Chapter Text
It’s a quiet night on Sunny, for the most part. Dinner had been its usual chaotic event with Luffy and Usopp swallowing down enough food to feed a small army, dishes piling up beside them in the blink of an eye. Now everyone had gone off to engage in their various activities before bed, and since Sanji had refused any help cleaning up, the kitchen was quiet save for the sound of the water hissing out of the tap.
Sanji hums tunelessly while he finishes the dishes and turns off the sink. There isn’t much left to do, but he likes the quiet solitude of the kitchen, wants to linger a bit longer before facing the rest of the crew. Truthfully, Sanji still feels guilty. Guilty about leaving them, guilty about the engagement, guilty about what he had done to his own captain. Guilty that they had to rescue him, even after all of that- what did he do to deserve being rescued? The honest answer was nothing.
And being back was strange. On the surface things seemed normal, but Sanji couldn’t help but pick up on an underlying tension there, especially between him and the swordsman. He avoided Sanji unless he needed something (usually booze), and the two hadn’t even sparred once since the chefs return. And sometimes Nami looks at him like she’s worried he’s going to run off again, like there’s been a shift in her trust in him- and that’s devastating. That’s absolutely devastating.
It’s hard not to hyper-observe and over-analyze every little microinteraction he has with the crew, wondering if they really forgive him or not, wondering if they’re all just tolerating him for Luffy’s sake. Do they really see him as worthy of being part of the crew? Shit, even he didn’t think he was worthy. He’s sure they’d be better off if they’d just left him on Whole Cake.
He takes a damp towel and slowly starts wiping down the countertop, scrubbing away any last remnants of food. He’s so focused on keeping his anxieties at bay that he doesn’t hear the door to the kitchen open, doesn’t notice the swordsman until he’s standing directly across the counter from him, his form blocking some of Sanji’s light.
“You better not be looking for booze, shitty swordsman,” Sanji says with an indignant sniff, looking up and meeting Zoro’s eyes. “You drank me down to just my cooking sherry.”
“Doesn’t a good chef always have reserves?” Zoro starts to smirk but it quickly drops from his face as something seems to catch his attention. Sanji follows his gaze down and immediately goes stiff. Oh shit oh fuck oh no.
Of course he’d forgotten that he’d rolled up his sleeves while washing the dishes. And there was Zoro, staring right at his forearms and the roughly two dozen or more little round burn scars that were littered across the milky flesh.
Sanji quickly shoves his sleeves down and turns his back to the man, bending down to rummage through one of the lower cupboards. He finds the bottle of rum he has stashed under an upside-down colander and pulls it out quickly, hoping against hope that the booze will be enough to distract the swordsman from what he’d just seen. He slips on his best mask of stoic indifference as he slides the bottle across the counter to Zoro, the amber liquid inside sloshing against the sides of the glass.
“Here, stupid moss-head. Take your booze and quit stinking up my kitchen.”
The damn marimo’s eyes don’t even flick down to the bottle. He’s looking right at Sanji like he’s trying to read his thoughts, sending a shiver down the blonde’s spine. His lips are pulled down in a frown.
In one of the most accusatory voices Sanji’s ever heard in his life, the moss-head asks him: “Oi, cook. What the hell is on your arm?”
“What the hell is on your face? Oh, that’s right, a whole lot of ugly.”
Zoro blinks at the insult and then snarls. “It’s ringworm, isn’t it?!”
“Wait, what?”
“You brought ringworm onto the ship!” Zoro’s fist comes down hard on the counter between them, making Sanji jump a little. “Do you have any idea how contagious that is?! Do you want us all to get ringworm!?” Sanji is too stunned by the accusation to speak. Did this moss-headed motherfucker really think he had ringworm?
“I’m getting Chopper.” The swordsman grabs the bottle of rum and makes like he’s going to leave, sending the cook into immediate panic- the last thing he needed was Chopper investigating his forearms.
