Work Text:
A COOK’S PRIDE
“When did it grow so long?”
Sanji’s voice echoes in the bathroom; in reply, Zoro shrugs where he sits on a stool in front of the mirror. Standing behind him, the cook runs his fingers through green strands of hair, combing them backwards, and hums to himself. The scissors in his other hand gleam on the reflection.
It has to be said that Zoro hadn’t meant for his hair to grow that much. He just hadn’t found the right time to get it cut, the New World providing a never-decreasing number of challenges, and had simply postponed it until they found a moment of peace. By now, it was getting out of hand, his bangs long enough to get into his eyes.
“Fuck, marimo,” Sanji curses when his fingers get stuck in some knots. “Do you know what a comb is?”
Again, Zoro shrugs. “Don’t usually need one.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’d use one even if you did need it.” His eye-roll is more for theatrics than out of actual annoyance, yet Zoro still feels like a child being chastised. Then again, it often is like that between them when it comes to chores or body hygiene. “Seriously…” Sanji sighs and, putting the scissors aside, sprays Zoro’s hair with water and starts brushing it.
Zoro watches him work, his eye fixed on their reflection.
Up until now it had always been Usopp tasked with his haircuts, out of habit if nothing else, but after he and the cook started their thing, it had felt appropriate to ask him instead.
Sanji had looked him dead in the eye, claimed that he was a cook—not a gardener—and that lawnmowing wasn’t on his to-do list; then had agreed to it anyway.
And here he is now, untangling his hair with infinite care.
Not that he knows how to do things any other way.
“Are you sure you want me to cut it?” Sanji asks then, and Zoro can see the tease a mile away before he adds, “You could try new styles,” and pushes his bangs over his scarred eye.
“Absolutely fucking not,” Zoro growls, glaring daggers at their matching hairdos.
“No, of course not,” Sanji agrees. “You can’t pull it off.” He ruffles his hair, his grin all cheek and no apology. “I’m still not sure about cutting it, though. Aren’t marimo a protected species?”
Zoro crosses his arms over his chest, fighting back a pout. “I knew I should have asked Usopp,” he huffs.
It’s an obvious bait, but then the cook rarely lets any provocation pass. Zoro expects a glare, an insult, maybe even a kick to the face, and the angry claim that he’s staying; that he’s not someone to half-ass things: if he starts a job, he’ll finish it, whether a certain mosshead wants it or not — and after that it will only take a small nudge to get him to admit that he wants to stay with him.
But Sanji only tilts his head and, with a soft voice that can’t mask the all-knowing glint in his eye, says: “I can still leave, if that’s what you want.”
Oh, how swiftly the tables turn.
It’d be easy to ask him to leave. It’d be easy to call him a name and say he doesn’t trust him to give him a proper haircut anyway; shoo him away, pretend he doesn’t want him around.
Except he does.
He wants to enjoy Sanji’s company, to have this domestic moment with him. He wants to build memories with Sanji other than their stupid quarrels. And Roronoa Zoro isn’t known for backing down on his goals.
“No,” he sighs, closing his eye in defeat. “Stay.”
Sanji, for once, has mercy on him, and doesn’t boast or mock him in victory. He gets to work, the snip-snap of the scissors the only sound to be heard for a while, until he starts humming a nameless tune.
He does that while cooking, as well.
Zoro cracks his eye open, his gaze going straight to Sanji’s reflection. The cook has lost his tie and jacket, the remaining dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbow. His lips are curved into a content smile—probably unaware—, his visible eye focused on the task at hand.
And his hands — his hands are the only thing Zoro can look at once his gaze finds them.
They move with practiced ease, with purpose, never faltering or hesitating. His slender fingers brush through his hair, selecting locks that he then trims with care, the scissors dancing with only a little less skill than his cooking knives.
Zoro has seen how he moves those, on the few occasions when he’s stuck around the kitchen, and he remembers thinking that, if he wanted to, the cook would make a good swordsman.
Not a chance, of course. Sanji’s hands are his treasure, his pride as a cook, and the same way Zoro won’t use his katanas for anything other than fighting, Sanji won’t use his hands for anything other than cooking. Even with their different views and values, they’ve always been able to understand and respect that about the other.
They might not have always been on the best of terms, but the truth is that where others see their contradictions, they’ve learnt to turn them into complementing each other. Together they’re at their strongest, and the future Pirate King deserves no less.
“There,” Sanji says at last, letting go and taking a moment to admire his handiwork. He then ruffles Zoro’s hair, which makes some recently cut ends fall over his bare shoulders, and he makes a face. “Get in the tub.”
Not exactly an order, but Zoro doesn’t feel like arguing, so he fixes a bath while Sanji puts his equipment away and sweeps the floor. He hears him giggle something like “tiny marimo” when all the cut hair has been swept together, with such childish joy that Zoro can’t bring himself to be offended. And this is what he was looking for anyway — something to remember and treasure, Sanji’s quiet laugh already burning into his memory.
Getting in the tub, he barely has time to regret that their alone time is over when suddenly Sanji grabs the stool, takes a seat behind him and, asking him to dip his head underwater, grabs the shampoo and pour a generous amount into his hands.
Zoro stills. “I can do that myself,” he argues, unconvinced.
“Aren’t you a big boy,” Sanji replies easily; and then, with a tone that leaves no room for argument: “Dip.”
