Chapter Text
It was Mihawk who noticed that something was off before anybody else did, his sharp eyes perceptive as always.
Crocodile's tent was lavish, one of the biggest on Karai Bari, second only to the stage tent used for announcements and the chairman's. In the corner stood a frosted glass partition, separating the lobby from a private office and the stairs leading up towards the living quarters.
A square table stood in the middle of the room, covered in news clippings, wanted posters and resumes. Two large sofas sat on either side of the table, upholstered with plump black cushions on the seats and arms, usually seating the two Executives, one which was currently lounging about. The familiar smell of cigar smoke hung faintly in the air. Crocodile was seated behind his desk, his golden hook tapping out in an even rhythm on the countertop.
"There's been an increase in attacks favoring our north-eastern shores... Should we dispatch some men to fortify our defenses?"
Buggy stood in front of the table as he went over his daily report, reading off his notes. To the Executives' surprise, he had actually proven himself to be far more capable as a businessman than previously assumed. Buggy was basically a human abacus when it came to counting money, and even though Crocodile had taken over their financial affairs and bookkeeping due to certain incidents in the past, he was more than capable of making his men do their bidding and smelling out fishy deals.
Crocodile inclined his head at the new information, focusing on the papers before him. His pen didn't stall in gliding over the paper he was signing, leaving crisp black lines that formed into a neat signature. They didn't actually need to install a group of mercenaries to defend their shores with the manpower they possessed, but it was bothersome to be pulled away from his work to sink an armada every other day.
He sighed, dipping his fountain pen into the ink.
"The Navy just doesn't learn. Put together a group of new recruits that's not about to dispatch on a new job soon. It'll be a good opportunity to see if they can hold their own in a fight." He scribbled down a few things before he prompted, "What of our supplies?"
"Ah." Buggy looked smug with himself. "The shipment from Applenine Island came in earlier, already taken care of!"
"Good. Anything else?"
Mihawk's eyes suddenly honed in on him. Buggy took notice of the sudden avid attention from the other man, brows furrowing. He fidgeted a bit where he stood, shuffling his papers. The swordsman didn't usually pay much heed to the bureaucratic hassles of their business, preferring to listen with one ear while kicking his legs up on the table and leaning back in his seat, as if preparing for a nap.
Having listened to Crocodile's account of the rare Warlord meetings with the swordsman present, he probably was.
Buggy distinctly felt like he was being sized up, feeling awfully bare with nothing floating around his body to conceal himself. Mihawk and Crocodile had ruthlessly bullied him into 'more appropriate' work attire 'to befit his status as Emperor', claiming they refused to be seen in public with what could be mistaken for a giant red pillowcase.
( "It's a fashion statement!"
"Is the statement 'I have no sense of'?" )
"Ehrm... so the bounties for this week have been printed, and we've, uh, we've actually managed to—" Buggy hesitantly continued on, sending a nervous glance at Mihawk every once in a while, shuffling his papers between his gloves as he continued to go over beli, mercenaries, and whatever else was necessary to keep their business running smoothly.
"Clown," Mihawk finally spoke up, straightening in his seat.
"Huh?" Buggy looked up.
"Move to the side."
Buggy frowned, but did as he was told, taking a step to the left. "What are you on about?"
"Your other side."
His face distorted into a scowl. He jutted out his hip, placing a hand upon it as he angrily gesticulated with the notes he held.
"Stop toying with me! I spent hours on this presentation, and you're completely ruining my flow!"
Crocodile looked up from his desk as Buggy kept grumbling, accusingly muttering something about having lost his line as he turned his attention back towards his notes.
Suddenly, his expression shifted from squinting at the written lines, growing slightly vacant.
Buggy blinked, and blinked again.
His hand came up to clutch at his head. From one moment to the next, the two men watched on as his skin turned comically red, starting from his neckline and creeping all the way below his blue locks.
The scratch of pen on paper promptly came to a halt.
"Buggy—?"
"What the—"
Steam then began issuing out of his ears as though he was a human kettle, his eyes beginning to roll into the back of his head. Mihawk got to his feet, alarmed.
The clown let out a pained noise that vaguely sounded like 'not again' when his knees suddenly buckled, collapsing into himself like a marionette with its strings cut. He barely missed the solid edge of the table as he fell, hitting the carpeted ground with a dull 'thud'.
Mihawk crossed the distance between them with hurried steps just as Crocodile passed through his table in a swirl of sand, materializing by his side. Mihawk kneeled by the heap of inanimate clown and turned him over.
Buggy's eyes were closed, cheeks flushed and hot to the touch. His chest rose and fell with weak breaths, meeting notes scattered in disarray around him.
"What's going on with him?"
"Oi. Clown." Crocodile nudged his side with the tip of his boot. Buggy didn't stir, appearing to be well and truly out of it.
Mihawk then grabbed his shoulders and tried shaking him, the clown's head pitifully flopping back and forth.
He eventually let him fall back onto the ground before he stood. A deep frown had made its way onto his stoic face.
"He's not waking up."
"I, too, am in the possession of eyes," Crocodile snarked in response to the blunt observation, the way he held onto his cigar tenser than usual.
"Is he... sick?"
"I wouldn't know. I've never been sick."
"Neither have I."
A thought then occurred to Crocodile, making a greasy feeling settle in the pits of his stomach. His gaze slowly wandered down towards his golden hook, the arch reflecting the light on its polished surface. He was well aware of methods to get rid of political rivals.
He turned towards Mihawk to gauge his reaction.
"Do you think he might've gotten poisoned?"
The swordsman considered the possibility, then shook his head. "I don't think so. He became so paranoid after the Emperor announcement that he began letting the lion sniff his food. Maybe he got bitten by something from the jungle?"
They shared a glance with one another and came to the unified conclusion that whatever the cause of his current ailment, they needed to resolve it as soon as possible before it had the chance to worsen.
For the sake of their company and each other, they needed their chairman hale and hearty.
Mihawk looked down at where Buggy's chest was still weakly rising and falling.
"What should we do?" he urged.
Crocodile kneeled by his side and picked him up, his head lolling limply against his shoulder, having all the body tension of a cooked noodle. "I'll get him settled. Go and ask around if there's some kind of medic around here."
Mihawk nodded curtly, striding past his seat to grab Yoru and his plumaged hat.
Just before he was to exit the tent, he turned.
"Crocodile."
The other man halted, glancing at him over the slope of his shoulder.
"What if he doesn't…" he trailed off at Crocodile's expression. Something ghastly shrouded his scarred face for a fraction of a second.
It steeled again, reigning itself in, and Crocodile gave Mihawk a flash of teeth that could almost count as a smile.
"I'd drag Dr. Vegapunk here myself before I'd let that happen."
Up in the balcony seat, you had the best view of the main tent. On the topmost floor, the center stage became a mere map beneath Mihawk's gaze.
Below, there were scores of mercenaries bustling around, laughing with their craftsmen and practicing with their weapons while awaiting dispatches to their next job. They intermingled with the crew Buggy had brought with him from East Blue, though in Mihawk's eyes, they made better performers than pirates: A fire breather practiced her aim, silk aerialists and trapeze artists spun through the air, and a blindfolded knife thrower lobbed several daggers at a shivering marine that was tied to a wheel of death.
He continued on. The lounge itself was quieter, walls insulated from the noise of their rambunctious underlings. Colored planks arranged in jagged patterns made up the floor, and the sound of Mihawk's soles on the wood reverberated in the large room, the merry conversation halting at his approach. When Mihawk entered, they all stopped to gawk at him; he met their gazes with a look of indifference. They were not his ideal conversational partners, and the sentiment was shared.
Alvida the Iron Maze sat on plush cushions in colorful harlequin patterns, straightening up as he drew near.
"Is there a doctor on this island?" he asked, his voice betraying none of the urgency he felt.
Alvida blinked, lowering her cup. "Oh, uhm… I'm sure we happen to have one, don't we?" She looked to the others in the room for support. "...Right?"
Mihawk let his gaze wander over the rest of the group. "Who took care of your injuries when you got hurt?"
