Sanji kicked at one of the broken chunks of concrete that littered the sidewalk. Crumbling, just like everything else around here. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, hoping to keep out the bitter, cold wind. It bit at the tip of his nose and stung his fingertips. It was going to be a shitty night, that was for sure. He should probably take himself to the nearest shelter.
A tantalizing fragrance flitted by him, making him freeze in his tracks. His stomach lurched, reminding him of just how empty it was, but he battered down the feeling. He turned, facing the little restaurant he'd been walking by, and gave a tentative sniff. The fragrance was familiar and comforting, but there was the strange tang of spices that shouldn't be there. His old man would have kicked him in the knee for adding rosemary to that recipe.
But old man Zeff wasn't kicking anyone in the knees these days.
Sanji sidled up the alley next to the restaurant, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Too much rosemary or not, it smelled like a delicious duck stew, and Sanji sincerely hoped there were leftovers.
He considered it a good sign that there were no employees out back taking a smoke break right then. That was usually how he had caught most of their unwanted guests. He'd step out for a smoke and find them rifling through the dumpster just the way Sanji was now. The difference was Sanji was always sure to offer them a hot meal before sending them on their way. No one offered Sanji that kind of deal.
Sanji was quick about getting into the dumpster, and even quicker about tearing open the top few bags. It was early evening, and unless this was the type of restaurant that only opened for dinner, they were sure to have a few thrown away meals by now. If they didn't… well Sanji had dug deeper down in the dumpsters before.
That was the one blessing that came with winter; the food stayed fresher longer.
Sanji struck gold. It looked like the restaurant offered some type of carryout service, but someone had never come to get their food. Sanji opened the nondescript bag and peeked inside. Everything was still housed in sealed containers. There was even silverware. His lucky day.
The back door to the kitchen scraped open on rusted hinges, and Sanji ducked down into the trash to avoid being seen. He held still, even then the employee heaved a bag of trash in onto his head.
"These stupid assholes," the employee muttered, and Sanji could hear him trying to flip the top on the dumpster. "Would it kill you to close the lid?!" the guy yelled, directing his annoyance back towards his coworkers.
Sanji waited as the man flipped the lid closed, still grumbling his frustrations. He waited until he heard the kitchen door scraping shut once more. Clear.
He sprang up, shaking the new trash bag off him. He flipped the lid open once more, and after tearing into the new addition in search of extra food, climbed out of the dumpster with haste and saw himself out of the alley. He had gotten quite the haul out of there. He hefted the carry out bag in his hands. He'd have to revisit them again in the future.
"Thank you for the fine meal," he chuckled as he continued down the street.
Sanji found a quiet place to eat his meal, tucked down an alley between a law firm and a craft shop. It was safe from the wind, and the dumpster full of paper and fabrics held little interest for vermin and strays. He would be able to keep his meal to himself. He took his time eating, despite the demands of his stomach to eat as much as possible and quickly. It was the first real meal he'd had in days.
He could hear Christmas music drifting from the craft shop on one side of him. He glowered into the cup of chicken noodle soup he was eating. He knew the season was coming, of course, but he didn't look forward to it any. What had once been his favorite holiday now left a sour taste in his mouth. He wished the craft store would turn their music down.
It had started when the old man had first taken ill. That was right around Christmas too. Lung cancer, the doctor had said, which was ridiculous because Zeff never smoked – he always said smoking ruined your taste buds. Sanji had been the smoker in the family, but he was still in perfect health, unfortunately. Zeff had always been a stubborn bastard, so when he was given his options for treatment, he declined. Sanji snorted into his soup. The fucking bastard declined. All because it might keep him out of the restaurant for a while.
Fucking idiot.
After the old man was gone, Sanji had a hard time keeping things together. Zeff had taught him everything he needed to know about cooking, but little about how to manage a restaurant. That, and Sanji had the bad habit of firing his mouth off in the worst ways when he was stressed out. Turns out if you say the wrong things to the wrong people, it'll come back to haunt you. Sanji lost the restaurant before the next Christmas, and things took a downward spiral from there. His car, his apartment, his friends – he lost everything.
Sanji felt frustrated tears prickling in his eyes and he hastily scrubbed them away. Now wasn't the time to think about this shit, and tears never helped anyone. Besides, this soup was salty enough.
He wasn't sure why he blamed Christmas for everything. It was just that the month of December seemed to mark all the worst events of his life. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to enjoy Christmas without some type of tragedy striking. The memories left a gaping hole in his heart and the very idea of Christmas only seemed to pour salt in that wound. Usually, he could get by avoiding Christmas pretty well, but today he just happened to choose the wrong damn alley to sit in.
He put the lid back on the rest of the soup and crammed it back into the bag. He wasn't hungry anymore, he'd find somewhere else to eat later. For now, he stood up and tried to brush himself off. Not that it mattered, he supposed, there were more than enough stains on his clothes to give away his financial status. With a final scathing look at the craft shop that had ruined his meal, he headed back down the alley and towards the street.
He would wonder later: if the craft shop had not been playing music, would he have experienced the same fate? Well, it's not like he'd ever know the answer.
The sky was growing dim already, and Sanji cursed the short winter days. The night would be frigid and the telltale wind that was picking up promised a snowfall. A shitty night to be sleeping outdoors. His winter clothing consisted of little more than a thick flannel and a pair of torn leather gloves. He could already feel the icy winter air beginning to permeate through to his skin, making him shiver. He'd definitely need to stay in the shelter tonight.
Sanji sighed and turned himself the opposite direction. He hated the shelter. At any given time you could find it stuffed full with people – desolate, sad looking people. Sometimes there were children, clinging to their mothers' hands and observing the word with eyes that lacked hope. People cried in their sleep, begged each other for food or clothing or others supplies they'd need when they were back out on the street. It was one of the most depressing places Sanji had ever ventured into. He'd rather risk relocation by the police than spend the night there.
