Meet Judgment by the Hounds

by OswaldThatEndswald

Summary:

Crocodile had hoped a Warlord position would open up a world of possibilities for wealth, fame, power, etc. Instead, it introduces him to one Donquixote Rocinante, the Marine captain now responsible for keeping Crocodile in line. Except Rocinante turns out to be far more of an enigma than Crocodile could have expected. There's more than secrets hidden behind his frigid exterior-- and he may not be as loyal to the Marines as he seems, haunted as he is by everything he tried to leave behind.

Crocodile's priority is to guarantee his future success; attraction is a liability. But as he and Rocinante become unexpected allies, he finds he can't escape the weight of his own heart.

Notes:

Fic title from "I'm Your Man" by Mitski

Chapter 1: Two Lost Souls Swimming in a Fishbowl

Notes:

Chapter title from "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd

Quick housekeeping note: Crocodile and Rocinante are both trans men in this fic. And we're all going to be very polite and normal about this. As the sacred texts say: Don't Like, Don't Read.

Uh..... okay hang on there was definitely something else I needed to mention. Shit. Oh well. I'll edit this later if I remember what it was.

The ink isn't even dry on the paperwork yet when Crocodile starts to think this Warlord gig may have been a bad idea.

Sure, the protection seems great. Immunity for all crimes, past and future. The same for any of his crew, so long as they remain under him. He's already planning how to exploit that clause. The port of any World Government member nation is open to him, in any of the Blues. Papers signed, position enshrined, and plans spool out before him. There's so much he could do.

Then the Fleet Admiral says, "For a probationary period, we'll be assigning a Marine handler to you. He'll ensure that both ends of our agreement are held up."

And all those plans crash down.

They can say what they like. "Handler" means babysitter-- or watchdog, perhaps. They don't trust Crocodile, and they want him to know it. Who knows how long this probationary period might last? He's about to be stuck with some pencil pusher leaning over his shoulder, pointing out every inefficiency and toe out of line.

He glances up at the clock. Of course, they've left him waiting here for nearly an hour at this point. Hardly an auspicious start to it all.

An anxious commander stands guard at the door, shooting Crocodile wary glances. He's hardly the only one. A tension hangs uncomfortably over Marineford. Hushed conversations stop as soon as Crocodile is within earshot, frantic officers dash through the halls at a near-run, and even the Fleet Admiral had seemed ill at ease, rushing through the formalities and paperwork.

Maybe this is what it's always like-- but Crocodile doesn't think so. Something is going on.

The door creaks open, and a rear admiral enters. The commander gives her a hurried salute. They exchange a few words, too quiet for Crocodile to hear. Then the commander turns to him. "They're ready for you, sir."

A barbed retort is on the tip of Crocodile's tongue, but he restrains himself, at least for the moment. No point taking out his frustrations on some low-ranked nobody-- not when he does want to know what's going on.

He follows the rear admiral up to a second level, where the halls widen and the decorations are more ornate. The massive windows, practically floor to ceiling, seem like a security risk, but perhaps that's the point. A show of confidence in their own strength.

The rear admiral leads him to a set of double doors. Pushing them open, she steps aside to let him through.

Like the rest of the floor, this room is meant to impress. More windows and palette of blues and whites make the room strikingly bright, especially with the high ceiling. It's airy and elegant-- or it would be, if not for the wide table dragged into the middle of the room, heavy wood clashing with the decor. It's covered in a mess of papers, maps, and den-dens, looking like the contents of an office were dumped out onto its surface. Fleet Admiral Kong and two admirals stand at the table, while a captain sits at one end, charting a course on a map of the Calm Belt.

"Sir Crocodile." Kong stands. He manages to exude vague disappointment in Crocodile's direction. "I'm afraid we shall have to skip the pleasantries. A situation has arisen which requires the attention of a Warlord, and you are the most available."

"Convenient timing," Crocodile drawls. He takes Kong's acknowledgement of him as permission to cross the floor and stand at the table. A glance across its contents offers no immediate answers. A map of an unfamiliar island; schematics of a ship; this morning's newspaper.

"Hardly," Kong replies. "Early this morning, we received a message from one of the other Warlords, Braig Aegis. He used his position to gain access to the royal family of the island of Bastion, in the North Blue, and took them hostage. He's demanding a ransom be paid for his return." Kong taps the newspaper on the desk. "We can only keep this from the public for so long, and sending Marines after him would only worsen the matter."

"Ah," Crocodile understands now. "Set a thief to catch a thief."

"An irreverent analogy, but not incorrect," Kong reluctantly agrees. "There's little time to waste. Your handler will accompany you to brief you on the way." He gestures at the captain sitting at the end of the table, who looks up.

Crocodile just looks at the man for a moment before it clicks: this is his handler? A captain, of all things. Young, too; younger than Crocodile.

If it were just the age, Crocodile would guess that the man had some particularly powerful Devil Fruit. But the rank-- a captain-- feels like an insult. They sent an admiral to offer Crocodile the Warlord position; are they now trying to say that, with his fate signed over to them, they no longer need worry about any threat he might pose?

He catches one of the admirals at the table shooting the captain a disgruntled look, apparently confirming everything Crocodile has already guessed. Incredible; he now has to answer to some neophyte who probably only got this position through a more powerful family member's influence.

The man stands stiffly, with Marine formality or nerves (or both). "Captain Donquixote Rocinante," he introduces himself. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He doesn't sound like he means it.

-----

They can't even take Crocodile's own ship, the Spectre. The fastest route to Bastion Island cuts through the Calm Belt, which means they have to take one of the seastone-lined Marine ships-- which seems, to Crocodile, to defeat the whole point of sending a Warlord. Sure, the Marine markings have been painted over and the flags removed, but its shape and design are unmistakable.

Crocodile would point that out, but frankly, he doesn't feel like it.

Shifting his entire crew, without warning, to an entirely new ship while on a time crunch is a hectic and disorganized process. Crocodile leaves that mess to his crew; they're responsible enough to deal with it. Instead, he follows Donquixote to the captain's office aboard the ship to go over the job. It's a sparsely decorated space, missing the usual trappings of tools and maps. This is no one's personal ship; given that they had it ready, it must be used only when needed.

As Donquixote spreads his papers out across the desk and checks through the drawers, Crocodile has a moment to freely observe him.

He's far too tall. Without the bulk to match, he's long-limbed almost to the point of being gangly. His mouth is a flat, unamused blade, which speaks only in quiet, clipped sentences. A low brow and deep-set eyes give him a perpetual expression of shadowed malcontentment. Crocodile will admit he's pretty, but in the way a knife is pretty, all sharpness. A knife gone to rust, left in its sheath. The soft blond hair that shades his face is the gentlest thing about him.

He pulls a lone pen out of a drawer and tests it on the edge of a report. It writes, but poorly, ink coming out in fits and spurts. With a sigh, Donquixote sets the pen aside.