Cabaji shifted in his chair.
"Captain usually treated us," he admitted, fingers absentmindedly brushing over the faint cuts on his arms from his first attempts at knife juggling.
Mihawk frowned. He could hardly envision Buggy of all people with a medical license. Might as well give up on getting better if your doctor showed up looking like a clown.
"He talked a lot with some guy on the Twin Capes when we navigated up Reverse Mountain — Crocus, or something. Said he taught him some basic stuff," he quickly added at Mihawk's doubtful expression.
Mihawk was well acquainted with the old doctor and lighthouse keeper from his frequent travels between the Four Blues. He tucked that little tidbit of information away, making a mental note to ask Buggy about it when he woke up.
"The clown is currently unavailable. I need somebody else."
Mohji looked at him worriedly, wringing a napkin between his fingers.
"Is... everything alright? With Captain Buggy?" he asked nervously, clearly envisioning a terrible fate to have befallen him.
Standing at the head of the table, regal, Mihawk turned his gaze towards him.
"You seem awfully concerned for his well being," he remarked lowly, raising a forked brow. His expression was perfectly neutral. His eyes were hard. "I fail to see why his current state should concern you."
Mohji gulped, shrinking into himself under the attention. Cabaji lifted a shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug, genuinely confused.
"I mean, he's our Captain, of course we would—"
Mihawk raised his hand to cut him off, and Cabaji's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He leveled one unimpressed glare at the acrobat.
"Yet you nonchalantly agreed to follow Crocodile while brushing off his impending doom as you continued to party."
They at least had the decency to look ashamed of themselves as his eyes wandered over their little gathering, holding the chill of death so often spoken about in his gaze. They all squirmed where they sat. Cabaji immediately shrank back into his seat, as if wanting to disappear. Richie hid his snout behind his paws with a low whine.
"Some fine friends you are," Mihawk remarked coldly, letting the weight of his words hang heavy in the air before he turned with an angry swish of his cape. "Get back to work," he ordered as he strode out, hearing them scramble to do his bidding behind him.
Once out of the tent, Mihawk let out a deep sigh.
Damnit. He didn't know why he had gotten angry on the clown's behalf, why their irritating behavior of abandoning their Captain and supposed friend in a life-and-death situation had gotten under his skin.
Perhaps he felt slightly concerned about the clown. Just a tiny bit.
Mihawk had never particularly cared about companionship before, but after spending years unchallenged for his title, he had to admit that the grand throne he was seated upon was a rather lonesome one, and Buggy, for all his faults, managed to make him laugh.
He hadn't wanted to like the damn clown in the bothersome ways that he had begun to. He had refused it: at first politely, then relentlessly. Thank you kindly, but no thank you. Emotional bandwidth at capacity, nothing more to spare, especially not for somebody as cowardly and pathetic as Buggy.
Mihawk flexed his knuckles, irritated.
Then he let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his brow.
Fallen, he had fallen for the king of fools, an idiotic loser who preferred begging over fighting to save his life and thought an oversized red bedsheet was appropriate attire to wear on any occasion. Just what had his life come to?
He continued to walk, Yoru's weight a familiar comfort against his back.
…Well, at least he wasn't the only one.
To think: Sir Crocodile and Dracule Mihawk, two former Shichibukai, two unarguably very powerful men, were enamored with one wimpy and overly dramatic clown.
Still, in his anger he had failed to get a solution to their unconscious-Emperor-problem, and his pride refused to make him return to the lounge anew to prompt his question again. He would have to find somebody else who was familiar with their recruits.
A swarm of paradise birds took flight from the ground as he strode through the town of colorful circus tents, his eyes scanning the heads of the crowd.
On the outskirts of the dense jungle that rose in the middle of the island, Buggy's crew had constructed a large settlement for themselves. The area around had been cleared of vegetation, so that it could not be scaled with nearby trees, and there were platforms and turrets for guards to stand watch on. The sounds of hammers and saws rang out as carpenters worked diligently to convert Buggy Town into the new Cross Guild headquarters, building new quarters and replacing all signs of his former Delivery with their new insignia.
If they weren't partying, that was. Thinking of Shanks, Mihawk idly wondered if this constant need to celebrate even the smallest of occasions happened to be something they had picked up from their shared past with the Roger Pirates.
Mihawk tugged the brim of his hat lower as he kept walking.
( While Crocodile's skin turned even darker beneath the summer island skies and Buggy bore tan lines where his clothes concealed his skin, he belonged to that species of humankind that tended to tan pink.
A few hours of work beneath the sunlight in his secluded garden even tended to make his vision appear remote and unreal, but keeping his wide-brimmed hats on whenever he was outside helped with that. )
The sight of an intricate numbered hairdo between the colorful circus tents first made him slow, then pick up his walking speed.
"Mister Three," he inclined his head in greeting as he approached. The wax man stopped what he was doing at the ring of his voice, turning towards him.
Galdino had vocally pledged himself to be back under Crocodile, but since Mihawk was also an Executive of Cross Guild, he figured that gave him ample authority to make the man carry out his orders as well.
"Y-yes, Hawkeyes, sir?" Galdino stammered, his voice coming out a little shaky and timid.
Mihawk mustered him. He looked twitchy and a thin sheen of sweat was covering his brow. He seemed to be fairing no better in this summer weather than he.
Better to get this over with quickly.
"You are familiar with the recruits, are you not?"
"I'd say, so, y-yes," he stammered in his usual high pitch.
"Is there a doctor on this island?"
The former Baroque Works member nervously scratched his chin in thought. Then he nodded, adjusting his glasses as he did.
"There is."
The doctor, Yasuo, he had said his name was, did not exactly look like a doctor.
His body was corded with large, thick muscle, and a ghastly scar ran from his brow down to his chin. Traditional flower tattoos spread out over his shoulders, and his nose looked at least twice broken. He had been imprisoned in the Blazing Hell of Impel Down, gotten freed by Buggy and had pledged his undying loyalty to the clown afterwards.
The usual recruitment history.
Yasuo fished out a pair of dainty spectacles out of his coat and perched them on his nose, sending a nervous little glance over his shoulder at the two tall shadows looming over him before he redirected his attention to his patient.
He gulped, clearly aware of the possible consequences should the two Executives find his work lacking.
They watched closely as he held two fingers against his neck to check his pulse. He examined his ears, his head, and opened his eyelids, the clown appearing to be well and truly unconscious because he didn't complain about the manhandling. He poked and prodded at Buggy for some minutes, taking his blood pressure and temperature.
His mouth pulled into a tight line as he looked at the number on the thermometer.
Distraught, he finally turned towards Mihawk and Crocodile.
"Well?" The latter encouraged, making it clear with his voice that he was not in the mood for bad news. "What's going on with him?"
"Did he get bitten by something from the jungle?" Mihawk prompted.
"Did he get poisoned?" Crocodile pressed.
Yasuo waved his hands. "No, no, nothing as dramatic as that, gentlemen. His respiratory and circulatory signs are good. Heart rate's normal. In summary: his vitals are all fine. This condition seems to be some sort of psychogenic fever — it might be the result of an accumulation of intense stress, I'm afraid."
Outside the tent, a lone cricket chirped.
"...Stress." Crocodile deadpanned.
Yasuo nodded quickly. "Symptoms of illness caused by anxiety or worry are quite common, actually. You see, the body forces itself to keep functioning to survive until it leaves the stressful environment, allowing the pent up stress to catch up."
"So he is not dying?" Mihawk inquired, cutting straight to the point.
Yasuo scratched his head. "No, but he needs to rest to recover, or it'll get worse. Has he been a bit stressed out lately?"
Crocodile and Mihawk shared a silent glance with one another out of the corners of their eyes.
To imply that Buggy had been 'a bit stressed out lately' was the understatement of the century. The clown was already a neurotic mess on his best days, and certain circumstances certainly hadn't helped matters.
( About a week ago, Mihawk had seen him scurrying about to fulfill his quota for the day, clutching coffee mugs to his chest and only blinking once every hour.
