AN- This chapter contains disturbing content.
-Funny Games-
Inside the Mind,
Sucked Dry
-Then-
Crocodile's finger pressed into the barrel of the handgun. The semi-automatic revolver had resided in a sock drawer since his last failed attempt at murder. Rather than stow it away in one of his moving boxes, Crocodile kept it around for him to manage and handle, as though he might use it on a given day.
The pain was still there, even after a week. Crocodile was sure it was a result of his mind crashing in from the traumatic effects of being held down and having Doflamingo shove his dick inside of him. Nerves continued to send a message that there was something wrong. A stretching sensation occurred deep between the legs, leaving Crocodile aching for relief. No distractions, heavy creams, or self-soothing could bring and end to the empty feeling of being used up. But the sickness didn't end there. It wasn't only a void inside of him that left Crocodile fingering the gun. Enough reminiscing left him feeling heavy, warm, as though it just finished happening all over again. He'd let his mind linger on the way Doflamingo held him down, breaths irate and thin body shaking, and the atrocious look on his face when it happened. There wasn't a warning, and Crocodile was stuck with spurts of indignity coating his insides, hot and impossible to remove without further penetration from his fingers.
Crocodile winced, bringing a hand down to his lower stomach, feeling a twinge of pain. There was nothing there, and yet he was sure he was about to bleed out. His left hand hung to the side, gun gripped tightly against his sweaty palm as he endured the impossible cramping taking place in his mind.
Doflamingo needs to die. The thought rushed its way down Crocodile's arm, sending a surge of energy along with it, giving the young man the inspiration to the lift the weapon back up. It wasn't too hard to think about. The boy betrayed him the worst way imaginable. Doflamingo knew his secret, knew the pain it caused him.
Doflamingo knew Crocodile's parents fought over him. Crocodile told him how they hated each other, how he made it worse with his existence, and how he considered killing his mother for a while, just to have her out of the way and extend his own progress.
He knew Crocodile grew up so sick of being forced to dress and act a certain way he brought a knife to his hand, misinterpreting the proper means to commit suicide, and sliced a gash across the palm of it. And he knew about the copious amount of iron pills he took in order to poison himself in another failed attempt to just have his way and do what he pleased with his own life.
Crocodile explained the fights he got into at school, and the reasons he engaged in them. Just to prove a point, or to ensure that certain pronouns were used around him, because anything less would set him off.
The violent thoughts that sometimes entered his mind, no matter how positive the day might have been, because there was always something that would piss him off, no matter how small. And there were drugs that would give him a mental high, and distract him from the anger, but that only lasted for so long, and after coming down the rage would still be there.
He told Doflamingo about the pain from being told there was something wrong with him, not just by his family, but also doctors attempting to diagnose him. By therapists who handed him a prescription, and by the licensed physicians who would hand him his needles and vial, the surgeons that would pokes holes in his sides and severe away feminine organs, and by nurses that would check his wounds.
The boy understood how Crocodile felt about his body. Even after the compliments were tossed in his direction, about loving the body, thinking about it, desiring it, placing fingers and mouth all over it, Crocodile still despised it. The hole between his legs being the worst of it all, the agony that would never end: he told Doflamingo he didn't want anything down there.
These were all brief conversations made between the two since Doflamingo found out. Small suggestions or hints that Crocodile would throw out, starting off vague, with just a few words, then working his way up to some sentences, until they had reached that point where Crocodile could bitterly laugh over his lifetime predicament, and Doflamingo would nod his head, smoking a cigarette, affirming to Crocodile that life sucked, and everyone was an idiot except for him.
But Doflamingo held him down, penetrated and fucked him despite his struggles to break away, not stopping until he finished, after they both finished, and then used Crocodile's shaking legs, muscular spasms, and temporary delight against him. It wasn't like Crocodile had any say in the matter. He didn't enjoy the lead up to those few seconds of sexual relief, nor did he appreciate the few minutes leading up to Doflamingo finishing inside of him. Did it matter that he finsihed? Was it pertinent to the fact that he wasn't ready for that contact? He changed his mind the last minute, and that should have been enough. It hurt. It really fucking hurt. It hurt so much. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
Crocodile brought his arm up and covered his eyes, feeling the collecting heat around his head as moisture began to gather at the edges. He sucked air into his lungs, held it in and waited for the pain to pass. The hand holding the gun shook, his hand aching as it clenched the weapon, burning hot in his tightened grip. He removed his arm and stared out the window of his room, now nearly empty. He took that could be stuffed into his car. He was going to leave tonight.
