Chapter Text
He finds him in the kitchen, of course.
Only the light above the sink is lit, casting long shadows behind the counter and the cook. Smoke lifts up slowly above his head.
It's on him not to have checked there first, sure, but he didn't think he would have jumped straight back into work after the day they had. It’s completely on him to have put some faith into this man’s sense of self preservation.
The dumbass doesn't react at Zoro's presence; he keeps swaying from side to side in rhythm with whatever it is he's doing, and Zoro fully expects him to fall down at any moment.
"Hey," he calls softly, as soft as his voice allows him, so as to not startle the cook.
The blond's arms stop moving, so does the swaying, and his cigarette turns slightly towards zoro, goes slowly up in between sanji's teeth as he takes the intruder in.
The cook grunts a vague acknowledgment before going back to whatever is keeping his ass in the kitchen at three am, after a day and a half of strenuous battle.
Zoro circles the counter to see the problem : a pile of dirty dishes. They did get pretty busy after lunch when an entire armada fell on their ass. Zoro wonders fruitlessly if the cook has been in there the whole evening. A useless thought indeed; he definitely was, against Chopper’s orders and common sense.
"Oi. Cook. It's pretty late, it can wait until tomorrow."
He doesn't even react this time and keeps scrubbing. Well, scrubbing might be too strong of a word for the inoffensive circles the sponge is making on the plate, miles away from its usual efficiency.
Zoro is already fed up. He shows great restraint in not throwing the cook on his shoulder right there and then. Let it not be forgotten the immense patience he shows this ridiculous man.
He rinses the plate with twice the water he usually needs and takes three tries to put it on the drying rack.
"Cook. Sanji."
That gets his attention, almost a startle, as if he'd forgotten Zoro was there to begin with. He opens his mouth to talk and almost drops his cigarette in the sink.
"Fuck," he exhales once the cigarette is back and secured between his teeth. He sniffs and blinks and tries to rub his face with his shoulders, hands occupied at sloshing around in the sink to clumsily look for their next target. They pick up a green mug. Zoro's mug.
"Okay that's enough."
"No, i just need to finish this-" Sanji tries for a split second to defend the mug but Zoro is quick to put it back in the sink and put a hand towel in its place. The cook flounders a bit with it, tries to elbow zoro in the ribs, and is partially successful. Despite the overt declaration of war, Zoro takes the peaceful route; again, a well of patience; and circles the cook in his arms, clasps his hands in between his, rubs them together to dry them off as efficiently as he can. The cook makes a noise at the back of his throat that Zoro feels against his chest more than he hears. He lamely struggles against Zoro’s hold, before giving up, puffing and pouting like a child. The cook leans back, probably as a last resort of defaillance, and rests his head on Zoro’s shoulder.
“If it’s not done-”
“I’ll give you a hand tomorrow, it’ll be done before breakfast.”
The logical answer would have been ‘who gives a fuck if we’re eating in china or with our hands directly in the damn plate’ but Sanji gives a fuck, even if no one else does, not even Nami if it really came down to it. The answer would have been ‘who gives a fuck as long as you’re okay’ if it didn’t come too close to something neither of them have voiced.
The cook shrugs. The bandages around his shoulder scrape against Zoro’s chin.
Once he’s satisfied with the dryness of Sanji’s hands, and before he can think too much of the cook’s hair soft on his neck, of the curve of his back fitting perfectly against his chest, of his long fingers entangled with his, he grabs his wrist and drags him along outside the kitchen,
“The light-”
Zoro stops dead in his tracks, turns around without losing Sanji’s hand, flips the switch, and turns again towards the door.
The cook lets Zoro drag him along the ship’s corridors, probably the only place he would trust him to lead the way. When they pass the door to the boys quarters he makes a sound, a tired, questioning thing, but he keeps walking anyway.
They take a turn towards the infirmary. The door facing Chopper's office leads to a similar room, slightly smaller, where the doctor keeps some spare supplies and larger equipment, and Usopp his tools and materials. Behind some shelves there's a bed, made in urgence for the first time they had needed two rest beds. Zoro was unconscious during the build but he’d trust Franky and Ussop to build a trusty warship with a wooden spoon and five centimeters of rope.
Zoro comes to a stop at the foot of the bed and the cook all but collide with his back. He curses, straightens his spine, and sets his jaw on Zoro's shoulder to look at the bed. Both Zoro and Sanji's covers are folded at the foot of the bed, and Sanji's pillow is propped up against the headboard.
"Uh. You did this ?"
Heat creeps up Zoro's neck. He just wanted to be nice, look where that got him.
"Nami said the sea will be calm tonight," he says as a way of explaining why he didn't lead them to their hammocks.
He twists his arm slowly to bring Sanji back around and push him on the bed. He wonders if the cook is just humoring him or if he's that tired.
Sanji bends down and starts fiddleling with his shoelaces, until patience runs out of him and he makes the expensive dress shoes slide off of his heels with his sole, and had it not been three am Zoro would have asked who that man was and what had he done with his crewmate.
Once the shoes are set neatly under the bed, because god forbid something is out of place, he loosens his tie and lets himself fall on the mattress. Eyes closed above his bandaged cheek, he almost looks peaceful. Instead of passing his hand in the blond, unruly hair like he wants to, Zoro unfurls the blankets and pulls them up to the cook’s chin. He’s standing back up to leave when Sanji’s fingers close around a fistful of Zoro’s sweatshirt.
“Stay.” Sanji mumbles.
Well, at least Zoro thinks that’s what came out of his mouth, smushed against his pillow.
Zoro hesitates. The cook is clearly too tired to think straight, he definitely will not remember asking in the morning, and Zoro should just leave him to sleep alone in the comfy bed-
“Sure.”
He sits against the headboard, Sanji’s hand refusing to let go of his shirt. The cook pulls his legs up under the covers, moves around until he sighs, and Zoro can feel the warmth of his breath on his thigh, and Sanji moves even closer, pressed against Zoro-
“Marimo,” he whispers.
Zoro barely hears him. His heart is too loud.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He stills then, breathing even and regular. He’s asleep for Zoro’s choked up ‘you’re welcome’.