Anyone who knew him knew that he could sleep anywhere, anytime, under pretty much any circumstance. Through storm or disaster or Usopp's most congested snoring, if there was sleeping to be done, then he was damn sure doing it. Other than the sword, his ability to sleep was the skill in which he took the greatest possible pride.

Except right now he was tired, unbelievably so, and he was unable to sleep because it hadn't happened yet. His eyes were opened and glaring in the darkness at the mess of blonde hair on the pillow beside him. The shitty cook was laying there, unmoving and apparently unconcerned that since he hadn't done what he was suppose to do, the man who had just generously supplied him with a fairly good stretch of energetic sex was unable to sleep.

Pissed to the point of distraction, he was a little startled when a familiar hand reached out and lazily dropped across his chest. It shifted slightly, softly, until it found the strike of raised skin standing as a prominent thing. Long fingers edged with sharp callous raised from different circumstance than the ones on his own hands, but with equal devotion, traced around the closed wound. They moved slowly, carefully, with blind examination, as if confirming that the life inside stayed sealed. Starting at the point low on his belly they slid up searching for danger or proof or something else, before stopping above where his heart beat beneath.

Just like every night since they had first tumbled down into whatever this was, Zoro closed his eyes not thinking about reasons or explanations, not thinking about the warm press of possession tracking the steady rhythm of his body, and finally, was able to sleep.