This would not be a good kill. Planning aside, Crocodile struggled to envision his grand plan without desires getting in the way. He knew he was going to shoot the boy in the face once he had the opportunity. Chances were this would occur in a public spot. Doflamingo's private sphere would make a clean getaway impossible, and Crocodile was doubtful he could wait and lure the boy into his room and get the job done.
He didn't want to get caught. Crocodile knew there were a few spot out in the open, but barren enough for him to get away with a murder. However, even with the knowledge of the surrounding land, there was still the question as to whether he would have the patience to take Doflamingo all the way out to the desert and do away with him. And by now Doflamingo must harbor some sense of worry for his past actions. The boy didn't let on that he carried any sort of guilt when he finished the act, but after a week?
More questions arose in Crocodile's mind as he walked over to his bed, grabbing his old backpack and stowing the gun away inside of it.
One: Did Doflamingo carry any guilt, and if so, was it because he genuinely felt bad about the incident, or was it because he still wanted to leave with him?
Two: Assuming the later, what was he to make of such thoughts? Doflamingo had already shown his immature side on various occasions. If this was the case, then should he go about the execution in different matter?
Three: If Doflamingo is sorry…?
Four: Even if he is sorry, does it matter?
Five: But what if he begs? Pleads?
Six: Even better. People need to understand the reason why they're being punished. You leave a note for the parents to see once you run away, so they understand why you did it. Same with every course of action. How can people possibly learn without them being informed of their mistake?
Seven: However, assuming Doflamingo has indeed learned a lesson, begs for forgiveness, while also acknowledging that he was in the wrong, then should there be some consideration to allow him a second chance at life?
Eight: Since placing trust in another human being has resulted only with disastrous outcomes, why should a second chance at anything be allowed? Doflamingo's failure to stop himself from committing assault is just one example of what happens when you place trust in another person. The real question is this: why be so weak to consider a second chance an option?
Nine: Are you weak?
-Am I weak?
-If so, why waste the bullet on Doflamingo?
-Because…
-Maybe the bullet deserves to be lodged in the weaker mind?
-M–
Crocodile stood in front of the telephone, his shoulder feeling the weight of the gun inside of his backpack, threatening to slide off him. His hand clenching the strap was moist, shaking with a building anticipation that arose at the final thought.
It was a thought that crept around the corner whenever things got out of hand. It arrived when he was seven, showed its ugly face again at eleven, and right now, just as it appeared that he no longer possessed any control of the situation.
It was a strange reaction to losing power. He fought to regain it by taking control of the only thing that nobody would dare try to place a claim on. Crocodile knew that Doflamingo wouldn't be willing to take his life.
The thought arrived, and right as Crocodile was consumed with a multitude of interpretive ultimatums, it left, and the strap slid off his shoulder. The backpack hit the floor, and Crocodile became alert.
He thought up his plan. He grabbed the telephone and dialed the number, staring out the window, and at the bright light scenery. Could he have Doflamingo dead by the end of the day? Crocodile was confident he could have everything he needed done before the sun set. He could be out of Arizona by tomorrow morning.
Crocodile brought the phone up to the his ear as he pieced together a list of materials he would need in order to active this feat. Shovel. Towel. Water. Alcohol, of the rubbing variety. Drinking Alcohol would also suffice. Light source. Flashlight? Fire? Help?
He heard the sound of the phone being picked up.
"Doflamingo," Crocodile announced.
The person on the other side of the line replied back, politely informing that they would get the boy in a moment. The phone was placed on its side, Crocodile feeling his eye twitch at the sound. His muscles broke into a small series of spasms as he counted the passing seconds, then the bullets, and then the strands of stray hair falling across his face because he was starting to shake with anger.
"Hello?"
The sound of Doflamingo's hesitant voice made Crocodile nearly drop the phone in favor of holding on to his stomach for a good dry heave.
"How's your ear?" he asked into the phone, voice filled the usual monotony.
"Ah," Doflamingo replied, already sounding calmer at the forced dullness in Crocodile's voice. "Well, it's getting better. It' not leaking. Not burning like some nasty rash."
Crocodile stared out the window, catching walking along the sidewalk. He licked his lips, the flavors in his mouth turning sour.
"That's good."
"I'm surprised you called."
Crocodile smiled. His stomach twisted into a tight knot. "Are you?"
"I figured you still might be pissed off at me," Doflamingo confessed, chuckling at the end. "You normally go weeks without saying a word, and I have to be the one to get you to start talking."
