and the drinks were iced.

“The Mataheb is supposed to start soon, isn’t it?”

She wasn’t sure which of the two had asked. They sounded nothing alike, but between the quiet din of conversation around them and the throbbing behind her eyes, her brain wasn’t capable of differentiating whether it was Rose or Helmeppo. The only one she was certain of was Crocodile, who rumbled with a thoughtful noise.

“The festivities start the day after tomorrow,” He stated, and she presumed it must have been Rose who asked, or he wouldn’t have given the question any attention at all. “If you’d like to spend the week in Alubarna, I can arrange transportation and housing.”

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience…”

She peeled her eyes open just enough to see him waving the statement away like smoke. If anything, it was probably a relief to him, having the intruders in his daily life leave him alone for an entire week. She was sure Rose, too, wanted a little bit of distance – she still hadn’t gotten past her general nervousness in Crocodile’s presence, like she was convinced he might go off on a murder spree at the slightest provocation.

“Sunday will be there to meet you,” He noted. “Banchi will take you there in the morning.”

She had heard about the transport turtle, but never actually met him. Crocodile didn’t have any need of any transport in the desert, and she didn’t go anywhere – even if she did, it would likely be on Sunday’s F-Wani.

Or her own, once it was trained.

Crocodile had been plunking away at that particular project since they returned to Arabasta. She wasn’t entirely certain where he’d gotten his hands on a juvenile F-Wani, but he had shown up with it one evening, and unceremoniously added it to his collection of reptiles in the lake, with the assertion it would either become a snack or be strong enough to make a place for itself within the underwater herd. Given it had survived their unpleasant trip to Kyuka, he had determined it was strong enough to become her own personal mount.

It had destroyed three saddles in about as many days. The most recent one had made it longer than twenty four hours, but it still was clearly displeased to be strapped into the harness, and she’d more than once caught it trying to scrape itself loose against the edge of the artificial island. It was still entirely too small for even her to ride, but by the time it had grown enough to start, it would hopefully have acclimated to the presence of a saddle.

She didn’t really have a need for personal transport, but it would be just as effective as a body guard, and useful in an emergency. Bananawani didn’t imprint in quite the same way ducks did, presuming the first living thing they saw was their parent, but they did do something at least vaguely similar. They were oddly pack driven for reptiles, and fiercely protective of anyone or anything they believed was a member of their congregation – which was what made them so obedient to the man who regularly fed them the corpses of his enemies. If the F-Wani, which behaved the same way, considered her a part of its group, then it would violently protect her.

It could also get her off Arabasta safely, if need be. Sea Kings rarely attacked F-Wani or their larger cousins, recognizing the considerable danger they posed, and they were fast and strong swimmers even in choppy waters, making them a relatively safe means of navigating the seas. He didn’t anticipate her needing to do so, but he was a man who planned for anything and everything.

“Are you coming with us?” Rose directed the question at her, this time, while Helmeppo fussed at the waiter over something about his drink being wrong.

“She’s needed here,” Crocodile answered before she could, offering no further explanation for his refusal, actively ignoring the way her sister’s face contorted in upset.

“We’ll be in Alubarna later in the week,” At least that had been the plan, and she was reasonably sure when he didn’t stop her that was still the case. “Crocodile is kindly putting on a feast for the week. We need to be here to make sure it goes well.”

He glowered at the side of her head, not in the mood to appreciate her teasing. It didn’t last long, given the food arrived, the presence of koshari distracting him from his irritation. It was always just the littlest bit funny, how food motivated he really was despite his every effort to pretend otherwise.

Less funny, when he found the secret chocolate drawer while hunting for leftovers in the middle of the night, but still entertaining – especially when he’d crawled back into the bed with the smell of her hazelnut brittle bar still on the same breath he used to actively deny that he’d eaten any.

“You work at the casino, then?” Helmeppo tuned back into the conversation, a fresh drink in hand.

“Sometimes.”

She was too hot to want to eat, picking the green peppers off her kebabs and depositing them on Crocodile’s plate. As much as she loathed them, he enjoyed them, and despite how inappropriate it may have been to do in public, he mixed them into his dish without a word.

“I’m surprised,” The Marine’s son admitted, flinching when Crocodile’s eye cut his way. “Not that I don’t think you’re capable. I just imagine most people wouldn’t, if they didn’t have to.”

“She runs three of my casinos,” The Warlord grumbled. “And manages some of my investments.”

“I like to stay busy,” Under the table, she kicked at Crocodile’s ankle for being rude, and he pressed his shoe into the top of her foot in return. “I’d lose my mind if all there was to do all day was lay around.”

“I don’t know about that,” Helmeppo laughed. “It sounds like the dream, to me, but once we move to Shells Town, I’ll find something. They’re always looking for someone to push papers on base.”

That was refreshing to hear. Marine families, spouses and children, received a small stipend from the World Government, but it wasn’t much. Most Marine families lived on base, and had access to things like the commissary, where they could purchase groceries on what was functionally a loan against the service member’s paycheck, so there wasn’t really a need for more, especially combined with the Marine’s paychecks. It was touted by the World Government as their means of showing care to the Marines that served them, but most everyone she talked to said it was barely enough to scrape by, though it was still helpful, if their partner had to be out of work for any reason.

For Helmeppo alone, it was probably sufficient, but for two people, it wouldn’t amount to much. She didn’t doubt for a second that Morgan was especially stingy with his own paychecks, and she had been a little worried he would rely on Rose to supplement the meager income he gained just from existing. Civilian jobs on Marine bases didn’t pay much better, but it was enough to double what he’d otherwise be receiving – Rose would probably still need to work, herself, but she wouldn’t be running herself ragged to make ends meet, either.

It would be a far cry from the lifestyle she was reluctantly becoming accustomed to, herself, but it was infinitely better than the world they’d both come from. They wouldn’t be able to afford glamorous vacations or high priced dinners, but they could be comfortable – and it wasn’t like she didn’t have access to more than enough wealth to occasionally treat them, either.

Even the limited number of businesses she was now involved in was more than enough to keep her comfortable. The lion’s share of the income went to Crocodile, who in return invested it back into his business ventures or stored it away for later, but she received about thirty percent to keep as “spending money”, which was plenty for her needs. He covered all of their expenses, like the grocery deliveries, and she put more away than she could ever spend – and even if she did burn through it all, it wasn’t as if Crocodile was all that concerned with giving her more. He had far more wealth than she had anticipated, most of it kept as treasure strewn about the Grand Line in secret stores, and several bank accounts under false names where he regularly deposited his cash, to say nothing of what was probably an assortment of other monetary secrets.

He had made her memorize that list, what name was on what account and where to access it. A second false name had been added onto those accounts, enabling her to get into them if she needed to, though they were specifically reserved for emergencies. There was also one that was just in her name, completely detached from him – she had never been overly concerned that he’d just abandon her with nothing, but she would be taken care of, if something did happen.

“Have you considered having children?”

Helmeppo was the only one to actually choke at Rose’s question, swallowing his drink wrong and abruptly excusing himself to hack up a lung in the bathroom. Crocodile paused for a second, contemplating his meal for a long second with his expression utterly unreadable. He wasn’t upset, exactly, and if she had to guess, she would say he was caught off guard, but it was impossible to tell for certain.

“Not any time soon,” He relaxed, just slightly, when she spoke. “You know me. I’m not exactly the motherly type.”

Rose nodded sagely in return.

“We’re going to wait, too,” Rose agreed. “For at least a couple years. Let everything settle first, you know?”

She knew, at least, what Rose was thinking. She hadn’t said it out loud, but it was the natural assumption, given their circumstances. There weren’t a surplus of reasons why an older, unmarried man would seek out an arranged marriage with a young woman he barely knew – sex, control, or children, and she had gotten particularly lucky that he didn’t seem motivated by any of the three. Not that he didn’t want sex, now that it was available to him, or that he didn’t enjoy being in control, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a woman his own age would have balked at, something so intense and severe that he’d had to seek out someone young and naïve in order to get it.

The early dinner, thankfully, marked the end of their day out. Helmeppo could have probably kept going, but Rose asserted her feet were sore and she was getting a little sunburned, and that was enough for him to agree to return to their suite. The entire walk back, she contemplated if she wanted to get in the pool or not, and ultimately, upon entering the slightly-too-warm suite, she resolved that was exactly what she’d do.

There was a grunt of interest from behind her as she tossed off her clothes. There was no other building anywhere nearby that was tall enough to see onto the balcony, so she didn’t bother to hunt down a swimsuit, instead tossing her clothes onto the floor as she stalked towards the water. Crocodile, on the other hand, obeyed the system he had lain out for himself, hanging up his coat, meticulously lining up his shoes, and ultimately, disappearing into his room to take off the rest of his outermost layers. She, meanwhile, found a pool donut, pulled it around her waist, and dropped into the cool water.

“I’m never leaving the casino again,” She groused, when he came venturing out with bottles and glasses. “Arabasta is beautiful, but too fucking hot.”

“That’s five,” She rolled her eyes, while he settled along the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water with his sweats rolled up to his knees. “Don’t make it ten, brat.”

She wanted to say something smart, but the idea of ten more spankings was enough to glue her lips shut. While he hadn’t really hurt her, her backside was still stinging, and he wouldn’t be gentle just because she was sore.

He would take care of her, though, when he was done. For a man so famously cruel and ruthless, he was shockingly adept at aftercare.

It had felt a little strange, at first, to be taken care of after the fact. Smoker would do it, sometimes, if he felt he’d been a little too rough, but until Crocodile, that had been her only experience in having someone tend to her, rather than be left to her own devices to set herself right. It was something he had certainly learned to do with past partners, a habit already formed, and he seemed to be a little out of sorts himself, if she didn’t let him. He would make sure not only that she was cleaned up, but that she was comfortable.

He kept a bottle of water nearby at night, mostly for himself if he woke up with his mouth dry, but it was always passed into her hands. He never let her settle long enough to fall asleep unless she had peed, first, and if her muscles ached he would rub them with the tips of his fingers until they relaxed. Spankings were a new addition, but one he was clearly well familiar with, and he had spent time soothing the red skin with lotion when all was said and done. He didn’t ask outright if she was alright, but if she needed anything in the half-hour or so when they were done, he had no grievances about providing it.

That was, she was learning, just how he was. She didn’t doubt if she betrayed him that he’d be more than willing to rip it all away, if not kill her outright, but abject ruthlessness was something he’d learned as a necessity of his lifestyle, rather than something innate and natural. At his core, loyalty was rewarded with loyalty, and he was capable of being kind without having some shady ulterior motivation, so long as the person he was extending that to had earned it.

He didn’t need to try and take care of Rose. There was no benefit in it for him, except that it kept Lily herself from being upset – there was no monetary gain, no extension of his influence. If her mother hadn’t been her mother, there was no doubt in her mind that the incident would have been solved via murder, rather than a thinly veiled threat. He didn’t even need to extend his tolerance to All Sunday or Mihawk, but he did, because they hadn’t presented themselves as his enemies. He didn’t trust either of them – and, probably, didn’t fully trust Lily, either – but he respected them, which she was sure was something he didn’t offer to most people.

Chapter Text

Whenever things were busy, Crocodile’s insomnia got worse.

It was always a problem, but not typically one that caused him any major issues. He had slept that way since he was a little boy, constantly up and down from bed, eternally on guard, and he barely noticed it most nights. He would go through his usual routine, puffing on his cigar and sipping whiskey and willing his mind to shut down, and fall asleep for a few hours, before he was suddenly awake again, and off to do something else for thirty minutes before he caught what could only be described as a reverse second wind, and the exhaustion lured him back into bed.

For the most part, she slept through it. It had woken her up the first few times, when he abruptly slipped out of bed to wander into the kitchen in search of a snack or to sit on the patio and smoke, and had briefly left her on his own shitty sleep schedule, but it hadn’t been that difficult to get used to it. Her bladder had acclimated before her brain had, and on his first wakeup of the night – which always happened around one in the morning – she always snapped awake with a severe need to pee.

He'd started coming back to bed with food, once he realized it was a consistent habit. She got up to use the toilet, and by the time she made it back, both she and the bed were too cold for her to get comfortable, and she always ended up rolling around, unable to fall back to sleep until his warmth was back beneath the sheets. He never brought a full meal – that was a step too far, in his opinion, from the rules of proper decorum – but when he figured out that she wasn’t getting any sleep without him there, he started bringing his precious nightly chocolate bar to bed, so she could soak in the heat while he had his dessert.

How the man still had perfect teeth when he ate at least one sugary treat each night, she had no idea.

Sometimes, she would briefly pop awake if he got up later, but she rarely remembered it. He insisted it was cute – most of the time, she would wake up just enough to question where he was going, or say something absolutely insane while still in the throes of a dream, but she was never alert enough to actually recall it happening come morning.

She was attuned to his inability to stay in bed longer than four hours – which made it extremely obvious whenever something changed about his probably unhealthy nightly routine.

The fact he hadn’t told her what was going on meant it was something with his secret operations. Sunday had used the term Baroque Works, once, and hadn't seemed at all sorry for the slip.

Every time something started to kick off with Baroque Works, be it good or bad, Crocodile’s sleep schedule became even worse than normal. He would be conspicuously absent during her usual one am wakeup – sprawled out on the sofa, or occasionally in his office on the den den mushi, rather than quietly clanging around the kitchen while he heated up leftovers. On rare occasion, he might stay in the bed, but he’d stay sitting up against the headboard, quietly shuffling through papers or just staring into the middle distance, the gears in his brain grinding away as he plotted all the possible scenarios for how things might go.

That was how she knew he was up to something the first night of the Mataheb.

The feast that day had gone off without an issue. She had spent the bulk of the morning in the kitchen with Gully and his sous chefs, chopping vegetables and grinding meat in an effort to help things go as smoothly as possible, while Crocodile reluctantly took over her task of overseeing the rest of the arrangements. A wide variety of seating had been organized outside of the casino, large and small tables to accommodate everyone from massive groups of extended family to couples, to make up for the lack of seating in the restaurant itself, which had been commandeered as housing for the massive tables laden with hot trays of food.

Anyone and everyone was welcome, so long as they paid at the door for a plate. They had hired on temporary extra staff to oversee serving the various guests, who could eat as much as they liked, buffet style. The price of each plate was low, largely so Crocodile could put on a show of being a stoic man who quietly cared about the people of Arabasta, but with how difficult it could be to get a reservation at the restaurant, they had functionally made back all the money they’d spent on ingredients after just a few hours.

He even planned to have the leftovers handed out to the less fortunate around Rainbase each night. It wasn’t something he’d do himself, but he had seen the opportunity to further his reputation as a benevolent figure – and to impress on people her own importance. Anyone who asked would be told Sir Crocodile’s wife was the one who’d come up with the idea.

In reality, she had only vaguely suggested the idea while contemplating what to do if they had a surplus of leftovers. It was good for his local image, however, to have a sweet and merciful wife who also only wanted to protect Arabasta – and he wasn’t overly concerned with the broader potential of publicly proclaiming he had a wife. There was only one considerable active threat, and he was currently on the other side of the Red Line, presumably pouting and throwing a tantrum because she didn’t fall to her knees and plead for him to fuck her the moment she saw him.

Or whatever other insane shit Doflamingo believed.

The night after the feast, Crocodile hadn’t slept. Not as far as she had noticed, at least, though it was entirely possible he had dozed off for a few minutes at a time. He had gone to bed with her, as always, but had gotten up almost the second she dozed off, if she had to guess. He was on the couch when she got up later, staring a hole in the ceiling and, despite the neutrality of his expression, she could sense the self-satisfaction oozing off of him even at a distance. He’d gotten up long enough to put her back in bed, but he was gone by the time she woke up for the morning, which was highly unusual.

She had a tendency to wake up before him. He was the first one out of bed, but she had spent most of her life waking up before the sun, to help prepare the cobbler shop before they opened for the day. She could lay around the entire morning, just relaxing and daydreaming and working up the nerve to put her bare feet on the cold tile, but she almost always snapped to awareness well before the Warlord.

Not hearing him quietly snoring next to her that morning had initially given her a bolt of panic. Quick as he was to get up for the day, he had quickly become as religious about their morning routine as he was that hour of socialization after dinner. He got up almost the moment he was awake, wandered into the bathroom, and returned once he was done to pick her up out of the bed and haul her into the room. He’d wander out to gather their clothes for the day, so she could pee in privacy, and come back to block her into the shower.

He was on the sofa, not dressed but not asleep either, staring out at the city beyond the windows.

“As much as I don’t want to,” He didn’t jump at her voice, but she could tell she caught him by surprise by how swiftly his stare cut in her direction. “I feel compelled to ask what you’re up to.”

“Finally admitting you’re curious?”

“Only if it’s going to ruin my day,” He huffed out an amused sound at her reply. “I want to go shopping in peace.”

“You hate shopping.”

It was true. It could be fun, on occasion, but it could only provide so much entertainment, and it got boring almost immediately. Every now and then, she liked to look at new fabrics or leaf through pattern pamphlets, and she didn’t mind going out to get something convenient for the suite, but she had gotten sick of shopping before they’d even arrived on Arabasta.

The Warlord smiled wryly at her silence. She would die before she verbally acknowledged any curiosity about his piracy, and they both knew it, but she couldn’t deny to herself that it was starting to build. She desperately didn’t want to peer that deeply into Crocodile’s ever manipulative reptile brain, and she didn’t for a second believe that she would ever really understand how his mind worked, but she was undeniably starting to feel the pressure to learn.

Mostly, she resisted because of the risk. She liked the man Crocodile was when he was with her, but she knew the man she shared a bed with and the one the rest of the world knew were realms apart. She had gotten one glimpse into what he could be like, and for months, that had been more than enough – she didn’t want to know more than that, after seeing how easily he could kill someone, and how little murder meant to him in the end.

She didn’t want to go back to being afraid of him, and she knew that was exactly what would happen if she let herself find out what he was planning for Arabasta. As much as he might treat her differently, extend her some softness and vulnerability, there was also no question she was ultimately just as disposable as anyone else, if she really went against him, and she wasn’t sure she could handle the revelation without doing something incredibly stupid. Even if she didn’t out him to the Marines, it could readily devastate the relative calm that had settled into her life, destroy the trust that she’d started to build towards him – leave her stuck with, reliant on, a man she hated.

There was no point in saying it out loud. Crocodile knew – had always known, most likely. He had probably put it together well before she was able to formulate a coherent thought on the matter.

He still seemed amused, but a little less so, like he wasn’t laughing at her but found the whole thing adorable, the way people did with small children. Using his prosthetic for leverage, he pushed himself up off the sofa, grunting as his joints crackled. He had managed to find a cotton shirt that was large even on him, the cuffs of his sweatpants pushed up around his calves. He had the nerve to look more handsome than normal, hair loose around his face as he trudged over to stand nearly chest to chest.

“One day,” He stated simply. “You’ll realize you’re wasting your talents by letting your nerves hold you back all the time.”

With that, he turned and made his way towards the kitchen. He was far from a chef, but he’d spent enough mornings watching her make his breakfast to at least realize what setting to leave the burner on, leaving a pan to warm as he gathered up both a smoked filet of fish and the basket of eggs.

“To answer your question, though,” He continued. “We’ll need to make a brief stop at a village near the Sandora River. The King recalled most of the Royal Guard for the festivities in Alubarna, and a group of pirates are on their way to attack it as we speak. We’ll be passing by just in time to see the chaos.”

It was clear from his tone that he wasn’t just forewarned of a raid – he had orchestrated it. As much as he and Sunday respected her decision not to be involved, bits and pieces occasionally reached her ears, either from overhearing a call or when one of them was venting about some recent failing.

The ultimate goal of Baroque Works was an absolute mystery, but some of the members were bounty hunters, others were thieves, and others still were just typical pirates up to pirate-oriented shenanigans. They almost all seemed to have code names, just like All Sunday, numbers or holidays for the ones Sunday was in contact with most of the time, and simple, thematic ones for the rest, based on things like different types of gemstones or foods or author’s pennames. She remained unaware of what they actually did, for the most part, or why Crocodile – a warlord with a sizeable fleet of his own waiting in the wings – would bother, but it was hard not to piece things together on her own, either.

Crocodile wanted Arabasta under his rule. Whether that was by becoming the king, or simply puppeteering Cobra Nefertari, didn’t seem to matter, though from what she’d heard about the royal, it was unlikely the latter would work for very long. She had no earthly idea why he wanted it, but if he was going to want a country to lord over, it would be one that was composed almost exclusively of sand.

He made no secret that his greatest concern was pure, brute strength. As much as he liked his luxurious lifestyle, to him, beris were just a means to an end, a key to the doors of influence that would otherwise have remained locked. He was already a powerful man, but there were others out there that far superseded his own strength. Charlotte Linlin, despite his assertion that she was an idiot, had a myriad of islands under her control, alongside a massive army of loyalists led by her children, all dedicated to protecting and building up their family. Doflamingo was an erratic mess of a man, but a clever and charismatic one – his rule wasn’t nearly as expansive, but his hold over his kingdom, and the purse strings of the government, was an iron grip. Kaido was capable of decimating just about anyone who challenged him, and though she knew precious little about Whitebeard, even the ever-confident Crocodile would prefer not to challenge him again – not yet, at least, though he intended to, somewhere down the line.

Arabasta didn’t have a considerable militia of their own. They had the Royal Guard, but they were, for the most part, fairly average in the grand scheme of things, well trained and capable but easily taken down by anyone with sufficient motivation. There were rumblings of an independent militia forming, after the uncharacteristically difficult summer and people’s dissatisfaction with the King’s response, but they hadn’t begun to amass in earnest, restricted to muttering at one another in bars each evening and contemplating the validity of their ideals. Even if they did consolidate into a proper rebellion, there was no one among them who was particularly worthwhile.

That was the part of his plan that remained a mystery. Having Arabasta firmly under his control granted him some measure of power, there was no doubt about that – the ruler of the country, whether it was Crocodile or Cobra, had the right to end their allegiance with the World Government, stripping away the right of the Marines to maintain a presence there. He could turn the country into his own version of Totto Land or Dressrosa, and rule the way the Yonko did, but he needed the military authority to maintain that, and she wasn’t certain he had access to that.

His fleet was strong, but not all that large, even if she accounted for the Baroque Works, and heavily reliant on Crocodile himself to set them apart from typical pirates. She wasn’t sure of their exact number, but they were an underground association still in the process of being built up, so she couldn’t imagine they had massive numbers on their side.

“Is the great Hero of Arabasta going to save the day again?”

“Not quite.”

He shrugged, and she could smell his fish starting to burn, shoving her shoulder between him and the stove before he could ruin the skin – which was his favorite part. He surrendered the spatula without complaint, but stayed where he had been, pressed against her backside from ankle to shoulder.

“Unfortunately, we’ll arrive too little, too late to save anyone,” A massive hand settled on her hip. “Of course, if the King hadn’t so selfishly left the village defenseless, then perhaps there would have been time for me to intervene.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

He rumbled lowly, leaning just enough of his weight onto her for her to feel it.

“Sometimes, sacrifices need to be made,” He stated flatly. “And it’ll do you good, to see what Devil Fruits are truly capable of in the right hands.”

“If we ever have kids, you’re not allowed to teach them anything,” Ignoring the uncomfortable squirming in her stomach at his admission, she reached for the plates overhead. “I’m preemptively banning you from afternoon outings to commit genocide.”

His chuckle had no business sounding as warm as it did. A vague part of her recognized that she was in entirely too deep already, as her heart sputtered and her face warmed. His arm looped around her waist, pulling her firmly against him – she couldn’t tell if it was the conversation or the contact or the fact she was making him food that had him hard against her spine, hot and heavy and throbbing, but he was insistent that she know he was wanting.

“We have time to renegotiate,” He stated with amusement. “Unless you want me to put one in you right now.”

That should not have been an attractive offer. She adamantly didn’t want children, at least not currently, but the suggestion made her stomach drop in the most delightful way. He chuckled cruelly above her, sliding his fingers beneath the hem of the long shirt she had fallen asleep in, bunching it up her abdomen.

“You like that, hm?” She could hear the grin on his voice, the dry tips of his fingers skittering over the edge of her panties. “Be a good girl and tell me the truth.”

“This feels like a trap.”

He chuckled again, more heartily this time. To her surprise, he didn’t push the topic, though he seemed like he wanted to. There was something of far greater importance to focus on, however, and she was suddenly in the air, held aloft by a hook wrapped around her thigh. The countertop was frigid cold against her knees, and she had to swiftly dodge the cabinets on the wall before she accidentally bashed her head off the wood, bracing against the smooth paint of the doors.

Crocodile liked to give more than he liked to receive. She had a quiet suspicion that wouldn’t typically be the case, but it was one of the many things complicated by their severe differences in size. There was absolutely no way he could fit in her throat without causing some sort of injury, so there was only so much she could take with her mouth, and she couldn’t swap one hand for the other if her arm got tired, given she had to use both. He never complained, when she tried – if anything, he seemed to very much like it – but it was never something he let her do for long.

He would eat her out for hours if she let him, though.

Both her underwear and his knees hit the floor at the same time. His hook remained looped around her knee, while his other hand stroked her thigh, easily maneuvering her into the position he wanted her – knees on the edge of the counter, the tops of her feet balanced on his wide shoulders, back arched almost painfully to let him do as he pleased.

His nose skimmed against her entrance as his tongue sought her clit. The pressure was light at first, a barely there sensation, before he abruptly bore down. It had taken him exactly once to figure out what she liked, what angle to approach from and what felt the best, and he was utterly willing to abuse that knowledge.

The world was still dark and cool, but she was burning in minutes, sweaty and entirely too warm, superheated from the inside out. As his tongue moved in some pattern she couldn’t discern, his massive hand coasting up her abdomen and beneath her shirt to find one of her breasts. It wasn’t something she got much satisfaction from in the past, but Crocodile had found the exact right amount of pressure to use when he pinched and tugged at her nipple – married with the coarse dryness of his skin, a wave of electricity traveled through her muscles, jolting her hips.

A pleased rumbled poured out of his throat as he licked a stripe up her core, transforming into a groan as he found the wetness collecting at her entrance. He pulled away before she could roll her hips again, rising to his feet and removing his hand. Faintly, over the sizzle of fish and eggs burning on the stove top, she could hear the thwump of his pants hitting the floor.

It occurred to her that she ought to turn the stove off before everything was completely ruined, but the thought didn’t linger. She knew that she could take him, that she’d done so just a handful of hours ago, but she always flinched when he pressed against her. It always seemed impossible, that it would never fit without tearing her in half, her muscles flexing and stretching and burning against the pressure.

The tip of his cock alone was almost enough. The sound that escaped her was high pitched and warbly, echoing on the air over his satisfied huff. No matter how hurried they might be, he always started slow, pressing deeper inch by inch until their hips met, as she went from feeling pleasantly filled to near bursting at the seams. The hook on her leg finally detached, just for a moment, his massive arm looping around to hold her hips precisely where he wanted them before the weapon latched around the flesh again. His hand found both of hers on the cabinets, lacing his long, powerful fingers in the gaps between her own.

It was almost sickening, how easily Crocodile could pick her apart. He barely had to try, and already she could feel her orgasm building, climbing higher and higher each time he pressed just slightly too deep into her. Every nerve came to life, feeding the flames – even the pain in her knees from the marble countertop served to add to the knot building in her abdomen. His balls, round and heavy, slapped against her clit with every thrust, firm enough to strip her of the need to use her fingers.

“Already there, pretty girl?” His scratchy voice was breathless. “Sensitive little thing…go ahead. I want to feel you milking my cock dry.”

She could see stars. She felt like one of them, blazing brightly, imploding in a great mass of flame before flickering into nothing but little specks of ash, floating around in a great void of nothing. Every muscle tensed and trembled, live wires sparking without purpose with each movement he made, beautiful and almost agonizing at the same time. He pressed too deep, sharp inside of her belly, soothing the pain with the cool rush of his release.

It always seemed to catch him off guard, like he hadn’t realized he was on the precipice until he was already falling over the edge. His stamina in bed was a strange thing – on the handful of occasions she’d been having a hard time orgasming, he seemed like he could last forever, ready and willing to change positions or alter his pace to try and get her off, but at the same time, he rarely lasted much longer than her. It was something she’d never experienced before, with past partners, being able to drag them into the abyss with her, and the feeling of power it gave her was horrifyingly addictive.

She was balanced in the crook of his arm before she managed to open her eyes. His forehead glistened with unfallen beads of sweat, strands of his dark hair glued to his skin – a satisfied smirk on his face. It was only when the scent of smoke hit him that he faltered, seeming to suddenly become aware of the blackened remains of their food still burning on the stove. A chunk of his shoulder disappeared, a trail of sand twisting and churning its way to the knobs to extinguish the fire hazard before it could spread.

Chapter Text

There was a vendor selling wool.

The material wasn’t uncommon in Arabasta. There were plenty of options when it came to camel hair, and every now and again, the shop in Rainbase would get a shipment of alpaca wool from the isolationists who lived deep in the mountains, but none of it was vicuna wool.

She had seen it exactly once in her life. Agatha had gotten one bolt once, not because she had ordered it, but because it had been mistakenly loaded in her shipment crate along with her other, much cheaper, yarns. It sold for nearly two thousand beri per meter, and though Agatha had been willing to share just a little, it had been well outside of Lily’s price range. She had wanted it badly, enthralled by the feeling of the yarn between her fingers, but she’d had to be satisfied with a tiny piece of thread that she still had hidden in one of her old books.

Buying everything the vendor had wouldn’t even put a dent in the beri Crocodile had handed her.

He was preoccupied by an impromptu meeting with Cobra. As he had forewarned, they had been able to see the fires of the village in the distance, though before he could even step out to intervene against the massacre that he’d orchestrated, the means of impressing his importance on the King had all but fallen into his lap. A young boy, no older then ten, had been sprinting across the sand with an infant in his arms, running from the chaos and into the endless abyss of the desert. He had hurried to their carriage, begging for help, and the benevolent Warlord had instructed him and his brother to stay in the carriage with her while he dealt with the uncouth pirate scum.

Trying to comfort the two children while knowing Crocodile was the reason their parents were dead had left a terrible taste in her mouth.

It didn’t quite wash out with lemonade, but it helped, just a little.

The tempting skeins of vicuna wool helped a lot more.

When they’d arrived in the city, Crocodile had made it a point to take them all directly to the palace. A stout woman by the name Terracotta had been quick to take custody of the two boys, who had clung to her skirts since they first stepped into the carriage. She had the briefest thought that she’d like to keep them, but it hadn’t lingered – she felt the slightest pang, passing the calmed infant to Terracotta’s waiting arms, but it had left as quickly as it arrived.

The boy’s story of the raid had served to impress upon Cobra the necessity of keeping Sir Crocodile close. He had been planning to enjoy the festivities with his daughter, Vivi, but in light of what happened, had asked for a last-minute conversation with the Warlord, to address both what had happened already and how to prevent it from happening again. Vivi hadn’t seemed too bothered, cleverly insisting the boy, a few years her junior, come with her to get lunch while Terracotta prepared a bottle for the baby.

It wasn’t a conversation she needed to participate in. No one said it out loud, but she knew that was what they were both thinking. Crocodile wasn’t misogynistic enough to think that she had no place in his business, he’d already proven that much, but her lack of interest in his ulterior motives was sufficient cause to keep her at arm’s reach – in case she ever got it in her head to turn him in to Smoker, it was best she not have any real ammunition. Cobra, too, seemed like a respectful man, and had likely wanted her gone largely because she simply wasn’t actively involved in the country’s security concerns, given Pell, Igaram, and Chaka would be in attendance.

She had been given a billfold of beri and told to go try and get her mind off what happened. The dismissal would usually have irritated her, but Crocodile wasn’t lying, when he claimed she had been upset by what happened. She could wait around the palace while they talked if she liked, but that seemed like a good way to get lost in her own head – and if she did that for too long, she might do something stupid.

It wouldn’t be hard to reach Smoker. Even if she only had her word, that was all it would take to get him to come running to Arabasta, and he was smart enough to put the pieces together, especially if she gave him an idea of where to start looking.

She didn’t want to, though. She did want Crocodile to stop whatever he was planning, but she didn’t have it in her to go against him.

She was uncomfortably fond of him. There had been a specific word making the rounds in her head, recently – one that threatened to come tumbling out, if she wasn’t careful. Whether or not he felt the same, she genuinely wasn’t certain, which meant that word had to stay firmly under lock and key forever, the way it had been with Smoker. In retrospect, she had come to believe that the Marine had felt it too, but like her, couldn’t summon up the nerve to say so out loud, and a part of her thought it was almost too bad.

If he had, she’d be at Logue Town, not worrying about a damn thing except getting the wrinkles out of his work pants with a hot iron. He couldn’t spoil her the way Crocodile could, but she didn’t need that, either, and she could have been perfectly happy with less. Instead, she was in Arabasta, silently dwelling on the blatant disregard her husband had for human life, and how readily he manipulated the people around him.

The only thing that kept her head from exploding was her confidence that he wasn’t manipulating her. There were too many things about their day to day interactions that no one could fake, not even someone like him, who’d made a career out of lying and conniving and wholesale slaughter. He liked her, far more than he liked most people at the very least, and if someone were to make a bet with her, she would put money down on the idea that he wanted someone to trust.

It was difficult for him to trust anyone except himself. He hadn’t given her the fine details, but he’d been on his own since early childhood, stating only that his father was an unreliable presence, and his mother had died before he could begin to form memories of her face. He had spent much of his young life aboard the vessel of some other pirate, who did not treat his cabin boys with much pleasantry – there had been an implication in his words, then, that had made her deeply uncomfortable low in her chest.

The only one he had ever been able to rely on was himself. He had allies, sometimes, but not friends, not trusted confidants. Most of what he’d told her – though she had no way to validate its authenticity – were secrets no one else in the world knew, buried at sea with the bones of those who had, and it seemed to be his way of trying to show her what he really hoped to get out of their marriage.

Like All Sunday had claimed, he wanted a companion. Someone who was by his side, who could be trusted to watch his back and support him in ways no one else ever had.

Betraying that wouldn’t end well. Crocodile would kill someone for mocking him on the street without blinking, and he could be brutal to those who disappointed him – but that wasn’t anywhere near as egregious as destroying the trust he had cautiously extended to her. He would hunt her to the ends of the earth to get vengeance, if she turned on him.

So, instead of sit and wait, she put the scene of a razed village and little boy splattered with his mother’s blood out of her mind, and instead, went shopping. It hadn’t helped at first, but by the time she spotted the vendor with skeins of vicuna wool on sale, the only thing she was worried about was which colors she wanted. To preserve the texture, it hadn’t been treated with any sorts of dyes, but it came in a small variety of natural colors, from a pale brown to nearly black.

She wasn’t even sure what she was going to make with it. Her knitting still wasn’t nearly on par with her sewing, but she was getting somewhere with it, and had recently finished a light throw blanket that wasn’t completely uneven.

A cardigan, maybe. A long, loose, super soft cardigan to wear during the too-cool nights of the encroaching rainy season. One that was so comfortable even the great Crododile was envious of the level of comfort she had achieved – so jealous he bought her all the vicuna wool yarn she could ever want, in the hopes she’d make him a sweater of his own.

The vendor had a canvas tote he was willing to part with, once he saw the stack of beris she had tucked into a secret pocket of her dress. Usually, she was smart enough to haggle, but she was entirely too excited to bother. He was more than willing, however, to cut her a deal, if only to convince her to spend even more.

“Fufufufufu,” A shadow cut between her and the sun. “You’ve got expensive tastes, mami.”

Her first instinct was to grab for her knife. She hadn’t brought her war hammer, but she had obeyed All Sunday’s instructions to always keep the blade on her, and Crocodile’s constant prodding had resulted in a well honed startle response. Her fingers wrapped around the handle as she spun around, finding herself face to face with an infinite expanse of tanned, carefully toned muscles.

Doflamingo stood around and over her, crouched so that his knees functionally blocked her in against the wooden stall. He grinned broadly at her, looking for all the world like he was being perfectly casual while sizing her up like a beast that had found its prey from behind his red tinted glasses. One massive hand reached out, and she flinched despite herself, partially drawing the weapon from its sheathe.

Instead of touch her, he reached for a skein of yarn. He held it between two fingers, rubbing his thumb against the strands like he was just appraising the quality, but his eyes never left her.

“You always so on edge, baby?” He drawled, his long tongue briefly flashing between his teeth. “Stress isn’t good for the skin, you know. You’ll get premature wrinkles, frowning all the time like that.”

Ignore him.

It felt like the stupidest idea in the world, but it was the only one she had. All Sunday’s constant lessons echoed in the back of her skull – figure out what he wanted, and deny it too him until he gave her what she wanted first. He never would, he was clearly too obsessed for that, but his attention was the thing he wanted above all else.

Rather than reply, she spun on her heel and returned her attention to the vendor. He bagged her surplus of specialty yarn with shaking hands, sliding them towards her and hastily accepting the bundle of bills – with a small tip, for putting up with the frustrating royal. She carefully weaved around his knees, bumping against the vendor stall with her hip as she meticulously avoided even the most glancing contact.

Pica was there, too, she realized. How she’d missed a four meter tall gladiator, she wasn’t sure, but he was tucked neatly between two stalls, one giant leg blocking her way as he attempted to stand out of the way of incoming foot traffic.

Long fingers wrapped around her wrist. The hold was loose, but too tight at the same time, fingers and thumbs wrapped the bones just firmly enough that she couldn’t rip her hand free.

“Where are you rushing off too, reina?” Doflamingo drawled, squeezing his fingers just the slightest bit tighter. “I didn’t even get a hello when I came all this way to see you.”

In the distance, she could see Trebol and Diamante. The former seemed to be haranguing a kebab vendor, gesticulating wildly about some inconsequential outrage. Diamante was leaning his long form over two women while throwing out what he surely thought were his most charming lines, though they looked far from impressed.

Pica was the only one not making an ass out of himself, honestly. He was in her way, but his giant limbs would mean he was always in someone’s way, and he hadn’t moved in the slightest when she attempted to leave. He looked bored, if anything, like he’d rather be watching paint dry than dealing with Doflamingo’s weird attempts to get a reaction out of her.

“Hello,” She offered as flatly as she could. “Now let go of me.”

“What’s with the bad mood?” He refused to obey her, moving closer and holding all the tighter. “Did I make you upset, vida mia? You’re not still angry I invited your parents to Kyuka, are you? I know you and your madre had a nasty little argument, but that didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“If you think I’m in a bad mood,” She replied, twisting her arm to hold it up between them. “How do you think my husband is going to react? You know he doesn’t like people touching what’s his.”

“I’m not afraid of some angry old reptile,” The vein in his forehead throbbed, but his grin grew all the wider. “He should learn to share. Nice things should be admired, and I’m just admiring you, chica linda. The way you should be.”

“Why are you even here, Doflamingo?”

She tried to wrest her limb free, but he clung all the tighter – hard enough she was sure she’d have a bruise. With no effort at all, he tugged her closer, leaving her to stumble over the stone walkway. He held her nearly to his chest, trapping her with his excessively long limbs, holding her hand so high she was teetering on her toes.

His free hand grasped her chin. His fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her lips into an exaggerated pout, pinning her jaw firmly in place before she could snap at him again.

“My name sounds so perfect when you say it.”

His thumb scraped over her bottom lip, leaving a faint, ruddy streak of lipstick on his flesh. Like an animal flashing its dangerous teeth, he smiled, impossibly long tongue clamped between his too-big teeth. He licked the pad of his stained finger, groaning under his breath.

“You taste so sweet, reina,” Delicately, he cupped her chin with his fingers, while trying just a little too firmly to shove his damp thumb between her lips. “I just want to talk, baby. We never really got the chance at my party.”

She wanted to tell him that she did not, under any circumstances, want to talk to him – but she didn’t want his fucking finger in her mouth, either.

He was coming unglued. Doflamingo was always a little unhinged, but in that moment, it was like he was falling apart at the seams. Her heart thundered behind her ribs, so forceful she was sure he could feel her pulse slamming through her veins beneath his fingertips. She couldn’t get the leverage to try and pull away again, not with only her toes on the ground, unable to rip her hand free from the cuff of his grip.

Howling with laughter, he released her arm in favor of grabbing the other before she could drive her blade into his thigh. He rose to his full height, contorting her limb, pressing her hand back over her shoulder until it seemed like it was just a breath from slipping out of the socket, leering down at her.

“Fufufufufu, you’d fit in so well on Dressrosa,” He giggled. “The women there are so passionate, stabbing their man is like a love confession. You trying to tell me something, baby?”

“Yes,” She swung her leg at his, for all the good it did, his shin shifting just out of her range. “I’m trying to tell you to let me go.”

He cackled again, throwing his head back as he heaved with amusement.

“Never going to happen, reina,” He was close now – entirely too close. “You don’t see it yet, but you and me, we’re destined to be together. It’s in our blood.”

As she kicked out at his leg again, he let her go. She stumbled back a few steps without his arm to support her tenuous stance, nearly slamming into Pica’s armored calves before she caught herself.

It wasn’t her that caused him to back off. Sand was tinkling and glittering in the air between them, forming an unusual swirl on the breeze. It became thicker and thicker, swirling around the both of them until she could barely stand to keep her eyes open. There was a terrible, metallic cacophony just steps in front of her, and the swirling sand suddenly solidified.

Crocodile held her firmly against his side, tucked beneath his jacket and his long, burly arm. His other limb had yet to reform, golden prosthetic wrapped around Doflamingo’s wrist, hauling it back in much the same way he had detained her. Although Doflamingo frowned, vein pulsating in his forehead, he didn’t seem harmed – just frustrated, though nowhere near as livid as the man beside her.

“Keep away,” Crocodile’s voice reminded her of the deep, angry hissing of a Bananawani. “From my wife, or I’ll start taking whatever parts of you touched her.”

Pica shifted noisily behind them. The entire bazaar had gone quiet – people stopped and stared, maintaining a wide berth as they observed the confrontation between two Warlords.

“Fufufufufu…” A malicious grin painted Doflamingo’s face. “Would you look at that? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually care about her.”

He flicked himself free of Crocodile’s grip like it was nothing. The Warlord didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, drawing the prosthetic back to his side.

“You know he’s just using you, vida mia,” Doflamingo drawled. “He doesn’t really care about you, just what you can do for him. He only wants your name, baby.”

She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Her name was worth less than her parent’s cobbler shop. At the same time, Crocodile’s fingers flexed against her hip – his face gave nothing away, but the tension suddenly in his muscles spoke volumes.

He knew something she didn’t.

“Fufufufufu,” The feathered bastard giggled. “Nobody told you? No wonder you don’t get it. Your mother’s such a little liar, but I would have thought she’d tell you the truth.”

“Enough,” The whispers of the crowd went quiet at Crocodile’s bark. “I’ve given you enough warnings, Doflamingo. If I see you near my wife again, I’ll kill you.”

Chapter Text

“Florian didn’t want you to know.”

It was a paltry excuse, and they both knew it – but it was the only one Crocodile had.

They hadn’t talked to one another until the late hours of the evening. Crocodile meant to stay in Alubarna for the night, originally, to make a quiet production of being seen by the people to convince them he was one of their own, but after the confrontation with Doflamingo, leaving had seemed like the safest option. It wouldn’t exactly be difficult for the King of Dressrosa to follow them to Rainbase, but in times of stress, Crocodile’s instinct was to return to his metaphorical nest.

It hadn’t helped that Doflamingo was tailing them the entire day. Although he had obeyed the warning to maintain his distance, he wasn’t content to completely leave them alone, either. No matter where they went, his pink feathered coat was eternally in her peripheral. He would just stand and stare, sometimes, with that shit eating grin wide across his face, and other times, he would pretend to be preoccupied by something – chatting with one of his subordinates, investigating some vendor’s wares, like it was all one big coincidence that he happened to end up where they did.

The confrontation had been enough of a spectacle that it made it back to King Cobra. Pell had materialized in the early afternoon, much to Crocodile’s continued irritation, and he’d quietly indicated that the guard had reported an incident between two Warlords. Although he didn’t seem to be much of a fan of Crocodile, he was polite enough to her, claiming King Cobra had sent him to make sure things remained calm, and that she was safe in the event a fight broke out. Quietly, she had told him that her sister and her husband were elsewhere in the city, and asked someone keep an eye on them – preferably unobtrusively – to which he’d agreed. They already had various guards in civilian wear stationed around the festival, as a matter of general security, and he assured her it would be no trouble to have one keep an eye on Rose.

Thankfully, Doflamingo seemed content with the carnage he’d already wrought. Pell had arrived in Rainbase just before Banchi’s carriage, stating he had witnessed all of Doflamingo’s crew board their ship and leave just before sunset – Chaka had confirmed that he had left, as well, and Rose remained unbothered by the lunatic. They had been in the city for a few days, since just before the start of the Mataheb, making a show of themselves but staying otherwise well behaved.

No one had expected there to be trouble between him and Crocodile. They were both Warlords, after all – even if they didn’t like one another, they were functionally coworkers, and the presumption was that they could, at least, mutually ignore one another. It wasn’t all that strange, either, for other Warlords to occasionally join in the celebrations. Jinbei had gone out of his way to attend one, once, in the hopes of learning more about human culture, and Mihawk came and went from the island at his leisure with some measure of regularity, even before Crocodile settled there – he had a fondness for a specific wine they produced in Nanohana. Even Boa Hancock had attended a few times, early in her career, while on various expeditions with the Kuja Pirates.

Crocodile didn’t give Pell the entirety of the details. He had admitted that Doflamingo had been attempting to arrange a marriage between himself and Lily, however, and that he was spiteful over being spurned. He downplayed the severity of the entire ordeal, claiming that he was only being petty, while refuting the idea that he’d come to the island for her. It was an issue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, though he did note that, if Doflamingo returned, he’d prefer to be warned.

He was an unstable madman on his best day. He’d destroyed entire villages simply because one of the men who lived there had dared propose to one of his subordinates, and he’d prefer Alabasta not suffer a similar tragedy – to say nothing of the rumors Doflamingo was involved in the slave trade. Although he wasn’t likely to do anything rash, it was best if Crocodile was kept appraised of his visits, for the safety of all of Arabasta.

The suite had been uncomfortably silent, after that.

“He confirmed it while we were on Kyuka,” Rather than join her at the sofa, Crocodile remained across the room, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the island. “He asked that I never tell you.”

That hadn’t exactly been news. She’d come to the same conclusion, herself, though she was at an utter loss as to what Doflamingo saw in her. Her presumption had been that it was just bad luck – that something about her had triggered something in his brain, and he just couldn’t let go.

Instead, it was because her father wasn’t actually her father.

“How did Doflamingo even…?”

“I don’t know,” Crocodile shrugged his expansive shoulders. “Your mother played things close to the chest, but I assume someone from Cross’ old crew let things slip that he had a child, and he somehow put the pieces together.”

She wasn’t sure how to feel – or, at least, how to label the mess swirling in her head. It was chaos, a din of indistinct noises as question after question whirled around like a tornado inside of her brain. Some part of her almost felt relieved, to finally have an answer, while at the same time, her stomach churned with the need to throw up from fear.

“Did you?”

It was the one question she didn’t want to ask.

Everything about her universe hinged on his answer. She didn’t want to believe it, to think that he’d known the entire time, that every kindness done or gentle touch was a manipulation – but it seemed entirely too probable, after Doflamingo’s claim. She knew better than to place her full trust in anything that idiot had to say, but it was the sort of thing that was perfectly and precisely within Crocodile’s wheelhouse.

Keep her close and happy, so he could abuse whatever benefit he thought he could garner by revealing the true circumstances of her conception. It was precisely what he was doing with Cobra, with All Sunday and the entire country of Arabasta, and she couldn’t stomach the idea of being just another fool who’d fallen for his charm.

She would throw herself to the Bananawani. If the fall didn’t kill her, then his precious reptiles would – it was almost poetic, for his beloved pets to be the one to rip apart one of his most meticulously lain plots.

“I had no idea until Florian told me.”

A knot of air rushed from her lungs. She still couldn’t breathe, not completely, but her lungs weren’t burning anymore.

“I know it’s difficult for you to believe,” He continued, shuffling slowly towards the arm of the sofa. “But I haven’t lied to you.”

“Except about my dad being some dead pirate captain.”

He sighed, breath thick and heavy on the air. His massive body compressed itself into the far end of the sofa, almost like he was trying to make himself seem smaller, giving her as much distance as he could.

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

There was a twitch in his hand, the sort that screamed that he wanted to reach out, but refrained.

The noise in her head was screaming that it was all an act. He was a liar and a manipulator, and she was an absolute idiot, for thinking that he wouldn’t try to lie to and manipulate her – but at the same time, she reminded herself that she knew that wasn’t true.

“I need to call my dad.”

Crocodile didn’t reply. He let her get up and make her way into his office, where it was dark and quiet. The room smelled like stale cigar smoke, despite the open windows, and one of his empty whiskey tumblers was sitting on the edge of his desk, near the dozing snail.

He never bothered to decorate it. Most people did, or so Sunday told her, dressing their den den mushi up like miniature versions of themselves so that they were easy to spot. Crocodile’s remained plain, however – pale green skin, and a completely patternless cream colored shell. The only interesting part of it was it’s eyes, which were the same cold hue as it’s master.

“Lily?”

Naturally, it was her mother who answered. Her voice was thick with sleep, and it occurred to her that it was most likely the very early hours of the morning for them, though she couldn’t find it in her to care.

“I need to talk to dad.”

“Why?” Through the speaker, she could hear sheets rustling around. “Sweetie, is something wrong? Tell me what happened.”

“Just put him on,” She swallowed back the urge to scream. “I need to ask him something.”

“What is it about?”

She banged her fist off the desk. The glass, precariously close to the edge, tumbled over, shattering noisily against the tile. Down the line, there was a startled gasp.

“Are you okay?”

“Please,” She grit her teeth. “Just put dad on the phone.”

There was a sigh, one that belayed how her mother was really feeling – that her concern was just a show, that she was, really, just frustrated at having her rest disturbed. Rather than complain or hang up or continue to argue, however, she listened to the quiet sounds of her mother trudging through the house.

She hit that one particularly creaky floorboard in the middle of the hall, the one that she had learned to avoid before she’d hit fourteen, when she’d started to sneak out to go join the older teens at the beach for their bonfires. They talked about fixing it all the time, but never had – not even with all the money they had, now. She could see it clearly, her mother standing at the top of the staircase, shouting down to her father, who was going about the process of setting up the shop.

Her mother should be helping. They weren’t always busy, but there was always a lot to do, and her father’s back was too weak for him to be lifting crates of boots and shoes to stock the shelves.

After several long minutes, the line crackled to life.

“Hey, Lils.”

He sounded exhausted.

“I need to ask you a question,” Her eyes stung again, and she tried to blink the tears away. “Privately.”

“Your mom’s downstairs,” There was the faintest warble of a sigh on his voice, the door of their bedroom creaking shut with a distinctive click of the lock. “Lily, what’s going on?”

“Are…are you…” The words stuck on her tongue, and they tasted like acid. “He told me.”

“Who told you what?”

“Crocodile. He told me about what you said,” There was a long, heavy pause. “Doflamingo showed up, and he said something about mom lying about my blood, so he…is it true?”

The silence that followed grew heavier and heavier with every breath. The seconds clicked by painfully slowly, before there was a breath from the other end of the line, one laden with the hard edges of a long kept secret.

“Yes.”

The office door clicked open. Crocodile loomed in the heavy shadow, draped in the darkness, head cocked to one side. A second earlier, his presence would have outraged her beyond belief, but that one word had knocked all the wind out of her. She couldn’t breathe, never mind summon the strength to scream.

“Lils,” Florian’s voice was tight, the den den mushi’s eyes watering with fat, heavy tears. “I’ve loved you since before you were born. You’re my daughter, and you always will be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted you to be safe,” He swallowed, audible and wet. “I was going to tell you, when you were old enough, but then I saw what the Marines did to all those kids that they thought were Gold Roger’s…I didn’t want to take the chance they’d do the same thing to you.”

The slaughter was an open secret. The Marines denied that it happened, but everyone knew – it had been too blatant to be covered up, the way that they’d wanted to. She could still remember being a little girl, watching them march from house to house one day, demanding information about each and every child.

Gold Roger had never even come to their island. That hadn’t stopped them, though, from dragging some people from their homes to subject them to further questioning that had gone on for days, if they were unlucky enough to have so much as shared an island with the King of the Pirates. Everyone on Gureirokku had come away unscathed – physically, at least – but other families weren’t so lucky.

People had died. Women who refused to surrender their children were beaten, sometimes shot outright like rabid dogs, and no one knew for certain what had happened to their kids. They’d been loaded onto Marine vessels, spirited away, never to be seen again – maybe to be executed, maybe sold into slavery, or maybe imprisoned in Impel Down, where they’d never be allowed to see the light of day.

“I thought it would be better if we just…never told you,” He was sobbing more openly now, trying to keep his voice low. “You aren’t anything like him, Lils. There’s no reason you should have to carry the burden of that name.”

There were a million things she wanted to say, but the words shriveled and died before they reached her tongue.

“I don’t-“

Her attempt at a breath was an ineffective gasp. Any thought of giving her space was tossed to the wayside, as Crocodile crossed the room in a rush, distorted and swirling as his sand twisted and churned around her. His leg materialized beneath her, a massive arm looped around her ribs, fingers sunk deeply into her hair as he pressed her cheek into the soft silk of his vest. She folded into him, a painful sob breaking from her ribs.

The cold of his prosthetic was soothing against her other cheek. The weight of his arm dragged her back down from the stormy high flittering through her veins. Small and safe – she was small and safe, and she let him slip the speaker from her raw fingertips. There was a soft, mechanical click as he ended the call.

For a while, he just let her cry, stroking his fingers up and down her spine until the sobs settled into wet sniffles and painful hiccups. Cradling her in the crook of his arm, he rose from the chair, quietly stalking through the suite. The bed creaked as he settled onto it, noisily toing off his shoes before he scooted back. Settled against the headboard, he kept her pressed against his chest, soothingly tucked beneath the oppressive weight of his long arm, his thumb skating over the skin of her arm.

“I’ve got you, pretty girl,” He rumbled softly. “Tell me what you need.”

She didn’t know, and could only shake her head, burying herself deeper into his chest.

“Are you going to leave?” Her voice sounded so meek, it made her flinch. “You didn’t…I don’t expect you to put up with all this shit.”

In return, that low, thoughtful purr echoed through his chest.

“It’s inconvenience we’ll had to be mindful of,” Her muscles tensed, and his fingers flexed in response. “But it changes nothing about our relationship. Unless you genuinely decide you’re unhappy in our marriage, I have no interest in separation.”

Chapter Text

If she hadn’t experienced it for herself, Lily would have never believed Sir Crocodile, the egotistical Warlord and cutthroat businessman, made a spectacular husband.

He was far from at fault for the recent dramatics in her life, but he had made clear, in his quiet way, that he felt badly for her. For a few days, he had given her the comfort of quiet company, being present if she wanted him but pushing for nothing. It wasn’t all that different than his usual behavior, but it was still noticeable – he left his office door popped open, just a crack, silently declaring that he would drop whatever he was doing if she wanted him for anything. The idea of her cooking anything never came up, and instead, all their meals were prepared by Gully and his team, always her favorites, and she suddenly didn’t have much work to do at the casino, with it all foisted off onto Ultraking, who was clearly drowning under the stress but insisted it was fine any time she asked.

After the Mataheb, the gift giving started. A little chisakuma, carved meticulously out of moonstone, materialized on what had become her end table overnight, alongside a citrus scented candle. A large planter suddenly took up residence on the balcony, already filled with soil, boasting perhaps the entirety of Arabasta’s rare desert lilies, along with lavender and manzanitas, all tucked between tall, spiny cacti that struck her as decidedly poetic. A new tea set – a pretty ceramic tea pot, with a braided handle and patterned with little black and white bears, that sat beneath a cabinet slowly accumulating entire too many tins of new kinds of tea.

For someone who often accused her of being spoiled, he was the world’s worst enabler.

Most of it was because she had been upset, but a little bit of it, at least, seemed to be related to her slowly encroaching birthday. Not so much because he was pre-emptively celebrating it, but because of what it meant.

The day she turned twenty six, she became the one in control of her marital rights. If she wanted to, she could request divorce papers that morning and be legally on the path to parting from her husband by that evening. It would no longer just be his decision, if they stayed together or not – it would be hers, too, and she strongly suspected he didn’t like that.

Not because he was some unbearable monster who didn’t want to let go of his long suffering spouse, but because he didn’t want to separate.

She didn’t blame him for thinking she might want to. Their marriage wasn’t unpleasant, by any means, but she hadn’t exactly been the most pleased woman in the world, when it had first been decided. They hadn’t discussed the topic in months, coming to the unspoken agreement to let her sort out her feelings in private, and when last she’d brought it up, she still hadn’t quite worked past her lingering resentments.

They were still there, on some level, but they were unfocused, not directed at any specific person but refusing to entirely leave her be. Every now and again, they’d turn on him, leave her irritable and frustrated as she was reminded of how swiftly he’d entered and uprooted her life, regardless of any justifiable reasons he may have had to do so.

A few months earlier, she may have seriously contemplated the idea of divorce. Even when they’d started to get along, there had been a long swath of time where she still wasn’t convinced marriage was the correct thing for them. She had given it a considerable amount of thought, and had, for a while, resolved that it may be best to try and split as amicably as possible – that the issue with their relationship wasn’t necessarily Crocodile himself, but the fact that she’d been pushed into it, that staying would only make her resent him in the long term, and she didn’t love him the way she needed to in order to try and get past it.

She didn’t have to stay. He had brought it up before – the three casinos and handful of other investments that were exclusively in her name would be his form of alimony. It would be more than enough to see her taken care of for life, and if they did separate, he wouldn’t attempt to take them back. He had said outright he wouldn’t hate her for it, that he wouldn’t consider it some deep betrayal for which his pride demanded vengeance.

He wanted his wife to be content. He couldn’t begrudge her, he’d admitted at the time, if that contentment wasn’t something she could find with him, and he would let her go on her way to find it.

She hadn’t so much as contemplated the idea of divorce recently, however.

It had played out like Sunday had said it would. She would have never given him an ounce of attention, if he had approached her the way he’d wanted to – but she had given him a chance, to make their marriage at least tolerable for them both, and it had worked out better than she could have ever hoped. She had expected that, at best, they might develop a sort of platonic camaraderie, friends or allies who might sometimes have sex.

Instead, she had found herself in love with him.

Not that she would ever say it out loud. That was entirely too much emotional vulnerability – especially when she couldn’t be sure what the response would be.

She knew he liked her. His feelings were far from platonic, that much he had made abundantly obvious, but that didn’t mean that he would apply the word love to what he did feel for her. Fondness and being comfortable didn’t mean that it was love, and even if it did, Crocodile wasn’t one to speak his emotions out loud. There was a not inconsequential chance that even if he did return the sentiment, he may simply refuse to say it.

Either way, odds were good that she’d be left standing there looking like an idiot if she tried to say the word out loud, and that was sufficient reason to keep her mouth shut.

It wasn’t her first go around with that sort of situation. Smoker, oddly, had been far more difficult to read than Crocodile, and it had taken her a lot longer to start to figure him out – though she’d also had less experience, then, having never had a serious relationship that lasted more than a couple of months. She was certain of what he’d felt for her now, with the benefit of more maturity and hindsight, and if she’d been able to piece it together then, she would have known he felt the exact same way, uncertain of where they stood and unwilling to open himself up to that sort of rejection.

Of course, it had resulted in her rejecting him, anyway. It was one of those things that she still quietly regretted, even if she wasn’t certain she would change it if she could.

“You’re awfully contemplative.”

Sunday stood in the doorway of the suite, smiling gently at her as she floated around the pool on a pocketed lounger. Nothing much about her had changed, though there was a faint pink tint to the bridge of her nose and above her brows, where the sun would have gotten her even with a burka on.

“I know, I know, I think too much,” She sighed as the other woman settled at the side of the pool, dipping her toes in the water.

“Given the circumstances, I can let it slide, this time.”

“Crocodile told you?”

That was genuinely surprising.

He had been fairly confident that even if word got out about who her biological father was, the World Government wouldn’t really care. Roger’s offspring had been a unique case – Cross had been a dangerous man, but he’d never openly opposed the government in the same way as the Pirate King, content to rule his territory with a brutal hand and decry them from a distance unless they got too close.

Still, he didn’t exactly want to make a spectacle of it, either. Cross had a lot of enemies who would come sniffing around for revenge against the second best option, now that he was dead. The Marines, too, would never believe she wasn’t a pirate of some sort if her real name became public knowledge – they may not be able to act, but the scrutiny she’d be under for being married to a Warlord was nothing compared to what they’d be thinking if they discovered she was the daughter of one of their longest-standing enemies.

“A few weeks ago,” Sunday confirmed, her brows flickering as Lily frowned at her. “Captain Cross isn’t someone Doflamingo would typically care about. He asked me to dig into his history, to see if there was something more going on.”

“Is there?”

“Not that I’ve found,” The other woman sighed, closing her eyes and leaning back on her hands. “There has to be something, if it’s so important to him, but I haven’t been able to get a lead on what.”

Lily hummed, returning her attention to the patterns in the stone over their heads.

“I can tell that’s not what’s on your mind, though,” Of course she could – even Crocodile couldn’t come close to being able to read people the way Sunday could. “What has you thinking so hard?”

“My birthday.”

“Ah,” She made a knowing sort of sound. “Still considering divorce?”

“No,” Lily admitted, glancing at the glass panes – Crocodile was still downstairs, meeting with someone for something, but seeing her suspicious gaze, one of Sunday’s many arms clicked the patio door shut. “But that’s kind of the problem.”

“I don’t see how.”

She couldn’t say the words. Although she trusted Sunday not to run tattling to Crocodile, saying it out loud would make it real, and she couldn’t let that happen. Instead, she turned to stare at the other woman, who in turn cocked her head, looking for all the world like she was waiting, but Lily could hear the gears in her head grinding together.

“Oh,” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, then slowly, her painted lips unfurled into a grin. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“The two of you are such a mess,” The topic clearly had Sunday’s rapt attention, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand. “It’s adorable.”

“Not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” She laughed. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

That she thinks too much. It was a fair assessment, but resolving the issue wasn’t nearly as simple as diagnosing the problem.

“I’m not trying to get rejected by my own husband.”

Sunday cackled again, throwing her head back and kicking at the water.

“Oh, please,” She snickered, unabashedly grinning in delight. “The only reason he didn’t say it the night this place opened is because he’s worried you don’t feel the same way. Two of the smartest people I know, and you’re both idiots.”

“I’m well aware of my stupidity, thank you.”

With a sigh composed purely of dramatics and amusement, Sunday pushed herself up, delicately kicking her feet dry.

“Fine, fine,” She huffed, pulling her portable den den mushi from inside her shirt. “I’ll handle it.”

“Pardon?”

The other woman ignored her, already traipsing through the suite with her little snail pressed to her ear. She initially assumed that Sunday had paged Crocodile back upstairs, to force a conversation, but after an hour without either of them reappearing, she concluded it was something else. Exactly what, she had no idea, though knowing Sunday, it could be anything, from nothing at all to lighting a bunch of brush aflame in the desert in the shape of a love confession and lying about who arranged it.

Once again, she was left alone to contemplate.

Crocodile wasn’t a nice man – but he was a good one. It was buried under mountains and mountains worth of personal trauma and bad experiences, but he wasn’t a natural sociopath, either, predisposed to violence and hatred by virtue of his own existence. He had a conscience, even if he chose to spend most of his days ignoring it. He put himself first because that was the only way he knew how to survive, but he wasn’t incapable of granting kindness to others.

He was also the only one she felt she could trust anymore. The nagging part of her brain that refused to shut up insisted that he had been orchestrating the entire thing from behind the scenes, but the section dedicated to logic and reason insisted that wasn’t the case.

Not even the best conman could maintain a façade that intense for that long. If they were more distant from one another, then she might buy into the idea that he was somehow scamming her, but they had spent hours together every single day for months on end. Even the best liar would have slipped, at least a little, especially one that was juggling a myriad of other plots and masks and lies.

She was still floating around the water when the suite door reopened. The sun had started to set, and the air was just barely starting to take on a chill, one that was comfortable for the moment but would soon turn too sharp for her to stay in the water, but she was comfortable and not nearly done thinking. For a giant of a man, Crocodile walked incredibly quietly, much more so than Sunday, who was eternally in a pair of click-clacking heels, and she could just barely hear him shuffling his way through the patio doors.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his sand flickering around the lounger. It dragged her through the water slowly, up to the stone steps, in an obvious but silent demand that she get out of the water before she froze to death. As always, he had gone through his routine, fur jacket left draped on a hook by the door, massive feet bare against the stone and cravat loose around his neck.

He had a robe in hand that she’d never seen before. It was obviously wool, of some sort, and touching the hem with her fingers, she realized it was the same glorious, soft vicuna wool she’d so long admired.

“I had it made for your birthday,” He rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, something she had realized he tended to do when he was uncomfortable. “It’ll be cold tonight, so I don’t see the harm in letting you have it early.”

“I love you.”

As soon as the words came out, everything in her universe came to a screeching, violent halt.

She meant to say that she loved it – it, the robe, not the man holding it who’d quietly uncovered her deep desire to have one for herself. Her brain, that stupid and traitorous thing, had been too wrapped up in her ruminations about her secret love for him that it had sent the worst possible signal to her mouth in its effort to betray her.

It didn’t help that Crocodile was just as silent as the rest of the world. She could feel him staring down at her, his cold eyes locked on the top of her head, and she absolutely refused to return his gaze. She locked in on the pattern of his vest, instead, trying desperately to count each individual thread while praying he had been momentarily deaf.

“It’s about time.”

A thick cloud of grey smoke bloomed over her face, warm and just barely tangible. The rumbling she heard wasn’t her pulse in her ears, but his chuckling, deep and rolling through his chest like thunder. The soft wool robe landed on top of her head, blanketing her view in an endless expanse of luxurious brown fur.

“I feel the same,” He admitted, softening his usual tone. “Now get inside and tell me what Sunday’s up to. She’s been plotting something all afternoon.”

Chapter Text

Someone was after Lily.

Who, and why, were things that completely eluded Crocodile at first, but there was absolutely no question that someone was pursuing his wife.

Word had reached Miss Doublefinger, first. She came and went from the Spider’s Café, but ensured that the business itself was always open, and that any interesting news the patrons might discuss landed firmly in her hands whether she was there or not. Although she was unaware Crocodile was her true employer, she knew the Warlord was present on the island, and he was not someone that she wanted to earn the ire of.

She had sent a message directly to Rain Dinners, to alert him to the unusual interaction she had with a traveler who’d stopped in at her café. Someone had shown up in the late evening, stopping to rest and get some water, before questioning if she knew anything about a young woman by the name of Lily. He had heard that she was on Arabasta somewhere, and though he refused to say why he was looking for her, Doublefinger – or, Zala, as she had signed the letter – stated she strongly suspected he was some sort of bounty hunter, though not one she recognized.

Given Zala’s experience in the field, he was inclined to believe the suspicious character had come from the New World. There were precious few bounty hunters that the assassin wouldn’t recognize by face alone, but she had rarely, if ever, ventured across the Red Line. The very likely explanation was that it was an employee of Doflamingo’s, at least in some capacity, though precisely what he was up to now remained unclear.

