Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sanji wasn’t a guy who believed in good or bad karma. He didn’t think that belief would bite him in the ass later either, because that was kind of the whole point of karma and he simply didn’t believe in it. 

Back at the Baratie, the other workers found it hard to understand why a cook so dedicated to feeding the famished and refusing to see any plate wasted wouldn’t believe in karma, as his actions could easily be explained by a desire to be a good samaritan and get rewarded in the long run. Sanji thought that was a stupid desire. He fed people because they were hungry, and didn’t waste meals because there was always somebody out there who could need them. Besides, those habits dragged him into more harm than good, so in the end, he really had no reason to trust they’d ever bring him positive outcomes.

So yes. All of this to clarify a simple, logical fact that made sense. Sanji didn’t believe in good or bad karma.

But as he stands in the middle of an enemy ship, his stupid crocs shredded at his feet, he thinks he might as well start praying right now that all his good deeds come back to save him somehow, because he could really really really use the help right now.

It’s a foolish thought, okay, he is mature enough to realize that, but it’s kind of all he has left at the moment. His feet are bleeding (why had they gotten attacked by an actually dangerous ship the only day he had thought ‘man, I really wanna wear some nice pink crocs’ ? seriously.) and he dashes through the crowd of men in a desperate attempt to reach a spot on deck with less splinters around. 

Sanji absentmindedly mourns the shoes he has had to leave behind after throwing a sad little kick that while bulldozing through a good dozen marines’ spines had also bulldozed his feet, as he had not expected the rubber of the crocs to tense and literally explode under the pressure. That was too bad; he mentally marks down crocs as ‘shoes you shouldn’t use to kick things with’, and copes by sending overboard a few guys who had gotten into his personal space. His toes burn. He sucks it up.

He could have simply switched shoes when Nami told them a ship was approaching. But no; Zoro had gleefully (and eerily) proclaimed he could take on any marine crew that came their way all on his own today, and Luffy seemed to be okay about it, so Sanji had been planning to let the guy do as he said. He expected it to be over in five minutes as he put lunch on the stove, but five minutes later Zoro had fallen through the roof of the Sunny Go, landed head first on the kitchen table, terrified Usopp who had been working there, then proceeded to drag Sanji out of his kitchen saying ‘I don’t wanna miss food time so you’re coming with me and finishing things faster’.

Whatever he had put on the stove was now burnt, he sorrowfully realizes as he climbs up the ship’s stairs, and decides that he’d shove the soot down Zoro’s throat whether he liked it or not just for the sake of proving that the swordsman just sucked. Speaking of him, where the hell was that overgrown failure of algae ? The main reason why Sanji was pushing himself to run all around the ship wasn’t exactly escaping, because he could still totally throw kicks without shredding his feet into pieces (...against the rough wood, they scream in pain), and he could simply jump off and back to the Sunny Go if he really wanted to leave. But Sanji has pride as a man, and Zoro had asked for his help, so he would literally rather die than run away from this fight. As to convince the sceptical voice in his head he stops for a moment to cartwheel on his hands and let his feet spin a good vigorous circle before bending his elbows to land back down-

-and proceeds to fall. Apparently, when exposed, the bloody meat of his heels were very sensitive and the sudden shock of putting his full weight on them plus the additional force of the spin was too much because he very distinctly feels a nerve flare and jolt from the bottom of his foot to the very top of his head, reverberating through his spine and paralysing him for a second too long during his failed reception. Quickly scrambling back on his feet, vision dangerously blurry, Sanji realizes he may just have made a mistake.

At least he had knocked out enough marines that it would take a short while until they came back for more, giving him enough time to actually think about what to do next. As he catches his breath, he forces himself to review basic facts.

So, he couldn’t kick anymore, or at least not with the bottom of his feet. Not good. He also couldn’t cartwheel nor try stunts except absolutely necessary, because he wasn’t stable enough to guarantee not breaking his neck during the fall. Not good either. Apart from him, there was only Zoro as backup on the ship since Luffy thought he had things under control, and Sanji refused to call for anybody else because he had already fucked up lunch, he couldn’t afford another slip up. Not good at all.

Sanji concludes that he is thoroughly fucked.

From the corner of his eye, he registers the marines getting up and realizing he was still very much on his feet and threatening, preparing for another surge. It didn’t take exceptional observation skills to realize he was absolutely not in the state to fight either, which he is hyper aware of, and from the way the marines were readying their weapons it looked like they were most certainly looking forward to taking on Black-Leg Sanji minus his legs. 

Part of his mind is humble enough to recognize that this might as well be the moment to call Zoro for backup, but he would literally rather die. The swordsman had asked him for backup to begin with, what sort of help would he be if he couldn’t hold his own in a simple fucking marine squabble ? As the marines dangerously approach his personal space, he steels himself like he has something to prove. They thought they could take him down like this ? He’d show them.

A short minute later, Sanji regrets every single choice he has ever made in his life. No, really. He has managed to fall and get up at least five times while kicking, every hit making him lose balance and clumsily force himself to meet the ground where he would propel himself back up with his arms, delivering good but blind hits, before using a marine as a fall cushion to use for a few rounds, and then having to repeat the procedure. It was getting hard to stand on fallen marine bodies as the strength with which he dug his heels during fights into them made bones break and the surface to move, overall not a great experience. 

Two minutes later, Sanji starts using his hands. It hurts his pride, and also his arms, but he simply cannot afford hitting his head on deck anymore. He has a strong skull (thank you Germa 66 !), but he cannot deny becoming increasingly nauseous at being constantly on unstable ground. If he forces his feet down and holds his position a little…He apologizes to Zeff as he grabs the blade of a fallen marine, expertly spinning it around with his wrist. It was better than punching, god forbid, but he still felt awful about using utensils outside of the kitchen–but it was better than calling for help. Just the thought of having to ask Roronoa fucking Zoro for backup was disgusting enough to excuse his disgraceful behaviour during this fight. The element of surprise that is him being skilled with a knife is also enough to scare off a few stray fighters, so he will take what he can get.

Five minutes later, he receives a cut on his palm. The sudden shock of feeling the light swish followed by a burning sensation above the fold of his wrist causes him to abruptly stop, eyes going wide. He almost doesn’t believe it.

There is a thin line of blood dripping down his fingers and onto the ground. It is arguably not a serious injury, nor one that will leave sequels, but to Sanji it’s unacceptable. Time feels like it drops down, slowing in its free fall the flowing tracks of crimson on his arm. It’s a single, fucking, slit. It’s nothing. It will heal. He has cut his hands before in the kitchen, he has burnt and destroyed them, he has fallen on them countless times in his childhood.

But at this specific moment, as all the marines around him stop breathing in utter fear at his haki going harmlessly berserk around him, Sanji feels like it’s the end of the fucking world. His feet are destroyed, he’s had to use knives out of the kitchen, and worst of all he was unable to protect his hands even by breaking every single rule of the good cook’s handbook. It was humiliating. A cook without his hands was as good as dead.

