CHAPTER FIVE
Sanji's patio
One week later
Just like the swordsman Isshin had been appearing at Trois Bleu every day, he began to routinely show up at Sanji's house at night. Most days, he brought a bottle of something, and offered to share—although Sanji typically stuck to his own wine. He never pestered Sanji to come inside of the house. They simply sat outside in the patio chairs, facing the ocean beyond as they sipped their drinks, leisurely chatting or occasionally sitting in an increasingly tense silence.
Maybe it was only tense to Sanji though; he had begun to feel an increasingly strange and unsettling emotion around Isshin. He couldn't say he particularly liked the man in black—and admittedly, the faint similarities between Isshin and the long-dead swordsman were agonizing. But although he considered it countless times, he couldn't really turn the other man away. Not seriously, anyway. He started to give him some hell about showing up unannounced, but it didn't seem to discourage Isshin in the slightest.
"I can see I'm causing a lot of trouble interrupting the nothing you're doing," Isshin said nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair, one arm tucked behind his head. The moonlight illuminated the small portion of his face not concealed by fabric and feathers, revealing an obnoxious grin.
"Tch, that's a hell of a way to talk, when you keep showing up at a person's house out of the blue."
The man in black shrugged offhandedly, untucking the arm behind his head to reach for his sake cup. "I was worried you'd be lonely, sitting around this big house by yourself."
"Instead of worrying about nonsense like that, you should be worried about how annoyed I am," Sanji shot back, a prickling feeling of aggravation starting to rise within him. Really, these were were the worst moments, when this troublesome man started to stir up his rusted emotions, which he was accustomed to keeping locked away so well.
"It's surprising you have a house like this, actually," the man in black commented.
"Hah? What's that supposed to mean?" Sanji scowled.
"I don't know. It seems a little big, considering you don't have much in there."
Sanji turned his head and peered inside the glass door behind him, contemplating what the other man had meant. He was right; from the patio, it was easy to see the living room and kitchen, and it was indeed quite sparsely furnished—a couch, a couple of chairs, and a small breakfast table near the kitchen.
"It's simple," Sanji replied finally, the lines in his forehead deepening.
"Actually, it doesn't really look like any of the houses around here, either." Isshin tilted his head upward thoughtfully. "Your restaurant doesn't either. I bet somebody who wasn't from around here built it."
Sanji's mouth opened, but he was not quite sure how he wanted to respond. Strange; he never really thought about it, these days, but his visitor was spot on. He closed his eyes in quiet remembrance.
An old shack on Fisherman 9 ("Old" Trois Bleu)
Sixteen years ago
Whether he was simply moved, or feeling indescribable anguish and pain, Franky was a man who cried openly and without restraint. These were reactions Sanji empathized with less and less he grew older; in fact, he couldn't even remember the last time he had been moved to tears.
Certainly not since he had opened his restaurant; not even since he had set out for Fisherman 9, one of the artificial island in All Blue.
As the blue-haired man bawled so openly in front of him, however, he knew he had to muster some semblance of words of consolement. Even if he had no idea what in the world could possibly be comforting anymore.
"I can't imagine how hard it's been..." Sanji started. But he immediately gave up; as soon as he had heard his own voice, it was already clear to him that his words would offer anything but solace. It was futile; sympathy and comfort weren't things he was capable of now.
Franky wiped his nose for a moment, pushing his sunglasses upward to perch on top of his head so he could brush the tears from his eyes.
Sanji studied him with a crinkled brow. He looked more machine than ever these days; his already enormous frame had yet again been expanded and modified, and other than the blatantly artificial blue hair and the flesh-like substance covering his face and increasingly enormous hands, nothing else on him resembled a human being.
And yet, he still cried just like a man. Sanji imagined the tear ducts and the snot were all artificial; but Franky probably wanted to make sure he always kept that shred of humanity, so he couldn't forget the man he once was. Even if, from how Sanji saw it, the cyborg had lost his reason to care about anything anymore, at that moment when Robin had been taken from the world.
"Ah, that's just the thing, Sanji—you do know," Franky said, his voice strained. "That's why I can talk to you."
Sanji's brow darkened as a misunderstanding began to bud in his mind; memories of his shameless flirting with the black-haired woman scattered across the surface of his consciousness. "Do you mean because..." he started, but he couldn't even form the words.