Crocodile brought a hand to his nose, rubbing and sniffing as he listened to Doflamingo go on, not detecting an ounce of regret or guilt in the boy's voice. He leaned against the small table, eyes staring outside, at the swaying trees, and passing cars, his ears taking in the sounds of Doflamingo's voice, but the words not quite reaching him. Somewhere along the way the language turned upside down, and things got mottled, mixed up, or numbed. The words coming out of his mouth carried no sound. Crocodile felt his lips part, his vocal chords releasing the vibrations that accompanied voice, but he couldn't place any clear answer to what was being said. It was made harder with this growing ringing. It started out faint, but with every passing second, Crocodile could hear it rise, grow sharper, irritating, almost painful to listen to, and it was consuming the words he as saying, Doflamingo was saying, and everything was beyond comprehension.
"What do you mean tonight?"
Crocodile wiped the sweat that accumulated on his forehead. What on earth was Doflamingo talking about?
"What?" he asked.
"You seriously expect me to get ready to leave by tonight?" Doflamingo groaned, his voice filled the offense Crocodile longed to hear up until this point. "That's not nearly enough time to pack my things."
Had he suggested they would be leaving tonight? Crocodile knew that's what he planned, for himself, once he was done with Doflamingo. Was this his plan, or had he subconsciously changed his mind? Was he going to kill Doflamingo?
"Oh well," Crocodile casually replied. He blinked, feeling moisture beginning to gather around his eyes. He fought it and let the words naturally flow out of his mouth, letting them guide his way out of this predicament. "I have to leave Doflamingo. After all of this? I have to get out."
"Is this because we had sex?"
Crocodile heard the phone creak in his hands, his tightened grip coming close to snapping the plastic.
"Look, I'm sorry," Doflamingo groaned. "I won't do it again. You just need to stop sending me these fucking mixed messages."
A shovel can be procured at the nearby hardware shop. Crocodile figured he could spend a few tens and get himself something nice to dig a hole with. He couldn't risk using anything from this house, not without it potentially being traced back to him. What about cameras? Were there cameras in a hardware store? Were the shovels kept inside, or in the gardening section?
"I made sure it felt good for you," Doflamingo defensively went on. Crocodile was realizing how the boy whined and stretched his vowels, sounding more like a child caught stealing treats than someone who caused insurmountable pain. "I wasn't only thinking about me. I'm more than aware that certain things are uncomfortable for you." The boy paused. Crocodile didn't wait for Doflamingo to continue his line of excuses.
He would need to drag Doflamingo out where he could commit the act in peace. The desert was barren. Nobody would notice him in the darkness of the night. And how many people would think to search the desert for a body? Even if someone did, what were the odds of finding Doflamingo's corpse?
"I still mean everything I said."
How do you get someone all the way out in the desert? That's where the alcohol comes in. The fireworks and the alcohol will mix well. Doflamingo wanted to see a show, correct? Offer him the opportunity to witness one before it was too late. Provide a strict time limit, and pressure him into showing up before then. The alcohol will make things easier. Doflamingo cannot hope to escape while drunk.
Doflamingo laughed through the line. "Everything about you…none of it has changed. I still look up to you. You're still that impressive asshole who's doing shit behind my back. Like right now. You're telling me I gotta get ready to leave by tonight? Shit, Crocodile. Just the same as always, not even some rough sex can change that. Nothing can change you."
Crocodile was still on the laughter. How was it that Doflamingo was able to look at the past event and make something humorous of it?
"This really can't be bothering you, right?" Was Doflamingo really asking him this? "It's something else, isn't it?"
And obviously Doflamingo couldn't be allowed to see or know any of this right away. The hole would need to be ought of sight, out of mind. Distract Doflamingo first, and then guide him closer.
"Is it because you're embarrassed?"
Duct tape and rope should not be necessary. Anything that can leave too many fingerprints should be left behind. Evidence can last a long time. Rubbing alcohol removes blood. Keep an extra pair of clothes handy.
"I know you got weird about it before."
Or…Crocodile could drive over to see Doflamingo, bust open the door to his room, and the blow his brains out. He could drill holes into Doflamingo's skin, step on his arms and legs, smash his weight on them until bones broke.
"You always talk about me needing to take the initiative," Doflamingo continued. "Or something like that. I gotta know when to make the right move. You were always going about that, ever since we were kids. I had to find that right moment to steal the candy bar, or the can of energy drink or watery beer, otherwise I got nothing. You taught me that remember?"
And now everybody was laughing. There was Doflamingo, the people outside, the wind hitting the window, the twisting and turning of every internal organ, and even himself. Crocodile could hear his own voice mocking him, and no amount of clouded thought, or wiping of the face, or holding in his breath could change the horrible fact that He. Had. Been. Raped.
