Chapter Text
Sanji’s having a pretty great day in a string of pretty great days. The sky’s clear, the wind’s gentle, Nami and Robin are enjoying mint iced teas on the lawn in the cutest swimsuits ever. It’s two hours after brunch and Luffy hasn’t asked for meat yet, which means he’s either preoccupied or still full from the feast Sanji cooked, admittedly overdoing it because of their huge new kitchen—Sanji has yet to stop praising Franky for it. (“SUPER!” His new crewmate cries, striking a pose; Sanji indulges him because oh my god, the size of this oven. He can bake six pies at once).
The pantry’s still stocked from Water Seven. Although they blew most of their funds on the feast (Sanji can still recall the delightful shrillness of Nami’s anger), many citizens repaid their actions in kind, foisting various staples and delicacies on them. Sanji’s been incorporating them into recipes, trying out all the herbs and fruits and vegetables—improvising is one of his favorite things about cooking. It’s been a fun challenge to figure out all the new ingredients; so far he’s managed with a bit of guesswork and his encyclopedias. Overall, despite the sting of missing the Merry, life on the Sunny is going great. It feels like they’re settling into a new rhythm with a new shipwright and Robin’s easy smile, her bright laughter carrying over to him through the window.
For dinner he’s going to make roast chicken with purple potatoes, the tiny kind that are sweet and delicious glazed with honey. He’s starting meal prep on the counter (the size of this counter. The amount of space. Sanji no longer needs to economize the number of mixing bowls he uses!) when Usopp wanders in, goggles on his forehead.
“Hey Sanji. You seen my screwdriver? I need it for a thing and Chopper says it's here but I think he’s messing with me.”
Sanji shakes out half a bag of potatoes into a bowl. These are going to taste so great with the skins all crisped. “There on the window ledge”—he points with his chin—“It was on the couch. Moved it so no one gets stabbed.”
“Thanks!”
Usopp brushes past him on his way to the window. Sanji pulls out some carrots, debating—no one really likes carrots besides him and Robin, but he should use them before they go bad, and they match the roast.
“What’s that smell?” Usopp asks.
Sanji reaches for the peeler. “Hmm? I haven’t cooked anything yet.”
Usopp sniffs the air, moving closer. Sanji ignores him, contemplating the carrots. Would they be more palatable to Chopper in strips, or rounds?
“Huh. It’s you.”
Sanji finally looks up. Usopp’s staring at him with a weird expression.
“You’re the thing that smells good.”
“Excuse me?”
Usopp looks horrified. Then determined. Then horrified again, which is fascinating to witness. Sanji puts the peeler down and reaches for Usopp’s shoulder. “Um. Are you okay?”
“No.” Usopp’s voice is shaky. “No, I’m really, really not, Sanji, something’s extremely wrong, and—I’m going to die of a fatal illness unless you kiss me.”
He lunges, lips puckered. Sanji swerves out of the way, fighting the reflex to kick Usopp across the room. “Hey,” he says, as Usopp drops the screwdriver to grab him, trying to squash their lips together. “Hey! Get it together!” Usopp’s lips are dangerously close to his face; he can see them in all their slightly-windchapped glory. The sharpshooter’s eyes vacillate between panic, animal terror, and desire, like he’s fighting all three and can’t tell which is worse; one hand lets go of Sanji’s shoulder and attempts to touch his chest instead. There’s nothing to grope there, but Sanji decides he has to stop this before Usopp does something even more awful, like grab his nipple. “Sorry,” he grunts, before karate-chopping Usopp on the back of the neck. (He’s allowed to use his hands for that much.) The sharpshooter slumps against him, groaning. Sanji hastily props him against the wall and dashes outside.
“Sanji-kun!” Nami calls out. “Can I get a refill?”
“Absolutely, my sweetness, I will deliver you everything your heart desires, as soon as I find Chopper—Usopp’s gone insane.”
Chopper’s not on the lawn. Sanji heard him laughing outside his window earlier, so he’s probably not in the sick bay—maybe he’s with Luffy?
“What did you say?” Nami sits up taller on the lawn chair, cranes her neck around to glance at him. “You’re looking for Chopper?”
“Yeah.” He comes closer, standing next to her chair. Robin lifts her sunglasses to smile at him, holds her place in her book with a finger while she listens. “It’s urgent.”
“Well, I think Luffy said they were going to play with Franky’s robots—wait. Sanji-kun.” Nami’s voice changes, suddenly gone teasing and breathless. “Sanji-kun, please.” Sanji feels a shiver run up his spine as he focuses on her. She reclines on the lawn chair, arching her back slightly, and Sanji’s nose starts bleeding even as alarm bells go off in his head. She bats her eyelashes at him, but underneath her beautiful mascara he sees the same wavering confusion in Usopp’s eyes.
“Please what, my darling Nami-swan?” He’s sweating. He’s (somewhat) used to Nami in a bikini by now. Of course it’s delightful whenever it happens, but she never ever wears one for him, never uses this inviting voice on him. She beckons him with one finger, and he can’t help but wobble closer, feeling both hopeful and doomed—he’s only a man, but perhaps a man aware that something terrible is happening.
Nami reaches out her arms to him and slings them over his neck. “Oh, forget the iced tea. Just put your hands on me.”
“What?” He says, weakly.
“What?” Nami comes back to herself and jerks away. “WHAT?”
“Oh dear,” Robin says. She claps a hand over her nose and mouth.
Nami scrambles out of her chair, trying to back away from him, but changes her mind halfway and flings herself at him instead. He catches her, crashing backwards onto the lawn, nose gushing at the pressure of her chest against his chest, and he’s going to die from delight or maybe he’s already dead because this is heaven—except—it’s also hell, because this isn’t Nami.
“Help!” He writhes ineffectually beneath her, which makes everything worse. She responds to this by pressing up against him more and this is very bad, Nami’s going to inflict severe torture on him if he takes any kind of advantage of her in this state. Which he would never do! Not him! Not even if the brush of her hands against his scalp is driving him insane! “Robin-chan, please!”
Several arms materialize to pry Nami away—gentle, but firm, because Nami is moaning and struggling to cling to him, the stuff of dreams. He’s both relieved and sad that her warmth is gone, sitting up as he says, “Thanks, I gotta—”
More hands materialize. They seize his legs. They cradle his chin. And one of them, not gently, grabs his crotch. He is forced to once again yell for help as Robin smirks at him, something devilish in her gaze. He’s going to pass out from how sexy her smile is, and also how unsexy this whole scenario is rapidly becoming. “It’s only a little touch,” Robin says soothingly, while Nami shouts, “No fair!”
“WOAH!” Franky hops down from the upper deck. “Ladies, time out! Sanji’s not looking good! Need a hand, bro?”
“Franky!” Sanji sobs, overstimulated and panicking. Franky plucks him from Robin’s grasp, one arm on his waist and the other holding him by the scruff of his collar. He pauses, then tilts his head. Sanji, still suspended, finds himself being rotated towards their shipwright. Then the mushiest smooch known to man is being planted on his mouth. An outcry arises around them as his soul departs; in a haze, he sees Usopp stagger out of the kitchen, rubbing his neck and gaping.
Sanji swings his left knee and bashes Franky in the chest (with remorse! but also shit, ow, that fucking hurt!), lands on his butt, scrambles up, and flees. The crew shouts for him, but he can’t hear what they’re saying, his body on autopilot, mind blank with horror at everything that just happened. He nearly forgot—how terrifying it can be, at sea with nowhere to run. By the time his brain comes back online he’s already in the crow’s nest, slamming the hatch shut and sitting on it for good measure. His heart pounds in his ears. He wipes his mouth, wincing at the memory of Franky’s eagerness. Is he insane? Did he somehow put an aphrodisiac in everyone’s lunch? Is there a devil fruit user in the vicinity doing some kind of long-range lust attack on them?