"Because you went through the same thing," Franky said, sniffing loudly.
The cook adamantly shook his head from side to side in disagreement. Though of course the cook had grieved, the man he had already turned into didn't permit him to grieve like the rest of of his nakama... And certainly, his grief was not even remotely resemblant of the anguish of the shipwright, who had loved her passionately.
"There's a huge misunderstanding here," Sanji started to explain; it was important Franky understood there was nothing more than Sanji's shameless flirting between him and Robin. Even if Sanji had wanted more at some point, a very long time ago, it never ran any deeper.
"The two of us never... I mean, the way things were between us..." Words inarticulately tumbled out of the cook's mouth, but each time he started to explain himself, it seemed to come out too bluntly... This was a topic that had to be approached with subtlety. And even more, he felt he needed to avoid saying her name at all costs; speaking it aloud just may have been too painful for the cyborg to hear right now.
An enormous hand pressed down on the cook's shoulder. "It's okay, you don't need to hide it from me. I knew about it all along... She and I talked about it, in fact," he said, half-wailing.
"You did what?" Sanji asked, his jaw slightly agape. In the past, his reaction to such a misconception would have surely been more impassioned, but now, he only felt a sort of dull shock. He wasn't even sure what she and Franky had had to talk about. Near the end, the cook didn't even flirt with her very often; it had just become too difficult to force the actions that had once been so natural to him. "Why?" he asked finally.
"What, why'd we talk about it? It was just what we did. She and I talked about everything!" A fresh wave of tears came on. "I miss her so much. I thought time would make it easier... It's been three years, though, and it's still so empty."
A tightness overtook the cook's chest that almost rendered him breathless, but whatever the reason for it, he forced it beneath the surface. It had nothing to do with this—and he couldn't let himself even venture to imagine what the trigger was. After all, why should he be familiar with time being unable to heal such a fatal laceration to the soul?
After a long pause, Sanji rubbed his temple. "But for you to talk about it with her—" he started, pausing again. Wasn't it strange for the cyborg to talk to Robin about other men who were in love with her? His frown deepened incrementally.
"Robin noticed what was going on, and I think she wanted to be supportive," Franky continued with a noisy sniffle.
"Supportive of me being in love with her?" he asked incredulously, cringing as soon as the words left his mouth.
"Hah?" Franky asked in confusion, his tears momentarily subsiding as he stared at Sanji blankly. "...'Her'?"
"Yes, her—Robin-chan!" Sanji exclaimed.
The still-sniffing cyborg suddenly burst out laughing. "Sorry, you surprised me there, Sanji. It's been awhile since I heard you make a joke."
"I didn't make a joke," Sanji said, furrowing his brow in confusion.
"You weren't in love with Robin, though."
"How could I not be in love with Robin-chan?" he protested.
"Well, I guess in the way you're in love with all the ladies, but that's different," Franky responded, still chuckling slightly. Then his expression grew more serious. "It's just the two of us here now, though, so there's no reason to hide it. We're both going through something similar."
And then, Sanji realized what the blue-haired man had been implying all along. Momentarily unable to breathe, he jammed his hands deep within his pockets, trying to conceal his trembling hands.
As much as the cook had wished it hadn't been apparent to some of the crew, it was inevitable that they had an inkling that something had transpired between him and the swordsman. And surely, a woman as observant as Robin probably picked up on it better than all the rest. Still, to have it acknowledged so bluntly...
The chef could not handle this conversation. Silently, he prayed Franky would go no further. He couldn't bear to hear the words. Couldn't stand to even argue the subject that should've been so long dead... Long dead, just like the idiot marimo. Just like Sanji felt, deep down inside.
"But enough of all that," Franky said, abruptly changing the topic. With an enormous arm, he gestured toward the small, eight-table sized restaurant they were sitting in. "We need to do something about this place."
"Like repairs?" Sanji asked, once he felt confident enough to speak.
"I had something a little more super in mind," Franky grinned, sliding the sunglasses on the top of his head back down over his eyes.
Sanji raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"I'm going to build you a better restaurant," Franky said, grinning widely.
Sanji's patio
Present time
Sanji mulled over Isshin's comment a moment longer. Well, there was no real reason he couldn't tell him something vague about it. It's not like this man would be concerned with the private details of his past, anyway.
