TITLE: The Way to a Man's Heart
AUTHOR: endsoftime
PAIRING: ZoroxSanji
RATING: NC-17!! YAY!! SEX!!
NOTES: Nun of eet ees miiiiiine!! I weesh eet wur!! Also, reeeally reeeeeaaaally long, n' shit!
Chapter Five — A Cook's Guide to Suicide, Step One: Preheat the Oven
As much as Sanji would have liked to simply sit out on The Merry's deck and pretend he didn't have anything better to do, the cruel truth was that he did have something better to do, namely breakfast, which he'd already pretty well fucked up from making it at such an ungodly hour, and then reheating it — reheating, for fuck's sake! — and Sanji couldn't afford to be anymore disgusted with himself lest he end up rutting around the utensil drawer for a blunt object to end his life with.
That, and a certain goddamned marimo that he'd done a spectacular job avoiding thus far was due out on that very deck for his daily crazy-masochistic-training-ritual any minute now, and Sanji wanted to be well out of eyesight by then. Which made that ridiculous fucking pain in his chest that absolutely fucking was not guilt twinge in an irritating way, because before all this heavy funk and abstinence hit, the cook had not really, sort of, secretly, in his own way enjoyed watching the muscled freak weight train.
Well shit, what red-blooded male wouldn't? He's no luscious, beautiful maiden, but even dead-straight guys would have to admit the marimo can be fucking hot when he's not running that ugly mouth of his. I mean, fuck, those veins bulging around ropes of coiled steel, all wrapped in tight, tanned skin with beads of sweat following every groove and hollow, making it sleek and glowing and wet like fucking sin personified, and…
And this was not helping the problem.
So with a deep heave on oxygen, for once, since Sanji's cerebellum couldn't seem to coordinate a simple "light-cigarette" function, the cook pulled his tired limbs off the ship's deck and ambled back into the safety of the galley…..
…which he realized with an agonized sigh that he'd left as a goddamned battle zone about an hour earlier.
Well…fuck.
But there was nothing for it, and Sanji went about straightening the hell-hole with minimal cursing, which was just another testament to how goddamned exhausted the cook was. And the day had only just started.
Sanji reached into his pocket and fished out his carton of cigarettes. Only six left.
Shit…
Sanji had just enough time to sweep the floor, right all the upturned furniture, and glare in self-reproach at the broken dishes in the sink before the ravenous zoo that was the fearsome Strawhat Pirate Captain made his presence known by slamming noisily — and bodily — through the galley door, knocking over as many things as he possibly could.
"Sanji!! Is breakfast ready? I'm staaaaaaaaaaarving!!"
The cook rubbed his temples, knowing he should feel incredibly annoyed, but he was just too damn exhausted. He barely even blinked at the new destruction of his kitchen. "Yeah, Luffy, breakfast's ready. Go call the rest of them."
Luffy laughed and cheered, ducking back out the door, screaming that he would eat all the food if his crew didn't hurry up, which wasn't really an empty threat, and it had the desired effect; the rest of the Strawhats came scrambling into the galley (except the ladies, of course), and took up their unofficial positions around the small table. Sanji made sure his beautiful angels had their meal, serving them first while glaring Daggers of Death at his salivating captain; the boys' plates fell in front of them with a dull clunk.
It wasn't until everyone at the table had tucked in that the cook realized they were one short. And by this time, he wasn't at all surprised, just oddly deflated. In addition to the indefinite pause in whatever this weird….thing was between Sanji and the swordsman, the latter man had been making himself infuriatingly scarce around the cook at all times. Every meal for the last six days saw the crew one green-haired idiot shy of a full deck. None of the others thought it very wise to comment; not after the first day, when Ussop was rewarded for his damned curiosity by a very well placed kick in the jaw from a seriously strung-out blonde. Then he'd gotten three more kicks, just to make sure he learned his lesson. Ussop didn't walk for another twelve hours. So no one brought it up again.
And whatever fucked up pain was in Sanji's chest, it was the same damn thing that was keeping the fascist chef from giving Zoro hell for his meal-time absences. He just sighed heavily, like every other day, and piled some bacon, eggs, and dry toast on a plate, and set it outside the galley door; just like he'd done every meal, three meals a day, for a week. After shielding the food with a tin cover, the cook headed back into the kitchen, fighting off the ridiculous need to sigh again.
"Luffy, you better not have eaten everything behind my back," he muttered half-heartedly. Fuck, he was tired! He needed a nap. Or something.
"Nope!" the lanky boy chirped, a very proud grin stretching his face.
