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Candlelight flickered in a room with walls shot through with support beams. It was quiet when Sanji laid Zoro’s body on a table he’d righted, the thundering sounds of the crumbling palace muted by the depths of this corridor.
Dressers hung open around him, the floor strewn with clothes he hoped were clean. He stood there, ripping cloth into long strips of bandages, thankful to Law, cursing the bastard for leaving him like this. Splint up his body, Black-Leg-ya, make sure he breathes, Black-Leg-ya.
There wasn’t a clear place to begin. Hell had torn Zoro over, blood and soot caked his skin. Sanji took a deep inhale off his cigarette. Just bind him up enough to carry. Get him to Chopper. Find Miyagi. Go after Queen. He exhaled. The wounds were deep. His eyes kept falling to the gouge in Zoro’s thigh that reopened the scar that ran from hip to knee. The spot his hand had soothed so often while they’d lay in bed. Sanji never knew what happened, never asked about the two years they were apart. But once, he’d said Iva and once, Zoro responded Mihawk.
And fuck, he didn’t have time for this, Sanji thought as his own adrenaline dropped, hearing the distant resonance of loss. He needed time for this, he had nothing to clean Zoro’s wounds, only his swords to stabilize his shattered hip. He wiped at his eyes, fishing out another cigarette and caught the faint tremor under Zoro’s eyelid, felt the split second surge of panic, like Zoro was trying, failing, to flare his haki.
“Stop, stop, shh,” Sanji cooed, laying a hand steady on Zoro’s cheek. It was cold, damp with sweat and relaxed slightly at the sound of his voice.
“Where—?” His forehead creased with the effort to speak, raw and gravelly and still somehow a reassurance.
Sanji’s lips tipped up around his cigarette, “Second floor, you remember what happened?”
His right eye was blackened and shut, Sanji ran his thumb across the swollen flesh. He could still feel the tendrils of observation haki, just the thinnest unraveling threads reaching around him, past him. “The roof— Law..” Zoro said thickly, the name shaping to a question as he trailed off.
“It’s just us, okay? You’re safe,” Sanji said softly, “don’t wear yourself out.” As if there was any more depth to the limits of his body. There was none of the subtle draw back like Sanji was used to, Zoro’s haki dropped from his senses like a brick.
“Law?”
“He,” Sanji hesitated, not knowing the current state of anything, “he got you off the roof. Went after Big Mom.” He lifted Zoro’s wrist with a trembling hand. The bones were powder beneath his fingertips. He should’ve been panicking. He was panicking but there’s a shift in his mind mounting alongside this desperate situation, pushing him toward something he has no intention to name, to make choices he shouldn’t have to— “Keep talkin’, love,” he whispered, slowly wrapping Zoro’s palm. He held the end of the frayed cloth down with his thumb, the one that had already closed its own cut.
Every muscle was slack, far too pliant and moved without complaint. Sanji turned Zoro slightly once he reached his shoulder, supporting the back of his head as he slid the bandage under his shoulder blades. His head lulled to the side, leaving a smear of blood bright across Sanji’s fingers, he wavered, cursing under his breath.
“Zoro,” Sanji said louder, “c’mon, you gotta stay awake.”
“C— can’t feel anything.”
“Alright, alright,” Sanji exhaled, stuffing the fear from his voice, “all you need to do is keep—”
“Luffy..”
Sanji stiffened a moment, forcing himself to keep feeding the bandage over his collarbone, “Tell me he’s alright.”
“He figured out somethin’ he’s—” The words came slow and slurred, his memory coming in bits and pieces— Kaido’s club, Luffy saying something of his hit, too shallow, telling them to leave, to let everyone know.
Sanji listened, running his hands over Zoro’s chest, unsure of how to bind the mess of his ribs. He will hold a sword again, this isn’t it, this isn’t it. He looked up at him, at his face, hollowed and marred, still beautiful. Still his. Tears pricked his eyes because even if by some miracle Zoro made it and stood as a wing of their captain, in the back of his mind, Sanji was sure he, himself, won’t. Not this time. Now everyone after them knew, thought him more than a Strawhat, less than a Vinsmoke, enough of a liability. And if he was, to his crew, to his captain—
“Zoro,” he started, barely able to hide the choke in his voice or raise it above a whisper. He reached for the transponder in his trouser pocket, letting its weight sit in his hand, his touch on Zoro’s waist, “I—”
“We're—,” Zoro's breath strained, “we're gonna win.”
Even hearing such resolve wouldn’t be enough. Sanji ran his fingers gently across Zoro's forehead and through his hair, “I never doubted it,” he said and slid the transponder into his haramaki.