Chapter Text
“Now that you’ve saved little old me,” says the man, mouth twisted with bright amusement, “you’re going to take responsibility, aren’t you?”
The man does not look like he needs saving. His black hair is soft and clean. There isn’t a scratch on him. His hands are smooth like he’s never held a sword in his life, though he’s got one strapped to his back. Even his clothes are expensive, the fabric of his burgundy suit melded to his body.
“They said you were held hostage,” says Zoro. He surveys the room—simple, with sturdy wooden furniture. It’s clearly well-kept, if marked with age. There are no signs of restraints, and the man is lounging louche on the couch. He’s propped up on one arm, legs spread open over the cushions. “There’s nothing keeping you here.”
“Sure there was,” the man says casually. He smiles a half-smile, no teeth. “I heard Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro was cutting a swathe through the East Blue, and I thought I’d sit nice and pretty until you made your way here.”
Zoro raps a knuckle against his thigh. There’s no shortage of men itching to hunt him down for one reason or another—to test their strength, to get revenge for people he’s cut down in the past, rubberneckers with more curiosity than sense wanting to see if he’s what he’s made out to be. Their broken bodies trail a bloody path over the continent.
Logically, this man shouldn’t pose a threat. Still, Zoro’s hair stands electrified at the back of his neck. A drop of sweat slides slow into his shirt.
The man is still smiling his insincere smile.
“None of my business,” says Zoro finally. He shakes off his misgivings. What could this skinny delicate-faced man hope to do to him? Zoro needs to retrain his instincts. “I’m here to get my bounty and leave. I haven’t had a decent meal in days.”
The man sweeps upwards in one smooth motion from where he’s sitting. His dress shoes click decisively against the floor as he stands, pulling a lighter from his slacks.
“Isn’t this your lucky day,” the man says. He tilts his curly black head back, his one visible eye a sharp blue. He lights a cigarette, inhales, exhales, lets the smoke hang cloudy in the air. The setting sun backlights his body on fire. “I’m a damn good cook.”