Cavendish leaned against a building, fanning himself with his hat. It was quite nice to be back in his regular attire and in his own beautiful body again. When he had first been tuned back to normal it had been complete chaos in the streets of the city, with pirates and marines and civilians all after the blood of different people. Personally he just went after anyone associated with those who had turned him into a toy. He shuddered at the memory and put his hat back on, fussily arranging his outfit. This whole mess couldn't be over soon enough for him.
The street he was on was, quite literally, a bloody mess and he stepped carefully through it. He still hadn't caught up with Straw Hat or the little girl with the disgusting sticky man, but there had been more than enough petty supporters of Dolflamingo and marines around where he had been kept fairly occupied. When he reached the end of the street he leaned down to wipe his sword clean on an unconscious marine's uniform, leaving streaks of red against the white. The next street was clear, but there were still pockets of fighting throughout Dressrosa. Cavendish had to decide what had the highest priority and quickly.
A grinding shriek of metal over stone set his teeth on edge, and he decided to deal with "the family" before Straw Hat. He set out toward the castle, wishing he knew where Farul was. It would be quicker and cleaner travelling with his horse, but at least his boots kept him out of the worse of the muck. Gingerly stepping over a body at the end of an alley his heel caught in the cobblestones and he stumbled into the street.
As his luck would have it, he fell right into a brawl. He flinched, but strangely the people ignored him, and ran past. It seemed to be mostly pirates with the odd civilian mixed in, and they seemed to be focused on a specific target rather than just fighting anyone they bumped into. Cavendish was inching backwards to stay out of sight just in case when one of the pirates went flying with a yell, and he caught a glimpse of a long pink braid.
Wait, a pink braid?
The specific target was Rebecca, who stood strong with her back to a wall. She didn't have her helmet, her cloak, or even her shield as she faced down the leering group on her own. She still showed no fear, and even with blood running down her face, she continued to dispatch her opponents without using lethal force.
An unappealingly muscled man threw himself at the woman, axe raised high, and met his end on the point of Cavendish's sword. There was something decidedly distasteful about the way they were using numbers against her instead of skill or strength. Rebecca glanced at him, a faint look of shock on her face. Cavendish wondered if she had managed to avoid being close to death until now.
The men stepped back, milling angrily just out of sword's reach. They were thinking twice now about rushing in, now that they had an opponent who was perfectly willing to leave them as corpses in the street along with those already there. Cavendish saw the remaining civilians flee, and he smirked at the cowards who gnashed their teeth in vain. But anger and bravado were powerful emotions, and the pirates overcame their fear and attacked once more. Cavendish focused on making sure any one within his reach didn't have the opportunity to stand up again once he had dealt with them. Rebecca continued her tactic of removing the threats by knocking them unconscious or, probably unintentionally, tossing them into Cavendish's range where he removed them more strenuously.
It was a short battle, with the force of the two of them combined. Cavendish used a handkerchief to wipe his sword clean before sheathing it, and dropping the blood-stained material onto the ground. He had managed to keep his shirt mostly clean, though his jacket had suffered. White was hardly the best colour to be wearing during what was looking to be an all out civil war.
He turned to Rebecca, and found himself tongue-tied. She was leaning against the wall looking tired, and suddenly he had nothing witty to say; nor did he know how to tell her that he had been the toy she had held or that he had hoped to find her again. She smiled at him, and pushed her bangs out of her eyes.
"Thank you," she said and hesitantly added, "I take it we aren't enemies now, are we?"
"Indeed we are not. The competition at the Colosseum is over". He swept her an elegant bow, hat held over his heart.
Now that he wasn't looking directly at her, he tried again to tell her of her kindness to him when he had been forgotten, but he couldn't find the right words. He stood straight, and saw that she had closed her eyes, blood from a wound on her forehead trickling down her face. Without much thought he reached out, and using a clean spot on his coat, dabbed at the cut.
Her eyes opened at his touch, and she murmured quiet thanks once more.
She was covered in blood: some her own, some belonging to that of the bodies around them, and he couldn't care less. Mindful of her sword, Cavendish wrapped one arm around Rebecca's shoulders and rather than pulling her to him, stepped forward and brought himself to her. For a tense second he waited for her to react, and when she put her free arm around his waist and rested her face against his shoulder, he relaxed.
Being an active participant in an embrace was really preferable, as was being able to experience it as a man rather than a toy. His senses had been so dulled then that he almost felt overwhelmed by her now. She smelled like blood and sweat and metal, but her hair was soft and he could feel her heart beating against his chest.
After a long moment, as he absently twirled the very tip of her braid around his index finger, she gave a long breath out and lifted her head. Rebecca looked at him, and while she was clearly perplexed, she in no way looked angry. In fact, she looked slightly amused when she spoke.
"So…How many times am I going to end up thanking you for something?"
Cavendish smiled and with one hand he pulled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. He realized he didn't need to explain his actions to her, didn't need to tell her that he had ever been as ugly as that little wooden clown. He had plenty of other reasons to want to hold her close.
"Well my lady…That would depend on how long you intend to stick with me."