Chapter Text
Salt mingles with the smell of blood in the air, clinging to the Going Merry’s wooden bones like ghosts as she sails away from Little Garden. The waves break on her hull, a soothing rhythm against a background of exhausted silence.
Nami’s tired eyes flicker between her sea chart and the Eternal pose, neither of which she can focus on for more than a few seconds. Zoro lies inside the infirmary, his breathing labored, and Vivi stands nearby with worry etched into every line of her beautiful face.
On the makeshift bed, the swordsman’s feet rest on a stack of pillows wrapped in layers of bandages. His ankles, riddled with self-inflicted wounds, pulse in time with his heartbeat. Vivi carefully removes the bandages to replace them with fresh ones, cloth quickly staining crimson with blood.
Nami sighs, a mixture of frustration and concern evident in her voice. "You're such an idiot, Zoro."
"Don't nag me," he retorts through gritted teeth.
"Nagging? You hacked up your own legs—You're bleeding out!"
"He needs stitches, Nami," Vivi declares, her worry palpable.
"And we need to watch for infection. You're reckless," Nami adds, her tone accusing.
Zoro grunts, acknowledging their concern but not wanting to admit weakness. "I've had worse."
Nami shakes her head, knowing his stubbornness all too well. "Not the point!” she snaps, addressing the room with fatigued irritability. “Can anyone here stitch wounds?"
Luffy perks up from where he sits nearby, chewing on a half-eaten meat bone. "I can try."
“No!” everyone says in unison.
Usopp looks up briefly as he tinkers with his latest invention, a pocket-sized decoy robot that walks and plays distracting music. "I'm good with tools but not stitches."
Sanji, who had been silently observing, steps forward. "I can do basic stitching. I've patched up enough cuts and gashes in my time—Besides, I’ve been itching to stick something sharp in him all day."
Nami throws him a look that’s half-warning, half-gratitude. "Good. Then help Vivi with Zoro’s wounds—and don’t mess it up!”
Zoro doesn’t miss a beat. “Rather bleed out than be touched by a shitty, perverted waiter with curly-brows.”
“Yeah? I’d rather let you die like the dumbass you are, but fortunately for you, I’m loyal to Nami-san—Now shut up and hold still.”
Zoro sneers. “Come near me with that needle, and I’ll kick you with what’s left of my feet.”
“Oh please, Legless-swordsman. The only thing you’ll be kicking with these is the bucket.”
"I could still take you with no hands or feet, Shit-cook!"
Sanji lets out a noise of frustration, snapping, "Let the idiot bleed to death—Maybe then he’ll understand he’s a damn useless moss-for-brains."
“Stop arguing! I’m too exhausted to punch you—A near death experience will do that to a girl.”
Sanji’s attention shifts in response to their navigator’s weakened tone, a light sheen of sweat beading on her delicate forehead and dark circles forming under her eyes.
“You’ve been through quite a difficult time. Please, get some rest, both of you! I’ll handle the stupid swordsman,” he tells her with a reassuring grin.
“I’m okay,” Vivi insists with an encouraging smile of her own. “Someone needs to watch the Log Pose, and you should lie down, Nami.”
The navigator is about to argue until she sees the hint of desperation in the blue-haired girl’s expression, recognizing the way her hands fiddle with her sleeves as a sign of restlessness—The princess is worrying about her country and wants to do something useful. Nami knows from experience that sleep doesn’t come easy when the mind is filled with anxiety, but focusing on important tasks helps channel fretful energy.
“Thank you, Vivi. I’ll just have a quick nap and come right back to take over for you. Don’t worry, I’ll get us to Alabasta as soon as possible!”
Nami takes the other woman’s hand and squeezes it gently, leaving the cook to tend to the swordsman’s wounds with one last warning glare thrown over her shoulder.
“There’s a big fight ahead of us, so save your macho antagonism for later. If I hear that you two idiots are back at each other’s throats, I’ll bribe Usopp to feed you his Deluxe Pepper Sauce Stars!”
Zoro scoffs and turns his face away stubbornly but makes no arguments while Sanji babbles that he would never dream of ignoring a sweet lady’s request, hearts in his eyes.
Their would-be truce lasts all of five seconds after the women leave the room and the swordsman’s brow pinches in annoyance at the stupid, lovestruck expression on the blond man’s face.
“Idiot Pervy-cook,” he grumbles under his breath, hissing in pain when Sanji pinches one of his injured ankles in a retaliatory death grip.
“What did Nami-san just say?! Can’t you hold your fat fucking tongue for ten minutes while I sew you up? You literally don’t have a leg to stand on calling me stupid after trying to cut yours off like a maniac!” the blond snaps irritably.
“I managed to walk back to the ship just fine, and I don’t need your help. Give me the stupid needle—I’ll do it myself.”
“Shut the fuck up and roll over, Zoro.”
“Excuse me?!”
“You’re pale as a ghost from blood loss, and I can see your hands shaking! You’ll just fuck it up if I let you stitch them yourself and probably pass out halfway through. Don’t cause more trouble for everyone! Now roll over!” the cook demands angrily.
“Stop telling me what to do, bastard!”
“I’m trying to help even though you’re a complete dumbass who’d be better off as a cake candle!”
Sanji stands up to make his point clear, lodging a foot in the swordsman’s side to kick him viciously onto his stomach. Zoro throws a growl over his shoulder for the rough treatment, shooting daggers at the cook when he presses the sole of his shoe into his crewmate’s lower back to pin him to the bed.
“What the hell should I have done, huh? We didn’t know Luffy would make it in time, you were off dicking around by yourself, and your precious ladies were about to become wax statues!”
The cook drops back into his chair with an angry huff, digging out the thread and needle to sew up the ugly cuts on the other man’s ankles. He doesn’t warn the swordsman before grabbing him again and sticking it in to make the first stitch, reluctantly impressed that Zoro manages not to flinch even though he isn’t being entirely gentle.
“I’m the only reason we aren’t still stuck on that ancient island! We needed an Eternal Pose, and because of me we have an advantage over Crocodile now that he thinks we’re dead. If I’d known you were gonna get captured and try to mutilate yourself, I would’ve gone with Nami and Vivi to make sure they were safe!”
