i read a few 'nakamaship' fics and started thinking of the inverse. its been a while and i took some liberties but i hope i got everyone in character!
also this site's formatting is hell
He'd long since given up on dreaming.
It would stir up, every now and then, when he was in a mood and could almost feel a phantom ocean's breeze brush against his face, echoing salt and sunlight and freedom. Even when he'd lost his hand, his face, everything , he still had the sea…
Except he doesn't, because Alabasta is a desert and Crocodile stands in its epicenter, proud under the bone-white sun. On good days, he can appreciate the irony. He'd chosen a place that would play to his strengths and minimize his weaknesses, a place with hardly a drop of water in all of its borders-so long as he and Baroque Works had any say in it. He had power he could only dream of back then; he had status and wealth and a mastery over his abilities that would make a younger version of himself weep. He had the freedom to plot and plunder as he pleased while the World Government turned a blind eye.
On bad days, he glances at the murky water behind the thick glass of Rain Dinners' underwater floor. Building a meeting place here is something he would never have dreamt of back then. Even now, the instinct of a Devil Fruit user sends an unpleasant chill creeping up his back and into his skull. But he forces his body to go still and solid and the bananawani stare back with their black eyes.
He remembers the sharp yearning of his rookie days and the lightness he'd felt then, the carefree abandon that could only be found in the New World. He thinks about the cold greed that fills his mouth now, and how it tastes like sand and smoke slipping between his teeth and spilling down his throat. He sits in his office, in the last rays of sun piercing through the tall windows. Every piece is in place, every pawn is in play. He thinks about Doflamingo's operations, how his purported plans for Dressrosa put Crocodile's own ambitions to shame. He'll need more soon, he knows, and more after that. He could conquer half the world and the One Piece with it-an impossible dream, which is a cold thought-and it would not be enough.
That thought is even colder.
Crocodile lights another cigar and pulls another string into place. Introspection doesn't suit him.
/ / /
He has ten officer agents. The strongest of them serves as his right hand and mouthpiece. When he allows himself to make comparisons, her blue eyes and straight black hair reminds him of his first mate, although the kid would've never spoken so formally. Miss All Sunday-Nico Robin- has a certain air about her that sets her apart from Crocodile's foggy memories. A small mercy, even as he listens to her serene voice dripping poison. None of his crewmates would have ever talked like that.
He quashes the thought ruthlessly.
He stays in the shadows, acting as Alabasta's savior while laying down the foundations for its downfall. He keeps his eye on his operations and before he knows it, time has passed and Pluton is in his grasp. It tastes like he expected, like sand and smoke. Alabasta rots while Alubarna is drenched in rain, and with it comes the sharp, heavy scent of ozone. Something in him twinges, and for a second he remembers-
(The way the wood beneath his boots slickened with seawater and pitched back and forth, up and down. It would have made a lesser man vomit but Crocodile doesn't even feel the violent movements. He's a Hammer, surrounded by water on all sides and pouring out of the sky like judgement and he's laughing so hard his chest hurts. Victory is the rush of blood in his ears, it's his first mate's warm body pressed against his back, spine to spine-his crew warn him with sharp voices to stop fucking around and pay attention but they're drowned in canon fire and thunder. There's a crack that rattles the bones in his chest and the wood beneath him splinters. Everything happens so quickly but he feels the way his stomach lurches as he falls, the way his breath explodes out of his body when he hits the waves.
The way everything slows when he sinks, going lax in the currents. He feels heavy, like something's pulling him down. He imagines the sea clawing at his body and screaming for the power that he stole.
He's not afraid.
As if on cue, there's a distant splash and a storm of bubbles and he sees a black silhouette swimming towards him, extending a hand that he can't even reach out to grab. But he's still not afraid. He doesn't think he'll ever be afraid, and just to prove it, he laughs, eyes closed against the now unbearable sting of saltwater but still able to feel the tickle of a million little pockets of air brush the planes of his face and stick to his lashes. There's a brush of warmth at his fingertips…)
-how sentimental he's gotten in the last stages of his plan. He blames it on the man that calls himself a prince, on Nefertari Vivi, on ten long years in the desert and twice that alone. He grits his teeth and shakes it off. He puts out the cigar in his hand, crushing it into the banister and flicking it off the balcony so the tobacco and ashes crumble onto the street below. There's a black spot in the white paint that he knows he can't rub out, so instead of looking at it, he turns on his heel and walks back inside.
Nico Robin is waiting for him, a soft smile on her lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Something in her has changed recently, but Crocodile is seething and he can't bring himself to care.
The strange feeling that won't leave him alone, so he plans to unravel it until he can find the source. He reaches for another cigar, lights it, and inhales deeply in one smooth, practiced motion. The plan has wobbled away from its course, as plans are wont to do. It's not a problem, he assures himself.
But there's something in her flat blue gaze that unsettles him, so he dismisses her and sits down and thinks . He closes his eyes in the soft evening darkness, listening to the patter of rain, surrounded by fragrant smoke. He chases the fleeting discomfort as far as it will go, but each time he manages to feel the edges of it brush his fingertips, he finds that it floats away.
/ / /
Crocodile has sailed the New World for longer than this brat has been alive, but the look on his young, round face makes every muscle in Crocodile's body go still.
He's seen those eyes before.
/ / /
Awareness comes and goes.
He hears murmured conversations thick with fear even as heavy manacles are locked around his wrists and ankles-at one point, he cracks open an eye and the Navy consign standing over him flinches back with a squeak. He's too tired to gloat but he thinks, good. He hasn't lost that at least, and the knowledge leaves him just as hollow as before.
