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The fight wasn’t even worth mentioning.
It was a pirate crew that must’ve lived under a rock, or maybe they drank themselves stupid on cheap sake.
They hadn’t recognized the Sunny’s jolly roger flapping proudly in the wind. They had only seen Luffy and Ussop tearing across the grassy deck, shrieking in laughter as they chased Chopper around the mast, and thought the Straw Hats looked like easy prey. Distracted. Soft.
They’re not thinking much of anything anymore, with their ship at the bottom of the sea.
Sanji recalls the exact moment the battle ended. Heat still licked up his leg as he snuffed out the last embers of a particularly hot Diable Jambe against the deck, smoke lazily curling off his pant leg. In front of him, Zoro landed on the Sunny’s deck with a solid thud. The last bubbles of the pirate crew’s ship – cut cleanly in two – broke the surface of the water behind him, echoes of creaking wood and shouted screams swallowed by the sea.
The swordsman straightened to his full height, smiling wickedly at him with Wado Ichimoji clenched between his teeth, shoulders loose with that wild, feral ease that only came after a fight. His teeth were stained red, blood seeping into the white fabric of the sword’s hilt. Sanji chuckled, flattening the wrinkles on his suit with deft hands. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen Wado with blood not just on her blade.”
Zoro stilled. The shift was immediate – subtle to anyone else, but the wings of the future Pirate King come in pairs. Sanji can read Zoro like no one else. The swordsman sheathed his blades, then grabbed the one from his mouth, turning it over in his hands carefully, inspecting it. There it was, clear as day: a splotch of bright red against pristine white. “It’ll stain if you leave it too long,” Sanji added casually, wiping blood spatter from his own face with the handkerchief he keeps folded in his breast pocket.
Zoro didn’t answer. He ran his thumb over Wado’s hilt almost absently, once, twice, a third time. His jaw worked something around his mouth. Then he spit out a mouthful of blood onto the deck. “Hey!” Sanji snapped, irritation flaring, “You better clean that up, you disgusting animal!” Any other insults died in his throat when the swordsman finally looked up at him.
Zoro’s face had gone pale beneath the grime and blood, and his lone eye wasn’t angry or annoyed. It was tight with focus, or maybe concern. Without a word, he held out Wado. Sanji blinked as the sword hovered between them, offered with absolute trust. He took it, stunned, unwilling to let the swordsman’s sudden unguarded gesture go to waste.
Zoro turned immediately, striding across the deck to Chopper, who had already returned to his game of chase. He scooped the doctor up mid-run, murmuring low into his ear as he carried him to the infirmary.
That was about an hour ago.
Sanji sits at the kitchen table now. The galley smells faintly of citrus cleaner and that woodsy sword oil Zoro likes to keep in the back of the bottom kitchen cabinet. Wado rests in front of him, white hilt immaculate once more. Beside him sits a small pile of red-stained rags. He made sure his work was nothing less than perfect, scrubbing carefully at every thread of the hilt’s wrapping. It was the most prized possession of the Straw Hat’s first mate, after all. And Zoro had entrusted it to Sanji of all people.
Sanji exhales slowly through his nose, an unlit cigarette being worked between his lips. He wouldn’t risk a stray ember falling on something so precious. He should really get started on dinner, but he can’t stop thinking about that look on Zoro’s face. It wasn’t fear, not really. Zoro didn’t do fear. But it had been as close as a man like him could get. Close enough to unsettle the blonde in ways he couldn’t name.
After a few more minutes of staring at the sword in front of him, Sanji clicks his tongue and pushes away from the table, rising and pulling out his lighter in one fluid motion. If he’s going to brood, he might as well brood productively. The chef goes to work in his kitchen, moving around with practiced ease. Knife slashing, pot filling, flame catching – the rhythm of cooking steadies him, as it always has.
One by one, the crew drifts in, hungry stomachs drawn by the smell. Plates are filled, emptied, and filled again. Laughter echoes off the walls, barely drowning out the captain’s complaints of portion sizes.
Zoro doesn’t show.
Normally, that wouldn’t mean anything. The idiot moss gets lost walking a straight line. And meals rarely align with his vicious training schedule.