“I did what I thought was necessary at the time. If I didn’t act and no one came for us, you’d have found three corpses covered in wax. Mine would be in a cool pose, but Nami and Vivi were too scared—their faces would’ve been frozen in fear forever—so the only option was for me to cut myself and that giant free and fight!”
Sanji hesitates with the next stitch, sighing in defeat at the swordsman’s rational words. The women must have been terrified, and the cook can relate to the desire to protect others even at the cost of his own wellbeing, so it isn’t fair of him to blame Zoro for doing something crazy when he would also do anything to save his friends.
“It was still stupid, Marimo…but I suppose love makes me do stupid shit, too. If nothing else, I respect you for trying to help in your own psychotic way.”
The swordsman almost laughs at that, but the sound is mangled by a pained groan that slips out when Sanji’s steady hands insert the needle at a tender spot, pulling the ragged flesh together more gently than before.
“Shit—how do you even know how to do this? Do you sew pretty dresses in your spare time, Cook?”
“Fuck you, asshole. I spent most of my life around very sharp knives, and we had random pirate scumbags attacking the Baratie every other week. It was an important skill to master.”
“Fair enough.”
“I can’t believe your reckless ass survived this long not knowing how to stitch up wounds.”
“Most cuts heal up on their own if you douse them in alcohol, keep ‘em wrapped tight, and sleep for long enough.”
“That is absolutely not how the body heals properly, Mosshead. No wonder you’re covered in ugly-ass scars,” Sanji grumbles with a furtive look at the exposed skin of the swordsman’s back where his t-shirt is riding up—There are no markings there, tanned skin smooth and flawless.
“I don’t think you have any right to mock someone else’s appearance, Curlybrow. Looking at your stupid face makes me dizzy.”
“Stop talking or you’ll bite your tongue—This next part is gonna hurt like hell,” Sanji warns as he approaches the sensitive skin hanging off the swordsman’s exposed bone.
He’s lucky to have a strong stomach because the sight of Zoro’s bloody insides is even making the fighting cook feel a little dizzy. The fact that the man had walked in this condition and barely batted an eye, never showing how much pain he must’ve been in, is as incredible as it is foolish.
“You really sliced straight to the tibia…crazy motherfucker.”
“Wasn’t enough,” Zoro mumbles into the pillow, so quietly the blond almost misses it.
“What?”
“It was supposed to be a clean cut severing the ankles, but I couldn’t get enough momentum from that angle, so I fucked it up. Need to get stronger.”
Sanji stares at him incredulously, noting the frustration in his tone and the muscles in his strong jaw flexing with strain, forehead pinched. The swordsman is seriously upset at himself for not being able to cut his own legs off in one attack.
“We really need a doctor on the crew to examine your brain, Marimo. Only an insane man thinks like that. You did your best, and it was more than most people could’ve done. You’ll definitely get stronger from here.”
Zoro’s gaze shifts to meet one blue eye, looking at him oddly as if he doesn’t believe what he just heard coming out of the blond’s mouth.
“Was that a compliment, Curly?” he asks with a teasing grin.
Sanji jabs him more forcefully with the needle in lieu of an answer, mirroring the other man’s grin when he grunts in pain and curls his fists in the bedsheets.
“Who’d compliment a Shitty-swordsman so lame he can’t even cut bone?”
“I’ll cut you as soon as I’m on my feet again! Watch your back, Shit-cook.”
“I’d like to see you try, Mossheaded-invalid.”
They somehow manage to go the next five minutes without arguing—a new record. Sanji keeps stitching the wounds, trying to be as precise as possible while his hands are covered in blood. Each tug of the thread pulls the ragged edges of Zoro’s skin together, slowly but surely closing the deep gashes.
The swordsman’s face is pale, his skin moist and sweaty. The pillow under his head is soaked and his breathing is slow and staggered. He begins to see flies in his vision, peripherals blurred as a low hum sounds in his ears.
“Hang in there now. Don’t be a baby,” Sanji mutters without any of the usual mockery. He says it to keep Zoro awake while watching his face for signs of distress. The swordsman’s eyes are glazed, but his jaw remains stubbornly clenched.
“I can handle it,” he half-slurs roughly.
“Prove it,” Sanji replies, fingers working quickly. He ties off another stitch, the wound starting to look less like a gaping maw and more like something that would heal with time.
Zoro's vision wavers, darkness creeping in at the edges. “Hey, Curlybrow…I think I…”
“Hm? Bucket? Sweet dreams?”
“...Bucket…”
Sanji’s eyes widen, and he quickly grabs a nearby pale to thrust under Zoro’s chin just in time—The swordsman retches, body convulsing with the effort as sweat drips down his face.
Sanji lightly rubs circles into Zoro’s shoulder with the palm of his hand, one of the rare signs of kindness exchanged between them. “We have to keep you hydrated—You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Bring me booze.”
“Booze won’t hydrate you! I seriously don’t understand how an idiot like you survived this long,” Sanji exclaims, exasperation mingling with concern.
“It’s called bein’ tough—You should try it sometime. And don’t watch me with your eyebrow, I’ll vomit again,” Zoro teases, cracking a weak grin.
"Shut up, or I’ll sew your eyelids shut so you can’t see anything at all."
"Great, I won’t have to look at your playboy face again."
“Better than a barbarian face. Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
Zoro takes a deep breath and braces himself as Sanji resumes stitching. The needle pierces his skin, pulling the torn flesh together. The swordsman’s knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the bed, body tense. His vision blurs again, the edges of darkness slowly creeping in. He clenches his teeth in a fight to stay conscious.
“Hurry up, Cook.”
“Just a few more,” Sanji replies, his voice calm. “You’re doing fine. Stay with me.”
“I’d actually prefer death over more time with you,” Zoro mutters, a faint smirk ghosting across his pale face despite the agony.
Sanji rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice when he says, “Keep talking like that and I might just leave the stitches half-done.”
Zoro winces as the cook finishes the last few. The pain is intense, but he remains still, trusting his crewmate’s skill. He feels more sweat drip down his forehead, entire body trembling with the effort of staying conscious.
“There,” Sanji says finally, tying off the thread and setting aside the needle to pick up a clean cloth and wipe away the blood around the wound. “This is the part where you say thank you.”
“Alright, thank you, Shit-head.”