"Well, I took it," Doflamingo said. "I took the initiative and got what I wanted. And, well, I'm glad I did. Cause I've always looked up to you, and you just kept on climbing higher and higher up that pedestal I built for you." Crocodile covered his eyes, giving up on the wiping, and choosing now to let everything collect in his cupped hand. "You've always been higher than me, and I liked that. I was fine with it. You see–"
-Now-
"–It gave me a goal."
The sting of arid winter air no longer stung Crocodile's nostrils. It was replaced with a stagnant, heavy metallic taste that wafted around, clinging to the fabric, leaving him heavier with every step he took around Doflamingo's curled body.
"From the moment I discovered you could surpass biology," Doflamingo coughed, looking up at Crocodile circling around him. "I realized I could do the same. People? Gods? Just a bunch of words if you think about it. But shit, if I had to choose, I gotta go for the later."
Crocodile heard a series of light knocks above him. Whatever Robin needed could wait.
The man beneath him was spewing blood with every other word he dared to utter. If it pissed him off, Crocodile would unleash a series of kicks, a blow to the head or chest from the base of his hook, and watch Doflamingo twist and jerk about in physical repulsion. The blond would force out a weakened laugh and blood would spit out. He'd continue to talk, saying things that would obviously piss Crocodile off more, and this time he'd cough it out, sniff in between words to halt the flow of blood from his nose, busted lips, or broken skin. And it infuriated Crocodile to pay witness to Doflamingo's will to never shut the hell up, and he'd start the torment all over again.
Doflamingo was keeping him inside of the room. The idiot claimed that the two of them would leave together, suggesting that if one of them were to leave alone, it was because someone drove the other to murder. Crocodile was fine with that. He was close to finishing Doflamingo off.
Said man was lying on his back, his good eye lidded, mouth open and leaking out a combination of spit and blood, drenching his close in it, mixing it with the sweat created from an overdose of adrenaline that resulted in Crocodile's never-ending barrages. Doflamingo was without food or water for several hours now. He was neglected any form of care, and now he was being tortured dry. Crocodile wasn't sure he would need to go beyond the use of his hook in order to kill him.
"So," Doflamingo muttered, licking his chapped lips stained with drying blood. "That's been my goal for the last few years." He coughed again. Crocodile watched red dots speckle the floor, and the way Doflamingo stared at this own mess, looking more annoyed than worried. "Well, not so much last few years. Really, there's always been that need to surpass you. I just figured, with me screwing everything up, I'd place myself above you through means even you couldn't deny."
Crocodile rested his eyes on a drop of blood beginning to coagulate and dry. His nose flared as he brought his foot up, resting the arch of his shoe on top of Doflamingo's shoulder, emitting just enough pressure to keep the man from wriggling and soaking it up with his moist clothes.
Robin knocked on the door again, this time louder. But it still retained a pattern to it, with a solid second between each knock. And it wasn't heavy sounding enough to alert Crocodile that something was wrong.
"I don't require any more surgeries."
"You all fixed up?"
"Fixed?" Crocodile slammed his weight into Doflamingo's shoulder, earning only a sharp hiss from the man below.
Doflamingo kicked up his legs. "Fuck! Improved? Changed? Replaced?"
Crocodile continued to apply pressure. "Do you really think I'd ever accept such an offer from you?" He lifted his leg and stared at the imprint it left behind. Crocodile took a step back, admiring the work, up until Doflamingo turned his head, showing off that foul smirk of his.
"You're telling me you already got the surgery?"
The question irked him.
No, he didn't receive any surgery beyond what he concluded was absolutely necessary. At least, that's what he told himself. He had a flat chest, he couldn't get pregnant or experience any feminine cycles, and he certainly looked the part of a man. He passed quite well. Nobody would second-guess his gender. So any future surgeries would be purely cosmetic.
"You made such a big deal about transitioning," Doflamingo said. "You were so damn desperate to get all that work done."
Crocodile knelt down, letting the tip of his hook touch Doflamingo's chin. "Shut up."
"No," Doflamingo spat out, letting drops of blood come close to hitting Crocodile in the face. "You wouldn't change your mind about transitioning, and now you're telling me you'd refuse my offering to you?" He sniffed. Blood defiantly oozed out from his broken nose. "And now I'm looking at you and you're giving me this vibe that you haven't had any work done since you left Arizona…"
He pushed the tip of the hook under Doflamingo's chin, watching the sharp edge come close to puncturing flesh. "You're in no position to start theorizing," Crocodile warned.
"But it's so unlike you," Doflamingo replied. "All of this. You're supposed to be thriving, and instead, I'm learning that you fucked up. You fucked up with Whitebeard, and you fucked up getting yourself a pretty little cock. Well, how are you supposed to make me your bitch now, eh?"