"An old comrade of mine sort of insisted on building the restaurant," he said finally. "And he has a tendency of over-doing things, so once he finished, he built this house, too."
"That's a hell of a thing," Isshin said, his low voice rumbling in astonishment. "What'd you do to make him want to do that?"
Sanji stared down into his wine glass, swirling its contents contemplatively.
"I think I gave misery company," Sanji replied with finality.
The cook could feel the other man staring at him, but he didn't bother to turn to meet his gaze. It was pointless anyway; it's not like he could see his reaction beyond black fabric and feathers, he thought with a prickle of irritation.
Sanji's patio
Several days later
He was here yet again. Once again, they sat together, this time with Isshin holding a glass of whiskey, and Sanji languidly sipping from a flute filled with a deep amber port. Like all the times before, their chairs faced the ocean beyond, as they watched the dark, shimmering waves crash beneath the bleak night sky. Sanji noticed that even his discomfort of being around Isshin was starting to become static in the background again, and this was turning into the dreary tedium of each day.
Sanji rubbed his eyes tiredly; he wished he had been able to sleep more lately. But trying to sleep inevitably led to recalling memories of the past; and likewise, sleep led to similar dreams. If someone put a devil's fruit in front of him that would make him forget painful memories, he would swallow it in a heartbeat.
"So, is this what you always wanted?" Isshin asked, suddenly tearing him away from his thoughts.
"Hah?" Sanji asked, sitting up a little straighter, trying to remember what they had been talking about.
"Your restaurant and all that."
Sanji narrowed his eyes, carefully choosing his words at he focused on the dark waters in front of them. "We're talking about dreams now, aren't we," he muttered quietly.
Isshin nodded. "Ah, I guess I am."
Sanji narrowed his eyes, his lined brow furrowing deeply as he stared out at the water. "When I was young, my dream was... to find All Blue."
"That so?" Isshin commented, reaching into the inside of his long black cloak for something. Sanji glanced at him for a moment, and noticed he was holding out two cigars.
"Want one?"
Sanji shook his head negatively. "No thanks."
"You sure? They're good ones—I usually wouldn't usually share."
"Even despite your generosity," Sanji started, putting a mocking emphasis on the word, "I don't smoke."
"Ah, suit yourself," Isshin said peculiarly, grinning as he stuck one of the thick cigars between his teeth. "So, All Blue was your dream, huh?"
Sanji nodded slightly, turning his attention back to the ocean. "A lot of people told me it didn't exist. Some of them laughed in my face for it." The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, like he was trying to smile, but couldn't quite muster the expression. "But here it is, right before my eyes."
"Well, I guess that makes you lucky, right?" Isshin said, taking a long puff from his cigar. "Not everyone gets to realize a dream."
"Yeah," Sanji said, covering his mouth with his fingertips when he spoke. What the other man had said was so true, it almost ached. He took a heavy sip from the glass next to him, glancing at his strange companion again. Although he couldn't see where the other man was looking, he could feel the gaze on him.
"I guess you've been happy here, then."
"Happy..." Sanji muttered, his expression turning grave as he knitted his brow. He swirled the contents of his glass for a moment, studying it thoughtfully. "I guess I can say I'm fulfilled, since I was able to do the thing I set out to do."
Something that might have been a frown flickered across Isshin's face for the briefest moment, but it quickly vanished. "Yeah, and you've got all this now too," he said, nodding toward the house, and then gesturing somewhere off in the distance—Sanji presumed he meant to indicate where the restaurant was, although he was pointing in the wrong direction. But he didn't think too much of it.
"You're right," Sanji nodded carefully. "I got what I wanted. And I've been dreamless for a long, long time now," he added wryly.
A long pause followed.
"Speaking of dreams," the cook started to continue, but he immediately stopped. Speaking of dreams, I used to know someone who wanted yours? Is that really something that could be said? It was a ridiculous thing that he never discussed with anyone—to bring it up to a man who was still mostly a stranger, even if the stranger happened to be the present world's-strongest-swordsman, was absurd.
Sanji's bedroom
Early the next morning
Sanji awakened dripping in sweat, gasping noisily as he struggled to suck in deep breaths of air.