Funny, Sanji thought, frowning. He's been pretty well behaved the last few days. Still slightly skeptical, Sanji checked all the pots and pans and found, to his continuing shock, that the bottomless pit actually hadn't eaten every trace of food.
"Thanks for the grub, Sanji!" Luffy called suddenly, and tramped out of the galley. Ussop and Chopper followed, chattering loudly about the new weapons the long-nose was crafting to defend against the vicious five-headed, three-mouthed, fanged, drooling monster of the deep they were soon to encounter, with Chopper practically pissing himself with fright/glee. Nami and Robin didn't linger, either, and for once Sanji couldn't decide if he was disappointed or relieved for the solitude. With nothing better to do, and a head full to the bursting point with too many disturbing, not-until-hell-froze-over-guilty-marimo-thoughts, Sanji started cleaning. Again. Scrubbing the table a second time didn't take long. And washing the used plates and utensils went by smoothly. He didn't even break anything this time. No thinking. No feeling. Keep it quick, and efficient, and uncomplicated. Something had to be at some point that day, and Sanji already proved cooking wasn't going to do the trick.
He managed to successfully shut his normally over-active brain off through most of the cleaning. It wasn't until ten minutes later and he was packing away all the left over food that something very odd occurred to him: it suddenly dawned on Sanji that not only hadn't Luffy pilfered any food, but he hadn't even asked for seconds before tromping out the door. And there was something so utterly wrong about that, Sanji actually pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. No single serving of anything would ever be enough for Luffy, unless it was a serving for twenty people (with gluttonous eating disorders). It stood to reason, then, that the rubber vacuum was getting food from somewhere else, but where Sanji had no…
He wasn't sure how exactly the thought came to him, or why it hadn't earlier, but Sanji wasn't concerned with particulars as he launched himself clear across the kitchen, kicking the galley door open so hard the brass handle broke through and stuck in the adjacent wall. And then that deadly leg swung down, leather-soled foot stomping hard on a squishy hand that guiltily reached for the covered dish Sanji had left out only moments before. Crumbs littered the deck around it; without even looking, he knew the plate was already empty.
Luffy yelped and tried to pull his hand away, but Sanji's hold was merciless. Vein throbbing, pulse thundering dangerously, fury rolled off the blonde in a visible smog. The cook from hell glared down at his captain, who was attempting for the most innocent look possible. And failing.
"What. The fuck. Are you doing?" Sanji bit out, voice tight through clenched teeth and a murderous haze.
And for the first time since he'd been sailing with him, Sanji saw honest fear in Luffy's dark, round eyes. "I-I just saw the plate and the food smelled good, and I figured no one would mind if I ate it. No one's name was on it! Plus it was just sittin' there! It looked lonely." Luffy tried for another pout, but Sanji was having none of it.
"I don't waste food, shitty bastard!" he growled. "I put that goddamned plate out for a reason, and it wasn't so you could have a fucking snack!"
"But the food's been out here every day for a whole week!" Luffy whined.
"The fuck does that have to do wi—"
The cook wasn't even close to being done tearing the rubber dumbfuck a new asshole, but the last thing he said finally sunk in.
But the food's been out here…every day…a whole week…
The cook went very rigid, his stomach plummeting out of his shoes, to be replaced by a cold hunk of lead. A whole week…
Luffy blinked up at him, curiously. "Ne, Sanji?"
A whole week…
"Hey, are you all right?" the captain asked, trying vainly to tug his hand free. "You look kinda sick all of a sudden."
A whole…week!?
Sanji crumbled to the wooden deck as if all his bones had been removed. Luffy whooped at the release of his captive appendage, but quickly leaned forward into the cook's face, looking oddly serious.
"Sanji? What's wrong, ne?"
Sanji's long fingers rubbed at his eyes that burned slightly. A whole week. Luffy's been eating every meal that I've set out for the whole week. Zoro hasn't eaten anything in a whole week. I've been starving him for a whole FUCKING WEEK!!
He crushed his palms into his eyes and groaned pitifully.
Fuck fuck fuck, God fucking dammit, shitfuck, motherfuck, ass dick shit fuck, fuck!
Having all that out of the way, Sanji sighed, and ran slightly trembling fingers through his already-much-abused hair. It had been such a very long day, and it had only just begun. Sanji decided he'd really rather jump off the ship and drown than have to take even one more step. He'd rather just crawl into his hammock and sleep for fifty years, when all the mortification and self-loathing have leeched out of his bones, or until he dies. Dying sounded very appealing at the moment. That or a coma. Something that included no conscious thought for a very, very extended period of time. Like eternity. But no, he was a cook, God-fucking-dammit, and he had to do his job, regardless of how tired he was, or how fruitless the endeavor seemed with chuckled-headed morons like Luffy around, or how utterly distracting the fucking non-guilt-pain in his chest was becoming.
