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“And you have no idea who those guys were?” Nami asked again.
“Absolutely no clue,” Sanji said with a shrug.
But he knew. They made it quite clear. They were pissed off members of the Baroque Works criminal organization, dead set on killing Zoro for turning them down multiple times – and killing several low level agents. Served them right for not sending someone competent in the first place; Sanji had told them as much, and the leader had just smirked.
“So what, they kidnapped you, but then they brought you back and let you free? It makes no sense,” Zoro said with a frown, arms crossed in front of his chest.
Their plan was actually quite clever, Sanji thought, gritting his teeth as he tried to tell the truth but found that he physically couldn’t.
“Maybe they mistook Sanji for somebody else and felt bad about it?” Luffy suggested.
Oh, they knew exactly who to grab, even though the leader kept calling him “Roronoa’s friend” which sounded like a stretch. They needed someone close to the swordsman, close enough that he’d drop his guard, leaving him vulnerable to an attack.
“Did they say what they wanted?” Usopp asked.
He was a little calmer now that they had left the harbor, but he kept wringing his hands, clearly uncomfortable. If only he knew how much trouble they were in, Sanji thought.
“I haven’t got a single idea,” Sanji lied. “They never said anything.”
The leader had gloated for hours, an inane monologue about his grand plan to get revenge. He said he had a devil fruit that allowed him to control others, turning them into perfect assassins. When he gave him the order to kill Zoro, it had sounded like a curse. Sanji had laughed in his face, but now he could feel the pull, the urge to grab something sharp and plunge it into the swordsman’s neck. He glared at him, and Zoro glared back.
“Is it dinner time?” Luffy suddenly asked, thinly veiled worry in his voice, like he wanted Sanji to prepare something but wasn’t sure he was up for the task.
Was he? Something dark in his mind was telling him to put rat poison in Zoro’s plate. Maybe he should just say he felt tired and let them take care of it – but what about the next day, and the one after that? He opened his mouth to say some clever lie, only to hear himself assure Luffy dinner would be ready in half an hour.
Great, now he couldn’t even lie when he wanted to. He let out a sigh when everyone left him alone in the kitchen. It was a big mistake, and nobody even realized it.
**
The curse, Sanji quickly found, was imperfect. It forced him to mix bleach and some paint thinner Usopp had left on the lounge table, but he was able to stop himself, and only added it to Zoro’s plate. At least he wouldn’t murder the whole crew, he thought, trying to force his hand to shake and drop the plate. No luck, the curse was giving him nerves of steel.
Still, when everyone gathered around the table and started digging in, Sanji could feel cold sweat roll down his back. His heart skipped a beat when the swordsman took a large mouthful of rice and meat and poison. He made a face, but not a grimace of disgust, more like surprise.
He continued eating, and Sanji just stared, expecting him to drop dead or at the very least start foaming at the mouth. But he didn’t.
“Uh, what did you add to it?” he asked him. “It’s good!”
That finally got Luffy’s attention, who snatched Zoro’s fork. They wrestled for it, but eventually the swordsman relented, and Sanji watched with detached horror as his captain put it in his mouth.
He didn’t die either. Thankfully the two freaks with an iron stomach finished the poisoned plate before the others could try it. Usopp whined and Sanji had to promise him that he’d make the dish again. He felt confusedly relieved and disappointed at the same time that his first attempt had failed.
**
He stayed awake all night, staring at the wooden ceiling and clenching his fists to stop the urge to stand next to Zoro’s hammock and smother the stupid swordsman with a pillow. It had very little chance to work, and maybe that was why he was able to resist until morning.
**
Zoro was on the aft deck, training, lifting dumb weights. So Sanji did something he never did – he joined him and watched from the stairs, smoking a cigarette and trying to control his own body. In the end the compulsion to kill won, and he stood up, picking up a couple of weight plates to add to the swordsman’s barbell.
“What are you–” Zoro muttered. Then he realized what Sanji wanted to do and put down the weight, sitting up. “Thanks!” he exclaimed.