“I DON’T HAVE RINGWORM YOU MOSS-HEADED IDIOT!” He all but screams, quickly rushing around the counter to try to get between Zoro and the door. The marimo looks at him like he doesn’t believe him an ounce.
“Let me see, then,” Zoro demands, setting the rum back down. Even though Sanji should have expected that, he’s not sure what to say or do. He manages to wedge himself between the other man and the door, but now Zoro is advancing on him, making him stumble backwards until his back hits the door.
“No,” He says, trying to sound defiant and confident even though his hands are starting to shake a little.
“Let. Me. See,” the swordsman grits out again, stepping closer and closer to the blonde.
“I said no!”
He sees Zoro’s hand coming and tries to move out of the way but there’s nowhere to go with his back against the door. If he punts the shitty swordsman across the room he’ll just run off and tell Chopper and the rest of the crew that the cook’s got ringworm, which is the last thing Sanji needs. After putting up a half-struggle he finally concedes and lets Zoro grab him by the wrist and pull his arm out. He looks away when he feels his sleeve being pulled up, finding an interesting notch in the wall to stare at instead.
Zoro studies the other man’s arm with a puzzled look on his face. This wasn't ringworm, was it? The marks were too small, too round, not rashlike. They were more like scars. As a matter of fact, they were scars.
“What the hell is this?” He looks up to meet the Chef’s eyes but finds the other’s head turned away from him, so he goes back to looking at the scars, rubbing a thumb over one that was right in the center of Sanji’s wrist, where his pulse point was. They’re strangely uniform in shape and size, but the fact that they’re in different stages of healing tells him they happened over time, not all at once-
Oh. Zoro feels sick when he realizes exactly what he’s looking at. Cigarette burns. Their chef is covered in cigarette burns. His grip on the other’s wrist tightens involuntarily.
“Who did this to you?” His voice is lower than before, but more lethal. Way more lethal. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears, feels the warmth of rage rising in his gut. When the cook still doesn’t say anything he presses further, gripping Sanji’s wrist even tighter without meaning to: “Tell me who thought they had the right to use you as their fucking ashtray.” All the swordsman can think about is finding whoever did this to the cook and ripping them limb from limb.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sanji tries to pull his arm away, but Zoro is turning his arm over now like he’s a scientist analyzing a specimen. He realizes too late the mistake he’s making in letting himself be examined like that when Zoro’s other hand comes up to brush along the edge of his most recent burn, right below his elbow. He’d made that burn his third night back with the full crew, only a few days ago. Its freshness was apparent to anyone who looked at it.
Zoro’s eye goes wide as the last piece of the puzzle falls into place- the idiot cook is doing this to himself. This realization has him reeling.
They both seem to freeze like that for a minute, the only sound between them being Sanji’s anxious breathing. Finally the swordsman speaks, his voice thin and dry: “Don’t fucking tell me, cook… You did this to yourself?”
Sanji bristles, then goes to swat Zoro’s hands off him. This time the swordsman lets go, and the blonde quickly shoves his sleeve back down before holding his wrist protectively against his chest. “You don’t know shit, you moss-headed idiot! Leave me alone!” He reaches behind him with the hand not pressed to his chest to scramble for the door knob, fully ready to storm off to the baths or bunks or anywhere he can get some space and be alone. He manages to get the door open and is getting ready to back out when Zoro’s voice stops him in his tracks.
“If you run off I’ll go get Chopper. And the captain.”
The blonde goes still, weighing his options. On one hand, getting away from the shitty marimo sounded great, really great, like 10/10. On the other hand, he was really hoping he could avoid anyone else finding out about this dumb, shitty habit. He started doing it when he was sure he’d never see his crew again, and now he was hoping he’d eventually be able to stop before anyone caught on. He mostly wore long sleeves anyway, and he was sure the scars would eventually fade to barely be visible. But he can’t keep his stupid little secret from the crew if Zoro went and blabbed, so he shuts the door, sucks in a deep breath, and turns around to glare at the swordsman.
“Explain,” Zoro says curtly, jaw tense.