But Sanji wasn't stupid either, and the shelter did have heat and provided blankets. Survival was more important to him than avoiding the sad atmosphere. He could grin and bear it for a couple of nights. He hoped winter would be mild enough this season that he could get by.
This was all Sanji was thinking about when he stepped out to cross the street. He knew the streets well enough, and knew there wouldn't be many cars around here, even during the rush hour. He glanced both ways before moving, but his mind was preoccupied, and the driver was going much too fast down the back road street. Sanji barely had time to register the moving vehicle before it collided with him.
His food went sailing off in some unknown direction. Pain like he'd never experienced blossomed through his legs, traveled up his spine, and rattled through his chest. He supposed it all happened fast, but his mind seemed to register the experience slowly. It took in details bit by bit as his body was thrown into the air, collided with something metal and hard, and finally dropped to the cold asphalt ground.
Fucking Christmas was the last conscious thought on his mind before everything snapped out to black.
Sanji's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he couldn't remember anything. Not even who he was, let alone where he was. But as he lay there, acquainting himself with the corkboard ceiling tiles, the memories drifted back until he was able to recall the most recent one: being hit by a car.
His eyes moved from the ceiling tiles, searching the room around him. He was on a hospital bed. He'd always heard they were uncomfortable, but compared to a park bench or those nasty cots they offered at the shelter, this bed felt like paradise.
Machinery was collected around the bed like silent witnesses to Sanji's confusion. The machines were turned off and sat quiet. They were the only other things in the room besides the bed that he lay on and the blinding white light above him.
Well, that wasn't quite true. There was another person in the room. A man, leaning against the doorframe that Sanji expected to be the exit. The man hadn't moved since Sanji had woken up, but he seemed to be staring at Sanji's bed. His eyes were glazed, and his mind was obviously somewhere else. But what the hell was he doing here? Sanji had never seen this guy before in his life, so why the hell was he staring at Sanji?
The man started when Sanji spoke. He blinked a couple of times in disbelief, and then squinted in Sanji's direction like he was trying to figure out what matter of being might be.
"Earth to the moss head," Sanji said, glancing up at the man's green colored hair.
The man's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards. A sound of alarm escaped him and Sanji quirked an eyebrow at his reaction.
"What the hell?" Sanji growled. "Are you a doctor or not I—"
He froze mid-sentence. He had been attempting to get himself out of bed. He stared down at his legs. His mind told them to move, that it was time to get up, but they lay immobile on the bed. He flipped the bed sheet off him in alarm. He just had to move one toe. He could handle that. Just one toe.
Nothing.
Sanji could feel his heart rate rising. He turned alarmed eyes back on the man in the doorway, who was still staring at him in shock.
"I can't move my legs," Sanji said to the guy.
"Your… legs?" The man spared Sanji's legs a glance before looking back as Sanji's face again.
"Yes! My legs, my fucking legs!" Sanji could feel the panic welling up inside of him. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. Without his legs he would be fucked. What the fuck had happened to him?
"Listen," he said, looking at the guy imploringly. "If you're the doctor great, I just need some answers."
"I'm not the doctor, I'm…" the guy in the doorway trailed off, looked away and shook his head. "I'll go get the doctor, I'll be right back."
Sanji nodded, but the man didn't stick around long enough to see it. He waited on the bed, trying hard not to let his panic get the best of him. He just had to wait it out, wait it out and not panic. Try not to panic. Breathe, relax, don't panic…
Sanji was on the verge of losing it entirely when the green haired man finally returned. He looked a little funny, aside from the green hair, of course. He looked like he was operating on autopilot, and even when he locked eyes with Sanji he seemed to be looking right through him.
"Uh, the doctor says you can go… discharged. Yeah, you're discharged." The man's muttering was almost incoherent.
Sanji gaped at him. "Discharged?!" His voice cracked. "I can't move my fucking legs!"
"Oh, that," the guy said, his voice was so flat he might have been talking about a stain on the floor. "The doctor said that will go away, some kind of…" The man paused. "Post-trauma memory thingy."
"What?" Sanji frowned.
"Yeah. Anyway, you're free to go so…"
Sanji stared at the man in disbelief. "I don't have anywhere to go." Sanji wouldn't make it twenty minutes on the street in this condition, he couldn't even move enough to keep warm!
The green hair man frowned. "Well, what about your family?"
Sanji swallowed the lump in his throat. The last thing he needed to be thinking about right now was his old man.
"I don't have any."
The man's brow furrowed. The way his brow was set, he naturally looked like a grump anyway, and now he looked even more frustrated and confused. He was quiet for a long moment, leaving Sanji to his worries, before he spoke again.
"Right… then I guess you'll have to come home with me," he finally said.
"Home with you?" Sanji frowned again.
"Yeah." The man scrubbed at his hair in frustration. "I mean, this is kinda my fault anyway, since I was, you know…"
Realization slammed into Sanji and his face twisted into an ugly snarl. He hadn't even thought to ask why the weirdo was hanging around his hospital room, but now it all made sense.
"You're the guy who hit me?!" Sanji shouted.
"Yeah, I…" The man winced. "Look I'm really sorry. My name is Zoro. It was a total accident, I was a little lost and I was trying to read the map, and I just didn't…"
"I might never walk again! I might have died!" Sanji growled.
Zoro paled considerably. "It… it was just an accident." There was a pause. "Look, let me take you back to my place, I can make this right."
Sanji snorted. "Doubtful." He glared the man down for another moment. "But, fine."
