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Zoro is leaning against the galley doorframe, bleeding quietly onto the wood.
The raid was a chaotic, exhausting mess. The deck is currently littered with debris, resting crewmates, and the lingering smell of gunpowder. By all logic, everyone should be unconscious or getting bandaged up by Chopper.
Instead, Sanji is cooking.
Zoro watches him from the doorway, captivated. Sanji looks like absolute hell. His tailored suit jacket is gone, white shirt is torn at the shoulder and stained with soot, and there’s a nasty dark purple bruise blooming along the sharp line of his jaw. His hands are steady as he meticulously dices an onion.
There is something fundamentally terrifying, and intensely magnificent, about the way the cook operates. Ten minutes ago, he was a hurricane of fury, snapping ribs and caving in skulls with a burning heel. Now, he is standing at the stove, gently stirring a simmering pot of stew just to make sure their idiot captain has something warm to wake up to.
"Take a picture, marimo, it'll last longer." Sanji says, not even looking up from the cutting board. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Zoro shifts his weight. "Bleeding out on your precious floors."
Sanji turns around, a sharp retort ready on his tongue, but he stops when he sees the blood dripping from Zoro’s bicep.
Zoro watches the cook’s visible eye dart straight to the wound. He waits as Sanji’s gaze quickly catalogues the shallow depth of the cut, the steady rise and fall of Zoro’s chest, and the relaxed slump of his shoulders.
Sanji snatches a clean dish towel off the counter and lobs it directly at Zoro's face.
"It's a scratch, you drama queen," he huffs, though his shoulders have visibly dropped in relief. "Wrap it up and stop dripping blood on my floor. I just mopped yesterday."
Zoro catches the towel effortlessly. He lets out a chuckle, charmed by Sanji’s abrasive brand of first aid. The adrenaline of the battle hasn't quite left his system. He steps into the kitchen, tossing the towel aside, and walks right into Sanji's personal space.
"What are you doing?" Sanji mutters, though he doesn't step back.
Zoro reaches out. He ignores the blood on his own arm and gently wipes a streak of dried soot away from Sanji's cheekbone. His rough thumb lingers against the warm, unblemished skin just below the new bruise.
"You were incredible out there today," Zoro says. He looks down into Sanji's eyes, remembering the devastating arc of Sanji's kicks on the battlefield. "Couldn't take my eyes off you."
Sanji malfunctions. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks wildly at the stove, and then back at Zoro. He tries to cross his arms defensively, realizes he's still holding a very sharp chef's knife, and hastily slams it down on the cutting board.
"You have a concussion," Sanji stammers, his face now burning a vibrant red all the way to the tips of his ears. "I'm calling Chopper."
"I'm fine, cook," Zoro chuckles, crowding Sanji back against the counter. He presses a firm kiss to the unbruised side of his jaw. "Just thought you should know."
Sanji lets out a pathetic strangled squeak. He brings both hands up, pressing them against Zoro's chest to push him away, but there's zero strength behind the gesture. His fingers just curl into the fabric of Zoro's haramaki instead.
"The sauce," Sanji mutters weakly, refusing to make eye contact. "The sauce is going to burn."
"Then turn the heat off," Zoro suggests smoothly. He wraps an arm around Sanji's waist, pulling him flush against his chest, ignoring the grime covering them both.
Sanji lets out a defeated sigh, his forehead dropping heavily against Zoro's collarbone. "I hate you," he mumbles, though his arms wrap around Zoro's shoulders in return.
"Yeah, yeah," Zoro smiles, burying his face in Sanji's soot-smelling hair. "Love you too."