Archive of Our Own

The carriage jolts and rattles as it makes towards the jagged coast.

The tightly grouted brickwork of the city streets had long since given way to humble roads. Where civilization once reined, pebbled cobblestone and gravel now lead the path.

Sanji sets his reading aside and turns to peer out the window.

The cloudy dales of the countryside greet him. Rolling hills of muted greens framed by overcast gray skies. A lowset stonework fence lines the road, and beyond it resides meticulous rows of decaying latticework.

The remnants of a vineyard, long-since abandoned.

On the horizon a silhouette begins to take shape.

Towering and dark against the sky, Kuraigana Manor looms over the fields with a presence that has yet to decay along with its withered grounds.

The carriage bumps over a dip in the drive and scatters a docket of paperwork across the leather seats. Sanji curses under his breath and dips to retrieve them. Delicately, he gathers the papers in his grip and sets them to rights in his lap.

The title of the docket leers at him in heavy handed scrawl.

Sanji stands at attention in the center of the office.

The gray tones of the room serve only to make it feel colder, and gooseflesh rises on the back of his neck.

“You’re sending me away?” Sanji asks, shifting to tuck his hands politely at his lower back, his fingers curling together in a loose grasp.

“I am sending you on an errand,” Judge corrects, speaking as he shuffles a set of files on his desk. “By technicality, the property is under management of the Vinsmoke Estate, and it has been ignored for far too long.”

Sanji carefully schools his features with neutrality. Distantly, a steam train horns.

“What is the purpose of my visit?”

“Evaluate the contents of the estate.” Judge explains without looking up from his paperwork. “There is rumor that some studies were under development before its abandonment. You are to locate any records of use and return your findings for use in our future endeavors.”

“I see,” Sanji remarks evenly.

Though his posture must lighten, as Judge suddenly lifts his gaze to pin the blond with a glare.

“Do not take this task lightly- I have no use for a son that does not contribute to the advancement of our company.” He declares soundly. “This will be your last chance.”

Sanji tilts his chin in a bow, his hands fisted tightly at his lower back.

“Of course, Father- I understand.”

Months away from the Vinsmoke Estate? Leagues away from his father and siblings?

A flourish of delight burns through his chest.

Sanji can only hope that his last chance may also be the longest chance.

The chill of the breeze bites at Sanji’s skin, the taste of sea salt lingering in its wake. The road they’d traveled has been swallowed up by the fog of the coast.

Kuraigana Manor emerges from the mist, both fantastic and eerie.

Steeply pitched, black tile roofs. Spires that lurch to the sky with wrought iron points. Stained glass windows that carry the weight of history in their rich colors.

The coachman unstraps Sanji’s meager luggage from the carriage top, handing it off to the blond so he may set it on the cobblestone of the manor drive.

A crate of groceries follows; the planks creak as they hit the stone.

“Deliveries will be weekly?” Sanji checks.

“Aye,” the coachman nods. “And if you have need for something, send it on the telegram to Shakky’s.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Nothing of it,” the man brushes off, “these moors are full’a hermits. S’a common route.”

“Still, I’ll be grateful,” Sanji offers him a smile.

The coachman pauses, glancing between Sanji and the manor with a tight look of consternation. “You might hold your pleasantries till you settle in, boy.” He suggests. “It’s been some thirty years since a soul’s set foot in that place. Don’t much know what you’ll find in there.”

Sanji slips a hand into his waistcoat pocket, thumbing at a tin of cigarettes as he looks back to the manor.

The front steps lead up to a covered porch, the overhang composed of a series of gables with ornamental motifs along the braces. The narrow windows are framed with flourishing trim, its onyx paint chipped from the cut of the wind.

Seagulls caw beyond the cliffs, gliding on the clipped breeze of the coastline.

Sanji thinks of his childhood home. Of rigid bricks and industrialist pipework. The rugged frame of iron beams.

The cool iron of bars welded in place, and the chill of damp granite beneath scraped palms.

The structures in Germa are steeped in practicality. Bereft of superfluous decisions such as ornamentality or emotions.

Sanji tugs a cigarette free from his tin and slides the filter between his lips.

“I’ve seen worse.”

The latch gives way with a hefty grind of the bolt.

Sanji steps into Kuraigana Manor, and immediately feels as if he’s stepping back in time.

The grand foyer is open to a towering staircase, winding up to each story like the twist of a vine. Lavish balconies overlook the center of the manor with ornamental railings and wrought iron candlework.

The decor is opulent, thick burgundy brocades drape from pitched windows while lush rugs of twisting ivy motifs stretch across the hardwood. Intricate crown molding and pitched gables accent the ceiling with stained mahogany.

Behind the grand staircase, a massive stained glass window throws muted hues of purples and reds across the architecture.

“Hello?” Sanji calls out. “Is anyone here?”

He’s not expecting an answer, but feels it best to check anyway.

Thankfully, only the echo of his own words return to him.

The blond sets his luggage aside for the moment, choosing to explore before he drags his personal belongings about in search of a bed chamber.

The manor is furnished in a heavy layer of dust, muting the colors and providing an overall air of neglect. Of which Sanji supposes is warranted, given its abandoned state.

As he steps further into the foyer, a draft creeps across his skin; he cinches his necktie closer to his throat.

Sanji plucks another cigarette from his tin and flicks it to life with his lighter.

At least no one’s around to complain of the smoke.

Sanji is cautious as he wanders the manor. He keeps his steps light and his movements slow, wary of any structures that might be unstable from years of decay.

He starts on the west wing, finding a parlor and a study, the furniture within draped in thick canvas covers.

Tucked around the backside of the manor, Sanji finds a mostly empty veranda which overlooks the rugged coastline. Large ceramic pots frame the glasswork, housing soil devoid of life. Sanji tests a hinge wheel at the windows and is pleasantly surprised when the pane creaks open to let in the gasp of a breeze.

On the east, Sanji finds a grand dining room. And beside it- an attached kitchen.

The blond glides across the muted black and white tiles of the kitchen floor with a luxurious pace. He drags a finger through the dust on a butcher block and knocks his knuckles against the copper kitchenware hanging above the stovetop.

He toggles the gas pilot light on the oven, and grins when it lights like a dream.

There’s an icebox with a thick metal clamp for a handle. A slim little switch starts a whir of pressure behind the walls and Sanji croons with delight as the icebox shudders to life.

He reverently traces the embossed placard that directs him to the Pantry. He spins his finger on the looping finish of the Y before he turns the brass knob on the door-

And finds a dark staircase awaiting him. The path traveling into the pitch black depths of the manor.

A shudder of unease skitters along the back of Sanji’s neck at the thought of descending and he closes the door before he can imagine it further.

He releases the handle and the latch of the bolt returns to place with a solid click.

“Not today,” Sanji declares.

He shakes his limbs out and retreats back into the heart of the room, busying himself by opening the first cabinet he finds. The blond mentally catalogs his findings as he peers at shelving of plates, platters, and cups.

Sanji taps on fine china with a fingernail and lets himself wind back into the whim of exploration.

He runs the tap and grins when the sinkwater draws crystal clear.

The kitchen is wonderful. Bar the predicament of the pantry- Sanji is absolutely in love.

And he is loath to leave before he’s familiarized with every nook and cranny- However, his luggage is still in the foyer and daylight is beginning to slip away.

“Not to fear, My Lovely. I’ll shall be back for you later.” Sanji tells the room at large.

The rest of his exploration is perfunctory, at best. There will be days on end to wander to his whims, but his first order of business is to find a suitable bed, then immediately after, he’ll return to the kitchen to begin crafting his evening meal.

Sanji makes his way up the grand staircase.

The first door on the west leads him into a woman's bed chambers. Damask wallpaper decorates the walls, the color faded to a soft petal pink, and violet curtains dulled to a velvety lilac at their hem.

The furnishings are of a dark walnut, with brass knobs inlaid with pearl. A canopy bed stands in the center, the lace trim of the bedding as delicate as spun sugar.

A gathering of plush creatures are tucked into the bedsheets, their bodies and faces a mis-matched collection of fabrics. The center creature is a bear with a blue hat, its squishy arms wrapped around the ivory white silk of a decorative parasol.

Sanji can’t imagine himself disturbing the sweet tidiness of a ladies' chambers. As such, he closes the door with a quiet latch and moves on.

He makes his way by some rooms of daily function- A parlor, a study, and washroom- before he reaches another bedchamber on the east wing; one spare of the ornamentation found in the rest of the manor.

Oak panelling lines the walls, the trim lacking of frills and embellishment. A four poster bed matches a nearby wardrobe and chest of drawers. The brass handles worn shiny with use.

A narrow balcony on the far wall overlooks the coastline. One of the curtains is parted aside and the emerald green of the rug carries a starburst of dulled fibers from the path of the sun.

It smells of wood polish and clean linens.

Sanji takes a liking to it.

He knows there’s likely to be a master bedroom somewhere within the manor, one that would house more luxurious furnishings, but he much prefers the simplicity of this room.

The quiet, simple atmosphere it offers.

Besides, with the extravagant way the main halls are decorated, he suspects the master bedroom to be similarly garish.

This will suffice.

Sanji leaves the door ajar as he returns to gather his luggage.

Sanji returns to the kitchen as dusk begins to tease at the horizon.

He is meticulous as he unearths the crate of groceries he’s received from the local township, and is pleased to find them plentiful.

He roasts a cut of pheasant in the oven with a rub of herbs, setting aside the bones to boil for stock. A mash of root vegetables provide a lovely setting for the meat when folded with a knob of fresh butter.

Sanji finds a collection of dried spices in the cabinet that boast labels too faded to read. He checks each of them with a clean finger and decides that their age can be compensated with volume.

A scoop of flour in a saucepan quickly brings the broth together into a thin gravy. He then ladles it mindfully over the roasted meat.

As Sanji plates his own meal, he can’t help the bright grin of excitement that overtakes him.

Never would he have been able to explore such superfluous activities in the Vinsmoke Estate. To the higher class of aristocracy, cooking was considered servantwork, and was not to be spoken of with cavalier interest.

Sanji sets his own place at the servants table, a quaint surface near the windows of the kitchen. The gas lights along the walls are sufficient, but he takes the extra moment to light the single candlestick in the center of the table. The wax drips at the base of the candle telling of use far prior to his own.

The roasted pheasant is dry, but the root vegetables are seasoned well. Sanji makes note of the time the meat spent in the oven and the minimal length he left it to sit before slicing.

The gravy is weak, but Sanji thinks this can be pardoned by the short frame of turnaround from his efforts.

The meal is warm and filling, but pride wells even more so for the success of his endeavor.

Sanji smiles to himself as he collects another bite for his fork and turns to the windows for interest as he enjoys his meal.

The silver chimes against the china as he feasts, and he does not leave a bite behind.

Sanji spends the next few days in the rooms directly off the grand foyer, taking time to unearth the furniture from their canvas tombs, while tugging the curtains aside and begs the sunlight to wash away the dreary atmosphere.

The study on the main floor is fit for the purpose of his stay. It's centralized, and contains an ornate mahogany desk with a plush upholstered chair that faces a brickwork fireplace in the corner of the room. A set of carved fountain pens rattle within the drawers as he tugs them open, the wood snug in the joints from time. Sanji leaves his docket from Germa on the desk and weighs it with the corner of a candlestick, untrusting of drafts.

Alongside the main staircase, Sanji notices a slim door flush against the panelling. Upon opening it, he finds that it leads downward into the dark belly of the manor.

And- much like the pantry, he opts to keep it closed.

Methodically, Sanji works his way through each level of the manor. Mentally cataloging its purpose and if its contents might benefit him.

There’s a library on the second floor that he’ll need to sift through, and a study on the second floor with an unusual number of weapons decorating the walls.

On the third floor of the manor, Sanij finally locates the master bed chambers.

The room resides behind an ornate set of double doors and the click of a brass latch. The blond toes into the vestibule to look around, and just as quickly feels a prickle of discomfort at the back of his neck.

Oddly enough, here- none of the furniture is covered.

The room is lavishly decorated with deep reds and velvety blacks. There is a massive chest of drawers, a canopy bed draped in black silk, and trifold vanity inlaid with a glossy marble surface.

Above the bedframe, a massive blade hangs in the mimicry of a cross. It gleams in the dim light that creeps through the open doorway.

As Sanji’s gaze flits over the weapon, a chill rushes over his skin.

Feeling the foreboding sense as if he’s intruding, the blond hastens back to the corridor, sealing the double doors behind him with a quiet apology.

“I’ll stick with my current room, thanks,“ he mutters, the words tucked around a fresh cigarette as he brushes a sense of unease from his skin.

At the end of the first week, Sanji sends a notice by post to Judge of his arrival. He comments dryly on the vastness of the manor’s rooms and the volume of documentation he’ll need to work through.

He crosses his fingers and hopes it will earn him more time away.

Meanwhile, Sanji indulges in the luxury of making himself home in the kitchen, improving with each meal he prepares. He dusts the surfaces until they gleam, makes use of every piece of cookware until each has been warmed to his grip

The pantry door looms in his periphery, the metallic letters holding a muted gleam from the soft lighting. and once more considers the pantry.

The dark stairwell could hold any number of exciting ingredients.

Preserves, dried goods, wine.

Sanji taps his shoe against the tile and glares at the door.

He sighs.

“Not today,” he decides again.

The blond tries all manner of recipes. Some of which he’d read prior to his visit, and others gathered in the tattered cookbooks tucked away in the kitchen cabinets.

Molded sugar, steamed pudding, a resplendent demiglase, and smoked confit.

All of it is exciting, and yet- a bite of hesitance lingers.

This is exactly the sort of freedom Sanji has dreamed of…but it’s been provided by Judge’s own directives.

The blond forks into poached chicken with a clack of silverware; buttered peas scatter from the shift of the meat and the balsamic reduction seeps into the space left behind.

Could such freedom truly be valued?

Spending weeks on end away from the leer of his father and reach of his brothers? It certainly isn’t the punishment Judge intends it to be.

Germa’s fortune is one rooted in bloodshed. The aristocracy's primary source of income routes from their scientific developments- Weapons mainly; be it alchemical, biologic, or mechanical.

From what limited documentation Sanji was provided, Kuraigana’s estate garnished its wealth from a flourishing vineyard and winery.

Sanji can’t fathom what Judge expects him to find here.

A recipe for merlot, perhaps?

Or….

Perhaps Sanji’s not intended to find anything. The errand could as easily be an excuse for Judge to finally rid himself of his least favorite child.

If the intention is for Sanji to dissipate into sheaves of paperwork, he wouldn’t mind in the slightest.

At best, Judge forgets he ever gave Sanji such an errand, and he is welcome to putter about Kuraigana’s kitchen for the rest of his affable life.

The thought is too sweet to endure. Too appetizing to consider.

With a perfunctory sigh, Sanji blows out the candelabra at the kitchen table and turns away.

There is no fairytale waiting at the end of his lifetime, he reminds himself. He knows better than to indulge in such fantasies.

His dreams will remain in the clouds that gather above his thoughts at night.

This is only an errand.

Sanji on his second week of continuing to ignore the pantry door when the itch of curiosity finally overwhelms his distaste of the dark.

If the estate's fortune was earned through its vineyard, there’s bound to be wine aged to absolute perfection somewhere in the manor.

And Sanji intends to find it.

He arms himself with a candelabra, fisting the iron tightly as he stands at the precipice of the stairs.

One step at a time, Sanji descends into the darkness. The light of day from the kitchen windows illuminates the first few stairs, and the blond pauses when the flames of the candelabra takes over, giving his eyes time to adjust.

The planks of the steps are smooth in the center, worn smooth from years upon years of tread to and fro in the passage. A chill threads in the air and the walls shift from plaster and wood to the heft of grouted brick.

The glow of the candlelight only stretches so far ahead. Sanji keeps his gaze trained on the further steps visible. The stone floor of the pantry reflects with a glint of damp stone when the wooden stairs give way to its breadth.

Sanji hugs the wall that approaches on his left when he reaches the end of the steps, and is grateful when he finds a candle sconce to light not more than a few strides from the base of the stairs.

As the pantry contents reveal themselves, Sanji flushes with excitement to find the space is filled to the brim.

Glass jars of preserves reflect back to him with a flicker of light. Metal tins are stacked high, with faded depictions hinting at their contents.

