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The first time Zoro notices it is when Sanji is chopping up vegetables for a salad while trying to stop Luffy from eating all three of the roast chickens resting on the counter, and his knife slips while he’s distracted. There’s a hiss of pain, followed by a loud crash as Sanji kicks Luffy clear across the galley. Sanji grabs the towel resting on his shoulder while grumbling to himself about gluttonous captains, and Zoro only just manages to catch a glimpse of bright red blood dribbling down his index finger before the cook wraps it up and the injury disappears into the raggedy folds of worn terry cloth.
“You need help with that, twirlybrows?” Zoro asks as he goes to stop Luffy from making another run at the chickens. “Looks like a pretty nasty cut.”
Sanji bares his teeth in a bright, sunny smile that’s just a little too sharp at the edges, the kind that makes Zoro’s face go hot and his heart do a funny little flip inside his chest. “Maybe to a shitty swordsman like you,” Sanji says breezily as he steps over to the sink and turns on the faucet with his elbow, “but I can assure you that to a chef of my caliber, this is nothing more than a scratch.”
In Zoro’s experience ‘scratches’ don’t usually bleed badly enough to leave bright crimson of blotches all over dish towels like the ones he can see when Sanji removes it so that he can hold his finger beneath the running water, but if the stupid cook doesn’t want his help, Zoro’s certainly not going to offer it twice. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, before returning to the arduous task of keeping Luffy from trying to shove an entire chicken down his gullet, bones and all.
The second time Zoro notices it is when they’re sailing from Drum Island towards Alabasta with a brand new doctor in tow, which is significant because of how Sanji very much does not seek Chopper’s help for what happens. He’s pulling a sheet tray full of cookies out of the oven when Vivi comes into the galley looking for a drink, and of course Sanji drops everything he’s doing to quickly whip her up something bright pink and made with a frankly nauseating amount of sugar, fawning over his precious ‘Vivi-chwan’ all the while. The lovesickness must mess with his head, because when Vivi leaves Sanji goes to pick up the sheet pan without his oven mitts, and then promptly drops it again with a yelp.
“Fuck!” he hisses out between clenched teeth before going over to the sink and turning on the cold tap. When he lifts his hand to the stream, Zoro sees a bright pink stretch of shiny pink skin going across the entire width of his palm, and he can’t help snorting.
“Did you seriously just burn yourself?” Zoro asks as an amused grin spreads across his face. The look Sanji sends him in response could curdle milk—does, in fact, curdle Zoro’s stomach, but in that swoopy, weirdly pleasant way that only seems to happen around the cook.
“Fuck off, mosshead,” Sanji snips at him, chucking a dirty dish rag at his head when Zoro laughs again in response. He expects Sanji to go find Chopper for help with the injury once he’s done running it under the sink, so it’s a little surprising when instead, Sanji simply returns to the cookies like nothing happened, even though Zoro can see a tight pull at the corners of his mouth like he’s fighting back a grimace of pain.
“Shouldn’t you get some ointment or something for that?” he can’t help asking. He’s not generally worried about how other people take care of themselves, but if Sanji is injured that could affect dinner, and if dinner is affected Zoro is going to have to deal with a hungry Luffy, which he’d really rather not.
Sanji frowns at him as he slides the last of the cookies onto a cooling rack. “Why would I need ointment?”
“Well… ‘Cause it’s a burn. Don’t you treat burns with ointment?” Zoro says, scowling when Sanji has the audacity to laugh at him.
“You of all people do not get to lecture me about how best to treat an injury, marimo,” he chides with a wide, cheeky grin, one that makes Zoro’s blood go hot from more than just irritation. “It’s just a little burn. I’ll be fine.”
Zoro’s brow furrows. It doesn’t look like a little burn from where he’s standing, but then again, Sanji’s a chef; maybe he’s used to injuries like that, so Zoro shrugs and leaves it be.
The third time Zoro notices it is when he’s being forced to help Sanji haul supplies back to the Merry. He’s been laden down with several heavy sacks of rice and flour while Sanji is carrying a few crates of fresh produce, and they’re bickering, because of course they are. Something about how Zoro couldn’t find his own head up his ass if his life depended on it just because he went a little wayward at the market, and the distraction must be why Sanji hits the wall of a building when they round the corner, causing him to lose his already precarious hold and dropping the crates right on his foot.
“Motherfucker!” he yells, swearing up a storm as he proceeds to hop up and down while holding the injured appendage, a picture that looks so perfectly ridiculous Zoro can’t help laughing at him.