Perhaps they had overworked him a bit. And that wasn't even counting the nightly activities they had gotten up to. )
Crocodile cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Too much paperwork, I'm sure," he replied conversationally in his best convincing mobster voice, flicking the ash off the end of his cigar. "So when will he be fully functional again, doc?"
Yasuo fiddled with the frame of his glasses, pondering his answer. "It's hard to say... With the right care, a couple of days, most likely. What he needs now is enough rest, fluids and good nourishment."
"So he should remain in bed?"
"Ehrm." Yasuo blinked at the question. "Yes, preferably?..."
A dark smirk began curling around Crocodile's cigar. Smoke billowed from his lips as he answered lowly, "I see," no doubt already planning to acquaint the clown with each and every reason why Not Leaving His Bed was an excellent idea.
Mihawk rolled his eyes.
"Thank you for your assistance, doctor. It is appreciated," the swordsman quickly interjected, accompanying him back towards the exit.
In a daring mood, Mihawk tried to smile at Yasuo.
It felt strange — his face was not accustomed to contorting in such a manner — and judging by the way the doctor shrunk into himself, he feared that he might've just ended up looking even more terrifying than usual. He stopped.
Scowling was much easier.
"Ah, b-but of c-course, sir Hawkeyes, sir! I'm always happy to be of service to our beloved chairman..." Yasuo chuckled nervously, eyes already darting towards the door.
"Oh, before I forget!" He rummaged around in his bag and handed a little brown bottle over.
"Here, this should help lower his fever. It will work best on a full stomach. I shall check in again later, once he is awake."
Mihawk turned it over in his palm, making out the faint smell of herbs; Elderflower, chamomile, boxwood.
Then his golden gaze lifted, boring into him intently. "We trust you will keep his current condition to yourself."
It was less a request than a threat.
Yasuo gulped once, hard.
"N-Naturally."
"Hold on." Crocodile lifted his hand and snapped his fingers twice, stopping the doctor from scurrying away. His usually reserved expression had turned into curiosity. He cocked his head to the side as he mustered him.
"Mr. 3 mentioned that you also broke out of Impel Down. Your manners are far better than most scum's that washes up on this island. What were you in for?"
Yasuo's smile was faintly nostalgic. "Tax fraud."
"...That all? For Level Five?"
"I frauded a lot of taxes."
A curious look passed across Crocodile's face. He met Mihawk's gaze, lifting his shoulder in a dismal half-shrug, as if to say better the devil you know than the devil you don't.
"I see. That would be all." Crocodile dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Yasuo took his leave with a bow of his burly head before he vanished through the tent flaps.
Buggy was having a bad day. A bad week, actually. Bad year. A whole bad life, one could argue.
Aye, miserable was a good word to describe it.
He blearily came to, feeling like his brain was sloshing between his ears. Buggy had the mother of all headaches and her sisters were knocking to be let in the door.
A soft groan pushed past his lips. Vague shadows shimmered behind his eyes. He was laying on something soft.
His eyelids peeled apart, and he blinked dumbly. The wobbly lines surrounding him slowly straightened: After a few moments of numb staring, he realized he was looking at a night stand.
Something moved in his peripheral vision. His gaze slowly wandered towards the ominous shadow looming over him then, the light reflecting off one wickedly sharp hook that hovered just above.
"GYAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!"
Buggy startled badly, sitting up and scooting himself away from the edge of the bed.
His hands smacked into something solid and a bejeweled hand gripped his shoulder, preventing him from jackknifing straight off the other edge of the bed.
"I'M TOO YOUNG AND FLASHY TO DIE LIKE THISSSSS!" he whimpered nonsensically, curling up into a little defensive ball.
"Hey," Crocodile said, unimpressed at the attempt to whack him. "Calm down."
"Iiiyaaaa—!" Buggy skidded to a stop in his wailing, blinking. He squinted through his fingers at the man in front of him, illuminated by the little lamp on the nightstand. He lowered his hands and sat up, sheepish. "Ahem. Hi."
His body then caught up to the sudden movement, making his vision swim. He fell back, hand coming up to clutch at his throbbing head.
"Shit, what happened?" Buggy groaned waspishly into the air. "Where in the four great Blues am I?"
"My bed," Crocodile replied. The cold arch of a hook pressed against his shoulder, gently pushing him backwards to lay fully back against the pillows.
"Why your bed?!"
"To keep an eye on you, clown. You collapsed."
"Ah..." He replied slowly, deflating back into the pillows. The last thing he remembered was going over his morning report, and then — nothing.
There had been instances over the last few weeks where Buggy had felt a bit under the weather, thinking he was coming down with something, but he had quickly brushed those thoughts away in the face of more urgent matters.
He figured all that stress had made him feel... stressed.
Crocodile tapped out his cigar on the ashtray, green eyes mustering him. "How are you feeling?"
Buggy gauged the situation. A headache drummed at the back of his head, his throat was parched, the bump on his brow hurt, and he felt chilled although the blanket was sticking lightly to his sweat-soaked skin.
"Like jelly in a clown-shaped mold," he admitted, his voice coming out deflated and reedy.
"You're always so melodramatic," the older man remarked.
There was something rather solid about his complete lack of sympathy for theatrics.
"I prefer flashy," Buggy shot back weakly as the other turned his back towards him.
He could practically hear Crocodile rolling his eyes.
"Water. Drink."
His hand held a glass towards him. Buggy gingerly accepted it and had to hold himself back from downing it in one go. The water soothed his raw throat immensely. While he drained the glass, his gaze flickered around the room.
Darkened wood furniture and tasseled pillows, the kind you'd like to sink into after a long day of plotting regime change. Lanterns and meticulously embroidered tapestries hung from the walls, woven stories of oases and ancient nomadic kings. Crocodile's private quarters.
Buggy's jacket was neatly folded on a chair next to the bed, his boots propped against a chair leg.
"Just before you passed out, you mumbled something," the other man remarked.
"I… did?" Buggy scrunched up his nose as he handed back the glass, trying to remember.
"You said 'not again'," Crocodile supplied helpfully, mustering him sharply. "Has this happened to you before?"
Something in Buggy's facade suddenly shifted. He looked away, seemingly going far away into his thoughts. There was a strange vulnerability in his gaze that Crocodile couldn't quite place.
"Just—just once," he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable.
Crocodile had half a mind of pressing on, of pursuing the conversation, but he acted against it. He knew a thing or two about vulnerability and secrets. That is to say, he had once stolen the very rain from the skies to keep his own hidden.
Buggy shifted a bit at the silence, sending a nervous little glance around the tent.
"Do you, errr..." he gestured awkwardly over his shoulder with his gloved thumb. "Want me to leave? I don't wanna hog your bed." Buggy hoped that it didn't seep into his voice how very much he'd like to keep hogging his bed.
Crocodile merely inclined his head. "You should stay here and rest until you feel better. I don't want to witness another random fainting."
Fuck yes! Internally, Buggy did a pelvic thrust of victory, already pulling the comfiest looking pillows closer to get comfortable. A thought then occurred to him, stalling his enthusiasm. Buggy unpeeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Uh, the men might talk, you know..."
Crocodile merely lifted a brow, amused. "I'll be more than happy to skewer any wagging tongues," he replied nonchalantly, and Buggy shivered at the mental image. He wasn't one to make empty threats.
"I had assumed that matelotage within your crew was accepted?" Crocodile prompted after a while, mustering him out of the corner of his eye.
Buggy dismissively waved one of his hands. "It is, that's not the issue. But they might, I don't know," he winced, grasping for words, "find it unprofessional for me to sleep in the tent of my supposed subordinate instead of my own?... You know how much they all like to gossip."
"Emperors do as they please, do they not? You're one of them now."
The implication was clear: Act like it.
Buggy sighed, gaze dropping to his hands in his lap. "I suppose you're right."
"Besides... I can't have our dear little clown unprotected while he's bedbound and vulnerable, no?"
Buggy shivered. He hadn't even considered that.
"You should really work on those flirting skills."