So, he lets his pride go for once in his miserable life, swallowing thickly as he gives an expert swing of the blade and picks up a second one for good measure (though judging by the pure horror-filled looks the marines are throwing at him, he doesn’t need any more intimidation). Zoro was still nowhere to be seen to such an extent Sanji was unable to even guess his whereabouts, which is actually kind of worrying given the swordsman’s usual tendency to show off with his stupid santoryuu. 

“Marimo !! Where the fuck are you ?!” he wills himself to scream, forcing his growing panic violently down his gut. The outburst gets the crowd of marines to shudder, pathetically stepping back to let him make his way. The rare ones who dare get close are easily sliced apart, as cleanly as possible–Sanji can feel his grip on the knives tightening impossibly, forcing blood out of the fresh cut at an alarming pace. It’s a hand wound, which explains why it bled so much, but its proximity to his wrist makes him believe it might be more serious than regular. If he loses strength in this hand for a while, he is going to fucking murder Zoro.

When no answer comes, he cannot help but feel something squirm in his chest. “Algae for brains ?!” he explodes, simultaneously beheading the unlucky marine in front of him at the moment, not caring for the blood splattering on his shirt. He’d clean it, he can fix a shirt, but he doesn’t know how he’d fix losing the stupid swordsman. “Come ON ! Give me a hand here !!”

At that, a sudden gust of wind hits him head-on, knocking the breath out of his body and sending him flying all the way back down the stairs where he falls in a heap of disorganized limbs, not all of them attached to their original bodies. The aftershock of it leaves him heaving, gasping for air as he desperately tries to scramble back up, slipping on soldiers–he suppresses the urge to throw up, bringing a hand to-

Oh.

The hand he raises to press on his stomach is not only covered in blood but also stinging immensely. The pain pulsating through is uncomfortable, forcing Sanji to pause and inspect it.

The moment he realizes it isn’t the hand he had previously cut but the other one is also the moment he notices the knife he had previously been holding at his side, tainted all through in blood, as if it had just stabbed something. Sanji doesn’t remember stabbing anything, though.

He vomits. It’s out of pure stress, unrelated to the acceptable amount of pain blooming in his body. As he hacks, coughs out bile and spits phlegm, an overpowering acrid scent takes over his head, muting all other sensations. He is underwater, his hands soaked in his own blood, and it’s the first time he messed up in Zeff’s kitchen all over again; except this time Zeff isn’t here, and he can’t just apologize and move on. Don’t run with knives, that’s basic kitchen safety, you might slip and stab something you weren’t supposed to. Sanji manages to stop throwing up long enough to swallow down whatever else was going to come out, eyes unfocused yet staring at his ruined hands.

No way Chopper is letting him in the kitchen for a good week at the very least. He wants Zoro’s head on a fucking platter.

With both feet unsteady, and one hand he definitely shouldn’t be using to do anything at the moment, Sanji kind of just sits there. The remaining marines had shifted their interest someplace else, probably assuming he was out of the fight (the fury bubbling in him at that statement spills out of his eyes), which gave him too much time to face his own failure. He gets up, using the shallowly cut hand holding a sword as balance, cursing to whatever fortune was left out there that he didn’t collapse before reaching the Sunny Go. As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough.

But just as he prepares himself to take a swan dive off and pray he falls somewhat gracefully on the Sunny Go’s deck, Sanji remembers that he still in fact needs to drag Zoro away with him. He could just ask Luffy to do it…except the rubber kid needed just as much if not more supervision than his second mate did. Sighing, he turns on his heels, determined to drag him back by his balls if it came down to it, and resolving himself to chop his fingers off if his hands got infected. 

“Shit for brains !!” he yells, followed by a groan when no answer comes. “Mosshead !!! Idiot !!!!”

No reaction. Even as his stabbed hand burns, he brings it up to angrily grab a fistful of his hair, pulling on it hard enough to feel his scalp rip at the gesture. “How fucking hard can it be to clear a single, shitty marine ship ?!!” screaming so loud his voice cracks, Sanji has to pause to take a deep, wet breath, his throat closing on itself. He wants to go back to his kitchen and cook, for god’s sake, why did Zoro have to ask him of all people ? He had a job ! He was busy !! He was the ship’s cook, this wasn’t even in his line of work to begin with !

Apparently, he had made too much noise. As he opens his eyes, he sees a small crowd beginning to form around him, growing at an almost alarming rate. They’re grinning, he notices a tad too late, raising their weapons in a stereotypically evil manner–he had done it now. Was there an end to this ship’s crew ? He thought the gust of wind had gotten the last of them ? In normal conditions, they wouldn’t have been hard to deal with, but with one hand and two legs out of the equation, Sanji is starting to actually feel scared.

They are enjoying this, he realizes, walking slower than needed towards him. Usually, this was the moment in stories where good karma struck, miraculously saving him from this ordeal as payment for all the starving people he had fed; but from the looks of it he is completely and utterly alone.

It almost makes him cry. When it came to it, he was supposed to be alone. Fend for himself all on his own, because he was the supporting backup, and support doesn’t need saving because it’s doing the saving. 

Fuck it.

Raising the sword in a defensive manner (or so he hopes, because he has never had to defend with a sword before), he steels himself in, and makes a decision.

“Crappy swordsman !” he calls, though significantly quieter than before, “This would be a great time !!”

Then a fist collides with his jaw, and as he loses footing and plummets to the wooden floor, he loses it. Splinters force their way in his hair, ripping the sides of his cheek. The sword slips from his hand and falls with a deafening metallic screech–he barely hears that, though, as a hard heel forces his face down further into the floor. He can’t open his eyes; somebody steps on his stabbed hand and he howls in pain and shame and disgust and there is a gun shoved into his back, clicking alive.

Sanji can’t breathe. It feels like every single patch of his skin is being held in place by a different marine, their sweaty hands grabbing all they can see–it’s overwhelming in a way that reminds him of an old cell, where he stood for hours on end with his face covered and strangled by a big, ugly mask that ate his childish features up like-

He gasps. “ZORO !” all but screaming now, desperately trying to push the men away from his body, flailing around and ignoring the protests of his limbs at the gesture. Nobody is coming. His pride is gone. “HELP !”

The sky literally splits.

One second the crowd of marines is pressing down on him, the other they are suddenly gone, expelled to opposite sides and falling into the vast ocean. The dome of bodies on top of him bursts open, allowing him to turn on his back and take the most delicious gulp of fresh air he has ever tasted. For a moment, he lays there unmoving, relishing in the feeling of cold air against his skin.

It gets ruined instantly. “What the fuck were you doing down there, cook ?”

Sanji refuses to answer, his only visible eye narrowing as he glares at a very blue spot in the sky. Next to him, he hears a sword being sheathed and a ruffle of clothes, indicating the other had sat down. “Man. That was a tough crew.”

“Tough is insufficient !” he finally bursts, abruptly pulling himself in a sitting position. Unfortunately for him the sudden rush of blood out of his head turns the lights off, and he almost falls face first back down, barely caught by a single hand on his chest. He doesn’t thank Zoro, instead swatting his hand off like it burnt him, hissing venomously.

“Geez, I’m just trying to help.”