So with a grunt, Sanji heaved himself once more off the deck, dusting off his pants, and wishing perhaps for the fifty millionth time that he could light a goddamned cigarette. That was probably another reason for this fucking day dragging along like it had. No bursts of nicotine to help pass the time, since his other, more entertaining distraction had been ruthlessly taken away. But he wasn't thinking about that. In fact, none of this was even about that. It was about a certain asshole of a swordsman who hadn't eaten in a fucking week, who Sanji had to feed, or else. Even if the only reason Sanji had to worry about this at all was because the fucker had been skipping meals, but he'd been skipping them for a reason, a reason Sanji wasn't thinking about, because it goddamn fucking was not about that!
"Uuhhhhh….Sanji?" a voice suddenly cut through the cook's vehement musings. He looked down, surprised to see his captain still on the floor, peering up at him from under the dingy brow of his strawhat.
Hmmm…honestly forgot about him….
"Yeah, Luffy?"
"Are you better now? You looked like you were gonna puke a second ago."
Sanji, despite his exhaustion, and irritation, and non-guilt, managed to somehow grin at the boy. Without faking it, too. "Yeah, I'm fine now, Luffy. Didn't break your hand, did I?"
Luffy's smile stretched, literally, from ear to ear. "Nope! Just scared me, is all!"
"You're lucky I wasn't serious, shitty rubber-boy," Sanji scoffed. "You might not have ever been able to use that hand again if I'd meant business."
"Hee hee! I'm glad you're better!" And satisfied that his cook had finally returned to normal, the captain flung his arm haphazardly behind him, and rocketed off to some odd corner of the ship, inflicting as much serious structural damage as humanly possible. Sanji merely shook his head, trying not to chuckle, and turned towards the galley once more. He was quite certain he heard Ussop sobbing just before he closed the door behind him.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The meal was simple enough; an innocent deli sandwich with smoked ham, cheddar cheese, mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, and flakes of red peppers for bite. Nothing showy, but, in Sanji's humble opinion, perfectly executed. For the first time all day, his nerves were somewhat calm, and he didn't tremble. The cook even allowed himself a brief hum before he got too tired to remember how the song went. The sandwich was placed on the freshly cleaned plate, sans tin cover, and looking positively perfect. Sanji even contemplated letting the bastard drink the good sake with his meal before he remembered booze on an empty stomach was never a good idea, not even for monsters like Zoro.
Water it is, then, and he go straight to hell if he complains!
It really was the most in control Sanji had felt since waking up that morning. Things seemed to come together, and he had a little spring in his step as he wandered around the galley, putting ingredients away. There was an odd calm settling around his thoughts at knowing he was doing what he was meant to do; something reassuring about that sort of absolute certainty. He sighed, grinning slightly, and carried the plate and glass of water with him out onto the deck once more.
The peaceful, confident feelings bubbling in Sanji's gut remained there for the exact length of time it took the chef to locate Zoro. But once the form of the swordsman napping against the ship's rail on the aft-deck came into view, all such bubbles popped none too forgivingly.
Sanji's footing faltered, almost sending him sprawling to the wooden floor below. His breath wasn't coming as easily as it had a few seconds ago, and he couldn't remember feeling this claustrophobic when he first walked outside. But on he trudged, feeling oddly like he was walking to the gallows, and stopped just short of casting his lanky shadow on his napping nakama. Raising one foot slowly off the ground, Sanji opened his mouth to speak, to give a fair warning before his own brand of wake-up-call came crashing down on the swordsman's gut, but then he watched as that firm chest moved up and down, heaving with a bit more effort than normal, and maybe his muscles look slightly smaller all of a sudden; and his face definitely seemed thinner, and a mite hollowed, and Sanji tried to swallow, but his throat was coated with sand paper, so he choked instead. His suspended leg quivered slightly, and that odd-as-fuck pain in his own chest pulsed very viciously, making damn sure Sanji knew it would be giving no quarters. His heart spasmed and thudded hard against his ribs. Cold sweat drenched his brow.
Fuck, I can't do this! he thought wildly. I can't wake him up, I can't say anything to him, I think my heart'll fucking explode if I even try!
Now, BlackLeg Sanji is no goddamned coward, and there isn't a soul alive who could attest otherwise.