"You can file those complaints of yours to HR. Oh, wait," Crocodile said, face not changing from it's usual impassive expression nor his tone from sarcastic snark, until his lips pulled into a wicked smirk as he leaned closer.
Crocodile didn't quite pounce. He fell on Buggy in a sort of coordinated collapse, his arms taking most of his weight. Buggy watched the muscles strain under his patterned shirt.
"This is HR speaking," he whispered, his voice dropping to a low rumble against the shell of his ear.
"E-E-Ehehehe," Buggy gulped beneath him, already feeling his cheeks heat up. Suddenly, being trapped in Crocodile's bed for a day didn't seem so bad anymore.
Crocodile pulled back, studied him for a deliberate moment, then said, "We are not having sex today."
Buggy practically inhaled his own tongue.
"HAH?!"
His voice jumped a few octaves, turning shrill, steam rising off his already flushed cheeks as he stuttered out, "W-What—I mean, w-where did you even get t-the idea?! W-who said we w-would be h-having—"
A chuckle snapped over his tongue like a whip, sounding completely unapologetic. As Crocodile was with everything.
He was teasing him!
"Bastard," Buggy groaned, hands coming up to hide his flushed nose.
A faint huff of laughter, the man feeling content in his ability to get a rise out of him. "You'd do better to conceal your buttons."
Crocodile stroked his thumb over Buggy's cheek, pulling back and subsequently freeing him from being pinned to the mattress. "I don't want to worsen your ailment. I have plans for today. They don't include trips to the emergency room."
"How very noble of you," Buggy shot back sarcastically, though he couldn't exactly argue against that reasoning. He was no match for anyone in this state. He could barely string his thoughts together.
And fact was that he was safest at Crocodile's and Mihawk's side, there being nobody else who could, or rather would protect him from the forces coming after his head.
...Well, maybe except for one other man.
Buggy wearily closed his eyes.
He didn't want to think about him, so he didn't.
"I'll take over your morning report. Daz is stationed downstairs should you need something."
The man of blades had stayed by his side through everything, loyal to the core. Which was remarkable, really, considering that Crocodile had nothing to offer but ambition back when they'd first met.
He trusted him to keep the clown safe in his absence.
Crocodile got up to soak a cloth in the bowl of water. He watched the excess moisture collected at the bottom of the twisted cloth, splattering back into the basin and creating ripples on the surface. Water droplets ran down his bejeweled fingertips.
He draped the damp cloth over his forehead, the clown letting out a little relieved sigh at its coldness. "Focus on the cloth until I come back," he said, drying his hand on his pocket handkerchief. Simple instructions for a simple-minded fool.
Buggy detached his hand at the wrist, giving him a little floating thumbs up.
With one last lingering glance at the bed and its content occupier, Crocodile's form dissolved into sand, swirling out of the tent.
"BUGGY! BUGGY! BUGGY!" rang the impatient chants, people clapping their hands and stomping their boots. They were gathered in the announcement tent, waiting for the daily show to begin, to be given orders on new jobs they were being dispatched on.
Cheery bastards. Crocodile could give them that. It wasn't every day you met people so enthusiastic about ransom and murder.
Even though it was still early, people were already eating and drinking and enjoying themselves to their heart's content, celebrating their leader who had made this life of leisure and abundance possible for them. They were thieves and scoundrels and people unafraid to spill a little blood; most of them came from less than fortunate backgrounds, illiterate or orphaned or poor, with piracy and mercenary work the only paths they could turn to to feed them and theirs.
Crocodile snapped his lighter shut with a flick of his wrist as he stood behind the curtain backstage, exhaling a puff of smoke through his nostrils. Even though some of them were far more powerful than Buggy himself, the clown had seized the opportunity and accepted their devotion, reveling in their praise.
Buggy was — quite literally, one could argue — a jack of all trades. He had a thing for rallying unexpected allies to his side with his charisma, and it didn't stop there. He could make crowds hang onto his every word, harangue them and keep them on the edge of their seats, to the point where he had actually been banned from making speeches outside of his regular announcements because he was known to bring grown men to tears.
( It was a self-imposed ban. The Cross Guild had kept losing followers because they got angry at him for his emotional speeches when they were drunk and making them cry in public.
"Not my fault I'm gifted," Buggy had groused. )
The people followed Buggy because they saw something in him, even though most of it was just smoke and mirrors held precariously together by duct tape and sheer luck. And yet, it worked, because the people believed in him — or rather, they believed in what they thought they saw in him.
Honestly, it was kind of creepy. The clown was reaching cult leader status with his ability to bullshit his way to the top. Crocodile quite preferred the 'do-what-I-say-or-I'll-skewer-you' route of making people go along with his plans.
He slicked back his hair one last time and strode out onto the stage. One ruby-adorned index tapped the microphone lightly to get their attention. A few 'Gyaahh, Crocodile-sama!'s rang out from the author's self-insert, quickly quieting down as he opened his mouth to speak. A hushed awe fell over the crew.
"Thank you all for gathering. The Chairman is currently unavailable. He will return once his schedule allows," Crocodile addressed the crowd, lying through his teeth. He stopped for a second, letting the news sink in and watching the reactions play out as his gaze swept over the gathered heads.
Some of the mercenaries shared looks of surprise and shock with each other. Some of them were frowning and a lot of them were looking genuinely sad. He paid them no mind, focusing instead on the agenda for the day.
"Let's begin."
His presentation was curt, precise, informative. It was over in less than fifteen minutes.
But as Crocodile's gaze eventually lifted to gauge the reactions from the crowd, he realized that it was also… dry. He was so used to operating in the shadows, delegating orders to his underlings over cryptic messages or curt talks over the den-den, that he didn't quite know how to deal with the looks of impassive boredom that greeted him now. Crocodile chewed on the end of his cigar.
Somebody at the back of the crowd yawned, and he seriously considered mass homicide right then and there.
His grip tightened ever so slightly on the notes, making them crinkle beneath his palm. He straightened his back and addressed them loudly, in a voice that made sure to catch the attention of even the last of his goons.
"Any questions?" he dared, though it came out as more of a growl.
Somebody from the left of the stage hesitantly raised their hand.
"When will Chairman Buggy be back?" they asked meekly.
Crocodile's left eyelid twitched ever so slightly. He took a deep breath, and another.
Then he smiled, though it was more a show of teeth.
"Soon."
"...When exactly do you think he'll be—"
He glared so hard that the blood vessels on his temples were in legitimate danger of exploding.
"ENOUGH!" Crocodile commanded in his best mafia boss voice (also a favorite at drinking parties). "You are dismissed!"
Where the whole hall would usually erupt into cheers and hollers at the end of Buggy's daily announcements, there was now eerie silence.
The lone cricket from earlier was back again.
A round of half-hearted applause sounded out meagerly, disappointed murmurs ringing out here and there as they watched the Executive vanish behind the stage in an angry swirl of sand.
Back behind the curtain, Crocodile rubbed his temples in irritation, now awfully aware of the fact that Buggy had a way of rallying the masses that he missed.
And Mihawk had made himself sparse, though Crocodile doubted that the swordsman's presence would've made much of a difference in this situation. The swordsman's lofty and outdated way of speaking and carrying himself was unnerving to most, but he didn't bother to fix people's impressions of him since it added to his intimidating presence and generally kept people out of his way.
They worked together well because they had different skill sets, each making up for something the other lacked. There was a time and place for the soldier to swing his sword, for the poet to let the masses hear his voice, for the king to conquer and reign.
He didn't need their cheers, not when his power dripped into his hand in the form of wealth and connections, in secrets and hidden threats.
Let the clown have his applause, his time to shine in the limelight. He could draw the eyes away from the creeping, lurking danger prowling in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. A pretty distraction, their prey only just realizing that it's too late when fangs and talons press against their throat.
With this in mind, Crocodile tightened his cravat. Now to find a suitable substitute for the clown.
He passed by an errant Galdino on his way back to his tent, brusquely shoving his notes into the twitchy man's arms.
"You take over the morning reports until the clown is better. I'm done with this lot."
"E-eh?!"
