What Crocodile truly missed after he'd eaten his devil fruit was the triumphal feeling of being covered in an enemy's blood.

Crushing someone with brutal and punishing sand; drying out their very essence– those were effective, even elegant ways to kill someone. But they were, quite literally, bloodless.

At least he could still look at Mihawk— eyes ablaze mid-battle sword whirling with grace— and appreciate the swordsman's handsome countenance stained with crimson. 

And when they kissed when the fight was done, maybe he'd taste a little of the blood still on Mihawk's lips– even if it meant a momentary vulnerability.

Crocodile lay in bed barely conscious after his humiliating defeat, his wounds dressed with healing salves and herbs, and bandages that had to be changed every few hours to stop the oozing.

He felt feverish, and indistinct, lost in an inconsolable haze of doubt, and anger and pain throbbing through him. There was only one thing that he wanted that could bring him any measure of peace.

"Hawk…" When he reached out from under the covers, it was with the only hand that he had left.

Mihawk clasped it, leaning forward in the chair beside his bed. "I'm here, Crocodile."

Leaving the meeting chamber Crocodile pauses in the doorway. His size and his coat's bulk force Mihawk to pass close enough to him to, he is sure, smell the whiskey on his breath, which is exactly his intention. 

His eyes linger on Mihawk as he brushes past, and Crocodile's heartbeat catches as the other man's golden gaze flicks up briefly to meet his own before he's gone.

They cannot touch. 

They cannot be seen together. 

They cannot let the World Government see them as weak, or know how to hurt them.

Crocodile just wants Mihawk to know he misses him.

Crocodile puffed on his cigar and stared vacantly out at the endless sands.

He was thinking about Mihawk again. Thinking about the curve of his jaw. About the strength in his long, supple fingers. About smell of his cologne and beard oil mixed with the smell of blood and the scent of the sea.

For the sake of their pride they had not been together in years. 

Crocodile pined.

Once again he thought about simply taking a ship, leaving Alabasta without a word, and throwing himself prostrate on the wet ground in front of his old first mate's gloomy castle.

Crocodile dreams and the dream is a memory. 

He is 25 and Mihawk is his swordsman. They are young and strong and full of ambition. Each small victory is a triumph that brings them closer to their dreams, and they celebrate each one with wine and laughter. They lay blissfully together in the sheets of the captain's quarters and Crocodile has his arm around Mihawk's shoulders, and gives him puffs off of his cigar.

Crocodile wakes up. 

He is 40 and he is alone. He is cold despite the desert heat, and somehow more lonely than he has ever been.

Some of the days in Impel Down are very bad, especially when they take Daz away for a punishment and Crocodile is left alone. When they torture Crocodile he can focus, he can find his strength, but when he is alone in the quiet and the dark he begins to lose his mind.

He sees Mihawk there, with his staring, accusing golden eyes. Mihawk tells him that he is a fool and a coward and a failure and Crocodile knows that it's true. He reaches out with his hand and his hook to beg forgiveness, comfort. 

But Mihawk only stares.