Chapter Text
Sanji feels like he’s been dead on his feet for hours.
Of course, it probably didn’t help that he was the only Straw Hat with the ability to cook edible food. It also probably didn’t help that their captain ate enough meat on a bone to feed two villages worth of people on any given day. That’s always a lot of prep work, lots of time in the kitchen alone making things that his crew would be delighted to eat.
It does tucker him out, though. Despite doing this for years now, Sanji gets tired. Not enough to hate what he’s doing, not at all, but tired nonetheless. He tries to let the tiredness roll right off him, let it roll right off him into the sea to drown, but sometimes it’s tough. A life on the sea has always been a stressful one and Sanji knows as such.
The delight on their faces after eating a good meal, that’s what it was all about in the end. That’s why he was here, on this crew of merry misfits; to feed his crewmates and find the All Blue. It really doesn’t get any simpler. What was there to complain about? The dream was happening right before his very eyes.
They don’t really talk after their meal; Sanji returning back to the galley to scrub piles of dishes from every man, woman, robot, reindeer-person hybrid, and conglomeration of musical bones on the Thousand Sunny. Call him stubborn, neurotic, or whatever you’d like, but Sanji just can’t sleep knowing there’s dirty dishes in need of care.
Leave it to Zeff to leave a lasting impression on him the last time Baratie got a bug problem. So, he hauls ass to the kitchen despite being so tired he could sleep out on the deck.
The mountains of dishes were normal for an event so large. After all, it's not every day that Luffy's birthday comes around. It's definitely not every day that Sanji has to prepare a meal that large, something vaguely reminiscent of the lunch rush at Baratie.
That was one of the last times, really. One of the last times Sanji every remembered doing something so eloquently put together and spectacularly large.
But now? Even the dishes seem a bit too...daunting of a task. Today--of all days-- he feels the tiredness in his bones, like his entire body was lead and slowly sinking.
But, responsibility is responsibility no matter how you decide to tackle it.
There’s a light knock on the galley door before it swings opens. He's expecting to come face to face with Brook; normally, he's walking about at this hour considering the fact that he doesn't need to sleep. Even Robin would be expected at this hour, but who walks in is rather surprising once Sanji truly recognizes it.
It's surprising because it's Zoro. Roronoa "Mosshead" Zoro, who is normally passed the fuck out at this time of evening.
Sanji doesn’t even notice it was one hundred percent Zoro walking in at first, drifting in and out of sleep with the washcloth in his hand until he nearly stumbles forward, caught from face planting into the galley counter by a strong hand holding him close. “Oi,” Zoro says, “Cook, you okay?”
“I’m fine, moss for brains,” Sanji says, continuing to run water over the plates.
“You don’t look fine,” Zoro says, "Are you a hundred percent sure you're golden?" He’s in the process of bringing his hand up to Sanji’s forehead when Sanji flinches, grabbing Zoro by the wrist.
Despite the crew's inherent closeness over the past few years, Sanji still didn't quite like people touching his head. Call it a trauma response he still hasn't quite worked through yet, but he's white knuckling Zoro's wrist in his own hand to stop him from touching his head in any way, shape, or form. "What are you doing?" Sanji says, hand clamped around Zoro's wrist.
“Making sure you’re not sick,” comes from Zoro’s mouth so matter of factly that it astounds him. “If you run a fever, no one here is going to survive. I swear, before you were here, Luffy burned water that's how badly we needed someone who knew what they were doin' around here."
"I'm fine." And it's petulant the way Sanji swats Zoro's hands away like a child preventing someone from taking their beloved toy, but he's fine. Sanji and Zoro's whole dynamic at this point is based on their strength relative to each other, to admit that Sanji felt a certain way was to admit that he was weak in the moment.
He would rather be dead than ever admit that he was weak in front of Zoro, of all people. And besides, there's nothing that a good night's sleep couldn't take of anyway; nothing that Zoro needed to worry about.
There's a few moment of resistance where Sanji is deflecting Zoro's hands. "God damnit, just let me ease my conscience, curly brow," Zoro says, "You've never said a god damn word when you feel like shit or are goin' through something, but I notice when you do. Let me make sure you're okay, stupid cook."
"Fucking fine, if it'll make you feel better, barbarian," Sanji says. Sanji tries his hardest to stay as calm as possible when Zoro carefully places the back of his hand on Sanji's forehead, and then on both of cheeks. "Did you get the answer you wanted, moss head?"
"I guess you're fine," Zoro huffs, crossing his arms. To say Sanji didn't notice how accentuated the muscles of Zoro's biceps become after he crosses them would be lying.
"Well, what the hell did you expect?" Sanji says, "I wasn’t lying to you, dumbass."
"Yeah, well you weren't the one who prevented your head from smashin' first into the galley counter, now were you?" "Excuse me for being concerned about my fucking curly browed crew mate for a second."
"Yeah, whatever," Sanji huffs, "Now, get out of my kitchen unless you're gonna help me put away this mountain of stuff." He makes a vague motion over to the large piles of wet dishes drying. Sanji is so sure that Zoro is gonna dip on out of there, so sure that he's just going to tell him to fuck off and leave back to his room that he's surprised when Zoro slightly nudges him over.
“Well,” Zoro sighs, “I guess I can help you, Cook. Hand me a rag and I’ll dry these so we can put ‘em away.”
It doesn’t take longer than ten minutes once Zoro comes in to help, carefully drying and placing dishes in the places that Sanji tells him to. The dishes are clean and Sanji lights up a cigarette, taking a deep breath of smoke in before blowing it out. Zoro scrunches his nose at the smell but stays anyway. Sanji swears he can hear a short mumbling of, “Those cancer sticks are gonna be what gets ya in the end,” but it doesn’t stop him from taking another deep breath in.
“What?” Sanji asks, “I’ve told you so many times, moss for brains. Staying around me when you hate the smell of smoke is just torture on your part. I don’t know why you do it.”
Zoro, as stubborn as ever, refuses to dignify that with a response. “Are you gonna go to sleep soon?” Zoro asks, and Sanji finds it peculiar. Zoro’s never stayed to help, never really asked him anything other than the occasional question Luffy can’t find the time to ask himself.
He and Zoro don’t really…small talk like this.
“We’re going into town tomorrow, that’s the only reason I’m asking,” Zoro continues. The last cup is put away, carefully arranged in the direction of the others, as Zoro says “Rest up, cook. I never know what we need in this kitchen; you need to be at your best so you can go with me to the market once we hit land.”
Zoro is gone before Sanji can even say thanks for helping. Not that it would actually come out in a thankful way, probably just an annoying way to the swordsman, but he didn't even get the chance to say it.