An ominous clink makes him realize: he’s not alone. Fuck.
He swivels around. Zoro straightens from where he was setting down his weights, frowning slightly at him.
Sanji tenses all over. Any more of this and he’s jumping offboard and waiting until everyone calms the fuck down. Assuming this is temporary. Of course it’s temporary. His nose drips blood onto his nice blue shirt, which is all rumpled—Robin somehow unbuttoned his trousers. Zoro steps closer, menacing, and Sanji gears up for the worst encounter yet.
“What happened?”
Sanji doesn’t move. Zoro’s not making any suspicious movements, but it took everyone a moment to go insane, too.
Zoro’s frown deepens into a scowl. “Why’re you all messed up? Can you talk?”
“You’re not…” Sanji blinks, wishing he didn’t have to say it. “Feeling the sudden urge to molest me?”
“What?” Zoro, gratifyingly, looks as horrified as Sanji feels.
“You don’t want to kiss me?”
“The fuck? No!”
Sanji exhales, trying not to weep from relief. “Zoro! Oh my god, help. Everyone’s trying to touch me and I don’t know why!”
“Uhhh—what?”
“How many times are you going to say that?” He’s getting annoyed despite himself; talking to Zoro always does that. “Nami tried to kiss me!”
“Congrats?”
“No! Something’s wrong! You need to find Chopper and explain the situation immediately!”
The confused expression hasn’t left Zoro’s face, but at least it’s not sliding into lust. Nor does he look like he’s fighting a losing internal battle. He’s just his usual disgruntled self. Sanji’s muscles still go tight as Zoro draws closer, but that’s simply reflex from all these months sparring with him. He steps carefully out of the way; thankfully, proximity doesn’t seem to be making things worse, unlike with the others.
Zoro glances at him, and he glares back, daring him to say more. After a beat, Zoro shrugs and opens the hatch.
“Ah—wait! Did you skip anything in the lunch buffet?”
Zoro’s eyes go wide. True, Sanji always hits him if he doesn’t clear his plate, but it’s this question, more than anything, that makes Zoro finally accept there’s an actual problem.
“Of course not. I never do,” he says, going into his rare Reliable Mode. “Wipe your nose. I’ll get Chopper.”
#
Chopper comes up to check on him. He pokes and prods Sanji, checks his tongue and listens to his heartbeat. Then he leaves to interview everyone else involved in the…scuffle. Sanji smokes through half a pack of cigarettes while waiting, reflecting. It’s true he was using all kinds of new ingredients, but he looked everything up as best he could, did his usual taste test for anything suspicious.
It seems like ages before Chopper calls for Sanji to come down. He stubs out his cigarette and descends warily, aware that his imminent demise at Nami’s hands is drawing near (assuming she’s herself again). Plus he’s lost so much time for dinner prep.
Chopper tells him to stay close to the crow’s nest ladder, just in case. The crew is assembled on the far side of the lawn. Everyone has some kind of contraption clamped on their nose, except Zoro, and Franky, who is plugging his noseholes with something metallic instead.
“These are smell repellants!” Usopp says proudly, at Sanji’s obvious concern. “For when I make stink bombs, and stuff.”
“This clip hurts,” Luffy says, sadly. Sanji is belatedly relieved his captain wasn’t around earlier.
Nami at least seems nonplussed about her previous actions. “It really does,” she says.
“I should make a comfort version! For people with less resilient noses than mine!”
“Ahem,” Chopper says. The crew snaps to attention. “We’re here to discuss Sanji’s—um—condition.”
“My condition? But it’s everyone else who’s acting weird!”
“Yes, it’s definitely misleading.” Chopper has his doctor voice on. “People are reacting to an invisible chemical you’re exuding. They’re like—hyper-pheromones. They have the effect of a love potion, or a Venus flytrap. Essentially, within a certain proximity to you, people will find you irresistible and are liable to want to, um.”
“Touch me inappropriately?”
“Yeah! That sort of thing!” Chopper nods enthusiastically.
“So if they can’t smell me it won’t affect them?”
“Not exactly. Avoiding your smell by blocking their noses will stop some of the initial trigger, but scent’s only part of it. Based on my quick research, it’s more complicated than that. I mentioned proximity—the closer you are to people, the worse it’ll be for them, or both of you. And it definitely intensifies with physical touch. You should try to keep at least ten feet away from everyone, for now.”
Sanji resists the urge to clutch his hair, and chews on his lip instead. “What caused it? Why’s it just me?”
“I think it was this vegetable.” Chopper flips to a dog-eared page on one of his medical books; the cucumber-like illustration is familiar. “It’s a distant relative from the original plant that used to be a core ingredient of love potions, until people found out it also shortened the lifespans of those who ingested it. By that point it had nearly died out from over-harvesting. A lot of female pirates used it to lure men to—”
“Chopper.” Robin is gentle, but firm.
“Oh! Sorry, got excited. Sanji, your case is pretty rare and fascinating. Basically, the vegetable you used is a much more common variant. It’s a popular side dish in the region we just left. On the vast majority of people it has no effect. But you seem to have some kind of, uh, allergic reaction to it, and this is the result.”
“My allergies. Make me a Venus flytrap. Okay.”
“Don’t worry! I can make a remedy—I’ve already figured out the required ingredients and everything. I just need to gather…well, it’s quite a few materials, but any autumn island with a decent-sized forest should have them.”
Now Sanji does clutch at his hair. “It’s not going to wear off on its own?”
“Er…I don’t think so, not naturally. I need to find the same vegetable and then flood your system with it in a rapid dose, which should make you immune. Nami says there’s an autumn island a few days away, so hang tight until then! In the meantime, we can take measures around the ship so that weird things don’t happen.”
“Sorry for the smooch, bro,” Franky says, though he doesn’t sound too bothered by it. Zoro makes a sound of disgust.
Sanji points at their swordsman. “Why’s he immune?”
Chopper glances at Zoro. “Ummm…he shouldn’t be. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
Zoro crosses his arms. “Maybe I have better self-discipline than everyone else.”
“Or maybe your nose is messed up? It explains your shitty tastebuds.”
“Maybe there’s just no way in hell I’d ever be into a perverted cook.”
Sanji snorts. “You’re not affected either, Chopper.”
“I’m a reindeer! The pheromones have no impact on animals. But I won’t go into my human mode, to be safe.” There’s a brief silence at the chilling mental image this produces.
“My nose hurts,” Luffy says, reminding everyone there’s a good chance he didn’t pay attention to anything. “Can I take this off? It’s not a big deal if people smooch Sanji, is it?”
“I mean it’s kind of a big deal to me,” Sanji mumbles under his breath, while Chopper answers, “No, don’t, Luffy! You won’t just stop at smooching! You have to be careful!”
Chopper’s desperation makes Sanji’s stomach flip. “What does that mean?”
Chopper stiffens. Then his eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry, Sanji! I wasn’t going to say this because it’s not going to help! The effect’s going to keep getting worse, especially with prolonged exposure to everyone. Until I cure you, or—or you have sex! Because of the original plant’s properties, having sex dampens the effect! You’re supposed to be using your new flytrap powers on people—it’s what the pheromones want! But you shouldn’t do it just ‘cause you’re having allergies! I PROMISE I’LL CURE YOU SANJI! SO DON’T LET PEOPLE HAVE SEX WITH YOU BECAUSE I’M A BAD DOCTOR!” He starts crying, blubbering about how this wouldn’t have happened if he had a better stocked infirmary.