When he looks at Crocodile, it's with disinterested evaluation. Cold. Calculating. Soulless. Even the way he holds himself seems frigid: a careful, deliberate poise, no extraneous movement. "My job," he says bluntly, "is to ensure that you hold yourself to certain standards. You are a pirate, but you have agreed to act as a representative of the World Government. A level of decorum and decency is now demanded of you."

"Say what you really feel, why don't you," Crocodile finds himself saying.

"About you?" The captain picks up the report to spread out the map underneath, apparently losing interest in Crocodile again. "I feel very little about you. And if I said what I felt about the Warlord program, they'd discharge me."

"Tell me, Captain," Crocodile asks, "is it the piracy alone that offends you, or the fact that we are better paid for it?"

"Neither." The captain gives him a thin, humourless smile. "I simply can't abide hypocrisy." He sets the pen on the edge of the map to hold one side down. His hands are heavily scarred and bandaged in several places. "Unfortunately, Warlord, we are both of us dogs of the Government. If we both do our jobs right, perhaps collateral damage can be kept to a bare minimum."

"And what is the job?" Crocodile replies. "Go out, kill the Warlord, come back? Seems like an awful lot of fuss."

"No," Donquixote says, "you are to capture Braig alive. He will stand trial for his crimes at Enies Lobby."

"What's the point of that?" Crocodile replies, exasperated.

"To reassure the public that the Warlords are under the control of the World Government." The words have the bland tone of a practiced recitation.

"Propaganda," Crocodile says disdainfully.

Donquixote doesn't respond with any more than a brief, neutral glance towards Crocodile. The pointed silence feels almost like agreement-- though it could just as easily be condemnation.

"It is your responsibility to ensure that the royal family of Bastion are unharmed in the conflict," Donquixote finally says.

"Fine." Crocodile couldn't care less about them. But it's the job. He keeps holding that shining promise in front of himself: all the possibilities of a Warlord's position, and they're so close. He just has to wait out the captain's meddling.

Get the job done. Do it well enough that they can't question his competence. Move on to better things.

Easy.

-----

They make it almost to the port of Bastion Island.

It's a bad trip. The crew is anxious about their watching, waiting warden, even though Donquixote turns out to be a relatively reserved creature. He occupies a desk in the corner of the bridge, not interrupting Crocodile's running of the ship. But it's like a dog amongst the cats: no matter how unobtrusive Donquixote might be, he puts them all on edge.

Worse, he manages to positively radiate disapproval. It's nothing they're doing: it's who they are.

"You ever get the feeling somebody's plotting your murder?" Auric, his first mate, had said under her breath to Crocodile on the third day of their trip.

Crocodile hadn't responded. But he knew what she meant.

His crew are career criminals, that much is true. He'd met Auric while she was running a remarkably elegant scheme selling fake, Devil Fruit-made gold and disappearing before anyone realized. Hugo and Largo, his den-den specialist and helmsman, he'd stolen from another crew in a Davy Back Fight-- or rather, he'd stolen Largo, and they insisted he take Hugo too, or they'd start a mutiny. Wouldn't have worked, but Largo still got their way. Grigori and Mikhail, two of his mechanics, are the newest members of the crew. Identical twins and former petty thieves, but they'd had the guts to try to steal from Crocodile. Normally he would've killed them for it, but they had some style.

Donquixote sees none of that. None of the personalities. None of the lives lived. To him, they are all pirates and nothing more.

In Crocodile's opinion, that's a blindspot of the Marines as a whole. They can't imagine any pirate as being a person, so they never see it coming when a pirate is clever.

Case in point: as they approach the port of Bastion Island, there is a crack of cannon fire. Crocodile's crew shouts frantically, scrambling to get their own cannons in order. But Crocodile doesn't bother with weapons. He turns to sand to get down to the deck in a swirling storm.

It's not hard to guess what happened-- because Crocodile is sure that it's exactly what he'd suspected would happen. Braig must have seen the ship coming and realized it was a Marine vessel, thinly disguised. Infuriating as it is to be fired upon, there's a vindication in being right.

Though Crocodile's Devil Fruit isn't a good fit for fights at sea, he couldn't ask for better weather. It's a hot, bright day, not a cloud in the sky. No chance of rain, and a brisk wind. Crocodile raises a shield of sand over the prow of the ship to deflect a cannonball, and he grins. "Any eyes on our man?"

"Shit!" Chiffre shouts from the crow's nest. "He's-- fuck, he's in the air!"

This is spectacularly unhelpful-- until Crocodile looks across the sea and sees the Warlord. For a baffling moment, Crocodile thinks he's running on the water, but then he sees that there's space between the water and his feet. The part of Crocodile's brain that had skimmed the report on the job finally kicks in to remind him that Braig's Devil Fruit allows him to construct shields.

Crocodile has clearly not put enough thought into the potential applications of such a fruit.

He takes a running leap over the edge of his ship, turning to sand as he does. It's not necessarily wise to get closer to the water, but Crocodile won't let Braig choose the battlefield.

Gratifyingly, Braig is visibly stunned to find himself in the middle of a sandstorm above the sea. He reacts quickly, throwing up a five more shields to form a cube. Keeping Crocodile out. Trapping himself.

Crocodile lands lightly on top of the cube, pulling himself back together and into human shape. This close, the shields are visible, if only barely. They have a faint, iridescent sheen, reflecting the light enough for their shape to be seen. Crocodile grins down at Braig. "Can't stay in there forever."

The Wall-Wall no mi. Allows the user to create "shields," two metres square. Their shape is unchanging, but the number of shields the user can produce is hypothetically limitless. This is bad enough, but there are two things about the fruit which Crocodile hadn't known (and by now, he's kicking himself for not swallowing his pride and reading the damn report). The first is that the shields can be summoned in any configuration, not limited to only blocking strikes. The cube Braig has made is solid as stone and absolutely impermeable. It doesn't even have seams wide enough for sand to slip through.

The second, and much more pressing, is that once the shields are summoned, they can be moved. This, Crocodile discovers when the shield under his feet pitches suddenly, throwing him off. He turns back to sand, but in the moment of startled distraction, Braig is off and running again.

His ability is ill-suited to fighting a Logia: he could imprison a Paramecia or a Zoan, but walls and shields can't hold a sandstorm. Braig has to resort to deflecting the sand, tossing out walls to turn aside strikes or force Crocodile to disperse.

Despite Braig's best efforts, Crocodile manages to surround him, sand hemming him in. But then, they're at something of a stalemate. Braig is fast with the shields, and willing to pull stunts like dissolving the shield under himself, dropping out of a trap, and landing on another shield summoned below. And he's willing to get far closer to the water below than Crocodile, with his walls to shield him from sea spray. He's good-- but not good enough to escape. He'd made a mistake coming out to meet the ship, expecting a fight with Marines. Neither his shields nor his clearly pathetic Haki are enough to kill Crocodile.

But Crocodile is at a disadvantage as well: he can't kill Braig.

That's not quite right. Crocodile could kill Braig, very easily. But he's not supposed to kill him.

