Chapter Text
Buggy wakes up with a splitting headache that makes him immediately wish he hadn’t woken up at all.
He closes his eyes once more, pulling the pillow over his head in an effort to guard himself of the sunrays coming through the open curtains, groaning dramatically as he does. Being dramatic always helps his mood, even if not necessarily his physical state. He grumbles and curses, swearing off drink for the millionth time.
(Just another promise he’s never going to keep).
He stays buried under the pillow for a while, long enough for sleep to try to claim him back. And normally he’d let it, because his head is killing him and sleeping it off sounds like the best idea ever, but in the last minute he’s become aware of a little detail that’s making him quietly panic.
The pillow doesn’t smell like him.
There are some traces of his sweat and perfume and even some booze, but it also smells of seasalt and something airy and light that he’s always associated with--
“ Shit ,” he curses, sitting up in a rush, making his headache flare and he winces, pressing the palm of his hand against his temple in an effort to chase the pain away. It’s zero effective, of course and he groans once more, deciding to ignore the pain in favor of getting up and getting out of here .
To his horror, he discovers he’s indeed naked under the covers. He ignores the memories trying to resurface and instead looks for his clothes, which thankfully have been carefully folded over a chair by the vanity. He doesn’t allow himself to linger and look around the room, categorizing the changes it’s gone through since the last time he was here, focusing instead on getting dressed as quickly as possible, which is quite the feat considering his rolling stomach that seems intent on emptying itself on the ridiculously fancy and fluffy rug.
(Uta’s selection, no doubt. No way in hell Shanks even thought about changing the rug, let alone bothered with actually doing it.)
Once dressed, he peeks into the hall, making sure the coast is clear. The house is as ridiculously big as he remembers, but there’s no sound coming from the rooms next door, so he assumes the kids are at school and so it’s safe to leave.
“Buggy!” Uta greets, just when he thought he would manage to escape the house without running into anyone. “I didn’t know you were here!” she continues, wrapping him in a tight hug that he feels obliged to return.
It’s not the girl’s fault her father is an asshole. In fact, she probably has suffered from his asshole-ry ways far more than Buggy.
“Uta, you’re gonna be late if-- ah, Buggy. You’re awake.”
And speak of the devil… “Good morning, Shanks,” he says, turning to face his ex best friend/ enemy/ occasional hook up. Their relationship is as tumultuous as all those expletives would lead you to believe and so Buggy scowls at him from over Uta’s head.
Shanks, like the bastard he is, ignores Buggy’s sour expression, offering him instead a bright grin. “I made pancakes!” he announces cheerfully. “With strawberries and whipped cream, exactly as you like them.”
“Ah, so that’s why I got a special breakfast,” Uta says with a pout, which really shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. She’s seventeen now, way too old to be pouting like that, expecting the world to bend to her will.
Shanks laughs, ruffling her hair and since she’s still in Buggy’s arms (why are they still hugging?) he steps way too close to him. He smells like his usual lotion, hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing his usual casual attire: a patterned shirt (open to the third button, like the harlot he is), black shorts and, fashion crime of all crimes, flip flops.
How does Buggy keep falling into bed with a guy like this?
“Enough chit chat, young lady,” Shanks says, addressing Uta. “Your bus will arrive any minute now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the teenager murmurs, finally letting go of Buggy to head upstairs, presumably to fetch her bag. “I get it, you’re in a rush to get me out of the house,” she mumbles with fake annoyance and Shanks rolls his eyes at her dramatics.
“I swear she takes after you,” he tells Buggy and he turns to glare at him. If that’s the case, that’s definitely in Uta’s benefit. “Come on, before breakfast cools down.”
Now, Buggy had meant to leave quietly, as if he hadn’t been here at all, but the prospect of pancakes ( Shanks’s pancakes ) is way too appealing. His stomach has settled now and he thinks some food (and coffee) will do him good. “Fine,” he agrees dramatically, following after the other man. “You know, you shouldn’t be bringing random strangers to your house, for the kids’s sake if nothing else.”