Jams, dried fruits, salted fish, spices, vinegar, and herbs.

There are stores of excess cookery; massive pots and serving platters coated in a fine layer of dust. Crates shoved snug between the gaps of the shelving, their labels too faded to be legible.

Sanji has to watch his head for the boughs of herbs strung up from the rafters. Fastens of dried garlic and peppers dangle from the end of the rows where there is more space to hang them in long wraps of twine.

It’s more than Sanji could have ever hoped to find.

The thought of having access to such a variety of ingredients is thrilling.

Along the far wall, a closed door entices him further. Sanji pushes on the handle, but the wood is swollen, tight with dampness and age.

The blond shoulders it free, and the flames from the candles jump from the movement as he steps out into a stonework hallway.

It’s a narrow corridor the entirety of it able to be dimly illuminated by the candelabra he wields. There are three directions to choose from. Two sets of double doors sitting across from each other on each side, and a single doorway that leads off to his right.

Sanji recalls the direction he’d taken upon his descent into the pantry and first checks the double doors on his right.

In his mind's eye, he pictures the narrow foyer door beneath the main staircase that he’d avoided thus far.

He quickly finds his hunch is correct. Beyond the double doors reside a wide set of stairs, leading upwards.

Sanji lets the entry hang open and turns around to the set of double doors sitting directly opposite.

These open with a rough push.

The hinges whine from disuse and rust as Sanji shoves the passage open. The pitch of them is so shrill it's reminiscent of laughter.

As the seam widens a flourish of cold air gusts across Sanji’s face. His vision shocks white for the barest of a second, the sensation gone the moment he blinks.

The candleglow stretches before him across concrete floors. It reflects off the rounded metal of bedframes and glass vials. Sanji takes in the matte surface of a functional desk and a hefty sheetmetal cabinet. A plethora of faded yellow labels.

An infirmary.

Sanji tightens his jaw.

As loath as he is to explore, the blond knows there’s liable to be some documentation around here that Judge might find useful.

Enough so to buy Sanji more time; to leave him be a little longer.

With a resigned set of his jaw, the blond creeps inwards.

He disregards the beds and makes for reflection of the medicine bottles. His candlestick aloft to guide his way towards the shelving.

The complicated diagrams were always next to the ingredients.

Judge always liked a good diagram.

As the blond reaches further into the room, he traverses beyond the shadows thrown by the doorway. And the candlelight catches a shape in Sanji’s periphery.

Unbidden, Sanji’s mind completes the image for him- and the result sends a bolt of alarm to his thoughts.

There’s a body here.

Sanji swings his head around. But the moment he locks in on the truth, he heaves inward with a gasp, his hand lurching to his mouth.

“Fucking hell.”

It is.

It’s a man.

Or… what used to be a man, Sanji realises, as the view of his light steadies out from his grip regaining hold.

The body is lain out in an alcove, on a bed fashioned of thick steel. His appearance is that of a young man.

Clothed in only a set of trousers, his musculature is defined, his hair cropped short.

Sanji holds still as he takes it in.

Though the man’s chest does not move with breaths, he is in no stage of decomposition. His tawny skin is dull and muted with the ashy hue of death, yet there’s no scent of decay.

The blond adjusts his grip on the candelabra, scowling as he walks nearer.

The man is riddled with scars, most prominently of which stretches across his torso from shoulder to hip.

A wound across his face stands out as well, a slash to his eye that nearly looks fresh. The puckered skin of his wound held together with a fine set of sutures.

Sanji considers briefly about touching his skin, and decides better of it.

The entire scenario is baffling.

“Preservation?” He thinks aloud. But Germa has schooled him well, and Sanji’s not heard of a method that would be so potent as this.

And what is the point of such scientific lengths, if only to leave the body discarded within the walls of the manor?

It’s cruel. Disrespectful and needless...

Disgust tightens his throat.

It's entirely the kind of fantastical alchemy Germa would be eager to get their hands on.

The blond draws his eye over the man once more, his heart twisting with melancholy.

His features are elegant, the cut of his jaw defined. His hair is an earthy green, the hue quite nicely matching the fuzzy hues of the moss clinging to the damp corners of the manor.

“It’s a pity, whatever happened to you,” Sanji comments somberly. “You were quite handsome.”

With a sigh, the blond turns to make back towards the desk. If there are records to find of the man’s preservation, it would likely be nearby.

What Sanji will do with them, he’ll decide later. But what he does know, is that he’d rather not return to the room if necessary.

Never, would be optimal.

As Sanji swings his wrist out to shift the light, he notices a set of iron sconces on the wall behind the desk. “Please, might you still work?” He asks them. He reaches out to twist the brass turnkey at the base of the sconce, raising the wick and following with the gentle flame of a candle.

The pale twist of fibers takes light with a flash of enthusiasm.

It illuminates the nearby area with a pale white hue, its luster burning out the smothering weight of the darkness.

Then- A hiss cuts the air, a spigot from somewhere behind the bricks whines with a spurt of pressure.

And then the second sconce flares to life.

And a third, further away.

A fourth.

“What?” Sanji blurts out, his eyeline anxiously following the path of illumination until a great copper brazier along the other wall bursts to life across the room with a palpable wash of heat.

The flames of the brazier are split like a flower, their heat lapping exuberantly around the rounded bowl of a copper pot that sits atop them.

“Ah- No thank you?” The blond stresses, his voice pitching upwards as he rushes over to check its contents.

He peeks into the bowl and instantly recoils from the stench of it.

“Oh- That is foul,” Sanji grouses, lifting a hand to pinch his nose before trying again. “What the fuck is that?”

The contents are murky, a viscous green sludge that has crusted shades of ochre along the edges of the pot. As the burner continues to warm the pot, the sour tang of chemicals begins to seep into the air.

Sanji’s heart drops as the contents begin to bubble and spit.

“No- No you can stop right now,” he gasps, hastily setting his candelabra aside to deal with it. Sanji lifts a foot and kicks at the base of the brazier. It rattles, and the flames disappear with a hiss for scarcely a second before returning to life at full force.

“Fuck- fuck stop!” he curses.

With a rush of foam, the pot boils over. The dribbling chemical hissing as it lands on the flames of the brazier and turning gaseous. A thick mist of green vapor begins to haze the room, the stench cloying and thick.

Sanji yanks out his handkerchief and shoves it to his face, fearing the effect should he breathe it in. For a lack of options, he pivots and heads toward the stairs.

The chemical continues to overtake the air, causing his eyes to burn, tears wetting the narrowed view he can manage.

His shin knocks into the metal frame of an infirmary bed and he gasps as he topples to the concrete. The vapor is thicker at the ground and Sanji’s chest burns as it forces its way into his lungs. He coughs instinctively, but every forceful exhale just brings another choking mouthful of chemicals.

Sanji clenches his fists against the concrete and attempts to gather himself to his knees. But his muscles tremble and his body continues to shudder with racking coughs.

His vision darkens, his throat burns.

And then, just before he loses consciousness, his watery vision is overtaken by a mossy green blur.

Sanji wakes with a gasp.

The down comforter falls to his hips and sweat slicks his brow. He heaves a painful breath and presses the flat of his palm to his chest, the flesh of his lungs aching with each draw.

“Wha-” Sanji looks around incredulously. He reaches a hand up to fist around the brocade of his waistcoat.

As if his burning lungs weren’t enough evidence.

“H-how-” Multiple questions come to mind.

How did I get out of the infirmary?

How did I get into my bed?

How did I survive?

No answers return to him.

Feeling positively manic, Sanji pushes the quilts away and scrambles to his feet.

Nothing about the room indicates an abrupt change.

The dull light of morning illuminates his room on the second floor.

The squawk of seagulls fishing for their morning meal breaks the silence between his rattling breaths.

“...Coffee?” Sanji mumbles. “I suppose… I’ll start with coffee?”

The blond makes his way slowly to the kitchen. He measures and pours the grinds, focusing on the practice of his movements.

The buzz of questions doesn’t leave his thoughts.

Sanji leans a hip against the kitchen counter as he gathers his mug close to his mouth, letting the steam calm his sinuses. The door to the pantry looms in his periphery.

He adverts his attention and moves to the stove.

Bacon cooks with a thick scent, the fat and salt of it overpowering the vestiges of acrid chemical lingering in Sanji’s throat. The eggs fry in the bacon fat with glossy orange yolks.

Sanji lets the coffee coat his tongue before he slices up a selection of fruit; peaches and melons juicy enough to wet the plate as he tucks them aside his protein.

He sets the skillet aside to cool and takes his plate to the quaint kitchenette by the window. The gentle haze of morning dapples the tablecloth in sunlight.

Thump.

Sanji drops his fork. Halted beside the table, his gaze turns to the open doorway of the kitchen.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It’s getting louder. Getting closer.

Sanji’s heart races, sinking blood into his veins like lead. His mind's eye knows what that sound is. He can picture it.

The lumbering tread of feet on floorboards.

But who-?

Thump.

Thump.

Suddenly, a massive silhouette shadows the doorframe to the kitchen. Sanji’s eyes water as the scent of loam and mire join the introduction of a man at the entrance.

Bronze, scarred skin. Cropped green hair. A piercing, singular eye.

It’s the same man that Sanji had seen before, previously lain lifeless in the manor basement.

“What the hell?” Sanji whispers.

The man’s steps are hefty and loud, as if the lift of his knee is cut at the height of his step. He makes his way into the kitchen and Sanji retreats to the wall behind himself.

The green-haired brute slowly plods his way around the island and towards the kitchenette. His presence draws with it the acrid scent of alchemical ozone. And when he steps up closer, his silver iris pins Sanji with its focus.

The blond holds his breath. As candle flickers, the man’s eyes shift, as if warbling in the tint of oxidized copper. Sanji shifts his weight to his left foot and picks up his right to his toes, preparing to lash out if needed.

And then…

The man sits down at the table- just slumps into the opposite chair with a clothed thud. His gaze shifts away from Sanji, drifting downward, until it lands resolutely on Sanji’s breakfast.

The blond stares at him, mouth agape.

His mind is steeped with apprehension, but the sensation dims as time continues.

Sanji does nothing; and the unusual man just continues to stare at the food.

The blond blinks himself out of his stupor, wrings his hands and his wrists as he wrangles his words.

“A-are you… hungry?”

The brute finally turns back up to look up at him, his mouth tilted into a mild frown.

“Uh, here.”

Sanji reaches out and pushes the plate across the table with the edge of his fingertips.

The instant the food is in front of him, the man digs in. He gathers food with the scoop of his hand and starts to feast.

The blond takes a cautious seat across from the other man, tucking his hands into his lap as he peers across the table.

The man’s breaths are heavy between bites. The furrow of his brow is uneven when he scrunches his face, the skin sutured over his injured eye too taut and puckered to give way under his expression.

He’s shirtless, his broad chest and muscular arms on display. And his skin shimmers with a near metallic texture, twisting hues of copper and bronze glinting beneath his skin.

Sanji stares in disbelief, attempting to process what exactly he is looking at.

The man looks human, he clearly was human at some point. But his aura now reeks of an unnatural presence.

Creatureous.

Yet, despite the sheer size of him, the garish scars littering his exposed skin, and the beastly way he eats…

Sanji doesn’t feel threatened.

The blond is well familiar with the air of malice that can simmer beneath a man’s presence, coiled and cruel.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Not to mention, there is one glaring truth that Sanji must face.

“It was you that saved me… wasn’t it?” The blond asks.

The man briefly looks back up at the sound of Sanji’s voice, but otherwise doesn’t offer acknowledgement of the question.

“Um, I’m Sanji. What’s your name?” He tries again.

No response.

“Can you speak?”

The man lifts a thick cut of seared bacon in his fist and chews on it with his molars.

“Okay… No name then, fine,” the blond shrugs it off. He exhales and tilts his head, scrutinizing his green hair. “I’ll call you Mosshead then, on account of the mold problem.” He gestures.

Mosshead doesn’t comment. The brute just continues shovelling eggs into his mouth until there’s no left.

He only bothers to swallow before he plucks at the fruit.

“Can you understand me?”

The fruit disappears from the plate with brash efficiency. Mosshead brings a wrist up to scrub across his mouth.

It’s uncouth.

“Fuck,” Sanji drawls, slipping a cigarette free from his pocket and shoving it between his lips. “What am I going to do with you?”

Mosshead stares down at the empty plate. A pleased, rumbling hum tumbles from his throat. He looks like he’s considering licking it clean.

Sanij’s not quite sure how he feels about that.

“Judge would pay a fortune for you, you know.” The blond complains, sucking a mouthful of heat from his cigarette. “If I brought you in, I might not even be his shittiest child anymore.”

Without a glance, Mosshead scoots back and hefts himself to his feet. The wood of his chair squeals against the tile. He truds off towards the door and meanders his way back out into the foyer, taking the burning aroma of chemicals with him.

Sanji takes another drag and mentally rations his cigarettes as he watches the man turn out of sight.

“Fortunately for you- “ He mumbles to himself. “I don’t give a fuck about what makes Judge happy.”

The aroma of roasted peppers coats the air, the bite of crisping chicken skin and the fragrant wisp of rosemary snugs the flavor together in a delectable warmth.

The heel of a fresh sourdough loaf falls away as Sanji slices thick cuts of the tender bread. The tangy warmth of yeast is sharp in the air.

Despite an inherent anxiety that surrounds Sanji in regards to his strange new housemate, Sanji has to do very little to accommodate the man.

He has no idea where Mosshead lurks about during the major parts of the day. Outside of mealtimes, they’ve yet to run into each other in the sprawling manor.

Sanji continues to methodically work his way through the rooms for scraps of usefulness. And, like clockwork, the brute arrives at the kitchen the moment the aroma of a home cooked meal starts up.

Sanji is grateful that his groceries can currently handle the strain, though he suspects he’ll need to keep an eye on the supply with Mosshead’s voracious appetite.

The blond excuses it on account of the unknown timeframe the man spent lying in a state of dormancy.

Or… whatever happened upon him. Sanji elects not to ponder the intricacies.

At least Mosshead will clean any plate Sanji serves him; and he’ll finish Sanji’s too, if it’s offered.

But that isn’t to say Sanji hasn’t already figured out what he likes best.

The brute always starts with the protein, grabbing at whatever main course Sanji has prepared and gnawing away with contented little hums.

Next, he’ll poke at the sides. He’ll devour anything with denser textures before he meagerly picks away at anything mashed; swallowing the processed foods with a scrunch of displeasure to his features.

The finished sourdough is warm beneath Sanji’s palms as he sets three of the thick slices aside on a tray, ready to slide into the oven for toasting.

Next, Sanji tips the leftover breadcrumbs from the cutting board into a heated pan, olive oil and seasonings already simmering within. Once the crumbs are fried; he’ll sprinkle them over the finished sauce on Mosshead’s plate, cutting the smooth texture with a bite of substance.

Sanji’s just pulled the steaming tray of roasted chicken and vegetables from the oven when the brute wanders in.

His entry is softer now, the heft of his steps loosening as he seems to have gathered some agency over his lumbering muscles.

Sanji glances over his shoulder. “Dinner isn’t ready yet,” he informs the other man.

Mosshead doesn’t reply. Instead, he walks around the island and towards the counter where Sanji is working, the tread of his bare feet quiet on the tile.

He stops at the blond’s shoulder, peering curiously around the curve of it. The caustic scent of alchemy cuts through the aroma from the oven, and the heat of his body is palpable even with the modest distance between them.

Sanji looks back-

And has to immediately return his gaze down to the cutting board; a flush rushing to his ears at the near sight of Mosshead’s bare chest.

“Might you discern how to clothe yourself?” The blond pleads, averting his eyes.

Mosshead aptly ignores him and leans around closer, whetting his lips as he eyes the chicken thighs resting among a heap of roughly chopped vegetables. The skin of the meat has taken on a beautiful golden brown crust. Piping hot steam is winding from beneath the still bubbling sauce.

Sanji briefly tucks his lower lip between his teeth, regrettably warmed with pride at the man’s open allure to his creation.

“Go seat yourself, Mosshead,” the blond prompts with a soft smile, giving the man a gentle nudge with the back of his forearm. “I’ll prepare you a plate.”

Meals at the manor are ever changing.