But at that moment, Sanji rather understood what Ussop so frequently went through. A sudden case of "I-Don't-Think-I-Should-Wake-the-Green-Haired-Fucker-Up-Cuz-I-Wanna-Live-to-Be-Twenty-Disease" had just taken hold. And he didn't even know fucking why!
So Sanji decided rather hurriedly that he'd just set the tray down beside the swordsman, kick him fast, and then fucking bolt; make sure the asshole gets his food before Luffy finds it, but also get the hell away from him before he could try and kill Sanji, for whatever reason he might want to. Sanji wasn't really sure why the ero-bushido would be pissed at him, but it seemed like he was, and the cook really didn't feel inclined to find out why until he had the mystery behind the fucked up chest-pain solved. He didn't want to admit that the two might be distantly related issues, but things weren't making sense period (like why Sanji was so inexplicably freaked out by the green-haired jackass), and he really didn't feel like pressing his luck too much. At least, that's what half his brain told him. The other half, the half that got Sanji into most of his fights with the marimo, was snarling at him to wake the fuck up and call the bastard out, and get the fuck over all this girly, tip-toeing-around bullshit. Sanji was a man, goddamn it, and fuck all if he was gonna roll over and let a shit-faced dumbfuck walk all over him. God damn the consequences!
This all sounded very well and good in Sanji's head, when he happened to glance down and finally noticed the pair of dark eyes staring listlessly up at him. And in the blink of those eyes, all of Sanji's machismo, and a good majority of his vital organs, plummeted to the floor.
A sharp, green eyebrow angled up slightly. "You need something, baka-cook?"
At the sound of that voice, thankfully, Sanji's battered male pride managed to slink back into place. Well, the cook thought, he doesn't sound pissed.
"Yeah," he drawled, and was pleased with how calm and bored his voice sounded. "Apparently some fuckwit on this ship hasn't eaten in six goddamn days because he's functionally retarded." Sanji lowered the plate, then dropped it unceremoniously on the deck beside the reclining swordsman.
Zoro eyed it a second. He looked back at Sanji. "I skipped meals 'cause I wasn't hungry, shit-cook."
Sanji's lip curled. "Like I fucking care. I'm the cook on this psycho boat, and as long as I am, this crew's eating whether they want to or not. Make my job difficult, and I'll lay you out on the deck with a fucking indentation in your ugly face. I doubt you could put up much of a fight, looking all starved like you do," he finished, sneering, although he didn't really find it amusing at all.
A vein ticked slightly in Zoro's forehead. "The fuck did you say, dartboard-brow?" he grumbled.
"I said," Sanji stooped, getting right in the swordsman's face, "I could kick your ass with both legs tied behind my back, asshole."
A fist suddenly swung up and knocked Sanji in the chest, sending him sprawling back on his ass and coughing. The swordsman now towered above him, dark eyes slightly shaded from the sun directly over head, and it looked ominous, and a little familiar, but Sanji was ignoring the single tongue of fire that licked his insides, because, like the cook had said before, it wasn't about that. A rough hand grabbed the front of Sanji's jacket and hauled him off the floor, dragging him so close Sanji's nose nearly brushed Zoro's, and he could see little flecks of green in the other's dark irises.
"Makin' a claim like that, fucker, you better be able to back it up," Zoro's voice rumbled low, and Sanji tried really hard not to shiver when warm breath washed over his face.
It's not about that, it's not about that, it fucking is not about that!
And then Mr. Male-Pride returned, unexpectedly, and a voice in Sanji's head said, "Fuck it all," and it might have actually come out vocally, but Sanji didn't really give a shit. His right leg bowed out and then swung up, catching the swordsman right in the temple, making him release the maltreated jacket, and stumbling a few feet. And the cook wasted no time; didn't even let the fucker get his footing back before he charged forward, flipped on to his hands, and leveled three lighting-fast blows against Zoro's chest and gut. Then Sanji flung himself upright once more, angling so he landed right on top of the swordsman the second his green head hit the deck, and it was the fastest Zoro had ever gone down before, but Sanji refused to think about why, because it wasn't about that. When his thin hands reached down to grab the struggling swordsman's face and crush their lips together, Sanji realized it was actually about this, and it had always been about this because this was all that there was between them, and why the fuck couldn't Zoro just hang his ego long enough for them to screw, and get the frustration out so everything could just fucking go back to normal!
There was a span of about two or three seconds when the body below him was too shocked to respond. When it finally did, an iron fist slammed into Sanji's jaw, sending him through the air to land on his ass again. And Sanji wanted to sob from the frustration and rather painful rejection, but he decided getting pissed was so much more productive. Or something.