That was how Sanji found himself sitting in the tiny apartment of a green haired man named Zoro.
The guy hadn't said a word to him, even as he'd carried Sanji up three flights of stairs to get to his apartment. It had been embarrassing for Sanji, and he prayed no one would see him that way. Thankfully, the apartments Zoro lived in were small and quiet, and the hallways were deserted.
Zoro had set Sanji on the couch and disappeared around a corner, all without comment. Sanji shrugged it off. He didn't really have much to say to the man that had taken his legs away from him anyway. He was still angry. This bastard's act of carelessness had cost Sanji something important. Even as Sanji sat on the old, worn out couch, he didn't think there was anyway Zoro could make up for this.
Sanji looked around the apartment. It was small, and sparsely decorated. Dust covered cobwebs hung from the corners of the room, but aside from those the place was neat and orderly. It hardly even looked lived in.
Zoro reappeared, a white cup in his hands.
"Here," he said, setting the cup on the coffee table in front of Sanji.
Instant ramen. Steam rose from the cup, twisting and curling before dissipating into the air. Sanji lurched forward, bending over his useless appendages to reach the cup. A few years ago he might have snubbed his nose at something as simplistic as instant ramen, but he knew better now. This ramen would be the first hot meal he'd had in a long while.
Sanji tried to pace himself as he ate. It was something he'd learned after a long time on the street. If he wasn't careful, he'd upset his stomach and make himself sick. That would be counterproductive to what he needed, so he learned to eat carefully. He chewed each bite of noodles slowly, savoring their salty, generic taste as if they were made from the finest ingredients.
Zoro sat on the other end of the couch, staring into space. From time to time, Sanji would notice Zoro's eyes falling in his direction, but he always looked away quickly.
"Where's yours?" Sanji asked, swallowing his bite.
"That was my last cup." Zoro shrugged, looking away.
Sanji felt an uneasy squirming in his gut. It was a throwback feeling to his days working for Zeff. His old man had a policy: nobody goes hungry, ever. That was why Sanji sent the trash diggers off with a warm meal, and part of why he hated going to the shelter so much. Even now that he had nothing left, and food was everything, he couldn't help but feel unwell when other people went without. It was ingrained into who he was as a chef, and as a person.
"Would you like the rest?" Sanji offered the cup to Zoro. There wasn't much left; some noodles, a fair amount of broth, and a collection of vegetables that floated to the top, but it was something more than nothing.
Zoro stared at Sanji for a minute. The look on his face was hard to read. Zoro was hard to read. He was a man of few words, little expression, and by the looks of his apartment, few passions. Sanji couldn't make heads or tails of the guy, but then reminded himself that this was the man that had taken his legs and that and that he shouldn't care.
"No," Zoro finally said. He looked away from Sanji again. "I just need to pick up some groceries."
"I can cook."
Sanji didn't know why those words had spilled from his mouth. Maybe it was the lingering taste of ramen in his mouth, delicious after a long period of cold leftovers but too salty and oily. Maybe he just missed the kitchen. Cooking had been his passion, his life, and he missed it. Those were perfectly reasonable explanations, and Sanji was inclined to go with those reasons.
But he couldn't help but feel like it was something about Zoro himself that had prompted the offer. Something about the way Zoro never looked his way too long. Or that he always seemed to wear a perpetually troubled expression. Sanji was curious, despite his vows not to be, but more than anything, he wanted to see the green bastard lighten up a little. Food was the only way Sanji knew how to do that.
Zoro was staring at him again, though confusion was evident on his face this time. "What?"
"I used to be a chef," Sanji said, shrugging as if his offer had been natural. "I could cook you some quality meals on your budget. I could…" he trailed off, looking down at his useless legs. He was sitting on the couch, but his feet were positioned oddly, not resting the way they would have if he could feel them. "Or I guess, maybe not."
"I have a stool," Zoro said quickly. He stood, grabbing a few things out of a drawer across the room. He tossed a notepad and a pen Sanji's way. "Just make a list, I'll grab the stuff."
Sanji felt loads lighter as his mind worked over possible menu items and meals that would satisfy them both. In fact, it was the best Sanji had felt in a long time.
Sanji had been living there three days. He was confined to the couch unless Zoro was there to move him, which was a whole new lesson in humiliation. Sanji couldn't even take a piss unless Zoro was there, for fuck's sake!
And Zoro, to make matters worse or better – Sanji wasn't sure – was almost never there.
What the man did with his time, Sanji had no idea. He assumed it was work, although Zoro didn't seem to wear any specific kind of uniform. Sometimes he left the house with a large tube strapped to his back, some kind of tool Sanji figured, but what it could be, he didn't have a guess. For all Sanji knew, Zoro just went to feed pigeons in the park all day.
The only reason Sanji assumed Zoro spent all his time at work was the distinct lack of socialization in Zoro's life. Aside from the set schedule that the moss head was gone most of the day, he never left the apartment. No one ever knocked on the door. He'd never seen Zoro toting a cellphone around, and if he had friends, he never mentioned them. It was strange for a guy that couldn't be older than twenty-five.
Sanji had been living there for three days, cooked the guy a meal at least two times a day, and still didn't feel like he had any idea who he was living with.
It doesn't matter, don't get attached, his mind mentally chided. Sanji needed to worry more about getting his legs to work than he needed to worry about Zoro.
But he couldn't help his curiosity when the phone rang that day. Until that moment, Sanji hadn't even known Zoro owned a phone. But he could hear it ringing from one of the dusty corners.
Sanji was powerless to answer it, even if he had wanted to. Zoro was out of the apartment for the moment, leaving Sanji confined to the couch with only a few magazines for company. Zoro had a TV in one corner, but it only took Sanji one day to realize it was a waste of space. Zoro had never bothered to set up any cable connections to it, so it only displayed a field of snow when Sanji turned it on. There were no DVDs in the house.