They're over water. If Braig's shields are disrupted, he's going straight in the drink. One of Crocodile's crew members who hasn't eaten a Devil Fruit could fish him out, but they're still far enough from the ship that Braig might drown before they could get him. Maybe that would be the best option, if Crocodile let them get closer to the ship, except he absolutely cannot allow that. The one drawback of Braig's power is that it seems to have a distance limit-- and Crocodile doesn't want to pull his crew into his range.

Braig's trying something again. He throws out a series of shields in quick succession, using them to force Crocodile backwards, away from himself. Crocodile assumes he's trying to escape, and moves to pull back so he can circle around. But Braig blocks him again.

Crocodile realizes. Braig isn't trying to escape. He's herding Crocodile.

The water underneath Crocodile boils. It takes Crocodile a moment to understand what he's seeing. Braig is using his shields like a cup. He can't take Crocodile down-- so he's bringing the water up.

Crocodile catches his breath. It's a good trick. Not a flawless one, especially against a Logia. Crocodile can scatter in the wind before Braig knows what's happening, and pull himself back together outside of Braig's range. But if any part of him gets caught in the spray--

There is no sound of a gunshot. But a bullet passes harmlessly through Crocodile's head, and Braig screams. Red bloods at his shoulder and, below Crocodile, the shields fall apart and drop the water back into the sea.

Crocodile risks a glance backwards. He sees Donquixote, at the prow of the ship, gun raised. His expression is cool as he reloads.

Before he can manage it, a shield appears in the air above him and comes down like a guillotine. The gun goes overboard, hitting the water with a splash. A choked scream, like Donquixote grit his teeth but failed to keep from crying out.

Braig has been faking the distance limit. Crocodile's ship is within his reach.

Crocodile is already half-turned to sand, and it's less than a moment's work to disperse on the wind, thinly spread enough that Braig can't possibly tell where the bulk of the sand is-- and can't stop his approach.

Then he resolves into human shape with his hand around Braig's throat.

He can feel Braig swallow. His eyes meet Crocodile's, wide and terrified. But there's the glint of another shield in Crocodile's peripheral vision: Braig will not surrender.

He tightens his grip and forces the desert through Braig's skin.

He withers, skin turning to brittle paper and cracking under Crocodile's fingers. Everything in him dries out, immediately, petrifying him like a corpse in Alabasta's sands. He's dead in moments, the last of his shields shattering in iridescent shards and vanishing. Composing himself, Crocodile looks into the empty eye sockets of the man he was supposed to bring in alive.

Well. Too late now.

He lands on the ship again, drawing all his sand back within himself, letting it settle into its most familiar shape. The heels of his shoes click on the deck, and he scans his crew. No injuries; no panic. They look relieved.

Donquixote is waiting for him. He's not as badly injured as he might have been, but one arm hangs limp. It must be broken, badly enough for blood to seep through his clothes and stain the white fabric, but the extent of the damage is covered by his heavy Marine coat.

He is also blisteringly furious.

All that neutral, disinterested facade burns away in the face of his scathing rage, and all of it aimed at Crocodile. It lights up his eyes, turning them from dim rust to fresh blood. He seems alive with the emotion.

Crocodile sets his jaw and meets the wildfire head on.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Donquixote says. The pain doesn't seem to be affecting him nearly as much as Crocodile would have expected: no tremors in his voice or weakness in his posture. Perhaps he simply has a very good poker face.

"My crew was in danger," Crocodile says bluntly. He tosses the desiccated corpse to the deck, letting it fall between them.

"You had a job!" Donquixote is unmoved by the body. "Bring him back alive: was I unclear?"

"You were perfectly clear. But it wasn't possible." If Crocodile kills Donquixote now, he could claim it was Braig's doing. Then Braig's death could be dismissed as a necessity. With the captain dead, who would discredit his story? Not his crew. They'd all back him up.

He steps over the corpse to stand face to face with Donquixote. This is less intimidating than it would ordinarily be, given that Donquixote has at least a foot of height on him.

"And yet," Donquixote says, "you still had your orders."

"Dammit, this whole operation went off the rails the moment they recognized us!" Crocodile's tone deepens dangerously. "You can't possibly blame me for the circumstances."

But the passion is already draining from Donquixote. Now he just looks tired and displeased. "I," he says, "am not the one who you'll have to answer to. If you'll excuse me, I have a report to make."

He turns around, coat flapping behind him, and leaves Crocodile standing on the deck with a corpse.

Belatedly, it occurs to Crocodile that he should have offered to have Donquixote's arm treated. Then he dismisses the thought.

"Sir?" Largo says, awkwardly peering up at his face. "Should I set course for Marineford?"

Crocodile looks down at them. Then around at the crewmembers on deck. "No," he says, and the irritation bleeds from his voice. "Wait for our fearless leader to give the order. I'd hate to spoil his plans again."

Swallowing bile and wounded pride, Crocodile follows Donquixote to the bridge.

Notes:

Crocodile's crew are all named after James Bond movie villains, because I think I'm funny. Auric is from Goldfinger, of course. Hugo is Hugo Drax, from Moonraker, and Largo is Emilio Largo from Thunderball (and they're friends because those are my two favourite movies. Chiffre is Le Chiffre, from Casino Royale. Grigori and Mikhail are Grishka and Mischka from Octopussy (yes, I know. I know. you don't need to say anything about the name please god i do not have the energy to address this). They're not major villains, but they're my favourite villain underlings so they get to be here too. I figure Crocodile would probably not call them by the diminutive nicknames, though!

Chapter 2: Nothing Like the Sun

Summary:

The fallout of Braig's death isn't Crocodile's problem-- until the monarchs of Bastion Island want to thank him.

Notes:

This is kind of a short chapter, but the next chapter is..... probably 70% done already? This is something of an interlude, honestly.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song "Sister Moon" by Sting, which is itself quoting a line from Shakespeare's Sonnet 130. The sonnet itself is a slightly comedic/ironic poem, which is nonetheless quite sweet in its own way. I'd highly recommend; very much an inspiration for Crocodile and Rocinante's dynamic in this fic. However, Sting and I seem to agree that the opening line of the poem is the most evocative of the sonnet: "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun."

(What, you thought you'd escaped Shakespeare just because I finished Cry Havoc??? HA!)

With Braig dead, Crocodile’s job is done. The rest of the mess on Bastion is Donquixote's to clean up. Groveling apologies need to be brought to the royal family, who had been held hostage by Braig for nearly three weeks. Reports on the situation need to be sent to Marineford, and preparations laid for more Marines to arrive. From what Crocodile has overheard, it sounds like the royals are insisting that a Marine base be opened on the island, and Donquixote has had to bring those demands to the relevant officials. Donquixote is even the one to drag Braig Aegis' corpse into cold storage.

Crocodile spends the time smoking and seething on deck. The paint on the boards under his feet wears away, his sand abrading the surface to the point of visible damage. He doesn't bother to get off the ship and explore Bastion. Though he is officially a Warlord, his position hasn't been announced yet, and he doesn't feel like being arrested.