The sad reality was that no amount of money could buy Crocodile just that. Dreams were one thing, but the truth was almost one hundred grand for a scarred up arm or leg, skin rolled up, sliced and shaped out to resemble something like a human sex organ, and then crudely stitched on top of everything else. Nerves were moved and attached to other things, but one would still need a pump to "achieve" and "maintain" an erection.
"Also makes any worst case scenarios more difficult," Doflamingo went on. "I mean, assuming thing don't work out, and I have no choice but to punish you, which seems to be where we're headed, I was hoping to use that against you."
"Excuse me?" Crocodile shook his head. "I'm to believe you'd castrate me?"
"Well, cocks are replaceable, aren't they?" Doflamingo asked, sniffing up blood and letting tears roll down his good eye. "I mean, if you can get yourself one, who is to say you can't get several? And you know I'd go out of my way to get you the nicest one money can buy."
Crocodile blinked. "Huh. I never quite thought about it that way."
"I'd still cut yours off though," Doflamingo said. "I'd have my executives hold you down, and I'd do the deed." He sniffed again, smiling up at an almost stunned Crocodile. "Not sure if it would hurt much or not, but I'd leave you sitting on the toilet until you learned your lesson."
"Replaceable," Crocodile muttered.
"Yes."
"Including yours?" the older man added.
He watched Doflamingo hold his tongue, smile quickly dropping into a frown. "Well, no," he replied, "not mine. You see, Crocodile, mine's real. It serves a purpose beyond making me feel good about myself."
Crocodile could have easily bashed Doflamingo's head in right there. Better, he could have grabbed something sharp and done away with Doflamingo's sad, limp cock. He could taunt the screaming with the image of his own manhood ripped away and left dying in Crocodile's hand. He could chop it up into several pieces, and then Doflamingo–
-Then-
–would have nothing.
Crocodile stared at the blisters forming all over the palm of his left hand. The desert wind blew across his face, sending several strands of his hair to fly up, some getting in the way of his vision, other flailing in all directions until the cold air dwindled to a light breeze, then nothing.
The hole was about four feet all around, and almost as deep. It took him nearly two hours to get it to where it was. Crocodile was not made for hard labor. He was drenched in sweat, and his hands were aching. His right was leaking clear fluid from accidentally bursting a newly formed blister. The dry surroundings made the opened wound burn and sizzle with pain. Crocodile would need to get to dig another two feet if he wanted Doflamingo to fit. The boy was getting too damn big.
He needed to buy alcohol. Not just for Doflamingo, but for himself. His hands were on fire, and he could feel the back of his neck begin to sting under the heat of the sun. His arms were exposed, and they were sticking with bits of sand, and were starting to feel the effects of the sun and lack of hydration. His entire face was in pain. Anything that wasn't scarred felt dry, and each time Crocodile frowned he felt the skin stretch around the mouth, pulling after grown stiff from the environment sucking the moisture away.
Crocodile remembered being small and spending hours out in the desert, digging holes and burying treasure. He always took some kind of beverage with him. He'd wash his hands with orange soda after digging a hole up with his bare hands. His nails would catch pebbles or granules of sand, and Crocodile would have to stop and free them. Rocks would be left in piles to indicate buried treasure. Crocodile drew maps in a journal once designated for school.
Sometimes Crocodile took to plundering the holes belonging to the wildlife. He'd bring with him plastic bottles filled with lighter fluid, or long sticks with sharpened tips, or worst of all, his imagination. He'd spot a hole big enough for him to bury something; an old toy or something he stole from the kids who refused to call him by his true name, and he would pour the strong smelling fluid in, or the stick, or he'd light a small fire and let the smoke fill the orifice. He'd watch lizards and tarantulas scuttle out, weary from the lack of clean oxygen, or injured after fighting with sharp stick.
This was all before Doflamingo. Crocodile only buried things when he was alone, save for the money, which was always being collected in secret. He boxed up a wounded tarantula because, less than a week prior, he sliced his hand open, sure that it would be enough for him to bleed out and die. He made a million little maps depicting the location of buried toys, hats, and key chains, but he only bothered to remember where the money was kept. The maps were tossed aside with every new journal he took, and the stolen action figures were lost forever.
Crocodile picked up the shovel, wincing when he gripped the varnished wood, his palms in shaking agony.
After Doflamingo there was a decrease in plundering. Less maps depicted the location of hidden items. Whatever Crocodile stole was usually given to Doflamingo. The boy had everything he could ask for, and yet he treasured the stolen ball cap. He adored the trinkets Crocodile won from fights. Older kids always a thing to say about Crocodile, what with him being so strange, and Crocodile would fight, and Doflamingo would watch from a distance, smiling and cheering him on, not quite understanding the meaning behind the names being thrown out. After sand was rubbed in the eyes, Doflamingo would be handed a new ornament, and they'd play, and whatever they won would be lost to the sand.
