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Buggy's management style is going to drive Crocodile insane. Crucial information written down on napkins. Important folders kept under the table leg to prevent the desk from wobbling. Freeroaming den-den mushis showing up in the strangest places. It's complete chaos. Worse. It's anarchy.
"There's a system," Buggy insists.
There is not. He's fucking lying to Crocodile. And yet... Every time Crocodile attempts to impose any sort of order or logic on the Cross Guild, something catches fire. Then Buggy has to swoop in and put things back together.
"I would like to go back in time and strangle whoever taught you file management," Crocodile says.
"Hey, I learned from the best! This was how Roger did it," Buggy protests.
In moments like this Crocodile misses Nico Robin. Betrayal, sabotage and attempted murder aside she was an excellent secretary. Best of all, he didn't have to share an office with her.
Crocodile has learned to leave Buggy's horrible piles alone. He has learned to not implement a change that would obviously streamline and simplify things before double-checking with Buggy. He has learned to live with the madness, but it's wearing on him. Making him do foolish things. Breaking into maniacal laughter in public. Putting his head inside a bananawani's mouth. Daydrinking. Worst of all, Crocodile now very very occasionally feels a miniscule amount of admiration for Buggy who somehow has his hand in the tangle of strings holding the Cross Guild together.
That's why when the infernal parrot that Buggy keeps in a cage in their shared office starts yammering, Crocodile gets up and opens the cage and wrenches it out. It screams and pecks at him. Crocodile does not let go.
Buggy enters holding two cups of coffee. He drops them when he sees Crocodile.
"Stop stop what are you doing?!" Buggy yells.
"Animal cruelty," Crocodile responds, choking the life out of the bird.
"You can't. That bird is the only one who remembers the den-den mushi numbers to all our contacts in the South Blue. Here Polly Polly Polly. Who's a good bird? What's Verne the Butcher's number? Verne Polly Polly Polly?" Buggy says, cooing for the parrot.
Right on cue, the bird starts squeeking out numbers. Crocodile drops it, defeated. It flaps up.
"Quick, grab it!" Buggy says, launching himself at the parrot. "We're fucked if it gets out the window."
Crocodile is thoroughly miserable, but watching Buggy trash their office, chasing a parrot that's missing more than a few feathers is hopelessly funny. Crocodile is lightheaded, trying to suppress his laugh.
"There! Got it," Buggy says, cramming the bird back into the cage. He sounds so proud. Buggy looks expectantly at Crocodile like he wants a compliment. His face falls when he sees Crocodile's dark expression.
"Anyways you absolutely can't commit animal cruelty to this bird specifically. It's crucial. Loadbearing! Do it to someone else," Buggy yaps.
Crocodile considers this. He considers Buggy. All those clashing colors makes him look like a tropical bird. One in need of getting his feathers plucked. But that would accomplish nothing except a bruised Buggy back in the office the next day wincing and groaning and making even more noise. Hardly worth it.
Buggy puts an arm around Crocodile, pushing him out the office. "There, there. Let's find you some subordinates slacking off for you to take your anger out on."
Crocodile just lets him. Miserable.