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Sanji had always been good at focusing. Good at setting his mind to a task and completing it. Part of that is what makes him such a good cook. His skill was on a separate level, but he put his whole soul and heart into the food, not letting it slip from his focus when he was preparing it. Or, that was what he usually did. Nowadays, he was no longer on board of the familiar kitchen of the Baratie, with the drone of the other cooks and customers, the privacy of his work station. On board the Going Merry, he had the whole kitchen to himself, because no one else was competent enough to use it. But the barstools in front of the counter assured that he was never alone for long when his crewmates stepped by.
Luffy was his most frequent visitor in the beginning, always dropping by as soon as the smell of his cooking started reaching around the ship. He would sit down with a wide smile, watching Sanji cook while talking and asking questions that seemed silly, but if it brought a smile to the captain's lips, Sanji was more than happy to indulge him. His stretchy hands would always try to sneak a piece or two, but Sanji had trained his reflexes in Zeff’s kitchen, and it always ended with matching challenging smiles.
Nami came occasionally, sometimes bringing her maps to scribble on while munching on something Sanji whipped up (there was always a treat for the lady), and sometimes she came just for the silence that wasn’t really silent, the clanging of pots and spoons and the sizzle of something cooking a soothing respite from the windy seas and Luffy’s thunderous voice.
Usopp came too, always looking for a laugh or a story or to have someone listen, which Sanji was more than happy to do when cooking, the storyteller’s voice a nice lullaby in the background of his chopping.
None of this ever really disturbed his focus, his precision. His hands were as steady as ever when Nami smiled at him, when Usopp wildly gestured to his stories or when Luffy sneaked a terrifyingly long arm around his counter to get to the stove - it was all cool.
But then Zoro came into his kitchen.
It took Sanji by surprise the first time it happened. The green-haired man clearly didn’t hold any affection for him, rather badly concealed dislike, so they hadn’t crossed paths much since leaving Conomi Islands. Which is why he was caught off guard by the swordsman just, waltzing into his kitchen like he owned the place. It sort of pissed him off.
His face went into an unpleasant grimace at the sight of the annoying man making his way around the kitchen as he pleased. Sanji gritted his teeth and wiped his hands on the rag by his belt.
“And to what do I owe the honour, oh great pirate hunter?” He drawled, unable to resist it, his good manners thrown out the window along with his rationality.
“Where’s the whisky?” Was the only reply the swordsman deemed him worthy of, and Sanji felt the air in his lungs deflate. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, just being on his toes in the other’s company and his mouth running rampant. The lack of fight in the other’s tone quickly put out the urge to fall into their usual rhythm of throwing insults back and forth.
“Top shelf to your right.” He replied, going back to his cooking. He was making the ragu for a lasagna and was just getting started on the pasta as the sauce simmered.
His shoulders refused to let go of their tension until Zoro had stepped out of the galley. He took a deep breath and sighed heavily. Hopefully, this wouldn’t happen often.
Sanji shouldn’t have hoped. It was as if the cook not throwing Zoro out suddenly gave him permission to come and go as he pleased, like the others on the ship, and while Sanji wasn’t for picking favourites, he could say he did not work well in Zoro’s company. At first, the swordsman would only come looking for liquor and leave quickly. But then the visits started happening more frequently, and they became longer. He would dwell in front of the shelf, or sit down on a barstool and enjoy his glass silently. And it really shouldn’t have bothered Sanji, because none of the others did. But he could feel Zoro’s gaze like a shiver down his spine, throwing him off balance. Some days the intensity of the stare would make him move around more, unnecessarily, just to avoid it. Something about Zoro’s eyes on him felt different from the others. Electric. That he made a conscious effort to avoid thinking about. But he couldn’t help but feel like he was being backed against the wall, figuratively. It unnerved and annoyed him to no end.
Especially since he had been the one to care for the green-haired man when he had been injured after his fight outside the Baratie, changing his bandages and patching him up. Out of the crew, it seemed like even his inadequate skills were the best they had. (They really needed to find a doctor.) He was pissed that the dude just decided to show up in Sanji’s space and watch him, when he was always sure to leave the swordsman alone when he could.
