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As Zeff lays on his back, sprawled on the dust with his clothes torn and body beaten bloody, he can only think that it could've been worse. Edward Newgate looms over him, his silhouette cut dark against the bright sky in such an imposing figure that just the fact that he's still breathing feels to Zeff like a small miracle.
"I think the New World might be too much for you," Newgate says. There's not a trace of fatigue in his voice, a stark contrast to Zeff's laboured breath. "No offence."
"None taken," Zeff replies in a raspy exhale. He reckons he has a few cracked ribs (although, luckily, not a punctured lung) and his chest aches with every breath, not to mention with every word spoken—but it doesn't deter him from speaking nonetheless. "Just my luck that I should run into you on my first day."
"You could've surrendered."
"I could have." Zeff sighs through a pained grimace, then asks: "Is my crew okay?"
A rumble, like a quiet laugh in Newgate's chest that doesn't quite manage to escape through his mouth. "They will be," he answers. "None of them is quite as beaten up as you."
"That still leaves room for a big amount of beaten up," Zeff argues, which makes his opponent laugh properly this time.
In addition to his ribcage, Zeff has accounted for a broken nose, a gash on his temple that keeps bleeding profusely, a very badly bruised area on the side of his abdomen, and sore legs. The latter is mostly due to his own kicks, but maybe if Newgate weren't so fucking sturdy then his legs would be alright, so it's probably fine to blame it on the other captain as well.
His hands are fine, though, which Zeff counts himself very lucky for.
"What happens now?" he asks after a moment.
Newgate doesn't strike him like the kind of man who would torture or slaughter defeated enemies just for the fun of it, but neither does he think they'll be freed just like that. There's uncertainty in his immediate future, and Zeff finds he dislikes the ominous sensation.
"I suppose we search your ship for treasure," Newgate answers breezily, "and if you behave, you're free to go once we're finished."
"Sorry to disappoint, but you won't find much." The coating fees for the trip down to Fishman Island and up again blew most of what they'd secured on their journey through Paradise, and restocking supplies had left them almost broke—but with a full pantry. Before he can properly think about it, Zeff says: "I can cook you lunch though."
The offer floats silently between the two captains for a beat, none of them quite believing that the words have actually been pronounced. Then Newgate laughs, a gurarara that sounds equally startled and pleased.
"Can you even move?"
"Not thanks to you, but I'll manage," Zeff grumbles, suddenly feeling very determined to cook something so good that it'll blow the smug-ass bastard off his ass. Groaning, huffing, sweating, he slowly pushes himself onto his elbows, then on his hands, until he's sitting—shoulders slightly crouched, lungs wheezing with each breath, but every bit of his dignity still mostly intact.
"Take it easy," Newgate says, somewhat humouredly. "You're injured."
"Fuck you, Newgate."
"No one really calls me that, y'know."
"Don't care, didn't ask. Help a man up, will you?"
It's probably a good sign that Newgate actually does help him to his feet; even better that he's chuckling as he does. The man is so massive that it takes him little effort to help Zeff stand straigh, a broad palm that spans his entire back supporting him. It hardly feels insulting that he's had to kneel to make it possible.
"My crew call me Pops," Newgate helpfully informs.
"I'm not your crew," Zeff helpfully remarks.
"My enemies call me Whitebeard," Newgate adds, and Zeff stops fixing his hair to shoot an incredulous glance at him.
From this close, he can take a good look at the man. Blond hair, long past his shoulders, and an odd, pointy mustache. Big jaw, sharp eyes, stern brow. Massive muscles all over: neck thick like a tree, shoulders broad like a ship's hull, biceps the size of a human head. And not a hint of a beard anywhere on him.
"I ain't calling you that bullshit," Zeff snaps. "White beard? You have a fucking mustache, you humongous cauliflower."
That gets the loudest laugh out of Newgate yet, so scandalous that both their crews look at them in wary confusion. Zeff realises, belatedly, that insulting the man who has just thoroughly beaten the shit out of him has perhaps not been his brightest idea—but Newgate's hand is warm on his back, even warmer when it rises to his shoulders, and nothing in him betrays anger or anything other than pure joy.
When their gazes meet again, there's something indescribable in Newgate's eyes; something fond and something awed and something so profound that it makes a breath catch in Zeff's throat.
"I like you," Newgate sentences, his voice still ringing with laughter. "Oh, I like you a lot. Red Leg Zeff, was it? I think I'll very much enjoy that lunch you offered."
Zeff can only nod, absently, as he looks deep into Newgate's eyes and can only hope that one lunch will become many.