At Sanji’s behest, the deliveries paid with his stipend are to vary from week to week. Whatever products they need to supply before it perishes. Whatever excess arrives that they do not have purpose for.

The blond relishes the challenge, the excitement of deciding what to create with the ingredients that arrive.

This week’s delivery of trout was a delightful surprise.

Sanji plates each of the pan-fried filets delicately atop a bed of lemon and herb risotto; careful not to let the flesh break or flake as he does.

Not that Mosshead will appreciate the effort.

The kitchen is alight with the fresh scent of shallots and butter. Sanji so wishes he knew where the wine was hiding in the manor. A crisp glass of riesling would pair beautifully with the light flavors of the meal.

The blonde glances to the pantry door as he ferries plates to the table.

For certainty, the wine cellar is bound to be in the depths of the manor somewhere. Sanji has only just braved wandering back into the pantry since the alchemical incident, and only to browse the immediate area.

He’s not ready to explore further again quite yet…

The step of bare feet on the tile announces Mosshead’s arrival, just in time for Sanji to have set the last of the meal.

“Welcome, Moss.” Sanji greets him. “I’ve left a shirt by your seat, if you would be so gracious,” he points out, nodding to a beige poet's blouse he’d unearthed from one of the manor’s abandoned dressers.

It’s a ruffled, silky thing, with a flouncy collar and fitted sleeves that billow at the wrist. It’s entirely superfluous to alchemical creature’s rugged simplicity. But Sanji was at a loss to find a shirt he believed wide enough to fit across the other man’s generous shoulders, so one can’t be too picky.

Mosshead grunts, a nondescript response as he drifts over to the table and takes his seat.

He makes no move to acknowledge the shirt.

Sanji has left a fork and spoon aside the other man’s plate, as he does with every meal. And as is the routine, the brute also ignores his utensils. Instead choosing to pick at the tender flesh of the fish with his fingertips.

Sanji heaves a great sigh, taking his own seat and picking up his silverware. The fish is tender and flakes perfectly under the give of his fork. He gathers a bite of it first alone, and then with the risotto.

The butter and lemon have blended into a bright flavor that coats the tongue and leaves a zing of citrus behind in its wake. The aromatic herbs crusted on the fish rise to the back of his palate with their fragrance.

Mosshead uses the edge of his palm to scoop risotto into the cup of his fingers, dropping his head lower to shorten the distance between the plate and his mouth.

Sanji takes a generous moment to watch him, held by a sense of morbid curiosity.

For the absolute travesty that is his manners, Mosshead’s cuticles are remarkably clean; Sanji notices.

“What do you get up to all day?” He wonders aloud.

Mosshead glances up at him, tilts his head as his eyeline drifts aside. The earrings he wears on one side give off a metallic chime with the movement.

He looks… thoughtful.

But he doesn’t offer a reply.

Sanji hums in resigned defeat and turns back to his meal.

Dinner is mostly a quiet affair, if one is to discount the noises of Mosshead licking his fingers clean after he’s deposited the last of his meal into his mouth.

Sanji gathers their plates and drifts off to begin the dishes.

Normally, this would be the end of their interactions until the next mealtime. Except, this evening, when Sanji moves to the sink- Mosshead doesn’t leave.

He follows the blond, lingering over his shoulder like a particularly obtuse shadow.

Sanji tights his lips, glances aside with a raised eyebrow.

Mosshead shifts on his feet. One hand hovers about his hip before it flexes, stretching out to gather the cloth Sanji has set aside to dry the porcelain.

“You…want to help?” Sanji asks.

The brute just holds the cloth out.

The blond pauses in thought. “Very well, there’s enough to get by if something breaks,” he relents.

Sanji leans over the sink then, flooding the knob and pulling a flat of soap into his palm. He gathers the suds in a washing cloth, working a lather and setting to his tasks.

Mosshead is quiet and steady at his side. He waits patiently as the blond first scrubs a plate clean, and then rinses it of suds.

Sanji offers the wet plate, and Mosshead takes it with the grip of the cloth. The blond taking a moment to curiously watch his actions.

Despite the brutalist grip he wields, the man works with deliberate, efficient movements. Drying the plate thoroughly and setting it aside on the counter with a quiet tap of the porcelain.

His gaze wanders back to meet Sanji’s raised eyebrow, a proud glint shimmering in the metallic hues of his iris.

The blond grins.

“Well alright then, Mosshead,” Sanji acquiesces. “You’ve got yourself a job.”

Sanji lets his most recent finding land with a slap on its predecessors and reaches for another. This time, a hand-bound moleskin with a title embossed in crooked lettering.

He thumbs through the first quarter and picks up near midway, scowling as he attempts to discern the contents of the chicken-scratch on the pages.

Something, something, steel is strong.

Something, something, brass is malleable.

Electricity travels better in copper. Steam makes metal hot.

The blond gets through about three pages before he pauses to rub at his eye sockets, fatigue gathering behind his temple.

He needs to find something helpful or he risks having Judge pull him from his assignment.

The obvious answer is to go back to the infirmary. Poke around at whatever dastardly alchemy resulted in the wandering plant that's currently lumbering about the manor. But Sanji fears that such documentation may actively bring Judge to their doorstep.

And no matter how poor Mosshead’s table manners are, Sanji refuses to take part in any action that could see him harmed.

The blond flips through a section of the journal that details the results of using iron pipes in a gaswork system. The pages are thin between his fingertips and tinted yellow with age.

As he reads, a sense of weight along his spine draws his attention away from the text.

Sanji lifts his chin, looking around for the source.

Midday light diffuses through the exposed windows of the study. A lantern perched on the corner of the table flickers. The mug of tea he’s brought with him sends soft whorls of steam into the air.

Nothing stands out, yet the sensation of being observed still skitters across his skin.

“Mosshead?” Sanji calls out, loud enough to check but not so loud as to draw his attention if he weren’t nearby.

The blond listens for the sound of his footsteps or the low tone of his gruff replies.

Nothing.

Sanji sighs, rubbing a palm at his temples and turning back to the surface of the desk.

He shoves the journal into a pile mentally marked as maybes and reaches for a thick leather tomb titled to educate him on the benefits of atmosphere temperatures on distillation.

The burn of attention lingers on his skin.

“Mosshead, if you would deign to use a utensil, I believe you’d find that helpful.” Sanji suggests dryly.

The brute turns his working eye up. Then he scoops his toast across his plate, soaking up the sauce left behind before shoving it into his maw.

It’s abhorrent.

Sanji glares back at him.

The blond has recently gathered opinion that Mosshead understands him perfectly. But that he neglects propriety in favor of wielding the mannerisms of an oaf.

The shirt draped aside nearby has been present for a week.

Sanji has pointed it out multiple times.

Mosshead has yet to acknowledge it. Twice now, Sanji is certain the bastard has sneered as he’s avoided making eye contact with the damned thing.

The silence stretches thin between them, punctuated only by the scrape of Sanji’s fork against his plate.

Mosshead reaches for his cup without looking. But his fingers miss the handle, clip the rim instead, and the damned thing tips. Water spills across the table.

Sanji inhales sharply through his nose. “Brilliant.”

The brute jerks upright, grabbing for a napkin far too late, and his mouth opens. The shape of his mouth taking the habitual path of a word that Sanji can read on his lips.

“Sorry.”

And suddenly, Sanji has forgotten about the spill entirely.

“What?” Sanji balks. “You can speak?”

Mosshead twists his features into a scowl, looking regretful. He throws a napkin haphazardly across the water, and- after a pause, clears his throat.

“Rr-.” The single noise catches like gravel in his mouth and Mosshead grimaces in obvious irritation, bringing his hand to soothe at the underside of his jaw.

“Oh,” Sanji realizes. “You can- It’s just uncomfortable?”

Mosshead gives him a nod in reply, but Sanji is already lifting from his seat. The blond swiftly gathering a pot to set on the stove.

“I can work with that, Mossy. Wait right there.”

As the water heats, Sanji moves to the cabinets to gather his ingredients. A tin of dried elderberries, a jar of cinnamon sticks, and a glass bottle of honey.

He plucks a single cinnamon stick from the jar and drops it into the pot. Instantly, the steam beginning to rise takes on the heat of the spice. Next he spoons out a generous portion of elderberries and tips them in as well, the water clouding a rich violet. Lastly, the honey he dollops directly into a mug.

Once the tea is steeped, the blond uses a sieve over the mug to pour the serving, steam wisping into the air as he does.

Sanji carries the mug over and sets it gently in front of the other man,

“Small sips to start,” the blond urges, “it’s quite hot.”

Mosshead grunts dismissively as he wraps his hands around the ceramic, tugging it close to his face.

He sniffs at it first, before inelegantly tipping a swallow down his gullet.

“Moss, it’s scalding-”

Sanji is entirely ignored as the brute chugs down the hot liquid. The blond can hear his heavy breaths between swallows as they reverberate into the mug. Steam parts from the lip of the ceramic and hug his cheeks, tinting them a rosy scarlet.

“Goodness,” Sanji mumbles.

The ceramic lands on the table with a solid thud. The minimal liquid left sloshes to the lip with a splutter of heat.

Mosshead exhales a heavy breath, and his shoulders drop lax in a pleasant satedness.

Sanji tips his chin in amusement. “Is that better?”

The man clears his throat, rough and purposed.

Wets his lips, and speaks-

“Cuhr…” He scowls, clears his throat once more and tries again. “Cuhr-lee.”

“Uh...Pardon?” Sanji grimaces.

The brute lifts a hand, guiding the point of his finger upwards until he narrows in on the swirl in Sanji’s brow.

“Curl-ly,” he repeats, more firmly.

“Wha- Curly?!” The blond snips. “That’s the first thing you want to say to me!?”

Mossy grins, looking far too pleased with himself.

Sanji slumps in defeat.

A laugh follows after him. It’s rough and stunted, but it’s warm. Real. Sanji glances up and, despite himself, feels his mouth curl into a smile at the sight of Mosshead’s delight.

“Yeah,” Sanji mumbles fondly. “That’s about right, isn’t it?”

The braise of the chicken at dinner was perfectly tender. The char on the green beans were sublime.

The heat of Mosshead’s bare skin is palpable and Sanji has never before washed crystal with such attentiveness.

He’s close enough Sanji can see the threads of color that shimmer beneath his tawny skin, as if his veins ferried molten copper.

It's distracting.

Mosshead leans forward to take the serving dish from Sanji’s hands and his bicep brushes against the blond’s arm. And Sanji can’t help it when he blurts out;

“Mossy- Why won’t you wear a shirt?”

Mosshead raises an eyebrow at the outburst. “Don’t like to,” he replies simply.

Sanji feels a burst of irritation hot in his chest and strives for patience as he handles delicate cookware.

He lets himself glance over to the other man, and considers the massive scar bisecting his chest. “The scar?” He guesses.

“Sort of,” Mossy replies gruffly, buffing out the edges of a glass, “Not really.”

“Then what?”

“Fabric.”

Sanji blinks. “Oh.”

The blond looks down at himself in thought.

His own clothing is a generous mix of fabrics. His pants are a soft brown corduroy. His blouse is a tight knit silk. He’s tucked a satin necktie beneath the fastened buttons of a teal, brocade waistcoat.

Mossy has preferences about the textures of his food, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to fathom this might extend to other areas of life.

“Hm…” Sanji shakes off the excess suds from his hands before gesturing to himself. “Well then- What of these do you prefer?”

Mosshead looks him over briefly, looking uncertain. He lifts a hand, reaching halfway towards the blond before he halts. “Mh-”

“That’s fine,” Sanji mumbles, gaze skittering aside as his face heats. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Mosshead starts by setting his fingertips on the tan knit of Sanji’s blouse, pinching at the loose bell sleeve curiously. He turns his hand around and slides the back of his hand against it, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fine fabric to the skin of Sanji’s arm. “Not great,” he mumbles.

Which doesn’t really tell Sanji anything. It’s a fine knit, about as moderate as fabrics can be found around the manor.

“How about this?” The blond prompts, drying his hands more thoroughly on the back of his trousers before reaching up to untuck his necktie. “This is silk.”

Mossy gathers the end of the tie in his grip. He then immediately scowls, withdrawing to roll his fingertips roughly across his palm. “Too slick.”

Sanji smiles softly, “A corduroy then?” He suggests, gesturing to his trousers. “It’s soft, hardy.”

Mosshead replies by pressing two of his knuckles against the front of the blond’s thigh, and folding the bend of his fingers against it further when he finds it tolerable.

“Good.” Mossy comments softly.

Sanji swallows around a snug of tension in his throat. “And… a brocade?” He suggests, tugging on the hem of his waistcoat.

Mosshead turns his hand as he lifts it, laying his palm flat against the rough embroidery of the vest. His lips quirk up in a smile and he rolls a hum in his throat. Slides his hand around to the bend of Sanji’s waist; pleasant and unhurried. His thumb remains hooked around the front of Sanji’s belly and the intimacy sends a flutter of butterflies to the blond’s stomach.

“Feels nice.” Mossy whispers.

The blond feels his skin heat despite the thick layer of fabric between the touch. The warmth traveling upwards to sit high on his cheeks. “That's… good.” He murmurs.

A tang of steel overtakes the vestige aroma of their meal, the stench of chemicals finally having abated from Mossy’s presence in recent days to its milder companion.

They’re close enough that Sanji can make out the fine movements of alchemical function beneath his skin. Filaments of bronze that hum in the place of his veins, tracing the column of his neck where his pulse rests close to the surface.

Sanji’s attention trails upwards- To the scar marring his face.

The sutures are still in place, just as when he’d awoken. His lashline matches unevenly across the wound where it falls across his cheek.

Sanji’s hand lifts before he can stop him; hesitates. “Does that bother you as well?”

“Sometimes,” Mossy admits.

“May I?” He asks.

Mosshead huffs in reply, leaning his head in towards the blond’s outstretched palm.

Sanji tenderly draws a fingertip down the length of his scar, frowning as he feels the way the skin has puckered up around the thread of the stitches. It doesn’t look infected, and the flesh isn’t hot to the touch.

But still, Sanji isn’t sure what should be done about it. He rests his palm around the hinge of Zoro’s jaw, his thumb drawing idle lines around the edge of the scar.

“A physician would be best to look you over,” Sanji scowls, a sour feeling coiling in his gut as he thinks of the physicians at the Vinsmoke estate. “But I don’t know any I can trust…”

…with you.

Sanji lets his unspoken works hang into the narrow space between them. He licks his lips and diverts, instead.

“I could try to remove them?” Sanji offers.

“Leave it,” Mosshead declines. He steps back then, his hand pulling away as he raises it to scrub a knuckle into his sutures.

Sanji frowns, his waist abruptly feeling cold from the loss of heat. A melancholy feeling tucks between the space of his ribs, quiet and insistent.

Not for the first time since he’s arrived at Kuraigana Manor, he feels unmoored. There’s an expiration date to his stay, his moments here will come to an end.

Sanji’s known this from the beginning. He was never meant to carry the weight of an anchor.

And this is not a harbor meant for home.

“Come on,” Sanji grumbles.

He shoves the letter opener a bit tighter between the wood joints and tries again. Leveraging the flat section of metal to dislodge the latch for the drawer.

The study on the second floor is dominated by a mahogany desk, the width stretching nearly the length of the room. The walls are adorned with weaponry that gleam even in the soft light of the morning’s fog.

The desk carries with it the weight of a former presence. Candles melted to the wick sit in the corners of its surface. An inkwell has dried next to the writing mat. A hawk quill tipped with a metal nib rests on its side.

Should there be any personal notes on studies completed by former inhabitants- A locked drawer would be Sanji’s first guess to locate them.

He twists the metal of the letter opener just so- and…

Click!

The drawer pops free.

“There you go-” Sanji breathes in relief.

The blond moves aside to let the light from the window catch within the mahogany joints.

A series of fastened letters rest safely within the drawer. Red twine meticulously tied around each bundle to keep them sorted.

Sanji selects one bundle and pulls it into his hand, digging a nail between the knot and encouraging it free. A number of loose wax seals and an assortment of papers fall into his hand. Fine vellum alternating with the fragile film of copy paper.

Sanji plucks one of the delicate films and holds it up to the light of the window to read.