Sanji had been feeling out of it since that morning - not having gotten much sleep thanks to nightmares - so he decided to get started on breakfast early. The sun had just risen and started coating his knuckles where they gripped the knife when Zoro entered the galley. Sanji was in the middle of chopping a carrot, when the unexpected movement made his head rise in surprise, and the sight of the green-haired man, bare chested and sleep mussed, had his fingers unexpectedly shaking. As he brought the unsteady knife down without looking, it was bound to go wrong. One moment he was caught in Zoro’s gaze, and the next, flashing pain seared his hand and the knife clattered to the floor, drops of blood clinging to it.
“Shit!” Sanji hissed with feeling, gripping his bleeding hand tightly. His head spun and he was frozen, unsure of what to do. It was always Zeff who’d bandaged him up when he cut himself when he was little, and in recent years he had never done it. He knew he was dripping blood everywhere, but his mind felt hazy, his limbs heavy with numbing pain.
“-aiter!” A voice filtered through the loud ringing in his head, and suddenly Zoro was in front of him, eyebrows furrowed and mouth in a harsh line, almost looking worried, but Sanji knew that must be his brain making shit up. Sanji knew the swordsman cared about the crew - just not about him.
“Sanji!” The loud voice jerked him back into his body, and he could feel his heart beating fast and the sharp sting of pain. Stop the blood flow, he remembered. He needed a cloth.
He took the towel at his waist and began unceremoniously wrapping it around his injured middle finger as tightly as he could. Then he pressed his fingers into a tight fist and raised his hand above his head.
Along with his hand, he saw Zoro’s eyebrows raise in confusion.
“Holding it above your heart helps staunch the blood flow,” he said, remembering the hours he had to sit with his hand numb and raised after a particularly bad cut. No matter how delicately he treated his hands and how smooth they seemed, if you looked closely you could see faint scars on the sides of his point, ring and middle finger from previous accidents.
“I’m alright now, you can leave,” Sanji then said after he saw Zoro’s inquisitive stare. The swordsman looked, if possible, even more troubled at that, and Sanji openly rolled his eyes. He shifted his stance to look at the mess he’d made and couldn’t hold back the full body flinch at the stab of pain that came from his hand.
His eyes flickered up to meet Zoro’s, knowing full well he saw it, and put on a broad smile. “Perfectly fine,” he said.
Without meeting the greenett’s gaze, he lowered himself to pick up the knife. Except he had to do a squat and strain to keep his arm above his head as his upper body bent over as well. He didn’t realise he’d let the arm sink until a strong grip jerked his injured hand up, almost tipping him off balance.
An indignant, “Hey!” left his lips in protest and he rose to meet their first mate chest to chest with a glare. But Zoro was still holding his arm up in his unyielding grip, and Sanji accidentally stepped close enough for their torsos to touch. The warmth of Zoro’s body was suddenly encompassing him, his hand burning against his skin, taking the edge of the pain still radiating from his cut. They stood still, caught in an impasse, Zoro’s eyes unrelenting.
“Go lie down,” came his gruff voice. Sanji suppressed a shiver, wondering if a breeze had somehow gotten in. The windows were all closed.
“I said I’m okay-”
“I don’t care. Go sit down,” the mosshead interrupted him, scowling, and when Sanji didn’t move, he walked so close to Sanji that he had to back up, and in that manner their first mate crowded Sanji into the bench on the furthest end of the galley. Sanji had no other choice but to lay down, Zoro’s torso hovering above him and making escape impossible.
“I’ll clean up,” the swordsman then said, catching Sanji off guard.
“No, don’t touch my kitchen!” Sanji immediately protested, to which Zoro only rolled his eyes.
“I won’t touch the food.”
At that Sanji could at least breathe a little easier.