But he also hasn’t come for Wado. That fact alone strikes up concern within Sanji, though he’d never admit it aloud.
Chopper stays through dinner, lingering in the room long after his plate was licked clean, little hooves swinging off his chair. When the last crew member wanders out and the galley falls quiet, the reindeer hops off and trots over to Sanji by the sink. The blonde is covering the plate he set aside for Zoro before Luffy could eat every crumb of food in the kitchen. He plans to bring it up to the crows nest for him – because surely he must be there – along with his missing sword. He’s the crew’s chef, after all; he has to make sure everyone eats. If he’s just using it as an excuse to make sure the swordsman is okay with his own eyes, well, who’s to know.
Chopper tugs lightly on Sanji’s pant leg, a worried look in his eyes. “Hey, Sanji?” “Yes, Doctor?” The reindeer’s cheeks pinken, but he forgoes his signature wobble at the title. His voice comes out small, quiet enough that anyone standing near the galley door won’t be able to hear him. “It’s about Zoro.” Now that gets Sanji’s attention. “He’s in the infirmary. He needs separate meals for a while. Soups, soft rice, stuff he doesn’t need to chew much.” Sanji scoffs good-naturedly, reaching for a tin in the back of an upper cabinet. “What, did he finally get a sore jaw? Hard to believe such a weak pirate crew can take out the future world’s greatest swordsman.” It’s an insult and a compliment all wrapped up in one. Chopper blinks, nervously fidgeting with his hooves. “He lost a tooth during the fight,” the reindeer admits softly, “Stepped in front of a hit meant for someone else. He asked me not to tell anyone. But since he needs special food, as the crew’s chef, I think you should know.”
It takes serious effort for Sanji not to burst out laughing, but the worried crease between Chopper’s eyes keeps the sound trapped in his chest. The blonde picks something out of the tin, returns it to the cabinet, and crouches down in front of the doctor. “Thanks for telling me, Chop. I’ll pull something together for him now.” He holds his hand out, a delicately decorated chocolate resting on his palm. Chopper’s eyes sparkle. “Is that for me?” “For your professionalism,” Sanji replies smoothly. Happiness lights up the doctor’s face as he takes the sweet treat. “Thanks Sanji!” Chopper calls, already nibbling at the treat as he scampers off and out of the galley. Sanji smiles to himself as he hears Chopper already laughing at one of Brook’s jokes.
The chef puts away Zoro’s leftovers – now designated as Luffy’s after-dinner snack – and quickly gets to work making something for the stubborn swordsman. Miso dissolves into simmering water. Seaweed for their resident seaweed head drifts lazily in the bubbles. Cubes of sea king meat are dropped in last, the broth swallowing them whole. He lets the mixture cook longer than necessary, breaking down the fibers in the meat, making it soft enough for Zoro.
~
With a tray balanced in one hand and Wado tucked under the other, Sanji makes his way to the infirmary. He avoids the main deck, taking a roundabout way around the ship to avoid curious crew members and questions he doesn’t want to answer. Even he isn’t enough of an asshole to tell the crew about Zoro’s injury when the man himself said to keep it quiet.
The whole thing is a bit funny though. It’s a tooth. Brook lost one just last week and Luffy only joked that it would be harder for him to eat meat.
Zoro’s eye snaps open the instant Sanji steps inside the infirmary. He quickly hides something behind his back, scowling. “What’d’ya want, shit cook?” Zoro immediately grimaces at the whistling sound that accompanies his insult.
Sanji sets the tray down with a chuckle. “Chopper told me about your little predicament- no don’t look at me like that, mosshead. I prepare your food, so I need to know what your useless mouth can handle. He was right to come to me.” Zoro stares him down, jaw tight. After a beat, he reaches behind him, retrieving his hastily hidden ice pack. He slowly brings it up to his face, pressing it over his mouth like a shield with a deadly look in his eyes. “You tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.” His voice comes out muffled around the ice pack. “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Sanji replies, unfazed, “Just as soon as you can hold Wado in your mouth again, dumb marimo.”