Sanji sighs. It’s bad enough Chopper said sex three times in one breath. He never wants to hear it from the reindeer again, especially in reference to himself. He walks over to his favorite doctor and pats his hat. “It’s not your fault, Chopper. No one could’ve predicted this. Anyway, it’s my genes that are the problem.” In a whole host of ways, but that’s not for the crew to know. “I get it. I’m a risk until this gets fixed. Take the clips off—I don’t want Nami-san and Robin-chan’s noses to hurt. I’ll make dinner, so stay away from the kitchen until I’m done, and then I’ll hang out in the crow’s nest the rest of the time, no problem. I can take the night watches for now.” This time, the silence is tinged with pity, and Sanji’s heart hurts. He flashes a wide smile. “Or we could have a big orgy instead, if you’d all prefer that.”
The crew explodes into noise: Luffy yells IS THAT SOME KIND OF PARTY, Usopp dry-heaves, Robin says, more offended than he’s ever heard her, “Sanji. Don’t make jokes like that in front of Chopper!”
“I’m making dinner for an hour, so scram,” he calls out cheerfully, slipping into the kitchen, wondering when the wind got so biting.
#
It’s not so bad, that first day. He makes dinner, lays out all the dishes buffet style, washes the cookware, then takes a container for himself back up to the crow’s nest, calling out as he goes that it’s safe now. Franky, at the helm, hears and gives him a thumbs up. So far Chopper’s precautions seem to be working—he’s maintained his distance, and instead of nose clips the crew’s wearing cloth masks (though Franky stuck with his metal nose plugs). Sanji doesn’t feel like eating, but he finishes his small portion anyway.
It could be worse. On the Merry this would’ve been impossible. On the Sunny you can actually take a break from everyone else. That doesn’t apply to Luffy, because he worms his way everywhere except the women’s quarters, but Chopper has his sick bay, Franky and Usopp their workshops; Nami has her surveyor’s room and everyone knows the library is Robin’s. And Sanji, of course, has his kitchen. Zoro—well, this is probably the closest thing to Zoro’s place, but right now Sanji needs it more than the Marimo does and it probably smells better for his absence. There’s his overcompensating weight set, two battered gym mats, a water bottle that’s mostly empty, a stack of clean towels and a pile of used ones. It hasn’t been too long yet but there’s already a series of dents and slashes on the wall from the few times they’ve sparred, the splintered bench in the corner that they keep forgetting to bring down for Usopp or Franky to fix, tucked near Nami’s telescope. Sanji’s comfortable here, even if there’s not much. The view more than makes up for it.
He’s been taking the ocean for granted these days, but whenever he takes a second to drink it in he recognizes, once again, what a miracle it is to sail in it. How everything that’s happened since meeting Luffy still feels like a dream, and real life is elsewhere.
He puts away his plate and rests his chin on his hands. He’s almost never eaten alone in the past nine years. He never did at the Baratie: Zeff took pre-service meals with the kitchen seriously, and the rest of the time they ate cafeteria-style. It’s surprising to recall the geezer and feel his heart hurt; he’s been too busy, with the Strawhats getting into one mess after the other, to really think about what he left. That life. And the life before it, the one where he’d had no one to share meals with. He doesn’t want to remember, which of course makes the memories more vivid: a cold floor, cold metal against his hands and face. The way he couldn’t even rub the tears out of his eyes. The sound of his own hiccupy pleas echoing in that cage.
He’s not alone like that. The crew’s below him. It’s only a stupid fucking allergy, it’s temporary, Chopper knows how to fix it. He’s being a baby about nothing. And it’s not like—like he’s particularly clammed up about getting touched, and kissed, this morning. He’s a manly cook of love! This is all in a day’s work for him! Sanji’s had sex before—women who laughed and called him sweet, who forgot his name and never stayed til morning. Men who called him pretty and then—other things, their rough hands making his body light up, flooded with lust and shame. To them it was always about relief, something easy and convenient, and Sanji knows he’s good for that, that love isn’t part of the equation. He was raised by pirate cooks. It’s fine.
Which is why the incident this morning was also fine. Nothing serious happened, nothing will happen. Zoro was right to not believe him initially. Of course no one would ever actually be into him. There’s no point feeling upset about it because he already knows this. His brain chooses that moment to remind him that he hasn’t showered, and suddenly that feels overwhelming too, not even getting the chance to empty his thoughts in the bath.
It’s too disruptive for him to go now. Early tomorrow is better. Usually no one’s up except the lookout, and he’s taking all the watches by default now. He’ll be in and out, and can make breakfast too, while he’s at it. It’s a great plan.
He can hear the faint sounds of the crew heading into the galley for dinner, Luffy’s cry of “That smells good!”—Robin will definitely find the instructions he left for reheating the soup, and they can all help out serving. It’s almost like he’s there with them.
He settles down for the evening, chiding himself for all these unnecessary feelings. The rest of the night, he gazes out at the empty sea, something like hunger lancing his stomach, sour and sharp in his throat.
#
It’s still dark out when he decides that it’s late (early?) enough to take that shower. He climbs down from the crow’s nest, feeling achey, looking forward to a bath after a night of weird feelings, black thoughts he kept sidling away from. He’s taken all of three steps on the lawn when a voice from the darkness goes “Hey.”
“Fuck!” Sanji nearly trips. He wrenches his head around to glare, and sees exactly what he expects: Zoro, in his favorite posture against the side of the ship. Cross legged, hunched over, three swords against his shoulder while he glowers. How he can sleep like that, Sanji has no idea.
“What the hell, mosshead! Are you guarding me?”
He can see Zoro’s forehead twitch, even in the dim light. “Chopper said we can’t really tell the extent of your allergies, so it’s better to be safe. I’m really guarding them from you, if you think about it. Where were you going?”
He resists the urge to say none of your business—it’s too early in the day for this. “I’m taking a bath, all right? I didn’t get to yesterday and feel gross. It’ll ruin my day if I don’t, though you’re getting a good head start on that.”
“And? Were you going to wear the same clothes? Or sneak into the men’s quarters?”
“I wasn’t—” He didn’t think about that part. It’s so hard to maintain his desired level of hygiene with this crew, and it’s not something a stinking Marimo would understand. “—I mean, it’s not a big deal if I just ran in and grabbed stuff. You’re acting like a few seconds would cause a disaster.”
“Did they wait a few seconds this morning?”
Sanji tries really hard not to fidget.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Zoro sighs. “And Chopper says I’m his worst patient. Go take your shower. I’ll get your stuff.”
“Who says you’re allowed to touch my stuff?”
“You shouldn’t go near anyone else! Do you want someone touching you by accident?”
Sanji hesitates—there’s an obvious answer to this question, and he’s an idiot for not giving it immediately. Honestly at some point he started half-believing this was all a dream, or that Chopper’s initial diagnosis was wrong and it could wear off after all. But Chopper’s never wrong, and Zoro’s scowl is enough to remind him that he’s deluding himself.
Still, giving in isn’t something he’s good at, especially when it comes to Zoro. “As if you give a shit,” he says.
Zoro exhales through his nose. “Are you actively trying to fuck up the crew dynamics? I don’t actually care, but you’re the one that’s going to get all pissy and oversensitive if anything happens. Do you want clean underwear or not?”
“Fine! Fine.” His cheeks are burning. “All of the clean clothes are hung up, and my boxers are on the bottom shelf. Don’t—don’t touch my magazines.”
“As if I’d ever.” Zoro turns and starts stomping away. “No need to be so grateful.”
“Thanks,” Sanji calls out, unwillingly. Zoro flips him off over his shoulder, not bothering to look back.