“Oh yeah ?” Sanji spits, and the idiot has the balls to look hurt. “Well it’s a little late for that, isn’t it ?”

Zoro doesn’t say anything back, hands on his crossed feet. He just stares at the other with his single eye, face unreadable until he slides down and suddenly his expression rounds itself in surprise. “Your hand-”

“What of it ?” 

“It’s…you know.” the green-haired man gestures vaguely, his voice having dropped a few octaves in what Sanji can recognize as guilt. “Is it bad ?”

“Take a wild guess, asshole.”

That seems to be the breaking point for Zoro, who’s face plummets from a silent apology to full blown exasperation in the blink of an eye. He sinks on himself, eye darkened in frustration and brings a hand to reach for Sanji’s, probably to check the extent of damage, but before he even has the time to think the cook pulls the wounded palm to his chest. He glares in a way that dares the swordsman to do anything dangerous, dissuading him while perfectly aware he wouldn't stop the other if he tried. It doesn’t work. Zoro insists, and finally takes the bloody hand between his own.

“My feet were fucked up.” Sanji grumbles, staring at his indeed destroyed feet sorrowfully. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I thought cooks didn’t use their hands outside the kitchen.” Zoro says slowly as an answer, though in a tone that is softer than it is mocking. The cook hates it.

“I didn’t have a choice.” he repeats, harsher. “It’s your fault for not giving me time to change my shoes. Plus, lunch is ruined, and there is no way Chopper is gonna let me whip up something new with a stabbed hand, so you only have yourself to blame for all the shitty food you’ll eat for the ne-”

“Sorry.”

Sanji bites his tongue halfway through his rant. “Huh ?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” the swordsman’s grip on his wounded hand tightens, his face hidden from the way he hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

That actually is enough to shut Sanji up for good. He is left dumbfounded, staring at Zoro in utter confusion, not even trying to pull his hand out. While the strong hold is starting to become borderline painful, it’s in a way that isn’t really hurtful…kind of. Don’t take it the wrong way; the swordsman being, well, a swordsman, he tended to grab all things with a little too much force as if it would be stolen from him if he didn’t hold it powerfully enough. Sanji found that habit really funny, because who the hell held burgers to the point they’d tear holes into the buns ? Sure, it was less funny when it was his arm being held in a lock and twisted mercilessly until he gave up, but overall it was a silly thing to mock the green haired guy for. 

This grip on his hand however was strong in a way that physically was starting to sting (a lot. Sanji fears the stab wound is getting bigger, actually.), but remained soft in intention. Zoro wasn’t actively trying to hurt him is what he guesses out of this, which is arguably one of the weirdest conclusions he has ever come to.

Still he can’t ignore the unwilling damage done to his palm. “Stop grabbing so hard, Marimo. It hurts.” he says without real bite. The swordsman diligently lets go, refusing to raise his head but now bringing his hands to tap nervously on his knees. 

Sanji is utterly baffled then. The previous fury he was ready to unleash on Zoro has died out too fast, uncomfortably resting in the back of his head. He genuinely doesn’t feel like being angry anymore, just staring at his sitting partner hanging his head like a kicked puppy.

What the actual fuck.

“Why didn’t you come the first dozen times I called ?” he half-heartedly accuses, not even bothering his tone to sound angry. And as Zoro finally raises his face, expression full of hurt and confusion, he almost regrets asking.

“I sent something in your direction earlier ? Knocked a bunch of marines, I thought I was being helpful.” he mutters, visibly distraught. Sanji blinks, equally confused, his mind suddenly remembering the awful gust of wind that had caused him to topple down the stairs and, well, you know, stab his hand and have a panic attack because of it.

“That was you ?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

He is genuinely devastated. The way Zoro is staring at him in anticipation, as if expecting something more out of the conversation makes Sanji squirm in his seat, all words stuck somewhere between his throat and his gut along with remnants of the bile he threw up earlier. He knows this is the moment he says a thanks half-assedly hidden behind a snarky remark on how weak the slash had been but he simply cannot bring himself to give anything normal to the swordsman; who, is in fact still looking at him with the same disgustingly hopeful expression.

“Cook ?” Speaking of him, Zoro is leaning in dangerously close, eyebrow furrowing in what Sanji interprets as mild annoyance mixed with confusion (and not worry.). He raises a hand to push the mosshead’s face away from him, but misjudges and ends up slapping him with his bloody palm–which is both super gross and makes a new wave of pain burst from the point of impact all the way to the tip of his fingers.

Instead of answering, he bites the insides of his cheeks and mumbles a wordless insult, the sound coming out garbled and odd. He didn’t think it was possible to fail to recognize his own voice but here they were, and he faintly thinks he might still be in shock; much to his dismay. At least he has the decency to pull his arm back to his side, though Zoro’s face is already showing an angrily painted handprint. 

He sighs. “I guessed it was your doing, idiot.” he mutters without any bite; forcing himself to speak. The bare minimum, really. “Can we go back to the Sunny or d’you still have to clean up here ?”

“Nah, I’m good. We can go.” To his benefit, Zoro is quick to the uptake (for once) and doesn’t ask anything else, getting up on his feet with a grunt. Then he waits.

It takes Sanji a solid minute to register that he is also supposed to get up, and another to think of how to do it without looking like he only has a few minutes left to live. A little awkwardly looking around himself, he picks up the sword he had stolen from a marine earlier with his good hand, using it as a makeshift cane to push himself upwards.

He miscalculates (again) and loses his footing almost as soon as he stretches to his full height, accepting the free fall with a manly resolve. However Zoro doesn’t let him keep his dignity, reaching almost automatically to grab his collar with one bored hand, effectively destroying the remaining pride he had left as a man. The jolt is clumsy, and Sanji watches far away as his half-empty package of cigarettes topples down to the ground. 

Except instead of the wooden thunk he expected, it sticks and gives a wet sort of sound, apparently landing in a puddle of blood. That’s somehow curious–the cook doesn’t remember putting his hand at that specific spot. But he is tired, and disoriented, so the information is quickly discarded. “Zoooro,” he drawls, “pick up my cigs.”

“So demanding, prince.” he can hear the eye roll in the swordsman’s tone, equally amused and bored as he pulls Sanji fully up, pressing a hand to his lower abdomen as he does.

Before the cook even has the time to get angry at their intimity, the touched spot sharply protests, cutting his breath in half in his lungs. He topples over, eyes wide in utter confusion and pain, feeling his knees collapse against his will. Still pressed against Zoro, he hears the man gasp a very offensive word as he follows Sanji down to the ground; it was funny that one of the arguably buffest men he knew wouldn’t be able to hold his weight. Was Zoro weaker than he thought, or had he gained weight ?

That is the last conscious thought he manages out, willing himself to hold onto it and make fun of the swordsman later.

-

Chopper tells him that he is on bed arrest for at least a week, and Sanji gets up the second he leaves the room. 

