Sanji stared up at the clouds drifting across the sky and wondered what choices had led him here – and which ones were still his to make.
The Thousand Sunny docked in Two Tone Bay earlier that morning. A stopover along the tri-log post route, they’d been planning to restock, stretch their legs, then continue on their way by late afternoon. But, because they were them, they took on the local gang terrorizing the town, planning to end the tyranny.
The gang fought hard. Strong, seasoned, stacked with Haki users and led by a Devil Fruit captain. It pushed even a Yonko’s crew. Sanji clashed with three fighters who moved like one, their long-practiced unity blurring them into a single, formidable threat. Blows rang against his exoskeleton, rattling bone and breath alike, takingthe deck as Franky punishment meant to cripple. In the end he’d won… until he hadn’t.
The rockslide came without warning – thousands of tons of stone tearing down the mountain at breakneck speed. Sanji had just kicked the last fighter into orbit when his observation haki flared. He could’ve stepped into the sky, escape the danger instantly. But below him, lower on the mountain, the locals who’d tried to help lay unconscious and exposed.
Sanji could do many things, but he could only carry so many people at once.
He blurred into motion – spin, kick, release – pouring raw leg power into hurling one local after another clear of the slide. Bodies arced through the air, flung hard and far. They would land somewhere else bruised, broken, maybe worse – but it beat certain death under crushing stone.
The last one left the tip of his shoe just as the rockslide hit.
Rock slammed into him like a wall. The world went dark with force and noise as Sanji was ripped off his feet and dragged under, swallowed by stone. His exoskeleton screamed under the pressure as he tumbled, battered and crushed, smacked against the mountainside in a grinding, unstoppable surge.
His final, furious thought as he fell – half-laughed, half-spat into the dark – was: at least it’s not snow.
Unlike the last time a mountain tried to kill him, he stayed conscious. Every impact registered – bone-jarring blows, grinding pressure, the sickening crunch of rock on rock as the slide dragged him downhill. He slammed, rolled, was wrenched sideways, his body battered and pinned and freed again in violent succession.
The motion finally tore itself apart. Sanji came to a dead stop when a massive boulder dropped and trapped his lower half, crushing him into the slope. The rest of the rockslide roared past, stone grinding over stone as it continued downslope, leaving him pinned beneath the mountain and very much awake.
The rumbling roar thinned, then died. Silence rushed in to replace it.
Sanji lay on his back, staring up at a slice of sky, dusted with dirt and half-buried under smaller stones. From the pelvis down, there was nothing. No pain, no signal at all. It would’ve been terrifying if not for his exoskeleton.
He hated that he owed his survival to Judge. Hated that the bastard’s work still protected him when his own body should’ve failed. But without it, he would’ve died here, just as he would have died in Wano, and that would’ve made Luffy’s rescue pointless.
Sanji patted his breast pocket and drew out his cigarettes. He stared at them a moment, then sighed in defeat and tucked them away. His lighter was in his trousers pocket, currently under a massive boulder. And since he couldn’t light his arms on fire, no cigarettes for him.
This sucked.
Waiting for rescue was not one of Sanji’s strong skills. He didn’t like the feeling of weakness and inadequacy it caused. He managed to ask for help now, but he still had trouble with it. Not because he didn’t have faith or trust in the others, but because of his own issues with his self-worth. Having a father who called you a useless failure for the first eight years of your life – proved right, again and again, through failed tests and beatings from his brothers – left marks that never really faded.
He wondered who’d be the one to find him. No one would have trouble with the boulder. Zoro and Brook would slice it apart, Luffy and Jinbe could punch it to pieces. Franky and Usopp would blow it up. Robin’s devil’s fruit power and Chopper – in monster form – could simply lift it off. Nami would bring lightning down on it, which he’d very much prefer not to relive; he’d hit his lifetime quota on lightning strikes.
Since his lower body was crushed, Sanji found himself developing preferences. He didn’t want the ladies to see him like this. That was non-negotiable. Chopper would know he’d be fine, he’d seen Sanji on Wano. Luffy would think it was cool. Same with Franky. Jinbe and Brook would be curious, then accepting. Usopp would probably be traumatized. And Zoro–
Sanji’s brow creased.