#
Maybe the worst thing about this whole situation is—Zoro’s right. Which isn’t, to Sanji, an acceptable state of affairs. Mosshead’s never allowed to be right, unless it’s about sword stuff or Luffy stuff or a combat decision (and he still can’t explain it, how readily he and Zoro work together on the battlefield, how they can mutually tell what needs to be done from a glare or smirk). Sanji doesn’t care about Zoro’s opinions, suggestions, or why the fucking sex allergy has no effect on him, except he’s also thinking about all these things as he scrubs himself down. He can’t even appreciate the bathroom right now, its luxury wasted on everyone but Nami and Robin, his princesses, beautiful sweets, lights of his life—and Robin had groped his balls yesterday. He writhes. He withers. He wilts. He’s supposed to be happy thinking about them and not Zoro, but not being able to serve the ladies their sweets and tea til he’s fixed is majorly bumming him out, and. Part of him’s still shuddering at how strange it was, to have them gaze at him like that.
Is that how he acts around people sometimes? Hungry, and—wanting? Fuck. He doesn’t—that’s not how he wants to come off.
And it would be terrible, if anything happens. They could all probably brush it off as one of those weird Grand Line things, but—Sanji’s a hopeless romantic, after all. He doesn’t forget things easily. Doing anything physical sans romance with the ladies is totally out of the question. With any of the guys, well, they could mutually chalk it up to bad luck, but he doesn’t need that particular trauma with anyone on the crew. He’s seen weird shit go down in the kitchen when people get together, which happens with surprising regularity despite Zeff’s no women rule. It would be the same thing with the Strawhats, but worse, and besides—he wants to keep sailing with them for a long time. He has policies about this stuff. And even if his sexual history is probably much more modest than people would believe because of his intimidatingly manly aura, every encounter meant something to him, even the terrible ones that left him heartbroken or humiliated. If the feeling was never mutual, it wasn’t for lack of trying—and hoping—on his part.
So. It’s great, actually, that Zoro’s unaffected. That someone else besides Chopper can be around him. It’s not a huge deal that it’s the mosshead, who seems personally designed by the gods to piss Sanji off, not least because he’s. Actually really fucking attractive in a way that Sanji’s been trying to ignore for ages now.
It was purely aesthetic appreciation at first, because there was so much he couldn’t stand about Zoro otherwise. Sanji spent those early weeks after Arlong Park trying to forcibly eject all questionable thoughts from his mind before surrendering to the fact that yes, he somehow found the disgusting mossball…uncannily hot. But he was never going to act on it. To avoid fucked up crew dynamics, sure, but also because there was no chance in hell of it working out. He knew Zoro didn’t actually hate him. They couldn’t sail together otherwise, and Luffy would do something about it if there really was an issue. And Sanji didn’t hate Zoro either, though he definitely wanted to at times. Zoro got under his skin effortlessly. It made Sanji eager to return the favor: snarl out new insults, get a rise out of him, watch that challenging grin smear across his face as his muscles tensed.
The fighting, stupidly effortless from the get-go, gave whatever was between them a shape. Sanji always loved fighting, but on the Baratie, he wasn’t challenged the way he wanted to be. Zeff regularly beat the crap out of him, but at some point Sanji stopped seriously fighting back, unable to risk either Zeff’s aging body or his pride. There were always shitty customers to fend off, but he’d only ever felt his limits fighting Don Krieg’s crew. He wanted to get stronger, after, to see how far he could go—another challenge besides cooking, to prove there was some use to him, alive and not starved, not dying slowly in a dungeon.
Sailing with Luffy makes that so easy. They’re never not chasing harder enemies. Even better, there’s a maniac on the ship who knows how to fight, wants to fight, and is nearly impossible to beat. Sanji should’ve known the crazy bastard who let himself get split apart by a person-sized sword would like sparring, too. What he didn’t expect was how fun it would be. Sanji spent the last decade around older men, focused on his career and paying off an endless debt. He thought he hated playing, after a childhood of forever being It (bruises all over his body, cuts across his face, having to shift constantly at night because there was no resting position that didn’t hurt). Turns out it’s pretty fun to have someone ready to throw down whenever he needs a distraction, or wants to try a new move.
And beyond that—journeying with the Strawhats is showing him what a life of play actually looks like. Even at their most deadly, their adventures are a mix of adrenaline, wonder, and sometimes—like when Vivi wept tears of gratitude, or the Merry appeared to sail with them one last time—the alien, absorbing gravity of joy. And that’s not counting the peaceful days, eye-opening in their own way: sailing through every weather, meeting new people, learning more about the Grand Line. Sanji, with his reading habit, always knew that the world was vast, but it never seemed for him til now.
In the grand scheme of things, then, the weird thing he has for Zoro isn’t important. It doesn’t matter that his eyes immediately track the swordsman when they’re in the same room, or that he’s memorized Zoro’s grand total of six expressions (pissed, sleepy, bored, hungry, filled with bloodlust, and sometimes, delighted—eyes closed, mouth open wide so his gums show, whole torso shaking with laughter). Or that he knows by now why Zoro is the future Pirate King’s right hand man: he’s grounded. He always sees things through. He makes every member of their crew feel safe; he doesn’t budge, when someone takes shelter behind him. He sticks by his principles, the scar across his chest the most visible reminder of this trait—but he also knows when deference is needed. He never has trouble speaking his mind. He doesn’t play favorites (Chopper being the exception) and he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. With so many things it seems like Zoro simply doesn’t care to know. He makes space for people in his own way, reaches out when it counts.
Thankfully, he also has a long list of shitty qualities that makes it easy for Sanji to forget all the good and let irritation take over. Despite his surety and intensity and the way he looks glistening with sweat post-workout, Sanji can always argue with him, which is great because that makes Zoro turn childish and idiotic. Something he can handle. Besides, Sanji feels ashamed of thinking about his crewmate this way. The shame is deep and familiar, nestled right there with the certainty that one day he’s going to fuck things up all for these nice folks Luffy brought into his life. For Zoro, shame is probably as foreign a concept as regularly shampooing. Someone like that would never see something attractive in Sanji.
Sure, it’s a little weird when Zoro’s eyes catch his, and hold fast, until one of them looks away. Or how sometimes their fights feel electric, humid and strange, and after they’ve exhausted themselves sparring the silence seems different. These little blips have been going on for so long that Sanji figures none of that means anything. He’s used to unrequited crushes. They’re kind of a habit, and it’s not something he’d dream of addressing, not if he wants to keep his dignity intact.
Until Water Seven. Until Zoro said don’t fight them, Cook, there are strong people on that train. With the kind of offhand seriousness that meant it wasn’t an insult. Like he was worried, for some reason.
Sanji wasn’t worried. He could handle whoever was on that boat. But it was weird that Zoro had said it, as if he—what? Cared? Maybe didn’t like the idea of Sanji getting injured, even if half the time they were beating each other up? Sanji hated the way his heart flinched, and decided to spare himself the inevitable spiraling by saying “Worried, Marimo?” Like clockwork, Zoro shouted back, and after that there was so much going on that they didn’t ever need to unpack it. By the time he was grilling a nation’s worth of meat for the feast, everything was back to normal, good ol’ status quo, nothing to see here, moving along. Maybe Zoro did force some people into helping him, but it was a matter of logistics by that point.
Sanji hasn’t been thinking about those words. Not even a little. He was an idiot for reading into them in the first place. And if there’s one thing Zoro’s decent at, it’s being a good first mate, keeping things in order for the crew. This is just more of the same. He’s never thought of Sanji as anything other than a person to tolerate, or maybe get a good workout from. Which makes sense, and totally isn’t why he’s scrubbing so forcefully, wishing this allergy could be ripped out of his pores at will. It’s not the only thing he’d yank out of himself if he could.
