Chapter Text
It takes a long time for Zoro to notice. Longer than it takes most people, she thinks, but still not as long as its taking the cook, so she's calling it a win.
Oh, longer to notice what exactly?
Well, she's just figured out, what must be several months in now, that she's pretty sure she's in a relationship with Sanji.
The first thing that tips her off is the food. She noticed when it starts to be different, when the frilly frou-frou shit Cook insisted on using for all the girls, the garnishes and twists of lime and fancy plating that Zoro found tedious, slowly stopped appearing on her plate. She's sure she's complained, but she didn't ever actually ask for this. That was just bickering, picking a fight about how prissy Sanji is because it's fun to watch the tips of her ears turn red as she throws a fit about whatever Zoro's done to piss her off.
It happened slowly, at first, the food, but once Zoro notices at breakfast one morning, she can't unsee it. Usopp's plate, right beside her own, is normal—its a slice of the egg frittata they're all eating, with a garnish of some green herb and a sauce drizzled over the whole thing in a pretty criss-crossed pattern, a side of ham, and served with coffee as sweet as their sniper prefers, with a little extra cream on top and a star drawn in chocolate on the top.
Zoro's own plate is plain by comparison. A slice of the frittata sits to one side. The cut of meat is thicker than usual, seared darker along one edge where the heat must’ve kissed it a second too long. The seasoning is lighter—no unnecessary garnish cluttering the edges, no pointless decoration. It's all clean, intentional, efficient, exactly how she likes it.
"You change something?" she asks before she can think better of it.
Across the galley, Sanji doesn’t turn around. She’s at the stove, one hand steady on the pan, the other flicking a knife through a rhythm so practiced it barely seems conscious. There’s a cigarette caught between her teeth—not lit, just hanging there for her to chew on until she gets a chance to step outside.
“If you’re about to complain,” Sanji says, voice already edged with irritation, “at least have the decency to take a bite first.”
Zoro huffs under her breath, dragging the plate closer. “I’m not complaining," she defends herself.
“That’d be a refreshing change," Sanji snips back, but Zoro ignores her in favor of finally cutting into her breakfast and taking a bite.
It's good.
Of course its good, though, Zoro already knew it would be. For all their fighting, he really believes their crew is the best in the Grand Line, which means each of the crew members is the best at what they do. Sanji's food is always good, but this is different. It's not just skilled, or complex, it's something that Sanji put care into creating for her, to her taste, with care. Its better this way.
She eats the rest of her meal in silence.
Later, on the deck, the sun is high and hot enough in the sky to warm the wood beneath her feet. Zoro moves through her routine on instinct, blades cutting clean arcs through the air, each strike landing with practiced precision. Her body knows what to do, it always does.
It's her head that's off. She can't stop thinking about her breakfast this morning, about a certain blonde who she can just barely hear clanking around in the kitchen. It's just enough of a distraction to cause a half-second delay, not the type of thing most people would notice, but Zoro notices. She adjusts, grounds herself, and attempts to lose herself in muscle memory again.
It works up until the moment the galley door creaks open. She doesn't turn to watch as Sanji hands out drinks to the whole crew—the typical mid-morning routine, the one-hour-before-lunch warning she gives every day.
"Hydrate," Sanji calls from across the deck, sing-songy voice carrying easily, "Or die of sunstroke, whatever suits you today."
Zoro lowers her swords, exhaling slowly and letting her eyes falls shut as she rolls her shoulders. She knows that Sanji is going to do the same annoying shit she does every day, putting the glass a little too close so that Zoro will knock it over if she tries to go back to training.
"Put it down over there, I'll get to it."
"It is down, Marimo," Sanji replies, a teasing lilt to her voice that lets Zoro know she's right about the glass.
She turns around, eyes flying open, retort on the tip of her tongue, and—
The words die as little more than a rasp in her throat.
Sanji is leaning against the railing, one hip angled up against the wood like she's settling in to stay for a while. The ocean stretches out behind her, sunlight catching on the waves and reflecting in fractured pieces, but somehow that's not at all what's catching Zoro's eye.
It's just her.
Her cigarette is lit now, a thin ribbon of smoke curling elegantly up into the open air. She holds it loose between two fingers, wrist relaxed like she's forgotten about it between drags. Her other hand is in her pocket, her posture laid-back and casual and confident. Her eyes are bluer than the sea behind her, and when the breeze blows it catches the hair in her bangs and makes them flutter, momentarily revealing her full face. Her loose, white blouse billows as well, cinched tight at her waist, and Zoro allows her eyes to travel all the way down to what may be Sanji's best feature; legs a mile long, powerful enough to crush a man's head between them, poking out of a tight black miniskirt and covered only by thin black stockings, ending in the pointed toe of her heeled shoe.
She looks comfortable, at peace, like she belongs at sea. Zoro can feel it getting under her skin more and more by the second, so she approaches fast and hot like she does when she gears up for a fight, aching suddenly for their familiar roughhousing. From the new angle, Sanji is between Zoro and the drink, which is as good of a reason as any to pick a fight.
"You're in my way," Zoro accuses.
Sanji rolls her eyes, pushing off the railing to close the distance between them and pressing their foreheads together challengingly. "And whose fault is that? Move around me!"
"Move out of my way!" Zoro shoots back, and then there's a tipping point. Neither of them swings on the other, pressed close though they are, and neither is willing to give up an inch of ground. Instead, they move into this strange, suspended moment, their own game of chicken, the usual rhythm of their push-and-pull stalling out into something heavier.
Zoro is suddenly, sharply aware of every detail. The heat of the sun of her back, the sound of the ocean against the hull, the way Sanji still hasn't stepped away. This is it, the thing she's been noticing, on display in front of her eyes. Her pulse kicks up, and annoyance at her own uncontrollable feelings flares in her chest. Her jaw tightens slightly.
"Hey! Is there any food ready yet?" Luffy's voice cuts through the moment like a cannon shot.
Sanji exhales, long and slow. She straightens up and steps away like nothing just happened at all. "Yes, you bottomless pit, just give me a minute!" she calls out, a fond smile tugging at the edges of her lips. When she walks past Zoro to head back to the galley, she shoulder-checks her, and it's enough to send a shock up Zoro's spine.
"Drink the water," Sanji calls out, already crossing the deck back to the galley as her voice carries behind her. "If you don't next time I'll just be forced to water you like the plant you are, Marimo," he teases.
"You'd have to catch me first, and there's no way I'd let you do that," Zoro responds, recovering automatically to keep up with the conversation.
Sanji huffs out a laugh. "Keep telling yourself that!" she says, and the door swings shut behind her.
Zoro stands there staring after her for longer than she'd ever care to admit. Then she turns, grabs the glass, and downs half of it in one go. Like breakfast, it's perfectly to Zoro's taste; cool, not cold, with no ice and two little slices of cucumber she enjoys but has never bothered to ask for. Perfect for hydration after training.
Of course it is.
As she finishes it, she sets the glass back down, further out of the way than before, and does her best to shake off the lingering adrenaline racing under her skin.