#alabasta

The first time Ren stole something, he was three years old. It wasn’t malicious—just a shiny button from a merchant’s stall, clutched in his tiny fist like treasure.

You’d panicked, smoothing over the incident with apologies and double payment, but later, alone in your cramped rented room, you’d stared at the button in his palm and seen the undeniable truth: the way his fingers curled around it, possessive and deliberate, was pure Crocodile.

The button incident had been the first warning. The second came when Ren turned five—he'd talked his way out of trouble with the baker's son by spinning a story so convincing even you almost believed it.

You'd caught him mid-sentence, those golden-brown eyes glinting with mischief as he explained how the broken window was definitely, absolutely caused by "the big desert fox with the blue tail."

The cadence of his lies, the way he lifted his chin when challenged—it was like watching a miniature con artist in training.

You'd scolded him, of course. Made him apologize properly. But that night, staring at the ceiling of another temporary home, you'd pressed your palms to your face and laughed until your ribs ached.

Because damn it all, the boy had his father's silver tongue and theatrical flair.

Now, standing frozen in Crocodile's study as your former lover—no, your captor—paced like a caged sand panther, you realized every instinct to run had been right. Ren was already too much like him. And Crocodile knew it.

"Married?" You choked on the word, fingers digging into the windowsill behind you. The brandy glass in his hand caught the dying sunlight, casting amber shadows across his scar. "You can't be serious."

Crocodile set the glass down with deliberate precision, the crystal clicking against polished mahogany like a judge's gavel. "Deadly serious," he said, rolling the words as if savoring their weight.

"Did you think I'd let my heir be raised in backwater ports by a woman who thinks bartering for fish counts as economics?"

Ren stirred on the chaise, his small fingers tightening around a decorative tassel he'd apparently pilfered when no one was looking. You'd have laughed if your throat wasn't constricting with panic.

The boy had inherited more than just Crocodile's lying charm—he'd gotten the sticky fingers too.

"You don't marry liabilities," you countered, forcing your voice steady. "You bury them in unmarked graves or sell them to rival crews. I know how this works."

Crocodile's hook flashed as he reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded document that crackled with official wax seals. "I amended my policies."

He unfolded the paper with a flick of his wrist—marriage licenses from three different kingdoms, all pre-signed by a magistrate's stamp. "You'll find I'm full of surprises today."

Ren chose that moment to sneeze violently, sending the stolen tassel flying into Crocodile's brandy glass. The resulting splash speckled his immaculate lapels with amber droplets. You held your breath—this was how children disappeared in stories.

Instead, Crocodile's shoulders shook once. Twice. A dry, wheezing sound escaped his throat. It took you three horrifying seconds to realize he was laughing.

"Definitely mine," he muttered, plucking the soggy tassel from his drink and tossing it onto Ren's lap like a trophy. "Though I'd advise against stealing from pirates, boy. They tend to shoot first."

Ren blinked up at him, then at you, then—with devastating innocence—held out both palms. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The silence in the study thickened like spilled syrup—sticky and impossible to ignore. Crocodile's gaze flicked between you and Ren, his golden eyes calculating the weight of his next move.

You recognized that look. It was the same predatory patience he'd worn while waiting for Alabasta's monarchy to crumble.

Ren, blissfully unaware of the tension, yawned dramatically and stretched his arms overhead. "Mama," he whined, rubbing one eye with a grubby fist, "can we go now? I'm tired of grown-up talk."

Crocodile's lips twitched. "Tired?" he echoed, stepping closer to the chaise. His shadow engulfed Ren completely. "You've spent five minutes behaving and already need a nap? Pathetic."

Ren scowled—a perfect mirror of his father's irritated expression. "I'm not pathetic! I stayed awake for three whole nights when Mama was sick!"

The revelation hit Crocodile like a sandstorm—sudden, abrasive, impossible to ignore. His gaze snapped to you, golden eyes sharpening with something dangerously close to concern. "You were sick?"