It felt like a lot of fussing over nothing, really; Luffy got stabbed all the time and that didn’t stop him from running around, so why shouldn’t he be able to do the same ? He knows pointedly that the rubber kid is more resistant than him for obvious devil fruit related reasons, but decides to ignore it because if he spends one more minute drowning in heavy blankets he is certain he will lose his mind. Chopper had also mentioned he shouldn’t be smoking, yet he lights a cigarette as soon as he is reunited with his coat and by extension his pack and zippo. 

To be entirely honest, even with his comfortable shoes he can feel every step reverberate in his spine, reminding him that he should be doing anything but preparing himself to cook at the moment. His stabbed hand is in a sling (which was unnecessary, he had told Chopper, but the reindeer argued that Sanji would use the hand whether it was stabbed or not if it wasn’t entirely immobilized. The doctor wasn’t wrong, but it still felt infantilizing), which means he only has one arm available–it would be enough. 

There is a dark patch on his counter, which he guesses is from the burnt dish the crew had to clean up earlier. His poor kitchen…For the record, even if Zoro had been the one to carry his passed out body back to the Sunny Go, Sanji holds his grudge tight. He hadn’t told him, of course, but his hand was out of commission thanks to his badly aimed slash meant to help. Weirdly, he doesn’t feel like pushing that specific thing against him–even to Sanji, it felt too serious a thing to banter about. Like ‘Hey, remember when you tried to help me ? Yeah that actually didn’t help at all. It almost killed me, in fact.’. Total mood killer. He cared enough about the swordsman to not blame him for this.

Which was a very strange decision, he’ll admit. Chopper had informed him that he also had a large gash on his lower abdomen, caused by a (wouldn’t you know it) sharp sword. Sanji easily explained it as an accident from the fight, and got out question free. He knew pertinently which sword had caused it, and when, but it was a secret he was alright with keeping.

“What’re you muttering about ?”

Sanji does not jump on his feet. He absolutely does not hit his head against the hood of his work table, does not yelp a colourful insult and does not feel a sting in his chest that makes him fear he just tore a stitch on his wound. Sitting at the dinner table is Luffy, who is watching him with those big round eyes. There are absolutely no thoughts behind them.

“I’m hungry.” he says, expression pinching in frustration. “Lunch sucked.” 

“Did it now ?” Sanji chuckles, rubbing his head with his good hand. He wonders if they even had had lunch, with all this agitation; though whatever the situation, Luffy must have found something to snack on. It reminds him to check through the supplies when he feels up to it.

As he turns back to the counter, his utensils disorganized (he appreciated the crew’s help, really he did, but they couldn’t even remember how he liked to keep his workplace), Sanji suddenly doesn’t feel as confident about making food as earlier. The knives are really big, and really sharp, and his one hand still felt groggy from the meds Chopper had loaded him up on while he was asleep. He distantly remembers the doctor’s warning about what would happen to him if he disrespected the bed arrest order, but quickly moves on.

“Can I make you some meat ?” he asks instead, hoping Luffy doesn’t notice his lack of confidence. If his captain wanted food, then he’d make food; that was his job. If he couldn’t even feed the crew anymore, then he’d be–

“Nope !”

Sanji blinks. “You’re…But you’re hungry ?”

“Yeah !” Luffy answers easily. “But you can’t cook. So I’ll ask somebody else or something.” he adds on, like it’s the most obvious thing ever. The way he says it almost makes Sanji feel stupid.

“But I’m the ship’s cook.” he supplies, almost desperate. It’s his captain’s turn to blink.

“But you’re hurt.”

Before he has the time to reply to the clearly pointless debate, the door of the kitchen opens and in comes Robin, deeply engrossed in the book she is reading. She closes the door behind herself, eyes glued down, and only notices the two men staring at her once she sits at the table and accidentally places her book on Luffy’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t even budge, only yawning and flexing his flat rubber fingers when she apologetically picks the object up again.

“Robin.” he sighs, his face squished in a very unsanitary way on the wood. “Cook me some meat.”

Sanji tuts in protest, but the woman raises a dainty hand to silence him (and he does shut up immediately. He doesn’t argue with women, they tell him to shut up and he does.). “Of course, captain. What kind of meat do we have left ?”

“Lamb.” the cook blankly answers, jaw slack. “There should also be some chicken, or uh…There’s definitely a lot of fish stacked around. But you shouldn’t cook anything you’re not certain you can make–even though I’m sure Robin-chan can cook everything she puts her mind to-”

“I’ll be fine.”

He shuts his mouth with a loud clack, feeling his teeth hit each other almost painfully, then gives an energetic series of nods. It seems she is picking up on all the clues he is unable to keep in his bag right now, and as they spill haphazardly over the floor around him she accepts it without complaints. In all honesty, she should be annoyed about it, tell him to keep it together somehow, ask him to clean up the mess he made himself yet she mops it up with that soft, gentle smile of hers.

That’s when he realizes his internal metaphor is getting out of hand, especially because Robin has had the time to go through the fridge and pull out a generous slab of meat which she is now preparing to heat up. Knowing Luffy, it doesn’t need any sort of serious cooking to satisfy him; just roast it enough that he doesn’t catch bad diseases when eating it and you’ll be fine. He notices his thoughts are once again going full cook-mode as the next moment he tunes in with whatever is going on in his kitchen he sees Robin gracefully handling spices with a myriad of hands as their captain happily cheers from his spot.

“Maybe you should go get some fresh air.” Robin eventually says, making a hand appear on his shoulder to catch the cigarette he has burnt out in his mouth (he hadn’t noticed it slipping off). Awkwardly nodding, he takes the stick out of her hand, which she uses to pat him patronizingly on the shoulder. The saliva in his mouth is heavy, and he chokes on it as he swallows–she is just being kind. She is being kind, and soft, and friendly, but it also feels like she is treating him like a little kid who can’t take care of himself; she isn’t wrong in doing so, but it still stings.

So he accepts that he is utterly useless, and thanks Robin before leaving the warmly scented kitchen behind him and lighting the same cigarette again. The smell of smoke quickly takes over the taste of cooking meat as he closes the door behind him, his face scrunching up when cold and salty air hits him. He closes his eyes for a second, the wind burning more than the smoke he hungrily gulps down (how long has it been since he last ate ? Somehow, he cannot remember), and thinks painfully hard at how much of a sad loser he is.

When he opens his eyes again, he isn’t alone on deck anymore, or maybe he had never been alone to begin with, but he sure isn’t alone right now; in any case, Zoro is standing there as if he was going to enter the cabin and just got very surprised at Sanji coming out of it. They kind of just look at each other without saying anything, the swordsman’s face surprisingly showing some sort of shocked emotion.

“Your stomach.” he utters at some point. “I didn’t know you got a wound on your stomach.” he elaborates quickly, pointing at the cook with a stiff finger.

“Me neither.” Sanji answers. “I woke up and it was bandaged.”

“Oh, okay.” Zoro accepts.

Then they fall back to a weird kind of silence.

“Does it hurt ?” At that question Sanji raises a single, curled eyebrow (the second is hidden, but he is certain the point is made just as efficiently because Zoro gets clearly embarrassed, scratching his chin). “Okay, figures.” 

“Any other stupid questions where that came from ?”

“Fuck you, cook, I’m being polite.”

