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“Your thumb.”
“Hm?”
Sanji looked over from where he was sitting on the bench, briefly glancing at the bit of blue covering his left thumb. He had been describing his night at the restaurant and gesturing animatedly, it was no wonder the sharp-eyed marimo had spotted the bandage. Snorting, the cook shrugged a bit and took another long drag of his first cigarette since his break hours ago.
“Eh, burned it on a skillet,” he muttered, only vaguely embarrassed about such a dumb slip-up. “Went to pick it up, but I guess my thumb slipped up off the holder and touched the side.”
Zoro gave a nod, turning his gaze back out over the harbor, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Should be more careful,” Zoro replied, sounding vaguely amused.
“Oi, like I did it on purpose,” Sanji snorted, sighing out a plume of smoke. “Keep your shitty advice to yourself.”
“Keh,” the green haired man actually chuckled and the cook couldn’t help smiling a bit, himself.
They remained in companionable silence for several more minutes while Sanji finished his cigarette, Zoro leaning against a lamppost watching the sky beginning to show the first signs of morning. When the cook rose and snuffed the butt out beneath his shoe, he righted himself and followed after him.
This was how Sunday mornings went for them now that things had finally settled down. Who would have thought it when they first met at the Baratie that they would someday find themselves here. Still quite young to be an owner, Sanji had still managed to not only open up his dream in the heart of the city, but it was flourishing under his direction. All-Blue was always booked weeks in advance, people coming from all parts of the city to try the unique blend of cuisine from the four surrounding counties. It kept him busy, exhaustively so most weeks, but never once would you hear him complain: it was all he had ever wanted, after all.
Just so happened that along the way, he found something to make it even better.
It was something he had nearly lost altogether when the gravity of it sent him running for the hills, too afraid to admit to himself that he had truly fallen in love with that shitty marimo. Months spent in hell agonizing over what he had done left a deep wound--in them both, really--that had taken several years to move past. Sanji would sometimes marvel at his blessings that Zoro had even given him that second chance in the first place. But in the end, he had fought for every last inch in rebuilding the trust he had shattered in his cowardice and it was that determination and dedication that had likely been the winning factor in moving Zoro’s hardened and defensive heart. That stubborn shit-cook always did have a way of getting under his skin, after all, but he hadn’t made it easy.
Now that he finally had his dream and someone to share it with, Sanji was more content that he could ever recall being before. It was a flame burning bright within himself, keeping him going through even the roughest weeks at the restaurant. Although he was still young, the years still began to leave their mark. Nerve pain in his fingers, stiff wrists, a knee that was showing signs of weakness…Sanji pushed through it all because he had rededicated himself to never giving up on the things he wanted most in life.
In this dedication, he was not alone.
Zoro had allowed himself to open up again once the cook had proven himself, their relationship developing at a far more slow and purposeful pace than it had previously. At times it was hard to not rush, but both knew that it would not do them any favors and in the end they were stronger for it. In that time of rebuilding bridges and healing, he had watched with a measure of pride as the cook also got his restaurant on its feet, more than happy to stand beside him in the process. Part of this, the cook soon learned, would include an odd obsession with Sanji’s hands.
After a long week at the restaurant, he would come home in the early hours of the morning and crash, waking in the afternoon with an aching pain deep in his fingers that left them stiff and clumsy. He didn’t say anything about it, but Zoro honed in on it easily enough after spending years around the cook and knowing when something was off. So without prompting one afternoon when he went to start on dishes, the green haired man had shooed him out of the kitchen to take care of them himself. Sanji raised a brow, but retreated to the couch all the same, Zoro joining him when he was done. That’s when he reached over and picked up one of his hands, Sanji squinting with a perplexed expression as Zoro explored and tested each finger individually, a callused thumb massaging into knuckles and the palms, working on the pains with a pointedly focused expression.
At first, Sanji had been confused with this new quirk. It wasn’t until Robin had stopped in one afternoon and caught Zoro in the act that he realized what it was about. After the swordsman had finished massaging to the cook’s hands, he wandered off to fix himself a drink and she had given a knowing smile.