He frantically pulled himself to his feet and rushed to the bathroom, falling to his knees when he reached the toilet. But as much as he wanted to empty the contents of his stomach and all of the horrible, anxious feelings welling up inside of him, he did not get sick. Eventually, his heart rate started to slow, and he was breathing normally. As his mind became less befuddled, and he recalled the night before, he was able to surmise that this had nothing to do with the meager amount he had drank the night before.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the sink, where he began to splash cold water on his face. This awful, twisting feeling in his abdomen wasn't illness due to alcohol and he wasn't sick.
It was just a dream.
A fucking memory from when he was half the age he was now.
Sanji looked up at the mirror and stared at the beads of water dripping off of his haggard face. Pushing back the hair falling over his right eye, he stared at the pale, mostly faded scar running along his cheekbone.
His stomach churned violently, and in his head, he silently pleaded to no one in particular for the rush of memories to just stop already.
The hotel room of a beautiful, sexy goddess
Over twenty years ago
Sanji screamed out "beautiful" and "gorgeous" to refer to her, because he couldn't quite recall her name. He was pretty sure it started with a "K," but calling her the wrong thing would be far more unforgivable than only calling her affectionate nicknames.
Forgetting a detail about an attractive woman was definitely unlike him, but he had already been long past drunk when he first approached her (or when she had first approached him—he couldn't really recall), and once they were seated next to each other, her foot casually brushing against his ankle over and over, she kept feeding him drinks. Even though he knew he was way over the limit he liked to pass, he couldn't tell her no. Not with that stunning body. Not with those ruby red lips... those voluptuous breasts.
And by the time they were in her hotel room across the street from the bar, and she was naked and top of him, scratching fingernails down his chest, it was definitely way too late to ask for her name again.
Really, by the time she pinned him down on the bed, practically tearing off his clothes, he wasn't so concerned about it, anyway. She lead him through a kaleidoscope of pleasurable sensations he had never quite experienced before. He suspected she did this kind of thing pretty often, but he wasn't complaining. How could he complain, when he could barely see straight from the mix of booze in his bloodstream and electrifying bursts of bliss igniting all over his body.
She somehow managed to keep him at his peak way too long, too. Each time he thought he was close, she changed her rhythm, slowing just enough to make him hold back a little bit longer. When he finally came, he was fairly certain he saw stars as the climax rocked his body.
Too drunk and numb from pleasure to do much else, when they were through, he pulled her luscious, naked body against him and promptly fell asleep. He vaguely hoped she would be up to do it again in a little while, so he could enjoy her when he was a bit more sober, but if she threw him out, he couldn't really blame her.
When Sanji awakened, he felt a thrilling rush soar through him as he realized she was straddling him over the blankets, clad in her lacy underwear and not much else. It was a good sign; she must have wanted to do it again. He was a bit panicked when he realized his limbs were tied up, but he was a little excited to think the vixen in front of him was into something so kinky... He'd never actually been tied up before. Well, not during sex, anyway.
His head was still swimming a little bit—he wondered if he was still drunk—but it didn't matter all that much. He could already feel the surge of blood rushing to his excited groin, so as long as that was working right, it didn't matter how inebriated he still was.
But the excitement abruptly drained from his body when she pulled out a dagger and dangled it dangerously above his chest—specifically, just above his heart. Reflexively, he tried to buck her off, but a rope was tied over his waist in addition to the binds on his arms and legs, so the gesture was futile.
"Oh, so you're awake now? Well, it doesn't make much of a difference," she said, her sugary-sweet voice now tinged with a coldness that sent a shudder down Sanji's spine.
"You were as easy to lure as the rumors said, Black-Leg Sanji," she smiled wickedly, running her finger down the blade of the dagger. "It's shameful just how little I had to do to get you here."
"Who the hell are you?" He felt a drop of sweat bead down the side of his face.
She shrugged. "I'm just a business-woman. I have no gripe against you, but someone paid me a handsome amount to take down one of the Mugiwara pirates, and I thought you'd be the easiest target for me."
"Someone paid you? Who was it?"
"Who indeed?" she smiled disarmingly, pointing the blade of the dagger back toward his chest. "When you're an assassin, the name of who pays you isn't nearly as important as the name of who he's paying you to kill. I will say, he must have quite a dislike for your crew, because he's paying quite a bit to get you all eliminated." She leaned forward slightly, purposely letting her body grind against Sanji's groin. "Maybe I'll take on one or two more of you, since this was so easy."
