Chapter Text
I.
The pungent smell of smoke reaches him before the words do, forcing their way through the improvised, cacophonous music and over the shouts of Usopp, still leading the choir.
“So,” the cook’s tone is casual, relaxed, “do you guys usually create this much mayhem everywhere you go?”
Night has fallen with its dark blue cloak, the fires of the party the only light burning bright at its centre.
Lifting his head from the wall he’s currently resting on, Zoro opens his eyes to steal a glance at the other man; he hasn’t yet made up his mind about him, the blonde being the most obnoxious creature he has ever met one moment, and a quite impressive fighter the next. They haven’t had the chance for a casual interaction either, what with the fighting a whole Fishmen crew and liberating an entire village. Not that Zoro needs one to understand the kind of people he’s dealing with, a fight really the best occasion to see a person’s true colours, but the cook seems to have more shades to him. He’s still somehow abstract, a blurred bundle of concepts Zoro’s not yet sure he’ll have the will to untangle.
Either way, the blonde sure seems like he’s used to socialising with new people, maybe even likes it, and it makes sense considering his previous occupation, so it seems he will have to at least try and indulge him in a normal conversation.
“Mpf, ‘right.” Great start.
As the expression on the other man's face seems to indicate something more articulate is expected to come out of his mouth he adds, “I don’t know, but it sure did happen before.”
Sanji murmurs in assent, swirling the drink in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his left.
“Usopp told me you were the first,” his visible eye catches the light of the bonfire, the blue mixing with the golds and reds of the blazing flames.
Unexplainably, there seems to be genuine curiosity latched into his words, like he’s really interested in finding out more about the whole crew. Zoro thinks it isn’t necessary: since they’d sailed together they haven’t really shared a lot about their stories and barely know anything about each other’s personal lives. Unfortunately, Sanji has the look of someone that not only finds value in small talk, but, even worse, actually believes it’s important to talk about feelings and shit. Not an exciting prospect.
Until now Zoro’s been perfectly fine with his nakamas’ taste for privacy, a grace that has spared him the frustrating effort of translating thoughts into words, an ordeal that somehow always resulted in him coming off both too blunt and too hermetic. And he hated the feeling, the defeat of not being understood, so he resorted to a more silent approach, one which felt comfortable to him: let his actions speak for himself.
That was one of the first things he appreciated about his captain: Luffy’s actions were impossible to misunderstand and direct in a way that immediately felt like comfort.
So he simply nods.
“You joined because of Luffy too?”, the cook prompts again.
He automatically scoffs at that, “I joined because I have my own goal to reach.”
It comes out harsher than he intended, dismissive, but the new guy thinking somebody else can make decisions for him was the last thing he wanted; a simmering anxiety bubbling constantly in his blood is already enough of a reminder.
Nevertheless, the response seems to have rubbed the other man in the wrong way because he winces at the tone and, stiffer than before, adds, “Well it’s the same for me.” Defending himself from an offence Zoro hasn’t meant, it seems the cook has caught fire in a matter of seconds, the earlier open serenity leaving his body as his posture gets tense and alert. He huffily exhales a cloud of smoke, “But I don’t see how dying before even starting can help you reach it.” Striking back now.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because to me it seemed you proving some kind of badass swordsman point almost got you killed at the Baratie. You knew you couldn’t fight Hawk Eyes.”
Zoro feels his muscles tense and a phantom pain sharply comes alive on his torso. Clenching his jaw, he finds he has unintentionally positioned himself facing the cook, his whole body already set to fight.
“If I’m not ready to die for it, then it’s worth nothing.”
The cook’s silent, but he’s looking at him like Zoro’s own existence is somehow enough to infuriate him. Frowning, he’s pursing his lips as if he’s physically holding himself back from saying something. The restraint leaves Zoro confused.
The thing is, Zoro is used to being judged for his dream, it’s nothing new, the people he came across with in his path all failed to see its meaning and that’s fine with him. He doesn’t aim for people’s understanding, let alone support, he has always managed perfectly fine on his own.
What surprises him is that there’s nothing of the sort on the cook’s expression, no harsh verdict of his reckless actions nor lack of understanding. Nor fear, not a single speck of it. And if he dares to examine his eyes better, he swears he can see something that resembles eagerness, a craving curiosity.