Well fuck, if he's too weak for a fight, and he still won't fuck me, might as well piss him off as much as I can!
"What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole!" the cook growled, launching back to his feet, because the sight of Zoro looming over him when there wasn't a good fuck in sight was still enough to raise his hackles. "Since when the fuck are you such a goddamn prude?" Sanji closed the distance between them, leg once again raised and ready to deal out some major hurt. Tough titties if the marimo-head can't fight up to par. He deserves an ass-kicking anyway! That's what he told himself, anyway.
Zoro remained silent, wordlessly blocking every devastating blow Sanji could dish out, letting the cook push him back, because he probably didn't have enough energy to go on the offensive. And Sanji wasn't an idiot, he'd fought with the moron long enough to interpret just about every move, whether large or subtle, that the swordsman made; from swinging three deadly blades through the air with sharp precision, down to the arching of a single eyebrow. Nothing got by Sanji, and he knew he was taking advantage of Zoro's depleted state, and the pain in his chest hummed and hammered against his ribs, and the fact that the asshole was just standing there, taking it, letting Sanji fuck with him this way only served to piss the cook off more. But it'd be a cold in hell before Sanji admitted he was mad at himself. So he got mad at Zoro instead.
"So what's really the problem, Marimo?" Sanji taunted, a sick grin sliding up his face as his leg flew through the air like a scythe. "Did you forget you had a dick or something?" He heard a growl from his complacent sparring partner, but he was too busy sweeping out at legs whose foot work was faltering enough to make Sanji hate himself just a little bit more; legs that managed to dodge the sweep at the last second, making Sanji bite back a snarl of irritation. "No, don't tell me!" he went on, barely containing his disgust. "You were wanting me to bring you flowers and candies! You were waiting for me to ask you to fucking marry me, was that it?" And he didn't really know why, but that last comment made something spark behind Zoro's eyes, and it wasn't a good something, and before he could avoid the sudden trap he'd landed himself in, Sanji's leg swung in a roundhouse towards the swordsman, who grabbed it mercilessly, pinning it against his side.
Zoro grabbed the lapel of Sanji's jacket once more, twisting the cook at an odd angle to glare him in the face. If looks could kill…
"What the fuck do you want from me?" Zoro's voice was full of hate and fury, and so low it was barely even human. Like a tiger's rumble.
There was so much about all of this that made Sanji want to jump over board and never resurface, but his brain had been hijacked by his libido and he couldn't seem to stop the things coming out of his mouth.
"I want you to fucking get me off like before, dumbshit!" he hissed venomously.
Sanji could feel and hear and practically taste all the very bad and wrong things that had just seeped into the tense air around them. And a tugging at the back of his mind told him he had never seen Zoro's eyes quite that shade of black, or his lips curled in such an odd-looking sneer that bared clenched teeth, and it made him sick. When arms and hands released him except for one hateful fist in his jacket, and began hauling him down the stairs of the aft-deck, Sanji had half a mind to tear away and hide for the rest of his life. But when the door to the darkened storage room was kicked open, and a web of sweaty, moan-filled memories slapped the cook in the face, his legs nearly buckled as every ounce of blood in his body slammed straight into his groin. He was hard before he even blinked. There was still badness hovering at the back of his brain, but he couldn't dwell on it. Not here in the darkness. Not where he'd wanted to be, with this man for one long, hellish week.
The fist had to practically drag Sanji the last five feet to the crate of spare rope. One hard shove and Sanji landed with a grunt on the crate that soon turned to a low moan when the swordsman wasted no time pawing at the desperate bulge in the cook's pants. Heat coiled at a frightening pace in Sanji's gut as rough, skilled hands pulled his zipper down. One of those hands reached in, pulling his cock free that was already throbbing at the mere prospect of what was to come. Sanji's slender hands gripped at the edge of the crate, fingers finding purchase in well-worn grooves. Two pumps and pearly-liquid seeped out of the slit, only to be whisked away by an unflinching tongue as it swirled around the inflamed head. Sanji couldn't stop the loud moan that broke past his lips, which he quickly bit to try and stifle the noise. His legs and stomach were already quivering; he wouldn't last too long. The tongue flattened and licked firmly at the underside of his cock, prodding and rolling along the vein that pulsed, and Sanji whimpered through his teeth, eyes clenched shut, everything becoming too much and not enough.
