the stars have all gone

ii

"There's a man asking for you."

These days you did readings in the back of a the cafe near the bakery where you worked now. Your client base grew by word of mouth, and interested parties called your Den Den Mushi with their birth information, so the only people who showed up at the cafe asking for you by name were usually pissed at you—rarely a client themself, but more often than not someone in their life affected by whatever advice they heard in your commentary.

You checked your notebook of charts for the week. All women. Definitely not a client.

"What's he look like?" you asked the cafe owner.

His eyes shifted. "I like you, I do, I like that your business brings me business. I knew your past was something suspect. But—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The owner stepped closer and stage whispered: "It's Sir Crocodile."

You didn't make a habit of hooking up with strange men, but you supposed infamous men were a trend in your single-digit body count considering you gave your virginity to a captain of the Worst Generation. That night, months ago, Crocodile easily tucked you into his side away from the from view of other diners as you left the restaurant, and you let yourself ebb along. You weren't even sure what you kept talking about, but his rich, low laughter sounded surprised at itself and thrummed in your veins the next morning when you woke alone in a suite at a fine hotel you'd only passed since settling here. On his side of the bed was a folded note, unsigned: "I'll see you."

You assumed they were empty words, or careful ones. Crocodile seemed to move around a lot, having no base of operations since he was stripped of his Warlord title, so you shrugged it off at the time. But now...

Surely they weren't sweet nothings. He was too sensible for that. So maybe you offended him and it was actually an oblique threat, in which case you'd better climb out the window.

"I'll talk to him. Is it okay for him to come in?"

The cafe owner blanched, then hardened. "If this means trouble, we're done."

He left to retrieve Crocodile like the notorious pirate was there for a chart reading (was he?), or like he was... calling on you, like a suitor (...was he?).

You shook yourself and tried to remember anything after the restaurant. What he tasted like under the wine, or what his pale skin looked like in low light. But you came up empty except for the smell of the cool spices of his aftershave in the sheets.

Damn.

His footsteps were heavy and leisurely before he stopped in the doorway, and you felt the breath leave your lungs. How was he so handsome? Other people would find his scars off putting, and there were several; you weren't researching him or anything, but you saw wanted posters from throughout the years, and they seemed to only accumulate along his face. His hair was dark as yours, but your skin was pinkish and cool while his was a warm, light olive.

"You keep odd hours," Crocodile more grunted than said.

"I do," you agreed. It was mid-afternoon, and only the start of your day. You had a little solitary time in your room at a women's boardinghouse before you did consultations, then spent the night studying for future clients until your pre-opening bakery shift well before nautical twilight, earlier than you'd wake up on the Grudge Dolph. Then you slept most of the time the sun was up, ironic for you and your diurnal chart, but you didn't believe in this stuff anymore.

"Long time no see," you said pointedly, and nodded at the chair across from you.

Crocodile looked too big for the cafe, like everything was doll furniture to his stature. You knew their were humans larger than him but wondered how the hell you two fit together that night since you woke up with minimal but tell-tale soreness. He angled his chair away from the table so he could cross his ankle over the opposite knee, and you swallowed, unable to pretend you weren't looking at the strong thighs crinkling his dress pants, before meting his gaze.

"I almost gave up," he said simply. "My associate would wonder why we bothered docking here with nothing to show for it."

Okay.

You were lost.

"Excuse me?"

He inhaled a good drag of his cigar. "'You're my captain,' you said. It was a thought exercise, to do with that instrument of yours, but I've warmed to the idea."

No.

"What do you say?"

He looked at you like he wouldn't be bothered either way you answered.

But.

"I'm sorry," you said against your better judgment. "I'm a little lost here. I don't... totally know what we discussed last time."

He wasn't expecting that.

"Hah." That bark-laugh-grunt he did that somehow also held a question, but not as undignified as a "huh?"

"It was a lot of wine for me," you said awkwardly. What were you, a kid? You're twenty eight. It's not that you were teetotal, but that was your first night of drinking in a good few months.

Crocodile seemed well and truly taken aback, and a bit of ash ungracefully plopped off the end of his cigar, which he caught with... a cloud of sand, and neatly floated off into an ash tray. Wow. Logia powers really were different.

His voice was tight. "What do you remember."

"Uhm..." You bit your lip, and his eyes flicked down there for millisecond. "We left the restaurant for your hotel. And then, uh. It was morning."

Slowly, with his cigar curled in his pinkie and ring fingers, Crocodile went to pinch the bridge of his nose. "That unremarkable, huh?"

Oh god.

This was that little bit of sensitivity to him you found so endearing. He'd never call it that, though; pride was a euphemism.

"If I was drunk enough not to remember shit for shit," you started, "Surely I must have... I don't know, puked on you, or something."

"No." His moment was over in the blink of an eye. "It's better this way. Just know we mostly talked."

Mostly. "About?"

"Your travels." You winced. Surely you didn't cry over your ex-captain to Sir Crocodile of all people. You had a pitiful lack of girl friends despite living with women for the first time in a decade, but even the widow who brought you to that restaurant in the first place would be a better choice. "What you want, and who's in the way of it."