Does the cook respect him?
He suddenly feels as if he’d lost his footing, unsettled, with no clear reason as to why. He needs to anchor himself and so he does by simply stating what rings truest to him.
“Because it’s the dream I shared with an old friend and I promised her I would fulfill it,” he looks him in the eye, an inexplicable desire to make the other man see, “It’s what I believe in.”
The other’s visible eye widens at that word like it is the key to Zoro’s answer. He’s smiling like he’s grasped a comfortable truth, something that managed to ease him, and Zoro feels like some pieces of himself are settling down in a way he didn’t think was possible.
He thinks he’s had too much to drink and he’s sure of that when his stomach does something weird as the other man says, still looking at him with a childish, excited grin, “I get it."
Zoro doesn’t want to talk to him ever again.
—————
II.
He’s been slicing those beasts for what seems like hours.
How they got here is not that unusual: they went for supplies, venturing into the wild vegetation of the island they docked in just for the local beasts to welcome them in the only way they knew, that is trying to eat them all, apparently.
Their little party was made up of only him, the cook and poor Usopp, who’s trying very hard not to simply run back to the ship, doing his best instead to help with the fight.
The animals are a kind Zoro’s never seen before: they look like gigantic orange lions, but instead of a mane, it’s a tangle of snakes circling their neck. The cook has called them chimaeras, but that still says nothing to him. Well, at least they will have plenty of meat to bring back to their hungry captain.
The cutting and piercing have become a little too repetitive to his liking; that’s why he has decided to make it fun again.
“Be careful there” he teases smirking at the cook from over his shoulder. He’s just intercepted an animal clearly aiming for the blonde, who was in turn more than ready to put it down with a single kick. He’s distantly aware of the sniper muttering to himself something that sounds like ‘oh for fuck’s sake’; he truly doesn’t know how to enjoy himself.
Meanwhile, his action seemed to have produced the desired result as the cook barks at him like a small dog, “Stop stealing my targets!”
“I’m not!” he chuckles as he slashes another furry thing that was about to go for the cook. He hears the man screaming in frustration.
Zoro is, in fact, stealing the cook’s targets and that’s providing him immense entertainment. That’s how it’s supposed to go.
The alternative, Zoro had quickly learned, is the cook confronting him with a special ability that has nothing to do with the kitchen and everything with getting under his skin. The blonde seems to have undergone a special training in pissing him off: he argues, always full of opinions, complicating things in every possible way, standing up to him.
So they bicker, it’s a given.
But it’s worse when they don’t fight and the cook just confuses him. Bringing him drinks after training, seemingly enjoying his company in quiet moments, slipping into a familiarity that’s strange but not unwelcome. And Zoro finds himself saying things without having gone over them before, sharing his time, his space with the other man. But then it’s bad. It’s anxiety-inducing, the lack of control.
Because after those weird interactions, he ends up thinking about them, going over whatever he did or said and why he does it is beyond him.
He only knows that second-guessing himself is something he won’t do.
He feels a kick in his shin and stumbles forward as he turns just to see the cook fuming with indignation.
“Two can play this stupid game of yours,” and he’s quickly back to kick one of the beasts.
So it’s on. They play like that for a while, competing to see who can get more in the way of the other, while the lions pile up around them. At some point, Usopp had decided he had done his best for the day and stealthy hid himself among the bushes.
“You’re slow, moss for brains,” the cook says as his foot makes contact with the skull of one of the creatures efficiently crushing it, blood and fluids splashing out of it. Zoro takes a moment to fully look at the man: he’s standing among what remains of their preys, fierce and stupid, his black pants tinted even darker as they soak up blood.
“You’re messy.”
“Oh yeah, that counts for something, coming from his royal majesty of the algae kingdom.”
The swordsman was about to jump back into battle but it’s so silly, so childish he simply has to turn around and look at the face of a man who has the audacity to argue like a toddler while wearing a suit. Such a messed up contradiction he is.
He lets out a laugh.
It turns out to be a mistake though, because as soon as he loses sight of the animals, one of them takes its chance and scratches his shoulders, its long claws piercing his skin and leaving deep trails down his back.
Letting out a surprised grunt, he falls to his knees.
