Trafalgar returned the bow with a polite nod, exactly as expected of him.
Bartholomew, however, froze.
He wasn't used to this. Someone bowing to him, lowering their head with that kind of respect. It wasn't admiration meant for Trafalgar alone this time, and that realization caught him off guard. His shoulders stiffened, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides as he tried to remember what he was supposed to do, what posture he was supposed to take.
"Tra-trafalgar…" he murmured under his breath, leaning just slightly toward him. "W-what do I do?"
Trafalgar looked at him—and laughed.
Not loudly or mockingly, no. Just a short, genuine sound that slipped out before he could stop it. Bartholomew was still Bartholomew. After everything they had just gone through, after blood and death and fear, he was still standing there unsure of how to respond to a bow. Unbroken. Still himself.
