TITLE: The Way to a Man's Heart
AUTHOR: endsoftime
PAIRING: ZoroxSanji
RATING: R, still, because I'm a wimp. It could get a an M, due entirely to Sanji's uncontrollable need to pepper all his sentiments with crude language, but it isn't as though you people would expect anything less from our favorite salty chef ;)
SUMMARY: Sanji's continued thoughts about a certain swordsman and the grousing, dysfunctional thing they call a relationship.
NOTES: Not mine, except the place Pandina. All mine, right there. Also, this is a fairly long piece, and it is exclusively flashback. None of this is going on in real time.

Chapter Two - Prostitutes, Cheap Booze, and an Insight or Two

The crew had docked in a small village on the edge of the Grand Line to make some emergency repairs to the Merry; the crew had gotten caught in a truly evil storm, and their beloved ship had paid the price

The crew had docked in a small village on the edge of the Grand Line called Pandina, to make some emergency repairs to the Merry; the crew had gotten caught in a truly evil storm, and their beloved ship had paid the price. The damage was too bad to keep sailing, so they dropped anchor in the nearest place they could find so Ussop could patch up all the holes. After checking with some of the natives, they discovered the Log Pose would take close to twelve hours to set; the crew found it as good a time as any to go unwind. It had been a good four and a half weeks since the Straw Hats had set foot on solid ground, and the normally happy-go-lucky crew was starting to not-so-happily contemplate acts of violence. A break from one another's company was in dire need.

Sanji had gone off solo that night, scoping out beautiful ladies and food supplies in the market. He always restocked the food whenever they made port, since there was no telling when the unforgiving Grand Line would give them another break. But out of the corner of his eye, the dutiful cook also made note of any gentlemen's clubs that might catch his fancy. He wouldn't be in town long enough to attempt charming any woman on the street — which, given the option, was what he preferred since it offered a challenge — so Sanji decided to keep his mind open to the possibility of a more temporary company. Another reason he took charming over purchasing was just that: if he worked his magic right, the former was usually free. And his Goddess of Money, Nami-san, didn't like it when he spent his money on women. She kept telling him it was because he did it at almost every stop, but he knew in his heart she was truly jealous.

Even if she had yet to realize it.

It was while he'd been prowling the edgier side of town that he happened across a seedy tavern. He glanced at the tilting structure with its sign nearly falling off, and listened to the shouts of profanities flowing from the door that didn't hang quit straight. He'd grinned and found himself wondering if the fucking marimo knew about this joint. It looked right up his alley. A gruff, run-down, piece of shit pub full of big, drunk bastards acting like hard asses in a desperate attempt to compensate for something.

Yep, sounded just perfect for that meathead.

That's when the pub door flew the rest of the way off its hinges and crashed to the ground in front of Sanji, accompanied by a formerly-conscious body. He looked from the mass of matted hair and ratty clothes, to the now open doorway of the tavern. A certain tall, green-haired man was adjusting the three swords that hung from his haramaki waistband as he reclaimed his seat at the bar. Sanji's grin widened.

Zoro was so pathetically predictable.

The baka-swordsman went back to whatever pig swill he'd been drinking, and Sanji noted with another vaguely amused smirk that the rest of the patrons edged a little further away from him.

Morons, Sanji thought. They're just feeding the idiot's ego.

He wasn't sure when he became aware of it, but eventually he realized that he was in fact walking into the pub. Perhaps the idea of bursting Zoro's tough guy bubble was too alluring to pass up. So he walked in, noting the cracks in the walls and the slightly off-center ceiling. The whole place stank of acrid smoke and cheap booze.

Fuck, this sot can sure pick the shittiest bars, he thought with a disgusted sneer. He'd been too distracted with the offensive atmosphere, though. The refined cook was now almost upon Zoro, and he still hadn't worked out the perfect plan for reducing him to mere bitch status in the eyes of these equally pathetic drunks. Before he even knew what he was going to say or do exactly to piss off the marimo — before he even really reached the other man — a flurry of scarlet and black blurred Sanji's vision for a second. Only a second, but it was long enough for someone to have beaten him to the swordsman.

A suggestively-clad woman had swooped down on Zoro and latched herself very firmly to his muscular arm. Sanji halted quite suddenly; he had never seen a woman approach the marimo before. Usually they had the good sense and foresight to see a lost cause when it showed up, but this one was either drunk or — dare he think it — a little off. Either was a sound guess, since she remained unconcerned as the brainless oaf merely stared straight ahead and kept on drinking, taking no more notice of the lady than if she were a fly. In fact, Sanji suspected the oblivious asshole would notice a fly before he ever blinked twice at that woman.