He sounded a bit surprised but he let Sanji help anyway. It was clearly not enough, however, because as soon as they were done, he continued lifting it easily. Sanji brought more plates, muttering to himself because just how many did the idiot had lying around, no wonder their ship was slow as fuck. He added them on each side of the metal bar, and Zoro let him, even though he was throwing him weird looks now.
He still had no trouble lifting the bar, not even breaking a sweat. How was Sanji supposed to kill the man if lifting – he did a quick addition in his head – seven hundred kilos was a walk in the park for him?
“Why won’t you die?” he asked the idiot mosshead, arms crossed, tapping his foot and waiting for his stupidly muscled arms to give out and for him to drop the bar on his throat.
“What’s your problem?” the swordsman finally snapped at him, as he hovered a bit too close. “Go back to the kitchen, I didn’t ask for your help!”
Normally, that was the part where Sanji would have gotten angry, and finally spilled the secret. He wanted to tell him everything – the curse, the mission to assassinate him, his ridiculously bad attempts so far. But he couldn’t; he lit a cigarette and just stomped away to go prepare lunch – sans poison this time – silently fuming.
**
After lunch, while Luffy and Usopp were attempting to fish – the keyword being “attempted” – and Nami was charting their course to Reverse Mountain, Sanji made another move.
If poison or a clever training accident weren’t the way to go, maybe he could just surprise the lazy mosshead and stab him in the back – literally. He chose a large kitchen knife and sharpened it more than he usually would. Maybe some part of him was hoping to make it quicker and less painful.
Who was he kidding – Zoro was going to bleed out for hours and everyone was going to hate him for it. He’d have to leave the ship – there was no way they’d believe he was brainwashed into killing a crewmate. After all, they all knew how much he disliked the swordsman.
The curse disagreed with his little internal turmoil and his feet brought him to the deck where Zoro was napping. Maybe if he was quick enough he’d manage to sever his aorta. Sanji tried to remember basic human anatomy but his mind only conjured pictures of beef cuts.
If only he was stronger. If only he could resist. He felt his arm rise over his head, his hand gripping the knife tightly. He gritted his teeth. Zoro snorted in his sleep, looking utterly peaceful. Defenseless. It wasn’t fair, he didn’t want that…
His arm came down to strike and Sanji closed his eyes, unable to watch. He expected a gasp, maybe a short-lived yell, and the awful scent of blood, warm on his hand… Instead he got a jarring hand on his wrist, calloused, and a deep chuckle.
He opened his eyes and the dumb mosshead was awake, an unreadable expression on his face. Quick, Sanji thought, think of a lie, anything – but his throat was suddenly too tight for him to speak and he just squeaked stupidly. Zoro released his wrist and jumped to his feet with a smirk.
“Didn’t know you wanted to spar, you could have asked.”
“What…?”
Zoro grinned like a moronic brute, as he tied his bandana low on his forehead.
“No sword style,” he said, and that was the only warning Sanji got before the swordsman charged – thankfully without any weapons.
Sanji dropped his knife, trying to avoid getting rammed into by a hundred or so kilos of muscle. His leg jerked, not even a conscious move, and he kicked. It was only a glancing blow, and Zoro sauntered away, smiling like he was having the time of his life.
Sanji tried to yell, to tell him that he was in danger, but his body wasn’t his anymore, and all he could do was react and try not to get his ass handed to him. He kicked again, and Zoro barreled into him once more. He fell backward on the deck, and Zoro fell on top of him, stealing his breath. Sanji squirmed, snarling, hips bucking upwards, but Zoro was too heavy against him.
“I win,” the swordsman said, so close Sanji could feel his breath against his face.
He tried to tell him that he wasn’t playing, that he really needed him dead, but his jaw wouldn’t unlock to let him speak.
“Hey,” Zoro said with a wink, “is that a knife in your pocket or…” he trailed, a pinkish blush on his cheeks.
“It’s a paring knife,” Sanji confirmed, face heating up – because I was going to kill you, he thought.
He felt horribly claustrophobic with the swordsman pressing down on him like that. Zoro had his hands on each side of his head, large biceps framing his face. The weight alone was making it hard to breathe, or maybe it was just the dreadful certitude that Zoro was going to see right through him and tell the others about his failed murder attempt.