Shanks gives him an unimpressed look, one eyebrow raised. “You’re hardly a stranger, Bugs,” he argues as he places a plate in front of him before going back to the stove. “Although I suppose it’s been a while since you were here.”
And with good reason too! They broke up almost two decades ago, but they keep falling back together every so often. They have never officially gotten back together again, but there have been times--
“Yes, well. Point is, don’t bring your hook ups here. What sort of example are you setting for Uta, huh? Or Luffy?”
Shanks’s back is turned to him, but Buggy can tell he’s rolling his eyes. “As much as I love bantering with you, you might want to hurry up eating,” Shanks says, ignoring his previous statement. “Mihawk’s here,” he continues, waving at someone through the window as he continues flipping pancakes.
“Mihawk?!” Buggy exclaims, shoving a full pancake in his mouth. He pulls out his phone, intending to check his calendar, only to find it’s dead. “What time is it?” he asks, mouth full. “What day is it?!” he adds, frantic.
“July 18th,” Shanks replies casually, totally unbothered.
“Shit!” Buggy exclaims, agast. Now he remembers, that’s why he had been at the bar last night: he had been trying to forget about the very important meeting he’s having today, figuring a drink or two would help him get better sleep, since that way he wouldn’t spend the whole night overthinking everything.
But of course that has backfired.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he repeats as he continues shoveling food into his mouth, taking a long gulp from his coffee cup. Normally, he has better table manners, but if Mihawk is here, it means it’s late already and it’s bad enough that he’s going to show up at the meeting with last night clothes, sticking of alcohol and smoke (and maybe sex), for him to also be starving and hungover on top of it all.
Shanks chuckles amusedly, still staring outside the window. “Uta has intercepted him. I think you have fifteen more minutes.”
That’s nice of her. She’s such a sweet girl really, a pity she has such an asshole as a father.
Shanks turns off the stove, having finished making his own breakfast and going to take a seat in front of Buggy, watching amusedly as he continues to devour his pancakes.
He’s a horrible man, really. Handsome, sure and a good cook and a great lover, but horrible.
The doorbell rings some fifteen minutes later, just as Buggy is finishing his last pancake. Shanks offers him a bright grin before he goes to open the door and Buggy steals his coffee cup, since he had finished his already. He makes a face at the bitter taste; while his own had been perfectly sweetened, Shanks takes his coffee as black as his soul.
“Clown.” Mihawk’s voice coming from behind him has him straightening up on instinct, dread filling his every pore. Now that he thinks about it, he could have escaped the house in those fifteen minutes Uta bought him, but that’d have left him without breakfast. Then again, hunger is perhaps a far gentler death than the one he’s bound to receive from his associate.
“Hawky!” he greets, half turning to face him, full of false cheer. “Fancy seeing you here!”
Mihawk throws him an unimpressed look, shoving something at him and Buggy startles, managing to take the item in the last second. It’s a freshly pressed suit, from Buggy’s own closet, the one he wears to boring ass meetings with stockholders and the likes.
Perfect for today’s meeting, then.
“Wha--?”
“I stopped by your house to pick you up,” Mihawk explains. “Crocodile wanted to go through the proposal one last time before the meeting, so we were supposed to meet him at ten.” He glances at his watch. “You got five minutes to shower.”
There’s a lot to unpack there (like how the fuck did he get inside his house? and looked through his closet? or how did he know he’d be here?!), but one raised eyebrow from the older man has him hurrying towards the bathroom. He hears Shanks offering Mihawk coffee and breakfast with his usual cheer and he ignores the ridiculous flash of jealousy he feels.
It’s not like he cares what Shanks does. He can flirt with whoever he wants, including his stupidly hot ex.
(But--)
Ten minutes later he finds himself in Mihawk’s car, doing his makeup in the tiny mirror on the visor, which is quite the feat. Mihawk offers no commentary, expression as blank as ever, but Buggy can feel him judging him and his poor life choices.
“How did you get into my apartment anyway?” he asks after ten minutes of quiet driving. Silence always makes him angsty, even though he’s well aware the other man prefers it.
“Mohji,” Mihawk replies. “That lion of yours is a month away from getting you arrested.”
