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Garp's alarm clock rang shrilly at five-thirty in the morning, causing Zeff to swear in annoyance at being so rudely awakened. The bed shifted as Garp tossed his half of the quilt aside and gave Zeff's shoulder a squeeze before starting his daily routine. Zeff rolled into the space he'd left behind, enjoying the residual warmth and the scent of Garp's skin against the sheets. It filled his chest with a bright, unyielding warmth that he didn't always know what to think of. Zeff dozed off again to the background noises of Garp splashing water on his face, followed by the wardrobe opening and the slam of the front door as he headed off for his morning run. Zeff could probably squeeze in a bit more shuteye before he'd need to head downstairs and get started on breakfast.
Some time later, when the sunlight had become too bright to ignore, Zeff sighed and sat up stiffly. The floorboards were icy beneath his foot, and he could feel the cold settling into his hips and curling around his spine. He'd spent two decades getting up at four am to poke and prod at the balls of dough set to proof overnight for the next day's lunch service at the Baratie, but now even 6:30 am felt painfully early. On the plus side, he only had one customer to please.
Still half asleep, Zeff grabbed his crutch and picked his way into the kitchen where set the kettle on the stove and measured a generous amount of coffee into his old french press, its sharp, earthy smell gently coaxing his mind fully awake. He stuck four slices of the lovely brioche he'd picked up at his favorite bakery in the broiler to toast, then leaned against the counter and went to work cracking six eggs into a battered metal bowl, their yolks a rich gold to match the sunrise outside. He tossed in a sprinkling of sel gris and a generous grind of pepper. The pink kind, since Garp had always preferred its delicate floral bite over the workmanlike heat from black peppercorns. He set the pan to heat and opened the window over the kitchen sink, wincing at the icy gust of air that blew in. Garp was out back doing pushups, his hands bare against the frozen earth. His nose was bright red, and his hairline dark with sweat.
"Oi, breakfast in five," Zeff called out to him. Garp switched to one handed pushups and gave a brief salute in response.
A small pile of parsley, chives, and marjoram vanished under Zeff's blade, emerging as a squat, fragrant mountain of green. He tossed a knob of butter into the pan, spitting and hissing until it was just this side of brown. The eggs went in and he worked quickly, watching them bubble up softly in the hot fat, folding and coaxing the layers into a perfect mound. His motions were precise, the result of thousands of omelets prepared over the years.
The sound of Garp toeing his shoes off at the back door near the pantry reached Zeff's ears just as he slid the second omelet onto its plate, accompanied by a generous handful of herbs. Next to it sat the brioche, so browned it was nearly black, and a jar of strawberry preserves Zeff had put up the summer before. The coffee sat at the center of the table in the place of honor.
Garp sat down heavily at the table looking a little surprised. He picked up his fork, but instead of tucking in like he usually would, he just stared at the spread before them and frowned.
"You didn't have to do all this," Garp grumbled. "Nothing to celebrate." But he started shoveling forkfuls into his mouth all the same, unable to hide the pleased little moan at the simple yet perfect combination of fresh eggs, butter, and salt.
"Couldn't let you start off your first day of retirement drinking raw eggs and milk like you usually do every morning," Zeff replied, going for humor to cover up the lingering guilt he felt. Given his way, Garp would have wanted to die on his ship , out in the sun and the salty air, likely in the midst of some battle they'd write about for centuries. But then Zeff had come along and complicated things, just like the first time they'd met all those decades ago, with Zeff talking his way out of a lengthy prison term by preying on Garp's weakness for a good meal.
Garp's expression was pained. "Close to forty years in the service, done." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "What the hell am I gonna do now, Zeff? My whole life was out there. I…I don't know how to live in one place."
"Well..." said Zeff. He set down his mug of coffee and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I could teach you to cook. We could fuck- oh ," he said, snapping his fingers, "you could always take up knitting. My nan was fond of it in her twilight years."
Garp's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. He ran one socked foot up against Zeff's ankle, then downed the last of his coffee. His expression was a little fond, and a little sad.
"I did always think you'd cut a fine figure in a nice cable knit sweater," Garp replied, thoughtful. He stole a piece of Zeff's toast and smeared it with more jam than was necessary, then shoved the whole thing in his mouth in one go.
A lingering tension that had been living between Zeff's shoulders the past few weeks began to unwind. He pressed his calf up against Garp's in return, and leaned forward to wipe a smear of strawberry jam from the corner of his mouth.
"I look good in blue," he said, and smiled.