Ren nodded vigorously, kicking his legs against the chaise. "She coughed all the time and got really hot. I had to steal water from the well 'cause she couldn't walk." He said it matter-of-factly, as if admitting petty theft to a former Warlord was perfectly normal.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn't realized Ren remembered those feverish nights in the slums of Loguetown, when a lung infection had nearly killed you. You'd been delirious, drifting in and out of consciousness, only aware of small, determined hands pressing damp cloths to your forehead and the sound of running footsteps too light to belong to an adult.

Crocodile's hook twitched at his side—a subtle movement you'd learned to recognize as suppressed fury. The air in the study grew heavier, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing dangerously in the dim light. "You were sick," he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "And the boy had to steal water."

You lifted your chin, refusing to flinch under his scrutiny. "We survived."

Ren, oblivious to the tension, swung his legs off the chaise and padded over to the desk, drawn by the glint of Crocodile's golden hook. He reached out—bold, fearless, just like his father—and tapped the metal with one curious finger. "Does this come off?"

You nearly choked.

Crocodile didn’t flinch when Ren tapped his hook. Instead, he exhaled a slow stream of smoke through his nostrils, watching the boy with the calculating focus of a predator sizing up an intriguing new specimen.

"No," he said finally. "It doesn’t come off. Not unless you’re planning to replace it with something sharper."

Ren’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with fascination. "Can I get one?"

You lunged forward, snatching Ren’s wrist away from the gleaming metal. "Absolutely not."

Crocodile’s laughter was a low, rumbling thing, like distant thunder rolling across the desert. "You’re raising a little opportunist," he remarked, flicking ash into a crystal tray. "I approve."

The cigar smoke curled lazily between you, the scent of bitter tobacco mingling with the sharper tang of spilled brandy.

Crocodile's fingers—the flesh-and-blood ones—traced idle circles on the mahogany desk, his golden eyes never leaving Ren as the boy clambered onto a plush chair too large for him, his small hands gripping the carved armrests like a tiny conqueror surveying his domain.

"You're teaching him to steal," Crocodile observed, his voice low and amused.

You folded your arms, pressing your nails into your sleeves to keep your hands from shaking. "I taught him to survive."

Ren, blissfully unaware of the tension, kicked his legs against the chair. "Mama says stealing's bad unless you're really, really hungry," he announced cheerfully. "But the baker's son is mean, so his bread doesn't count."

The study's silence shattered like thin glass under Ren's declaration. Crocodile's fingers stilled on the desk—just for a heartbeat—before he lifted his cigar to his lips with deliberate calm.

The ember glowed brighter as he inhaled, the smoke curling around his face like a translucent veil. You recognized that particular stillness; it was the quiet before a sandstorm.

"Is that so?" Crocodile murmured, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. His golden eyes flicked to you, sharp as a dagger's edge. "Seems you've been teaching him selective morality."

Ren, sensing he'd become the center of attention, straightened in the oversized chair. His small fingers drummed against the armrests in an unconscious mimicry of Crocodile's habitual gesture. "Mama says rules are like desert paths—good until they lead you off a cliff."

Crocodile's bark of laughter startled even his own bodyguards stationed outside the door. You saw the exact moment it happened—the way his shoulders loosened, the way his hook, usually held in perfect readiness, dropped slightly. It was the most unguarded you'd seen him in years.

Crocodile's laughter faded into something softer—an exhale, almost wistful. He leaned against the desk, watching Ren with an expression you'd never seen before: a mix of reluctant amusement and something dangerously close to pride.

The boy was practically vibrating in the chair, kicking his legs with unrestrained energy, entirely unaware that he'd just disarmed a warlord with nothing but childish honesty.

"You," Crocodile said, pointing at Ren with the hand holding his cigar, "are going to be a nightmare."

Ren grinned, all teeth and mischief. "Mama says that too."

"Does she." Crocodile's gaze slid to you, golden eyes narrowing. "And what else does Mama say about me?"

Ren twisted in the oversized chair, his small fingers gripping the carved armrests like a tiny monarch surveying his kingdom. His bare feet swung inches above the floor, kicking idly against the chair legs.

"Mama says you're dangerous," he announced, utterly oblivious to the way the air in the study turned to liquid fire. "But also that you have really nice coats."