The morning after the fight, Donquixote corners Crocodile on the bridge. "You'll need to come to the castle with me tonight," he says. "The royal family wants to thank you for your service."

"Oh, absolutely not," Crocodile replies without hesitation.

Donquixote steps forward. Crocodile's sand, caught in the eddies of wind coming through the open window, crunches under his feet.

"Let me rephrase," Donquixote says. "You are going to come to this nice dinner that the damned royals are throwing for you, and you are going to be on the absolute best behaviour you can manage, and I am not going to put in a report saying that your killing of Braig was unnecessarily hostile and represents a dangerous inability to follow orders."

Crocodile really should've killed him when he had the chance. "Fine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Excellent." Donquixote turns to leave, then looks back. "And, Sir Crocodile? If you display any of your usual disrespect to the royal family, I will find out whether a Logia's spine can be removed from the body whilst you still live."

"You may try," Crocodile replies darkly, but Donquixote just gives him one of those thin smiles and turns to go, coat fluttering out behind him as it catches the wind.

"Dress up a little, will you?" he adds as he pushes open the door and leaves.

Crocodile stares after him, considering how Donquixote's blood would look on his hook.

Behind him, Auric clears her throat. "You need me to arrange some sort of disaster that would necessitate your oversight, captain?"

"If you can think of some accidental death for him that couldn't be traced back to us, feel free to execute it at your leisure," Crocodile replies, trying to swallow back the rage. It is humiliating to be ordered about by a scrawny, weak, pathetic captain with a nothing Devil Fruit who wields somebody else's influence and dangles Crocodile's future over his head like a toy.

What a fucking bastard.

"Might be tricky," Auric muses. "Everybody knows he's supposed to be on our ship. I could turn him to gold and try to sell him as a particularly original statue?"

"A charming possibility. But the effects of your Devil Fruit only last an hour, Goldfinger," Crocodile reminds her.

"Eh, wouldn't be the first time I had to work around the time limit." She shrugs. "Just gotta find a good auction house before I get him. I’d hate to run out the time limit looking for a decent way to be rid of him."

Crocodile laughs. She would do it, too. That's why Auric is his first mate: her commitment is unmatched. "As much as I would love to see you work, my future as a Warlord does rely on the good captain's endorsement. Any further disasters just risk derailing my plans."

"Shame," Auric says. "Well, let him know we're ready to head out as soon as he's willing to let us go."

Crocodile gives her a nod and goes to find an outfit good enough for a royal dinner.

-----

"I'll give you this," Donquixote says, approaching from behind Crocodile, "you can at least be relied upon to dress expensively."

Crocodile looks back-- and catches his breath.

Donquixote is wearing a formal uniform. It's pressed within an inch of its life, crisp and sharp. The coat is so white as to gleam in the ship's light. He's a bright spot in the late evening light, made gold by the setting sun.

He's cleaned up well, too. His soft hair has been slicked back, tamed into a more professional shape. The sharp lines of his face are more visible: jaw, nose, cheekbones. He looks older, but also-- more open. Without a curtain of bangs to hide behind, his face is there to be seen. All the minute expressions of the eyes and brows, now visible. It alters him, in an indescribable but definite way.

When he gets close enough, Crocodile can smell cologne, or perhaps aftershave. Something like sage and cedar, all underneath the perpetual scent of cheap cigarettes that clings to him.

He is the very picture of the perfect Marine. Even his cufflinks are emblazoned with the symbol of the World Government.

"Expensively," Crocodile repeats dryly. "Not well?"

"Personally, I wouldn't pair an orange cravat with a purple waistcoat," Donquixote replies. "But you're very striking. And I suspect the royals will appreciate the spectacle."

Crocodile twitches. "Bold words, from a man who can default to a uniform," he replies. "You'll certainly never stand out in a crowd."

"Yes, that's rather the point." Donquixote doesn't rise to the jab. "Shall we go?"

The royal family hasn't had the decency to send a carriage for them. It's a long, cold walk to the castle, and the uncomfortable silence gives Crocodile plenty of opportunities to consider turning around and going back to the ship. Or killing Donquixote. He hasn't taken that option off the table yet.

Donquixote smokes through three cigarettes on the way there, which is the only real sign of nerves Crocodile can pick up from him. He seems as untouchable as ever, remote and separate from everything else.

It's nearly twenty minutes to the castle, but at least the guards seem to be expecting them, opening the gates without preamble. One of them gives Donquixote a collegial nod as he passes.

In the day, the gardens around the castle must be a sight to behold, but dusk has fully set in now and the rows of sculpted bushes are turned into low shadows and grim shapes. The castle crouches at the end of a long walkway like a waiting animal.

"Last warning," Donquixote murmurs. "If this goes well, the royals will likely express their support of you to the Government. If it goes poorly--"

"Yes, you've made yourself quite clear," Crocodile says. "You have nothing but leverage here, I understand."

"Technically, both our careers rest on your behaviour," Donquixote points out as they approach the doors. "I am supposed to keep you in line."

For a delightful moment, Crocodile imagines sabotaging them both, watching the fallout, and cackling at Donquixote's ruin. Then he reminds himself that he has bigger plans and pulls himself together.

Time for a show.

-----

Bastion is a World Government country, but it’s ruled by a pair of monarchs. The king has the same air of self-righteous certainty carried by every king Crocodile has ever seen, while the queen drips condescension. At least the three princes and their younger sister have already been sent to bed for the night.

Rather than a grand, public feast, Crocodile (and Donquixote, as his handler) has been invited to a private dinner. This is likely due in part to the short notice of the whole affair-- and perhaps the aftershocks of the royals having been held hostage by a Warlord only the day before. There are certainly a very high number of guards hanging around as Crocodile and Donquixote are shown to the throne room.

The royals, however, don't seem on edge at all. They're gossiping inaudibly with each other as Crocodile enters the throne room, sizing him up.

"The Warlord Sir Crocodile," the guard who had brought them in says, "and Captain Donquixote Rocinante, your Majesties."

Donquixote's bow is picture-perfect. Crocodile's is less stiff, but he matches Donquioxte's form.

"How wonderful," the king says. "Your fight with the other Warlord was truly impressive! If only it had been close enough for us to see it."

"Yes, that would have been so exciting," the queen adds. "We simply must get Devil Fruits for our guards. I’ve already asked a friend of mine to help me procure some."

For the two of them, this is clearly the night's entertainment, rather than any actual thanks for Crocodile.

Fine; Crocodile had expected nothing less.

"It's an honour, your Majesties," he says smoothly. "I only hope we can make up for the trespasses of my predecessor."

"Yes, yes," the queen waves away his words. "You've shown yourself to be far more capable than your predecessor already."

"And that was certainly a surprise to see!" the king adds. "I hadn't thought anyone could best that malefactor. You know, when he first arrived, the captain of the royal guard made to strike him down, and he got himself sliced entirely in half! One of those damned Devil Fruit shields, right through the abdomen. We'll never get all the innards out of the rug."