He didn’t know how Zoro would react. He only knew he didn’t want Zoro to find him like this, see him pinned and broken, stripped down to what he couldn’t do. But would Zoro even care? Would he make fun of Sanji for being defeated by a rock? Would he be disgusted by Sanji’s body? Would he see something altered, something less – and decide Sanji wasn’t worthy as an equal?
Sanji told himself he didn’t fear it – that he wasn’t slipping in Zoro’s eyes, becoming something lesser, something easily overlooked. But there had been strain between them ever since he’d been forced to leave for that would-be wedding. A tension that felt like judgment. Like Zoro had already weighed him and found him wanting.
And once the thought took hold, it didn’t stop. Had asking Zoro to take him out on Wano, if it came to that, cost him something he couldn’t get back? Had Jinbe overtaking him in bounty shifted the balance between them? Had failing to protect Stella Vegapunk – being dropped in a single, effortless kick by Kizaru – made Zoro question his abilities? Did what happen on Elbaph change things?
Sanji lay there, pinned and silent, and wondered when Zoro’s road would stop naturally including him.
The clouds overhead drifted past the sun, casting him in shadow. A lone bird flit past. Loose stone rattled briefly farther down the slope. A faint breeze lifted the strands of his hair, whispering in his ear.
Sanji reached for a cigarette and then let his hand fall to the ground when he remembered his lack of lighter. One of these days he should just quit, make Chopper happy. He’d started smoking because he thought it’d make him be seen as a man. Everything he did was an attempt to prove it – how he dressed, how he treated women, how he acted around other men. His life was a performance, and he didn’t know where the act ended.
He knew he loved cooking. That was something in his soul. He loved creating dishes, serving them, seeing people enjoy his food. He loved figuring out balance and taste, nutrition and indulgence, discovering new ways to make the old feel fresh. He’d had this passion long before his time with Zeff, before starvation carved the need to eliminate hunger in others, before he’d been told that cooking was beneath him. It felt like he’d been born for the purpose of nourishing others, bolstered by his mother’s encouragement and joy when he brought her something he’d made.
But everything else? The parts of him that didn’t involve the kitchen? He didn’t really know who that man was, what he actually desired, or how to be.
He snorted softly, picturing Iva and the others laughing their heads off. They’d tried to help him find himself, in their own loud, invasive, well-meaning way. To look past the surface, dig into what mattered underneath. He’d fought them every step of the way, clung to his idea of what a man was even when they shoved him into wigs and dresses and dared him to look closer.
Instead of finding himself, he’d doubled down. Reinforced the rules. Built beliefs he thought would let him stand beside Luffy, beside Zoro, all the way to the end.
But here he was, defeated by a rock, questioning who he actually was, doubting whether he’d become someone who could keep up, unsure who he’d been trying to become at all.
What did he even want? And what did matter? Should he try to keep up with Zoro or find his own path? Should he stop trying to impress and simply be whatever? Should he live for himself or for Luffy’s dream?
Sanji pictured his mother, sick, dying. Heard the echo of Reiju’s words, that she’d sacrificed herself so that Sanji could live a full life, with a heart intact, free to choose who he became. Remembered the terror when he learned his body changed, became like them.
The clouds continued their slow drift overhead, indifferent to the answers. Sunlight warmed his face. A small animal passed through the edge of his vision, busy with its own survival. A fly buzzed past, then vanished.
Sanji heard boots scrape against rock – steady at first, then scrambling. A panicked voice carried to him. “No, no, no–”
Sanji tilted his head back, watching Zoro – because of course it would be him – rushing across the strewn rubble toward him. He really wanted a cigarette.
“Cook–”
Zoro’s face had gone pale, tight, his eye blown wide with something unguarded and sharp enough to hurt. Cuts and scrapes marred his face, and dried blood crusted along his haramaki. He made it to Sanji’s side and stopped short, swallowing as he took in the boulder, the crushed ground, Sanji pinned beneath it. “Fuck.”
Sanji hummed. “Adequate summation. Now get this stupid rock off me.”
Zoro nodded, short, jerky. He drew a katana and cut, the slash angled with deliberate care. Stone parted cleanly, the weight redirected away from Sanji’s body before it could collapse. The boulder slid free and tumbled downslope to join the rest of the destruction.