The cook swears above him, “Oh sure you almost die now so I can’t win this argument or else I’ll look like the bad guy,” he hears him complain as he tries to lift him wrangling his arm over his shoulders, “No fucking way.”
Zoro wants to laugh again at that but everywhere hurts and it comes out hoarse as the pebbles swirling in the undertow of waves crushing on the beach.
The cook tightens his grip, “Shitty swordsman,” he murmurs.
“Pervert cook,” Zoro rasps and, feeling safe, passes out.
—————
III.
The soft snoring accompanying his captain’s dreams reaches his ears in a constant rhythm, lulling away the night hours passing slowly and otherwise silently. It’s impossible not to hear it, seeing that said captain’s dead weight is currently leaning fully on Zoro’s left side where they both sit crouching on deck, back to the railings.
The swordsman’s pretty sleepy himself and on the verge of falling into a deep slumber when the creaking of the kitchen door alerts him of the imminent incoming of the sovereign of those same quarters. But instead of the soft thumps of the casual stroll that usually follows, frantic soles being stomped on the deck echo in the silence of the night.
No quiet company tonight, that’s a shame.
Zoro has no idea why though.
“Mosshead you just can’t help it, you need to cross the line, don’t you?”
That still doesn’t clarify it, so Zoro closes his eyes, not moving an inch to indicate he’s paying any attention to the earful aimed at him, waiting to collect some more elements before giving a proper reaction. He could always just argue back, a move that has never failed him, but he’d hate to wake Luffy: they fought against a bunch of marines today, so he must be pretty tired. Even the cook’s only whisper-shouting at him, probably thinking the same.
“Now you tell me what the reason was exactly to go all apeshit on an entire fleet alone when the rest of the crew was still busy with actually defending our own ship!”
That day had been pretty uneventful up until a couple of marine ships on patrol of that part of the sea had detected them. The Sunny was spotted just before dinner, prompting a tantrum by Luffy who was more than ready to wipe out the meat from his plate and the rest of the crew’s.
As some kind of bell rang annoyingly over the waves while the marines signalled the pirate ship, the strawhats all got on the deck where Nami, spyglass in hand, had warned them about the man leading the enemy crews: she had read about him and therefore pleaded the others (well only three people there to be worried about) to not underestimate his capability. In any case, Zoro had thought the warning wasn’t necessary: the witch should have understood by then with what kind of fighters she sailed; that’s to say he didn’t spare a single thought on it. That it would have been wiser if he had, that’s another story and one he would never admit to the redhead.
They were indeed just back from Water Seven, still a bit battered and bruised even if rested, and two ships meant two crews, a numerical advantage to not underestimate. But Zoro has never been one to weigh those kinds of things too much: he could handle it.
And that was why he decided he alone could have easily taken down the ship where said official was.
Luffy moves a little in his sleep, turning slightly to firmly press his face against the swordsman’s shoulder, clearly discontent with the quality of his pillow. Zoro glances at the sleeping form, trying to adjust to give him a little more comfort. Then looks up at the cook.
“And I already know that you’re gonna tell me ‘oi shitty cook’,” his voice getting rougher to give a poor impression of Zoro’s own, “‘it’s not like I disobeyed any order’ and yes, you didn’t, but that’s because you couldn’t waste one precious second of your time to simply look at your crew mates, let alone plan something!”
Yes, jumping straight into battle with just two swords in addition, wasn’t one of his best strategies, but he came back alive and triumphant in the end, didn’t he? Well, barely.
“Cook-”
“Didn’t you hear me? Do not ‘cook’ me, I’m not finished,” the blonde interrupts him, pausing briefly to light himself a cigarette, just to proceed listing exactly why and how many times the swordsman had been an idiot that day.
Ok, so maybe he was a bit careless and the urge to prove that his strength had not diminished after losing one of his katanas may have played a role in that, but Luffy had followed him right after he’d boarded the ship, so the situation got under control again.
“Also think of Chopper,” the blonde’s saying, having - alarmingly - already arrived at the end of his cigarette, “it won’t be long before he runs out of bandages again just because he keeps wasting them on your stupid ass! He still cannot conjure them with his hooves if you didn’t know that-”
That manages to shift all of Zoro’s attention on the man standing above him, “Oi,” he tries to catch him but the blonde’s already slipped away, spiraling, a constant ramble coming out of his mouth.