Before either Donquixote or Crocodile can reply, a servant enters the fool and bows deeply. "Dinner is served."

-----

As it turns out, Donquixote is a man of many faces. Crocodile hadn't expected him to be the same abrasive asshole as usual in front of the royals, but he'd expected some of the sharpness to persist, albeit in a plausibly deniable form. Not so: Donquixote is transformed.

He's polite, deferential but not obsequious, almost dashing. The quiet hero. The voice of justice. Elegant and refined, respectful and pleasant.

It's horrifying. Crocodile shoots him an appalled expression behind the queen's back, and Donquixote raises his eyebrows in response. Fair enough.

Despite what Donquixote obviously thought of him, Crocodile himself has been just as able to play the role demanded of him. They want a Marine and a pirate-- a Warlord. So while Rocinante is all perfect etiquette, Crocodile has only blunted his edges.

"Who'd have thought a pirate would ever be welcomed to Castle Bastion, hm?" the king says to his wife. "Now we've had two in one week!"

With the danger to them gone, they seem to be seeing the hostage crisis as more a temporary inconvenience than a nearly fatal disaster. Crocodile watches Donquixote to see if he can find any fractures in his mask.

"Tell me," the queen says, with morbid fascination, "why did you become a pirate?"

Donquixote takes a sip of wine, watching Crocodile. His calm expression doesn't slip, but there's certainly a warning underneath it, for Crocodile's eyes only.

Crocodile doesn't acknowledge it. He just smirks and turns his hook to catch the light. "A fatal fondness for gold, I'm afraid."

The royals chortle together.

Crocodile adds, "My only real failing, your Majesty, is very expensive tastes."

"How terrible!" the queen exclaims with delight.

"Certainly," the king adds heartily.

"But, surely it must be a trial for the Marines," the queen says, turning to Donquixote. "Having to work with pirates. My, I can only imagine."

"The first and foremost duty of the Marines is to protect the citizens of the World Government, your Majesty," Donquixote replies. "If working with the Warlords is the best way to achieve that goal, then it is a necessary sacrifice."

"How noble," the king says approvingly.

With a smile, Donquixote adds, "Besides, I would like to think of it as reforming pirates. Only look at how much good Dracule Mihawk has done since joining."

"Indeed!" The queen leans forward. "But I heard he was formerly known as the Marine Killer. Was it not frightening to allow such a man into Marineford?"

"Perhaps it might have been," Donquixote allows, "were it not for the admirals. We all knew they had affairs well in hand."

"Good, brave men, those admirals." The king nods approvingly. "Just the sort we need dealing with the pirate scourge. Present company excluded," he adds with a smile in Crocodile's direction, like he's meant to be in on the joke.

"Oh, hardly excluded," Crocodile says. "After all, they sent an admiral to offer me my position." He gives them a smile. "Dealing with me in a very different sense, I grant you."

The monarchs both laugh. "Dealing with you-- offering you a deal-- yes!" the king says. "How clever!"

The doors at the end of the hall open, and the soup course is brought in.

-----

Halfway through the dessert course, after a long, shallow tangent on the quality of the food, the queen looks between Crocodile and Donquixote. "I am rather surprised," she says, "that the two of you make such an excellent pair!"

"Yes," the king says, "and it certainly was a relief to see you, captain. That other Warlord might have had a silver tongue, but he didn't have a Marine! Quite a relief to have you here."

Donquixote's smile is shockingly believable. "I'm glad to be of help, your Majesty."

Unexpectedly, Crocodile finds that it's his turn to lose control of his emotions. His smile is tight. The idea that he has Donquixote-- a Marine to be kept like an accessory, a pet, a dog to be owned-- is distasteful at best. It's almost worse that Donquixote is still so perfectly agreeable, without attempt to correct or any sign of offense in his face.

"Very well-matched," the king agrees. "I do hope your collaboration will continue."

"Your Majesty flatters me," Donquixote says. "Wherever my superior officers decide I am most needed, I will go."

"For the time being," Crocodile interjects, "that's with me."

Donquixote gives him an odd look, but doesn't disagree.

"It's a wonderful step forward," the king says. "Cooperation between the Marines and the Warlords can only benefit us all."

"Perhaps we we soon see pirates joining the Marines directly," the queen muses. "Without divisions between Warlord and Marine. You are all agents of the World Government, after all."

"We can only hope, your Majesty," Donquixote says.

What a joke.

Crocodile will whole-heartedly admit to his hypocrisy. He is a Warlord, hated whole-heartedly by pirates and Marines both. He has burned every bridge, destroyed every connection he'd ever had, and won nothing but bad faith for it. He's a traitor in the eyes of every pirate, but still a pirate in the eyes of the Marines.

He has sacrificed everything. His commitment to this path cannot be questioned. If he fails now, he would have nothing left.

But if they ever ordered him to hold a Marine title-- to wear the colours and uniforms-- to fly the flag of the World Government-- he would abandon the Warlord position. He would throw away all those sacrifices. So would, he suspects, any other Warlord.

There are some lines one cannot cross and still call themself a pirate. That is one sacrifice Crocodile will not-- cannot-- make.

-----

Crocodile waits until the castle gates shut behind him to sigh in relief. Donquixote doesn't acknowledge it, but he does immediately light another cigarette.

Exhaling smoke, Donquixote says, "I think I'm pleasantly surprised. You can comport yourself with dignity when you actually try."

"Oh, good, you're insufferable again," Crocodile replies. "I was starting to wonder if you might be possessed."

It's fully night, now. The sun has long since set, and the street is lit only by flickering lamplight and the full moon overhead.

"Tell me," Crocodile says, "is it simply that you really were groveling for those insipid royals, or are you a much better liar than I gave you credit for?"

Donquixote's lips turn down. "It's diplomacy, Sir Crocodile. You must be aware of the concept."

"Diplomacy," Crocodile scoffs. "Dancing like as trained dog, doing tricks for your masters."

Donquixote looks down at him. "You were no less compliant than I," he points out.

"Much to my distaste," Crocodile tells him. "But given your general attitude and apparently unmitigated dislike of everything you encounter, I'd assumed that you weren't capable of that sort of performance."

"Would you like me to fawn and flatter for you?" Donquixote asks.

Disgusted by the very thought, Crocodile sneers. "Hardly."

Donquixote adjusts his coat so that it hangs more smoothly on his shoulders. In the darkness, the white is even brighter than it had been earlier, catching the light of the full moon. The dimness softens Donquixote's features.

"I have no need to give you anything but my true feelings," Donquixote informs him. "You are correct: I dislike you immensely. That fact changes nothing about our mutual situation."

"Really?" Crocodile glances at him. "You said when we first met that you thought very little of me."

"Yes, but that was before I had to spend time around you," Donquixote replies. "Now I can be quite certain that you are, without exaggeration, the most infuriating person I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"We're in agreement, then," Crocodile replies. "What a relief."

The walk back to the ship is even colder this time.