All Sunday had learned about him next. She was as much the manager of Rain Dinners as she was his spy master, with eyes and ears quite literally everywhere. The bounty hunter had made his way to Suiren, next, again asking about Lily, and presuming she knew his path, Sunday had made the venture to Yuba in an attempt to find out more.

She didn’t recognize the man, either. Her only real description was that he was older – older than Crocodile, by enough years that his locked hair, which reached nearly to his knees, was entirely grey. There was a tattoo along the side of his face, but he’d kept himself too heavily obscured for her to determine if it was simply decorative, or if it may have revealed where he’d come from or who he might be.

Despite that, however, she was confident that he was dangerous. Perhaps not a match for the Warlord, but certainly not some idiot who’d made a career out of simply being lucky – he was legitimate.

That was why Crocodile chose to meet him in the desert, rather than allow him to reach Rainbase. All Sunday had set the man on the right path, ensuring that he knew Lily was there, as well as that she’d be in the Warlord’s company. The stranger hadn’t so much as flinched to hear that finding her meant putting himself directly in Sir Crocodile’s crosshairs, and it was that sort of foolhardy pride that would result in his agonizing death.

Well after dark, he spotted the lone figure moving across the sand dunes. Lily had fallen asleep on the sofa, draped in the robe he had gotten for her, snoring and drooling against the cushions, utterly oblivious to his presence on the balcony. He had the suite built specifically for situations like this, though he had anticipated it would be Marines or the Royal Army that he would need to watch for, not a singular bounty hunter. Even in the dark, the figure was difficult to miss – vibrant white cloak standing stark in the dim light of the stars, trudging slowly closer.

He wanted to just kill the man, to execute him and be done with it, but that, Sunday had pointed out, was his anger talking. The far wiser decision was a confrontation, a conversation, even. They didn’t know for certain that the man was actually a threat, although Crocodile couldn’t personally fathom any other explanation as to why a complete stranger would be searching for his wife.

Most likely, Doflamingo had sent the man. Lily would be twenty-six come the sunrise – legally able to end their marriage in whatever way she pleased. He was confident that she intended to stay with him, but delusional as the overgrown bird could be, particularly when it came to her, he had surely resolved the best plot was to abduct her and frame it as if she had run away. It was precisely what Crocodile would do, if their roles were inverted. Have a third party abduct her, leave a forged note declaring that she was ending the marriage and fleeing to parts unknown, then hide her someplace secure until things had settled. Force her to sign divorce papers, compel her to marry him, instead, after paying off a Marine Captain to witness the event, so that she was legally entrapped, then let her back out into public once she had been broken badly enough that she wouldn’t think to attempt to escape.

If not him, then perhaps Smoker was the one. Though far less likely, it was the infinitely more desirable option, as it meant Lily wasn’t in danger. The Marine Captain had a reputation as a wild dog, constantly breaking his leash, but he wasn’t irrational, either. It had been nearly half a year since the Captain had learned of their marriage, and if he were to act, it would only be to ensure that Lily was still alive and safe. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that a trusted bounty hunter had been on his way through the area, anyway, and he’d paid for the other man to check in on her before he left.

Aster remained a third, even less likely possibility, though he couldn’t entirely discount her involvement, either. She remained utterly outraged that her daughter refused to listen to her demands, and between what Crocodile himself paid in dower, and all of Doflamingo’s “gifts”, she would have access to the funds to hire someone to bring her errant daughter home. Their marriage was perfectly legal, but Aster was one of the most talented liars Crocodile ever had the displeasure of meeting – she could no doubt spin a sympathetic tale about how her precious daughter had run off with a pirate, abandoning a good and kind man at the alter in favor of adventure.

The stranger didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. As he grew closer, the figure had stopped, appraising the unusual cloud of sand with curiosity for the briefest of moments, before recognition illuminated his dark eyes. He stopped short, maintaining a polite distance, but didn’t seem at all concerned about a fight, despite the sword strapped to his belt.

“Sir Crocodile.”

He had an accent, one Crocodile couldn’t specifically place – but one he had only heard in the New World. Another indicator it was Doflamingo’s man, then.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He could tell just from the man’s calm reaction that typical intimidation tactics wouldn’t be at all effective, but he refused to reveal his own hand, either – the rage that had him in a chokehold, at the mere suggestion of someone attempting to bring harm to his wife. His veneer was calm and collected as he reformed atop the sand dune, looming over the man, despite being the shorter of the two, taking his precious time to light a fresh cigar before he deigned to even look at him.

“You’re the one who’s been asking after my wife, then?”

“I have.”

He was unashamed, leaning casually back on his heels, and after several long beats of silence, Crocodile realized that he wasn’t going to give him any more information than that.

“We aren’t expecting any guests,” He could feel his fingers twitch with the urge to swing. “State your business.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, deepening the lines already formed by his crow’s feet. Despite the bulk of his face being covered by a veil to keep the sun off, there were clear signs of a man who spent his life at sea, little blackheads and sun spots across the tops of his cheeks. There was a single, pitch black line that protruded up from beneath the fabric mask, faded with sun exposure and age, towards the sagging bottom lid of his eye.

“I am an old friend of her father.”

“Which one?”

That was the first thing that seemed to give the stranger pause.

It wasn’t because he was confused by the statement, however. The old man was smart – smart enough to parse his meaning immediately, and it was clear that he understood precisely what Crocodile had meant. He was surprised, but not at all confused, as if he hadn’t expected Crocodile himself to know the truth about her parentage.

“I am surprised you know,” The old man admitted with a low chuckle. “That miserable witch Aster has been bragging now that he is gone, I see.”

“Hardly,” He huffed out a great cloud of smoke at the mere mention of the woman’s name. “Doflamingo overplayed his hand. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

There was another pause, this one born of true misunderstanding. The other man’s bushy brows flinched, pinched together at the top of his nose as he stared up at the Warlord. The answer seemed to come to him suddenly, his features relaxing as he laughed again, more earnestly and ruefully than before.

“You mean Donquixote?” His hood flapped as he shook his head. “I would sooner slit my throat than work for that demon. Not before I cut his, mind you. I owe him for Saliba.”

Saliba – an island in the New World. It wasn’t too terribly far from the Red Line, though it was further than Crocodile himself had ever reached, just past the strip of sea that Whitebeard had claimed for his own.

He knew of it only because it had been the center of Captain Cross’ territory. Everyone who attempted to cross the Grand Line knew better than to approach it, unless they were looking for a horrible death. In his younger days, he had heard rumors about it – how the island was ringed with the crucified remains of those who’d been foolish enough to challenge Cross, occupied solely by his blood thirsty pirates and those unfortunate enough to be enslaved by his rotten crew.

Careful to keep his hands where Crocodile could see them, the man reached for the knot that held his headwrap in place.

The face on the other side wasn’t one he recognized. A man of at least sixty, one who had spent the entirety of his life at sea, heavy with wrinkles partially hidden beneath a thick beard he hadn’t bothered to trim in a dog’s age. The only thing about him that was familiar was the tattoo on his right cheek – two swords, arranged to make a cross.

“Pavitara Adami,” The man offered, his chapped lips pulling back into a smile that revealed an array of damaged teeth. “Acting captain of the Cross Pirates.”

It was a possibility that Crocodile hadn’t considered – and one that seemed, in a lot of ways, infinitely worse than any other. Much of Cross’ crew had splintered off after the man’s death, forming their own fleets, some with success and others meeting failure, and he had presumed those that remained had met their end from Doflamingo’s strings.

“That doesn’t explain,” He parsed his words carefully, refusing to reveal that the admission was a surprise. “What you want with my wife.”

“Your wife,” Adami scoffed without any real venom. “That still sounds so strange to me. Of all the men in the world, Sir Crocodile, married to Oleander’s beti. How did you manage that anyway, hm?”

There was the faintest hint of suspicion in his tone. Protectiveness – not the possessiveness he heard every time Doflamingo spoke of her, but something uncomfortably similar to the way he found himself feeling, when something threatened her wellbeing.

He very much did not like that.

“This is the last time I’ll ask,” He warned, rolling his cigar between his teeth. “Your business here?”

“Ah,” Adami was, perhaps unsurprisingly, entirely unbothered. “So serious. I might almost think you care for her, the way you are talking.”

Once again holding his hands out, the man slowly reached beneath his cloak. Rather than a weapon, he produced a well-worn pack of cigarettes, tucking one into his lips as he started to pat down his pockets. Crocodile waited, clinging to the last thread of his patience, until he produced a yellowed envelope, holding it out for the Warlord to take.

It was still sealed, bright red wax emblazoned with the same sigil tattooed upon his face. On the front, in barely legible ink, was Lily’s name, and nothing else.

“Just fulfilling kapatana’s last request,” He made no move to intervene as Crocodile popped the seal open with the tip of his claw. “I mean no harm to either of you. Provided, I suppose, that you have not harmed her. I am sorry to say, I would be honor-bound to kill you if she has.”

“She’s well taken care of.”

The man hummed in response, but said nothing more. Keeping one eye on the man, he slipped the ancient parchment from the envelope, mindful of how delicate it was.

It was a simple letter, a single page, written by the shaking hand of an ill and aged man close to the end. In the low light of the night, it was difficult to make out, and he relied on the faint red glow of the cherry of his cigar to give him enough illumination to read it. Even then, he couldn’t digest it in full – but he could read enough.

“If this is a trick,” He slipped the note into the pocket of his vest. “I’ll execute what’s left of your crew.”

“No tricks.”

Again, Adami held up his empty palms.

“Besides,” He added with a hateful laugh. “There are not many of us left, after that bagul butcha paid us a visit.”

Inclining his head towards the city, Crocodile began the walk back. Adami leisurely made his way up the slope, slowing down just out of arm’s reach to match the Warlord’s pace as he resecured his mask. In silence, they made their way across the sands, back towards the bright lights of a city that came most alive in the twilight.

No one approached them.

Normally, on the rare occasion he left the casino, he was met with all manner of irritations from Arabasta’s people. The fact that he’d installed himself as their protection from invaders had left them with the idea that he was approachable, that he cared about their vain little problems or wanted their adulation, and they seldom truly let him be. It was nice, on rare occasion, to have his ego fed by their misguided adoration, but more often than not, he only wanted to be left alone, frustrated by their constant demands for his attention. Especially so when he was out with Lily – which was functionally the only reason he left Rain Dinners, except to intervene against carefully orchestrated raids – wanting to, admittedly, enjoy a bit of time spoiling her without having to think about anything else.

The people seemed well aware that he was in no mood that night, however. Perhaps they stayed away because of the cloaked man beside him, who’s only distinctive features were his massive height and vicious scimitar – regardless, they were given a wide berth.

“I have heard about this place,” Adami noted, more to himself than the Warlord. “People say the hotel is quite luxurious. I can see why you stay here.”

“Rain Dinners is my casino,” He wasn’t sure why he bothered to reply. “I own this oasis, and everything on it.”

“Including the kapatana’s beti, hm?”

He didn’t dignify that jab with a response. There was no reason to bother – Adami clearly wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw Lily was alive and well, and arguing would only reveal more than Crocodile was comfortable with exposing.

Instead, he led the way towards the underwater portion of the casino. It hadn’t seen much use, though he’d expected to spend most of his time there, when it had first been constructed. He much preferred to do his work from the suite, and only bothered to make use of the second office below when he couldn’t risk her overhearing.

She was slowly coming around to his plans, but he had long ago learned that pushing her too hard would only result in her pushing back. She could be incredibly stubborn, when she wanted to be, and if he pressed her too quickly into joining him, into being not just his wife but his partner in crime, he wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t turn tail and run for that chain-smoking Marine. He had to move slowly, be cautious with what he revealed until she decided on her own that she was ready, and there were certain factors of Operation Utopia that he was confident she wouldn’t abide.

Along the way, he instructed the desk clerk to call for Sunday to meet him in his office. Given she was already in the suite - no doubt nosing through their cabinets - just in case Adami was a smokescreen for a second intruder, she would understand what to do. While she kept Adami under guard, he could figure out what to tell Lily.

He had hoped she would still be asleep, and he could take his time to figure out what to say, but before Sunday had ventured down, she’d seen fit to wake her. She was in their bedroom, touching up the makeup she had smeared across the cushions.

Any other day, he would relish in the opportunity to sit and watch her. It was something he had seen other partners do in the past, and he’d had some passing curiosity about the process, but he had never quite enjoyed seeing a woman get ready the way he did when it was Lily. There was something incredibly domestic about it, and in the past, that sort of comfort had often made him feel like he ought to head for the hills, but once he had settled into the idea of truly having a partner, it had become a comfort rather than a threat.

In that moment, however, he was entirely too frustrated to give the scene the quiet reverence it was due.

“Sunday said there’s a guest?” Her eyes flickered to his in the mirror. “Mihawk show up or something?”

“No.”

He didn’t want to tell her. He knew that he had to, if he wanted to maintain her trust, but he very much did not want to.

Instead of speak, he fished the letter out of his pocket. The old parchment had wrinkled and torn from just that little bit of gentle abuse, but it remained in one piece. She frowned as he presented it, clearly baffled, but wiped the excess foundation off her fingers before she delicately plucked it from his grasp.

“A man by the name Pavitara Adami came to deliver this for you,” He admitted. “It’s from Oleander Cross.”

He could see her hesitate, looking between him and the parchment pinched between her fingers.

“You already read it, didn’t you?”

“Skimmed it,” He agreed. “Enough to be certain it wasn’t a trick.”

After another long beat of silence, she turned back to the vanity. Although she moved like nothing was amiss, her stare was vacant, lost in the middle distance as she resumed applying powder to her cheeks. The paper was placed carefully amongst the bottles and jars and tubes of her makeup, left folded and bent, ignored.

“What’s it say?”

A lot.

Despite the brevity of the note, it had revealed a great deal – answered a great many questions in just a handful of sentences. Whether the contents were truly accurate or not, he couldn’t say, but nothing Cross had claimed seemed particularly unbelievable. Determining whether or not the late pirate’s scrawl was true or not would come later, when he could properly interrogate Adami.

“Your mother and Cross had a deal,” He would spare her, he resolved, the bulk of the unnecessary details. “She was a slave. He knew he was dying, so he agreed to free her, if she gave him an heir to take over his fleet. Aster reneged before the child could be born, however, and he was too weak from his illness to chase after her.”

His mother-in-law’s apparent insanity made considerably more sense, after he’d read that particular detail.

Escaped slaves rarely acclimated easily back into civilian life. Some were paranoid, some became suicidal, and others still became aggressive, all driven by the trauma inflicted on them by their past masters. Aster had done better than most, able to live a fairly normal life, but he finally had a solid grasp on her motivations, when it came to how utterly desperate she was to stay in Doflamingo’s good graces.

Selling her daughter to a demon was a small price to pay, if it meant staying a free woman.

“He left his crew with orders to find you,” This was the part he least wanted to admit to, a rare bolt of guilt heavy in his chest. “To bring you back to Saliba.”

Chapter Text

Adami had been wary of the slave-girl from the start.

He couldn’t articulate why, not then and not years and years later, but something about the woman had seemed off. She had claimed to be a slave from birth, born to a slave who had been born to a slave, with a father who had only ever granted her the cruelty of the back of his hand, but something about her tale hadn’t quite rung true.

It was much later he had been proven right to be suspicious. In the many years he had spent attempting to fulfil his captain’s final wishes, he had found the island where she had come from – met her mother, a haggard old crone who had felt nothing at all when she sold all six of her children to the nearest auction house to support her alcoholism. Aster had been a young girl of barely ten, back when she’d been strapped with her first collar, old enough to remember what life was like without a master in control of her every breath.

Had she told the truth, that day, Captain Oleander Cross would have shipped her home, the way he did for all the others. He didn’t begrudge her for lying, not if it meant she was able to join the others on Saliba, who had no homes to return to – not when she had that miserable hag waiting for her on that backwater little island in the South Blue.

He could hate her, however, for what that lie had ultimately caused.

For all the many years he had served beneath Captain Cross, he didn’t know much about the man’s history. He never spoke of himself, of who he was before, though there were clues, for anyone who cared to look closely enough to find them. Although he never seemed to have any interest in women – or in men – he always paid particular care towards doe-eyed young women. He treated them with the slightest bit more kindness, paid closer mind to their comfort. It had never seemed romantic to Adami, but wistful, like a man who had lost his own children seeking to remedy his failures by building an orphanage.

Aster had been shrewd enough to see it too, and she had latched onto that weakness like a dog with a bone.

It hadn’t been worthy of concern, at first. She was hardly the first slave to develop a measure of hero worship for the man responsible for her freedom, and Adami had presumed that her near obsessive attentiveness for the ailing captain had been born out of gratitude.

Then, one day, Oleander had told him the truth.

He had been particularly unwell that night. His illness came in waves, sometimes leaving him bed bound for days on end, and other times, granting him weeks of reprieve where he acted no different than he had as a much younger man. Oleander had tried to join them by the fire, but he wasn’t strong enough to stay for long, staggering back to his cabin when he’d thought they were all distracted by one of Malaika’s many stories. Concerned the man may not make it up the winding path, Adami had joined him, pretending not to notice as he stumbled along.

He had admitted, in the dark of the woods, over the chirping of the crickets and the crashing of distant waves, that he knew his time was almost up. He could feel it, with a certainty that he had never had before – the specter of death was sat behind his shoulder, almost close enough to touch. It wouldn’t be long before death claimed him.

He was ready for it. In ways, Adami was too, after so long spent watching his old friend suffer, and Oleander had claimed only one regret – that he wouldn’t see his child born.

Aster was pregnant, he had explained. It had only been one night, a moment of drunken weakness, and though the thought of having a child had horrified him before, he was excited. Mournful, that he wouldn’t be able to know his only son or daughter, but there would be a part of him, hopefully the best parts of him, still in the world once he passed.

It had only been a week later that Aster was gone. There hadn’t been a single sign that anything was amiss – they had woken up, and realized that no one had seen her, nor had they seen the cabin boy just a few years her senior. A boat was missing, the small dinghy they used to ferry supplies, and when he had gone to tell Oleander, he found the Captain had already known.

They had fought, that night before. Some young fool of a captain had attempted to attack them, some days prior, intending to recover the escaped slaves that called Saliba home, and it had terrified Aster to her core. She wanted to take their child away from Saliba, out of the Grand Line entirely, to some quiet island in one of the Blues, where they could live a safe, normal life – and he had refused that request entirely. He would not abandon his crew in his last days, and for his child, there would be no place safer.

Oleander died that day, before the sun had fully dipped below the horizon. In his last few hours, he had given his last orders, exercising the cruelest, darkest parts of himself when he ought to be most at peace.

They were to drag her back by the hair, to tie her down until she had given birth. To take her newborn babe from her arms the moment it breathed its first, then toss the errant girl in the sea for the beasts to devour. The cabin boy, too – to string him up with the other traitors and let the sun bake him alive.

He had found the cabin boy, but Aster was long gone, by then. They had traveled all the way to Totto Land together, and had only been ashore a few hours before Aster abandoned him as swiftly as she had the father of her unborn child. He had almost felt bad for the young man, and all the romantic notions in his head that had sent him on the path to his own untimely end. He had believed that Aster loved him, that Oleander had taken advantage of her vulnerability to fulfill his twisted desires – that he was doing the kind thing, taking her far away from the captain who had abused her.

“I searched for her,” The man concluded, tipping back on his chair. “But I had to keep what remained of the crew together. Many left, after the kapatana died, and there were not enough men left to search the seas and hold Saliba.”

Most interrogations, she imagined, didn’t quite go as easy as the one that had just occurred.

Crocodile had, with the deepest reluctance, determined her presence was necessary. The man who had arrived with the letter wouldn’t tell him anything until he was able to confirm that she was in good health, so as much as he’d prefer to keep her well away from the potential threat, she had to make at least a cursory appearance.

She intended to leave once Adami had been able to ease his apparent concerns, but instead, had gotten sucked into the tale he had gladly launched into. Seated comfortably at the head of the dining table, restrained by a multitude of Sunday’s hands, he had breezily presumed that they would all want to know what had happened to bring him all the way to Arabasta just for her, and without an ounce of reservation, gladly declared he would give them the truth. She found herself seated at the table, opposite Crocodile’s massive frame, listening as he articulated the precise circumstances of Lily’s own conception.

For the better part of an hour, no one interrupted. Adami was a talented story-teller, but not a concise one, and he more than once drifted off into some B-story that wasn’t particularly relevant to anything at all. Crocodile had been tense, at first, tightly coiled and prepared for an attack, but by the time Adami ran out of steam, he had relaxed, leaning back comfortably against his seat back, toying with a tumbler.

“I have kept my ears open, though,” Adami had a glass of his own, which he had gladly filled and emptied several times. “The crew, we have a deal with a man named Joker. He is the one who told me where to find you.”

There was a loud, low rumble of frustration from across the table. Both she and Adami paused, turning to look at the Warlord as he shot back a great mouthful of whiskey. His brows were drawn tight together, his mouth set in an unmistakable grimace. His broad chest heaved as he scoffed under his breath, absently shaking his head.

“Joker,” He drawled, his voice thick with irritation. “Is one of Doflamingo’s aliases.”

The surprise on Adami’s face appeared genuine. His eyebrows shot up, an array of deep lines heavy with shadows on his forehead. His badly chapped, sometimes bleeding, lips worked beneath the mass of his unkempt beard, muttering beneath his breath in what she presumed must be his native tongue.

“That would explain much…” As he sighed, he lit yet another cigarette – Sunday had to bring him another pack, and while he’d groused about them being menthol, he had smoked through half of them.

“He knows,” Her voice crackled, forcing her to stop and clear her throat. “About me and Cross. Did you tell him?”

“Unfortunately,” Under other circumstances, seeing him and Crocodile huff out a plume of smoke in near synchronicity would have been hilarious. “He has supplied us with weapons for many years, and he has many connections. I believed he was reliable.”

She wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t spark the flames to life. Adami had no reason to suspect that asking a long standing associate would result in her being stalked by the demon of a man. Across the table, Crocodile closed his eyes – something he did to seem thoughtful, like he was in deep consideration, but in reality, she recognized it as a clear sign of his rage, a means of coping while he stuffed it back down in the interest of something greater than the pleasure of killing whoever dared earn his ire.

“Do you know why…” She paused, uncertain how to phrase the question. “He seems to be very interested in me, because of who my father is.”

“Is he?” A hand, splotchy with dark marks from the sun and missing two fingers, threaded through the mass of curls on his chin. “I am afraid I don’t have answers for you, munni. We only spoke of you twice. I did not believe he even remembered this old man’s request, until he told me where to find you.”

Naturally.

It was too much to hope that Doflamingo would run around spilling his guts to anyone who would listen. He was insane, but he wasn’t an idiot – the important cards in his game were the ones he would keep closest to his chest.

“It would be unwise,” Crocodile’s dry voice cut through the silence in the room. “For her to go to Saliba.”

“Oh?”

“I imagine,” The Warlord clenched his teeth around his cigar. “He intends to use you to separate me from my wife, so he can abduct her without any trouble.”

“You could always join us,” Adami was a man of good humor, smiling beneath his ragged moustache. “Though I am afraid we do not have such luxurious accommodations.”

Again, Crocodile snorted. From a dark corner of the room, she could see Sunday, smiling ruefully and shaking her head.

“I have duties,” The reply was accompanied by another sigh. “That require my presence here for a while yet.”

“That complicates things,” Adami nodded sagely, tilted precariously in his chair as he gazed thoughtfully at the windows. “But there is no rush for us to return.”

Her husband was far from pleased with the answer. Those cold eyes cut towards the old pirate, glowering at the aging giant, who was entirely unbothered.

“Your crew will be alright without you?”

Adami burst into a raucous fit of laughter.

“There is not much of a crew left,” He admitted. “We have only one ship, and they know their duty. Besides, I do not think Joker has much reason to return to Saliba unless you are there, munni. He has already taken the only thing there of value.”

Cross’ Devil Fruit – it almost came bursting out of her mouth that she already knew that, before instinct forced her lips shut. Her gut told her that she could trust Adami, but there was no reason to reveal that she had that power in her back pocket, at least not until they were both absolutely certain he could be trusted with that information. There was still a thread of uncertainty, a reason to fear he might secretly be on someone else’s payroll, especially as the crew had largely fallen apart after Cross’ death.

After a moment of thought, Crocodile nodded, inclining his head at Sunday. Adami seemed to have briefly forgotten she existed, appraising her from toe to scalp in a way that, at first, felt disgustingly lecherous.

It was a mask, though. Despite the expression on his face, there was no glimmer of excitement or interest in his dark eyes. A lot like Crocodile looked at people, really, only considering the pros and cons, the risks and rewards, of associating with the object of his attention.

“I am jealous,” Adami chuckled. “Two beautiful women of your own. You are a greedy man, Sir Crocodile.”

The barb was disguised as a joke, and Crocodile refused to dignify it.

“My assistant,” He drawled the word slowly, as if he thought Adami might be too stupid to understand. “Will find a room for you.”

“Very good,” The old man unfurled from his seat, all limbs – his torso was almost comically short, compared to his arms and legs. “I will see you in the morning, munni. We have much catching up to do.”

Unbothered by her noise of confusion, he trailed after Sunday towards the steps, disappearing into the darkness of the glass tunnel. Only when the clicking of Sunday’s heels stopped did Crocodile move, relaxing his muscles and sprawling out in his chair with a grand, rumbling sigh. His good hand ran up his face, pushing back his hair as he scowled at nothing at all.

“You don’t trust him, do you?”

“Not at all.”

They remained in Crocodile’s not-quite-secret underground lair for the rest of the night. She had never been down there before, though she had been told that it existed – mostly in case she mistakenly ended up falling through one of the half-dozen trap doors and ended up on the landing the Bananawani had access to. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for anyone’s company, not even hers, staring contemplatively at the table cloth as he smoked cigar after cigar, but he would be in an even worse mood if she tried to venture back upstairs.

He liked to keep her beside him, tucked neatly and safely into his nest.

Instead, she distracted herself with the Bananawani. Her F-Wani, Princess Cuddlecakes, had noticed them through the glass, and upon realizing they didn’t intend to leave any time soon, left the pond in favor of being pampered. In just a short few weeks, what had once been a little lizard barely larger than Crocodile’s fist now stood as tall as Lily herself, shedding her scales every other week in favor of ever-darkening new ones, and she had become very fond of being scrubbed with a particularly rough brush to help the more stubborn patches peel away.

He had recently commissioned the final saddle to be made. Much of the work had already been done, though it had stalled, for the time being, as they waited until Princess was closer to her full size for the final fitting.

It was similar to Sunday’s, but inherently different, at the same time. While Sunday’s F-Wani served to ferry her from point A to point B, Princess’ entire existence was a back up plan for Lily’s safety, which had necessitated all sorts of alterations – some of which, honestly, Lily felt might reflect Crocodile’s private paranoia more so than anything based in reality.

The most notable difference was that Princess’ saddle could be made weather-tight. Sunday’s had something not unlike a sun canopy, a roof above the seat and a pane of durable glass to prevent debris from flying into her face as it rushed along, but it wasn’t meant for a long journey. The furthest she traveled was Whiskey Peak, which on the back of an F-Wani, was a trek that took just under two days, and in the event she was attacked, be it by a sea creature or a band of brigands, her Devil Fruit was more than sufficient protection.

Princess’ saddle would be no luxury ride for months spent adrift in the world, but it could serve as one if it needed to. There were fish-skin leather flaps on either side, to bring down and keep the elements out if the weather were to turn sour, and a small assortment other fixtures behind the seat that made it more functional for long journeys. A few lightweight, air-tight boxes mounted to the back frame, to serve as storage for not just food and water, but the small collection of survival items Sunday had gladly accumulated.

It wouldn’t be comfortable, but she could spend weeks on the back of her F-Wani without ever setting foot on solid land, if that was what it came to.

She had just gotten a stuck nail cap off of one of Princess’ claws when Crocodile finally moved. With a rumbling sound on par with the growling of his pets, and a distinctive cracking of his knee, he pushed himself out of his seat. He didn’t look any more pleased than he had the past few hours, but his stance was marginally more relaxed, though it was likely exhaustion, more than anything else. With his terrible sleep schedule, the man was always tired on some level, and he hadn’t slept well the night before, either. He had been up and down more often than normal, taking an unusual number of calls from one of his assets out in the West Blue, who, from what she could gather, was having a difficult time sourcing a particularly rare chemical he needed.

With a sharp whistle, he dismissed Princess. Despite being the one to train the F-Wani, the creature didn’t particularly respect him – because Lily was always spoiling her, or so he insisted – and shot him a baleful glare. The two stared one another down for several long moments, and it was only when she patted Princess’ leg, urging her along, that the lizard puffed through her nose and turned to trudge back into the lake.

“She learned that from you, you know,” He groused. “You’re both incorrigible brats.”

“I would pay a disgusting amount of money to see you try and spank her.”

He rolled his eyes, lips twitching. He looped his arm around her thighs, hoisting her up against his chest, turning swiftly to head towards the tunnel out of his villain’s hideout.

“Watch your tone, little girl,” He jostled her, vaguely threatening to throw her over his shoulder’s like a sack of potatoes. “Don’t think that I won’t take you over my knee just because it’s your birthday.”

Chapter Text

Adami stood out like a sore thumb.

He stood a full body taller than anyone else on the casino floor, but his height was the least notable thing about him. Seated at a poker table between a man in a fine three-piece suit and another in a traditional Arabastan robe with silk inlays, it would be obvious, even to a blind man, that he was a pirate through and through. His clothes were old and ratty and badly mismatched, speckled with sand and stains of indeterminate origins. He smelled fine, if she excused the stink of sour cigarette smoke, but he looked like he had never heard of the word “soap”, his beard wild and untrimmed and his locks seemingly formed out of neglect rather than intent. He was loud, too, shouting and cursing when he lost the hand, slamming his massive palm on the table with enough force that half the guests at the table beside them suddenly decided to get up and leave.

It wasn’t ideal to have him there, for a wide variety of reasons. Crocodile would likely never trust that his intentions were genuine, regardless of any efforts he made to prove himself – and, after all that had happened recently, Lily wasn’t sure she could hold that against him. Her instinct was that Adami seemed honest, but with lie after lie slowly coming unraveled over the past few months, her ability to trust anyone, including her own gut, was left to dangle by the thinnest thread. There was a slowly growing paranoia in the back of her skull that would, one day, rival her husband’s, held back from consuming her solely through sheer stubbornness and spite.

Outside of that, though, was the fact that he was clearly a pirate – loitering around the casino of Sir Crocodile, the Warlord who rather famously loathed other pirates.

His reputation was sure to take a blow, just by virtue of allowing Adami to continue to exist. He had spent most of the night contemplating how to explain away his presence while mitigating as much damage as possible, and had yet to concoct a satisfactory explanation for Sunday to start spreading amongst the masses. No matter what he led people to believe, it would only take one person to recognize the blatant sigil on Adami’s cheek for word to spread that a member of the fearsome Cross Pirates had been granted the royal treatment at Rain Dinners.

Her own status amongst people was sure to take a nose dive of its own, too.

She wasn’t as adored as Crocodile, but her face had become recognizable, at least to the residents of Rainbase. After the Mataheb, Crocodile had resolved it best she perform a few more performative philanthropic efforts, to endear her – and himself – to the populace of the desert island, and she had developed her own reputation as a kind hearted, if shy, woman who only sought to help. Being the more sociable of the two, people had started to try and approach her about local problems or pet projects of theirs, most of which she ignored, but she did occasionally get involved with the plans of certain faces she knew could be relied on to follow through, like a merchant who wanted to build better supply lines to Yuba, which was still in dire need of more reliable sources of water.

People would lose their minds just from her associating with Adami – she couldn’t imagine what would happen if the truth about her parentage came out.

She didn’t want to spend her birthday dealing with the new drama in her life. Though she teased Crocodile about throwing her an absurd birthday bash, in reality, all she wanted was what he had – a day of absolute peace and relaxation. Instead, she was stood across the casino floor from a three-and-a-half meter tall pirate, acting captain of one of the most bloodthirsty crews in the history of all the seas, contemplating her life choices and cursing whatever god was responsible for her absolutely terrible luck.

Adami had been serious the night prior about having a conversation with her, and he’d sent Sunday up just after dawn with his polite threat-demands to meet privately. Crocodile adamantly refused to let the man be truly alone with her, even for an instant, but it hadn’t taken him long to find a satisfactory middle ground. He hadn’t made a public appearance in weeks, so while the Warlord prowled the casino floor, the two of them could meet on the semi-private balcony – well within his line of sight, but far enough from listening ears to speak openly.

“Ah, there you are, munni.”

She hadn’t done anything to get his attention, but Adami had already noticed her, peering back over his shoulder and grinning with his broken teeth. The poker cards were downright comical in his grip, tiny little scraps of paper pinched between two fingers, and she vaguely noted it was an absolute shit hand.

“You wanted to talk?”

She kept her voice as even as she could, trying to err on the side of subtle frustration, which wasn’t particularly difficult. In the end, she had managed to get a couple of hours of fitful sleep, but she was still exhausted, and angry, and more than a little plain and simple sad.

“You have time?” He grinned again, like he had just told some hilarious joke, and without concern for the game, slapped his cards down and started to rise from the too-small barstool. “Let us chat, then.”

The modest crowd gave them a wide berth. The mornings were always the quietest, but the casino was never truly empty, and there were still entirely too many people staring and whispering as she led Adami to the stairs. On the way, Crocodile made it a point of crossing their paths, glowering at the giant in a silent showing of his displeasure at his presence, though it was as much for the rest of the audience as it was Adami himself.

He took up nearly the entire couch. It was too tall for her feet to touch the floor, if she sat all the way back, but he looked like an adult sitting on a toddler swing, knees craning towards the ceiling and his toes protruding from beneath the coffee table. She settled into one of the arm chairs on the opposite side, feeling remarkably like his exact opposite, acutely aware of the excess space.

“Tell me the truth, munni,” All hints of jovialness dropped from his face, his voice quieter than it had ever been before. “The crocodile. Does he hurt you?”

“No.”

Just as swiftly as he’d grown serious, the easy contentment was back. Adami eased into his seat, lanky arms spread from end to end and then some across the back of the leather sofa, black and white teeth flashing beneath his moustache. His lip cracked again, vibrant red blooming to life, and as his tongue shot out to lick it away, she noticed a sizeable chunk of the muscle was missing. Not enough to impede his speech, but enough to be visible, where it seemed like he must have bit some of it off.

“Good,” He nodded. “I would have fought him, but I am not a young man anymore. I am not too proud to admit he may have been the one to walk away the victor.”

“Why would you fight him in the first place?” She pieced together that it was a matter of honor, either for her or for himself, but the ease with which he said it confused her. “You’d be dying for a stranger.”

Adami snorted, breathy and huffy, as his lips curled.

“I do not need to know you,” His shrug was unnecessarily vivacious, moving through his entire body. “You are the kapatana’s daughter. That is all that matters.”

“My bloodline really matters that much to you?” She couldn’t completely restrain the sarcasm in her tone. “I’m surprised you made it this long, with that sort of thinking.”

The pirate opposite her laughed. It wasn’t the performative cackles from the night before, but a low chuckle, as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Her hand twitched with the instinct to grab for the lighter tucked into her bra, and she dug her fingers into the cushion, instead, as he lit it himself with a dented lighter so badly tarnished she couldn’t tell what color it had originally been.

“I would be a poor first mate,” A red stain was on the butt of his cigarette. “If I let the new kapatana suffer such indignity.”

“Pardon?”

Adami didn’t so much as blink. He shifted, stretching out one stilt-like leg, pushing the coffee table aside with his shin as she tried to make sense of his words. Half of her brain immediately registered what he said, computing and digesting it and readily making sense of his words, but only half. The rest of her was certain that she had misheard, that his accent, which wasn’t too terribly thick, had led her to misunderstanding what had just tumbled out of his mouth.

“It was Oleander’s last wish,” He waved his hand, flinging grey ash over the knee of his tattered pants. “That you, his child, become the new captain of his crew.”

There was a strange sound, over the quiet clatter of low-stakes slots pouring out coins, and it took a long second to realize it was her. Her mouth had fallen open, her throat clicking as she tried to form words, but none would form.

“You think I came all this way just to bring you a letter, munni?” The pirate chuckled. “I am here to retrieve you. Ask the crocodile, if you do not believe me. He knows.”

She was absolutely going to – after she got done smashing all of their coffee mugs against his head.

“Not that he will let you go,” Unbothered, Adami continued to talk. “I admit, I did not expect he would be so attached. Joker, he said you were unhappy, and asked for his help to escape.”

“I most certainly did fucking not.”

“Do not look so angry,” He laughed through the words. “I see now I was deceived. Still, I cannot be too upset. Without his lies, I may never have found you.”

Her opinion was very much the opposite. If not for that feather-wearing asshole, she would have been able to go about her life in blissful ignorance. Of course, part of her did have to admit that the parts of her life that she enjoyed now would be things that she never experienced, as she would have adamantly refused to give Sir Crocodile the opportunity to win her over, but at least her life of poverty would have been peaceful. Lonely and unfulfilling, maybe, though she wouldn’t have known that without the benefit of experience, either.

“I’m not…” She pressed the tip of her tongue into that sharp gap between her teeth. “I’m not a pirate.”

“You are married to one,” Adami grinned. “Even if he is a government dog. Is that not the same thing?”

“It’s not. And even if it was, that doesn’t mean I want to be the captain of anything.”

“Your father did not want to be a captain either,” He had an answer for everything, it seemed. “The best leaders are often the ones who do not want to lead, but do it anyway.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Adami ignored her completely.

“I understand you do not wish to leave this place,” His wiry torso folded forward, elbows pressed into the tops of his knees. “And I will not make you. Not right now. Thanks to the sea hag, you need much training first, anyway. The men will not respect you, if you are not strong enough.”

“I’m not training for anything,” She snipped, his grin flickering in return. “I’m a grown adult now. I decide what I do, and what I’m going to do is absolutely fuck all.”

It had been a while since someone managed to touch that nerve – so long, in fact, that she hadn’t even realized that it was still exposed.

As much as Sunday liked to treat her like a life-sized dress up doll sometimes, the people closest to her had always respected her bodily autonomy. There hadn’t been a moment, not in months, that she’d been concerned that Crocodile or Sunday might make her do something she truly didn’t want to, that they’d physically force her or try to manipulate her. She didn’t fear that Crocodile would ever force her to do a single thing that she didn’t want to do.

That he would sell her to save his own skin. That he would ship her away from her home with a complete stranger without a thought for how she felt, without regard for if she would be safe. That he’d hand her over to an egomaniacal slave trader who would gladly sell him out the second he got what he wanted.

“So, it is true, then,” She didn’t realize she was standing, until she suddenly realized how close she was to the pirate. “Joker told me this marriage was not your choice. Aster, she arranged this?”

“No,” Wanting desperately for something to throw, she made her way to the bar, grabbing a bottle of wine before reconsidering her options, and instead starting a hunt for a way to open it. “No. Florian did.”

“You do not have to stay-.”

“I want to be here!” In her peripheral, she saw Crocodile’s head cock, despite the conversation he was involved in on the floor below, and she knew she’d been just a little too loud. “I don’t want to leave.”

Her grasp on her temper had never been particularly firm. As far back as she could remember, she had always been quick to anger, flying into a rage as swiftly as dry brush exposed to a spark. It had never gotten too out of hand, though, because there was simply nothing in her life that really, truly, deeply angered her. She would snap for the briefest instant, but it never lingered, never grew out of control – a fire sparking noisily against the hearth, rather than an inferno burning down an entire forest.

It was only with the most tenuous sense of self control that she resisted flinging the bottle across the balcony. Instead, she managed to pour herself a glass, though not without spilling sweet white wine across the bar top.

She was too angry to clean it. One of the staff would get it later – in that moment, she needed something to snuff the burning in her chest.

“Florian,” She wondered, vacantly, if all the second hand smoke was the reason she desperately wanted a cigarette of her own. “The man who raised me, he arranged my marriage to Crocodile to protect me.”

“A dangerous plan,” Adami’s face was as impassive as his voice. “Given his status.”

The little voice of logic in the back of her head tried to smother the flames. Adami was, it reminded her, not necessarily her enemy. Cautious as she had to be, everything he said could very much be true – that he was only trying to follow the orders of the captain he had long respected, that he had been lied to and misled by a manipulative cretin determined to ruin her life simply for his own self-satisfaction.

“I don’t know how it started,” There was a pack of menthol cigarettes amongst the shelves, and she grabbed for it. “But Aster, she was going to marry me off to Doflamingo.”

The smoke was like acid in her throat. She wanted to cough, choking it back with a mouthful of wine, feeling it seep into the tissue of her lungs.

“Florian didn’t trust him, but he didn’t see any way out,” Despite the pain, she took another deep breath through the paper filter. “Until Crocodile came around.”

Adami’s wild brows were high on his wrinkled forehead. Rather than speak, he lit another cigarette of his own. His dark stare averted to the plush carpet, contemplating her admission, while she stubbed out the tobacco in the nearby sink. Terrible as it felt, it had satisfied the craving, and more importantly, done exactly what she had hoped, smothering the rage down to tolerable embers.

“It wasn’t ideal,” She breathed. “And I wasn’t happy about it, but it worked out. If I wanted to leave, I would.”

He raised his hands, exposing his palms, caked in old callouses and blisters.

“I will not bring it up again,” He agreed placidly. “If you are content with the arrangement, I have no reason to interfere. Though I admit, I struggle to believe it.”

Another wry smile spread across his lips.

“He is not the worst choice,” He teased. “He will be a good first mate.”

“You’re delusional if you think he’ll accept anything less than captain.”

“Co-captain, then,” Adami chuckled, lazily scratching his abdomen, revealing a broad, uneven scar that seemed to run from hip to hip. “I have not paid much attention to this side of the world. He has a crew of his own, yes?”

The answer was sort of.

Officially, Crocodile’s crew was very small. The men and women on the Gustave were, by the strictest legal definition, were sailors, rather than pirates - though many, like Garret, had been considered the latter until Crocodile himself had become a Warlord, which had granted them all a pardon. The crew sat at a steady thirty, occasionally picking up or dropping off members one or two at a time, which was precisely enough to keep the ship running smoothly at all hours of the night and day, with five or six extra sets of hands to serve as guards in the event of a raid or to provide supplemental assistance in the event of an emergency.

He used to have a much larger fleet, in his early days. Five ships, with roughly sixty or so pirates on each, but most of them had been lost during his ill fated battle with Whitebeard. Only the Gustave, and a handful of its crew, had survived, and Crocodile had never bothered to try and rebuild.

At first, it had been because of his pride. He had admitted, mostly through carefully orchestrated subtext, that he’d fallen into a profound depression after losing to Whitebeard, one so extreme he had nearly given up on the idea of being a pirate at all. It remained the only fight he had ever truly lost, and after a lifetime of easily dominating his opponents, his sense of self had been badly rattled by the revelation that he was barely more than a mosquito to Whitebeard and his forces.

Later, he had opted not to rebuild simply because it was inconvenient. He had learned a harsh lesson about quality and quantity, and he preferred to turn his focus to building a small, but powerful, crew, rather than a fleet of worthless underlings. It had proven to be the correct plan of action, as it was with that small crew that he’d become famous and feared enough to be offered his position as a Warlord at a mere twenty-four years old – making him both the youngest pirate to ever achieve the position, as well as the one to hold onto it the longest.

Most of that crew had been dismissed over the course of the near two decades since, or had left on their own, some amicably and some declaring Crocodile their enemy. With his promotion, Crocodile had turned his attention away from typical piracy, and focused instead on building his now flourishing business empire. With the development of his Devil Fruit powers, Crocodile simply didn’t need a large, powerful crew to support him, and most of them hadn’t been pleased with the shift in direction their future had taken. He had, through the veil of Baroque Works and his alias, Mister Zero, reached out to a few who had founded their own crews in order to recruit them, but most had drifted off, some retiring, some dying, and some simply venturing away to parts unknown.

Unofficially, however, her estimate put his forces at close to two thousand. She couldn’t say that number with a great deal of confidence, but she had heard enough to do some very rough math, relying on vague notions like the generally accepted average crew size, combined with a general understanding of how Crocodile thought. It was probably a little less, closer to fifteen hundred, as they were still slowly but surely recruiting more, but two thousand was the minimum size of a Marine brigade. A decently skilled group of two thousand pirates could readily stand against a group of Marine’s twice that size, especially with his inner circle of Devil Fruit users thrown into the mix. Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to do much against higher ranking officers, like Garp or Aokiji or even Smoker, but Crocodile was the longest standing Warlord for a reason.

“Just the one ship,” Adami’s brows rose in surprise, and she shrugged – as open as he was about it with her, Crocodile’s association with Baroque Works was an otherwise well kept secret. “Most Warlords don’t have much of a crew.”

“Should be strong enough not to need one, eh?” He smacked his dry lips thoughtfully. “It is not much, but it is something. We have a few, but we only have the men to keep one at sea. When you come to Saliba, we will give you the kaptana’s ship. It has sat at port entirely too long.”

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“I hear it,” He cackled as he unfurled from the sofa. “But you must visit, before you make a decision. There is much you don’t know, things you must see.”

Ignoring her gawking, he turned towards the stairs, waving his massive hand in her direction.

“I will not argue with you on your birthday. We will talk more tomorrow morning,” He declared as he ducked beneath the threshold. “I will meet you at dawn to start your training.”

Chapter Text

Crocodile knew he messed up. For once, however, he wasn’t sure exactly how.

He was absolutely certain that Lily was angry with him. He could feel her rage searing into the back of his skull from the balcony, and when he dared chance a glance up, he found her by the railing, glaring down at him like he’d just loudly proclaimed her most intimate secrets to the entirety of Rain Dinners. From what he could tell, her conversation with Adami had mostly been peaceful – she had raised her voice, for a brief second, but she had caught herself as quickly as she had started, and whenever he glanced their way, they seemed to be amicable.

Going upstairs to ask would be a mistake. He and his wife had more in common than she would ever want to admit, and her temper was just as bad as his own – worse, sometimes. Getting anywhere near her would be an invitation for her to throw a rather public fit, and while he typically didn’t mind being the victim of her tantrums – if anything, he found it arousing in ways he refused to think too deeply about - it wasn’t something that he could allow to happen in front of so many watching eyes.

Thankfully, she had just enough self control not to try and hit him in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t something that she’d done before, or something that he would abide if she did, but they had also never been in a situation where she couldn’t victimize a bunch of inanimate crates instead. Instead, she stalked across the floor to the elevators while strictly and absolutely ignoring his existence, giving him the widest berth she could without making a comical lap around the edges of the room, and it was Adami who came striding up to him.

The couple who had been chatting at him dismissed themselves before the pirate could reach his side.

He loathed having the pirate present. It was convenient, in a lot of ways, to have him stay at Rain Dinners, but it could very easily become an issue. Part of his decision to make a public appearance that day had been to smother the rumors before they could run out of control, and he had been subtly explaining away the existence of an obvious pirate at his casino while trying not to potentially dig himself into a hole later, should someone recognize Cross’ lifelong first mate.

He could use Cross’ reputation to his advantage, at least. Although the crew had been known as some of the worst of the worst, pillaging and raiding and raping and slaving, since the Captain’s death, they had largely fallen into quiet obscurity. He hadn’t said so outright, but he had implied that Adami was looking for a sort of absolution from his past crimes, suggesting that he had come to Crocodile for assistance in his endeavor, after hearing what he had done for Arabasta. It was an imperfect excuse, but given the crew had given up the slave trade after Cross’ death – or, earlier than that, if Adami was to be believed – it was a safe enough explanation, one that wouldn’t be immediately and easily disproven.

“What did you say to my wife?”

To his annoyance, Adami snickered under his breath.

“She is unhappy,” The larger man drawled, casting a brief glance around at the distant crowd – no one was close enough to overhear. “With her inheritance.”

That was hardly a surprise, though Crocodile wasn’t at all certain what that had to do with him. Lily had long been adamant that she had no desire to become a pirate, and Adami had come along to do the exact thing that would only push her further away from her real potential – demand that she do something she didn’t want to.

“She did not seem pleased,” He continued with clear amusement. “That you already knew.”

He couldn’t contain his sigh.

For all the time she spent claiming she didn’t want to know things, she took it extremely personally when she felt he was keeping secrets. It was a fine, sometimes annoying, line that he had to walk when it came to his otherwise lovely wife and her deep-seated trust issues. He couldn’t keep a secret or tell her the truth outright – he had to offer little pieces of information, just enough that she could decide if she was curious to hear more or if she preferred not to know, standing on the porch of her boundaries without actually knocking on the door.

Now, because of Adami, she had once again decided he was a traitor.

Keeping the truth about Cross from her had been an egregious miscalculation. He hadn’t done it because of his promise to Florian, but because he had wanted to gather more information, first. She could deny it all she wanted to, but his wife was a curious creature, and if he told her, she would have a million questions he simply couldn’t answer. Once his contacts turned up something useful, once he had at least a few more pieces put together, he would have admitted the reality that he’d uncovered.

Doflamingo had forced his hand, there. Of all the things he expected of the King of Dressrosa, showing up on Arabasta had hardly made the list. He had expected that, if the other man had truly snapped enough to encroach on Crocodile’s territory that blatantly, it would have been with the intent of starting a bloodbath – not to verbally harass his wife in the street.

The fact that all he’d done was talk had thrown yet another problem into the mix. Aside from upsetting Lily – which, in Crocodile’s estimation, was more than enough – it had proven that Doflamingo wasn’t just going mad and acting irrationally. There was a purpose behind what he was doing, one far more concerning than just winding the two of them up. Between what he’d said at the Mataheb, and what Mihawk had relayed of their conversation at Kyuka, it almost felt like Crocodile had enough to figure it out, but the answer remained just out of his grasp.

Cross was the problem – inadvertently, but still the problem, nonetheless.

There was nothing about the dead pirate that should have been of interest to Doflamingo. Cross had retired to Saliba around the same time Doflamingo had been born, and had died long before the Warlord’s underground trade network had been developed – even Adami was certain that they never had so much as a passing relation. Joker had only been in the picture for five or so years, reaching out to use the remnants of the crew as cover to transport his drugs and guns and whatever else, and he hadn’t, at first, seemed all that interested in Cross’ missing heir. When he had agreed, it had been purely business, demanding a sizeable repayment for the favor he was doing the crew by even bothering to care about Cross’ errant heir.

A repayment he was now, according to Adami, refusing to accept. It was on the auspices of how horrific her situation was, how even the slave trader felt for the poor girl subjugated to Crocodile’s cruelties, and because of the crew’s long-standing reliability as members of his own organization – but it was also a clue.

Something had changed, in the three years between those two conversations.

It wasn’t an answer, but it helped narrow the search for one. Crocodile had been half-convinced that Aster had brokered some sort of deal back when she was pregnant, perhaps with the deposed King Riku, which had seemed all the more likely from Adami’s tale of her flight from Saliba, but ultimately, he had resolved it was improbable. Something had changed only recently, something he had found that had convinced Doflamingo that he needed Lily.

All he needed to do was follow Doflamingo’s path over the past few years – something easier said than done, but very much possible to accomplish. One last clue, that was all he needed, and once he knew what Doflamingo wanted from his wife, he would no longer be on the back foot.

Keeping her “inheritance” to himself for a few hours was a far smaller sin, but one he would ultimately still be paying for – metaphorically and literally. Had she read the letter, she would have known what Cross intended for her, and he was tempted to point out that it was more her fault than his, for ignoring the note the night before.

That, and he had, technically, told her. Cross wanted his child to take over his fleet, and Adami had come to follow through on that order. He had said it outright, but supposed she hadn’t put two and two together, between Adami’s lingering presence and the lack of sleep they’d both suffered through.

It was her own damn fault she was angry, this time – and he knew full well he was going to act like it wasn’t. He was going to follow her upstairs, let her throw a fit, and spend the next few days slowly earning back her affection like he was somehow in the wrong.

He made his way out of the elevator in time to hear ceramic shattering against the walls.

His married life, he realized, was infinitely different than what he imagined. Better, in most ways, but also stranger, and he never expected to feel relief that his wife was smashing plates and mugs instead of the much more expensive crystal glasses.

Unsurprisingly, she was in the kitchen, flinging another mug at his office door. She had only been up there for a few minutes, but she’d managed to get through half the cabinet already, leaving a trail of broken ceramic strewn about the tiles. He had made it a point to be loud when he entered, and he was certain she had heard him arrive, but she ignored him in favor of grabbing another one, gearing up and giving it a powerful overhand swing.

“I’m not mad at you.”

She certainly looked like she was angry at him, but he kept that to himself.

“I was, for a minute,” She grabbed one of the last few mugs, tossing it from palm to palm. “But it’s not like you didn’t try to tell me why Adami was here.”

It was unlike her to think while she was in a rage. Again, though, he wasn’t about to complain, and decided to simply accept the statement for what it was. As he hung up his coat, another mug pinged off the wall.

“What has you destroying our kitchen, then?”

They were down to one mug before she stopped. Wary she might fling it, he slid her a glass of wine from the far side of the island, pouring himself a drink as well, despite how early the hour still was. She refused to sit and join him, but stood opposite, hands braced against the counter top as she contemplated the liquid in her cup.

“I just want…” She had a habit, he had noticed, of sucking her teeth when she was frustrated. “I just want to be left alone for a while.”

Sensing there was more to it, he waited, quietly taking a sip of his drink.

“Not like alone, alone,” Her entire body drooped. “Just…no Warlord stalkers or giant pirates or drama sort of alone.”

It had, in her defense, been a particularly busy month. Doflamingo’s birthday party had been frustrating enough, and they hadn’t really stopped dealing with one event after another since. Hosting Rose hadn’t been particularly challenging, but it had been a disruption, more so for her than for himself, as she’d had to keep an eye on her sibling and Morgan’s brat. The two had only just barely left the island before Adami had shown up on the island, questioning her whereabouts.

“I want to not think for a while, is all,” She ran her fingers down her face, briefly smothering her own voice. “I need a vacation from a literal vacation resort. I really am spoiled.”

“Very,” Instantly, he was subjected to another glare. “However, I certainly wouldn’t mind having my wife to myself again for a few weeks.”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” She warned, waggling a finger in his direction – she had painted them purple, he noted. “My nervous system can’t take it.”

He hummed, privately amused.

“We never did have a honeymoon,” He noted. “And we’ll need to leave relatively soon for your sister’s wedding as it is.”

“We live at a honeymoon destination,” With a sigh, she shot back half the glass of wine. “There are four newlywed couples downstairs right now. Where would we even go? That’s not just Rain Dinners in a different coat of paint, I mean.”

“Nowhere in particular.”

He had no destination in mind. The idea of a honeymoon had never crossed his mind, except that the entire concept of some extended vacation seemed like a colossal waste of time, when he could be actively working towards his true goals. It still didn’t necessarily hold any real appeal, but one of the most effective ways of solving a lingering problem was to simply take a step back from it. A few weeks away would give him the opportunity to clear his head – and, admittedly, he wouldn’t deny the chance for some alone time with his wife.

“I have a few properties you can choose from.”

“Of course you do.”

Real estate wasn’t something that he dabbled in as a business, but over the years, he had accumulated a fair few bits of land for his own use. Almost none of them had been purchased under his real name, meant to serve as safe houses should he ever find himself in need of a place to lay low, or to accommodate his network of informants while they went about their business.

He had a small cabin not too far from Gureirokku that came to mind as a potential spot. It was situated on an island that was barely an island at all, small enough to be circumnavigated in under half an hour, but heavily overgrown. It had belonged to a fisherman who had intended to leave it to his son – who, in turn, sold it to the first buyer he could find to fund his desperate desire to move to a proper city and become an actor or a journalist, or whatever it was the young man was on about. For years, it had served as an outpost for a duo of spies who kept tabs on the Marine base nearby, but after he had been able to infiltrate the outpost directly, there hadn’t been much reason to keep anyone there, and it had become his accommodation whenever he was called to meet with the Marines on Gureirokku.

They likely would have stayed there for the duration of their visit, anyway. He was willing to tolerate the Wildwood Hotel if need be, but he would prefer not to, if it were avoidable. It wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant place to stay, but being so far from the Grand Line, it was built for the average citizen of the East Blue – meaning everything was much too small for his comfort.

It was also entirely too close to his in-laws, who he’d much prefer not to associate with except for the absolute minimum. Florian had earned some measure of his tolerance, and Rose was so unobtrusive he sometimes forgot she existed, but his patience for Aster was at its limit.

He didn’t doubt his mother-in-law had extended an invitation to a certain feathered bastard, either. Whether or not he would take it, Crocodile couldn’t be sure – most likely not, unless he believed Lily would be there. His wife had the same thought some weeks earlier, and had purposefully tried to inconvenience both her mother and the man-child, claiming on their RSVP that they wouldn’t be able to make it while telling Rose directly that they’d be there. Helmeppo had agreed to reserve them seats under the names of some made up childhood friends, though whether or not the plot would work, he couldn’t say.

The distance would be helpful, if he did show up. Doflamingo was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid – he would behave himself at the wedding and reception, if only to stay in his wife’s good graces, such as they were, and try to get Lily alone some other way. Staying on a nameless island, at a home listed under someone else’s name, would be a suitable deterrent if he tried to pull something. If he did follow them, find them, then they'd be well away from the public eye, where they would be able to kill one another in peace without drawing unnecessary attention.

Once his wife was satisfied with his plan – which included a week alone before the wedding, and two after, on their own little island – she was calm enough for him to broach the idea of celebrating her birthday. He had absolutely no intention of throwing her some grand party, in part because he didn’t want to and in part because he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it, but he had planned a few things he thought she might enjoy.

He wasn’t going to be the one to pamper her, largely because he simply didn’t know how, and his hook hand was hardly suited to personal massage, but he was content to pay someone else to, and left Sunday to drag her off to the spa for a few hours. When they returned, he intended to have dinner together on the balcony, and, ideally, spend a few hours christening several pieces of furniture. Their bed, the shower, and the kitchen counters had all been, in her words, defiled – but she had taken to lounging in the pool naked, recently, and as much as he disliked the water, he couldn’t quite get the idea out of his head.

Before that, however, he resolved he ought to have another conversation with Adami.

It wasn’t likely the acting captain of the Cross Pirates would back down any time soon – and, if his intentions were genuine, Crocodile wasn’t certain that he would want him to. The remaining members of the crew were small in number and far outside their prime, but they were one of precious few pirate crews in the world that had never needed to rely on having a powerful captain, and he doubted that had changed much, even in their retirement.

They could be a considerable asset, if he could convince his wife to use them. She was slowly coming around to the revelation that, if he were caught, nothing would save her unless she was the one to blow the whistle – and she was, even more slowly, developing enough of a selfish streak that she would prioritize her husband over her morals. If nothing else, if Lily took control of them, then he might be able to make use of them through her, though he privately hoped Lily herself would come fully around to the idea of being a pirate captain.

She had the makings of one, whether she cared to acknowledge it or not. Her nerves tended to get in the way, but she was smart – clever and stubborn, with enough violence in her temper most wouldn’t stand a chance against her if she had the skill to back it up. A partnership between them, the Warlord Sit Crocodile and the new Captain Cross, would be a terrifying prospect for anyone but themselves.

The giant met him on the lower levels. He had been at the bar, a ruddy tinge across his cheeks and two bottles of rum in his hand, but he was far from drunk. Crocodile motioned for him to sit – there was only one large enough for him, a white sofa he was reluctant to let be stained by the man’s general filth, but sacrifices had to be made, and he’d send the antique to be reupholstered later.

“Lily,” He leaned back against his desk. “Tells me you still intend to take her to Saliba.”

“Eventually,” The other man shrugged shamelessly. “I will not make her stay, if that is not what she wants, but the crew, they need to see her.”

“They have been waiting quite a while,” He agreed, fishing his cigar tin out of his pocket – and, pointedly, offering one to Adami. “But you need to understand something about my wife.”

He ignored the way the pirate chuckled out a mocking “my wife” under his breath, offering him a light instead, which he gladly accepted.

“She’s stubborn,” Crocodile continued. “The more you tell her to do something, the more she’ll refuse, and piracy is a particularly contentious issue. If you continue to demand that she goes, then she never will.”

“Ah,” The older man chuckled. “Like her father. It was impossible to tell the kapatana anything, once he made up his mind.”

“I’ll convince her,” Crocodile stated, watching Adami’s face carefully, though it didn’t so much as flicker. “To visit, if nothing else, but you’ll need to let the topic go, for now.”

“If you are certain,” Adami nodded, sticking the butt of the cigar into a large gap between his teeth. “I admit, you know her better than I. Though I must ask, what is your interest in this? It does not matter if you are married. The men, they will not follow you.”

“But they will follow her.”

“You intend to merge our crews?”

It was an offer that would typically offend most captains, but the giant across from him simply grinned, as if he had just offered him the sun.

“Only one of you can be captain, you know.”

“I would never typically consider bowing to anyone,” Crocodile agreed. “But it would hardly be the first time my wife has had me on my knees.”

Delighted by the near vulgarity, Adami’s laughter echoed through the stone room. The sound summoned one of the reptiles swimming through the oasis beyond – Lily’s spoiled F-Wani, in fact, with the name he refused to dignify – and it peered at them through the glass, curious if there might be a snack in the near future.

“I will leave the matter to you, then,” Adami agreed, raising one bottle in a half-hearted toast.

“There is another matter,” Crocodile returned the motion half-heartedly, waving his glass vaguely in the direction of the sofa. “Two, rather. The first is regarding this training you’re insistent on.”

Adami made a sound of acknowledgement, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ll have space arranged down here,” There was, without the table, plenty of room. “However, you should know, she has a Devil Fruit.”

“Does she now?”

This seemed to be the first thing that genuinely caught Adami’s interest. His lanky body leaned forward, a glimmer of suspicion in his dark eyes.

“The Matter-Matter Fruit,” Across the room, the giant pirate hissed through his teeth. “Doflamingo, he claims he intended to give it to Lily as an engagement present.”

“How did you manage to get it away from him?”

“He sent it shortly after we were married,” He couldn’t blame Adami for the visible disbelief in his expression. “I couldn’t tell you why if I wanted to, though knowing him, it has something to do with birthrights and bloodlines, I’m sure.”

“We would have given it to her,” Beneath his beard, Adami’s jaw clenched tight. “He did not need to attack us to take it. We were keeping it for her.”

“He doesn’t know she’s eaten it,” He stated before the pirate could get caught up in his simmering rage. “I’ve taught her what I can, but given your familiarity with Cross’ abilities, it would be best if you instruct her to make use of them. She can manage the basics, but she’s far from a master.”

“Gladly,” He returned his cigar to that gap between his teeth, taking a long puff. “The kapatana, he would have slaughtered that bhenchod. Those threads would not have been able to touch him.”

On that, Crocodile supposed, they likely agreed. Despite having never seen Cross in action, his ability was perhaps one of the most dangerous in the world – enough that the Marines had spent years attempting to find the fruit themselves. He couldn’t speak to the truth of many of the tales, like his ability to become invisible, but he had watched his wife, just that morning, phase through a door like it wasn’t even there.

“Lastly, we’ll be leaving for several weeks at the start of the year.”

“Oh?”

“Her half-sister is getting married,” Adami made another sound of understanding. “I’ll be taking her on a short vacation while we’re away.”

“You did not ask my permission?” He snickered, clearly teasing. “I am practically the girl’s uncle. Young people have such poor manners, these days.”

“While we're away, I have a task for you, if you believe you can handle it."

Chapter Text

When Crocodile had told her about the little island house, she had built a specific picture in her head.

Given it had started as a fishing cabin, later used as a safehouse for some spies, she had expected something just slightly more impressive than a ramshackle shack. A single room, a bucket for plumbing, holes in the walls and a ceiling that leaked even when the sun was out – a place that provided the absolute bare minimum for shelter. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but she was more than prepared to tolerate it, if it meant staying anywhere except Gureirokku.

It was, in fact, a one room residence, but that was the only similarity between the home and the dilapidated mess she had pictured in her head.

It was a simple A-frame structure, tucked deeply in the overgrown wilds of the tiny island it had been built on, just far enough from shore that it wasn’t visible, with a path that wasn’t entirely clear even while she actively followed it. There was a small porch, tucked beneath a little terracotta roof hanging over two comfortable looking lounge chairs.

Someone had clearly come by ahead of them. The interior was sparkling clean, despite how often the building sat abandoned for months at a time, smelling distinctly but faintly of disinfectant. The small kitchen had been filled with fresh groceries, the bathroom stocked, cushions and fabric beaten of dust. There were stacks of clean linens in the wardrobe, where she hung their assortment of clothing, while Crocodile arranged his makeshift office.

Despite being on a sort of vacation, it was impossible for him to completely walk away from his various responsibilities for so many weeks. All Sunday was capable of managing most things regarding Baroque Works and Rain Dinners in his absence, and he resolved that their time away was as good an opportunity as any to focus on his legal endeavors.

It was seldom his primary focus, but Crocodile was always considering ways to expand his business dealings, and he’d come up with several that he hadn’t had the time or energy to dedicate to developing. Rain Dinners and Baroque Works had taken up the bulk of his attention for the previous few years, but things had settled, and would stay that way for a while yet – it would be another couple of years before he was prepared to make any real moves to get Operation Utopia, whatever that entailed, into full swing. In the meantime, he intended to continue to expand his empire, and that had resulted in three boxes, full to the brim with papers and folders, stacked neatly beside the desk for him to peruse.

He had mentioned building another casino more than once.

As reluctant as he was to enter the New World, he had been debating the merits of finding a place to erect another shrine to the gods of beri on the far side of the Red Line, after the flurry of interest Rain Dinners had garnered. It had established itself as one of the premier spots for royals and nobles and other affluent and powerful sorts to visit, and it made enough money that it had started to seem worthwhile to create a sister location in the New World.

Unsurprisingly, she supposed, he was considering Saliba as the spot. It would be a tough sell, at first, but Cross’ crew had been quiet for more than twenty years, relying on their reputation above all else to remain out of anyone’s crosshairs. If he established himself as having forced them out of their territory, or being in control of them and forcing them to heel, then that would be enough for patrons to start to funnel in, at first only the bravest and then, later, the rest.

His main hesitancy was Whitebeard, who maintained his territory not too terribly far from the island. He could pretend to be friendly, if that’s what it took, but he wasn’t confident in what Whitebeard would ultimately do if Crocodile made his way back to the New World. Although he’d been badly beaten, even without his Devil Fruit, he had held his own against the Yonko – enough to survive, which was more than enough reason for Whitebeard to remember him in return, given how seldom that happened.

He had vaguely discussed some other ideas, using her more as a sounding board than having her be an active participant. There was a shipyard on the Gecko Islands he was debating on buying, though he wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of expanding his portfolio into ship building, and a development project on Ryukyu – one of the islands on a different path through Paradise than Arabasta – that he had been approached twice about investing in. The brewery he liked so much had recently come under financial strain, after the wild weather of the Grand Line ruined a full harvest, and he intended to bail them out, though he hadn’t quite settled on his terms, as yet, flipping between whether he wanted a cut of their profits until the loan was repaid, or an ownership stake.

His office wasn’t really an office – just a desk, tucked into a corner of the large room near the bed, with a spectacular view of the stone patio beyond. She registered the existence of the large metal barrel, mounted on flattened stones, as she unpacked their clothes into the wardrobe, but didn’t give it much consideration until she was opening the windows, to air out the lingering smell of cleaning solvent and dust.