“That is quite the sight,” she chuckled, chin resting in the palm of her hand.
“Hm? What is?” Sanji had asked, testing his fingers and found them much more relaxed.
“The expression he has when he cleans his swords is very similar to the one he was just making a moment ago. We do not often realize it, but our face gives away our feelings when presented with something we cherish and wish to protect.”
Sanji had considered her words, glancing back over the couch toward the kitchen with the makings of a fond smile. So that’s what it was, huh? Zoro would never verbally admit to something like that, of course, but the truth was plain enough to see: as the three swords he tended were critical to his dream, the cook’s hands had joined them in his priorities. Whenever they bothered him, he need only offer them toward the swordsman and he would work on them, a gentleness in his touch that always made the cook’s heart swell just a bit. In his way, Zoro was doing what he could to protect Sanji’s dream.
They finally reached their apartment and Zoro unlocked the door, holding it open to let Sanji in. He couldn’t help but to roll his eyes just a bit at the treatment, it wasn’t like he’d broken his leg or anything serious. But the swordsman was already in his focused, protective mode and the cook knew better than to try complaining. Not that he had any reason to, after all.
Kicking off his shoes in the entry way, he padded along the hallway with a yawn. A shower would have been nice, but he knew it wouldn’t be an option at present if he wanted to keep the bandage on and keep the hot water away from the fresh burn. Maybe a bath at least? While he was still considering the options, Zoro shouldered past him and into the bathroom.
“Oi, what are you doing?” he mumbled, blinking into the room from the doorway.
Zoro was sitting on the toilet seat, leaning over to turn on the tub’s hot water tap. He gestured distractedly toward the cook with a grunt.
“You stink, I’m not going to bed with you smelling like grease,” he mumbled.
“So you’re running me a bath?” Sanji asked, a brow raising. “What am I, four? I don’t need your help to bathe, shithead.”
“Just shut up and get in here,” Zoro growled, looking over at the cook with an impatient snort.
Too tired to argue, he shrugged and wandered into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. At this hour, he wasn’t sure if he would need to worry about Luffy wandering around--was he even visiting with them this week or was he at Nami and Usopp’s?--but he was known to keep odd hours so Sanji opted for privacy-preserving just in case. Ignoring Zoro’s stare, the cook peeled off his chef’s uniform, only then realizing just how sticky it felt with sweat and who knew what else; aprons could only catch so much of the mess cooking entailed, after all. He dumped the pile of clothes into a basket in the corner and crossed his arms over his bare chest, squinting at the swordsman who was testing the water’s temperature for a moment before turning it off.
“Okay, mother hen,” he snorted, climbing into the blissfully warm water--huh, the marimo knew the temperature he liked. “Happy?”
“Not until you stop running your mouth, shitcook. Put your arm up on the edge.”
“Eh?”
“Your left arm, stupid. Put it up so you don’t get your hand in the water,” Zoro instructed, tapping a finger on the rim of the tub.
Sanji was a bit caught off-guard, finding himself complying without thinking about it much. He continued to sit there in a state of slight confusion as Zoro retrieved a cup from the sink and filled it with water from the tub, dumping it over the cook’s head.
“Oi, watch it! A warning would have been nice!” Sanji sputtered, his bangs matted completely over both eyes at this point.
He raised his hands to wipe the mess away, but felt Zoro swat his left hand back down with a snort. Ignoring Sanji’s complaining, the swordsman grabbed the shampoo--some stupid, fancy brand that the cook liked--and squeezed some into his hands. Before Sanji could question, he made an unconscious noise of content as firm fingers slipped their way into his damp hair, tips rubbing over his scalp as Zoro worked the shampoo into a lather. Okay, this was just fine. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch and relaxed, realizing it really would have been a pain trying to do this one-handed.
“Mm. Thanks,” he finally conceded.
“Welcome,” Zoro replied, lips tugging into a slight smile, expression focused.
Sanji supposed it wasn’t so bad to be pampered every once in a while. Maybe he should burn his fingers more often...