Sanji had seen many things in his life, both strange, wonderful, and down-right fucked up. Having been raised by a bunch of ex-sailors on a restaurant shaped like a goddamn fish – everyone wondered why, and very few knew – it stood to reason that there was relatively little that gave him pause. He could flow naturally with any situation fate happened to throw at him. He was just smooth like that. He was never at a loss for words, never without a quick retort, and never failed to seize the opportunity to trounce those of a lesser intellect. The ladies valued a witty man, after all.

But when he woke up early one quiet, innocuous Wednesday to make breakfast before heading off to work, still groggy and rubbing sleep from his eyes, he witnessed something that, if the cook felt like being honest, he'd have to admit he'd never seen before.

Pale light from the pre-dawn morning sifted through the blinds of the large picture windows in the living room, bathing a lone figure in a dim glow, and shining off the long, edged length of a deadly-looking sword. And Sanji was never one for frilly verses, unless some angelic goddess was involved, but even he couldn't help but find the scene very…poetic. Angelic in its own, peaceful, dangerous sort of way, and Sanji was aware of the fact that his thoughts weren't making sense the very moment they occurred to him, but this entire scenario wasn't making much sense. How many times had he woken up at this exact hour and seen nothing more extraordinary than that Luffy somehow remembered to turn the TV off?

This was…this was above and beyond the abnormal. This was rather fucking weird.

And in case the cook's brain wasn't quite broken enough, one small detail that he happened to overlook finally became apparent as he fully took in the scene: the mop of spiky, green hair atop the head of the strange early-morning-riser.

It was the fucking marimo.

Sanji glared at the back of the preoccupied man's head, feeling irritated and embarrassed for reasons he didn't know, and didn't care to find out, and just generally confused all around. Not the most pleasant way to start the morning.

What the fuck is he doing up so early?, Sanji wondered, watching the marimo as the other watched the sword, turning it this way and that so it caught the light at different angles. Asshole never gets up this early. Why the fuck would he start now? The lazy fucker's usually still asleep by the time I get home…

…and where the fuck did the sword come from?

After carefully running a thumb over the edge of the blade, the green-haired man sheathed it, and picked up…and picked up another one. There were two!

This crazy bastard has two swords! What the fuck could he need two fucking swords for?

And he knew he should be starting breakfast, should have already started minutes ago, and if he didn't soon he'd be late for work, but Sanji couldn't seem to look away, too bewildered by this odder-than-hell occurrence to do anything more than watch it play out. So he stood there frowning as the marimo unsheathed his second sword, picking up a cloth from its hidden spot in his lap, and slowly but firmly started to stroke along the blade, the chemical tang of polish now reaching the cook's nose. He made several passes with the cloth before setting it aside again, and going through the whole "turning-studying" routine once more, as though the sword's blade could have changed somehow in the last few seconds. Then he sheathed that sword, and laid it down beside the first.

And then he picked up a third.

Sanji blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him in the poor light from outside. But no. It was undeniable. That psycho had three swords. Three!

What…the…fuck!?

Gaping now, and slightly fearful of what sort of murdering lunatic they had let move into their apartment, Sanji was now rooted to the floor, unable to move away, even if he wanted to. This kind of shit just didn't happen!

Well…it isn't supposed to happen…actually ends up happening more often then it should. Luffy's brother is a pyro and a weekend cross-dresser, after all.

But suddenly the occasional foray as a woman, coupled with a passionate love of shit that exploded seemed painfully ho-hum by comparison to some crazed killer with three goddamn fucking swords!

Asshole's definitely on the run from the cops. No way someone could own three fucking swords and not have done some evil fucking shit. I knew that prick was no fucking good! He's some serial killer. I knew it. I fucking knew it! This bastard is out of here! No fucking psycho is living in my goddamn apartment! His crazy, violent ass is gone! This asshole is –

Sanji's internal tirade cut short as he watched, stunned, as the marimo finished polishing and studying the blade of the third sword, and then pointed it straight up, pressing the woven binding of the hilt against his forehead and holding it there for a moment. He hadn't done that with the other two. He paid them plenty of attention, no denying that. But this…it was almost like the man was worshipping this last sword.

