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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."