“Why is there a gigantic barrel outside?”

Crocodile’s scoff of laughter was muffled by the ice box door. He righted himself, holding a bar of chocolate in between his teeth like one of his cigars as he peeled the wrapper away, glancing at the back windows.

“It’s a hot tub,” The sweet cracked, revealing a thick caramel center, and he only just managed to catch it before it fell to the floor. “A rudimentary one, at least.”

“I’ve never been in a hot tub.”

He had a specific noise that he made whenever she reminded him of how unintentionally sheltered she had been. His own upbringing hadn’t been all that different, at least not financially, but their early years were wildly at odds – by the time he was her age, he was a pirate of such considerable reputation that he was being offered the role of Warlord, had sailed all the Blues and faced death in the New World and lived to tell the tale.

Whatever parts of the outside world she had seen had been the pieces he showed her.

“There are much nicer ones,” He dropped onto the sofa, stretching out his long limbs as he cracked his neck. “That one is just a glorified bath tub, but I can start the fire later, if you’re that interested.”

“Does the dirty old man want to take a bath with his wife?”

“That’s ten, little girl.”

“How is it ten?”

“Five for the sass,” He waved her off. “And five more for calling me old.”

For the next few hours, she ignored him. It wasn’t entirely intentional – or, at least, it wasn’t done out of spite. The East Blue was in its winter season, and while they were too far north to experience anything more severe than too-cool breezes and chilly nights, it was enough of a change that his knee had been giving him grief for days. He was willing to share the existence of his physical weaknesses with her, but he was entirely too prideful to be comfortable letting her see how they truly effected him, and he much preferred to be left alone rather than have her hover and fuss.

Especially so when he broke down enough to take pain medicine.

He loathed being out of his right mind. Whether it was alcohol or painkillers or drugs, he utterly despised anything that altered his mental state, and he staunchly refused to let himself be seen in any state except stone-cold sober. It spoke volumes about his trust that he let her be anywhere near him at night, when he had consumed just enough liquor for it to start to relax him, but even she wasn’t afforded the right see him when the pain got bad enough that he deemed it necessary to take a serious painkiller.

He wouldn’t tell her off and force her to leave, but he was clearly uncomfortable showing that much vulnerability to anyone, even her, and as much as her instincts screamed at her to try and take care of him, she tried to respect his wishes. Making him an ice pack was the most she allowed herself, taking the edge off her desire to act like a mother hen, and silently communicating that she was available to help, should he ever want her to.

She left him knocked out on the sofa while she made her way outside. Beneath the overhang of the roof, on the stone patio, there were a duo of particularly cushy sun loungers, and she made herself comfortable there, along with the first of Captain Cross’ log books.

As much as she didn’t want to think about her apparent criminal father, she couldn’t resist, after Adami had offered them. She had read through several other log books already, all collected from the hands of now dead men who had the misfortune of crossing a younger, angrier Crocodile’s path, and had found that there was nothing more enthralling. The Grand Line was such a bizarre place that most everything that happened read more like a fantasy than reality, which only made reading about the adventures of other captains all the more exciting.

Adami had hoped that they would help her better understand his late captain, but in all reality, her interest wasn’t really in Oleander Cross as a person. More than anything, she was curious about the New World, a place that was barely touched upon by any of the other records she had read – a man by the name Typhus was the only one who had made it that far, and like Crocodile, he hadn’t stayed long. He hadn’t run afoul of any particular enemy that drove him back, but his crew had been badly battered by the waters they had crossed to get there, and they simply didn’t have the strength to push on. They hadn’t even made it to the first island before they resolved to retreat, absconding back to the Four Blues by hurrying across the Calm Belt and praying that nothing below the surface was hungry.

Cross, on the other hand, had begun his journey there. He was a native of the New World – or, at least, Adami thought he was, though he admitted that, thinking back on it, he wasn’t sure he had ever asked. The prior first mate had met Cross in the New World, though, when his crew had only been about ten men strong, all living on a boat so small they had to share one cabin between them, and there was no doubt that he knew the waters well. Nothing seemed to surprise him, even when they encountered beings and places that Adami, born and raised there himself, had never heard of.

It was a dry read, but still a stimulating one.

Cross wasn’t a man of words. He was intelligent, there was no question about that, but he had no interest in flowing, fanciful prose. His every entry was factual to its core, each arranged in precisely the same way, often so short in their details that six or seven could fit on a single page. The date, the weather, their current heading, then a choppy sentence or two, factually dictating the barest details of whatever interesting thing may have happened that day.

Ran afoul of a Marine vessel. Small enough to run with a twelve man crew. Took it. Eight prisoners in the brig. Will auction them at the slave house on Moovey.

Pretre is sick. Confused candle oil for liquor. Sagrado isn’t sure if he’ll survive.

Sea King attacked the ship. Killed it. Meat tastes like bad shoe leather. Kahini thinks it just needs seasoning.

Pretre lived. Glad we didn’t throw him overboard last night.

It was a terrible disappointment at first. She pressed on solely for the sake of curiosity, and it wasn’t until nearly halfway through that her perseverance was rewarded.

There’s a body on the deck. Think it might be the girl from the auction house – the one that looks like her. Don’t know how she lost her head. Adami says it was me.

The first book contained a log of another year, after that, and in those three hundred and sixty five days, Captain Oleander Cross violently murdered six women.

He never articulated why. Each murder seemed to be accompanied by a fugue state, a complete loss of not only his memory, but his control. Every log about them was strange in tone, despite the utter lack of substance – softer, somehow, like he was truly befuddled by his own actions. It sounded utterly unbelievable, except that the only person he was writing to was himself, and she couldn’t imagine he had any real reason to pretend for himself.

It didn’t cut a particularly sympathetic image. Adami had waxed poetic more than once about how his late Captain was misunderstood, that his brutal reputation was far from an accurate depiction, but it was difficult to see the kind and thoughtful man Adami claimed to know when he freely admitted to numerous, unprompted murders of largely innocent women.

Most of them were slaves, which made it all the worse. Cross’ crew were deeply entrenched in the slave trade business from nearly the start, beginning with the captured enemies of other crews after various short-lived skirmishes as a means to gather enough funds to keep themselves fed, but it had rapidly expanded into a black market empire. It didn’t seem to be something that he necessarily enjoyed doing, but it wasn’t as if he felt any guilt over it, either, viewing it as a business no different than how Florian viewed selling shoes.

Every so often, when he attended the auction house to sell the prisoners that he had collected, there would be a slave girl on sale that, in his words, looked like “her”. He refused to give any details about “her” – and why would he, when he was only writing for himself – but it was clear enough, from what little he did say, that she was dead. Whether Cross was the one who killed her, or if it was someone else, she had no way of knowing, but it was abundantly obvious that she was dead.

Whenever he found another girl that reminded him of this deceased woman, he claimed to have the most noble of intentions. They were slaves, and the horrors that they would experience at the hands of the men and women eager to own them were so objectionable that he couldn’t stand to let it happen. It seemed, as best she could guess, that he viewed their existence as a sort of second chance, the opportunity to undo whatever wrong had happened in his past – only to end up being an even worse monster than the slavers themselves.

Something always set him off. Even Cross himself didn’t seem to know what the trigger was, but within hours of returning to the ship, something would happen that send him into another blackout.

The only credit that she could give him was that he seemed to feel some sort of remorse. In one entry, he admitted that there was nothing they could have done to deserve such violent ends, and in another, he outright wished that they had never crossed paths. Despite that, however, he could never stop himself. The need to try and save them was too much for him to resist, even if he knew precisely how it would end, and even when he tried to simply stay away from the auction house by sending Adami in his place, he would find himself there, hoping that this time would be different.

She couldn’t settle on how the knowledge made her feel about herself.

Until two Warlords had decided to come crashing into her life, she had been secure in her own sense of self. She was poor and going nowhere fast in life, but that had been fine, because she never had to question who she was, who she had been and who she would eventually be. She would always be exactly who she was, drifting along and minding her business, living a quiet and uneventful existence, just like her parents and grandparents and her grandparents’ grandparents.

Except her parents weren’t her parents. Florian had raised her, and he would always be the man she felt was her father, but they weren’t family by blood, and her mother – they might share genetics, but her mother was an entirely different person than the woman she had always believed her to be. An escaped slave so desperate to avoid going back she would sell her own children into a different sort of slavery of their own, the same way she had been sold by her own mother, who lied and lied and lied about anything and everything to everyone around her.

The man who was really her father was a murderer. A ruthless pirate who didn’t feel an ounce of pity for anyone, even members of his own crew – a man who would toss those who’d served him for decades overboard if they ever lost their use, leaving them to drown in the sea. A man who sold men, women, and children into slavery for years. Who lost his mind and beheaded six innocent women, solely because they reminded him of some long-lost love.

She wasn’t who she thought she was. Even if nothing else had changed, even if the life she thought she had was real, she had stopped being the person she used to be a long time ago, when Crocodile came lurking through the doorway of her father’s shop. There would never be any going back to the way things would be, worrying about whether or not she had enough beri in her pocket to afford a loaf of bread, or if that particularly handsy drunk would show up at the bar that night.

She was used to a life of luxury, now. She didn’t need it, but there was no denying that she liked it, that she enjoyed having anything she could possibly want right there at her fingertips. She would forever be the wife of a Warlord, regarded with suspicion by the Marines, sought out for her assets by those greedy enough to take the risk. She would probably never feel safe again, after months being hounded by the slave-trading, weapons-dealing, black market kingpin strutting around calling himself the King of Dressrosa.

She wondered if she would ever be like Oleander Cross – if he had always been that way, or if his madness was some sort of bloodline curse that would eventually consume her, too. Adami thought that she had his temper, said that he was prone to the same bouts of destructive rage, and she couldn’t be certain what other horrible things she may have inherited from her.

She wondered, too, if Crocodile and Sunday were right. Both of them were adamant that she would be an exemplary pirate captain, if she just stopped thinking so hard and talking herself out of everything. If she did join Crocodile as his partner, would she end up just like Cross, more ruthless and cold than even the Warlord himself? Was it that easy to lose who she was, to become someone else entirely?

Her esoteric musings were interrupted by the sliding of the glass door. Crocodile’s broad frame loomed in the doorway, his immaculate clothes rumpled from sleep, large bits of long, dark hair hanging over his forehead.

A year ago, she would have never given a Warlord the time of day. A polite conversation with Jinbei, maybe, one that lasted no longer than five or ten minutes, but she had never wanted much of anything to do with any of them.

Now, she was married to one – she was in love with one. So in love that she couldn’t imagine what she would do with herself if he was no longer a part of her life, so in love she didn’t want to even think about a future where he didn’t exist. Even more bizarrely, she got the distinct impression that he felt the same way.

“Didn’t you demand this trip so you didn’t have to think about things like that?”

His concern was always masked by sarcasm – but he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t care.

“Let me have my personal crisis in peace,” She sniped. “Or I’ll start spanking you for being sassy.”

“Try it and you’ll find out how mean I can really be, little girl.”

His limp had gotten better. It was still there, if she looked close enough, a subtle refusal to fully extend his right leg, but the tension he had carried the past few days had finally started to ease. He made his way over to the latrine shed, where a small pile of firewood had been stacked beneath the awning, left to rot in the dirt. Gathering up a handful – what would have been two armfuls for her – he made his way towards the massive drum, and began to arrange them beneath the makeshift tub.

Plumbing on the island was rudimentary, at best. There was an old pump along the side of the house, powered by the sun, that dragged up sea water and stripped it of its salt, but that was it. There wasn’t any true running water, except what the toilet used – no sinks, or even a real shower. There was a showerhead outside of the latrine, but it ran off gravity, and the water only got as warm as the sun could make it.

Filling the makeshift tub was a process. She couldn’t hope to do it herself, not even with several hours and a bucket. Crocodile had no trouble lifting the barrel the filter pumped into, however, heaving it onto his shoulder with one arm. It would take four or five trips – at least an hour, maybe two, spent waiting on the pump to fill the barrel again and again – before it was full enough to use, and probably two or three more to get it deep enough for someone as tall as Crocodile to properly submerge.

She didn’t want him to strain himself, not while his knee was hurting, but there was no way to tell him to stop without offending him. He didn’t like it when she refused to let him take care of her, and he especially didn’t enjoy it when she pointed out anything he felt was a weakness. If he really thought it would be too much trouble, he wouldn’t have offered, so she sat quietly on the lounger while he reconnected the pump.

While he waited, he settled on the other lounger, fiddling with a cigar. Despite acting like a grumpy old man about going, he was clearly more relaxed than he had been in a while, letting his shoulders sink away from his ears.

“Discover anything interesting?” He questioned. “Or is this one of your usual bouts of existential dread?”

“A little of both,” His lip quirked just enough to reveal his dimple. “Adami wasn’t lying about Cross’ temper. The current count of women he murdered in a blind rage is at six, and I’m not even done with the first log book. Real gentle soul, that one.”

He raised his eyebrows for a moment, but really, he seemed entirely unsurprised.

“I’m just thinking,” She shrugged and leaned back into the cushion. “Wondering how much I really inherited from the old bastard. Aside from his crew, I mean.”

“By the time he was your age,” Crocodile drawled, mirroring her posture after toing off his shoes. “Cross had a small fleet. You’re hardly the same.”

“Yeah, but,” His eyes cut to her, sharp and calculating. “You and Sunday are always going on about how I could make a great pirate. And Cross was a great pirate, at least by some definitions.”

“A capable pirate,” He rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You’re entirely too soft hearted to ever be a great one, even with a proper partner to keep you from spending your fortune on the first crying child you can find.”

“By which you mean yourself, I assume?”

“Naturally,” He sighed heavily, stretching like a big cat that found the perfect spot in the sun. “Speaking of partnerships, since you’re already breaking your own rules about thinking, we should discuss the crew you’ve inherited.”

Aside from her conversations with Adami, the remnants of Cross’ crew hadn’t come up much. All Crocodile had to say about them was that he was relieved they hadn’t joined their interim captain, who had been frustrating enough to have to explain away. Word of his existence in Rain Dinners had gotten back to King Nefertari, and the Warlord had to have several long conversations with him, filled with lies and carefully twisted words, to get the royal to even begin to tolerate Adami’s presence.

He had agreed to leave while they were gone. It was both safer for Crocodile’s plans, and more convenient for Adami himself, as the remnants of the crew were still waiting on word from him if Joker’s lead was accurate. He had left for Saliba a few days before they’d boarded the Gustave, intending to deliver word that she was alive and well, and that he would be staying on Arabasta for a while, to train her before they returned together, along with her Warlord husband. They weren’t going to be particularly enthusiastic about the presence of a government dog, as Adami insisted on calling him, but he was confident that with a bit of time to settle down from the initial outrage, they’d at least tolerate his existence.

She still hadn’t agreed to go to Saliba, ever, but she would need to visit at least once, if only to make a formal handoff of her title. The ones that had stayed were content to follow Adami on a temporary basis, but the Captain had decreed that his child would take over in his place, and that was the only reality they would accept, unless she formally abdicated the position and chose someone else as a replacement.

“If you’re thinking of getting into the slave trade, I’m reporting you directly to Sengoku,” She paused for a second, annoyed by his placid expression. “And I’ll fuck him for good measure. Raw.”

He scoffed out a laugh.

“I’ve told you, the black market is entirely too messy.”

He flicked his cigar ash into the breeze, and she dimly noted it wasn’t his usual brand – this one stank of coffee, which she had long ago resolved she couldn’t stand. They were a local label, however, and she suddenly recalled that Smoker tended to favor them.

“There are no written laws among pirates,” He continued. “But most crews in the world follow a handful of unofficial rules of engagement. Hence why you need to formally abdicate the position of captain. The only way to replace a captain is for them to step down, die, or for the crew to start a mutiny, and given they’ve waited twenty six years, it’s unlikely they’ll do so now.”

“You’re not going to try and talk me out of stepping down, are you?”

“It would be a waste,” He frowned, just a little, but it deepened the faint lines near his mouth. “They’re older and their numbers are smaller, but Cross’ crew was feared for more than just their captain. Without a motivated leader to follow, they’ll be gone within the next decade, and completely forgotten in two.”

“They also practically single handedly propped up the slave market for decades. I’m not sure they don’t deserve to be forgotten.”

“Most every pirate and Marine of their generation was involved,” There wasn’t much heat behind his argument, just a calm statement of fact. “Just about every crew that exists now would do it, too, if getting caught trafficking didn’t guarantee incarceration in Impel Down.”

She didn’t like it, but he wasn’t wrong. In Cross’ heyday, slavery – especially that of fishmen – had been a legal grey area. The act of actually capturing slaves was outlawed, but the actual act of owning another person that had been purchased had been, technically, permissible. The wording of the law surrounding indentured servants had been so vague, people were able to get away with keeping and trading slaves amongst themselves in the middle of the public eye. After the fishman rebellion, the law had been re-written, so that anyone caught buying, selling, capturing or keeping slaves received an automatic life sentence in Impel Down.

Except the Celestial Dragons, of course. They remained free to do whatever they liked, whenever they pleased – all for the sake of a name.

“You wouldn’t be bringing this up if you weren’t getting something out of it,” As she talked, he swung his legs over the side of his chair, trudging towards the pump, which had clicked off now that the barrel was full again. “So, what is it you’re going to try and convince me to do now?”

“When two captains get married, they typically chose to marry their crews, as well. One steps down and becomes first mate, instead, and the two fleets merge into one.”

“There it is.”

Unbothered by her huffing, he focused his attention on filling the tub, which had started to steam from the heat of the fire.

“I’ve spoken with Adami,” Of course he had. “And what’s left of the crew won’t follow me, even if you did become my first mate. They’ll only agree if it’s the other way around.”

“And you’re willing to do that?” She scoffed. “The only thing you bow to is the weight of your ego. They’ll know you’re puppeteering me before you even open your mouth.”

“They will,” He agreed, utterly unbothered. “But they’ll still follow you, regardless.”

For a moment, conversation lulled to a halt, as he prodded the flames with a rusted poker. He spread out the smoldering ashes, arranging the hot coals around the edges of the stone ring beneath the tub, before adding a couple of extra logs where the embers were thinnest.

“They’ve waited almost thirty years for their real captain to arrive,” One of the lounger legs cracked visibly as he sat down, but somehow, remained standing. “You’re the only thing they have left. They’re desperate for a purpose, to die with dignity, as pirates sailing under the flag of a captain they respect.”

He leaned back, pillowing his head on his arms, luxuriating in the lingering light of the evening sun.

“You call me cruel, but you’re the one torturing a bunch of old men. Even I have enough compassion to end it quickly. Most of the time, at least.”

“…I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Text

If given a choice between being unceremoniously shoved into Captain Montressor’s office to sign a marriage certificate with a complete stranger, or giving Aster entirely too much money and free reign over her wedding, she’d pick the former every time.

The beach had been, for lack of a better phrase, ruined by her mother’s festive abominations. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought Doflamingo was the one who was responsible for the visual trainwreck, but he didn’t care enough about Rose’s existence to bother.

Row after row of chairs had been arranged before a vibrant archway of pink and white and yellow flowers, covering the frame so thickly it was impossible to know what color was underneath. The white folding seats, themselves, were draped in yellow tulle, with white and pink Damascus cushions, flanked by massive carnation bushes sunken into the sand. There was a hideous rug lining the aisle, held down by painted – and apparently bejeweled – stones.

Further down the shore, an equally obnoxious reception area had been arranged. There had been plenty of beach parties on Gureirokku throughout her life, and they were always very simple. Porcupine would drag down the grill he had made out of an old barrel, which may or may not have contained hazardous chemicals when he found it, and Shayla would make her famous spice rub, so they could butcher and barbeque the fattest pig on offer. Old Grandma Haybe would painstakingly prepare one of her famously delicious cakes, her sister Maibe would show up with her gut-churning “Ham and Gelatin Surprise”, and everyone else would fill the old driftwood table with whatever they could make in one giant bowl. The adults would show up with whatever chairs they could spare, watching the children play along the shore, while the teens gathered around the gazebo with the hole in the roof to sneakily share a bottle of liquor.

The gazebo had been fixed – and painted a garishly bright shade of yellow. A temporary bar had been propped up, manned by Duke, dressed up in a black and white suit with ruffles and a bowtie that hung off his skinny frame. Yuna stood near her father, cradling a baby she most certainly didn’t have the last time Lily had seen her, flanked by, even more surprisingly, Captain Montressor, who tried and failed to sneak sips from a flask when no one was looking. A handful of familiar faces were in the process of setting up tables, round and white, with pink bouquet centerpieces so large it would be impossible to see the person on the opposite side. They were surrounded by more bejeweled and painted stones, and a fire hazard’s worth of tea candles that flickered in the sea breeze – it would be a miracle if they made it through the night without someone being set on fire.

Possibly Lily. Probably on purpose.

Though by the look in Crocodile’s eye, he may be the one to set her dress on fire, just to have an excuse to leave early. His expression was as it often was, his own version of neutral, but the moment they arrived at the rocky edge of the beach, his cold eyes had glazed over with utter disgust.

No one aspect of the arrangement was necessarily bad, on its own, but combined, it became psychedelic vomit. There were too many neon colors, too many things that sparkled. The air smelled like flowers and sea salt and barbeque pork.

It was too much.

“I can punch you in the stomach if you need help throwing up,” She whispered to the giant standing beside her, still staring into the void and praying it would stare back. “Just say the word. We’ll say you have food poisoning.”

He rumbled in lieu of words. Finally, he sighed, puffing out an excessive cloud of sweet cigar smoke as he briefly shut his eyes.

“It’s unfortunate Hawkeye isn’t here,” He groused around his cigar as he nudged her forward with his prosthetic. “I could use a drinking partner.”

“I-“

“You’re a lightweight and you know it,” She clamped her mouth shut, snickering behind her teeth. “Although I wouldn’t complain if I had to take my drunk wife home early. It’s been a while since you’ve properly begged me to fuck you.”

“Is that what gets you off, Wani? Having a pretty young woman beg?” He rumbled again, a clear warning that she was toeing the line, which she purposefully ignored. “You’re not beating the allegation you’re a dirty old man, are you?”

His hook tapped against her backside, just hard enough to make her stumble forward a couple of steps. She managed to catch herself, hearing him chuckle as several people paused to look at the idiot staggering around in the sand. If they were in private, she may have tried to launch a fistful at him, but seeing her old neighbors watching her like an ice bath for her otherwise good mood.

They were the same as they’d always been – but she wasn’t. Titus still had that terrible haircut. Mogg was still wearing the only shirt he owned, the one with the ugly humming bird print. Duke was still a frail old man who could barely manage to stand. Montressor still hadn’t figured out how to trim his moustache.

They were all exactly the same as she remembered. Cheap clothes made out of scrap cloth or picked out of the dumpsters. Sun stained skin, peeling at the shoulders, eternally red across the nose, fingers wringed with permanent dents from fishing wire.

The same time last year, she had been stood in the same spot, wearing a shitty dress made out of Maple’s old drapes, passing a joint to Agatha while Orin regaled them with a tale about one of her regular clients from the Marines, who ate entirely too much protein and farted with practically every thrust. Agatha had made a joke, that she’d take a man who was more gas than flesh if it meant she could at least get laid after a too-long dry spell. Fullbody had wandered up in a houndstooth suit, and took a hit from their joint as he half-heartedly suggested a threesome, hoping for the memory of two beautiful women to get him through his next underway. She had wandered off with the Marine a few minutes later, to the sound of giggling and wolf whistling, and they’d gone back to his temporary barrack and made as much noise as possible just to get on the nerves of the cadet next door who’d tried to hit on her the night before.

Now, she was standing on that same beach, in a new silk dress she had made just for that day and would probably never bother to wear again, even though it had cost more than a year’s worth of tips at Duke’s just to get a meter of fabric. She wasn’t with her friends, but one of the most ruthless and powerful men in the world, who loomed behind her like a shadow and glowered at everyone who got too close, with a golden weapon for a hand and a deep loathing for nearly all of society. She wouldn’t be going to the Marine barracks that night, to hook up with someone and stagger her way back home in the late hours of the still dark morning – but to a private island, with a private cabin, where she could scream as loud as her lungs could manage and the only person who would hear a sound would be her husband.

“I think I’m having an identity crisis.”

“You’ve been having one for a month,” The cool metal hook tapped her shoulder, this time, pressing soothingly into her skin. “You could have picked a better time to notice. I’d like to get through the ceremony, at least.”

“Since when do you care about my sister’s wedding?”

“I don’t,” He glanced away for just a moment, and the bulk of his prosthetic pressed firmly into her back, belaying a sudden urgency as he led her towards the bar. “But you dragged me halfway around the world just to be here. I’m not going to let you run off at the last minute just because you decided to finally acknowledge your psychological trauma.”

Glancing around his chest, wrapped in that green vest he enjoyed so much, she complied with his silent suggestion that they move along. People had slowly been funneling to the beach since before they arrived, leisurely making their way down the uneven cobble street, if just to watch the unholy shrine of matrimony being erected on their island, and amongst the handful of bodies that had come wandering along behind them, she spotted a familiar head of hair.

Aster was on the warpath. Her golden dress glittered and shined in the sun – cut and styled like anything that a reasonable matron of the bride might wear, with a demure drape that flowed off one shoulder, but still inappropriately attention grabbing for anyone not in the bridal party by virtue of the color alone. It looked, Lily thought, rather nice on her, approaching elegant rather than absurd, but still woefully out of place.

That was, she ultimately concluded, the best way she could describe her mother. Out of place – trying so hard to fit in, she only made herself stand out.

The two of them went largely ignored, while her mother bossed around their old friends and neighbors, trying to ensure that everything was perfect. It stung, a little, to see all of the effort – her own wedding was extremely last minute, but the most she had gotten was a pair of borrowed diamond earrings to wear for an hour. They hadn’t even stopped to get a bouquet from the florist.

“What has you upset now?”

She hadn’t realized her eyes were wet. For a long second, she blinked away the blurriness of the tears, swallowing back the knot trying to form in her throat. Crocodile angled himself closer, leaning his broad shoulder into her personal space as he downed the rest of his drink. He stared down at her, a glower on his face, but visible concern in his eyes – as much as he had teased her, if she asked to leave, that was exactly what they’d do.

“Don’t worry about it,” She ducked into the shadow of his coat, almost tucked against his side. “I’m just having a lot of feelings today. I’ll get over it.”

His hum indicated that they’d be talking about it later, but there wasn’t time for him to press the issue. The small mass of guests had started to migrate towards the wedding aisle, drawn in by the distant ringing of the bell tower, and they both moved to join them. The base of his prosthetic fit neatly into the curve of her lower back, cool and solid and grounding her away from her wandering thoughts.

Their assigned seats were at the edge of the front row. It surprised her, a little, that they weren’t shoved to the back, but she supposed that would make the strain within the family entirely too obvious. Crocodile was pushed to the very edge, where his massive body would block the least amount of viewers, looking downright comical in a chair that was barely wide enough to fit his entire backside, though he maintained his air of masculine elegance. They were, however, on the opposite side of the aisle as the rest of the family, positioned on the groom’s side rather than the bride’s, alongside Axe-Hand Morgan and his date – Orin, of all people. They’d arrived together at the absolute last minute, taking their seats mere seconds before the musicians began to play.

Despite the horrendous décor, the ceremony itself was beautiful. Rose and Helmeppo opted to write their own vows – her sister’s were short and sweet, while her husband went on and on for just a little too long, but his message was still heartfelt. Even the constantly dour Morgan softened, just a little, and while he seemed content to refuse to acknowledge his son most days, after the ceremony itself ended, she saw him clap the young man on the shoulder before he stalked towards the bar.

She ended up at one of the guest tables with Orin and Agatha. There were no assigned seats, and she technically could have gone to the head table to sit with the rest of her family, but she had no desire to cause any drama on Rose’s day. She and Helmeppo had been legally married for a while already, but she deserved to be the center of attention for a while.

“So,” Orin grinned. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

In response, Orin tilted her head at the bar.

Crocodile, like Morgan, drifted off towards the liquor almost immediately, and had settled in with a bottle of whiskey and a glass all to himself. Despite their seemingly mutual hatred of one another, she could see him occasionally chat with Morgan, along with Montressor and a handful of the more respected locals.

“You’re married to a Warlord,” Orin purred, and something unpleasant started to churn in her gut. “You have to tell us what he’s like.”

“Seriously,” Agatha took a small sip of her champagne. “We’ve all been wondering what’s been going on.”

“I got married,” She shrugged, shooting back half her glass as elegantly as she could manage – actively ignoring the way Orin continued to stare at the wrong giant. “It’s not that exciting.”

“Your mother said you two were seeing each other in secret for a while,” Even Orin scoffed at that, despite her attention being elsewhere. “When did you two even meet?”

She opened her mouth to tell the truth, but stopped herself short.

Explaining the truth required going into entirely too many details, articulating the intentions of entirely too many people, and exposing too many parts of her own self that were still too raw to let anyone on the outside see.

“We were talking for a while,” She finally stated. “I just didn’t want to advertise it until it was a sure thing, you know? What with the whole Warlord thing. Too much drama if it didn’t work out.”

“I’m surprised,” Agatha clearly didn’t believe her, eyebrows high on her forehead, but she didn’t argue. “You’ve always been pretty vocal about being anti-pirate.”

“If you don’t want him,” Orin’s tone left her feeling distinctly green. “I’ll gladly take him off your hands.”

Crocodile may have been on to something, all the times he accused her of being jealous. It didn’t stem from the fear that he would betray her, but the sense of disrespect she couldn’t quite shake, whenever someone knowingly ignored the fact that he was married. Orin didn’t mean anything by the comment, she was sure – they’d all made similar remarks, over the years, about one another’s partners – but hearing it still left her feeling something sharp and possessive in her chest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to reconsider my position,” There was no flicker of concern on either of their faces, so she supposed she must have kept her tone neutral enough neither noticed. “Sorry, but I’m not sharing.”

“I bet you’ve considered a lot of positions,” Instantly, she wished she hadn’t gotten so much practice masking her true feelings, or Orin may have stopped. “I’m sure a man like that knows what he’s doing. It’s too bad he never stopped by the house, but it’s never too late. He wouldn’t be the first married man to get bored.”

She made a sound, uncertain if it was agreement or a warning, that was drowned out by Orin’s laughter. Agatha glanced at her, sensing something amiss in the interaction, rolling her baby-pink lips between her teeth. Her husband, his instincts well honed after months of witnessing her violent tantrums, glanced their way, his bored eyes flashing towards their table to see if he might need to intervene. Orin grinned wider, waggling her fingers as she batted her eyes, and Lily felt the distinct compulsion to strike her with her glass.

She knocked back the rest of her drink, instead. It tasted bitter and terrible, but it did what she hoped it would, drowning her anger for the briefest moment, just long enough for her to wrestle it back under her control.

Orin had no reason to think what she was saying was out of line. It may have been, amongst other people, but sexual innuendo and flirtatious commentary had long been a standard between them. She had never crossed the line, and when Smoker had expressed displeasure at her attempts to flirt with him, she had stopped without issue. There was no reason to mistrust Orin’s intentions when she was only acting the same way she always had, which had never once been a problem between them before.

Still, she needed to get away from the conversation. Logic wasn’t going to stop something cruel and hateful from coming out of her mouth, and she needed to get away before it happened.

Aster had gotten up from the family table, so it seemed to be a good moment to speak with Rose. They had opted to keep their original marriage a secret, to avoid any potential trouble – there were already rumors that Rose had gotten pregnant, hence Helmeppo’s seemingly hurried proposal, and they’d only get worse if people knew they hadn’t waited for the ceremony to make the relationship legally binding. Offering them her congratulations was the polite thing everyone would expect her to do, and she had put it off long enough, in the hopes of avoiding any awkward conversations with her mother.

They would need to talk, eventually, but Lily wasn’t ready for that conversation. Even if she thought she was prepared emotionally, she wanted to come into the conversation with a surplus of facts at her disposal. With all of the lies Aster had already told, there was no hope she would admit the truth – not unless she was completely backed into a corner.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Rose was radiant, smiling and flushed and wrapped in lace and tulle. “Its good to see you again.”

“You too,” They hugged only for a moment, so brief Rose didn’t have the opportunity to stand. “Congratulations. The vows were lovely.”

“Dad helped me write them,” Florian, at the far end the table, offered her a nervous smile, and she nodded in return – she didn’t want to talk, but she wasn’t angry with him, really. “We’re having breakfast at Sunnybrook tomorrow. I’d like it, if you could be there. It might be the last time we get to see each other before we move to Shells Town.”

She had forgotten that no one knew where they were staying. It would be obvious that they weren’t on the island, if someone bothered to check, but as it was, everyone seemed be assuming that they were staying with some other group. A few of the Marines she had talked to had asked what she thought of her parents new house, while Orin and Agatha were under the impression they were staying at the Marine headquarters, and she didn’t bother to correct any of them.

Crocodile would tolerate one night on the island, if she asked him to.

“We’re leaving tonight, actually.”

The deciding factor behind that lie wasn’t, as she might have expected it to be, her mother. Aster had been unusually mature about the entire situation, resolving to ignore them entirely – Crocodile’s warning about upsetting her seemed to have stuck, at least for the moment, so she resorted to the silent treatment, instead of confrontation.

It was Orin who caused her to refuse.

In her absence, the other woman had abandoned Agatha, and approached the bar, weaving her way between the men who had gathered. She had slipped herself between Morgan and Crocodile, pressed close to the former while giving him absolutely none of her attention. She was grinning, chatting, staring into Crocodile’s eyes as she splayed her fingers out through the fur on his shoulder. He allowed it for the briefest instant before brushing her wrist aside with the curve of his hook, but that instant was enough.

“We should go.”

Crocodile didn’t blink – nor did he argue. Turning back to the bar, he swallowed back the contents of his tumbler and reached into his coat pocket, fishing around until he found a bundle of beri. The bar was free, but he tossed a few hundred down, regardless, giving Duke the most perfunctory nod as he rose from the bar stool. He spared Orin half a glance, maneuvering around her with the obvious intention of avoiding even the most incidental contact.

“You can’t be leaving already,” Orin purred, and Lily might have swung on her, if Morgan hadn’t shifted his foot forward, blocking her path. “It’s barely dusk. Come on, stay and enjoy the party. I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

She reached for his elbow, sliding her manicured fingers over the silk of his shirt. Her grip on him lasted only a second, not because he had moved, but because Lily was suddenly between them. Even she wasn’t entirely sure how she had gotten around Morgan, but in an instant, they were chest to chest, near nose to nose. Her fingers were curling into fists, the muscles in her arms jumped – her heart hammered against her sternum, burning in her blood.

“Don’t.”

The cold, heavy weight of his hook wrapped around her hip. Orin stared at her, but Lily couldn’t fathom what she was thinking, unable to make sense of the look in her eyes through the haze of smoke pouring from the furnace burning hot beyond all reason in her chest.

“We’ll be leaving for the Grand Line tonight,” The Warlord drawled thickly, boredom oozing from his lips. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

They didn’t stop to say goodbye to anyone else. In the morning, she would feel badly about that, rushing off without so much as a word to all the friends and acquaintances she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to talk to, but in the moment, her only thought was to get as far away as she possibly could. Crocodile was unbothered, maintaining the pressure of his limb against her back, leisurely wandering back towards the docks without a single care.

“I thought you didn’t get jealous.”

She wasn’t at all in the mood for his teasing – which he certainly knew, and was definitely why he did it.

“I’m not jealous.”

“Its cute,” He continued, sounding entirely too pleased. “Not every man has a wife who’s so protective of her husband.”

“Watch it, or I’ll drag you off the dock and drown us both.”

Chapter Text

It was nice to take a proper vacation – but Lily couldn’t imagine living that way all the time.

A lot of women in Crocodile’s wider social circles actively shunned the idea of doing any sort of work. Their job was to exist, sometimes as a pretty thing to be ogled, sometimes as an informant, sometimes just as a supportive figure, but it was never to do any tangible, physical work. They didn’t need to read reports or spend hours poking away at a calculator or manage the grievances of some particularly egotistical jackass who was upset his hotel room wasn’t quite to his imaginary standards. Half of them didn’t even have hobbies, really – at least not ones that required any exertion, preferring to collect rare paintings or sit and listen to music, rather than garden or knit or even paint themselves.

There was no point in taking a vacation any shorter than three weeks, if it involved travelling so far. Kyuka was close enough to Arabasta that a long weekend away would be fine, but Gureirokku took so long to get to, anything less than nearly a month-long stay would make the trip more costly than it was worth, just in basic resources like food.

After just one and a half weeks, however, she was already getting bored.

Laying around doing nothing just didn’t suit her – not as a regular thing, at least. She didn’t mind taking a day to herself, to slow down and relax, but she didn’t have the disposition to sit around with nothing to do but think. Crocodile excelled at it, like any ambush predator did, able to sit and be still and content for hours on end, patiently waiting for one of his carefully lain traps to be sprung, but she was infinitely more high strung than he would ever be, possessed with an eternal source of nervous energy. Even with something to occupy her attention, like an enthralling book, there was a limit to how much sitting around she could do.

There wasn’t even anything to clean. She hated cleaning, but for the sake of having literally anything to do, she would have gladly scrubbed dishes for hours. It had taken her all of ten minutes to rinse off their lunch plates in the bucket that passed for a sink, however, and by the early afternoon, she had nothing to do but lay and stare at the ceiling.

Something about knowing Crocodile was having a particularly relaxing day only made her all the more agitated. Even though there was nowhere to go and no one to see, he insisted on dressing every day thus far, if only in a button down and slacks, but that morning, he hadn’t bothered to get dressed. He had rolled out of bed, wandered off long enough to shower, and had pulled on the thin cotton sweat pants he had worn for all of ten minutes the night prior before attempting to coalesce into a singular being with the sofa while she paced around on the hunt for a task to accomplish.

When she crossed in front of him for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, his long arm shot out. His fingers dug gently into the meat of her hip, pulling her between his knees, and without a word, he manhandled her into laying with him on the cushions, stretched out on his side with her back pressed against his bare chest. He hadn’t even put on his hook, leaving his wrist bare, running the round bones up and down the hills and valleys of her side until she stopped squirming, settling beneath the hem of her shorts.

“Before we return to Arabasta,” He drawled, fiddling around above her head with his lighter. “We should visit Saliba. There’s no point in continuing to put it off.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in going to the New World.”

“I’m not,” A cloud of smoke appeared in her peripheral, slowly curling towards the ceiling. “However, it’s best to get things with Cross’ men done and over with, before that overgrown bird sticks his beak where it doesn’t belong.”

“You think he’ll attack them again?”

It had crossed her mind. Adami hadn’t been at all impressed to realize that Joker was Doflamingo – nor that he was attached to Lily, and there had been more than one occasion where she or Crocodile, or even Sunday, had to talk him down from the idea of attempting a raid against Dressrosa. If the crew were still in their prime, it was possible that they’d succeed, but their already small number had been badly decimated by his attack to secure the Naiyo-Naiyo no Mi, and they only had about two dozen men left who could fight, half of whom were younger fools who didn’t have nearly the same sense of pride in their flag as their seniors.

“I know he will,” The stub of his wrist flexed against her hip, as if he would have been tapping his fingers, if he still had them. “They may not be able to stand against him directly, but if they aren’t going to be his obedient puppets, he’ll consider them a threat.”

“How so?”

“He needs you to be vulnerable,” His chest deflated a little, accompanied by an annoyed rumble. “Physically and emotionally. That isn’t going to happen if you have the support of an entire crew.”

“So why send Adami?” Beneath her head, the muscles in his arm flexed as he brought his cigar back to his mouth. “Why even leave any of them alive to start with?”

“He can’t get rid of me,” The words dripped with derision. “But he can kill Adami and the rest at his leisure. I’m sure he was hoping that, if I came looking for you, he’d have enough time to arrange and emergency annulment and force a marriage between you. I wouldn’t be able to intervene directly, if he did. I’d be stripped of my title and forced to go to war with him and the Marines for being the aggressor.”

Crocodile wasn’t emotionally attached to his position – but it was useful. Too useful to put at risk so easily, at least. As he spoke, his arm tightened slightly, the blunt end of his arm pressing her closer to his sternum.

“I would do it, if it proved necessary,” He admitted lowly. “But he doesn’t know that. I’m not certain what it is he thinks that he can get out of you, but I am sure he believes I view you in the same way, and if he can make it inconvenient enough for me to keep you, I’ll back down.”

“Adami doesn’t know what he wants, does he?”

She couldn’t see it, but she could hear him shaking his head, his hair rustling against the throw pillow he had settled against.

“There are a few options,” She settled more firmly against him, his knee pressing between her calves. “But nothing that I’ve been able to confirm. I could make an educated guess, but it doesn’t much matter, anyway. I have no intention of letting that fool steal my wife.”

The quiet that settled over the room was comfortable. With the windows open, it was just cool enough that Crocodile’s body heat was the perfect temperature, and she sagged against him and the cushions as she finally started to relax. He puffed on his cigar for a while longer, until enough of it had burned down, briefly rolling over her to stub it out in the ash tray on the coffee table.

Rather than settle back into his original position, crammed between her and the back of the sofa, he remained where he was. He kept the bulk of his weight off of her, laying on his side with his head cradled in his hand, but his hips pressed down against her behind, their legs tangled together with his knee between her feet. His damaged arm remained looped around her waist, the soft flesh of his scar pressed into the sensitive skin of her stomach, idly stroking back and forth as if he were petting a cat.

“I know we aren’t staying on Saliba,” She noted as she stole his pillow, now that she didn’t have his arm to lay her head on. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Adami agreed there’s no point in trying to keep their territory anymore,” His neck crackled loudly as he twisted his chin. “They’re relying on their reputation to keep them safe these days. They don’t have the forces to hold it if someone attacks in earnest.”

“There’s a whole village there, right? What about the civilians?”

Adami had claimed that, despite its reputation, Saliba wasn’t the corpse-riddled slave port everyone believed it was. He claimed that they had freed more people than they’d ever enslaved, and many of them, unable or unwilling to return to their homes, had opted to stay and build a life for themselves on the island.

Cross had never been apologetic about subjugating other people, but he had been strict about who they captured. They never took regular civilians as slaves – they would go out of their way to imprison other pirate crews and Marines, along with select groups of others that Cross had some unexplained grievances with, like various nobles or just about anyone who tried to fight him, but the average person was off his list of potential targets. They had never really discussed why, but he claimed the late captain had, at least once, indicated that he viewed their victims as his enemies, for one reason or another. Unarmed civilians going about their lives hadn’t done anything to earn his ire, and so, were ignored instead.

“They’ll be fine,” He shrugged. “Newgate has tried to parlay for the island more than once. It’s already been agreed that, if something were to happen to Adami before they found you, he would take custody of the territory.”

The room was suddenly darker, and she tilted her head to glance at the window. Thick foliage blocked her view of the sky, but the smell of rain was on the wind, the occasional droplet splattering noisily against the leaves and clay shingles.

“And the crew?”

He opened his mouth to reply as a distant crack of thunder boomed.

“It hasn’t been decided,” He ultimately continued. “They’re in a complex position. By leaving Saliba, they’re publicly admitting their weakness. Everyone will be targeting them, so they’ll need to move carefully if they’re going to survive for long.”

“I thought you’d just have them join Baroque Works,” Blindly, she reached over him, searching for the throw blanket as an especially strong gust of too-cold wind rushed through the cabin. “Marrying the crews together and all that.”

“That’s a separate issue,” His amputated limb left her for a brief instant, hooking beneath the wool blanket and dragging it into her grasp. “No one in Baroque Works knows I’m their leader. As useful as Cross’ men may be to Operation Utopia, it isn’t worth the risk of exposing my involvement.”

The thick hair on his chest itched against her shoulder as he shifted. Like a disappointed dog, he huffed, forcing out a long sigh as he dropped his head to the wooden arm of the couch. His hand, fingers still decorated by his multitude of rings, slid beneath her neck, wrapping up and around across her chest. He fiddled with the blanket, using one of his feet to unfold it and drape it over them both, though it was too small to cover much of his body. It instantly started to trap the warmth eternally wafting off of him, and with her feet tucked between his knees, she was immediately pushed to the peak of comfort.

“Having them join my forces now is an option, but it would be difficult to explain how Cross’ men came to be in my employ,” She snuggled deeper into his embrace, contemplating the merits of a long nap as the rain started to fall in earnest, beating against the shingle roof like a far away drum. “And I’d prefer to avoid any extra attention from the Marines trying to figure it out. After Operation Utopia, it won’t matter, but that’s still years away.”

They wouldn’t be able to stay on Arabasta for much the same reason. Crocodile’s status as a Warlord meant that the group would be able to get a legal pardon, if they served him directly going forward, but that didn’t mean that they’d be welcomed by anyone. Given how long they had spent isolating themselves, their sudden interest in a Warlord from the opposite end of the Grand Line would be incredibly suspicious, and even with the pardon granted, the Marines would launch an investigation to determine why they had made such a sudden and drastic change.

Her ties to Cross would be revealed. Despite being content to live as little more than a glorified trophy wife, who had been blissfully oblivious to her heritage for nearly thirty years, she would inherit all of her father’s old enemies, and they wouldn’t grant her any mercy just because she was unaware. The only thing that would preserve her from the Marines alone was her husband’s status, and if he ever lost his position, she would likely find herself incarcerated in Impel Down – if she were lucky. The Marines may not make her execution a public spectacle, for the sake of preventing any public outcry that she was, technically, innocent, but she wouldn’t be the first person to be killed in relative secret.

They might even dump her body in the same crematorium they’d used to dispose of all of Roger’s children. It wasn’t necessarily instant death for her, not the way it had been for them, but it was still enough of a risk that it was best kept as a secret.

Doflamingo may see fit to change that, but it didn’t seem likely he had any tangible proof.

All he could prove - as far as they were aware, at least – was that Adami had been looking for Aster. When he had asked “Joker” to keep an eye open for the runaway woman, he had given the criminal a copy of an old photograph of her. She had changed a great deal since then, but some of her features were distinctive, enough that they remained the same even through the wear and tear of age and stress. She wasn’t sure precisely when he’d actually seen her mother, given she hadn’t come downstairs on his singular visit to the cobble shop, but it wasn’t all that shocking he was able to identify her, once he did.

He could claim until he was blue in the face that Adami had said she was the mother of Cross’ child – it would warrant a check, but it wasn’t proof. Adami himself, if he were ever confronted, could easily claim that they’d been after her solely because her flight from Saliba had pissed off the eternally angry captain. Aster may not admit to their association, either, for fear of being seen as an associate of the late pirate, but even if she did, it remained a he-said-she-said situation, if Adami claimed that Aster had been with more than just Cross.

The only tangible proof he would ever have was a genetic test, but those were incredibly expensive and difficult to have done – and, in her case, functionally impossible. Cross had been dead for so long there wasn’t even marrow left in his bones, meaning there was nothing to test, unless Doflamingo had uncovered some long lost relative of his to use as a stand in, instead.

Given Cross had always maintained his family was dead, that didn’t seem likely.

“We’ll discuss things with Adami,” He resolved. “Determine what’s best, once we have a better understanding of who and what we’re truly gaining. I’m not certain that every man will be willing to come out of retirement, or that the younger recruits will be willing to follow you, so two dozen pirates may be an overestimation.”

She started to say something else, to question if he might have any suggestions in mind, when she, too, was cut off by a burst of bright light. A mere half breath behind it was the clatter and rumble of thunder, directly overhead. The wind had picked up, howling and whistling between the trees, and she faintly wondered if they might experience a true monsoon – it was the season for it, though they usually had considerably more warning signs.

“Enough worrying about that,” Crocodile flexed, curling his massive body as he sought more contact – his hand slipped beneath the collar of her shirt, the dry flesh of his palm soft but firm as he wrapped his fingers around one breast. “The point of a honeymoon is to be alone with your spouse, and I haven’t had an ounce of your attention since we arrived.”

“You could always ask me to pay attention to you.”

He rumbled, firmly ignoring her jab, focused instead on the breast in his hand. His attention wasn’t sensual – if anything, he seemed almost bored, squishing and squeezing as if her chest was just something for him to fidget with. When she made no effort to stop him, he became more interested, searching for her nipple and pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

Her chest was not a particularly sensitive area. One of the girls who worked with Orin sometimes claimed that she could get off just from someone playing with her breasts, but that wasn’t the case for Lily. It felt nice, but it wasn’t anything she would go out of her way to receive, though she wouldn’t stop Crocodile from enjoying himself, if that was what he wanted to do.

As he fooled around beneath her shirt, his wrist began to push at her shorts. The thin cotton material, already loose, slid over her skin, down her thigh until it caught around his. The casual way in which he used his powers was always entertaining, the thick muscle of his leg giving way to a swirl of sand too thin to touch, just so he could slide them off without bothering to move.

He wasn’t a lazy man, but when he didn’t feel like putting in effort, he could outmatch the most sedentary couch potato.

A swirling trail appeared by the table, seeping out from beneath the blanket. His clothes started to reform, floating shapelessly in the air as they reassembled themselves. As they fully reformed, they flopped to the floor, the buckle of his belt clanging noisily off the coffee table as they fell. She snorted out a laugh, feeling him grunt against the top of her head in return, and his hand abandoned her chest in favor of insistently tugging up the bottom hem of her shirt.

She wasn’t nearly as skilled as he was at using her Devil Fruit ability, but she could manage well enough to pull her shirt through her chest, depositing it on the throw rug along with the rest. He found the exposed skin almost eagerly, running his hand down her side towards her hip, which was far more interesting than his previous actions. His knee pushed between her thighs, twisting and wedging her legs open, and while she didn’t resist, she could feel how easy it would be for him to have forced it, even if she pushed back with all her strength.

Not that she was going to resist. His long fingers slid lower, searching until he found soft, moist flesh. He explored with the same level of laziness he had done everything else that day, slowly and smoothly, performing the most perfunctory check that she was ready.

Usually, things were more passionate, but this wasn’t the first time they’d both been feeling too lax to bother. It hadn’t been something she was used to, and the first time, she had been a little anxious after, thinking that she had started to lose his interest. There had been an uncomfortable conversation, after he figured out why she’d proceeded to spend days quietly losing her mind, and he asserted that was far from the case. He was very much attracted to her, and he had no grievances about their sex life – sometimes, he just preferred slow and comfortable, enough to scratch the itch but not much more.

He pressed against her, slowly gathering her wetness against his broad tip. Ever so slowly, he pushed forward, until the pressure became a stretch that, for a brief instant, left her feeling empty, before she was almost entirely too full. His narrow hips stilled against her backside, a low groan echoing in tune with a clap of vicious thunder.

She expected him to start moving, but over the top of her head, she heard the click of his lighter.

“You want to explain what you’re doing here, big guy?”

“Quiet,” There was no heat behind the demand, just a cloud of sweet smelling smoke and the firm pressure of his forearm against her pelvis, preventing her from moving. “I’ll move when I feel like it. For now, I just want to lay like this.”

Chapter Text

Saliba was beautifully terrifying.

It looked like the ground itself had been forced up from beneath the ocean. Rather than sloped, sandy beaches, the shore of the island was made almost entirely of stony rock faces, some of which barely protruded from the sea, while others loomed many meters above, jaggedly reaching for the sky. It reminded her almost of a bowl, with all the cliffs angling down towards the center of the land mass, where the untamed jungle grew thicker and thicker until it seemed impossible to pass. The only means of making landfall were the tiny pockets between the grey outcroppings, obscuring any signs of life from approaching ships.

There was no question that it had been inhabited once, however. What might have seemed like a land of untouched wildlife was rendered into a quiet nightmare by the little bits of history that Cross left behind.

A line of crucifixes surrounded the edge of the island, like a blasphemous picket fence. They seemed to have been constructed with no particular rhyme or reason, new crosses tucked between the old wherever there was space, but all of them shared one similarity – the bodies. Some were just skeletons, old bones still stuck in place by thick bands of weather-worn ropes and massive metal nails, others still going through the process of decomposition, skin pulled taught and blackened, surrounded by swirling masses of insects nesting in the rotten flesh.

Yet more of them held the living.

What they’d done to earn such a torture, she wasn’t certain, but it seemed likely it wasn’t enough. As the Baroque Gustave trailed behind Adami’s dinghy, following it safely through the hidden rocks below, she counted six people that might still be alive. They’d been nailed up through the palms of their hands, sometimes their shoulders, and tied around the ribs and ankles, wounded but not badly enough to die quickly. Instead, they were left to bake and wither in the brutal sun, dehydrated despite the humidity heavy on the air, slowly starving every ounce of fat off their bones so that their skin hung loose from their bones.

It was Cross’ signature. Even in his early days, long before he had claimed Saliba for himself, he had a penchant for crucifixion – which seemed a little on the nose, given his name. He used to mount cross bars on ship masts, and leave the captain adrift without a crew, rotting alone with no hope of escape.

The actual path into Saliba was so narrow that the Baroque Gustave almost couldn’t fit. The inlet was tucked between two rock faces, at such an angle that it was almost impossible to see – almost anyone passing by would mistake it for a dead end, and those that didn’t were almost guaranteed to crash while navigating the sharp twists and turns. Just as it began to open up, it came to a head at the mouth of a cavern, with just a half-meter of clearance between the top of the mast and the jagged ceiling above. Long enough to lose all light of the day, the black tunnel was a disorienting mess, echoing the already impressive crashing of the waves. The ship coasted along the current, which was far from gentle, and Garret struggled desperately to maintain enough control to avoid being whisked away to a miserable death.

On the other side, however, it was like a different world.

Saliba’s main village, Beke, lined either side of the river. The violence that surrounded them was invisible through the overgrowth of the jungle, little shacks and gardens creating a tableau so quaint it was almost possible to forget the horrors just beyond. People went about their lives as if they were just another village – men and women carrying weave baskets full of fruits and vegetables, working the soil to plant new crops behind stick and twine fences, fishermen dotted along the shore. It was warm, lively, and it was only the presence of the occasional man, marked by a black cross over his cheek and a weapon on his hip, that indicated there might be something at all amiss.

The river led to a small pond, of a sort – that wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one that came to mind. It widened slightly, not because nature had slowly worn the terrain away, but because someone had very clearly carved it out, leaving behind a rock face that had been polished smooth by salt water. The lone port of Saliba was occupied by one long dock, and three ships, one of which she immediately recognized as having once been a standard Marine vessel. It had been painted over, then worn down with age and painted again, chipped and peeling, but the Jolly Roger proudly displayed on its mast looked almost as if someone had only just made it. The black fabric along the bottom revealed how long it had sat, unused, bleached and yellowed from the sun.

The skull and crossbones, however, were untouched by time. It was as vibrant white as if it had been painted just that morning, emblazoned with Cross’ mark – two daggers, one over the other, like a bloodthirsty cross.

It was the one similarity between all three vessels. The old Marine ship, with the chipped paint and dulled varnish, sat beside a boat half the size, meticulously emblazoned with ornate molding that had been painstakingly treated in a rainbow array of paint. It reminded her almost of a party boat, like she might expect to see it slowly coasting along, occupied by drunken fools in swimsuits and a band with maracas and bells and brass instruments.

The last was, she suspected, the Baroness. It wasn’t quite as large as the first, but not as small as the second – close to the Baroque Gustave, longer but thinner, made of delicate light wood and heavy metal bands. Elegant, but imposing, not entirely unlike the Warlord standing at her shoulder, who hadn’t stopped chain smoking since before his ship was first coated to pass through Fishman Island.

The figurehead was of a skull – a more realistic one than that of the flag, so much so she wondered if it might actually be the bones of a real giant. A dagger of equally absurd scale jutted from a crack in the forehead, some of the fanged teeth capped in steel, the jaw left open as if it were intending to take a bite of whatever dared get close.

There was just enough space for the Gustave to dock along the far side of the platform. A handful of people stopped to watch, observing from a distance as the gangplank was lowered. Adami himself clambered to land, hands proudly on his hips and a rotten grin on his face, and one particularly bold old man approached him, a cane firmly in his grip. He motioned at them, too distant to hear, and at Adami’s reply, his wild brows shot up to where his hairline may once have been.

She could just barely hear him shouting, with all the energy and vigor of a young man. Not everything made it over the rushing of the waves, but enough reached her ears – it was Cross’ daughter who’d just arrived.

His proclamation seemed to be the only thing that caused any sense of urgency amongst the people. It wasn’t necessarily a flurry of excitement, but definitely one of interest, as people started to gather along the street in little groups, muttering amongst themselves before she even took her first step towards the dock.

Crocodile stuck close to her back. Beneath the veil of his coat, he kept the swell of his prosthetic against her back, offering her a subtle bit of stability on the slightly too-steep ramp. Compared to the incredibly hot, humid air around them, it was almost ice cold, even through the fabric of her dress, though his actual presence so close by was suffocating in the heat.

He hadn’t gone further than arms reach for days. Although he was adamant that he would one day kill Whitebeard, it wasn’t going to be with his wife aboard his single ship, and having to pass through the man’s territory had stressed him almost beyond reason. He had all but glued himself to her side the moment they sank beneath the surface, concerned that one of Whitebeard’s many loyalists on Fishman Island might alert the Yonko of their presence.

It wasn’t as if the Yonko had to respect Crocodile’s legal sanction to be there. Typically, he followed the same system that Cross had, ignoring the Marines so long as they did the same for him, but there was no guarantees that would hold true for a Warlord who’d once promised to return from the New World and take his head.

They had seen one of his fleet ships in the distance, but it seemed they weren’t inclined to attack. It had followed for hours, until they passed the island that marked the end of Whitebeard’s territory, a distant warning not to step out of line, but even the man widely proclaimed as the Strongest in the World seemed disinclined to instigate a Buster Call against himself.

As they got closer, onto a street paved with broken stones, Adami threw his arms out to hug her, then immediately seemed to rethink the action. She couldn’t see her husband’s expression, but his aura was impossible to miss even without the benefit of sight – agitated, irritated, uncomfortable in such a way that the only thing he could do was be violent about it. He might not have killed the other man outright, but Adami didn’t seem to think it was worth the risk, lowering his arms with a knowing smile, one hand placed casually, but purposefully, on the pommel of his sword.

“Glad to see you made it,” He leaned his weight onto one foot, as if he thought he could cut the tension by seeming more casual. “Had an easy journey, I hope?”

She waited a beat for Crocodile to answer, but he remained silent. He didn’t move, exactly, but she could feel him press closer as the crowd grew thicker, a guard dog starting to test just how much slack he had in his chain.

“For the most part,” She, too, wanted to break the tension, and it worked about as well as Adami’s attempt – which was not at all. “A few storms, but that’s about it.”

The lanky pirate made a noise that she only vaguely registered as a word, something that sounded vaguely like approval or agreement, but not in any language she could hope to understand. It wasn’t the first time he had slipped back into his native tongue, and he had once admitted that he had a harder time than most with the trade language, having not started to learn it until he was already in his teens.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but the very cranky reptile behind her drew his attention. This time, the Warlord actively moved, suddenly stationing himself on her opposite side. His hand spread out across her back, spanning the distance between her shoulders, while his hook was on full display at his side, though she wasn’t immediately certain what had set him off. Following his glower, she realized one of the people in the crowd had moved forward, two full strides in front of the rest – he had stilled, but like Adami, he didn’t seem particularly concerned about the Warlord’s potential to inflict grievous bodily harm, thumbs looped around his belt rather than leave a hand on his weapon.

“It is Pretre,” Adami chuckled – which did not, in any way, help the situation. “I asked that the men wait, but he has never been patient.”

“So, it is true,” His accent was different than Adami’s, but even thicker, and it took her a moment to process what he had said, especially as it was warped by his laughter. “Notre capitaine has already brought a Marine chien to heel.”

There was the faintest twitch in Crocodile’s eyebrow. She wasn’t certain what the man had said, but there wasn’t any question that it was an insult, aimed specifically at the exceptionally temperamental behemoth who’s hip was currently pressed into her shoulder. Under perhaps any other circumstances, he would respond to even a passing insult like that with an excess of brutality – leave the man a husk desperately begging for water, if he left him alive at all. He was holding onto his self restraint, however, if only just barely, though she had no idea if that would last for long.

“If he’s my dog,” She called back, taking her best guess as to what he meant – government dog seemed to be a pretty universal insult against the Warlords as a whole. “You’d better hope I have him well trained.”

There was a pause, heavy with anticipation – then, laughter. Pretre held his gut like he thought it may fall off as he cackled, head thrown back to the sky. Adami grinned so broadly his upper lip cracked and began to bleed, chuckling as he pulled a rumpled old pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket and tucked one into his teeth. Even a few of the faces in the crowd eased into uneasy smiles, though none of them were quite relaxed enough to show their amusement openly, and the air felt just the slightest bit lighter.

Crocodile didn’t seem to find the interaction all that entertaining himself, but when he cut his baleful stare back to Adami, she was certain she had managed to stave off a fight.

“She has a mouth,” The fingers on her back twitched as Pretre shuffled closer in his worn thatch sandals. “Good.”

Despite his bluster, Pretre, too, was well aware it would be a mistake to get too close. She could practically feel the invisible barrier between them, just as wide around as Crocodile’s arms were long – breaching it meant a painful death, and everyone seemed to know it.

“Adami said you had a Warlord,” Pretre had better teeth than Adami, all of them white and healthy, though four were missing on the left side. “How did this happen, eh? What power do you have, to make such a man serve you?”

“An excellent pussy.”

There went her mouth, running away without any input from her brain.

Pretre cackled again, even more vivaciously this time, loud and echoing off the treetops. Against the skin of her back, Crocodile’s fingers twitched again – a warning for her, this time, as he lightly pinched along her spine.

“Do not humor him,” Despite his chastising, Adami was clearly getting a great deal of amusement out of the whole thing. “Or he will never stop.”

Pretre’s presence didn’t last much longer. He had only ventured down to the docks to make sure that the ship wasn’t some sort of trap, and once he was satisfied it wasn’t secretly full of Marines waiting to spring from the shadows, he dismissed himself, claiming he would tell the rest of the crew that they’d arrived. People started to disperse, chattering quietly, and Adami took the opportunity to show them Beke along the way to Cross’ old home.

The village was pleasant, but it was, ultimately, a village – not a town, and certainly not a city. They had two shops, one for general goods from the outside world, and another where locals traded what they could produce themselves, and a single bar that could fit, at best, twenty people inside. In a lot of ways, it reminded her of the part of town where she had grown up, where people did whatever worked without any real concern for aesthetics, though it was very much different at the same time. She had no real eye for architecture, but even she could see the wide array of techniques people had used – stacked stone, mud bricks, logs and wattle-and-daub, massive tents, all mixed up together.

People there held tight to their heritage, and if it were true how most of them came to live there, she could understand why. Memories of their homeland were one of the few things they had, one of the only things that couldn’t be taken.

Cross’ home was the only one away from the rest. It near enough to hear the gentle sounds of the village, but only just, tucked deep into the brush at the end of a path so overgrown it was almost invisible. His home seemed to have survived mostly because it was made of stone, though the wooden roof was overgrown, covered with moss and ferns and vines. Someone had seen fit to patch it, but not clear it, creating patches in the foliage where fresh bits of wood had been mounted.

The interior was in a similar state. It had been cleaned up within the past few days, but before that, had been left to the elements, though she doubted it had ever truly been nice. There was a firepit against one wall, a bed on the other, and a desk in between, but not much else. An old rug, so well worn it was falling apart on its own, a locked wooden chest, and a shelf of books – a wrought iron lantern, hanging from the single support beam that ran across the middle of roof.

Crocodile cautiously investigated the old wooden desk chair, easily lifting it with one hand to check over the legs. Visibly concerned it might collapse under him, he tucked it back where he had found it and leaned back against the desk, instead, arms folded over the expanse of his chest. Adami was infinitely less cautious, dropping all of his long limbs onto the musty straw mattress with an undignified flourish, and as if to protest, the bed frame squealed like a stuck pig. She found a foot stool that seemed to have retained some structural integrity, though it tottered wildly as she started to sit, almost sending her careening into the dirt floor before Crocodile caught it with his foot.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Despite his casual posture, Adami – who had been the picture of relaxation since they met out on the sea – was tense, coiled with the gravitas of anticipation. She wondered why Crocodile didn’t speak, if he wanted to make the acting captain sweat for a while, until his toe nudged the side of her foot.

When she peered up at him, he nodded towards Adami, and she abruptly realized they were both waiting on her.

“I’m not going to make a decision,” She resolved – even though it wasn’t confirmation, Adami tangibly started to relax. “Until we discuss the details.”

The crew totaled thirty-six men and women, but only twenty nine were what Adami would consider “active”.

Two members of the original crew didn’t have the constitution for a life at sea, anymore. Age had taken not just their strength, but their health, and both had determined that they would only be a drain on the ship’s resources. Three of the younger ones had decided to leave, as well – that hadn’t been a surprise, as the trio had been thick as thieves since childhood, and until she had been found, the leader of their pack had been the likeliest candidate to replace Adami as captain. Hearing that the crew would be handed over to a relative stranger hadn’t gone over well, so they had left to go their own way, instead, taking with them their hurt feelings and bruised pride. One of the remaining two had only stayed on to see Cross’ last request through, and wanted to retire, now that she was there – and the last simply refused to work alongside a Warlord.

It was better than Crocodile’s initial estimate. Four of them had only decided to join recently, after Adami had come back to Saliba proclaiming that Cross’ heir had finally been found, and there were a few more, he suspected, who were waiting to see what sort of captain she would be before they made a decision.

Handing Saliba over to Whitebeard was a decision that had gone over much more smoothly, at least. No one still on the island was opposed – those that had been had left with the trio who’d left, serving as a temporary crew until they found some new place to settle. They’d taken the last active boat, Adami had noted, as well as Joker’s last shipment of weapons, which had been aboard, so the parlay couldn’t have come at a better time, in his opinion.

Doflamingo was a lot of things, but stupid enough to challenge Whitebeard was not one of them.

Crocodile had quietly grunted his displeasure at that particular comment, but otherwise, held his tongue. He hadn’t spoken the entire time, as Adami explained who and what was left of the crew, nearly still as a statue, except for the hand that occasionally moved to fiddle with his cigar.

“I can’t just take over,” Across the room, the jovial giant shot forward, slamming his feet against the wood floor. “It’s not about whether or not I want to, which, for the record, I’m still not convinced I do.”

Before Adami could ask, Crocodile, for the first time in more than an hour, opted to speak.

“People haven’t forgotten about your history in the slave trade,” He drawled, bracing one of his loafers against the side of the desk. “It would be preferrable if no one was made aware of my wife’s association to your former captain.”

“Ah,” The acting captain nodded, clearly agreeing just to agree – then, several moments later, more slowly, as he properly digested the words. “I assume you have a plan?”

“Always.”

They had discussed options nearly the entire way to the island. Every idea one of them had, the other ultimately shot down, for one reason or another, though by the time they made it to the Red Line, they had put together something approaching a coherent idea.

Lily wasn’t equipped to sail, or to take over a crew, however large or small. Although she had trained to fight with Adami for a while, and Crocodile had continued to help her hone her skills in his absence, she knew precious little about sailing, about the Grand Line, about the dangers and struggles and complications of a life on the water. Placing the lives and wellbeing of thirty people into her hands without proper preparation was a recipe for disaster, and her husband wasn’t about to let her be put in unnecessary danger.

