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It took Zoro longer than it should have to realize something was wrong. He woke up in the Sunny’s sickbay, that much he recognized, but it was slightly different from the last time he was there. There were more strange-looking plants than he remembered Usopp or Chopper tending to on the windowsill, a new photograph on the wall next to him of an island he didn’t recall seeing, the sheets were a different color, the bed looked like it had been modified to fit someone much wider.
Oh, and someone who was the cook, but not quite the cook was sitting by the bed, smiling at him in a way the cook never smiled at him. The Not-Cook had the same curly eyebrow, well, apparently, he had two curly eyebrows, both of them visible. His bangs were brushed back, pulled with the rest of his hair into a messy bun. He had the same features as the cook, but there were… more angles. Sanji, as Zoro often liked to point out, had a roundness to him that made old women in markets impromptu squeeze his cheeks. The… the man in front of him had lines, wrinkles, on his face that only served to make him look distinguished. He sat back in his chair, relaxed, one long leg crossed over the other, both of which had more muscle than Sanji’s skinny toothpicks.
The only thing that made Zoro certain this was some version of the cook was the blue of his eyes that didn’t need light to shine like dark aquamarine.
“Who the fuck are you?” Zoro tried to say, but his throat was too dry.
“Hey hey hey,” Not-Cook said soothingly as Zoro coughed, handing him a glass of water.
“Slow down,” he chuckled when Zoro attempted to gulp the entire thing at once. Not-Cook took the glass gently from his hand and went to fill it again. Zoro glared at him suspiciously. He had the same gait as the cook, long strides taking him just a few steps to cross the sickbay.
“Who the fuck are you?” Zoro repeated.
“Sanji,” Not-Cook said, walking back and handing him the glass.
“No, you’re not,” Zoro said.
“I think I would know who I am,” Not-Cook responded lightly, “But to the real question is, who are you? Based on the unfortunate scraps of white t-shirt you had on, the amount of blood we had to wring out of your haramaki, and your cute as a button little face, you are my Zoro, but I’m going to assume the last thing you remembered was Thriller Bark?”
Zoro stared, stuck somewhere between a cold terror at the memory of Kuma and sheer terror at the words “my Zoro.”
“No, I mean, yes, I mean, I’m not your Zoro,” Zoro sputtered out, “But yes, Thriller Bark.”
“Oh you’re not my Zoro yet?” Sanji mused, “I do get the timings mixed up sometimes. It’s been more than twenty years after all.”
“T-twenty years?” Zoro asked, eyes wide.
“I know I don’t look it,” Sanji winked, “But I turned a ripe 40 a few months ago, as did you. I don’t know where you went, actually. As soon as we found you, you disappeared, muttering about shitty time travel and messing up timelines. You—” he paused, frowning, “Well this is just getting confusing, let’s go with Mosshead and Mini-Mosshead. Mosshead is somewhere on the ship, probably sulking.”
Zoro bristled, still confused but certain he did not want to be called Mini-Mosshead by Not-Cook.
“Where was I? Yes, 40, still on the Sunny, still traveling the world. Most of us have branched off now. Chopper’s got his own medical boat, wandering the Grand Line saving people. Franky and Robin are running the government. Brook is on tour. Jinbe’s back on Fish-Man Island. Oh, you haven’t met Jinbe, nevermind. He’s the reason the bed had to be so much bigger. And us—” Not-Cook chuckled, a far-off gaze in his eye, “Well, I’ll keep that a secret for now.
“If Chopper’s gone, who—?” Zoro looked down at his bandages.
“I did,” Not-Cook smirked, “Good with my hands and all that. Usopp helped, but I know how much you value your below-the-waist modesty, so I told him to leave for some of the more intimate wounds.”
Zoro blushed, looking away and trying to collect himself. This was ridiculous, was he expected to believe he had time traveled to the future? The cook was playing a trick on him, Usopp was clever enough to make changes to the infirmary, apply make-up or whatever to Sanji. But, no, there was a certainty to Not-Cook that Sanji could never fake.
“How do we get you back?” Not-Cook mused, “I wonder if they know you’re gone. Probably panicking, if so, we were clueless back then.”
“Luffy,” Zoro said, suddenly remembering his captain lying broken on the rubble of Thriller Bark.