If he did start with some solid points, now he’s wandered in the anxiety-ridden territory of one of his typical monologues. Those happen sometimes. Actually, Zoro thinks they are pretty frequent and usually silent, most of the time simply playing out inside his stupid blonde head, accompanied by the familiar lighting of a cigarette.
Other times though they are acted out for the whole crowd to see; the crew still hasn’t forgotten the time when one of Usopp’s latest inventions robbed the pantry of the whole collection of spices, with no previous permission from the cook himself, resulting in an explosion that almost blew the sniper’s nose off and in a scolding that lasted for at least an hour.
Zoro thinks it’s usually pretty funny to watch him lose his shit like that, acting like an irked mum fussing over them all, it’s almost endearing. Still insufferable of course, but it ultimately just shows how much the cook looks out for the rest of the crew.
The cook who’s now reaching the peak of his reprimand, the veins on his neck visible and angry and signaling to the swordsman that he had his fun for the day. Besides, the other man is about to start pulling his hair out and Robin says that’s never good so he needs to intervene.
“Sanji.”
Calling him by name always manages to shut him up, at least for a moment. A wide open, blue eye locks on him, expectantly.
“Not the smartest move I get it,” and that would have been enough really but then, with his voice treacherously softer, he hears himself blurting out, “I’m fine, stop worrying.”
He averts his gaze then because they don't do that, they don’t worry about each other. And they surely don’t talk about it. They don’t say a word about having each other back constantly, trusting and caring. They don’t speak of the tentative ways they move around one another, only the stars witnesses of the confidences shared between a cigarette and a bottle of sake.
He hears the cook snort, “I wasn’t.”
He murmurs in agreement because he knows.
———————
IV.
When he regains consciousness he does it slowly like he’s awakening from a dream that slowly fades back into reality, the two planes mixing together uncomfortably.
At first, there are just bright flashes burning under his eyelids, but eventually they get so hot he has to blink them open. The first thing that comes into his vision is the little doctor: Chopper’s fussing around his bed, checking on him. Zoro hears the little reindeer address someone else who’s in the room with them, but he can’t make out his words. There are shoutings and more footsteps but the world goes black again.
The second time, he knows he’s feeling better because, as he wakes, he can feel his whole body turning back on, crackling and creaking as an old ship being put back into the sea, battered but still functioning. This time Chopper isn’t there to greet him; not on a round-the-clock watch then, another sign he must be on his way to fully recover.
It’s the smell of smoke that welcomes him and he should hate it except he does not. So when he’s finally able to open his eyes, the first thing he notices is an ashtray full to the brim, the hands which hold it white from how tight they’re gripping it, looking so out of place inside the infirmary it almost makes him laugh. His body aches in advance at the mere thought of such a harmless thing as laughter passing through him and he grimaces closing his eyes again.
He hears the man whose the ashtray belongs to grunt; what that implies, if it’s impatience or something else, Zoro can’t tell.
He feels calm as if he had sunken into his own body, an anchoring feeling that somehow reaches his mind too. He did it: he survived Kuma, he saved his captain, his crew. It was excruciating, a pain the kind of which he’d never experienced before and hopefully, even if it’s against his better previsions, will never again. He did it.
He’s aware that he should probably feel more relieved, but he doesn’t: that’s how it was supposed to go. He would be lying if he’d said he had a total certainty of making it out alive but he had no doubt that his decision was the right one, the just one, and the consequences that would have followed would have then been of that same kind. Confidence in his beliefs always made him serene, centred, strong and so that’s precisely how he feels now.
When he finally looks at the man sitting beside the infirmary bed the intensity of his visible eye reminds him of the sea rising on the Grand Line. A deep blue, inevitable force, like storm-born waves hitting the harbour. Sublime.
And he’s no navigator but can still tell that a hell of a storm is about to break loose.
As on cue, “You had no right to do that,” the cook says low, gritting his teeth.
“It’s my job to protect the crew.”
“And who-,“ Sanji cuts himself swearing then changes course, “So what am I here for exactly?”
“Cooking.”