He tried to kick, to yank at the tethers, desperately attempting to do anything to free himself, but it was futile. Smiling ruthlessly, she raised her hand upward, grasping the dagger with two hands. "Bye-bye, Black-Leg Sanji," she called out as she started to swing downward.
What happened next unfolded so quickly, Sanji could barely follow it. The door appeared to burst inward in an explosion of splintered wood, and it was only when Sanji caught a glimpse of green hair that he realized it was caused by a very familiar set of katana.
Zoro's face was contorted in fury as he lunged as the woman, who just barely raised the dagger in time to block the green-haired man's swords.
"I see I'm not too late," Zoro rumbled, forcing her to stumble backward as he leaned his weight into the katana.
"How did you know?" the woman asked, clearly shocked by the swordsman's appearance.
"Somebody at the bar thought you had a familiar face," Zoro explained, his tone menacingly flat. "When he remembered you were an assassin, he let us know somebody might need to come save this curly-browed dumbass."
In a panic, Sanji futilely struggled against the ropes, exerting all of his strength. For all of his effort, he only managed to marginally loosen the binds around one leg.
"Your crew is here, then?" She asked; there was an unmistakeable tinge of alarm in her voice.
"No, it's just me. I told them I'd take care of it," Zoro replied.
And then there was no more conversation, as Sanji heard the rapid clang of metal-meeting-metal, over and over again.
Realizing he was making no progress, he paused for a moment to lift his head, so he could see what was going on. The woman, still clad in only her underthings, was undoubtedly a skilled fighter, but it was obvious she was used to evading attacks and relying on polished techniques to end fights quickly. She was already perspiring and breathing heavily.
Zoro was the worst possible match for her. Not only did he have a nearly inhuman amount of stamina, but he had the kind of raw power that would crush someone used to fighting that way. The only way to fight Zoro's monstrous strength was with strength, and the assassin clearly didn't have it.
But even though Sanji knew the swordsman could have taken her at any moment, he didn't cut her. And then suddenly, she seemed to vaporize into nothingness, and a moment later she was behind Zoro, her arm wrapped around his throat.
Sanji clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together painfully; she had a devil's fruit ability.
And then she vanished again, and before Sanji could tell where she had gone, he felt something prick him in the chest. Sanji's eyes widened; she was above him, the dagger right above his heart, but he couldn't move or do anything to deflect it.
If Zoro had moved half a second later, the blade would have penetrated beyond his skin and through his chest cavity, straight into his heart. And the chef would have been utterly powerless to prevent it.
Even as she and Zoro resumed their fight, Sanji was staring at them, slack-jawed, his head spinning as he contemplated just how close it had really been for him. Then, he tried to focus on the two battling in front of him, and he quickly realized his original assessment of the woman had grossly underestimated her.
"I could tell you were just toying with me before," she called out, repeatedly disappearing and reappearing, and obviously trying to take advantage of a potential blind spot on Zoro's left side. However, she quickly realized she would gain no advantage by attacking him there. "I thought maybe I could take Black-Leg out and then get out of here, but it looks like you won't let me get at him, ne?"
"What do you think," Zoro growled.
She tried another strategy, and Sanji watched in awe as the swordsman actually took several blows. They were small—only some cuts and scratches—but he was stunned nonetheless. Still, the swordsman was not attacking her seriously.
"You're still only going to keep blocking me? How disappointing," she sneered.
She made a move to attack Sanji, but just as Zoro lunged toward her, closing the distance in a flash, she vanished in a blur and reappeared behind the swordsman. Zoro's eye widened in surprise as she buried her blade into the muscles around his shoulder blade. When Zoro turned to strike her, she was back by Sanji again, and this time, her blade was grazing Sanji's throat.
As the cold steel just barely cut into his skin, the cook inhaled sharply, momentarily halting his struggle to break himself free. He felt slightly befuddled from the alcohol still swimming in his bloodstream, and he was filled with a terror that he never would have admitted to aloud... But Sanji's terror of his possible imminent death was insignificant compared to how he felt as he observed the fury emanating from Zoro's face.
And then, an even greater terror passed over him, sending a shudder through the length of his body, as he watched the eye of the swordsman flash savagely. It reminded him of a wild beast, just as it moved to strike for the kill.
"No!" Sanji cried out fervidly; he instinctively knew what that look meant.