“Kinky,” the mosshead said, before rolling off him.
He got to his feet, dusting his clothes. Sanji stayed down, expecting violence any minute now – he proved to be the enemy, after all. Instead, Zoro nudged him gently with his foot and offered him a hand, pulling him back up with a pat on the back.
“I had fun,” he said. “Wanna go at it again?”
The absolute moron, Sanji thought, feeling the tip of his ears redden. He shook his head and muttered an excuse as he quickly retreated back to the kitchen.
**
Sparring was clearly not the way to kill the mosshead, and it was awkward for everyone involved. It even caused a ship-wide brawl once, when Luffy decided to join in. Sanji tightened his grip on his own leg, his muscled thigh pressing against the swordsman’s windpipe. The idiot sputtered and weakly pawed at Sanji’s leg through the too thin cloth of his dress pants.
No matter how hard Sanji tried, there was no way to choke him like that – his neck was just too strong, and the man was too stubborn to die. Sanji’s muscles burned and his back protested, and yet Zoro kept squirming, drawing a wheezing breath despite the insane pressure of the headlock. And that dumbass was smiling, like he was having fun, like he was enjoying it.
“Get a room, you two,” Nami snickered from where she sat in the shade.
Sanji’s grip wavered as his need to kill was overpowered by his urge to set Nami straight – that he was not into the swordsman, that he was only on a stupid, murderous mission. Zoro managed to wiggle free and get on top of him, sitting on his thighs to make sure he couldn’t retaliate or get away.
“I win,” the idiot mosshead said, looking flush and breathing hard, a goofy smile on his sweaty face.
“You tell yourself that,” Sanji muttered. Then he felt it, and stared at Zoro with narrowing eyes. “Now, is that a knife?”
Zoro released him and stood up so fast he must have gotten a head rush.
“What’s up with him?” Nami commented when he disappeared inside the cabin without a word.
Sanji just stayed where he lay and fished out a flattened pack of cigarettes. He lit one and looked at the blue sky overhead, wondering how that was his life.
**
“This tastes weird, did you change something?” Zoro asked at dinner.
Sanji looked at his hands, which forced him to add rat poison this time. He knew it wouldn’t be effective anyway, but the pressure from not obeying the curse was maddening – he had to do something, anything.
“You made Zoro a special dish?” Luffy sputtered.
“That’s because Sanji’s in love,” Usopp whispered confidently.
Nami and he started making kissing sounds, while Zoro valiantly defended his bowl from Luffy’s grabby hands and they started arguing, the rising volume a nice backdrop to Sanji’s throbbing headache.
He looked down at the table, at the fork next to his hand. What if he offed himself instead? Then what? The curse couldn’t force him to kill anyone if he was already dead.
“Shitty cook?”
Zoro’s voice cut through his thoughts and he flinched, barking an annoyed, “What?”
“You okay?” He sounded teasing, amused even, but when Sanji looked at him, his eyes were terribly serious – like he was worried… about him?
“I’m fine,” he breathed, fingers shaking as he lit yet another cigarette.
**
It would have been easier, Sanji thought as he scrubbed the dishes with more force than necessary, if the swordsman had been a bad person, like those morons from Baroque Works seemed to believe. But no matter how vocally he pretended to hate Zoro, he had to admit the dumbass was an excellent fighter and a decent crewmate – even if he was a slob and only owned a single stinky shirt.
Sanji closed his fist, staring at his whitening knuckles, then opened it again, fingers splayed on the kitchen counter. A killer’s hand? What a joke. His cursed brain provided him with several scenarios he had yet to try, like pushing Zoro overboard or abandoning him on a desert island. The fool might very well get lost on his own anyway.
But how could Sanji live with it afterwards? Zoro felt weirdly like a friend, maybe the closest he ever had. Even after the swordsman started popping boners whenever they sparred for a little too long, he never made it weird, never stopped treating him like a human being.
Sanji swallowed past the lump in his throat and looked at the moon outside. Maybe he should be the one to jump overboard. The curse vibrated in his chest, the urge to kill and the desire to keep the mosshead safe fighting for dominance.