The chivalry within the cook wanted to rush to the woman's aid and educate her on what a grave misunderstanding she had unwittingly blundered into…but a more mischievous side of Sanji was rather curious to find out how exactly the romantically-challenged swordsman would handle this sort of situation. So, he quietly backed up a few paces and took an empty seat around the corner of the bar, giving him a clear view of every move the marimo made. He even indulged in an uncustomary mug of ale (he assumed their wine would be shit, anyway) and sat back to watch the show play out.

The sight was pretty entertaining at first. The sultry woman was really pulling out all the stops: she batted her long eyelashes, whispering things close to his thrice-pierced ear, hugging his arm to her chest in a very intimate way, and all the while ordering the rather silent man drink after hearty drink. This lady wanted something, and she wanted it badly.

And then he saw her small, pink tongue peek out from between her pouty lips and lick slightly at the bits of metal dangling from the other man's left ear-lobe. Sanji could hear them knock together softly but clearly above the deafening din from where he sat roughly thirty feet away.

And suddenly he felt like it had been a mistake to hang around.

There was something…slightly unsettling, and…awkward about seeing a woman act that sensually with Zoro. After all it was…well shit, it was Zoro, for fuck's sake. This sort of thing didn't happen. At least not to Sanji's knowledge. He told himself he'd feel just as weird about watching a lady put the moves on Ussop or Luffy — or shudder Chopper — but still. It just seemed wrong. And what bugged him even more was that he wasn't totally sure why it was wrong. After all, Zoro was a grown man, and therefore was given to natural male urges. It wasn't really all that different from what Sanji had himself intended to do that night. But regardless of knowing that, Sanji was starting to plan the best way to make a very covert and sneaky getaway without drawing the swordsman's attention.

It didn't look like that would prove a very difficult task, however. Zoro hadn't shown a single sign of life other than breathing and drinking for going on five minutes now. He simply stared straight ahead, every now and then raising the mug to his lips and tilting his head back. Wherever the moron's mind was, it was no where near the pub at that moment. In fact as time went on — and no, Sanji hadn't been smart enough to duck out, yet — the cook became slightly…intrigued by Zoro's brooding demeanor.

Not concerned.

Like hell Sanji would ever be worried about that asshole. He was just mildly curious as to what his fucking problem was. It wasn't often that he saw that look on Zoro's face anymore: that distant, resigned, unfeeling sort of look. It'd show up once in a great while when Sanji caught — caught, not watched — the swordsman meditating. It was a pretty good indication that whatever was on the man's mind was not pleasant, and he didn't want to talk about it. Not that he ever wanted to talk about anything, anyway.

But Sanji had seen it full-blown only once. An unending hopelessness, and a grim acceptance of failed dreams and shattered fate. He'd only seen it once.

When Zoro fought Mihawk. And lost.

The only time Sanji had ever seen him lose. The thought of that look, and the blood that consequently followed, still made Sanji's hair bristle slightly, and a small cold thing slithered quickly through his gut.

The cook was a romantic, and a chivalrous knight at heart. This was true, and he was proud to admit it. He would fall shamelessly and passionately in love with any woman he saw. He offered his heart up on a platter on a daily basis, and felt it his sworn duty to protect delicate women whenever the occasion arose.

But he was now seriously contemplating shoving the harlot away from Zoro.

It wasn't because of anything…weird that he was feeling…not like he wanted to protect that goddamned muscle-head or anything, but…shit he was nakama, sort of, and he had to look out for his fellow crewmates. And besides, with that ugly mood, the baka-bushido might snap the woman's neck if Sanji didn't do something.

And…that fucking look…he didn't know what she was saying or doing or if she was even playing a factor in why that damn expression was still on the other man's face, but she sure as hell wasn't helping anything. And Sanji just wanted…what the fuck did he want? He wanted that look to go away.

But before he'd developed a plan for saving the asshole — before he could even figure out why he felt he had to in the first place — the woman apparently decided it was time to up the ante. It must have been a split-second verdict, because Sanji barely had time to blink before the move was made. And what a move it had been…

In a whirlwind of fabric and teasing thigh, the woman had hoisted herself on to Zoro's lap, took his face in her dainty hands, and drew him into a deep, full, and demanding kiss.

Sanji's fingers went numb; the mug in his hand dropped with a jarring noise on to the bar's grimy counter.

And then, inebriated and unaware of present company, Zoro placed his large hands roughly on her narrow waist, and, without hesitating a second, he…he kissed her back. Honestly, and in every meaning of the word; the swordsman moved in on her with as much intensity, if not more. He kissed her like she was the fucking love of his life!