“You don’t have to.” he frowns, the swordsman’s sudden defensive tone riling him up. “You surely weren’t thinking about being fucking polite when you cut me up without warning.”

Sanji realizes he fucked up the moment the sentence finishes itself (he isn’t totally in control), the thought kicking his ass mercilessly as Zoro’s brows fly all the way to his hairline, crossing the enormous patch of skin that is his forehead in record time. “What ?”

“What ?”

“I…” Zoro stutters. Roronoa fucking Zoro stutters. “I did that to you ?”

The cook has absolutely zero idea how to respond to that. This was the one single topic he did not want to bring up today yet here he was, facing it full on with a head clearly kept underwater by medicine and one arm in a shitty sling around his neck. Talking to the swordsman was hard in normal conditions but this was a whole new level of difficulty he refused to tackle, especially as the man’s eye lowered to search wildly around the floor for an answer. Frankly, he looks manic.

“Well I don’t actually know. It really could’ve been any random marine swing.” he says, trying to back pedal. That piss-poor excuse doesn’t even convince himself–and it seems to be even less effective on Zoro as his face snaps back up to glare at him in a frankly terrifying manner.

He is so ugly, fury turning his features into gross charcoal scribbles that for a second Sanji thinks he is meeting the Demon of East Blue for the first time all over again. He honest to god never wants to see that again.

Zoro raises a hand, seems to want to use it to make some offensive gesture, but quickly gives up by using it to vigorously rub his face (his nose gets caught up and turns a strange angle but he looks too angry to care that he may or may not have dislocated and relocated it), and Sanji fears this action has gotten him more intimidated than an actual physical slap would have. Maybe it’s because the rub has metaphorically messed up the already hard to understand lines of the swordsman face, turning it into an even worse kind of scary mush.

“Fucking hell, cook.” he finally grumbles–well, growls more than anything–and it gets Sanji’s panic to grow exponentially at such a fast rate that he physically feels sick about it. 

He swallows down bile once, twice, repositions the slipping cigarette in his mouth. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Whatever. Don’t fall, I don’t wanna have to fish you out of the water.”

With that, the swordsman harshly makes his way into the cabin by pushing him away with a shoulder, slamming the door behind him. Its sound is painful, but short, quickly gone along with the man’s heavy footsteps. Sanji realizes that the shove has gotten him to fall down on his ass like an idiot well after the deck goes completely silent, and he is left to contemplate if Zoro would actually fish him up if he threw himself into the ocean.

He seriously considers jumping overboard but eventually decides against it when Usopp emerges out of his workshop and helps him get up before manhandling him back to bed (stupid Usopp and his stupidly well-built new muscles).

-

That night, Sanji finds himself really hungry and really tired of pretending he’s sleeping to not have to talk to anybody else. The pros of keeping his face smushed down in the pillow was that Chopper didn’t let anybody come in the room because “he’s getting more sleep right now that he has this whole month, all days combined” (if only he knew); but the cons of keeping his face smushed down in the pillow were that he didn’t get to eat, couldn’t breathe properly, didn’t get to drink either, and worst of all he couldn’t smoke. The pack was mocking him right there on the nightstand.

Once he guesses the midnight hour mark has been hit, he decides that it might be smart to get up for a leak and a quick cigarette, and also maybe a little bite of something. He is almost 100% certain there are wastes left from dinner, and it’s his job to take care of them–he’s doing the right thing and being useful, even if it means risking being caught going through the food bin like a low-class rat. But right as he manages to turn on his side, the doorknob rattles.

He almost cries in frustration, but instead closes his eyes as tight as possible and prays the combination of dim light and blonde bangs cover up his sour face because if it doesn’t this is going down as one of the most awkward interaction in the history of the Sunny Go, maybe ever.

“Cook ?”

No cake is ever complete without a tiny fucking sparkly red cherry, is it ?

Zoro kind of stands in the doorway for a moment, a black shadow against the light from the corridor, before stepping inside the room and shutting the room behind him. Sanji is taking a shot in the dark and guessing he didn’t notice he was awake, if the very stiff way he pats him down is any help. Once he seems to be convinced the sick man is asleep, he proceeds to unbutton his shirt, surprising the cook so much that it takes all his willpower not to ‘wake up’ and beat the shit out of him on the spot.

Listen, if this were any other normal occurrence, Sanji wouldn’t have thought twice about bashing the guy’s skull for having done as little as grab his shirt, but the utter…tenderness of his hands on his skin has paralyzed him on the spot. The touch isn’t really comfortable because Zoro’s skin is rough and sandpaper-y, but his gestures have such a clumsily delicate touch to them that makes it hard to decide whether he is real or not. The swordsman was far from graceful, unable to complete any task that required basic motor skills or precision as his big, square fingers got in the way of their precision. 

In fact, it takes him an excruciatingly long time to work through a basic shirt (which already had most of the top buttons off), so long that Sanji seriously considers flinging care out the window and helping him just to end the weird business faster. However he does not, and once Zoro is done he pushes the hems further away from each other without attempting to pull the sleeves off. All of a sudden, the blonde feels really, really really exposed.

That should have been enough; it should have been more than enough to get Sanji to push the other off and regain his personal space. The threshold of comfortable is crossed, trampled, disappears as he hears a blade being drawn, holds his breath and–

–his bandage is cleanly cut, the blade not doing as little as ghosting his skin. He has no idea why he hasn’t reacted despite the rate at which his heart is hammering against his chest, making it hard to keep his respirations calm enough to mimic sleep. Sanji had been aware of the sword being drawn, had had more than enough time to dodge and yet he hadn’t even thought about moving, not even once; even if the one handling it was the one who had gotten him these bandages in the first place. Maybe it was because it was Zoro that he hadn’t moved. It hurts to think, the thoughts whirlpooling in the bottom of his gut. Chopper was going to be really angry.

Then, a cold finger traces the stitched line on his chest, from one side to another. The goosebumps it elicits are so strong Sanji swears he feels his very soul spasm against his skin, threatening to explode out–then the finger is gone.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is Zoro’s breathing, increasing in pace and strength as Sanji holds his own. His lungs are on fire yet he cannot bring himself to help, listening to the huffs get louder and heavier until the guy falls to his knees, aggressively rubbing his scalp.

…The blonde decides not to react for the simple reason that he is unable to move. Both because this entire situation is way out of league for the kind of swordsman bullshit he usually deals with and because his wound getting re-exposed to fresh air has actually knocked him down a large peg. He is starting to understand why Chopper was so insistent about him being careful with those; he feels the ambient air push into his body as if trying to fill the void left by his spilled blood, and it would be an understatement to say it hurt like a bitch.

Then finally, Zoro lets out a muffled groan, which the other guesses he covers with his hands from the sound of it. “Shit.” he says, sounding genuinely anguished. “I definitely did that.”

Oh. So that’s what it was all about. 

Sanji isn’t really surprised, but knowing the reason for the visit didn’t make his options any clearer. What was he supposed to do ? Reassure the guy ? He couldn’t lie about it anymore, and he definitely didn’t have the strength to fight him over it (not that fighting was less bizarre than any other action, but fighting was the only thing they knew how to do together, so you can’t blame Sanji for considering it). 

