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The most interesting thing about breeding bananawani, Crocodile thinks, is observing their behaviors. They’re shockingly social animals, and although they tend not to split off into specific groups, he can see companionable tolerance within each clutch as they grow together. There is a visible hierarchy of sorts between the ‘wani, and while Crocodile may be their master, he is not their leader. That honor belongs to the strongest male, until he is usurped by the newer generations.
They’re particularly vocal little beasts as well, a cacophonous bastion of sound on a good day. Chirping, bellowing, hissing, chattering back and forth.
The hatchlings, especially—they love to talk. They call for their mothers at the drop of a hat, squirming over each other in the nest and cheeping frantically. The mother always responds, of course. Without fail, everytime, she lumbers to her babies’ side, always at their beck and call. She nuzzles at them, ever-gentle, crooning down at their infant forms.
Crocodile wonders if the keening call of the hatchlings lives inside the mother’s bones, if it’s seeped into the leathery cracks of her skin. If she’s memorized every dip and crack of their babyish bellows, and if she feels the tug of some innate sixth sense compelling her to rush their aid at the sound of her hatchlings’ distress.
Crocodilians are, interestingly enough, some of the most instinctually devoted mothers of the reptilian family. Crocodile finds this fact terribly ironic. Hilarious, even.
Dragon used to joke about what a terrible mother he would make. How he should’ve been called Cobra instead, for how much more likely it was that he would eat his own offspring rather than care for it as his own.
Crocodile finds himself inclined to agree with the sentiment, even as he watches the mother bananawani snuffle roughly at her babies, dutifully inspecting them for the cause of distress.
Crocodile is nothing like his namesake. He cares nothing for the nameless infant that he gave up all those years ago. There is not a single nurturing bone in his body, and he remains confident that if he were to ever, somehow, come into contact with this child, he would feel no instinctual pull. There would be no gut-deep urge pushing him to care for it, to protect it. To come when it cries, helpless and so, so young.
He proves himself wrong, in the end.
It’s a whip-fast decision, really. One made foolishly in the heat of battle, deep within the chaos of Marineford.
Crocodile figures that he’s already dug himself into a hole deep enough to bury ten men at this point, what with breaking out of Impel Down and all, so he might as well make himself at home down there.
And seas, does he ever.
He knows it’s stupid and insane, obviously. Bordering on suicidal. Actively stopping a Navy execution in the middle of the deed. He’d really only come here, to Marineford, so that he could take down Whitebeard. Feel the wet crunch of that old bastard’s bones beneath the twist of his sand-built hand. He hadn’t intended to get involved in Straw Hat’s battle to save his brother. He doesn’t care whether that brat lives or dies. It’s of no consequence to him either way.
But.
Straw Hat is crying.
Not just crying, wailing. Monkey D. Luffy, newly coined son of Dragon the Revolutionary, is crumpled into a broken heap in the remains of some worthless Marine structure, and he is screaming his brother's name like the world is about to end. Crocodile thinks that maybe for him, it is.
He looks like he’s gone through hell, and he has—Crocodile knows he has. He’s bleeding from at least eight different places, his clothes are torn beyond saving, and every inch of visible skin on his body is bruised a brilliant, blooming purple.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils the size of pinpricks. Crocodile can see the unhinged, soul-deep fear of a man with everything to lose reflected in his bloodshot sclera. Snot and tears are smeared on his chin, mixing with the congealed blood that stains his raw cheeks.
The executioner’s blades rise above Fire-Fist Ace’s bared neck, and Crocodile’s son howls.
(Bananawani mothers would know the call of their hatchlings even in death.)
And something, some latent, long-dormant instinct deep in Crocodile’s gut, jerks like a fishhook. It pulls, and it pulls, and—
And it snaps.
(His son is crying, his son is hurt, his son is in pain, his son needs him, now, now, nownowNOW—)
Suddenly, Crocodile is moving. He isn’t quite processing his actions. He doesn’t think that he’s really processed anything that’s happened since Sengoku announced to the armies amassed on the battleground of Marineford that Monkey D. Luffy is the son of the Revolutionary Leader Dragon. Everything around him seems as though it’s happening underwater, or through a thick fog. He feels distant. Removed.
But he’s moving whether he likes it or not, his body acting without him having any say in the matter, and he’s darting forward, slipping into sand like a second skin, and he’s cutting up through the platform that holds the would-be executioners of Portgas D. Ace and—
And his aim strikes true.
The world goes quiet as blood spatters onto the scaffolding and two bodies go flying back, dead before they even hit the floor.
