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Summary
Ever since they have departed after bringing Nami back, the Cook has been spending an awful lot of time in the kitchen, learning the space and organizing the mess they have managed to make this far.
All the while loudly bitching about it.
Cooks in kitchens weren’t something that unusual, Zoro supposed but cooks in kitchens singing praises to witches and love poems to witches and confessions to witches?
No.
He has just walked into the very place he wanted to avoid and unceremoniously dumped the still moving fish into the sink, when-
“What the hell are you doing here?” And there he was, with an unlit cigarette dangling from between his lips, hands buried deep inside his pockets.
“I got fish.” Zoro grunted in response and not paying the still twitching fish in the sink any mind, proceeded to wash his hands.
“At least kill it first, fuck,” Sanji pushed Zoro aside with a well-placed knee kick. “Or put it in a bucket, you cruel brute. It doesn’t have to suffer like this.”
“It’s a fish.”
“What an incredibly incredible speck of intelligence you’ve got there, marimo. It’s a fish.”
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Zoro handles love and compassion like a cat thrown in water.