Soon the cook's entire cock was wet and dripping and jerking desperately, and his lungs heaved painfully for air as sweat rolled down his face, and suddenly there was a warm, tight cavern surrounding him, and another cry was strangled out of him. His hips surged forward, demanding more of that heaven, but a firm hand held him pinned to the crate, while another squeezed lightly at his heavy balls, rolling them in time with the fluttering tongue against his hot flesh, and Sanji thought he was dying. But as that wonderful mouth started moving up and down, taking a bit more of Sanji in on each pass, sucking him hard and expertly, that eerie badness he'd felt earlier returned. Even as Sanji panted and gasped, struggling against the hand that held his hips at bay, he could feel a churning in his gut that had everything and nothing to do with mind-blowing torture his dick was being treated to. The air around him had become heavy and acrid, and he couldn't escape the fact that something about this felt so fucking wrong even though it was so goddamned good…oh fuck, don't stop…oh God, more, ah…more please…!
But the badness threatened to be too distracting, until that mouth plunged down as far as it could, taking Sanji so deep he hit the back of the throat, and it swallowed around him, massaging his tip and the tongue managed to sneak down, licking and teasing his balls while a slick finger came out of nowhere, pushing tauntingly, playfully against his opening, and Sanji groaned loud, desperate moans filling the still room and he didn't give a damn if the whole fucking ship heard him, because when that finger suddenly plunged inside him Sanji's brain snapped and he jerked hard against his hold, arching his back obscenely, mouth hanging open and practically screaming at the ceiling as he shot everything he had deep into that waiting throat, pulsing, shaking, fighting for breath.
The come-down was almost painful. His entire body was over sensitized, trembling, cold from the sudden chill against his sweat-soaked skin. And he slumped, feeling satiation sinking into his bones after far too long, and all he wanted to do was steal some body heat. Sanji's hands reached down, brushing sea-green hair as he went to gather Zoro up and steal his own taste from the swordsman's mouth while he summoned the energy to repay him. But his wandering hands were roughly knocked away as Zoro stood suddenly, taking a rather large step back and out of reach. That pain tugged at Sanji's chest, and the wrongness sunk into the room once again as he blinked stupidly up at the scowling swordsman.
"There," Zoro said, his voice hard and edged like a sword. "You got what you wanted, shit-cook. Now leave me the fuck alone."
"But…" Sanji blinked some more, trying to make this all make sense, but the conflicting sensations of orgasm and non-guilt, and this sudden sick dread accosting his gut, made it really hard to do. The best he could manage was a clumsy, "Wh-what?"
"Che," Zoro snorted, lips curling up into a demented grin. "What, speechless all of a sudden? Aren't you gonna gloat what a fuckin' clever shit you are? Got the well-trained swordsman to do what you wanted anyway? Proud of yourself?" Zoro's sneer was almost more than Sanji could handle just then, and that ugliness in his stomach was starting to turn unpleasantly. "Hey, smile shitty bastard," he went on, voice dripping with so much wretched sarcasm, Sanji was surprised the paint didn't peel off the goddamn walls. "You got what you always wanted, right? You get off any fuckin' time you please, and I'm out of the picture. Fuck, the least you could do is say, 'Thank you.'"
Then the sneer dropped, the taunting ended, and Sanji realized just how un-amusing Zoro found this whole situation. His eyes practically radiated blackness, closing off his features, something the cook rather belatedly noticed hadn't happened in a very long time. With another 'tch', Zoro turned on his heel and stormed out of the storage room, slamming the door shut behind him. Sanji just sat on the crate, his pants still open, the dried sweat feeling itchy under his layers of clothing, and the shadowed walls of the room closed in around him, judging him and finding him guilty. Of what, he didn't know. The guilt and the sour in his stomach sort of made him want to puke. Tucking himself away and doing up his slacks, Sanji reached in his pocket for a cigarette, not blinking an eye when his fingers expertly lit the thin stick without so much as a tremor.
He barely got the first lungful in before Ussop's panicked voice bellowed, "MARIIIIIIINES!!" from the crow's nest. Sanji sighed the smoke out, adding to the stale taste of the air in those close quarters.
Fuck, I hate this day…
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The battle sucked. That was easiest way Sanji could think of to describe it. Also, he was a bit too busy dodging bullets and swords to wax poetical about the exact degree and altitude of the battle's suckiness. He was pretty sure that the fight broke most rules of physics; there was no conceivable way that all these fuckers managed to come from one ship. It wasn't even that big of a ship, but every time he kicked a marine's ribs in, more of the bastards sprung up out of the cracks to take his place.
