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There's a kind of sanctity to the routine they follow in the aftermath of battle. They each know their priorities, their duty in a fight: first and foremost to their captain, and then to their crew. But when the fighting is done, and their family is accounted for, and their captain is satisfied, the Wings of the Pirate King turn only to each other.
Their union is no secret, signified to anyone who cares to look by the gold charm that sways at the cook's ear and the matching band that rests on the swordsman's finger. It's well known that they come as a pair, the battle prowess of the Wings spoken of far and wide across the seas, their power only growing through the years.
But there's far more that the world doesn't see. These quiet, private moments in the wake of conflict are theirs, and theirs alone.
Around their friends, the two of them are much the same kind of rivals that they've always been, pushing and teasing and competing, each of them taking every opportunity to get under the other's skin, just to watch the heat rise in his face and the fire spark in his eyes. But it's different here where it's just the two of them, sequestered and intimate. Here, where they can shut out the rest of the world, alone with only the person they trust more than any other, they can allow themselves to be softer, unguarded. Here, they can find strength in revealing their hidden inner worlds and knowing that with the other, they're safe.
The moment the door of their shared cabin closes behind them, Sanji feels tension drain from his fatigued muscles, an invisible weight falling from his shoulders. He stretches luxuriously and reaches up to remove the band that contains his hair, letting it tumble past his shoulders. An appreciative hum rumbles in his ear as strong arms wrap around him from behind, holding tight.
“My Marimo,” he greets his husband softly, leaning back into the embrace. “We're on quite the roll, aren't we? Made it through another one with no doctor-worthy injuries.”
“Mm-hm,” Zoro agrees absentmindedly, as though he's not more often the reason why they have to seek out Chopper's expertise. “Can I see?”
As always, there's a genuine note of concern in his voice that never fails to make Sanji melt. “Of course,” he replies, and follows along as Zoro pulls him over to sit on the edge of the bed and begins to remove his battle-spoiled clothing, seeking out any sign of injury.
In these sacred, intimate moments after a fight, Zoro treats Sanji's wounds the same way he cleans his swords. He takes his time with each one, careful and meditative. Sanji watches with bated breath as his husband's rough, scarred hands move across his skin with care, precision, respect. He feels important under those hands; Zoro doesn't need to use words to show his husband how deeply cherished he is when his every touch is a kind of worship. Entranced by that familiar caress, Sanji feels a thumb brush over the growing purple bloom of a new bruise across his ribs, and Zoro looks up at him through his lashes, his expression a silent question.
Glowing with the feeling of being so loved, Sanji gives him a reassuring smile. “It's okay, Marimo,” he murmurs softly, honestly. “Nothing's broken.”
Satisfied, Zoro nods and resumes his meticulous search. There isn't much more to find today; only a few more bruises and a long, shallow laceration across the top of Sanji's right thigh, just above the knee. Stripped down to only his underwear, Sanji can't tear his eyes away as Zoro cleans the cut and wraps a bandage around it in careful, precise layers, the tension just right to stop any bleeding without causing discomfort. Sanji's heart beats in time with the movements, with every touch; as soon as Zoro is finished, Sanji buries his fingers in a handful of unruly moss and gently tilts Zoro's head until their lips meet, exhaling slowly into a surprisingly tender kiss.
Or maybe not so surprising, Sanji thinks. He'd learned long ago that Zoro can be gentle when he wants to be. And these days, where Sanji is concerned, he often wants to be.
Pulling away just enough for Zoro to see another fond smile, Sanji whispers, “Thank you, Marimo. Can I take care of you now?”
Satisfied that his husband is safe and whole, Zoro nods again. After stealing another brief kiss, the two of them switch positions as Sanji carefully pushes the familiar green robe from Zoro's broad shoulders, following the telltale streaks of crimson across his skin.
Zoro closes his eye and lets Sanji work, unbothered by any pain. There are injuries to find, he knows, a few more than Sanji had walked away with, but nothing terrible. Just a few more scars for his collection.
Sanji will take care of them. He always does, always takes care of Zoro in ways that Zoro had never dreamed anyone could ever want to. Years of bandaging his own wounds had made the process a mundane necessity. Under Sanji's hands, though, it becomes something else entirely. Sanji's hands are invaluable, carefully protected at all times; under their touch, Zoro feels precious. The same kind of reverence that he sees in his husband when Sanji cooks is also present in the way he cleans and wraps Zoro's injuries. It sets Zoro's heart racing sometimes, the thought that he could mean so much to this man.
Warm fingertips skim up his sides and trail along the old scar that crosses his chest, finally reaching his face and cupping it gently. Zoro's breath hitches slightly and he opens his eye at last, steel grey meeting ocean blue.
“Enjoying yourself, Mossy?” Sanji teases as though he doesn't know full well the effect he has on his husband.
Zoro grunts wordlessly, still lost in the feeling of Sanji's touch and craving more. “Curls…” he mutters under his breath because it's the only thing he can think of, and hooks an arm around Sanji's waist, drawing him in close. They stare into each other's eyes for a moment longer, temptingly close, breaths mingling.