The cook has to work hard to hold back an appreciative smile, surprised that the other man thanked him so easily. He finishes with a tight wrap job and warns the swordsman that they need to be changed every few hours until the bleeding stops so he shouldn’t overwork himself.
Unsurprisingly, Zoro does not listen to him and is back at it again training on the deck no less than thirty minutes later, bare torso glistening with sweat as he swings a five-tiered weight an ungodly number of times.
The sunny afternoon is interrupted by Vivi’s shrill voice rising in panic as she calls out to the crew, “Everyone come quickly! This is bad—Nami’s burning up with fever!”
Luffy swoops in to lift the navigator’s fallen form, rushing her to the women’s chambers to gently lay her in bed as heat pours off her sweaty skin, face flushed an unhealthy red and breathing hitched.
“Is Nami gonna die?!!!” Sanji wails with tears in his eyes.
He listens to the blue-haired princess with rapt attention as she explains about the harsh climate changes on the Grand Line and sickness that can sometimes result from extreme weather conditions. After a bout of stubbornness from their navigator, they decide to make a pit stop before heading to Alabasta and find a doctor to treat her.
Little did they know, they would be adding a new member to their crew of misfits in the form of the adorable shapeshifting reindeer, Tony Tony Chopper, after a fierce battle against the elements through the snowy landscape of Drum Kingdom.
They owe their success to the immeasurable aptitude of their captain who manages to save both Sanji and Nami’s lives by carrying them to Dr. Kureha with nothing but brute strength and willpower, defeating the evil Wapol and convincing Chopper to join them on their adventure. That evening, the Going Merry finally sets sail for Alabasta under a full moon and a sky full of pink snow.
“Those cherry blossoms were beautiful. I never expected to see a sight like that on a winter island,” the cook comments as he sits in a circle with his nakama, drink in hand with the smell of fresh food and clean, crisp air surrounding them.
“Yeah! This calls for a celebration!” Zoro replies merrily from his place beside the blond.
Somehow they had ended up sitting next to each other and were sharing a rare, amicable drink. Sanji grins sheepishly at the childlike smile on the swordsman’s face as he reaches over to fill the cook’s glass, noting that the rough edges of his jaw and sharp grey eyes have smoothed out under the influence of booze.
Why can’t you always be like this, Stupid-alcoholic-moss?
The fleeting thought causes Sanji to freeze in surprise because despite his constant insistence that he hates the greenhaired man, the blond is actually rather enjoying his company.
Zoro’s booming laugh rings out as the sharpshooter stands and yells, “TO OUR NEW SHIPMATE!” and the cook is struck by the realization that the swordsman has a rather nice smile when he deigns to use it.
Amidst a chorus of cheers and clinking mugs, he shoves Zoro’s shoulder to distract himself from the strange feeling that pools in his gut at the sight of his crewmate in such good spirits, snapping, “Oi, you just spilled on my jacket, Stupid-barbarian!”
The cook and the swordsman fall into one of their typical scuffles, snarling insults back and forth as the Straw Hats party well into the night. It’s easier for them to fight—Every verbal or physical blow is comfortable and familiar. Safe. Anything outside of that comfort zone is a distraction neither welcomed.
Sanji is understandably confused when Zoro’s eyes land on him in the men’s bunkroom after their crewmates retire to bed. The swordsman’s burning gaze sweeps over his long torso as the cook changes into sleepwear and quietly slips outside.
He’s even more confused when Zoro follows him to the bathroom, catching the blond off-guard with his shirt removed as he stands in front of the mirror trying to loosen the bandages that Chopper tightly tied.
“Need any help?” the swordsman grunts unexpectedly.
Sanji is too shocked to say anything at first, mind blanching at the sudden offer from his rival. All of the insults he would usually make slip away into the ether when he feels Zoro’s intense gaze land on him.
“Why the fuck would I need your help?!” he spits out automatically, blue eyes widening at the flicker of hurt that flashes over the other man’s face before it shifts into a mask of indifference.
“I just thought—‘cuz you helped me before I mean—Whatever, I’m going back to bed. ’Night, Cook,” he says dismissively, turning on his heel to leave the other alone.
“…Wait!”
Zoro stops at the door with his bare back to the blond, smooth and flawless, not a scar in sight. He hesitates before slowly shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck in an uncomfortable gesture. A frustrated sound cuts into the awkward silence when Sanji doesn’t say anything.
“What do you want then?” the swordsman asks annoyedly, like he hadn’t come on his own accord and didn’t care about the answer.
The cook thinks he should apologize for his unwarranted rudeness when the greenhaired man did nothing to deserve it, but it isn’t like them to dance around formality, and he can’t seem to get the words out.
Instead he says, “Can you redo these? Our new doctor seems a little gung-ho—I can barely move.”
Zoro nods and silently goes to Sanji’s side, motioning for him to raise his arms. He begins to carefully untie the bandages with practiced ease. The cook’s entire chest, shoulders, and abdomen are covered like a mummy. They stand out starkly against his already pale skin, making him look even whiter.
“You’re like a sushi roll.”
“What the fuck does that mean, Idiot-swordsman?” Sanji snaps.
Zoro chuckles as he continues to slowly unravel him. “All wrapped up and ready to be served,” he jokes.
“If you tell me you’re a cannibal, I wouldn’t even be surprised.”
“Too skinny. There’s nothing to eat on you—I’m sure you taste horrible.”
“Well, you probably taste like rotten seaweed!”
A vivid scene appears in Sanji’s head without warning—He sees the swordsman biting his teeth into the flesh between the cook’s neck and shoulder, and a red flush spreads over the blond’s cheeks at the image. He shakes his head violently, mentally slapping himself in confused shock, grateful that his back is to Zoro who is too focused on the bandages to notice his weird reaction.
The swordsman reveals the closed wound along Sanji’s spine—a long, angry red line with slightly swollen edges and stitches, neat but fresh. Bruises fan out around the sides in purple and yellow blotches, marking the trauma his body endured.
Zoro’s fingers pause for a moment, holding the bandage just above the wound without touching it. Concern flickers in his eyes, a sudden softness mingling with the usual hardness of his features. His jaw tightens, brow furrowing as he takes in the sight.
“What the fuck happened, Shit-cook?” Zoro asks, voice strangely quiet.