He was already standing with a knife in hand before he realized what he was doing. No, he yelled in his head, do not go below deck, he told his stupidly unresponsive body. That couldn’t be happening, he didn’t want that… He gripped the counter but and his feet moved on their own accord and he was forced to let go.
He gritted his teeth, tried to scream – maybe Luffy would be able to stop him, maybe Nami was clever enough to think of a cure – it was bound to fail anyway – the swordsman was going to wake up, Usopp was going yell, it’d be a mess, his crew would get hurt.
His crew. How could he still consider himself part of the crew when all he had been doing this past week was trying to kill one of them?
He stared at the sharp knife in his hand, and then at his own traitorous legs, bringing him closer to the stairs leading to the men’s quarters. There was only one logical move, he thought. He stabbed his thigh with all his might, and the curse didn’t even allow him to yowl. He fell to the floor as blood started gushing.
**
Someone was shaking him none too gently, and he gasped awake. His whole leg was numb and he felt cold and tired – that was probably what dying felt like, he thought. The floor was wet with blood – so much of it – and he stared at his glistening pant leg. A slap brought him back to reality, and Zoro’s green hair came into focus, way too close – no, get back, he could still hurt him, he…
Sanji let out a shaky breath that sounded like a broken laugh because he couldn’t feel the urge to kill Zoro anymore. He blinked and looked at the swordsman’s stupid hair.
“The hell happened, shitty cook?” Zoro hissed, his tone urgent, as he seemed to hesitate between worry and anger.
He gripped his bleeding thigh with both hands, and shit, Sanji felt the jolt of pain all the way to his spine.
“What do you care?” he muttered. “Problem’s solved.”
He could have tried to explain, but he felt out of breath and cold, so very cold. Warm blood was spurting out of his leg – of course he hit the femoral artery, turned out he was a decent assassin after all, when his target wasn’t the annoying mosshead.
“Nothing to worry about,” Sanji stuttered, and Zoro wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t leaning so close over him, putting unbelievable pressure on his mangled leg.
“You’re bleeding out! Can’t I worry about that?” the swordsman said in his ear, his voice angry to mask his fear.
It made Sanji feel weird inside – knowing someone cared about him. The grip on his leg shifted and blood started pooling underneath again. It was no use. He was a goner, he thought.
“Moss,” he said, fighting to draw another breath – there was not enough blood left in him to carry oxygen through his body.
But Zoro wasn’t listening and he growled, “Stupid cook, stop bleeding!”
“Moss,” he tried again, his voice barely a whisper now.
“I’ll get it, just don’t pass out,” Zoro declared.
Blinding pain shot through his leg as the swordsman dug his fingers inside the wound. The rational part in Sanji knew he was only trying to pinch the artery, stop the bleeding, but the animal in him panicked and tried to jerk away.
He couldn’t get very far though, and he slumped sideways, feeling consciousness slip away as he blinked, trying to stay awake. What good would it do, a little voice wondered in his head – he was better off dead, he was a liability, an outsider, they didn’t need him, they…
“Wake up, idiot! Who’s gonna make Luffy breakfast if you bleed out?!” Zoro’s voice cut through the fog, grating, angry, annoying.
Sanji just wanted to close his eyes and sleep forever, was it too much to ask? He tried to curl around his leg, writhing on the slick floor, but the swordsman’s wouldn’t let go. It hurt. It burned. He was so cold. And the annoying mosshead wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t let him sleep.
“I’ll have to do it!” Sanji heard him say. “I’ll use sake for everything!”
Luffy hated alcohol, Sanji thought distantly.
“I’ll use your kitchen as a gym. I’ll let Nami put tangerines on pizza!”
Now that was a real crime, but he felt so tired.
“Wake the fuck up, shitty cook!” Zoro sounded desperate now, but Sanji couldn’t even open his eyes to glare at him.
“I’m throwing out the leftovers!”
**
It’s evening and the mosshead is helping clean the kitchen after dinner. Sanji isn’t sure why he’s staying behind like that. The others know he’s got it handled – it’s his job after all. Zoro asks for more sake – in your dreams, loser – and complains that wiping the dishes is dumb and they should let them air dry – it leaves streaks and we’re not savages.