He kissed like a pro.

Well…it looked like it, anyway. Not that Sanji was grading him on his performance but…shit the goddamn marimo looked like he knew what he was doing.

Just what the fuck is he doing?, Sanji's startled brain wondered. This is...it's…I mean, I don't…WHAT THE FUCK, RIGHT NOW?!

The cook was unable to make a truly coherent thought in his head; too many things were whirling around too quickly, and he couldn't focus on a single damned one of them.

Who the hell does she think she is? What is she after? It can't be his good-looks — not unless you like the big, clumsy morons with way too many muscles…although I've seen him fight, and his swordwork is pretty smooth, and he's surprisingly light on his feet despite those gigantic, clunking boots, and he does move around a bit fluidly, but he's got green hair, for shit's sake, isn't that kind of weird…okay, well maybe people find it exotic, or something, and the spiky cut makes it look sort of like grass, but soft grass, like right after a rain, not that parched shit, but earrings on a guy are just dumb, I don't care if it's supposed to be some dumb-ass symbolism 'cause the marimo uses three fucking swords, big fucking deal, it's still stupid, but I guess the gold-ish metal looks sorta kinda good, y'know, next to the tan skin, 'cause it's all about darks and lights contrasting, and other such bullshit, but it's an okay image, I guess it works for him, but those fucking muscles, shit, there's way too many of them, why the fuck would anyone want to be with a guy too built to even move properly, except that he is taller than average, so he carries the bulk fine, maybe, so it doesn't look so obtrusive, especially his forearm, with those deep indentations where the muscles show, but don't bulge, just the right amount of definition, and the same with his neck, like the cords there just protrude enough to stretch the tan skin tight and firmly, and it looks sort of odd under her softer, pale hand—WHERE THE FUCK IS HER HAND GOING!?

The flooding, nonsense-thoughts in Sanji's brain came to a screeching halt as he watched, mouth hanging open, as the buxom woman's hand slid slowly and purposefully down the swordsman's muscular neck, over his hard chest, and traveling lower still, reaching now his stomach, his side, his waist, his…..pocket?

Sanji frowned as he saw that small, lithe hand move in teasing circles around the area he imagined — but not at length! — Zoro's hip to be. And as the hand arced slowly and lingeringly, it traveled down; dipping back up from time to time, but always heading south, towards the fold of trouser that was the marimo's slightly open pants pocket.

Holy shit!, Sanji thought, his eyes widening for the fiftieth time that night. It was a good thing he'd given up drinking that mug of ale; otherwise most of it would have ended up sprayed all over the counter and his suit. The cook wasn't entirely sure he could withstand anymore surprises that night; his heart was thudding slightly.

Holy shit, his brain supplied again, the little tart is trying to rob him! So that's what she was after!

And for reasons he could not, and probably would strive his entire life to never understand, Sanji felt relieved by this new revelation. His long fingers sought the smooth wood of his mug, just for something to hold onto. Tilting his head down, he frowned slightly at his golden-brown reflection staring up at him from the alcohol.

I should stay away from this shit. It makes my head funny…maybe the bastard marimo was right when he said I was a light-weight…

The fucking marimo! He was getting robbed just then!

The fuck am I doing staring at my drink? The asshole's too far gone to notice what she's doing! But why am I so goddamned concerned? He's nakama, right? Can't let nakama get robbed under my nose. But this would teach him not to give in to every woman he…wait, no, that's me I'm thinking of. Seaweed-head's never let a woman do this to him before, why the fuck would he start now?

Unless…he really isn't…

Whatever the baffled cook had been thinking was stricken from his mind when he realized, with some amount of relief, that the woman's wandering hand had been stayed by the swordsman's much larger one. The passionate make-out session ended abruptly just then; the two of them moved about five inches apart and sort of stared at each other.

But Sanji expected the uncouth asshole to simply chuck the pick-pocket to the floor, like his demeanor so suggested he would. He was shocked — yes, again, and his blood pressure was getting worrisome — to discover both Zoro and the woman grinning at each other. The woman, Sanji couldn't see too clearly; his best angle was really of Zoro's face, and a narrow slice of her profile. But the look on Zoro's face alone was enough to give the cook's poor, overworked nerves another good rousting.

Sanji wouldn't really call it a kind grin. It wasn't actually a grin at all; more of a cocky smirk. Not all that friendly, either. He'd seen this look before, too, but unlike the darker, more detached brood of earlier, Sanji had encountered this particular expression more times than he ever cared to. Whenever this smirk was directed at Sanji, it tended to result in him trying his damndest to put his foot through the asshole-swordsman's skull. He'd had little success up to that point, but he was still holding out hope.