“Smooth,” he grins. “Bet that move works real well with the ladies.”
“I will skin you alive and stuff your flesh like a fucking sausage, you moldy head of old cabbage,” Sanji retorts, glaring at Zoro like he’s trying to murder him with only his gaze.
“Oh yeah?” Zoro taunts, because he can’t help it. It’s too easy and too fun to get the stupid cook riled up. “With what, a broken foot?”
“I’ll show you a broken foot when it’s shoved up your shitty asshole!” Sanji shouts, and the ensuing scuffle takes out a street lamp, two sign posts, and a fire hydrant before they finally call it quits, if only because a local policeman stops them and they have to hightail it back to the ship before anyone can start talking about things like ‘fines for property damage’.
Zoro assumes Sanji is fine, of course, because he doesn’t act otherwise; but the next morning when they pass each other on Sanji’s way to the bathroom and Zoro’s way to the bunks, he sees a bruise has bloomed over the top of Sanji’s foot, ugly and mottled and painfully purple.
“Hey,” Zoro says before he can stop himself, even though how Sanji chooses to care for his injuries really isn't any of Zoro’s business. “Shouldn’t Chopper take a look at that?”
Sanji raises one curly eyebrow. “Take a look at what, you shitty swordsman?”
“The fucking bruise on your foot, dumbass, what else?” Zoro replies. “Looks like a rotten plum on a hot sidewalk.”
“Well aren’t you poetic this morning?” Sanji chuckles as he rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, marimo. Bruises always look worse than they feel.”
Zoro frowns; the flippant response sits uneasily in his stomach, but it’s not like he has reason to pry further, so he shrugs and lets Sanji move past him. It’s only once he sees Sanji start walking again that Zoro realizes something.
“Cook.”
Sanji pauses and turns to look back at him. “What?”
“You’re limping.”
Zoro watches as Sanji’s face contorts into an expression he can’t quite parse, and then he laughs airily. “You still drunk from last night, mosshead?” he teases. “Because I can assure you that you’re seeing things.”
“No, I’m not,” Zoro shoots back flatly, because he knows what he saw. “You’re favoring the foot that doesn’t have the giant fucking bruise on it.”
Sanji smiles in that sharp-edged way of his, but the angry curve of his pretty mouth doesn’t quite reach the deep blue of his eyes, which dart back and forth, looking anywhere but at Zoro. “No, I’m not,” he snaps, harsher than before but a touch too quickly, like a kid lying through his teeth about stealing from the cookie jar. “Get Chopper to check your eyes, marimo. Or better yet your head, since that thick fucking skull of yours evidently doesn’t protect you from getting your tiny little pea brain knocked around.”
“My head is fine,” Zoro retorts. “Your foot, on the other hand, is clearly not.”
“I think I’m the best judge of whether or not my foot is fine, you uncultured mold growth,” Sanji replies primly, even as Zoro watches the color rise in his cheeks, twin spots of a damning cherry red that tell him Sanji’s both lying and embarrassed about it, or at least embarrassed about being caught. “So do me a favor and piss off.”
He waltzes off before Zoro can say anything else, and it’s true that to the untrained eye, Sanji probably looks just fine. But Zoro’s not untrained, and he can see the stiffness in Sanji’s stride, the way his knee is locking before the down step to avoid putting extra weight onto his foot. He’s injured, and he’s trying to hide it, and fuck if Zoro knows why.
And the thing is, it keeps happening.
Not all the time. If Sanji gets hurt during the course of a real fight then he’s more than happy to let Chopper patch him up, but every time he injures himself outside of that, he makes a big show of laughing and brushing it off like it’s nothing—or worse, trying to hide it altogether. It’s almost like he doesn’t even want other people to know what happened, only grudgingly acknowledges it when he can’t otherwise wriggle his way out of being observed. Granted, it’s never anything so grievous as a battle wound; just small things like knife nicks and hot pan burns and bruises from the occasional clumsiness. But even though Zoro knows Chopper would gladly give Sanji a band-aid and a lollipop for even the tiniest scratches, the cook insists on taking care of all this himself.