Crocodile's cigar paused halfway to his lips. His golden eyes flicked to yours, burning with unspoken accusation. "You discuss my wardrobe with our child?"

Your nails dug into your palms. Six years of carefully constructed defenses were crumbling under the relentless honesty of a six-year-old. "I—"

"She says you're scary," Ren continued cheerfully, picking at a loose thread on the chair's upholstery, "but that scary people usually have the best stories."

He tilted his head, considering Crocodile with startling clarity. "Do you have stories?"

The cigar smoke curled in lazy spirals between them, suspended like time itself had slowed. Crocodile studied Ren with the calculating focus of a desert hawk spotting movement in the dunes.

His golden eyes flicked to the boy’s tapping fingers—the same restless rhythm he himself used when weighing a risky gamble.

"Stories?" Crocodile echoed, his voice rough with amusement. He leaned forward, the leather of his coat creaking softly. "I could tell you how I sank three Marine battleships before breakfast."

Ren's eyes widened, but not with fear—with the bright, insatiable hunger of a child sensing adventure. "Did you use your hook?"

Crocodile exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the ember glowing like a tiny sun. "No, brat. I used their own arrogance." His gaze slid to you, laden with unspoken meaning. "The strong always underestimate what they can't see coming."

The study's grandfather clock ticked loudly in the sudden silence following Crocodile's words. Ren's small hands gripped the chair arms tighter, his knuckles whitening with the effort of staying still despite the excitement sparking in his eyes.

"Tell me about the ships," he demanded—not asked, demanded—with all the imperiousness of a prince who'd never been denied anything.

You recognized that tone. It was the same one Crocodile used when issuing orders to his Baroque Works agents—a velvet-covered blade of command.

Crocodile recognized it too. His lips twitched beneath the cigar as he exhaled a slow plume of smoke that curled around Ren's eager face. "First rule of storytelling," he murmured, leaning back in his chair with deliberate laziness. "The listener doesn't make demands. He negotiates."

Ren's nose scrunched. "What's nego…nego…"

Ren’s unfinished question hung in the air, his small face pinched in confusion. Crocodile took another slow drag of his cigar, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make the boy fidget before answering.

“Negotiation,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nostrils, “is how you get what you want without losing something better.” His golden eyes flicked to you, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Your mother was excellent at it.”

You stiffened, fingers tightening around the edge of your chair. Ren, oblivious to the undercurrents, leaned forward eagerly. “So… if I want a story, what do I give you?”

Crocodile’s smirk deepened. He tapped his cigar against the crystal ashtray, the ember flaring briefly. “Information,” he said smoothly. “Tell me something true. Then I’ll decide if it’s worth a story.”

Ren's eyes narrowed—an expression so eerily reminiscent of Crocodile's calculating stare that your breath caught. He tapped his small fingers against the chair armrest, mimicking his father's habitual gesture.

"True things," he muttered, chewing his lower lip. Then, with the sudden decisiveness of a child who'd solved a great puzzle, he announced: "Mama cries sometimes at night when she thinks I'm asleep."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock seemed to pause.

Crocodile's cigar froze halfway to his lips. The ember burned unnoticed as smoke curled upward in a slow, unraveling spiral. His golden eyes locked onto yours—not with anger, but with something far more dangerous: understanding.

You pressed your back against the windowpane, the cold glass biting through your thin dress. Ren swung his legs idly, oblivious to the seismic shift his words had caused.

The grandfather clock ticked three deafening seconds before Crocodile moved—not toward you, but toward the decanter of brandy on his desk. His hook glinted as he poured two fingers into a crystal glass, the liquid catching the fading desert light like trapped fire.

"Six years," he said finally, voice rougher than the sand outside. He didn't offer you the drink. He simply set it on the desk between you, a silent challenge. "Six years of nights where my son heard his mother crying instead of sleeping."

Ren blinked up at him. "Not all the nights," he corrected earnestly, twisting the loose thread around his finger. "Just the bad ones when the storms were too loud, or when the landlord banged on our door."