Sanji sets the letter aside with a sullen knot in his stomach. The post address for Lord Mihawk at Kuraigana's residence.

Before he can let his thoughts settle, the blond reaches for a second bundle and loosens another film free.

And then another

With each correspondence Sanji reads, he can feel the development of the tragedy that once took place within these walls.

An ill child, a desperate father. Wealth stretched out with eager words to anyone willing to listen.

Sanji thinks of the petal-pink room with pearl inlay and soft lace trim. His tender heart aching. He can only imagine how the story ended.

But if the source of the tragedy was a sick little girl, then… where did Mossy fit in with all this?

Sanji has often wondered how much the man remembers of his life before.

Out of courtesy, he hasn’t asked.

Mossy hasn’t asked any questions about Sanji’s purpose in the manor either, though Sanji has seen the curious tilt of his head on more than one occasion when he comes across the blond methodically searching through rooms.

Sanji wishes he were brave enough to bring it up.

But he’s not sure he’s brave enough to face the answer.

The scent of thyme and onion fill the kitchen, carried atop the hearty aroma of beef.

Sanji’s knuckles have paled from the grain of the flour clinging to his skin. He hums to himself as he rolls out the pastry, his shoulders pleasantly warm from the effort. He wishes he’d had the foresight to pack a radio dial for his trip.

Perhaps there was enough in his stipend to have one sent?

Abruptly, a shape turns into the doorway of the kitchen. And Sanji looks up to find Mosshead having stepped in.

He’s paused, one foot over the threshold. His working eye darts about the room with a glaring look of bewilderment.

He’s wearing a wide collared cotton knit tunic, corduroy trousers, and a thick set of wool socks. All of which Sanji had unearthed the day prior from the third floor servants quarters.

Despite the abject confusion, Mossy is looking quite handsome today.

“Good afternoon?” Sanji greets him, raising an eyebrow at the man’s unusual entrance.

“Parlor?” Mossy asks.

Sanji stifles a laugh with pursed lips.

“Not even close,” the blond informs him, lifting a hand to point him in the correct direction with the end of his cigarette.

Mossy sighs heavily. His left hand paws at his waist for a moment before he shoves his hand in the pocket of his trousers, a pinch of annoyance to his brow. The movement draws Sanji’s eye to his waistline, and he’s abruptly distracted by what he finds there.

Mosshead’s right fist is wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. The cork is gone. He looks back up and realizes the glistening burgundy of a cabernet sauvignon is still clinging to the bastard’s lips.

Sanji gasps, aghast. “Where did you get that?”

Mossy lifts a heavy shoulder in vague reply.

“Mossy.” Sanji’s voice pitches low, his tone laced with venom. “Do you know where the wine cellar is?”

“Uh,” Mosshead turns a peering eye to his surroundings, an uncertain hum gathers at his throat.

“Show me!” Sanji insists.

The brute grimaces, tucks the bottle behind his waist before he backsteps out of the doorway.

“Mossy!” Sanji shrieks, chasing after him. “Where is the wine cellar?!”

The resounding crash of waves pushes and pulls on the weight of the atmosphere. The crisp air of the coast slips between the open panes of the veranda windows.

Sanji’s cigarette ashes itself on the tug of the breeze. The taste of sea salt harmonizes with the cut of the draft like the draw of a violin bow.

The uncanny pressure of attention returned today. The prickling weight of eyes on his form without a source.

And earlier that evening, when Sanji had traversed the main staircase, he could have sworn to catch the presence of a figure in the dust motes. A pale silhouette, there one moment and gone the next- quick as the breeze.

Sanji tugs the sleeves of his sweater to cover his wrists and draws his knees up into his lap.

He wonders if it's not just his own subconscious, ruefully reminding him of the inevitability that lies ahead.

The weight of realism attempting to tug him back from a cloud of contentment.

Quietly, silently… Sanji can admit that he’s happy here.

Cooking whatever he wishes. Trading banter with Mosshead. Enjoying the peace of relative solitude.

The blond lets smoke fill his lungs, the heat of the cherry warms his fingertips.

Is that so awful?

Must it be regrettable?

At once- a physical weight drapes across his back, and Sanji startles.

He sits up in his seat, turning with a gasp-

Only to find Mosshead behind him. A quilt now resting around the slim line of the blond’s shoulders.

“Oh-” Sanji exhales.

“Skinny cook,” Mossy smirks, tucking the plush knit more firmly around the other man with the push of his fingers.

The blonde bites around the filter of his cigarette. “Not all of us are an alchemical furnace.”

Mossy snorts, throwing Sanji a crooked grin before he pivots to seat himself at the blond’s feet. The brute lets his knees fall aside and leans back, draping the weight of his spine against Sanji’s chair. Seemingly nonplussed by the chill of the veranda tile beneath him.

Sanji doesn’t move for a moment, taking in the unusual shift in his evening plans.

Despite his limited choice of vocabulary, Mosshead has grown increasingly expressive as the days go by. A spark that continues to smolder, gathering heat and life as it flourishes.

The man tilts his head up, looking back over his shoulder with a curious tilt to his gaze. In the dim light of the veranda, the chromatic shift of his iris gleams. “Warmer?” He asks.

Sanji bites into a smile, relaxing his legs so they fall against the heated expanse of Mossy’s back. He pulls his cigarette aside and blows the smoke away in an act of rare courtesy.

“Yes, thank you,” Sanji admits.

Mossy quirks up the corner of his lip and turns away, satisfied. He watches the coastline with idle interest as they sit together.

As Sanji decides whether or not he’s to feel guilt for indulging in the intimacy of his care.

With a relenting sigh, Sanji reaches out with his free hand, brushing the tips of his fingers against the earthy green crop of Mossy’s hair.

The brute melts against his touch, tilting his head back and letting out a gruff hum from the attention.

Must it be regrettable? Sanji thinks again.

Is it so awful to want?

On the third floor of the manor resides a parlor.

When Sanji pulls back the curtains, miles of weathered vineposts stretch before his view. The silhouette of a few modest buildings float in the stretch of the fog; their shapes hazy from the dense mist that cloaks the horizon. Workshops, Sanji suspects, or homes for the dependents that had worked the land.

Sanji leaves the curtains parted to better light his efforts as he parses through the furnishings of the room.

The parlor appears apt for lounging and entertainment, but one could never assume the shelving in the corners to be only leisure reading. And in no way was Sanji in a rush to accomplish his assigned errand and return to the Vinsmoke Estate.

Whatever tasks he can make for himself only lengthen his stay, after all.

The blond busies himself with uncloaking the furniture, to start. Freeing a burgundy chaise to the fresh air with a pouf of dust and finding an armchair of paired style at its elbow.

A number of artworks hang from the walls, each draped in its own canvas cocoon.

Picking the rightmost one to start, Sanji pulls the cloth free to reveal a gilded frame and a portrait of a handsome young man.

A familiar young man. With green hair.

Sanji’s breath catches in his throat, “No way…”

The man is depicted in his late teens, regalled in a deep emerald brocaded waistcoat and devoid of any necktie. He is painted with a roguish smirk, and his visible hand rests around the hilt of an ivory white katana.

Sanji steps up to the frame, leaning in to press his fingers against a tarnished bronze plagued etched with a depiction.

Sanji’s eyes are drawn back to the man’s face, both of his silver eyes peering back with brash young confidence.

“Zoro?” He tries the name on his tongue. “...Roronoa Zoro.”

A grin stretches across Sanji’s face. He likes the way it feels, how it feels like him.

And then- Sanji jolts, turning on his heel in haste out of the parlor.

“Mosshead!” He hollers, cupping his hand to encourage his voice to travel. Wasting no time, Sanji makes for the central staircase, calling again as he eagerly takes the steps two at a time. “Mossy!”

The even clod of thick-soled boots guide Sanji’s path once he reaches the main foyer. He follows the noise to the veranda where Mosshead has set aside a pair of barbells he’d found and is turned to the doorway.

“Curly?” He intones, his brow furrowed in obvious concern as he outstretches a hand to meet Sanji when he strides up to him. The flat of his palm casually landing on the corduroy knit of his vest.

“Mossy! I found something upstairs!” Sanji intones. “Something important!”

“What?”

“I found your name.”

The other man’s features twist into surprise, as if the concept hadn’t crossed his mind. His brow furrows, uneven still from the pucker of his sutures. “My… name?”

“Yes!” Sanji grins, unable to contain his excitement. “I saw a portrait of you. From before.. All this,” he gestures to all of him. “It is titled.”

“Uh...Okay,” The man nods with a frown, a rough gesture to continue.

The blond clears his throat before he speaks; efforts to let the fondness he wears for the man coat his words.

“Zoro-” He declares, “Lord Roronoa Zoro.”

And for a moment, Mossy doesn’t respond.

Then, suddenly, a haunted look clouds over him.

His face pales. His lone iris flashes sharply with the hues of oxidized copper and the air draws thin.

Instinctively, Sanji reaches out, anxiety lurching to the forefront as the pads of his fingertips brushing across the other man’s hip. “...Moss?”

Zoro exhales sharply, his body hunching over as if the breath has been punched from his lungs.

His hand snaps to his side where Sanji has touched him.

“No-” Zoro rasps. His face stricken. “No, where-?” His breath snags in his throat. His nails dig into his hipbone. “Where is she?”

Sanji’s heart pangs. “She?”

“She’s not here.” He fists at the waistline of his trousers, tugging and twisting at the fabric. The motion repetitive and panicked. “I- should have her. I need her.”

“Who?” Sanji echoes, swallowing around a tight throat. “Mossy, who's she?”

“She’s-” Zoro croaks. His features twist in grief, searching for something tangled beyond his reach. “I don’t really know- I just…I need her-”

He claws his hand at his waist, his fist tightening in the mimic of a grasp. Then, a breathless prayer. “Wado Ichimonji.”

The portrait mimics his stance - his hand empty and wanting for an object that’s not there. Sanji’s eyes widen, and recognition washes over him like a douse of ice water.

“Wait-” Sanji breathes.

An image flashes to the forefront of Sanji’s mind.

A memory, mundane in its notice but monumental in its recollection.

“Wait-” Sanji fists a hand in Zoro’s sleeve. “Wait here-” He urges.

“Curly-”

The blond doesn’t give Mossy a chance to argue. He’s already bounding away. His heart pounding in a blend of adrenaline and unfounded hope.

The portrait. The pristine, white silk of the hilt.

He takes the stairs in leaps, fisting the doorknob of the women’s bed chambers and forcing it open hard enough the wood whines.

Sanji exhales, a weighted breath of relief when what he finds matches what he remembers.

The patchwork plushies are still tucked away in their bed. The bear in the center is still holding tight to its parasol.

A parasol with an ivory-white, silk handle.

Sanji walks up to the canopy bed with a grateful smile. “Were you holding on to this for someone?” He asks aloud.

With careful movements, the blond reaches for the parasol and pulls it free from the arms of its guardian. Once in hand, Sanji tugs- and the wire structure of the parasol fabric gives way with an easy slide.

A gorgeous katana glints in the diffuse light of the bedroom. The gleam of its white sheath is luminescent.

In Sanji’s periphery there’s a flash of white. A flutter of fabrics and silken ringlets of pink.

The moment Sanji turns his chin, it's gone. But the absence is weighted. He fists his hands around the katana and holds it close to his chest.

“Thank you,” Sanji says aloud, though he’s not sure to whom he’s addressing. “I’ll get this back to him now.”

He turns then, taking the moment to close the door of the bedroom politely behind him before he picks up his pace to return Mossy’s side. A lengthy stride transitioning into a run the nearer he gets to the other man.

The moment Sanji’s heels reach the doorframe of the veranda, Zoro pins him with his sharpened gaze.

His mouth falls agape, a wretched look spilling onto his features as his form slumps in outright relief.

Sanji breathes off the excess of his exertion as he walks the final distance between them. The katana held outstretched in his mindful grasp.

“I think this belongs to you,” the blond offers.

Zoro doesn’t reply, his jaw tight as he nods stiffly.

The moment Wado changes hands, Zoro’s posture shifts. His shoulders draw back, aligned and firm as he wraps a hand around the sheath.

Then, with a sense of reverence, he grips the hilt- lays his fingers across the white silk with meticulous dedication.

When he draws the blade free, Sanji’s breath catches.

The metal glints in the bare light of the manor. It catches the surrounding sunlight from the veranda windows, clean and beautiful.

Zoro holds the drawn blade with a refinement beyond teachings. An equilibrium to his soul that Sanji had seen empty, but had been unable to place.

But Zoro’s face stays unreadable, a crease forming between his brows.

“Zoro?” Sanji tries.

With a smooth arc of his arm, Zoro houses the blade once more. The hilt connecting to the sheath with a metallic click.

“Where was she?” he says after a pause.

“In a woman’s room,” Sanji answers. “Disguised as a parasol, in the arms of a bear plushie.”

Zoro’s expression flickers. His eyes shift—confused, searching. He turns his gaze down to Wado as if the answers will greet him. “I… there’s something there,” he mutters. “I can almost see it, but it’s all fog.”

“It’s alright,” Sanji says gently. “I think it’s been a while.”

Zoro presses a palm to his face, the pads of his fingers press into the scar across his eye. “What am I missing?” he asks, voice quiet. “What’s happened?”

Sanji hesitates. “I’m sorry Moss, I don’t know.”

Zoro exhales hard, jaw tightening. “Damn it.”

“I’m sorry.” Sanji repeats, wishing he had more to offer. He steps closer, steadying the other with a hand on his arm. “Give it time, I’m sure it will come.”

Returning Zoro’s name to himself marked a turning point for his mannerisms.

Remarkably, nothing has overtly changed in his behavior. Rather, it’s as though the framework has become visible behind his actions.

While Sanji had grown familiar with the man before- every interaction now seems muted in comparison. There’s weight to his presence, both in solemnity and complexity.

Rain slaps at the windowpanes of the parlor, one of them whistles as a loose joint sucks on the wind. The air has taken on the petrichor of storms and Sanji has lit an extra gas lamp for his reading.

Sketches and notes on various weaponry are scattered about the coffee table. Sanji has attempted to keep them organized, but there are far more than he expected to find in a single stack of files.

The blond nudges a pile of weaponry measurements to the side, making room for a journal dedicated to the properties and establishment of blade resonance.

Zoro’s portrait eclipses the atmosphere of the room. Sanji finds himself glancing up at it naturally between breaks in his work.

The grandeur of it is palpable. The confidence in his frame and the intrepid glint in his silver gaze.

“I wonder,” Sanji shares quietly, “what of you remains from your previous life?”

Zoro was the son of the lord, surely that entailed a measure of elegance and propriety.

Sanji tries to picture Zoro striding through the manor with the same clipped features of those worn by higher society.

He imagines Zoro setting his napkin in his lap at meals. Excusing himself from rooms with a polite tilt of his head. Or bowing, to offer a hand for a waltz.

Sanji scrunches his nose up in distaste.

He can’t see it.

Thump, thump…

The even weight of footsteps echo from the corridor. Sanji lifts his eyes from the journal he’s been reading and watches with a curious eye through the open doorway as Zoro crosses the corridor for the third time this morning.

“...Moved the damn parlor again…” The brute is muttering to himself.

Sanji folds a smile between the press of his lips.

Or perhaps, there are some eccentricities that have no relation to his unique alchemical exposure.

The morning fog has begun to disperse, leaving the gray rugged coastline visible through the kitchen windows.

The heat of the oven steeps into the air where Sanji’s left it cracked open, letting the residual efforts of their afternoon meal warm the kitchen.

Sanji enjoys the snap of the warm dough as he tucks the edges beneath itself. Gives the smooth skin on its rounded top a gentle pat for prosperity.

Sanji has just set aside the dough to rise when he’s started by the crash of a noise nearby.

“What-” He spins around, eyes widening as he finds Zoro braced against the doorframe. “Moss?”

He’s bent aside, his forearm holding him up as he breathes in heavy, gasping breaths. Steam coils from the corners of his lips on the exhale.

Zoro looks over, and the gleam of his iris flips errantly between a sickly teal patina and a charcoal gray. “Dun.. feel good,” He rasps.

“What? How?” Sanji returns quickly.

“Found the cellar,” he grimaces. “Drank it.”

“You’re drunk?” The twist in Sanji’s chest loosens.