There was something almost calming and…several other things Sanji didn't really want to think, because they sounded too girly, but were nonetheless true…something slightly powerful about watching such a gruff, uncaring asshole treat an object with so much reverence. It reminded Sanji quite a bit of how he treated his kitchen, and everything in it; how he glorified food, and demanded it be respected and appreciated. It didn't seem all that different.

And suddenly, they didn't seem all that different, but Sanji would never admit it, never wanted anything to do with this infuriating, insulting, disgusting prick, and was now more determined than ever to hate everything about him…

…except that he didn't really know anything about the asshole to hate. So he figured he should find some stuff out. Not because he was interested; because he wanted to make sure he hated him properly.

"Hey," Sanji said kind of quietly, and he didn't really know why he was going out of his way not to startle the man sitting on the floor, other than that said man was in possession of three deadly weapons. "What the hell are you doing up so early, marimo?"

Zoro never moved the sword as he said, "I'm always up this early."

"I never see you."

"Doesn't mean I'm not up. I share a room now. Don't want the kid to wake up to this. Might freak him out."

Other than speaking, the marimo sat still as stone; straight backed, legs crossed, arms immobile as they held the gleaming blade up. Sanji tapped his lips, wishing he'd brought his cigarettes out, but by this time he was usually in the throws of cooking breakfast, and he never smoked while he cooked. He should be cooking breakfast. He should be getting ready for work.

"So…you collect swords or something?"

Zoro didn't say a word at first. He pulled the sword away from his brow, running his thumb along its edge like he had done to the other two, and then slowly slid the sword into a beautiful, gilded white sheath, before setting it across his lap. Not on the floor, beside the others. His large, gorilla hands rested on the sword with surprising gentleness, tan skin a stark contrast to the snowy material.

"Or something," he murmured, not even turning around to look at Sanji.

It should have pissed him off. It would have, too, if everything wasn't so weird and unreal all of a sudden, and Sanji wasn't sure why everything had to be different just because he'd never seen anything like this before, but part of him didn't like it, and he sort of wanted to kick the bastard for no reason, as long as it would make things go back to normal.

But he didn't. And he didn't understand that either.

"Why do you have three?"

"Why do you have five different kinds of mixing spoons?"

Sanji scoffed at the man's ignorance, temporarily thrown off his own line of questioning. "Because I use them for different things, idiot. Certain dishes need to be stirred different ways to get the right consistency. What the hell is the difference between one sword and another?"

"So you're saying the spoons mean different things?"

"Well, I…" Sanj looked at him, frowning. "Well, not really, but I guess…you could say that, or something…"

Zoro stood, white sword in one hand as he bent over to pick up the other two. He rolled his neck, working out the kinks, and said, "Not all swords are made the same. Not all spoons are made the same. Some swords mean different things to the owner. That's why I have three."

"But why have any at all?"

Zoro turned then, eyes locking with Sanji's, and it suddenly occurred to the blonde that they had never looked directly at one another until that second; there was a fierce determination in those dark eyes that he hadn't really expected to see.

"Why have any spoons?"

Sanji blinked first. He was man enough to admit it. But then he frowned, grunting his understanding. And he did understand. Maybe not entirely. Maybe not all the nitty-gritty details, and neither did the marimo, but they seemed to get it enough that words weren't necessary.

Zoro gave an answering nod before trudging off to the room he shared with Chopper, probably to sleep some more. Sanji headed towards the kitchen, knowing he was grievously behind schedule, and that he didn't care as much as he should.

He just rolled up his sleeves, turned on the stove, pulled out the meat and eggs, and made a mental note to wake the swordsman again before Luffy ate all the sausage.

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