“Richie isn’t a lion,” Buggy argues and Mihawk raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He really isn’t though: he’s a puma which, you know, might be just as illegal, but smaller. He’s not entirely sure of the story of how Mohji got him, only that he swore it was a kitten when he first brought him in, only to get disproven a month later.
“Be as it may,” Mihawk says after a brief pause. “You may want to recruit Crocodile’s help to get the appropriate paperwork.”
He should, yes, but that would mean asking Crocodile a favor and isn’t that how he got in this lovely mess he is in? “Can’t you do it for me? You know he likes you better.”
Mihawk huffs. “He’d like you better if you stopped acting like a fool,” he replies, not looking at him, which is not fair. Also, he’s absolutely wrong because Crocodile might like him better when he’s being competent , but he’s also absolutely besotted with Mihawk, which in practice means the other man can get whatever he wants from him just asking , unlike Buggy, who actually has to work for it .
Before he can say as much, Mihawk’s fancy car informs him he has an incoming call. “Speak of the devil…” Buggy murmurs as Mihawk answers, throwing a warning look in his direction.
“I thought we were meeting at ten,” Crocodile sounds annoyed, but when doesn’t he? Buggy rolls his eyes and continues applying his makeup, deciding to leave it up to Mihawk to calm the beast down.
“Yes. Unfortunately, our dear Chairman can’t keep it in his pants,” Mihawk replies, at which Buggy gives an indignant squeak because how dare he? He can very much “keep it in his pants”, thank you very much, it’s just-- just--
Well. Given enough time, a perfectly valid reason will come to him.
“ Ah ,” Crocodile replies and he sounds absolutely done. Which, again, that’s his natural state, but how does someone manage to convey so much disdain with a single expression? Through the car’s shitty (well, not shitty because the car is fucking expensive and it shows ) sound system no less? “Red Hair?”
Buggy squeaks once more, because how? How the fuck did he arrive to that conclusion? And so quickly? “Do you even have to ask?” Mihawk says and Buggy throws him a betrayed look even though he’s blushing furiously.
“I’m just figuring out how long till you get here,” Crocodile replies with a dramatic sigh. “Fine, see you in ten.” And with that he hangs up, without even saying goodbye or acknowledging Buggy’s existence , which rude.
“Okay, how did you know?” Buggy asks, turning to face Mihawk, glaring.
“Where you’d be?” Mihawk asks and he nods. “Alvida mentioned you had gone for a drink and then texted her you wouldn’t be back,” he explains and Buggy huffs: trust his roommates to be physically incapable of not gossiping. Still-- “It was the logical conclusion.”
Logical?! “Logical how? We broke up twenty years ago!”
Mihawk throws him an unimpressed look. “I’m well aware,” he replies. “It doesn’t stop you from hooking up with him every time you happen to be in the general vicinity of each other.” He scrunches his nose in disgust, which, given Mihawk’s general demeanor, it’s a clear sign of how distasteful he finds the whole ordeal. “And sure, you’ll then complain about how horrible he is and how much you hate him and swear it’s never gonna happen again, only for it to happen again a month later,” he continues and Buggy can hear his frustration, despite his even tone. “If you’re under him, you’re not getting over him.”
He blinks, processing. “Did you-- did you just quote fucking Dua Lipa to me?”
Mihawk hums, lips twisted unhappily. “Perona has taken upon herself to expand out our musical horizons, ” he replies and Buggy can practically hear the air quotes. “It’s your own damn fault,” he adds, scrunching his nose once more, although there’s fondness in his gaze. “I can quote you Taylor Swift if you prefer? I understand that when it comes to break up songs, she’s the one to listen to.”
Oh, so much to unpack there and not enough time. “Why are Perona’s new musical tastes my fault?” he asks instead just as they come to a stop in front of a red light and, without prompting, Mihawk takes the eyeliner from him and does his lines with deadly precision before Buggy can even process what has happened.
“It was your idea that she went to beauty school,” Mihawk replies, his attention back to the road as Buggy examines his work on the mirror. Damn, that’s one sharp cat eye. “Apparently, that’s what the kids listen to these days and she’s struggling to make friends.”