He closed his eyes, but only then noticed that his wrist was still in Zoro’s grip. His arm was completely lax, all its weight carried by the swordsman and Sanji hurried to make his own muscles keep the arm up. Even though Zoro could definitely feel the weight of the arm lessen, he removed his hand slowly, as if making sure Sanji could hold it on his own. Sanji wanted to scoff, but then Zoro’s fingertips brushed against his skin in such a gentle touch that he got goosebumps and was unable to say anything at all. The next second, the warmth was gone, and the pain came flooding back insistently.
Sanji groaned out loud and heard the receding steps pause for a second, but when he remained silent, they continued.
Sanji kept his eyes closed, feeling the throbbing in his hand and hearing Zoro clean up his mess and felt tired. While the pain tried its hardest to keep him conscious, the exhaustion of the early morning and the quietness of the ship dragged him into sleep in minutes.
When Sanji woke up, the galley was bright, the sun having found every crevice and lit it up. The counter made of wood was oiled and shiny, the pots and pans hanging reflecting the sun’s rays. Sanji shifted and immediately became aware of two things: one, his hand hurt like hell. Two, said hand was in the air.
Sanji knew he had fallen asleep with his hand suspended to stop the blood flow, but logically, since he was asleep , it should have relaxed and rested on his chest.
But as Sanji followed the impossibility with his eyes, stark green hair gleaming in the sun came into his view. His arm was warm but numb, and he realised that it was because Zoro held it up, a hand circled around his wrist and leaning it against his warm stomach. The green haired man was standing stoically, looking nowhere in particular, and clearly thought Sanji was still asleep.
But Sanji’s brain had stopped noticing other things, replaying the fact that Zoro, who could not care less if he fell off the ship or not, was holding Sanji’s arm while he slept.
Holding. His. Arm. While. He. Slept.
He must have hit his head.
Nobody else was up yet, but Sanji knew it wouldn’t be long until the rest of the crew came looking for breakfast. His hand was probably fine now, as well. He should really remove it from Zoro’s gentle, warm hold, and get up and finish cooking.
He couldn’t move.
His eyes kept flickering back and forth between Zoro’s handsome profile and his own arm resting against warm skin, Zoro’s fingers so carefully holding him against himself.
Sanji must have made a sound, or a movement, or Zoro was just uncanny, but the other man suddenly looked over just as Sanji shifted his gaze and they locked eyes. Zoro’s were not blank, but Sanji could for the life of him not figure out what they said.
Zoro’s thumb gently stroked the inside of Sanji’s wrist, a light caress that had shivers erupting all over his body and he swallowed the lump in his throat. Zoro’s eyes never left his.
Sanji sat up, and Zoro immediately dragged his arm higher, to keep it over his heart, and rested it on his shoulder instead. Zoro’s skin was burning hot against Sanji’s own lifeless hand, the blood all but drained, and his fingertips tingled at the contact.
Sanji held his breath as Zoro’s face dipped and his lips ghosted over his pulse point. Sanji’s heart beat hard and fast, his hand throbbing in response, and he suddenly felt as if his body was igniting, electricity zipping up his spine. Zoro’s lips were soft and warm and Sanji suddenly couldn’t get the image of them touching his body in other places out of his mind. How they would feel against his own lips…
They were close, shifting closer the more Sanji leaned forward and he imagined, or was it real, maybe Zoro was leaning down too, down, closer, so close-
A loud step was all the warning they had before Luffy all but crashed into the galley, a cry of “Breakfast!” on his lips.
Sanji jerked back so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, and Zoro straightened up as if a broomstick went up his ass. But he did not let go of Sanji’s arm, a hot vice around his wrist, burning his numb skin.
“Let go,” Sanji hissed, before ripping out of Zoro’s grip when the order was not immediately followed.
Zoro looked deeply troubled when Sanji brought his arm down to his lap, and he sighed before explaining, “The blood flow has stopped already, so there’s no need to keep the arm up anymore, stupid Marimo,” he added under his breath. His heart was still beating wildly, and his arm refused to let him forget what Zoro’s hands and lips felt like on his skin.
The green haired man huffed and turned away, leaving the kitchen without a word.
Gosh, Sanji was so fucked.