It’s stupid, and it pisses Zoro off immeasurably. He’s no stranger to brushing off injuries that could incapacitate lesser men, but the fact that Sanji tries to hide it like he’s doing something wrong is aggravating on a level that only the stupid cook can manage to achieve, mostly because it brings forth a whole lot of emotions in Zoro that he’s very ill equipped to handle. That’s the main reason why Zoro holds his tongue while silently tallying up all the instances of Sanji accruing injuries that he refuses to seek help for; he can’t even begin to imagine Sanji’s reaction if Zoro were to suddenly start showing such tender, mushy emotions towards him like unease or concern. Probably Sanji would bark out one of those sharp, mean laughs that Zoro likes a little too much, or put on an angry but undeniably pretty scowl that Zoro wants to smother between their mouths. Or maybe he’d just try to smash Zoro’s skull in and then complain that he got blood all over Sanji’s fancy leather shoes. Whatever the case, Zoro’s pretty sure it won’t be anything good, so instead he watches and tracks and keeps it all to himself, until one late night when the scales of Zoro’s regret finally tip towards staying silent for too long instead of daring to open his big fat mouth.
In fairness to himself, Zoro didn’t expect Sanji to be in the galley when he entered it. It’s well past the cook’s normal bedtime, and he saw Sanji depart for the bunks at some point late in the evening while Zoro was on deck, settling in for his usual night watch. He only heads to the kitchen in the first place because he gets thirsty for sake, but what’s supposed to be a standard late night booze run turns into something else entirely when Zoro pushes the door open and sees Sanji standing by the sink with a dish towel wrapped around one hand and a pained grimace set deeply into the lines of his pretty face. Any and all of Zoro’s more conservative instincts are overridden by how much seeing that look makes the bottom drop out of his stomach and straight into the ocean, and before he can think better of it, Zoro hears himself ask, “The fuck did you do?”
Sanji jumps, clearly not having expected any company. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he shoots back instead of answering the question, and Zoro frowns deeply as he begins moving towards him.
“Looking for a drink,” he answers, not seeing the point in hiding it. “What happened?”
He nods at Sanji’s hand, and Zoro swears the stupid cook flinches. “Nothing,” he answers, far too quickly. “It’s just a scratch.”
Zoro feels himself beginning to scowl. “Scratches don’t need dish towels wrapped around them,” he deadpans as he comes to a stop just a few steps away from Sanji, close enough that Zoro could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. “Did you cut yourself?”
“No,” Sanji says, and it’s so obviously a lie that Zoro wants to hit him. He opens his mouth to demand that Sanji tell the truth, but Sanji’s got that glint in his eye, the one that makes Zoro’s insides go all molten because it says Try me, you stupid bastard, and good fucking luck, because I’m just as stubborn as you are. Zoro can think of a whole slew of other places he’d rather challenge Sanji to that particular fight, foremost among them a locked bedroom far, far away from their other crewmates, but he’s still helpless to stop himself from rising to the occasion.
His hand darts out, fingers wrapping around the bony wrist of Sanji’s clearly injured hand and yanking sharply. Sanji swears and tries to pull away, but Zoro’s grip is stronger, his movements just a hair faster, and he grabs the edge of the dish towel with his other hand and pulls it away to reveal a deep gash running the width of Sanji’s palm, still oozing crimson droplets of blood.
“It looks worse than it is!” Sanji says immediately, which is not in the least bit reassuring.
“Oh really? Because it looks fucking terrible,” Zoro snarks, even as concern spikes sharply in the hollow pit of his stomach. It’s one thing for Sanji to try and brush off catching his knuckles along a cheese grater or getting splashed by boiling water when he drains a pot of pasta, but this cut is something he could easily have sustained in a fight and thus very definitely Chopper worthy. “Holy hell cook, what did you do? Why isn’t Chopper taking care of this for you?”
“I don’t need Chopper mosshead, I’m fine,” Sanji insists, trying to tug his wrist free from Zoro’s hold, and it says something about just how strong the twirly-browed bastard is that Zoro is actually having to make an effort not to let him escape. “Now if you could please get you greasy green mitts off me so I can take care of this myself—”
“Why do you do that?” Zoro cuts him off, and Sanji falters, blinking at him in confusion.
“Do what?”
“Try to brush it off whenever you get hurt outside of a fight. You do it all the time and you never let anyone else help. Why?”
Sanji blinks again, more slowly this time. “I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stutters, but the twin spots of cherry red blooming to life on his cheeks betray him, and Zoro huffs out a heavy exhale of frustration.
“Bullshit,” he hits back, and feels the uptick in Sanji’s pulse where it’s pressed against Zoro’s fingers. He watches a flash of what looks like panic flash across Sanji’s face, but then it’s gone, replaced instead by a wide, sardonic smile that doesn’t quite reach the depths of that deep blue gaze.