Oh god. So much to unpack and no time at all! “Maybe you both should stick to Billie Elish and Lorde,” he tells him as they drive into Crocodile’s lawn. “And I’ll be talking to her. She shouldn’t change who she is in order to fit in.”
Mihawk rolls his eyes as he exits the car. “You think I haven't tried to tell her that?”
Probably. But Mihawk’s communication skills are… not the best. Especially when it comes to his semi-adopted niece and while Buggy would never claim to be an expert on communication, that doesn’t seem to be a problem when it comes to Perona and/or Uta.
Huh. That’s probably kind of weird, isn’t it?
Before he can think too much about it, the house’s front door opens, revealing a very angry-looking Crocodile. Buggy squeaks, half tempted to turn on his heel and run, but the other man has already grabbed him by the back of the suit and is dragging him inside.
“If we lose this deal, I’ll personally murder you,” Crocodile informs him as he drops him at one of the fancy chairs in his office. He’s already set up the presentation on the no doubt expensive screen on the wall (what a waste of screen, really!) and he starts citing numbers and figures before Buggy has gathered his wits which is really counterproductive: how does he expect him to remember all this if he can’t hear him over the loud beating of his heart?
Mihawk strolls in a few minutes later, carrying coffee cups with him. He places one in front of Crocodile before taking a seat, one leg crossed over the other primly, the image of perfect composure as ever.
Buggy tries not to feel too jealous. Mihawk is in a league of his own, he knows, but it’s hard not to draw comparisons between them when they share an ex. Of course Mihawk doesn’t foolishly fall back into the man’s bed every so often, but--
“Clown,” Crocodile hisses, making his attention snap back to him. “Focus.”
“I’m listening!” Buggy argues, even though that’s a lie and, judging by his associates's expressions, they all know it. “I’m just wondering why I didn’t get a coffee cup?” he asks, glaring at Mihawk, who raises one elegant eyebrow as he takes a delicate sip from his cup.
Goodness, does he ever look anything less than perfect? “You don’t deserve it,” Crocodile replies before Mihawk can, voice low and threatening. “Now focus before I stab you.”
He would, he knows. That’s part of the reason why his hook was taken the last time he got himself in trouble with the law and now he must content himself with the overly fancy golden prosthetic or risk getting thrown into prison (again), this time without bail.
But if he was to stab Buggy, he probably wouldn’t get in that much trouble. Damn system is absolutely rigged and--
He realizes, a second too late, he’s lost track of the presentation (again) and, unfortunately, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.
As Crocodile grabs a letter opener, Buggy sprints off his chair, only to fall face first a second later, having tripped over Mihawk’s boots. Damn man decided to put his feet down at some point, getting in the way of Buggy’s perfectly calculated escape route.
Judging by Mihawk’s smirk, he did it on purpose too.
Crocodile huffs, picking him up by the scruff on the neck, tossing him back on the chair like a rag doll. Buggy rubs his nose, wincing, tears threatening to ruin his perfectly put together make up. “Oi, oi, oi!” he cries dramatically, earning himself only a roll of eyes from his companions.
They’re both heartless bastards, really.
Crocodile goes back to the presentation without even asking about Buggy’s well being, which probably says a lot about their relationship. In public, both Crocodile and Mihawk might be forced to act as if they actually respected him, but when it’s just the three of them--
Well.
“We should get moving,” Mihawk says some time later, putting his coffee cup away. “Being late will look far worse than the clown fumbling with the numbers.”
Crocodile huffs, picking a cigar from the box he keeps on his desk. “Fine,” the man agrees, biting down on the cigar with a little too much force and Buggy shivers. “If you mess this up, clown, I’ll make you regret the day you asked for a favor.”
He already does, thank you very much! He’s been regretting for two years now and he’s no closer to repaying his debt than he was then, even with the business actually prospering.
“Speaking of,” Mihawk says, falling into step with Crocodile as they both exit the room, leaving Buggy to hurry after them. Damn the stupidly tall men and their ridiculous long legs! He’s not short by any means, but Crocodile and Mihawk are inhumanly tall! “Do you still have your connections in the wild life department?”