Buggy was still awake in bed when he returned, sitting propped against the pillows and lazily flicking through a newspaper.
"Did everything go alright?" the clown inquired, frowning as he looked up. "I couldn't hear any cheers from here."
Crocodile turned his broad back to him, shedding his coat and lazily tossing it over the back of a chair. "Your announcements are being missed."
"What, they didn't like yours?"
Way to rub salt into the wound.
"...No," Crocodile finally admitted, grunting the word out through his teeth.
"Boo. You can't lead a crowd on your own? Use some good ol' fashioned tyranny?" Buggy hackled, clearly amused by this turn of events.
A flicker in his narrowed eyes told Buggy to watch his step. Crocodile walked over and snatched the newspaper from his hands.
"Hey, I was reading that!"
"You," he pointed his hook at his nose, and Buggy stared down at it, cross-eyed, "should be resting."
The clown had the nerve to huff.
"What, I'm just supposed to stare at the ceiling until I'm better?! I don't have anything to do! You won't even let me do the morning reports to the troops!"
Crocodile raised his brows in faux-sympathy, crossing his arms.
"Hmm. You need to be told you're the greatest at least five times a day by your devout followers or you'll explode, is that it?"
Buggy glared up at him.
"You're insufferable. I want Mihawk back."
"Or what?" Crocodile cocked one unimpressed eyebrow at him.
"I'll—! I'll… hmpf." Buggy defiantly crossed his arms, unable to think of a good comeback.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
Buggy absentmindedly scratched his scruffy chin in thought. Whatever he found in that five day stubble, Crocodile would never understand.
"...Where is Mihawk, even?"
"Out hunting."
Of course, Buggy thought. He was bed-bound and suffering and the guy just went and murdered marines for his own enjoyment in the meanwhile. Typical.
Crocodile tapped out excess ash from his cigar out on the ashtray and tucked the newspaper beneath his armpit, striding back towards the desk that sat in the corner of the room.
"That wasn't just a suggestion. You should rest."
Buggy sighed in the manner of a suffering martyr, knowing that Crocodile was right.
"Yeesh, fine, fine…" he lamented, falling back against the pillows. Really, who was he even kidding? Right now he was too tired to even keep an inner monologue going.
And taking a nap meant closing his eyes and then he would not have to suffer through Crocodile's assorted facial exercises and not any more of the motherhenning because there was really no reason to tend to a comatose clown when he was, well, comatose.
Besides, Buggy needed a nap.
The next few hours were spent rather uneventfully. Buggy slept away most of the noon, mumbling away in his sleep from time to time.
The only other sounds were his own steady breathing, the scratch of pen on parchment paper and the occasional turn of a page in his reference book.
From his desk, Crocodile kept stealing glances at the strands of sapphire blue poking out between the sheets. He was almost afraid to admit to even himself how much the other man meant to him. Like admitting it would cast a curse of death on the other as it had for so many others in Crocodile's life.
A long time ago, a hungry boy had prowled the streets of Alabasta, splattering blood into the sweltering desert sand with a stolen gun.
He had never been a pacifist, but he was truly willing to commit acts of brutality that would make his past self wince if it meant keeping this fool safe and by his side. Perhaps it made him selfish, this desperate want to keep Buggy with him. But Crocodile was far past the point of pretending to be a good person. He would settle, instead, for being good to a handful of select people — Buggy included.
...Even if he quite enjoyed bullying said clown from time to time.
His gaze wandered across the room. He imagined himself, imagined them — Mihawk in the evenings after dinner, reading, Buggy babbling on about something, warmed by good food, company. A bananawani on the rug there, yawning contentedly.
Maybe two bananawanis. Or three.
Crocodile knew that he was in too deep, but he had no plans of leaving any time soon. It wasn't about putting Buggy in his place anymore. Hadn't been like that for a while now. It was about showing the clown that he was valuable to him beyond his status as Emperor.
The former boss of Baroque Works closed his eyes in silent resignation to his fate.
He had long cleared the edge of that abyss.
Down was the only way to go now.
Buggy dreamed, but he couldn't remember what.
He needed a moment to sort himself into reality, to remember what had happened, where he was.
After a few moments of numb staring, he realized he was staring at the bottle of medicine on the nightstand, and the tall glass of water next to it.
He still felt miserable and sweaty, and the sleep hadn't brought him the rest that his body was wanting for. In the fuzzy half-state between being asleep and waking up, he thought he had heard a deep voice sing a whispered sea shanty in the darkness of the tent — but a look around the room confirmed that he was alone.
"Hello? Crocodile?" he whispered as he sat up, trying his hardest to listen for the familiar trickle of falling sand.
No answer.
Buggy shivered slightly, drawing the blankets closer around himself. "Mihawk? Daz?..."
Having grown up on the sea, Buggy was a superstitious man. He had half a mind throwing some salt around the bed and hanging up some garlic for good measure, but then Crocodile would get angry at him for ruining his expensive carpet and Mihawk would start hissing at him because of his supposed food allergy.
Buggy gulped, once, hard.
"This really isn't funny, guys!"
Silence.
Thud, thud, thud. His heart shuddered against his ribcage, rabbit-fast. Hadn't he left his ghosts in Logue Town, Paradise, Marineford?... Had they followed him all the way out here?
His eyes flicked anxiously from side to side. His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally asked "...Captain?"
Buggy listened hard, muscles tense, legs ready to make a run for it like they had so often in his life.
But no answer came, and he finally let all the gathered air escape his lungs in one long, drawn out sigh. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, which really didn't help his headache.
"Don't be stupid, Buggy…" he muttered. Karai Bari wasn't haunted.
It must've been the fever talking, making him hear things that weren't there. That was it, surely, he thought, fingers absentmindedly scratching a mosquito bite on his thigh.
…Where was Crocodile, even? Buggy was sick! Wasn't he neglecting his duty of supervision? What if he were to pass out again, hmmm?
And where was Mihawk?!
He should be there to hover and glare and brood and altogether make a gloomy nuisance of himself but no, apparently his other business partner also had more pressing matters to attend to than one miserable, suffering, scared clown.
Buggy did not care that the stupid swordsman was being swordsman-y and presumably scaring some poor marines into an untimely demise with his sheer presence, that was all very good and well and typical Mihawk, but Buggy would much prefer for at least one of his business partners to join him on this big lonely bed and let him put his head underneath his chin and for calloused hands to card through his hair and—
And he was not going to sniff.
That would be unbecoming for an Emperor of the Sea.
But he was going to scowl. And cross his arms.
From the direction of the kitchen came the sharp clack–clack–clack of metal against wood. Crocodile stepped down the last flight of stairs, heading into the direction of the chopping noises.
Mihawk stood at the island, mincing herbs. He appraised his business partner's entrance with a subtle incline of his head before he turned back towards his task. Crocodile skewered a fresh tomato from the basket on the counter on his hook and popped it into his mouth, leaning against the island.
"How is he feeling?" Mihawk inquired without looking up, grabbing another bundle of herbs to dice.
"Slept away most of the time. The fever's still there," he summarized between bites, watching as he worked.
Cooking was a warfare Crocodile preferred to observe from a safe distance. He found solace in the rhythmic clack-clack-clack and the smell of something vaguely nostalgic, something that evoked memories of hot sand beneath his palms and dust on his brow.
"You knew he was going to collapse," Crocodile eventually spoke, replaying what had happened that morning in his mind. "That's some formidable Observation Haki."
A silence passed as the swordsman mulled over his words.
"I didn't know that he was sick. But something felt… off," Mihawk explained slowly, a slight frown on his face. He smoothed out the front of his Doskoi Panda apron over his frilly shirt. "I just didn't want him to split his skull open on the table," he explained, adjusting the heat on the stove.
"You old softie."
"I'm younger than you," Mihawk retorted.
Crocodile barked one syllable of laughter.
"And you never pass up an opportunity to point it out."
The edge of his lip tilted up, just slightly, before the swordsman's expression returned to its usual neutrality.
"I feel like we might've overworked the clown a bit lately," he commented idly, though his tone betrayed the concern that simmered behind his stoic expression.