He swung his legs harder, scuffing the chair's polished wood with his worn sandals. "Mama says crying's just angry water leaking out."

The brandy glass shattered against the far wall before you even registered Crocodile's movement. Amber liquid streaked down the mahogany paneling like liquid fire.

Ren flinched at the sudden violence, but didn't cower—just watched with wide, fascinated eyes as glass shards glittered on the Persian rug.

"You lived with landlords." Crocodile's voice was deadly soft, his hook buried in the desk's surface where the glass had been moments before. The wood groaned under the pressure. "My son. In some rat-infested—"

"We lived where we could," you cut in sharply, stepping between them instinctually despite knowing Crocodile would never harm the boy. "Safe houses. Cheap inns. A converted storage room above a fish market in Loguetown."

You met his burning gaze unflinchingly. "Would you rather we'd taken refuge with one of your enemies? Maybe Doflamingo offered lovely family rates."

Crocodile's hook twitched against the desk, carving a fresh groove into the mahogany. The sound was deliberate—the scrape of metal on wood, measured and controlled, like a predator flexing its claws before striking.

His golden eyes burned into you with an intensity that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "You're speaking to me like I'm still the man you ran from."

You held his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Aren't you?"

Ren, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke on, slid off the chair and padded over to the shattered glass. He crouched, small fingers hovering over the glittering shards.

"It's pretty," he announced, tilting his head to watch the light refract. "Like Mama's necklace that got stolen."

The necklace comment struck like a thrown dagger. You'd forgotten about that piece of jewelry—a delicate gold chain with a single emerald teardrop, the one frivolous luxury you'd allowed yourself during those early, desperate months.

Crocodile had given it to you after a particularly lucrative operation, sliding it around your neck with his hook while his other hand palmed the small of your back. The memory burned almost as much as the loss did.

Crocodile's entire posture changed. His shoulders, usually held in that perpetually bored slouch, went rigid. The cigar dropped from his lips onto the desk, forgotten. "What necklace?"

Ren glanced up from his glass-shard fascination. "The green one. Mama said a bad man took it when we were sleeping in the—"

"Ren," you interrupted sharply, but it was too late.

The silence that followed was the kind that crept under skin, settling between ribs like shards of that broken brandy glass. Crocodile didn't move—didn't even breathe—for three agonizing heartbeats. Then his hook came down on the desk with a crack that split the mahogany clean through.

"The Alvida job," he said, voice dripping with a venom so cold it burned. "Loguetown, three years ago. That was you."

You didn't confirm. Didn't need to. The way your fingers twitched toward your bare throat betrayed you more effectively than any confession.

Ren, sensing the shift in atmosphere, abandoned his glass shards and sidled closer to you, pressing his small frame against your leg like a cat seeking shelter from an impending storm.

Crocodile stalked around the desk with predatory precision, his boots crushing crystal fragments to glittering dust beneath his steps. The ember of his abandoned cigar pulsed like a dying star in the ashtray as he stopped just outside arm's reach—close enough that you caught the expensive sandalwood clinging to his coat, but not close enough to touch.

His golden eyes flicked to Ren's small hand clutching your skirt, then back to your face.

"You kept him alive on Alvida's scraps," he said, voice stripped of its usual sardonic amusement. The realization seemed to physically pain him, his jaw working silently for a moment before he continued. "The same pirate who couldn't tell a ruby from garnet. The same fool who—"

"Fed us when we had nothing," you interrupted, meeting his glare without flinching. Ren's fingers tightened against your leg as you spoke the unvarnished truth neither of you could escape. "Her crew raided our boarding house that winter. Took the necklace, took our last can of preserves, took the coat off my back while I shielded Ren with my body."

You swallowed hard, remembering the burn of rough rope around your wrists, the way Ren had screamed when they'd dragged you apart. "She laughed when she saw my face. Said she'd always wondered what kind of woman could catch a Warlord's eye."

The vein in Crocodile's temple throbbed visibly. His hook flexed, the polished metal catching the light as he took a single, controlled breath.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something dangerously intimate—the tone he used when discussing assassinations in crowded rooms. "And yet you survived."