Something flashes across the swordsman’s face, too quick for Sanji to name, so turns his attention to the other item he brought. He pulls the sword from under his arm, offering it. Zoro puts down the ice pack and takes it reverently, thumb running along the wrapping. He turns it, inspecting Sanji’s work at every angle. It’s flawless, of course, but the chef knows Zoro prefers to see it with his own eyes.
When he finally nods, it’s small, but satisfied. He sets the sword next to him, and reaches for the soup. The cook watches him take the first spoonful, the swordsman wincing for a moment before humming appreciatively. Looking a little closer, Sanji spots the faint purple mottling near Zoro’s cheekbone – evidence of whatever blow knocked out his tooth.
He retrieves the empty tray and turns to leave. Zoro’s voice, rough and whistling, quietly breaks the silence. “Thanks, Cook.” Sanji doesn’t turn around, preferring to smile to himself as he pushes out the door.
-
Zoro is acting weird.
Not the normal weird, either. Not the usual blunt, directionless, bone-headed chaos that trails after him. It's quieter, tighter, coiled under the surface like a drawn blade waiting for its moment to be swung. Like a hum under the skin that never quite settles.
His already obsessive training schedule is longer. Meaner, almost punishing.
The deck and crow’s nest bear the evidence of the war going on inside his head, much to Usopp and Franky’s chagrin. Deep gouges scar the planks where blades have struck too hard. Railings are splintered. Even the stairs show fresh cuts from swings just a little off-angle. And Sanji knows how weird he is about stairs. (One of the rare times Zoro got well and truly drunk with him, he slurred something about stairs and inheriting the white sword. It didn’t take much for Sanji to put two and two together.) Zoro haunts the deck like a ghost – quiet and unfocused.
Chopper told Sanji the details the morning after the incident, voice hushed and professional in that way he gets when he’s trying very hard to be taken seriously. Zoro needs soft foods until his mouth heals. The tooth hadn’t just popped loose. It had been knocked out violently enough to fracture part of the maxilla – the bone that holds the upper teeth. The entire structure of Zoro’s mouth, once honed like a weapon for war, has been compromised. One wrong move and the mouth’s ability to keep up with the strain of battle diminishes. He just needs to take it easy for a while. Only after the area fully heals can Chopper place a proper bone-anchored implant. The tooth itself would need to be reinforced metal – custom forged to keep up with Zoro’s lifestyle. Chopper already consulted with Franky privately, and the shipwright hopes to pick up the right metal at the next island.
In the meantime, Zoro is not allowed to train his mouth. No biting weights, no clenching of teeth, no holding Wado, nothing. At first, he seemed fine, but now, he’s restless.
Sanji notices it the way he notices everything in his kitchen – subtle shifts in the swordsman. The way Zoro’s shoulders never quite relax. The way his jaw moves when he thinks no one’s looking. The way Sanji catches him staring at Wado while he sits in the galley to clean his other swords.
Sanji finds it strange.
Zoro is their immovable first mate, calm and composed at every turn. He’s not anxious, not by any means. And yet…
~
When the swordsman slips into the galley for meals long after everyone else has gone, Sanji watches him. Zoro eats hunched slightly forward, bowl close to his face, no movement wasted – almost like he’s hiding. In between bites, his tongue runs across his teeth, over and over again, almost obsessively.
~
The hygiene thing is new. Honestly, Sanji had no idea Zoro even knew what hygiene was, but their paths are crossing more often now that Zoro’s training has shifted into odd hours, and the chef has come to notice new things.
The boys bathroom is a shared space. It's not unusual for a few of them to be in the communal space at the same time. However, the first time Sanji walked in there before dawn to get ready for breakfast prep, Zoro nearly put a knife through his skull.
The swordsman stood in front of the mirror with a white-knuckled grip on the sink. His shoulders were tense, breathing slow but too controlled – like he was forcing it to stay steady. Their eyes met in the mirror. In a sudden fit of raw emotion, Zoro yelled at him to get out, throwing the closest weapon he had at the blonde. It happened to be the knife Zoro uses to shave – because yeah, he uses a knife like the barbarian he is – and it buried itself in the doorframe next to Sanji’s head down to the grip.