It’s fine. He has faith in Chopper, in Nami getting them to the right island, in all of this blowing over before he knows it. His part is in doing as Zoro suggests: keeping out of everyone’s way.
#
His fresh clothes are in a pile by the lockers. Sanji slips into them gratefully. Zoro’s lounging on the lawn again when he emerges; Sanji glowers at him, but doesn’t say anything. He’s never liked being supervised—not in the kitchen, not now—but the goal today is to be agreeable, to prove himself not a nuisance.
“Look. You were right. I’m going to be more careful, okay? Can I make breakfast now?” As he says this, Zoro’s expression turns surprised, then dubious, then annoyed.
“You don’t have to make breakfast.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“You don’t have to right now! Some of us are capable of making toast. It’s not like we weren’t eating before we met you.”
His crew. Eating fucking toast. The thought physically pains him, only marginally less than Zoro’s statement. Maybe Zoro’s being factual, but it’s the last thing he wants to hear. He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Marimo. Please. I’ll do it so fast, I’ll only make quiche that’ll stay hot and I’ll use Franky’s breadmaker instead of the oven. I’ll be done before anyone else is up, I swear.” He resists the urge to clasp his hands, certain it’ll earn him a no-sword-style punch in the face. “Don’t keep me from my kitchen. I already had to spend a whole day away from it.”
A constipated look crosses Zoro’s face. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Go make lunch while you’re at it, if you’re going to be such a pain.”
“Why thank you, I’m so glad you’re giving me permission to do literally anything.”
“That’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m on the clock. Let me cook, and I’ll get out of everyone’s hair.” He stalks past Zoro to keep from saying more. Zoro doesn’t answer, but Sanji doesn’t miss the way his hands curl into fists. Luckily Zoro doesn’t follow him into the kitchen, so he’s able to make breakfast and lunch in peace, enjoying a cigarette while waiting for his baking. He finishes as dawn light starts filtering through the windows, leaves instructions neatly pinned to the fridge, and once again carries his share up to the crow’s nest.
He arrives feeling slightly morose, already bored, and is surprised to find that someone brought up his comforter, pillow, recipe journal, a book on mushrooms Robin had recommended, and a pen. There’s even a titty magazine, which is likely a jab, but also oddly sweet. Sanji blinks a few times, wrestling with the swell of gratitude, before he stalks to one of the benches by the window to eat his slice of quiche.
The recipe journal at least gives him something to do as sunlight floods the room and warms his skin. He cracks the windows open, lets the faint smell of tangerines cheer him up while he thinks of a new cookie he wants to try: candied tangerine peel, and some of those butterscotch chips Iceberg recommended.
His thoughts are interrupted by something sailing into the window and landing almost exactly by his foot. Sanji bends to retrieve it: a rolled slip of parchment. Unfolding it reveals a letter. More specifically, a love letter. From Usopp. It starts off sweetly plaintive and grows increasingly unhinged, offering Sanji six ultra-rare treasures from deep sea islands if he deigns to give Usopp a kiss or three. Also an apology because Usopp knows how weird it is but it’s just biology and Usopp’s stomach has been hurting because he has kiss-the-cook disease, so can’t Sanji help a guy out or at least put him out of his misery, thanks. There’s a shiny lip stain at the end of the letter and he wonders if Nami lent him gloss, or if he stole it. Sanji rolls up the letter and peers down at the deck. Usopp is there, trying to lounge around nonchalantly; when their eyes meet, he squeaks and flees—but not before hopefully blowing Sanji a kiss.
Sanji blinks, discombobulated. He decides he might as well train to shake some of the weirdness out of his body, and mindlessly does calisthenics. After an hour he hears a loud guitar strum, and can’t resist the urge to look. Franky has positioned himself below the crow’s nest. He’s wearing a garland of paper flowers, and has taped a mic to one nipple. “Yow! Cook-bro!” Sanji waves at him meekly. “Ready for my serenade?”
It’s only a real problem when, an hour after Franky’s concert ends, Nami calls to him sweetly, asking him to help with sunblock application. He shuts his eyes and covers his ears against her honey voice, the way she poutingly says, “Come down, I don’t bite!”
Sanji actually considers it. Then he wails out the window, heart eyes bobbling and streaming tears, “Oh my Nami-swan! You don’t know how much it destroys the core of my being that I can’t fulfill your wishes right now!”
Chopper comes up shortly thereafter.
“Sorry, Sanji. It’s gotten worse, like I feared. Everyone got a little weird after breakfast because the kitchen had a lot of your pheromones.” He rubs his hooves together, hesitant. “I don’t think you should come down until we get to shore. The distance is the main thing helping right now. And I know it’s hard for you to say no to Nami and Robin.”
Sanji’s lying on his back, smoking. “You’re locking me up here?”
“Noooo…but maybe tell me or Zoro if you need something downstairs. Anyway, we’re really close. We should arrive by tomorrow afternoon!”
“Who’s going to make dinner?”
“We have your leftovers. You made so much this morning, it’s definitely going to last. Me or Zoro can bring up your share of dinner later.”
He did cook extra. He had a bad feeling, and it turned out to be true. He fights the urge to mope. “It’s not enough for Luffy, though.” Their captain has been conspicuously missing from efforts to woo him. Maybe, like Zoro, he isn’t affected after all.
“Nami’s dealing with him.” Chopper comes closer, sits on the floor next to him. In a small voice, he asks, “Sanji, are you sad?”
He blows out a puff of smoke and sits up, poking Chopper gently in the belly. “No. Just annoyed. I feel useless right now, and—it must be irritating for everyone else. This distraction. Me, being distracting.”
Chopper’s worry eases slightly. He even laughs. “Nah, I think they’re actually having fun right now. Like always.”
Sanji chews the inside of his cheek, before offering Chopper a big grin and pulling him into a hug. “Okay, pass this hug along to Nami-swan for me. You better get me to that island and fixed up soon, Doctor Chopper, greatest doctor ever.”
“Shut up, bastard! That’s not working on me!” Chopper giggles, smacking his arm before scrambling away.
#
That night Sanji dreams about someone embracing him.
It scares him—he keeps trying to get away. The embracer is persistent, arms bundling him tight. He can’t see them, but he can feel the way they’re holding him, the warmth nearly suffocating, not least because he wants it so much, needs it so badly. He cries, in short, hiccupy bursts; cries for his mother.
“Eggplant,” the embracer says, and he stills. Zeff puts a huge hand on his head, a benediction to keep him still. “Your shouting was waking up the cooks. They need to rest. You’re safe here, okay? You’re safe.”
Sanji rolls over so that he’s tucked in properly, clutching at Zeff’s old sleeping shirt. I don’t know why, he wants to explain. Even when I was starving all I wanted was to live. What use is it for someone like me to feel that way?
He can’t say it right, so he doesn’t try. He lets exhaustion carry him back into sleep, never explains, and finds that one day he’s too big and too good at smothering his own shouts; no one else is there to hold him at night.
#
Sanji wakes to an earsplitting boom, and is abruptly catapulted to the other side of the room. He slams against the wall and slides down, trying and failing to scramble to his feet—the ship is listing. There’s another resounding boom, the drumroll of machine gun fire, then a lot of sleepy, pissed shouting (mostly Nami). Luffy’s laughing. Sanji hears the telltale sounds of swords rending air, then smells the pleasant florals that means Robin’s conjuring limbs. Somewhere close by, Usopp screams. Sanji finds his footing and peeks out the window.