Zoro shakes his head, but the movement immediately sets him off-kilter and the blond has to scramble to catch the sway of his shoulders before he topples. “Feels wrong.”

“Mossy?” Sanji reaches out, pressing a palm against the man’s forehead. The skin is hot to the touch. “What the hell?”

The pallor of Zoro’s skin shifts. The minute shimmer of chopper and emerald that resides beneath his skin flutters and turns an iridescent gray. As if the reactions housed beneath his flesh have been embalmed with mercury.

“Mossy- What's going on?” Sanji cries, pressing his palms aside Zoro’s face, as if he could hold him together with his grasp.

A hiss of pressure whines aloud, and with a shock of horror Sanji realizes that an iridescent, gray mist has bubbled up between the sutures across his face.

“Shit- shit, what do we do?” Panic flushes through his veins.

Sanji’s had years of education under Germa’s tutors. He’s done bookwork on chemistry and alchemy and biology.

So why the hell can’t he think of anything helpful?

It’s as if his entire education has escaped him.

Zoro slumps against the pressure, listing forward as his shoulders sink low.

He exhales heavily, and Sanji reels back at the stench of his breath. It’s horribly sweet, with a metallic tang of acidity.

“Fuck- Okay, okay…Sweetness and acidity,” Sanji mumbles, “What if- Okay- If you were a sauce, what would I add to balance you?”

Zoro groans. “Are you serious?”

“Shut up- I’m thinking,” Sanji hisses, hoisting the man’s arm over his shoulders and dragging him towards the kitchen table. Zoro is absolutely no help in this endeavor, his limbs stiff and uncoordinated. His chest shudders as he sucks in shallow gulps of air and pushes heaves of stinky air from his lungs.

“Carrots, spinach, pine nuts, coconut…”

Sanji sucks in a tight breath.

“Baking soda.”

The instant they reach a chair, the blond hauls Zoro into it and rushes to the cabinets.

He finds the tin of baking soda on his first try, eternally grateful he’d taken the time to familiarize himself with the kitchen’s contents. He pops the lid with a twist and shuffles it in his hand, watching the fine white powder loosen and shift.

But how to administer it?

The answer comes to Sanji as soon as he’s questioned it, and he shoves the baking soda back to the counter as he hastens to get a kettle on the stove.

It doesn’t have to be to temperature, but the heat will dissolve it better, he reasons to himself.

Zoro coughs roughly, his shoulders low and his elbows spread aside on the tabletop.

“Hang on, Mossy,” Sanji pleads, shovelling green tea leaves into a tea sieve.

He doesn’t have time to let it steep, but the warm water is still effective enough to bleed the leaves when he fills the mug. The mixture turns cloudy as the baking soda dissolves.

Sanji gives it a cursory three stirs before he returns to the kitchen table.

The blond shoves the mug directly to Zoro’s lips, placing his palm across his forehead to support him as he tilts it back.

Zoro makes a garbled noise, but his jaw hangs loose enough that Sanji can successfully pour the contents down his throat.

His throat bobs on the swallow, and Sanji holds his breath.

And then, Zoro’s posture draws lax from the stiff bearing of pain. The sickly gray writhing beneath his skin begins to abate.

“Hah…” Zoro sighs, his breath visible from an exhalant of steam.

“Zoro-” Sanji insists, “what did you drink?”

The swordsman shrugs loosely, rubs at the still smoldering scar on his face. “S’on the stairs I think. Dropped it.”

“Okay, stay here. Keep drinking that. I’ll see if I can find it.”

Zoro gives a grunt of acknowledgement and slumps back over the table, both hands wrapped around the mug and his mouth low enough to reach it for sips. Sanji curses under his breath as he leaves.

It takes only a moment for the blond to locate it.

A fine trail of russet liquid catches his eye across the floorboards, leading to an amber brown bottle wedged in the corner of the foyer.

Sanji collects it and turns the label forward.

Sanji growls. “You absolute fool.”

He grips the bottle with a fist and tromps back to the kitchen with simmering frustration.

Zoro is still sitting at the kitchen table, dutifully sipping on his tea.

Sanji slams the bottle down on the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the tableware.

“You drank acid you fucking moron!” He snarls.

Zoro idly looks up from his mug, his nose scrunches up as his single working eye squints at the faded label.

Sanji clenches his jaw.

The steam hissing from Zoro’s scar has abated to a mild stream of mist, but the entire room still reeks of burning chemicals. The iridescent flash of his iris has calmed to a steady sheen of brass.

“Makes sense,” Zoro finally croaks, turning his nose down to his mug as his words echo against the ceramic. “Didn’t taste good.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Sanji collapses himself across from the man, weariness tugging on his joints. With a lengthy sigh, he leans back, pressing the hilt of his palms into his eyes.

A knot snags tight in his chest.

Fuck, Zoro’s safe- but for how long?

Who's to say there’s not other interactions that may send him into the throes of death. In some other nameless way Sanji can’t fix.

And then, with it, rises the most bitter thought-

What will happen when Sanji is no longer here?

Under the pale violet of early morning, Sanji pours over the letters in Mihawk’s desk.

He’s gathered a fresh page on his own journal, flipping past pages and pages of recipes until he finds space for notes. He wets the fountain pen with his tongue as he shuffles the thin papers across the desk.

Of the twelve or so physicians Lord Mihawk contacted, only a handful gave any decent attempt at resolving Lady Perona’s affliction.

Sanji takes note of the three he finds most favorable and copies over the post addresses listed for return.

Then, Sanji begins drafting his correspondence.

Each reads much of the same.

Sanji signs each with a different false identity, seals them with the flat edge of a letter opener on the wax, and marks the return post for Shakky’s.

Once he deposits the letters in the post, a tender sense of relief finally unfurls in Sanji’s chest.

It’s a gamble, he knows.

And he can only hope he hasn’t made an error. But the fear of inaction is greater. The thought of what might come to Zoro once Sanji’s forced to leave the manor.

With luck, one of them will reply. And perhaps, before Sanji’s gone, he might find someone to keep Zoro stable.

Sanji tilts his head back against the velvet of the armchair and forces his eyes wide open.

“Heavens this is dry,” he groans.

The third floor study has been Sanji’s least successful endeavor so far. Not only are the walls adorned in weaponry, the enthusiasm has also steeped into the books.

Sanji can make use of anything with reference to metallurgy, but Germa holds little interest in blades, distinctively. Mechanics and munitions have far outweighed the use of a blade in favorable weaponry in the past decades.

At least where profit is concerned.

Sanji sets aside his reading and moves to stand, stretching generously once on his feet. He considers the time and decides he might as well break to start work on lunch.

The blond gathers a candle for his travel back to the kitchen. The daylight has been particularly dreary this morning, and there’s lamb hock in the icebox that will make a hearty broth, given enough time to render.

He’s just passed the master bedroom when a sound from beyond the doors halts him in his step.

A rustling of fabric.

The thump of footsteps.

“Moss?” Sanji asks aloud.

No response.

Cautiously, Sanji slowly turns the knob to the master bedroom, leading the candle ahead of him as he opens the door.

“Zoro?” He frowns, scowling into the darkness. “Is that you?”

Sanji’s gaze passes across the darkened shapes of the room. A chest of drawers, a four poster bed, a marble vanity.

The blond turns back to the bedframe, drags his gaze above. The prominent absence of an object on the wall catches his attention.

The sword is gone.

At once- A thick tremor of bloodlust coats his periphery.

Sanji feels the abrupt change in the atmosphere like a bolt of lightning and scrambles to retreat from the room.

The instant he bolts, a dark form descends from the rafters.

“Fuck!” Sanji launches himself aside as a massive blade lodges itself into the floorboards. His candle skitters aside, wax thrown across the floor as the flames dance across the pale features of a grim creature.

It carries the form of a man, with gaunt pale skin and dark, wild hair straying back from a narrow face. A cloak of thick embroidered brocade drapes around his shoulders, the hems frayed with age.

His yellow gaze is piercing, the glow of his irises reflecting like flames in the broadside of the blade he hefts.

His mouth cracks open, the corners stained a harrowing burgundy.

“Nnnggg…Ssssm’kkkk.” It rasps, lips coiled into a narrowing sneer.

“Oh fuck!” Sanji reels back on his palms as the monster lunges forward. He kicks the flat of the blade with his foot, sending the trajectory upwards and giving himself time to turn heel and run.

The blond bursts out of the master bedroom on a sprint, the doors clattering open and bouncing off the corridor walls with a crash of wood.

He slams into the railing of the third floor balcony, the wood joints giving an ominous whine as the grand foyer yawns below him. The hasten of light steps surges from behind him.

Sanji pushes off and twists out of the way as the massive blade sinks through the hardwood like paper. The creature’s piercing eyes divert to follow him with a flash of luminous yellow.

A shout lurches from Sanji’s throat.

“Zoro!?”

Another swing whistles in the air, too close to dodge. Sanji clenches his jaw and pivots, balancing on the ball of a single foot as he swings his other leg out to glance a heel off the guard of the blade.

A downward strike forces him to lunge aside, taking him over the dip of the main staircase.

“Shit-!” Sanji curses, rolling over his shoulder on a step and using his arms to push himself back around to his feet as he reaches the central landing.

The creature leers down at him, its face impassive.

Sanji stares back up at it, breathing heavily.

The edge of the blade scrapes against the floorboards as the creature hefts it once more. The movement languid and lethal.

Sanji shifts his weight back to a single heel.

The blade whistles with the force of the swing-

And with a sudden flash of movement- Zoro rushes in. The bright white of his blade catching the swing as he meets it halfway up the stairs.

Steel shrieks from the force of the clash, twisting into a metallic groan as the two hold in a locked cross of blades.

“Zoro!”

The swordsman’s broad form is braced on the steps. A stench of ozone gathers heavy in the air as steam begins to wisp from his scars and mouth, as if overwhelming the containment of his flesh and leaking through the weak points of his skin.

“Back off.” Zoro growls.

“Rrrrnnn…” The creature sounds, a harsh noise forced from the back of its throat.

Zoro’s muscles strain as he pushes to hold the massive blade at bay. “He is not to be harmed.” he snarls, teeth bared.

The level of the creature’s gaze shifts as it crooks its head aside. Eyes unblinking.

Sanji holds his breath, keeping his form taut in preparedness.

A heartbeat. And then another.

And then-

The creature withdraws. Its blade pulling back as it slinks away into the shadows. Until only its luminous eyes are left in the cloak of darkness.

Silently- The door to the master bedroom shuts.

“What the fuck,” Sanji rasps. “What the fuck?”

Zoro straightens, re-sheathing his blade and watching for a moment longer before he deigns to shift his attention. Hastening down the few steps between them and reaching out to press a palm to the embroidery of Sanji’s waistcoat.

“Are you unharmed?” He asks, looking the blond over with a pinch to his brow.

“Yes- Yes I’m alright,” Sanji assures him. He lifts a hand to the sutures across Zoro’s face. “Are you? You’re… steaming?” The mist is warm against his palm, carrying the faint scent of metallics.

“I feel fine,” Zoro hums, unconcerned.

“Okay, if you say so.” Sanji murmurs, running his thumb across the swordsman’s cheekbone. He presses his lips together in consternation, but chooses to relent; reassured by the bronze flush of his complexion and the steady height of his posture. That the scent of the steam houses only the aroma of steel and heat rather than the sickly burn of chemicals that had plagued him before.

“Moss-” He swallows. “What was that?”

Zoro grimaces, his thumb tracing harshly over Wado’s pommel. “Well…” He briefly turns back to the shadows where the creature had escaped to. “I believe you’ve just met my father- Lord Dracule Mihawk.”

Without mention of it, Zoro takes up the habit of trailing after Sanji through the manor.

For whichever room Sanji has deemed fit for his efforts of the day- The swordsman is nearby. Rather it be exercising in nearby corridors, or selecting a comfortable locale for which to plant himself for a nap.

It’s kind of endearing.

Sanji will never say as such aloud.

Meanwhile, in turn, Sanji has entirely given up any pretenses of searching for information to send to Germa. He still sets aside anything that might buy him time, but makes no further effort towards his official errand.

Sanji needs to determine what occurred at Kuraigana Manor some thirty years ago. To help Zoro, to help Lord Mihawk. Sanji’s world exists on a timer and he grows fearful that he may reach the end of his grace before he’s prepared.

… Not that he would ever be prepared to return to the Vinsmoke Estate.

Rain spits against the window panes of the library. A howl of wind glides between the corridors and tumbles into the open space with a dwindling whine.

Sanji wets his forefinger to catch the next page of his book.

Zoro is snoring quietly on the nearby armchair, his wool socks propped up on a pile of discarded textbooks Sanji has found little use for.

Sanji hasn't spent much time in the library as of yet.

The room is one of the larger spaces in the manor. Packed with timber shelving up to the crown molding, it houses two desks for study, and a small alcove in the bay windows.

Sanji tosses aside a guide on atmospheric distillation and reaches for a textbook on alchemical synthesis.

When he cracks the spine open, he’s bombarded by the sweet scent of aged paper. He shuffles the pages until he reaches the table of contents, pressing a fingernail against the page as he reads.

The crack of a yawn prefaces a shuffle of fabric as Zoro begins to wake. Light scatters under the myriad of raindrops on the open windows.

Sanji can feel the weight of his idle gaze before he speaks.

“You like books,” Zoro comments, his words stretched across another yawn.

“I’m… looking for books, yes.” Sanji admits, finger steady to keep his place.

Zoro considers this. He whets his lips. “You studying?”

Sanji’s fingernail digs into the soft pages of the book. “In a way,” he brushes it off.

The swordsman shifts on the couch, his hips turning as he faces the blond. “You looking for something specific?”

Sanji swallows. The book in his lap suddenly feels heavier than before. The leather of the bindings cool on his fingertips.

He’s not certain he’s prepared for an honest discussion.

To say he isn’t fearful of what might come of it would be a bold lie.

The blond raises gaze to meet him. But the uneven furrow of Zoro’s brow just makes Sanji feel sour and guilty.

Worse, he can see the moment Zoro finds the regret that must be swimming in his own features.

“Curls?” Zoro swings his legs around now, his attention severe.

Sanji tries to piece together how he might explain himself without sounding villainous.

Maybe it’s not possible.

“I-” Sanji’s throat catches. He can’t seem to lift his hands from the book. “I’ve been sent here to collect information.”

Zoro levels him with an even stare. “What kind of information?”

“My father- He-” The blond looks upwards again. His chest cinches and he doesn’t think he can breathe.

“Curls, what’s going on?” Zoro insists, his tone pitched tight. “Why are you here?”

Sanji’s fingernails dig into the soft leather of the book, his heart lurches in his throat and he strains to get the words out around it.

“I’ve been sent to find information that can be weaponized.” Sanji admits, anguish and shame thick in his jaw. “My father owns a weapons industry… There was rumor of scientific studies taking place on the property…” His voice loses momentum as he wilts into his lap. “I was sent to evaluate if anything of use remained.”

There’s a beat that hangs heavy in the air. A tension that Sanji fears the give of.

“Truthfully,” The blond frets. “I hadn’t believed I would actually find anything here.”

“But you did…” Zoro finishes for him flatly. “You found me.”

Sanji nods, silent.

Zoro’s chest rises sharply, his breaths measured. The silver in his eye flickers a flash of hot gold. Irritation sparks clear in his posture.

“Then why are you still looking?” He snaps.

“What-?” Sanji scowls, incredulous. “Moss, I need to send something of use or I’ll be summoned back to the estate-”

“Is this not enough for them?” Zoro growls as he stands; gesturing to himself as a hiss of steam coils from the sutures across his eye.

“Moss,” Sanji gasps. “No- You don’t und-”

Zoro drives closer, his chromatic iris flashing in simmering fury. “You are here to pick apart what’s been done to my family?

“No-!”

“To gather the scraps of what’s left of us and take it back to some laboratory?"

“Never! Moss-!”

Zoro snarls, pulling himself to his full height as he lashes his shoulders back.

And Sanji flinches- He can’t halt it, can’t fight it. The instincts he’s gained in order to protect himself from the force of his brother's wrath, the cruelty of his father’s hand. He tucks inwards, his breath shuddering as he brings his hands in to curl his fists protectively against his belly.

The swordsman freezes.

