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“You are an absolute idiot.” Sanji’s hands shake as he sterilizes a needle in cooking wine—fucking cooking wine—because the thrice-damned marimo is a fish and even Nami doesn’t have the kind of cash to keep the Merry well-stocked with alcohol. This is the second time in recent memory that he’s had to stitch their swordsman back together, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s two times too many.
You see, the problem with chopping off one’s leg in order to escape a wax prison is, well... your legs are meant to stay attached to your body. Considering some of the... questionable things he’s heard come out of the swordsman’s mouth (looking at you, uvula), he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that he doesn’t know that (1) the human body has a finite supply of blood and (2) legs are required for such things as standing, and yet. To his credit, he’d held out much longer than he should’ve been able to without any sort of medical intervention. But eventually, the patron deity watching over their merry little band of idiots clocked out for the evening, and free-bleeding into his sneaker for hours escalated from “manageable” to “crisis.”
Now, he’s splayed on the window seat in the galley, his leg elevated and still bleeding, slowly, into a cool compress. Just above his ankle is swollen and red, not infected yet but in the process of deciding whether or not to be. Sanji’s head hurts—he’s pretty sure those Unluckies gave him a concussion, which is embarrassing—and when he tries to thread the needle there’re at least three different threads in his hand—
And Zoro is saying... something. It’s bouncing around inside of his head like a fucking steel ping pong ball. He thinks he might actually hate his life.
He’s seriously considering whether spending the rest of his life at the Baratie would’ve actually been so bad when he finally finds the damn eye—
Only for the thread to fall right back out.
“You know, I didn’t ask for your help, shit cook.” Zoro says, because clearly, something about Sanji’s demeanor screams that now is the time to fuck with him. Sanji shoots him a look that could freeze the entirety of the East Blue and immediately returns his attention to hell. “Just saying.”
“We promised Vivi that we would deliver her to Alabasta safely.” Sanji says, as if Zoro hadn’t been there when Luffy decided that their first major adventure on the Grand Line would be sailing straight into the heart of a civil war for a princess who’d tried to assassinate them—multiple times. “We can’t do that if everyone on the crew isn’t at their best.”
“You’re one to talk.” The swordsman cups Sanji’s jaw, tilting his head to the side so he can get a better look at his bloody, swollen face. “What did you do, try to makeout with a cactus?” The corner of his mouth quirks upward ever so slightly.
Sanji averts his eyes... but doesn’t shirk off Zoro’s hand, “I had a run-in with some Baroque Works agents.”
Zoro’s hand tightens slightly, but his grip remains... gentle. “Oh?” He tries for nonchalance and misses by a mile, “I wasn’t aware that there were any others on the island.”
So, Sanji tells him about the intercepted call from Mr. 0, and the so-called Unluckies who’d been dispatched to clean-up a mess that didn’t actually exist, and who’d taken it upon themselves to finish the job. He specifically does not say that he got his ass handed to him by someone—err, something—the size of a common house cat. His pride is not a particularly fragile thing, but tonight, he doesn’t think it would survive. Zoro doesn’t push, but something in the quality of how he holds Sanji’s face changes. His thumb sweeps across the sharp line of his jaw, catching a little where blood has dried and scabbed. The touch has a language unto its own that bypasses his injured brain and speaks to something primal.
The needle is threaded—again. This time, he ties the thread and sets it onto the table behind him. With careful hands, he takes Zoro’s leg and moves it onto his lap. The swordsman rolls with him, until he’s laying on his side, his body half-curled into him. He removes the compress and uses it to clean the blood away... then soaks a clean cloth in more cooking wine and gives half a beat of warning before he’s pressing it into the cut. Blood, thick and dark and red, bubbles up from the slit, soaking into the fabric and in-between Sanji’s fingers. The hand that’d been holding his face a second ago digs grooves into the fabric beneath him—but to his credit, he doesn’t make a sound.
When the wound is clean, he takes the needle and starts working. And he talks, because his head feels fuzzy and the repetitive dip of the needle into Zoro’s skin is putting him to sleep and your doctor falling asleep mid-procedure feels like a particularly special breed of malpractice... and so here they are. He’s workshopping a new recipe for tangerine sorbet for Nami when he hears it—
“...worried about you.” Zoro says, in that half-assed way of his that means that Sanji wasn’t supposed to hear. “It’s... It’s stupid.” The needle stops moving. Sanji’s eyes meet his, and Zoro suddenly seems very aware of the fact that he has nowhere to hide.
And honestly? Sanji’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating.
“You were... worried.” He repeats. Because he’s remembering the shitshow that was Whiskey Peak, when Zoro had every intention of leaving him and Usopp bound and—suffice to say, the idea of Zoro being genuinely worried about him strikes the same chord as ‘Nami has decided to donate all of her money to a local charity.’ Two and two now equal five.
“We were... together. The T-rex.” Zoro says. And yes, Sanji remembers that. And then, Zoro had started acting... weird. “One of the Baroque Works agents... she used this hypnotic paint. I don’t know when or how she got me, but...” He shakes his head, “You were gone. And you stayed gone. And then everything went to hell and I thought...” He doesn’t finish that thought. He doesn’t have to.
“I’m fine.” Sanji says, and resumes his work with the needle. His heart is doing something loud and unruly in his chest and he’s determined to ignore it. Because if he doesn’t, he’s liable to do something ill-advised like kiss the damn marimo and—
No. Just... no. Not like this.
“You’re concussed.” Zoro says. And yes, that is very true and very annoying and also very much not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
“And you tried to self-amputate, so I think we’re even.”
When the wound is stitched and bound, and his hands are clean and only slightly shaky... he stops, and he breathes. Little Garden was a clusterfuck, but they all came out on the other side. Tomorrow, Zoro will absolutely return to running forms and lifting weights and doing all manner of other inadvisable things on that ruined leg. And Sanji will feel his blood pressure rise and retire to the galley to sharpen knives that don’t need sharpening and very pointedly not address what almost happened in this room tonight, because Zoro is fever-drunk and won’t remember and Sanji is concussed and maybe hallucinating and they hate each other and that’s all it’ll ever be and that’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s... fine.
And then, he’s circling back to extinguish the lantern and Zoro’s arm comes out of nowhere and latches on and pulls, and he tumbles down, half on top of him, with all of the grace of a heavily-concussed newborn fawn. And Zoro just... moves, accommodating for Sanji’s bulk like the chef is meant to be there—like this window seat was always meant to be able to fit two full-grown men. Which, for the record... it is very much not.
“What are you doing?” He asks, because the world is still spinning from the sudden movement and he’s looking a little green in the gills... but also, Zoro’s arm is warm and heavy where it settles over him, and he almost feels... safe?
“You have a concussion.” Zoro says, matter-of-fact. Sanji is about to remind him that yes, they’ve already established this, when he continues—“You need to be woken every hour to make sure your dumbass doesn’t slip into a coma.” Sanji almost has enough time to process his surprise at Zoro actually knowing that when the marimo continues, “Sleep. I’ll wake you up.”
And every possible retort collides, violently, inside of his brain. It’s like a wrecking ball came in by way of one ear and out the other.
“I—” He starts, then stops, then, inexplicably, lays his head down.
And when he closes his eyes, warm and settled against Zoro... sleep comes frighteningly easy.