The phone rang five times, each shrill ring puncturing the dead silence of the apartment. It was almost a welcomed sound, a sound of civilization that existed outside of the room Sanji had been confined to by his handicap.
The sixth ring was abruptly cut off, and immediately followed by the beep of an answering machine. There was no greeting message on the machine, just a beep followed by white noise that came from the other end of the line.
"Zoro?" A female voice rang out of the machine. Sanji sat a little straighter. The voice had his full attention.
"I guess you're not there," the woman said after a pause. Her words were followed by a heavy sigh. "Luffy is worried about you. Of course he won't say it out loud but he spends a lot of time on the porch, waiting." Another lengthy pause. "I know you get like this sometimes. I know we can't stop you. But just… call, alright?" A click. The message was over.
Sanji stared at the machine for a moment, turning the words over in his head.
Who was that girl? A lover? A sister? Zoro didn't seem like the kind to hold relationships. Although, from what Sanji had seen, Zoro didn't seem like any type of anything. He was an empty container, and what was meant to fill him seemed to be missing.
The girl on the machine, whoever she was, seemed to care about Zoro. So did the other person she mentioned, Luffy. Zoro had people who cared for him, that much was evident. But it seemed there was something more important to Zoro, something more compelling.
I know you get like this sometimes. I know we can't stop you.
Sanji picked up one of the magazines again. He flipped it open and browsed the pages, but his mind was still ruminating on the message, and the words all blurred together on the page.
That night, Zoro came home late, but with a pleasant surprise.
"I thought you might like this," Zoro said, forcing the rusted joints of the old wheelchair to fold open.
The thing clearly was not a new purchase, or even a slightly used purchase. It looked like it had come straight from a 1930's hospital. It was rusty, and the design was archaic, but the wheels had been greased and maneuvered easily around the room. Sanji was able to move from the living room to the bathroom and back to the kitchen without help. He might have died; this had to have been heaven.
Zoro didn't say much about his day, he never did even when Sanji asked, but he made plenty of comments about the food Sanji was making.
"It smells like cat piss," Zoro said snidely.
"Well it's going to taste a far cry better," Sanji assured him. "You're lucky I even cook for you. You'd be living on instant ramen and grilled cheese if it wasn't for me, and you'd be dead before you were fifty."
"Cooking for me is the least you could do, since you're freeloading and all. Tell me, did you even leave the couch today?"
"I would have loved to, except some brain dead lost moss ball ran me over and I can't use my legs."
Despite their cold words, there was an almost teasing quality to their conversation. Zoro was smirking, and Sanji felt a kind of giddy delight at being able to pull some kind of emotion from the man.
"Well if you had looked both ways before you crossed…" Zoro trailed off and allowed the sentence to finish itself.
"Don't even start with me!" Sanji snapped the spatula in Zoro's direction to emphasize his words. some of the creamy sauce splashed onto the man in the process.
Zoro hissed in annoyance and licked the sauce from his arm.
"Yep," he said, almost grinning now. It was a grin that didn't reach his eyes, which were still dark and unreadable. "Tastes like cat piss too."
"Shut up," Sanji said, turning back to the stove.
A silence fell over the kitchen. A comfortable, easy silence. Sanji had never realized before just how much tension ran between the two of them. Zoro's guilt, Sanji's anger, and their wariness as strangers seemed to melt a little in that moment.
And then, of course, Sanji felt prompted to open his big mouth.
"Who's Luffy?" he asked.
Zoro's eyes immediately shot to the machine, the blinking light just barely visible from the small kitchen nook. He covered the space in surprisingly few strides, and pressed a button on the answering machine.
"Message deleted. No new messages," said the cool, automated female voice.
"Hey!" Sanji cried in indignation. "You could have at least heard her out. She was worried about you, you asshole!"
"Shut up, cook." Zoro said the word with a kind of scathing inflection. As if the title superseded Sanji's identity as a person. "It's none of your business. You just finish the cooking."
"Fuck it." Sanji threw the spatula down onto the stove. "Dinner is done. Feed yourself and fuck off."
Sanji slid himself off the stood he cooked on and back onto his chair. Thankfully, getting down to his chair was much easier than getting up onto the stool, so he was spared the added embarrassment. He didn't say a word to Zoro as he wheeled himself back into the living room and parked himself by the couch. Zoro didn't say a word to him, and Sanji was glad. He couldn't be sure what other stupid things might come out of his mouth.
He could hear Zoro in the kitchen for a moment, clinking around plates and silverware. Then with a click, the lights were out, and Zoro retreated back into his room for the night.
Sanji didn't bother to turn the lights back on. He sat in the dark and seethed about his own stupidity.
Cooking isn't just a job, Sanji, it's a way of life. Don't roll your eyes at me, I mean it. Cooking in a restaurant means feeding people. Food is important, brat. Food gives us the ability to move through life. It gives us strength, it nourishes us. Food is important, and feeding people is important. Being a cook isn't about making pretty dishes and paying the bills. It's about passing on strength and nourishment to every person that walks through our doors. It's a responsibility, eggplant, and a selfless endeavor. Don't you dare forget that.
Good, now go wash the dishes.
Sanji woke to the sound of the apartment door closing. He woke just time to see hear the lock of the deadbolt slide home, and the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway beyond. That would be Zoro leaving for the day, Sanji guessed.
He sat himself up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He couldn't even remember what time he had gone to bed last night. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the couch. It was a quarter till noon. Late in the day by Sanji's standards.
Zoro had left the apartment without food. That familiar twisting guilt hit Sanji in the gut, but he brushed it off. The bastard could have woken him; that was his own fault.