“Curls…” Zoro breathes, a tumultuous weight to his gaze.

Sanij’s eyes burn, lashes wet with shame as he looks up. “Zoro, please-” He rasps. “I would never….”

His throat catches. He can’t even speak the words. He sucks in a tight breath and digs his knuckles into the soft flesh of his stomach for a sense of composure.

Zoro doesn’t immediately reply. But the hard edge of his posture softens.

“You haven’t told them.” He realizes.

“Of course not.” Sanji declares harshly. Fisting his hands tight enough to make it ache. “Germa must not know of you. Of whatever alchemy made you… this. They wouldn’t stop until they had every bit of you beneath a microscope.”

The patter of rain cuts through the silence. The flame of the candle flits and flutters as wax rolls aside the column of smooth wax.

“Zoro, you have to understand… In the world I come from- purpose comes from usefulness. Power, weaponry, profit.” Sanji spits the words, rehearsed from years of repetition. “Germa consumes what it can expend and discards what it cannot.

“And I- I have always been Germa’s greatest failure.”

Zoro’s jaw tightens, the faint pulse of metallics catching in the dim light of the room.

“I have no interest in science,” Sanji admits quietly. “I would rather cook than have any hand in such atrocities.”

Zoro wets his lip, and takes a step forward as his gaze drops. The steam from his sutures fizzles out as he bridges the distance between them and Sanji lifts his chin; searching, hoping.

“I fail to see how that would be lacking in purpose,” Zoro gripes, his voice rough, but his eye soft.

A small, tentative smile tips across Sanji’s lips, relief flitting through his veins.

“Please. You just like my food,” the blond mutters.

“Maybe I do,” Zoro smirks. “And maybe… I also like the company of the idiot who makes it.”

When Sanji opens the oven, the fragrant aroma of rosemary draws flush into the air. The bright scent of the herb is cut beautifully by the rich warmth of the heavy cream and a tangy swirl of mustard.

The cod has kept its gorgeous sear as it’s finished cooking in the sauce, the roughly chopped yellow potatoes glistening with crisped skins around each of the fillets.

Sanji is infinitely grateful his stipend had proven enough to increase his deliveries, though he’s certain he owes a measure of grace to the flexibility of the products Shakky’s sends. Either way, he finds himself pleased as he methodically plates three meals for dinner.

He rests one on his forearm, and ferries the two others with each of his hands.

Zoro lifts an eyebrow when Sanji reaches the table. “Someone joining us?”

“Not exactly,” Sanji admits with a shrug. Once his and Zoro’s meals are set in place, he shifts the last plate easily to a free hand. “I’ll return in a moment.”

As conveniently designed- the kitchen houses a door that leads directly to the formal dining room.

Sanji had spent just that morning freshening the space to a modicum of its former glory. He’d batten the curtains free of dust, spread a gorgeous amethyst tablecloth across the mahogany, and set a fresh pitcher of water out with a glass just beside it.

The blond feels the sensation of peering eyes tracing his path across the hardwood. He tries not to bow from the weight of their focus as he makes for the head of the table.

With a quiet tap on the tablecloth, Sanji sets the plate down. He adjusts the cutlery to proper alignment, and pours a fresh cup of water from the pitcher.

When Sanji steps back to head to the kitchen, the door is already open. Zoro having taken up residence lounging in the doorframe whilst he waits.

“You’re something special, Curls,” Zoro tells him, his lips crooked up in a smile.

“I only regret being unaware we had another resident to feed,” Sanji informs him primly.

Zoro hums in reply, though he reaches out to fondly catch the bend of Sanij’s waist as the blond slides by his broad frame.

When their meal is finished, Sanji makes to move back to the dining room.

He’s halted, however, by the warmth of a firm hand at his hip.

“Let me,” Zoro insists.

Sanji rolls his eyes, but relents and moves to take their plates to the sink. He lathers the suds as he keeps an ear out for the brute’s return.

It only takes a moment for Zoro to return, pointedly setting the empty plate beside the others.

“Silverware?” Sanji asks with a curious tilt.

Zoro shakes his head, “Still clean.”

“Hm,” Sanji takes the plate in hand, a pleased warm settling in his heart. “Another day, perhaps.”

“Yeah,” Zoro grins, “sure, Curls.”

“I need to go back to the infirmary,” Sanji tells Zoro over their breakfast.

“Okay,” Zoro nods, stabbing at a slice of sausage with his fork. “After the dishes?”

The blond frowns. He hadn’t really planned it out further than the thought, much less considered the act of relocating.

Still, he had hoped to bring Zoro along. What with the inherent risk of noxious chemicals that he’d previously encountered.

And whatnot.

“Yes,” Sanji agrees. That sounds fine.”

The dishes are washed and dried with their usual rhythm. The crystal aligned on a tea towel exactly as Sanji prefers.

Zoro defers the use of a candelabra, waving Sanji on ahead with his own.

The gentle light of the coastal morning clutches to their shoulders as they descend into the depth of the manor.

Sanji leads them to the basement corridor, and then straight across to the double doors of the infirmary. The entry is still wide open, likely untouched since Zoro had rescued Sanji from the alchemical vapors that had awoken him.

As the familiar shapes of the infirmary beds and the cabinetry catch the candlelight. Zoro follows the blond’s lead as he angles to the righthand section of the room.

The reflection of the iron sconces and alchemical brazier wink back at them, and Sanji feels a tension of anxiety thrum in his limbs from their sight.

What if they were to accidentally incite another reaction?

Sanji’s hand tightens on the column of the candelabra and he halts in his step.

What if this one reversed whatever brought Zoro back to consciousness?

A hand slides comfortably around the line of the blond’s hip.

“Curls?” Zoro checks. His presence is warm at the blond’s side, his thumb pressing into the knit of his waistcoat as he tilts his head to catch the blond’s gaze.

Sanji steadies his breath, grounding himself to the other man’s touch.

“It’s fine,” Sanji reassures him. He takes another few steps ahead and Zoro follows, the press of his fingertips remaining in a constant, shifting pressure as they move together.

It’s not far to reach the table where Zoro had previously laid. Somehow, Sanji finds it strange to see it empty now. The visual of first laying eyes on the man so engrained in his memory that an alternate image just seems wrong.

“This is- where I found you.” Sanji tells him, lifting a hand to gesture at the empty steel cot.

Zoro hums, a considering noise in the back of his throat. “Doesn’t look very comfortable.” He finally decides.

“No,” Sanji agrees with a tight smile. “I’d say not.”

They start with the file cabinet. Shoveling folders out onto the desk’s surface so Sanji can shuffle through them for anything that seems helpful.

“None of this is relevant,” Sanji grumbles, leaning aside to yank a second drawer open.

Zoro doesn’t comment. Though he does take up a single candle from the candelabra they’d brought down and begins to wander.

Sanji sits upright, “Mossy- Don’t light anything,” he’s quick to warn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoro murmurs, stepping over towards a shelving unit full of glass containers.

Sanji pulls another set of files out, the musty scent of aged vellum pulling with it. He turns the files sideways to flip through their titles.

“Hey, Curly.”

Sanji looks up, following the distant source of light from the single candle Zoro’s holding on the other side of the room. The swordsman is facing the wall, frowning at the bricks and waving his candle in an odd sort of figure eight.

“Yeah?” The blond frowns.

“S’weird here,” Zoro says.

Sanji bites back a scathing comment on the state of the infirmary as a whole. “What are you talking about?”

Zoro moves the candle closer to the grout, his shoulders tilting as he stares closely around the delicate flame. “The smoke’s disappearing.”

Which is a concerning enough statement to have Sanij standing from his place at the desk.

“Disappearing where?”

“Great question,” Zoro mutters.

The blond takes up the candelabra and moves to join the other man.

The brick wall looks as ordinary as any other in the manor’s basement. The stones it’s built of are roughly cut, with grout overhanging between the joints, visibly pebbled with fine grit.

Zoro slings a hand around Sanji’s waist and tugs him purposefully closer. “Look- here,” he lifts the candle again, moving it horizontally across the span of the wall.

As the flame passes over a rounded section of grout, it briefly dances from the ghost of airflow. The thread of smoke wisping away imperceptibly between the stones.

“See?”

Sanji nods, stepping back to get a broader view of the wall. It’s on the opposite side of the manor from the kitchens. If he’s placed himself correctly, Sanji thinks they might be near the first floor study.

Certainly room enough within the foundation to house another chamber.

“I could cut it?” Zoro suggests.

“And bring the ceiling down on us?” Sanji snips. “No thank you.”

The pale yellow reflection of the alchemy brazier catches Sanji’s eye- no more than a meter away from their current place at the wall.

With an irritable bite of hesitation, Sanji makes his way over to it.

Previously, the blond had been more concerned with its contents. Now, he searches around the brass structure itself. Looking over the round of the pipes visible from its place inset along the wall, tracing the ornamental filigree around the edge.

His eye catches on a jut of brass ivy, the leaves surface brighter than the rest and the fine details faint from wear.

Sanji reaches out and presses his thumb against the shiny section of brass.

Click-

Suddenly- A great rush of air hisses behind the stones, a whining build of pressure in the height of its pitch.

“Oi-” Zoro rushes over the same moment Sanji backsteps, a hand finding purchase at the blond’s lower back as the other curves around to hover at his waist.

“I’m fine,” Sanji reassures him, loosely caching his forearm beneath his palm.

Whrrrr- Clunk!

With a rumbling grind of stone, the seam of a door appears as a section of the wall suddenly shudders and slides away.

The diffuse light of the candelabra stretches into the archway as the passageway opens.

First in view is a massive stone countertop, hugging the entire length of the wall on the right hand side of the chamber. Flasks and beakers are strewn are about the surface, some tucked away in the corners while others hang clamped in the metal grip of clamps overhead gas burners.

Immediately on the left is a set of oak cabinets, their contents a mix of books, journals, and loose folders.

But as the two step cautiously into the chambers, the focus naturally falls to a great brass machine along the far wall. It’s wide, and lowset. With pipes twisted around the outer form and a round of glass capped along the top.

Sanji’s eye traces the coils of pipework where they disappear along the outer edge of the room, beyond where the light reaches. As he walks closer, the faint noise of pneumatics flutters from beneath the surface of the machine's casing.

At first, the reflection of the candlelight clouds the view through the glass.

Sanji walks tentatively closer and holds the light higher to shift its catch on the round surface.

However, the moment he spies what lies within the case- his breath catches and his blood turns cold.

It’s a woman.

She’s beautiful. Her skin is a lovely flush of peach, her hair bright as rosettes and gathered around her shoulders in perfect ringlets. She’s dressed in a black ruffled ballgown, her hands tucked demurely across her belly in her slumber.

The blond watches closely, but he can’t yet tell through the fog of the glass if she breathes.

“Zoro-” Sanji whispers.

At once, from behind him, Zoro makes a pained noise. His steps hastened as he rushes to the case and presses a palm to the glass.

At the clear sight of the woman, Zoro hikes in a tight breath, and Sanji can see the taut line of his jaw.

He can see the moment recognition washes over him; the expression haunted in anguish.

Sanji swallows around the pain in Zoro’s gaze. “...Who is she?” He murmurs, fearful he already knows the answer.

Zoro’s hand clenches into a fist across the glass. “Perona,” He strains. “My sister.”

Sanji’s heart drops cold in his chest.

“Is she...” Zoro drops his question.

Sanji shakes his head, a sorrowful tilt to his brow. “I don’t know.”

Sanji turns the page. And on habit, he glances up to check on Perona. Her pale features, however, remain as impassive as ever. Sanji wets his lips before continuing.

The back of Sanji’s chair shifts from the weight of a leaning hip.

“Your ladies' voices are awful, Curls.”

Sanji slaps the book down in his lap; turns his chin up to glare at the swordsman. “As if you would do better?”

“I would’da picked a different book,” Zoro argues.

“Wasn’t much of a choice.” The blond pushes a breath from his lip. “All the books in her room are women's romance novels.”

Zoro looks thoughtful for a moment, staring at Perona through the glass. “Yeah-” He chuckles. “That feels right.”

“Is your recollection improving?” Sanji inquires hopefully.

“Eh, kind of,” he grunts. And his hand moves to wrap around the white silk of Wado’s hilt, comfortable and familiar. “Instinct’s there- But I couldn’t say how I learned it.”

“Hm,” the blond concedes.

“S’like… catching frogs,” Zoro decides.

“What-” Sanji turns, mumbling. “What a strange comparison.”

Zoro doesn’t elaborate. “C’mon Curly, s’getting late.” He prompts instead, smoothing his palm across Sanji’s shoulders. “If Rona wants to know what happens next she can wake up and read it herself.”

The blond tuts, but tucks a leather bookmark between the pages of the novel and sets it aside for another time.

“Did you find anything today?” Zoro asks, glancing at the growing pile of documents Sanji has gathered atop the laboratories counter.

“Not yet,” Sanji admits sourfully. “Much of it is nonsensical. Chemical equations that lead to no result. Theoretical diagrams. Observation notes without context of their source…” He sighs, following the swordsman up the stairs to the main foyer.

Evening has long since cloaked the manor, moonlight stretching fine tendrils from the towering windows as wind billows at the panes.

The stairs to the second floor creak beneath the weight of their steps.

“Ah well.” Zoro cracks his jaw with the force of a yawn. “M’sure you’ll find something.”

“What makes you so confident?” Sanji frets. “What if whoever caused all this has already left? Took the useful information and ran off to complete another terrible deed?”

They reach the landing together, steps unconsciously aligned.

“You’ll figure it out,” Zoro replies, easy and sure.

The warmth of his presence lingers- and Sanji doesn’t realize how tightly he’s held his breath until Zoro moves.

With a gentle press of his fingertips, Zoro’s hand falls away from Sanji’s lower back.

“Night Curls.” He murmurs.

Sanji pauses, his fingers curled around the brass of the doorhandle to his bedchambers.

“...Goodnight,” He whispers back.

He waits a moment longer, watching Zoro’s broad back as he meanders down the hall. The flicker of the candle Sanji holds tracing the edges of his form with waves of gold.

Sanji’s chest tightens.

His heart aches to the intimacy of it all. Clings to it, in the same breath that it wears on him.

He’s grown used to this, he realizes. To the warmth of Zoro’s hands. The curve of his smile and the rough bark of his laugh.

To him.

And it’s too late now. Too late to pretend this is something he can leave behind when he’s gone.

Fuck.

Sanji’s fallen in love with Zoro.

And it might be the cruelest truth he’s ever faced.

Inevitability weighs on Sanji’s shoulders.

The candle on the corner of the counter flickers and brightens as wax spills over the sides. The quiet, rhythmic of pneumatics from the nearby machine press upon Sanji’s pulse to match pace.

From beyond the laboratory, the scrape and thud of crates on stone narrates Zoro’s efforts to remove what the blond has deemed unsalvageable from the pantry.

Sanji has begun sorting documents by type, hoping to piece together some semblance of understanding for the machine Perona resides in. Schematics on the left, chemical equations on the right.

He loses track of time as he meticulously works through each piece.

Wax gathers around the base of the candleholder and he feels no nearer to his goal.

He’s begun to suspect the notes to be the ramblings of a madman.

From elsewhere in the basement, Zoro drops a box with a loud clunk. Sanji startles from the noise, his knee knocking against the underside of the counter.

“Fuck-” Sanji swears. Then he pauses. “Wait- That sounds…”

He pushes his chair back and leans aside, snaking his arm beneath the surface to rap his knuckles against the wood.

“Hollow,” Sanji remarks.

Fully removed from his chair now, the blond pulls a candle with him to investigate the underside of the furniture. The light is minimal, but enough to guide the search of his fingers around the seam of the joints. He traces the grove of a symbol with his fingernail, a half moon, he thinks- And then presses on it.

Clack!

The false bottom of a drawer flips open, dropping a docket of folders directly into Sanji’s lap.

“You sneaky bastard,” Sanji growls. “As if it wasn’t enough to have an entire hidden room?”

Spite flourishes with hope as the blond shoves his current stack of nonsense aside to make room. He drops the folders atop the counter, dust lifts into the air, and he takes a necessary moment to brush the top sheaf clear of debris.

The title of the docket is faded, but the bold lettering reads clear as ever.

Sanji’s throat runs dry. He catches the pad of his finger between the pages of the docket and wrenches it open.