His fingers resume their careful work, loosening the bindings around Sanji’s torso with deliberate gentleness. The cook’s heart beats faster as warm hands brush against his skin, eliciting a shyness that confuses him because it’s such an innocent context. He rushes to cover for his nervousness with a quick explanation.
“Broke my back in an avalanche,” he mutters at the same low volume. “I kicked Luffy out of it so Nami wouldn’t get hurt. Didn’t have time to jump somewhere myself. The currant of snow took me downhill, and I hit something hard—a tree, or a rock, I dunno. Stayed conscious long enough to help Luffy, and then I only remember the castle. Chopper told me my spine was fractured, but it’s nothing—no worse than when you almost got cut in half by Mihawk,” Sanji admits in a deceptively casual tone.
Zoro’s hands pause momentarily, bandages half-undone as he takes in Sanji’s words and processes the gravity of the situation. He realizes that the cook is probably in a huge amount of pain but still celebrated as if nothing were amiss, laughing, drinking, dancing and fighting without ever showing his suffering.
Damn, the Shitty-cook is tougher than he looks, he thinks, reluctantly impressed.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” the swordsman mutters, voice filled with a mixture of frustration and concern. “You’re always lecturing me, but you could’ve ended up paralyzed and then you wouldn’t be able to cook anymore.”
"Worried, Mosshead?" Sanji smirks.
"No. Your food is crap, and you’re a lousy fighter."
Sanji’s eyes narrow, his usual smirk transitioning into a scowl. “Lousy fighter? Coming from the guy who gets lost on a straight path? I’d say your sense of direction is much more of a liability.”
Zoro snorts, tying off the end of the bandages. “At least I can navigate through a fight without tripping over my own feet any time I see a woman and actually throw a punch—Your principles are ass-backward.”
“Better than cutting myself up like a damn Christmas ham just to get free,” Sanji retorts, his tone sharpening.
“At least I didn’t end up with a broken spine trying to be a hero,” Zoro shoots back, standing up and crossing his arms.
“Obviously, I’d rather be a hero than a reckless idiot with no plan!” Sanji snaps, straightening out despite the pain flaring along his spine.
Zoro’s eyes flash with irritation. “Plan? Your plan was to get buried under snow and hope someone found you before you froze to death!”
“Vivi and Usopp said they actually did find you buried under snow,” Sanji declares with a cocky smile, convinced that he has the swordsman on this one.
Zoro’s face reddens slightly, a flash of embarrassment crossing his features. “That was different,” he mutters defensively, fingers pausing in their work.
“Oh, really?” Sanji smirks, enjoying the rare moment of seeing the prideful swordsman on the back foot. “How exactly is it different, Mosshead?”
Instead of answering, Zoro’s eyes narrow and his hands resume their task with a new intensity. He begins to tighten the bandages, each movement deliberately firm.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Sanji yelps, wincing as they constrict around his chest until it becomes difficult to breathe.
“Just making sure they’re secure,” Zoro replies with a vindictive glint in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt again, right Curlybrow?”
“Damn it, you’re doing that on purpose!” Sanji growls, trying to squirm away but unable to move without causing himself more pain.
Zoro’s grip tightens, and Sanji’s frustration grows. “You’re gonna cut off my circulation, idiot! Stop it!”
The swordsman pauses, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “Maybe next time you won’t run your mouth about things you don’t understand.”
Sanji’s eyes blaze with anger. “You’re such a petty bastard!”
“Better than being a smug prick,” Zoro retorts, hot breath puffing over the back of the blond’s bare neck on the last word—He loosens the bandages just enough to relieve some of the pressure while still keeping them snug.
Sanji takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart and the stinging pain along his spine. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“Right back at you, Curly,” Zoro says, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction.
Sanji glares back, but the fight quickly drains out of him and is replaced by begrudging acceptance. “Just…finish up and get out of here.”
Zoro’s hands move with quick precision as he wraps the last bandage around the cook’s torso. The earlier tension between them dissolves into a quiet intimacy as the rough texture of the gauze contrasts with the smoothness of Sanji’s skin, making each point of contact feel oddly electrifying. He can’t help but notice the warmth of those hands—the way they linger just a moment too long.
The cook can see the swordsman’s focused expression in the mirror, the intensity in his eyes, and the softness of his movements as he adjusts the bandages again. Despite their constant bickering, there’s an undeniable care in Zoro’s actions that Sanji finds disconcerting.
It’s strange, this feeling of being taken care of by someone who usually throws fists and insults in equal measure. He’s also surprised by his crewmate’s unexpected concern for him, and a blush rises to his cheeks, the color creeping down his neck and spreading to both ears despite his attempts to keep composed.
Zoro ties off the last knot, his fingers brushing against Sanji’s skin once more, sending a shiver cascading down his spine.
“Done. You’ll be fine now,” he says gruffly. “So, this is the part where you say thank you.”
“That’s my fuckin’ line!” Sanji replies, sulking before quietly grumbling, "Thank you."
The blond’s gaze flicks up to Zoro’s reflection, expecting another cocky smirk to be plastered on his face, and is stunned by the expression he sees there.
The swordsman is already looking at him in the mirror with a smile so uncharacteristically fond it takes the cook’s breath away. His heart skips a beat when their eyes lock, and something intense and unspoken hangs between them like a taut string drawing them together.
Their hips bump unintentionally and Sanji startles, spinning around to shove his hand in the other man’s face and push him away with the flat of his palm. The blond’s skin feels like a field of wildfire, but he can’t understand why—Why does Zoro’s presence make him so nervous? It wasn’t like this before, he never noticed anything changing, and yet every time the swordsman touches him lately, his body reacts like the man is an open flame.
The cook feels tingly and lightheaded, stomach fluttering like—
Fuck, Sanji thinks sharply, burying the end of his thought deep down inside—like butterflies.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Zoro rubs his nose and shoots him an annoyed grimace. “Like what?” he asks confusedly.
“Like we’re fucking friends or something—You get that I hate you, right?!”
The swordsman just stares, shoulders drooping almost imperceptibly as he lets out a heavy sigh of defeat. He allows a silence to brew long enough for the cook to feel guilty for his rude outburst before nodding slowly and turning his back on the blond.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Cook.”