Buggy brightens up, throwing a grateful grin in Mihawk’s direction that the other man catches from the corner of his eye, judging by the way his lips curve upwards the slightest bit. “What do you need?” Crocodile asks, all sweet and helpful, the exact opposite of how he’d have reacted if Buggy was the one asking.
At least Mihawk is willing to use his unfairly good genetics to help a pal out now and then.
He’s not that bad, he supposes.
Buggy would hate to admit it out loud, but he’s way over his head dealing with the Government big fish.
He’s always had a good head for business (or well, better than Shanks’s at least), but he’s not that good with money. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to administer it, it’s just that he tends to like expensive things and he usually ends up embezzling funds to pay for his expensive tastes. That’s why his associations never work out and why every time he tries going solo, he ends up going bankrupt.
Two years ago, when things had gotten really ugly and he had been half convinced he’d end up going homeless unless he got a job quickly, he had gone to Crocodile for a favor. The Grand Line might be classified as a city, but in some ways it feels like a small town where everyone knows everyone, especially if you have done some time behind bars (and really, who hasn’t? The Grand Line isn’t exactly known for its many job opportunities, especially for orphans).
He already owed the man a good sum of money, but hey, in for a penny, in for a pound right?
He’s not entirely sure why Crocodile agreed. Maybe he was feeling generous that day, maybe Mihawk said something nice about him. In any case, he agreed and he’s sure they both regret it.
It was an entry-level job, making copies and delivering coffee, but it paid the bills. It was meant to be a stepping stone while he got his life back under control, just until he found something better. But somehow Buggy had gotten in the investors’s good graces (of course he did, he’s so charismatic! It’s not his fault!) in less than a month and so when the CFO quitted--
Well. That was quite the promotion.
He understands Crocodile’s annoyance and frustration, he does . Anyone with eyes can tell you he (or Mihawk) was the most logical choice for the new CFO, but Buggy’s charisma (and luck) had gotten him promoted instead and so--
Well.
And now they’re caught in this weird stalemate in which they need to work together even if they can’t stand each other's guts.
Letting Crocodile lead the reunion is in everyone’s best interests, really. Buggy can’t remember half of the things they discussed this morning and Mihawk has a way of talking that tends to make people sleepy. It’s very clear to him that Crocodile resents this extra bit of work and he has no doubt he’ll make him pay for it later, but as long as they get what they need from this meeting…
Well. He supposes that’s good enough.
The meeting goes far more smoothly than Buggy could have ever thought.
But that happens when you have two executives that are clearly more qualified to run a business than yourself, who know their shit and can be scary as fuck when needed.
If he’s honest, Buggy must admit he’d be lost without them, even if he spends a ridiculous amount of time fearing for his life when they’re annoyed at him (mostly Crocodile).
Four years ago, Buggy had been convinced he was going to get murdered in his sleep (Crocodile might or might not have threatened as much, he can’t exactly recall) but by now they’ve settled into their respective roles and they’re… well, not friends, or at least Buggy wouldn’t dare to call them that, but they get along well enough.
He also knows that both Crocodile and Mihawk have come to realize the benefits of having been skipped over for the promotion. It keeps them both out of public scrutiny and they get to skip doing all the social stuff that comes with the job, so Crocodile can keep his less… savory business going on without dragging too much attention to himself while Mihawk can live the ermit life he’s always been so fond of and not have to worry about loneliness.
It’s a win-win all around, really.
Except-- “But why do I have to do the business plan?” Buggy cries as Crocodile shoves a bunch of documents in his hands once they finally have made their way back to their office. “You’re so much better at this, Croco-baby.”
“I swear to god I’ll murder you if you keep calling me that,” the older man threatens, except Buggy knows him well enough to know it’s not a threat, but a fact. “And do you expect me and Mihawk to do all the hard work while you just sit there and look pretty?” he asks.
Buggy grins, clearly feeling suicidal. “You think I’m pretty?”
That gets him another letter opener thrown at him and he squeaks, dipping behind a chair to avoid certain death. Mihawk chuckles as he sits on his own chair, the sound still as much of a surprise as the first time around, just a couple of months ago: Buggy wouldn’t have thought him capable of it.