He also couldn’t afford for his wife to be associated with an active band of murderous brigands. Even if she were prepared, it would undo everything that he had started with Baroque Works, for his wife to be running around pillaging and stealing and murdering, while he was trying to present himself as Arabasta’s benevolent hero – one with a loathing of most other pirates.

At the same time, it would be all but impossible to hide their connection for long. Adami’s presence had caused enough of a stir, and all it would take was one spiteful word from Doflamingo for rumors to start flying. They’d be difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to prove, but all of Crocodile’s work would be destroyed in an instant, if they didn’t stay ahead of things.

He had already claimed that one of Cross’ old crew members had come to him looking for guidance, to find absolution, and it was a lie he intended to abuse.

Chapter Text

For a small village, Beke knew how to throw a celebration.

They didn’t care about her, really. She knew that, and she wasn’t particularly offended by how obvious it was, sometimes, that she, as a person, was irrelevant. All that really mattered was Cross’ last wish had been fulfilled – she mattered to them only as the vessel by which they achieved their goal of seeing his dying request completed.

Honestly, it was preferable, being relegated to the role of a background character at a party being held, ostensibly, in her honor.

After conferring with Crocodile for most of the early afternoon, Adami had led them down to the bar, and demanded – loudly – that they break open the good liquor. At his declaration that their crew had found their rightful captain, there had been a shocking amount of whooping and hollering, not just from the handful of visibly distinct pirates loitering under the awning, but from nearly anyone in earshot.

A woman who had been walking by, carrying a basket full of melons, had nearly dropped them, spinning on her heel with the declaration that she had to make something called “sambal oelek”. Two of the fishermen abandoned their rods, one in the middle of reeling in a catch, to go and fetch the banner they’d preemptively prepared, leaving their third companion to clean up. Their shouting caused other people to shout, and like a contagious virus, soon their excitement spread through the entire village, until everyone was shouting at everyone, and a last minute celebration was pulled together just before sun down.

Crocodile, for his part, found an open seat at the end of the bar and bunkered down like a statue. He had relaxed some, in the relative safety and isolation of Cross’ home, but all of his earlier tension had renewed ten-fold, growing thicker and thicker in proportion to the crowd.

No one seemed to notice. It probably was impossible to tell, for anyone who didn’t have a deep and intricate knowledge of how to communicate solely via eyebrow positions and various grunts, but it was obvious to her, so she remained close, putting him between her and the rest of the bar, peering around his shoulders to observe.

People weren’t quite as wary of him as they usually were – presumably because Cross had been, by all accounts, infinitely less friendly and considerably more prone to violence. They were respectful, but not afraid or nervous, acknowledging he was likely stronger than them but not concerned about what he might do with that power. They didn’t approach him, exactly, but they didn’t ignore him, either, more focused on interacting with one another than with worrying about the two relative strangers at the corner of their last minute event.

Adami wasn’t lying, when he said Cross had saved just as many people as he had enslaved.

Most everyone had a story about what he’d done for them. The bartender, a man older than her husband by at least a decade, had been the first one to tell his story. He had barely been a teenager when he met Cross – when he had been saved by him. The store had no oranges, that day, and his master had been so incensed by the absence of his favorite fruit that he’d taken to whipping the boy then and there, in the middle of the street, for everyone to see. Some people had watched, been horrified on his behalf, but no one had intervened.

“One moment, he was moving to hit me again,” The man explained, a small smile on his face. “The next, he didn’t have an arm.”

Without a word, Cross had severed the noble’s arm – and, before anyone could think to do anything, cut his throat. He had used his Devil Fruit to remove the boy’s collar, pulled him up by the arm, and dragged him off to the Baroness without so much as a sigh. Some days after they left port, accompanied by a slew of other slaves who had been freed from that same island, Cross had spoken at last, to ask what island he wanted to be returned to.

He had opted to stay on as a cabin boy, instead, until gangrene took one of his feet, and he retired to Saliba, where he had been ever since.

Everyone she talked to had a similar tale. Not all of them had been slaves, and not everyone Cross had rescued were still alive to describe what happened, but they all shared the same sentiment – that Oleander Cross was the only reason that they were free. Safe.

Alive.

After the sun set and the torches were lit, a small mass of people started to build at a set of tables that had been parked directly in the middle of the dirt street. They were given the same distance as herself and Crocodile, not ignored but not sought after, knocking back mug after mug of ale as they loudly conversed amongst themselves.

It was only when Adami joined them that she realized they were all pirates.

Most of them were older than her by a considerable margin. There were a few fresher faces among them, but none below the age of thirty, at least, and she was likely the youngest of them all. Several bore the Cross Pirate’s insignia proudly on their faces, though a few had opted to tattoo their arms, instead – one woman even had one on her leg, spanning from her ankle to her knee.

Crocodile hummed when Adami beckoned for her to join them. He was very much in no mood for company – particularly of the sort that might pose a threat to her safety – but he was a very good pretender. He didn’t even flinch while sipping the ale he’d been offered, despite how often he complained that he found the drink absolutely vile, and though she knew he was watching everyone closely, he was subtle enough that she never caught him.

She moved and, like her shadow, he followed. Some of the faces at the table grinned at her, others frowned, others still completely neutral.

“Come,” Pretre kicked one of the wooden stools out from beneath the table. “Introduce yourself. Let the crew meet their new captain.”

Though small, the crew was relatively well staffed.

Divina was their physician – of a sort, at least. She had no official training, but her late father, Sagrado, had held the role for decades, and despite learning most of what he knew on the fly, everyone credited him as being naturally talented with medicine. It was impossible to accurately place her age, and the only point of reference that existed was her son, Palpite, who was old enough to have a toddler of his own. She was a stern woman, with an equally staunch build, tall and broad with more muscles than Lily would expect of a doctor, though her voice was delicate and soft. She was one of many who didn’t seem to care either way about Lily’s existence, nor Crocodile’s, ignoring them both in favor of other conversation, except to offer a brief greeting from the far end of the table.

Kahini had been their navigator for decades, and refused to be budged from the position, despite his children – and grandchildren – insisting that he ought to finally retire. Though tall, he was much shorter than most of the crew, with an array of beads woven into his knee length goatee. He was more hostile than friendly, but not aggressive, and he outright stated that his only concern was having a captain who finally listened to him. He couldn’t be less worried about what she was like or even if it was a Warlord issuing his orders, so long as no one asked him to steer into an active volcano.

Again.

The official role of boatswain was split between two – Pretre and his apprentice, a young man only a few years older than her, by the name Rotolo. Pretre was as he had been from the start, loud and boisterous and searching for the first opportunity to make a dirty joke, but his student was far quieter. Nervous, she would say, unable to make eye contact with anyone at the table and rarely opening his mouth to speak, even when someone called out to him by name. When he did speak, though, he seemed knowledgeable, at least when it came to the topic of boats, and he had briefly muttered about various projects he wanted to implement on the Baroness.

“We’ll be taking the Baroness to Water 7,” For the first time in hours, Crocodile spoke, drawing attention from everyone nearby. “Speak with the shipwright about your ideas. He should be able to implement some of them.”

Conversation still rumbled around the table, but it had quieted considerably. They’d all been content to ignore her husband until that moment – suddenly, though, more than a dozen pairs of eyes were locked onto him. He was utterly unbothered by the sudden attention, seated on a low wooden stool that was arguably much too small for his wide frame, hook casually lain across the table as the other held onto the handle of his wooden tankard. A cigar dangled from between his teeth, staring firmly into the middle distance, his stoic face impossible to read.

“You givin’ the orders now?” The frustrated hiss came from Bunshou, one of the several who hadn’t bothered to hide their irritation, directed as much at Adami as it was the Warlord. “Told you this was a mistake.”

“If it weren’t for him,” The words came tumbling out before she realized she had opened her mouth. “I wouldn’t be here.”

There was no conversation, after that. She hadn’t been loud, but the entire table had stopped short to listen – some eager and hopeful, while others were nothing short of hateful, every eye locked on her. It was the sort of thing that would typically fill her with anxiety, being under so much attention, but her mouth had let itself loose from her control, and no amount of nerves was going to stop it now that it had run away from her.

“I don’t need this,” Divina, to her right, made a quiet noise of surprise. “I don’t even want this. But you’re the one who waited almost thirty years for me to show up, and now you’re pissing and moaning because, what? My husband’s enough of a threat the World Government would rather work with him than against him?”

Bunshou didn’t look sheepish in the slightest. His already ruddy face became all the more mottled with red, thin lips rolled between his teeth. He opened his own mouth to say something, but she wasn’t close to done, feeling that infernal engine start to rev to live beneath her sternum.

“If he hadn’t convinced me to come here,” Unconcerned, Crocodile lifted his mug, carefully cradling his cigar between two fingers. “I’d be relaxing in a luxury suite, and you’d still be sitting here with your thumb up your ass, doing absolutely fuck all until you keeled over and died.”

Adami was silent, glancing between her and Bunshou, a slight pinch between his unruly brows.

“If I choose to take over as captain,” She continued, feeling the raw wood beneath her palms. “And that’s a mighty big fucking if, the only one I trust to be my first mate is him, so if you ever want to sail again, start fucking acting like it.”

The man shot up from the table, kicking over his seat as he went. Two of the others rose to follow, maintaining a careful berth as he trudged into the darkness, while the rest of the table remained. The sudden tension seemed fit to burst, before Pretre, from the far end of the table, burst into raucous laughter. He threw himself back with enough force that he toppled completely over, and with that, the rest of the table did the same. Laughing and wheezing and smacking the table – she wasn’t certain if it was a good omen or a terrible one, until Divina clapped her entirely too forcefully against the back.

“You sound like your old man.”

Although the festivities continued on for hours after, it didn’t take long for her to decide that she was done with the evening. Her mood hadn’t been ruined, exactly, but there were only so many tales about the “good old days” that she could stand at once, and when her frustration burned off, she was more than a little exhausted. Her husband didn’t seem to care either way, having sat in relative silence the rest of the night, except when Adami briefly dragged him into a conversation about Arabasta, sternly and silently at her back as they weaved through the underbrush.

As the torchlight faded behind the thick branches, his hand found her hip. With what felt like just the strength of his pinky, he tossed her up, into the crook of his long arm, tucking her against his chest and cradling her thighs without so much as breaking stride.

“You did well.”

The door didn’t lock – it creaked and groaned as he shouldered it aside, one of the hinges squealing ominously as if it may snap off entirely. The temperature had dropped more than she realized, surrounded by low burning torches and the warmth of bodies, and she curled a little deeper against him, into the soft silk of his button down. With his hook, he dropped the desk chair beside the door, leveraging it into position beneath the knob with his toes. He kicked the blankets up off the bed, shuffling them about on a trail of sand – and good that he did, as a fat brown spider came tumbling out, slapping against the floor with a quiet, but distinct, thud.

Arachnid enemy crushed beneath his designer loafer, he dropped her onto the old wooden frame. He went through none of his usual steps to prepare for bed, except for shedding his fur coat, which he draped over the end like an extra blanket, settling down next to her. He took a long pull from a bottle of dark rum, the heavy adam’s apple of his throat working up and down as he guzzled nearly half the contents. After a moment he offered it to her, and for the first time in days, his expression changed, the corner of his mouth curling upward, bringing to life the single dimple she had always thought made him all the more attractive, as she refused.

“Stay assertive,” He scooted back, sitting crossways over the bed, and she presumed that he intended to sleep that way, sat up against the wall. “They won’t respect you if you let them control you.”

She abandoned the bed long enough to change. They hadn’t brought much from the ship, just a single small chest, and while he may be able to sleep in his day clothes, she couldn’t stomach the idea. Her dress was made almost entirely of lace and delicate boning, and it was uncomfortable enough to wear just standing around, never mind while trying to get comfortable enough to sleep – on a mattress made out of straw, no less. Crocodile made no effort to stop her, leaving the half-empty bottle between his feet to reach out with his bejeweled hand, carefully pinching the corset ties between her shoulders to tug them loose. Although he let out an appreciative rumble as the fabric started to fall away, he didn’t touch her further, settling back to observe as she started to dig around in the trunk in nothing but a tiny pair of panties.

Any other time, his obsession with watching her would inevitably transform into a need to feel her. They had been late to a meeting more than once, solely because he couldn’t quite restrain himself while she went about getting ready – not because she was half naked, but because something about the domesticity of it aroused him like nothing else.

He wouldn’t let himself be that vulnerable, though, not inside a half-ruined shack with a door that didn’t lock, on an island full of drunken pirates he didn’t trust.

She found one of his cotton t-shirts and a pair of his shorts, both of which were infinitely too large for her. It felt a little strange, crawling into bed with any clothes on at all, but if something did happen, as unlikely as she found it, she preferred not to be fighting or running for her life in just her underwear. Rather than try to get the blankets out from beneath him, she scooped up his jacket, careful not to let the hem scrape through the dirt as she crawled onto the mattress with him.

He smiled, this time, flashing his teeth in full, and the curve of his hook caught her beneath the chin before she could attempt to settle. With no force at all, he drew her closer, neck craned to look him in the eye. In the relative dark, his eyes were black, and it was impossible for her to guess if it was simply because of the shadows, or if his excitement had blown his pupils wide, though it may well have been a blend of both.

“Pretty little girl,” He drawled, his chest vibrating with the words. “I buy you all of these nice things, and somehow, you’re never more tempting than when you’re wearing my clothes.”

“Now I’m wondering how you’d look in one of my dresses,” He huffed at her, fishing his cigar tin out of his pocket, his prosthetic heavy against her back as he urged her to lay down. “Maybe something strapless.”

“Don’t think I’m not keeping track,” Even as he groused at her, he pushed her up against his side, where she could use his hip as an almost comfortable pillow. “Of how much you misbehave. Just because I won’t punish you now doesn’t mean you can start acting like a brat. You're already up to twenty, after that little speech earlier.”

“I mean, what kind of pirate doesn’t cuss?” She rolled onto her back – the mattress was uncomfortable, at best, but his coat almost made up for it, lined in soft, smooth silk. “Even you do it.”

“Ladies,” His head thumped off the wood as he leaned back, blowing a lazy ring of smoke into the air. “Should watch their language.”

“I’m a pirate now, sir, not a lady.”

His heavy prosthetic gently tapped off her knee in warning.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Chapter Text

Part one of Crocodile’s plan was to get a proper look at the Baroness.

Although he favored the Gustave, he wasn’t necessarily attached to what was, for all intents and purposes, his flagship. He hadn’t come to own it until well after he had gained his Devil Fruit, and it existed more for his comfort than for any real utility. In the right weather conditions, he could cross the entire world using his powers, and at a speed far greater than that of any ship, but he seldom needed to get somewhere so quickly that he considered it worthwhile. He did like his personal ship, and he wasn’t inclined to see it retired any time soon, but he also had no grievances with an upgrade, if one were available at a reasonable price.

The Baroness was, sort of, free – which made it the perfect price. Old, outdated and in dire need of both basic maintenance and a considerable array of upgrades, but the brigantine would have considerably wider utility, once properly fitted. Unlike the Gustave, which had been built for comfortable cruising at the behest of the long dead nobleman who commissioned it, the Baroness was built for military use. It wasn’t particularly large, and couldn’t reasonably house a crew larger than sixty, but it was meant for speed, to ferry messages between warships, to pursue escaping enemy vessels, and even to engage in skirmishes itself.

During Cross’ time, it had been a fairly simple, but deeply desirable, ship for a pirate to have. It could readily outpace most Marine vessels, and it wouldn’t struggle in the slightest to overtake a trade ship, though with the growing popularity of things like coal engines, it had lost a considerable amount of its original advantage. It would require a considerable financial investment in order to regain its position as one of the most desirable boats on the water, but after looking it over for a few hours, Crocodile had resolved that it was an expense that was well worthwhile.

It wouldn’t be difficult to make the necessary adjustments. A coal engine was heavy, enough so that the weight would drag it down rather than give it the desired boost, but a small steam boiler would be more than enough to power a duo of paddles. It would take only a fraction of the space currently occupied by oar banks, and on a ship so relatively light, it would be capable of outputting more than enough speed.

She didn’t pretend to completely understand all the fine details, but Crocodile had made it relatively simple for her. The journey from Arabasta to Gureirokku, which took five weeks sailing in the Gustave, would take just four in the Baroness – barely three, if they ran the steam engine the entire way.

Most of the rest of the alterations were cosmetic, to one degree or another. Some of the plumbing pipes were in need of replacement, having corroded over years of disuse, and there were modern amenities that made a life at sea far easier to manage that the Baroness simply didn’t have. A de-salination machine, to convert sea water to potable drinking water, was at the top of his list, as well as proper refrigeration for supplies, though overall, even the more basic parts of the ship required some work. The carpet in the captain’s quarters was so old that it would never cease to be crusty with dust, worn so threadbare in spots that the wood beneath poked through, and with the steam engine, there would be a considerable amount of unused space, where the oarsmen were meant to work.

Adami, Pretre, and Rotolo had opted to join them that morning. She listened as best she could, while the older trio discussed the various benefits and flaws of the ship, but she couldn’t follow the conversation nearly as well as she would have hoped. Rotolo, to his credit, seemed to realize when she was struggling, and would quietly speak up to explain what something was, staying beside her as the tour continued.

It would never be quite as luxurious as the Gustave was, and the layout was unideal, but it was, in the grand scheme of things, easily fixed. The only room above the deck had been Cross’ quarters – nicer than the barracks by far, but still small, compared to just Crocodile’s sea-faring office, and, in her opinion, entirely too exposed. Although they’d be taking it to a shipwright, Pretre was only too happy to draw up a handful of potential blueprints, to give the builder some ideas of what might be best. Personally, she preferred to convert the upper room to either a galley, or a sort of meeting-office space – she didn’t particularly want to take up an entire room just to serve as an office for herself, but it was just large enough to be used as a sort of private den for her and the higher-ranked members of the crew.

“J’ai aussi une idée pour un drapeau,” Pretre grinned from across the deck, pausing when his statement failed to illicit any reaction. “Ma cherie?”

“Your flag,” Rotolo whispered from beside her. “He said he has an idea for one.”

“Oh,” Further down the bow, she was distantly aware of Adami nattering on about the ship’s head to Crocodile, who couldn’t look more disinterested if he tried. “Do I really need a new one?”

“Is your crew now, no?” The older boatswain leaned against the railing, heard it creak, and immediately decided to stand straight. “The flag, it should reflect the captain. You may have his temper, ma cherie, but you are not your father. You are far more merciful. He would have killed Banchou for speaking so plain last night.”

“Still,” She wasn’t sure why she was arguing, but the idea of changing the flag felt distinctly disrespectful. “Most of you were his crew, first, and its not like I earned the role.”

Pretre waved his hand at her, dismissing her concerns with a puff of air from between his lips – somehow greasy, despite not eating anything all morning.

“You will,” He asserted easily. “Your putain de mère, she tried to take your birthright, but you are still young. There is time to learn.”

She didn’t know the translation for what he called her mother, but she could imagine it wasn’t flattering. That had been another constant, the night before, though not one as openly talked about as Cross and his legacy – all of Saliba loathed her mother. The kindest among them had said that Aster tried to play Cross for a fool, and she had heard, more than once, about a pervasive suspicion regarding her reasons for seducing Cross in the first place.

An old grandmother, missing one eye and proudly displaying the brand on her back, had specifically noted that Lily and her mother were nothing alike. She insisted that she’d known Aster would be trouble from the moment she arrived, and she was relieved, to see that Lily herself didn’t inherit her mother’s selfishness. The old woman had been pulled away by her son before she could say much more, but Lily intended to continue that discussion the moment she could – the flagrant honesty of someone too old to put propriety over the truth was exactly the sort of thing she could use in her life.

“I will think of something suitable,” Again, he waved her off, turning towards the duo loitering near the gangplank. “For now, we have work to do, fils. It has been many years since La Baronne last saw the sea, and we must make her ready.”

Rotolo gave her a small nod, scurrying to follow Pretre as he approached one of the masts. He started barking orders in his native tongue, something she couldn’t hope to follow, and the young apprentice scurried up the rope and wood like it was what he’d been born to do. Accepting that she’d been dismissed, she crossed the deck, careful to dodge the boards that had started to suffer considerable wood rot, to join the duo seemingly waiting on her, still deep in their own conversation.

“I’m certain it’s possible,” Her husband shifted subtly, angling his shoulder back to make space for her at his side, but his attention remained on Adami. “We’ll bring it with us and see what Iceburg can do.”

“Making big plans?”

“Your magaramacha,” Bits of skin, or dirt, or both, flaked off into Adami’s beard as he scratched at his chin. “He is trying to get into your cācē dē good graces.”

“There isn’t any reason to leave an asset to rot,” Despite his utter lack of sleep, Crocodile’s mood was slightly better than it had been the day before – still far from friendly, but the furrows in his forehead weren’t quite so deep.

“What are you plotting now?”

“Adami’s ship,” He motioned his golden hook at the vibrant ship beside the Baroness, bobbing on the gentle waves. “He was explaining that in his home country, they’re often hauled by river seals.”

He didn’t elaborate, and for a long second, she could only sit and wonder what the hell that could possibly have to do with anything. Adami chuckled, leading the way down the gangplank, struggling with his lighter as he held a cigarette between his ruined lips.

“His shipwright may be able to make a harness, so that Sprinkles can do the same.”

She knew for a fact Crocodile hadn’t actually given him the name of that particularly ornery Bananawani. He had named all of his overgrown reptiles after various musical references – Coda, Adagio, Sonata – and had never once deigned to dignify any of the increasingly ridiculous names she had given any of them, refusing to validate her nonsense. The only one he even partially acknowledged was Princess Cuddlecakes, referring to the F-Wani exclusively by the first half of her name, though he had spent half an eternity attempting to get her to respond to Aria, first.

Adami had presumably done plenty of poking around while he was on Arabasta, though. No one had caught him doing it, and she doubted he’d gotten into anything that Crocodile would be concerned about, but he was perceptive and nosey – and Sunday’s quest to annoy the Warlord was an eternal one. She would have been only too happy to reveal all of the quasi-vetoed names to Adami, who had rapidly become her new partner in her endless mission to cause Crocodile mild inconveniences for her own amusement.

Sprinkles would be the right choice for the task, though. Female Bananawani were always slightly larger than the males, but the current matriarch of the pack had taken the difference to the extreme, sitting at least two meters taller and four longer than even her mother, the previous largest of the group. With her extra bulk came plenty of extra attitude, and she had long been the most difficult among them to train, to the point the people of Rainbase had occasionally brought up the idea of forcibly relocating her, for fear she would make the oasis too dangerous for them to use. Although she hadn’t hurt anyone, and had largely come to tolerate people being in what she clearly thought of as her water, the local residents would likely feel better if she were gone.

She would be more than strong enough to haul the Bōnī Phaisaṭīvala. It wasn’t a large ship by any stretch, just barely too large to be considered a dinghy, a sort of marriage between a small sailing vessel and a local transport barge. There was a singular canon on either side, to accompany the lone mast smack in the middle of the deck made out of a different hue of wood, like it had been placed there sometime well after the ship had been built, and though it was probably large enough for a crew of six or ten, it had seemingly been designed to be managed by just one man – if that man were at least three meters tall. With a Bananawani like Sprinkles to haul it through the water, it would likely be one of the fastest ships in all the seas, and she could understand Crocodile’s willingness to see it put to use.

It wouldn’t be much help in a firefight, but as an escape or messenger vessel, it would be more than capable.

The repurposed Marine ship, however, would remain behind. It had, in days long past, served as transport for Cross’ prisoners – he would accumulate them in small batches, holding onto them for months on end until the brig was full, then take them to the nearest slave house to trade. It hadn’t seen any use at all since well before his death, and it was decided, largely without her input but not exactly against her wishes, that it would be left behind for the people of Saliba to use, rather than dragged into her new, tiny fleet of two and a half.

They had relied on Death’s Hand to travel the waters of their supply routes, but that ship had been taken by the group that had opted to leave. There were enough people on the island who knew how to sail, to pick up where the other ship had left off, and though the Marine vessel might be intended for a sizeable staff, it could be managed by a group of less than ten without much trouble, if they weren’t intending to take it into battle. It was overkill, with more storage than they could ever need, but there had been talk of potentially getting into the ferry business, now that the shadow of the Cross Pirates wouldn’t be looming quite so intensely over their heads. The Red Port was always looking for independent contractors to run routes from their docks to various allied islands around the New World, and Whitebeard, despite being a Yonko, was a far more palatable name than Oleander Cross when it came to transporting people across the sea.

That particular task was one she wasn’t looking forward to.

She had agreed to make a formal handoff of the island – which meant meeting the legendary captain, and mortal enemy of her husband, face to face. Whitebeard could simply take it, if he really wanted to, but he seemed to respect the remaining band of pirates, enough that he’d always approached them earnestly rather than with aggression. Personally, Adami would consider the Yonko a friend – much to Crocodile’s chagrin – and though he typically left the island alone, it wasn’t unheard of for him to stop there when his ship was in the area, or to send a nearby member of his fleet to check on them, if they went too long without making contact. They weren’t active allies, exactly – more akin to neighbors, the kind who would say hello and sometimes chat over the fence between their yard but completely self-sufficient from one another.

His kindness was because he had been a friend of her father’s. It sounded strange to hear, given how different the two men were, but Adami insisted that was the case. He didn’t know how or why their association had developed, but they had always been amicable with one another, despite the fact that Oleander was a slave trader, and Whitebeard had famously freed them. They would sometimes engage in a skirmish with one another, but it had been more like two brothers bickering over something, rather than two enemies battling to the death.

Adami had preemptively made contact with the Yonko weeks earlier, when he’d returned to Saliba after finding her. At the time, he hadn’t been certain what she would ultimately chose to do, but he had felt it important to let the Yonko know that things for Saliba would be changing in the coming days.

That foresight on his end had been why they’d been able to make it to the island so easily.

After their fight, Whitebeard had sworn to kill Crocodile, should he ever set foot in Paradise again. Her husband maintained that he had obliged largely by happenstance, that there was nothing in Paradise that he cared enough about to challenge the Yonko again, but given how badly he’d been hurt, both physically and in his mind, she didn’t doubt that he had taken the threat to heart. Adami had assured them safe passage from Fishman Island all the way to Saliba, that there was no need to smuggle the overgrown Warlord through the underwater customs or attempt to disguise the Gustave, and he’d later admitted that he’d negotiated with Whitebeard for a temporary ceasefire on Crocodile’s behalf.

It was good for this visit, and this visit alone – and only if Crocodile himself abided their temporary peace agreement, as well.

He was on his way to Saliba already. It would be a couple of days before he arrived, still, and when he did, the two of them would have their hand off. It was, arguably, the riskiest time of the entire visit – once he had possession of Saliba, she had no real leverage, if he decided to betray his word. Adami was certain that he wouldn’t, but it didn’t make her feel much better about it, especially given Crocodile wouldn’t be with her. Whitebeard had been very adamant about that – he would meet her and Adami off shore, stay off the island until her business there was done and let them pass back to Paradise without issue, but in return, her husband was not welcome at their meeting.

He wasn’t any more pleased by the demand than she was, but he hadn’t argued much. They wouldn’t be so far from shore that he couldn’t reach her if he needed to, he would be watching and she had her Devil Fruit to fall back on, but he had accepted that it was the most efficient way to have things done and settled, and his attempts to get Adami to renegotiate the deal had largely been to express his displeasure, rather than an earnest effort to change his mind.

That day, however, there were other concerns to focus on.

Aside from assessing the ships, there was the matter of Cross’ treasure to sort. In his paranoia, he had created caches all throughout Saliba, and while Adami didn’t know the location of many of them, he was certain where Cross had hidden a map.

She didn’t need his riches. She wasn’t going to say no to having a treasure hoard of her own, just in case, but she had access to more than enough beri as it was. All of the businesses she owned were unaffiliated with the World Government – Marines and nobles may be allowed on the premises, but places like the Ferry had no legal association with them, meaning they couldn’t, legally, repossess them. They could potentially try to destroy or occupy them, if they wanted to, but it was extremely rare for the Marines to do such a thing, and even if they did, she had false identities with assets of their own to fall back on.

Gold and jewels weren’t the only things that Cross had buried, however. Anything that he valued, he would hide, and it was all but guaranteed that he had stores of things of far greater value stashed away - ledgers of slaves, both those he had sold and those he had freed, journals full of the names of associates and enemies, evidence for black mail.

If she were lucky, one may even have an explanation for why Doflamingo was so invested in her existence.

Given how her life had gone recently, it didn’t seem likely, but she hoped that she was due to finally catch a break. At the very least, she could divide a sizeable portion of the treasure amongst her theoretical new crew, after they’d spent so long waiting, and perhaps buy a little much needed good will.

The only treasure cache Adami knew of was deep in the wilderness of the island. Her father had a long history of wandering through the jungle, disappearing for days or even weeks on end while adamantly refusing anyone’s company, but there was one spot that he’d shown to his first mate, shortly after he had learned Aster was pregnant – a spot he wasn’t to show to anyone but his child, when his heir was old enough to make use of all that he was leaving behind.

It was also the location of her father’s grave.

There were dozens of paths carved into the jungle. They spread out like a spider’s web through the trees, leading up and down all across the entire island with no obvious rhyme or reason, and even someone sticking just to the paths could find themselves lost for days on end, and yet, not a single one led to their destination. It was a place Cross had found only by wandering without purpose, and one that was impossible to find on purpose, without memorizing all the strange little landmarks and idiosyncrasies of the island’s flora.

The only way to know where to go was to know that a particular sort of red moss only grew facing the morning sun - that the winter storms and their brutal winds only ever came from the south, so the delicate trunks of the little bentwood trees only ever leaned to the north. Adami led the way up the bluffs, then down again, around and around for so long she genuinely started to believe that he was purposefully leading them around in circles just to waste their time.

It was the only way to safely get to the center of the island, however. There was no simple path there from Beke, even for someone with Devil Fruit powers, with sheer cliff faces and sudden ravines and pockets of deadly wildlife best left undisturbed.

When they finally arrived, though, she could see why Cross had favored the place so much.

It was a massive tide pool, wider across than the oasis Rain Dinners sat upon, but no deeper than her knees, surrounded by strange, silvery sand that glittered and gleamed in the late afternoon sun. A rainbow mess of coral criss-crossed through the obscenely clear water, tall orange tubes and purple clusters of tendrils, red and blue and vibrant green bundles of kelp swaying softly with the tide that managed to slip through the cracks of the surrounding stone. Schools of little shimmering fish weaved around beneath the surface – a massive crab, easily as big around as her head, snapped its claws as a little violet octopus skittered by.

In the center of the pool sat a massive black stone. It was distinctly out of place, but it had clearly been there for an eternity, accepted by all the little underwater denizens. A small flag, torn and faded and battered by years upon years of exposure, was wrapped around it with a thick band of fraying rope.

“The treasure,” Adami stated. “He left it in the stone.”

“In the stone?”

She wanted to scoff, but in the same moment, realized it wasn’t nearly as absurd as it sounded on first blush. Having experienced the powers of the Matter-Matter Fruit first hand, hiding a treasure chest inside of a literal boulder was very much possible.

“He always meant for you to have his Devil Fruit,” His usually boisterous voice was softer than normal, more thoughtful than the usually thoughtless man ever let himself appear. “Only you.”

That revelation had frustrated her more than any other.

Doflamingo had killed twenty-two people, when he attacked Saliba in order to take the Matter-Matter Fruit – ten pirates, and twelve civilians – and all of it had been for no reason at all. Cross’ crew had kept the Devil Fruit hidden from everyone, not only to keep it away from someone who would misuse it, but so that when they found his missing child, they could give it to her. All he would have needed to do was tell them where to find her, and she would have gained her father’s powers all the same, if it mattered so much to him that she had them.

Instead, he had killed a dozen innocent people, just to torture Adami into giving up its location. He had executed ten men and women for standing against him, when he could just as easily have spent five minutes talking to them, and let them do all the work for him. He had gone on a massacre just for the fun of it, just to try and impress her, just to have an excuse to pester her and make himself important in her life.

Before she could start to take her shoes off, the sand around her feet shifted. It rose like a wave, churning and writhing in a mass just solid enough to wrap around her thighs. It lifted her off the ground, into the air over the tide pool – on the shore, more and more sand funneled into the tendril like a landslide, revealing the grey stone beneath. Crocodile stared intently as he maneuvered her closer and closer, keeping the silver sand wrapped tightly around her, the same way he did when he held her in his arm.

She reached through the skull on the flag. Her hand passed through the fabric and stone as if it were nothing at all, though she struggled, for a moment, to actually feel the item he had supposedly left for her to find. It was always difficult to feel anything at all, when she activated her intangibility, but after several long seconds, her fingertips skittered over something more solid, distinct from the cool stone of the boulder.

Metal was always the most difficult material for her to work with. The same held true for Crocodile, who was unable to make use of certain metals, despite being able to reduce nearly anything else to sand, though she didn’t have his complete inability to manipulate it, either. It was like trying to hold onto soup – she could grasp bits and pieces, but it was always slipping away at the same time.

The chest hidden in the stone wasn’t really a chest at all, but a metal box, smaller than her jewelry box by a considerable margin. It was meant to hold paper beri, long and thin and easy to hide, with the top secured in place by a weak metal latch along either side, and it didn’t feel like it contained anything at all, by the weight of it. Cradling it between her arm and her ribs, she reached back in, searching around for anything more, but found nothing except more stone, and when she pulled her arm back, the sand started to carry her back to shore.

“That’s all?” The smaller of the two giants growled, teeth clamped around the butt of a fresh cigar.

“There is more, I am certain,” Adami dropped into a crouch to get a better look as she fiddled with the latch. “This is only the map to find it.”

“I didn’t realize Cross was a fan of scavenger hunts.”

“The kapatana,” He sighed as the lock finally gave way. “He was a paranoid man. Not unlike you, magaramacha.”

“This had better not be a waste of our time,” Her husband didn’t bother to dispute the accusation. “Or I’ll grind the old man’s bones down to dust.”

Ignoring them entirely, she wriggled off the top of the box, which had become stuck from pressure and time. It refused to move at first, then, suddenly, popped loose, catching and jamming her thumb with enough force to shatter the nail entirely too close to the quick. She jammed the appendage into her mouth to soothe the burn of exposed nerves, a jagged bit of nail dangling against her tongue – she tasted the slightest bit of blood after she ripped it off with her teeth, spitting it into the sand.

Inside the container was a single, rolled up piece of parchment, sat on top of a small envelope. It was well preserved, though she supposed it would be, shielded from the elements as it had been. Crocodile pinched it between two fingers, cautiously unfurling the document with his pinky finger – he grunted, obviously irritated with what he found. As

Adami expected, it contained a rudimentary map of the island. It didn’t contain any topographical features or any sort of key, just the vaguest shape of Saliba, marked by little symbols meant to guide the way to each X, of which there were five. The acting captain managed to convince him to hand it over, carefully looking over every inch as he nodded to himself.

“I know some of these places.”

“Good.”

While they assessed the makeshift treasure map, she pulled her thumb from her mouth and reached for the letter. It was, like the one Adami had delivered, sealed with wax and the shape of two crossed daggers, though much of the adhesive property of the paraffin had been lost to time.

She still hadn’t read the first letter. She had tried, more than once, but she had never quite been able to make herself get past the opening scrawl. Cross had addressed it to his child – he hadn’t even known if he would have a son or daughter when he’d written it. Knowing that it had been penned the same day he had died, when he had been filled with hatred and loathing for her mother and the boy who had helped her to flee, she wasn’t certain she could stomach the contents, seeing his loathing clearly and plainly on display.

This one was addressed to no one – but it was clearly meant for her.

I would have liked to meet you. I would have liked to be there, to see you grow, but I know that it is for the best that I was gone long before you were born. I do not want you to be like me, and I fear, if I had been the one to raise you, I would have infected you with my hatred. Adami – he has always been a good man, a kind man, and I hope that, in your life, you remember all that he has taught you, so that you never become the monster I have been.

If Adami has brought you here, then you are ready. This map, my treasure, even my crew – I leave it all to you, now.

I know that what you will find will make you hate me, and I will not, even now, dare to ask your forgiveness – but I hope that, no matter what you think of me, you will always remember that I love you, in ways that I had never thought possible for a lowly creature like me.

No matter where you go in this world, whatever choices you make, know that I only ever wanted for your happiness. I have done all that I can to ensure that you have everything you need to live a life of contentment and peace, in whatever shape that may take. I hope that you are safe. I hope that you are kind. I hope that you know love. I hope that you never know hunger or thirst or the agony of loss. That you are better than me, in all ways. That the curse of my name does not haunt you, as it always did me.

You are the only good I have ever put into this world. You are the only thing I do not regret.

Live well.

Chapter Text

The Moby Dick was an awe inspiring ship.

The vessel was so absurdly massive, she could have easily mistaken it for a mobile city, rather than a single captain’s flagship. For such a grand vessel, it sat quietly, anchored just under a kilometer from Saliba’s elevated shoreline. It would have been impossible for it to make the venture through to Beke, leagues too wide to navigate the tight twists and turns and much, much too tall to fit through the cave that separated the village from the rest of the outside world, but Whitebeard clearly knew where the entrance was. They had stopped just beyond the hidden knolls, directly and instantaneously in sight of the borrowed dinghy Adami used to transport her.

She could see people on the deck, once they got a little closer. People on the deck – and people on the bluffs, too, both sides of the exchange waiting quietly, patiently, to see what would ultimately become of the parlay. Some of the residents of Beke had opted to turn the day into an excuse to picnic, settling between the crucifixes as if they weren’t even there with baskets full of fruit and comfortable blankets to rest on.

Crocodile was distinct among them. He had separated himself from the rest, making his way to the highest peak where he loomed like a statue, long arms crossed over his broad chest, the tail of his heavy fur coat catching in the breeze. The crew of the Moby Dick could surely see him, but as the dinghy inched ever closer to the sprawling vessel, it made no motion to attack. Not for the first time that day, she found the flare gun he had strapped to her leg, tucked beneath her dress, reaffirming herself of its presence.

At the first indication of trouble, all she needed to do was fire, and he would be there to take the head of Edward Newgate.

They came up along the side of the ship both to quickly and not quickly enough. Adami had been calm but efficient all morning, maintaining that there was, really, no reason to be concerned – Whitebeard was an honest man, as good a man as a pirate could be, and he wouldn’t attack her unless she gave him reason to.

A set of ropes had already been lowered, tied off to metal hooks that looped neatly through the catches at either end of the ship. They were long enough not to slip off, even as the dinghy banged off the hull, despite how smoothly the crew above attempted to haul them up.

A man with a mop of orange-blond hair was waiting for them along the railing. Everything about him was easy and lax, to the point he nearly looked like he was falling asleep, even as he offered them both a wide, welcoming smile.

“Ah, Marco,” She slapped her hand down against the railing as Adami shot to his feet, carelessly rattling the dangling boat. “Good to see you again, my friend.”

“You too, Adami,” Marco stepped back, as Adami flung his long legs over the rail of the Moby Dick, flinging himself aboard with a surprising spryness for a man his age. “And this must be Miss Cross.”

The hand he offered was oddly smooth. She expected blisters and callouses, from the sword hanging at his hip, but they looked like he hadn’t held the weapon a day in his life, soft and clean and well maintained. She knew it was a lie, that no man who had such a calm confidence about himself would carry around a weapon he couldn’t use, but it was strange enough to notice.

She didn’t particularly want to accept his assistance – but it was better than looking like an absolute dipshit. She wasn’t entirely out of shape, but she had never been especially graceful, and the gentle wavering of the dinghy, combined with the low heels of her shoes, was enough for her to question her ability to balance while climbing aboard. Marco smiled just the slightest bit wider when she accepted, though he did pause for the briefest instant, looking intently at the duo of rings on her finger – the crocodile engraving was on full display, and she silently kicked herself for not turning it.

It was likely they already knew who she was married to, but there was no reason to flaunt it so plainly, either.

Still, he didn’t immediately shove her over the side, and she counted that as the first success of the day. With a casual strength, he offered her a firm counterbalance, holding on lightly and only just long enough for her feet to find solid purchase on the deck. When she pulled her own hand back, he didn’t resist, casually curling his hand around to wrest his wrist against his hip.

She heard him telling her to follow him, but there was really no need.

Without ever seeing him, there was no question which man was Whitebeard. He sat with his legs crossed, casually sipping from a barrel, yet he still loomed over everyone, even the gigantic Adami, who barely reached his shoulder. His aging face was stern, heavily lined with wrinkles that belayed his age, and his moustache was almost as absurd as Zeff’s had been, fitted to his features like a massive grin, mirroring his actual smile. In the few seconds it had taken her to get out of the dinghy, someone had passed Adami a tankard of his own, and they loudly clanked the makeshift wooden cups together as she followed Marco closer.

“Ah,” Whitebeard’s voice boomed, guttural and heavy on the air. “You’re Oleander’s girl, then?”

He didn’t offer his hand – but he did hold out a single finger. She couldn’t help but stare at it, wondering what the hell he was thinking, if he intended to flick her into the atmosphere like an annoying bug, when, with a suddenness that almost made her laugh, she realized it was the closest he could get to a handshake with someone her size. It had been so long since someone had offered her a simple, old fashioned handshake that she almost felt like she’d forgotten how, but she was infinitely relieved he didn’t try to even pretend to kiss her knuckles, the way so many of Crocodile’s associates did.

His laughter was like thunder when she gripped the appendage as firmly as she possibly could.

“Stronger than I expected,” Marco sidled up next to her, cradling two tankards in one hand, holding it out for her to take. “Took you long enough to show up. It’s been, what, nearly thirty years? Don’t you know better than to keep an old man waiting?”

“It’s called being fashionably late,” The cup was too large for her hands, and it reeked of bitter hops. “All the kids are doing it these days.”

Marco wheezed out a quiet laugh, and Whitebeard’s grin widened all the more, delight dancing in his heavy brown eyes. Some of the crew, loitering at a polite distance, smiled as well, quietly talking amongst themselves, though one, a young man in a vibrant orange hat, was the only one with the nerve to actually step forward.

In another life, he was exactly the sort of mistake she would be glad to make. He was handsome, and he moved like he knew it, a smirk on his freckled face that oozed confidence and boyish charm. With the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times, he tipped his hat as casually as he could before presenting his hand, palm up in that familiar way while, at the same time, making a quiet joke of the whole routine that had her wanting to smile despite herself.

“Portgas D. Ace,” He had a lot of nerve, having a face and a voice like that. “Second Division Commander, at your service.”

“Ace…”

It was an absolutely cursory effort on Whitebeard’s part, like a father who knew he had to at least try to save face while knowing full well he found the entire thing hilarious. Marco didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t entertained, snickering into his drink as she convinced herself that it was fine to lay her fingers in his palm.

He made it a point to bring her rings to his lips, and she felt her stomach do a flip as he grinned, bowed low and dramatically at the waist.

“Careful, Fire Fist,” Adami called through his chuckling. “I fear a fight for the kapatana is one you will not win.”

Completely unconcerned with the warning, he flashed her a wink as he straightened, and she hated the fact that just a year prior, it absolutely would have worked.

“You mean with that big bastard over on the bluff?” He laughed, tossing his chin at the distant, looming figure – too small to see, if she hadn’t known precisely where to look. “I think I can take him.”

“Watch yourself,” Whitebeard’s voice took on an edge, but to her relief, his good humor seemed to hold. “You’re still too green to be challenging Warlords. If our new friend here is anything like her old man, she might kick your ass half-way to the Red Line before you get the chance, anyway.”

“I’ve been told I have his temper,” She agreed, which only earned another booming laugh from the absurdly sized captain. “But he’s right. My husband is a little…protective.”

“Never thought I’d see that impetuous little whelp settle down,” Whitebeard mused as he scratched his chin. “How did that happen, anyway? He come sniffing around for Cross’ treasure?”

Under most circumstances, she would hesitate to tell the truth. It wasn’t as if it was some horrible secret, but it opened the door to entirely too many questions, too many suspicions and presumptions. He wasn’t horrifically older than her, but he was old enough that people instinctively assumed that she was just his baby maker, and that though only got worse when they learned he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to love her, first, and had resorted instead to the closest thing to buying a slave that was still legal in the eyes of the World Government. There was no good way to even try to explain otherwise, not without laying out the complicated mess that was her private life.

Whitebeard, however, presented an opportunity she hadn’t considered. Her father had called him a friend for many years – a title he hadn’t even afforded his much adored first mate – and if anyone may have the answers to her burning questions, it may well be the Strongest Man in the World.

“I wish it was that simple,” The pirate’s heavy brow quirked. “Honestly, it had nothing to do with Cross. He was just saving me from another one of Aster’s bad decisions.”

It seemed to take him a moment to recognize the name. His seemingly constant grin faltered, the corners of his massive bottom lip arcing downward as his free hand came up to scratch at his powerful jaw. She had his attention, though, his hulking upper body leaning all the closer.

“You’ve spent a lot of time in the New World,” She took a sip from her drink, fighting not to flinch at the sour taste, but she needed something to keep the fluttering of her nerves under control. “I assume you’ve met Donquixote Doflamingo?”

“We’ve had the displeasure, yoi,” Marco drawled thoughtfully, flicking his tired stare between her and his leader. “He attacked Saliba a little over a year ago, didn’t he?”

“To steal the Matter-Matter Fruit,” That made Whitebeard, for the first time since she arrived, sit up, his back locked ramrod straight. “He wanted to give it to me as an engagement present, after Aster arranged for me to marry him. My…Florian, the man who raised me, convinced Crocodile to marry me first, so it couldn’t happen.”

“Donquixote wanted you?”

She wasn’t nearly as offended by the question as she probably ought to be. She would have asked the same thing, in his position - she likely didn’t know the other Warlord half as well, and she was still surprised by Doflamingo’s interest, despite having it thrown in her face on more than one occasion.

“He still does,” The giant inhaled sharply, his featured hardening with something – anger, concern, she couldn’t quite tell. “I don’t know why, but he’s convinced that we’re meant to be together. Not too long ago, he tried to trick Adami into kidnapping me.”

“The magaramacha,” Adami slowly shifted his weight from foot to foot. “He thinks that the chuttiya wanted to separate them so he could take her.”

“He’s said a few times that my relation to Cross means something,” She hadn’t quite picked up smoking as a consistent habit, but she had taken to carrying a pack in recent weeks, and she reached to fish it out of the pocket on her leg. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping you’d know why.”

To her complete disappointment, Whitebeard shook his head. A flame appeared in the corner of her vision, presented by Ace’s freckled hand, and she leaned into it to light her cigarette well before she realized he wasn’t actually holding a lighter. The orange spark danced along the pad of his finger like a lit candle, not scalding or burning or searing through the flesh – just disappearing, as if it hadn’t been there at all, as he drew his hand back to his side.

“He’s why I’m giving you Saliba,” At this, the captain frowned all the deeper, leaning his weight onto his bent knee. “We don’t have the means to protect the people here, and he knows it.”

“Only just arrived, and you’re already giving up?” He sounded remarkably like Florian, when he was disappointed in something she did – her chest squeezed, and she forced herself not to think about why. “Don’t tell me you’re handing over the captain’s position, too.”

“No,” His fingers twitched, and he knocked back half the barrel he was drinking from in one massive gulp. “But staying here is only going to get more people killed. I need to make sure the villagers will be protected while the crew rebuilds its strength.”

The process of actually handing over the territory was a simple one. Pirates weren’t exactly concerned with paperwork and legalities, and it was more of a gentleman’s agreement than anything truly binding, reliant on the two of them being good to their word without any means of reinforcing their terms. Adami and Marco were present to serve as glorified record keepers, to affirm to the rest of their crews that the agreement was made in good faith – that neither of them had threatened or blackmailed the other, that there was no confusion in the rules of their agreement, though, in this particular exchange, there wasn’t much to get incorrect.

Whitebeard would claim Saliba as part of his territory. He would do with it whatever he pleased, though he did swear to protect them, in the same way he did the Fishmen and the people of Sphinx, and for her part, she would have no input on the island whatsoever. If she wanted it back, she would need to take it, the same as any other pirate, and even just to pay the residents a friendly visit, she would need permission from him or one of his Division Commanders. There was no alliance between them, no expectation that if one called for aid that the other would come – it was just his, now, no more and no less.

He did agree to let the crew stay as long as they needed. Pretre had at least a week’s worth of work left on the Baroness, given he and Rotolo were the only ones to do it, before he would consider it capable of making the journey all the way to Water 7, and she wasn’t quite done with Cross’ posthumous scavenger hunt. They had found his literal treasure cache, two massive chests loaded to the brim with gold and jewels and beri, but they had to move at Adami’s pace, manually circling around natural obstacles rather than abusing either of their Devil Fruit powers to circumvent them entirely.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Whitebeard offered, when their makeshift handshake was done. “If I learn anything, someone will let you know.”

“I appreciate that.”

One of the canons was fired off into the sea, and the deal was considered done.

Rather than leave, however, she was dragged into several hours of drinking to celebrate. The crew broke open several casks of ale, shouting and cheering about their new acquisition, and when Adami was dragged into their partying, she found herself stuck without the means to get back to land. Instead, she settled along the outskirts, observing as a trio started up a card game she didn’t at all understand, reluctantly sipping on the bitter beer in her tankard, which never seemed to empty.

Ace seemed to be the only one who noticed. He extricated himself from the conversation he had been lured into, sidling up beside her with a drink of his own and a grin on his lips. One of his feet kicked up onto the crate she was using as a chair, leaning in as if to make the conversation private, but carefully minding the edges of her personal space.

“Never met a pirate who doesn’t like a good party.”

She scoffed, not because of his obvious attempt to lure her towards the group dancing to an uneven drum beat, but because she had never been accused of being someone who didn’t like to party before. Smoker had more than once complained about how often she would be dragged out by one of her friends, to dance and sway to the tune of a local musician until the first light of dawn, knocking back drinks sent her way by nameless and faceless men at the bar who hoped to get into her good graces for the night. She distinctly remembered his grousing about wanting a quiet night in his quarters, and how boring she thought he was – how she questioned how he could find anything enjoyable about sitting around on the sofa, listening to radio dramas and staring into nothing over bowls of cheap takeout.

It was exactly what she wanted to do, now. Sprawl out somewhere in the suite in nothing but her underwear, shoveling fried rice into her mouth to the distant rhythm of Crocodile scribbling away at his desk, doing nothing and thinking even less.

“Can’t wait to get back to your man?”

The people of Beke were having their own celebration along the lowest, flattest bluff, firing off low grade fireworks and occasionally whooping so loudly she just barely managed to hear it over the rest of the noise, but Crocodile hadn’t moved. He still stood on his isolated perch, a barely visible dot distinctive solely because of the sun glinting off his golden hook – watching, waiting.

Possibly not even blinking.

“Something like that,” There was no point in explaining that she just didn’t have the energy to join the festivities. “Don’t let me get in your way, though. I can entertain myself just fine.”

Ace snorted, briefly glancing over her shoulder. She followed his gaze, to where Whitebeard still sat, sprawled out across the light wood of the deck, surrounded by a handful of his crew, as well as Adami, who had settled with the sprawl of someone who couldn’t remember how to work their legs. They were sharing yet another toast – the fifth, by her count, in the last hour – and it was becoming abundantly clear that the odds of making her back before the day was through were getting slimmer and slimmer.

“I wouldn’t be able to have any fun, knowing you’re over here thinking about someone else,” To her surprise, he offered her his hand, nodding towards the dinghy. “C’mon, I’ll bring you back.”

“Don’t go out of your way on my account.”

Despite the words that came out of her lips, she let him pull her to her feet.

“I’m not,” He laughed easily. “Can’t deny I’m curious about this Crocodile guy. Wanna size up my competition.”

He kept up an easy conversation as he rowed them back. As it turned out, he hadn’t been Second Division Commander for very long at all, and had only been given his rank a few months earlier. Whitebeard had a very different reaction to his assassination attempt, it seemed, offering him a place among his crew rather than promising a fight to the death. Ace had absolutely no idea what the deciding factor was, but he was keen to hear about the apparent bad blood between Whitebeard and Crocodile, which, in his estimation, was more on her husband’s side than his captain’s.

Although Ace had never taken the route into Saliba before, he didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating. In the dark of the cavern, he lit up like a literal torch, flames spawning from his shoulders and the top of his hat, illuminating the stone like the sun.

“Devil Fruit?”

“The Flame-Flame Fruit,” He agreed, carefully pushing the boat away from the jagged wall with the tip of one oar. “I heard your man has one, too.”

“The Sand-Sand Fruit,” There was no reason not to tell him, when Crocodile went out of his way to flaunt it.

“What did you say Cross’ was, again? The Mass-Mass Fruit?”

“Matter-Matter.”

“Sand I can guess, but what’d the Matter-Matter Fruit do?” The young pirate chuckled. “Did it let him just…control all matter?”

It very much did not.

She was far from an expert on the topic, but for the most part, “matter” seemed like something of a misnomer. It would be more accurate to say that it allowed her to control her density, rather than actively manipulating her state of being. She couldn’t turn herself into rock, or gas, or sand, or anything else, but she could merge with them, instead.

She didn’t phase through doors so much as she temporarily became a part of the wood, and because she could keep herself moving in ways inanimate objects couldn’t, she could pass through to the other side. Becoming intangible wasn’t a matter of becoming truly impossible to touch, but of partially merging herself with the air around her, not entirely unlike a desert mirage – a physical weapon couldn’t do anything to her, but something that effected the air itself, like lightning, presumably could.

It was possible to effect outside matter, too, but it didn’t work in quite the ways she would have anticipated.

Most of Cross’ abilities were born of misunderstandings, rather than the truth. He couldn’t make his ship truly invisible, but he could change the colors and hues of the varnish, so that it blended near seamlessly into the environment, like a glorified form of camouflage. He wasn’t able to transform his sword into an unbreakable diamond blade – but he could rid the steel of his cutlass of any imperfections, and he could exploit those found in his enemy’s weapons, make the little occlusions so brittle that they shattered from the slightest pressure. He couldn’t transform one thing into another, but he could forcibly meld things together, take a little nugget of gold and make a shell to encase a large lump of coal, so that it looked like the former when it was really the latter.

“I don’t really understand how it worked, honestly,” It wasn’t a lie, and most of the things Adami had described still eluded her entirely. “I know it was pretty powerful, though.”

“Too bad that Doflamingo guy got his hands on it,” She could just barely see the sun in the distance, hear the sounds of the village at work. “I’d offer to get it back, but if it’s that useful, I’m sure he’s already used it.”

She almost wanted to tell him the truth. Ace seemed like a good man, and her gut was screaming that she could trust him – not just him, but his captain, too – but as she opened her mouth to reply, the current finally carried them out to the shores of Beke.

Crocodile was already there, waiting and looking not at all pleased. He stood tall, running his fingers across the bulk of his prosthesis, looking like he was polishing the immaculate metal when, in truth, he was putting the weapon on clear display for the stranger in the row boat with her. His wide mouth was set into a scowling frown, smoking cigar clamped between his perfect teeth as his vicious eyes trailed after their vessel, stationed at one of the many tiny docks where the fishermen kept their little river boats.

Ace, the foolhardy idiot, grinned and waved as he maneuvered them closer. She could practically hear Crocodile growling low in his chest – his knit brows twitched deeper, deep lines forming between his narrow eyebrows.

His eyes never left the Second Division Commander, even as he stalked down the dock towards them. Cautiously, she pushed herself up to stand, mindful of the way the boat bobbed on the current – Ace raised a helpful hand, ready to brace her, and this time she could actually hear her husband’s distinctive noise of absolute discontent. By the way he hesitated, Ace did too, though it only served to embolden him, in the end, standing to purposefully and firmly put his palm against her upper back as she started to move.

All of that work to prevent a blood feud from exploding across Saliba, and it was almost completely undone by one competitive young commander who knew exactly what he was doing.

Chapter Text

The Baroness wasn’t large enough.

It was a sizeable ship, larger than the Gustave in square meters by a reasonable margin, but it wasn’t originally built for the much larger people of the Grand Line. There had been some mild conversions done over the years, to compensate for the existence of too large crew members like Adami and Kahini, but only in small portions of the inner decks, enough for them to reach only the most necessary places without crawling. No such conversion had been made to Cross’ private quarters, and it seemed her father wasn’t much larger than her, because nothing was made to fit anyone taller than two meters – meaning Crocodile didn’t fit anywhere comfortably.

He took up the entirety of the small chaise lounge and then some, his long legs sprawled out in front of him and taking up entirely too much of the room to be considered reasonable. The desk chair was the only spot available to her, a leather chair that was starting to peel apart with a distinctive dent in the cushions, absolutely and distinctly uncomfortable. Without the main doors to the deck open, the room would be absolutely stifling, too warm and stuffy with dust and cigar smoke, so they’d been pinned wide apart, and through the threshold, she could occasionally see one of the crew, going about their business as if they’d never been forced ashore.

Spread out across the wooden surface of his old, scratched was all that Cross had left her.

Most of it didn’t make much sense. Although his letter said it was all for her, most, if not all of it, had been hidden long before she was conceived, and she couldn’t fathom why he was compelled to play such a strange scavenger hunt with himself, and it meant that there wasn’t much context to glean, despite his assertions that it would explain everything.

Even Crocodile couldn’t make sense of it. He had perused everything as they found it, wasting away the hours each night reviewing whatever they’d found that day rather than sleep, and he hadn’t been able to put together any answers. It had explained a few small things, given slightly better insight into what sort of person Oleander Cross had been, but there were no earth shattering revelations, the way they’d both hoped.

Hidden within the literal center of a live ironwood tree had been a small jewelry box. There wasn’t much inside of it, just a single set, simple but beautiful, made of silver and a handful of tiny diamonds. There was a tiara so thin that she was afraid to even touch it, carefully etched vines and leaves, dotted with diamonds so tiny they reminded her more of glitter than actual gemstones, and a necklace on a delicate chain, with a single, teardrop shaped charm. There was a ring, too, shaped like hands holding a heart – four little diamonds lined one side of the hollow shape.

It looked like it had never been worn. Being sealed inside a crate inside half an arm’s length of a tree trunk protected the contents from the elements, but it was more than that. Her own rings had taken a battering in the few months she’d been wearing them – largely, as Crocodile often pointed out, because she refused to take them off for any reason – developing little signs of abuse that gave it away as being well worn. The wedding band he wore on his neck was only marginally better off, and had developed a little tarnished spot over the flower-shaped etching from how often he ran his thumb across it.

A clay jar had been sealed and tucked inside of a cliff. It had almost looked like it was meant to seal away a demon, wrapped in twine and covered in little talismans Adami had recognized as being ones that he had made for Cross. They weren’t really for sealing, exactly, but for purification – like a dream catcher, almost, meant to trap bad energy. Once he affirmed that removing them wouldn’t place her under some sort of magical curse, she had annoyed Crocodile into opening it, though the contents didn’t make a lot of sense, for all the effort.

It was full of weapons. Not large ones, and seemingly, not particularly special ones, but it contained a flintlock revolver and, if she had to guess, the two daggers that had gone on to inspire the basis for Cross’ iconic sigil.

The gun was emblazoned with Cross’ symbol, the dual crossed daggers that marked every member of the crew that had served with him, burned into the wood and painted gold, but there was nothing special about it, at least as far as Crocodile could tell. It seemed to fire the same regular, conical projectiles as every other revolver he had seen, and aside from the fact that it was a revolver – which was far less common than a typical pistol – there was nothing worth noting about it.

The daggers, too, were basic. They showed their age, but according to the overgrown weapon expert stationed on her sofa, they were well made, with a good balance to the weight and solid construction. Although they shared some passing features, they didn’t seem to be from a set, originally, and someone, presumably her father, had made adjustment to them later to make them match. One was something Crocodile called a push dagger, barely longer than her hand from wrist to knuckle, meant to be held in the fist with the blade protruding from between two fingers. The handle was made of unfinished, light colored wood, wrapped in an old strip of cloth, and the brown leather sheathe had started to open at one seam. The other, a stiletto, was metal from end to end, clearly made with more of a mind for visual appeal, though it had been wrapped in the same ruddy cloth.

A leather bound notebook had been tucked inside of a dead coral reef. Beke’s rudimentary river dam had, mostly accidentally, killed some small tide pools that had once existed deeper in the island, leaving behind reefs of stone and coral that had shriveled and dried in the sun, briefly returning to life when the rains were especially heavy. She had opened it for a moment, long enough register that it was a list of names and prices, and she had immediately shut it again. Crocodile had read through it all, and confirmed that it was Cross’ ledger of slaves. He refused to tell her how many names he saw inside, and in all honesty, she wasn’t certain she wanted to know, though he did note that the captain had logged not just the people he sold, but the ones he had saved, shifting from one to the other over the course of many long years.

The last two items had taken longer to find. Adami hadn’t recognized either of the rudimentary landmarks, and actually tracking them down had been more difficult than the rest, with only the general location to give them an idea of where to search.

A chest of riches had been left in a cliff face, one they’d had to use a small boat to get to. It wasn’t particularly large, and it wasn’t full of what she’d expect – rather than a variety of jewelry and gemstones and valuables made of precious metals, it contained an assortment of coins. They all seemed to come from the same place, but it wasn’t one that Crocodile recognized, originating either from some obscure kingdom in the New World that he hadn’t encountered or from one that was long lost. There was nothing to differentiate which coin meant what, except for the size and the metal they were apparently molded from – copper ones barely the size of her thumb nail, silver ones twice as large, and golden ones that were nearly as large as her palm.

The last thing was, oddly, a book. They’d spent days looking for it, only to realize that Cross’ handmade map didn’t account well for Saliba’s unusual topography. They’d thought that it was somewhere near the bluff directly behind Beke, just beyond Cross’ shack, and she had exhausted herself merging into and out of anything and everything, but finding absolutely nothing. It had been Crocodile who, entirely by accident, had discovered the last item, tucked into the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, after he had spent a night nosing through the handful of things her father had left behind.

It wasn’t a journal or a record, but a book, one that she recognized. The one that she owned wasn’t nearly as nice, held together with lengths of twine between two thin leather covers, but she knew the contents well, after years of reading it over and over again. It was full of short stories, fables about mystical creatures – some of which didn’t seem so mystical anymore, after what she’d seen on the Grand Line – some with a barely hidden messages about morality, others seemingly pointless, except to serve as entertainment. The paper was thicker and the script was nicer, with a solid, heavy cover with an intricately painted illustration of a quaint cabin in the woods, but the actual contents was the same between the two.

Along the inside of the front cover, someone had written a dedication after it had been produced. In a scrawling sort of cursive that was just a little too jagged to seem quite right, there was a name – Lily.

She was certain it wasn’t meant for her. Adami was certain that Cross hadn’t known her name, or even her gender, and it would be entirely too much to believe that he had managed to correctly guess what name Aster would ultimately choose. It was a coincidence, she was sure, or, at most, a strange choice on her mother’s behalf, after the name had perhaps come up between them during conversation.

“You’re a gambling man,” One of Crocodile’s thin brows cocked upward, his eyes shifting away from the tumbler he had been spinning between his fingers. “What’re the odds Cross was just nuts and none of this means anything?”

His shoulders bounced as he chuckled.

“It’d be a fair bet,” As he spoke, she tucked the last of the items into the chest they’d borrowed from the Gustave. “Though I’m sure there’s some reason behind it all. Had you been raised on Saliba the way he intended, I imagine you’d have enough context to piece it together. Or that he believed you would, at least.”

Out on the deck, she could see some of the crew.

Despite the grievances of some, no one had bowed out. More than a few had continued to express their displeasure, especially whenever her husband was nearby, but none had chosen to stay behind, either, and it was clear by the way that they moved around the ship that they were all pleased to be back out on the open water. Even Bunshou, who had given her nothing except an incredibly wide berth and plenty of hateful glowers, was among them, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched his grandson tie down one of the sails to the mast with abject disapproval.

Crocodile lifted his long arm as she got closer, inviting her to sit on the arm of the sofa beside him. He laid his heavy forearm across her thighs, hooking his prosthetic around the outside of her hip as if it were his hand, gently holding on in a way that felt so sweet, she had a difficult time remembering why she’d been so afraid of it – and him.

“We’ll give it some further thought once we’re back in Rainbase,” She reached for the lighter she kept in her bra before he even produced his cigar case, fishing around in his pocket. “Something there may give Sunday a lead, if nothing else.”

“I don’t suppose we could take a few days off at Water Seven, could we?” He peered at her, lips flickering with a smile despite the irritation in his expression. “I need a vacation. Again.”

“We’ll stay for a night or two, until Iceburg finalizes the blueprints for the remodel,” For just a moment, he leaned into her as he lit his cigar, pressing his temple into her arm before he pulled away with a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, that’s the best you’ll get, but if you behave, I’ll send you for spa day once we’re done.”

“Good. Fucked up my nails pretty badly with all that wilderness bullshit.”

“You’re never going to be able to sit properly again if you don’t watch yourself.”

It wasn’t bluster – but it wasn’t a real threat, either, and while he’d follow through on the obscene number of spankings she was due, it would be in manageable increments. Likely with some sort of compounding interest. Probably involving paperwork, because the elegant and intellectual Sir Crocodile could, and absolutely would, foist his more boring documents off onto her whenever he had the opportunity.

Vacation or not, it would be nice to spend a couple of days on Water 7. Despite his tolerance of what was, on some level, his new crew, and his confidence in his own abilities, he wasn’t able to relax while in such close confinement with them, and he hadn’t gotten much rest in weeks. Until they were back in Arabasta, confined in his strictly defined territory, he would never be able to completely relax, but at least if they were in the city, in a hotel room at some distance from anyone and everyone who’d shown so much as an ounce of curiosity in her existence, he would settle enough to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He wore it well, but she could see the exhaustion in him. A hint of stubble had started to appear around his jaw, tinting his fair skin the faintest shade of grey, after he had failed to give the process of shaving the usual amount of attention, and the soft skin beneath his eyes had taken a purplish hue. He carried himself the same way he always did, confident and proper and just the littlest bit threatening, but he sighed like there was an incredible weight on his shoulders, stared into the distance like he was utterly exhausted. Even just sitting on the sofa, he wasn’t quite himself, sinking a little too deeply into the thin cushions, chin dipped towards his sternum like he’d forgotten how to keep his usual posture.

A night of half-decent sleep would do him some good, and she had a plan to ensure it happened. When they reached Water 7 and found themselves a hotel room, she had resolved that she was going to fuck him into a coma. She would feed him a little more alcohol than he’d normally imbibe, ply him with his favorite cigars and chocolate bars, and spend the early hours of the night sucking his soul out of his body until her jaw fell off, if that’s what it took to get him to lay down and really sleep for more than an hour or two at a time.

As if he could sense her plotting something, he opened one eye, immediately locking his stare onto her. In that infinite pit of ice and derision, she could see him calculating, contemplating, appraising her for the first clue as to what she might be thinking. Whatever he found must have satisfied him, however, and with a great, rumbling sigh made entirely of sweet smoke, he settled deeper into the sofa. He would never let himself be truly vulnerable where someone else could see him, but he was just the littlest bit too tired to completely restrain himself, and for a moment, his head lolled in her direction, until his forehead pressed against her arm.

“I’m in no mood for your games right now, pretty girl,” Even while he groused at her, she could feel a ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Behave.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” He scoffed, warm and amused, though the noise shifted into a content rumble when her fingertips found his scalp. “Just thinking about how devastatingly handsome you are.”

