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"Something in the air here," Robin says, swaying gently on her feet, fans fluttering from her closed fingers, "smells of you."
"Must be all the poison," Zoro grins. He sits on the floor, yukata loose to bare his chest and pool around his folded legs with the way he leans forward, watching her dance with a quiet awe; he expects no less than hypercompetence from their archaeologist, never has he been disappointed by her, but expectation does nothing to curb the familiar, reverent warmth that softens his stony face. Robin laughs, slows her movements so she can cock her head and scrutinize his expression, something there beyond that easy pride.
"You fit right in.” She lifts her fans, shields her mouth to let the playful glint of her eyes dance over the ruffled edge, “I think you'd be quite good at this, too." and there it is, his grin turns a corner, sharpens into the fangs of challenge even as an embarrassed tint pinkens the tips of his ears. She isn't lying, either, about all of it: his swordplay is equal parts grace and brutality, snappy turns and forceful swings translating easily to control and restraint, but above that she sees the way he crosses his ankles as he sits, leveling his chin with a reflexive discipline before he slumps, the way his hands press together in silent prayer over that sword of his, the Shimotsuki make colored like moonlight, regardless of his belief.
(She had watched him, one night on the Sunny, stepping onto the deck with the scent of incense rolling off his skin and unfurling into the sky, that Shimotsuki blade hanging heavy enough at his hip to have him limping. He stopped when he saw her, something behind his eyes fractured and far-off. He’s too young to look like this , he’d resent the sentiment, belief in his own forging by fire too strong, but, still, he meets her gaze--for a second, it pulls taut, a step back into the boots of the first mate of the man who will become pirate king--the rims of his eyes going liquid soft. She sweeps him into a hug, wordlessly.
It’s not… he stops himself, choking on the admission, the weakness he feels. His face is damp against the crook of her neck, but he doesn’t sniffle or do anything unseemly, simply tightens his grip on her arms until it straddles painful. Yes, reflexive discipline, his spine too taut and his burdens placed too squarely. You’re right, she’d whispered into his hair, overwhelmed by a sense of fierce protectiveness, it wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, Zoro. He feels small in her arms.)
“If only we had a third fan.” She laughs, taking a moment to imitate the signature clench of his teeth, earning herself a growl. She lends him a fan, helping him rise to his feet and transferring the instrument in one easy, fluid motion, nothing compared to the frantic dance of oncoming storms, every Strawhat slipping (sometimes quite literally) past each other in mutual, gritted-teeth silence to yank rigging and clear the deck.
Zoro can feel the petals brush against his back, arm sprouting from the valley of his shoulder blades to reach up and undo his topknot, let his hair spill down his shoulders. She feels no urge to curb the impulse, no self-consciousness on her part.
“Ooh,” she mutters without realizing, taking a secondary interest in the way the verdant curtain unfurls, vibrant against the white of his yukata.
“Usopp said the same thing.” he mutters, embarrassment almost having completely overridden his need to prove himself. Like a good crewmate, she can’t let him back down.
“Like this.” She smiles, sprouting another set of arms below his ribs so she can adjust the severe bend of his elbows, loosen the tension in his wrist with pressing fingers. She takes her place beside him, leads him through the steps.
(“You remind me of…” He had stopped her as she came to relieve him of watch one night, peeling his singular eye open, lazy and slow. She nods, doesn’t prompt him, gives him time to unspool the thoughts that go unsorted in his head. “It’s just, after Mihawk and everything…” She remembers his tales of Kuraigana, splayed on his back in the girl’s room, staring up at the ceiling from between parted fingers, the way Zoro had molded himself around the other inhabitants and their rhythm, the way Nami had laughed and ruffled his hair.
There’s a new fondness to the way they interact, Zoro falling a little easier into step under her scrutiny that comes into better clarity the more he speaks of the “nuisance” from Thriller Bark. He speaks of the older swordsman a shade differently, in turns reverent and gruffly affectionate, brutally critical with a strange edge of grateful deference--not unlike the way Sanji speaks of his own father.
“Don’t make me feel old, now.” her giggle is teasing, unable to tamp the urge to conceal the giddy feeling with a touch of good-natured condescension. It’s another wave of warmth with that thought, the realization she has no one to hide from anymore.
"I'm not saying you're like my mom or anything!" he barks, and Nami cackles like a hyena, high and peaking as it rolls from the base of her throat, a beautiful noise that squeezes in alongside the fondness tightening Robin's chest.)
He’s not sweating, but there’s a quiver to the muscle and his whole body lists forward when Robin materializes an arm to tip the fan down, bringing his focus back to her. It’s strange, his expression, something in his gaze as he scans her serene smile, untouched by the strain of the dance.
“I was right.” She says, and it clicks, approval that lets him slide his eye shut and settle his expression into a pleased grin. Not his mom, indeed. “You may need to work on your court manners, though.” He growls.
"It's nice, really," the confession softens her, stains her with a guilt that lies cold but not forgotten somewhere deep in her bosom, "to see someone fit in so well. I worry that I'll never take root." Thank you for sharing, for allowing me. These luxuries, of home and culture, are burned out of her: blasted apart by cannon fire and sent hurtling off a ledge to sink to the bottom of the lake for some far-off generation's maybe-never-maybe-don't-dare-hope salvation.
Zoro's gaze follows the just barely pained crimp of her eyes to the fans resting delicately in her hands, the expertly tied obi and the kimono that sweeps the length of her measured posture--a precise disguise donned for a singular purpose, captain's wishes, captain’s heart .
"No," he says. "You belong."