The money was the only thing that remained buried. First the desert, but after the incident, and Crocodile was finally able to start living, it moved. It was in a cupboard, it was in a drawer, a closet, underneath a bed. First it was supposed to be for the mess between the legs, then was used for some drugs, then the handgun, and now whatever was left was going to help him get the hell out of this wasteland.
Crocodile remembered wanting to give Doflamingo the money once.
He jumped into the hole, his legs detecting a subtle drop in temperature. His shoulders were sore. He had to get this done as soon as possible. He needed time to drive back into town, buy what he needed, change his clothes, and hope Doflamingo would get here on time.
This was important. This was Doflamingo's hole. Your hole. For Doflamingo.
Crocodile pressed the shovel into the hardened ground, eyes squinting at the moisture collecting around his eyes.
Today was just sucking him dry. How many times was he going to break down and continue losing whatever he had left inside of him? Every time he stopped his body grew weaker. He became slower. Thirstier.
Crocodile sat down. He tossed the shovel aside, letting his arms wrap around his shaking legs instead, and stared up at the cloudless sky. It was supposed to be winter. It felt like the middle of a summer and Crocodile was eleven again, and Doflamingo didn't stop him from returning to the desert, body covered up layers, his chest heaving because he overdosed on iron pills, and was planning on taking more. His hair was a mess, and some strands clung to his face, nineteen years old, or maybe still eleven, and the fingers of his left hand were beginning to tingle. His throat hurt, and his stomach was turning inside out, now because he was dehydrated and thirsty, and sick and nervous. When he was eleven he took several iron pills, because the more you take the easier it becomes to poison the liver. The idea that he would be forced to endure thirty years of bleeding between the legs made him want to kill himself, and nobody took that seriously, so he left home, took a dozen iron pills with him, and began popping them into his mouth like candy. Doflamingo came early. The boy was going to get something nice, but he ruined it by taking Crocodile back to his house, resting beside him and never giving him the peace he needed to just die.
Crocodile later bleed, but his mother learned her lesson, and he got to take new pills that would stop it from ever happening again.
With parts of his life passing through his mind, Crocodile reached out and grabbed the shovel. He did not start digging. He remained sitting, eyes staring out, letting salt ridden tears run down his face as he thought up his next plan.
Everything was ruined. Doflamingo always ruined everything. And right now, he was ruined. And he could kill Doflamingo, and he could go and pretend everything was going to be all right. Crocodile could work and continue to transition, and he could get those treatments that he had heard so much about. Technology was getting better. There would be all sorts of options for him, right?
Except things weren't all right, and they would never be "all right." They wouldn't be ok, or manageable, or capable of being tolerated.
Crocodile dropped the shovel again. His hands slid down to his stomach, and then one dared to go further, fingers coming together and sliding over his pants. Crocodile closed his legs, but that hand was still there, cradling the pain that could only exist right now because his mind wouldn't let go. It would never let go. Even if he did kill Doflamingo, nothing would be ok.
Fuck this is what it's going to be like for the rest of my life now I'm never going to feel good ever again even if I save that money or kill the bastard I'm not sure if I want to kill him is that strange or what he fucking sticks his dick up that hole and I can't say without a doubt I want him dead right now but I do know I don't want to be here anymore again I don't want to leave this hole I want to stay here and let it all out and maybe I'll just pass out and it'll rain and the water will push the sand in and I'll be smothered underneath Doflamingo I'm in so much pain right now I don't ever want to leave this hole where are you and I'll drag you down with me we can stay in here together and be smothered by the rain it should be raining soon it always rains in December–
"You still here?"
-Now-
Crocodile looked down at Doflamingo. The man was soaked in all the bodily secretions. But Doflamingo was staring back up, and he had the look of a man who had a shitty hand on him, but somehow knew he was going to beat this game. For Doflamingo, the game was always rigged in his favor. Right now he'd been dealt the first shitty hand in a long time, and perhaps the blond was out of his usual element, but he knew he was going to beat this. Crocodile could believe it too. Doflamingo had been planning his strategy since he left home.
Crocodile lacked a plan. He could make one up right on the spot, but he wouldn't follow it. Doflamingo said he would keep him in the room, and Crocodile refused, insisting that he was in control, only to now be caught standing in the middle of the room after nearly an hour of small talk and torture.
"What?" he asked.
Doflamingo looked over at the door. Crocodile turned and stared up, listening to the sound of Robin knocking, this time wit noticeable vigor.