Are these assholes reproducing by spores, what the fuck right now!?Sanji thought as he ducked under yet another blade, twisted in the air, and rammed the heel of his shoe into the nameless shithead's face. Before he even had both feet on the deck, Sanji had to side-step again to avoid another of those fuckers, and these calls were getting closer and closer. He couldn't keep this up for long. It also didn't help that every time he caught a glimpse of green amidst the chaos his lungs spasmed and he forgot what the hell he was doing for a few seconds. Those seconds were all the zealous marines needed bear down, and so they did. Sanji had barely managed to dodge the last attack when suddenly, too quickly for him to think, another blade was sailing towards his chest, and somehow he didn't think he'd be as lucky this time around. Shit! he cursed, doing his best to twist away from a vital injury. Why the fuck does this have to be so hard!?
Someone grabbed him from behind and none-too-gently threw him near clear across the ship, away from the coming assault. Sanji slammed painfully into the outer wall of the galley, choking as all the wind was knocked out of him. He tilted forward, but grabbed his knees to stay upright and get some composure back. And things were happening way too fast, because before he even had a chance to wonder what the fuck that had just been, the last person on earth that he ever wanted to see suddenly materialized in front of him.
Zoro. A very sweaty, pissed-off Zoro.
Mother fuck, right now!
"What the fuck is your problem, aho-cook!?" the swordsman roared, and Sanji allowed himself a moment of utter confusion because, honestly, that had been his line.
"Fuck you, shitty bastard!" he yelled when he had decided he didn't give a fuck what was going on anymore. "What the hell are you throwing me around the goddamned ship for?"
"If you'd get your act together, I wouldn't have to waste my time saving your ass!"
"Go to hell, marimo, don't fucking tell me how to fight!" Sanji was practically spitting rage.
Zoro's eyes, which were still that frustratingly closed black, narrowed slightly, and before Sanji could begin to wonder, an angry fist grabbed the cook's shirt, ramming him into the wall again, but slightly to the right, and guns were still going off; one sounded oddly close, but Sanji couldn't think past the hot hand that pressed knuckles painfully against his chest, and he tried to demand, "What the fuck is your problem," but he never got past the "y" before he was interrupted by an odd sound, like a heavy impact on muscle and skin, followed by the odder sound of wood shattering, and suddenly crimson was arching low in the air between their bodies, catching the setting sun for half a second before splattering to the deck.
Sanji looked at the blood.
He looked at the bullet-hole in the wood just beside him.
He looked at the fist still gripping his shirt.
He looked at Zoro; the swordsman's eyes hadn't left him for even a heartbeat. Despite the bleeding hole in his side, Zoro's sharp, almost annoyed look had never stopped boring a hole of its own through Sanji's skull.
And there was something about that look, and the hole in the wall, and the waves of red that steadily washed over the white cotton shirt, and Sanji couldn't handle it, none of it, couldn't think, couldn't question, and he was just barely aware of pushing himself off the galley wall, marching past Zoro, who didn't bother trying to stop him, and straight into the frenzied clash of violence at the front of the ship. Sanji quickly found the nearest smoking gun, and mule-kicked the asshole's face in. And then he roundhoused the guy standing next to him till his bones cracked, just 'cause he looked guilty enough, and then crushed the guy next to him, and then that guy, and that guy, and him, and him, and him, and —
It took a firm hand on his shoulder, and his captain's voice saying, "That's good, Sanji," before the cook finally came back to himself enough to notice the huge mass of broken, whimpering body's around him. He promptly stopped.
Lighting a cigarette for distraction, and shrugging of the self-disgust at having completely snapped, Sanji asked, "How's the baka-bushido?"
"He's in the sick-room!" Luffy said, not perturbed in the least by this fact. "Chopper's patching up the hole right now, but Zoro's out cold."
Something in Sanji's chest jerked, and it fucking hurt! "Why?" he demanded sharply. "What the fuck's wrong with him?" The cook refused to ponder the odd look his captain gave him, since it was replaced by a huge grin the next second.
"Nothing!" the boy chirped, readjusting his hat. "He's just sleeping like always when he gets hurt. Chopper said he'd be fine!"
That nasty thing in Sanji's chest calmed down. He breathed easier, and almost felt light-headed for it.
"You can go see him when he wakes up, if you wanna," Luffy said, as though that was supposed to be a real special treat for the cook.
"I'll pass," Sanji muttered. The infirmary was the absolute last place he wanted to be now, or ever. He couldn't risk going in there when he didn't have a goddamned clue why he'd overreacted so badly to seeing Zoro injured.
And he really, really didn't want to ever figure that out.
