Chapter Text
the oil lamp and the uneven sound of Sanji’s breathing. The cook lay curled on his side, one hand slack on the blanket, his hair falling like a curtain over his face. In the dim light, Zoro could see the unhealthy pallor to his skin, the sharp line of his cheekbones. Looking too thin and fragile for Zoro liking .
It had only been twenty-four hours since Sanji woke up. He was alive - thank god -and breathing on his own now, but the cost of it weighed over all of them. The death strike from that cursed Soru Soru no Mi—meant for Zoro—had torn through the cook instead, touching every organ, leaving his body battered in ways no blade ever could. Chopper had warned them grimly, Sanji’s lungs, heart, kidneys, even his stomach were still barely functioning. His body was running on threads.
So To keep him alive, his body needed every kind of support they could give. The catheter stayed in, no matter how much he groaned about it. monitor -s ticked steadily by his bedside, keeping count of his faltering heart and the fragile rhythm of his breaths. An oxygen mask rested within arm’s reach for when his lungs decided to rebel, the faint hiss of it filling the silence on the worst nights. A feeding tube had been threaded down, delivering liquid sustenance that bypassed the stomach too weak to handle more. And when he could manage, Chopper allowed him small portions of light food—clear broth, bits of soft bread, fruit stewed until it nearly melted on the tongue.
It was humiliating for Sanji, and everyone knew it. He was a man who once took pride in feeding others, and now he had to be fed like he was breakable more like a child. He scowled and whined, he muttered under his breath about dignity—but his voice cracked every time, and his hands trembled too badly to push anyone away.
Each wire, each tube, each quiet beep was a reminder that his body wasn’t his own yet. He was alive, yes, but it was a borrowed sort of life—threadbare, so delicate, one mistake away from unraveling.
Sanji hated the catheter the most ,and he made sure they all knew it—groaning, whining under his breath, muttering about dignity. It was the only trace of his usual fire, but it came thin and shaky, stripped of its bite.
And on top of that, every night since he’d opened his eyes, fever had taken him hostage—dampening his hair with sweat, burning through fragile skin until Chopper scrambled with cool cloths and muttered darkly about his failing immune system. They had to be vigilant, Chopper warned, more vigilant than ever. One careless moment, one stray infection, could undo every fragile thread holding him together.
Even when awake, the fever clung to him. It glazed his eyes with a dull sheen, split the corners of his lips, and dragged his breathing into shallow, uneven pulls—like he was afraid of taking too much air from the room. He would lift a cup with both hands, fingers trembling, and still miss his mark on the first try; the water would quiver against the rim and he’d force a shrug, pretending it was nothing. When Chopper pressed the stethoscope to his chest, the little doctor’s brow would crease tighter with every beat, and Zoro found himself counting each rise and fall of Sanji’s ribcage as if it were a vow his body might forget to keep.
So Chopper set rules in a voice that brooked no argument:
wash hands, gloves for lines, no touching the catheter, no crowding the patient, change the sheets the moment they were sweat-soaked.
The crew obeyed of course, Nami boiled water, Robin folded fresh linens with the kind of care usually reserved for rare books. Usopp rigged a clumsy humidifier that hissed like a tame sea king. Brook played soft, simple melodies. Franky checked the vents to keep the room cool. Luffy sat on his hands and learned to be quiet. And Zoro— learned where to stand so Sanji could see him without having to meet his eyes.
The catheter was its own kind of torment. Every few hours Sanji would turn his face to the wall and whisper with hoarse and broken voice “Take it out.” Each word sounded as though it scraped his throat raw. And every time, Chopper’s reply was the same—gentle, apologetic, and edged with guilt. “Not yet, Sanji. I’m sorry… your system’s not ready.” The look in the doctor’s eyes twisted something deep in Zoro’s gut.
Zoro pretended not to hear, pretended not to notice the way Sanji’s fingers dug into the blanket until the knuckles went white, or how he forced his body to stay still while every instinct in him screamed for a shred of privacy he couldn’t have. When Chopper leaned in to adjust the line, Zoro turned his head away, fixing his gaze on the knot in the ceiling beam above the bunk. He made himself into a wall—broad shoulders, crossed arms, silence—shielding what little dignity Sanji could still cling to.
Even if they are lovers, Zoro knew this would have left the cook raw and uneasy. Vulnerable in ways Sanji would never admit. So Zoro chose the only thing he could give him now ,space, quiet, and the small comfort of knowing someone was there without demanding anything in return.