The first entries are precise, deliberate and minimal. Sanji flips through them until they begin to lengthen, the scrawl taking on a hurried edge. With notes of no discernable meaning begin to pepper the margins.

Sanji’s heart begins to race and he fumbles to skip to the end of the docket. He finds the final entry and presses his finger against the words, tracing their crooked path across the page to follow where they lead.

Sanji clutches the paper, the tender page ripping in the bends of his grip. Bile tugs at the back of his throat as saliva gathers on his tongue.

Her soul.

Some monster had ripped Perona’s soul from her body.

In all that Sanji might have imagined, he could not have fathomed the depths of such cruelty.

The blond exhales forcefully and lessens his grip. Purposefully, he sets down the final report and closes the docket.

In its entirety, the events of thirty years prior still aren’t clear.

But the ghosts left behind aren’t silent, and shadows still carry the shape of their origin. Copper lingers in the grout where blood was once spilt.

Zoro and Lord Mihawk wouldn’t have stood for this. And Sanji feels he can reasonably suspect whatever occurred to them was in direct relation to their protection of Perona.

Sanji looks over to the glass case, his heart burning as he looks over Perona’s still form.

Hidden from the world for decades. Forgotten… But ultimately- safe.

“Perona, my dear,” Sanji sighs. “If I could offer you even a sliver of the devotion your family has given you… Perhaps it would be enough.”

Sanji tucks his fingers tighter and guides the knife down with precision. The fine slices of potato stick to the blade and he nudges them away with rhythmic movements. A tray sits nearby, lined with parchment in preparation.

On the stove, the rich tang of red wine has just begun to simmer out into a savory blend of aromatics. The beef broth rests aside in a measured pitcher, ready to add the moment Sanji deems fit.

Out of his periphery- A calloused hand reaches for the cabernet.

“Moss-” Sanji growls.

“You already used it,” Zoro gripes, retreating with a shuffle of steps.

“And I may use it again- I’m not finished yet.”

The swordsman exhales, he leans over into Sanji’s frame of view, his shoulders set low in disappointment. Sanji’s lips quirk upward, fondness tucked into the edges of his thoughts.

“Set the table and I might be willing to part with a glass.”

“Deal,” Zoro grins.

His hand slides casually along Sanji’s waist as he nudges the cook a few inches aside to reach the cutlery.

“Don’t forget the dining room.”

Zoro rolls his eye, tapping gently on the jut of Sanji’s hipbone before he pulls away. “You know I won’t.”

Sanji brushes salted butter across the parchment paper before beginning to layer the fine slices of potato in three distinct towers. To one of the three, he spreads the layers out, which will result in more surface area to be crisped from the heat.

The gentle clink of ceramic dictates Zoro’s movements about the kitchen. The creak of iron hinges traces his path to and from the dining room.

The plate Sanji serves in the dining room is always empty when Zoro returns for the dishes.

A few days ago, Zoro had even begun to return with silverware that’d been soiled from the meal.

A spoon with sauce clinging to its back. A fork with a sheen of oil on the tongs.

Just the night before, Zoro had tugged Sanji away from the sink to point out a napkin, folded politely inward atop the tablecloth to contain the remnants of use.

It feels a bit foolish to be so excited about things that should be mundane. But it’s progress, and Sanji cherishes it.

The blond loses track of Zoro’s movements as he focuses on the preparation of their meal. Whisking the broth into the pan until it blends into a luxurious bordolaise. Cutting the ribeye against the grain in generous, mouthwatering slices.

“Steak knives for this meal, Mossy,” Sanji throws over his shoulder.

“I’m not placing a knife at his seat,” Zoro refutes bluntly. “Cut his when you plate it.”

Sanji snorts in disagreement, but moves to slice one of the ribeyes into finer bites without further comment.

If Lord Mihawk wished to harm him he was fully capable of pursuing it himself, kitchen cutlery be damned. But Sanji also doesn’t see the point in fretting over the semantics when Mossy’s stiff bite of protection comes into play.

It’s admittedly a bit endearing.

Sanji plates each of the meals with purpose. Lord Mihawk’s with the pre-sliced steak, Zoro’s with the crispier potatoes, and his own with an extra pour of bordelaise.

Zoro takes their extra serving directly from Sanji’s hands, bidding the blond sit while he delivers it to the dining room. Sanji takes the time he’s gone to pour them both a generous glass of cabernet.

The light of the evening is low and Sanji decides to dim the gas lamps, so as to better enjoy the warmth of the candlelight at the table.

He walks over to the turnkey on the wall and twists it, lowering the flames to a bare glimmer of light. It throws the kitchen into a cozy atmosphere.

Romantic, even. If one were so inclined to point out.

Sanji smiles to himself, grateful that the low light will hide the heat that's gathered to his cheeks. He turns back towards the table-

And sees Perona.

Sanji gasps, a pitched noise tearing from his throat as he rears backwards- hard enough his lower back jars against the counter.

And it is Perona, or at least- her visage. Devoid of color and transparent as smoke, she’s floating, the point of her heels dangling languidly over the tile. Her face is turned towards the table, peering with interest at the candlelight dinner.

At Sanji’s shriek, she turns, her skirts flouncing and fading the edges of her silhouette. Their eyes meet for a single moment- She smiles. A quick turn of her lips, a glimmer of amusement.

And then she’s gone.

CRASH!

“Curls!?” Zoro roars, bursting back into the kitchen with his hand fisted around his blade. The swordsman locks his eye on Sanji and immediately rushes over. “You alright?” He reaches out, his free hand hovering over the cradle of Sanji’s jaw. “Fuck, you’re pale.”

“I saw-” The blond stammers, looking past Zoro, his gaze searching around the room. He considers racing out into the foyer but can’t imagine lifting his feet from the floor. “I saw Lady Perona.”

“What?”

“She was here,” Sanji insists. “She looked at our dinner. She looked at me.” He pauses, frowning. “She smiled.”

Zoro stares back at the blond, mouth agape. He turns his head aside then, following the path of Sanji’s gaze. “Where did she go?”

“She disappeared.”

“What?” Zoro scowls. “What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t-” Sanji tries to find the words. He gestures towards the table uselessly. “She appeared as a spectre. Floating above the tiles. I could see through her and then- she disappeared… as she were just a trick of the light.”

“The hell?” The swordsman mumbles. The hand he has tucked around Sanji’s jaw curls a little tighter. His thumb brushing gently along his cheek, his gleaming eye searching nervously across the blond’s face. “Curls, are you feeling okay? Did you get into something in the lab?”

“Mossy, I’m perfectly fine,” Sanji clicks his tongue, reaching up to wrap his hand around Zoro’s wrist to reassure him. “I’m certain of what I saw.”

“Okay,” the swordsman exhales in a slow breath, his features softening.

“This would mean her soul is still here, right? At the manor?” The blond’s brow furrows as his thoughts wander. “Maybe not in the correct place, but at least… in some capacity?”

“Hey,” Zoro nudges Sanji back to meet his eye. “You said she smiled at you?”

“Yeah,” Sanji nods, certain in his response. “She did.”

“Then she’s here.” Zoro says, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile. “She’s trying.”

Sanji swallows, his fingers still curled around Zoro’s wrist. He feels the heat of his pulse beneath his fingertips, warm and grounding. “We’ll get her back,” he whispers. A promise mingled with hope.

Zoro grins, his thumb drifting along Sanji’s cheekbone. “I think I’ll move her plushies tomorrow.”

“Moss,” Sanji sneers. “You will treat your sister with respect.”

The swordsman shrugs, shameless and easy. “If she’d like me to fuck off, she’s more than welcome to tell me herself.”

The draft is stronger with the curtains tied off, but the pale hues of Kuraigana’s coastline are necessary to better light the study. Vermillion wallpaper soaks up the daylight with a near violent tint.

Sanji has spent his entire morning drafting his next update to Germa. His nailbeds have stained black from ink and sheafs of discarded paper litter the rug beneath his feet.

“...studies of inconclusive results… No, no, that’s leaving opportunity…” Sanji scratches out the line. “Documents refer to testing with increasingly negligible outcomes…”

He’s selected a handful of Caesar’s chicken scratch notes to send along, thoroughly scoured to ensure no prominent information slips through to Germa’s hold.

“...Workspace found in a state of disarray…”

Each line must be crafted to mislead them.

A narrative with a finite end.

“...viable research notes have been included…”

Footsteps trod in echoes across the corridor before a broad form takes precedence in the study doorway.

Sanji glances up, and heaves a great sigh, “Mossy…Where are your clothes?”

Zoro looks down, pinching at his trousers. “Here.”

“Where is your shirt?”

“Don’t know,” he admits, nonplussed. “Took it off, then it wasn’t there.”

Sanji shuts his eyes briefly, willing himself to regain a sense of propriety from the sight of the man’s bare chest.

Thus far- Zoro has found himself to be agreeable with cotton, brocades, low-thread linen, and corduroy.

Sanji has relegated an entire wardrobe for the man of his preferred fabrics. But as it has happens, supplying him with suitable clothing has not guaranteed the bastard will consistently wear it.

“Then go find another,” Sanji tells him curtly. “And while you are searching, could you fetch me more paper?”

The swordsman raises an eyebrow. “So you can continue tossing it on the floor?”

“I’m drafting my next report,” Sanji drones. He scrubs a hand at his eye and grimaces when the scent of ink overpowers his nose. He pulls his hand back with a scowl, wondering how much he has just smeared across his face.

Zoro chuckles, so it must be significant.

The swordsman walks over, plucking the ink rag from the desk and gathering a clean section between his fingers as he comes to stand beside the blond.

Sanji tilts his chin up at Zoro’s prompt, feeling his cheeks burn as the man slips a hand around the underside of his jaw to hold him steady as he swipes at the ink on his cheek.

“Why is it taking such effort?” Zoro asks, dropping the rag aside.

“Judge expects me to find something here.” Sanji explains, scowling down at another scratched set of lines. “I need to send information that’s interesting enough to be believable- But also boring enough to be ignored.”

“Just tell him you are never returning and be done with it.”

“In fact- That would be the most efficient way to have him knocking down our door.” Sanji drawls. The very thought turns Sanji’s stomach and he shakes his head to dislodge it. “No, I need to draw his attention in the most mundane way possible.”

Zoro scowls, his thumb idly tracing circles on the hilt of his blade. “To what end?”

Sanji tightens his jaw. He hadn’t anticipated Zoro would ask. And the blond certainly isn’t prepared to answer.

“Curls…”

“Until he loses interest.” Sanji admits with a wave of his hand. “Declares the manor a lost cause.”

Zoro narrows his gaze, his brow furrowing unevenly from the taut of the sutures. “And then?”

Sanji exhales, relenting. “And then I’m summoned back to the estate.”

Zoro scoffs. “Not an option.”

“It’s the only way to keep you safe.” Sanji declares harshly. “Judge cannot know of you. He would have you taken apart for study. Not to mention we would be risking Perona’s safety if Germa investigates further.”

“And so you intend to throw your own life away in my stead?” He growls.

“If need be.” Sanji replies, shoulders squared, his features firm.

“Well I don’t want your protection.” Zoro snarls. “I want you here. At my side.”

Sanji’s heart clenches with desire. He drops his eyes to the desk; to the candlelight trembling across the backs of his hands.

“I’m not saying I don’t wish to.” He admits quietly. “But Moss… I was never meant to stay.”

Zoro drops to a knee at Sanji's side, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. The warmth of him settles close; the scent of steel gathering near in the air. His forearm comes to rest along the back of the chair, fingers curling just behind Sanji’s shoulder.

Sanji swallows, pulse racing. He turns, letting his gaze drift to meet Zoro’s.

“You told me you were meant for many things that you’re not.” Zoro refutes, his voice low and near. “What makes this any different?”

The morning sun hasn’t quite broken through the clouds of the day, but the haze of it still cuts through the second floor parlor with slants of light. The faint scent of parchment competes with the scent of herbal tea from their mugs on the coffee table.

Zoro sits next to Sanji, their thighs close enough the blond can feel the warmth of his touch.

The swordsman is flipping through a text on the alchemical reinforcement of metals. His brow furrowed and his tongue tucked between his teeth.

Sanji bites back a smile and leans over the coffee table, reaching for another text to drag into his range.

The Distillers Codex is next in the stack, and boasts a way to capture the essence of a material in its product.

The blond sighs, uncertain if he’s confident enough to crack the spine. With a bite of resignation, he turns it open, searching for the table of contents.

“Is this helpful?” Zoro speaks up. “S’got diagrams.” Sanji’s gaze rises to see what the swordsman has deemed worthy of question. And then scrunches his nose as he looks it over.

The header boasts of instructions for “Tempering the soul of a metal.” While the diagram houses a section for matching the heat measurement with the alloy, adjusted by quantity or intended product.

“No,” Sanji shakes his head, “I don’t think that’s going to be any good, Mossy.”

Zoro snaps the book shut and tosses it aside with a plume of dust. “This is all useless.” He gripes.

Sanji rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Having Zoro nearby, even if his efforts weren’t always helpful, still prove to make things feel less impossible.

Abruptly, a hollow rap reverberates through the manor.

The two men immediately fall silent. The brash rhythm of the doorknocker echoes from the foyer like a dirge.

They share a questioning glance. Zoro frowns- Sanji shakes his head.

Then, a muffled voice, harsh and familiar.

Sanji’s blood runs cold.

Zoro’s posture tenses and he leans in to rest a palm across Sanji’s arm. “Curls- Who is that?”

The words cinch in Sanji’s chest. “It’s-” His shoulders slump inward and he struggles to catch his breath. His skin prickling, as if chilled from the rain. “Judge.”

Zoro’s jaw sets tight. His hand retreats as he stands. His blade clinks as his hand fists around the hilt. “I’ll deal with him.”

“No!” Sanji gasps, standing with a rush to grab the swordsman, twisting to gather hold of his lapel. “No, he can’t see you!”

“Stay here,” Sanji pleads. “I may be able to turn him away.”

Zoro scowls. “You don’t really think that.”

“I can hope so,” the blond exhales. “And I can try. Give me that chance.”

For a long moment, Zoro doesn’t respond. His hand tightens around the hilt of his blade and his lips draw pinched.

“...Fine.” Zoro spits. “But you are not leaving with him.”

Sanji’s words catch as his heart leaps within the cage of his chest. He exhales, nodding before finally being able to speak. “Of course,” he agrees. “Neither of us are.”

The assurance pulls a smirk to Zoro’s lips, the warmth of his hand slipping away from the blond’s arm as he snakes it around Sanji’s waist instead. He closes the space between them, dropping his chin to press their foreheads together.

“I’ll be here,” Zoro whispers. “The moment you need me.”

“Moss-” Sanji murmurs. His heart flourishes, affection and fear twisting into a bright burst of passion.

His hands clench around the cotton of Zoro’s shirt. The knocks at the door thud against his ribs. And before Sanji can think better of it, he surges forward, tugging Zoro in by his lapels and smashing their lips together.

Zoro gasps against his mouth, frozen for a single beat before he moves. His arm tightens, hauling Sanji flush against him. Zoro’s head tilts to meet him, pressing his mouth more firmly against Sanji’s lips and stealing the very breath from his lungs.

For a heartbeat longer than he can afford, Sanji indulges in the closeness. The weight of Zoro’s hand splayed across his lower back and the taste of his lips.

The distant pounding at the door sounds muted, but its presence is unignorable.

Sanji pulls back, still near enough for their foreheads to brush. But a tension eases within his chest from the warmth of Zoro’s returned affections.

From the devotion so clearly weighted in his gaze.

“Go,” Zoro encourages, pressing a kiss to the corner of Sanji’s mouth before he steps away. “Let’s have this over with.”

Sanji nods, heart pounding.

The blond leaves the study with mechanical steps. He shuts the door behind him and pauses, the knob at his lower back.

And then slowly, deliberately, so as to keep Zoro unaware he’s done so- Sanji twists the lock.

It’s not near enough to contain the swordsman should he wish to break free. Sanji can only hope the effort might curb his impulsivity.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please stay hidden.”

Sanji pulls out a cigarette as he walks to the stairs and lights it as he descends. Lets the warmth of the smoke hold in his lungs until it begins to burn.