Crocodile lands on the ground with a delicate thud, sand swirling like a maelstrom at his feet. He hears the unmistakable sound of guns cocking as the panicked Marines around him close ranks, and a dangerous smirk stretches across his lips for a split second. It shifts his cigar.
Sengoku’s eyes flicker with rage, and Crocodile can practically see him foaming at the mouth. The old man snarls like a rabid lapdog, yapping up a storm as he curses Crocodile’s name.
Crocodile tunes him out, absentmindedly monologuing something about corrupt government operations and how he hates everyone on this battlefield equally, which is not… untrue, given the circumstances. He ignores Sengoku’s indignant response, searching the mayhem for the sun-bright yellow of Straw Hat’s vest.
He sees the boy gaping at him from the very edge of his field of vision, struggling to get up from the wreckage he’s landed in. For a moment, Crocodile finds himself desperately wanting to go to him, to turn and look his son in the eyes and tell him that everything is going to be okay now. That nobody was going to hurt him anymore.
And then that feathery bastard Doflamingo tries to cut off his head, and it all descends back into chaos. Crocodile battles the flamboyant warlord hook-to-hand, griping to himself internally about his frankly horrendous taste in men.
He loses sight of Straw Hat in the bedlam and tries to be happy about it. He squares his shoulders and resolves not to interfere any further, lest he attract anymore Marine attention.
And then he is watching as his son is beaten into the ground by the three admirals, and his resolve is wavering ferociously. He tries to focus only kicking the ass of whatever’s in front of him, and very resolutely not panicking whatsoever as he watches Jinbei and Ivankov rush to collect Straw Hat from the crater his impact has created in the hallowed stones of Marineford.
Crocodile eyes the smears of color in the corner of his vision, observing as Ivankov does… something with his Fruit powers. Whatever it is, it works, because Luffy is taking off like a shot once more, ducking and weaving through the battlefield with a renewed determination as he calls out for his brother, mowing down Marines like a damn bulldozer. Crocodile finds himself having to force down the warm bubble of pride and relief that threatens to expand in his chest at the sight.
But Sengoku has seen him too, is shrieking for somebody to stop Straw Hat from advancing, and Hawkeye’s head shoots up. That unnatural, floodlight gaze sharpens, focusing on Straw Hat’s nimble form as he dances his way through wave after wave of Navy soldiers. The warlord charges, advancing towards Crocodile’s son with a brutal, terrifying efficiency.
For some reason, Crocodile finds that he is already running, scrambling to get to Luffy in time. But, he realizes, icy talons clutching his heart, he isn’t going to make it. He’s so close, so fucking close, but it’s not enough, it’s not—
Mihawk strikes, aiming a wave of energy at the unsuspecting boy, and Crocodile feels a bolt of panic swelling in his throat for just a split second, but then Mr. 1 is there, blocking Yoru’s path and shielding Straw Hat from certain death. He pushes back against Mihawk’s sword, snarling ferociously as he battles the warlord. Crocodile has never been more grateful to see his former right-hand-man in his entire life.
And then he blinks and Mr. 1 is down, gory viscera spurting from his chest in a bloody arc, and Mihawk's blade is again sent careening down towards a now defenseless Straw Hat, and suddenly Crocodile’s body is once more moving without his consent.
(He would really like if it would stop doing that.)
He leaps in front of his son, crashing his hook against Yoru’s blade with a resounding clang and obstructing Mihawk’s death-strike.
Mihawk makes a muted noise of surprise, low in his throat. His bird-of-prey eyes widen minutely, clearly not expecting to come face-to-face with his former coworker.
Crocodile pushes himself away from Mihawk, landing heavily in front of Straw Hat. He doesn’t turn to look as he speaks, ordering the boy to go. He knows that if he sees him now, he might not be able to look away.
(He wonders, now that he knows, if Luffy has his father’s eyes.)
He can hear the fading smack of Straw Hat’s flip-flops on the Marineford cobblestones getting further and further away, and can’t help but smirk to himself, just a bit. Smart boy, for doing as he says. Crocodile bites down on his cigar and widens his stance, beckoning Mr. 1 to his feet and throwing himself forward to meet Mihawk as the man brandishes Yoru with a disgruntled hiss.
The battle goes on, blurring into a haze of blood and gunshots and the crash of sword against sword. Straw Hat frees his brother, and Sengoku sends the scaffolding crashing down when he activates his Devil Fruit power. Crocodile can hear the telltale grunts and fleshy thwacks of Straw Hat fighting his way across the battlefield, allies at his side, and he does not turn around.