There was a noise of acknowledgement, but he was entirely too exhausted to play along. The cold metal of his prosthetic ran down the silk of her dress, down towards her knee, until the tip of his hook could loop beneath the hem of her skirt. He dragged it up slowly, just enough to find the tops of her stockings, a view he refused to admit he very much enjoyed but one he would blatantly admire whenever she got dressed in his presence.

“I’m going to go find Adami,” His usual growling was nearly a purr as she scratched her nails against the top of his head. “You should stay here, try and get a nap.”

He didn’t ask the question, but she could feel it in him.

“I think he likes you, but he doesn’t trust you,” He grunted, leaning deeper against her as he angled his head to get her fingers right where he wanted them. “And he’s not going to tell me his secrets if my big, scary husband is constantly looming over my shoulder.”

She expected him to argue, but in the end, Crocodile remained firmly planted on the sofa. On her way out, she tried to arrange for him to have at least some privacy, pulling the curtains over the glass doors and locking them behind her, though the simple fact that he stayed inside when she stepped out onto the deck was likely enough to give away that something was going on with him. It wasn’t likely that anyone would be foolish enough to pester him, anyway, but it would give him the benefit of the slightest bit of forewarning if someone did decide to approach while he was alone.

Bunshou glowered as she passed. Since their first interaction, he hadn’t had a single kind word for her, nor any real tolerance for her existence – though, in the long run, he didn’t seem nearly as perturbed by her as he was by her husband, who he actively loathed. It wasn’t clear, at all, as to why he had bothered to stay aboard when she’d given him more than one opportunity to leave without any indignity, but she wasn’t particularly upset that he had stayed, despite his unpleasant attitude.

He was a lifelong sailor, and a skilled one, at that, one that many of the others seemed to respect greatly. Although Adami had claimed that Bunshou hadn’t so much as breathed on a ship in nearly three decades, he moved like he hadn’t missed a day on the seas, picking up the slack wherever he found it.

Despite his glare, she offered him a nod as she made her way towards the helm. Adami had stationed himself there since they set off, graciously abandoning his position as her first mate in favor of becoming a temporary helmsman, until a more permanent replacement could be found, and even several weeks later, that was where he remained, staring out at the sea with one massive hand braced on the wheel. His eternal smile was conspicuously absent, but he didn’t seem upset – thoughtful, contemplative.

Relieved, maybe.

“Ah, munni,” The moment he spotted her, his expression changed, revealing his rotten teeth. “You and your magaramacha, have you found anything useful in your bapu ji’s treasure?”

“Nothing that makes sense,” She leaned against the railing, cautious to make sure it didn’t wobble under her weight. “He didn’t exactly explain himself.”

“He did not think that he needed to, I am sure,” He paused for a moment, wetting his badly chapped lips. “The kapatana, he was clever. He does not do things by accident.”

“Except murder twelve women.”

From the last of Cross’ logs, that was the final tally. Twelve women, all killed in what was, by his account, a blackout of some sort. It would likely have been more, if his illness hadn’t started to weaken him, forcing him into a quasi-retirement on Saliba shortly after he turned thirty. He had still set sail with the crew on occasion, but that had been when they began to shift away pillage and plunder in favor of quiet trafficking, moving drugs and weapons and slaves and escaped slaves all throughout the New World.

Adami frowned, but wasn’t surprised – and she would hope not, given he had helped clean up more than half of them. Witnessed some, even, as had most of the crew, at some point or another.

“The kapatana,” He licked his lips again, more noisily this time, and she tried not to flinch. “It was the bhūta that did those things, with his hands. One that possessed him for a long time, I think.”

“Adami…”

“Many things haunted him,” He ignored her – not just her attempt to speak, but her entire existence, staring out at the horizon. “His name most of all, but the bhūta, too. He fought against it for many years, but it took control of him, sometimes, no matter how much he tried to resist.”

They had this argument before, and it had gone much the same way.

Adami was adamant that it wasn’t her father that committed the murders, but a ghost, one that sometimes possessed his body and had tormented him always. She didn’t believe it, but he was certain – the man he witnessed in those moments, the one that strangled the life out of twelve women, was not the captain he respected so greatly, and she was afraid to push the issue too far past what they’d already discussed. It wasn’t a satisfactory explanation to her, and likely nothing would be, but she understood why Adami couldn’t necessarily face the truth, and she didn’t have it in her to break him down just for the sake of being right.

“If you would have seen it, you would know I am speaking the truth, munni. It was his hands that did those things, but he was not the one in control.”

Chapter Text

“Nmaa, you weren’t lying when you said the ship was old.”

Iceburg was, in the simplest terms, a strange man.

As not only the CEO of one of the largest ship-building companies in the world, but the Mayor of an entire island, she would have expected him to be a serious, determined sort of man. Someone like Crocodile, stern and authoritative, with no time or interest in anyone or anything except his own interests, but the manners to at least pretend otherwise. Instead, they were greeted by a lanky, slouching man with a pinky finger seemingly eternally jammed into his nostril, who couldn’t look any less like he had quite literally rolled out of bed and wandered outside still in his rumpled pajamas. He hadn’t so much as blinked at the series of dangerous faces that strutted down the gangplank, focusing vaguely on Crocodile while paying the rest of them absolutely no heed, though it was only with an almost warm sense of familiarity, rather than any sort of concern or fear.

Despite being surrounded by no less than five heavily armed pirates and a notably temperamental Warlord, the first words out of his mouth weren’t a greeting, but an insult against their ship. Behind her, Adami scoffed at the comment, his bracelets jingling loudly as he crossed his arms across his narrow chest, and she could feel Pretre getting ready to throw a fit to rival her own tantrums, though he settled for angry murmuring in his native tongue in response to Rotolo’s hurried whispers.

“She certainly looks good for her age, though,” A young man, with a notably long, square nose, smiled almost warmly at them. “I can tell from here she’s been well taken care of.”

“That is true…” Finally, Iceburg pulled his finger from his nose, casually flicking a booger away before stuffing both hands into his pants pockets. “Where’d you find her?”

“It’s a gift,” The only edge to Crocodile’s tone was the bluntness of exhaustion, which, to most, would translate into frustration, but to their credit, neither of the two new men seemed to acknowledge it. “A belated birthday present for my wife.”

Part of Pretre’s pre-emptive repairs had involved giving the Baroness a perfunctory face lift. It had been a unique looking ship, but only because of the various modifications it had undergone after it had ended up in Cross’ custody, and without them, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it, except to a collector. The skull-like figurehead had been removed, the Jolly Roger meticulously folded and stored safely away, though the metal banding that served as not just armor, but as a weapon, was impossible to pry off without doing too much damage. Someone intimately familiar with the Baroness would likely still recognize it on sight, but for most, it wouldn’t seem like much more than a vintage vessel.

“Nmaa, I hadn’t heard you got married,” Iceburg casually wiped his hand along the side of his dress shirt before holding it out in her direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Missus Crocodile.”

“Lily is fine.”

Realizing she was there seemed to ignite a little bit of enthusiasm in the man, a gentle smile forming on his face as she reluctantly accepted the handshake. His stare was friendly, but polite, looking her over in that perfunctory way everyone who moved in higher income circles did, checking for indicators that she was a fraud and weapons meant for his throat in equal measure. The long nosed man beside him was a little more intense, staring at her for a moment as if he thought he might somehow recognize her, but his grin was cheery and easy, his posture casual.

“Kaku,” He volunteered a similar, brief handshake. “One of the foremen. Iceburg asked Rob and I to help with the upgrades.”

At the mention of his name, the shipwright she presumed must be Rob appeared. She had spotted him with a small group of others, seemingly pouring over plans at a simple wood block table, and he made his way over without any sort of urgency. A white pigeon was perched on his shoulder, wearing a little red tie, and as they got closer, waved one wing in a facsimile of a hello.

There was something wrong with him – more wrong than his pigeon being the one to greet them, which, while odd, wasn’t anything worthy of the sense of bone-deep dread that made itself at home in her spine. The man’s expression was neutral, his stare perfectly polite, but something was deeply, inherently, and utterly wrong.

It took her a moment to realize it was because his stare was dead. There was no warmth, no kindness or interest, but there was no cold, either – he was thinking and alive, but he didn’t feel a thing, and that made him immediately and objectively dangerous. She wanted to creep closer to Crocodile, hide herself behind his bulk, but her internal voice, the one that sounded uncomfortably like All Sunday, urged her not to move an inch, not to give up that ground to the predator she found herself suddenly toe to toe with.

She wasn’t the only one to notice. Adami wasn’t quite as successful, and she heard him shift closer, looming just a half-step from her back. Seeing Iceburg glance between them, tangibly curious, she forced herself to peel her attention away from the looming figure, returning back to the more affable duo.

“I have some ideas,” She licked the back of her teeth. “I’d like to run by you, if you have the time.”

“Gladly,” Kaku slouched his shoulders back, laughing as if overcompensating for his companion shipwright. “Let’s see what we can make happen, yeah?”

With her permission, the shipwright was glad to board the ship, eager to get a look around. Pretre was hot on his heels, turning without a word to calmly trudge along behind him and Rob, who’d joined at a far more leisurely pace. The bird tried to make some sort of conversation with him, but the boatswain ignored it entirely, grunting loudly and sternly enough she could hear him from the gangplank. It was clear she wasn’t the only one who immediately mistrusted the man – Pretre refused to put his back to him, purposefully and clearly making a show of having the other two climb aboard first.

“It will be interesting work,” Iceburg drawled. “I don’t see many vintage ships, these days. Where did you say you got it?”

“I didn’t,” Crocodile replied simply, neither amused nor annoyed, and Iceburg himself didn’t seem to even acknowledge the response, humming and turning his attention towards her.

“You’ve got fine tastes,” He stated, lightly tucking his arms over his chest. “Guess you must know your stuff, if you were in the market for something like this.”

“I barely know how to raise a sail,” There was no point in lying – even a cabin boy in his first few weeks of work would be able to sniff her out as a liar. “But I’ve always wanted one of my own, and when I saw this one, I just fell in love.”

Bunshou snorted derisively from somewhere in the milling crowd, but it went unheeded by the Mayor.

“I can see why,” He smiled easily, and for a moment, she could see what made him so effortlessly charming to the people of Water 7, who Crocodile claimed revered him greatly. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to part with her? We could always build you one from the ground up, instead. Something fresh and sleek, maybe?”

“Tempting, but I’ll have to refuse,” Largely because she didn’t need a sword stabbed through her back by an angry old man. “But you’ll be my first call, if I’m ever in the market for another.”

It wasn’t much long after that a blond woman in a well pressed blazer, Kalifa, appeared, strutting purposefully down the docks. She was as beautiful as she was stern, introducing herself and declaring that she’d arranged accommodation for the crew. The massive docks of Galley-La saw no shortage of large parties come through their doors, and they had housing, of a sort, available at each dock to keep the crews occupied and, most likely, away from the general masses, at least where pirates were concerned. She was the only one who seemed to notice the distinctive tattoo shared between many of them, staring hard at Adami’s face for a long second, but if she recognized it, she kept it to herself.

“Go ahead,” She spoke to Adami, nodding her head in Kalifa’s direction when everyone failed to move. “Pretre and I will handle this.”

Wary as he was of the crew, Crocodile seemed to trust Pretre to some degree – enough that he was willing to leave her alone with him and the two foremen as they toured the ship, remaining ashore to talk with Iceburg. Kaku poked proved to be a talented shipwright, with an exceptionally keen eye, able to identify where the hull had taken damage from a canon and later been patched, despite there being no obvious signs of damage. It was impossible to be certain what Rob made of anything, but on occasion, Hattori would politely chime in with a comment or question.

Most of what both she and Crocodile wanted done was well within the realm of possibility, at least. In removing the oar bay from use, there would be more than enough space to create rooms and halls suitable for the taller members of the crew, without sacrificing too much in other areas. Kaku, who specialized in mechanics, determined a particular sort of engine would be best – rather than a true steam engine, it was more akin to a water wheel, taking in sea water to pump various internal mechanisms that ultimately created power not just for the propellers, but the ship as a whole. It could be engaged in the same way as the Baroque Gustave’s coal engine, heated to create more power, but even without anything to burn, a ship as light as the Baroness would do fine against most pursuers.

Although Iceburg was generally against the production of weapons, Kaku believed that the best defense was a good offense. The Baroness’ strength was in its speed and maneuverability, but given most anyone would identify it as an older model, it was bound to be subject to attack by overeager pirates. Better canons and some light armor would make it a much less desirable target, enough to withstand an initial volley and to return enough fire to prevent being boarded while they readied to escape.

It wouldn’t take as long to implement as she would have expected. Kaku quoted a time of roughly four weeks, most of which would be spent sourcing the right materials, rather than the actual work being done. The Baroness was made out of a particular kind of wood that only grew on a handful of islands in the West Blue, and it wasn’t something that Galley-La kept in bulk, as it wasn’t generally considered an ideal material for ships. It was an extremely light weight wood, which was how a ship as large as the Baroness managed to so completely outpace others of a similar size, but it was far less durable than most common types of wood.

Cross – and Lily herself – were uniquely equipped to handle that particular weakness, however. While she couldn’t completely change the properties of the wood itself, the largely ornamental metal band that surrounded the edge of the hull was more than enough material to completely coat the exterior of the ship in a thin, but incredibly strong, armor that could more than withstand a few canon blasts.

Her father knew what he was doing when he had his ship made.

Kaku agreed to take a look at Adami’s smaller vessel, too, while they discussed the upcoming work. As excited as he claimed to be about working on the Baroness, the unusual make of the small ship, and the even more unusual requests for alterations, seemed to really get his attention, and he was immediately enthusiastic about the project. It wouldn’t take nearly as long to get the ship to meet modern standards, and just for the sake of saying he had worked on the ship Iceburg was so proud to flaunt in his before-and-after albums, he offered to throw in some cursory maintenance on the Gustave.

Crocodile hadn’t seemed all that impressed by the offer, but hadn’t refused, either, provided it was done in the next few days.

It would be an uncomfortable trip back to Arabasta. Thankfully, the desert island wasn’t particularly far, but the Gustave would have to host an extra crew worth of bodies for close to a week, and no one was going to enjoy it.

The men and women who made up her crew, especially, were not going to have a great deal of fun on Arabasta, either.

Crocodile’s plan was simple. Word was going to get out, eventually, about her parentage, and he was right, to think it was best to get ahead of it rather than to waste the energy trying to prevent it. It wasn’t what she wanted for herself, but what she wanted, she was never going to get, and she had ultimately come around to his position.

He was going to reveal the truth to King Nefertari – most of it, at least. The fact that she was, technically, a pirate with a crew of her own would be left out, but he intended to admit to the royal that Oleander Cross was her father, and that Adami had come to find her. They had gone to Saliba not to retrieve her inheritance as a pirate captain, but so that she could better understand this great upheaval in her life, and while they were on the island, he had been able to recruit from their number.

It had the potential to backfire, but he was confident that it would ultimately work out. He had spent years cultivating his reputation amongst the people, and Nefertari could not simply declare him unwelcome and have it be accepted by the masses. Entirely too many of his own citizens believed that it was only Crocodile who kept them safe – that it was Crocodile who provided the poor, unfortunate souls of Yuba with the water they desperately needed after years of terrible sandstorms and droughts. Ousting him would only give more leverage to the rebellion that was already brewing.

The crew would pose as security for his business ventures, first. Security at Rain Dinners, armed escorts for the water shipments, guardians for various construction projects – they would establish themselves as dangerous, but trustworthy, members of the community in the same way that he had, and once their place was secure, he would use them to deepen his hold on the country. The Baroness would start to make supply runs, to retrieve rare and desirable and necessary goods from other islands with a speed no one else could hope to compete with. They would help build the barges that were used to transport supplies and families up and down the rivers. They would be around to help protect the cities from invaders, to impose their strength and reputation against those who would seek to harm the citizens.

By the time word started to get around that she was related to Oleander Cross, it wouldn’t matter. She would have already proven herself as being inherently different than him, kinder and gentler and inherently opposed to all the things that made her father so fearsome in his life, and the World Government, if they did want to move against her, would find themselves unable to do much at all.

They couldn’t order a Buster Call against an island occupied by a royal. Although the Nefertari family had given up their status as Celestial Dragons in returning to Arabasta, they were still one of the twenty founding families, and it would take more than associating with the estranged offspring of a dead pirate for the Marines to be willing to implement something so extreme.

There was always the possibility of an assassination attempt – but that was, unfortunately, just her reality regardless, being married to a Warlord.

By the time she found Crocodile, he had settled into their accommodations at the on-site housing. The rest of the crew were on the lower floors, particularly at the bar, intending to drink the night away, but her husband couldn’t be bothered to join them. He had agreed to a single drink with Adami, who lured her into having two with him on her way through the bar, but had retired shortly afterwards, and by the time she was done speaking with Kaku and Pretre, he was long gone.

Not at all to her surprise, he was sprawled out in a chair, pretending that he hadn’t been dozing off. He was alert only for a moment, until he was able to confirm that she was the one coming through the door, and the second his eyes found her, he deflated entirely with a heavy sigh, sinking into the bulk of his coat. He only perked up again when she got close, a curious noise in his throat as she maneuvered her way between his legs, carefully cradling a drink in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

He was unbearably handsome.

She hadn’t thought he was unattractive before, the few times she had seen him, or even when they’d first been married. As angry as she had been with his existence, his sudden influence on her life, she had always recognized that he was a handsome man, with his strong jaw and proud brow, even if she would have denied it to her last breath at the time. Masculine but well manicured, strong and stern and unshakable, he was composed of all the things that she heard other women claim to want in a man.

Vulnerability was a look he wore even better. His pinched brows eased apart, the lines in his forehead thinned. A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips, shadows made his dimple full and soft. There was a little bit of grey hair, she noticed, a handful of strands starting to accumulate at his temple, as his age started to try and force its way through.

“You’ve been staring at me quite a bit, recently,” He propped his foot up onto the coffee table, tilting her towards his chest. “Something on your mind, pretty girl?”

“I can’t look at my husband?”

He laughed, low and booming, in that unusual, backwards way of his. It rattled through his entire chest, crashing like distant thunder, as his lips split apart, displaying just a few too many of his pristine teeth. One curled finger hooked beneath her chin, his thumb tugging at her bottom lip, drawing her close enough to feel his breath skate over her skin before he turned his attention to the drink she had brought as an offering. Even the beer stein she had used was too small for him, fitting into his hold the way a tumbler might slot between her fingers.

“It’s about time I earned your admiration,” He chuckled. “You’re a difficult woman to please.”

“People throw themselves at your feet all the time,” Like a content cat, he hummed into his glass as she ran her fingers through that little spot of grey hair. “I need to give you a little bit of a challenge, just to keep you interested.”

“Believe me,” His adam’s apple worked as he took a sip, downing half the glass in one swallow. “There’s no one else in the world I find more interesting than you, pretty girl.”

He never actually said the word love.

It was the sort of thing that had the potential to aggressively claw at her insecurities, the way it had in the past, but with him, the word felt paltry, instead of necessary. He made how he felt more than clear in the way he acted, through all the little things that he did – the way he was acutely aware of her presence, even in a crowd, or in how he spoke to her, softening the edges of his tone. He showed how he felt through gifts, carefully cultivated and selected so that each one meant something more than its monetary worth, or through subtle actions, doing everything that he could to ensure she was comfortable, never wanting for anything.

His lips tasted like brandy, sharp and bitter, a lingering drop burning her tongue. She caught his rumble with her teeth, felt it with the tips of her fingers as she blindly searched for the top button of his shirt. The thick skin of his fingers itched the flesh of her thighs, ghosting along the elastic of her stockings, following the silken strap of the garter belt, rolling up the fabric of her skirt.

She was planning to lure him into the shower. He was entirely too leery of his most glaring weakness to properly bathe the previous few weeks, choosing instead to spot wash himself with a bar of soap and a damp cloth, and she was sure he would benefit from sitting beneath the spray of hot water for a while, but she couldn’t convince herself to get off of his lap, shifting to straddle the bulk of his powerful thigh. He cupped her backside, sinking his blunt nails into the flesh in a squeeze that toed the line of being too firm, trailing along the hem of her underwear.

When she pulled back to find her breath, he followed, refusing to give up custody of her lower lip until he realized it was preventing her from taking off her blouse. Unbothered by her effort to keep it, he slid his hook beneath the material, golden metal cold against the flesh of her belly. The vicious point looped around the collar, and with what seemed to be no pressure at all, the chiffon ripped in half. He refused to give her the opportunity to complain at him, softly sinking his teeth into the meat of her lip and drawing her back to his chest.

She wasn’t entirely sure when or how she ended up mostly naked. It seemed likely that her skirt had met the same fate as her top, though she couldn’t quite recall when he may have ripped through it, only that it had somehow ended up on the floor at his feet, draped over the shoes he had hastily toed off. His shirt hung loose from his shoulders, chest hair thick and coarse between her fingers as she traced the hard lines of muscle beneath, trailing downward in pursuit of his belt. In return, one finger slipped into the hem of her panties, ducking into the fold of her thigh.

Before he could reach his target, she peeled herself away, sliding back over his knees and crouching between his outstretched legs. His eyebrows rose, excitement dancing in his eyes – he obligingly rolled his hips forward when she found his belt buckle with her fingers, taking another excessive sip of his drink, his stare fixed to her every move. Although he insisted that he didn’t need her to go down on him, after they’d tried and found it nearly impossible so long as she wanted her jaw to remain attached, there was no question that he greatly enjoyed it. Having her on her knees for him, it fed his deep desire for authority and control, and her struggling to take him only further stoked the fire.

She didn’t personally enjoy the taste. It wasn’t enough to completely put her off, but the flare of salt against her tongue had never been anything that she relished in. She avoided his tip, bright red and livid where it protruded from his skin, finding instead the base of his heavy cock with her lips and tongue. He groaned above her, shifting deeper into the chair, making no secret that he wanted more. Her fingers couldn’t wrap all the way around the breadth of him, but she held what she could, pushing and pulling the excess flesh around his tip in the absence of lubrication, pressing into the swells and valleys with the pad of her thumb.

“Pretty girl,” His voice was absent as absent as his eyes, heavy with relief as he stretched out bonelessly, setting aside his glass in favor of laying his palm across the side of her head. “You can have your fun, but your mouth isn’t where I intend to finish tonight. Get yourself ready for me.”

It wasn’t the plan, but she also wasn’t going to complain, if that was really what he wanted. She trailed her tongue as much as her lips, following the distinctive trail of a particularly large, pulsating vein, sliding her other hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. Two fingers were as wide as just one of his, but it had been long enough even that was enough to feel the notion of pain from the unstretched muscle, briefly consuming her attention as she waited for it to abate. The moment she lost focus, his long fingers threaded into her hair, tugging harshly enough to make his displeasure known.

A fat, clear bead oozed from his tip, an unpleasant tang of salt against her tongue. Saliva eased the way for her hand, a smooth trail for her palm to follow as she squeezed as much of him as she could in her fist. He groaned again, deeper and louder, clenching his jaw as it slowly morphed into a drawling chuckle. There was no getting past the gate of her teeth, even the narrow head of his tip too much for her to take, but her tongue found the broad slit, pressing down as she suckled. Between her own thighs, she all but wedged a third finger into her entrance – even as wet as she was, it stung, sharply and unquestionably this time, forcing her to still her hand as she waited for it to pass.

“You want to take care of me?” The pain in her scalp was sharper, enough to block out the delicious burn. “Come back up here, then.”

For her own benefit more than his, she hesitated, lingering long enough to summon a sizeable wad of spit. He hummed, offering her the leverage to stand in the form of a fist knotted in her hair, abandoning his grip only once her knees were settled around his hips, wrapping around her ribs instead. Reaching between them, she tilted her hips forward, immediately certain that she ought to have refused and demanded more time to prepare, but she could no longer summon up the words. After weeks of nothing more than lingering touches and the occasional warmth of his lips, she was just as eager as he was.

The fullness of him was like nothing else. It toed the line of being too much, too wide and absolutely too long, and she had to stop even before she could take all of the head of his cock, waiting for the sharp bolts shooting up her spine to fade into warm sparks dancing in her stomach. His huff of breath sounded frustrated, but he let her sit, shimmying and swirling her hips until she was able to take a little more.

It seemed to take an eternity before she felt his thighs press against the backs of her own. She didn’t immediately understand why she heard someone sniffling wetly, until he cupped her chin with his fingers and swiped away the tears dripping onto her cheeks, drawing her lips back to his own.

As much as it hurt, it also felt wonderful – astonishingly so. She didn’t realize quite how much she was missing not just the physical connection, but the emotional one, the one that she didn’t always register was there until after it had come and gone.

Even being on top, she wasn’t in control. That would be a step too far, for a man who wrested authority from anyone and everyone. His powerful hand wrapped around her hip, squeezing just enough to assert his position above her, even while he was below her. Just his thumb was strong enough to maneuver her hips how he liked, pushing and pulling in smooth arcs, lifting and lowering her entire body like it was nothing at all.

“Good girl,” The thin line of his lips skated over hers. “There you go. Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes, Wani.”

He would never admit with words how much he liked the nickname, but he gave himself away in the flexing of his fingers, the flicker of his smile and the flash of his teeth. The fingers on her backside sank deeper as he thumb slipped downward, between her thighs and into the soft and wet, targeting her clit with obscene precision. Cold bolts of infernal electricity shot through her stomach, up into her ribs, as he bore down. He didn’t move the appendage, but held it in place, a firm and unyielding statue of friction that pressed and released in response to the flexing of his fingers.

She was weightless and dizzy. Every rib flexed inward, like they wanted to break free of her sternum and escape into the world, each muscle in her abdomen trembling and quaking. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make her eyes focus on any of the blurry shapes in front of her, as her entire body tried to float away on the air, held down only by the anchor of his grip and the distant growling from low in his flexing throat.

“That’s my good girl,” The tip of his long nose pressed into the apple of her cheek, lips on her jaw. “I’ve missed my pretty wife.”

Chapter Text

The interior balcony had been overtaken by pirates.

Her pirates, specifically, which was only marginally better than if they’d been strangers. It was preferable to the alternative, having more than two dozen pirates take up all the available space at any of Rain Dinners’ more public bars and ousting the guests, but it did mean that her usual spot was eternally occupied by a constantly rotating collection of rowdy men and women guzzling liquor to their hearts’ content.

It had been All Sunday’s idea to set them up there. After their arrival, attendance at the casino had taken a noticeable, but not unsustainable, dive, as word spread through Rainbase about the group of pirates Sir Crocodile had supposedly hired on as extra security, and their constant presence on the sales floor hadn’t helped matters in the slightest. Most people were brave enough to continue to enjoy the various games, maintaining a cautious berth, but only a hardy few had the nerve to try and push through the motley crowd to try and get a drink of their own, and their noise had, more than once, gotten a complaint sent to management. In order to make the transition a little smoother, All Sunday had found a suitably surly, but professional, old man to work the otherwise unattended balcony bar, where the rambunctiousness of the crew could be at least partially contained.

They weren’t always all there at once. In keeping with the cover story Crocodile had concocted, they worked shifts, acting as security guards for the casino grounds – which only really meant standing near doors and in corners while glowering at anyone who got too close – and others were dispatched to escort the water deliveries for Yuba and other small settlements of the Sandora Desert, disappearing into the sands for days at a time. Still, there wasn’t quite enough work to go around, and five or six of them were eternally stationed on the balcony, wasting one another’s time.

Alongside all the other bits of furniture that had been accumulated there, a single chair had been functionally and unofficially declared as hers. Most of the crew were larger than her – at least half of them were larger than Crocodile – and the velour armchair was the only piece sized for a normal human being. It matched absolutely nothing, grey and patterned with black lattice work, unlike the white and blue and golden accents of the rest, and she wasn’t sure where Sunday had even found it, because it surely hadn’t come from the storeroom of extra chairs and sofas. There was one that matched, naturally, a perfect copy except that it was near triple the size, that often sat empty, while Crocodile sequestered himself in his office for hours on end, and it wouldn’t be all that surprising to learn that Sunday had specifically commissioned the matching just to give herself the opportunity to joke about them being sickeningly infatuated with one another.

Which wasn’t untrue, but they weren’t usually that obvious about it.

On that particular day, Crocodile wasn’t actually at the casino at all. He hadn’t given her the details, but Princess Vivi had seemingly been abducted during their absence, and in his desperation to find her, King Nefertari had sought out the local Warlord’s assistance in trying to find her. There was no one better suited to combing the endless dunes of the Sandora in search of one young woman and a band of kidnappers than the man literally made of sand, and because he had an image to maintain, her husband had agreed. In all truth, it was more convenient for his ends if she were gone, and he had outright admitted to contemplating the idea of killing her if he did find her alive somewhere, but he needed Nefertari to continue to trust and rely on him, and there would, really, be nothing better to bolster his foothold in the country than saving the life of their beloved princess.

He had been gone for a day already, and would likely be away for another two or three. Just to make a show of how truly reliable the Cross Pirates were, how committed they were to their new lifestyle, he’d taken a few of them with him – mostly the younger members, though Adami had joined them, too, on the auspices of wanting to acquaint himself with the country he’d be calling home for a while yet.

There were only four of them on the balcony that afternoon. Divina and Kahini were bunkered down at the corner of the bar, peering over the railing at the crowd below and chatting quietly to themselves over a card game they’d tried to teach her a half dozen times. Bunshou was on the sofa, ignoring not just her, but his own crew mates, focusing solely on the contents of his glass.

She had considered trying to make conversation with him, but there was no point. All she would get was a series of increasingly annoyed grunts, until he finally snapped and told her off, as he had a half dozen times already. Any conversation that wasn’t directly about his duties within the crew was going to be met with dismissal and irritation – he had been reliable, so far, and she didn’t want to continue to poke and prod him into doing something rash, like leaving, when the crew needed all the experienced hands they could get.

Instead, she sat in a similar sort of quiet. Sunday had been called away to deal with some minor incident in the kitchen – some part of their shipment hadn’t arrived, or had been wrong, or something, she hadn’t been listening – leaving her alone in her chair, looking down at the casino floor. In the early afternoon, Rain Dinners was relatively quiet, white tile pocketed with the vibrant colors of guests in bright linens and silks, chattering with one another, betting obscene amounts of beri on card games and tucking fresh bills into the penny slots, mindlessly pulling the arm of the machine in the hopes of a big win.

She had always wanted to go to a casino. There was a small one at Sunnybrook, but she never had the disposable cash to justify a visit, and until Crocodile, her only experience with it had been when she’d gotten the nerve to try applying as a bottle girl. The manager there had been interested, at first, but when he realized she didn’t have a surplus of makeup or better fitted dresses, she had been roundly rejected.

There was a delicious sort of irony to that story, now – especially because she had learned that she absolutely hated casinos. They were entirely too loud and, if she were honest, the games were enough to bore her to tears in minutes. The only thing that make poker fun was when it involved stripping, and she couldn’t imagine anything interesting about sitting on an uncomfortable barstool for hours on end, mindlessly pressing a button or pulling a lever just to watch little screens spin around for a few seconds at a time before they played an annoying little tune.

Eventually, she would need to head down to the casino floor. Because of her husband’s antisocial tendencies, it had slowly fallen on her to be the local face of the business, and people expected to see her. Not to discuss anything important, or because they were friends, but just because it was the thing that the rich and bored did, cavorting with one another for no reason except to say that they did. Being able to chat with her for just a few minutes meant bragging rights, the ability to claim that they had her ear, and if they had hers, then surely, they had Crocodile’s as well, and that alone was something entirely too many people considered to be important, relevant, a reflection of their status. To Sunday’s infinite entertainment, she had even become something of a local fashion icon, at least to the gaggle of bored housewives who constantly monitored what she wore down to the last detail, to try and emulate it themselves. She hadn’t missed that some of their husbands had started to quietly copy Crocodile, either, swapping their wraps and sarongs and sirwals for fitted trousers and button downs with stiff collars and heavy silken vests.

She would much prefer to remain sitting in silence. Her glass of wine was far better company than most anyone – at least, anyone who was available – and she wasn’t at all in the mood to play the part of a gracious host.

Sunday made fun of her and Crocodile for being co-dependent, which had been funny, until he spent his first night away from her in months, and she realized just how badly she relied on him to get a good night’s rest. The bed was too large, too cold, without him next to her, the room too quiet. Whenever she managed to drift off, it wouldn’t be long before she woke with a start, wondering why she wasn’t hearing the sounds of him fiddling around the suite, stuffing his face with leftovers like a starving savage, or why she couldn’t smell the sickly-sweet smoke of his cigars.

It was more than just the feeling of loneliness that made it unbearable. That she could tolerate, albeit begrudgingly, and the cold sensation of absence was still comfortable, in the way an old wool coat was comfortable, threadbare and worn and itchy, but familiar and broken into shape.

It was the fact that she didn’t feel safe that was the real problem.

She wasn’t like him, on guard while deep in the throes of sleep, ready to snap awake at the slightest, quietest, out of place sounds. His understanding of his Devil Fruit, his control of it, was so finely tuned that his body would react long before even the most talented assassin could strike, turn to sand well before the blade could pierce his skin. She hadn’t spent years learning all about the world’s poisons, how they smelled or what sort of strange texture they might leave when mixed into her food. She wasn’t even much of a fighter, ready and able to overpower someone, to shatter their morale, to capture and torture them for information. She didn’t have a reputation that promised nightmarish retribution for failure, one that was so severe and violent that anyone who thought to hurt her would reconsider simply for fear of what she might do if their plot was unsuccessful.

Without Crocodile around, she was vulnerable, and although he hadn’t announced his departure, although he wasn’t very far at all, his enemies had eyes and ears everywhere. Anyone who wanted to hurt him by harming her had the rare opportunity to do so.

Before she could sink too deeply into her concerns, she heard shoes on the stairs. They were quiet and distant, difficult to discern over the distant clatter of the casino below, but there had been enough guests, over the months, that she had gotten used to keeping an ear open for the sound. Peering over the back of the chair, she felt her heart drop into her gut at the sight of a head bearing close-cropped blond hair.

When and how Doflamingo snuck into Rain Dinner’s, she had no idea. Massive – and visually offensive – as he was, there ought to have been no way that he slipped by in the hours she’d spent observing the floor. He was draped in that wild pink coat, his body covered by a suit that might have been modest, if the blue were a softer hue and his white shoes less over-shined, wearing that jaw shattering grin that always churned her stomach to see.

Before she could move, Bunshou was between them – or, someone that looked like Bunshou, at least, though he behaved so differently, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The eternally slouched swordsman, who barely stood taller than her, had thrown his bare shoulders back, his chin cocked up at the interloping Warlord. One wrinkled hand was on the handle of his blade, his stance wide, ready, if not eager, to fight. Doflamingo himself was utterly unbothered, seeming to peer down his nose as if he had been confronted by a rat, though it was impossible to truly know what he was looking at through the red lenses of his omnipresent glasses.

“Hanareru, kurechin.”

The Warlord’s smile faltered. His forehead twitched as his lips pulled taught together, falling into a shallow frown. Ignoring the warning, either because he didn’t care or because he didn’t understand it, or both, he took a half step forward, freezing in place at the quiet sound of Bunshou unsheathing his sword.

“Easy there, old timer,” The Warlord drawled. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

If she thought he would win, she would gladly let Bunshou follow through – but there was far more to Doflamingo’s threat that just the swordsman’s life being in danger. Doflamingo was a Warlord for convenience, not because he valued the role, just the same as Crocodile was, and there was no doubt he would gladly throw it away if he thought it would get him to what he truly wanted. If he thought it meant that he could have her, there was no doubt he would bring Rain Dinners, Rainbase – the whole of Arabasta – to a violent end.

“Let him through, Bunshou,” She hated the words before they had even formed. “I’m sure King Donquixote will behave himself.”

The glare she received was nothing short of hateful. She could see every word Bunshou wanted to say, every curse he wanted to throw her way, alight like a fire in his eyes, but his mouth remained closed. Slowly, as if he was fighting his own instincts, he returned the straight blade of his katana to its sheathe, though the handle remained firmly in his grip, even as he took one wide step to the side.

“You’re such a gracious host, reina,” Almost as if he forgot the entire confrontation had happened, Doflamingo grinned at her, crossing the distance in just four long steps. “Though your staff could use some training, still.”

“Careful,” She flinched as his hand came down on the back of the empty chair, and seeking to disguise it, she reached for her glass. “The only reason I stopped him is because it’s impossible to get blood out of the carpet.”

He always seemed to think she was funny. It didn’t matter what she said, how firmly she rebuffed him or how quick she was to insult him – he always reacted like it was the funniest thing that he had ever heard. Completely and willfully ignoring how much she clearly didn’t want him there, he settled himself in Crocodile’s chair, leaning back against the tufted velvet, ankle crossed loosely over his knee, as if he belonged there.

“So hostile, baby,” He chuckled, and at the same time, waggled two fingers towards the bartender – he locked eyes with her, waiting for her nod before he set down the glass he was cleaning. “I’m here as a friend, vida mia. I know we didn’t leave off on the best terms the last time I saw you, but really, I just wanted to check on you.”

“Why?”

She paused, waiting while he quietly ordered a mojito from Brucco, taking a moment to fish around in the pocket of her dress for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Tucking one between her lips, she felt around for her lighter, though before she could pull it from the strap around her thigh – the one that held Cross’ push dagger just out of sight – Doflamingo’s giant hand was inches from her face, offering one of his own, gold plated and spotted with shimmering diamonds. He didn’t flick the flame for her, instead laying the metal canister in her palm, the pads of his long, smooth fingers sliding over the soft flesh of her wrist before he drew away.

“What did you ask, pajarito?” He refused to accept the lighter back, ignoring it entirely as she took a deep, burning breath. “Why? Why what?”

“I’m not in the mood to play games, Doflamingo,” The corner of his smile twitched, as if she’d caught him by surprise with her candor. “Tell me why you’re here or leave. I have paperwork to do.”

For once, he frowned at her. He didn’t seem to know what to do, now that she wasn’t playing along the way he wanted her to. It would have been a bold faced lie to claim she wasn’t terrified of him – but she was tired, not just physically, but of the game he insisted that she participate in with him, and it had come through in her voice, the way she slouched into her chair.

It didn’t last long. The arrival of his drink was the opportunity he needed to reset his own mask, sipping from a glass hilariously too small for a man of his size. He parroted her body language – a tool straight out of the book Sunday was always reading to her, designed to make her feel more subconsciously connected to him, like they were allies. It was so smooth, so seamless, she would have fallen for it without question, if not for how much she practiced it herself.

“I see you got the truth out of your mother,” He lowered his voice, not enough that Bunshou couldn’t hear, but plenty to give the air of wanting the conversation to be more private. “Took her long enough, didn’t it?”

“Hardly,” He flinched a little when a cloud of smoke erred in his direction, offended by it’s proximity. “Someone by the name Joker told Adami where to find me. He’s an associate of yours, isn’t he?”

Slowly, Doflamingo’s grin returned – but it was different, this time, tighter, crueler, more honest than anything he had said or done before.

“He is,” The tip of his long, broad tongue slid over his front teeth. “I’ve heard your new friends lost one of his shipments. A very expensive one.”

Both of his long feet braced on the carpet as he leaned forward, radiating self satisfaction as he leaned in like a conspirator. She couldn’t see his eyes, not even that close, but she could feel them, crawling across her body, his tongue escaping to dance across his lips.

“Word is that you’re the one in charge of the thieves, now,” His chuckled was heavy and cruel, viscerally delighted by the idea of her torment. “And our mutual acquaintance can be quite cruel, when it comes to collecting debts. The things he would do to a pretty thing like you, mami…I’d hate to see you hurt over someone else’s foolishness.”

“He’s obviously not very well informed,” The Warlord hummed, a mixture of genuine curiosity and absolute amusement. “The same people who stole his shipment stole one of my ships to do it.”

“Oh? Did they now?” He kept creeping incrementally closer, elbows braced on his narrow knees as he laced his hands together. “Maybe the two of you should work together, then, to get a little vengeance. Joker is a powerful man – I’m sure he’d make a good ally, if you really are going to run around playing pirate.”

“Who’s playing?”

She shifted, changing the cross of her legs, not because she was uncomfortable, but because he had started to get too close, too near to her knees, exuding entirely too much warmth through the thick silk of her dress skirt. His fingers twitched, a barely restrained desire to grab, to latch onto one of her legs. He had shown her how easily he could overpower her once before, during their short lived confrontation at the Mataheb, and cold, sharp fear prickled her skin at the memory.

“So, the rumors are true, then,” He chortled that strange, hissing laugh, leaning back into the chair the same way she imagined he did with his throne. “My little Lily went and became a pirate after all. I guess that explains this new confidence.”

Suddenly, he was in her space again, closer this time. His face was only inches away, near enough to feel the steam of his breath, smell the rum and lime still on his tongue. A single finger, too soft and wet with condensation from his glass, looped beneath her chin, a barely there promise of how readily he could snap his iron grip around her throat as he forced her to hold his gaze. His pupils were barely there, distorted shadows behind his lenses, flicking wildly over her every feature.

“It’s a good look for you, vida mia,” His voice oozed like syrup, too heavy, too sweet. “I love the way you look at me. So vicious, like you want to tear me apart.”

She couldn’t see anything past him. Tan skin and pink feathers, pouring heat like the sun. Her hand moved towards the sheathe of one of her daggers, but he had learned his lesson from the last time, crushing her palm into her the meat of her thigh, bearing down so hard with just the tips of his fingers she swore the bones in her hand were going to shatter. It occurred to her that she could bite him, sink her teeth into the meat of his lip or the bridge of his nose and rip and tear until something came free and that face he was so proud of was ruined, but as she opened her mouth, his thumb slipped around the bottom row of her teeth. That was all he needed to control her, one thumb, clamping her jaw open like it was no more effort than tearing open an envelope.

“I want to let you,” His chuckle rumbled through them both, utterly humorless. “I want to feel you cut me open, let you play around with my insides, paint pretty pictures with my blood. I want to feel your teeth in my throat. I want your boot on my neck.”

He oozed closer like an oil spill. The chair beneath her wailed ominously beneath the weight of his knee, crammed in beside her leg, as he folded himself over her entirely.

“It’s not fair,” His grip tightened – she felt something in her hand start to crack, bruises forming on her jaw as his fingers pressed into the bone. “You make me want you so badly, then you have the nerve to look at me like that, like I’m less than dirt, like I’m nothing to you.”

His smile was gone, now, though his teeth remained plainly on display, the grimace of a wolf threatening its prey.

“I don’t understand,” His breath shuddered over her tongue. “You have me at your feet. You’ve brought a Celestial Dragon to his knees, but you choose some miserable old man? Some trash off the street? What does he give you, pajarito? Tell me, and I’ll show you, I can do so much better.”

All at once, he was gone.

No one had pulled him off of her, this time. Crocodile hadn’t made a miraculously timed return to insinuate himself between them, and Sunday hadn’t been alerted, yet, to come and interfere. It was Doflamingo himself who had separated them, toppling back into the other chair, buttons straining against his heaving chest. He tucked his thumb, glistening with her saliva, into his open mouth, stroking it with his tongue.

She could barely breathe. The air was too hot, too cold, wet and heavy in her lungs, her ribs knitted together. The agony in her hand gave way to an unbearable numbness, tingling from the tips of her fingers to the seam of her elbow, and if her jaw hadn’t snapped shut on its own, she wasn’t sure she would have remembered to move it.

“Where is the old reptile anyway?” His jovial tone had returned, as if the entire interaction hadn’t happened at all. “It isn’t like him to let us have five minutes alone.”

“Why are you here, Doflamingo?” The sound of her own voice surprised her. “Don’t make me ask again.”

He tittered, hissing into the feathers of his jacket. Holding his drink between the fingers on one hand, he laid his chin on the other, grinning and lazy, like a contented cat.

“I’m meeting an associate in Tamarisk,” The admission was easy, careless. “Well, off the coast, anyway. I’m a couple of days early, and I hear such amazing things about Rain Dinners, I thought I may as well see what all the fuss is about.”

When she stood, she felt oddly calm. She recognized that it was wrong, that she should be shaking and terrified, but she didn’t feel anything – not fear, nor loathing. There was nothing at all, except a sense of calm she had never experienced before, one that was cold and uncomfortable and oddly wet, sticky like syrup on her bones.

“Leaving already, querida?”

“If you’d called ahead, I would have made time,” The voice leaving her throat didn’t sound like her own. “But unfortunately, I really do have paperwork to finish.”

“Fufufu…I understand,” What remained of his drink was barely a shot, and he knocked it back, unfolding and unfurling as he rose to his full height. “A casino never sleeps.”

Chapter Text

He was not the one to find the slave ship, but he was the one to attack it.

Although work was still being done on the Baroness, the Bōnī Phaisaṭīvala had been an easy task for Iceburg and his men to complete, and by the second day of Princess Vivi’s disappearance, it had been delivered by one of the shipwright’s supply ships – likely the same one headed for the West Blue, to retrieve a shipment of springwood to use for the Baroness. He had been called away from the search party to accept the delivery at Nanohana’s port, and while making conversation with the crew, they referenced seeing an unknown ship, idling a few hundred meters from shore, far enough to remain out of sight of Arabasta’s small, patrolling fleet but clearly waiting for something that must be coming from the island. Unable to find hide or hair of the Princess on the island, he opted to take a detour on his way back to rejoin the search parties, and investigate the ship.

The young Princess was one of around a dozen abductees he found aboard. Naturally, she had gotten herself captured trying to interfere, thoughtlessly chasing down the slaver she had seen abduct another young woman on her way out of one of the shops. The captain of the ship claimed not to know that she was the Princess of Arabasta, just a nosey interloper who might, if they were lucky, have a rich family willing to pay handsomely to have her back, and Crocodile tended to believe him – though that hadn’t spared him his fate. He summoned Sunday, who summoned the men he had borrowed from his wife, and they brought the ship and its captives back to shore, where they were gladly received by the King and his guard.

The abduction was an inconvenience, but it had worked out in his favor. Despite the veneer of friendliness King Kobra maintained with him, the royal had never truly trusted him, never believed his motivations were simply to protect the island that housed one of his most important assets. He was right, of course, but being under the King’s constant scrutiny was an inconvenience to his plans, and while he would tolerate it, the slavers had given him a grand opportunity earn his trust. He was not just the Desert King, but the savior of Arabasta’s beloved royal family – a reasonable man, willing to set aside any bad blood born from personal disputes to rescue the King’s only daughter. He would gladly take advantage of the other man’s gratitude, once there had been time for the dust to settle, to get his hand on the oasis halfway between Rainbase and Arabasta’s western shore, the one he had tried to purchase no less than three times, only to be denied, for fear he would become too deeply entrenched in the country if he were permitted to own an entire city, rather than just one casino.

As annoyed as he had been to be dragged away to save Nefertari’s idealistic little brat, by the time he returned to Rainbase, he was in an unusually pleasant mood. It was late, well after sunset, and he was tired and sick of his various responsibilities and his knee and back were badly aching, but he was content, pleased to have been handed such a golden opportunity – though he was, undeniably, suspicious of how that opportunity had come to be. Arabasta wasn’t immune to being accosted by slave traders, and he had allowed one particular outfit, which trafficked orphaned children to the Marines, to continue to operate on the shores of his country, but in recent years, most groups had started to give Arabasta’s sandy shores a wide berth. It was no secret that he had gained his first foothold on the island by interfering against the then most-prolific fleet of slave traders in Paradise, and over the years since, it had become well understood that Arabasta was not a secure place for slavers.

He entered Rain Dinners with the hope that his night would continue on its pleasant trajectory. It wasn’t quite late enough for his wife to be asleep, yet, and after three days spent scouring the desert for one wayward teenager, he was eager for a few hours of gentle affection from his lovely spouse. He had every intention of taking the next day to relax, after weeks of continuously being on guard, and he would drag her along with him, to spend a day lounging and drinking and getting his fill of not just her, but some much needed peace.

Bunshou was waiting for him in the hallway of the suite.

Crocodile had yet to determine what he thought of the old swordsman. He had been nothing but antagonistic from the moment they arrived on Saliba, but not hostile, not in a way that was genuine. He didn’t hate Lily, but what she represented – his commitment to Oleander Cross’ last wishes, his failure to fulfil them. After a few years without so much as a clue, most of the residents of Saliba had presumed Aster and her unborn child had died at sea, never to be recovered, and Bunshou, from what he had learned, had been one of the very last to hold out hope. The old swordsman had continued the search for years after everyone else had given up hope, until even Adami had resolved there was no hope and forced him to retire, and it was, Crocodile presumed, his self-loathing that made him so intolerant towards Lily’s existence.

If she had died, then he was right to give up. That she was still alive meant he had betrayed everything Oleander had entrusted him to accomplish.

“We have a problem,” The swordsman remained where he was, bunkered down on the tile floor beside the door.

“What is it?”

“Donquixote arrived earlier this afternoon.”

He wanted to be absolutely livid with Sunday. His manager knew how much of a problem Doflamingo had been, and she ought to have known to call him the second the other Warlord so much as breathed in the direction of Rainbase, yet he had managed to not only enter Rain Dinners, but accost Lily, without so much as a whisper from his miniature transponder snail. He wanted to be outraged, to torture her in every way he could imagine, leave her a barely alive husk to be disposed of once he got the information he needed off the Poneglyph – but he understood why she hadn’t.

It was entirely too likely Doflamingo was listening. He didn’t believe the once Celestial Dragon was responsible for Princess Vivi’s abduction, but it did seem likely that he was involved with the slave ship, given his constant dabbling in the slave market, and he would be a fool not to have eyes and ears everywhere. If he had some sort of plan, if he intended to use the slave ship as a distraction to get Crocodile away so he could abduct Lily, it might push him into action – leaving him under the presumption that all was well, creating a little bit of mystery about Crocodile’s location, may very well be the only thing that prevented him from making a move. It was far wiser, far safer, to let him return whenever he happened to return, and until then, for Sunday and Bunshou to remain glued to her side, which was precisely what they’d done.

He found the two women seated on opposite ends of the sofa, chatting quietly amongst themselves.

Even in the low light, he could see the damage Doflamingo had done. Shadows in the shape of his fingers lined Lily’s jawline, barely formed whispers of how tightly he had squeezed. Her left hand was wrapped in a thin cast, three fingers bound beneath layers of soft bandages and plaster, holding them in line with her wrist.

Understanding Sunday did not mean that he was of the mind to see her, and she knew it. Before he could bark out an order for her to go, she was on her feet, artfully dodging eye contact as she moved towards the door. He watched her go, feeling his teeth grind together as he fought not to run her through with his hook, spinning on his heel to lock the doors behind her. Through the wood, he could hear her speaking with Bunshou, who insisted, in a roundabout sort of way, that he fully intended to spend the night on the hallway floor, sipping a bottle of sake and waiting until he might be needed.

“You can’t fight him.”

“Don’t tell me,” He wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t stand to be so close to her, not until he had control of his temper. “What I can or can’t do to the man who assaulted my wife.”

The way she moved when she tried to sit up belayed that she had injuries he couldn’t see. She was wearing the robe he had gotten her, covering the leg that she was nursing – it started to buckle the moment she was on her feet, threatening to give way.

“If you fight here,” She limped a step forward, slapping her hand down on the arm of the sofa for leverage. “It’ll ruin everything you’ve been working for.”

His wife knew him well. As cautious as he was to never turn his temper onto her directly, to spare her the full breadth of how cruel he could really be, she had seen enough to know he wasn’t always sensible or reasonable. She was right, of course, that a fight between him and Doflamingo would all but guarantee the destruction of not just Rainbase, but of plans a decade in the making – that did not, however, mean that he particularly wanted to hear it.

He let her take another hobbling step closer before the need to take care of her started to outweigh his blinding rage. Circling around the kitchen island, the thing he had stationed between them as a buffer, he crossed the room towards her. He couldn’t stand to touch her directly, not with the hand that brought drought to everything, for fear he didn’t quite have his own powers under control, but he looped his other arm around her, wrapped it around her thighs and hauled her up against his chest.

“I’m going to kill him,” He warned her. “Once this country is mine, I’ll string him up on a cross in the palace courtyard and let him rot in the sun.”

“That’s fine,” The fingers of her unbandaged hand found his scalp, soothingly stroking through his hair with the blunt tips of the nails he paid to have manicured. “You can do whatever you want to him, as long as it doesn’t happen here. My tomatoes just started to sprout.”

The full scope of her injuries wasn’t too terribly severe, all things considered, though the fact that they’d happened at all was sufficient cause for him to turn Donquixote’s precious Dressrosa into a desert wasteland. To accompany the streaky bruises on her jaw, there was a distinctive hand print that wrapped around her thigh, where she carried her dagger, and it matched cleanly to the story both she and Bunshou had given him, that she’d reached for the push dagger and he had pinned her hand to her leg in order to stop her. They were painful, but they would heal, after a couple of days. The worst among them was her hand, where one of the metacarpal bones had been fractured – Divina, who’d tended to her, was certain it would likely heal just fine, though only time would tell if she would suffer any nerve damage.

The fact that they existed was an unpleasant reminder to himself to be cautious. Doflamingo was considerably larger than him, but their strength wasn’t so different, and though he had no doubt wanted to hurt Lily, he almost certainly hadn’t meant to break any of her bones. Lily was too small, too delicate, for someone without iron clad control – one slip and he could do far worse to her without ever meaning to.

Thinking about it only made him want to hunt down the Warlord, who was, supposedly, luxuriating in one of the high roller suites a few floors down, so he made the effort to put it out of his mind as much as he could. With her still settled on his forearm, he went about trying to get comfortable, though there was absolutely no way he would be able to relax that night, ignoring the inconvenience of only having one arm to operate with in favor of having her close, confident that she was safe and secure.

He appreciated that she was in relatively good humor, at least. A few hours earlier, she had been in a blind panic, trapped in the bathroom with her face over the bowl the fear and nerves made her sick to her stomach, vacillating between an eerie calm and anxiety so crippling even Sunday was worried that she couldn’t breathe, but she had managed to settle into a calm that was approaching normal. Divina had given her a mild sedative, enough to calm her nerves, and as frustrating as he found the friendship between her and Sunday – the latter of whom was entirely disposable once her purpose in reading the Poneglyph was complete – he was privately grateful for it now. He hadn’t intended for the two women to develop a genuine bond, and had only ever introduced them because he was confident in Sunday’s loyalty, bought and paid for by his promise of protection from the World Government, but if his wife needed to have friends, there were far worse options.

Besides, Sunday’s attempts to secure her own safety by earning his wife’s favor had backfired on her, whether she would admit to it or not. She was more capable of hiding it, but there was no question that Sunday had come to consider Lily a friend – the found family that the fugitive desperately wanted. He had Sunday’s loyalty, if only because they had the same base interests when it came to his wife, to keep her close and safe.

Not that he would threaten his wife’s safety for the sake of keeping Sunday obedient, but it would make her more hesitant to act outside of his intentions. Betraying him meant betraying her, and it was becoming increasingly unlikely that Sunday would do anything that would see her suffer – including having him imprisoned for his espionage and quiet mutiny against the World Government.

Entering what had become their shared closet, he was surprised to discover that things had been rearranged. Most of the closet was as he had left it, but his wife’s prized dresses had been moved. She was particular about keeping them in one tall cabinet, where they were safe from being exposed to unnecessary light so that the material wouldn’t fade, but they had been moved, tucked in at the end of her wardrobe as if that was where they’d always been.

He only noticed because of how much he favored one of the dresses. There was very little that she didn’t look beautiful wearing, but the one that Ruth had picked for her, the green silk one with the bright flowers ringed in glittering gold stitch, was easily his favorite. The memory of seeing her wearing it for the first time, pouting and scandalized, was vivid, securely preserved in his memory as the first moment he, in retrospect, ought to have realized that he was in too deep. The attractive young woman that he’d been curious about had been stunning to him, in that moment, pristine and perfect, everything he wanted and everything he didn’t know he desired.

The cabinet was just large enough to fit a person, one larger than her but smaller than himself, and realizing it had been emptied set his instincts alight. Slowly, silently, he placed her back on her feet on the far side of the closet door – he could feel her curiosity, but she stayed quiet, observing as he crept closer to the potential hiding spot with his hook at the ready.

Throwing the door open, however, he found nothing. No intruder, no clothes – just, he noted, a pile of metal, nails and pipes and various tools seemingly pilfered from around the hotel.

“Oh,” She chimed from behind him. “That was me.”

“Explain.”

She hobbled over, leaning on the shelves as she scooted past him. Despite her bare feet, she stepped up into the cabinet, carefully dodging around the pointed bits of scrap until she was in the midst of all the chaos.

“I made a panic room,” Her laugh was breathy, as the debris at her feet started to melt, rust and iron and steel melding together into one almost liquid puddle around her painted toes. “Kind of. Panic closet.”

Seeing the silvery substance crawl up the walls of the cabinet, he finally understood what she was talking about. The exterior of the cabinet remained the same, varnished and polished wood and sealed slate, but in a matter of seconds, the interior was coated by a layer of solid metal several centimeters thick. The metal itself wouldn’t withstand something like Doflamingo’s strings, but he could understand the intention behind it, and against a typical opponent, it would be more than sufficient to still a blade, should anyone find it to begin with.

“I tried to use the gap in the wall between the workout room and the utility closet,” He had no idea what gap she was talking about. “But there’s a camel spider nest in there, so…panic closet.”

He deeply enjoyed her ingenuity. It wasn’t the most brilliant or secure safe room, but it was a clever enough use of her Devil Fruit powers, one that he didn’t necessarily expect of her, and not something he had thought about, himself. She was just creative enough, bizarre enough, that if he let her run wild, she would surely leave potential enemies baffled and vulnerable.

“I’ll get you some better materials,” As he spoke, the metal box started to dissolve again, and he wondered why – she could leave it that way, if she wanted. “Something more durable.”

He too advantage of the moment to change, shucking his suit in favor of soft, cotton loungewear, before he had her in his grasp again. Unwilling to be without a secondary weapon, he swapped his usual prosthetic for an older one, made of the same alloy but thinner, smaller, safer to wear around his wife while in bed. As he finished strapping it into place, he scooped her back up, bracing her against his chest, where he liked to have her and where she liked to be, letting her feet dangle as he made his way back out into their bedroom.

“Show me this space in the walls you found,” He instructed, shifting her closer to his side, where she could wrap one leg around his ribs. “And I’ll take care of your spiders.”

The space was just barely large enough for him to fit. It was, he realized, where all the pipes and duct work collected before it poked out into the utility room, hidden behind a wall of solid stone so that no one could see the mess. He couldn’t fit into the hatch, low on the wall and disguised by the presence of cleaning supplies for the housekeeping staff, without dissolving and reforming himself on the other side, but she was able to slip through easily, even without her Devil Fruit to let her pass through the wall itself.

She had clearly been there before, leaving behind an unlit lantern and a couple of cushions, and she explained that she had gotten the idea after discovering the space by complete accident, while phasing through the wall in search of something to get pasta sauce stains out of the white tile floors. She hadn’t really given creating a proper safe room much thought, but it had seemed like a good spot to hide, so she had opted to leave a few old cushions, already destined for the trash, before she forgot it existed entirely.

After desiccating the nest of camel spiders for her – and absolutely not preening to himself, enjoying the feeling of doing something so simple for his wife, who hated the giant, fuzzy arachnids – he took a couple of quick measurements, eyeballing the size of the space. It wasn’t a very large area, and a man his size would quickly become more than a little uncomfortable, but the pipes and duct work only took up half of what was, functionally, a long hall in the stone. The further half from the door, towards the exterior wall, was completely open, and thinking on it for a moment, he was certain it wouldn’t take much work to create a proper, functional safe room for her to use long term. The pipes and ducts were already there, to add a single vent for air flow and a rudimentary latrine, and it wasn’t as if it would need a disguised door to keep it even further hidden.

He would have the basics installed by a disposable contractor and have her finish the rest. The effects of Logia fruits were permanent, and she could readily shape her own little safety box using her powers, a spot that no one knew of but the two of them. It would, he decided, make him feel a little more at ease, as well, knowing that she had somewhere relatively safe, not just from Doflamingo or other attackers, but in the event something else happened – a Marine raid on Rain Dinners was the likeliest, though he could think of a dozen other possibilities.

He kept her with him the rest of the night. After forcing her to eat something, he cajoled her into taking one of the pain pills Divina had left, and settled into the bed, still keeping her firmly against his chest. She fit on top of him easily, curled up into a ball over his stomach and sternum, secure beneath the weight of his arm.

Having a partner would always be a glaring vulnerability. He knew that, and it was a major consideration in why he had largely refrained from pursuing any serious commitments, unable and unwilling to attach himself to someone who could be used or turned against him. Even when he had decided that he was interested in his own wife, when he began to seriously consider the merits of a long-term partnership after years of isolating himself, he hadn’t intended to truly, genuinely, fall in love. He had hoped to find someone that he liked, who’s company was pleasant, who’s features were attractive, and who was reliable enough to be involved with his grander plans – someone he was content with, but still disposable, if that’s what it came to.

By the time it had possessed him that he should end things, that he was getting too close to the woman he’d agreed to marry mostly for convenience and spite, it was entirely too late. He was entrenched, now, and there was no digging himself free.

Despite his exhaustion, he wasn’t going to get any sleep. Any other time, he might have gotten up, tried to complete some tasks like reviewing financial documents, or even just sat with a drink, but he couldn’t stomach having her out of arm’s reach for that long. Instead, he settled against a stack of pillows he didn’t particularly remember buying, leaned up against the headboard, with his wife carefully cradled in his grasp, listening for any out of place sound, watching for the slightest shadow that didn’t belong.

In the morning, he would deal with the inconvenience lurking in his hotel.

Chapter Text

It was a confrontation that was long overdue.

He knew Doflamingo wasn’t the sort of person to accept a loss. It wasn’t in his nature, and his loyalists had done him no favors, reinforcing his already overinflated ego by constantly kowtowing and bowing to his whims, no matter how unpleasant. The only people he was willing to obey were the ones that he wasn’t confident that he could beat, and when he encountered those types, powerful beings like Kaidou or Whitebeard, he was eternally scheming, plotting ways to have them removed from his path, so that they’d no longer be capable of inconveniencing him with their existence.

Crocodile had long been among that second group of people, the ones that Doflamingo preferred to remain on pleasant terms with. In terms of strength, they were relatively close, enough so that it was reasonable to question which of them would ultimately win if they were to come to blows, but it was his authority over Paradise that made him a desirable ally, above anything else. Although Doflamingo had a strangle hold on the weapons and slave trade in the New World, there was precious little that he had access to in Paradise, constantly and continuously pushed out by the existence of the various Warlords. Hancock and Jinbei would go out of their way to disrupt slave trade operations when they found them, and Hawkeye was known to do so, on occasion, though mostly by happenstance. Moria was a willing participant, but only for the sake of being a purchaser, leaving Crocodile as the only one who might be open to a partnership.

They had negotiated, such as it was, a handful of times before. It had mostly been on a short term basis, with Crocodile occasionally providing security escorts for undisclosed shipments or pushing through forged paperwork, and never on a consistent basis. It was one thing, to have Doflamingo owe him a favor or two, but another entirely to actually be in business with him. It would be a profitable deal, there was no question about that, but Doflamingo was sloppy – smart enough not to connect himself, directly, but too arrogant to avoid leaving breadcrumbs that would one day link the Marines back to something they would use against him. Crocodile would always be at risk of being the next patsy thrown to the sharks, and that was not something he could abide.

It didn’t surprise him that the other Warlord did not take losing Lily gracefully. What had been unexpected was his lingering obsession with her, directly, rather than a preoccupation with revenge.

No one, except maybe Aster, had known why he wanted the young woman for himself. In all reality, he was still in the dark, though he was confident that there was more to it than the simple, base desire of a spoiled brat. Oleander Cross may have had something to do with it, or it may have been a red herring, meant to keep him distracted from looking into the real reason, but no one had been able to turn up anything, no matter how deeply they looked.

There was more to it than simply wanting to spite Crocodile. It wasn’t the tantrum of a child who had been forced to share – it was more unhinged than that, more desperate, to the degree he wondered if Doflamingo even actually wanted her for himself, or if he’d made a promise to someone all the more powerful, like Big Mom, that Crocodile had prevented him from being able to deliver on. He wasn’t certain there was a reason for Kaidou to care about either his wife or her father, but if Oleander Cross were from someplace of interest, an island that had been destroyed or lost sometime in the past, Charlotte Linlin would pay top dollar to have his heir to marry off to one of her own children.

It wasn’t likely, but he had considered the possibility. Big Mom would, in all likelihood, just show up or send one of her older children to make demands, rather than wait on Doflamingo to deliver the next piece of her collection.

Doflamingo was already in the lower dining hall when he arrived. Privately, he had expected the other Warlord to show up unnecessarily late, just for the sake of getting on his nerves, but he surely thought being there early would be just as frustrating. It might have been, on any other day, but his attempts at being a minor inconvenience were nothing, compared to what he’d done the night before.

Lily’s bruises looked worse in the daylight. Just seeing her face, lined with four ruddy blue streaks so intense he could nearly see the fingerprints embedded in her skin, was nearly enough to have him renege on his agreement not to fight to the death then and there. Even through her makeup, there was a hint of a shadow, and her leg was even worse. He had called Divina and Adami up to the suite, the former to attend to her while Sunday was occupied, and the latter to join Bunshou in guarding their residence – as well as to keep the now-helmsman from attempting to kill Donquixote, himself.

“I heard you made it back last night,” It was only ten in the morning, but Doflamingo had already started to drink, sipping on a martini while sprawled in the chair at the end of the table – Crocodile’s seat. “How’s the princess?”

He ignored the question entirely, in the same way he ignored the chairs lining the dining table. Dealing with Doflamingo was the same as dealing with any other noble, a song and dance of both subtle and blatant social cues, and it was one that Crocodile was well familiar with. Sitting would put them on even footing – sitting in any chair, other than the one at the head of the table, would put him beneath the overgrown jackal. He opted to stand, instead, refusing to give Doflamingo an ounce of attention until Sunday, who had taken up residence behind the bar, handed him a tumbler of whiskey.

“The little bird isn’t with you?” He didn’t want to spare a moment, it seemed, in trying to instigate a fight. “I’ve been looking for her all morning.”

“She’s with the physician,” Her F-Wani drifted by the window – also searching for her, in the hopes of getting treats. “You broke her hand last night.”

His surprise seemed genuine, at least. It didn’t last, and it wasn’t accompanied by so much as a glimmer of remorse, but the way his brows flicked upward, the twitch in his smile, revealed that he hadn’t realized the damage he’d done, as well as that he likely hadn’t meant to do it to begin with.

“I’ll have to send her flowers,” He chortled alongside a noisy sip. “Does the little desert Lily like lilies?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know,” He wasn’t – Doflamingo was never the sort to pay that much attention, even to those he was interested in. “You keep insisting you’re meant to be together, yet you seem to know nothing about her.”

“I know what matters.”

He had hit a nerve. He didn’t expect to, because he couldn’t imagine a reality in which Doflamingo actually valued his relationship with Lily, delusional though it was, but there was a surprising amount of bite behind Doflamingo’s words. The other man had gone from a grin to a scowl, from calm and lax to tense and rigid – he was angry, truly and genuinely angry, though it only lasted for an instant. With a puff of a laugh, he threw himself back into the bulk of his coat, pouting like a child who’d just been put in timeout, giggling darkly under his breath.