You lifted your chin, meeting Crocodile's gaze with the same defiance that had kept you alive through six years of hiding. "Because I learned from the best how to survive." The words tasted bitter—both an admission and an accusation.

Ren tugged at your skirt, sensing the electric tension. "Mama, can I go look at the fish?"

He pointed toward the massive aquarium embedded in the study's far wall, where exotic sand-swimmers darted between artificial reefs.

Crocodile answered before you could. "Yes." It wasn't permission—it was dismissal.

His gaze never left yours as Ren scampered off, his small hands pressing against the glass in delight. The moment the boy's attention was absorbed by the marine display, Crocodile closed the distance between you in one fluid stride, his hook catching the fabric of your sleeve.

"You stole from me first," he murmured, the words a velvet-wrapped blade. "Six years of my son's life. Six years of his training, his shaping." His grip tightened infinitesimally, the metal teeth of his hook snagging threads. "You will compensate for that theft."

The hook’s pressure didn’t hurt—not physically. It was the implication that seared. Six years of stolen time, six years of choices made in shadow markets and back-alley deals, all laid bare in this too-bright study where your son now marveled at exotic fish meant for a warlord’s amusement.

You inhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in your ribs before speaking.

"Compensate how?" you asked, voice deliberately neutral. "You want me to recount every scraped knee? Every night I barricaded the door with a chair? Or just the parts where I failed?"

Crocodile’s nostrils flared slightly—the only tell. His hook slid from your sleeve to your wrist, the cool metal circling your pulse point like a manacle. "You misunderstand. This isn’t about your failures." His thumb brushed your racing pulse, a mockery of tenderness. "It’s about my property."

"Sign the marriage certificate," Crocodile said, not a request but a verdict rendered.

The aquarium's bubbling filtration system was the only sound in the room as Crocodile slid a parchment across the desk with his hook—thick vellum embossed with the Baroque Works insignia.

The marriage contract’s ink gleamed wetly in the lamplight, already bearing his sprawling signature. A second document lay beneath it: adoption papers for Ren, equally damning in their finality.

You stared at the papers, your fingers numb. "You had these prepared."

"Since the marketplace," Crocodile admitted, retrieving his cigar from the ashtray with deliberate casualness. He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "I always secure what’s mine."

Ren giggled as a striped fish nibbled at his fingertips through the glass, blissfully unaware of the transaction happening three paces away.

You curled your fingers inward, away from the contract's crisp edge. "No."

Crocodile's cigar paused halfway to his lips. The ember glowed brighter as he inhaled—slow, deliberate—before lowering it again. His golden eyes flicked to Ren's oblivious silhouette pressed against the aquarium glass, then back to you.

"No?" The word came out velvet-wrapped, but you knew the steel beneath.

"No," you repeated, pressing your palms flat against the desk. The marriage certificate wrinkled slightly under your fingertips. "Not like this. Not as some…transaction in your study while our son counts fish."

A muscle twitched near Crocodile's jawline. His hook flexed—once, twice—before settling against the desktop with a quiet tap.

"You misunderstand." His voice dropped to that dangerous register that once made Marine captains reconsider their career choices. "This isn't a negotiation."

You laughed. The sound burst from your chest like broken glass—sharp, unexpected, dangerous. Crocodile’s expression didn’t change, but his golden eyes narrowed a fraction, the way they did when an opponent revealed a card he hadn’t anticipated.

“You think I’ll sign that?” you asked, tapping the marriage certificate with one fingertip, your voice light as the desert wind. “After six years of running? After six years of sleeping with a knife under my pillow? You think I’ll kneel now because you’ve finally cornered me?”

Crocodile took a slow drag of his cigar, the ember flaring crimson in the dim study. “I think,” he said, exhaling smoke between each deliberate word, “you’ll kneel because it’s the only way to guarantee Ren’s safety.”

The air thickened. Your fingers twitched toward your thigh—where your dagger usually rested, though you’d been disarmed upon entering the study. A habit. A reflex.