"I wonder who it could be?" he heard Doflamingo playfully mutter.
"You mentioned us staying in the room together?" Crocodile said, looking back down at Doflamingo. "What will you do when I attempt to ascend those stairs?"
"I could easily drag you down here if I wanted you," Doflamingo taunted. His was bounded, couldn't defend himself, was drenched in sweat, was shaking, was turning pale, was giving off all the visible signs of dying, and right now Doflamingo was mocking him.
A dying man was openly mocking him.
"Considering it could be my men," Doflamingo continued, his voice hoarse, "I do sort of want you to open it. It would be nice to see if you're about to lose or not? Or maybe it's Whitebeard, and we're both screwed. But I'm really curious."
A man who had maybe a few hours left in him was curious to see if Crocodile was at risk of enduring another humiliating ride inside the trunk of one of Whitebeard's many luxurious vehicles.
Crocodile took a step over to the stairs, looking down when heard the strange sound of moisture, felt the pull of something underneath the soles. His shoes were stained with blood, the top caked in a few layers, and as he continued his ascent, Crocodile listened to the blood stick to the stairs, making a nasty ripping sound when he moved up.
He opened the door. "This better be good," he warned.
Robin stared back at him, her arms already crossing. She didn't have that usual calm look in her eyes. Normally this would be a welcoming sight to behold, but with everything out of his control, Crocodile became frustrated at her for looking at him so worryingly.
"Whitebeard called."
Crocodile was glad she didn't raise her voice anymore than what she needed in order to make a point. He couldn't begin to imagine Doflamingo catching those words.
"What did his men say?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not his men. Whitebeard called."
Crocodile let go of the doorknob. "Excuse me?"
"He said he likes the product," Robin replied, her palms rubbing her elbows. The few nervous ticks she was willing to show made Crocodile want to throw her into the room with Doflamingo. Now was not the time for her to be showing weakness.
"And?"
"And he said he's going to give you two hours to, and I quote; "get the hell out of my territory"," Robin answered. Crocodile then noticed that the woman wasn't dressed in the extravagant clothes he bought for her. She was donning casual wear, and right away Crocodile was able to assess and understand just how much time he had wasted downstairs.
"What else did he say?"
"He's going to give chase if he catches so much as a glimpse of any members after the time's run out," Robin replied. "Which means you have about a–"
"How many of our members are aware of the situation?" Crocodile interrupted. His voice was loud. Doflamingo was trying to listen in, and he was getting angry and too loud, and he was still playing into the blond's hands.
"Just a few," Robin admitted. "I wanted our closest agents to prepare for the worst, should Whitebeard know the whereabouts of our fronts…"
"Of course he would" Crocodile growled at her. "He's not about to give a threat like that unless he already knows where some of our members work."
"What would you suggest we do?"
"Where's Mr. 1?"
"On his way over," Robin answered. "But not before going to your place and gathering a few things."
"Why is he at my house?"
"To get you some fresh clothes." Robin sounded offended. "And access to your accounts. Crocodile, I'm not sure if you–"
"Did I tell you it was alright to call me that?" Crocodile snapped. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her close. "I don't expect any one of my subordinates to call me by that name. You're just the same. You don't call me by my name unless I gave you permission to, do you understand?"
Doflamingo's laughter bounced off the cement walls and echoed their way up the flight of stairs, raking Crocodile's brain and causing Robin to look over, catching Doflamingo's wreaked body, and grow upset that this was still going on after nearly an hour.
"Leave him," she said.
"I'm not done with him," Crocodile replied.
"He'll be dead either way."
But was that good enough for him? Could Crocodile live with himself knowing that Doflamingo didn't die by his hands when he was given the chance to? He already failed before, could he live with himself after being allowed a second?
"I'm going to be done with him soon," Crocodile said. It wasn't him asking for permission. He certainly wasn't trying to assure her he knew what he was doing. He was the boss. He was in control. The nervous look in her eyes did nothing for him, and he wasn't afraid of missing the countdown.
Robin nodded her head. "I'm packing my things," she announced.
"See to it you take only what cannot be replaced," Crocodile muttered, letting her go. "I'll be done with him."
"Shoot him."
"Don't tell me what to do, Miss All-Sunday," Crocodile hissed, pushing her out of the way before shutting the door. He smacked his hand against the wall, huffing, face turning red with embarrassment. He listened to her walk away, her slow steps barely heard through the door.
Doflamingo's laughter called him down.
Crocodile cracked a few knuckles as he descended, trying to calm his temperament and not let Doflamingo in on the news.