“He’ll be fine, because of you,” Not-Cook said, eyes warm, “I’ll be too, though I’ll act shitty about it for a while. I could have taken it, you know. I could have taken the pain for our captain. You were asshole for thinking only you could do it.”
Zoro shuddered, phantom lances of agony shooting through his body. The damage Luffy had received over the course of their time in the Florian Triangle. Would his body remember this pain forever? He raised his hand, tried to grip his fist tight, and almost sobbed at the wave of nausea that overtook him.
“You’re still healing, Mini-Mosshead,” Not-Cook said gently, “Give yourself some time.”
“No time,” Zoro gritted, trying to hide his pain, “I have to become stronger.”
Not-Cook regarded him carefully, “Ever stoic, it must feel like fire in your veins right now, Mini-Mosshead.”
“Don’t call me that,” Zoro hissed.
“Okay, Zoro,” he said, giving up too easily. He leaned forward, errant strands of his hair framing his face in ways that definitely did not make Zoro want to brush them back. “You probably think strength is weakness hidden,” he continued, voice quiet.
Zoro didn’t respond, annoyed at the stupid mind-contorting statement, something that Koushiro would have said to him as a child. Did age turn everybody into riddlers? Zoro’s body tensed when his shoulder began throbbing viciously, but he bit back the howl of pain, instead reaching for the swords that someone had laid by his side. He could barely grip Wado’s hilt, trying to push back the pain making his hand seize, trying to derive some comfort from his trusted weapons.
Not-Cook watched him struggle, worry in his eyes, “One day you’ll learn that strength, Mini-Zoro, is weakness embraced.”
“I’m not weak,” Zoro said, words torn from his throat.
“And you’re not strong either,” Not-Cook replied, “Because you think only you, only Zoro, can make you stronger, can overcome your weaknesses. My darling Zoro, you don’t have scars on your back today not because you are the strongest, but because I was there. Because Luffy was there. Because our crew was there to protect it. And you’re strong today because you rely on me to fill the gaps, to give you comfort when you need it most.”
Zoro glared at Not-Cook through a haze of tears, trying to breathe and relax his overwrought body. “Don’t speak nonsense at me,” he gritted out, “Don’t call me stupid pet names. And don’t act like you know me.” The pain was overwhelming now, and he collapsed backward, wishing for Not-Cook to leave and give him peace.
Instead, Not-Cook scooched his chair closer. Moments later, Zoro felt a cool relief on his forehead and a touch to his hand. He tried to jerk away, but the grip was firm, gently taking Wado away and replacing it with fingers that interlaced with his.
“The medication we pumped in you is probably fading away now,” Not-Cook’s voice said, “It’s not safe to give you another dose quite yet. Squeeze my hand as much as it hurts.”
“Your hands are precious,” Zoro managed to choke out, feeling a tremor of pain wash over him.
“I can take it Mini-Mosshead,” Not-Cook chuckled, “And you can too. Let it out, no one you know will hear. It’s okay to be afraid, it’s okay to be hurt.”
It started as a dull ache, an approaching groundswell, but soon Zoro felt as though his body was going to tear itself apart, every inch of him needles, every molecule a firestorm. Tears leaked from his eyes as he sobbed through it, clutching Not-Cook’s hand.
“You’re okay, Zoro, you’re okay,” he heard whispered again and again, a soft hand coming to pat his sweat-soaked hair, to rub his forehead, to brush away the tears.
“It hurts,” Zoro moaned.
“I know, darling, but it’s going to be okay, you’ll make it, you always do.” Zoro breathed, focusing on Not-Cook’s voice, on the feeling of his hand squeezing back when Zoro was met by another flood of pain, on the reassuring presence by his side when he was so used to suffering alone.
---
When he woke again, he was standing alone, agony still there, upright only by the lock of his knees and the lack of a breeze.
“What’s with all this blood? Hey, are you still alive? Where is that guy? What happened here?”
Zoro processed his cook’s voice, piercing through the haze of pain. Had he dreamed it? Seeing Not-Cook, Not-Sanji? It had been so very real. And so very nice.
“Nothing happened,” he managed to say, choking around the blood in his throat.
“Chopper, Chopper,” he heard Sanji scream, “Chopper, we need you.”
“Sanji,” Zoro gasped, and the shouts stopped. He felt Sanji’s presence skidding to his side.