Knowing there’s no point to fighting over this—and happy their time isn’t over after all—Zoro complies. When he emerges, Sanji’s hands find his hair again and start to wash it, fingers rubbing against his scalp in delicate circular motions.
An appreciative hum leaves Zoro’s chest and he leans into Sanji’s touch, eager for more of that pleasant sensation. The cook massages his head with dedication, leaving no spot untouched. His earrings jingle when Sanji scratches behind his ears, sending a shiver down his spine, and he’s so lost in the moment that Sanji’s voice feels faraway when he says:
“I’m starting to think you have Mink ascendency.”
Confused, Zoro leans his head all the way back, until Sanji’s face is hovering over his. The cook looks down at him, his usual grin softened at the edges by something Zoro doesn’t have a name for but that takes his breath away.
“You seemed about to start purring,” Sanji explains, his voice tinted with amusement. He then leans closer, presses a kiss to his forehead, and it’s with infinite fondness that he murmurs: “Big cat.”
Zoro doesn’t know what to reply, so he says nothing.
By the time Sanji deems he’s finished, Zoro thinks he’s dedicated to that more time and effort than he himself has ever put into entire showers — and still he’s disappointed when Sanji rinses his hair. He’s already gotten more extra time than he had hoped, and yet it hasn’t been enough.
It would seem Sanji feels the same — before he knows it, Zoro is being pushed into a sitting position, his upper body leaving the water, and Sanji is tracing his back with his hands, feeling the muscles under his skin. Taken aback, it takes him a moment to react, but he’s lacking none of his strength when he turns and captures Sanji’s bony wrist with his hand.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re tense,” Sanji answers with a shrug. “Shut up and let me help.”
“Cook—”
“Chst.”
Ah, there it is: the stubborn side that always gets on his nerves. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, the air charged with the tension that usually precedes a fight, and normally neither would back down until it explodes.
This time, Zoro does.
He lets go of Sanji’s wrist, gently brushing his thumb over his hand, and gives in with a sigh. It’d be a blatant lie to claim he’s not enjoying the attention, so it seems to be in everyone’s best interest to just take Sanji's ministrations in silence.
Soon, the hands are back on his skin. Sanji’s fingers sink on overworked muscles, kneading at the knots, relieving months’ worth of accumulated tension. Zoro doesn’t ever really relax, his mind and body always alert, always ready to spring into action at a second’s notice, and this tendency has only gotten worse after they entered the New World. It doesn’t come easy for him to simply lay back and pretend like danger can’t reach them here.
But Sanji knows, just like he knows the effect he has when he presses a kiss to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and commands: “Relax.”
That’s all it takes. Zoro exhales heavily, emptying his lungs, and it feels as though he’s emptying his mind from everything that isn’t the feel of Sanji’s hands on him.
He’s not used to being pampered like this — he supposes this is what comes with being in a relationship with the cook, and he should probably start getting used to it. Somehow, he doesn’t feel like it’ll be a hard thing to do.
When Sanji is done with him, Zoro’s body feels boneless, weightless in the water. He sinks until only his head is out, eye closed and limbs stretched, and lets out a relaxed sigh that echoes in the room. For a moment he allows himself to forget that there’s a hostile ocean out there, plagued by enemy pirate crews and relentless marines, and even that there’s the captain he’s devoted his life to — his entire world is reduced to that room and Sanji’s presence at his side, strong and steady.
“Hey, curly,” he calls, his voice drowsy. “Get in.”
He hears Sanji huff (something about “high-maintenance pet”?) but it’s shortly followed by the unmistakeable sound of clothes being removed, and soon Sanji is joining him in the tub. Zoro wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him close until his back is pressed to his chest; he kisses his shoulder, then his neck, then nuzzles behind his ear.
“Garchu,” he whispers in jest, remembering the previous comment, and feels the vibrations of Sanji’s laugh against his chest.
Then he hears the distinct sound of knuckles cracking, and finally opens his eye to see Sanji carefully pressing on each of his fingers, one by one, then flexing both hands open and close a few times. He’s strained them with his thorough attentions, Zoro realizes, and it makes him feel guilty, even though Sanji has done everything out of his own free will.
Without a word, he reaches for a hand and takes it to his lips. “I thought your hands were for cooking only,” he mumbles against the knuckles before kissing them softly.
“Not quite,” Sanji answers, a playful finger tracing Zoro’s lower lip, then stifles a laugh when Zoro nips it.
“Chores, too?”
“Not quite.”
Zoro considers it for a moment. “They’re not for fighting,” he says at large, the only certainty he has.
“They’re not for fighting,” Sanji confirms. “But they’re not exclusively for cooking either.” He twists in his arms until he’s looking at him, the look in his eye just as fond as the brushing of his fingertips over his jaw, and: “They’re for things that are important.”
Zoro feels a sudden wave of heat that spreads from his chest and settles on his face. Too dumbstruck to react, he’s only mildly aware that he must be blushing all the way to his neck — and his face is probably mocking material. Sanji’s laugh sounds distant, but the press of his lips to Zoro’s is excruciatingly real; a quick kiss that’s over before Zoro can even think of returning it, but whose meaning is not lost to either.
You’re important, say Sanji’s words, and I love you, say his actions.
Me too, Zoro thinks, and idly considers he should say it out loud.
Maybe when he gets his voice back.