Crocodile hummed to signal his agreement.
"You should also take more breaks," Mihawk then pointed out. "I am aware that you are a workaholic, but you cannot reasonably expect me to lead this circus on my own should you both fall ill."
The edge of his lip curled up over his cigar, just slightly, making the scar tissue on the ridge of his nose crinkle.
"Aww, concerned about me, my lovebird?" Crocodile crooned, batting his lashes at him.
In the blink of an eye, the knife that had been previously chopping celery was pointed at his throat.
Sand trickled down the edge of the blade where it kissed his jugular.
"...Threatening me now into taking care of myself, are we?" Crocodile chuckled his strangely stilted laugh. "That tactic might work on the clown, but not on me. You're smarter than this."
Mihawk was quiet for a while before he eventually mirrored his smirk.
"Doesn't hurt to try," he said, withdrawing the weapon and twirling the knife around. "Perhaps one day I'll get you to play along."
"Perhaps. Not today, though. There is still business to be taken care of."
Crocodile shrugged on the fur coat that had been slung over his arm.
Mihawk mentioned for him to lean down. Crocodile obliged. He dusted off his shoulders, straightened out his cravat, and brushed a lock that had come loose back towards its rightful place. "There," he said, satisfied.
Before his hand retreated, Crocodile brushed a kiss across his calloused knuckles in thanks.
"I should return late. Save some of that broth for me."
Mihawk inclined his head. He had already considered putting some aside for him.
"Of course."
Once the broth on the stove had come to a rolling boil, Mihawk tipped in the diced vegetables and meats, waiting until the rich, flavorful steam began to rise from the stove. The scents intermingled and filled every nook and cranny of the kitchen as the pot bubbled and blubbered.
He eventually took it off the heat, cleaning the tabletops to return them to their previous shine before he ladled some of the soup into a bowl.
Once it had cooled enough to not risk scalding, he covered it with a clean linen cloth and lifted it, bringing it upstairs towards the bedroom. Buggy had fallen asleep in the middle of his sulking, but woke up when he entered.
"What's that?" the clown asked, his eyes bleary as he glanced toward the bowl in Mihawk's hands, rubbing a knuckle over his tired eyes.
"I made broth. It might help with that fever," Mihawk replied.
Buggy propped himself up and reached out. He took the bowl, partially with his hands, partially with the blanket, and carefully held it in his lap. "Where'd you even find the time? Crocodile said you were out hunting," he mumbled.
Mihawk raised a bemused brow, handing him a spoon.
"I was hunting game for your broth."
"...Oh."
Buggy suddenly felt ashamed of himself for thinking that Mihawk had just left him to his own devices after witnessing his fainting, and oddly flattered. He sheepishly rubbed his neck.
"Couldn't you, I don't know, have just asked the cooks to prepare something? We do have those here. They aren't even half bad."
"I prefer to prepare and cook food myself."
Buggy half expected him to add something else to that explanation, something whacky and pretentious like 'my body is a temple' or something along those lines. "Still seems mighty inconvenient."
"It is an activity I enjoy." Mihawk inclined his head. "Besides, I wanted to make sure nobody poisoned you in your vulnerable state."
Wow, way to turn this creepy.
Mihawk nodded his perfectly groomed beard at the bowl in his hands.
"Eat. You'll feel better."
Buggy pulled away the cloth, curls of steam escaping from its confines and swirling slowly past his bedraggled form.
A goofy smile broke out as he traced the contents of the bowl with greedy eyes. Vegetables from the swordsman's own garden swam between perfectly diced cubes of sautéed game, promising a wide range of nutritional benefits all while still looking delicious.
Buggy nodded his thanks, a feeling he couldn't quite describe washing over him. Grateful, yes, but something else, too. Touched.
He cautiously took a sip, just in case his stomach decided to rebel, and then another and another. The soup tasted as good as it smelled, and though he was feeling quite sated by the time he got to the bottom of the bowl, he was slightly disappointed to have finished it as well.
"Thank you," he said softly. The words didn't come easily to him. Even more surged up inside him and threatened to come tumbling out, but he didn't know how to say them so he simply kept silent. Even still, his company seemed to hear them anyway.
Mihawk smiled slightly and said, "I'd like to cook for you again."
"I'd love that," he replied, perhaps a little too fast.
"Good." Mihawk sounded pleased. Buggy felt weirdly like he had just passed some sort of test, but whatever kind, he did not know.
Mihawk and Buggy shared a glance, and then the silence returned. They sat together for a while, every so often catching each other's eye.
Buggy smiled tentatively at him, all crooked and gentle.
Mihawk mustered him, eyes meandering over his face, no doubt thinking of something patronizing and mildly insulting to reply with to break them out of the romantic air.
"You look gross," the swordsman observed bluntly as he stood, gathering the empty bowl into his arms to return it to the kitchen. "Go take a shower."
Ah, there it was.
With Mihawk's back turned towards him, Buggy took a subtle whiff of his armpits.
Having spent the majority of his childhood in the presence of twenty burly sailors who were very prone to sweating and making him pick up their dirty clothes from the cabin floors, he begrudgingly agreed with him.
Painstakingly slowly, Buggy untangled himself from the blanket and tested his legs. Mihawk left him the remaining decency he had after shriveling at his feet to let him hobble himself to the bathroom instead of carrying him princess style towards it.
Once inside, Buggy closed the door and took off his sweaty clothes, wriggling a bit to fit his nose through the neckline, and threw them into the woven basket that stood at the side. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the tiles made of green marble.
A large bathtub sat in the corner next to the shower, held up by four reptilian legs made of polished gold, and honestly, Crocodile called him tacky in the past. Several times, in fact.
The clown then turned to look at himself in the mirror. He traced the smeared paint across his face with his eyes. One finger reached up to his cheek and came away covered in flecks of white. Eugh. Thankfully Crocodile's toiletries, unlike most sailors' (except maybe for the exception of Mihawk and himself), were not in a sorry state.
Buggy carded through the tubes of hair styling gels and settled on the little box of pressed coconut oil. He rubbed it across his fingers to warm it up. It didn't take long to melt against his flushed skin, and he spread it in little circles across his face, taking off the ruined paint.
He washed and dried his face with one of the fluffy green towels hanging beside the sink, the cold water blissfully nice against his flushed skin.
Buggy looked up at his reflection in the mirror then, at his tangled hair and bloodshot eyes.
Ugh! A pity Crocodile wasn't here. He liked him looking pathetic and disheveled.
Looking around, Buggy quickly discovered a predicament he should've expected. He wrapped one of the green towels tightly around his midsection and walked out of the bathroom, bare feet pit-pattering across the floor.
Mihawk looked up from where he sat in Crocodile's plush armchair, raising a forked brow.
"I don't have any clean clothes here," Buggy announced with as much decorum as one could have when only clothed with a towel.
Mihawk sighed, closed his book with a definite 'snap' and got to his feet.
"Stay here. I don't want you collapsing in the shower while I'm gone," he said as he brushed past him, heading towards the exit.
Buggy sat down on the edge of the bathtub, twiddling his thumbs.
His gaze raked over the room in the quest to find something to entertain himself with, settling on the stack of bathroom literature. While he waited for Mihawk to return, Buggy read a hysterical article in the World Economy Newspaper by a former marine captain ranting about how no one had managed to imprison the Cross Guild leaders yet.
( It described them several times as 'monsters,' which was actually rather ironic considering that both Mihawk and Crocodile were exactly the type of monster he'd like to find hiding under his bed. )
Buggy briefly considered writing a snarky fan letter to the author of the article, but in retrospect there seemed to be a high likelihood that he might contact the Marines about it to send a Buster Call towards Karai Bari, and then one of the Admirals would turn up surrounded by the World Government's finest and Crocodile and Mihawk would murder them all, and then they would have a great big pile of marine corpses just laying around.
When he was done with that one, he absentmindedly flipped through the pages of a fashion catalog from Momoiro Island. He got half-way through an interview with Ivankov about proper hair care in humid weather when a knock on the bathroom door pulled him out of his reading.