In any case, Zoro doesn’t sound like he is going to recover soon. Sanji can hear him furiously grumble to himself, the words mixing in what he likes to call ‘marimo soup’; incomprehensible, and very caveman-like. The cook accepts to listen to him mumble for a few minutes, hoping it dies out soon, and when it doesn’t, he finally decides to intervene.

“Are you going to bandage me back or will you call Chopper before I die ?”

Zoro audibly chokes on his saliva, losing his balance and falling backwards on his ass (revenge well executed) before raising a horrified eye up to the blonde. “How long have you been awake ?”

Sanji smiles. “The whole darn time. How bad d’you want me ?”

“This has nothing to do with that shit, and you know it. I’ll go wake up Chopper.”

As fast as he entered, the swordsman springs up to his full height and half-assedly wipes his face with the back of his hand. Sanji cannot see his expression, but the stiffness of his legs speaks too clearly, so do the laboured breaths he still hasn’t evened out. The whole scenario plays backwards; Zoro is the one feeling bad, and Sanji is compelled to apologize about it even though he is the one who got butchered, and it makes him furious and genuinely leaves a bitter taste of unfairness in his mouth. His smile has melted cleanly off his lips.

Still, he refuses to let the green bitch leave before having said something. The constraint of time presses on his head, unconsciously making him get up in a sitting position at such a speed he feels his wound curl and somehow spread across his torso even wider–his muscles are torn by white-hot pain but he bites down his tongue and finally speaks.

“I don’t hate you.”

Zoro turns around just enough to show half of his ugly face, the corridor’s light making it shine in an almost wet fashion. “What ?” he asks, though it comes off as a sniffle. Sanji doesn’t comment.

“You fucked up,” he continues, pretty sure there is blood dripping down his chin from the tongue he just cut (his mouth feels warm), “but I don't hate you. It’s fine.”

As the swordsman keeps staring, now having fully angled his back against the door with his features still obscured, Sanji can feel his confidence slipping away. He cannot distinguish Zoro’s features as they swirl and change, appearing blue-ish in the darkness–he is underwater.

“What ?” Zoro repeats, significantly quieter.

That gets an exasperated sigh out of the other, who runs a nervous hand through his hair (and gets his pectoral to wince in a nasty way). “How many times do I have to repeat this ? You’re fine. I’m not mad or anything ? Shit happens, and you weren’t careful, and I wasn’t careful, and yeah.”

While he rambles, Sanji notices the swordsman walk back to the bed, this time choosing to sit on the stool next to it instead of the floor (which he takes as an improvement from earlier). When he doesn’t say anything, instead keeping on blankly looking at the blonde, he decides to not stop talking in the hope that it would help stopping any other incoming breakdowns.

“It’s not even that serious. We’re Luffy’s wingmen, and that kid is gonna be the pirate king so you should expect a lot from us both, so this is really not a big deal. Sure, you fucking suck and can’t aim for shit but I should’ve remembered that and covered up for your stupid ass instead of completely freaking out when my crocs exploded–did you know they could do that !?” (Zoro does him the favour of incredulously shaking his head in a negative gesture) “Yeah me neither ! Whatever, my point being this sort of minor incident won’t kill me or anything–”

“No.”

Sanji stops mid-sentence, mouth left hanging. In front of him, Zoro has tightly grabbed one arm he had been using to accompany his words with action, and is now crushing it in a familiar feeling grip. This time though, the cook instantly tries pulling himself out only for the other to strengthen his grip, his expression having gone completely vacant. Sanji has half a mind to insult him now, so he waits.

“No.” Zoro repeats, the word a lot heavier now. “It could have. We’re not like Luffy, we don’t have devil fruit powers or some super strong natural haki or anything. Luffy can’t die, but we can.”

That knocks the wind out of his lungs at such a speed that he almost gets whiplash, a very uncomfortable kind of vertigo taking over his body. It makes him want to talk about Germa 66 all of a sudden but something painful forces his mouth shut in a thin line, even though he can feel blood accumulate very grossly behind his lips. He just swallows it like a man (why had that thought sounded like Judge ? He unwillingly shivers at it.). 

A part of him knows Zoro is wrong, and another part clings to him being right. The reality of it is that he wants to be mortal, seriously he does, he wants Zoro to feel absolutely horrible about the mistakes he makes and devastated about the thought of taking a life he shouldn’t. Another just wants to reassure the swordsman–’silly little Marimo, I can’t actually die, I’m not even human, and you can cut me as much as you want ! Now go back to photosynthesizing, or whatever it is that algae does in its free time.’

Instead, he lowers his head and lightly bumps it into Zoro’s shoulder. “If I die because of you, I’ll kill you, gut you like a fish, strangle you with your own spine and shove it so far up your ass you’ll be coughing vertebrae for months. And then I’ll kill you again.”

“I gotta make sure you don’t die because of me, then.” The guy answers slowly, a little too thought-through for Sanji’s comfort but he appreciates being taken seriously. A strange feeling of guilt is sticking in his hair like old gum and he wishes he could get rid of it, so he rubs his head further against Zoro’s shoulder instead of pulling at his bangs with tight fingers; he fears it would look hurtful if he suddenly stopped the contact just to indulge in an arguably insane tick.

It’s at that specific moment that he also realizes that there is a hand between his shoulder blades, and it’s stupid how little that touch had mattered to him. Just a few seconds later, he notices that he’s bleeding all over Zoro’s shirt (not that it should bother him, Zoro and shirts just didn’t go together. Mostly because he never wore them. Now Sanji felt uncomfortable about being the one undressed between him and the swordsman. It was very odd.). However he seems to be the only one aware of that fact since the other had not moved an inch, even having brought a second hand to rub in his hair; which, he would never admit, sort of helped the itch on his scalp.

“I’m bleeding all over your shirt.” he eventually says, with as much tact as he can muster up. 

Zoro moves, pulling away a bit too violently for somebody handling a mortally wounded man, and proceeds to shove him down the bed, once again, quite roughly. Sanji doesn’t cry a little at the shove; the liquid dripping down his cheeks is blood, not tears, but for the sake of debate he will admit having screamed in an octave much higher than his usual voice. “You’re bleeding all over my shirt.” he hears the green haired man blubber out far away.

“The red won’t come off of the white shirt easily.” Sanji answers, suddenly realizing that his head feels very light. He also remembers Chopper mentioning he did not have any blood pouches fitting his type anymore, and how that meant he should be extra-careful about recovering, and almost starts crying again. It’s all really hazy, especially as the light around him gets stronger and weaker as Zoro turns in circles around the room, for some reason.

Zoro stops walking. “There are no blood bags here ?”

“None left.”

“Right. Forgot about your bleeding nose problem.”

“Not really, we just used everything in one go for this one big thing.”

He doesn’t hear Zoro answer this one, and hopes he feels bad about it. Then he feels bad about wanting him to feel bad about it because he had rubbed his hair a little, and it had been very comfortable.