Crocodile's gaze tracked the aborted movement of your hand with predatory precision, his lips curling around the cigar in something too sharp to be a smile. "Still reaching for blades that aren't there," he noted, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate stream. "Some habits die harder than others."

You forced your fingers to unclench, pressing them flat against the desktop again. The vellum contract crinkled under your palms. "Safety isn't guaranteed by your signature," you said, nodding toward the documents. "Only controlled."

Ren's delighted gasp echoed from the aquarium as a particularly vibrant fish darted past the glass. The sound was painfully incongruous with the tension thickening the air between you.

Crocodile followed your gaze, watching Ren press both hands against the glass, his small face alight with wonder. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to that dangerously intimate register—the one that once made underlings piss themselves.

Crocodile exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl toward the ceiling like a specter. "You taught him to count fish before you taught him to count coins," he observed, his voice unnervingly soft. "Sentimental."

"It's called childhood," you countered, tracking Ren's reflection in the polished mahogany desk. The way his small hands left smudges on the pristine glass—tiny rebellions against perfection. "Something you wouldn't understand."

The hook came down suddenly, embedding itself in the desk between your splayed fingers with a splintering crack. You didn't flinch. Six years ago, that might have made you jump.

Now, you merely raised an eyebrow at the fresh gouge in the expensive wood.

"You're right," Crocodile admitted, leaning in so close you could count the flecks of amber in his irises. "I don't understand childhoods. But I do understand legacies."

His gaze flicked to Ren, who was now attempting to mimic the undulating motions of the angelfish. "That boy carries mine. And you will not deny me again."

Ren pressed his nose against the aquarium glass, fogging the surface with each excited breath. "Mama! Look! It's got stripes like—" His words cut off abruptly as the massive angelfish flicked its tail, sending a ripple through the water that distorted his reflection.

You watched Crocodile's grip tighten on the desk, his golden eyes tracking Ren’s every movement with unnerving focus. The silence between you was a live wire, taut and crackling.

"You want a legacy?" you said softly, stepping back from the desk, putting space between yourself and the embedded hook. "Fine. But not like this." You gestured to the contracts, the ink still glistening under the lamplight. "Not with papers and threats and—"

A sharp knock at the study door cut you off.

The knock came again—three sharp raps that made Crocodile's jaw tighten. He didn't move, didn't even blink, but you saw the way his fingers twitched against the desktop, the way his golden eyes flickered toward the door and back to you in a fraction of a second. Calculating. Deciding.

"Enter," he said, the word clipped.

The door swung open to reveal one of his stone-faced subordinates, his posture rigid, his gaze carefully averted from the scene before him—the gouged desk, the tension thick enough to choke on. "Sir," the man said, his voice flat. "There's been an incident at the eastern checkpoint. Marines."

Crocodile exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like a man resisting the urge to reduce something to sand. "How many?"

The subordinate hesitated—a fatal mistake. Crocodile’s hook twitched, and the man flinched. "A squadron, sir. Led by Commodore Smoker."

You stiffened. Smoker. The name alone sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. Six years hadn’t dulled the instinct to run at the mention of the relentless Marine who had hunted Crocodile’s operations like a bloodhound.

Crocodile’s laughter was dry, humorless. "Persistent bastard." He removed his hook from the desk with a casual flick, sending wood chips scattering. "Tell the men to hold position. I’ll handle it personally."

The subordinate bowed sharply and retreated, the door clicking shut behind him.

The moment it closed, Crocodile’s attention snapped back to you, his golden eyes alight with something darker than annoyance. "Stay here," he ordered, his voice low. "Do not move from this room."

The door clicked shut behind Crocodile's subordinate, but the tension didn't leave the room—it merely shifted shape, coiling tighter around your ribs.

Ren remained oblivious, his small hands still pressed against the aquarium glass as he giggled at the darting fish. You envied his innocence.

Crocodile didn't move immediately. Instead, he studied you with the same predatory stillness he'd once used to assess rival warlords before crushing them. His golden eyes traced the line of your shoulders, the set of your jaw, the way your fingers curled instinctively toward where a weapon should be.