“They’re burns,” Sanji puts on a voice like he’s talking to a child, part of him hoping he can rile Zoro up into a fight and distract him from this whole awful thing. And it does rile Zoro up, because the cook can see the other’s fists tightening until the knuckles are white.
“I know they’re burns, you fucking brat. What I’d like you to explain to me is why the fuck you’re burning your own flesh.” The look the swordsman is giving him is too intense for him to stomach, so Sanji breaks eye contact, folding his arms across his chest in a huffy way and letting out an annoyed sigh.
“It’s none of your damn business. It doesn’t even matter.”
Zoro snaps at this, shoving the cook roughly into the door and pinning him there with an arm across his chest, their faces were only a few inches apart. “Last time I checked, we’re nakama, and both members of this crew. So your physical and mental well being is very much my fucking business. You can sit here and feel sorry for yourself all you fucking want, but you’re going to talk. If not to me then to Luffy and Chopper. Your choice, cook.”
Sanji glowers back at him. None of this felt fair. Obviously he didn’t want to sit here and spill his guts to the fucking swordsman, but having his captain know he has a fancy for putting cigarettes out against his own skin somehow felt even more pathetic. And Chopper- well, that was just a low blow. Sanji has to swallow down a wash of tears just thinking of the look that would be on poor Chopper’s face if he knew.
“So you’re blackmailing me into sharing. How noble of you, Mosshead,” he bites sarcastically, but Zoro doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, just stares at him with that unrelenting intensity that makes Sanji feel like he’s being stripped raw. All the while he continues to hold the blonde against the door, waiting for him to make the next move.
After a few minutes of trying to kill Zoro with his mind, Sanji sighs, defeated. He claws at the hand against his chest, grumbling: “Fine, we can talk about it, if it means so goddamn much to you. Just get the hell off me!” The other obliges and finally lets go, taking a step back and giving the chef a moment to collect himself.
Sanji straightens his shirt and gives the swordsman a dirty look before planting himself in one of the kitchen chairs, doing his best to look bored and not let on how vulnerable he was actually feeling. Zoro watches him with an unreadable expression, and Sanji rolls his eyes.
“Look, if you want to talk, sit down. Don’t stand over me like a creep. You’re lording.”
“Not lording, shit-cook,” Zoro mutters, but pulls out a chair regardless and sits down, facing Sanji expectantly with an expression that’s half anger and half… fear? That has to be wrong, Sanji thinks. There’s no way this moss-ball is actually that concerned. He’s just doing this out of an obligation to the rest of the crew, to make sure Sanji isn’t crazy and isn’t going to get them all killed and yadda-yadda. And clearly Sanji is of sound mind, he just has. A small problem. That’s mostly in the past and mostly under control now anyway.
He’s so wrapped up in trying to read Zoro’s expression that he isn’t aware of all the seconds ticking by until the other man speaks: “You forget how to speak, Curly?”
“Shut up,” Sanji quickly retorts. Then he takes a deep breath, gaze falling from Zoro to stare at his own shoes.
“I started doing it on Whole Cake Island, obviously. Things were just… really bad then.” He grimaces, reflecting on the experience. The reemergence of his family, the resurfacing of years worth of bottled up trauma, the helplessness of the whole situation. “I don’t know if Luffy told you anything, or… Basically my biological family found me. They’re not good people. They said- they were going to force me to marry Pudding. So they could have an alliance with Big Mom.” He takes a quivering breath before continuing, less aware of Zoro watching him now.
“It didn’t matter what I wanted. It never did. They only chose me because I’m the weakest link in my family, the most expendable. So they- they used Zeff and the Baratie as hostages, told me that they’d kill them all if I didn’t do what they said. And they… put cuffs on my wrists that would blow off my hands if I tried to leave. Because they knew…” Because they knew how much my hands mean to me. He leaves this thought unfinished, but Zoro gets it anyway. The more Sanji speaks, the angrier Zoro gets. He didn’t know shit about Sanji’s family, but just from hearing this he knows he has a problem with them.