“...Zoro—”
“Goodnight,” the swordsman says stiffly, ignoring the rising panic in the other man’s tone.
“I—”
He slams the door on his way out, leaving Sanji standing there with a sick sense of regret and self-hatred choking him. The ghost of Zoro’s fingers brushing across his skin haunts him for days, stalking him to the desert country of Alabasta where they spend most of the war separated.
Mr. Prince makes a reappearance. He fights a ballerina. The swordsman learns to cut steel. He stonily rejects Sanji’s offer to return the favor and patch up the significant wounds covering most of his body besides his back—never his back.
“I was the one returning a favor, remember? Now we’re even, so leave it to Chopper—It’s his job, after all. Stay in your lane, Shit-cook.”
***
The regret festers as their journey takes them ten thousand leagues above the sea. Zoro doesn’t offer his help after the sky battle with Eneru. They are both singed like grilled tunas, sporting full body burns that Chopper coats in layers of sticky substances. The medicinal creams smell worse than the bottom of a moldy barrel, and Sanji can’t take it anymore—The memories of the swordsman’s hands tending to him so carefully won’t go away.
He resolves to do something about the rift he caused between them by thoughtlessly denying the other man’s friendship and deal with the strange feelings caused by Zoro’s presence, his gaze, his touch.
They work well together in the Davy Back fight, even if only for ten seconds. Sanji gets to see that carefree smile again on the swordsman’s face, lying together in the grass covered in their own blood, proud and victorious.
The cook’s resolve is shattered when Usopp leaves the crew. He worries that addressing the feelings brewing inside him—feelings that he still refuses to name—will only make his relationship with Zoro worse at a time when they need to be strong, work in solidarity, and fight for Robin in the face of the World Government’s tyrannical rule.
Sanji knows that the swordsman cares about his nakama deeply, including the cook who says he hates him, because Zoro can’t hide his worry when the blond goes off alone on the sea train. The naïve romantic in him wants to believe that Zoro voicing his concern over the snail call means something more, but his pragmatic side won’t be fooled into thinking he feels anything like what Sanji feels.
How could he when the swordsman doesn’t know about his last name, the dark past he’s running from—just like Robin—or the lies the cook tells himself every time a rush of emotions fill him when Zoro looks his way?
Their nakama return to the crew along with a new shipwright, but they lose the Merry. Later, the swordsman catches the cook crying alone in their shiny new kitchen in the dead of night. Everyone else is asleep, and the Thousand Sunny sails away from Water 7. Sanji sits with a half-empty bottle of wine, drowning in too many feelings.
“I—I don’t h-hate you, Marimo…’m sorry…” he sobs quietly, wiping his wet face with his sleeve as Zoro stands awkwardly in the doorway, staring at him in quiet shock.
“You’re a mess, Cook. What are you even crying for? I know the ship was like one of us, but it’s still just an object, and Franky made this great replacement—”
“I’m not crying ‘bout the fuckin’ boat, idiot! An’ don’t dissrespect Merry!” he slurs through a waterfall of ugly tears.
Zoro joins him at the table, sliding the bottle of wine out of the cook’s reach to subtly finish it off while the blond makes a poor attempt at composing himself. His usually perfect hair is mussed and pushed back to reveal two watery blue eyes and spiraling eyebrows, cheeks red from drink and lips trembling as he hiccups dramatically.
“I don’t hate you,” he repeats with an audible voice crack.
“I know,” Zoro says gently. “I don’t hate you either, Curls.”
“Y-you don’t?” Sanji asks, sniffling pathetically and eyeing the swordsman across the table in wary hope.
“I actually kinda like you when you’re not running that damn mouth—and sometimes even then ‘cuz it’s really fun to argue with you.”
“Oh…then issit okay if—if I help with yer injuries again? Even though issnot my job?”
“Sure, if you want to.”
Sanji smiles brightly and feels a wave of relief wash over him, too drunk to notice how his reaction makes the swordsman blush and tip back the bottle of wine to distract himself from the cook’s beautiful face grinning like he just received the best news since sliced bread.
“Does that mean…we can be friends now?” the blond mumbles around a huge yawn.
He doesn’t hear Zoro’s answer, but he feels the swordsman’s fingers carefully stroking his hair until he falls asleep at the table with a goofy grin in place.
Stupid-cook…I guess being friendzoned is better than being hated…
Sanji wakes up in the men’s dorm with a splitting headache and hazy memories of drinking wine, crying his eyes out, and sitting across from the swordsman at the kitchen table, though the conversation topics are foggy. He’s embarrassed to realize that the other man probably carried him to bed like a toddler and prays that he didn’t say anything about his wretched feelings.
The cook steals a glance at a sleeping Zoro, snoring lightly with his limbs spread haphazardly in his hammock, blanket all askew. Sanji is frustrated at how endearing it is that the greenhaired man sleeps like a bear and looks like a normal, innocent nineteen-year-old instead of the sword-wielding demon of a pirate he is.
As if he can feel the blond’s intense gaze on him, the greenhaired man stirs and suddenly cracks one bleary eye open, yawning grotesquely as he looks up at Sanji and spreads his lips into a mocking grin.
“Mornin’, lightweight. What’s for breakfast?”
The cook kicks him out of the hammock and stomps off to the kitchen, red-faced. Zoro’s sleepy laughter floats after him and lives in his head for the rest of the day until more pressing concerns take over his attention—namely, a rocky entry into the Florian Triangle, the ghost ship with a skeleton man who unexpectedly joins the crew at the behest of their spontaneous captain, and getting trapped on an island-sized pirate ship full of weird creatures and awful humans more monstrous than their zombie experiments.
Thriller Bark proves to be one of the most dangerous places the Straw Hats have the misfortune of visiting. The cook despises every minute of it from the hideous, perverted freak with the Clear-Clear fruit to the giant with Luffy’s personality that almost crushes him to death—and especially the Warlord, Bartholomew Kuma, who shows up to kick them while they’re down in pursuit of their captain’s head.
Something inside Sanji snaps when Zoro offers himself in place of Luffy, and a deep-seated panic like nothing he ever feels before rears its head, forcing his weary body forward—to stop the swordsman from sacrificing himself when the cook is still able to stand and plead his case to the Warlord. He absolutely refuses to allow his crewmate—the man he loves—to give his own life in exchange for their dreams.