Notes:

Rocinante is lying. Crocodile clocks in at maybe the second or third most infuriating person he's ever met. Doflamingo is taking the top spot for sure.

And, on the other side of things, Crocodile is rather overestimating himself in matters of sheer strength. He's not quite as powerful as he tends to think he is!!! More powerful than Rocinante, sure. But certainly not the world-class powerhouse he believes.

(Personally, I tend to headcanon that Crocodile was one of the first Warlords specifically because he seems notably weaker than most of them. I do think one of his biggest weaknesses is his arrogance though.)

Chapter 3: The Saint of Never Getting it Right

Summary:

There's always a bigger fish.

Notes:

Chapter title from "Blossoms" by The Amazing Devil

Content warning: animal death (spoilery details below)

A sea king is killed in a slightly graphic way.

If Crocodile never has to see Bastion Island again, it'll be too soon.

He'd rather not see Donquixote, either, but no luck there: he's still stuck with the captain on his ship. With the last of the formalities ironed out and the reinforcements finally having arrived, they can finally set off back to Marineford. The same miserable trip, with the same sullen resentment broiling between Crocodile and Donquixote-- though this time, Crocodile thinks, Donquixote is just as on edge as the rest of them.

Despite the tense mood, the trip goes smoothly until they're a day into the Calm Belt, more than halfway through.

Hugo looks up from his station at the den-dens. "Captain?" he says. "We're picking up an SOS."

Crocodile looks over, clicks his tongue, and shakes his head. "Too dangerous to go after it. I want to be out of the Calm Belt as soon as possible."

"Marine policy," Donquixote says, from his desk in the corner of the bridge, "demands we follow any distress signals." He doesn't even look up, the bastard. His arm is in a sling under his coat-- the same coat he'd been wearing during the fight with Braig. The sleeve still stained with blood.

"Convenient, then, that only one of us is a Marine," Crocodile replies. He scowls at Donquixote. "Would you like a lifeboat, captain?"

"Oh, yes," Donquixote replies. He looks up, eyes dark with disinterest. "And then you can explain to the Fleet Admiral what happened to your handler between Bastion and Marineford. I'm sure that'll go over well."

Crocodile grits his teeth, fury acidic in his throat. "Hugo," he says, "where's the message coming from?"

Hugo checks the eternal pose, set to Marineford. They're out of compass range now; no cardinal directions to guide them. "About sixty degrees off our current heading, captain."

"Largo," Crocodile says, turning to the helmsman, "get us there."

They give him a lazy salute, then turns the wheel. Together, they and Hugo can manage getting there without any input from Crocodile. He looks over to Donquixote.

"Thank you," the captain says perfunctorily.

Crocodile's teeth grind together.

-----

They find the source of the SOS a half hour later. It's another Marine vessel, sitting dead in the water. It doesn't shoot up any flares, and the signal continues, even after they're well within sight.

When they get close enough, Crocodile expects Donquixote to order them to start preparing a rescue, to get ready to drop the lifeboats and receive the crew.

Instead, Donquixote stands on the deck, watching the stranded ship with a shadowed expression, the lines of his face deepening as he frowns.

"I'd rather get this over with, captain," Crocodile hints.

"What do you see?" Donquixote asks abruptly.

"A fucking ship. Captain--"

"There's no one on the ship." Donquixote cuts him off.

Crocodile has to look. He narrows his eyes. "How the hell can you see that far?" Taking a telescope out of his inner breast pocket, he trains it on the ship. "Huh."

"No one on deck?"

Collapsing the telescope, Crocodile replies, "They may well be repairing the engine."

"No." Donquixote scowls. "So far as I can tell, there's no one aboard the ship at all."

Observation Haki? That's a handy trick. No wonder he didn't need a telescope: he wasn't looking at who was on deck at all.

"What, they've already been rescued then?" Crocodile tries to scowl at Donquixote, but he can't quite manage the annoyance he wants to feel. Donquixote seems more tense than Crocodile has seen him yet-- and given how he was just after Braig went down, furious and with a broken arm, that's saying something.

"If they'd been rescued, they should've taken their den-den," Donquixote replies. He makes to turn to face Crocodile, apparently coming to a decision. "Something's wrong. We need to--"

Something hits the ship.

The only sign of where it might be is churning water, sending spray up the hull. Before Crocodile can look for what it is, the deck tips nauseatingly. Donquixote and Crocodile are both thrown against the railing, barely catching themselves. Just as Crocodile begins to fear they might capsize, the ship rights itself again, throwing Donquixote to the deck. Crocodile manages to stay upright, but only just.

Donquixote stands, wincing. His arm must have been jarred in the fall. "Fuck," he says eloquently.

"What the hell was that?" Crocodile barks. This isn't his own ship, technically-- but he is still her captain, shared as the position is. An attack on the ship is an attack on that pride, and there is

nothing which infuriates Crocodile more than wounded pride.

"Captain!" It's Auric, the first mate. "Sea king rammed us!"

Crocodile looks up at Donquixote. "Isn't the whole point of this ship that the sea kings are meant to ignore it?"

Donquixote doesn't answer. He's still looking out at the other ship.

Scoffing, Crocodile turns away.

The door below bursts open, and the mechanics storms out, Grigori close behind Mikhail. They look grim. Crocodile strangles an exasperated remark before it can make its way out of his mouth.

"Bad news, captain," Mikhail says. "We're not moving. Something might have been damaged in that hit."

Of course it is. Crocodile misses the Spectre. She doesn't have engines and propellors to be maintained. She's built for wind and fights and, crucially, not the damned Calm Belt.

"Send someone down to assess the damage," he orders.

"Hang on," Donquixote says. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"And I have a bad feeling about sticking around here," Crocodile bites out. He gestures out at the abandoned ship. "They probably got caught in the same sort of mess as us, and weren't lucky enough to get out of it. I'd rather not stay here any longer than necessary."

Donquixote's jaw tightens, but he makes no further protest.

-----

They can't find anything wrong with the engine. Quiet anxiety is spreading. The engines, held within the ship, can be fixed. But if something's wrong with the propellors, they don't exactly have a dry dock to fix them here. And the seastone hull of the ship has already proved itself to be fallible.

Mikhail and Grigori are preparing to do a cursory examination of the propellors. The two of them have the most knowledge about Marine ships for reasons that neither of them seems willing to explain, and Crocodile isn't going to ask about it.

A lifeboat is lowered down with Mikhail aboard, to see what he can figure out about the problem without having to get in the water. Grigori stands on the ship above, calling down advice.

"How's it looking, Mischka?" Grigori shouts.

"I'm not seeing the problem yet," Mikhail calls back. "Maybe it's just a blockage? That'd be a stroke of luck--"

The sea churns.

Crocodile can't even shout, before the water around the lifeboat froths and boils, turning white, then red-- then white again, but not the water. Teeth, the maw of a massive creature, closing over Mikhail and the boat both.