“I thought you knew,” His massive shoulders heaved as he continued to laugh, the sound growing deeper, more wild, with every breath. “When I heard you’d gotten to her first, I thought you’d figured it out.”

Of course, he hadn’t – and it seemed Doflamingo had realized that, himself. His hope had been that he could bluff his way through the conversation, pretend that he knew the secret that had caused the once Celestial Dragon’s obsession with Lily for long enough to get the hint he needed to piece it together himself, but he was already caught, and as the room slowly filled with Doflamingo’s bitter laugh, he caught Sunday’s eye in the reflection on the window. She had made herself innocuous as possible, kept her head tilted down and her hat over her eyes, but she caught his stare, nodding so imperceptibly he almost wondered if he had imagined it.

She had his permission to get involved. Whether it was in that moment, or sometime later, while the overgrown manchild was still stalking the halls of his casino, if she thought she had the opportunity to get the information they needed, she had his blessing to make the attempt.

“But you obviously don’t understand,” The swell of his tittering started to descend back down. “If you did, you wouldn’t have been wasting your time in this shithole, watching my Lily wilt in the dirt.”

“My wife,” His decision to interrupt was a cautious one, a bet that reminding Doflamingo that Lily was his wife, not the royal’s possession, might aggravate him into choosing his words a little less carefully. “Has made her feelings for you more than clear. If she were yours, she wouldn’t be mine.”

Cracking wood echoed through the room. Doflamingo was on his feet, chair thrown halfway across the room with one haphazard kick, shattered where he’d made contact and broken again when it slammed into the tile. All of his amusement had gone, now, revealing the rage that had been simmering underneath, teeth clenched so tightly they might crack under the pressure, veins throbbing beneath the tan skin of his brow.

“You think you get to claim her?” An errant wave of his hand sent his glass soaring. “You might be a Warlord now, Croccy, but that’ll never change what you really are.”

That was the moment he chose to light a cigar. Doflamingo shifted his weight like an agitated animal, hungry and waiting for the opportunity to strike – he wouldn’t take well to calm, to disinterest, to a complete refusal to engage with his tantrum.

“You were born nothing,” His breath shuddered, a vicious flush stretching down his neck and onto his chest. “And no matter what you do, you’ll die as nothing, as a nobody. You don’t get to come along and act like you own her anymore than you own me. You aren’t even fit to be our slave.”

There it was – the answer. Part of it, at least, enough of it for him to understand.

In the entire world, there was only one group of people Doflamingo had ever considered as being remotely on the same level as himself. He managed, somehow, to look down even on the Celestial Dragons, content on the peak of the Red Line, but he did consider himself one of them – the best of them, the superior version of them, but one of them, nonetheless. It didn’t matter that the Celestial Dragons thought absolutely nothing of him, that the Five Elders looked at him as a nuisance, or that his family name had been stricken from their record forevermore.

It wasn’t a mistake that he had placed Lily on his level.

“You don’t really think they’ll take her back, do you?” It was another gamble, one that immediately paid off, as the agitated brat sputtered indignantly. “She’s only half a Celestial Dragon, and she was raised down here, amongst us commoners. You were born there, and they refused you – they’ll never accept her on Mary Geoise.”

“Fufufufu, you think so?”

He had overplayed his hand – but so had Doflamingo. There was something more going on, and Crocodile had revealed that he didn’t know what it was, and at the same time, Doflamingo was the one who’d made him aware that there was something more to even worry about.

Donquixote’s temper was quick, but it faded just as easily as it sparked. That simple victory was enough to quell him, leave him giggling in satisfaction.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

Crocodile shrugged as he spoke, keeping his eye on the lake just beyond the window. Sonata, the largest of the new generation, attempted to challenge the matriarch for the most desirable spot along the rocky walls, where the sun cut through the water and created a particularly comfortable perch. Despite being twice her size, the ornery young reptile was still cowed by a single warning swipe, darting back into the depths – not approaching, but circling, waiting for her opportunity to try again.

In response to his declaration, Doflamingo hummed, quietly curious.

“I’ve never needed anything from those bloated fools,” His words were selected carefully, designed to make his point stick by doing damage the only way he could. “Nor do I care about your opinion. As I told you, Lily is mine, and I have no intention of surrendering her to anyone.”

“That’s the thing I like most about you, Croccy,” He laughed ruefully. “You’re so sure of yourself, even when you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It didn’t take much after that for the quasi-confrontation to be over. Crocodile wasn’t at all surprised that the supposed business that brought Doflamingo to Arabasta was the same slave ship that he had decimated the afternoon prior – he had freely admitted that the now freed slaves were a shipment headed for the far side of the Red Line, and that he’d come to transport them. Although annoyed at Crocodile’s inadvertent disruption, he hadn’t paid for them, nor had he intended to, and ultimately, it seemed like getting the opportunity to frustrate the King of the Desert and accost his wife was sufficient reason to consider the trip a success.

He fully intended to continue to be a problem for the rest of the day, too, adamant that he couldn’t leave until the following morning. Sailing through a storm wasn’t a true problem for him, but pushing him to go would only make him stay longer out of spite. He was bored of pestering Crocodile himself, at least, and had made his way back up to the main floor to take up entirely too much space at one of the poker tables.

“Sunday…”

“I’ll see what I can find,” His assistant declared, well before he could articulate the order. “Are you going to tell her?”

He could justify waiting until Sunday found some actual evidence, but that was a risk he wasn’t entirely willing to take. He had, however inadvertently, broken his wife’s trust on more than one occasion, and though she seemed to have forgiven him, anything less than giving her the whole truth right away would only serve to prod at old wounds. Doflamingo’s word was worth precious little, but he knew the other Warlord well – well enough to be certain that it was the truth, or that Doflamingo, at least, believed it was the truth.

It wasn’t Lily that he was obsessed with, necessarily, but what she represented to him. Although it was highly unlikely that she’d ever be accepted back on Mary Geoise, she still had the blood, the genes, of one of the First Twenty – one of precious few things in the world that Doflamingo couldn’t readily get access to, and one of even fewer things that mattered to him. Finding Lily, finding a woman who was not just accessible, but who shared his royal bloodline, was his golden goose, his shining opportunity to have yet another thing that ought to have rightfully been his, but had always been denied to him.

The idea that she might be accepted back among them only made her all the more desirable.

If she were elevated to the status of a Celestial, then she could, if she chose, keep her spouse. It wouldn’t be quite the same as being named a Celestial Dragon outright, but the authority of the First Twenty was absolute in the world – with her blessing, Doflamingo could do whatever he pleased, act with absolute impunity and enjoy all the luxuries he thought he was due, and all he had to do was make one woman his wife.

As could Crocodile himself, he supposed, which was no doubt the thing that drove his one-sided rival into an absolute fit of madness.

There was some appeal to the idea. He couldn’t deny that it would absolutely be convenient, to be able to do whatever he liked in the stark light of the day, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the concept, either. The part of him that was old and tired didn’t loathe the idea of living out the rest of his days in comfort and luxury, doing nothing except laying around with his wife and being tended to by an army of servants, but it was a tiny part, one that he knew better than to believe.

It was something to consider, but not an opportunity to leap blindly at without consideration to the consequences, like remaining firmly under the government’s bootheel without the benefit of anonymity.

Even Celestial Dragons were expected to obey the commands of the Five Elders, the leaders of the World Government – and obedience to any authority except his own was something he couldn’t abide. Eventually, surely, if he gave it enough time and attention, he would find a way to outmaneuver them, the way Doflamingo often bragged about doing. If he had control of Pluton, perhaps, a weapon so powerful even their precious knights would hesitate, then he would be more open to the idea, but it would be years before Operation Utopia came to fruition, and more time than that, still, to be properly secure in his rule over just a single country.

And once that happened, he could have all the same things he might have enjoyed in Mary Geoise. He already had most of them, anyway, riches and petty luxuries and the freedom to do just about anything that he pleased without much interference by the military, and he would only have more, when he had seated himself as the head of an unmovable empire of pure, brutal strength.

Even beyond that, though, he supposed it wasn’t his decision to make.

Despite giving it some consideration on the trek back up to the suite, he knew what direction he would ultimately go, if he had to make a choice. He would chose to remain a free man, a pirate, and keep the potential usefulness of his wife’s ancestry as a secret, a convenient trump card to pull only when it became necessary, but whether or not that was what happened was entirely dependent on what his wife chose to do.

He would follow her no matter what. He wouldn’t be happy about it, and he would do what he could to convince her it was a mistake, but if she made up her mind that life in Mary Geoise was what she wanted, then that’s where he would end up, too.

Despite what Adami thought, and in spite of the joke he had made of it at the time, he had meant it, when he admitted that he would bend the knee to her.

It had been an uncomfortable revelation, when he’d first put together just how deeply invested in his wife he’d become. For a time, he’d almost hoped that she would leave him, to spare him the indignity of being subservient to someone else, because he didn’t have the strength to do it for himself. The longer time went on, however, the more comfortable it became, and when he accepted his new state of being, it had morphed into something that felt just as natural as breathing, and the concept of being separated from her was no different than how it felt to lose his hand, like some integral piece of his existence was being ripped away.

A piece he was sure that he would learn to live without, just like he had when it came to his missing limb, but things would never be the same, if he did. It would always be inconvenient, working around this absent piece of himself, and there would be times that it would hurt, just as badly as it had hurt when it first happened, and there would be nothing that he could do for the pain except wait for it to pass, return back to being a dull ache he could put out of his conscious mind.

The suite was quiet when he stepped inside. In the late morning, she would usually be up and about – if she wasn’t downstairs at the casino, then she’d be fiddling with something, making something on her sewing machine or reading another log book or trying, and failing, to learn how to bake for the hundredth time.

There was an instant of pure fear, racing adrenaline, when he couldn’t immediately find her. Bunshou was still in the hall, had indicated that he hadn’t heard a peep since Divina had come by to give her more pain medicine an hour earlier, but that didn’t mean that something hadn’t happened, that Doflamingo hadn’t agreed to their conversation solely to distract him while one of his underlings stole her away in silence. It wasn’t a panic that stalled him, but one that kept him moving, making his way towards the bedroom first, where he expected her to be, to have been if something had happened.

Just as quickly as his adrenaline had risen, it dropped. In the early heat of the day, she had kicked away the sheets, sprawled out in the middle of their bed like a starfish in a designer nightie. Her bruises looked worse, mottled and green, but she was comfortable, a picture of absolute relaxation as she snored quietly. He would never tell her, and she would never admit it, but a little bit of drool dripped out of the corner of her open mouth, staining the cover of his pillow – and it was his pillow, twice as thick as any of hers – and it made his heart twist up in knots that his first, and only, thought was that she was going to wake up with a terrible ache in her neck if he let her keep sleeping at that angle.

Chapter Text

There weren’t many places in the world that he liked, but the East Blue, in particular, was one of his least favorites.

As many bad memories as he may have, the North Blue would forever be the littlest bit nostalgic, and he did, on rare occasion, enjoy going back for short visits, if only to destroy something and bask in the feeling of catharsis that always followed. The South Blue was home to a particularly rare psychedelic herb he sometimes liked to partake in, spending hours sprawled in his bed, watching vibrant shapes swirl and dance across his ceiling, and the West Blue, despite having next to nothing of interest, at the very least boasted some curious views that made sailing through the area the slightest bit more tolerable.

The East Blue had nothing. There had been a time when it was home to the most interesting thing in the world, but that time had come and gone, when the only reason worth visiting the sea had run off with another man and taken up residence in Arabasta’s infernal desert.

He was there only because she had requested it.

The letter had arrived a few weeks earlier, carried straight to his window by an unmarked Coo, given instructions to leave it in his hands, and his hands alone. In the days since, he must have read it a thousand times, until every word, the shape of every letter, was permanently emblazoned in his mind. Her handwriting was so different than what he was used to, sleek and smooth cursive, with entirely too many swirls and tails, and seeing it, for a moment, had summoned all the bitter rage and loathing he had for the once-slave who had tricked him with her fraudulent correspondences, but he managed to push it aside, now that he had the pleasure of seeing Lily’s true signature.

It wasn’t often that he answered other people’s requests for his presence, but for her, he would gladly make the exception. She had summoned him to meet with her at some floating casino called the Ferry, where they’d be able to speak without the looming presence of Sir Crocodile. It had belonged to the other Warlord once, and he knew that, but Vergo had confirmed that it had since been transferred into her name, and that Crocodile himself would be at that shitty little island she used to call home, trapped by various meetings for days on end.

He was surprised that Crocodile had bothered to tell her the truth. His loathing of the government, of the people who controlled it, was no secret, and he would have thought that, no matter what power there was to be found in using her name, Crocodile would be quick to spurn it simply because it came from the First Twenty, but it seemed that even he wasn’t immune to the allure. She hadn’t admitted to it outright, speaking in vague codes on the chance that someone managed to intercept the missive, but she had made clear that she had been told – and that she wanted to meet with him, in order to know more.

Odds were good it was some sort of trap. Vergo had confirmed that Crocodile himself would be stuck on that shitty little island she used to call home, reluctantly tolerating an endless barrage of meetings with the various faces of Marine leadership in that area, but he knew the old reptile better than he would care to admit. He would never really leave her unattended, and there was something suspicious, too, about her sudden willingness to speak to him – but the hope that it wasn’t was too much to resist.

The Ferry, itself, was closed. Two large ships, boasting the name of the largest and most respected construction company in the East Blue, loitered on either end of the dock, loaded down by stacks of wood and pallets of stone. Men and women crossed back and forth, hauling things in through the gap that had likely once been the front door, and even at a distance, he could hear the sounds of construction.

A young woman was there to meet them before the ship had even come to a halt. A business-type, in a prim, baby-blue blazer and skirt, with smart little heels and a tight bun of chocolate colored hair on the back of her head. Everything about her screamed middle management, but he would give her the credit of being more professional than he expected, her expression a mask of perfect neutrality as he hopped over the rails of his ship to stand in front of her.

“Mister Donquixote,” She didn’t offer a hand, and neither did he. “Miss Cross is expecting you.”

The old casino was undergoing a facelift. It had been stripped mostly bare inside, ripped apart all the way down to the ribs, and the reconstruction had only just begun. A new floor had been laid, intricate patterns like mandalas made out of white and purple and yellow and blue, still pinned in place with spacers as a trio of workmen applied laquer. Most of the walls were bare wood, but a few had been smoothed and plastered and painted plain, except for one, marked by orderly rows of paint and wallpaper of varying intensities to find the most ideal match.

He wondered which one she had picked. Sparing them the briefest glance, he found himself most partial to the soft, lemon yellow paint, the one that accented the more intense colors of the floor and the more delicate, subtle white of the baseboards and crown molding.

Amidst the small crowd of workers and their buzzing chaos, he spotted her. At the far end of the room, she was stood at perhaps the only table, a lingering remnant that matched nothing else about the vision she was trying to enact. She had yet to notice him, staring intensely at various swatches of fabric, rolling them between her fingers, holding them to the windows.

She was as lovely as ever.

Even before he knew who she really was, he had thought she was attractive – too small to bother with the effort it would take to bring her to bed and leave her alive when he was done, but nice enough to look at. A bit plain, a bit boring, but with her hair done properly and a bit of makeup, he wouldn’t have minded seeing her bounce around the pool with some of the other women, giggling and splashing and whetting his appetite for more than just flashes of finely disguised flesh. Maybe, on a day he was feeling particularly gregarious, he would be willing to spend the hours it would take to make her ready for him, just so he could say that he had experienced what it was like, to be inside of a woman so much smaller than himself.

Then he had learned who she really was. He had recognized Aster, the woman Adami had all but begged him to find, if he could, and he had realized that the untamed little woman in the cobble shop was more than just something pleasant to look at. She may never have been given her proper title, and her blood may not be totally pure, but half was better than nothing. Half was enough to be closer to his status than any of the other fools walking the earth, noble and pure enough to make her a suitable companion, clean enough to birth the children he had so carefully avoided having before.

“Doflamingo,” She wasn’t happy to see him – but the anger, the disgust, he’d become so accustomed to finding in her eyes was suspiciously absent. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Offering her hand would have been a step too far, it seemed, but she didn’t step away as he drew closer, invading the space beside her the way that wretch who’d stolen her always did. “I was starting to think you didn’t want to see me.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. Motioning for the woman, presumably her assistant or maybe a manager of some sort, to leave them, she turned and started to lead him down one of the back halls. Construction had already been finished there, it seemed, fresh tiles still shimmering smooth, light yellow drapes hanging around floor to ceiling windows staring out at the empty sea. A bit bemused, uncertain but quietly hopeful, he followed, away from the sounds of saws and hammers, to what ultimately appeared to be a side bar. There was no one there to tend it, and she stepped behind it instead of calling for someone, going through the motions of making a mojito as if she’d done it a dozen times before, though he specifically remembered her saying she hated them during her brief stay at his birthday.

He made himself comfortable at one of the booth seats. With the table mounted to the floor, it didn’t quite fit his sprawling legs, and he settled on the back, instead, partially on the cushion and partly on the wooden railing behind it. His back was close enough to the gentle sea to feel the mist of the waves, crashing against his thighs, and given the building, muggy heat of the building summer of the East Blue, it was just enough to be pleasantly refreshing, rather than irritating. With his drink made, Lily poured herself a glass of white wine, something she always seemed to favor, and pulled up a loose chair at the far end of the table to sit opposite.

“Did you always know Cross was a Celestial Dragon?”

Straight to the point – he couldn’t resist laughing, amused by her forwardness. He’d heard that’s how she was, speaking plainly and forthrightly, but he’d never been able to experience it for himself, not with the way she cowered from him.

“Yes,” He decided to humor her, for the moment at least, uncertain, as yet, what she wanted from the conversation. “He left Marie Goise before I was born, but my father mentioned him, once or twice. He thought of him as something of a…folk hero, I suppose.”

She made a sound of confusion into her glass.

“He saw what your father did as an act of heroism,” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his words. “Leaving behind the Celestial Dragons and all their corruption in favor of a life of freedom amongst the civilians. It’s what inspired him to do the same, when I was young.”

The drink she had made was heavy on the alcohol. Whether she poured them that way naturally, or she was trying to ply him with liquor, he couldn’t say, but he was confident if it were the latter, she drastically underestimated his tolerance.

“Of course, he didn’t understand what it was really like, how people truly saw us,” A cigarette tucked between her lips, he watched as she raised a hand to light it – with the lighter he’d left, when he’d gone to see her in Arabasta. “He didn’t understand why Oleander was so violent, thought all it did was make us look like monsters. He thought we could live peacefully, instead.”

“I can imagine what happened,” She chimed quietly, as if hesitant to interrupt. “I know it…didn’t end well.”

That was an understatement if he’d ever heard one, but he bit his tongue. She had never been willing to speak with him, before, and he had to be careful in how he proceeded, if he wanted it to continue.

“Of course, I didn’t realize he had a child,” Ignoring the lingering anger he still felt whenever he thought about Homing, he did his best to relax, leaning back on the railing, in the hopes that she wouldn’t grow tense, herself. “Not even Adami let that slip.”

Thin furrows appeared on her brow.

“He only told me that he was looking for Aster,” He explained. “That she’d made off with something of great importance to Oleander, and the crew was looking to get it back. I didn’t put the pieces together until well after I saw you the first time.”

For a moment, they lapsed into a not-uncomfortable silence. She sipped at her wine, staring thoughtfully into the glass, abusing her cigarette to buy time before she had to speak again. It was cute, he thought, the way she tried to act so mature, so worldly and clever. She was good at it – someone who didn’t know better, who wasn’t aware of where she’d come from, might fall for it, and he supposed that she had learned from the best, when it came to faking nobility.

“Come on now, chica linda,” He swallowed the rest of his drink, leaning towards her, elbows dug into his knees. “If that’s all you wanted to know, you would have just called. What do you really want to know?”

She worried the inside of her lip between her teeth, staring into the distance of the ocean, at something far over the horizon. Painted a soft pink, he wanted badly to bite it, to pull that pouty bottom lip between his teeth and taste her on his tongue.

“What family is he from?”

He knew that wasn’t what she wanted to ask. It wasn’t the question burning on her mind, but the softness of her voice betrayed her nerves – she hadn’t worked up to saying what she really meant.

“Curious about your relatives, vida mia?”

“A little,” Her voice was so sweet when she was nervous, smooth and delicate, like the chords of a harp. “Cross didn’t seem to be the most stable person. I…”

“Worried it’s genetic?”

Finally, he had found a weakness to exploit. Despite Crocodile’s willingness to make a public spectacle of their marriage, he had been careful to keep many things about his wife a secret from the masses. It was known that she was from the East Blue, but most anyone curious enough to look into her history had found precious little about her past, and even less about what she was like as a person. Even Doflamingo, who had far more access to her information than most, was able to get his hands on next to nothing – Aster’s word was unreliable at best, and Florian was incredibly tight lipped, responding to threats and bribes with a bitter insistency that he hadn’t been close to his wife's oldest daughter in years, and now that she was gone, he wanted nothing more to do with her or the trouble she had caused. He wasn’t certain what her relationship was like with her little sister, but getting close to her wasn’t an option.

Axe-Hand Morgan may not care for his son much, if at all, but Helmeppo was surprisingly sly, for someone who’d only ever been described as arrogant and spoiled. He refused to let anyone get too close to his wife, and seemed to have taught her well, to expect people to try and use her to get information about her far more well-known sibling. In the past, Doflamingo had contemplated abducting her anyway, but he hadn’t become quite desperate enough to consider it worth the risk. Crocodile seemed content to oblige Lily’s whims, determined to keep her compliant and at his side, and between the attention he would draw from both the other Warlord and the Marines, torturing a young woman for her sister’s favorite color just hadn’t seemed efficient.

“I don’t know them well,” It wasn’t a lie – most of what he knew about Oleander Cross’ family was by reputation, though he still picked his words with the utmost care. “There isn’t much I can tell you.”

She pouted so sweetly, his mouth watered at the thought of tasting her tongue.

“Don’t look so nervous, pajarito,” He chuckled. “It’s a good thing. Those fools on Mary Geoise have nothing to do except gossip most of the time. If there was anything amiss with your extended family, I would have heard about it.”

“Do you know them at all?” She smiled, just the slightest bit, revealing that little gap where one tooth sat just slightly too far back. “Are they…do they know? About me, I mean.”

“No,” He pushed his empty glass towards her, subtle, as if he only wanted it out of his way – to his immense pleasure, she reached for it, making her way over to the bar. “We can't have them just show up to take you, can we?"

Her posture tensed, a deer hearing a hunter in the woods, waiting for a strike from the underbrush.

“Your status is a complicated thing, reina,” He admitted casually. “Normally, when someone choses to leave Marie Geoise, they’re stripped of their title, the way I was when my father took us away from our home.”

Her kitten heels clicked on the freshly varnished wood. As she passed him his now full glass, he reached out, intentionally skimming his fingers over the back of her hand. Unlike all the times before, she didn’t try to get away, tensing in surprise, but allowing him to linger.

“Most of the other Celestials wouldn’t consider it,” Her wrist fit easily in the curl of his finger, her pulse quick and strong. “But Oleander was an only child, as was his father. Without you, the Przechodzić family has no heirs left. None with direct ties to the main branch of the family, at least.”

“You think they’ll accept me back?”

He couldn’t fight his amusement. She was doing her best to sound level, disinterested, but her private excitement refused to be fully subdued, leaking out of the corners of her lips.

“They might,” Her wrist was still in his hand, encrusted with silver and pink stones that were cool beneath his thumb. “If your grandfather can convince the Five Elders to allow it.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. Her breath poured out, shuddering through a sigh.

“Don’t get too excited, reina,” After all the complications he had faced, it was a struggle, to swallow back his laughter of relief to feign concern. “It isn’t as simple as having you declared one of them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your mother is one of the common folk,” He stroked his thumb over her knuckles, feeling the bones – the metal bars that ran through her lace glove, reminding him, suddenly, that he’d broken that same hand just a month or so earlier. “Your grandfather may be happy to have you back, but to the rest of those fools? You won’t be seen as anything more than another bastard.”

The way her face fell – it breathed life into him. She looked at him like he’d just destroyed her most prized possession, like he’d ripped away all hope, and it filled him with the glorious sensation of well-enacted retribution.

“You’d be lucky to be married off to the second son of a second son,” He continued gently, drawing her closer, until she was settled on the bench beside his foot. “To say nothing of how you’d be treated. Their cruelties would make Crocodile seem like a dream.”

“And you’d still send me up there?”

On instinct, his fingers closed around her limb. He was cautious, this time, looping his fingers together but giving her enough room to wriggle, holding on before she could steal herself away from him, the way she always did. She put her whole body into the struggle, flinging herself back – tears watered in her eyes, every muscle in her arm tense, and he was certain that she’d managed to hurt herself all over again.

Ignoring her distress, he reached for her, jamming his fingers beneath her furthest leg. She was so small, it took him no effort at all to lift her, squirming and writhing and spitting like a kitten, to settle her on one thigh. It didn’t put them at eye level with one another, but it was close, closer than he’d ever been to her before, than he thought she’d ever let him be.

“Eres tonta,” He cooed, even as she tried to shove him away, hand splayed over his chest. “Of course not. I would never let them do that to you.”

Even through her makeup, her nose had started to turn red, wet with snot to match the tears pouring down her cheeks.

“They reject me too, you know,” He dabbed the corner of her eye with his thumb, filling his palm with her cheek. “All because my father spurned them. Both of my parents were descended from the First Twenty, my blood is pure, but they still hate me, too.”

Her struggling started to settle. He wrapped his hands around her ribs, feeling them flex with every breath, her heart hammering beneath, drawing her ever closer to his chest.

“So, what?” She croaked around a hastily swallowed sob. “You’d do what? Make the sacrifice of marrying me? Is that why you came sniffing around to begin with? To use me to get back onto Mary Geoise?”

He barely felt the slap of her palms against his skin. She wriggled in earnest, trying desperately to escape him and to hit him in equal measure, feet planted so firmly on the cushions below that he could hear fabric tearing under her heels. Part of him was tempted to let her go, to watch her fly into the heavy wooden table, but it would only set him back, if he did.

Breaking her hand was enough of an error. It had taken him an eternity to get this far, to get her to extend him enough of an olive branch that he could begin to worm his way into her heart. A good laugh at her expense may make him feel better about how she’d treated him in the moment, but it would only push him further from her, make it all the more difficult to have her the way he dreamed of.

Bastard or not, she could make his life very difficult, once she was back with her family on Mary Geoise.

It was her name that would be restored, not his. Regardless of the circumstances of his own birth, he would only be the husband of a Celestial Dragon, an extension of her, rather than a noble unto his own right. She could do whatever she liked to him, treat him no better than a slave, if that’s what she pleased. He needed her to want him, to adore him, to worship him – to see him as he was, a descendant of the gods themselves, if he was going to get what he wanted.

“Amorcita,” He was precise, in how firmly he held her face. “Don’t be foolish, now.”

She grunted at him, moving as if she wanted to bite his thumb, which he carefully avoided, drawing her close enough to feel her breath on his lips.

“If all I wanted was to get back to Mary Geoise, I wouldn’t have tried so hard with you,” He cooed. “Of course I want to be back in my home, to be treated the way I deserve, but I want to do it with you.”

She didn’t need to know the truth – that he’d tried, and failed, so many times before.

“I would be content just to have you,” She smelled sweet, delicate wine and fresh vanilla icing and rose oil. “To take you with me to Dressrosa, where I can spoil you, worship you the way you should be."

She didn’t need to know that was a lie, too, or at least half of one. He had very much sought after their marriage because it was his ticket back to Mary Geoise.

His affection for Lily had only come later. Much of it had been under false pretenses, born of her mother’s carefully chosen words, meant to decieve him, but learning the truth hadn’t been enough to strip his obsession away. It had only taken a few brief interactions, but he knew in his bones that she was meant to be his.

"We're meant to be, pajarito," Her breath caught loudly in her throat as his lips skimmed over her own, feeling the dew of her lipstick. "We could be happy, just you and me, even if we never set foot on the Red Line. You know it deep down, I know you do. You can feel it, the same as I can."

She tasted better than he'd ever imagined. Tart from the wine, bitter with smoke, sweet with some unnamed delicacy, every flavor in the world lingering on her soft lips. It didn't occur to him, at first, that she didn't move, not until he felt her start to pull away, slowly but firmly trying to escape him. Fighting every instinct in his body, he let her, wanting more than anything to follow her mouth with his own, to throw her down on the table and finally know if the rest of her could outdo his imagination.

"Doflamingo..."

"Doffy," She was going to leave – he could sense it, and his fingers started to move, desperately tracing the outline of her shape, the hills and valley of her waist, her hips. "Call me Doffy, pastelita. Please."

"Doffy," He shuddered at the sound. "I appreciate everything you've told me, but I need to think."

"I understand," He didn't, he thought that it should be easy, but he knew it was what she wanted to hear. "I know, it's so much to take in, isn't it?"

As she slipped from his fingers, he considered simply abducting her. They would have a head start on Crocodile, on the Marines – but she would be angry, and he had to tread carefully. She was starting to come around, to understand, but he knew, provided Aster had told him the truth for once, that she did not take it well, when she believed someone was attempting to control her. He had to let her feel like it was her choice.

"You'll stay in touch, won't you?" He couldn't help himself, feeling a strand of her hair between his fingers. "It kills me to be apart from you, vida mia. At least send me a letter once in a while, hm?"

"Maybe," She chirped, ducking away from him with a playfulness that made his pulse throb like lightning. "I still haven't forgiven you for what you did to my hand."

"My apologies, reina," He wasn't sorry, not really, but his lungs were tight, blood rushing in his ears and down to his groin, seeing the ghost of a smile on her face. "I won't forget myself again."

Chapter Text

Sea water tasted vile, but it was better than the taste of Doflamingo's lips.

Even before his ship had left the Ferry's docks, she had leaned over the railing, filled her wine glass with a full helping of unsanitized sea water, and actively tried to drown herself in it. It burned her tongue and her nose and her throat, but that was still an improvement over the lingering taste of mint and lime and the spit of the last man in the world she wanted anywhere near her person. Part of her was tempted to try and swallow it all, in the hopes she could make herself sick, but the churning in her stomach worked faster than her hands, and she found herself leaning over the railing, spewing wine and salt water and half-digested biscuits into the ocean.

"Poor thing," Sunday patted her back in a way that was distinctly not sympathetic, barely smothering her laughter with a painfully faux cough. "There, there."

"Fuck off."

She didn't even bother to hide her giggle.

"Hey," The spy sniped back, barely trying to be helpful as another bout of nausea roiled in her stomach. "You're the one who suggested this was the best way to get information, princess."

"If you call me that again," She groaned. "I'm going to chug two bottles of red wine and vomit in your designer leather boots."

"Don't you dare."

Feeling reasonably confident that her body had expelled everything, including an essential organ or two, she collapsed onto the bench. She dropped her head onto Sunday's thighs, sniffling away the runny nose that had only gotten worse after the first wave of bile hit her throat. One of the spy's hands lightly touched her scalp, petting through her hair like someone who was, with the deepest reluctance, patting a cat that had crawled into their lap against their will, the other occupied with a book about medicinal flora. On the table near her feet was Crocodile's snail, wearing the fake flower crown she had painstakingly knit for it as it gnawed happily on some shredded carrots, entirely unconcerned with her plight.

"Wani's going to be so mad."

"Oh, very."

In response, Lily let out an overdramatic wail, making her displeasure known to not just Sunday, but any sea creatures unfortunate enough to be nearby. She half expected to see a fishman pop up from the surf, searching for a distressed whale, by the way both Sunday and the snail flinched.

"He's going to use a belt this time," She continued, well aware that neither of them particularly cared, but determined to make it Sunday's problem, anyway. "I know it. My poor butt cheeks can sense it."

"He's not going to use a belt," Her companion could not have sounded more like a bored mother if she tried. "He just says that because he likes it when you beg him not to."

"He told you that?"

"No, but you're cute when you pout and Crocodile's a control freak," Sunday scoffed. "It's not that hard to figure out. Especially since neither of you seem to understand how to be quiet, good girl."

"We literally live alone on our floor," She snapped, rolling onto her back to stare up at the cheery afternoon sky. "You're the one who keeps inviting yourself into our suite in the middle of the night."

Sunday shrugged, unbothered by the accusation as she turned another page with her thumb.

"Your candy is better than mine."

Her argument that they both bought treats from the same place, and the only difference in flavor was the deliciousness of theft, was stalled by the purring of the snail beside them. Taking her sweet time to carefully mark the page with a clip, ensuring there wasn't a single fold on the page or an unnecessary bend in the spine of her precious reference book, Sunday leaned forward, plucking the mouthpiece from the side of the snail's shell. The lopsided heart she'd painted on – with snail-safe paint – was holding up surprisingly well, blatantly displaying the "C loves L" that she'd illustrated during a particularly severe bout of boredom.

Crocodile insisted he was going to wash it off, that it would make him look foolish to his business associates during their rare personal meetings, but it had been weeks, and he'd never bothered.

"What is it?"

Just from his tone, Lily could tell Crocodile wasn't having a particularly pleasant day, himself. She had a feeling that he wouldn't be, because despite how much they both denied it, they were probably a little too co-dependent, but it sounded like it was more than just irritation that she was more than a few feet away, and no doubt the Marines had been doing their best to frustrate him all morning.

He hadn't wanted to meet with them at all, and had initially wanted to tell them to bother Mihawk with their various requests, but they were going to be in the area, anyway. She had decided that the long-neglected Ferry was in desperate need of a face lift, and seeing the beautiful work Iceburg and his foremen had done on the Baroness, she'd reached out to have them do up some plans for a remodel. They weren't doing the work themselves, but Paulie, one of the other foremen, had been willing to accept the project, just to have the freedom to flex his creativity for a short while – and on the promise of an all inclusive three-night stay, whenever he decided to take some time off.

She trusted Ria, the woman Crocodile had abruptly and thoughtlessly promoted, to oversee the remodel without issue, but she still wanted to see if it lived up to her expectations. Everything had looked spectacular on paper, but that didn't always mean it would be the same in reality, and before they got past the point of no return, she wanted to be certain she actually liked the design in practice. It was a little more vibrant, a little louder, than what would normally appeal to her, but Ria had taken Paulie's simple design and run with it, creating an admittedly spectacular blend of high-society elegance and tropical resort. It reminded her of a temple – not one she'd ever seen, or of any particular origin she could name, but like a foreign royal's castle, designed both for their personal luxury and to impress visitors with its splendor.

"Sounds like your meetings aren't going quite as well as ours," Sunday, unlike Crocodile, was in rare form, and Lily suspected it had something to do with the not-so-secret glances Ria had been sending her way for nearly two days. "Things not going well with the Marines?"

The snail's grimace worked oddly around nothing, blatantly displaying its tongue, as Crocodile surely rolled his cigar between his teeth.

"Be quick, Miss Sunday," He snapped. "If something's happened, I'd like to get it taken care of."

"Your wife is fine," The other woman huffed, just a little, annoyed no one was interested in playing along with her otherwise good mood. "I've got her between my thighs as we speak."

The snail did not look impressed. Sunday rolled her eyes, offering her the speaker instead, turning her attention back to her book and her drink, looking somehow like both an emotionally mature adult and huffy toddler all at once. She accepted it, though she didn't have much to say – it wasn't a secure channel, and, if anything, it was most likely being recorded, given the man on the far end had to borrow a communicator from the Marines on base.

"Ignore her," Mindful of the glass in Sunday's hand, she pulled herself along the table to sit upright. "She's just full of herself today because her and Ria spent the night twisting each other's knobs."

Any softening of the snail's features was swiftly replaced with Crocodile's well-honed glower of abject annoyance. His only interest in Sunday's sexual proclivities was that they didn't involve her, though he had, with the greatest of reluctance, volunteered it as an option, once. The two of them had made one too many sexual comments at one another, and he'd become quietly concerned that, despite the activeness and apparent mutual enjoyment of their sex life, her needs weren't being met without a second woman involved.

He wasn't happy about the idea, but if it was what she needed, he was willing to allow them to occasionally have sex, provided that's all it was. She'd immediately made a comment about him wanting to watch two women go at it, like a dirty old pervert, and when she was finally done being bent over his knee and woefully unable to sit comfortably, she'd told him she wasn't interested. She had done enough experimenting with Orin – and Fullbody, though she would never tell him that for fear he might hunt the Marine down - to know that, while she didn't dislike being with another woman, she did tend to prefer men, and more importantly, she was more than content with only him and him alone.

Sunday only smirked to herself and continued to read.

There had been a time when Sunday would never dare be so brazen with Crocodile. They'd been purely business associates, when he'd first married Lily, but her proximity to them both had resulted in a friendship neither of them would ever admit to under threat of a torturous death. He tolerated Sunday's near constant presence out of a desire for Lily, herself, to have at least one friend, to satisfy her need for socialization, and as she became more secure in the knowledge Lily would actively make her husband rue the day he ruined that, Sunday had started to treat him with an increasing sense of cavalier casualness.

It didn't impact her ability to work for him, as the face of Baroque Works to his various agents. When it was time to be serious, that's precisely what Sunday was, calm and meticulous and firmly in control, with only the boss' interests in mind, but behind the scenes, she had seemingly made it her mission to irritate him as much as possible, like siblings that knew precisely how to barb one another for maximum effect without doing any real harm.

"The renovations are going fine," He didn't care about them, and she knew that, but they had to speak in code, and she hoped he understood the message. "I just finished meeting with the last contractor."

"You got what you needed?" She was annoyed she couldn't actually see him – he was particularly attractive when he acted like her boss.

"I had to pay a little more for it than you wanted," The snail's brow pinched, and she could hear him contemplating murder. "It's fine. I'll tell you about it when I see you?"

He wanted to argue, but someone, somewhere, was surely listening.

"Very well."

"We'll leave in the morning," As they'd already agreed, but she didn't know what else to tell him. "Enjoy your meetings."

His grunt clearly indicated that he absolutely would not, before the call was swiftly ended. Despite his gruffness, she was sure his mood was, at least, a little improved, having confirmation that she wasn't tied up in the depths of the Numancia Flamingo.

He had been adamantly against her idea, when she'd first volunteered it. Anything that put her in the same hemisphere as Doflamingo was immediately and ruthlessly vetoed, but it had been the most efficient way to finally have a satisfactory answer about the position she had been unwillingly placed in by simply being born to the wrong person. If he had his way, they'd still be waiting, slowly working both his and Sunday's network of contacts for information, but she had resolved the best thing to do was go directly to the source.

Doflamingo may have recognized it as a trap, but if he was as obsessed with her as he seemed to be, there was no way he would refuse an offer to meet, if she made one, and he had gladly proven her right. He would be leery, if he thought Crocodile was around, unwilling to speak openly if he thought his rival might overhear, but the remodel of the Ferry and the constant calls from the Marines for Crocodile to do something about Arlong had made for a perfect cover for them to be temporarily separated from one another.

Sunday had helped her write the letter that had lured him to the Ferry. She had made it sound like she had gotten a few bits of information out of Crocodile, enough to learn that she had some sort of royal heritage he was interested in taking advantage of, and that she believed Doflamingo may be the one to give her a real answer, where her husband would not. It implied, with carefully chosen phrases, that she was neither in some sort of immediate danger, nor that she was happy – that it was a marriage of convenience, of two people who mutually ignored one another the vast majority of the time, giving her just enough of his attention that she didn't feel compelled to wander. It was a work of manipulative art on Sunday's part, really, making clear that while she did not trust him, she was in a difficult position, giving him the perfect opportunity to make himself into her ally rather than her tormentor, that she'd always been fearful of him because Crocodile had made her believe he was someone to fear, but that she didn't trust her husband was giving her the entire truth.

Crocodile would be absent – but Sunday would be there, alongside their F-Wani. The large lizards could clear vast distances far more quickly than any ship, and the intention was, if things went poorly, she would be able to make a very hasty retreat. If Doflamingo thought to question the whereabouts of her crew, it was a simple as explaining they were, really, more interested in following Crocodile than herself. He may know that Cross had wanted her to take over after his death, but she had spent nearly thirty years as a civilian, and most anyone would believe, if given the choice, a band of career pirates would chose the longest-standing Warlord to be their leader over a cobbler's daughter every time.

She didn't expect him to hand over the name of her apparent family quite so easily. They'd been planning for weeks, months, of "secret" exchanges, until he was satisfied that she wasn't stringing him along, but his delusion ran deeper than any of them thought.

Things between the two of them weren't over. He was a petulant brat on his best day, and if she aggravated him badly enough, she didn't doubt that he'd call upon her grandfather to take her away from Crocodile purely to spite them both. She would need to be careful, navigate the minefield that was his temper, until they found the means to eliminate him as a threat – none of which were particularly forthcoming.

Odds were good, at least in Sunday's estimation, that nothing would come of her relation to the Przechodzić family. Although Oleander may have been her grandfather's only legitimate child, it was likely he had his own share of half-royal children with his slave wives, the way so many other Celestials did, and her presence was wholly unnecessary. One of the branch families would take over in leadership, but the ever-so important main bloodline would continue unhindered. The only reason they might care was to keep their genetics from being spread throughout the lower castes, but even that was unlikely, and though the government would never admit it, there were dozens of Celestial bastards running around with no idea who their fathers were.

More likely than not, they'd simply deny her existence. There was no reason to admit their association to Oleander Cross - that the same pirate who had spent the back half of his life railing against the World Government was, in fact, the son of one of their infalliable leaders – and by virtue of denying him, they'd deny her, too. To say nothing of what the Five Elders would have to say on the matter – what her grandfather may want meant nothing, if they refused his request to instate her as a member of their house.

Doflamingo's hope of bringing her to Mary Geoise, of becoming a noble himself again, hinged on a great many unlikely possibilities aligning in his favor. Even if they did want to drag her back, it wouldn't be just to marry her off to someone outside of their kin – despite what he'd said, she was sure he knew that, and that was why he continued to say nothing to them. He only wanted to frighten her, to make her feel like the walls were closing in and she had no other options, except to turn to him to protect her. In the eyes of the Celestial Dragons, he was no different than Crocodile – just another commoner, if one with more power and influence than most, and not deserving of their briefest considerations.

It was cause for concern, but no reason for panic.

She hoped Sunday's assessment was right. Of all the revelations about her family ties, the fact that she was descended from Celestial Dragons was both the most inconvenient and, really, the most boring.

Crocodile had no desire to abuse the information. He had admitted outright to considering it, but in all reality, he considered the World Government one of his greatest enemies. Even if he could get her reinstated as one of them, it wouldn't change his plans. The authority that came with her role would last precisely as long as it took for the Five Elders to figure out that her husband was still planning to exist as a threat they'd best placate, and then they'd be right back where they started. If anything, it would be more of a hindrance than it would be a help, bringing attention to him that he very much did not want, when there was still a great deal of work to be done from the shadows.

For her, it was even more simple - there was nothing they had that she wanted.

Everything she could want, she already had. It would take ten lifetimes to spend even half the beri she had in her accounts alone, and it wasn't as if she was particularly beholden to any laws, if she didn't want to be. If she ever got sick of being a law abiding citizen – if she didn't count the blind eye she turned to whatever Crocodile was up to – then she had a literal pirate crew at her disposal.

It wasn't as if the only thing preventing her from being a mass-murdering, child-enslaving tyrant were the laws some strangers thought to impose on her. If she wanted to be that kind of person, to live that way, then that's what she would have done. She could set sail, if she wanted to, or she could find a quiet island and live in luxurious solitude, and there wasn't much anyone could do about it.

"If you're done being dramatic," Sunday drawled. "You still need to pick out the curtains for the casino floor."

"He kissed me, Sunday," Out of spite, she bunkered down deeper, burrowing her arm beneath the other woman's leg to hold tightly to her knee. "I'm allowed to be dramatic."

"It did look awfully wet."

"It was."

"Five more minutes of complaining, then."

Chapter Text

For some reason, she always expected Gureirokku to be different.

She knew there was only so much that could happen there, with most of the island being consumed by a Marine base, but it was what she had gotten used to, seeing things change every day in Rainbase. There was always some project going on, and it was usually one that she or Crocodile had some hand in, especially now that her crew had started to assimilate into the crowd. Most of them were closer in size to Crocodile than herself, if not bigger, and their strength increased by a comparable measure, making them more than perfectly suited for various reconstruction and new construction projects that would have otherwise taken half an eternity to complete. The most recent among them was a housing project, along the back edge of the city, that several local business owners had formed a collective to fund, before approaching her and her husband to ask for them to join in. It wasn’t a particularly high end or ornate, but served a practical purpose, now that Rainbase’s economy was starting to see a serious boom, thanks to the tourism Rain Dinners pulled in, housing not just the casino’s staff, but the workers of about six local businesses that had come to need to hire on more hands.

It wasn’t as if Gureirokku didn’t change at all, but it was never on the same scale she was used to. Maple had repainted her house, changing from a garish, neon yellow to a more muted lavender, in the hopes of making it more appealing to potential buyers, so she could move to Logue Town, now that her son was no longer able to serve at sea, after an unfortunate incident with an anchor rope and his foot. The war between Haybe and Maibe was finally at an end, after the old twins had passed away, and their two town homes, sat on opposite sides of the main road and persistently at odds with one another, had been bought out by two young couples – a set of twins who had married another set of twins, no less, who now favored a disconcerting sort of uniformity in their décor. Duke’s had been practically completely rebuilt, redone in well lain brick, so a full second floor could be built on top, where she could see the Marine flag mounted on one of the walls, where Montressor no doubt lived with Yuna and their son.

Her old neighborhood seemed to be slowly changing for the better. The potholes in the cobblestone street had been patched, and most of the old ramshackle huts had been replaced by sturdier housing – little stone shacks, with proper clay roofs, rather than old driftwood and thatch.

Somehow, the cobble shop was still the only building still out of place.

It wasn’t like her parents – it felt strange, to think of them as anything else, despite everything – hadn’t tried to assimilate, but it, like everything else her mother did, never seemed to fully come together. The old wood siding had been peeled and repainted, but never sealed, so the soft yellow varnish had already started to crack and peel, long before sun and rain and dirt could start to distort the color. The flowers in the new planter pots below the windows were a discordant array, tulips and posies being rapidly choked out by goldenrod blooms until the burnished yellow flowers were all that remained. The golden numbers on the mailbox had already started to fall off – a three was missing entirely, and the five had fallen, hanging upside down.

“This is where you grew up?”

Adami had met her at the docks an hour earlier. Sunday actively refused to visit the Marine island, referencing a history with the military so unfortunate even Crocodile’s authority couldn’t supersede her bounty, and had stayed on the not-too-distant island with the sunny little cabin, instead. If, for some reason, Lily needed to flee, they would meet there and abscond together, but while she was on Gureirokku, Crocodile resolved she needed a chaperone. Too preoccupied to do it himself – and, if he were honest, not the slightest bit interested being anywhere near Aster – the task fell to Adami, who had given his word he wouldn’t stab anyone unless they tried to stab her first.

“Ah, yeah,” For some reason, she felt the hot flush of shame on her neck, even though Adami already knew her history. “Florian’s great, great grandfather founded the shop when the base first opened.”

“It is…,” He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Quaint.”

She snorted.

“It’s a shithole, and we all know it,” Behind her, he chuffed, unable to bring himself to agree out loud, but not quite able to find any words of disagreement. “It used to be a lot nicer, I guess, but after his wife left him for a sailor, Florian’s father was too depressed to do any upkeep. Or work, honestly. Dad – er, Florian, had to take over when he was young to keep the doors open.”

Then he’d met her mother, and things had simply never improved. Poverty was a way of life he was used to, something he didn’t mind enough to even notice, between how familiar it was and, most likely, the depression that had accompanied him for most of his life.

“We do not have to do this, munni,” He noted carefully, chewing on his chapped lip. “You do not need to see them.”

“I know,” She shrugged, puffing on the last bit of a cigarette. “But you want answers too, don’t you?”

Doflamingo had revealed a great deal, but there were still too many unanswered questions in her life, and the only way to put them to bed was by getting the truth out of Aster. Most of her known history made enough sense, but the gaps, the confusing choices, were too much to just ignore without at least trying to find an explanation.

It didn’t really matter to Lily, herself, why Aster cut a deal with Oleander, only to turn tail and run a few months later. There were a myriad of answers, all of which made just as much sense as the next. She might have been telling the truth, that she was afraid Saliba would be eternally under attack, or it may have been a convenient excuse to cover what she really thought. Adami had noted that she had enjoyed a lot of luxuries, comparatively speaking, as the mother of Oleander’s child, and those luxuries were not likely to last after he passed.

Not that Adami would be needlessly cruel to her, but Aster meant nothing to him, except as the vessel for his captain’s heir to be born. He wasn’t going to let her get in the way of his own promise, and while he would happily have let her be Lily’s mother the vast majority of the time, he would never let her stand in the way of raising her as the new captain. Once Lily was born, Aster became disposable, and while he’d never said so that plainly, he hadn’t made a secret of what he thought, either.

It was Doflamingo’s involvement that she wanted answers to, more than anything else. She could believe that, in a panic, her mother hadn’t known what else to do except comply, if he’d it known that he knew, but everything about what she’d done since then hardly seemed like a woman acting out of desperation. If that were the case, all she had to do was tell the truth – as unhappy as Lily would have been about it, for the safety of her family, she would have agreed to the arrangement, long before Florian had gotten desperate enough to seek out Crocodile. Aster wouldn’t have even needed to admit the entirety of it, that her real father was a dead pirate or that her mother had been a slave, just that Doflamingo had decided it was what he wanted and he was prepared to enact horrible violence, if that’s what it took, to get what he wanted.

Even if she couldn’t get answers out of Aster, she did want the opportunity to say goodbye to Florian. She was by no means banished from seeing him, if that’s what she wanted, but it seemed wise, to start to cut ties with her family, for their own protection if nothing else. She hadn’t been publicly declared a pirate, but that would come, eventually, either through her own doing or because Crocodile’s Project Utopia came to fruition. They wouldn’t find themselves in trouble just because of her, but their reputation would take a terrible hit, especially on an island so heavily reliant on a Marine presence. Separating from them would not just curb Doflamingo’s interest in retribution, against them, but it would help mitigate the damage their already near-failing business would take, if all of the locals believed that she had become something of a black sheep.

The shelves inside were almost empty. Aside from a few stray pairs of plain Marine boots, there was nothing there to sell, and her heart immediately dropped. The shelves were never that barren, not even when Florian fell off the roof and badly injured his back – for once, her mother had taken an interest in the business, and had helped Lily and Rose to keep the shelves stocked and to get repairs done until he could get out of bed and return to work himself.

The patcher was gone, too, which was unquestionably the death knell of the business. Without it, work couldn’t actually be done.

“Lils?”

Florian appeared from the door to the rest of the house. He looked worse than she’d ever seen him, considerably thinner to the point of near frailty, the lines in his face etched too deeply. At twenty years younger than Adami, he looked nearly thirty older, swallowed by his brightly patterned button down. He shuffled along even when he tried to move quickly, hurrying across the room to wrap his stick-like arms around her shoulders.

She didn’t remember being taller than him.

“You’re closing the shop?”

In her peripheral, Adami shifted uncomfortably around, ducked beneath the low ceiling at a horrible angle. He was doing his best to give them space, but there was nowhere for him to go, nothing to peruse to pretend to be busy.

“Yeah,” He sighed, squeezing her with all of his strength – which wasn’t very much. “I just…can’t keep up, anymore.”

“Dad…” Guilt roiled around in her stomach – she had always been the one to help him, though she’d hoped, perhaps naively, that her mother would step up once she and Rose were gone. “You don’t have to…I can hire someone.”

His smile was a sad one, resigned, and there wouldn’t be any talking him out of it.

“It’s fine, Lils,” He patted her arm. “Morgan’s boy found me some work in Shells Town. Part time, you know? Enough for me and your mother to be comfortable without breaking my back.”

Finally, his eyes, bleary and distant when they’d always been so sharp and focused before, landed on the other figure in the shop. She could feel him jump, tensing in surprise, but he didn’t seem to have the energy to try and move, despite the sword on clear display.

“Bodyguard?”

“Helmsman,” He sighed at the admission, shaking his head as he glanced away at the barren walls. “He used to be part of Cross’ crew.”

“Pavitara Adami,” The pirate kept his voice lower than his usual boisterous boom. “Your beti, she is my kapatana.”

She was a little surprised to hear Adami call her Florian’s “beti”. He had always been particular about that, even right up until they were outside the cobble shop doors, insistent that she remember that she was the daughter of Oleander Cross and no other man. It only made her heart hurt all the more, acutely aware that he wasn’t the type of man to do that sort of thing simply to be polite. He’d figured out the same thing she had – Florian wasn’t just old and tired, but sick.

Helmeppo and Rose must have realized it, too. They didn’t visit often, but they did come by considerably more often than she could, being only a few weeks away. Helmeppo occasionally traveled with various supply ships, overseeing the order deliveries, and because Morgan was his father and the man truly didn’t care, he was able to bring Rose with him, whenever they were due to visit Gureirokku.

“It’s good to see you, Lils,” He squeezed her shoulder again. “But I know you didn’t come by just to say hello.”

She tried to talk, but all that came out was the wet click of her vocal chords.

“Your wife,” Adami spoke for her, instead. “We have questions for her.”

“You and me both,” Florian sighed, shaking his head as he stepped away. “I’ve asked a hundred times, but she still won’t tell me anything. Every time I try, she just acts like she didn’t hear me.”

“She will answer me,” The helmsman insisted, and to her silent horror, Florian visibly flinched. “I will not harm her, bhai. Not without the kapatana’s order.”

For a long moment, it seemed as if Florian didn’t quite believe him. Whether he thought Adami was telling the truth, or if he realized there simply wasn’t anything he could do, whatever fight he had left to give faded quickly, acquiescence weighing down his already stooped shoulders.

“I need to know why, dad,” Her throat was almost too tight to speak. “She…I don’t want to think she would sell me out like that.”

“I’ll go get her,” His voice was heavy, even as he agreed. “I’d invite you in, but I don’t think your friend will fit.”

As he shuffled back into the main house, she settled on one of the empty shelves, near Adami’s boney knee. He watched the other man carefully, not with wariness, but with remorse, concern, thoughtfully tonging the corner of his mouth before he peeled his attention away.

“He is not well, munni,” The pirate whispered. “He does not have long.”

“I know,” She breathed, resisting the urge to run her hand down her face. “I’ll…I’ll talk with Rose and Helmeppo, see about getting him a doctor.”

“I do not think a doctor can help him.”

“We can make sure he’s comfortable, at least,” Smoking hadn’t been allowed in the house since it had been built, but she couldn’t help herself, in the moment, desperately in need of something to do with the misery clawing at her chest. “Try and set it up so he can just relax spend his time with Rose and Alder.”

She supposed he must have approved, given he nodded, but there wasn’t time to continue the conversation, as her mother’s shadow appeared in the threshold.

There was a confidence to her steps, when she first entered the room, the way there always was. Her cutting stare was on Lily, still full of frustration despite how long it had been since they’d last spoken, a fresh argument ready and live on her tongue, before she glanced at Adami. It was like someone cut the lights out in her, a bucket of water on a smoldering fire – she stopped, like a deer at the muzzle of a hunter’s gun, frozen in place as all the warmth rushed out of her features.

“Gulāma kuṛī,” Adami’s tone was as cutting as his sword. “I have spent many years in search of you.”

Aster’s lips moved, but there was no sound, not even the breathy rush of air from her lungs. Her head turned in Lily’s direction, but she couldn’t peel her eyes away from the massive figure sprawled on the floor of the shop, from the sword glinting on his belt. In return, they both waited, silent, to see what she would do.

“You…” She breathed airily. “Must have me confused for someone else.”

“She lies already,” The pirate clucked his tongue. “You know me, kutī, and you know why I am here.”

“I don’t, really…” Lily wanted to choke on her breath of bitter smoke, blowing it out of her lungs in one heavy breath. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Mom,” It was her turn to snap. “Please just…just stop lying.”

For whatever reason, when Aster looked it her, it was like she believed Lily would help. It was a stare that would, under most any other circumstances, fill her with a desperate sort of sympathy that could only be eased by offering her assistance, even at the cost of the shirt off her back, but in that moment, she didn’t feel much of anything at all.

“The execution order on you is still live, you know,” The lie tasted like sweet ash. “Only the acting captain can undo it, and right now, that’s Crocodile – and he isn’t exactly your biggest fan. Adami’s agreed to keep this between us, as a favor to me, but if you don’t start telling the truth, he’s going to go down to the docks and tell the rest of the crew exactly where to find you.”

“They’re here?”

“What is left of us,” Adami latched onto her own untruth. “Bunshou, he has already made your crucifix, beside the bones of the cabin boy you tricked.”

There were no words, just a wail. Soft and broken, mournful in ways Lily couldn’t begin to understand, as her usually stalwart mother collapsed like shattered glass. Florian’s shadow was in the doorway behind her, summoned by the sound, but even he didn’t move to help her, observing from the edges of the darkened hallway as Aster began to sob in earnest, smothered by her hands.

“Aster,” Florian called – just as broken, in ways, as her mother was. “Just tell them and be done with it.”

For several minutes, it seemed like her mother may still try and escape the conversation. If she cried hard enough, worked her way up into a proper panic attack so that she couldn’t speak, then she wouldn’t have to, but even that wasn’t enough. No one moved to help her, or offer her a kind word of comfort, letting her wail on the floor of the empty shoe shop until she wore herself out.

“I knew who he was,” Aster finally croaked. “Who he really was. I didn’t recognize him, at first, but then I heard him talking like them, and I knew.”

She didn’t look anywhere but at the floor. Florian, unable to continue to hold out, offered her his old handkerchief to wipe her nose, slowly settling onto the old ottoman he used to use for customers, when he had to measure their feet.

“I thought…” She choked, coughing painfully into her hands until Adami, of all people, handed her his flask, and she smothered the sound with old rum. “I was terrified of him, at first, but he was so different than the rest of them. He treated me so gently, it was…easy, to fall in love with him. When he asked me to give him an heir, I…I just wanted to make him happy.”

Part of her wished Florian wasn’t there to hear this. He deserved the truth as much as Lily did, but he didn’t need to hear his wife, talking about being in love with someone else – even if that someone else was long dead.

“After I got pregnant with you, we got in a fight,” She took another, more purposeful swig of rum, this time. “I didn’t want my baby to become a pirate, but he was insistent. Eventually, he…he threatened to send us both back to Marie Geoise.”

“He would never sell his child into slavery.”

She’d forgotten that Adami didn’t know. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to talk to Crocodile, as yet, about what Doflamingo had told her, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned it to Adami while out on the public streets. The massive pirate was livid, flexing his fingers like he wanted to wrap them around the handle of his sword and was only restraining himself by the barest thread.

“She,” Aster hissed, tossing her hand carelessly in Lily’s direction. “Wouldn’t-.”

“Adami,” Lily interrupted before the words could be spoken into the world, not because she thought someone was listening, but because she didn’t want to hear them. “Just let her finish, please.”

Both men stared at her oddly, then, one worried, the other contemplative and angry, but neither spoke. Aster, on the other hand, seemed to immediately understand, and some of the bitterness in her features eased away, replaced by something much closer to remorse.

“I couldn’t go back there,” She admitted. “Not…not like that, especially. So, I tricked the cabin boy. I knew he was sweet on me, so I got him to take me to Totto Land, then I hid on a supply ship out to the North Blue. I knew you’d be coming for me, so I kept moving, until I ended up here. I wasn’t going to stay, but I met Florian, and he was so good to us…”

It was satisfactory, to her. Adami clearly had his doubts, but with all the information Lily had at her disposal, it made enough sense. There were other questions still burning, things she still needed to ask, but she was satisfied, at least, that her mother wasn’t always some conniving monster of a woman.

“Did you tell Doflamingo?”

“No,” The word ripped out of her too harshly, too intensely, to be anything but true. “No. I didn’t tell anyone, not ever.”

“I heard you talking about it, Ter,” Florian rasped softly. “The two of you, going on about how she was so special because she was Cross’ daughter.”

There was pain, agony, in her face – but not betrayal, not displeasure at being caught in a lie.

“He already knew,” Her mother slung back another mouthful. “And I knew, if we didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d just kill us all and take you anyway, so I…I played along.”

“Is that why you sent the letters?” At her question, Aster nodded, unable to hold her gaze. “What about all the gifts he sent?”

“They’re under the floorboards,” Aster admitted quietly. “I kept everything he sent.”

“Why?”

“To buy our way out of here.”

There was a poignant beat. The stale air in the room was thick like fog, heavy with the implication of what had just been said, and no one knew how to reply, least of all Lily herself.

“I convinced him to give you time, to win you over,” She spoke a little more strongly, with a little more force. “And then I took him for everything I could. All the gold and jewelry and beri I could get, so we could have enough money to escape. He could destroy this island and say it was a hurricane, but I thought even he wouldn’t bother us if we went somewhere else, like Marineford.”

A bit of rum spilled onto her dress, before she handed the flask back towards Adami. It was Florian who took it, taking several long swallows, then he handed it back to its original owner.

“Then your father,” Aster flinched a little, but didn’t correct herself. “Told me he worked something out with Sir Crocodile, instead.”

“I want to believe you,” She did, honestly – but it was difficult, thinking back on all the other things that had happened since. “But at his birthday, you demanded I get a divorce and marry him the second I was old enough. You even…you tried to marry Rose off to one of his crew.”

“I didn’t want to,” She sounded genuine, though it was impossible, in that moment, to be sure. “He knows the family I…he threatened to tell them where I was, to sell Rose and Alder to them, too. I thought if Rose was part of his family, then at least she…he wouldn’t hurt one of his crew, like that, and Pica seemed…nice enough, to her.”

Woefully inappropriate in age and physical size for her sister, but Pica was, near as Lily could tell, the most reasonable of the crew. They hadn’t interacted much, but he didn’t have quite the same reputation as the others, less inclined towards unnecessary violence, though the bar for basic decency among the Donquixote Pirates, as a whole, wasn’t very high.

“Why push me to be with him?” Lily questioned. “Why not just tell me? Why not tell Crocodile, at the very least? The two of them fucking hate each other. He would’ve killed that idiot a year ago.”

“Because I didn’t trust him,” Aster huffed softly. “I still don’t. There’s no way he just happened to be interested in you, Lily. He just wanted to use you to get at Cross’ Devil Fruit. If he thinks for a second that he can get even more out of you, he’ll take you straight to Marie Geoise.”

Except he hadn’t.

He knew, and his first reaction was to have Gully make her favorite food – because he, despite her every effort to teach him, was still absolutely useless in the kitchen – and tell her, outright over their meal, that the decision on what to do with the information was hers and hers alone. His preference was to keep it quiet, to go on like it didn’t matter, because to him, it didn’t, but he would accept whatever she wanted to do, in the end. They talked about it for hours, about the pros and cons and likeliest outcomes of any choice she could make, and then, when she decided she didn’t care to do anything with the information at all, he’d thrown her on the bed and very enthusiastically acted out his approval until she literally phased through the bed to escape the overstimulation.

There was no point in arguing that Crocodile hadn’t been using her. It was a little unbelievable, to think that he had only come around because he had genuinely been interested in finding a partner – that he’d been interested enough, after she battered two of his Billions with a drink tray, that he’d thought she might make someone suitable for long term companionship. The things he wanted to get out of her, the ability to lean on someone other than himself after a lifetime of solitude, the amicable companionship of someone who would openly talk back to him when he was being arrogant and foolish, weren’t things that anyone would understand about him unless they’d lived it, themselves.

“Just take me to the ship,” Aster finally blurted. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

“Mom,” Lily sighed – Adami caught her gaze, giving her a slight nod. “No one’s going to take you back to Saliba.”

“Mmm, Bunshou might,” Adami drawled. “But he stays on the ship. Do not go to the docks, and he will not see you.”

Her mother’s head shot up, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Give Adami the treasure you got from Doflamingo,” It was best, she figured, to take it – if he wanted it back, he’d have to get it from her, not them, and she was far better equipped to deal with it than her parents were. “I’ll pay for you to get on the next ship to Shells Town. Stay with Helmeppo and Rose until you find a place, and I’ll take care of it.”

“We have money,” Aster sniped, though she made no motion to stop Florian, as he trudged towards the kitchen. “I kept most of what Crocodile gave us, too.”

“Why?” That she almost couldn’t believe. “I thought you used it to do your whole…shoe thing.”

“Lily,” Her mother sounded more like herself, though not quite – stern, strong. “He was sending us that money as a business investment. I didn’t want it, but he was adamant, so I had to make it look like I was doing something.”

“Did you…did you not want to design shoes?” She was, admittedly, more than a little lost. “You’re always starting projects like that. Every time I turned around, you were investing in some new project.”

“I admit,” Her mother laughed, rueful, though it was impossible to know if it was at herself or at her daughter. “I got caught up, sometimes, having the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I never had that before, so I…I got a little ahead of myself. I just wanted to try it all, and Florian, he always supported me, so I never really thought about how much I was spending.”

Unsure what to do, she offered her mother her pack of cigarettes. She’d never seen Aster smoke before, not once, but she accepted one like it was something she did every day, unbothered by the first wave of acrid smoke.

“Then I’d realize I went overboard,” She blew a plume at the ceiling with a sigh. “And I didn’t want you or Rose to think I was just being selfish, so I’d justify it. Tell you it was the thing that was going to make us rich one day, so you didn’t think about it. It’s not like I kept everything I bought all to myself, either – I’d wait a little, then give it to you and your sister.”

“He’s not going to ask for the money back, you know,” She stated carefully. “I…told him from the start not to expect much by way of returns. He only kept sending it so you wouldn’t convince dad to change his mind and demand an annulment.”

“Jokes on him, then. I was doing that the whole time, anyway.”

Chapter Text

“You seem to be doing well.”

As much as she usually enjoyed that arrogant smile of his, in that particular moment, she wanted nothing more than to punch Crocodile in the jaw as hard as she could.

The moment they had returned to Arabasta, Bunshou had decided for her that they would begin training. She would have never accused Crocodile or Adami of being too gentle, the way the swordsman did, but that had been his assessment, and after their first day of training together, she understood precisely what he meant. It had been agonizing, but that had been the point, pushing her not to her limit but well beyond it, with an unerring determination to make her powerful enough to stand entirely on her own, without her husband or even her own Devil Fruit powers. It was the only way, Bunshou insisted, that she would be safe.

Her Devil Fruit made her capable of a great many things, of feats not so dissimilar to the grand spectacles of Whitebeard and his like, but the true strength of it was in subtlety. Swift and smooth and soft enough that enemies failed to notice they were lured into a trap until it was entirely too late – that was how Cross had become so feared, and it was how she would have to be, too. The public heard stories of his more eye-catching exploits, but they would have come to mean nothing, if he hadn’t been constantly maneuvering, constantly thinking, applying pressure to the cracks in the world around him, so that they could be broken at his leisure.

Her war hammer was the first of many tricks, as he called them. It was the sort of weapon that was favored by big, strong, but thoughtless brutes, and just carrying it would be enough to leave enemies confused. She was small – smaller, at least, than most people on the far side of the Red Line – and no one would expect her to be able to wield it with any measure of strength or skill. To that end, he had determined she needed to be strong enough to use it as easily as someone as Adami or Crocodile, both of whom she’d seen pick up the weapon with one hand and toss it around like a piece of silverware.