Sanji realizes he doesn’t mind the company, and he can’t explain why – the swordsman is too large, too loud. He’s constantly getting on his nerves, but on the other hand, he’s never a threat. Sanji knows what to expect with him, and his presence is annoyingly comfortable.
“What do we do with that?” Zoro asks with his back turned, and Sanji bristles because he should know where everything goes by now.
But when he looks at him, he sees that he’s holding Nami’s unfinished bowl of rice over the bin, and he sees red. He kicks Zoro in the shin, snatching back the bowl.
“What’s your fucking problem?” Zoro mutters, rubbing his leg.
“We’re not throwing out leftovers,” Sanji growls.
“That’s just rice,” Zoro argues. “Gimme that.”
He grabs the bowl and stuffs his face with old rice before Sanji can stop him.
“We’re not wasting food,” Sanji repeats. “Never.”
“You’re weird,” Zoro mocks, but he has his mouth full and it sounds ridiculous.
Sanji kicks him again with a glare.
**
“Urg.”
Sanji opened his eyes, just barely. Zoro looked terrified – he never looked like that. There was a streak of blood on his face, and his eyes were wild. Desperate.
“Shitty cook, wake up!” Zoro yelled, frantic.
But all Sanji could hear was static and his own heartbeat, too loud against his inner ear.
“Cook?”
But he couldn’t answer, couldn’t even keep his eyes open. His vision was graying on the edges anyway.
“Sanji!”
His name sounded weird in the mosshead’s mouth, like something he never expected to hear. Something he wanted to hear more. He didn’t want to die, he thought. Not here, not yet. Not when the swordsman had his dirty fingers digging inside his leg. He needed his leg to fight. He needed to fight. His thoughts fizzled out as darkness grew around him.
**
He could hear snoring – soft, reassuring. He hated that sound, he told himself. It meant the lazy, good for nothing mosshead was around, being useless as usual. He sighed because he didn’t think he’d hear that sound again.
His leg felt tight, the pain at bay for now, but ready to spark again if he moved too much. He cracked an eye open and tried to take stock. He was in bed, down to his underwear and there were clean, white bandages around his leg.
He didn’t feel the urge to kill the mosshead, not even a little bit. It seemed like he beat death and the Baroque Works curse.
“You didn’t actually throw out the leftovers, right?” Sanji asked, and Zoro finally stirred.
He glared at him like it was the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He looked tired, Sanji thought distantly, like he had finally passed out after keeping watch all night.
“You better heal up fucking fast,” Zoro growled – and anyone else would have cowered in fear, but Sanji knew better. “I’m going to beat your ass.”
“In your dreams,” Sanji scoffed.
Something jolted in his leg. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.
“Are you not going to ask me why I did it?” he said when he got his breathing under control, staying very still.
“Because you’re a self sacrificing moron,” Zoro said, raising an eyebrow as if daring Sanji to contradict him. “You had a fever,” he continued with a sigh. “You… said things while you were unconscious.” Zoro looked uncomfortable now.
So they knew, then. And they hadn’t kicked him out. Probably because he was very bad at murder.
“Who patched me up?” he asked instead, looking at his bandaged leg again.
“An old dude in town. Said he was a former medic.” Zoro shrugged. “He stitched you up.”
He said it like it was no big deal, like he didn’t have to pinch his fucking artery while half his blood was on the kitchen floor. That was going to be a bitch to clean, he thought.
“You risked going on land for me?” Sanji tried not to sound too surprised, but he couldn’t help feel like he didn’t deserve it.
“Captain’s orders,” Zoro smirked.
Of course. Luffy loved everyone in his crew more than it was reasonable.
The swordsman kicked off his boots and put his feet up on the bed. Sanji braced for the pain, but Zoro managed not to bump into his injured leg.
“Are you really going to stay here?”
“As long as it takes,” Zoro said. “Until you’re ready to spar again.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sanji sputtered. “That’s not recovery, that’s torture!” he protested, but secretly he was glad not to be alone with his thoughts.