"Smoker," you said, breaking the silence first. The name tasted like gunpowder. "Still haunting you after all these years."

Crocodile's smirk was a razor's edge. "He's persistent. Like a bad stench." He lifted his hook, examining the fresh wood splinters embedded in the metal. "But easily dispersed."

The hook came up—not to strike, not to threaten, but to tilt your chin upward with surprising gentleness. Crocodile studied your face for a long moment, his golden eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance you could no longer hide.

Then, without warning, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead, exactly as he had six years ago before disappearing into the night for "work."

The kiss was brief, dry and devastatingly familiar. For one fractured second, you were back in that lavish Rainbase suite, watching him shrug on his coat while you pretended not to care where he was going.

You froze. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, something that had haunted your dreams longer than you’d admit—flooded your senses.

His free hand came up, not to restrain you, but to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair with the same possessive tenderness that had once made you weak.

Then he was gone, stepping back with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. "Behave," he murmured, the word both a command and a dare.

Ren chose that moment to abandon the aquarium, his bare feet slapping against the marble as he barreled toward you.

"Mama! The fish has teeth like—" He skidded to a halt, his eyes darting between you and Crocodile. "Why’s your face red?"

You swallowed hard, forcing your fingers to unclench from the fabric of your skirt. "It’s warm in here," you lied smoothly, shooting Crocodile a glare that promised violence if he contradicted you.

Crocodile didn’t react to your silent threat. Instead, he crouched—slowly, deliberately—until he was eye-level with Ren. "Your mother used to keep tropical fish," he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. "In a tank twice that size. She’d name them after constellations."

Ren’s eyes widened. "You knew Mama before?"

Crocodile’s smirk returned, sharper this time. "Intimately." His golden gaze flicked to you, loaded with six years of unspoken accusations. "She never told you about me?"

You moved before you could think, stepping between them, one hand pressed flat against Crocodile’s chest to push him back. "Enough." The word came out ragged. "You don’t get to interrogate him."

His heartbeat under your palm was steady, infuriatingly calm. "Then you’ll answer my questions instead." His hook grazed your hip—not a threat, just a reminder of its presence. "Starting with why you thought starving in Loguetown was preferable to coming home."

"Don't you have somewhere to go?" you hissed, fingers digging into the fine silk of Crocodile's waistcoat. The embroidered Baroque Works crest crumpled under your grip—six years of survival instincts screaming that Smoker's arrival was your last chance to run. "Your Marines are waiting."

Crocodile didn't move. His laughter vibrated against your palm still pressed to his chest, dark and humorless. "So eager to be rid of me again?"

His hook slid up your side, catching deliberately on a loose thread of your borrowed dress—the one his subordinates had provided after confiscating your travel-worn clothes. The metal was warm from his body heat, an unsettling intimacy.

Crocodile released you abruptly, the sudden absence of his touch leaving your skin tingling with phantom warmth. He bent smoothly, his movements controlled as a predator's, until his face was level with Ren's.

The boy blinked up at him, unafraid, curious—so painfully oblivious to the earthquake happening around him.

"I'll see you soon… son," Crocodile murmured, the words rough with an unfamiliar weight.

Then, with a tenderness you hadn't seen in six years, he pressed his lips to Ren's forehead—brief, possessive, devastating.

Ren's small fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, his grip tightening as he watched Crocodile straighten to his full, imposing height.

"Mama," he whispered, his voice carrying that particular pitch of childish suspicion reserved for adults who acted confusingly nice. "Why did the hook-man kiss me like you do?"

The question hung between you like a blade. Crocodile paused mid-turn, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the tailored fabric of his coat. You saw it—the infinitesimal hitch in his breathing, the way his golden eyes flickered to you, waiting to see how you'd dismantle this moment.

“Because,” you said, bending to meet Ren’s eyes, your voice deliberately light, “some adults forget how to say goodbye properly.” You flicked a glare at Crocodile over Ren’s head, your meaning clear: This isn’t over.

You didn’t answer Ren’s question—not really. But the way Crocodile’s smirk sharpened at your evasion told you he’d taken it as the challenge it was. He straightened, rolling his shoulders with the lazy arrogance of a man who knew he’d already won.