“Anyways,” Sanji says after zoning out for a second. He waves a hand in what he hopes is a nonchalant gesture, but the swordsman can see that the cook’s hands are trembling. “I was basically a prisoner. I felt so- out of control. Like a puppet. I couldn’t control how I lived, who I was with, where I went, what I did. I couldn’t even control how I died- I wanted to so badly- but he would have killed Zeff if I did something to myself.”
The thought of the cook wanting to end his own life makes the swordsman’s heart race in an anxious, uncomfortable way. Part of him would always look at suicide as the coward’s approuch to a problem, but the older Zoro got the more he was beginning to understand all the different nuances that drove people to consider something like that. If the situation had been different in any way, if the cook was still their prisoner but they had no leverage with Zeff, would he have just ended it? What about the crew? It all makes Zoro feel like his dinner is going to climb its way back out of his throat, but he stays quiet and lets the other continue.
“One day when I was smoking I accidentally burned myself and it was- a surprisingly welcome distraction. So I did it again. I know it sounds fucked up but- it was like I finally found one thing I had control over. One thing that was just me. Not someone else. And it was distracting, I could focus on just the pain for hours, I could choose where I wanted to feel it… It helped take me out of my situation and think about other things. I’d do it when I felt too trapped, or when I was missing Sunny…” Okay, that part might have just broken Zoro’s heart a little. You wouldn’t be able to tell from his face (not that Sanji can look at him anyway), but his heart was for sure shattering. “Sometimes I did it because I felt like, uh, like I deserved the pain. Like after… Luf-fy…” Sanji’s voice breaks saying his captain's name, remembering Luffy’s horrible beat-up face screaming at Sanji that he’ll never be Pirate King without him. What was that idiot thinking? Sanji was painfully dispensable.
He brings a hand up and grabs a chunk of hair, tugging harshly to ground himself while he takes a few deep breaths. Literally the last person he wants to cry in front of is Zoro, but it’s getting harder and harder to hold everything back. He jolts a little at the sudden feeling of a warm hand circling around his wrist, the one in his hair. Zoro gives it a squeeze, firm but gentle. “Cook. Let go.”
Sanji immediately releases his hair, feeling the soft blonde locks slide through his fingers. His face is heating up and he can’t tell if he wants to cry or if it’s because of the butterflies in his stomach. Apparently it’s both. Zoro lets him go and retracts his hand just in time for Sanji to wipe a tear away before it falls.
Zoro gives Sanji a minute, which Sanji appreciates. Neither of them say anything, and although there’s no tears streaming down the cook’s face, he was sniffling like some great dam was about to burst. He’d humiliated himself enough crying in front of Luffy, there was no way he was going to cry in front of fucking Zoro of all people right now. He felt pathetic enough as it is, what with the evidence of his weakness literally burned into his flesh and all.
Finally the blonde manages to choke back the wall of tears and clears his throat with a watery sound. “Anyways, I’m not really doing it anymore. It was just a… stupid thing. A stupid thing I did on Whole Cake. And now it’s over.”
“The one by your elbow looked pretty fresh, shit-cook.” It’s said without any malice, but Sanji still wishes Zoro had been kind enough not to point it out.
“It’s from a few days ago,” he admits. Even though Zoro had figured as much, it still struck a nerve in him to know that while he was working out, or napping, or goofing off with the others, or keeping watch, or drinking booze- whatever he was doing, Sanji was off somewhere sticking a cigarette into his skin and Zoro had no idea. None of them had any idea.
“Why would you do that?” Zoro asks thickly. He’s been very gracious in just letting the other man speak so far, but the idea that the cook would do something like this while surrounded by his nakama was too much to let go.
“I just felt… I don’t know. Like I didn’t belong here. Because I’m… not worthy, or whatever,” the last part is murmured so it’s barely audible, but Zoro hears it anyway. It pisses him off. How could Sanji think like that?
“Oi, cook. Look at me.” When the blonde doesn’t follow the order, Zoro tries again. “Sanji. Look at me.”