"There's nothing under that towel I haven't seen before, you know," Mihawk said when he opened the door, golden eyes shamelessly traveling downwards.
Buggy turned an amusing shade of scarlet, matching his nose.
"You—you need some holy water and an exorcism!" he sputtered, tugging the towel closer around himself.
Mihawk pitied him, holding out the clothes in his arms. "As if that could help you now."
Buggy quickly snatched the neatly folded bundle from him and firmly shut the bathroom door behind himself before he could fluster him even further.
He wrenched open the faucet and hopped in when it became scalding hot, exhaling a little steamy sigh of relief.
Showering itself was a minor ordeal. Buggy had to lean against the tiled wall for balance, his headache slowly receding to manageable levels while the feeling of general queasiness worsened, not helped by his Devil Fruit abilities getting stunted by the water running over his head.
To improve his mood, Buggy took his time picking out the best-smelling and most expensive looking shampoo and conditioner Crocodile owned. He poured it over his scalp and carded his soapy fingers through his blue locks, sighing contently.
Buggy absentmindedly brushed out the knots and tangles in the blue strands spilling over his chest with his hands.
Then he stilled.
"No waaaaay," he breathed as he caught sight of the little rubber bananawani sitting in the shower cranny. His eyes curved into fiendish crescents. He was so going to use this to blackmail Crocodile when he was teasing him again!
He grabbed it and squished it, cackling in sadistic delight when it actually began squeaking.
"Gyahahahaha—aaAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Soap in eye. SOAP IN EYE.
Buggy let out a string of curses that would've made Rayleigh ground him for a month back on the Oro Jackson, almost slipping on a bar of soap as he hopped around, holding his stinging eye. His arms windmilled to keep himself from knocking his head open in Crocodile's shower while stark naked.
What a flashy way to die.
Buggy the Star Clown, the Genius Jester, the Mastermind behind the Impel Down Prison Escape, erstwhile apprentice of the late Gol D. Roger, King of the Pirates, Conquerors of the Oceans, yadda yadda — mysteriously found with a broken neck in his business partner's shower. More on page six.
There was a sudden knock on the door, making him jolt. "Are you alright in there?" Mihawk called out, sounding concerned.
"Doing just peachy—OW!" His elbow collided with the faucet in his surprise, sending a jolt of pain jittering up his entire arm.
"You don't sound fine. Do you require help?"
Buggy stifled his cries of pain by biting into his fist before he called out, "ABSOLUTELY NOT!"
He didn't even need to see Mihawk to know that he was rolling his eyes. "As you wish."
Buggy yanked the faucet from hot to cold, finishing up as fast as possible and jumping out before he actually needed to be rescued from the Shower of Certain Doom, because it then occurred to Buggy that something so trivial as a locked door wouldn't stop Mihawk from entering, not if he wanted to, and he really didn't want to have to explain to Crocodile why his fancy bathroom door had been sliced into ribbons.
The clothes laid out on the sink were Mihawk's — black, loose pants, plain V–necked blouse, too large on Buggy. He mustered his appearance in the mirror. Mihawk was just a little taller than him, but he filled out that extra height. He could appreciate the fine fabrics, how the expensive cashmeres and silks fell over his body, but the colors could be a bit flashier in his opinion.
Buggy thought about putting on his own clothes just to make a point about his fashion choices, but it felt silly to make that point now, and he really didn't want to put his sweaty clothes on again. He had no more energy to redirect into trying to look somewhat presentable, so he merely dried and brushed his hair and called it a day.
Buggy eventually stepped out of the bathroom after he had finished putting it up into a ponytail, and made his way back towards the bed. Halfway across, he had to sit down. The walls had suddenly begun tilting at odd angles.
Mihawk appeared by his side, seemingly materialized from the shadows. "Do you require assistance?"
Buggy jumped, bristling at being startled. Again. "No, jeez, stop doing that! I just... need a minute."
With a small nod, Mihawk folded his arms across his barely covered chest, looking him over where he sat cross-legged on the carpeted ground. His eyes raked over how his clothing hung loosely over him.
"...That wasn't an invitation to hover," Buggy ground out between his teeth.
One corner of Mihawk's mouth twitched upwards into what could count as a tiny smile, the swordsman remaining firmly rooted by his side.
After a few minutes, when it felt less like he was going to collapse or throw up, Buggy dragged himself the rest of the way to the bed, Mihawk close at his heels.
He let out an exhausted sigh as he sunk back beneath the covers. The old sheets had been whisked off, replaced by fresh ones. The bedspread felt soft like warm butter under Buggy's palms. Buggy valued this about Crocodile: his taste for, the appreciation of luxury. He sank back, spread out his arms, relaxed with a sigh.
"Feeling better?"
"Yeah. The shower and food helped," Buggy admitted.
"Told you," Mihawk said as he sat by his side.
Buggy fiddled a bit with the frilly collar, frowning. "Why'd you bring me your clothes, though?"
"My tent is closer to Crocodile's. I didn't want to keep you waiting for too long."
The clown lifted a dark-blue brow. "You don't mind me getting them sweaty?"
"I wouldn't have brought them if I did."
Buggy couldn't argue against that. He shuffled a bit on the bed to get comfortable before he propped himself up on his elbows, addressing the swordsman anew.
"I know you just got back, but… May I ask another favor of you?"
Buggy may.
Compared to his own tent, everything was so sickeningly flamboyant and colorful, it looked like a rainbow had vomited. The shelves lining the walls — and there were even more than in Mihawk's own tent — were bursting with a wide spectrum of works, both old and new, leather-bound and not bound at all and everything in between.
There were also piles of knick-knacks forming towers around the shelves, as if fortifying them, no doubt the spoils of decades of looting. It looked like a bizarre cross between a circus tent and a second-hand book shop.
Sextants, compasses, rope bound in intricate sailor knots. Displayed on the shelves were telescopes with chipped paint, miniature ships in bottles, juggling balls and throwing knives.
His gaze lingered for a while on the Captain's logbook that sat open on the desk, but he kept walking, stomping out the spark of curiosity to read it.
Old treasure maps, carefully inlaid behind glass, decorated the staircase. A frayed painting hung on the wall, looking like it had been drawn by an amateur; pictured was a golden bell, framed by a sea of white, puffy clouds. There was something whimsical about it.
Mihawk continued on.
Upstairs was a lavish bathroom, a workshop, storage, more books. The master bedroom lay in sepulchral silence, the last of the afternoon's light sneaking past the drawn tent flaps on the ceiling. Aerial silks hung from the ceiling, chalken fingerprints upon them.
A vanity mirror with makeup stood in one corner of the room, next to a large closet, which was almost bursting with clothes. Box with tissues on the bedside table, carnival-esque bedside lamps, a book with a slip of paper as page–marker. The pages were worn and the cover cracked, the title illegible. He flipped through it, briefly, catching glimpses of what seemed to be chemical formulas.
He let his gaze wander once more around the tent.
It seemed far too vast and lonely without being filled with its owner's boisterous presence, too quiet.
Buggy had to get better, and soon. That way, life upon the shores of Karai Bari could return to being hectic and loud as usual. It felt unnatural and almost depressing when it was quiet like this, reminding him of lonely nights spent in empty halls on Kuraigana, eating dinners by himself.
Eyes beginning to sting from the onslaught of colors, Mihawk quickly pocketed the book Buggy had asked for from his bed and made his way back towards Crocodile's tent.
The rest of the day passed by in a lethargic blur.
They chatted a bit in between or, more accurately, Buggy chatted while Mihawk interjected every now and then with his own thoughts on the current subject matter.
Buggy read his book until he got tired, his eyes beginning to droop.
A calloused hand reached out, long fingers curling around the cracked spine and gently pulling it out of his grasp. Mihawk gently shut the cover and placed it to the side, golden eyes bright as coins.
"Rest some more. I'll be here when you wake."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
Mihawk shrugged, leaning back. "I take naps when I fancy them," he offered in response. His elbow was propped up, cheek resting against his knuckles, and now with how his head tipped back against the chair, Mihawk was the perfect look of elegant relaxation.