Bunshou had put all of his focus into making her stronger. They wouldn’t actually spar until he had decided that she was good and ready, and that wouldn’t happen until the war hammer, which wasn’t especially heavy but certainly wasn’t light, was a weight so negligible she could treat it like it was nothing. All of his training had focused on increasing pure power and stamina, using increasingly obscene amounts of weight and forcing her to hold positions until she was beyond ready to collapse.

“Ignore him,” Bunshou snapped from somewhere behind her. “You still have three minutes.”

The tail end of their day had concluded with the theoretically simple act of holding a weight over her head. Bunshou had gone and filled a barrel with water from the oasis, ordered her to lift it as high as she could, and to hold it there until he allowed her to let it down. He had positioned her exactly how he wanted her, thighs at a perfect right angle to the tiles beneath her feet, reliant on every muscle in her core to hold the barrel steady. Any sloshed water would result in more time being added, which had already happened twice – and explained her husband’s presence, seated comfortably at the needlessly large dining table across the room.

Training wasn’t going to interfere with keeping to their usual dinner schedule. He had enough pity for her to start having Gully prepare all their meals, so she could lay somewhere and lament her life instead of stand in front of the stove, but not enough to not eat in front of her when training ran too long. She had a five minute grace period before he would just start without her, watching from across the room as she struggled like she wasn’t being actively tortured by an almost century old samurai.

“Your legs are starting to shake,” It wasn’t often that Crocodile got the opportunity to openly tease her, and he was taking full advantage, unable to completely wipe the wicked smirk from his face as he observed her with casual interest. “Are you sure you can make it that long?”

“Husband,” She grunted, trying to shift her foot to get a little relief, but the moment the barrel started to move, she locked back into place. “I need you to not talk to me.”

He snorted, the entirety of his chest heaving with the heavy puff of breath. His presence at the table was elegant, smooth and quiet except for his drawling commentary, more sleek and in command than she had seen him in a while.

All week, he had been in his element, after King Nefertari had finally given in to his request to purchase a large swath of land at Arabasta’s western coast. He spent most of his days in meetings with architects and builders and suppliers and investors, all of whom were only too eager to have a part in building the port city he had sought to found for years.

Tactically, it wasn’t the most advantageous location, but in regards to his ultimate goal of ruling Arabasta, it was a massive leap forward. Taking possession of one tiny plot, on which to build a singular business, had been a foothold, but an entire city that belonged to him was an entire outcropping on which to settle, a safe checkpoint before he continued the next part of the arduous climb. He wouldn’t put anything of true importance there, but it was a city with his name on it, a place that existed solely because he had brought it to life, and both the social power and physical security that it created was worth the considerable financial investment required.

If someone were to truly attempt to invade Arabasta, the coastline to the west of Rainbase was the only viable option. It was the only region that was truly barren, without a major city or even a tiny settlement to house reinforcements, and by the time any defensive measures were rallied, an enemy force could easily make the march to Rainbase and begin a siege. The city where he had made his nest was simply too far for anyone to reach them in time, and though he was more than capable of handling a great deal on his own, there was little strategy in leaving the area vulnerable. Creating a city there, forming a rally point, meant that the most viable path for an invading army was in the gap between Tamarisk and Katorea – an area much more easily reached by the island’s soldiers, and one that all but forced the enemy to focus on the more heavily defended Alubarna first.

“Two minutes.”

The city of Erebus would also let him move much more freely. She still wasn’t entirely appraised of what he was ultimately planning to do with Arabasta, but she knew enough – that he intended to take over the country, and that he had been manipulating both sides of the burgeoning civil war to make it happen. In a city all his own, one that he had designed, he could more readily house the rebels, bolster their strength and give them more opportunity to strike out against the crown, and it would be far easier to smuggle in Dance Powder and weapons. Not that he would be foolish enough to bring them into his own port, but if anyone were suspicious enough to investigate, that was where they would look first, and security in the other coastal cities would become more lax as time and resources were dedicated to searching in the wrong place.

“One minute.”

“Almost done,” Crocodile taunted openly as he tucked a sizeable piece of steak between his teeth. “And just in time. Your dinner is getting cold.”

“I will drown you.”

“If you can move,” He chuckled. “You can try.”

The room lapsed into a comfortable enough silence, filled with the gentle clinking of metal utensils against ceramic plates and her own breathing, which she struggled desperately to keep even. She felt ready to collapse, pushed well beyond the point of pain, to that uncomfortable space where her muscles had entirely given up, locked in place and willfully ignorant to any command she may try to give them.

As if to prove a point, Bunshou slipped the tip of his sword over her head, taking the entirety of the barrel’s weight off of her hands with just a small portion of the weapon. He maneuvered it easily, paying no mind as she collapsed to the floor, huffing and puffing and feeling her pulse thundering in her fingertips as he placed it neatly aside, not spilling even the tiniest drop. He stepped over her outright without another comment, as he always did when training was over – he never commented on how well she did, or even how poorly, or referenced their meeting again the next morning, instead simply leaving the room to find his way to the bar.

“Wani…”

“What is it, pretty girl?”

“…Do you love me enough to feed me? I can’t feel my arms.”

He didn’t, but he was willing to help her get to the table, placing her down in the seat beside him and leaving her to her own devices. Despite all of the exercise that she had been doing, she didn’t have much of an appetite, too tired and uncomfortable to consume much, despite how badly she likely needed it. Crocodile didn’t fuss at her for it, sitting and waiting patiently, distracted by his own thoughts and the contents of his glass, until she set her utensils down and resolved that she was finished. He was nice enough to carry her upstairs, bracing the backs of her thighs on his forearm, letting her lean her forehead on his shoulder as he carted her back to their room.

“You know,” There was more softness to his tone as he kicked the door shut behind them. “I enjoy you like this.”

“Sadist.”

Brushing aside her accusation with a low chuckle, he placed her down on the bathroom counter, tossing his coat down beside her before turning his attention to the shower.

“It isn’t often you let you let me take care of you,” He stated over the rush of water, holding his hand beneath the spray and adjusting the temperature with his elbow. “It’s refreshing.”

“Of course I don’t. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m spoiled or anything, if I was.”

He chuffed again – apparently satisfied with the water, he shook his hand dry, turning towards her as he began to fiddle beneath the lip of his prosthetic. As much as she was in agony, she grabbed at him with her fingers, luring him closer, until he laid the damaged limb on her thighs. Her fingers, far smaller than his, were easily able to slip beneath the edge to find the straps that held it in place, while his sleek nose found the side of her head, pressing into her hair with the corner of his lips. His sigh was warm and heavy, full of contentment, as the heavy device finally came loose from his limb.

“Mmm, I would never,” He kissed her temple again, slower and softer, setting the metal hook aside somewhere beyond her purview so he could lace his fingers into the flesh of her hip, burrowed beneath the waistband of her pants. “You’ve been so well behaved, in fact, I think you’ve earned a reward.”

The breadth of his body left for an instant, to pull her cotton shirt over her head, before he was back against her, intent on fully invading her space. He pressed between her knees, seating his hips between her thighs as he consumed all of her sight with the broad expanse of his chest, still draped in a silk shirt that fit him perfectly. She found the first golden button near his trunk-like throat, slipping it free and moving on to the next as he investigated the newly available flesh of her back, carding his fingertips down her spine.

“You don’t have to have an excuse if you want to fuck,” He snorted at her reply, using his forearm as leverage to maneuver her around while he slid her pants down her legs. “I’m not going to say no.”

“That,” Buttons undone, he shucked his shirt, letting it land in a quiet heap as she fiddled with his belt. “I intend to do anyway. Your reward is something else, for you to enjoy tomorrow.”

“And what would that be?”

Intentionally ignoring the question, he lifted her off the counter like she weighed nothing at all, sinking his fingers into the meat of her backside as his lips found the column of her throat. When her nails found his chest, lacing through the thick hair, he rumbled in contentment, latching onto the sensitive skin beneath her jaw with the tips of his teeth. Warm water hit her from every angle, raining down on the top of her head, spraying against her sides and splashing over the expanse of his shoulders, as he backed them into the shower stall, until his knees found the bench etched from solid stone.

It hadn’t taken him long to learn her body better than she knew it herself, and it was knowledge that he was glad to abuse at any opportunity. The touch of his fingers was precise, firm enough to remind her of his strength, gentle enough to tease as they slid down her backside, over her thigh. With her balanced on his lap, knees tucked on either side of his hips, he twisted his wrist until he was able to reach the already pulsing flesh of her center. One long, wide appendage pressed into her – his middle finger alone was enough to make her feel pleasantly full, though it was accompanied by a sort of hollowness, one that reminded her of how unintentionally he had ruined her for anyone else.

“Wani…” The simple act of trying to sit above him filled her legs with a terrible throbbing, one sharp enough to distract her from the faint circling of his thumb and gentle flexing of his finger.

“Quiet,” There was no bite to his instruction except the gentle snap of his teeth, scraping along her jaw as he erred ever closer to her mouth. “Relax for me, pretty girl.”

He pulled his hand away, taking hold of her hip and bearing down with soft but irresistible pressure. Her legs were too weak to offer any fight, wavering even under the moderate weight, until she could feel his cock, hard and eager and twitching in anticipation against her entrance. There were days that he would spend hours on end tormenting her with foreplay, trying to devour her like a creature starved, but there were times that he was too eager for patience or, more often than that, he simply wanted to enjoy the way she stretched around him when she wasn’t quite prepared for the sheer size of him.

She enjoyed it too – the pressure, building nearly to the point of pain, giving way to an obscene feeling of not just being full, but complete. He pressed down, splitting her apart inch by inch, until she would swear she could feel his cock behind her ribs.

“Good girl,” His thin lips slotted against hers for an instant, heavy with the implication of his unspoken affection, before he began to shift her hips for her, rocking them back and forth in small waves, shifting the length of him against every inch of her from the inside. “Touch yourself for me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her weight was nothing to him. With his single hand, he raised her up, until the emptiness left in his wake was almost enough to churn her stomach, before he lowered her back to the tops of his thighs in the same slow, smooth motion. Nesting one hand in the hair on the back of his head, she reached between their bodies with the other, searching for the slippery bulb of her clit, careful to angle her nail away from where they were joined. The way he speared her apart always seemed inhuman, an impossible act he managed to accomplish only through some sort of black magic rather than meticulous effort and knowledge, and when her manicured nail skimmed over his length anyway, despite her effort to avoid it, he whispered an approving hiss against her teeth.

She hadn’t been particularly aroused when he dragged her into the shower, but that never really mattered when it came to how quickly the fire would build once they got started. If she wanted to, she could wax poetic about how perfectly they fit together, the way each thrust stretched and burned in the most delightful way, how the bulbous head of his cock pressed against the walls of her cunt with perfect precision, but once he started moving in earnest, letting her fall the last few inches each time he brought her back down, it became impossible to string together the words. The heat of the steam was nothing compared to the inferno swirling in her gut, eager to consume her and drag her into the depths of the sea. The pressure of her finger, swirling in clumsy circles around her clit, was like ice, cold and sharp and soaring through her veins.

“You’re twitching already,” He bit through the words, tucking them into the side of his mouth like chewing tobacco, focusing his lips on the apple of her cheek. “My good girl is so sensitive today.”

There was no arguing against his accusation. She would have thought, exhausted and agonized as she was, that she’d struggle to even feel any desire, never mind to get off, but she was already close, clawing her way ever higher towards the clouds. He said something else, low and rumbling and heady in the air, but she couldn’t hear it, lost in the thunderous beat of her heart in her ears. Every half-broken muscle tensed and shivered, spasming through the sparks of bitter cold lightning that arced over her bones. Cool and wet rushed against her belly, the distinctive surge of his own release as her entrance clenched and squeezed in an attempt to milk him dry.

As she fell against him, leaning her face into the wry hair on his chest, he rumbled, low like far off thunder. The hand that had held her hip in a bruising grip stroked up and down her back, drawing her even closer, until they had all but merged into one creature. They stayed that way far longer than they probably should, until the iron rod between her legs began to soften – even then, he was large enough that he didn’t quite simply slip out, and he carefully maneuvered her off of his lap, onto the steam heated stone bench. Unlike her, he had no trouble moving, turning off the shower and taking over the task of drying them both with overly large, obscenely fluffy towels.

“You’ll be going on your first true underway,” Crocodile declared, depositing her on the sofa once she was wrapped in her beloved robe. “You’ll need to head for Nanohana in the morning, to ensure the ship is prepared.”

“Is that my reward? Piracy?”

The behemoth scoffed from across the room, stationed at the small bar.

“Hardly,” He retorted breezily. “But you will be providing an escort for a supply ship. Nothing particularly interesting or difficult, but its time you get some practice at sea, without me to rely on.”

That caught her attention. Her arms protested as she pushed herself up from the cushions, wondering what he could possibly mean, though the answer was obvious enough. Nerves and fear and the crippling awareness that she was entirely too dependent on his presence curdled her stomach, bile burning hot behind her sternum.

“It’s the only way you’ll learn to be a proper captain,” He continued. “And it won’t take long. You’ll meet the supplier at Whiskey Peak and make a direct line back. You won’t be gone more than a couple of weeks.”

“And when it inevitably goes horribly, horribly wrong?”

“I’ll be available by den den mushi,” Presumably, that meant he’d finally gotten her one of her own, though she hadn’t seen any signs of it. “And it isn’t as if you or the crew are inept, either. You’re untried, but you’re clever. You’ll do fine.”

Chapter Text

The handful of times she had seen Whisky Peak, it had been a quiet place.

When they weren’t putting on a show for new arrivals, the few long-term inhabitants of the island lived subdued lives, to the degree it was almost possible to mistake Cactus Island as being entirely uninhabited. They did what they needed to in order to eke out a meager, but comfortable, living for themselves, maintaining personal gardens and performing simple chores, entirely unbothered whenever a ship arrived, provided that ship didn’t bear a pirate flag. She had never actually stopped there, herself, but she had seen the island pass by enough times, venturing in and out of the Grand Line, and she had seen the people there, quietly living their lives, often enough that the sight of one of their “pirate parties” was more than a little alarming.

Crocodile had warned her in advance that it may happen. Cactus Island was firmly under the possession of Baroque Works, and capturing pirates for their bounties was one of the organizations primary means of securing income. Rather than pick a complicated and dangerous fight, one that would see a number of Baroque Works agents needlessly injured and potentially even destroy the island outright, they would instead celebrate the new arrivals, plying them with plenty of liquor in order to welcome them to the Grand Line.

It seemed obvious, to her, to never trust a town of people that seemed excited to see a crew of pirates – but it worked more often than it didn’t, and the Kid Pirates, it seemed, were one of many who fell readily into the trap.

The rookie crew had all but consumed the bar with their presence. Even before the Baroness reached port, she could hear them cheering and laughing and quite possibly fighting, loudly enjoying the supposed hospitality of Mister 8, the Baroque Works agent who was installed at the mayor of the village. Crocodile had contacted him, not as Mister 0 but as himself, in order to facilitate the delivery of building materials being shipped from the South Blue, and she had been firmly warned not to interact with the man more than necessary. The agent, oblivious to the identity of his true employer, had no reason to show her any kindness or loyalty, and would almost certainly attempt to take advantage, if not of her than of the rest of the crew. Though their bounties had been frozen since they legally fell into a Warlord’s official employment, there was always someone in the world willing to buy, and Mister 8, who had been a slaver for decades, had more than enough connections to find someone interested in the wife of Sir Crocodile or the aged remains of Captain Oleander Cross’ crew.

Frustratingly, the Kid Pirate’s ship was the only one at the docks. The supplier ship was supposed to already be there, and though it was possible they were waylaid by something, she had a terrible feeling in her gut that they were never going to arrive.

The nun waiting for them at the shore only confirmed her suspicions.

“Please don’t tell me a half ton of sunstone is at the bottom of the sea.”

“Not the sunstone, no,” The other woman frowned. “But most of the weeping wood, and just about everything else they didn’t find valuable, is.”

It was starting to feel like the story of her life – a simple situation, somehow convoluted by forces entirely outside of her control, as if the gods themselves personally intervened solely for the sake of inconveniencing her at every turn. The shipment was insured, at least, and none of the investors would be out any beri, in the end, but Crocodile loathed when things didn’t follow his plan, and the sinking of the supply ship would delay the start of construction for at least another month.

The weeping wood wasn’t a terrible loss. It wasn’t a rare or expensive material, and it had only been included because of the color, darker and sleeker than the light, grainy texture the trees developed in the drier, warmer environments closer to Arabasta. The powdered cement, too, was selected solely because the stone that composed the bulk of the mixture was a warm grey, rather than cool sandstone or reddish adobe.

Off the top of her head, the only two things she could remember being truly important were the lengths of copper and, of course, the sunstone. The copper was necessary for the aqueducts and plumbing system, and while it was plentiful, it wasn’t readily available in such large amounts. Several pieces had already been custom formed into underground storage tanks, ready for assembly, and there were a handful of unique connectors that would take ages to make new. Sunstone was infinitely more difficult to find, and it was impossible to replace it with a similar product. Without it, Crocodile’s new city would suffer without power, with no sufficiently strong headwinds to power windmills and the inconsistent reliability of water engines.

“The ship is not guarded,” Adami whispered over her head. “Shall we take it?”

“Let’s…” She sighed again, forcing back her frustration so she could think. “Let’s try negotiating, first.”

By the look on the nun’s face, she didn’t have high hopes of success. Still, the other woman and the helmsman remained quiet, saying nothing against her as they made their way into the village. The further they went, the louder the noise grew, reminding her of the irritating clatter of the casino during its busiest hours. She could make out a couple of voices, more distinct than the rest, and one, in particular, grabbed her attention, harsh and dry and carrying the air of arrogance that could only come from a captain.

“What’s his name, anyway?” The nun paused at her question, hands on the half-doors to the bar. “Their captain, I mean.”

“Eustass Kid,” The other woman seemed to fight a smile, for a moment, before pushing forward. “He’s the redhead with the bad attitude. Good luck, ma’am.”

Ignoring Bunshou’s sarcastic snort, she made her way inside. A crew of maybe thirty had made themselves comfortable in a bar clearly only meant for half that many people, bodies mashed from wall to wall as the citizens joined in their festivities. Immediately across the room, a man who was all long limbs and stitches was engaged in a drinking contest with the man she suspected was Mister 8, a vivacious pile of wrinkled flesh with a ludicrously curly mustache beneath a stained silk top hat. A trio of women, seated on a sofa in the corner, were the only ones to notice her arrival, whispering and smirking amongst themselves in a way that could never be mistaken as anything but catty.

The captain, it seemed, was one of the small group shouting over the drinking contest. He was one of several loudly cheering for the stitched man, threatening to kill him if he made them look stupid by losing to an old man, though no one seemed to take his comment all that seriously. Like most of his crew, he was impressively tall, though not nearly as much so as some men she knew, with a head of vibrant red hair, pushed away from his sharp features. He wasn’t small, but the man beside him was even larger, with ragged blond hair as long as she was tall, and a distinctive striped mask he didn’t take off even to drink, sipping from a mug with a straw.

No one stopped her from weaving her way through the room. A few heads turned, curious, but most of the crew were already well into their drinks, far past the point of caring about any late arrivals to their party. The attention that did linger was only on her legs, plainly on display in the short dress she’d pulled on that morning because there was no giant Warlord around to fuss at her for wearing something socially inappropriate like an old curmudgeon, and she couldn’t quite decide if she was pleased with her past self, or loathed her. If she were lucky, at least, Captain Kid might share her husband’s unending fondness for a good pair of legs, and the entire process might go much more smoothly if he were distracted by the sight.

The blond man noticed her first. Despite the mask, which seemed like it would block the majority of his vision, he was attentive to his surroundings, and as she drew closer, his posture stiffened, head cocked vaguely in her direction. There was no question that she was armed, unable to hide her daggers, but he rightfully seemed to assess Bunshou as the much more considerable threat. The samurai, in turn, laid his hand on the hilt of his swords, a casual sign that he wasn’t interested in a fight, though he would be glad to participate if that was what the other man wanted.

He made no effort to stop her from getting close to his captain. The man only shifted to stand between the redhead and Bunshou, not fully blocking him out, but making his position clear, ready and willing to interfere. She gave the captain a careful berth, pushed unfortunately close to his side, but remaining mindful not to touch him directly, and rather than speak, she waited until the last flagon was emptied, observing quietly as the duo chugged their liquor.

Not surprisingly, the pirate won. When Kid raised his hand to cheer, his elbow tapped her in the arm, and finally, he seemed to realize that she existed.

“What do you think-?”

If his harsh words hadn’t been enough of a clue, the exaggerated scowl on his face made it more than clear how he felt about having someone in his space. He had most likely assumed she was one of his crew, and it was only well after he spun on her, rage hot in his bright orange eyes, that he registered she was an unfamiliar face, cutting himself off in surprise. His gaze danced over her, bouncing across her face as he seemed to try and fail to identify her, and when he realized that they had never met, it started to travel. The frown already on his face twitched when he followed the column of her throat down to her jacket, thin and supple leather that more than disguised her shape, and she fought not to laugh at his blatant disappointment.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” She abused her own amusement to summon up a smile, the wide and charming one she always used to use for new customers with deep pockets. “But you’re Captain Kid, aren’t you? From the South Blue?”

The apple in his large throat worked as he swallowed, so harshly she could swear that she heard it. She was certain that, over her shoulder, she could hear the blond man sigh heavily, huffing into the metal of his mask like a deeply disappointed father. For a moment, she didn’t understand why, before she realized a vibrant hue of red, the same shade as the captain’s hair, started to bloom over the sharp bones in his cheeks and across the strong line of his nose.

His gaze was firmly locked on her legs.

Even knowing next to nothing about him, it wasn’t hard to convince Eustass Kid that she was a fan. In a matter of minutes, they were seated at the bar, as he loudly regaled her with some of his more impressive tales – or, at least, the ones he considered impressive, which mostly revolved around how much damage he was capable of inflicting with the various weapons he had created himself. She listened, borrowing his cues to know when to laugh, leaning close to give him her undivided interest. Killer, his first mate, and Bunshou had followed after them, seated at her back. The blond occasionally tried to chat with the swordsman, who, for the most part, ignored him, except when a particular village Kid had destroyed had come up, and he’d briefly expressed pleasure at learning the mayor had been killed.

“You,” Kid grinned broadly at her. “You know anyone interested in a nice haul of sunstone?”

“Sunstone?” She feigned surprise, willfully ignoring Bunshou’s snorting. “You’ve got sunstone?”

“A bunch of it,” The captain laughed. “Raided a carrier cruiser on our way to Reverse Mountain. I’ve got plans for the metal, but we don’t need the sunstone. You think you know somewhere we can unload it?”

“I’m not sure,” Her lack of conviction didn’t seem to deter the man, who grinned down at her from his perch. “I do know someone who needed some, but they already purchased a bunch. That’s why I’m here, actually. My boss has me waiting on his supplier.”

She could feel the blond, Killer, flinch. While she continued to play the part of a slightly air-headed assistant, the first mate had already put the pieces together.

“Oh? And what business are you in?”

His captain, however, absolutely had not.

“I’m a personal assistant,” She tittered. “But my boss is in real estate.”

“We’ll make sure to visit,” Kid grinned broadly, clearly delighted, not by talk of real estate development, but of the potential for mayhem. “Where about, did you say?”

“Mmm,” She was as careful to drink slowly as she was to dodge giving him an answer, sipping delicately at the liquor – it was sweet, and far stronger than the taste would imply. “It’s a good thing your log pose led you here. You’re already on the right route.”

“Log pose?”

Looking at Captain Kid again, it occurred to her that he didn’t seem to have one. She glanced over her shoulder at Killer, and he, too, lacked the essential device. It was impossible to see everyone else in the room, but given the baffled look on Kid’s face, it wasn’t likely any of them had one, either.

“Did you make it all the way here without a log pose?” Kid’s hairless brow twitched, furrowing in confusion, maybe frustration, at her question, and she quickly recalibrated in the hopes of keeping him calm. “You’re incredible!”

Incredibly lucky, but he didn’t need the details, preening instantly at her praise. She presented him her wrist, on which she wore a log pose of her own – they had eternal poses for not just Arabasta, but Whisky Peak and Water 7 and a few other important islands along Paradise, but Sunday had given her one as a backup, in case something happened and she was separated from the Baroness. Although she couldn’t use it to reach a specific island, she could, at least, make her way somewhere, and if she wasn’t able to stay there and wait, all points ultimately led to Sabaody.

More delicately than she would expect from a man so loud and brash, Kid wrapped his fingers around her arm, turning it this way and that as he investigated the compass.

“You’re sure this thing isn’t broken?” He questioned. “It’s pointing east.”

“All the islands on the Grand Line have unique magnetic fields,” She explained. “A regular compass would be useless, but a log pose is able to learn each unique signature. Once it does, it starts pointing to the next, all the way from here to the Red Line.”

The fact that this was news to Eustass Kid did not bode well for the future of his crew. While he continued to investigate the device, clearly uncertain if he wanted to believe her, she could tell that she had also gained Killer’s attention, his massive body leaned around Bunshou’s much more slight frame to listen.

“Each island takes some time for it to adjust,” Kid spared her a glance, lightly releasing her arm. “It varies a lot, but Whisky Peak only takes a few hours. By this time tomorrow, this will be pointing at Little Garden.”

She picked up her drink, pretending not to notice the silent exchange between the two pirates occurring in the space above her head. They very much wanted her log pose, and were desperately communicating how to get it. The easiest answer would surely be to simply take it from her, and she was sure that must be the route Killer would prefer, but Kid, sparing yet another lingering glance at her thighs, frowned a little deeper and shook his head.

She opted not to tell them that Little Garden would take an entire year to adjust. It wouldn’t matter, if Mister 8 was able to take the crew into custody, and even if they somehow escaped, it was just as well that they were waylaid on their way to Arabasta. Kid seemed like the sort to be entirely too impatient to wait that long, and odds were good that he’d pick a direction and sail off into it, and that direction was unlikely to be the desert island she called home. If they did somehow make it, she didn’t doubt Crocodile would be more than capable of disposing of the crew, should they attack, but she also quietly wondered if her husband might not attempt to make a subordinate out of the wild young man.

If his weapons were as powerful as he claimed, they were exactly the sort of thing Crocodile would pay handsomely to get his hand on.

“Well,” Kid chuckled, though this one was a little less self-assured. “Maybe we should make a deal.”

“Oh?”

“We don’t need one of those, clearly,” Even while trying to seem humble, his chest was puffed with pride. “But it would be useful. You know, as a backup plan. What do you say to giving it to me?”

“In exchange for what?”

“I’m thinking it’s worth…” Kid rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “At least a few pounds of sunstone.”

“A few pounds?” She covered her scoff with laugher. “I’m not nearly as good a navigator as you. Without it, I’ll end up lost at sea before the day is out.”

Kid hummed, a blend of mild annoyance and thoughtfulness that rattled loudly through his chest.

“You could always come with us,” He grinned, leaning closer, though not inappropriately so, just enough to seem conspiratorial. “I could get rid of your body guard, and you could join my crew. We could use someone who knows their way around the Grand Line.”

“I’m flattered, Captain,” He puffed up like a balloon, so satisfied with his offer that she could practically taste it on the air. “But my boss would kill us both if I tried to leave. He can be a little…jealous.”

How he hadn’t noticed her wedding ring while he was investigating her arm, she wasn’t sure. She was confident that he wasn’t the sort of person who would care about things like vows and monogamy, but she would have expected a comment, at the very least, on the husband that she had failed to mention, who would presumably be waiting for her back on her home island.

“Ah, we can handle some old businessman,” Kid laughed, loudly, and though they surely couldn’t have overheard his words, some of the crew nearby joined in, as if it was second nature to laugh whenever their captain made a joke. “But if you’re not interested, I think I can go a little higher. I’ll give you half of the sunstone.”

“Captain,” He flushed at the sound of her cooing. “Seriously. Even if I thought I’d be able to make it back without one, my boss would be pissed if I lost his log pose. I’d need to bring him back a literal ton of sunstone if I want to keep my head.”

Again, another silent back and forth occurred in the air. Killer, in her peripheral, continually shook his head in refusal, while Kid vacillated between calm and visibly irate. It was impossible to know if it was with her or his first mate, who adamantly refused to take his side in their private debate.

“Actually,” She decided to apply just the slightest bit of pressure. “Speaking of sunstone, I should go see if the supplier arrived yet. I hope they didn’t run into trouble. We can’t open the casino without it.”

Carefully, she pushed herself up from the barstool. She wasn’t nearly drunk, but she leaned gently on Kid, anyway, bracing her hand against his shoulder – ensuring the log pose was directly in his line of sight. His entire body tensed at the contact, every muscle drawn taught as his entire face began to burn, vibrant eyes glued to the shape of her backside beneath the thin, flower printed tulle of her dress.

“It was great to get to meet you, Captain Kid,” She allowed her fingertips to linger in the fur collar of his jacket. “Come pay me a visit sometime. I’ll buy you a round of drinks.”

She had barely made it outside before the young captain came charging after her. For a second, she thought Killer had broken him down, and he’d decided to just take the log pose after all, but he stopped short a half step away, staring down the unusual bridge of his nose after her. Killer’s bulky form was right behind him, arms crossed tightly across his chest, and she realized that a couple of other men had followed, all lingering near the door to the bar.

“Hold on a second,” He snapped, grimacing as he glanced at her wrist once more with hastily disguised desperation. “Tell you what…”

Adami, who had opted to wait outside just in case, shifted noisily when the captain’s long fingers clapped down onto her shoulder. Completely beyond the redhead’s notice, all five of the other men had tensed in response to one another, each one ready for the other side to make one wrong move.

“I’ve got an idea,” He draped his entire arm over the back of her neck, lightly holding onto the top of her arm as he began to lead her away. “I’ve got enough sunstone to power an entire city. You bring that back to your boss, and you’re sure to look good.”

“I’d have to get back, first…” She mumbled as he guided them towards the port – the five men, still ready for a fight, followed along some steps behind. “…But if you really do have that much sunstone…”

“Tons!” Kid chimed, too eager for her to take the bait. “You give me that log pose, and it’s all yours. That, and when we get to that casino of yours, you and I sit down for a drink or two.”

It had taken him long enough to try and hit on her.

She didn’t particularly enjoy flirting anymore, but she was still good at it, despite being out of practice. It could be fun, sometimes, like when she was exchanging dirty innuendo with All Sunday, but the closer she had gotten to Crocodile, the less interested in interacting with outsiders she became, and she had precious little desire to flirt with anyone except him. Their constant teasing and barbing one another translated smoothly into a romantic back and forth, but it was a dynamic that didn’t translate well with other people, and when she found herself having to do it with anyone else, she found it almost unpleasant, having to stop and think about her next choice of words rather than let whatever sarcastic comment roll off her tongue.

She pretended to contemplate the offer. She wasn’t about to tell him about the eternal poses, and especially not that she had a half dozen of them on her ship, and she needed it to be believable that she would hand over what his crew thought was her only lifeline.

“I know have sailed this way,” Adami offered, his words measured and careful, partially obscured by the veil he had drawn up over his nose. “For many years. I know the way to Drum Island. We can get another pose there.”

“Are you sure?” Kid’s long fingers squeezed her arm hopefully. “I really don’t want to get lost. It’s bad enough the shipment isn’t here, you know what he’ll do to me if we’re late because I sold my log pose. I won’t be able to sit right for weeks.”

Kid was entirely unable to put together the fact that the shipment they’d plundered and the sunstone he had on offer were one and the same, but he absolutely did not miss the implication in her words then. The fair skin of his face may never return to its usual pallor, he was so vibrant red, and she heard someone, likely Killer, cough to cover a curious squeak. Adami’s eyes crinkled with amusement – how he truly felt about the occasional comment on her sex life with her husband, she wasn’t sure, but most of the crew seemed to enjoy it, glad for the opportunity to tease her the way they did with one another.

Bunshou, she was sure, was the only one unamused. He had developed a tolerance towards Crocodile, but only in the same way a picky child tolerated their vegetables, suffering through the unpleasantness in order to get at the more pleasant things promised afterward.

“It will not be any trouble.”

“If you’re sure…”

Within the hour, the exchange had been completed. Kid had stomped around, barking orders at both her crew and his own, intent on having them hurry along as they hauled crate after crate of sunstone from the Victoria Punk to the Baroness, while she stood with Killer and Bunshou on the shore, observing in silence while he ensured she didn’t run off with her half of the deal. He hadn’t said anything, but she knew he had realized that she was taking his captain for a ride – she had to wonder why he didn’t speak up, but she supposed, in the end, he considered the log pose more valuable than the effort it would take to convince Kid to change his mind.

She was grateful for that. She wasn’t entirely certain how strong Kid was, but she wasn’t eager to put her fighting skills to the test against anyone – ever, ideally, but at the very least not before she got considerably more practice, and she supposed she could do their crew one small favor, in exchange.

“Oh,” She chimed, as if suddenly struck by a thought, and beside her, Killer cocked his head in acknowledgement. “You guys should be careful around here.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s this group I keep hearing about,” As she spoke, she fiddled with the strap of her log pose, seeing Kid starting his approach from the docks. “They’re called Baroque Works. They’re supposed to be this big group of bounty hunters.”

“Bounty hunters?” Kid scoffed as he came to stand with them. “What’re you talking about bounty hunters for?”

“I heard there’s a group of them hanging around Reverse Mountain lately,” She held out the log pose, which he gladly snatched, only to immediately hand it off to Killer. “I know you’re really tough, but you should still be careful.”

“Bah,” Kid scoffed, doing his best not to preen at the compliment – and failing, if Killer’s huff was any indication. “We’ll be fine. You’d see it, too, if you came with us.”

“No can do, Captain, but if you do run into them, you can tell me all about it next time.”

Chapter Text

Crocodile often said that trying to be a good person was a good way to get killed – and she hated the fact that he was probably right. It had gotten her uncomfortably close to a life of slavery on Marie Geoise, which was, by most definitions, a considerably worse outcome than death, and if she were only the littlest bit more jaded with the world, she would take the situation on Whisky Peak and use it as a convenient excuse to never do anything nice for anyone ever again.

With Kid and Killer absent from the bar, and most of the crew sufficiently drunk, Mister 8 had decided it was time to make his move. Alongside his Billions subordinates, who made up the vast majority of the residents on the island, the bulk of the Kid Pirate’s forces had been subdued without much of a struggle, but, either because he was impatient or arrogant or some combination of the two, Mister 8 had made the decision to strike entirely too early against the rookie pirates, and not everyone was overtaken quite so easily. Among them was Heat, the stitched man who had been chugging wine for the better part of several hours, and, though she wasn’t very strong, a tiny young woman called Dive, who Kid had wisely assigned to providing sober oversight to the crew for the night.

While Heat and a handful of others started the fight, Dive was sent to find their captain, and she came charging towards the docks while screaming at the top of her lungs before Lily could take her leave of the duo. Several of the Billions were hot on her heels, and not thinking things through all that well, Lily reached for her pistol and drew down on the bounty hunter before anyone else moved. Bunshou and Adami took that to mean that she wanted to be involved, despite the fact that the men, technically, worked for her husband, and before she had time to realize what she’d started, the first of the Billions was falling in two halves, spewing blood and meter after meter of steaming hot intestine across the cobble road, bisected at the belly button by Adami’s scimitar.

Kid was more than willing to head directly into the conflict. He didn’t spare any of them a thought before charging off, screaming his outrage in the form of threats even she would late find too objectionable to repeat, and it seemed likely, to her, that he was liable to get himself killed – something her feet decided she didn’t want to see happen, as she took off after him well before she was aware of what she was doing. No one spoke up to tell her to stop, not Killer, who’d have no reason to, or Kid, who didn’t seem to even realize she was there, and certainly not Adami or Bunshou, who accepted her decision like it was an order, joining the group rushing back towards the bar with their weapons at the ready.

At a point much, much later, she would realize just how high her adrenaline had been, and how badly it had influenced her decisions. She had always thought that she would be nervous, anxious, when it came time for her first real confrontation, but she didn’t expect that it would be so overwhelming, that she would quite literally be unable to think – or, at least, consider anything beyond finding the most immediate solution to achieve the thing her subconscious mind had decided was her goal. It wasn’t as if her mind had entirely shut off, but like it had hyperfocused, locked in on precisely one thing with such intensity that absolutely nothing else was able to make it through and distract her.

Adami would tell her that was how Oleander had been, too. He had been far more confident than her, more capable than her and most everyone else and well aware of it, but he was like that, too, focusing on his goal with an intensity that sometimes made him unbearably difficult to deal with, during those times it was necessary to consider the extenuating circumstances of a situation.

She wasn’t sure, in retrospect, if she’d actually killed anyone.

She had shot someone, that much wasn’t in question, but everyone refused to tell her what had happened to the man, after that. She wasn’t sure what his name was, or even what he really looked like, but she had seen him charging with an axe aimed directly at Kid, or maybe her, or one of the other half dozen people with them, and when she drew down on him, her finger was already on the trigger. She had thought about pulling the trigger, and in her state of near panic, that had been enough for her finger to twitch, and that had been enough for the revolver to fire. The man had made it another three steps before he veered to the side, losing control of his own feet before tumbling headlong into the side of a building, a great plume of red blooming through his chevron shirt. She had asked, in the late hours of the morning, what had become of him, when she had been able to string together a coherent thought, and Divina had simply said it didn’t matter.

He had been a threat, and she had dealt with it, and he was worth no further thought than that.

Kid hadn’t really needed her help, though. He was more skilled than his young age would imply, and his Devil Fruit, which enabled him to control magnetism, of all things, made him a nigh-impossible opponent for most anyone. Killer, too, seemed as if he might have been capable of handling the situation entirely on his own, and she ultimately felt like her presence had been very much unnecessary, despite how Dive insisted to the contrary.

It was, apparently, super cool of her to help their crew. She was, in the young woman’s opinion, cool and sexy and super badass, and she really should consider giving Eustass Kid a chance and join their crew and be their captain’s wife, because their babies would be beautiful and badass and deadly and super cool, too.

Still, logically, it had ultimately been just as well that she, or at least her crew, had taken Kid’s side.

He wasn’t the only target. Mister 8 had given some of his men orders to capture her, too, alive and uninjured, and he’d given them seastone in order to do it. The small piece of stone at the end of one of the Billions clubs had been enough to render her hopelessly powerless, ripping away any strength she may have had in a way that was so horrifically beyond anything she had ever experienced before, just remembering it filled her with dread. Bunshou and Adami were too far to notice, disappearing as they gave chase to some of the fleeing Billions, but Killer, paying closer attention to the battlefield than she’d have given him credit for, hadn’t hesitated to intervene.

Her back was wet with blood, warm and sticky and stinking of iron. It was in her hair, in her ear, dripping too close to her mouth, sealing leather and tulle and cotton to her like a second skin. It was like everything shut off, then, like her mind was a candle someone had extinguished, smoke trailing from the wick but the flame long gone, and she had only the vaguest memories of what happened in the minutes after. Killer had gotten her up off the ground, and held onto her, she thought, for at least a little while, until Divina was dragging her into her private bathroom on the Baroness, sticking her under the cold spray of the shower and harshly giving her a once over for injuries. Aside from a couple of small cuts when she’d fallen, she was fine – physically, at least.

Most of the Billions were dead by sunrise. Only a couple, including Mister 8, had survived, captured and detained by the Kid Pirates to be questioned. She had showered again, and changed her clothes, and spent entirely too long trying desperately not to think about the bone deep dread of being put under the influence of even that little bit of seastone or whether or not that man she shot was dead, before Dive came to get her. Killer wanted to question the supposed Baroque Works agents, and given they’d targeted her, he was more than willing to have her be involved.

“Why go after the girl, huh?” Kid was already there, looming over the trio, bound together with contorted pieces of metal that had once been their weapons. “I thought you fools were supposed to be bounty hunters!”

“We are,” Mister 8, despite his unenviable position, was nothing less than livid, refusing to cower, even when surrounded by a clearly dangerous pirate crew. “That woman has a bounty twice the size of yours, you punk.”

Kid’s glower shot in her direction, and she couldn’t muster up anything more than a shrug. It would be odd for her to have one, given it would only be frozen the moment it was enacted, but it wasn’t necessarily the most shocking thing she might have heard, and she’d long assumed that sort of thing would come, eventually. Kid frowned at her, throat bobbing as he prepared to scream at her for answers, but Mister 8, unable to stop himself, offered them freely.

“It’s a private bounty, kid,” The old man scoffed, sparing her a rueful smile. “The Marines couldn’t care less about her, but your friend there ran out on her fiancée, and he’s more than happy to pay to get her back.”

It was her turn to scoff. Killer cocked his head, asking for more information without words, and she found herself plucking her packet of cigarettes from her leg, searching for something to steady both her hands and her voice.

“I didn’t run out on anyone,” Kid’s brows pinched upward, his expression torn between pure outrage and overwhelming confusion. “I know who it is. He’s my stalker, not my ex.”

“You think that matters?” Mister 8’s chuckle was hateful, cruel, and he turned his attention back to Kid. “I’ll cut a deal with you, kid. Girl’s worth nearly a million beri. You let me go, and I’ll cut you in, seventy-thirty split.”

She could see Kid think about it. For a moment, the only thing that mattered to him was the price, the pile of beri he saw when he looked at her face, and she reached absently for her holster, only to realize it was empty.

“You think I’d take a shit deal like that?” The captain snapped, rounding on the other man and kicking vaguely at his heavy bonds. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just sell her myself and keep all the beri, huh?”

“I’m the only one who knows how to get a hold of the buyer,” Mister 8 leaned back, as if he were just lounging in the sun, rather than detained by a crew of pirates that had soundly defeated him. “You need me to make the trade.”

“Oh, fuck off,” She was surprised at the sound of her own voice, more surprised than anyone else seemed to be, as Kid rounded back on her. “He just wants someone else to take the heat when my husband comes looking for me. If you’re going to fuck with a Warlord, you could at least have the decency to not be a pussy about it.”

“A Warlord?”

“You’re married?”

Kid and Killer had entirely different concerns. The first mate was far more interested in the real concern, her involvement with a Warlord, while his captain seemed devastated by the revelation that she was married, his face falling when he finally recognized the duo of rings on her finger. Under other circumstances, it would be funny, seeing how blatantly crestfallen he was, but she was exhausted and probably still in shock and most definitely aware that she was very much in danger, if Kid decided to take the bounty.

“To the magaramacha,” Adami shifted a little closer, pressing up against the back of her shoulder. “The Crocodile.”

Kid paused, and, after a moment, a malicious smile spread across his features.

“I hear that old bastard has more beri than the nobles,” She could feel the threat coming before he even finished the thought. “Bet he’d pay double to get you back.”

“He’d kill you,” She didn’t have the energy to take it personally. “You’re strong, Kid, but you’re not ready to deal with someone like him. And I hate to say it, but Doflamingo isn’t any better. He’ll kill you just to avoid having any loose ends.”

“Doflamingo?” Dive’s voice chimed – she’d forgotten the girl, who stood near her hip, staring up at her with wide, starstruck eyes. “Like Donquixote Doflamingo? You have two Warlords in love with you? That’s so fucking cool.”

“I have two Warlords fighting over me, yes,” The young woman didn’t hear her protests in the slightest, sucking in a noisy lung full of air that she let out as an over enthusiastic squeal. “Love’s a strong word for it, though. More like two dogs bickering over a soup bone.”

“The hell?” Kid stalked up to her, folding in half at the waist to look her directly in the eye as he continued to shout. “What makes you so damn special you’ve got two Warlords duking it out over you?”

“Fucked if I know,” She absolutely did know, but there was no chance she was going to admit the truth to him – most of her crew didn’t even know, and she’d only explained the situation to Adami because he’d heard entirely too much from Aster to pretend. “But I know trying to ransom me off to either of them isn’t worth it.”

Kid clucked his tongue. He spun on his heel, taking several long steps away to kick at an errant pebble, muttering to himself too lowly for her to hear. Prideful as he was, Kid had to realize that he wasn’t nearly on the same level as a Warlord, though she was sure part of him desperately wanted to try and challenge one, or even both of them, regardless, just to get his own measure against some of the strongest pirates in the world. From his stories, that was always his way, rushing headlong at the next enemy, growing more and more enthusiastic when the odds were drastically against him, but he also wasn’t a complete idiot, and Warlords were a far cry from the sort of challengers he would have gone up against in the South Blue.

If his weapons were truly that powerful, the Marines would have done more than slap a bounty on him and called it a day. During their primes, in the times before they’d been promoted, all of the Warlords had been hunted night and day by the Marines and bounty hunters alike, and there was good reason the seven had survived long enough to gain their titles.

Thinking of Kid’s weapons, some of which she’d seen on display during the fight, sparked another idea.

“Besides,” Kid continued to grumble, but she had Killer’s attention, at least. “You’ve already got leverage with Crocodile.”

“Oh?”

“He’s always in the market for weapons,” She offered, and the red headed captain shot to attention, painted lips frowning as he stared at her. “And you’ve got plenty, the likes of which I’ve never seen. I’m sure he’ll pay handsomely to get his hands on some of your blueprints.”

“What’s to stop him from trying to take them, instead?” Killer questioned, and Kid’s frown deepened, as he considered whether or not she was trying to scam him.

“He’s not stupid,” Kid’s pacing started to settle as he contemplated what she meant. “If he kills you, there won’t be any more blueprints later. He’s as much a businessman as he is a pirate, and he knows an asset when he sees one.”

He was contemplating the offer, but she hadn’t fully sold him yet. Capturing her and selling her off to Doflamingo, or trying to ransom her back to Crocodile, would be an opportunity that tempted just about anyone, with the promise of a large sum of beri for what would be very little effort, despite the inherent danger. Selling his weapon blueprints, on the other hand, would be a much smaller, or at least slower, payout, and there was always the risk of being betrayed by him, in the end, and a man like Kid, arrogant as he was, surely felt like working for someone edged a little too close to bending the knee to some figure of authority he would typically rally against.

“I’ll vouch for you,” She offered. “I’ll make sure he gives you a good deal, as payment for saving me.”

Kid scratched his chin, visibly unable to decide if he wanted to believe her. By his feet, Mister 8 scoffed, shimmying slightly for the first time, as if he’d only just then started to feel uncomfortable with his situation.

“You aren’t serious, are you?” The old man huffed. “Wife or not, you think this little girl has any sway over a man like Sir Crocodile?”

He pushed his feet against the dirt, trying to get enough leverage to break out of the bindings Kid had trapped him in, but the metal refused to give an inch.

“I know all about their marriage,” He continued, still wriggling, though he quickly lost the energy to keep going with any real enthusiasm. “She’s not anything special, just a nice pair of tits for him to show off.”

“If that’s what you think, you don’t know anything at all.”

She was surprised, to realize it was Bunshou who spoke up. Everyone else seemed to be, too, all eyes turning to land on the aged swordsman who, until that moment, hadn’t been inclined to bother with anyone. He seemed far from interested in the entire situation, one arm draped over the hilt of his katana and his attention firmly on his narrow smoking pipe, brightly patterned hakama still stained almost entirely with the ruddy, rusty hue of hours old blood.

“The dog will honor her word,” He continued, clamping his teeth around the metal mouthpiece. “Take the deal or leave, boy. We haven’t got all day.”

“I’ll set a meeting on neutral ground,” She volunteered – showing up at Arabasta with yet another group of stray pirates, these ones even more unstable than the first, seemed like a terrible idea. “We’ll even tie off to your ship the entire way. You’ll still have me as a hostage if you don’t like how things go down.”

Even with Kid’s Devil Fruit, it wouldn’t be that difficult to get away from them. His range was limited, and they wouldn’t need much of an opening to get beyond the limits of what he could control. She hadn’t perfected the art of making the ship disappear, but she was sure she could make a serviceable enough camouflage, for the engine to get them well beyond the range of his canons.

“You’re that confident he could beat us, huh?” Kid pouted, looping his arms tightly over his wide chest as he kicked a stray brick well down the road when she shrugged.

“If everything goes well, it won’t matter,” He clicked his tongue at her, sighing heavily through his nose. “It can’t hurt, right? Worst case scenario, you just end up fighting each other, anyway.”

“She’s not wrong,” Heat mumbled, just loud enough to make clear he was speaking to his captain, and not just himself. “And they did help us out with these guys.”

“We didn’t need any help,” Kid snapped, but his rage faded just as quickly as it came on, like an instinct rather than something he truly felt. “…But you might have a point. I had it handled, but it was pretty cool of you to shoot that guy anyway.”

Vaguely, she heard Dive whisper “so cool”, while she tried very hard not to think about the fact that the man hadn’t moved after he hit the ground.

“Alright,” Kid nodded to himself, unfurling into what she was sure was his captain’s pose, hands on his narrow hips and exposed chest puffed to the sky. “Set the meeting. But I’m warning you, if he tries to play us, I’m coming after you both. I’ll sell you straight to that Dofingo guy and never look back.”

“That’s fair.”

With their terms set, Kid rounded on Mister 8, and the duo who’d been captured with him. Mister 8 opened his mouth to protest, and as he did, the band of haphazardly arranged metal started to squeal and shriek. It took her a moment to realize that it was because it was squeezing, growing tighter and tighter until all the color suddenly drained from 8’s face, and she registered that Kid intended to crush the men to death. He seemed delighted by it, cackling as the metal drew tighter, and the sudden need to vomit started to overcome her. Dive was the only one who seemed to notice, taking her by the fingers and leading her towards the docks, contentedly chattering away about how it took her a little bit of time to get used to the captain, too, and while Adami turned to follow them, Bunshou seemed to decide he was going to stay, no doubt to ensure Mister 8’s last moments weren’t spent convincing Kid to change his allegiance.

“Your ship is nice,” Dive hadn’t stopped the entire way, though she only heard a fraction of what was actually said. “It looks fast. Is it fast? I bet it’s not faster than the Victoria Punk. Captain Kid made the engine himself.”

There was a great deal of cooing from Dive about the main hall of the Baroness, before she was left alone, sprawled in the armchair at her desk. The only company she had was her den den mushi, staring at her from across the wooden table top, unblinking, waiting for something, anything, to happen. It occurred to her, seeing the placid snail draped in a fur coat her husband adamantly denied having a hand in purchasing, that she ought to call him, given how utterly awry things had gone.

Before she could, the creature’s violet mouth started to move, calmly rumbling through the room.

“Hey.”

“Where have you been?” Crocodile’s usually smooth voice was sharp, filled with barely contained rage, though he restrained his desire to tear into her, if only to let the silence that followed demand an answer.

“I shot a guy,” The words came tumbling out. “And the shipment is gone.”

There was a long, uncomfortable quiet. Her snail, which until that moment had been scowling, was caught in an expression she was sure she’d never seen Crocodile make before, nearly slack jawed, one eyebrow impossibly high while the other stayed pinched, as if the left half of his face had frozen in place. It took him another beat to school himself, sighing so heavily the snail couldn’t actually replicate it, distorting and cutting out partway through the sound.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

She wanted to say more, but her mouth refused to form the words. She couldn’t think of anything to say, any words to string together, and she was vaguely aware that was extremely unusual, for someone who always had something sharp to say, but she couldn’t manage to bundle a coherent idea together long enough to say it out loud.

“I trust you’re on your way back?”

“Will be,” She found the sharp gap in her teeth with her tongue, pressing against it until she tasted copper. “Need you to meet us. We’ve got friends coming back with us.”

“Of course you do.”

Chapter Text

It took two days for the shock to start to pass.

No one really tried to help her process it, and in retrospect, once she could think again – and once thinking didn’t result in spiraling until she was quite literally ill – she was grateful for it. Reminding herself that the man she’d shot was trying to kill someone, that he’d been part of a group happy to sell her off as a slave, didn’t really help, and hearing the same thing come from someone else, particularly pirates who were so familiar with being an instrument of death that the concept had lost all meaning to them, would do nothing to make her feel any better. Divina had been the only one to speak on it, and only when she had asked if he’d lived or died, and every time the regret, the dread, started to creep up on her again, she reminded herself of what the medic had said.

He was a threat. She eliminated the threat. The rest didn’t matter.

It seemed like the Kid Pirates dealt with that sort of violence all the time, however, and continued on as if nothing at all had happened, going about their days as if the only recent excitement they experienced was a particularly hilarious joke. Killer had taken her offer for their ships to be tethered seriously, and before they’d even been prepared to leave port, the Victoria Punk had been firmly connected to the aft of the Baroness by two lengths of extremely heavy chain, tied around the railings and mounted into the deck with comically oversized nails Kid had prepared just for the occasion. She would have been annoyed by the unnecessary damage done to her freshly constructed ship, but really, it wouldn’t be a difficult repair to fix.

As the shock started to ease, the anger began – and it focused itself in on Doflamingo. He was more of an annoyance than a threat, most of the time, but she had hoped that, by giving him a bit of her attention, he would back off, at least a little. He would never fully let go, but she had done everything she could think of to convince him that his best course of action would be to let her come to him, and it had clearly gotten her nowhere.

She’d had to kiss – or, had been kissed by – him, all to try and get some room to breathe from his eternal scheming, and it had been for absolutely nothing, in the end.

It frustrated her to the point she found herself staring at her den den mushi, rather than the maps Kahini wanted her to memorize. He wasn’t at all difficult to get in contact with, and she had long ago imprinted the number for what she believed was his private line, more to avoid it than with the intention to use it.

Calling to read him the riot act was a mistake. It was giving him her time, her energy, her focus, all of which he desperately craved, and it would only enable him. It would be the quickest way to tell him he was getting under her skin, that he was successful in making her think of him, even if it was only in anger.

She dialed it anyway.

“Hello?” An unfamiliar voice, a woman, chimed on the second ring. “You’ve reached the Dressrosa Royal Palace, residence of King Donquixote Doflamingo. How may I assist you today?”

He had a secretary. Of course he had a secretary.

“Get Doflamingo on the line.”

“The young master isn’t available right now,” She didn’t want to think about the absolutely vile things he was up to, in that moment. “May I take a message?”

The urge to rage at the poor woman was almost overwhelming. She wanted to scream and thrash at someone, and if that someone couldn’t be him, the blistering hate in her hear wanted it to be his secretary, an unfortunate bystander who made a suitable enough stand in. Taking a page out of her husband’s book, however, she paused, centering herself with the now well familiar process of lighting a cigarette.

“I assume one of his inner circle is available? Diamante? Pica?”

“Master Trebol is available, if you’d like to speak with him.”

“I’d like you to speak with him, actually,” Her placid den den mushi flinched, frowning in confusion. “Go tell him that Lily is on the line, and ask him what he thinks will happen if you don’t go tell that great feathered asshole I want to talk to him right now.”

“…One moment, please.”

For a long few minutes, the snail was silent. Feeling her muscles twitching, she got up, pouring herself a drink, something her subconscious mind had actively steered her away from in the days prior. It would have been all too easy to fall into the comfortable numb that alcohol provided, but the blistering hangover she’d experienced the last time she tried to drown her sorrows, with Mihawk’s tacit approval, had kept her well away from her private bar. As she slid the cork back into the bottle, there was a flurry of noise, rustling fabric, of someone clearly in a panic.

“The young master is in a meeting,” The woman, to her credit, maintained her professional tone, though it trembled softly with something closer to dread than it had before. “Would it be acceptable if he were to return your call once it’s through?”

“…calling for anyway, huh?” She had never spoken to Trebol, but she recognized his voice, having heard it bellow barely decent come-ons at her sister entirely too many times, barely audible in the background. “…think she…demanding the young…time.”

She wasn’t certain if the secretary was telling her the truth. Doflamingo did run a fair few illicit enterprises, and she knew, even in the underworld, meetings were an unfortunately common reality. The more unsavory the practice, the more professional the participants liked to pretend to be, and of all the criminal organizations in the world, the ones Doflamingo were involved in were, unquestionably, the worst.

On the other hand, however, it would be just like him to play a game for control. He was endlessly clawing for any scrap of her that he could get, and for the second time, their roles had been reversed, with her demanding he pay attention to her rather than the other way around. He would no doubt be glad to get some petty revenge by making her wait, by making her play his game to get what she wanted, the way he always believed she was doing to him.

“Fine,” Calling was a mistake, and if it was a game, it was better not to play. “Take a message, then.”

“Of course.”

In the background, Trebol guffawed, loud and booming and sickeningly wet, crackling around the mucous in the back of his throat.

“Let him know that if he ever wants to hear my voice again,” The infernal engine in her ribs started throbbing, burning white hot with each peel of the first mate’s laughter. “He’ll need to hand deliver Trebol’s head.”

She doubted he would actually do it. Although she was certain he viewed his family as utterly disposable, they had to have their uses, or he would never have bothered to keep them around in the first place, and Trebol, in particular, was among his most ardent sycophants. There was no doubt Doflamingo would wriggle his way out of having to slay his first mate for the sake of mollifying her, but it was one of precious few ways that she could apply any pressure to the Warlord and his adopted kin. It may be nigh impossible to get Doflamingo onto the back foot, wrapped up as he was in his delusions, but any seed of suspicion or discontent that she could sow amongst his purported family was one that benefitted her, in the long run. If by some miracle he did follow through on her demand, then surely the rest of the family would be shaken, question their own place in what had been a firm hierarchy of safety and importance, and that was an advantage she could egregiously and violently abuse to finally get him out of her life.

Rather than wait for a reply, she ended the call, before Trebol could squawk out his discontent. She walked away from the call feeling even worse, still livid and now stewing in the heat of the infernal engine that had been ignited behind her ribs, and there was nothing that would calm it.

Petre gave her an odd look when she asked for any empty crates and barrels to be delivered to the deck, but didn’t ask for an explanation. Bunkered down against the railing, she tried to stuff down the flames and the steam and the sweltering heat of her anger, as a small pile of wooden containers slowly accumulated in the middle of the deck, purposefully ignoring any attempts the rest of the crew – or Dive, who’d traversed the chains every morning to try and socialize – to speak with her.

Crocodile, and the crew that populated the Gustave, were more than used to her occasional tantrums, and by the third destructive fit she’d thrown, had entirely stopped paying attention, but the men and women on the Baroness had yet to be treated to the show. Several of them stopped to stare as she swung at the first crate with her hammer, bashing through the planks and swinging it out into the ocean, and by the time she was through, kicking an errant barrel over the rail, a small crowd of them had gathered, watching from a comfortable distance. She thought, maybe, she had been screaming, though she couldn’t really remember – her throat was raw, however, and her ears had started to ring with the sound of her own voice, bellowing with the echoes of inarticulate curses.

It didn’t help as much as it used to. The consequence of her training with Bunshou was that her stamina, the tolerance of her muscles, had drastically increased, and she was no longer treated to the comfortable numb of physical exhaustion. Although she felt a little calmer, there was still too much energy to burn, still too many embers scorching in her veins.

“Hell of a set of lungs you’ve got,” Kid’s dry voice was much closer than it had been, and she realized that, rather than scream at her from the deck of his own ship, he had joined the small collection of baffled faces near the helm. “What’s got you so angry?”

“Everything,” The red haired captain snorted, painted lips crawling into a vicious smirk. “My life is just a constant series of inconveniences, these days.”

“Ever try batting cannon balls?”

Apparently, she wasn’t the only person in the world prone to violent outbursts. Kid had a similar sort of temperament, and among his many outlets for his rage, was a game his crew called cannonball, one that they played somewhat regularly, especially after too long spent at sea. She missed the first two melon sized cannon balls Killer, from the deck of the Victoria Punk, lobbed in her direction, but connected on the third, immediately pleased by the solid shock that jolted up and down her arms as it went flying into the sea. By the time they were through, the nearby sea floor was sure to be littered with stray canon fire, her fingers throbbing and an incredible ache in her shoulders, but she did, to his credit, feel considerably more calm.

“So, who pissed you off?” Kid questioned, joining her at the railing, which was the only thing, really, keeping her on her feet. “Marital problems?”

“My marriage is fine,” She didn’t think he smoked, but he snatched the packet from her hands and produced a lighter of his own before she could even make the offer. “It’s the bounty.”

“Can’t be that surprising, can it?” His face screwed up tightly, each of his sharp edges pulling downward. “You’re married to a Warlord. Makes sense people would want to get at you, especially other Warlords.”

“I wish that’s all it was,” Her arms hurt too much to cross them, draping lazily over her abdomen instead. “When I said he was a stalker, I meant it.”

“The hell’d that happen, anyway?” All lanky limbs, the captain leaned back on the railing, staring thoughtfully at the puffy white clouds passing overhead. “You got some crazy connections or something?”

She shrugged – it wasn’t as if she could just admit outright that her father had once been a Celestial Dragon. Doflamingo’s plot to turn her into some sort of brood mare for his legacy was nothing, not compared to what the rest of the world would gleefully do to her. It didn’t matter that she was entirely disconnected from that aspect of her heritage, that whatever family she did have would never care about any pain she suffered, when opportunities for people to express their outrage against the nobles that lorded over them were so few and far between.

Cross’ ancestry was a secret, but her relation to him, she supposed, was not. Crocodile had revealed it to King Nefertari, knowing full well that it was information that would make its way to the Marines in time, though it wasn’t something they actively bragged about, either.

“Ever hear of Oleander Cross?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“He was a pirate, before Roger’s heyday,” They had, technically, been active at the same time, but he had long been retired during the Pirate King’s glory days. “He wasn’t a Yonko, but he was close.”

“I think I’ve got it,” Kid nodded sagely. “You’re one of his bastards.”

“I’m his only bastard,” His bare brow twitched, confused for a moment, though it didn’t linger. “And he left me quite the inheritance.”

To prove her point, she tapped her palm on the railing, glossy and smooth. Kid frowned, clearly not understanding, before he put the pieces together, nodding more to himself than to her.

“Doflamingo showed up trying to get his hands on it,” She explained, reminding herself that it was not, technically, a lie. “But Crocodile and I got together first, and the two of them have hated each other forever. It really rubbed him the wrong way I ended up with his mortal enemy, and he just won’t let it go.”

There was a minute of silence, then, calm and comfortable. Waves lapped quietly at the hull of the ship, a sea bird squawked in the distance, and she started to think that maybe she finally understood what people meant, when they said they felt most at home on the open seas.

“Crocodile,” Kid drawled slowly. “That what he wanted, too? Your inheritance?”

“No,” She snorted. “Neither of us had any idea until Adami showed up six, seven months after we got married, looking for me.”

He nodded again, this time with a sense of certainty.

“That’s too bad,” He visibly pouted. “Would’ve been a good reason to kill him.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s sweet,” A pleasant red started to spread across his face, the thick muscles in his neck twitching. “If things don’t work out, you’ll be my first call.”

“There’s still time,” Kid chuckled wryly. “If this deal doesn’t come together, I might kill him anyway.”

“Still thinking you might cash in on that bounty, too?”

“Nah,” He snickered. “If you’re that important, I think I’d just force you to join my crew as bait, instead. I’d have a hell of a reputation if I put down two Warlords.”

“Smart investment,” She chimed, and he preened a little, obviously pleased with himself. “Just remember, I’m used to the princess treatment. You saw what happens when I don’t get my way.”

“You think I couldn’t handle one spoiled brat?” He scoffed, and it occurred to her how easy it felt to talk with him, the way it was with Sunday. “You’d be rolling in the mud with everyone else before the week was out.”

“I’d have you rubbing my feet and painting my nails before the end of the day,” He rattled airly with amusement. “I’m on a completely different level, I promise you.”

An hour later, she was ready to collapse. She had spent her nights unable to sleep, as it was, and the fresh physical exhaustion left her feeling near ready to collapse. Each time she blinked, her eyelids lingered, growing heavier and heavier every time they shut. Although she tried, she gave up trying to review the maps, and instead collapsed on her bed, too weary to be kept awake by any rushing thoughts of fresh regrets. There were surely other, more productive things that she could accomplish, now that she was calm enough to give actual thought to what she was doing, but there was no one on the ship who was going to fuss at her for taking a nap.

She woke to the sticky weight of a snail, perched and purring on her chest. It stared down at her in the early evening sun, blinking one round eye at a time, as it rattled out the low tune of its ringing. Prying one of her hands out from beneath her hip, she reached for the microphone, not entirely certain why someone would be calling her – Crocodile knew when and where to meet the ship, and Sunday never called just to chat. On the off chance it was a mistaken call, she picked up, but kept her mouth clamped firmly shut, waiting to see who was on the other side of the line.

“Mi media naranja,” If the voice wasn’t enough of a clue, the wide, sick smile that spread across her snail’s face would have given away the caller quickly enough. “I know you’re there. You’re not really still mad at me, are you?”

She didn’t respond – not because she instantly recalled her earlier threat, but because, still laboring under the lingering effects of an incredible nap, she couldn’t quite figure out how Doflamingo had gotten the number for her private line.

“I heard all about earlier,” He his voice drawled and cut at the same time, as if he were trying to mind his tone with a very annoying toddler. “Give old Trebol a little bit of slack, baby. You know how family is. They just want what’s best for us, and you make me so sad, dulzura. He just wanted you to understand what you do to me.”

Her continued silence was born out of sheer spite.

Their feelings were in no way comparable. He was a spoiled brat, denied the toy he badly wanted to play with, unable to let go of the idea that he couldn’t always have everything he wanted, whenever it pleased him. It was nothing at all like what he did to her, the fear he inflicted on her just by existing, constantly looming over head like the shadow of a nightmare, weighing her down like the ocean itself trying to drag her to the depths. She could never go anywhere, do anything, without having to question if he might be lurking around, if there was some trap laying in wait, whether she needed to be ready to avoid an abduction or if it would just result in suffering a few minutes of mild unpleasantness.

He didn’t need to fear that she would go out of her way to kill her family in slow and brutal ways. He didn’t need to worry that she would constantly interject herself into his relationship with someone he loved, someone who was well within their rights to decide the stress was simply too much, and walk away. His every relationship wasn’t eternally at risk. His freedom, to live and be a person, wasn’t always on the line.

“I know this isn’t the only thing you’re upset about, vida mia,” Her grinning snail softened its features, a passable replica of genuine interest. “Tell me what you need. I’ll take care of you. Soy el único que puede.”

“You put a bounty on me,” She stated simply. “I want it gone.”

“¿Qué idiota la dijo eso?” He frowned now, maybe at her, maybe at whoever he was muttering to – she didn’t know their voices well, but it sounded like Diamante who whispered back to him. “Descúbrelo. Envíalos a Sugar.”

He was well aware she didn’t understand the native language of Dressrosa. It was never clear to her why he spoke it – being born on Marie Geoise and raised in the North Blue, she would expect he didn’t have reason to learn, even if it was a part of his heritage, from an era long past. She could parse his tone and nothing else, hissing with frustration and only barely restrained rage.

“The bounty, Doflamingo,” She wanted the conversation over. “Get rid of it.”

“Reina,” It was enough to give her whiplash, how swiftly he could move from rage to flirtatious cooing and back again. “There’s no need to talk to me that way. I never put a bounty on you.”

“So, there’s someone else pretending to be my jilted ex-fiancé?”

“I’m not pretending,” He chuckled, a sudden intensity to his voice, low and rolling and heavy. “We were engaged, reina. No matter what else has happened, you were mine first.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” The argument started to tumble out, but she caught herself before it could gain any momentum, well aware it would do absolutely no good. “I don’t care who started it. I just want the bounty gone.