(He'd only ever fallen in the water twice. The first had been a couple months after he'd taken in his first crewmate. He'd gotten careless and wasn't used to his abilities at that point. It had been a simple loss of balance and she'd fished him out before he could even shout.
This is far harder, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut against salt and tears as another retching cough wracks his body. His crew, at least those who can afford to, crowd around him murmuring comforts as he spits more water and bile. He's laughing, and he can hear his first mate snarl behind him.
So glad you think this is funny, she hisses.
Crocodile just wipes his mouth and sits back with a thud. His throat is raw and he can taste blood coating the back of his teeth, and his ship is a mess of wood floating aimlessly on the water. But the Navy ship is tipped over on one side, uniformed bodies floating in between the wood, some motionless and some thrashing, clinging to life. He doesn't care about them.
What matters is the beat filling his chest and roaring in his ears. Anything else comes second, he says. They are free.)
Without his plans for Pluton, all Crocodile knows how to do is survive. He's in chains, the seastone leeching his strength by the second. He knows where he's headed and can't bring himself to care. As a Warlord, he'd visited the prison once. It's not a pleasant place, yet he considers going along with it as much as he considers breaking out. He half-heartedly muses that it may be the same instinct to prod at an abscessed tooth, or to stretch out a fresh wound. If anything, it will be a welcome change of pace.
Goldenweek comes for him. She shows him his dream. If he's being honest with himself, the kid almost reminds him of-
He sees himself as king, except it's not really him. It's him without the emptiness and the cold ambition. He's on a ship, uncaring of the water around him because they're there. Something picked raw and open by the straw hat boy twinges and he decides he's going to stay. He's going to Impel Down. Alabasta is free; it's time for Sir Crocodile to rest.
/ / /
He takes the water without flinching.
/ / /
News travels in Impel Down. Guards are chatty and inmates gossip like hens. Crocodile listens with half an ear. One day, he comes across something interesting.
The Second Division Commander in Whitebeard's crew. He'd been captured a couple days ago and set to be executed as soon as possible. Crocodile watches when he's brought in, weighed down by enough seastone to sink a small island. He watches the kid as he's lead out only a couple days later. He doesn't bother to hide his derision from the other inmates.
Someone who goes to their death like a lamb to the slaughter, like he thinks he deserves it just might, in fact, deserve it.
Then he watches the straw hat boy break in.
/ / /
Ivankov is a surprise. He grits his teeth but lets the frustration come and go. It's not a big deal; he's breaking out to fight Whitebeard, not to cause the strawhat boy and his friends trouble.
In the end, the Navy lets him go wild, since their goals are aligned. For the moment.
/ / /
He'd hated Whitebeard's kid since the moment he saw him. Still, Crocodile wordlessly wills his body to move , to throw the executioners off of the platform. The startled choking noise the kid makes pisses him off, but the way Sengoku grinds his teeth is worth it.
The Navy doesn't deserve to taste victory.
/ / /
They escape under the shadow of the Red Force, which stands stark and proud against the pale blue sky. Crocodile isn't injured, but the same can't be said for the canon fodder that are picked off of the battlefield, oozing blood and sweat. He tries to decide how he feels about this-is it pity or spite?
He thinks he might be tired.
/ / /
He remembers Whitebeard's death (finally.) , the hollow satisfaction at seeing the old man go down and his hundred thousand "sons" wail for his passing. More than that, he remembers Whitebeard's words.
The One Piece is real.
/ / /
By some miracle, both he and Daz live.
They escape into the New World, a couple days ahead of the crowd. Most of the new crews spurred on by the Emperor's last words are in it for their own greed. They think Roger's treasure is gold, and will be killed or captured within their first week. The Grand Line doesn't look kindly on that kind of weakness. The New World less so.
He tells Daz that they will wait in Sabaody for a month. Wait for the dust to settle, so when they do enter, the wheat will have been separated from the chaff. Only the best may survive in the new era, he says. Daz doesn't respond, but his eyes harden.
Daz has always held him with something in between fear and respect, although now it swings more towards the latter. In the desert, that thought would have irritated him, but in the shadow of the New World, he thinks he might just be able to return it.
/ / /
They enter the New World under the pale, weak light coming from the sliver of moon suspended in the blue-black sky. Desert nights had always been breathtaking, but they are nothing compared to the way stars reflect off of the still, open sea.
Something raw in his chest splits open and he prods at it the same way someone would prod at an abscessed tooth.
For a split second, he thinks he can hear a voice say, gods, you're old .
/ / /
Deep down, he knows the One Piece isn't for him. He'll keep sailing and striving for it-that's the way he is, but he knows the time of the old generation is passed. For a split second, he thinks-
(Of burning black eyes. Wild, resolute. The king is dressed in red and he stands proud in the center of the square
He's grinning like a madman-there's a slash of white that curves across his face so brilliantly that Crocodile can see it, even in the crowd. The people around him are somewhere between sheep and wolf; they're both cowards and enemies.
The king just laughs, and when he talks, his voice ripples through the air like the most violent riptide, sparking with lightning as it washes over the people and their wide, wolf-sheep eyes.
Crocodile is in the crowd, barely eighteen and still soft-faced. He's one of hundreds of thousands that are inspired by the King of Pirates, whose words ring in his ears and light a fire under his ass. Before he knows it, he's out of town and riding out to sea in a shitty little sloop with twenty other guys who leer and squabble and drink by the gallon.
Crocodile isn't like those guys. He feels the king's gaze on him, like a phantom chain is anchored in his chest and it pulls and pulls and pulls. He's not religious or superstitious but when he's in a mood he thinks it might be destiny.)
-of burning black eyes, hidden under the shadow of a straw hat.
originally posted on ao3 under goldentrivia.
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