Zoro shoved the remaining stone aside, then froze. His breath hitched. Whatever color he had left drained out entirely as he dropped to his knees beside Sanji, staring. “Your–” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Your legs–”
Sanji pushed himself up on his elbows to look. From the waist down, he was flattened, compressed, twisted wrong. Not pancaked, but well-crushed. “Huh,” he said mildly. “Hope my dick still works after this.”
A sharp, broken laugh tore out of Zoro. “Fucking idiot,” he said, breath shaking. “Always thinking about the ladies.”
“Hn. Not always.” Sanji let that tidbit out into the wind, see how it felt, how it caught.
Zoro’s gaze snapped back to him – still pale, still a little wild. “Did you hit your head?”
“Oh, plenty.” Sanji waved it off. “But you only live… well, three times, in my case.”
Zoro stilled. If anything, he looked worse. “You need Chopper. You’re not thinking straight.”
Sanji snorted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just made a joke.” He held out a hand. “Give me one of your katanas.”
“You’re not going to chop off your legs.”
Sanji stared at him flatly. “Of course I’m not going to chop off my legs, idiot. I need the hilt.”
Zoro just stared.
“For fuck’s sake, I’m trying to fix this.” He gestured vaguely at the ruined mess below his waist.
Slowly, like he didn’t trust his hands, Zoro drew Wado and passed it over hilt-first. “Chopper is going to kill me,” he said faintly.
“Chopper’d be doing the same thing.” Sanji adjusted his grip, pointedly ignoring how familiar the weight felt, and struck the hilt against his hip. A dull, metallic clink answered.
It was hard to get a good angle, and his hits weren’t strong enough to reform him. He clicked his tongue, then offered the sword back. “Here. You do it. Hit me.”
“I– no.” Zoro shook his head hard, already resheathing the blade. “Absolutely not. I’m taking you to Chopper.”
He scooped Sanji up carefully – and made a harsh, involuntary sound when his hands met Sanji’s lower half. His jaw clenched. His voice came out rough, stripped of everything but need. “Please don’t die.”
Sanji normally would’ve bristled at being carried like a damsel, taken it as a hit to his masculinity. But fuck it, if he was going to have an existential crisis, he might as well see what what being unguarded felt like. “I’m not going to,” Sanji said quietly, arms wrapped around Zoro’s neck. “Promise.”
Zoro nodded once. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Zoro set off at a steady pace, shoulders tense, focus narrowed to forward. Sanji made quiet corrections as needed, steering Zoro back on the right track. The crumbled mountainside turned into forest, pines and firs gripping the slope.
“Did you find other locals in the woods?” he asked, thinking about the people he’d kicked to safety.
“Yeah. Franky and Robin helped them. I was looking to see if anyone else got hurt in the slide.”
His voice hitched again, and Sanji softly clicked his tongue. “I’m fine, marimo,” he said. “Just banged up.”
“Don’t look fine.” Zoro sounded pained. “Your legs–”
“Can be fixed,” Sanji said. “Got a modified body now, remember?”
Zoro’s throat worked, but he didn’t say anything.
Silence settled around them again, strained, coated with concern. This whole thing felt weird. Zoro’s reaction, his caring, his obvious worry. They didn’t do this. They bickered. They fought. They took the piss out of each other. The last time he’d heard Zoro express any sort of concern directed toward him had been way back in Water 7.
He’d wondered sometimes, in the dark of night when he couldn’t sleep, what kind of relationship they would’ve had if Sanji wasn’t Sanji. If he’d been more like Luffy. More like Franky. Open. Honest. Unbroken. In touch with himself, knowing who he was and what he wanted beyond the face he put on. The face carved by toxicity and inner pain.
What would it be like now, if he didn’t have the modifications? If he’d been crushed permanently, but survived? If he couldn’t fight anymore?
“Would it matter?” he murmured.
“What?” Zoro said, stepping over a fallen log, heading on a downward angle toward the town, now visible beyond the trees.
Nothing was on the tip of Sanji’s tongue, but he changed his mind. “If I couldn’t fix my legs. If this was it for me.”
Zoro’s arms tightened around him suddenly, his jaw ticking. “Still got your hands.”
Sanji scowled. “I’m not going to fight with my hands.”