Marines are scattered all over their lawn, more of them appearing with their annoying little swords and their ineffectual guns and Sanji so badly wants to go down and fight that he feels angry with it.
Of course the crew is going to be fine. Everyone can hold their own in a fight. He doesn’t want to complicate things.
But he’s supposed to be there in this scenario. Fuck.
He’s saved from wrestling with himself further when the Sunny tilts again, bashed by the enemy ship. He falls out of the window, catches himself just in time by sweeping his legs to make a cushion mid-air, bracing his fall. He lands next to a cluster of Marines with their swords drawn, blinking at him in shock, and doesn’t waste a moment, kicking their legs out from beneath them and landing blow after blow to make sure they can’t get up. Adrenaline spikes through him, clearing away the last traces of sleep. He feels better, more alive than he has since this all started; he can’t keep the grin from his face as he knocks down three more Marines, rushing up to meet him, his knee colliding with their jaws. Maybe there’s a vice-captain he can take down, a real challenge to work off all this excess energy.
“Sanji?” Robin’s voice, breathless from fighting. “It’s dangerous—”
Sanji’s going to die from joy because Nico Robin is worried for him. He’s about to croon out “I’m totally fine, Robin-chwaaaaan!” when soldiers start swarming over him. That’s not strange—enemies usually think he’s an easy target, because he has no weapons and no obvious devil fruit powers. He’s applying some speedy footwork to bash the first wave of heads in when he registers that instead of trying to hurt him, they’re all trying to—oh shit. He moves into a spinning handstand to knock away the gathering crowd, then cartwheels back and sweeps out in a flare kick that sends a dozen men over the railing. But there’s so many of them—four marines lunge at once, grab his legs, and wrestle him to the floor, and while he’s bucking, trying to fling them off, a pile of legs and arms and torsos start heaping onto him. Everyone’s attempting to grab some part of him, touch skin; he gets yoinked in several directions, like some kind of cafeteria popularity gag except with more blood and shouting. He flails his elbows, kicks angrily, angling for their chests or faces, but it’s a lost cause. They’re endless, and squashing him. There’s no part of him that isn’t getting groped. For a moment he can’t breathe, and the momentous rage he feels doesn’t drown out the tiny spike of fear.
Then, through the seething mass of flesh smothering him, he feels, distinctly, a fist grab his ankle. He recognizes the feel of this hand. He’s barely started a countdown in his head before he’s yanked out of the pile, hurtled through the air in a way that is unfortunately familiar—Luffy’s grip tightens as controls the stretch, clinging to the mast with his other arm and using his leg to cleave through the pyramid of bodies squirming in the space Sanji left. He feels a little sick, staring at the mess of toppled marines, or maybe it’s the vertigo from being held upside down. As he gasps for breath he hears Luffy say, “Don’t touch our cook.”
His tone makes Sanji glance over. There’s an eerily hard expression on his captain’s face. Luffy’s eyes flick to him, and he grins, more like himself, before lobbing Sanji back into the crow’s nest through the open window. Sanji sits with his legs splayed, catching his breath. His shirt is mostly rags; they’ve wrecked the zipper of his pants. His arms are starting to bruise.
The battle finishes rapidly after that. He can tell because the sounds die down. Maybe gathering all the Marines up in one place helped. The yelling and splashing turn intermittent; Franky rolls his r’s against a final RRRRRADICAL BEAM, then the Sunny lurches off, Usopp and Nami yelling as they steer away from the carnage. There’s a stretch of silence. Sanji feels embarrassed. Undone, in more than one way. He fishes for his cigarettes in his ruined pants, grateful to find them unharmed.
Without warning, a pair of arms wind around him. He jolts.
“Sanji,” Luffy says, voice soft. Their captain isn’t usually a quiet person; he must’ve come in through the open window when Sanji was spacing out. He clings to Sanji’s back like a koala, legs around Sanji’s middle, mouth close to Sanji’s ear.
“Hey, captain.”
“I’m hungry.”
Sanji hesitates. It’s a different tone than the one Luffy usually uses when he says this. It’s still whiny, but something about it makes his nerves thrum. Like Luffy’s waiting, somehow. Patient. Which he never is.
“I can’t make you anything right now, Luf. Doctor’s orders. But as soon as I’m fixed I’ll cook you some extra meaty…meat. All right?”
“But I’m hungry now,” Luffy wheedles. “And there’s nothing to fix. Is there?”
“Uh, I think there is.” Like the fact that eating vegetables turned me into an incubus. Some tatters from Sanji’s shirt drift down; Luffy’s coiled both arms three times around him, and he recalls, with a sense of doom, Chopper’s warning about physical touch. He grabs hold of one arm and tries to pry it off. Luffy’s not doing much, just making happy noises while he nuzzles his face into Sanji’s hair and mutters about meat, which is frankly terrifying.
“Didn’t Chopper say smooching would help?” Luffy murmurs. Sanji’s blood runs cold. Okay, he definitely won’t be doing that with any crewmate. He’d rather die at sea. Chew through both hands. And Luffy’s definitely not offering, it’s just his meat-brain talking, and he’s basically smeared himself all over Sanji so of course he’s getting the full blast of Sanji’s stupid pheromones. Would it be dumb to suplex Luffy onto the floor? If he angles his leg right he might be able to kick Luffy’s face—would that help? He’s debating all this when the hatch thumps open and a spiky green head pokes through.
Zoro stares.
When he doesn’t move after it’s been, like, a full minute, Sanji mouths “Help.” It’s against his personal protocols to ask the Marimo for help, but these are desperate times. It seems to finally click that Sanji hasn’t become some kind of tire-man, and Zoro climbs up the rest of the way.
“Oi, Zoro.” Luffy rests his head on top of Sanji’s.
“Luffy.” There’s a lot going on in Zoro’s voice when he says that. Sanji’s a little too panicked to parse through it. For some reason, Luffy and Zoro are exchanging intense eye contact; Sanji can’t see his captain, but he does see Zoro’s jaw twinge. Finally the swordsman strides over, steps heavy with purpose, and starts untangling them. Sanji braces for Luffy to cling harder, but to his surprise, the other man is compliant; his limbs disentangle and draw in, like cords winding into place. When he’s dislodged enough that Sanji has some mobility back, he turns to find Zoro holding Luffy by the armpits, reeling him away. The two of them are still locked in that staring match; Luffy’s grin is happy and smug, but in his wide eyes Sanji can see something hard, almost challenging.
And Zoro looks—tired, for some reason. He did just fight a whole ship’s worth of Marines, but all things considered it wasn’t a very long fight, and the Marines weren’t that tough. Zoro usually welcomes the variation in exercise, but right now he just seems weary, like he’s been fighting through the night, too. He sounds conspicuously harsh when he says, “Luffy. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Zoro scrubs a hand over his face. Sanji tries to figure out what exactly they’re talking about. It’s not easy when his whole body’s starting to hurt.
“What are you so worried for?” Luffy laughs, loudly, then turns that big grin to Sanji. “Both of you.”
“I’m not—” Zoro starts, but when Luffy looks at him, daring him to finish, Zoro clicks his teeth together (deference always looks so strange on him). Instead of completing his sentence, he grunts, “We’re close to the island, all right? You’ll get your cook back soon. Now go help Franky and Usopp fix the ship. You didn’t need to damage it so bad.”
He drags Luffy over to the window and drops him out without fanfare. Luffy sails down, his laughter carried up by the wind. “You promised, Sanji! Extra meaty meat!”
