#sircrocidillian

❝ oh no, crocy - what happened? ❞ whether doflamingo was electing to ignore the snark, or was genuinely too arrogant to consider for even one milisecond that he was the problem was unclear.

he was using that tone again; the one where you could never really tell if he was mocking, teasing, or genuinely asking a question. his seemingly permanent grin and the fact he kept his eyes hidden twenty-four-seven behind thick, polarized sunglasses only confused his intentions further. that was doffy's biggest problem; he had perfected the art of masking how he truly felt in any given situation - filtering every emotion from genuine joy to boiling anger through the same, unfaltering smile and laugh - but he had a much harder time "turning it off", so to speak.

this was the life, really.

doflamingo was fully reclined in his favorite chair - beind read to by his favorite person, though admitting that aloud would likely cause problems - with his resting eyes hidden behind a delightfully cold compress that was already taking the edge off his headache after just a short half-hour. occasionally, a hand would cautiously reach out to his left and blindly probe a bowl of blueberries with his fingers, bringing a handful to back his lips and popping three or more into his mouth at a time. at an eventual pause in crocodile's rythmic pace - likely during a transition from one paragraph to the next or turning the page, it's not like doflamingo could see to tell which one - he finally spoke up:  

“i ask again: do you really have to sail back in two days? can’t we just” — he yawned, a testament to his comfort — “stay like this forever?”

A JAUNTY JINGLING accompanies the aggressive bounce of her knees. Shoulders glide back, framing a perfectly straight spine. The soles of her feet are practically stitched together. There's no reason she favors this particular position, but if prompted, she would say it just feels right. Movement reaches her head next. A metronomic bob that tips her head in both directions. There's a melody somewhere — it's buried so deep in her brain that no other ears can reach it.

When he speaks, his words do penetrate the haze, but they do not reach cognizance. At least, not yet. The private concert continues for a moment longer before the words process. It's evident when it does breach: all movement stops instantaneously. Neela simmers in stillness for a second before swinging her head to the side. His imposing figure eclipses her periphery. Did he say . . . ?

"I lost nothing, whatever you believe, I don't. All I am is what I've become by myself, all I will ever be is who my sisters need me to be.

We? There's no we.

You're nothing but a lowlife who's only standing before me because I entertained the idea that anything of value could come out of your filthy mouth.

"It's not about guts. This isn't some last hurrah or attempt to embolden myself to you. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do, what my people deserve.

I will do whatever it takes, face whoever I must for those that have their hopes on me.