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It was after Ace had finally passed out, likely from a combination of exhaustion, the seastone, and narcolepsy, that Jinbe asked, “How are you holding up, Crocodile?” He’d stayed mostly silent while Ace had peppered the other pirate with questions about Portgas D. Rouge, but finding out what had happened to her and the sight of Crocodile paling from any number of things had Jinbe slightly worried. Crocodile was a spiteful, angry man, and Jinbe, over the last few hours, had seen his composure come close to cracking.
Crocodile, for his part, took a breath, and then another, and yet another before he said, “I just found out my captain has been dead for twenty years and nobody other than Garp the fucking Fist, Hero of the gods-be-damned Navy knew about it.” He sounded more put together than Jinbe had thought he would be capable of, but Jinbe could see the way the news had rattled Crocodile to the core. “The bastard gave her a land burial! She should be at fucking sea!” Crocodile’s voice cracked on the last word, and he heaved, losing what little was in his stomach.
There it was. It was always unsettling seeing men like Crocodile lose their composure in such a way. Especially after having seen his fellow pirate taunt, insult, and generally rile up the various guards on a daily basis with little to no regard for his own health.
It somehow didn’t surprise Jinbe that Crocodile barely had enough moisture left in his body to properly cry, even as he took shuddery breaths and coughed, trying to rid his mouth of the acrid taste of bile. Crocodile had his face buried in his own shoulder, doing his utter best to hide from Jinbe’s scrutiny. It didn’t do much good, but Jinbe gave him the illusion of being able to hide his grief, a chance to recompose himself without Jinbe watching him from across the way.
Instead, Jinbe stared at Ace, young and exhausted, battered and bruised.
Evidence of his fight with Blackbeard was carved in his every line, and the Marines were clearly afraid of him, even as hampered he was by the seastone chains.
The Marines were going to execute Portgas D. Ace, whose first ‘crime’ had just been living.
Jinbe closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the sound of Crocodile’s grief, the hitched breaths and stuttered sobs; he knew that sometimes you just had to. Twenty some years of not knowing and then finding out far too late to change anything had to have ripped something in Crocodile to shreds.
Fisher Tiger’s death still weighed heavily on Jinbe’s own heart, for all it had been years before and Jinbe had been there when he’d died.
After a time, the sounds of sobs had tapered off, and Crocodile’s breathing had evened out slightly.
Jinbe broke the illusion of privacy that he’d granted Crocodile to assess the other pirate.
He looked worse off than he’d had even after various guards had decided to rough him up after a round of taunts, face splotched under his scar and eyes rimmed in red, tear streaks cutting through the grime on his face.
“If you tell anyone of this,” Crocodile threatened, “I will kill you and throw your desiccated corpse into the ocean where the sharks can have at you.” His voice was hoarse, but threaded underneath was a crackle of heat, making Jinbe think of beaches made volcanic glass.
Jinbe smiled grimly, nodding once. “I would expect nothing less from you,” he conceded. “But do not believe that I would take your attack lying down.”
Much to Jinbe’s relief, there was a slight curve to Crocodile’s lips, even as the other pirate narrowed his eyes and sat up as straight as his chains would allow. “That’s settled then,” he said with a nod.
There was something solemn in the way Crocodile spoke, confirming their agreement. Something that called on the sea herself as their witness.
It was a contrast to how he’d been feeling. Throughout the interrogation that Ace had given him, Jinbe had heard threads of love and affection and a deep, unabating sadness when Crocodile spoke about Captain Portgas D. Rouge throughout his voice and twined through his Haki as well when Jinbe had tentatively reached out with his own.
Now, despite the slight smirk, all Jinbe could feel was Crocodile’s grief and exhaustion. Learning of Portgas D. Rouge’s death the way that he had was going to weigh heavily on Crocodile’s shoulders; Jinbe knew that all too well. It already was. Jinbe could see it in the planes and lines of Crocodile’s frame, and it had been a few scant hours since they’d learned of her death.
Grief like that ate away at a person until they were used up and spat out or they dragged themselves out of their hole, kicking and screaming if need be.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that Crocodile had lost his hand to Whitebeard in the first couple of years after Gold Roger’s death. The circumstances behind the injuries were a mystery. But given what Jinbe knew of the man, he had a feeling that Crocodile was more of a ‘drag everyone down into the hole kicking and screaming with him’ sort of man.
Jinbe knew, without a doubt, that there would be at least one escape attempt in the near future.
He merely hoped that Crocodile wouldn’t get himself killed in the attempt. Jinbe resolved himself to assist, if he could. If Crocodile asked.