“You’re okay, Mosshead, you’re okay, Chopper’s on his way,” Sanji whispered, helping him sit and lay back, steady hands gentle behind his back and cradling his head. He heard muttered expletives as Sanji began checking his wounds.
“Stupid, stoic, sadistic dumbass gorilla. You’re going to give me a fucking heart attack one of these days. Thoughtless, intolerable, stubborn swordsman.”
Zoro smiled weakly, “Tell me how you really feel, cook.”
“Oh you have energy for banter now, do you?” Sanji glared. Zoro responded by reaching for Sanji’s hand. Perhaps too stunned to know how to otherwise react, Sanji took it, letting Zoro link their fingers tightly.
“It hurts, cook,” Zoro admitted, waiting with bated breath for scorn.
“Marimo, of course it fucking hurts, you look like death chewed you up and spit you back out, but it’s going to be okay, you’ll make it, you always do,” Sanji replied, voice choking up. Zoro peered up to see Sanji’s watery blue eyes, truly an ocean.
“Hang in there, shithead, you’re strong, god, you’re the strongest dumbass I know, you’re going to be fine,” Sanji continued, “Squeeze my hand as much as it hurts.” He smiled softly, “My mom used to say that to me.” Somehow the pain wasn’t as bad while watching Sanji laugh weakly and move onto stories about Zeff helping him ignore a scrape on his knee by cuffing him repeatedly over the head. Zoro wondered, through his pain-addled mind, when he’d be able to hear his Sanji call him darling.
Chopper came soon, transforming to be able to lift him up and carry him back to his crew, before beginning to work on him, the big little reindeer sniffing while trying to remain professional. Through it all, Sanji never let go of his hand.
===
Sanji immediately realized something was different, staring at the grotesquely heavy weights littered around him in Sunny’s crow’s nest. Even the idiot mosshead hadn’t gotten to this point yet.
He heard a clank and turned to see… someone standing with their back to him, someone with green hair. He frowned at the bronzed, slightly freckled skin. Whoever this was, they were not maintaining their skin care in their old age. Because certainly this person was older, giving off a presence that exuded decades of no bullshit.
“So you’re finally awake,” the man grunted, and Sanji let out a sharp exhale at the familiar voice, slightly more gravelly than the mosshead’s, but with the same commanding tenor. Then the man turned, and Sanji scrambled backwards. It was Zoro, but not. Wrinkles in many of the same places from constant frowning, but more of them. The same stupidly colored hair, but longer and marked with grey streaks. The same piercing grey eye, but one of them permanently closed. And he was big, Sanji gulped, trying not to stare at the man’s exposed chest. After Thriller Bark, under the guise of letting his wounds breathe and recover, the swordsman paraded shirtless around the ship causing Sanji’s traitor of a heart to do constant somersaults, but Zoro was a shrimp compared to whoever this was.
“Cat got your tongue?” Not-Mosshead smirked. He had more wrinkles around his eyes as well that implied this version of Zoro smiled more. That thought made Sanji continue to gape dumbly.
“It probably is weird,” Not-Mosshead sighed, sitting down and regarding Sanji carefully. He pointed, “Right eye swirly, stupid stripey tie, green shirt, I’m guessing Sabaody, the first time.”
Sanji blinked, remembering suddenly. Kuma. His crewmembers disappearing one by one. He scrambled to his feet, panic in his chest.
“I have to find them,” he gasped, “Nami, Robin—”
“We all get sent away,” Not-Mosshead said, pain in his eyes, “But it was okay, in the end. You’ll see, soon enough. Relax, Little Curly.”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Sanji hissed, hating this particular version of the dumb name even more. He screwed his eyes shut, clutching at his hair, remembering Usopp trying to help him, hearing Usopp’s fear when Kuma raised his arm. Weak, weak, weak, still a small, weak boy trapped in a frail body. Can’t protect anyone. Can’t protect yourself.
“Hey, I know what you’re doing, stop it.” Sanji felt a hand on his shoulder and pulled away. Somehow, Not-Mosshead had gotten inches away from him in a flash of silence. Sanji opened his mouth to explain the concept of personal space with as much derision as he could muster, but stopped, noting the unfamiliar concern in Not-Mosshead’s eyes.
“You don’t know anything about me, whoever you are,” Sanji muttered.
Not-Mosshead chuckled, “I know everything about you, Little Curly, I know more about you than you do at this point.” The open fondness in Not-Mosshead’s eyes was infuriating and irresistible.