And then Zoro goes in for the kiss, feeling lithe arms wrap around his shoulders and fingers once again tangle in his hair as Sanji responds eagerly, pressing into him. Seconds later, he feels Sanji's back hit the mattress and carefully shifts his own weight so as not to crush him as Zoro lands on top, knees bracketing Sanji's perfectly sculpted thighs.
When the need for air at last forces them apart, Zoro wastes no time dragging his mouth down the column of his husband's neck, sharp canines grazing flushed skin in a way that makes Sanji shiver under him.
“Curly,” Zoro murmurs, his voice a low hum against Sanji's collarbone, the familiar nickname turning soft and affectionate. “Want you.”
Sanji's heart flutters, something warm and bright filling his chest at the words, and there's a brief moment where he can't help gripping Zoro even tighter because, oh, how he wants this man back. If only…
“Marimo…” There's regret in his voice, but also no small amount of amusement. His husband is nothing if not predictable.
Already knowing what's coming, Zoro lets out a dramatic sigh against Sanji's shoulder and flops down on top of him, as though he can use his own weight to keep him in their bed.
Sanji rolls his eyes, even as a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “C'mon, Moss. You know the routine.”
Zoro grumbles unintelligibly and doesn't move in the slightest.
“Everyone will be hungry,” Sanji reminds him. “Especially our bottomless pit of a captain.”
“Someday I'm gonna keep you here, and they'll all just have to fend for themselves,” Zoro mutters grumpily, and at last rolls to the side, allowing his husband to sit up.
“I don't doubt it,” Sanji laughs as he reluctantly climbs out of bed. “But not today. I need to make dinner.”
Zoro stays where he is, pouting as he watches Sanji dress and pull his hair back into a neat ponytail. Sanji ignores him, because the pathetic expression on his face will make him laugh if he doesn't. Giving his outfit one last check in the mirror and finding himself presentable, he heads for the door, waiting for his husband to move on to the next step in their routine.
“Do you want a hand?”
Standing in the doorway, Sanji turns back to look at his favorite oversized houseplant, peering up at him hopefully from a pile of mussed blankets.
“I'll take two, if you're offering,” he answers with a smile.
Zoro’s face finally brightens, giving Sanji a broad, happy grin. “For you? Always.”
///
They stand closer than is really necessary while they do the dishes, arms brushing and shoulders bumping as they move. As he rinses the last plate and holds it out to be dried, Sanji shifts his weight to playfully check his hip into Zoro's. Zoro gives him a sideways look as he takes the plate and bumps him back harder. Sanji waits just long enough for the plate to reach the safety of its shelf before he does the same, hard enough to knock his husband half a step off balance. Zoro lets out a bark of laughter and throws him a sharp grin, fiery and entirely too attractive.
All part of the routine. But that doesn't mean Sanji can't have a little fun with him first. With a sweet peck on the cheek, he steps around Zoro and heads for the door, yawning exaggeratedly as he goes.
Behind him, Zoro makes an indignant noise. “Where are you going?”
Sanji stops and looks back at him over his shoulder, his expression too innocent. “It's been a long day, Marimo. A shower and sleep sounds pretty good right about now.” He pauses and gives Zoro a slow, obvious once-over. “Why? Did you have something else in mind?”
Zoro's eye glints dangerously, and Sanji barely has time to inhale before he's caught up in a pair of strong arms, hips pressed firmly back against the edge of the counter. “Not in my kitchen, you brute,” he says a little breathlessly, feigning an irritation he doesn't really feel.
“Tease,” Zoro mutters and goes in for the kiss yet again, swallowing the bright, carefree laugh that Sanji doesn't bother hiding. When they finally part, he stays close, resting his forehead softly against his husband's. “Tell me what you want, Curls.”
Sanji feels the low rumble of his voice in his own chest where they're pressed close, filling him with warmth and setting his heart beating faster. Zoro never tires of reminding him that he's allowed to want, and to voice his desires without guilt or shame. With an easy smile, Sanji slips his arms inside Zoro's loose, open robe and around his waist, tucking his hands into the warmth of his ever-present harimaki.
“I want you to take me back to our cabin,” he murmurs happily, watching with delight as a soft flush reddens the tips of his husband's ears. “I want you.”
“You have me,” Zoro replies earnestly, radiating quiet devotion. “Always.”
“Good,” Sanji says, warm and honest. “I'm glad.” And using the edge of the counter behind him for leverage, he pushes up off the floor and into his husband's arms, securing his legs around Zoro's waist.
Zoro swears under his breath and catches him without hesitation, his mind going blank at the feeling of those powerful thighs under his hands, corded muscle wrapping around him.
“Cabin, Marimo,” Sanji whispers heatedly, his breath hot on Zoro's skin. “Be quick about it and I'll make it worth your while,” he adds with a wink, as if they don't both know the routine by now.
Zoro nods, his expression dazed — but instead of moving, he surges forward and kisses Sanji again, and again, and one more time for good measure. “Curls,” he whispers, unable to tear himself away. “Sanji. I love you.”
“My Zoro,” Sanji answers warmly, melting into him. “I love you, too.”