Grigori screams, frantic, throwing himself forward as if he could reach his brother. Crocodile is moving practically before he can think, a rush of sand on the wind rather than flesh and blood. He's across the ship in moments, but the beast is already rearing up. Crocodile pulls Grigori away from the railing, away from--

It's massive. A sinuous, seething shape, pulling back from the ship and retreating into the water. Crocodile can barely catch the impression of red scales, a richly sanguine colour, like blood pooling below the wavers. Teeth, a gaping maw. A flicker of fins, near invisible after it dives.

Grigori is bleeding. His arm is gone. His whole shoulder.

He's dead.

The blood on Crocodile's hand makes it impossible to turn to sand, to call up a storm the way he desperately wants to. "Sound off!" he barks.

"Everyone else is . . . " Auric* stares down at Grigori's body in horror. They don't even have a body for Mikhail. It happened so fast. She swallows. "Everyone else is here."

"It was waiting for us to lower the boat," Donquixote says suddenly, the first time he's spoken since the sea king's first attack. He looks grim, pale-faced and sober as he meets Crocodile's eyes. "It knew what it was doing."

A beat. Then Crocodile stands and turns to grab Donquixote by the collar. The difference between their heights means he has to pull Donquixote down to face him. "You bastard!" The blood on his hand stains the uniform. More red against white. At least it was already ruined, a dim, remote part of Crocodile thinks. "You sailed us into a trap. My men are dead, my ship is dead, my crew is trapped, and it's your damn fault!"

"I won't deny that." Donquixote's voice rises to meet Crocodile's, but he doesn't pull away. "But if you want to live through this, we can't waste time. Kill me or don't, I don't care. But decide quickly. I can't imagine a sea king is a patient beast."

Crocodile considers it. It would be satisfying, draining the blood from that body. Watching him wither and crumple.

But there's no fear in Donquixote's eyes. No urgency. Not even guilt. Nothing but red-brown glass, dried blood and rust. Like he's already dead.

Crocodile lets go of him.

Straightening his coat, Donquixote talks fast. "You're right," he says. "This is a trap. It's waiting for us below. We lower a boat, and we're dead. We don't lower a boat, and we can't repair the propellor, and the ship's dead in the water."

"And we're dead." Crocodile rubs a hand across his face. "Fucking hell."

"You know how long a Marine den-den can live?" Donquixote asks abruptly.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"You are making me reconsider my assessment of your intelligence."

Crocodile thinks it's probably bad sign that he's glad to hear the edge in Donquixote's voice again.

Donquixote gestures out towards the other ship. "Let me rephrase. Marine den-dens are a resilient variety. Particularly long-lived and hardy. In theory, that signal could have been going for months. Maybe even a year or more."

The crewmembers on deck are murmuring frantically at each other. Crocodile looks around to find Hugo and meet her gaze. She gives him a nod of confirmation, looking worried. Donquixote's telling the truth.

"Look at the ship. Really fucking look at it: the paint's worn down, the mast is cracking. It's been there for ages." Donquixote makes to cross his arms and winces. "I'd bet your paycheque that we're not the first ones to fall into this trap. I'd bet that thing's been refining this scheme for a while."

The words take a long moment to sink in. A sea king that can plan. A sea king that can lay a trap, force them into an unwinnable situation. A sea king that thinks.

Somehow, the only thing Crocodile can manage to say is, "My paycheque?"

"It's bigger than mine," Donquixote replies.

-----

Three hours later, the situation is looking even worse. Despite their best efforts, they've had no luck getting the ship to move. If they were anywhere else, they could put up the sails and catch a breeze-- but no such luck. After all, this is the Calm Belt.

They lowered one more lifeboat, empty, as a test. The sea king swallowed it practically as soon as it touched the water. It's waiting, just out of sight. Ready to strike.

Auric is calculating how long their food and water reserves will last. The numbers she's coming up with aren't encouraging. They're almost at the end of their trip. There are supplies left for a week-- maybe a few weeks, if they're careful with rationing.

That might be enough. They have a Warlord on board, after all, and they're barely off their planned course. The SOS signal from the other ship's snail is still going, strong enough that any ship that comes looking for them would pick it up.

But the sea king is still here, waiting in the water. It circles them, slowly, steadily. Any ship that comes for them could just as easily fall prey to it, and even if it doesn't, how will they be able to transfer the crew to the undamaged ship with that thing waiting for them in the water?

And there's a bigger problem: the sea king is losing patience.

It went from staying out of sight, to surfacing occasionally, to hovering just under the water. And now, it's started bumping the ship.

Lightly at first, almost as though it were accidental. Then with greater force. Every few minutes, the deck shudders with another hit.

"At this point," Crocodile growls, "we risk the hull giving out!"

Donquixote sucks in a breath, eyes widening. "What if that's its goal?" He gestures down, to the ship below their feet. "We've been assuming that it's trying to worry us into lowering lifeboats and abandoning ship, but it doesn't have to wait. If it decides to sink us . . . "

"We'll be a buffet for it." Crocodile curses below his breath.

Donquixote glances around at the few members of Crocodile's crew who are up on the deck and within earshot, rather than below trying to get the propellor to work. Hard enough of a task when they can't venture into the water; made even harder because they still don't know what's wrong with it. "We can't afford to wait for a rescue," he says, lowering his voice.

"You mean, we need to kill it," Crocodile scoffs. "Easier said than done, captain. Bullets won't penetrate water. If we try to use harpoons or other weapons, the sea king can just dive to avoid them."

"And against a creature in water, you and I are helpless," Donquixote agrees.

Crocodile isn't sure whether the plural eases the blow to Crocodile's own pride, or if it's more insulting to be lumped in with a Paramecia whose ability is practically a joke.

Before he can say anything, Donquixote straightens, seeming to come to a decision. "How many lifeboats do we need to evacuate the entire crew?"

"Auric!" Crocodile calls. When she comes over, he repeats the question.

"Well, this ship is meant to house a greater crew than it currently carries," she says. "But we've lost two boats already."

"Can we afford to lose one more?" Donquixote asks.

"One? Sure," Auric says. "But more than that and I'd start getting worried."

Donquixote nods. Glancing between Auric and Crocodile, he asks, "What about explosives? This is a Marine ship; the magazine should have been fully stocked."

"What sort?" Auric asks. "Flares? Gunpowder?"

"Any," Donquixote replies. "All of them."

"Well, we didn't end up using them against our rogue Warlord," Auric says. "Look, I'd be able to tell you more if I knew what you needed."

Donquixote smiles. It's a thin, vague thing, but it's more real than Crocodile has seen from him yet. "We're going fishing."

-----

"I say we just toss a damn grenade in and be done with it," Auric says with a shrug.

"But if it goes before the beast gets it, then we're down a boat and a bomb," Crocodile replies.

Donquixote, who has been cracking open a third box of flares with a crowbar, looks up. "Might be the only option, though," he points out. His voice has lost its formal cadence, slipping towards something more casual, looser. He talks unexpectedly fast, sometimes tripping on his words. The occasional stutter is oddly human, for him. "We can't exactly trust that any light won't be smothered when the boat gets eaten, so a fuse is out. It has to be exploding almost exactly when it goes in the sea king's mouth." He pauses, tapping the crowbar absently on the box. "This is going to need timing. And we won't get a second chance."