It wasn't until much later that Sanji, lounging — not sulking! — down in the boy's bunk, that he heard the familiar scuffling of hooves making their way down to the lower level. He looked over the edge of his hammock as the reindeer-man hopped off of the ladder, his doctor bag in tow. Chopper glanced up and started dramatically when he saw the cook watching him.
"AAAH! Sanji! I didn't know you were down here! Don't scare me like that, asshole!" he yelled indignantly, while hiding the wrong way behind the mast. The fuzz-ball blinked just then, as though a thought had just occurred to him, and he immediately switched back into Doctor-Mode. "Are you all right? You never came for any treatment."
Sanji managed a rueful grin for his concerned nakama. "Yeah, I'm fine. Not a scratch, actually." Thanks to the shitty marimo, his brain added, but he'd die before he said that out loud.
Chopper frowned a bit, obviously fighting with some innate doctor-lie-detector-radar (Sanji was, after all, almost as bad as Zoro in the realm of machismo), but he eventually nodded his horned head and let it drop.
A brief moment of silence descended, which was quickly gutted when Sanji's gnawing curiosity finally got the better of him, and he practically shouted at the poor fuzzy guy, "How's Zoro doing!" If Sanji'd been going for nonchalant or subtle, he failed dismally on both accounts. He would have run upstairs and shoved his head in the oven that very instant, if Chopper hadn't proven so adorably unobservant.
The little reindeer started again, but recovered quick. "He'll be okay," Chopper said, totting over to his sea chest and storing the clasped bag away. "He lost some blood, but the bullet didn't do any major damage."
Sanji fought hard not to sigh in relief. The bastard's fine! Just like he always is! Calm the fuck down!
"But," Chopper went on, and the cook's head snapped up in attention. "He's really out of it. I've never seen him sleep so much from such a minor injury. And he looked as though he hadn't eaten in a while…" Chopper trailed off, falling silent. Whether he'd come to some understanding about Zoro and Sanji or not, the little Devil Fruit user knew that food was Sanji's domain, and all speculation into that realm was more than unwelcome when it wasn't coming from the cook himself.
Said cook, however, was having a very hard time wrestling with his own inner turmoil. He thought back to his previous oven idea, and noted how very enticing it looked at the moment. The pain in his chest, which he had to admit at this point was probably, more-than-likely guilt, maybe, was wreaking havoc with his lungs, and breath was coming in shuddering gasps that ached ruthlessly. The dread in his gut roiled and bubbled acidy-sickness, until it was all he could do to quit from throwing up whatever he'd eaten earlier that day. And the trembling had returned. Fuck! What the hell is this? I feel like I'm falling apart all over again!
"Sanji?" a worried voice asked rather near him. He cracked open eyes he hadn't even realized were clenched shut, ashamed to feel water leaking from the creases, and saw Chopper standing by his hammock, watching him kindly but anxiously. "Are you feeling all right?"
Again, the cook forced a grin that quivered more than any man's grin ever should, and said, "Yeah, Chopper. I'll be fine. I'm just tired, is all." His voice was ridiculously rasped. Sanji really hated this.
Chopper frowned once more at him, hesitating, looking like he wanted to say something. "I-It'll be fine, Sanji. Honest. Zoro's going to be fine. It'll get better. Honest!" And then the little wannabe teddy bear scuttled as fast as his little legs could carry him across the room, up the ladder, and out of sight, probably assuming Sanji would come tearing after him.
Sanji didn't. He was paralyzed by shock and his own self-destructing body. What the…what the fuck was that supposed to mean…? Sanji swallowed and, tasting the bite of bile at the back of throat, decided he really didn't feel like finding out. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the shaking, he couldn't stop the clench of sickness, he couldn't stop the throbbing pain where his heart was supposed to be, and he couldn't stop replaying everything that had happened that day. Fuck, it had been a long day. It still wasn't over, not really. He hadn't even made lunch yet. Suddenly Zoro's words came floating back to him like the memory of a bad dream:
"You got what you wanted, shit-cook…leave me the fuck alone….you get off any fuckin' time you please…I'm out of the picture…least you could do is say, 'Thank you'…"
The sound may have been muffled, but the bitterness was still as clear as ever, burrowing deep into Sanji's blood, making him sick and shake all over again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and yank all of his hair out. He wanted to burst into that infirmary and kick the ever-loving-shit out of that fucking bastard shitty-swordsman for getting this deep into Sanji conscience and fucking ruining every perception he'd ever had about himself!
So he rolled over and went to sleep. Sanji figured lunch could fuck off just that once.
Sorry for the long wait! RL and stuff like my first year at college is pretty much devouring my soul. So. Yeah. Luvs ya!