Judging by Crocodile’s expression, neither did he, but it’s clear he finds it endearing .
Ugh, they can be so disgusting sometimes.
It’s late at night when Buggy finally makes his way back to home.
On the bright side, he did finish the business plan. On the not so bright-side, he’s absolutely drained, every step feeling nothing short from an herculean effort. He had intended to ask Mihawk for a ride, but the man had had to leave early due some issue at Zoro’s school (that boy gets in too much trouble far too often) and asking Crocodile is absolutely out of the question since he likes his head above his shoulders, thank you very much.
The apartment is thrown into darkness, which suggests his roomates are abed. Richie is sleeping atop the sofa and he raises his enormous head when he hears Buggy coming in, but he doesn’t bother moving from his spot, simply swinging his tail lazily. He really hopes Crocodile will get them that paperwork: he’s not looking forward another stay at jail for trafficking exotic animals of all things.
On the kitchen counter he finds a simple note from Cabaji, letting him know there are chinese leftovers in the fridge. It’s a simple note, but it makes him feel warm inside, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He’s always been overdramatic, feeling things a little too much, much to the chagrin of his adoptive father more often than not, but there’s something incredibly heartwarming about having people care about you enough to save you dinner.
(Of course Buggy is the one paying for the house, their ammenities and their food, but it’s the thought what counts, isn’t it?)
He had met Mohji and Cabaji when he had left the Grand Line after highschool, when he was busy running away from the pain of his foster father’s impressioment and the horrible accusations he had been subjected to. Having had always a penchant for acrobatics and his love for the spotlight, joining the East Blue circus had seemed like a good idea at the time and while the job was often tiring and ungrateful, the people made up for it. He had made some very good friends there, friends that had helped him forget all he wanted to forget and so when the circus got caught in some financial troubles (back then, Buggy wasn’t the one emblazzing funds) and some corruption scandals (thank you Arlong, you fishy bastard), he had been sad to leave them behind, but he had known there was little choice.
Cabaji and Mohji had sticked with him though, and later he had met Alvida at the beauty salon he had found work in. He’s been a jack of all trades really and while he and Alvida didn’t hit it off immediately (the woman was too suspicious in general), they had eventually bonded over their love for makeup and expensive trinkets. And so when they had to run away from Lougetown (they were the ones emblezzing funds this time around), it had only seemed logical that she’d come with him.
After coming back to the Grand Line both he and his housemates have hold various part-time jobs and some less savoury ones that eventually came crashing down. Buggy’s current employment had been a blessing: without it, he’s not sure what they’d have done.
(Shanks, like the bastard he is, had offered him a job when he came back and said it’d always be open for him, but he’d sooner starve than work for that treacherous idiot)
He throws the container into the microwave, watching as it twirls inside as he waits for the food to heat. Attracted by the smell of meat, Richie comes to investigate and while Buggy chides him, he ends up giving into his puppy eyes (which is funny, considering he’s a puma), sharing bites and pieces of his food.
It’s quiet in the kitchen, only the sound of the two of them as they chew, Richie meowing pitifully whenever he’s done with his food to ask for more. Buggy takes out his phone, intending to only make sure there are no pressing matters to attend to, but his heartbeat picks up speed after noticing a new message.
Do you want to go for dinner next Friday, 8 o’clock? I’ll pick you up.
It seems an innocent enough text really, nothing to lose sleep on. The problem is, of course, the sender and the implications of agreeing to said dinner.
They’ve done this dance before. They’ll sleep together, Shanks will invite him for dinner later, they’ll keep seeing each other for a while (but they won’t be dating ). Eventually, the weight of their history will catch up with them, things will be said, tempers will raise and they’ll go their separate ways, right until the moment they’ll run into each other in one bar or another, at which point they’ll have had enough time to miss the other enough to sit down with them to talk and the circle will start all over again.
He sighs. He knows he shouldn’t. Moreover, he’s perfectly aware why he shouldn’t. In the inmortal words of Dua Lipa (as quoted by Dracule Mihawk of all people), if you’re under him, you’re not getting over him.
Sure, he writes back.
Will he ever learn?