"Technically," Auric says, "we could probably spare one more boat. And if we reserve some of the explosives--"

Donquixote is already shaking his head. "This thing's too smart. If we don't get it the first time, it'll get cautious."

"A plan where everything has to go precisely right, we get one shot for success, and half the variables are out of our control?" Crocodile drawls.

"Yeah," Donquixote says. "We're fucked."

At least he's honest about it.

The lifeboat hangs in its harness over the edge of the ship. The launching platform is at the edge of the ship, railings taken down to enable launching the boat without obstacles. The plan itself is simple, albeit a long shot. Given that the sea king ate the empty lifeboat they lowered as a test, they know it's not checking for humans in the boats before it eats them. So if, hypothetically speaking, the boat was full of explosives, which went off as soon as the boat was in the sea king's mouth . . .

Messy. Inexact. And extremely risky.

Donquixote upends the box of flares into the lifeboat with all the others and stands, wincing. "We should still keep back some of the grenades," he says. "If this doesn't work, we'll need options."

Crocodile looks down at the boat. If the situation weren't already dire, he'd be looking for any other solution right now. A lifeboat full of anything even remotely explosive hardly sparks confidence.

But something about Donquixote does.

Three hours ago, Crocodile would have said the captain had no passion whatsoever. Glacially cold; permafrost all the way down. But though he hasn't thawed, there's something new in him. A focus, bright and keen, that draws the eye.

If Donquixote is a blade, then Crocodile is finally seeing his edge, and it is far sharper than he could have expected.

The ship rocks.

"It's hitting us more frequently now," Donquixote says. "We're running out of--"

Another hit.

This time, it's violent, metal shrieking and water frothing. The deck pitches to an extreme angle, enough to throw all of them entirely across the deck before they have time to brace. Crocodile hits the railing on the other end of the ship alongside Donquixote. It doesn't hurt him; he's sand. But he hears the choked gasp Donquixote makes, a nearly-swallowed scream. On instinct, he reaches out to help Donquixote. Then he remembers himself and draws back.

"Damn," Donquixote bites out. Then his eyes widen. "Fuck-- the boat!"

Crocodile looks up. If the boat has been thrown into the sea, without them setting the explosion, all their work is lost. But, no-- the boat is still in its harness, though it has swung out entirely over the sea.

"We have to drop the boat, now!" Crocodile shouts.

The ship begins to swing back to right. Then there's a horrible cracking sound, like a long peal of thunder far too close. The deck shakes.

"I think it's too late," Donquixote says.

The ship keeps tipping, until Crocodile has to hold on to the railing to keep from sliding across the deck. The deck is a steep slope under their feet, leading straight down to a perilous drop into the sea.

"Oh, hell," Donquixote says.

The ship is going down. Crocodile doesn't know what happened-- whether the hull finally gave out, or if the sea king finally got in a lucky shot. But it doesn't matter now. They're sinking. They're out of time.

Below them, the grim blue sea stretches deep and hungry. At least it won't be the water that kills them if they fall in. No, that'll be the damned sea king.

"What's the release for the boat?" Donquixote says.

"The lever," Crocodile can't point it out, holding on to the railing as he is, but Donquixote sees it-- and the problem. They'd already taken down the railings around the launching platform while working on the lifeboat. Now, the gap in the railings is a deadly hazard, almost directly below Donquixote and Crocodile.

"Alright," Donquixote says. He shoulders off his coat, which flutters down into the sea and, with his teeth, undoes the sling holding his arm steady. The white cloth is caught by the wind, gone immediately.

Then Donquixote lets go of the railing and follows his coat, sliding down the deck in a controlled fall. Before Crocodile can react-- though he isn't sure what he would do-- Donquixote lands on narrow ledge of the opposite railing. The landing is poor, the slope too uneven for him to keep his footing. His back hits the railing, and he only saves himself from a worse fall by catching himself with his broken arm. He doesn't scream, this time.

Although Donquixote has landed on the right side of the landing platform, within reach of the lever, his fall has left him facing the wrong way: the lever is by his feet. It's practically within reach, but with his precarious perch, Donquixote can't sit up to release it.

Instead, he braces himself and kicks the lever. It moves, but not enough. He glances into the water, and grits his teeth. He kicks it again, harder, and--

The boat releases from its harness, hitting the water with a splash.

But the kick overbalances Donquixote, and he slips off the edge. Crocodile doesn't realize he's moving until he drops down the slope, his hand latches onto Donquixote's wrist, and his eyes meet shocked red. He pulls Donquioxte back up and onto the ship, onto the thin ledge of the railing, hooking through the fabric of his shirt to help him up.

"Shit--" Donquioxte gasps, turning back towards the water. Crocodile opens his mouth to ask what's wrong, but understands as soon as Donquixote scrabbles to pull a lighter out of his inner coat pocket. He lights it, and throws it desperately into the boat-- just as the creature surfaces, mouth like a sinkhole closing around the ship.

For a moment, Crocodile thinks he missed. Then, the explosion.

Instinct kicks in, and he pulls Donquixote closer to shield him, half-turning to sand to take the initial wave of heat and force. The ship rocks and water splashes across them both, dousing Crocodile, forcing him back to human shape an awful wave of weakness-- and then bloody chunks of meat hit the ship, viscera leaving a thin, foul coating across them all.

Then quiet.

Crocodile realizes he can feel the rise and fall of Donquioxte's breaths, short and sharp. Almost frantic. He's warm in Crocodile's arms. Not ice at all.

When he realizes he's still holding the captain, Crocodile almost jerks away. But Donquixote was already injured before that stunt, so Crocodile forces himself to sit up slowly, supporting Donquixote as he does.

"You okay?" he asks, before realizing that they're close enough to the blast that Donquixote might not be able to hear him. Not everyone can turn their eardrums to sand.

"I'm good," Donquixote says tightly. He's stiff, holding his injured arm against his body and shielding it with his good hand.

Crocodile doesn't call him out. "Stay down," he says. "It's over."

"We're sinking," Donquixote points out.

"Fine, it's almost over."

Notes:

And that is the last time I ever write a major action set piece because oh my god that was hard and I am not sure it is actually intelligible.

Before anyone asks: I am very sorry. I hate Jaws. I've seen it twice and I just cannot bring myself to enjoy it. This chapter was actually inspired mostly by the 1990 film Tremors. I forgot that Jaws has the same "feed the creature something explosive to blow it up" trick, until I was rewatching it after writing the first draft of this, actually. (And I'm sure Tremors was taking inspiration from Jaws!) But Tremors is one of those movies I saw when I was a kid that felt like a Big Scary Monster Movie before I was really allowed to watch stuff like that, so it lives in a fondly nostalgic part of my heart and I rewatch it a couple times every year.

Notes:

You can find me occasionally active over on my tumblr.