Sanji threw the blankets aside and stared at his feet, as he did every morning. If he could just move one toe, just twitch one, he'd consider it a victory. He focused, staring at his toes with such concentration they might have caught on fire. He made his mind zero in on one simple thought: Move.
His brain focused, the message was clear, but somewhere between Sanji's mind and his feet, the message got lost. His toes stayed stubbornly still, not even a small twitch. He sighed heavily. Today was not the day.
He heaved his legs to the side with his arms and then eased himself into his chair. He was pleased to find it right by the couch where he left it. At least Zoro hadn't been spiteful enough to kick it across the room. He situated himself in the seat and then headed for the bathroom. First he'd use the toilet and take a bath, then he'd think up something to cook for Zoro. Something that would satiate the bastard's hunger and ease the guilt in his own stomach.
Zoro came home later than usual that night. There was a bottle of liquor in his hands, half empty, but he didn't look especially drunk.
"What's that smell?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on Sanji in suspicion.
"Shepard's pie," Sanji answered, refusing to be swayed by Zoro's bad attitude. "I had to make it with ground beef instead of lamb, of course, but I think it came out nicely."
"You cooked it?" Zoro asked, looking more than a little surprised.
"No, it materialized from thin air," Sanji replied with biting sarcasm. He wheeled himself towards the kitchen. "Just get in here and eat it, you bastard."
Zoro obeyed, following Sanji into the kitchen where the Shepard's pie was left to cool. The liquor in the bottle sloshed as Zoro moved, and Sanji eyed it sidelong, but didn't say anything. He took a spatula and served a large portion of the pie to Zoro.
Zoro took the plate without a word and sat at his small kitchen table to eat it. Sanji expected him to retreat back into his bedroom and avoid speaking to Sanji like he had been, but Zoro was always full of surprises.
Sanji washed up while Zoro ate, watching the bastard chew and swallow each bite. He ate it too fast, even faster than he normally did. Meaning the idiot hadn't bothered to eat anything all day. And he was drinking on an empty stomach? Sanji wished Zoro a nasty stomachache as a punishment.
To his relief, however, Zoro ate every bite. Sanji could feel the edges of his guilt beginning to wane.
When he was finished, Zoro brought the plate to the sink.
"Thanks," he said, "it was really good."
"Are you really that drunk?" Sanji asked. He hid his surprise behind a smirk. Zoro had never complimented his cooking before.
Zoro laughed, just a light chuckle, but laughter. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I missed your cooking."
"Yep," Sanji said. "Definitely drunk."
"Shut it," Zoro said. Then he retreated. Back to his room, Sanji supposed.
"Hey, Zoro," he called, stopping the man before he could get too far. "Wake me up if you want food in the morning, idiot. Don't let me just sleep through breakfast."
"I thought you'd be too…" Zoro trailed off.
Too what? Upset? Angry?
"Feeding someone isn't about personal feelings," Sanji said with a shrug. "It's about giving someone strength for the day."
Zoro had that look again, the unreadable, deep look Sanji had seen him wear the first time he and Zoro had spoken after he'd come here to stay. Though the look was indecipherable, it was heavy, and Sanji could feel it crawling over him. It was uncomfortable.
"Go to sleep, moron," Sanji said.
Without a word, Zoro turned to head down the hall. His bedroom door closed with a soft click.
"Why don't you have a tree?" Sanji asked.
He'd been here for almost two weeks now. Christmas was right around the corner, according to the calendar in the hall, but nothing in the apartment had changed or been moved since Sanji had arrived there. The only thing that had changed was that the kitchen had been reorganized to be more convenient for Sanji to use. That was something he'd taken it upon himself to do. Other than that, the apartment was unchanged, and certainly void of any kind of decoration or hint of holiday cheer.
It didn't bother Sanji much. He still had his lingering hatred for the holiday lurking in the depths of his heart, but he couldn't help but find it strange. Christmas was a holiday most people loved, a time for friends and family. Zoro hadn't even put up a tree.
The girl on the answering machine had called again, inviting Zoro to their Christmas dinner. Sanji didn't comment on it this time. Zoro erased it immediately, as before.
"Why would I get a tree?" Zoro asked.
"For Christmas?" Sanji said the words as if they were obvious.
Zoro grunted, standing from the table to deposit his breakfast dishes into the sink. He didn't say anything more, and Sanji let the conversation die for the moment. He knew better by now, anytime he tried to get information out of Zoro, he felt the other man shut down. Nothing.
Zoro headed to his bedroom, and emerged again with the tube he sometimes carried in tow. He walked by the kitchen, barely sparing Sanji a glance, like usual, but today, he stopped.
"Have a good day," he said, so low Sanji almost missed it. And then he was gone.
Sanji smiled, just slightly, and continued about his cleaning.
Zoro came home with a tree, a box of generic white lights, and a package of glittery bulb ornaments.
Sanji stared from the kitchen entryway. He wore an expression of disbelief, he could feel it etched deeply into his face, but he couldn't will it away. Not when Zoro was standing there, looking at him with clear, dark eyes.
"I'm not decorating this stupid thing by myself," Zoro said.
Sanji rolled himself into the room, eyeing Zoro carefully.
"Are you drunk again?" he asked.
Zoro's frown deepened. "No! You said you wanted a tree."
"I didn't want a tree. I hate Christmas." He said it automatically, with a bitter bite to the words. The inflection did not go unnoticed by Zoro. Sanji moved on.
"I just asked why you didn't have a tree," he said.
Zoro looked back at the tree. "Well, help me put this damn thing together anyway."
Sanji had no choice, his hands reached automatically for the ornaments in Zoro's hands.