In that moment, the feelings he left unnamed for so long become an undeniable truth. As Zoro’s katana hilt sinks into his side, the cook vows that he will never stop doing stupid things for love—It’s who he is, and he won’t change that because the alternative is ignoring these feelings which he absolutely can’t do.
He blacks out with the swordsman’s arm in his weakening grip and eats dirt.
Sanji groans as he slowly comes to, the throbbing in his head making it hard to think straight. His vision is blurry at first, the shapes around him swimming into focus. He sees his crewmates scattered around, some still unconscious, others stirring awake. Nami is the first to catch his eyes, her orange brows furrowed in concern as she checks on their captain who is inexplicably dancing around like nothing happened.
“Oi…Luffy…” Sanji’s voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He tries to push himself up, but his limbs feel like lead.
The rubber man spins around, grinning from ear to ear as he says, “Sanji! You’re awake! We’re all okay! Isn’t it great?”
Sanji’s heart twists at the sight—Luffy’s exuberance is reassuring, but there’s a nagging feeling eating at the cook because his memory is hazy, fragments of the recent battle flashing through his mind in disjointed images. The fight with Moria, the sudden appearance of Kuma, the overwhelming sense of helplessness, and then…Zoro. Sanji’s heart skips a beat, a pang of worry slicing through him.
“Where…where’s Zoro?” he whispers to himself, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.
No one seems concerned about the missing swordsman, too mesmerized by Luffy’s lack of wounds. Sanji’s panic intensifies, and he forces himself to stand, ignoring the pain that shoots through his body. His mind races, filled with a whirlwind of emotions—fear, anger, and something deeper that he’s been trying to deny for too long. Way too long…
Sanji moves through the clearing like a ghost, his eyes scanning for any sign of Zoro. He feels a pang of terror at the thought of what the swordsman endured. He needs to find him, to make sure he's okay.
And then he sees Zoro standing tall, his back turned to him. At first, he’s relieved because the swordsman seems alright. The cook slides down a shattered stone wall with his hands in his pockets and sighs. The idiot is still here, he thinks in relief.
He wants to make a joke, toss out a new nickname, scream at the other man for knocking him out, but then his eyes take in the entire picture—Zoro’s body is covered in blood, stance unwavering despite the clear evidence of the immense pain he must be in, red soaking into the dirt around him. Sanji's heart clenches and he quickens his pace, emotions whirling in a turbulent storm of panic and frustration.
“Where’d all this blood come from? Oi—Are you still alive? What happened here, Zoro?!” he shouts out, voice cracking slightly from the strain on his vocal chords.
The swordsman doesn’t move at first, his entire body shaking, but he refuses to fall. There's weariness but also fierce determination in every line of his posture. "Nothing happened," Zoro says, voice rough but steady.
He’s always been reckless—always putting himself in harm’s way for the crew—but seeing him like this, covered in blood and barely standing, tears at Sanji’s heart in a way he’s never fully understood until now.
The cook’s hands tremble as he reaches out to steady Zoro. “Dumbass,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Don’t you dare pretend nothing happened. You’re covered in blood!”
Their eyes meet and for a moment Sanji sees something vulnerable there—a flicker of pain that Zoro tries very hard to hide. Before they can say anything else, the man’s knees buckle, and he collapses against his crewmate. The sudden weight nearly knocks the blond off balance, but he catches him and wraps his arms around the swordsman’s bleeding body instinctively.
Ice floods his veins, the sight of Zoro slipping into unconsciousness sending a sharp chill through him. Sanji can feel his shallow breaths, the rapid heartbeat thundering against his bleeding chest.
“Chopper! Chopper, get over here!” he yells, voice laced with desperation. The cook holds Zoro tighter as reality sinks in—His condition is critical—Every second counts.
Sanji struggles to get to his feet with a limp body in his arms. The burden is significant, but the adrenaline coursing through his limbs gives him the strength he needs to straighten his tired legs.
He moves as quickly as he can, his mind a blur of worry. Each step is a reminder of what he feels for the swordsman, the emotions kept buried for so long now rising to the surface in full force.
The realization hits him again like a freight train—He’s in love with Zoro. The cook was denying it, hiding behind routine insults and bickering, but seeing the swordsman so hurt and vulnerable brings everything into focus.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Sanji mutters, voice trembling. “You’re too stubborn for that, right?”
His question is met with frightening silence, not even a twitch from the other man who is completely deaf to the cook’s voice, a dead weight held up by aching limbs. The blond half-drags him through the rubble, yelling desperately for Chopper until his throat is hoarse from the strain. When the little reindeer comes rushing over with his medical bag, everything temporarily fades into the background while they set up a space for the swordsman to be treated.
He watches helplessly as Zoro’s shirt is removed, exposing all the damaged flesh that looks red and inflamed—Sanji looks away when he sees the ever-flawless skin of his crewmate’s back equally afflicted, stomach churning when the phrase “full body internal ruptures” leaves Chopper’s mouth.
For the first time in the cook’s life, he thinks he might puke and escapes to a corner where he leans against a wall and wills his breakfast to stay inside—It’s a close call, but not as close as the swordsman’s.
The doctor finds Sanji in a sort of stupor, staring blankly at the dirty bricks under his palms, and tearfully explains how Zoro’s heart briefly stopped for two minutes before suddenly starting again during CPR, calling it a miracle.
Chopper stays with him as he cries quietly in relief, resting his hoof on the blond’s leg before calmly suggesting they return to the group where Sanji’s comparably mild wounds are tended to. He has three broken ribs where the swordsman’s katana landed, but the doctor feigns ignorance and comments that he’s glad Oars’ crushing grip didn’t result in a punctured lung even though the injury doesn’t match the circumstance.
A party breaks out and Sanji falls back on what he does best to distract himself. It would’ve taken half their food stores to feed the Straw Hats, Lola’s crew, and all the people whose shadows were returned, but luckily they’re able to nab supplies from Moria’s goonies to fill the pantry. The cheerful ambiance is welcomed, allowing the cook to briefly forget his worries now that the swordsman’s condition is stable and join in Brook’s lively rendition of Bink’s Brew.
The perverted skeleton officially joins them on their voyage and keeps everyone entertained while they heal from the previous battle. Two days later, Sanji wanders around with a tray of healthy drinks to serve his crew and does a double-take when he sees that Zoro’s place is empty.