“My cook doesn’t do that anymore,” he said, gently loosening Sanji’s hold on his hair, “But it took a while, a lot of patience dealing with his, with your, interest in self-punishment.”
“You’re one to talk,” Sanji bit back reflexively.
Not-Mosshead laughed openly, “You’re right, as usual, Little Curly. My cook taught me more than I taught him, in the end, overachieving bastard.”
“Stop saying your cook,” Sanji mumbled, “Like…”
“Like what?” Not-Mosshead asked, eyes twinkling, “Like we’re together? It’s not going to happen for two more years, Little Curly, but when it does both of us will wonder what the fuck took us so long.”
“I could never like you like that,” Sanji said, appalled, “You’re… you’re a stupid musclehead who only thinks about training and alcohol.”
“Training and alcohol and you,” Not-Mosshead laughed, “What else do I need? I was a bit of an idiot, I can admit that, but Little Curly, I am meant for you. You’ll see.” He reached for a bottle on the bench nearby and took a large gulp. He put it down with a thump, amber whisky sloshing out the top.
“You would never like me like that,” Sanji continued, “You think I’m weak, I annoy you just by being on the ship—”
Not-Mosshead was suddenly in his space again, eyes serious as he scanned Sanji’s face.
“Don’t say that, Little Curly. Believe me when I say that I never thought you were weak. I didn’t understand you, sure, but I always thought you were my equal or better. Now… I know what you’re scared of, I know what drives you to be as annoying as you are, but believe me, Little Curly, you’re perfect, fuck, you are perfect. Despite everything you’ve been through, you are strong, clever, kind, and resilient. I am in awe of you every single day, my little love.”
Sanji stared at Not-Mosshead, trying to grasp at the whirling tendrils of every emotion in his chest. Could he have… could he have told the mosshead about everything? About his father and his brothers? About the cold metal around his head? About the hunger that made him want to eat every morsel of love he could find? And the mosshead accepted him? Loved him maybe?
“Take your time,” Not-Mosshead said, placing a firm hand on Sanji’s head and ruffling his hair, “Take all the space you need. Just… give me a chance, will you? Give me a chance to show you you’re wanted. I’m pretty good at that."
Sanji nodded slowly, still not sure of what to say or how to say it. Not-Mosshead threw his head back and laughed, “I miss the dumb version of you sometimes. 40-year-old you is a know-it-all and isn’t easily surprised anymore, silver-tongued bastard.” He stopped, tilting his head, “Looks like you have to go now."
Glancing down, Sanji saw his hands beginning to go translucent.
“Remember, Little Curly,” Not-Mosshead said, voice echoing from miles and years away as Sanji’s eyes drifted shut, “You are who are you. And you are wanted.”
---
When he woke again, he was lying on the shore of an unknown beach. Groaning, he turned around and shrieked at the line of okama standing there watching him.
“W-where— Not-Mosshead—” he stammered.
A tall imposing woman pushed the others aside and stood looming above Sanji, hands on her hips.
“What did I do to deserve such a present?” she grinned. Sanji squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The woman was now inches from his face, peering at him with an intense gaze.
“We have a lot to work on, with this one,” she said quietly, “But I do love a good challenge.”
---
Sanji giggled when the galleon resurfaced, sliced in half with eerie precision. He saw the hulking figure perched on the side of the broken ship and smiled.
“I got on the wrong boat,” was the first thing Zoro said to him, a sheepish look on his face.
“You’ll have to tell me how you got that scar,” Sanji replied, observing the wound, fresh and less faded than Not-Mosshead’s.
“Stupidity and weakness, but I’m getting stronger, you’ll see, curly,” Zoro muttered, and Sanji’s heart bloomed at the admission.
“Your hair is different,” Zoro said, shooting him a shy look.
“Well-spotted,” Sanji replied dryly, then nearly went cross-eyed as Zoro’s hand came up and brushed his bangs back behind his ear to expose both eyebrows momentarily. Zoro dropped his hand quickly, face turning red as he stared at it like it had betrayed him.
“Come shop with me,” Sanji said, throwing caution to the wind and grabbing Zoro’s hand, dragging him along, “And tell me about how you spent these two years. Are your wounds healed? Have you been eating properly?”
“Nosy,” Zoro muttered, gripping Sanji’s hand tightly as they walked ever forward together.