“I know,” Zoro said, “but you’re a cook.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And that’s everything to you.”
Sanji went quiet at the truth of it.
Unexpectedly, Zoro went on in a rough voice, “You’re still not replaceable.”
Sanji was thrown back in time: to Luffy, telling Sanji that he couldn’t become the pirate king without him. To Zoro, after Kuma, coming up to him as they sailed toward Sabaody, stating those very words before walking away again. “You’re not replaceable.”
But because Sanji’s mind could be a shitty place, he said, “And if I couldn’t use my hands, either?”
Zoro shot him a fierce glare. “Wouldn’t change the fact you are what matters here, stupid cook.”
Sanji felt something bunch behind his ribs. One more reminder pushing him to stop being an idiot and just live.
“Hey, uh, coming out of nowhere here, unless you’re in my head…” Sanji took a deep breath and forced the words out in a rush. “Interested in a date? With me?”
Zoro nearly walked into a tree. He stared at Sanji incredulously. “You really hit your head hard.”
A laugh bubbled from Sanji’s lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I finally knocked some sense into myself.”
Zoro shook his head, as if shaking off a thought. “Chopper. You need Chopper.”
“Would prefer an answer,” Sanji said with a grumble. “And a cigarette.”
“There’s a pack in my inner pocket,” Zoro said. “Right side.”
It was Sanji’s turn to stare incredulously at Zoro. “You smoke?”
“No.” Color stole across Zoro’s cheeks. “Just… you get bitchy if you run out.”
Sanji continued staring, mouth slightly agape. He rarely ran out. Never on the Sunny. Occasionally on the battlefield.
He dipped his fingers into Zoro’s inner pocket, feeling the warmth of Zoro’s bare skin against his knuckles. He withdrew a fresh pack of his brand of cigarettes, with a precious, precious lighter banded around it. “Marry me.”
Zoro made a choking noise.
Sanji had to release Zoro’s shoulder to open the pack, but Zoro held him effortlessly. He drew a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs, the hit of nicotine like a balm to his psyche. “Fuck, that’s the shit.”
He tucked the lighter and pack back into Zoro’s pocket. They were almost to town, the sound of people and activity floating up to greet them – hammers striking wood, glass being swept, the low murmur of assessment. The air carried relief, the gang’s hold on the locals no more.
Sanji sucked down on his cigarette, trying to blow the smoke away from Zoro. He was going to start keeping matches with his cigarette pack, just in case. His eyes drifted to Zoro again, the still tight jaw, the way the scar cut his features, the worry creasing his brow. “You still haven’t answered my question, mossbrain.”
Redness flushed Zoro’s face, all the way to the tips of his ears. “You want to marry me?”
Sanji choked on his cigarette smoke. Zoro’s arms tightened briefly as coughs wracked his body. “No - what the fuck?” he wheezed. “A date, you halfwit.”
“Oh.”
Sanji dragged in a breath, hand pressed to his chest as he recovered. “I mean, I like you – shit – but not that much.”
“Yeah.”
Huh. Something in Zoro’s tone hadn’t been as casually dismissive as it sounded. Sanji took another slow breath as the cough finally loosened its grip. Maybe he hadn’t been the only one acting.
Past the last clustered buildings, the ground leveled out onto the dock and the Sunny rose into view. Zoro didn’t slow. He took the gangplank in long strides, boots thudding against wood, Sanji held close and steady in his arms. The ship shifted underfoot as they came aboard, rocking in its moorings, crew turning toward the sound of Zoro’s voice as he called for Chopper.
“Ah!” Chopper rushed over. “Sanji, what happened?! Somebody call a doctor.”
“You are the doctor,” Sanji told him calmly. “And it’s nothing a hammer can’t fix.”
“He also hit his head,” Zoro said. “Hard.”
“Head trauma is no joke!” Chopper declared. “Bring him to the infirmary.”
“My head is fine,” Sanji said to deaf ears.
Zoro carried him up to the infirmary off the galley, depositing him with gentiles that belied his brutish appearance. He met Sanji’s gaze briefly, then turned quickly away. “Get better, cook,” he grunted as he walked out.