“Did the Shitty-swordsman get lost already?” he grumbles, feigning disinterest while his heart rate spikes and his still-injured ribs shake from the force of it rattling his chest.
“Franky went with Brook to build a memorial for the Rumbar Pirates, and Zoro followed them when I said he couldn’t drink any alcohol for at least five more days,” Chopper informs him helpfully, doing a cute little dance on the spot as the cook presents a sweet beverage made with fresh strawberries, bananas, yogurt, and whey.
“Without eating anything? Of course that idiot went straight from an IV drip to an impromptu hike—I swear, he’ll be the first of us to keel over,” Sanji says annoyedly, ignoring how his own words cause a lump to form in his throat and a vision of the swordsman standing in the bloody clearing to flash through his mind.
He retreats to the kitchen until it’s time to set sail, studiously ignoring Luffy’s enthusiastic shouts welcoming Zoro back to the ship and announcing that they can go on to their next adventure. A vein throbs irritably in the cook’s forehead as he packs away the leftover food from dinner while a scuffle starts between the swordsman and doctor who scolds him for removing his bandages early.
“It was hard to move around,” he argues gruffly, prompting a screech of indignance from Chopper.
“Exactly! You’re supposed to stay still—”
“That’s boring. I need to be able to train,” Zoro drawls and is promptly subdued by a barrage of gauze that muffles his voice as the reindeer wraps them around the swordsman’s stubborn scowl.
Sanji chews the end of his filter, grinding the unlit cigarette between anxious teeth, and pulls out the ingredients for a light but hearty soup—he already prepared a chicken broth from scratch a few hours ago—cutting up soft vegetables and putting a pot on the stove to boil.
Then he sets few sprigs of parsley aside to place on top of the dish just to annoy the marimo with a comment about his cousins making a great garnish, but his heart isn’t really in it to make the insult when Zoro finally lumbers into the kitchen an hour later, a fresh coat of sweat glistening on his skin.
“SHOWER. NOW. I WON’T FEED YOU UNTIL YOU WASH OFF THE SMELL OF ROADKILL!”
“Okay, mom,” the swordsman says sarcastically, immediately leaving the room with a dramatic eye roll.
Sanji chain-smokes six cigarettes on the deck while Zoro is washing up then sets a spot at the table with a hot bowl of soup, a single slice of buttered bread so as to not overload the other man’s stomach, and a single serving of sake poured to the brim of a shot glass, served in a traditional masu box.
He places an ochoko next to the bottle—the nice one usually reserved for guests—and has half a mind to smash it when Zoro returns, still shirtless and dripping water all over the wooden floor with no bandages!
The swordsman raises an eyebrow at the measly spread next to the good china, nostrils flaring when the delicious scent of a home-cooked meal wafts over him. The cook stews in a fresh wave of rage, arms crossed over his chest and one dress shoe tapping repeatedly in annoyance.
“Chopper said no booze,” Zoro states suspiciously.
“When have you ever listened to Chopper, hmm? You never listen to anyone except Luffy, and the captain’s not here to tell us not to break the rules—not that he’s any better at following instructions!”
The greenhaired man stares at him warily, gauging the blond’s irritated tone and even more irritated face before slowly taking a seat and muttering, “Thanks for the food.”
“Don’t thank me, asshole! This is my fucking job—I’m just staying in my lane, right? I cook, you train, we ignore medical advice from our doctor and bicker like children. Business as usual!”
Zoro pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth, gaze flicking to Sanji’s stormy blue eye in confusion. He hums under his breath when he realizes that they aren’t on the same page.
“You don’t remember.”
“What?” the blond snaps rudely, uninterested in the sudden non sequitur. “Finish your fucking soup and get out!”
“You were drunk, but you said you’d start helping me with my injuries again. I thought we were good, Cook. That’s why I didn’t reapply the bandages—figured you’d do it after I ate.”
For a split second Sanji doesn’t know what to say, so he falls back on the familiarity of anger and yanks on the hem of his shirt to expose the left side of his torso up to the hideously bruised ribs.
“Oh yeah, we’re fucking peachy—Truly the best of friends. This didn’t hurt at all, you son-of-a-bitch!”
Zoro sips his soup without looking away from the dark splotches on the cook’s pale skin, making sure to slurp extra loudly just to piss him off further.
“Stop being such a drama queen. You’re alive, ain’tcha?”
“FUCK YOU, ZORO! Seriously, do you have any fucking idea how—h-how much I…FUCK!”
“Your curses have gotten less creative, Curly.”
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”
Sanji shouts it before deciding to, forgetting that there are other people on the ship trying to sleep—Usopp on watch in the crow’s nest, the pot on the stove that the cook usually would’ve washed and put away by now, even his own insecurities about his feelings for the swordsman—Everything besides the tide of overflowing emotions ceases to exist in his mind.
“I thought you died in my arms like some horribly depressing end to a shitty romance novel—Chopper said your heart stopped for two fucking minutes! Y-you almost…”
Zoro fumbles his next spoonful, the metal cutlery clattering into the bowl as it slips through his startled fingers, eyes widening at the cook’s emotional outburst. He watches Sanji in shocked silence as the blond viciously drags a sleeve across his cheek to soak up a single escaped tear, wrenches another chair out, and plops down across from the swordsman.
Two fists pound into the tabletop, shaking the dishware and setting off ripples in the chicken soup. The violent motion breaks the surface tension on the shot glass, sending small rivulets of sake gliding down the side to pool in the wooden masu. Zoro grabs it and tosses the liquor back like it’s a lifeline, then reaches for the bottle only to have his hand slapped away.
“You almost got killed, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” Sanji continues, voice going deadly quiet as he shakily pours sake into the ochako and refills the shot glass.
He takes an enormous sip straight from the bottle and slams it back down on the table, earning another raised eyebrow from the swordsman which he ignores in favor of his unplanned rant.
“Why’d you have to be the hero, huh? Why wasn’t I good enough?! Is there really that much of a difference between us—I’m so fucking weak that I have to watch you sacrifice your life and there’s nothing I can do about it?!”
“Sanji.”