Zoro stands by the window for a beat. Sanji feels like he dodged a bullet, or a blade close to his nose. He remembers the cigarette in his hand, unsmoked, and figures he’ll light it. Except when he checks his pockets, his lighter’s missing. Ugh.
“What was that about?” He asks, before the silence can stretch too long.
Zoro ignores this. When he faces Sanji his expression is stormy. “Why didn’t you stay out of the fight?”
Sanji could explain that he fell out of the window, that he hasn’t had much sleep, that his skin feels like another set of dirty clothes he’s wearing. Instead, Zoro’s accusation makes him angry.
“What’s it to you, mossball? You really don’t want me doing any of my jobs today, do you?”
“Not when you’re like this.”
“Oh yeah? Wouldn’t it be better if the marines smashed me into a puddle, so that I can be out of your algae hair forever?”
“Don’t joke about things like that.”
“What’s a joke is you acting like—” you want to take care of me, Sanji almost shouts. He catches himself, throat constricting. “Fuck. You don’t need to mock me. You have no idea what this has been like."
Zoro steps closer. Sanji raises a hand to shove him away, but Zoro catches it, holds it in place. The gap between them is small enough that he can see the lines between Zoro’s eyebrows, the sharp focus of his gaze.
“Cook. I’m not mocking you.”
Sanji can’t help himself; his nose itches and his eyes sting as he mutters, “Why not? You have every right to. That was pathetic. I was pathetic.” He has to stop talking. If he keeps talking he’s definitely going to cry, and he can’t let Zoro witness that—Zoro, the one person he most needs to have his guard up around. Still, he can’t help adding, “They fucking got me, Marimo.”
The grip around his wrist tightens. He’s ready for the remainder of his pride to be trampled on, but instead—Zoro simply strokes a thumb, slowly, across the inside of his wrist. His voice is low, something that isn’t anger woven through it as he says, “Calm down. They were all over you—you couldn’t have done much in that situation.”
Sanji tries to wrestle his arm away. “You would’ve.”
On an ordinary day he’d expect Zoro to take that admission and eat it up, dangle it over him for hours. Instead, all Zoro says is, “You and I need space to attack. It’s not that complicated.” His other hand touches Sanji’s elbow. He angles his head to check Sanji over, scanning his face, the parts of his chest showing through his disintegrated shirt, the bruises starting to bloom down his arms. It looks worse than it is; the scrutiny is almost more painful. At least the inspection takes long enough that Sanji manages to blink back his tears. The whole time, Zoro keeps his thumb pressed to Sanji’s wrist. “It’s not so bad,” he murmurs, “But you still need a doctor.”
He strokes Sanji’s wrist again, almost absentmindedly. Abruptly, Sanji remembers no one should be touching him. He jerks his arm again, which makes Zoro finally notice what he’s doing. He drops his hands quickly, and turns for the exit. “If Luffy comes back up, don’t let him in.”
Sanji wants to ask what that’s about, but decides that wouldn’t be a good idea—he doesn’t need that particular confirmation. It’s bad enough that he’s all muddled from Zoro’s actions—tender can’t be the right word, that wouldn’t make sense. He’s just proven that Zoro’s immunity extends to touch, though, which is definitely not disappointing. He rubs at his wrist, embarrassed at his own murky feelings, until Chopper arrives with a special bruise-busting salve in hand, asking him where it hurts.
#
Sanji drifts in and out of sleep the rest of that day. Chopper applied ointment and gave him three tablespoons of some liquorice-tasting liquid to make the bruises heal faster. Drowsiness isn’t a side effect Sanji would normally be up for—there’s always too much to do—but in his current state he’s thankful for it. He wakes up shivering, has to draw the blankets tighter around him, wincing as he remembers that Zoro probably brought them up with all the other things, and he never even said thank you.
It’s hard to be nice to Zoro. He doesn’t know why. He’s not like that with anyone else. Even when he’s kicking Luffy away from the fridge, or jabbing Usopp in the ribs, it’s with a level of care he can never offer the Marimo. Zoro’s made Sanji feel uneasy from the start. Like there’s something he needs to catch up to, something he’s not doing. He remembers how hard it was to breathe, watching Zoro fight Mihawk. That sound when Mihawk sliced him open, the harsh splash of red on the deck—Sanji butchered meat every day and he still got dizzy at the sight of all that blood. That’s what it looks like to chase your dream, something inside Sanji whispered. It’ll hurt like shit.
The ball of failure lodged inside him cackled, watching him turn down the offer to set sail. It took everything inside him to silence it for long enough to say yes to Luffy: yes to the pain, to letting it hurt, because maybe the All Blue is real, maybe this crew can actually find it. Once in a while the voice is quiet enough that he thinks he might be free of it, but it never lasts; by himself too long, it starts up again, calling his bluff, reminding him how stupid trying for happiness is. I don’t care, he thinks, even when it doesn’t shut up. It’s worth it, to have this.
He bets Zoro doesn’t have a voice like that. Zoro with that unshakeable faith he possesses in that future where he’s the world’s greatest swordsman. The work he puts in to make it real. He never seems to doubt his actions or his words, whether he’s tossing back too many sake bombs or ignoring the advances of a beautiful woman or absorbing an insane amount of damage to decipher an enemy’s fighting style—he moves through the world like he’s figured everything out. What’s the use of doubt, when your goal is to be so formidable, even the heavens know your name?
Zoro’s never unsure, except. If that’s true, then why does Sanji know what his uncertainty sounds like? There was that call on the roof of the Sea Train, rain pelting him everywhere, Zoro telling him to go die and see if he cares, a sharp tremble to sharp words. (Sanji laughed, even if he wanted to climb through the phone and shake the mosshead and tell him Don’t ever say nice shit like that again.) And there was another memory, older than that, something Sanji forgot—a glimmer of doubt. He remembers—firelight against Zoro’s earrings, music swelling around them: thundering, joyous drumbeats.
Sanji sat next to him, exhausted. There was an enthusiastic auntie in a purple dress who’d refused to let him go, asking for dance after dance, and who was he to deny her? She’d finally excused herself to pee and Sanji took the opportunity to take a break. On the hill next to Marimo had seemed a perfectly good place to rest as any. He took three bottles of the local cider with him, offered one to Zoro.
“Thanks,” the swordsman said, forgetting to be rude in the spirit of celebration.
“Sure,” Sanji replied cheerfully. He hadn’t thought much about where his legs were going. It felt natural, to sit near Zoro after a big fight—it was almost a tradition, ever since that first feast at Arlong Park. Sanji would bring some alcohol as a peace offering, and they’d make small talk about the drinks or citizens or how happy Luffy looked, and maybe he’d explain some local dish while subtly making sure Zoro’s injuries weren’t worse than he was letting on. He’d never really forgotten Zoro’s screams as he was stitched up in Cocoyashi, but Zoro had mostly been more careful since then—and if Sanji needed to worry about anyone on the crew, it definitely wasn’t their swordsman.
“I wonder if those antennas help them with flying at all.”
“You could ask. I’m sure the auntie in the purple dress would like to talk your ear off about it.”
“She had you dancing in circles there. Kinda dizzying, like your eyebrows.”
“Watching me dance, Marimo?”
“As if. It’s just hard not to miss your stupid twirling out there.”
Sanji wasn’t going to rise to the bait. “You wish you could twirl that good.” He shut his eyes and breathed in, still able to smell some of the roast he’d made, most of it long gone into Luffy’s belly. The smoky bonfire, the sweet taste of cider (he preferred apple in ciders but this new sky-fruit version was really good), the even sweeter taste of peace: he loved it. The Skypeian’s joy was so visceral it felt like something he could swallow, gulp into his lungs and fill his chest with.
