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It is exceedingly rare to see a mosshead so focused when he’s not actively fighting. He’s still touching a sword, so close enough Sanji guesses.
The stupid swordsman is splayed across the galley table with his new swords, meticulously cleaning them after the endless slew of Baroque Works agents he skewered. Sanji has some spare time, so he lights up another cigarette, unwilling to prep or cook with all the blood and debris that’s about to fly about undoubtedly.
Zoro starts by wiping each blade thoroughly dry with a clean cloth, iron and grime deposit on the fibers with each pass. Sanji honestly wishes the mosshead would take so much care of cleaning himself. He places each blade back down flat as he readies a small silken pouch attached to a wooden handle, delicately pouncing the pom down each exposed section of steel. It’s the same gentle touch and expression while he washes and combs through Chopper’s coat during shedding season, would be cute to watch if it were anyone else. Each time the tool leaves behind a powdery residue on the blade and in the air.
“Oi, Mosshead, you really need to be doing that in my kitchen?”
The swordsman doesn’t bother responding, fixated on smearing the fine powder across the blade to polish out the different knicks and scratches. Sanji can hear his breaths, deep and steady almost like when he meditates. He works over the deeper grooves, buffing out the damage without disturbing the underlying geometry of the blade. Sanji takes another drag of his cigarette, it’s kind of impressive actually. Zoro has managed to put together his last two functioning brain cells to focus on the task, his eyes roaming over each blade with curiosity and adoration.
Zoro repeats the process for each sword, it’s almost tantric the way each movement is so practiced and intentional. He uncorks a small vial filled with honey colored liquid, the scent potent. There’s a familiar waft of warmth, immediately recognizable as it always lingers on the swordsman mid-spar or battle. The slightly peppery fragrance reminds Sanji he’s safe, he’s at home.
“You going to take up baking or something? It’s going to smell like pie spices for days in here.”
“Don’t you have your own blades to tend to, curls?” Zoro dispenses some of it onto another clean fabric, running the oil along the blades in firm, smooth strokes. Moving much slower than before, making sure he coats the entire surface to seal out any rust. His face is lax, but Sanji knows how much pressure he must be using, finger tips going white from the force against the blade. Each callous on his fingers so rugged compared to the now polished surface, the slick oil coating it. Sanji lights another cigarette.
He resheathes the two newer swords, but leaves Wado flat, using a tiny mallet to lock in all the different components and fixtures near the hilt, tightening the bindings on the handle. He takes the hilt to his mouth, making sure the wrapping sits right for their next fight.
“Gross, you need to clean that.”
Zoro smiles with the sword still locked in his jaw, slotting the swords back to his hips now that he’s completely satisfied by the routine. He wipes the different polish stone and oil debris off the galley table.
“Took you long enough.”
“No need to rush when I am taking care of what’s mine.” he says with a smug face, the bastard, before heading back on deck.
Hm, how nice that must be for what’s his, Sanji thinks. There's a lingering scent of cloves, steel, tobacco and now, they're paired with iron.