He steels himself as he walks the distance across the foyer. Judge’s grand stature is visible through the stained glass panes of the front doors, impatiently waiting on the doorstep.

The blond’s shoes quietly tap as he crosses the hardwood. And with a quick twist of the bolt, he swings the doors open.

“Good afternoon,” Sanji greets evenly.

“Finally,” Judge grouses.

The man immediately shoulders his way past the blond, tromping into the foyer as a number of Germa henchmen follow at his flank. Each of them devoid of expressions; burly, impassive forms stuffed in clean black suitcoats.

Twelve, Sanji counts. Which is a flattering number.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sanji asks.

“Skip the pleasantries and gather your things.” Judge orders.

Sanji’s stomach gives a terrible swoop. “Pardon?”

“Your errand is over,” He explains, waving at the blond to hasten and complete his request.

The blond’s chest tightens. He hadn’t anticipated such a bold start to Judge’s entrance, and it doesn’t bode well for his chances of negotiation.

“There are rooms I’ve yet to catalogue,” Sanji retorts, fisting his hands at his waistline and trying to keep his tone even. “There are a number of texts I’ve set aside for further evaluation that I need to review.”

“My men will do a final sweep before we depart,” Judge retorts evenly.

“They won’t know which areas have been completed yet.” Sanji debates. “At least let me-”

“That’s enough,” Judge cuts him off.

The force of his tone halts Sanji’s breath tight in his throat.

“This was your last chance, Sanji. You’ve been posted here for months and haven’t found a single scrap of worthy information.” Judge continues harshly. “Once again, you’ve proven yourself a drain on Germa resources. Therefore- You will be returning to the estate until I determine what to do with you.”

For a long moment, Sanji doesn’t reply. Unbidden, his mind conjures the image of what would await him with such an order.

Returning to the Vinsmoke Estate; stifled between concrete and iron. Where the air carries the stench of chemicals and malice.

Never seeing Zoro again. Never again feeling the warmth of his hands or sharing banter over a hot meal.

Indignation flares hot. Passion flares hotter.

“...I refuse.”

Judge halts, his stiff gaze lowering to drill into Sanji’s features. “What did you just say?”

Sanji lifts his chin and speaks firmly. “I refuse.”

“How dare you,” Judge baritones, his voice bearing the weight and chill of a surging tide. “You think you can just remit yourself from your responsibilities?”

“If I’m truly as useless as you believe then what is the point in keeping me around?” Sanji snaps. The blond digs his heels in, his hands curling into fists as he meets it with the heat of his anger.

“Renounce me from the estate.” He declares, voice harsh. “You despise that I carry the Vinsmoke surname as much as I do.”

He sucks in a tight breath, fingernails digging into his palms.

“Renounce me,” Sanji urges, “and I’ll swear to never use it again.”

Judge stares him down, his brow furrowed in a tense glare.

The moment hangs open, and- for a brief moment, Sanji allows himself to hope that he’s gotten through to the man.

But then, a sneer cuts across Judge’s lips.

“Grab him.”

“What- ?” Sanji startles as the men flanking Judge lurch into action. He backsteps out of the swing of two men’s arms, his gasp twisting into a snarl as he pivots to gather his footing. “Back off!” He growls, kicking a heel out in a vicious arc.

He catches the jaw of one man who goes crashing aside with a grunt. The next he takes out with the follow through on the opposite foot, and a third with a straight up heel to the solar plexus.

Sanji loses track as his surroundings blur into chaos. He gives as good as he gets, but all it takes is one meaty fist locked around his upper arm to yank him off balance.

Suddenly, he’s dragged into a grapple between three determined henchmen.

The blond bucks against their hold; but they lash him down with their combined grip. Hands locked around his wrists, wrenching his arms back until pain shoots up his arms. A grip clamps into the meat of his neck, holding like a vice a pressure point that sends weakness skittering down his limbs.

“Unhand me!” Sanji snarls.

At once, from high above them, comes a deafening crash.

The air rings from the metallic shriek of a blade drawing free. The wooden structure of the stairs rattles under the rush of descending steps, heavy and pounding.

Judge tilts his head to follow the sound, a gleam of intrigue in his eyes.

Sanji’s throat runs dry and his heart begins to hammer in the cage of his ribs. “Dammit-” He whispers.

Zoro clears the last stretch of steps and lands with a harsh slap of boots on the foyer.

His blade is drawn, bright and glinting beneath the scatter of pale sunlight through the manor’s windowpanes. Steam coils and catches in pale threads where it rises from his scars. Heat gathers and spills from his bared teeth like the breath of a dragon.

“Let him go,” Zoro demands.

A smug gleam lights in Judge’s eyes before he turns his gaze back to Sanji. “You did find something of interest here. And yet- You neglected to mention it.”

“Fuck you,” Sanji spits, thrashing unsuccessfully under the grip on his limbs.

Zoro tilts his blade, the angle of the steel catching the light and matching the furious gleam of silver housed in his narrowed gaze.

“He protected what you have no right to,” Zoro snaps. “And now I’m doing the same.”

Judge pinches his brow, looking over the swordsman with a keen gaze. “You were the Lord’s son, weren’t you?”

Zoro maintains his glare, but doesn’t reply. And Judge chortles, a viscous grin tugging at his lips. “I should have suspected as much.”

Sanji stills. “You- what?” He rasps.

“Thirty years ago,” Judge continues smoothly, “our studies on Kuraigana went silent. Caesar stopped sending his reports on the progress. The men sent to retrieve him never returned.”

Sanji’s heart twists, a rage unlike any other he’s felt burns hot in his chest.

“You knew?” Sanji snarls. “You had a hand in this!?”

“Of course I knew,” Judge scoffs. “I was admittedly young in my role to handle such an endeavor. Attempting to breach the manor after Caesar's disappearance was a waste of effort. It was more practical to let it fester; give time for the past to rot away and study the remains.

“Though… it appears Caesar’s experiments didn’t wither entirely in his absence.” Judge muses. “An interesting finding.”

Zoro growls, steam pouring between the clench of his bared teeth. His knuckles tightening around the hilt.

“As for you-” Judge pivots with a growl, pinning Sanji with a furious glare. “This behavior cannot be excused. I am done being merciful.” He snarls, teeth flashing. “You will be sent to the labs upon our return.”

Sanji feels the blood drain from his face. “No…” He breaths.

“Perhaps they can design something to successfully remove that horrid empathy from you.”

“No!” Sanji snarls, thrashing in the grasp of the men holding him. “Let me go!”

With a roar, Zoro launches himself forward, blade slicing through the air with a whistle of danger. Immediately, a portion of the henchmen disengage from where they’ve surrounded Sanji and move to protect Judge.

Metal rings out in a clash, and the moment proves an effective distraction for Sanji’s captors. The vice grip at Sanji’s neck lightens for the barest of a moment-

But it’s enough.

Sanji kicks off the ground, leaping into the arc of a backflip so the men have to release him or risk breaking their wrists.

He rolls to regain his footing and swiftly moves into a series of quick, calculated strikes. His feet barely skim the floor as he twists through the throng of henchmen attempting to restrain him, heels kicking out to catch any unguarded flesh.

“Contain them both!” Judge bellows, his voice echoing off the rafters but swallowed by the din of the scuffle.

Sanji rebounds off of one of the henchmen's sternum, skidding aside when he lands and scanning his surroundings for Zoro.

The swordsman is holding his own against Judge and his lackeys, every swing of his blade fueling the alchemical reactions beneath his skin. Steam coils and streaks the air behind his movements. An acrid tang of chemical ozone permeates the air.

Taking advantage of the cover of mist, Sanji ducks low and moves to sweep the legs out from under the last of his nearby adversaries. His movements sending them sprawling across the floor. A final kick takes out the last henchman standing, and the blond steadies himself as the room falls into relative silence. Broken only by the hiss of steam and the faint scrape of blades.

Sanji lifts his gaze just in time for the fog to clear. Through the haze, two silhouettes begin to take shape.

Judge’s form, kneeling.

His neck, trapped between the cross of Zoro’s blades.

Zoro’s back is framed by the stained glass of the grand staircase. His snarl carries the fury of decades between the clench of his teeth. His skin gleams with sweat, his body a furnace of controlled rage.

“M-mercy,” Judge rasps.

Sanji straightens; his chest tightening with the thought of his fathers’s blood on Zoro’s blade.

But he holds his breath.

This is not his grievance to dictate.

Then, with a smooth deliberate motion- Zoro resheaths his swords “I won’t kill you,” He declares, his steel gaze unwavering as he steps back.

Judge exhales sharply, relief flickering across his features as Zoro’s hilt clicks into place.

Zoro turns aside, standing tall as a crooked grin spreads across his face. “There’s someone else who would like the honor.” He finishes, his voice low and steeped with danger.

“W-What?” Judge stammers.

Then, from the shadows of the balcony above, a figure emerges. An imposing silhouette backlit by the ruby glow of the stained glass, a massive sword strapped to his shoulders.

Zoro’s grin sharpens into a snarl. “Vinsmoke Judge,” he announces. “My father would like to have a word with you.”

Sunset cloaks the kitchen with a warmth of its hues. Sanji has turned the gas lamps up in order to combat the dim violet of the evening as it encroaches through the windowpanes.

Sanji stirs in the tomato paste and carefully ladles in the reserved stock before he returns the chicken to the pot. He places the portions with purpose, before tipping in a collection of chopped vegetables, beginning their turn to soften.

Once the pot is simmering, Sanji grabs hold of a nearby pan to give its contents a flip. A lash of flavor hits the air as the seasonings kick up from the movement, the breadcrumbs taking on a beautiful golden brown color from the heat and oil.

The scent of steel catches the blond’s attention before the heat reaches him. A familiar form draping itself along his back.

Sanji’s breath catches as a gentle mouth presses a kiss to the skin of his neck. Gooseflesh rises as a series of affections are peppered towards the hinge of his jaw.

Warm hands slide around the narrow of Sanji’s waist, palms dragging across the coarse embroidery of his waistcoat.

“Mossy,” Sanji chides, leaning away despite the smile stuck to his lips. “I’m preparing dinner.”

Zoro hooks his chin around Sanji’s shoulder to peer down at the stove. “You’re making my crispies?” He smirks.

“I could burn them, if you prefer?” The blond suggests, pointedly raising his arms to emphasise the restriction to his movement.

Zoro huffs. He presses another kiss to the soft skin behind Sanji’s ear before relenting, drawing away to give him enough space to continue cooking.

“Smells good,” he comments idly.

“And if you set the table properly, you might find it tastes good as well,” Sanji suggests.

The brute grumbles a retort too soft to make out, and the blond grins, listening with half an ear as the cabinets open and close around him. The ceramic of plates clinking as they’re shuffled by a rough grip.

The rest of the meal comes together beautifully. Three plates prepared, one with fried breadcrumbs sprinkled atop the sauce.

Zoro returns once the table is set, hands outstretched to assist in serving the plates. Sanji obliges his assistance, letting him carry over two of the plates while he himself carries over the third and a freshly opened pinot noir.

Lord Mihawk is already seated when they arrive, and Sanji sets the man’s plate down with a polite nod before pouring the wine out between their seats. Lord Mihawk’s appearance has significantly improved from Sanji’s first introduction to the man; his physique filling out with health over time, though the piercing yellow glow of his gaze remains.

At a fourth seat, the silverware is placed around the empty house of a plate. And it’s only moments before Perona is gliding into the room. Her opaque form drifting into place at the table.

“It is a pleasure to be joining a meal once more as a family,” Lord Mihawk speaks up.

“Perona can’t eat anything yet,” Zoro points out.

“Shut up!” The lady snaps. “I will! Just you wait!”

“Nonetheless,” Mihawk continues smoothly, raising a glass in toast. “Appreciations must be made to those whose efforts have brought us together once more.”

Sanji flushes, ducking into his plate bashfully. “Yes, well- My efforts were not accomplished alone,” he admits.

“No matter what you believe. The truth cannot be thwarted.” Mihawk notes. “And it is a pleasure to have such a talented individual join the family.”

Zoro coughs into a mouthful of vegetables.

Sanji forcefully swallows his mouthful. “Pardon?” He asks, reaching for his water in rescue.

“Are you not courting?” Mihawk asks evenly. “I had presumed as such due to your… arrangement.”

A crooked grin stretches across Zoro’s lips. “We’re courting,” He replies bluntly.

“Moss,” Sanji hisses, flushing to the tips of his ears as he lands a solid kick to the swordsman’s shin. “And- ah…Arrangement?” He squeaks, voice pitched upwards.

Mihawk takes a sip of wine, unbothered. “Your choice of sleeping quarters.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Perona translates the situation bluntly.

“You’re sleeping in Zoro’s bed.” She says.

“W-what?” Sanji splutters, water bubbling over his lips and dripping over his chin. “No- What?” He rasps, lifting his wrist to block the worst of the error from wetting his clothes.

Perona gestures at a napkin, though her transparent fingers drift right through the fabric and the table below.

“Moss!?” Sanji warbles. “Did you know this?”

“Yeah- s’fine,” Zoro informs him, lifting a fingernail to dig between his teeth. “I like sleeping in the parlor, anyway.”

“That’s-” Sanji cannot formulate a reply. “You’ve been sleeping in the parlor?!”

“If it’s so important, I can move back.” Zoro drawls.

“Of course-” Sanji exhales. “There’s another bedchamber on the third floor I can-”

“Oi-” Zoro barks. “Said I’d move back in. Never said you had to leave.”

“Uh- t-thats-” The blond stammers, feeling a flush creep up to the tips of his ears. “Okay…”

“Gross,” Perona declares.

“You don’t get to complain!” Zoro argues, wielding his point with his fork. “Curly read you all sorts of lovey shit to get you back.”

“My novels are tasteful!” Perona shrieks, scandalized.

Sanji’s eyes widen and he looks down to his plate, choosing not to comment.

Zoro scoffs, unrepentant. “Your books are mushy, romantic trash.”

“At least I don’t get lost in my own home!” Perona fires back.

Sanji smothers a laugh, and at Zoro’s glaring scowl, he deflects.

“Zoro has his eccentricities…” The blond offers politely. “I assumed his manners were an effect of the alchemy.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Lord Mihawk concedes. “Though entirely unrelated.”

“Mihawk collected him while on a business trip.” Perona chirps. “Returned from the East Blue with this feral boy held by the scruff like a kitten.” Perona titters in laughter, her form bobbing in the air. “Zo hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Oh,” Sanji blinks, before dissolving into snickers. “Of course.” He laughs outright, his smile bright as he looks over to Zoro.

The swordsman mutters something that sounds like a threat, his ears flaming red.

It just makes Sanji smile wider.

It’s a tender thought- That the nuances Sanji’s fallen in love with are inherently his own.

And his heart warms, pleased that his love hasn’t had any of his faculties taken from him. He’s grateful, that the man he adores is the very same that had forged his path in this world so many decades ago.

The rest of dinner tumbles into a scattering of discussions. The meandering of mismatched topics flitting between Mihawk’s dry commentary, Zoro’s request for seconds and Perona’s dramatic sighs.

When the plates are cleared, Sanji gathers them by habit. Tucking them into the balance of his arms and carting them back to the kitchen. Mihawk and Perona wandering off from the dining room in a continuing conversation of logistics for re-establishing the vineyard.

Sanji is on his way with the used wine glasses when Zoro catches him.

The moment the blond’s passed the threshold of the kitchens, the swordsman is twirling him into the circle of his arms and tugging him in a searing kiss.

“Moss,” Sanji chides against his lips, arms held aside with the glasses between his fingertips, “the dishes.”

“The dishes can wait,” Zoro retorts, plucking the stems from his hand and setting them aside on the nearest counter.

His hands are warm at the blond’s waist, his lips sweet against Sanji’s flushed cheek. “I need you to know- My room-” He tucks his nose warm against the column of Sanji’s neck. “You can have it, just by yourself- If you want it.”

Sanji melts against Zoro’s affection, his heart thudding against his ribs. “And if I want you with me?”

Zoro nips at his earlobe, then pulls back to offer the view of his broad grin. “Then you would have me.”

Sanji wets his lips, his fingernails digging into the warmth of Zoro’s skin. “Together?”

Zoro drops his chin, pressing their foreheads together in a semblance of intimacy. “Together.”