That gets the other’s attention. His eyes snap over to meet Zoro’s, mouth falling open a little at the surprise of hearing the other actually speak his name. A small part of Sanji is honestly shitting himself over that, because it felt serious. Really fucking serious.
“You are worthy of being here. You’re more than fucking worthy, okay? This crew needs you. We aren’t complete without you, so whatever is going on behind that curly brow of yours making you think otherwise, get a grip on it.”
Sanji stares at the swordsman like a deer in headlights, realizing that as badly as he wants to believe what Zoro was saying, he just doesn't. He couldn’t. Every time he tries to let the words set in he could hear the voices of his family, taunting him. Telling him what a worthless little failure he is. Telling him that he’s nothing. Almost all of his formative childhood years were spent having the idea that he was utterly worthless beaten into him. He meant so little to his own family that they left him in a dungeon to rot. How could Zoro just sit there and use his name and tell Sanji so confidently that he’s worthy of anything? And Sanji’s the one who needs to get a grip? Zoro really was blind since losing that eye.
“You don’t know… what you’re talking about.” To Sanji’s humiliation the tears spring back, and this time he doesn’t have a chance to catch them before they fall. He quickly scrubs at his face, pounding one of his fists down on the table. “Damnit! You don’t know anything!” Despite his best efforts to contain himself, a sob tears its way out of his throat while more tears fall against his will.
Zoro had never seen the blonde fall apart like this before and he wasn’t even fully sure how to react. He always knew the cook had a hard-on for the idea of self-sacrifice, but currently he was giving a whole new meaning to the term self-loathing. It was hard to believe that the man in front of him was the same person from before this Whole Cake fiasco. What the hell did his family do to him? What Sanji had already described was bad enough on its own, and surely that’s just skimming the surface of everything that went down. Zoro suddenly wishes more than anything that he had been there to help rescue the cook.
“You deserve to be here,” Zoro repeats.
“Stop,” Sanji puts his head into his hands and sobs.
“You are worthy, cook.”
“I’m a failure,” Sanji sobs back miserably. “I’m weak.”
“You’re not a failure. You’re not weak. Our crew is stronger because of you.”
“I said stop!”
“You need to hear it!” You need to believe it. Sanji just shakes his head. “You’re a great cook and a great nakama. We need you. You belong here.”
“M-arimo! Fuck!” He goes to reach for his hair again but stops, knowing it will just upset the stupid moss-head. “Don’t you ever s-shut up!?”
Zoro gives it a rest for a minute, lets the cook cry it out and work on reeling himself back in. Sanji’s face and ears are bright pink from embarrassment, his blue eyes wet with tears and rimmed red. He’s never seen the other man cry and Zoro feels bad for thinking it, but Sanji looks really pretty when he’s vulnerable like this. Zoro swallows that thought quickly. This is hardly the time to be thinking with his dick.
Finally the cook is calm, silently stewing in anger and humiliation with his face still blotchy from crying and his hair all fucked up from pulling on it. Zoro feels bad for him; this conversation was emotionally draining for him, he can’t even imagine its impact on Sanji.
“Cook. You should go take a warm bath.”
Sanji eyes him suspiciously. “Are you… Are you going to tell anyone about this?” He asks thickly.
“No. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. You should at least think about talking to Chopper.”
Sanji scoffs. “It’s just a few lousy burns. They’ll heal on their own.”
“I don’t mean for the burns, shit-cook. I mean for your brain. Work through your shit. Chopper can help.”
“I’ll think about it,” The blonde responds, a bit dryly. A beat passes, and he sighs, pushing himself out of the chair. “I guess a bath sounds nice.” He starts making his way to the door, but Zoro’s voice makes him pause.
“Oi, cook. If you want to… do that again. Come talk to me first. Your bodies not an ashtray, got it?”
Sanji’s glad his back is to Zoro now so that he doesn’t see the ridiculous blush spreading across his face and chest.
“Whatever you say, shitty swordsman.”