The demon-like man threw himself at the assassin, and her eyes widened in surprise as she found herself completely and utterly overwhelmed. Before, the swordsman had let her land hits, but now, she couldn't even stand her ground.
Her face became more and more strained as she started to take blows, cuts and gashes that she wasn't able to evade appearing on her bare skin—wounds that a logia-type was no longer accustomed to feeling.
Still, Zoro didn't slow down or take it easy on her, no matter how panicked she began to look, and no matter how much Sanji screamed at him. Zoro was past the point of hearing his voice; he wore the same gruesome face he always wore when he faced a deadly enemy.
Finally, the woman fell to her knees, futilely raising her dagger to block as Zoro raised his katana—Sanji recoiled in horror, recognizing the killing blow.
"Zoro!" he bellowed, screaming at the top of his lungs, eyes clenched shut by the effort of it. "Stop!"
When he opened them again, the swordsman was glaring at him murderously.
"Why the hell are you telling me to stop?" he asked, and the bubbling fury underneath his voice was unnerving to Sanji.
"You've already defeated her!" Sanji cried out. "There's no point in going any further."
Zoro turned to look at the woman again. She had collapsed on her knees, tears streaming down her face, utterly shaking from terror.
"See?" Sanj said. "She's harmless now."
"Tch," Zoro said, his brow furrowing angrily. But after a moment, instead of striking her, he removed the katana from his mouth, and sheathed it along with one other sword. The third sword still clutched in his right hand, he started to approach Sanji. "Fine, I'm going to untie you, then."
Sanji leaned back on the bed, realizing he was out of breath. His mind still felt a little fuzzy. God, he had drank way too much. As soon as the last bind had been cut, Zoro took a step back, sheathing his sword. The cook tentatively sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting bare feet on the cool wooden floor.
Then suddenly, the woman laughed, and any trace of the cute, coquettish laugh that had dazzled Sanji earlier had utterly vanished, replaced with something cruel and sinister. "I'm harmless now? As if those weak cuts are enough to take me down, Pirate Hunter Zoro," she called out coldly.
It happened in a flash, and yet in that instance, Sanji experienced a dizzying number of sensations.
Her heated body was suddenly pressed against him. Sanji could feel her bare skin and lace brushing against his naked body, and smell her sweet perfume. And even more vividly, he felt the sensation of the blade of the dagger against his throat again once again.
"I'm going to take out both of you right now, and then I'm going to go kill the rest of your worthless crew," she avowed, the pitch of her voice high and frenzied.
But instead of feeling cold steel slice through his windpipe, he instead heard the deafening clang of blades clashing right by his ear. He felt a cut, not on his throat, but instead grazing his cheek; Zoro had deflected her blade incrementally, just enough to make it harmlessly slice the length of his cheekbone instead.
Then, in a flash of green hair and fury, Zoro whizzed past him, and he heard the clatter of something metallic hit the floor. When he turned to look just behind him, he saw the assassin had a look of surprise on her face, as she looked first down at her own body, and then met Zoro's gaze.
Sanji's eyes drifted downward; her dagger laid abandoned on the floor, and the blade of Zoro's sword had pierced through her abdomen.
"Zoro!" Sanji cried out, oblivious to his nakedness as he jumped up from the bed and grabbed the swordsman by the front of his shirt. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you bastard? You'll kill her!"
The swordsman's face contorted in an anger Sanji had seldom witnessed before. "Why shouldn't I? She tried to kill you. She's going to try to kill our crew."
"But she's a—"
"A woman?" Zoro replied venomously. "Is that the pitiful excuse you're about to give me?"
"Yes!" Sanji shouted, his fists tightening around the front of Zoro's shirt.
"What the hell kind of reason is that? This woman—she's strong. She's just as good a fighter as you or me," Zoro practically roared, shoving Sanji away as he yanked the katana between his teeth, the Wado Ichimonji, away from his mouth. "And she's going to keep coming after us."
"It isn't right!" Sanji yelled.
"Of course it isn't right," the swordsman replied darkly. "It's not right to kill anyone. But I don't care if it's a man or a woman, or even a fucking fishman... Even if it's wrong, I'm willing to take on that sin. She's trying to kill our crew mates, cook." His eye narrowed slightly. "She's trying to kill us."