Zoro had a manic look in his eye – something undeniably panicky – unlike anything the cook had ever seen on the man. Instead of fighting him, Sanji chose to back off.
~
The second time he hears someone in the bathroom that early in the morning, he pauses outside the door. Heavy movements supporting a large frame – Zoro. He can hear the man and the rhythmic scrape of a brush on teeth. Sanji leans against the wall, deciding to wait until he’s done. He prefers not to have something else thrown at him. So he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
But the brushing doesn’t stop. It’s relentless, like he’s trying to scrub something out of himself. After a few minutes, Sanji's confusion outweighs self-preservation. He quietly opens the door and slips inside.
Zoro doesn’t notice; there must be a lot going on inside his head. The blonde slowly creeps closer, concerned. He approaches Zoro’s side, pausing in his blind spot.
The swordsman stands over the sink, brushing with almost mechanical strokes. There’s red foam around his mouth, toothpaste stained with blood. It runs down his chin in thin lines, dripping into a sink already splattered with it. It must hurt, how hard he’s brushing. But he doesn’t stop. He wields the toothbrush like another sword, sharp and precise in his movements.
“Zoro.” The name slips out softly with unmasked concern. The brushing stops instantly, the swordsman freezing in place as he snaps out of whatever daze he was in. He slowly turns his head, making eye contact with the cook. He looks haunted – hollow – like something important has been scraped away. He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth, inspecting the blood in the bristles, expression distant. “Hm.” Zoro’s throat is tight, and he doesn’t speak further. He spits, watching the spiral of red vanish down the drain. He rinses his brush and mouth methodically, almost carefully, until the water runs clear. He turns to the personal lockers they keep in the bathroom, opening it to put his toothbrush away.
Sanji hadn’t realized Zoro even used his locker. But there it is, full of items. Rows of toothbrushes, toothpastes, flosses, mouthwashes. Different varieties for different purposes. Nothing else though. It’s not like the other lockers, with lotions and soaps and spare socks; no odds and ends like the rest of the crew’s.
It’s all just… dental supplies.
The blonde frowns. Wordlessly, Zoro turns to leave. Without thinking, Sanji blurts out, “Meet me in the kitchen.” Zoro pauses. He doesn’t turn, does little more than angle his head to show he’d heard him. He’s waiting, Sanji realizes. “I’ll make you some tea,” he finds himself saying, “Anti-inflammatory. For your gums.” Because it must’ve been Zoro’s gums that were bleeding from how hard he was scrubbing. Just how long was he at it?
Zoro takes a second, nods almost imperceptibly, then exits the bathroom. Sanji exhales slowly, staring at the locker a moment longer before turning back to the sink.
~
By the time Sanji arrives, Zoro is slumped at the table, forehead resting on his crossed arms. The blonde has seen him napping there enough times to recognize he’s not asleep.
Sanji prepares the tea as promised, pouring hot water over chamomile tea leaves, adding honey, ginger, and cloves. He adds a quick glug of a floral sake, just enough for the aftertaste to sooth Zoro’s nerves. It’s Sanji’s way of showing he cares. The mixture’s aroma is warm and soft, filling the quiet galley. He walks over, joining Zoro across the table, sliding the mug till it nudges against the man's forearm. Steam curls off the mug, glittering silver as it catches the thin light creeping through the porthole as the sun just begins to breach the horizon.
The crew will start to wake up in about an hour or so. For now, it’s just the two of them. “Drink up before it gets cold, shitty marimo.” Despite his words, Sanji’s voice holds a subtle affection – one the man in question clearly hears. Zoro lifts his head slowly and sits up with a sigh, fingers wrapping around the mug. He lets the heat warm his hands for a moment as he absently runs his tongue over his teeth, then takes a tentative sip. Sanji sees a faint swirl of pink disperse within the tea as the swordsman lowers the mug. A ghost of a smile lingers on Zoro’s face, clearly appreciating the subtle notes of that speciality sake the cook sometimes gives him, but he forces it down and takes another sip.