That also sounded vulnerable, but the way he studied your face for your reaction made you think it struck him, somehow.

"What I want."

"You can map the stars along the Grand Line if you stick with a Warlord," Crocodile said simply. "Not one of your greenhorns."

Your breath caught.

That was the reason you joined Hawkins when he came back to your hometown after forming his crew of sycophants who'd never seen cartomancy before. You didn't want to be a navigator. You wanted to survey the Grand Line celestially because the sea crossed the equator. In reality, you wanted to move to the South Blue and study the southern hemisphere's sky, only after familiarizing yourself with the one you were born under. The Navy wouldn't let you move that freely, and the astronomers of Mary Geoise weren't practiced in geography, nor would they give you the time of day. The only course was to do it all yourself.

"It will be dangerous." Hawkins hadn't lied to you, yet. "You need to hold your own to be a pirate, but I'll protect you when I can."

You were the only woman on the ship and the only one who knew him before, the neighbor boy who complained he had to babysit you but cried when the two of you got lost in a fishing boat as night fell, and you used Polaris to get back to your home port.

"Former Warlord," you corrected. Crocodile's lip curled in annoyance. "You're from the Grand Line, aren't you?"

He humored you. "Paradise. But I've been in the New World for almost two years now."

So had you. Your ancestors were from this sea, too.

"I saw it," Hawkins said easily, and three of his cards arranged themselves midair: the High Priestess, the Eight of Cups, the Chariot. "You, leaving here."

You hated it most when you had the same interpretation, because it let him think he was right. He'd long since assigned the High Priestess to you and the Magician to himself since by pure chance you shared birth cards, and in one of your now-rare lighter moods, you'd sniffed, "The Chariot navigates. You be the Tower." But besides that, the Chariot was ruled by Cancer, a water sign, beside a pip from Cups, and here you were, underwater. Leaving him.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

The Pacifistas were terrifying. You followed your instincts to run and hide, and no one resented you for it, but the crew barely acknowledged you as it was. You were either a know-it-all of a navigator or the captain's tagalong. Both of you knew they assumed you were fucking, still, but nor did you do anything to disabuse them of the idea, and this is where it led.

"No," you said out loud. "Thank you. But I'd hold you back. I'm not strong."

"You think I don't know?"

Ouch. "You could flatter me a little."

"Can you even use that thing?" Crocodile inclined his head downward. How did he...? You were better about keeping your dagger strapped to your thigh these days, but today you were wearing a longer skirt that should've hidden it well, and you briefly had the thought was he checking out your legs? You wore stockings today. Maybe he liked that sort of thing.

"It was a gift."

Hawkins called it an athame. You'd killed only one person in your life, dragging it down a man's femoral artery when Hawkins wasn't there, didn't see you get separated from the crew.

"I can teach you," Crocodile said. "But you should trust the person you follow. I've survived this long."

I'll protect you when I can.

You blinked.

"You also went to prison."

"And left."

You exhaled. "You know what I wanted when I was young and stupid. But what are you doing now?"

"There's nothing stupid about knowledge," he said sternly. "It's a weapon more strictly controlled by the World Government than any blade or bullet."

"How political."

"Everything is."

You grinned, more to yourself. Even when he was pressing you one way, he was so easy to talk to. But you schooled your face to neutrality. "What did you want with Alabasta?"

"That was a long time ago."

"I don't care about a monarchy going down," you said impatiently. "If I join you, what am I participating in? And do you even have a ship? A crew?"

"You know, I believe I told you all this last time. But apparently..."

"Oh, don't you hold that over my head." The look he gave you was unimpressed. "What?"

"You insist you're not a pirate, but you're vulgar as any sailor."

"Vulgar? I haven't said anything." Besides 'shit for shit,' but he seemed distracted in that moment.

"I don't mean your vocabulary."

"Oh!" you said sarcastically. "Okay, sir."

Crocodile's brow hardened. "Watch it."

"Or what, sir? Did I call you that in bed, sir?"

He stood up, suddenly, and closed the few feet of distance between you. His golden hook came through one of the wide stitches of your sweater harmlessly as he butted it up under your jaw, tilting your head up. "What are you playing at, hmm? I decided I'd forget it to be fair to you."

You breathed deeply and the cardamom and tobacco of him filled your head like a fog. "Or you could remind me."

His gaze didn't leave your face. "It's poor form to sleep with a subordinate."

"I'm not under you."

He closed his eyes and exhaled, like you were really testing him. "What will it take?"

Feeling brave, you gently coaxed your sweater from his hook—stretched the damn stockinette, you'd have to tug the fabric to get it smooth again—and held onto it, like it was his other hand, petting it with your thumb. "Your pitch needs work. You just showed back up in this town hoping I'd be amenable? Based on a one-night stand?"

"I thought it was more like a date."

He sounded a little sullen as he nudged his chair closer to you with his foot.

"One of us has to ask out the other, you know."

"You're exhausting."

"Yes. Are you still sure you want me?"

"Yes."

You didn't know if he meant for his crew or otherwise.