Sanji laughs at that, a bitter, artificial sound and Zoro would get mad if he only wasn’t so tired, so sick of this self-deprecating shit. He knows the cook’s being eaten alive by the usual enemy, the final one: powerlessness, an impassable limit.
But that’s so far from the point, and doesn’t matter anyway: Zoro was there, doing his duty as first mate and he took the blow for the rest of them; that’s the reason he’s useful to the crew.
Besides, the cook wouldn’t have made it, his condition was already too critical. He can get angry all he wants: the will to prove himself worthy of god knows what would have never justified his death. Sanji was meant for life, his hands gifted with the ability to care, his heart full of beauty and dreams of colourful seas still yet to be reached.
‘Get yourself a new cook’ he said, so stupid. As if.
“You could have died.” Anger is all over the other man’s face, sculpting every bit of his features, carving deep shadows on his troubled expression.
“You seemed too eager to.”
The cook scoffs loudly at that, “What’s that supposed to mean?”, he snarls mean.
Zoro tries to lift himself up a little to face this but the simple movement proves to be harder than expected and he’s barely straightened when a sharp pain passes him through like a nail, a nasty sting that makes him moan in pain clutching at his side. He hears the clank of the ashtray’s glass hitting the bedside table and then the cook is there, a hand behind his shoulders while the other adjusts the pillows so that they provide better support to his back.
Zoro looks up at the man as he’s working on fixing him up; brow furrowed, mouth closed shut, he reminds him of a child who’s trying very hard to be serious just to prove he’s not sad.
“You thought yourself replaceable.”
Sanji aborts his action, his visible eye fixing on the swordsman before pulling back in a flash as if he’s been burned. He falls back on the chair with a snort as if the words were mocking him, as if Zoro had just told him something unthinkable, surreal.
He closes his eyes to gather himself; Zoro knows what’s coming and that’s a fight he’d rather avoid. Because in this field he feels he lacks training or weaponry and he hates to be unprepared in battle; it’s not something that happens to him.
He wonders if being able to express himself better would make any difference and feels as defeated as the man in front of him looks when he hears him say clearly, without hesitation or doubt, “I am.”
Zoro feels himself smiling a bit at that, because it’s just ridiculous, “That’s not true,” his tone is firm but not unkind. He doesn’t say ‘you’re not’, it feels too intimate.
The cook opens his eyes at that, staring Zoro down with a reprimanding look, and he feels his own expression hardening automatically alerted by that hint of an incoming fight.
But then the air shifts as quick as the tropical winds of a summer island and Sanji exhales a defeated breath as all the tension seems to leave him; he looks younger than Zoro has ever seen him.
It’s almost uncanny, looking at one of the strongest men he knows feeling so defeated. It’s wrong, almost scary. He finds himself wishing ardently for the other man to raise his head.
Wishing he was able to reach the cook, to pull him out of the cage of his mind and make him listen already, but he cannot find the words.
“We can’t ‘replace’ you, the crew needs you” and it’s obvious and he just wants to make him smile, “Luffy would go rabid with hunger in an hour and probably eat Chopper, the guys would forget to wash for weeks, the girls need someone to spoil them, and I - fuck -”, he gasps for air, realizing just now how fast he’s spoken, his breath catching up, anxiety spreading inside him as poison. He doesn’t know what to do and he finds he’s ready to lose himself too if it means making the other man see.
“Sanji, finding you-“ took me off guard and you know how hard that is but you managed it and I don’t think the crew can survive losing you, because I surely can’t-
“Don’t,” the cook cuts him standing up, words laced with fear, as if he knew what Zoro was going to say. That’s the thing with them, how they always seem to predict each other’s moves.
It hurts, it hurts even if he knew it would have, but Zoro will survive this too, he’s strong.
“And what if you hadn’t made it, eh? Did you think that would have been acceptable?” The cook’s far gone now as he pins him down with a look that’s meant for rage. That’s before realising with a wince that he’s started crying at some point. He wipes some of the tears away angrily and Zoro’s certain the Sanji won’t look him in the eyes for at least a week because of that. He’s so stupid, always focusing on the wrong weaknesses.
When Zoro reaches out to touch him, he flees out of the infirmary.
They won’t talk about it again.