Blackleg Sanji physically feels himself sinking very low. Maybe it’s metaphorical, or maybe he is going delirious because of the blood loss, but he genuinely couldn’t care less. 

-

He wakes up again just to be told he has slept for two days straight, and the first thing he asks is who has been in charge of keeping his kitchen clean. Usopp knocks him out cold in pure outrage and relief with such strength that Sanji goes right back to sleep for a solid twenty-four hours (stupid Usopp and his stupidly well-built new muscles). When he wakes up for real this time, a good three days have passed and he decides to look at the state of the kitchen with his own two eyes not only because he trusts no-one on this ship but also because he fears Usopp just might end up giving him a concussion on top of everything else he has been dealing with.

Coming out of a coma isn’t an easy deal, and Sanji learns it the hard way. Turns out mixing recovering feet and a very ankylosed body was a recipe for many disasters including feeling like a baby duckling learning to walk and having to use an actual crutch to prevent himself from falling down every five feet. If Zeff saw him now, he’d tell him to hop around on his one available hand and cook with his feet or something–and Sanji has been a cook for twelve sad, sad years, and god be damned if he hasn’t learned how to peel potatoes holding knives with his toes just for a stupid dare against Carne (which he had won, by the way). 

As he starts considering cooking with his feet just for the sake of being useful, he opens the door of the kitchen and finds himself facing a horrifying show.

Franky is washing dishes all by himself, his enormous hands used as water and soap guns to speed up the process, and by extent speed up the arrival of his death date. 

“These are porcelain !!” he squeaks, choosing not to throw any kick in the fear of misjudging his strength and breaking dishes.

Franky turns around and grins like he’s the man. “You’re up ! That’s super !”

“Get out of my kitchen or I can and will break every bone in your fucking body.”

“I don’t have any !!” the cyborg cackles, though complying incredibly quickly for a man who barely fit in the kitchen with those enormous guns. A few loud mechanical clangs later he is gone, having left the tap running behind him. Sanji doesn’t have the energy to berate him over it, instead closing the water stream with a light sigh. Why did he even need the tap on when he already used his own body as a water gun ? Everything about Franky remained an enigma to him, especially how he managed to get in a relationship with Robin (seriously, they were polar opposites ! Sanji knew about opposites attracting but this felt like one hell of a stretch).

Now that he is alone in the kitchen, he somehow doesn’t feel as much at peace as he should. The dishes are halfway done, there is a suspicious looking sandwich under a suspicious looking yellow post-it with his name suspiciously scribbled on it, and the alcohol stash he had been planning on slowly consuming for the upcoming week that they had before reaching their next destination had been reduced to one single bottle. In three days. Upon closer inspection, it’s actually only half a bottle.

How is the crew still alive. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had lost Zoro to alcohol poisoning already. 

Speaking of his crewmates, Sanji only has a few seconds listening to sudden bickering before the door of the kitchen slams open, revealing a beautiful angel and a very pissed seaweed sprout seemingly arguing about, wouldn’t you know it, alcohol.

They stop looking extraordinarily unhappy with each other the second they notice Sanji in the middle of the room, holding the last bottle of alcohol in his good hand.

“You shouldn’t be drinking right after you wake up !!” Nami screeches at the same time as Zoro groans “Give me that.”

Sanji does none of these things. He downs the rest of the bottle without listening to their combined yelling and immediately regrets it because of course the liquor they hadn’t finished was his strongest, and also the one he never drank and only used to cook meat with. He blacks out for the third time in one week.

It only takes him five minutes to wake up, blurry eyed, covered from head to toe with sea water and dangling upside down from his feet. He groans in utter confusion once, which gets him pulled back onboard at the speed of light and thrown on the woody deck. At least he doesn’t have to deal with the sun’s glare with Nami and Zoro blocking it with their huge bodies (he mentally apologizes to Nami immediately while accepting that Zoro is just built like a brick wall).

“You probably pulled all my stitches out.” Sanji mumbles, stopping halfway through the sentence to spit out water and algae. It tastes slimy and gross and it’s the first thing he has willingly put in his mouth in three days; he almost throws up.

“You don’t have stitches anymore.” Zoro argues without missing a beat and gets hit over the head as soon as he opens his mouth. “What ! I’m right !!”

Nami is positively fuming. “You almost killed the guy, stop acting like a smartass !”

Zoro opens his mouth, face hardening in wild fury, then his eye slides down to Sanji still hacking out sea salt and a bunch of small fishes, and just like that he goes quiet. He sits down, crosses his arms, and glares. Nami apparently takes it as a victory because she huffs a sharp insult before returning her attention to the actual sick man.

“Do you need anything ?”

“I couldn’t ask for anything from you, Nami-san !!” he chirps, then takes a second to pull out an eerily long eel out of his throat. “Actually, scratch that; what do you want for dinner ?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.” Zoro supplies, not breaking eye contact with the space he is staring into. Sanji sticks his tongue out.

“Whatever, Marimo. What about lunch !?”

Snapping back to the lovely navigator, he is met with two round, wide, and definitely not pleased eyes. He blinks once, she squints, he cocks his head to the side, her gaze narrows, he raises his good hand, she grits her teeth. At a full loss, Sanji intensely stares at Zoro for a sliver of help, but the guy decides to suddenly start acting like a houseplant and close his eye, effectively shutting himself out of the conversation. If it were anybody else, the cook would have marked his behaviour down as one of someone deeply hurt by Nami’s sharp tongue, but it’s Zoro, so he is probably just bored.

“Why would I ask you to cook anything ?” she finally says, clearly controlling her tone.

Sanji laughs incredulously. “Because I’m your cook ? And it’s my job ?”

“Zoro,” Nami magnificently ignores him, turning to the one man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here (yet didn’t bother leaving for some reason), “would you be so kind and bring Sanji back to bed ?”

“No.”

Sanji doesn’t even try to pretend he is surprised by the reaction and simply reaches for a cigarette, realizes the pack is soaked and ruined, and ends up chewing on his lip. “I get it, I’ll go back myself.” he assures, you know, like a liar.

“I have to chart our course to make sure we don’t get lost. If I come back in two hours and see our cook dead on the kitchen floor, I’ll blame you for it.” And with that, she turns around with a graceful sway of her hips before leaving the deck just as she announced, not even checking behind her to see if her orders were being followed. Sanji hopes she knows that her threat only strengthened his will to cook.

Still sitting in his wet clothes on the floor, he inconspicuously glances over to Zoro who doesn’t seem like he wants to do anything at all. In fact, he looks like he is meditating somewhere really far away from the Sunny Go, face set in serious concentration. It would be a great situation to mock him for, but Sanji cannot push away the embarrassing thought that he might actually have to rely on the guy to get up, so making fun of his human crutch is sadly out of the question at the moment. 

Before going back to banter, he decides to try out his legs and general body just to make sure he has the position required to at least walk around on his own; he’d figure out the details later on. Surprisingly, he manages to use his crutch (which Nami had helpfully left on the ground next to him) and gets up without too much trouble, even testing it to take a little stroll around the grass. Once he is confident with his ability to navigate the ship without help, he moves back to pick on Zoro a little just to notice he has disappeared from his spot.

