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He follows the dark trail through the village, along the shore, all the way back to the deck of their beloved Thousand Sunny—hoping to find the source, praying it’s not as bad as it looks. The bloody splatters lead to the galley, at first, which causes his brow to furrow and his heart to start beating faster. Yet, right before the door, they seem to change direction, the gruesome path directing his steps towards the nearest bathroom, instead. Though really as reassuring, the notion of whoever’s hurt being in the right enough state of mind to try and tend to themselves makes the whole situation at the very least less worrying.
Not even bothering to knock, he kicks the door open. If put any more strength into the movement, these few planks beaten together would have a chance of falling out of their hinges.
The dark hand of his clutches the frame firmly, as he pushes himself inside, panting. The room is dark, thanks to the lack of windows and the only light bulb still in dire need of replacement. But despite only one working eye, his sight is still functional enough to recognise the multitude of shapes and forms. And between them, a slumped-over figure curled up by the bathtub.
“What do you want?” The figure hisses at him. The sound of its voice only confirms Zoro’s suspicions and rationalises his worst fears.
The Cook is wounded.
The circumstances wouldn’t feel nearly as haunting if it were anyone else from the crew. Out of all of them, however, it had to be one of the only two people who would much rather try their chances in willing away their exsanguination, than admit they require immediate medical attention. The other person being, of course, the Swordsman himself.
Still, at the moment, pleading ignorance to this certain fact appears like the best course of action to take.
“Where are you hurt?” Zoro finally snaps out of his temporary stupor, closing the distance between them. He crouches down, allowing little to no personal space be given to the blonde. A subtle tremor runs through his calloused hands while they hover over all the towels covering the floor; the once-white cloth, now decorated with red splatters.
Sanji remains silent as if hasn’t heard the addressed question. His breathing is laboured, that much is audible—the pattern clearly uneven, reacting to whatever is causing him pain. But there’s also something else there, something that seems slightly more complex than what the surface itself would present.
Fear.
“Earth to the shitty Cook, answer me!” Zoro barks out harshly, although the anger isn’t aimed at the latter, but rather at himself for losing control over the situation. “Where the fuck is this blood coming from??”
The lack of the usual biting response feels like a dagger stabbing him deeper and deeper until his body finally switches into survival mode. This time around, instead of waiting idly for the blonde to make any noise that would confirm for the Swordsman that he’s still alive, Zoro opts for producing results himself. Reaching towards the other man’s suit jacket, he quietly frantically mutters to himself.
“C’mon, c’mon, where is it?”
At last, he finds the small metal object he’s been searching for within the compartments of Sanji’s pockets. A gasoline lighter, the same one the Cook usually uses when in need of poisoning his lungs with black smoke. He clicks it, but his fingers slip on the sweat. He tries again—still nothing. However, the third time’s a charm.
A weak flame brightens the darkness previously shrouding the cramped bathroom. Once it does, Zoro’s gaze immediately finds Sanji’s, only to immediately start moving over his body, searching for the hidden wounds. He finds it. A deep laceration in the latter’s thigh.
The breath that enters the Swordsman’s lungs is nothing but a whistle.
“Can’t move it,” the Cook murmurs, speaking, at last, for the first time since the greenhead found him.
“No shit,” Zoro replies quietly, his eyes still glued to the cut.
Despite Sanji’s best efforts to block the stream flowing out of his leg, the dark fluid continues to spill; soaking into the trousers’ fabric, repainting the floor’s tiles and causing the blonde’s normally pale face to become even more white. Making the Swordsman’s thoughts race gradually quicker.
He takes off his shirt, rips it into long straps of cloth, wraps them one by one around the latter’s leg. His movements are mechanical, well-practised, forbidding him from freezing up. Focusing on his own frustration and ignoring Sanji’s loud hisses of protest, he finishes the makeshift dressing before moving to lift the latter up into his arms.
As he gets closer, though, the Cook’s voice rings through the room.
“No!” He exclaims, tone panicked. “Don’t! It’ll hurt like a bitch—!”
Once more, Zoro lets the latter’s words fall deaf to his ears as his arms make their way around the slender body. He picks Sanji up, making sure to avoid disturbing his legs more than absolutely necessary. A cry that rips out of the other man’s throat nearly makes the Swordsman flinch but he keeps himself still, instead narrowing his attention to the task that is getting help.
“Fuckin’ moron,” Sanji mutters weakly, his voice wavering and all over the place. “I hate you, I hate you so much…”
Zoro carefully exits the bathroom. He looks down at the curled-up, panting blonde being in his arms.
“I hate you... It hurts…”
Humming, the Swordsman nods in understanding.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t much longer.”