Whitebeard gave him time to escape? Crocodile aspired to believe it was because the drugs were so good that he was being allowed this privilege. But Yonko product nearly tipped one hundred percent, and Crocodile knew Doflamingo wasn't that good. It seemed like the offering was a result of Whitebeard's twisted sense of a humor. But he would be a fool not to take it.
Crocodile stopped midway.
He was…going back down. Again. Whitebeard was offering him a chance to escape, he only had an hour to get as far as he could before the old bastard unleashed his armada against him, and Crocodile was halfway down to hell, falling right back into Doflamingo's hands. Doflamingo said he would have him trapped in this room until one of them died, and he was proving the man right. Doflamingo was nearly dead, but so far he was in control of everything.
Crocodile's hand hovered over the gun.
Doflamingo said that the only way for one of them to leave was if the other died.
He took his gun from its handle. Crocodile carefully examined it, already knowing it was fully loaded, that all he would have to do is pull the trigger and be done with it. Was it as fun as watching Doflamingo writhe in pain? No, but it was certainly better than remaining a pawn in this strange game. Doflamingo would have him continuing for hours to come, well past the countdown, and risk getting himself caught by Whitebeard's men. Doflamingo would die happily knowing Crocodile went first.
Crocodile lowered his arms, hand behind his back as he continued his descent.
"Doflamingo…"
"Hmm?" That cocky attitude of his wouldn't last for long. It pained Crocodile to end things so abrupt, but he caught on! He would not allow Doflamingo to remain in control, not anymore. He'd kill the man, leave this room, this blasted country, tail between the legs, but alive. He'd still have his name, money, and he'd have Robin and maintained respect from his men who were informed of the situation.
What did Doflamingo have?
Crocodile took a step down, eyes on the bloodied floor, expecting to see bound legs curling and inching away from his shadow. He didn't see them right away, and Crocodile couldn't make an entrance out of the moment, not if he was out of Doflamingo's view. He still held the gun behind him, slowly making his way down, thinking up a few clever lines to say, head turning as he tried to catch Doflamingo on the floor.
Another step down, and nothing. How far did Doflamingo crawl?
Crocodile's arm dropped, his hook gaining immeasurable weight when he reached a point where he should have been able to spot Doflamingo, because the room was only so big, and the floor took up only so much space that Doflamingo should really be seen by now, unless he was in a blind spot. But there was no trail that lead to any. There would be a bloodied track leading to one of the corners. There was a messy trail, but it lead in the opposite direction, to the wall, and there was that selection of tool he adorned it with, including a few missing pieces.
The blades were missing.
Doflamingo was missing.
"Where are you?" Crocodile asked, gun pointed to the wall.
"By the table," Doflamingo answered. His voice was weary.
"I see." Crocodile raised his hook up to cover his chest as he finished making his way down to the stairs. He looked to the floor and caught sight of the worn out binds that he used to hold Doflamingo's legs together. Smart move. There was only time to undoe one, and Doflamingo gave himself the ability to run.
"Actually, you don't," Doflamingo replied. "I'm giving myself as much of an advantage as I can here."
"Well, doesn't do much good," Crocodile said. "You're bleeding out. I'd go as far and say you're at the end of your rope…" His shoe hit the cement floor. Crocodile turned, expecting to see Doflamingo by the table, just barely holding on with his bound hands. But instead he saw a flash of bright colors and red, then felt Doflamingo crash into him, the force and weight of his body a surprise that Crocodile wasn't prepared for.
His right side was hit, and he dropped the gun, because his left side was about to make contact with the ground, and the hook would make the landing unbearable. Hands grabbed on to his chest as Crocodile struggled to turn himself around. Doflamingo was weak, but he wouldn't let go.
The back of Crocodile's head hit the floor. A million messages ran down his spine; pain one of them, shock, lightening, followed by a deafening ring. His legs jerked upward, mouth open as his body continued after the head, the back smacking against the floor, and Doflamingo pushing down on him, weight intensifying the impact. Loud rings. Vision blurring. Throat collapsing. Lungs. It was happening all over again.
Crocodile coughed, staring up with mosaic vision, watching a tunnel begin to form around the edges, Doflamingo's bloodied up face staring down at him; smile spread across a destroyed face. He felt something sharp against his neck.
His vision grew worse, and Crocodile was sure he was several feet under the surface, body limp with shock and nerve damage, Doflamingo above him, with a gun, waving it, mocking, repeating history all over again. Crocodile shuddered to think this was all part of Doflamingo's plan. Was it destiny? Was this really what his life amounted to?
His consciousness slipped, and Crocodile was back in the hole, in the middle of a desert, craving enough alcohol to shut his body down, no longer caring about whether or not he lived or died, so long as he took Doflamingo with him.