He stands in utter confusion for a moment, unable to pick up on any possible clues around him. Then his observational haki does a full 180 and he crisply shudders.

“Your reflexes used to be faster even when y’were asleep.” Sanji prides himself in not jumping out of his body when Zoro speaks up from behind him. “It’s really bad.”

“Don’t pity me.” he snarls, turning to face the other who’s only reaction to his anger is a shrug.

“I’m not. Just stating facts.”

“Okay then, facts are that I haven’t used haki in a little while because I was in a pseudo-coma, idiot.” he snaps back naturally, rolling his eyes. This he could do.

“It’s not just your haki.” Zoro admonishes, sounding awfully patronizing. “You shouldn’t be lowering your guard around me, because of what I did. You should be even more…jittery than usual.”

Sanji raises a bored eyebrow, unsure of what he should respond. It looked like the swordsman expected a lot more harshness from him, which made sense in a way, and was put off by how little hell he was giving him. Which was, in fact, quite a well-founded surprise: Sanji hates to admit it but he too thought himself to be a lot worse than this. Is age making him lose his edge ? “Didn’t I already tell you ? I’m not mad, so get over it.”

That seems to be just about enough because Zoro virtually explodes.

“Well excuse me for thinking you, who usually gets pissed at my existence alone suddenly acts okay around me after I almost fucking kill you ! You should be beating me up about it every time you see me like you usually do but for some god-damned reason you’re being a huge saint and I don’t. I can’t understand it. Normally you should be using this opportunity to make me feel like shit about every little thing but you’re not, for once in your stupid life you’re actually being nice to me like you don’t want me to be upset over this huge bullshit mistake. You make no fucking sense, Sanji.”

The cook blinks, astonished. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you yell this many words in one go.” he immediately responds, hyper-aware of the lack of tact that one sentence had.

“For fuck’s sake,” Zoro pinches the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed so deeply Sanji isn’t capable of telling whether his one eye is open or not, “is that all you have to say ?”

His tone borders on desperate at the end, and yet the other genuinely does not know what more to give him. Sanji is used to dealing with sleepy Zoro, angry Zoro, hungry Zoro, hell he even faced happy Zoro like a champ; but upset Zoro is somebody he was definitely not qualified to speak to. And now that he thinks deeper about it, it isn’t somebody he wants to see ever again either and oh, the realization hits him too softly for what it entails; the swordsman had called him by his name.

Sanji doesn’t know what he had expected the first time to be like, but this somehow the furthest off-base that it could have been. There is no gratification, no satisfaction, no feeling of petty victory; he is incapable of putting his finger on the emotion this action is eliciting in him. 

“You said my name.” he eventually manages out, the tiniest smile on his face. It’s dumb, and it’s the tiniest detail about the other’s outburst, but it’s all he can focus on at the moment.

Zoro’s eye widens slightly, his expression roundening in surprise. “Uh. I did ?”

“Yeah.” he nods. “Congrats, it’s your first time.”

“Oh.” the guy answers slowly, in a way that says a lot more than just a sound. It buzzes low in Sanji’s chest, bringing a feeling a lot more comfortable in there than the previous gust of wind. Get yourself a man who can both bring butterflies in your stomach and cut that same stomach open and watch its guts fall out without blinking. The bonus with Zoro is that he knew how to do both these things simultaneously, and it’s somehow not the first time Sanji is faced with that realization. He is starting to feel a little sick, and refuses to acknowledge that it is because of his emotions more than the fact he has been standing in wet clothes on the Sunny Go’s deck for a long second now.

So he turns around and prepares to leave without explaining anything, but is easily stopped in his tracks. Arguably his tracks aren’t truly stopped, but he is tired, and not going to try to argue with a very cross looking Zoro standing between him and the kitchen door.

“You’re not gonna let me cook.” he asks without asking, finally pulling out a soaked cigarette from his pocket and putting it between his lips. Zoro stares at him quietly, definitely daring him to try and light it up if he had the balls to; which he fucking does. The stick doesn’t catch fire, actually his lighter seems to have gotten busted from his fall into the sea, but for the record he does not break eye contact. 

“Nope.” the ‘p’ is popped pointily, and Zoro’s face breaks in a superior smirk. The asshole. Sanji cannot believe they almost had a heartfelt conversation mere seconds ago.

He picks the cigarette out of his mouth, tapping it with a finger as if to let theoretical ash fall from it. “So what are you gonna do ?” This time his question is completely serious, getting the swordsman to use his brain from the way his one eye squints.

“I am going to let you in the kitchen.”

Sanji is taken aback from the decisiveness in his tone. “...And not let me cook ?”

“Nuh-uh.” he looks awfully proud of himself, drawing out the word. “We are going to the kitchen, you’re teaching me how to make that shrimp fried rice that’s so good and I’ll cook it tastier than you ever could.”

“Really ?” Sanji scoffs, astounded. Out of all the things he could have chosen to do, he picked spending time with the one guy who justifiably hated his guts and top of it was absolutely unbearable in a kitchen (even he was mature enough to accept that his attitude towards people who cooked in his kitchen was excruciable). And on top of it all, he was doing it willingly ? He does not remember Nami asking him to, but to be fair a lot could have happened in the five minutes during which he had passed out. Still, he gives Zoro an outing to reconsider.

But against all odds, his expression turns into a battle-crazed resolve Sanji knows all too well. “Yeah. It’s that or I drag you back to Chopper, your pick.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’d rather teach you how to cook.” he laughs incredulously, warmth spreading from his stomach to his fingertips as Zoro responds with a quiet chuckle of his own, smirk turning into a softer grin. He almost looks dorky, with undertones of guilt still sticking to his eye.

Were the person before him anybody other than Zoro, Sanji thinks he would have qualified the emotion he is feeling as genuine fondness, settling quite comfortably in his chest after the shipwreck that had been these last days. But the person before him is Roronoa Zoro, Demon of the East Blue, merciless pirate with a huge bounty on his head and, above all, bitchboy extraordinaire; so Sanji cannot be fond of him. It’s simply impossible to feel gentle things about a man who, after years spent training the blade, had become one himself–steel-eyed and minded, wits as sharp as his moves. 

He remembers the clumsy tenderness under sandpaper skin, and pushes the memory down as fast as possibly. A few years ago, he is certain he would’ve told Zoro to shove his swords somewhere ungentlemanly and bitterly blamed him for the state he was in, but today, today he doesn’t want to. It’s for himself more than for the swordsman, he tries to convince himself; it’s because he doesn’t want to have to deal with holding grudges. 

They messed up, both of them. Sanji was okay with leaving it at that. 

When he tunes back in, he notices that Zoro has not moved, patiently waiting in front of him with his one eye open and watching. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to, because he just knows when Sanji returns on the Sunny Go and greets him with a slight nod and a concerned raise of his eyebrows.

“Come on.” the cook says, taking an unsteady step towards the kitchen. “Those shrimps aren’t gonna fry the rice themselves.”

If Sanji feels a hand hovering behind his back and lightly brushing against his shirt to make sure he doesn't fall, he doesn’t push it away.