He had known it was going south, long before it truly did.
She had started as a frightened, mewling, shaking creature, pleading with helpless eyes for comfort and for a gentle touch. She had been so easily soothed at first: soft strokes against her sweating brow, light and calming kisses on her shaking hands. It started out that he could wrap his arms around her, hush her in a whisper, rock her almost imperceptibly back and forth; she would nearly burrow into him, pressing her tearstained cheeks to his chest, racing pulse slowed just by the sound and feel of his heartbeat.
But she wouldn't talk. She wouldn't speak of it. And as she woke from the truly heinous nightmares (the ones in which she gasped and shrieked like a drowning animal, flesh quivering, wetting herself, fists balled so tightly that she cut her own palms with her remaining nails), he would have to hold her firmly. She would scramble against him, clutching and digging into him, grabbing at anything real and physical, tightening her shockingly strong grip on his shoulders, his arms, his back, his hair. She would bury her face in his chest and scream for ages, muffled against him, pulling in deep and desperate wheezes for breath as she seemed to nearly die before him.
The nightmares became worse. Her eyes took on a haunted appearance. Dark circles extended below. Her terrified pursuit for comfort began to drop off. She would only accept his hand on hers as she awoke with snapping eyes and clenched teeth. She stopped screaming. She stopped pleading for him, crying out his name even as he had held her as close as humanly possible without merging with her very flesh. She seemed to slowly stop everything, except a neverending quest to get out of that bed.
In the beginning, he would fetch warm water and a soft cloth and clean her body as she sat wrapped in a blanket. She was at first so traumatized that she probably would have sat naked before him and not even noticed. He insisted, though, that she keep herself covered everywhere except where he washed. He kept his touch gentle, tested the water's temperature often, made sure to never allow the rough hem of the cloth to contact her delicate skin. He dabbed at her bruises to minimize any discomfort. Sometimes he had to stop, close his eyes, clench his teeth. Sometimes the rage built up in him at seeing what those monsters had done to her…she was a good woman, a good person. She was beautiful and kind, thoughtful, intelligent, caring. And as he applied ointment to the cigarette burns on her breasts, he thought he could have thrown his swords aside and torn their bodies apart with his bare hands, made them suffer just one ounce of the horror they had put her through. When she soiled herself after screaming night terrors, he'd held her and rocked her and never minded the smell. Once she'd calmed enough to come back to herself, he would fetch the water, the cloth, the sweet lavender soap she liked best. He'd comfort her, lay kind hands on her until she felt ready, and then he would bring her the blanket to cover herself, uncovering only the bare edges of what he needed to, and would apply himself to clean the end effects of their unspeakable cruelty. When he was done, he would ensure she was dry and warm; he'd kiss her and change the sheets, hold her hand until she drifted into sleep, safe in his presence.
But as her soul had soured with their late-effect rot, she looked more like a hunted animal. She began to look at him with different eyes and he could feel the twin emotions of suspicion and betrayal behind her fear. He knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He obeyed her. He respected the overzealous, frightened boundaries she erected. The first time she pushed him away, desperately squeaking out a "no…don't…please", he'd put the distance she needed between them. She was well enough on her feet to keep herself sanitary, was able to apply some level of rationality to her nightmares…he hoped.
She just needed time. Another day. Another week. She would come around. Until then, he wouldn't force her to endure his presence if she didn't want it. He refused to push her. It would be cruel to make her process this any faster than she was naturally doing; surely she would come around.
He watched with clenched jaw as she paid lip service to all on the crew; it was so transparent. There wasn't a moment she wasn't trembling just under the surface with anger and terror. He wanted deeply to swoop in, gather her in his arms, assure her that no harm would come to her here, that she could trust them all, that not one had ever once considered taking advantage of her…not even the lecherous cook. They respected her, cared about her, and valued her; none would hurt her. And if they did, they'd be sliced into a thousand pieces by her swordsman guardian.
But he could see that she could not see that. She was blind to anything but her own turmoil. He was helpless, as were they all. And so he waited.
That night, though, he heard her ragged gasp as she woke from her dreams. Half the crew likely heard her. It wasn't as subtle as she perhaps thought. As she stumbled onto the deck, he watched her, watched the defeat in her posture, weak against the rail. And he saw goddamned Sanji. He knew it wouldn't turn out well, but hesitated to intervene on her behalf until there was actually a problem. Maybe for once in his life, he would be able to clamp down on his idiotic determination to inflict himself on one of his beloved ladies.
There was no such luck. When Sanji's fingers first twitched as he began to raise his arm to her shoulder, Zoro knew there would be a fucking problem. She didn't want his hand on her, clearly. He could smell terror rolling off her as he jumped down from the crow's nest, felt her scream reverberating in his soul. Gods in heaven, she's never screamed like that, even at the worst. Never. He couldn't get to her side fast enough; the others must have been hovering at their cabin windows, waiting to descend on her. They seemed to be there in a flash, bearing down on her as she scuttled backward in blind, hideous, shocked horror. They reached toward her to…what…help her up? Lend a hand? Pat her shoulder? Zoro felt enraged that they should negate all his effort at giving her space, all his acquiescence to her irrational but necessary needs.
"Get out! All of you! " They looked at him, confused. "I said, get the fuck away from her! Right now! Leave her! Back the fuck off, everybody!" They weren't moving fast enough, and Zoro felt incited at their ignorance of the situation. "NOW!"