"…You really are a cat."
After a long bout of silence in which Mihawk pondered his words, he eventually answered with; "I shall take your words as a compliment. I do admire the elegance and independence of these creatures."
Buggy grinned as he shifted under the covers. "Heh, of course you would... Maybe we should get you one. You could dress it up in a fancy cape and some little boots to match you. Teach it how to duel like you did with those monkeys."
"Humandrills—not monkeys," Mihawk corrected without looking up, turning a page of his own book. "And they taught themselves how to fight. You'd do good to redirect that creative energy of yours into recovering. I'd rather not cut our time together short because you succumbed to an illness."
Buggy hummed, turning to lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling for a long while, worrying a piece of stuck food from his molars with his tongue.
Their time together. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?... Their great anger at his Emperor status was out of the way and surprisingly, Buggy was still alive.
Had they wanted to dispose of him, they could've done so already. Several times.
Mihawk's and Crocodile's was not a company he should want, no matter for what reasons. Wanting it — being aware of what they were capable of and finding he didn't mind it — was a side of himself Buggy hadn't previously been aware of, and its discovery left him floundering.
It wasn't about surviving anymore. It hadn't been like that for a while now. He was consciously placing his limbs into the crocodile's jaws and his arm did not get bitten off. The hawk did not skin him with its beak.
He didn't understand himself, at this point. What the hell had happened to his self-preservation skills?
Facts pulsed before Buggy's eyes like lights in the darkness, beacons to ships out at sea. He closed his eyes. He temporarily stopped counting escape routes — because at this moment, it was alright to feel at ease.
Dusk had given way to deep, velvety night, which was Mihawk's favorite part of the day. The blinding sun had sunk beneath the horizon and skeleton moths emerged from the moss-covered barks of the jungle, spreading their ghostly wings. The forest came alive with chirping crickets and wind rustling through palm trees, but the sea remained quiet, though small and ominous waves prodded at the pier.
Buggy woke up just in time to witness Crocodile's return.
After shedding his fur coat and lazily tossing it on the back of a chair, he changed into his sleep clothes in the bathroom. He washed his hair and bound it back at his nape into a little ponytail. Then he joined the clown on the bed, gingerly swatting the book out of the way so that he could slide in between the sheets with a rumbling sigh.
Buggy gently nudged his foot beneath the blanket with his own.
"Tough day?"
"Tough crowd."
"Don't worry, I'll be up on my feet again soon, then you can return to just sitting in the audience and looking handsome," Buggy replied, teasing in his tone as he patted the golden hook that rested atop the blanket.
That almost made Mihawk snort, but the World's Strongest Swordsman was too dignified for such a thing, so he quickly covered it with a cough.
Crocodile just let out a long-suffering sigh. He seemed to be built of sighs, today.
"When do you think you'll be fully functional again?"
"I dunno, hard to say… Haven't you two ever been sick before?"
"No," came the simultaneous answer from the two unfairly overpowered monsters he was regularly sharing his bed with.
Right.
"Ah well, it's truly miserable being stuck in this lonely bed all day—"
"Don't lie," Mihawk piped up. "You love being pampered."
"Oh, shut up!" Buggy huffed, turning towards him. "I just like not being bullied by you two for a change."
Crocodile let out a laugh that could either be described as sleazy or terribly seductive, depending on who you asked, really. It was good to see the clown regain some of his usual snark. "But you make it so easy for us," Crocodile smirked mischievously, leaning closer.
The mattress behind them shifted with the soft rustle of silk.
"I faintly recall you asking for more, just some nights ago," Mihawk breathed close to his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.
It was never a good idea to let your guard down where these two were concerned, on the grounds that they'd probably murder the guard and then pick their nails with the bones afterwards.
"D-d-did I?!"
He angled his head, and his hair swept feather-soft over his shoulder as teeth suddenly grazed along his skin, making him yelp. Crocodile was staring intently at them, far too close. His eyes did glow slightly in the gloom, though perhaps that was only a trick of the light.
Mihawk let his jaw drag against Buggy's exposed clavicle, the rasp of the fine hairs there sending an electric-thrill skittering across the skin.
Buggy's brain practically short-circuited.
"Weren't you practically begging for it?..."
The gold on his ears winked in the candlelight as Crocodile closed the distance between them. He ran his hand through blue tresses and pressed a possessive kiss on his throat, and then on his lips, drawing a slight hitch of breath that left him craving for more.
God damn it. Buggy melted into tender mush beneath their attention.
Crocodile was built wide, the expanse of his back broad with strong muscles that flowed to his arms. He was scarred all over, from the slash across his face to the faint knicks on his hands to the dark lines that ran beneath his pectorals. And Mihawk, beneath his dress shirt patterned with stylized burgundy roses,was nothing but lean muscle, the kind of body that belonged to a stray animal, all sinew and sharp edges.
Buggy was trapped between the two dark-haired beauties like an errant, sweaty, cross-eyed worm. He still couldn't quite believe his luck to be in an ardent business partnership with two of the hottest men in the New World. Jackpot!
( Granted, they had attempted to kill him in the past, but you couldn't have everything. Sure, he would've preferred a nicer meet-cute, but the cards he had been dealt were his to play, and he certainly wasn't going to start complaining about it now. )
Crocodile regrettingly pulled back with a frown.
"Are you sure you're—"
"I must be doing something wrong if you're still capable of coherent thought," Buggy gasped breathlessly, pulling him in for another kiss. Between the roaming hands and the salacious teasing, he knew he certainly wasn't.
Then his gaze wandered past the slope of Crocodile's shoulder, brows scrunching together.
Buggy approached the fourth wall, broke it with a punch of his fist, and wagged a detached finger accusingly at the reader.
"Shoo, shoo! Avert thine perverted eyes!" he scolded, because this story was not rated explicit for a reason, and the hour of the devil belonged to him and his two business partners alone, thank you very much.
Buggy should have known about his ability to magnetically attract bad misfortune at his age. It seemed like every time he gained something, bad luck was just around the corner, waiting to whack him in the face with a baseball bat.
Mihawk pulled away from him, frowning. His fingers skimmed along his temple, subtly checking his temperature.
"You're burning up."
"Well, figures."
"No—I mean you are burning up."
Buggy's forehead was shiny with sweat, hair plastered to his temples, and his nose had actually begun to glow.
Huh.
( Crocodile and Mihawk had long given up trying to unravel the deeper mysteries that were the clown's idiosyncrasies, as endearing as some of them were. Which they, as agreed, were not going to tell the clown, because he was already conceited enough.
But this was definitely concerning. )
Crocodile's eyebrows also knit together as he leaned over him, and he looked as guilty as he ever did: which is not at all, really, being too proud to show that sort of thing, but you knew he was feeling it all the same. They shared a glance with each other.
"I told you to tell us to stop if you were feeling unwell."
"But I'm really not—"
He was rather rudely interrupted. "I do not trust your judgment," Crocodile muttered as he pulled up his pants, already moving to get up.
Buggy groaned, covering his face. Stupid nose.
Mihawk patted his shoulder in sympathy, all three of them silently mourning the lost passion of the moment.
A bedraggled Yasuo was eventually hauled into the room, hook fisted into his pajama, the doctor wearing a sleeping cap and fuzzy slippers.
"Bed rest," he said after a thorough examination. "And plenty of liquids. No arguments."
Buggy made what he had intended to be a noise of protest, but it came out more as the last cries of a dying animal. He was promptly ignored.
Then the mad old doctor turned towards Mihawk and Crocodile, accusingly wagging his finger at them both, as though he was scolding two schoolboys and not two notorious criminals that stood at the very top of the Marine's Most Wanted.
"And no activities that could raise his blood pressure, gentlemen!"
Mihawk's hand twitched ever so slightly. Crocodile looked like he was about to bite his cigar in half.
Buggy made one last-ditch attempt. "You are all overreacting."
All three of them turned in unison, just looking at him severely. Drat.
Illness: 1.
Clown: 0.
To be continued.