“And it will be,” His chair squealed as he leaned back, certainly the picture of relaxation. “You know I wouldn’t do something like that, vida mia. One of the family probably did it.”

“Without your approval?”

“Of course,” The snail’s fur coat was nearly as soft as the one Crocodile favored so much, and she shoved aside the sense of homesickness that followed, stroking her fingers across the top of it’s shell. “The family, they were so excited to meet you, you know. Especially the young ones. Dellinger and Sugar were so happy to have a new mami to take care of them.”

Her eye roll was entirely involuntary. Thankfully, Doflamingo either didn’t notice, or chose not to call her on it.

“It broke their little hearts when I had to tell them you wouldn’t be coming home like I promised,” If there was one thing she could give him credit for, it was his ability to lie just as easily as he breathed. “I’ll talk to them, make sure they understand it’s important to be patient.”

“I’m not interested in being a mother,” She wasn’t sure why she was saying anything, when she knew he would never listen. “To anyone. Ever.”

“You say that now, but you don’t know what its like, to have a family that really loves you,” Something in his tone, something she couldn’t place, lanced pure, cold dread down her spine. “Naciste para la maternidad."

Chapter Text

Introducing Eustass Kid and Sir Crocodile was an incredible mistake.

Not so much for her, at least not yet, but there was someone, somewhere in the world, who would die cursing her name for ever arranging for the two of them to meet.

Although their personalities couldn’t possibly be more different, the idea of high powered artillery was enough to bridge the gap, and she realized, watching them stand around her meeting table, discussing the blueprints for some sort of super cannon, she had created a monster. Their mutual dislike of one another had lasted all of ten minutes, long enough for them to nearly come to blows before both she and Killer intervened, reminding their respective sides that they’d come there to discuss a business deal, and after Heat retrieved one of Kid’s functional, but scrapped, prototypes, it was like they’d known one another for years. They weren’t friends, exactly, but Kid, eager for praise despite his refusal to admit it, soaked up Crocodile’s rarely given compliments, and though her husband would typically loathe wild types like the young captain, he respected ingenuity – especially when it could be used to his advantage.

“He’s done it now,” Killer, who stood in the doorway beside her, muttered through his mask, leaning down in her direction. “Kid’s talking about the Voltage Volley again. You’ll be lucky to get your husband back before the week is out.”

“The fuck’s a Voltage Volley?”

As it turned out, a Voltage Volley was a pet project of Kid’s, one he hadn’t been able to get working on a consistent basis, but something he always came back to, ever since he gained his Devil Fruit powers. He wanted to create what was functionally an electric fence by deploying electric canon balls, which he could manipulate using his magnetism, and Crocodile, expressing more understanding of engineering than she would have expected, had several ideas on how he could implement it more successfully. She knew he built his own weaponry, on occasion, and she had seen a couple of explosives he had put together, most of them for no immediate reason than the occasional need to tinker, but he and Kid were in a league of their own. Neither of them could follow the conversation for longer than a couple seconds at a time, and Heat, who had walked up to listen, heard the word “electromagnetic pulse”, and immediately turned around with a muttered declaration he was going to take a nap.

“You have a good mind for this.”

She had eventually wandered off herself, once she was certain the duo wouldn’t kill one another, and had settled on a stray piece of driftwood to watch the shoreline. The island they were on was tiny, unoccupied except for the brewery on the far coast, their presence hidden by fields of grain, though they didn’t necessarily need to worry about discretion. Crocodile had ultimately decided to buy into his favorite whiskey brewery, and had taken complete ownership of both the company and the little island it was on, so anyone who might catch him interacting with Captain Eustass Kid was an employee of his, and unlikely to try and report him for some sort of misconduct. She had been by herself, enjoying the peace and quiet, and hadn’t noticed when Adami approached, lost in the gentle rushing of the low tide.

“For what?”

“To be captain,” The long limbed man settled onto the sand beside her, his long legs sprawling in front of him. “You are good at it. Better than you thought you would be.”

“It feels like I don’t really do much of anything.”

It wasn’t untrue. For the most part, her crew ran themselves. When they weren’t working for Crocodile, they tended to fall easily back under Adami’s leadership, going about their business without any real need for her advice or intervention. They listened, when she spoke, obeyed her orders when she gave them, but at no point did it ever feel like they were really her crew. Employees, maybe, but even that was a stretch, most days, and she would liken them more to a group of adults, humoring a small child.

“You do not,” Adami agreed with a loose shrug of his knotted shoulders. “But we do not need you to. We are not like these young ones, in need of guidance.”

“Then why bother looking for me in the first place?” He offered her his flask, and she had already brought it to her lips before she remembered how absolutely vile the rum he favored was. “I mean, I know you promised Oleander, but finding me would have been enough, right?”

“Perhaps, but that would have been a waste of talent,” With a soft grunt, he leaned back, laying out in the sand. “You have his mind. The good part of it. And your gut, it is worth trusting. That is not true for most.”

“I’m paranoid, is all it is.”

“You are that,” He grinned – at some point, he had lost another tooth. “But you use it well. Had the decision been mine, the Kid boy would be dead. Instead, you have made an ally of him.”

“Only because I didn’t want to fight,” She leaned forward, looping her hands around her knees as something exploded in the distance, followed by Kid’s whooping laughter. “I’m not like you, or Wani, or Kid. The thought of killing someone makes me sick.”

“That is good,” Faintly, she could hear Killer, screaming at Kid to aim away from their ship. “There is such a thing as too much violence. The magaramacha, the kapatana, they are quick to anger, and it has made them many enemies they could have made allies of, instead. As long as you are willing to fight when you must, there is value in temperance.”

An hour later, the Kid Pirates were on their way to sea. They had agreed to stay away from Arabasta, but Crocodile had given them an Eternal Pose that would lead them to the not-too-distant Little Garden, where they would be in near enough range to raise one of them via den den mushi, should they be in need. Crocodile would pay a very fair price for any blueprints Kid was willing to part with, and more than that, even, for working prototypes. More familiar with the rest of the Grand Line than she could ever hope to be, he had set them on one of the alternate paths, where Kid was likely to find materials he could make use of, and it seemed both of them walked away quite pleased with their agreement, though Kid made it a point to mention that it would not spare Crocodile from, eventually, becoming a stepping stone on his way to becoming King of the Pirates.

“Were you planning to tell me Kid was the one to sacked my supplier?” The door to the office had barely clicked shut when Crocodile spoke. “Losing that copper will push construction back by months.”

“I know,” She shrugged, throwing herself down on the armchair behind her desk. “But would you rather have copper, or whatever the hell that is?”

In Crocodile’s hand was a roll of blueprint papers of varying ages, some new and crisp, others faded and crinkled. In response, he stared at her, attempting to weigh her down with the oppressiveness of being entirely over her flippancy, and when it failed, he sighed, shaking his head and dropping onto the sofa. She hadn’t been gone too long, but it seemed like he had the same difficulties sleeping without her that she did him, a faint blue hue lining beneath his eyes.

“The boy is infatuated with you,” He noted, huffy and amused at the same time. “Next time you bring me a business deal, I’d prefer you not do it by flirting your way into an agreement.”

“I did warn you this whole thing was going to go wrong, didn’t I?” He rumbled out a sound of agreement. “By the way, Mister 8 is dead.”

For the first time since they were married, for a moment, it seemed as if he might genuinely be angry with her. His head whipped in her direction, a vicious gleam in his stare, and were she anyone else, she likely would have found herself suddenly very thirsty, as all the moisture was sapped from her body.

“I trust you had good reason to kill one of my agents?”

“You know he was a slaver, right?”

“It’s why I hired him,” He returned flatly. “Baroque Works has been able to drastically increase their profits using his connections.”

“One of those connections was Doflamingo,” The pinch between his thin brows flinched. “And you’ll never guess who put a private bounty on my head.”

The sound that he made was far from pleased, but his anger, at least, was no longer directed at her. The heat of his stare was focused instead on the ceiling, attempting to burn a hole through the wood with the viciousness of his glower alone.

“I figure the copper is a fair trade for Kid not ransoming me off.”

“I suppose,” Crocodile agreed, his voice draped in reluctance. “In that case, you’ve spared me the trouble of dealing with Mister 8 myself.”

“Kid and Killer did, technically,” He did not look at all amused. “I did have to fight, though. I think I might have killed someone.”

The room fell quiet, after that, filled only with the sound of the sea pouring in through the open window. Slowly, the harshness of his features fell away, softening at the edges as he stared, searching for something in her features. She wasn’t certain what he hoped to find, or what he ultimately found, but it gentled him, calmed his frustration and replaced it with something softer. He had long been insistent that she would need to get comfortable with the idea of taking a life, and she had, to some degree, come to tolerate the fact that he did it all the time, and she had tacitly cosigned it by refusing to intervene, and she was a little surprised, that his reaction was so sympathetic, as if he was sorry that she’d had to do it.

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping?”

“Mostly,” He hummed at her, the deep timber of his voice rolling over the waves. “I always sleep worse when you’re not around, so it’s not helping, at any rate.”

In the bright afternoon light, his dimple looked deeper, lined in heavy shadows that made his entire face look a little older than he had before.

“I’m not fond of being in my bed alone anymore, either,” Open admissions like that were rare, from him, and she felt her face start to grow hot, basking in the affection. “It’s surprisingly difficult to sleep without my wife shoving her ice cold toes between my thighs.”

“That was one time.”

“You do it nearly every night,” His chuckle reminded her of a bass, strumming smoothly from the corner of a bar. “I just don’t mention it because you’re clearly not going to stop.”

“You’re the one who won’t leave my legs alone,” She taunted in return. “If you can’t find them, you start grunting at me like I owe you money.”

“They’re a lovely pair of legs,” He shrugged, stretching his lengthy arms over the back of the sofa. “You can’t blame me for having good taste. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be married.”

With his prosthetic, he motioned for her to come closer, spreading his knees wide when she got closer in a silent invitation to sit on his thigh. As she settled, his heavy hook looped around her upper arm, drawing her into the firm expanse of his chest, up against the silk of his vest – a new one she had stitched together, with a particularly pleasant, but subtle, orange paisley sort of pattern against a warm red. He didn’t wear warm colors often, vainly feeling that they made his already fair skin seem all the more pallid, but she always enjoyed it when he did. Already luxurious prints looked all the more pleasing against his features, giving him the air of being almost noble, draped in subtle decadence.

“You know,” As she leaned against his shoulder, the cold gold of his hook pressed against the side of her head, stroking over the apple of her cheek with the smooth curve. “I can remake those copper pipes and stuff.”

“I admit,” He drawled, laying his paw of a hand across her hip, pressing her closer. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“You?” She couldn’t hold back her giggle. “Tell me the truth, are you my husband or some sort of clone?”

“Quiet, little girl,” There was warmth, but no heat, behind the demand. “Not all of us are able to manipulate metal. I’ll order an expedited shipment from the refinery. Do you think you can make more complicated pieces, or just the pipes and tanks?”

“You’ll probably need to walk me through it, but I should be able to make all of it, as long as you can get me the materials.”

He hummed in agreement, letting out a shuddering breath as he deflated into the cushions.

“I’m curious what else you can do,” His voice took on an easiness, one that indicated he was thinking out loud, more than expecting an answer. “We ought to give some time to exploring your capabilities.”

“You just want me to make you those cool guns Kid designed.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind if you did,” He agreed easily. “But it would be useful for us both, to know the fine details of what you can do. I admit, from what I know of your Devil Fruit powers, I only anticipated simple restructuring, but there have been great strides in engineering since Cross was active. I’m sure there’s a great deal he was capable of but simply didn’t know was possible.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” Her elbow settled on his shoulder, propping up her chin. “I would need to know how everything works to put it together correctly, and I doubt I could do it on the fly, even with practice.”

“You would still have a great deal of utility outside of combat if you couldn’t,” He shrugged, not out of derision, but to drive her elbow deeper into the knot of muscle at the side of his neck. “Imagine how effective you would be as a smuggler. The Marines wouldn’t question a ship transporting raw materials. Though, you are often far more capable than you think.”

“Not everyone is a criminal genius, Wani. I don’t think I’m going to be assembling complicated weapons parts while someone’s trying to stab me.”

“It’s a matter of practice,” He flicked her chin with his thumb before reaching for his glass. “Don’t forget, I’ve had my Devil Fruit nearly as long as you’ve been alive. I had to train to use it, same as anyone. I don’t expect you to master your powers overnight.”

“I’d feel a lot better if I could,” She sighed into the fur of his coat. “Safer, for sure.”

His long fingers squeezed around her hip, drawing her closer, easily maneuvering her weight until she was against him from shoulder to knee.

“You know I’ll do whatever I need to in order to protect you,” The tip of his nose pressed against her scalp. “It may seem like I’m doing nothing, but these things require patience, especially when we’re dealing with someone as unstable as that fool.”

“It’s not that,” She ran her fingertips through his hair, pushing it back away from his face. “I know I can rely on you. It’s the times you aren’t around that I worry about. If something goes wrong with Operation Utopia, and you end up in prison, or…worse, I need to be able to keep it together, myself.”

“Even Impel Down couldn’t hold me for long, pretty girl,” His lips were soft against her temple, ghosting over her flesh as he murmured to her. “Not so long as you’re waiting for me. And I would certainly never give the Marines or Donquixote the satisfaction of taking my head.”

They sat quietly, after that, listening to the soft sounds of the ocean as the Baroness trudged towards Arabasta. She relished in finally having a quiet, comfortable moment with him, enjoying the opportunity to have things how they always should be – soft and unhurried, without the weight of stress or the pressure of outsiders. Eventually, Kahini poked his head in, long enough to alert them that a storm was on the horizon, and navigating around it would cause a few hours of delay. She wasn’t certain if Crocodile had drifted off, or if he had been silently enjoying the same, but he popped up enough to tell the navigator it was fine, and that he’d prefer they not be disturbed the rest of the evening, outside of another emergency.

“You know,” Crocodile’s voice was muffled slightly by his glass, words forming inside of the tumbler. “I’ve been considering building a second home.”

“You have six that I know of,” He knocked her side with his knuckle. “But go on.”

“Miss All Sunday is able to handle the day to day operations of Rain Dinners,” He traced the seam of her dress, following the divot from the top of her thigh to the underside of her ribs. “And we’ve had entirely too many uninvited guests come searching for us there.”

By too many, he meant two, although Adami had worked out favorably in the end – and by us, he surely meant her.

“There’s an area not far from where Erebus will be built, amidst the mesas,” He continued. “The people of Arabasta have no interest. There is no sign of any viable water source, and it’s a fair distance from anything useful, even with the new port. Combined with the native fauna, it’s considered more trouble than it’s worth.”

Given he was talking about it, she was sure he’d already investigated it thoroughly. She had heard from Sunday that he’d spent a great deal of time searching the pocket of mesas when Princess Vivi went missing, thinking perhaps that, with the Koala Gang gone, her abductors had made use of the complex maze of stone structures to hide with the captive princess.

“There’s a river well beneath the sand that can be accessed,” That was always an unusual facet of his Devil Fruit power, his ability to sense moisture through nearly any surface, so long as it was within a couple dozen meters. “And the mesas provide both a defensive advantage, as well as camouflage. It isn’t far enough from Erebus or Rainbase to be inconvenient, either, now that your F-Wani is grown.”

“I like being in the city,” She noted, and it wasn’t untrue – she greatly appreciated being able to walk to anything important in under twenty minutes. “But I wouldn’t say no to having a second home, either. I would like to be able to walk around with my tits out whenever I please.”

“You already do,” The back of his hand ghosted over her chest to emphasize his point. “Not that I’m opposed to seeing more of you.”

“I’m assuming you’re planning to start building it alongside the city?”

“Before, actually,” He noted. “I intend for it to be secret, so I’ve been searching for a contractor who does quality work but won’t be missed. Instead, we might use the construction as a means to test your powers. You’ll be able to design it however you like.”

“You’re not going to turn around and use it as an excuse to make me construct a whole city, are you?”

“Not this one, no,” He chuckled. “Though if Operation Utopia goes well, there will be more opportunities to put you to work.”

Chapter Text

Crocodile was a man of patience.

It was never more obvious than in exactly how much time he committed to Operation Utopia, should anyone have been aware of what he was doing, a plan that would take at least a decade to come to fruition. Everything he did was thought through, arranged with purpose – except in those rare moments that his temper escaped his control – and though his marriage had started as a half-baked idea to get the woman he wanted and annoy Doflamingo at the same time, he did not act rashly when it came to the safety and happiness of his wife. Everything that he did for her, he did with purpose, to ensure that she was secure and content, and what he intended to do to Doflamingo, in return for all of his harassment, was a plan that he had considered and concocted and arranged for nearly the entirety of his marriage.

The most difficult part was infiltrating Doflamingo’s organization. Although his various lieutenants would accept just about anyone with passing skill into their armies, getting close to anyone in a position of leadership was near impossible. Doflamingo himself, despite his childish nature and impulsivity, was no fool, and he was unwilling to trust anyone but his commanders, who had been in his employ nearly his entire life, their loyalty to his authority proven over the course of decades. Everyone else was left purposefully in the dark, told only what they absolutely needed to know and trusted with not a single thing more, and it required exceptional effort for someone new to the organization to be granted any measure of trust.

Vèsman had been a wise choice, however. He had been reluctant to consider him, at first, but there was precious little to lose, should he fail, and he was, if nothing else, earnest about wanting to join the crew he had quietly admired his entire life. He had grown up on stories about Oleander, passed down from his family and friends and neighbors, and when he learned the man’s long-lost heir had been discovered, he had strummed up the courage to finally become a pirate under her leadership. He had, unfortunately for him, met Crocodile first, approaching him while he nursed a drink at the so-called bar to question how best to ask her, when he lacked any useful skill to offer, and the Warlord had seen enough potential in the naïve young man that he had offered him a position that would, surely, impress her.

His eagerness meant he learned quickly, and it hadn’t taken long before Crocodile sent him off to infiltrate the Donquixote pirates. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was a capable ship hand, and more than that, charismatic – so much so, it hadn’t taken him long to begin to bond with Viola. In a matter of months, he had earned her trust, and she had begun to involve him with her own plans to tear down Doflamingo’s empire, using him, the young man beneath everyone else’s notice, to act in her stead, blissfully unaware that he had his own motivations beyond something as paltry as love.

His reports back to Crocodile were rare, but thorough, and extremely useful. Through them, he knew precisely where to search for leverage, and when he finally gathered enough, he set the next phase of his plan into motion.

Lily insisted that she and Smoker were only friends. On her part, he believed that was true enough, that whatever love she still had for him was based in nostalgia rather than active affection, but there was little doubt in his mind that the Captain still carried a torch for her. No man, not even a wild dog like Smoker, would run up on a Warlord and openly threaten them for someone who was just a friend. Although he had mostly been quiet since their brief verbal confrontation at Logue Town, Crocodile was well aware that Smoker hadn’t just taken the news of her marriage on the chin, and there had been a few occasions where the Captain gave himself away. Unusual information requests, often filed under Tashigi’s name, occasionally drifted through Marine Headquarters, and there had been, once, a request for reassignment on the Grand Line, patrolling the Arabasta route from Reverse Mountain to the Red Line. It had been denied, of course, and one of the officers present had revealed Akainu had acknowledged that they knew about Smoker and Lily’s history when he had refused, stating outright that he would be better served forgetting about the “pirate’s whore” – that she was just as guilty as Crocodile himself, and if Akainu had his way, they’d both spend eternity in Impel Down.

They were enemies, in almost every way that mattered, and under normal circumstances, Smoker would never so much as entertain having a conversation – but when it came to matters of Lily’s safety, the Marine was his ally, even if he didn’t know it.

The folio was delivered to his desk with no admission as to who was behind it. It wouldn’t be difficult to guess, but the source of the information was not what Smoker would be focused on, and it didn’t particularly matter if Doflamingo were to ever find out. The other Warlord surely knew that he was planning some sort of move against him, and would likely assume that it was Crocodile behind his newfound inconveniences, even if it hadn’t been.

Smoker didn’t care about Doflamingo, but he was the sort of man to read the folder, at least, and all it took was a couple of lines in the documents to get him deeply invested. Amidst all that Crocodile had gathered about his illicit businesses, his slave and weapons trades, he had made sure that his collection included just a few references to Lily. A transcript of a den den mushi call he had intercepted, where he and Diamante discussed “his errant bride to be”, and a few photos of Doflamingo’s birthday celebration, at least one of which included her. He had framed it up as if the person responsible for gathering all the information was blissfully unaware of who she was, except to perform a perfunctory investigation, but Doflamingo’s interest in her had been noted.

Three slave houses were raided. As much as the Marines benefitted from the industry, they couldn’t afford to be seen as complicit, and a man like Smoker, armed with that much evidence, was more than capable of surviving long enough to make a public spectacle of their inaction. He was called, in fact, to join the raids, and the most recent news papers were hailing him as a hero, for uncovering an underground slave market and tearing it apart. The recent arrests of four smuggling ships, all laden with weapons and headed unquestionably towards the more wartorn areas of the East Blue, were practically a footnote.

It wasn’t enough to destroy Doflamingo’s business entirely. He was focused, above all else, on his SMILE fruits, and his working relationship with Kaido, but eviscerating his enterprise had never been the real goal. Despite how severe the destruction seemed, it was, ultimately, just a warning – a threat, a reminder of what else Crocodile might have, what other strings he might be able to pull to take away all the rest of what was left. Doflamingo needed to be reminded that Crocodile wasn’t his only enemy, and he’d made that much abundantly clear.

Smoker was on his case. He hadn’t been able to prove the connection to Doflamingo, and so, unfortunately, the Heavenly Yaksha remained a Warlord with a kingdom to preside over, but suspicion loomed over his head like a cloud, now. Smoker had made it clear that he knew, had filed no less than two warrants for his arrest and three petitions to have him stripped of his title, at least one of which was backed by Akainu, and only failed because someone even higher than Sengoku had demanded it be put to bed. Someone within his organization, someone that he trusted, had proven themselves to be unreliable, ferrying information to the enemy – and Crocodile was careful, to ensure that it was not clear who. Of the five auction houses he had learned about, he had redacted two, so that the number of executives who oversaw them matched evenly across the board, smearing suspicion onto Diamante, Trebol, and Viola in equal measure. Two of the smuggling groups worked for Lao G, the other two for Senor Pink. Only one was connected to Vèsman, enough to let him be splashed by suspicion without being bathed in it, the same as two dozen other names of equal rank.

He didn’t see the fallout first hand, but he was sure it was spectacular, from the reports. The King of Dressrosa had gone unusually quiet for three days – then, an entire island in the North Blue had disappeared, alongside three Marines Crocodile had long suspected of being in his employ.

“How like you,” Mihawk, who had made another unannounced visit, drawled from the sofa in his office. “To abuse a man’s feelings for his long-lost love to get your way.”

How Mihawk knew about Lily and Smoker, Crocodile wasn’t sure, but it didn’t particularly matter. It wasn’t a secret, and the other Warlord did make visits to Gureirokku far more often than most, being the one most inclined to travel, especially out of the Grand Line.

“Does your wife know you’ve been manipulating her old lover to do your dirty work?” The swordsman continued, glowering at the wine in his glass – despite his every effort to educate her, Lily still preferred sweet white wines, and it was all they had in the suite. “I saw the two of them together once, you know. They looked at one another almost the same way you two do now.”

“Even you aren’t immune to feeling affection, Hawkeyes,” He leaned back in his office chair, savoring his brandy, which tasted better than usual, that evening. “And I’ll be sure to remember this conversation, when you finally meet a woman willing to tolerate you.”

The swordsman snorted, unimpressed, and took another long sip of his drink.

“Where is the little demon, anyway?” He glanced towards the patio, though they both knew, for once, she wasn’t there. “Tracking mud on your new tile? Eating the pages out of your favorite novel?”

It would be all too easy to mistake Mihawk’s tone for loathing. Someone who didn’t know him quite as well would take his comments as insults, and on some level, that was what they were, but Crocodile had known the swordsman for many years, and he knew better. He was fond of Lily – as fond of someone as someone as inclined to isolation could be. Not enough to love her, to be with her the way Crocodile was, the way Smoker wished he could still be, the way Doflamingo had convinced himself he did, but in the way an actual human would care about a friend.

“The spa,” The same one she was at every other Thursday, though Mihawk had no need to know that. “Soaking in something fashionable.”

“Sulfur, perhaps,” Another sip, pointed and intentionally noisy this time. “A reminder of the hellpit she spawned from.”

“She’s been fond of anything with ylang ylang, recently,” He ignored the barb, too content to bother with irritation and acutely aware it wouldn’t get him anywhere, anyway. “I can’t take a step without finding more oil or potpourri with it, these days.”

“Last month it was lavender, wasn’t it?”

“And neroli before that,” He agreed. “She’s a woman. Her tastes change on a whim, though I wouldn’t expect you to know that. You’d have to spend time with one to learn about them.”

Mihawk scoffed, turning his cutting yellow gaze to the nearby window.

“Your wife has a sister, doesn’t she? Perhaps I’ll seek her out. They must share some similarities, so perhaps I’ll finally learn what’s so appealing about a gremlin in a silk dress.”

“They’re nothing alike, I’m afraid,” Distantly, he heard the sound of the front door open, along with the tittering of his wife and All Sunday. “And she’s infatuated with Morgan’s boy.”

“You don’t think I could charm her away from the brat?”

“No,” The patio door slid open, their shadows dancing on the stone as the placid water of the pool began to tremble with gentle waves. “Nor do I think you’d survive what my wife would do to you, if you tried.”

The room lapsed into quiet, for several minutes. Through the glass, he could just barely hear the sounds of the two women, floating around the pool in the army of devices his wife had accumulated. She refused to let her Devil Fruit powers deter her from soaking as often as possible, and he refused to let her drown, so he had caved in, as he so often did, and let her purchase as many as she liked, on the condition she only enter the pool when someone was around to fish her out. Preferably Bunshou, who could actually swim, unlike himself or Sunday – or Adami, he had learned, though the helmsman still refused to explain what his Devil Fruit actually did – but the swordsman had bunkered down on the balcony some hours earlier, resolute in his decision to be absolutely nowhere near that “young fool” who had claimed the title of the World’s Best Swordsman.

He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he was certain it was something vulgar. All Sunday was a consummate professional, the vast majority of the time, but she and his wife were uncomfortable similar in their senses of humor. If they weren’t flirting, in a way both women claimed was entirely platonic despite being so filthy a whore would blush, they were making jokes so dark even he found them sometimes objectionable.

It had made him uncomfortable, at first, how close the two of them had become. Sunday was only ever a means to an end – someone capable of reading poneglyphs, and someone reliable enough to act as a smokescreen for his leadership of Baroque Works – and he intended for her to remain utterly disposable. He had contemplated keeping her around after he had Pluton, if she continued to be reliable, but he had severely miscalculated how badly both she and Lily wanted someone to connect with, and there would be no extricating Sunday from their lives, now. He still didn’t always enjoy it, seeing the two of them interact as smoothly as lovers, but he believed his wife, when she indicated there was no reason to be envious.

Once the two of them settled, he pushed himself up from his desk, making his way over to the patio door just as his wife began to float by. She had, he noted, put on one of the swimsuits he had bought her – he enjoyed seeing her in a little bikini as much as any man might, but she was always extra tantalizing in a one piece, particularly that blue one. It covered everything from collar bone to pelvis, except the left half of her stomach, offering a tantalizing view of her flesh.

“We have a guest,” He declared as she drifted by, arms and legs hanging over the sides of a pool tube decorated like a pink donut. “Hawkeyes has decided he wants to settle down with your sister.”

“Does he enjoy having hands?”

To her credit, she didn’t even blink, coasting leisurely by as Sunday made herself comfortable on one of the floating loungers in the shallows, and he turned to look at the swordsman, who scoffed and returned to his glass. With both grace and reluctance, Mihawk rose from the sofa, stalking outside to the tune of his boots clicking against the tile, to settle primly on the foot of one of the sunchairs.

“We were just discussing your husband’s most recent exploit,” The swordsman’s vengeance was swift, holding out the rolled up newspaper for her to take. “I recall you and Captain Smoker used to date, did you not?”

“We did,” She snatched the paper, glowering at him with nothing less than pure suspicion before she started searching for the article. “And I specifically remember telling you not to kill him.”

“The Captain is very much alive,” He huffed and dropped into one of the wicker chairs kitty-corner to the pool. “He may even receive a promotion, if the rumors are to be believed.”

She ignored them both for a long minute as she scanned the article. It still surprised him, how quickly she could read – even Sunday, who was capable of consuming an entire novel in a day, couldn’t compare, and somehow, her reading comprehension didn’t suffer in the slightest. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she rolled the paper back into a tight tube and, with purpose but terrible aim, flung it in the general direction of Mihawk. He didn’t blink, and it missed entirely, smacking off the wall in a flood of paper and ink.

“Since when do you run tattling to the government about anything?”

“It’s hardly tattling,” He caught himself before he could be dragged further into an argument – his wife always managed to bait him like no one else. “I simply passed along some information. What he chose to do with it was his decision.”

“And you did that because?”

“If my own sources are correct,” Mihawk had no sources, not consistent ones, but entirely too many people underestimated his senses. “Those auction houses belong to a certain Warlord who’s been pestering you, of late.”

“Mmm,” He could see it take her a moment to understand what he meant, staring into the middle distance before recognition lit up her eyes. “Speaking of, how much for you to kill him?”

“You can’t afford my prices, rabbit,” He snipped, leaning back as he crossed his leg over his knee. “We’ve had this conversation, and I do hate to repeat myself.”

“Yeah, but that was before I found out he put a bounty on me.”

“Did he now?”

Mihawk didn’t look at him, but he could still feel the weight of the other man’s stare. His decision to strike back at Doflamingo must, suddenly, make considerably more sense with just that little bit of information.

“I still don’t know how much I’m worth,” She kicked her feet lightly, pushing herself along the edge of the pool. “But you can just have that, if you want it. He’s probably good for it.”

“I’ll consider it,” Which, in Mihawk’s language, meant he would put it out of his mind entirely until it was most convenient. “I’m surprised he’s still interested in you. Perhaps it would be best to let him have her for a week, Crocodile. I’m sure it won’t take long before he realizes how intolerable she is and sends her back.”

“Unfortunately for me,” Lily chimed for him. “My uterus is still functional, and that’s the part he cares about.”

She refused to elaborate, and Mihawk refused to ask.

“Speaking of,” His lip twitched in displeasure as he took another sip of white wine. “You two have been together for some time. I’m surprised there isn’t a little reptile running around.”

“Aww, eager to be an uncle?”

“To your spawn? Never,” From the far end of the pool, Sunday snickered to herself. “Though I am curious if you give birth the traditional way, or if it requires sacrificing a goat, first.”

“No goats, but I will need the blood of a virgin for the summoning circle. We can do it right now, if you’re willing to hand over half a liter or so.”

Chapter Text

Lily didn’t typically go to Alubarna.

Crocodile attended meetings in the palace with some regularity, especially so after he had been granted permission to build his city, but there was precious little there that was worth Lily’s attention. Outside of the Mataheb, she had gone to the city precisely twice, and both only at the invitation of the Nefertari family, to attend some smaller celebration as the plus one of his honored guest, Sir Crocodile, and again, at the King’s request, to design a dress for his daughter’s upcoming birthday. The city had next to nothing that she couldn’t buy from a shop much more conveniently located inside Rainbase, and the few amenities the smaller city lacked, she could just order, either through various merchants or by sending her husband on a quick errand during his next meeting.

She had gone that particular day only for a confluence of reasons. Princess Cuddlecakes, now fully grown into her harness, was trained well enough Crocodile trusted her to handle the reptile alone, but the F-Wani needed practice as much as she did exercise. Taking a long, roundabout route through the desert was both the opportunity for her pet to stretch her legs, and to work on her obedience, when faced with unusual distractions and temptations – as well as for Lily, herself, to practice her navigation. They’d accidentally detoured twice, one when Cuddlecakes gave chase to a disconcertingly large scorpion that apparently looked like a delicious lunch, and again when Lily got herself confused on her directions, but they’d arrived in the city of Alubarna largely without issue, in time for her to accomplish her secondary task of buying Crocodile an anniversary present.

Technically, she’d already bought it, but it hadn’t arrived until a couple days prior, and, in the interest of making sure it was a surprise, she’d asked the merchant to hold onto it, rather than have it shipped directly to the doors of Rain Dinners. He insisted, as he had for his birthday, that he wanted absolutely nothing to celebrate the day – except for her to spend the day in heels and lace lingerie and not much else – and like she had then, she had willfully ignored that request. She knew he would arrange some sort of private celebration for them, and he almost certainly had some sort of gift already hidden and waiting, so it only seemed fair, to have something for him, too.

The sculpture wasn’t particularly large, perfectly sized to fit in one of her husband’s massive hands, finely made and intricately carved, painstakingly painted with extreme care to the finest details. She hadn’t had much input on the actual design, except that it ought to include Bananawani and lilies of some type, because the cranky pirate she shared a bed with was secretly sickeningly romantic and would enjoy that sort of thing, and the sculptor had done the rest, though that had, ultimately, been for the best. A fat headed Bananawani, soaking at the surface of a crystal clear pond, peering past an array of delicate pink water lilies – it was beautiful, and exactly the sort of thing she hoped it would be, but didn’t have the creativity of skill to design herself.

“Hey, lady!”

She nearly smacked her head on the shell of Princess’ harness. No one had the nerve to get anywhere near Princess, and the last thing she expected, while carefully loading her gift in layer after layer of excess fabric, was the sound of someone – a child – screaming from somewhere near her feet.

Stood in the sand, precariously near the dangling stirrup, was a boy. Scruffy, a bit skinny – most likely, she thought, one of the apprentices who worked the stables outside of Alubarna’s walls, maintained and housed by the quartermaster in exchange for work but not, it seemed, particularly favored, if his state was any indication. The edges of his clothes were starting to tear, and his overcoat was starting to fade and discolor from too much sun, stained from too many days in the sand without a good wash. The skin across his nose was more than just newly sunburned, but peeling and burned and peeling again, and his lips had gone nearly white, beneath layer after layer of dry skin.

She nearly didn’t recognize him. There was, for a long moment, only a sense of déjà vu, like he was familiar, but it was impossible to place where, before the memory crashed into her like a tidal wave.

It was the boy from the raid – during the Mataheb. The one who’s village had been burned by a group of pirates Crocodile had puppeteered, all to gain a little more ground, in his desperate venture to take control of the island of Arabasta. She didn’t think about that night often, but she remembered it, clearly, the fire on the horizon, the smell of burning flesh churning on the air. Seeing him, a little boy entirely too young to see those sorts of horrors, running blindly into the desert with his infant brother in his arms, desperately seeking help for a family that had most assuredly already been killed in the most brutal of ways.

“Where’s Crocodile?”

It didn’t escape her notice, then, that the boy had a sword on his hip.

“Why?”

“’Cause,” He had an attitude, too, scoffing at her question as if it were the single most idiotic thing he’d ever heard. “I gotta talk to ‘im.”

Mindful she didn’t slip, she settled on the edge of the harness, bracing her backside against the thin lip of the frame. The boy took a foolhardy step towards her, and Princess, who had been contentedly basking, instantly took notice of someone intruding on her space, lashing her massive tail through the sand. It was almost funny, the way he instantly jumped back, only to just as swiftly attempt to put on the same brave face he had before, but she couldn’t quite find it in her to laugh.

She knew Crocodile did terrible things. He had done them before she knew him, and he would, regardless of all else, continue to do them, and the only influence she could possibly hope to have was whether or not he told her about them directly, or let her discern his carnage from the rest whenever she read the news. It was a fact of life she had gotten uncomfortably comfortable with, but that tolerance required the end result of her husband’s misdeeds to be kept well outside of her purview. Seeing one of his victims – an incidental one, but a victim, nonetheless – was not something she was at all prepared to handle, that day, and it had her mouth suddenly dry with disquiet.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“The hell’do I need one a’ those for?”

“He doesn’t see anyone without one,” Giving him a gentle brush off, one steeped in a bit of humor to soften the blow of being refused, seemed like the best thing she could do for him. “I can pencil you in, but he’s booked for the next year.”

“Next year?” The boy squawked, and Princess let out an irritated huff in return. “I can’t wait that long! It’s gotta be now!”

“Why’s that?” She couldn’t stand to keep looking at his lips, his face, baked dry by the harsh desert sun, so she grabbed a canteen, still half-full from that morning. “You’re not planning to fight him, are you? Because you aren’t nearly big enough for that.”

“Why would I do that, stupid?”

Despite his quick insult, he didn’t hesitate to grab the container of water when she tossed it, hurriedly undoing the twist on cap. He guzzled the drink like he hadn’t had any in days – the very real possibility that he hadn’t only made her chest tighten a little more.

Alubarna had gotten plenty of rain that season, but that didn’t mean that there was enough to go around. Large swaths of the country weren’t nearly as lucky, and even in places with plenty, water restrictions had been enacted, as they tried to transport enough to the smaller villages and settlements throughout the Sandora that had suffered under the extreme conditions of the summer. Although it was meant to ensure that everyone in the city still got enough to be comfortable, without allowing for wastefulness, the poor and unlucky were always the first to suffer, and she had seen entirely too many people on the streets of Rainbase to think that the boy – orphaned by her husband – had enough coin to buy enough to keep himself hydrated.

“You’d be surprised how often it’s the answer,” He finished drinking with a great gasp – not because he wasn’t still thirsty, but because the canteen had run dry. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“No way!” He lobbed the canteen with aim worse than her own, sending it completely over the top of Princess’ canopy and into the dirt somewhere behind them. “Just take me to see Crocodile, lady!”

“Kid,” He tutted again at the term. “Making demands only works if you’ve got something the other person wants. If you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just leave.”

The boy reminded her a little bit of Kidd. They looked nothing alike, but the attitude was so similar, she was distracted, for a moment, with the wonder of what the young captain was up to. They didn’t talk much, but Dive liked to send regular letters, keeping her updated on the going-ons of the crew, and last she’d heard, they’d taken some damage during a scuffle with the Marines, and had been forced to dock for a while so they could make repairs. Kidd, she was sure, was absolutely losing his mind from the boredom, and that surely meant Killer was right behind him, half mad from trying to prevent his captain from turning a mild inconvenience into an excuse to make world-ending explosives out of whatever was handy.

The little stranger pouted, for a moment, as he considered the possibility of screaming her into submission, kicking at the sand when he realized it wouldn’t work.

“I wanna join his crew.”

He didn’t notice the way she flinched.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, kid,” He squinted at the nickname, clearly annoyed to hear it. “But Crocodile doesn’t have a crew.”

“Of course he does!” The boy protested, with absolutely unwavering confidence. “I know he’s a pirate, dummy, and pirates have crews. Don’t you know anythin’?”

“He’s a Warlord,” It was, admittedly, a little endearing how determined he was – horrific, in its own way, but under other circumstances, she would find it sweet how adamantly he insisted. “He’s so strong, he doesn’t need a crew.”

“How would you know?” His voice crackled, and though he pulled his turban down over his brow, she didn’t miss the way his eyes started to glisten. “You’re just ‘is secretary or whatever. You don’t know.”

The pang of guilt in her heart became a throb. It wasn’t hard to piece together why a boy so young, who had seen what he had, would come to the conclusion that he wanted to work for Sir Crocodile. Although pirates were responsible for what she was sure must have been the most traumatic night of his life, Sir Crocodile, a Warlord, had been the one to save him from meeting the same fate as the rest of his village, and in doing so, he had made it look easy. It hadn’t taken him more than a few minutes to desiccate the invaders, tearing through an entire crew of pirates with just one simple, if massive, attack, and for someone who must have felt impossibly helpless, seeing that sort of power, the power to never feel that weak again, had to be impossibly appealing.

“Why do you want to become a pirate, anyway?” Keeping an eye on him, she fished around in the storage containers behind the seat, searching for a pack of cookies someone had given her on her way back to the stables. “King Nefertari told me you have family here. An aunt, right? Don’t you want to stay here with her?”

The boy sniffled, shaking his head.

“Uncle’s a jerk. I hear them arguin’ all the time.”

“About you?”

“He keeps sayin’ they should just throw us out onto the street,” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his coat. “’Cause I eat too much ‘n’ Teba cries a lot an’ he can’t sleep. He says I gotta work the stables to earn my keep, but I hate it here. Everythin’ smells like camel shit an’ they don’t give me any water.”

She knew what she was going to do. She knew it was the guilt, her complacency, that was pushing her to make an ultimately foolish decision, and that she ought to obey her better sense, her logic. The correct thing to do would be to reach out to one of her passing associates in the palace, like Pell or perhaps Princess Vivi, and make them aware of the conditions the children were subjected to, so that they could handle it themselves, the proper and legal way. She should return to Rainbase, alone, and mention the interaction to Crocodile, so he could perform some sort of quiet intervention – so he could make a convenient, purely-by-happenstance visit to check on the children he had saved, and use his influence later to alleviate her crushing regret in the same way he’d inadvertently caused it.

Instead, she found herself standing outside the door of the suite, waiting impatiently for Crocodile to make his way up for dinner after one of his meetings. She didn’t bother to try and hide her nerves, swaying back and forth from heel to toe, fiddling with her wedding ring, twisting it around and around, until the elevator doors opened with a gentle chime.

“Don’t be mad.”

Her husband paused just outside the carriage threshold. He seemed to be in a good mood, at least, staring benignly into the middle distance until she so rudely interrupted his train of thought, peering down the length of his nose as he contemplated what she could have possibly done.

“Who’s dead?”

“I might be soon,” One thin eyebrow arched upwards. “Depending on how you react.”

His lips twitched. That handsome dimple flashed to life for the briefest moment as he moved closer, until her chest was pressed against his hip, the heavy rung of his prosthetic bearing gently down against her back.

“Start explaining, pretty girl,” With just the weight of his leg, he pressed her backwards, towards the door of their home. “My meeting went well, and I’m in a good enough mood I might let you escape with just a few spankings.”

“I doubt it,” His laugh, low and rumbling, echoed through the hall as he continued to pressure her back. “But I went to Alubarna today to get something.”

“You hate shopping,” Over her shoulder, she could hear his hand, fiddling with the handle of the unlocked doors. “Did some snake oil salesman get one over on you?”

“I was picking up your anniversary present, asshole.”

The fun lasted only a few seconds longer, as the wail of an infant suddenly cut through the quiet of the suite. He paused, falling still, as he found Sunday in their kitchen, a shrieking baby braced on her hip as she studiously reviewed the instructions on the side of a container of formula through the steam of a boiling pot. Sat at their kitchen island was Tulin, the older of the two boys, watching with utter enthrallment as Adami went through the process of sharpening a sword easily twice the child’s size, muttering instructions and important things to remember to avoid damaging the metal.

His silence stretched for entirely too long. There was no real reaction, not in his expression, neutral as ever, but she knew, simply from how long he failed to respond, that her impromptu decision had left him in a rare state of absolute befuddlement.

“Just because Hawkeyes suggested we have children,” He reached vaguely for the cigar tin in his pocket. “You didn’t need to go find some.”

“They’re not-,” The spark of irritation died as quickly as it came to life. “I didn’t adopt them, jackass.”

“Then why are they in our home?”

She genuinely hadn’t planned to take them with her. It wasn’t much of a defense, all things considered, but it was the only one she had to give, when Crocodile finally dragged her into their bedroom to talk privately – after she helped Sunday get baby Teba to latch on his bottle, and convinced Adami to take Tullin down to the kitchens to find something for dinner.

When she had gone back to the boys’ home, it had only been to see the situation for herself. The way Tulin had talked about his aunt and uncle, it had seemed possible that the boys might not be the only ones facing the brunt of the man’s anger, and though she knew full well that she was being a busy-body, inserting herself into a situation she really ought to be divorced from, she had thought, maybe, she could find some sort of resolution that would give the children a better life. It wouldn’t be hard to find them work and housing in Rainbase, where things would be much more stable – enough so, at least, that Tulin wouldn’t consider a life of piracy to be the better alternative.

What she found was a malnourished infant, a filthy hovel of a home, and two belligerent adults who insisted they’d done nothing wrong. The polite conversation she hoped to have had become a screaming match in a matter of minutes, and ultimately, she’d done the only reasonable thing she could think to do.

“You kidnapped two children?” Crocodile, seated on the side of the bed with his ankle hooked over his knee, foot tapping in the air, questioned evenly, as she continued to pace.

“I had to, Wani,” Through the wooden door, Teba’s cries started to quiet. “They were giving the baby water. Water!”

There was no reaction to her assertion, and she assumed he likely had no idea why that would be an issue. As well educated as her husband was, there were considerable gaps in his knowledge, and anything regarding childcare was well beyond his understanding.

“He’s not old enough for plain water,” He didn’t so much as twitch, continuing to follow her with his bitter cold stare as she crossed from one end of the room to the other. “His kidneys can’t handle that, yet. It could literally kill him.”

The bed creaked as he shifted, but he made no effort to interrupt her impending tirade – nor did she, gladly letting it start to tumble free.

“I mean, I know what it’s like when you don’t have beri, but that’s no excuse. When Alder was a month old, my mom stopped making breastmilk, and we sure as shit couldn’t afford formula, but we still found a way to keep him fed. Mom got some of her friends to help wet nurse. I even jerked off that dirty old creep at the commissary to get rice cereal when it got really desperate.”

In her peripheral, she saw his face darken for an instant, but in that moment, she couldn’t quite register the cause of his sudden disapproval.

“Neither of those fuckers have jobs, either. They made Tulin work at the stable from dawn to dusk every day of the week, just to take his beri for I don’t even know what. He’s ten! It’d be one thing if he was running little errands, but that jackass at the stables had him shoveling shit in the hot sun for hours. Oh, oh, and any time he got a drink, he got docked ten beri.”

She didn’t run out of steam, exactly, but of things to say. There was plenty more, all of which she’d be more than happy to complain about, loudly and preferably in the face of whoever showed up to attempt to take the children back – if the aunt and uncle cared enough to report them stolen to begin with – but she had spent nearly a year all but glued to Crocodile’s side. If her case hadn’t already been made, then nothing else she had to say was going to convince him, so she stopped, turning to face the behemoth seated on their bed, still observing her with nothing except carefully maintained neutrality.

“What do you intend to do with them?” His question was simple, but one she didn’t really have an answer for.

“Tulin came to me wanting to join your crew,” The scoff that followed her admission was muffled behind a thick, swirling plume of sweet smelling smoke. “If he really wants to be a pirate that badly, he can join my crew. Kahini needs an apprentice.”

“And the infant?” The heel of his shoe clicked as he uncrossed his legs, leaning his shoulders back. “You want to make that sort of commitment?”

“Divina offered to take care of him full time,” Something about his questions, delivered evenly, without judgement, still made her insides curdle with frustration. “And four of the housekeepers are already planning a babysitting rotation.”

“And if this backfires? If they ever realize I’m the reason their parents were killed, and decide they want us both dead? What will you do then?”

“I’ll deal with it.”

Her spine bristled at the question, the one she had refused to acknowledge, herself, despite its insistence in the back of her mind. It only aggravated her further, to see how placid he was with the response, as if he wasn’t really concerned with the content of her answer, so long as she had one.

“This won’t make you feel better, you know.”

“I know.”

Another long beat passed through the room. It was quiet, not just between them, but in the space beyond, like the soft chaos had started to settle.

"The next time you decide to forcibly adopt a child," He stated simply, tucking his cigar between his teeth before reaching to tug at his cravat. "At least give me a warning, so I can tie up your loose ends."

Chapter Text

No trouble came from his wife’s impulsivity.

Pell had come to ask questions about the abducted children, but it had been, in the end, a cursory effort. Princess Vivi, as it happened, had kept an eye on them, and she had started to express her own suspicions that the children were being mistreated by their aunt and uncle. Resources had been spread too thin to perform a thorough investigation, but it had been something they intended to do, once the drought let up and Yuba was able to regain some stability. Although he would have preferred Lily go about it differently, her statement about the children’s situation, as well as Divina’s medical assessment, was sufficient for him to agree to leave the brothers in her care. It was clear that he wasn’t entirely pleased with that conclusion, but his hands were largely tied, between the reputation that Crocodile had helped cultivate for his wife, and the statements he had gotten from the neighbors. Legally, he should have removed them and returned them home, but the crown was under considerable strain, as another brutal dry season accosted the people of Arabasta, and he had the rebellion to consider, when it came to his final decision.

Claiming that Lily and Crocodile had agreed to take the children in, after their aunt and uncle were found unsuitable to be caregivers, painted the Nefertari family in a better light than returning them to someone known to be unfit. It was far from enough to quell the rebellion, which had grown in earnest over the previous year to become a small but considerable threat, but the outrage that would follow if word got out that they had forcibly returned the children to people who left them dehydrated and malnourished would be a considerable blow. Even those who never felt the pangs of the severe sandstorms, who barely noticed the effects of water restrictions and reduced crops, would suddenly find themselves on the rebel’s side on matters of abused children – and it was their support that Nefertari could afford to lose the least. The poor and hungry could make a mess – the rich and angry could bring ruin.

He, personally, didn’t have strong feelings about the children either way. He might have cared, had his wife been determined to adopt them properly, but despite her soft little heart, she had a good grasp of her capabilities – and though he adored her in ways he could never articulate, she was not nearly ready for the task of motherhood. She had grown in confidence since they’d met, had matured in ways he hadn’t expected, but she was still developing, in many ways. For most of her life, she had only ever seen a tiny pocket of the world, and she was only just starting to understand how things really worked – to say nothing of the other stressors in their life.

Doflamingo had gone to ground, for the time being. He hadn’t been thrilled with Smoker’s raid, and had swiftly concluded Crocodile was the one responsible for supplying the Captain with his information, but he was too busy trying to find the mole in his operation to dedicate much time to inconveniencing his supposed rival. Vèsman was, at least if he was careful, safe enough, though out of contact until the situation cooled off – he had Viola’s protection, now that he’d proven to be good to his word that he was an ally of hers. Still, he would return eventually, once he found someone to blame, and Crocodile’s informant surely wasn’t the only one working against the false king.

Nothing had come of Lily’s other family, either. Although his connections on Marie Geoise were extremely limited, he was able to get word from some traders who frequently supplied the Red Line. There had been some distant rumbling that Gentian Przechodzić had been seeking support from the Five Elders in relation to an heir for the main branch, nothing had come of it, and all anyone was certain of was that his request had been denied. There was no certainty that it had even been about Lily to begin with, as most stories indicated he had likely been referring to his aunt’s daughter, long married into another family amongst the royals, though Crocodile refused to take that as gospel, either. One of Gentian’s wives had become pregnant recently, as it was, and if she managed to carry to term, there would be little reason to fear he’d come for Lily.

It was unfortunately unlikely that she would manage. From what he had heard, none of Gentian’s wives, of which he’d had five over the years, managed to bear healthy children. His first wife, according to public record, had only ever suffered miscarriages – four, perhaps five, the precise number wasn’t clear, but most everyone believed she had taken her own life because of the grief they caused. His third wife was presumed infertile, and the fourth had given him two children who died in infancy from some unconfirmed illness. The fifth had struggled to become pregnant in the first place, and had already suffered one miscarriage, herself. Only the second had been able to give him a child who survived longer than a year, but she had long since passed – a poorly performed cesarean was responsible, or so it was said.

The two children he and his wife were supposedly fostering weren’t in too terrible of a state, in the end. Out of passing interest, he had read Divina’s report on their health, and most of their physical issues had proven negligible – or, at least, recoverable, and there was nothing that would impact their ability to lead full lives once they started receiving consistent meals and a stable living environment. Tulin was underweight, and had developed a very mild muscle weakness, between the lack of food and strenuous work, but it was nothing, in her estimation, that wouldn’t resolve in a few months’ time. Teba, the infant, hadn’t been quite as profoundly mistreated as Lily had initially believed, but reading Divina’s assessment, it was clear why his wife had come to the conclusion that he was bearing some extreme sort of suffering.

He had been born with a cleft palate. It wasn’t especially extreme, but he struggled to feed - likely always had - and it had resulted in a lack of physical growth appropriate for an eight month old infant, especially in a house where the adults lacked the patience to continue to try as much as they should have. When he’d asked, Divina had been certain that she could repair the birth defect with surgery, and as the child had met most of the other developmental milestones that he should – he was a bit behind on muscle development, but there was no indication it was due to anything physical – she was confident he would be fine with time.

Although he didn’t care to raise the duo directly, he did make it a point to educate himself on how to ensure they were being taken care of. He still intended to have children with his wife, in the future, and Lily’s abject outrage at the idea of a baby being given water had made it clear that he was woefully lacking in understanding about what that would entail. The physician had been more than willing to answer his curiosities, both from her years of experience in medicine, unofficial though it was, and from raising four boys of her own.

“Where are your sons?” He questioned as she settled across from him, a tankard in one hand, a dozing infant in the crook of her other arm.

“Rotolo works for Pretre,” She nodded vaguely towards the west wall – both men were in what would become Erebus, overseeing the construction on his behalf – and he was vaguely surprised he hadn’t realized they were related before. “Copione lives in the East Blue, with his wife, and Palpite has a family on Saliba.”

That was only three, but thankfully, she didn’t make him ask.

“My oldest, Inno, is dead.”

“My condolences.”

“Don’t,” She nodded, more to herself than anything he’d said, as if trying to convince herself her words were true. “He was a traitor.”

Again, he didn’t need to question the statement. Her strong features softened for a brief moment, like she was surprised he didn’t already know, but the topic of Doflamingo’s raid on the island was one he’d never heard much of, or thought to question. It had been satisfactory to know that the other Warlord had killed some of them during his recovery of Cross’ Devil Fruit, and he hadn’t felt compelled to poke at the wound.

“Kapitulua,” The name was vaguely familiar – the leader of the trio that had left, and were, notably, still in the wind. “He made a deal for the fruit.”

“Oh?”

“Adami doesn’t know,” Divina glanced cautiously at the casino floor, but the helmsman was occupied with Lily and Bunshou, training on one of the lower levels. “Doflamingo, he offered for us to join his crew, if we gave it to him.”

She paused, sipping noisily from her drink.

“He approached Kapitulua while they were on a run,” She continued softly, and had the decency to look ashamed. “Said if we gave him Cross’ fruit, he would bring our crew under his banner. There would be plenty of work, enough to keep us well supplied.”

“And you agreed?”

She shook her head, long tendrils of stringy blond hair slipping from her sock bun.

“Bunshou and I, we voted no,” The swordsman terse nature made a little more sense, with the benefit of that additional guilt. “Kapitulua said yes, anyway. He’s the one who brought Doflamingo to Saliba.”

“Then why did he attack?” He twisted his own glass between his fingers. “It’s not unlike him to go back on a deal, but I’ve never known him to torture people indiscriminately.”

“Kapitulua did not know where the fruit was kept,” That explained it, he supposed. “Adami was the one who hid it, and he refused to say. Doflamingo started executing people, in order to make him talk.”

Her entire body shifted, then, sinking lower into her chair. The infant stirred for a moment, letting out a quiet noise she hardly seemed to notice, idly rocking her elbow until he wriggled back to sleep.

“Do you think that’s where they went?” His concern was less for the people who had left, and more for Vèsman, who might be at great risk, if they were around to recognize him. “To join Donquixote.”

The look in her eyes promised something else entirely. Her eyes, usually heavy and intense, were haunted by the ghosts of what had been done.

“You killed them?”

She nodded, downing the rest of her glass.

“We took Adami’s ship,” She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Teba, curling him into her chest. “Bunshou cut the Death’s Hand apart. I dealt with the rest.”

It seemed extreme. It wasn’t as if they had participated in the deal the boy had made, and Adami wasn’t the sort to be particularly upset they had considered it. He had been fairly open about how often he had nearly agreed to turn Saliba, and their crew, over to Whitebeard over the years, and he wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to begrudge them for thinking of doing the same. They weren’t the ones who had drawn Doflamingo to their island – at best, he could attribute some guilt to them for not giving the others advance warning that the Warlord was sniffing around, but he wasn’t certain that would have accomplished much, anyway.

“There were civilians aboard, weren’t there?” She didn’t nod, but her silence was enough. “Seems like an overreaction, just to keep Adami from finding out you considered someone’s offer.”

He was the last person who should be calling anyone out on an excessive response. He had a terrible temper, and he knew it well – on the wrong day, making that sort of admission to him might very well be enough to see someone dead.

“They were going to Dressrosa,” Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, lips pursed as if she had tasted something terrible. “Doflamingo, he promised them – anyone who migrated to Dressrosa, they’d be under his protection. They watched him kill our people, our family, and they still went to him.”

“He’s a talented liar,” The taste of whiskey washed away the vile flavor of paying Doflamingo a compliment. “When he wants to be.”

“Lily,” The bartender, Brucco, interrupted her train of thought, delivering another drink and quietly absconding with her empty glass. “What does he want from her?”

“To chase after her,” He wasn’t about to trust her with the real answer – it was bad enough that Adami knew – but it was clear from the look on her face she didn’t believe for a moment that he’d given her the whole truth. “If he were to ever get his hands on her, he would lose interest, just like he does all his other toys. She’s only exciting to him because he can’t simply have her. Getting his hands on Cross’ legacy is nothing more than icing to him.”

She didn’t fully believe him, but it didn’t particularly matter. He would keep his eyes open, and if she started to pry, he would handle it, but the less interesting the mystery seemed, the less likely she was to dig into it to begin with.

“And you?” The sofa creaked as she adjusted. “You just happened to fall in love with Oleander’s only child?”

It was an accusation that had been leveled at him before, and one that always amused him. Despite all the complications in their lives, it was the truth. He hadn’t been in love with her at the time, of course, but his interest in Lily had no deeper motivations beyond finding her entertaining and attractive. It had seemed possible that they would get along well, so he had pursued her, nothing more and nothing less. He had married her because it was the only way to explore their potential, and he had stayed married because he was far more deeply attached than he had ever hoped to be.

“The only thing I’ve ever hoped to gain from my wife,” He stated simply. “Is having her as my wife. To be frank with you, I’d almost prefer she were a typical civilian. Our lives would be far less stressful, but it would take far more than a few inconveniences for me to leave her.”

“How noble of you,” Her voice oozed with sarcasm, but she eased back, physically reclining as she appraised him. “How does it feel, Warlord? Being first mate?”
“Being under my wife is one of my favorite places to be.”

She snorted, smiling despite herself, and soon thereafter, the conversation came to a close. One of the housekeepers who had agreed to help babysit the children came along, looking to take Teba for a few hours, and he resolved it was late enough he could interrupt his wife’s training.

Despite their mutual dislike of one another, Bunshou encouraged his presence, believing that his distraction would only further her growth, and he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Lily was making rapid improvements, growing stronger and more capable with each passing day, and now that her physical abilities were starting to develop, they’d begun teaching her to fight in earnest. She still couldn’t consistently implement her Devil Fruit abilities on the fly, but that would come with time and understanding, of which they had precious little.

The rules that governed the Matter-Matter fruit weren’t particularly clear, even to those who were familiar with it. It seemed to be generally restricted to altering the shape of things, but at the same time, he had witnessed his wife alter the hue of the paint on her nails when she resolved she disliked it, which was an entirely different prospect, and the scope of what she could change varied wildly. She had claimed, twice, that she needed to be touching something in order to make it move or change, but he had seen her practice with the metal band of the ship dozens of times, and she had never once laid so much as a finger on it.

He was certain it wasn’t as simple as controlling all matter. A Devil Fruit that powerful would never have been within reach of Oleander Cross, not even when he’d lived in Marie Geoise, and surely, the idea of his lingering crew having access to it after his death would have been cause for a Buster Call against Saliba. There were a great many materials that she could merge herself with, but couldn’t control directly, like sand or, to his brief horror, other people’s bodies, and he had long started to consider that the fruit may have been misnamed, either to obfuscate it’s true capabilities or because it wasn’t properly understood.

It reminded him, in ways, of Eustass Kid’s Devil Fruit. Although technically named the Magnet-Magnet Fruit, the way it asserted its power wasn’t localized to just magnetism, and he was able to inherently alter the shape of metal as much as he was to make it move at his leisure. His own Devil Fruit, too, exhibited traits that weren’t just tied to sand – his ability to dehydrate, to detect water, were things that something as simple as just controlling sand would never allow him to do.

There was something more fine and specific about her Devil Fruit that they’d yet to figure out.

He found them just as they were wrapping up their last sparring session. He had gotten Lily a new war hammer, and she was using it well – the full metal construction would have been entirely too heavy for her to wield, once, but she swung it easily with one hand, attempting to bring it down on Adami while catching Bunshou’s sword with one of her daggers. When he commissioned it, he had gone out of his way to ensure that it was as close as possible to the material the daggers were made from, in the hopes that it would make it easier to implement her powers down the line, and though he hadn’t seen such a thing in action, it seemed to have been the right call.

Since she started helping with the construction effort, she had groused that different materials felt – and more importantly, responded – differently, and she couldn’t control more than one at a time. Properly blended and melded materials, like steel, seemed to be an exception, but even two of the same mixture, just in uneven ratios, frustrated and weakened her ability.

Rather than disrupt, he resolved to sit and wait, lingering in the doorway until they were through. It didn’t take long, and with a pointed slap to her back the flat side of his blade, Bunshou declared their training through for the night. Both men dismissed themselves, offering him a brief greeting on their way through – Adami would, most of the time, stop and attempt to chat, but he was keen at detecting when Crocodile was in no mood for pleasantries, and that particular evening, the only person he wanted to be around was his wife.

For once, it wasn’t because he was feeling particularly irritable. If anything, he was in an unusually good mood, more relaxed and content than he had been in a while, but the only person he wanted to share that with was her.

He supposed it may be because their anniversary was the following day.

He had never been particularly sentimental. He didn’t care to celebrate his birthday, nor had he ever held any other holiday in especially high esteem – he worked through most of them, if he bothered to remember at all, but his anniversary was something of an exception. Despite how contentious their marriage had been at the start, how resentful Lily had been and, admittedly, how often he questioned if he’d made the right choice listening to Florian, it had proven to be one of the best decisions he had made.

He had found himself more than just a companion, someone to keep him company and warm his bed and occasionally entertain him. She was his partner – a piece of him, a part of his being.

They had no big plans for the next day. They had both agreed that they didn’t need a grand celebration, though they had also agreed that they didn’t need gifts, and they had both actively ignored that and gotten something for one another anyway. He wasn’t certain what she may have been planning to give to him, but he’d found a sculptor in Alubarna to make her something – a moonstone crocodile head, inlaid with the pristine shed teeth of her F-Wani to line its jaw. The sculptor had gone rogue from his initial request, carving a flower crown made of lilies from silver and pearls and howlite, but he was ultimately confident she would like it all the more with the unrequested addition.

She pretended it was gaudy and embarrassing, but it was something that always brough a smile to her face, seeing the two of them represented together. It was why he’d long gotten in the habit of matching his clothes to hers – he didn’t much care for fashion, but she always puffed a little, seeing them in the mirror together in the mornings, when his vest matched her dress or his cravat was in the same tone as her jewelry. She enjoyed it, when everyone could see that the two of them were connected, belonged together.

She was romantic that way.

Chapter Text

This fic was originally supposed to be 10-20 chapters of pointless, fluffy romance.

For anyone who didn't see the notes before they were altered - I began writing this while I was very sick. I was going through chemotherapy for Stage 3 cancer, and I was pretty profoundly depressed. There were a lot of times I seriously wondered if it was worth going through treatment, or if it'd be better to just stop and let things happen, because I felt that genuinely awful all the time. It was more than just the mental stuff that comes along with a scary diagnosis - chemo itself had a lot of physical side effects. I had no immune system so I couldn't leave my house, I couldn't eat or drink anything and keep it down, my potassium tanked and I had some really terrifying "I'm going to die" moments from that, and I was just so exhausted all the time, but I couldn't sleep - and when I did, I had nasty sleep paralysis where I thought I was suffocating all the time, to the point I started avoiding sleeping just to not feel it.

Giving myself something to do by writing this was just a way to keep my brain busy. It was a no-pressure, low stakes distraction that still let me feel like I accomplished something when I could barely get out of bed and feed myself.

I've since finished treatment, and I had a full response. I'm currently free and clear, which is pretty awesome.

I'm explaining all of the above stuff because, as I started feeling better, this fic started growing. I got more ambitious, and so did the story. Now its become something way larger than I intended for it to be.

Because of that, I'm going to split it into parts. It's starting to feel a little unwieldy, and there are some chapters that aren't necessarily where I'd like them to be. I didn't exactly chart everything out - a lot of it was free flowing, so I didn't really plan ahead for a lot of things, and now in retrospect, parts of the fic feel a little clunky or like they don't mesh properly.

Eventually, I'm going to go back and edit them. I've picked at a few, but it needs a bit more attention than me getting annoyed at Elden Ring and editing for an hour before I'm back to my personal war with Promised Consort Radahn. If someone is interested, I'm more than happy to have someone do a retroactive beta read and do some light edits, but that isn't something I'm actively seeking, either.

Splitting it into parts doesn't mean its over. I still want to work on this story - it's fun and comfortable, and I have plans. I just think it'd be more digestible if I split it in half. Things are migrating more towards an actual story-story, and I don't think that feels right being mixed into the generally cozy vibes with a bit of conflict that I was going for here.

I'm also working on some other side stuff.

I've gotten at least one comment suggesting I do a Doffy Wins AU. I see you, I hear you, and I'm way ahead of you. Starting that has been the hardest part, because it's a completely different story from the one here, but I have the first chapter mostly done. I have no idea where it'll go, to be honest, but that seems to have worked out for me here, so I'll just trust the process.

There are also two sort of "bonus" things I'd like to pick at. I'm less sure about actually writing them, but they're still worth mentioning, I think. Some of it's just for fun, some of it's more angsty - I'm going for a variety of flavors.

The Doffy Wins AU sparked the idea of doing some other short form AUs. Some completely rewrite how things went in the fic, like Lily being raised by Adami and Co., while others are more benign, like a sampling of Crocodile/Lily/Mihawk that's otherwise "in universe".

Otherwise, I've been tossing around the idea of some "bonus content", for lack of a better phrase. Nothing that has any overall bearing on the fic, but still stuff that would exist within it. A glimpse into Helmeppo and Rose's relationship, or what it was like between Aster and Oleander - just whatever stuff that technically still fits, but doesn't have a place in the fic itself. I didn't flesh out a lot of the original characters the way I meant to. There's still time in part 2, but at the same time, I bet nobody knew Adami has a Devil Fruit. That's not a secret. I just straight up never got the opportunity to show it.

Regardless of all of that, I'm not usually big on separate author's notes, but I felt it was only appropriate I explain myself, so anyone following this fic knows what to expect. I deeply appreciate every like, bookmark, and kudo I've gotten. You really have no idea what that simple support meant during an incredibly difficult time. I didn't want to make a production of it at the time, because I never want anyone to feel obligated to interact, especially for something that isn't actually part of the fic, but that little spark of dopamine seeing a new comment or the kudos ticked up did a lot of heavy lifting some days.

Special thanks to some regular commenters, who helped massively with my terrible translations, purble_penguin_1809 and hydrargyopee. I've thanked them once before, but they really do deserve it - they could have just left me looking like a fool.

With that, I'm going to mark this fic as complete. For whoever is reading this, I appreciate it, and I'll see you in Part 2.