"Until later, then," he murmured, the words curling like cigar smoke between you—a promise, a threat, an inevitability.

The moment Crocodile straightened, the tenderness vanished like smoke in a sandstorm. He turned toward the door, his coat flaring behind him, and paused just long enough to glance back at you—his golden eyes dark with a promise that sent ice down your spine.

"Stay," he commanded, the word cracking like a whip. Then he was gone, the study door slamming shut behind him with finality.

Footsteps echoed outside—not Crocodile’s measured stride, but the heavier tromp of his guards taking position. You knew without checking that the windows would be barred, the balcony watched. Rainbase’s opulence had always been a gilded cage.

“Mama,” Ren whispered, pressing his small face against your thigh, his voice muffled by the fabric of your borrowed dress. “He called me his son.”

The words landed like a grenade in the silence of the study. You exhaled sharply through your nose, your fingers instinctively tangling in Ren’s dark curls—too dark, too much like his.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly, staring at the closed door Crocodile had just exited through. “He did.”

Ren pulled back, his wide, gold-flecked eyes searching yours with an unsettling perceptiveness. “Is he?”

You hesitated. Six years of lies, half-truths, and evasions tangled in your throat. But Crocodile had already shattered that careful fiction the moment he knelt in the marketplace and recognized his own features mirrored in Ren’s face.

“Yes,” you said again, softer this time. You knelt, bringing yourself level with him. The marble floor bit into your knees, but you ignored it. “He’s your father.”

Ren absorbed this with a slow nod, his small fingers plucking at the embroidery on your dress—a nervous habit he’d had since infancy. “Then why didn’t he know me before?”

The question was innocent, but it lanced through you like his father’s hook. You smoothed Ren’s hair back, buying time. “It’s complicated. Grown-up complicated.”

Ren frowned, his brow furrowing in a way that was so him it made your chest ache. “But you always say complicated things aren’t real. You say people just hide behind them.”

Damn it. You’d taught him too well.

Across the room, a grandfather clock ticked like a slow detonation. You could hear Crocodile’s men murmuring outside the door, the occasional shuffle of boots against marble. Trapped. Again.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, tracing the scar on Ren’s knee—a souvenir from last summer’s ill-advised tree climb, “people make choices they think are right. But they hurt others anyway.”

Ren tilted his head, studying you with those uncanny gold-flecked eyes. “Like when I took the last cookie?”

A startled laugh burst from you. “Yes, exactly. Except with more—” You gestured vaguely. “World domination. Betrayal. That sort of thing.”

Ren nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense. He reached for the loose thread on your sleeve, winding it around his finger. “So Papa took a cookie?”

You choked on nothing. “Papa?”

Ren shrugged. “If he’s my father, that’s his name.” The simplicity of childhood logic—brutal in its clarity.

The grandfather clock’s pendulum swung like a blade between your ribs. Outside, a sandstorm’s distant howl rattled the windows.

You imagined Crocodile out there somewhere, orchestrating chaos with that same ruthless precision he applied to everything—even fatherhood.

Ren tugged your sleeve. “Will he take more cookies?”

You exhaled through your nose. “He’ll take everything, sweetheart. That’s what crocodiles do.”

Ren considered this. The rhythmic thump filled the silence until he suddenly stilled. “But he kissed my head.” His small fingers touched the spot where Crocodile’s lips had brushed. “Like you do.”

Your throat tightened. That damnable gesture—so calculated, so familiar. Crocodile hadn’t just claimed Ren; he’d mirrored your love language, weaponized it.

A hook wrapped in velvet.

The grandfather clock struck six, its chime resonating through the study like a funeral bell. You counted each toll, matching it to the pulse throbbing in your temples. Six years. Six chimes. Six hundred ways this could end badly.

Ren was curled against your side now, his breathing slow and even, thumb tucked absently against his lower lip—a habit he’d never outgrown.

You watched the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way his dark lashes fanned over cheeks still rounded with baby fat. Proof he was still yours. For now. . . .