He remembered doing this with Zeff, putting up a tree and filling it with a hodgepodge variety of ornaments that the old man had collected throughout the years. Sanji had his favorites, ornaments he loved getting to see just this one time of year. He remembered the quiet humming of Christmas tunes that came from the radio.
As he'd grown older, the magic and the joy of Christmas diminished, but he had still looked forward to getting to put the tree up.
Sanji hadn't put the tree up the year Zeff had gotten sick. He'd been too busy, rushing in and out of the hospital, trying to spend as much time with Zeff as possible while he kept the restaurant going. He never put a tree up again.
His movements came automatically, as if he put a tree up every day. As if decorating it were a habit, not a hobby or a special occasion. He felt almost nothing as they put the tree up together, but his hands knew what to do without him.
"Why do you hate Christmas?" Zoro asked.
Zoro was standing closer to him than he'd ever stood before. In the soft glow of the Christmas lights, Sanji could see there were gold flecks in Zoro's dark eyes. He'd never noticed them before. Nor had he ever noticed the multitude of scars along Zoro's arms, crisscrossing and marring the tanned skin.
Sanji had half a mind not to answer the question. He wanted to tell Zoro to mind his own business the way Zoro always did. But the words came from him, spilled from his mouth like a secret confession.
"I used to have a home. A father. A job. A life," Sanji said. "I lost everything, one Christmas at a time."
"How is it Christmas' fault?" Zoro asked. He spoke slowly, carefully. He was testing the waters.
Sanji didn't answer for a moment, but Zoro didn't press.
"It's not," Sanji said at length. "I just don't have anyone else to blame."
That night, Sanji slept in the soft glow of the Christmas tree. His dreams were filled with Zeff and days working on the line. When he woke, he forgot them immediately.
It was Christmas Eve. Sanji was just putting the final touches on their meal when Zoro came home.
Zoro didn't come home like he did every day. He half-stumbled, half-fell through the door, managing to catch himself just in time, and causing the plates to rattle in the kitchen.
"What the—" Sanji's words died on his lips.
Zoro was leaning heavily against the opened door. Half of his face was covered with blood. His shirt was covered with it as well, an especially dark stain on his side hinting at more damage underneath. His hands had left blood prints on the usually white door.
"What the hell, Zoro!" Sanji pumped his arms, pushing his wheel chair as hard as he could towards the man.
Zoro seemed to relax at the sight of him. His grip on the door went slack and he pitched forward. Sanji managed to wheel himself underneath Zoro just in time. Sanji could feel the wet, sticky heat of blood permeating through his clothing. He ignored it, wheeling backwards away from the door. Zoro's body dragged along with him.
"You're warm," Zoro commented.
"Shut up, moron," Sanji snapped. It was harder to move the old chair with two people on it. The wheels creaked and groaned from the weight, but Sanji pushed on.
"Get on the couch," Sanji ordered, the moment he had rolled close enough.
Zoro grunted but didn't move.
"Jesus Christ, Zoro," Sanji snapped again. There was way too much blood leaking into his clothing. "I'm paralyzed, remember?! Help me out and roll your ass onto the couch."
Zoro did so, slowly and like the movement took great effort, but at least he was off Sanji for the moment.
"There's a first aid kit in the bathroom," Zoro grumbled. He sounded tired. He looked pale. His usual golden-tan skin was washed out and grey looking.
"Fuck the first aid kit," Sanji said. "You need to go to the hospital."
Sanji moved his chair, rolling it towards where the phone sat, intending to call an ambulance. Zoro stopped him with a grip that was surprisingly strong for someone that was bleeding out.
"No hospitals," Zoro demanded. He met Sanji's eyes with a look of fierce determination.
"Fine," Sanji spat. "Just keep in mind that if you die it isn't my fault!"
"No." Zoro seemed to agree. "It was my fault."
Sanji didn't stay to hear more, he wheeled himself down the hall to the bathroom.
The major problem with being confined to a chair is that everything is built to the needs of a person who can walk. Sanji glared up at the mirror. He knew there was plenty of medicine in that cabinet, and probably a first aid kit too, but even if he managed to get the mirror open, how was he going to reach it? His usual helping hand was bleeding to death on the couch.
That thought spurned Sanji into action once again. He didn't have time to be sitting here wishing he could walk for the thousandth time.
Sanji turned around abruptly and rolled himself back into the kitchen. He tried not to spare a look at the couch in the living room as he went. He grabbed the broom that leaned against the far back corner and rushed back to the bathroom.
Using the handle of the broom, he managed to catch the edge of the mirror. He tugged, hoping the handle didn't slip. The mirror popped open, swinging wide and bumping against the wall. Sanji didn't stop to check for damage. On the top shelf, he could see what he needed. Again Sanji used to broom to try and coax the first aid kit off of the shelf.
Several bottles and containers fell from the shelf, landing with a loud clatter in the sink or onto the floor around him. Sanji didn't bother with them, he concentrated, trying to wedge the white box out. It teetered, swayed, and then fell with a loud crash into the sink.
Sanji could have cried from victory, but there wasn't time for that yet. He abandoned the broom and with the first aid kit and rushed back to the living room at a speed he didn't know he could reach.
Zoro looked much like Sanji had left him, still too pale and breathing quick, uneven gasps.
"You idiot," Sanji swore. He had barely had the presence of mind to grab some towels from the bathroom before he left, and he set to work trying to clean up the blood on Zoro's face. The gash ran vertically from Zoro's forehead to his cheekbone, right through Zoro's eye. "You'll be lucky if you still have this eye.
"The one on my side is worse," Zoro said. His voice was weak, lacking the usual power it seemed to possess. He didn't sound like the Zoro Sanji had come to know over the past few weeks.