Nights were worst. The fever came in waves shivers that rattled his teeth, then burning that left him blinking and breathless. They changed the sheets twice, sometimes three times. Sanji apologized every time, like he’d broken something precious. Zoro told him to shut up, quietly, the way you’d tell someone to breathe. When the chill phase hit, Zoro set his chair close enough that his knee bumped the frame, letting the steady pressure say what his hands didn’t dare ‘ Here. I’m here ’
When the fire hit, he counted. In for four, out for four. If Sanji’s breaths wandered, Zoro dragged his own back to the rhythm, certain that if he kept time long enough, the cook would find it again.
The damage was everywhere. Food turned his stomach; even broth had to be coaxed in slow sips. Salt on his tongue made him grimace. He tired out mid-sentence. Sometimes he’d reach to push his hair back and miss, fingers landing a beat late on his temple as if the signal had to fight through fog to reach him. By morning his lips were dry; by evening, cracked. Chopper dabbed them with something minty and swore under his breath at numbers only he could see.
And worst of all was the avoidance.
Sanji still wouldn’t look at them. His eyes clung to anything but faces—the grain of the table, the fold of the sheet, the faint shadow the lamp threw beneath the pitcher. On the rare occasions his gaze lifted, it slid past them like contact itself could cut, sharp as knives. Zoro gave up trying to catch it. He let Sanji have the wall, the sheet, the shadows. When he spoke, it was only to anchor the moment“Water.” “Rest.” “Chopper’s coming.” Words stripped down to their bones, simple enough not to splinter against whatever fragile place Sanji was holding together.
Beneath it all sat a truth Zoro couldn’t shake ,this wasn’t a wound you could stitch shut. The death strike had left scars on his organs, but worse still on the parts a sword could never reach. The body might crawl back, slow and stubborn. The rest… Zoro didn’t know how to measure that kind of healing. So he made his own measures the clink of the thermometer against porcelain, the soft tear of clean gauze, the count of breaths between Sanji’s flinches, the seconds his hand could hover above a shoulder without being needed—and without being feared.
When the fever finally ebbed near dawn, Sanji slept hard, his mouth parted, lashes stuck to his cheeks with sweat. Zoro eased back in the chair and let the ache in his spine bloom. The room smelled like alcohol and citrus and salt. He watched the pulse jump in Sanji’s throat it was small and stubborn. Threads, Chopper had said. Zoro pictured threads and wrapped them, one by one, around his fists. He’d hold them as long as he had to. He’d hold them until Sanji could take them back.
‘I was late’
The thought chewed at him, made him relentless. He’d been right there, and still he hadn’t stopped it. Sanji had been held captive for ten days—ten days too long, fifteen days of suffering Zoro should’ve cut down before it ever started. Lafi had aimed at him in the end, and Sanji had thrown himself in the way, like the suicidal idiot he was.
Because of me. He got hit because of me.
The swordsman clenched his fists on his knees, nails biting into his palms. He’d never felt shame like this. Not even losing to Mihawk had left a wound this deep. Losing was his burden. But Sanji’s brokenness? That was on him.
The cook shifted in his sleep, a faint shiver running down his body, and Zoro’s breath caught. He looked smaller than Zoro remembered—smaller than he ever should’ve been. Too much weight gone, too much fire burned out of him. When Sanji had woken yesterday, his voice had been hoarse, his body shaking, and still he had muttered some half-assed quip about the crew worrying too much.
Pretending. Always pretending.
Brushing off everything and build his walls .
But Sanji hadn’t looked him in the eyes. Not once. Not him, not Luffy, not anyone. He’d kept his gaze down, as if the floor held answers no one else could see. Zoro hated it. Hated how wrong it felt to see him like that.
Zoro leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on the frail rise and fall of Sanji’s chest. He’s not fine. Not even close. And he won’t say a damn word about it. He’ll burn himself up with shame and pride before he admits he’s breaking.
He wanted to shake him, wanted to demand the truth. But one glance at the lines of tension still etched on Sanji’s face, even in sleep, stopped him cold. The cook didn’t need demands. He needed safety. He needed someone to stand guard while he pieced himself back together.
Zoro let out a slow, unsteady breath. Damn cook. You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good. But this time… you don’t get to do it alone.
Sanji stirred again, brow furrowing, lips parting as though caught in some nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Zoro leaned forward before he realized it, hand hovering inches above Sanji’s shoulder. He didn’t touch—He wasn’t sure if Sanji could stand it.
Instead, his voice slipped out low, rough, almost to himself.
“Sleep, cook. I’ve got you this time. I’m not letting you fall again.”
The words hung in the still air, swallowed by the shadows. Sanji didn’t hear them. Maybe that was for the best. But Zoro stayed where he was, rooted to the chair, eyes burning as he kept watch. He would stay until morning, and then longer. However long it took.
Because he refused to be late again.