When he opened his eyes again, Zoro was looking at him. Sanji felt his skin go warm. It was probably the humid night, and had nothing to do with that stupid tank top Nami had forced on Zoro.
“What?”
Zoro had on a mellow expression when Sanji first sat next to him. Now he looked bothered. They were always doing that to each other.
“You—” Zoro started. Sanji waited for his mossy brain to string his thoughts together; it only occurred to him, later, how incongruous it was for Zoro to falter like that. “That god-guy. He struck you twice. Didn’t he?”
The words could have been said with a sneer, Zoro pointing out his failure. But he didn’t sound taunting. Nor did he sound angry, at least not in the way Sanji knew he could be. When they were fighting or about to fight, Zoro was either pissed off or eager, and right then he was neither of those things. So this wasn’t a fight. But what was it?
It was. Zoro, picking up one of Sanji’s hands, bandaged except for his fingers. Holding it carefully, with a weird expression. Sanji hadn’t thought about getting struck with lightning since it happened, but the memory was jarring: the crackle tearing through him, stealing his breath; the world going white. The mad scrabble of his heart, his lungs, to keep him upright. How he thought: it’s all right. That’s what I’m here for.
Zoro ran his thumb over Sanji’s thumb, then over the pads of each of his fingers. Ah, Sanji thought, I’m drunk. He didn’t know what to do with a touch like that, so he couldn’t possibly be sober.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
Zoro took his other hand, not letting go of the first. He turned it over, apparently fascinated by it. Sanji should’ve never left the campfire. This was a dangerous place to be. “Let shit like that happen.”
“I didn’t really have a choice. And you have no right to lecture me, Mr. Oh I’ll Just Casually Chop My Feet Off, Or Maybe Get My Chest Shredded Open.”
“That’s different.” Zoro held both of his hands, lightly, and looked at Sanji like he was trying to explain with his eyes instead of words. “I chose to do that, to myself, for my pride. But you—you’re always making yourself a shield. Don’t you think…” Zoro swallowed. He had to be drunk too. There were, like, fifty bottles around him. Sanji’s head filled with white noise; had he always been such a lightweight? Zoro’s hands on his felt so gentle, and his voice was quiet, almost a whisper, when he said, “Aren’t these precious to you?”
Sanji’s stomach lurched. Why did he—no. That wasn’t a weird thing to say. Everyone knew Sanji was careful with his hands. Right? He did a lot of things to keep them safe. He used gloves when taking hot stuff out of the oven, he panicked that one time Luffy almost slammed the door on his knuckles. In a fight, though, he didn’t think much about them—it was unconscious, by now, using his legs for anything involving force. He always did what he had to, to protect his crew. The cost didn’t matter, because these people were priceless.
He pulled his hands away from Zoro and resisted the urge to sit on them, like a kid. He didn’t want to get touched again. It wasn’t—he didn’t know what Zoro was trying to make him think, but it wasn’t anything useful.
“They’re my tools. I’ll still give them up if it means nobo—Nami-san doesn’t get hurt.”
“You did it at Drum Island too.”
“Huh?”
“Hurt yourself. That scar on your back.”
“That wasn’t a big deal.” How did Zoro even know about that?
“Chopper told me it was six broken ribs and a spine fracture.”
Sanji had honestly forgotten. He felt a strange urge to justify himself. “And he and Doctorine fixed it perfectly. So who cares.”
Zoro picked up his bottle and took a long drink. They lapsed into silence. Sanji wondered how deranged it would be, if he asked Zoro something like, are you telling me my life is worth something? Because if yes I don’t believe you.
“Look,” Sanji finally said, because even if he spent hours every day cooking alone he didn’t actually have Zoro’s capacity for awkward silence. “You’d do the same thing, right? It’s our job on the crew.”
“And whose job is it to do that for you?”
Sanji could feel his heart thump heavily, like it was throbbing through slush. Whose job—“Nobody’s,” he said, caught between mortification and fear, because no one should ever think about him like that. “That’s not a thing.”
“Cook—”
“Oh no I think I can hear Luffy asking for more dessert! Gotta go!” He sprang up, and hustled down the hill back to the party, pushing Zoro’s expression out of his mind, because that thing in the swordsman’s eyes frightened the shit out of him. He’d seen it on Zeff, those early days when he was still stumbling around in the kitchen, overcome by guilt and his own crappy skills. For weeks he thought it was pity. Until that first time when Zeff came to him while he was crying from a nightmare, holding and shushing him til he stopped. It was something far more dangerous, something he could never outrun, or deserve.
Of course he’d totally misread it. Zoro didn’t think that way about him at all. It was wishful thinking on his part, too much cider and the altitude, screwing with his thoughts. The next morning he woke up to the last scraps of the bonfire, head pounding, tucked under a blanket between Chopper and Usopp. Zoro was in the distance, helping the locals with clean-up, apparently coerced by the hyperactive dancing auntie. When the swordsman came by for his breakfast grub his face was same as always; he didn’t act any different, and he never brought it up again. Sanji was so relieved he forgot the whole thing entirely, like a neat party trick.
#
The Marine kerfuffle thankfully didn’t throw them too off course; they arrive at the autumn island in early evening, only slightly later than scheduled. Sanji smells the change in the air, from the teensy window opening he’s allowed himself: a brisk, woodsy scent, the promise of cool wind. The Sunny starts slowing down. Not being part of disembarkation gets to him. He can hear Nami shouting at Luffy, the thwonk of her fist meeting his skull, comically loud. Around his time he’d usually be finishing the meals for anyone staying, packing lunchboxes and juice for anyone leaving, and completing the pantry assessment.
When Zoro pokes his head through the hatch, something that was buzzing inside Sanji calms at the familiar sight.
“Get ready to disembark. We’re arriving soon.”
“They’re letting me off the ship?”
Zoro climbs a few more steps so that he can lean into the room. “What, you want to stay?”
“Well, no, but I thought—“
“It’s fine. Franky and Usopp want to keep working on repairs, and Nami needs to figure out our next route since this was a detour. They’ll be more focused without you around.”
Well, if he puts it that way. Sanji never wants to bother a goddess while she’s working. “So we’re going with Chopper to the forest?”
“No. Chopper wants Robin’s help identifying the right ingredients, and Luffy wants to go camping, so he’s joining them.”
Dread runs like cold water down his back. “What are you doing?”
Zoro rolls his eyes. “You and I have a mission in town. It’s not like Nami picked this island by accident. Apparently there’s rumors of a billionaire’s treasure, kept as a town secret. Nami wants us to figure out what it is. She’s not letting us back empty-handed.”
“Oh.” Not everything’s about you, shithead. “I see. Um, they’re not worried about me, uh.”
Zoro raises an eyebrow.
“…Affecting…people? You saw what happened with the Marines.”
Zoro’s forehead scrunches, and there’s forced control to his voice when he answers. “Chopper’s been making some kind of anti-whatsit that should help, as long as you don’t hang around anyone too long. He worked on it most of the day because of what happened. If it doesn’t work for some reason I can always leave you at the inn and go find the treasure myself.”
“You, finding something? Forget it.”
Zoro snorts in dismissal and starts to climb down.
“Wait—Zoro!”
“What now?”
“I want—uh, if someone could take inventory that would be awesome. I don’t know what you’ve all used, and some of the stuff from Water Seven might be going bad.”
“Already done. The witch did it so it’s accurate.”
“Wha—Nami-swan wanted to help me?” His heart eyes swell and jostle each other.
“She charged 200 berry for it, so. I guess?”
“I get to see Nami-swan’s beautiful handwriting! Wait, charged who?”
“See you in a bit,” Zoro deadpans, shutting the hatch.