Ah, reviews…lovely stuff…always such a pleasure to read. (beams) Thanks everyone for taking the trouble to leave me a note!

Some people have asked about writing more on Luffy. I'm sorry, but it was not my intention to devote one chapter to each character although it may seem that way. Yup, so Luffy won't be appearing much anymore. But with the limes gone, I imagine he must be trying to get his hands on Nami's tangerines. After all, tangerines are much like limes-taste and colour aside-they are only bigger, so they'll work even better! (laughs) Yes, he's such a dear, isn't he?

On with the chapter. Beware the angst.

The Longest Night

"If it weren't for him! Him and his stupid warped priorities, his pig-headed stubbornness…it would never have come to this! Sanji would have been alright!"

"C'mon, Nami…don't be like this. Zoro meant well too."

-forty-one, forty-two, forty-three-

A trembling breath, her eyes were dry but the tears in her voice were clear as it emerged in a whisper. "He won't make it past tonight."

-forty-four, forty-five, forty-six-

"I'm sorry…I…I just…I can't deal with this, okay?" She ducked her head and ran from the cabin.

-forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.

Forty-nine. Two heartbeats less from the last time he checked in the previous hour.

Zoro sighed wearily, slowly removing his fingers from Sanji's wrist.

They've tried, they all did. Nami had scrutinized every inch of her maps for any island with the remote possibility of habitation which she might have missed or they might make in good time given the favour of the winds. Luffy had sat on the sheep figurehead for hours on end gazing across the sea for any passing ships which might have a doctor they so desperately needed on board, while Usopp did the same from the crow's nest.

But there was nothing. No ship or island. Absolutely nothing but an endless uninterrupted span of ocean.

So this is how it'll end, Zoro thought as he stared idly through the window at the dark night sky.

After Nami left the cabin, he had sent Luffy and Usopp out as well, although they had both protested vehemently. But he was resolute. They do not need to see this. Nami was right, it was he who prevented the amputation, it was he who had made the decision and he should be the one to shoulder the consequences.

If this was the end, this long painful wait for the inevitable, then he would stay here and face it alone.

He frowned, his eyes roved distractedly around the room before settling on the wound and Sanji's hands. With all the fuss that idiot put up about his precious hands, he had thought that they would be flawless, although most certainly weak and useless. Indeed, the cook had beautiful hands, fine-boned and elegantly shaped, with fingers that were as long and slender as the rest of him. They were the hands of an artist, or perhaps a musician. Yet, they were surprisingly strong, with a litheness that came from years of practice in the kitchen, working at tasks that required a fine balance between strength and delicacy. There were scars too, some from times when he got careless with a knife, others left by burns that must have been serious. Every scar was a sign of his effort, each one carved with his own sweat and blood to map the journey towards his dreams.

Each a triumph, each a defeat. Each a reminder of the purpose of his life, making him who he was today.

Something resonated deeply within Zoro as he looked at them. They were not unlike the scars that marked his own body, detailing his path towards fulfilling his oath. He realized, that even now, he did not regret his decision to prevent the amputation that day.

No, he did not regret it. But sitting alone in the velvety darkness with no one there to see him, watching the moonlight cast grey misshapen shadows about the cabin that swayed eerily with the rhythm of the sea, he could finally admit to himself, he was afraid.

Yes, he was afraid. Afraid for this thin, frail friend who lay in obvious agony on the couch.

He won't make it past tonight…

The cook groaned, twisting under the sheets. He winced, his good hand moved clumsily to his wound, pulling awkwardly at the bandages in an uncoordinated attempt to tear the hurt away. Even the nails of the good hand, he noted, were turning blue. Sweat beaded his too pale skin and trickled heavily down his face, plastering his blonde hair to his brow and neck. The collar of his shirt was already soaked.

Zoro cursed under his breath and pushed aside his fringe to swipe a cool towel across his forehead and cheeks. Sanji's breath hitched as the cold cloth touched his fevered skin. He was trembling, tiny shivers that sent him snuggling deep into the blankets, seeking for warmth even though he was flushed from the unbearable heat that burned him from within.

Nami knew what she was talking about when she said he wouldn't last the night, Zoro thought grimly. The cook was coughing almost constantly now, sometimes even bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest, the lines of suffering deepening on his face. He was fighting hard to breathe, almost as if it took all his effort to just draw his next breath, each short laboured gasp passing audibly through his slackly opened mouth. The sound of the ragged breathing was loud in the quiet room, grating on his ears and chafing at his nerves.

Carefully, he slipped an arm beneath the cook's shoulders and propped another pillow behind to raise him a little, hoping it'll help him breath easier. Sanji moaned as he settled back down, turning towards him, eager for the additional warmth; his subconscious drawing comfort from having someone familiar near as he wandered in fevered dreams. His hands reached out, grasping blindly for something, anything. A quiet, desperate plea for help.

Zoro grimaced, his gut gave a sharp twist. He caught his hand and gripped it tightly. A great weight seemed to have settled onto his chest and his throat ached with a tightness that he couldn't seem to swallow past.

"Oi, cook." He heard himself say before he was aware he had spoken, his voice unnaturally hoarse. "…you idiot…don't…just don't…"

Sanji's bony fingers tightened convulsively around his hand. A tiny whimper escaped him as he attempted to curl into a tight ball, his body shuddering at the incredible pain.

The swordsman stared at him in anguish. He had never felt so utterly helpless in his life. It was so bloody unfair! They had beaten the Marines fair and square that day. It was not fair that something from that day should crept back and defeat them like this.

Yet, he knew life had never been reasonable. This was no more unfair than being killed by falling down the same flight of stairs you conquered every day.

But oh how he hated it! Hated this feeling of being powerless in face of fate, a weakness that no amount of training and determination can ever overcome.

An unexpected rush of anger sent him surging to his feet. He was suddenly furious with Sanji, for not taking better care of himself, for hiding his injury based on some half-baked idea it would worry them, for letting things get this out of hand.

He stood glaring down at his crewmate, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side, almost shaking with fury.

"Bastard! You know what you've done." He shouted at him. "Don't be a coward, trying to slip away. Come face me if you have the guts to. Come on, open your eyes and face me!"

Then, just as quickly as the anger had struck him, it left, leaving him drained. It was not Sanji's fault for the wound, the infection or how bad things got. If he blamed the cook for these things, he could blame himself equally for not noticing he was ill. There were small signs before, now that he thought back to the weeks after the Marines attack, like how he had seemed quieter than usual and how he favoured his injured arm.

Feeling deflated, he sank to his knees by his side.

"Nami said you won't last till morning, you know." He went on conversationally, absently straightening the blankets, trying to make Sanji comfortable. "Idiot, can't you for once-just this once-not do as that woman says?" He asked fervently. There was a pleading note in his voice and he was glad no one else was around to hear it.

"Are you really that weak that you can't even defeat this stupid infection?"

A long silence punctuated only by the sounds of uneven breathing and harsh coughing answered him.

Zoro shook his head, realizing he had been holding his breath, half-expecting the cook to open his eyes and leapt up to prove him wrong, the way he did every time he delivered an insult or took a jibe at his strength. He huffed out a short laugh, feeling foolish that he had been speaking to the cook at all, when he obviously couldn't hear and even more unlikely to respond.

"But of course," He continued bitterly anyway with a smirk. "you won't do as I say. It would be just like you to go against me, wouldn't it? Seeing that you fight with me over nearly everything?"

He sighed, picked himself up and crossed the room so that he could sit with his back leaning against the wall. With knees curled to his chest and arms laced loosely around them, he sat watching his crewmate grimly and prepared to wait.

This was going to be a long night.