"Can you sit up?" Sanji asked. "Otherwise I'm cutting your shirt off."
Zoro did manage to sit up, and he and Sanji worked together to pull the shirt up and over his head. The cotton made a wet sound as it fell against the carpet. Zoro groaned as he settled back against the couch, and swore. A sweat started to break out on his forehead.
"Quit being a baby," Sanji said, though, looking at the damage, he couldn't blame Zoro too much. The gash in his side was deep, and ran from the left side of his chest back, under his arm, almost around his torso. It was as if someone had found the curve of his ribs and followed them delicately with a knife. The cut was clean, almost impressive, were it not for the blood that was steadily pouring from it.
Sanji wadded up a towel and shoved it against the wound. He pulled Zoro's opposite arm across his body and rested it against the towel. Zoro hissed in pain.
"Hold that," Sanji said. "I'm going to need to sew you up."
"Okay," Zoro grumbled. He sounded tired. Blood loss would do that to you, Sanji supposed.
"I've never done this before," Sanji added.
Working in a kitchen taught you how to doctor minor wounds. Burns, small gashes, Sanji could fix those just fine. Antiseptic here, a bandage there, maybe some super glue on a particularly deep cut, no problem. He'd never had to sew up a slice this deep or this large.
"Okay," Zoro said again. Permission granted. Zoro didn't have room to be particular.
Sanji opened up the first aid kit. Apparently, stitching up wounds wasn't a new experience for Zoro. There was already surgical thread and fresh needles inside. Sanji was glad, that would save him the trouble of having to be creative.
Sanji rolled himself to the kitchen and filled a pot with the hottest water the tap had to offer. Thankfully, his usual stool remained where he always left it. He was used to climbing onto it by now, though moving a full pot of water with him resulted in a mess.
The urgency had left his body. He still moved quickly, but those moves were more methodic, efficient. This was just like cleaning a cut of meat. He'd sewn plenty of meat closed in his time. It was just like that. Sanji could feel the automatic movements of years of cooking practice take over. Before he was even aware of it, he was sinking the needle through the severed flesh.
Zoro grunted, his breathing picked up a little, but he didn't move, and he didn't complain. That was good. Sanji worked quickly but carefully, weaving the needle into and out of the meat, tying each stitch off the way he had been taught. Zeff would have complimented his style. It was almost perfect.
Sanji snipped the thread at the end. A job well done. The wound was closed. Sanji ran a warm, wet towel over the area one last time, cleaning away the remaining blood. A small amount of blood rose into the gaps between the stitches. Sanji wiped it away again, gently, and no more came to replace it. It was done.
"Good," Sanji said. "Now let's look at your eye."
Zoro rolled back onto his back so Sanji could look at his eye properly. Now that his panic had subsided, Sanji could see this was not the first time Zoro had come home sliced up.
"Jesus Zoro," Sanji said, almost breathless. His fingers found the massive scar that cut the man in two, diagonally. "Do you have a death wish?"
"It's worth it," Zoro said.
"What the hell could be worth more than your life?"
Zoro didn't answer. Sanji moved to attend to Zoro's eye. He didn't feel comfortable stitching that area, but thankfully he didn't have to. The cut was deep, but nothing some butterfly bandages could keep closed. When it was cleaned and bandaged, Sanji finally sat back and took a deep breath. He felt tired.
"It's a promise I made," Zoro said.
Sanji had been half zoned out in his chair, staring at the blood that had dripped onto the couch and wondering where he was going to sleep that night.
"What?"
"I made a promise," Zoro said again. "That I would take down a certain guy." He pointed towards the door, where he'd thrown whatever he'd been carrying aside when he'd arrived. There was a plastic bag, and the tube Sanji saw Zoro carrying with him often. Curiously, and assuming he had permission, Sanji wheeled himself over to the tube and opened it.
The hilt of a sword, white and gold and stained with blood, greeted him from inside the dark tube.
"What the hell is this?" Sanji asked. He didn't touch it. It felt wrong.
"My katana," Zoro answered as if it were a normal thing to talk about. "I made my promise on that."
"To take down some guy?" Sanji asked, incredulous. "Do you realize how stupid you sound? You could have died!"
"This isn't anything." Zoro waved him off. "I've had worse."
Sanji could see that, there were scars left behind as proof.
"That doesn't make it okay!" he argued. "What good is a stupid promise worth if it gets you killed in the process?"
Zoro stared at him. He looked tired, like he needed to sleep for the next twenty years, but his eyes were surprisingly clear.
"If I die, then that just means I wasn't good enough," he said. "But I'm willing to die for this. Don't you have something you want to stake your life on? Something you wouldn't want to let go of, even if it cost you your life?"
Sanji sat in stunned silence. He did know what that was like. He loved the restaurant, it was Zeff's restaurant, but it was his too. It was his memories, his childhood, his life. That was why he gave up everything to try to save it, to keep it as his own. He'd lost everything, but he gave it all up without a second thought to try to save his restaurant. He had failed, but his failure had also taught him a lesson.
"What about your friends?" Sanji asked quietly. "Luffy, and the girl."
"What about them?" Zoro asked. He wore the guarded expression he always did when he felt like Sanji was prying to deep, but he didn't stop him this time.
"Aren't they important too?" Sanji asked. "You do care about them, right?"
"Of course," Zoro scoffed. "But that doesn't mean—"
"Then why push them away?" Sanji asked.
It was Zoro's turn to be stunned. For a long moment, his slack-jawed expression stayed frozen on his face. Sanji watched him intently. Zoro was a man that wrapped himself in mystery, refused to let others in, and would gladly trade his life for his cause, but he was still just a man. He was admirable, maybe, but also flawed.