“Didn’t realize you were watching me so closely, marimo,” Sanji drawls, clearly trying to opt for a different tactic, but Zoro doesn’t flinch.
“Somebody has to,” he replies evenly, “since you clearly aren’t doing it yourself.”
Whatever Sanji expected him to say, it obviously wasn’t that. His eyes go wide as he sucks in a sharp breath, and the pulse against Zoro’s fingers takes up a rhythm that’s positively frantic. For a long moment he simply stares at Zoro while Zoro stares steadily back, even as his heart begins to pound a matching beat to Sanji’s pulse within the confines of his chest. His skin is warm where Zoro holds it, and he’s quickly beginning to realize how much he doesn’t want to let go.
“It shouldn’t have to be anyone else’s problem when I hurt myself,” Sanji finally answers as he tugs at his wrist again; Zoro reluctantly releases him, if only because he can see that the oozy swell of blood from the cut needs to be washed away. “That’s all.”
“Maybe for something like a scratch or a nick, but for something like this?” Zoro says as he watches Sanji grimace when the running water from the faucet hits his palm, jaw clenching like he’s holding back a sound he doesn’t want Zoro to hear. “Come on, cook. Don’t be an idiot. Let me go get Chopper—”
“Mosshead I told you, I’m fine,” Sanji snaps, right before he has to bite his lip against what looks like a hiss of pain, which makes Zoro want to punch him for being such a moron as much as it makes him want to reach out and offer some sort of aid, and oh what a strange feeling that is to have. Zoro’s not generally in the business of offering this kind of help to people, mostly because he knows he’s absolute garbage at it—but Sanji has a way of making him want to do all sorts of things Zoro never even considered before he met the stupid curly-browed cook, makes him want to try his hand at such terribly foreign concepts like gentleness, comfort, care.
“If you really don’t wanna get Chopper then fine,” Zoro sighs. “But since I’m already here, at least let me help you bandage yourself up.”
At that, Sanji lets out a loud snort. “You? What the hell do you know about wound care, you shitty swordsman?”
“You think I haven’t sliced myself to hell and back all these years I’ve been training with swords?” Zoro retorts with a scowl. “I may not have Chopper’s soft touch but I know how to wrap up a cut.”
Sanji’s brow crinkles, squinting at Zoro like he doesn’t know whether or not to believe him. In lieu of dignifying his skepticism with a response, Zoro offers him the stolen towel. “Here,” he says. “Use this to keep pressure on it while I go get the first aid kit. And raise your hand above heart level, that will slow down the bleeding.”
Now Sanji’s brow arches, the swirl of it nearly hitting his hairline; but after a brief pause he reaches out and takes the towel, pressing it to the cut as he removes his hand from beneath the flow of the faucet. “This is gonna be interesting,” he mutters under his breath as he lifts his arm into the air with the towel still pressed to his hand, and Zoro elbows his ribs in retaliation before striding over to the other side of the galley, where Chopper has helpfully left a smattering of first aid supplies in case of any kitchen accidents.
It’s not much, but it has what Zoro needs: alcohol wipes, antiseptic ointment, gauze, and bandage wraps. He gathers these in hand and then walks back over to the sink, where Sanji is still watching him like he doesn’t quite trust Zoro not to royally fuck this up, which just makes Zoro all the more determined to prove that he does, in fact, know what he’s doing here.
“Hand out,” he instructs as he sets the first aid supplies down on the counter, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Sanji complies, lowering his arm back down. Zoro gingerly removes the towel, frowning deeply when it pulls away from the wound like old sticky tape, clothes fibers clinging stubbornly to the exposed flesh of the cut. Sanji hisses sharply, but to his credit, he doesn’t pull away.
“This next part is gonna sting,” Zoro warns as he opens the first alcohol wipe packet, and Sanji snorts softly.
“No shit,” he scoffs, but Zoro doesn’t miss how tightly his jaw clenches when he first drags the wipe along the edges of the wound, or the sound of the slow, controlled breath Sanji lets out through his teeth, like he’s trying to tamp down on something worse. Zoro tries to work quickly as he cleans up the bits of dried blood flecked across Sanji’s palm, remembering the first time Koushirou had ever done this for him and wishing he had his sensei’s gentler touch.