Crocodile fights, and he fights, and he very resolutely does not turn around.
And then, suddenly, Luffy is letting out a keening, haunting, hair-raising wail because Fire-Fist Ace is dead, and Crocodile is turning around before he can stop himself, and all he knows is that he needs to get to his son’s side now.
And then, somehow, Whitebeard is dead too. And everything just… stops, as though the world has been turned on its head.
Except the Navy stops for no man, and certainly no pirate, and Akainu’s magma-coated fist is barreling towards where the now-comatose body of Straw Hat Luffy lies and even though his tiny form is shielded beneath Jinbei’s bulk, Crocodile knows it won’t be enough to save him and this time—
This time Crocodile is in full control of his movements. This time, he knows what he needs to do, knows it with a sickening, bone-deep certainty, because too many have already perished on this battlefield, and he will not let Luffy be one of them.
He will not let his son die today.
(Bananawani mothers are fiercely protective of their young—willing to massacre entire herds of predators in order to defend their hatchlings. They are even willing to give up their own lives, just to enable their babies to survive for one more day.)
He slips into the sand without a second thought, condensing himself into a spiked column aimed directly at Akainu, pummeling the lava-soaked admiral with a ferocious blow. The spike is sent careening through the man’s chest, skewering him like a piece of meat and stopping the admiral dead in his tracks.
Akainu howls with rage, thrashing uselessly against the sand. Crocodile disperses quickly, allowing his sand to be seized by the wind as he retakes his human form with a snarl etched across his face, cigar clenched between bared teeth.
Jinbei cries out in shock from where he’s hunched over Straw Hat, but Crocodile barely acknowledges him. With a flick of his hand, he sends a tornado of sand spiraling in their direction, letting it carry his son to safety.
From the corner of his eye, he spots Akainu reforming himself, lava leaching from every pore. He shifts his body grimly, widening his stance with purpose.
He jerks his head around to face the stunned onlookers, briskly commanding Straw Hat’s allies to catch them before they fall and get them onto a ship, to take them far away from here. The shell-shocked men leap into action, stumbling over themselves to follow his orders.
As Jinbei is whisked away, Luffy in his arms, the fishman shouts after him, asking to know why Crocodile is helping them.
Crocodile hesitates, turning to look up at the disappearing silhouettes of his son and the warlord who put his life on the line to protect him as they’re blown into the horizon.
And in response, eyes narrowed and jaw set, he shouts:
“If you’re going to protect someone, then you’d better do it right!”
Jinbei is swept away before Crocodile can hear his reply.
As the hordes of furious Whitebeard Pirates advance towards Akainu, now fully reformed, Crocodile slips away without a fight. He dissipates back into sand, allowing the gusts of wind to carry him up onto Marineford’s walls, only returning to his human form once he finds a spot with an adequate vantage point of the bay where he knows he won’t be spotted.
He watches as Straw Hat is rushed to the docks. Watches as a yellow submarine, emblazoned with an odd, grinning Jolly Roger, surfaces from the depths, bobbing on the waves. Watches as one of the other Supernovas—Trafalgar, Surgeon of Death—exits from its innards, clad in a fluffy, spotted hat and a hoodie. Watches as he over to where Jinbei is standing and holding Luffy so painfully gently, like something very precious that has been broken irreparably. Watches as Trafalgar’s lips form the words, give him to me, I’m a doctor, I can help. Watches as his unconscious son is brought on board the submarine, toted like a sack of meat.
And. It’s.
Crocodile knows that, logically, he will most likely never see Straw Hat again. Doesn’t even want to, if he’s being honest.
But the feeling of watching his son’s tiny, shattered form disappear into the bowels of the other Supernova’s submarine—seeing just how injured he really is, seeing how lifeless his broken body looks, folded limply into Jinbei’s arms—the sight makes something threaten to crack inside Crocodile’s chest, something he thought he’d buried a long time ago.
And oh, it hurts. It burns like a fire beneath his skin, giving up his son for the second time. Probably more than it should. Definitely more than he thought it would.
Bananawani mothers will often push their children to leave the safety of the nest. Once she believes that they are self-sufficient enough to survive on their own, she will abandon them to fend for themselves. Crocodile has seen it happen dozens upon dozens of times, and has borne sole witness to the pitiful wails of the hatchlings as they mourn the absence of their mother.
He has always wondered if it hurts the mother to turn her back on her babies when they are in pain, when she knows their cries as well as she knows her own scales, her own heart.
Now, observing from afar as the submarine that carries his dying son sinks below the waves, he thinks he finally knows the answer to that question.