"I…" Zoro finally attempted to speak. "The promise I made… I have to fulfill it. They know that."
"If they know that, then why push them away? If you know this promise of yours might get you killed, why don't you cherish the life you have a little more?" Sanji asked. "It's great to be so dedicated to something, Zoro," Sanji said, "but it's stupid to be so selfish."
Zoro didn't respond to that. He didn't look Sanji's way. His jaw was stubbornly locked, the way it always was when he felt Sanji went too far and pushed too much. After a few moments of tense silence, Sanji sighed.
"Can you walk? You should go to bed," he said. "You need the rest."
"Yeah," Zoro said, pulling himself off the couch.
He moved slowly, and hissed when he twisted or moved the wrong way, but his feet held steady. He'd make it through.
"Drink some water before bed," Sanji reminded him. He didn't look Zoro's direction. He didn't really care. "You need to replenish your fluids."
Sanji pulled the last clean towel from the coffee table and spread it over the dark stain on the couch. He would have to curl up to avoid sleeping in it, but just in case, he wanted a barrier of protection between him and the blood.
Before he went to sleep, he heard the faucet in the kitchen running. He smiled a little before he caught himself. Okay, he cared a little.
The next morning, Zoro made a phone call.
The voice on the other end of the line was female and spent a good few minutes shouting into the receiver. Zoro winced but kept the phone to his ear to hear her out.
Sanji figured he knew who was on the other side of the call, but he listened quietly anyway.
"Nami," Zoro interrupted the woman half way through her rant. "I'm sorry."
Silence.
"I was thinking… maybe if you and Luffy wouldn't mind… I could stop by today?" A pause while the woman shouted some more. "Yeah, I know it's Christmas. But I'd really like to."
The woman spoke, but her voice was quieter now.
"Yeah, yeah," Zoro answered with sarcasm thick in his voice. "I'll bring you a gift to make up for the trouble."
More quiet speaking from the woman.
"Okay. I'll be there." A Pause. "Yeah, you too. I missed you guys too."
They said their goodbyes after that. Sanji couldn't stop himself from grinning, though he quickly tried to wipe the smile from his face as Zoro approached the couch.
"You might have been right," Zoro said.
"Might have?" Sanji asked, barely managing not to laugh.
"Okay, you were right," Zoro admitted. It looked like it pained him to do so. "I'm not going to give up, and it might cost me my life. But they are important too, and I want them to remember that even if I…" He paused. "Even if I'm not around to tell them."
Sanji did smile then, but he tried to hide it from Zoro. "I guess even moss-brains can change."
"Shut up," Zoro said. He left the room after that. Sanji could hear water running in the bathroom.
Sanji pulled the blanket back and straightened out his legs, being careful to place them away from the bloodstain. He'd have to figure out how to get rid of that later. For now he needed to focus.
Just one toe. Just a twitch.
And then, it happened. Just a twitch, just one small movement, but a movement nonetheless. Again, Sanji thought. And it happened again. The twitch became a wiggle, and then a bend. He could do it, he could move his foot!
"Zoro!" He called. His joy was insurmountable. He didn't care who, he wanted to share it with someone.
The excitement in his voice must have come off as urgency, because Zoro came into the living room, moving as fast as his injuries would allow.
"What?" Zoro asked. "What happened?"
"Look."
Sanji wiggled his toes, all of them now, and rolled his feet around as well. The feeling was returning to his legs, he could almost bend his knees now.
Zoro stared, a mixture of awe and something else evident in his expressive eyes. It was something that was preventing him from feeling the true joy that Sanji felt about the matter.
"What does this mean?" he asked Sanji.
Sanji bent one knee, and then the other. He swiveled his body, and placed both feet firmly on the floor. They didn't hang like dolls legs, they sat the way his feet should. With both feet planted on the ground, he pushed himself up.
Zoro's hands were there within seconds, supporting and guiding, but not helping. No, Sanji was standing on his own. His balance was poor at first, his legs still weak from a month of disuse, but he gradually became steadier and steadier until Zoro could step away and Sanji wouldn't fall.
Sanji looked down at his feet, and he couldn't resist smiling. Finally, he wouldn't be confined anymore. He could finally go anywhere and do anything.
"I guess…" he hesitated, looking to Zoro again. "I guess this means I'm done here."
The words carried heavy meaning for both of them. It was the thing they both knew in their hearts, but that neither had ever brought up. He could see the weight of those words in Zoro's stare.
"I guess you were my last endeavor," Sanji said.
"What if I asked you to stay?" Zoro asked.
"You wouldn't do that," Sanji said, confident. He looked to the wheelchair, the one he'd been confined to until he fulfilled his purpose.
"No," Zoro said, "I wouldn't. But that doesn't mean I don't wish you would."
"Heh," Sanji snickered. "Did you grow attached to the guy you ran over?"
A pained look crossed Zoro's features. The joke had been almost funny once, but it wasn't at the moment.
"I'm sorry," Zoro said.
Sanji shrugged. "No need to be," he said. "Besides I think I did way more good with my afterlife than I did during my actual life." He paused, his eyes lingering on the Christmas tree. "You gave my existence a purpose."
"I didn't do shit," Zoro said.
Sanji smiled, but his smile didn't sit right on his face. It felt forced, unnatural. He had been ready to go before. Now he found it difficult.
"I guess this is goodbye then," Sanji said.
"Wait."
Sanji felt his body turn, felt Zoro's hand on his arm. He could feel the warmth of Zoro's lips as they pressed against his own, conveying the sentiments Zoro could never find the proper words for.
And then he felt nothing.
And then he was gone.
A/N: This is just an extra Christmas/holiday gift to my readers. Thank you all so much for your support.