The alcohol cleans the wound, he recalls Koushirou explaining as he worked, helping Zoro to wrap up a bad gash he’d accidentally inflicted upon his own thigh, the scar of which he still bears. The ointment helps prevent infection, and the gauze keeps it protected from the open air while catching any extra blood that might leak out. And then we have to wrap it tightly, because the pressure will help keep it from reopening.
Zoro’s done this process on himself more times than he can count, albeit usually with a rag soaked in cheap vodka instead of proper alcohol wipe and no ointment because he could never recall which one Koushirou used to use. But he trusts Chopper to have the right kind of hand, and it looks just how Zoro remembers it when he squeezes it out of the small tube; thick and translucent and a little shiny, like water halfway towards being frozen over. Sanji watches him more intently now as Zoro uses a finger to dab it across the length of the cut; looking at it now that it’s been properly cleaned Zoro can admit that it isn’t as deep as he initially thought, but it still spans the entire length of Sanji’s palm, and the location is going to make it a bitch to heal.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Zoro says as he takes a square of gauze and folds it to lay over the wound, and then another for good measure, because he can still see droplets of bright crimson welling up slowly between the split edges. He tries to keep his tone light, casual; but from the scrutinizing look he receives in return, Zoro’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed.
“Yes, I did,” Sanji answers. “I told you, it doesn’t need to be anyone else’s problem when I happen to injure myself.”
Zoro huffs in irritation as he grabs the bandage roll and unravels a long strip. “Okay, but why?” he presses as he begins wrapping the bandage around Sanji’s hand, trying to keep it tight without being constricting. “What’s the big deal?”
“There isn’t one,” Sanji replies. “That’s the whole point.”
“What do you mean?”
Sanji doesn’t answer right away; when Zoro glances up, he sees the cook’s twirly eyebrows furrowed tightly and his bottom lip caught between his teeth in a way that brings forth a whole lot of thoughts that Zoro firmly pushes to the side. “It’s just… You know.” Sanji makes a vague gesture with his other hand. “It’s my fault if I hurt myself, so I can deal with it myself. There’s no need to bother anyone else because of my own mistakes.”
Zoro pauses. Tries to parse what Sanji just said. Fails. Retries, and fails again, because that answer makes absolutely no damn sense.
“What?” Zoro says, lifting his head to stare at Sanji, who is rather pointedly not looking at him. “What kind of stupid fucking idea is that?”
Sanji purses his lips. “It’s not stupid,” he protests.
“Yes it is,” Zoro shoots back without missing a beat. “So what if it’s your fault that you hurt yourself? You really think Chopper gives a shit that you might slice a finger open ‘cause you were, I don’t know, chopping too fast or something?”
“Of course not,” Sanji says, cheeks beginning to color again. “But it’s just… He’s got so much other work to do around here, he doesn’t need to be fussing over me when he’s got you and Luffy to worry about—”
“This isn’t about me and Luffy,” Zoro cuts him off neatly. “This is about you, cook. Fucking hell, just ‘cause you slip up every now and again doesn’t mean you can’t ask for help.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear lectures about ‘asking for help’ from you, you stupid shitty swordsman,” Sanji replies, trying to glare at Zoro but falling short, betrayed by the dodgy look in those deep blue eyes and the twin spots of cherry red painting his cheekbones. “You aren’t exactly a shining fucking example of injury care, you know.”
“Maybe not, but that’s because I don’t need to ask for help most of the time, not because I have this, I don’t know, weird complex about doing it.” Zoro returns to his bandaging, struggling to keep his touch light when all he really wants to do is grab Sanji by his fancy suit lapels and shake some sense into him. “Good fucking god, no one’s gonna think you’re bothering them just cause you need helping wrapping up a cut. Where the hell did you even get that idea from?”
Sanji doesn’t answer as Zoro rips the strip of bandage away from the roll and tucks it inside the wrappings to secure it in place. Nor does he answer as Zoro turns his hand over to inspect his handiwork (not the best, but it’ll do). He doesn’t answer when Zoro lets go of his hand and Sanji pulls it back to his own chest like he’s just been burned, and he doesn’t answer when Zoro steps back to look at him, taking in the bright red flush of his face, the twisted line of his unhappy mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that speak to something Zoro’s not sure he could name. Zoro wants very badly to kiss that mouth until it relaxes again, to make that face flush and those eyes crinkle for other reasons entirely, but he doesn’t think Sanji would take to it very kindly if he tried.