The cook startles at the sound of his own name in the other man’s deep voice, spoken with such clarity like he says it every day—Zoro has never called him that before, and it cuts his tirade short.
The swordsman reaches a hand over and puts it on top of the blond’s closed fist that isn’t wringing the sake bottle in a white-knuckled grip, gently prying his fingers open to spread them on the tabletop.
“This is the difference between us,” he says firmly, tracing the thin lifeline on Sanji’s palm with the tip of his calloused thumb. “It’s in our hands. Mine were made to destroy things, and yours were made to create. A swordsman can only do so much, but a cook needs to protect their hands so they can nourish others. Even though your job isn’t to be strong, you're still a far cry from weak. My job is also to protect these hands, the captain, and our crew. Do you see?”
“But—”
“If I’d let you take that attack for me, we both would’ve failed at our jobs, Cook.”
Sanji sucks in a sharp breath, wanting so desperately to argue and say that he could’ve survived, too—that it’s also his responsibility as a fighter and a man—but he knows it isn’t true. He hadn’t even been able to stay conscious after one more hit from the exhausted swordsman. Without a cook, their crew would be in trouble going forward with no one to prepare quality meals. Zoro doesn’t consider him weak for it—He recognizes how vital the blond is to the Straw Hats and sees himself as expendable by comparison.
“Don’t ever do something like that again!” Sanji hisses in a voice that trembles from emotions he can no longer hold back, tears overflowing and fingers clenching in a subconscious reflex that captures the swordsman’s in his. “You scared the shit out of me. Our crew is constantly getting into trouble—They need us, Marimo, and I don’t wanna do this alone.”
“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll keep getting stronger until you won’t have to worry about me. You can focus on doing what you do best—like feeding me this bomb-ass soup.”
The blond scoffs and lets go of the bottle of sake to wave an unimpressed hand in the direction of the bowl, forcing his mouth to keep working even though he’s painfully aware that they’re still holding hands across the table. Zoro’s grip is warm and firm in the cook’s, and his smile is contrastingly soft compared to the hard edges of the swordsman’s body.
“It’s just common chicken noodle soup, nothing special.”
“Everything you make is special, Curly.”
Sanji flushes red at the rare compliment, and a perverted thought jumps into his mind unbidden—that the table is blocking the greenhaired man’s lower half so he looks almost naked, is in fact naked from the waist up which should be commonplace considering how often Zoro trains without a shirt, but for some reason that’s the main thing the blond focuses on now.
The only excuse the cook has for his next course of action is the complete and utter drain of all mental faculties following an extremely traumatic event and days of prolonged stress in the absence of proper sunlight or rest—because why else would he bend forward, prompting the swordsman to lean in over the table conspiratorially, and kiss Zoro on the mouth?
The instant their lips meet, they both freeze in surprise. A cold wave of reality washes over Sanji who panics and jerks his head back before they can feel anything—before it becomes real. It was an accident, and Sanji would’ve gone to his grave insisting that he hadn’t meant to actually kiss Zoro if not for the strong hand that catches him behind the neck, pulling the blond back into it.
That second press of lips can’t be rationalized away. The swordsman swallows the cook’s startled gasp as the sound dies in his throat, crushing their mouths together none too gently until teeth clack and someone’s lip splits. All they taste is blood and tears and chicken soup.
It doesn’t last more than a second because the force of Zoro’s pull drags Sanji half onto the table, sending him off balance. He flings out a hand to catch himself, knocking over the bowl and splashing hot liquid between them. The swordsman breaks away and hisses as a few droplets land on the damaged skin of his forearms and chest, making him lean back and rub at the burning spots.
“THAT’S WHY YOU SHOULD WEAR BANDAGES, IDIOT!” Sanji yells, rushing to grab a wet cloth to soak up the mess before it stains the wooden tabletop.
He runs another cloth under cold water and brings it to Zoro who applies it to the stinging areas, childishly sticking his tongue out when the cook tells him to dab, not wipe.
“You’re seriously like an overbearing mother hen—I’m surprised you don’t lay actual eggs,” Zoro comments with a wicked little grin.
“Maybe I do. How would you know, Marimo?”
“Fair enough. It’s not like I keep track of what comes out your ass.”
“GROSS, that is not how chickens lay eggs!” Sanji screeches with a disgusted grimace that devolves into laughter when the swordsman looks at him like the blond is the dumb one in this equation.
Zoro wipes down the soup bowl and holds it out in a gesture that says, “Please can I have some more?” with the hopeful smile of a starving orphan begging for scraps, and the cook takes it back to the counter for a refill.
“So…we’re just not gonna talk about the thing we just did?” the swordsman asks conversationally, but his casual tone is betrayed by the obvious tension in his shoulders.
Sanji saunters back carrying the new bowl of soup, carefully setting it down with an innocent expression and quirking up an eyebrow as he says, “What do you mean?” enjoying the frustrated frown that pulls at Zoro’s lips and the twitch in his eye when the cook says, “Nothing happened.”
“Fucking brat…” the swordsman grumbles under his breath.
“Eat the damn soup—Your cousins traveled a long way to make it look presentable for you,” the blond adds sweetly.
He drops an entire handful of parsley on the surface and ruffles the other man’s green hair. Zoro playfully snaps his teeth at the fingers as they withdraw, then pretends to choke on his spoon.
The cook dresses the swordsman’s wounds before bed in companionable if slightly awkward silence, and they continue their journey as normal. Sanji finally gets to meet a mermaid who happens to be friends with the same octopus man who Zoro fought at Arlong Park, the terrible drawing on the blond’s bounty poster comes back to haunt him in the form of some asshole named Duval, and the Straw Hats reach the Red Line which marks the halfway point of their journey.
Sabaody initially looks like an island of dreams but turns out to be the stuff of nightmares. Their crew once again comes face-to-face with Bartholomew Kuma and are quickly conquered and divided—the complete defeat of the Straw Hat pirates. The swordsman hasn’t healed from the previous encounter and is the first to go, disappearing into thin air when the Paw-Paw man touches him.
Sanji lives his worst fears as his nakama vanish one by one before their captain’s eyes—The cook’s last thoughts before he’s also sent flying are steeped in so many regrets that he knows he’ll never forget the feeling…Zoro, have we failed this time…? Our crew…ourselves…is it really too late for us?—and then they all sleep.