Maybe because Zoro's concentration seemed to be broken by his words, the woman suddenly vaporized again, appearing somewhere behind Sanji. She desperately lunged at the blonde man, aiming her reclaimed dagger toward his back.
In a nearly-instant motion, Zoro moved beside Sanji and swung his katana toward her, bellowing loudly.
"Don't you see, cook? She's still trying to kill you right now, too."
Sanji started to scream at him to stop again, but it was already too late. This time, the swordsman didn't hold back even slightly. The blade of the katana pierced through her and ripped upward, tearing through her chest, undoubtedly ripping its way through her heart as the blade finally exited at her left shoulder. She had tried to block it, but her dagger clattered to the ground in pieces, the blade cleanly cut in two.
As she crumpled to the ground, the cook rushed toward her and collapsed on his knees. He grabbed her fallen body, pulling her toward him, but he could already tell she was dead. Her flawless skin was stained red with her lifeblood, and her vivacious eyes were blank and listless.
Incensed, he jumped to his feet and lunged toward the swordsman, still all but oblivious to his nudity and the bleeding rope burns on his limbs and the cuts on his chest, cheek and throat, grabbing the front of the other man's shirt with bloodied hands. "You fucking bastard," he croaked. Instead of surging anger, for some reason, he felt almost deflated, like his legs might buckle right underneath him.
Despite his overwhelming display of passion a few moments before, Zoro was now the portrait of calm, as he collectedly re-sheathed his swords. Grabbing Sanji by the wrists, he yanked Sanji's trembling hands off of him, and shoved his naked body in the direction of the bathroom. "Wash yourself off," he said commandingly.
"Why the hell would I listen to anything you say to me," Sanji shouted, wrenching himself away from Zoro's grasp, glaring at him.
Other than the deep crease in his brow, Zoro remained completely expressionless. He walked around the room, calmly collecting pieces of Sanji's clothes that had been carelessly thrown aside by the now-dead woman who had so ravenously undressed him, just a short while ago.
As Sanji dazedly watched Zoro pick up article after article of clothing, nonchalantly stepping over her corpse, he began to feel violently ill. Abruptly, he turned around and rushed into the lavatory that Zoro had been trying to force him into a moment ago, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
Then everything reeked of booze and blood, and he stayed there for several minutes, feeling too sick to move.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how the hell it had gone so wrong. He was supposed to be taking a stroll through the garden of delights, rolling around in the sheets with a beautiful lady. But now, he was trapped in some kind of hellish nightmare. The woman he had been inside of just a short while ago was dead, he was stark naked on a freezing cold tile floor, clutching the porcelain bowl with blood-stained, white-knuckled hands, alone with only the shitty marimo.
The sound of two heavy items noisily clopping on the ground, followed by the rustle of fabric, jolted him back to reality. Zoro had deposited his shoes and other articles of clothing on the bathroom floor. Sanji clenched his jaw as a strong hand grabbed his shoulder, squeezing a bit too hard.
"Come on, clean yourself up. We need to go," he told Sanji, roughly yanking him upright.
Despite a violent wave of nausea, Sanji managed to keep from retching again. He was pretty sure there was nothing left to come up, anyway. Before he knew it, he had been led to the sink and Zoro was washing the blood off of his hands and wrists. His rough hands moved briskly, but they were surprisingly gentle.
Finally, when he had his wits about him again, he pulled his hands away and finished the job himself, taking a moment to lean over to wash his face. He was surprised at the amount of blood that came off in his hands. Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he realized the cut on his cheek was deeper than he anticipated. When he finally turned off the water, the swordsman wordlessly handed him a towel.
As the blonde-haired man clumsily dressed himself, uncaring as to how disheveled he looked, he took a moment to glare up at the swordsman. He didn't understand how the other man was so collected.
"I still don't understand why," the blonde man muttered dejectedly, his voice slightly raw from the shouting and the vomiting.
"I already told you the reason," Zoro replied, his tone flat but somehow inflected with overwhelming emotion.
Sanji closed his eyes and forced himself to draw in several deep breaths. He needed a cigarette more than he could ever recall needing one in his life.
"We need to go," Zoro said impatiently.
"Ah," Sanji replied, slipping on the suit coat. Yet as he reached into his front pocket to retrieve a cigarette, he realized that the fabric still reeked of the assassin's sweet perfume. Rushing back to the toilet, he sharply landed on his knees as he buckled over, vomiting once more.