“It’s just… an old habit,” Sanji finally says, voice quiet and laced with something Zoro doesn’t think he’s ever heard from the cook before. It’s sadness and unease and the barest hint of fear, like there’s a ghost hovering over Sanji’s shoulder that nobody else can see, that he hides with those bright sunny smiles and flippant remarks of his, paper continually plastered over cracks that probably all the way sink down to the hollows of his bones. Zoro wonders if anyone else on the crew has ever seen this side of Sanji, or whether they would be able to recognize it even if they did; he’s not even sure he would have, if not for the fact that Zoro is very familiar with the idea of ghosts and old pains that never quite healed right.
“Well stop it,” Zoro says, quiet but firm. “Because it’s stupid.”
Sanji’s brow scrunches like he wants to protest, but for once, his heart doesn’t seem to be in the fight. Instead he sighs and moves his bandaged hand away from his chest so that he can test the wrappings, only a tiny grimace flitting briefly over his face as he curls it slowly into and out of a loose fist. “Huh,” he says, and there’s genuine surprise coloring his tone when the wrapping holds, flexing easily with the movement of his hand. “Not bad, marimo. I’m shocked.”
“Told you,” Zoro says, unable to help the small, smug smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Just ‘cause I heal fast doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Sanji huffs out the barest hint of a laugh; his eyes roll, but it’s less annoyance and more exasperation, which is definitely a step up from how Sanji usually looks at him. “Do I get a lollipop to go along with it?” he jokes, lips curling upwards in a crooked smirk. “Or a kiss to make it feel better?”
Zoro’s heart seizes inside his chest.
“Do you want a kiss?” he asks before he can stop himself, and Sanji just stares at him in utter incomprehension for a moment before suddenly his face turns as maroon as the dried blood staining the dish towel on the counter.
“Do I—what—of course not, you moss-for-brains moron! That was a joke, don’t be fucking ridiculous,” he stammers, hands flailing around frantically in front of him. “That is the stupidest—the most idiotic—how could you even think—”
Sanji keeps on rambling, but Zoro’s stopped paying attention. In fact, he’s pretty sure his entire brain stopped working the second Sanji said the word ‘kiss’, which is the only reason Zoro can think of that he even dares to attempt what happens next—because his self-preservation skills are obviously completely shot.
He reaches out and grabs Sanji’s wrist again, his grip as tight as sea stone shackles around the thin column of knobby bones and wiry sinew. Sanji makes an angry noise of protest, but Zoro barely hears it over the sudden roaring of his own pulse inside his ears, heart restating to a beat fast enough to dance to as Zoro pulls the hand towards his mouth so that he can press a small, soft kiss against Sanji’s bandaged palm.
For a moment, the world around them goes utterly still. Sanji stares at Zoro with those deep blue eyes as wide as the plates he serves dinner on, curly eyebrows arched so high on his forehead that Zoro almost can’t tell where they end and his bangs begin. His face is a shade of red Zoro didn’t even know existed, and from the heat he can feel bursting across his own cheeks, Zoro doubts he’s much better.
It’s that sensation of his head lighting itself on fire that manages to snap him back to reality, and Zoro drops Sanji’s hand like a stone dropping into the sea. “There,” Zoro manages to say, even though his tongue feels heavy and leaden and far too big for his mouth. “Feel any better?”
Sanji makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “I—you—what the fuck—” he stutters, his flush spreading all the way down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. “Of course I don’t feel any better you idiot, that was—I mean, I didn’t—that was completely uncalled for—can’t believe you would even—I mean, how fucking dare you—”
“You asked,” Zoro can’t help pointing out, and has to dodge the kick Sanji aims at his head.
“I told you, it was a joke!” Sanji yells, voice about two octaves higher than it normally is. “God that’s disgusting, now I’m probably going to have to change this again since it’s got your gross mossy germs all over it! So thanks for nothing, asshole!”
He storms off, muttering obscenities under his breath as he stalks out of the galley, leaving Zoro alone to wonder what the hell he was thinking just now. Maybe he really is as stupid as Sanji says.
But when Zoro sees him again in the morning, Sanji’s bandage is unchanged, and he takes extra care with it as he flits about the galley serving breakfast, keeping it clean and dry and wrapped up tight. And when Zoro passes him on his way out the door to the deck, he catches the briefest glimpse of Sanji smiling softly while he presses a thumb tenderly to his injured palm, like there’s something about it that makes him happy.
Zoro’s not sure if he’s supposed to think too hard about that or not. But he’s going to anyway.