It was a mocking kind of sneer that Zoro always wore when he was confronting an enemy that he already knew he'd beaten. It was meant to say, "Back the fuck up out of my space, 'cause you aren't worthy to share the same air current as me."

And this enemy, like so few before her, actually got the hint. What little of her grin Sanji could make out seemed to suggest, "I know when I've been beat."

The woman laughed slightly, a bit of her cheek glowing red. "Guess I better shove off," she said.

Zoro's eyes narrowed, but the smirk remained in place. "I think that'd be a real good idea."

"Can't honestly say I didn't enjoy it," she said, quickly running her previously wandering hand through his short, green spikes.

"Can't honestly say I share the sentiment," was his blunt reply.

She gave another breathy, anxious laugh, slid from his lap, and hurriedly made her way from the pub without a backwards glance. Sanji caught a pretty good look at her face as she passed; for a woman who was obviously seasoned in this line of work, she seemed awful embarrassed at getting caught. That's what it had to be.

That was the only explanation Sanji would allow.

He refused to accept the possibility that the baka-bushido was actually that good of a kisser. It was utterly incomprehensible, not to mention bullshit.

But since the show was obviously over — and Sanji would be lying if he said he wasn't slightly relieved — he decided it'd be a good time for him to duck out also. Wouldn't do for the drunken asshole to catch him there and start interrogating him in the only way he knew how: with swords. And Sanji tended to find that Zoro was inexplicably harder to fight while the latter was inebriated. So dropping a few beri on the counter to cover his drink, which went mostly forgotten that night, the cook resisted the urge to glance at his crewmate and simply turned for the door.

In retrospect, Sanji figured he probably should have looked; it might have made him more prepared. Not for everything, because there are just some things not even a psychic can predict. But he might have been more aware of the fact that there was a rather solid body standing directly behind him as Sanji rose from his seat.

As it turned out, he didn't know this until he'd already headed for the door, and rather jarringly found himself obstructed. His head made an interesting whump noise as it collided with someone's firm, hard shoulder. His hackles raised, the cook's head whipped up as he hissed venomously, "Oi, shithead, watch where you're —"

It was Zoro.

Motherfuck, right now!

And the swordsman didn't look too pleased, either, although Sanji was surprised to see the other man not quite as sloshed as he figured he would be; especially not given the dozen empty tankards he'd left behind. But, Sanji realized, he'd have to be somewhat lucid to have realized the little tart was picking his pocket. His dark eyes were bright, alert, but unexpectedly cool. He didn't say a word.

"Well, ain't this an unpleasant surprise," Sanji drawled as calmly as he could, trying to act as though he hadn't just stared avidly as the swordsman tongued some whore, who then tried to rob him. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Which, debatably, could have been the stupidest thing Sanji was capable of saying. It wasn't surprising at all that Zoro was here; in fact, it was far stranger that Sanji, with his refined tastes and high standards, was anywhere near this shitty bar. And that meant he was only there for one reason: because Zoro was there.

Sanji was praying that the swordsman's lone functioning brain cell, aided by the extreme booze consumption, would render him incapable of figuring that out.

Whether he realized it, or even bothered to think about it, was a moot point; Zoro still said nothing. His dark eyes continued to bore a hole through Sanji's skull.

"What the fuck are you staring at, marimo?" the cook demanded, glaring. "Get the hell out of my way!"

And still. Still no reaction whatsoever out of the damn cabbage-head. He just kept staring, expressionless, unblinking.

He didn't know why, but Sanji slowly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something was…off about this whole exchange. This wasn't how things happened. Shouts and curses and broken chairs and potentially lethal attacks; that's how things got settled between the two caustic nakama — reaction of some sort, at least! Not this fucking silence!

Suddenly, Zoro moved in; only about an inch or so, and placed his large hand on the bar top behind Sanji. His head tilted down a fraction, angling his dark eyes at just the right pitch to be truly intimidating. Perhaps not to Sanji, or rather not under normal circumstances. But tonight…tonight was different, for whatever reason.

Alarm bells went off in Sanji's brain, and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't the swordsman's slightly closer proximity; they'd slammed foreheads together during screaming matches in an attempt to further piss the other off on numerous occasions. Mere physical nearness wasn't enough to make Sanji concerned; it was mostly that look. Zoro may have appeared calm and more or less indifferent to the untrained eye, but Sanji could feel a strange tension rippling in the air, just below the surface. There was something in that look; something Sanji was pretty sure he'd never seen before.