Sanji finds himself watching him the way he watches a simmering pot – patient, attentive, waiting for the moment something changes. Zoro closes his eye and his shoulders loosen slightly. “You okay?” the chef asks after a moment. He keeps his posture relaxed, voice low, showing genuine concern. He tries to make it sound casual – it isn’t. Zoro doesn’t answer. He looks at him over the rim of the mug as he takes a longer pull, swishing the liquid around his mouth lightly before swallowing.
Nearly ten minutes later, silence broken only by the thunk of the empty mug hitting the wooden table, does Zoro finally answer. “I’ve never bled on Wado before,” his voice is subdued and low, laced with a doleful shame Sanji barely recognizes, “Might not shower every day like some people, but I take good care of my teeth.” He pokes at his lip – the cook can see the way Zoro’s finger pushes past the line of his teeth, where one is missing. “S’my whole fighting style.”
Ah.
Sanji suddenly understands why Zoro has been so off since losing his tooth. His entire identity hinged on his ability to fight. Without his mouth – his tooth – his sword didn’t sit right. And if the sword didn’t sit right, neither did he. If something happened to Sanji’s legs – something bad enough to threaten the way he fought, the thing that made him him – he’d be crawling out of his own skin too.
“Can I see?” The question tumbles out before he can stop it. Sanji bites his lip in embarrassment, but refuses to ruin the moment by saying something sarcastic to save himself. The atmosphere is sincere, something rare and precious between them. Zoro looks at him, surprise fading into something faintly amused at the open interest on the cook’s face.
The swordsman leans closer, and the cook responds in kind. Zoro’s gray eye looks into Sanji’s blue ones for a moment, but he finds no pity, just gentle curiosity. Slowly, he hooks a calloused finger around his upper lip, and pulls it back.
Sanji is momentarily surprised at how white the man’s teeth are. Zoro doesn’t smile much anymore – and with teeth even less – so he had forgotten that his pearly whites were indeed a pearly white. His gums are red and irritated from his stint in the bathroom, but otherwise look healthy. Sanji notices there are no signs of scurvy in Zoro’s gums; the chef in him is content at the thought – he’s been diligent with including citrus in everyone’s diets.
Zoro is missing one of his canines. The absence looks wrong, like a missing note in a song. His tongue flicks out playfully through the gap, and Sanji snorts. “Dumb moss.” Zoro releases his lip, mouth falling into a resigned smile. “Chop says by the time we get to the next island, I’ll be healed well enough for a new one.” Sanji hums, “Yeah, I heard Franky picked out a good metal for you,” he huffs a laugh, “You’ll be an authentic pirate. Silver tooth and all.” The swordsman shakes his head, flicking a finger through his earrings. The metal chimes lightly. “Gold.”
Sanji huffs, snickering. “Right, of course. Goes better with that ugly hair of yours anyway.” He privately thinks that shade of green might be his favorite color.
Something creaks within the bowels of the ship. The crew is starting to stir. Sanji rises from the table, walking into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. He’ll need to make something simple, as sitting with Zoro had eaten well into his prep time. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“You staying for breakfast, moss?” he calls out, not having heard the swordsman leave. Zoro just grunts in response – yes. Sanji smiles to himself. Zoro hasn’t been eating with the crew over the last week, preferring to eat his specialized meals in private, unwilling to let more of the crew know about his weakness.
Sanji reaches for the flour. Pancakes are soft enough for missing-tooth’d marimos to enjoy.
-
They’re attacked again a few days after Zoro’s operation. Chopper had just cleared him to use Wado the day prior.
Zoro’s bloodlust sings.
Sanji sees him at the end, leaping off the enemy ship as he had a few weeks prior. Their swordsman is covered in blood, sweat, and smoke, eye as sharp as his blades and alive with the blazing heat of battle. Wado’s hilt is spotless – immaculate white acting as a beacon in the chaos and destruction around them.
The two wings make eye contact, and Zoro grins. The gold plated tooth flashes in the sunlight like a spark struck from steel.
To an outsider, he looks feral. Unhinged.
To Sanji, he looks like himself again.