The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and cleaner. Bandages sat out on Chopper’s desk, along with open files for the crew. Cabinets held medicines and supplies; the refrigerated unit blood and plasma. Fresh sheets covered the bed, which meant someone else had been patched up after the fight – hopefully not Nami-san or Robin-chan.
Sanji crushed his cigarette in the provided ashtray. His legs and pelvis appeared much worse against the bedding, not compressed in the dirt. He could probably get his legs back into shape on his own, but the pelvic area required an angle he couldn’t reach.
As Chopper had seen him wrecked on Wano, he grilled Sanji about his head injury first, checking his eyes, his pulse, asking question after question until finally Sanji told him, “Zoro only thinks I have a head injury because I asked him on a date.”
Chopper’s eyes grew wide, then filled with tears as he wailed. “Sanji’s dying!”
Sanji sighed. “I’m not dying. I just… thought some things through.”
“I’ve read about this!” Chopper said, hustling over to his books. “Severe trauma can cause sudden changes in judgment, impulse control, and emotional attachment – especially toward familiar figures.”
Sanji blinked. “You think I hit my head so hard I developed feelings?”
Chopper nodded gravely. “It’s a known complication.”
Sanji considered it, then dismissed the thought. It would’ve been an easy excuse – and he never backed down from a challenge. Besides, he’d already asked Zoro on a date. Walking it back would be a disservice to his mom.
“Sadly, this has been going on longer than today,” Sanji told Chopper with a self-effacing smirk. “No head trauma, only bad taste.”
Chopper didn’t appear to believe him, but he opted not to comment further. “I guess we’d better fix your legs then. Let me grab one of Franky’s hammers. I’ll be back.”
Luckily, once the appropriate tool was applied, it didn’t take long for Sanji to be back on his feet. Chopper checked him over again, but Sanji’s healing factor repaired any internal damage swiftly. Gotta keep the machines fighting, Sanji thought darkly.
He stepped onto the deck and lit a fresh cigarette. His chest tightened slightly at the sight of his own pack and lighter in his hand. His gaze lifted, searching for the familiar shock of green hair.
Zoro stood with Usopp, the bandage on Usopp’s nose bright against his skin. Then Zoro looked up, eye finding Sanji immediately, surprise flickering there before he turned away from the conversation and headed toward him. “How–” he started, incredulous. “You’re standing.”
“Told you I was fine, dumbass.”
Zoro blinked as if it were taking all his brain power to understand. He’d cleaned up the blood on his face and stomach, revealing clean cuts that he wouldn’t bother bandaging unless Chopper forced him. “I–” His brow furrowed. “That’s… weird.”
Sanji snorted. “Just think of me as another Franky. Only much better looking.”
A hint of color stole across Zoro’s cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “If you start wearing speedos, I’ll gouge my last eye out.”
Sanji grimaced. “If you see me in anything Franky wears, please stab me repeatedly.”
“I dunno,” Zoro smirked with a side-glance at him. “I’ve seen you wear some pretty hideous shit already.”
“Like you can talk, Mr. I Wear the Same Dirty-Assed Clothes Every Day,” Sanji scoffed.
“Saves time.” Zoro’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “You, uh…” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “You meant what you said earlier?”
Sanji lifted a brow. “About the speedos?”
“No.”
Sanji studied him for a beat, realization settling, then nodded once. “Yeah. I did.”
Zoro shifted on his feet, forearm resting on his katanas. “You sure you don’t have a head injury?”
Sanji took a drag, paused, then exhaled. “You can pretend I do, if you want.”
Zoro glanced across the deck as Franky and a bandaged Jinbe came aboard. His fingers tapped three times against a hilt before he answered. “No.”
A slow smile pulled at one corner of Sanji’s mouth. “Tonight, at the inevitable party. Don’t be late.”
Color returned to Zoro’s face. “Yeah. Okay,” he said a little too quickly, before heading off to intercept the others.
Warmth settled in Sanji’s chest, something that felt a lot like happiness. He leaned on the rail, cigarette burning down between his fingers, and thought of his mother – and of the gift she’d paid for with her life. He exhaled slowly, surprised to realize that somewhere along the way, the crisis had tipped into something else entirely.
Existential bliss, maybe.
Sanji smiled faintly and flicked ash over the rail. He could live with that.
Turning on his heel, he headed into the galley, planning to whip up a post-fight snack.
End