And it made him nervous.

Not that he'd ever admit it, or anything. Like hell he'd give that asshole the satisfaction. But in the months that the cook had sailed with him, he'd never once been intimidated or cowed by that colossal, muscle-bound doofus, even when other people clearly were. Even when there was substantial evidence that this particular moron probably, sort of, in a way deserved to be feared. Where other, lesser men flinched and ran for cover, Sanji would merely flick his cigarette and charge with full ass-kicking intent. He had the swordsman's number, to a degree, and he knew the bastard had his. That's mostly why they fought: they knew the other could take it. But Sanji was quickly starting to realize that this was not their run-of-the-mill confrontation. This night was laced with all new agitation and pissed-offedness that the cook had never experienced.

For the first time in memory, Sanji didn't have a fucking clue how to respond.

And then the bastard smirked.

It wasn't good natured by any stretch of the imagination. It was taunting and sardonic; it mocked Sanji straight to the core. And usually, a look like that was grounds for Sanji's insanely powerful legs to take over, and use whatever force necessary to kick (literally) that goddamned infuriating look off the swordsman's smug face. To strike and block and push him back and dodge a deadly blade that swung through the air with no reservations, like liquid lightening in an impossibly controlled grip. To dance this violent dance that kept them sane, that fought off the boredom, that let off steam, that bound them together in an infinitely sicker and more profound way than any other members of the crew. A rivalry so deep it brimmed on outright hatred; a camaraderie so complete that they understood that underneath every breath and every tick and every grunt and every curse, there was an unspoken belief in that absurd word "nakama."

But this was not that. This was something different. This was raw and foreign. They were treading dangerously on unfamiliar ground. Ground that, to Sanji's muddled opinion, seemed very unstable. One false move and then…well, after "then," Sanji wasn't really sure what happened.

"I hope you enjoyed the show."

The sudden break in the silence jarred the cook's roiling, jumbled thoughts like a gunshot in his ear. In fact, he jumped so badly, he knocked his back into the hard wood of the bar counter, and became aware, once again, of Zoro's hand resting just behind him.

Sanji's functioning brain cells came to the unanimous conclusion that they didn't like the swordsman's hand there. That's as far as they got.

Zoro was moving in again, very slowly narrowing the distance between them with predatory intent. That hunter-musk rolled off him in waves, washing over Sanji and nearly overpowering his other senses which were, for the time, content to go absolutely batshit crazy. The only thing he was still certain about was the fierce desire to get the hell away from this creepy bastard with his unsettling smirk and his animal-stalking approach and that glint in his eye that made Sanji's brow twitch and tiny shivers spread over every inch of skin.

Shit, he needed a way out of this!

"You seemed really interested in this part," the swordsman said, voice barely above a sinister whisper.

And then a large, rough hand gripped at Sanji's jaw, while a hot, hard body pressed his light frame into the unforgiving wood behind him.

An unyielding mouth crushed itself against his own, and the poor cook's brain sputtered to a stop.

Volts of electricity sparked and hummed through every nerve, making his fingers and legs jerk a bit. But everything else had locked up sharply. Sanji may as well have been a light post, for all the response he gave. He was too shocked to try and throw the bastard off, and Zoro's lack of breasts in favor of other anatomy prevented Sanji from giving in to the contact. So he made no movement and waited for it to just be over.

But then that other pair of lips parted, and a wet tongue swept tauntingly over Sanji's fiercely clenched mouth, making his breath hitch harder, and he didn't even feel the bar counter anymore. It didn't try to force its way through the barrier; it simply let Sanji know that it was there, and then just as quickly darted back, taking the mouth with it.

Hot breath rolled over the cook's frozen features, threatening to melt them. "If I ever catch you stalking me again, I'll cut you in ways that will make you useless to a woman."

And the heat and the pressure and the domineering presence suddenly retreated.

Sanji didn't remember watching the swordsman turn his back on him and walk from the bar, although he assumed that's what happened.

He may have blacked out, he may not have.

He didn't quite remember too much about the rest of the evening. The next thing he was aware of, he was lying in his hammock in the boy's quarters, staring unseeingly at the darkened ceiling, without a clue as to how he got there.

He guessed he'd walked.

He might have hitched a ride on a stampede of substance-abusing trolls, for all he knew.

What he did know: there was a faint humming just below the skin of his lips. And his breathing wasn't regulated yet.

Sanji rolled over and decided to sleep.

His brain, for once, said nothing.

Sorry about the long ass delay! I was in Florida until recently! Whoops! I'll do better, I swear! LOve Much!!