Trading Senses

[ptps]

TITLE: Forest Fire
NAME: genuinelie
REQUEST: ZoroSanji, prompt “How the hell did…” (Though this came out sort of ZoroSanjiZoro. ;O;)
RATING/WARNING(S): PG-15 for blood, violence, and a lot of swearing. Sort of nakamashippy though it hints at pairing at the end.
WORD COUNT: 4,211
ARTIST'S NOTES: I started off trying to write ZoroNami actually, but both of them failed so badly I had to revert to the pairing I knew best about. ;_; Hope you like this, because my writing skills pale so much in comparison to yours. I think the inspiration for the idea behind this is quite obvious.

Much love to kotszok and vampire-otaku for helping me beta!! ♥



“Fuck!”

Zoro whirled around in time to glimpse the chef staggering, hands clasped tightly over his face as he veered madly backwards before going down in a painful crunch on dead leaves and broken twigs.

That stupid cook. Zoro blundered towards the fallen chef as best as he could with his reddened vision - woodcutter bastard had come close to shaving off more than his scalp earlier, swinging that axe around like a madman. The surroundings melded into a continuous blur of bark brown and amber heat as he stumbled through the forest fire, his heart drumming an erratic pulse in his ears. “Shit cook! Can’t you look out for yourself properly?”

Another of those logger maniacs came towards said crewmate, bloody, presumably from the force of Sanji’s kicks. He staggered towards the fallen man and raised a gun, wobbling unsteadily over him even as he leveled the barrel at the cook’s head.

“Sanji, get up!” Zoro roared, lunging towards the man. But Sanji was too far away and not moving and Zoro’s legs weren’t carrying him right, because searing pain shot through his ankles whenever he moved, making him stumble even more than necessary. The fucker with the gun smiled, teeth red with blood as he curled a single gnarled finger around the trigger, and pulled.

Except there was no bang. Zoro’s trained sense of hearing picked up the barely-audible click of an empty barrel amidst the crackling of flames, and the few seconds he had while the man gaped at his gun in horror, was enough. Metal sang, crimson splattered the ground, and Zoro’s three swords were sheathed by the time all four pieces of what had been the man’s body hit the ground.

Stupid blond spiral bastard was still lying in the dirt, shaking, hands still clamped tight over his eyes. Zoro kicked him and Sanji groaned again.

“You nearly got yourself killed, bastard! What’s wrong with you?”

“Zoro?” Sanji sounded relieved. Fearful, shaky, but relieved. Zoro’s stomach jolted at the uncharacteristic tones in the cook’s voice. “That you?”

“Who else, fucker?” Zoro dropped to his knees, grabbed at the cook’s wrist. “Get your hands away.”

But Sanji only snarled, wrenched free of the swordsman’s grip with a violent twist, then winced painfully again as he jarred whatever wounds he was nursing beneath those hands. Zoro growled, low and warning, and grabbed at his wrist again. “Move! We don’t have time.”

One hand came reluctantly free, and Zoro shoved it away to grab his chin, forcing it up so the right side of the cook’s face was highlighted in orange-red gold. There was a clean, but profusely bleeding wound that ran diagonally across his eyelid, cutting shallowly across the bridge of his nose from where the bullet had kissed it. Zoro hissed at the sight. “Fuck.”

“How bad is it?”

“Can you open your eyes?”

“Hurts.”

“Just do it. I want to see that you haven’t gone blind.”

The mess of blood and flesh twitched, little pools of crimson and blobs of soft tissue quivering faintly as Sanji forced the lid open. A single, bloodshot eye glared at him through the thin veil of red that had formed, then promptly shut again. “Ugh. Yeah, still can see your ugly mug. Don’t look too good yourself, shit swordsman.” A hiss. “Fucking hurts.”

“Fuck you,” Zoro said, less vehemently than he usually would, his stomach unclenching a little. He took his hands away from Sanji momentarily so the cook wouldn’t feel them shaking against his cheeks. “Looks bad, but at least it didn’t touch your eye. Took off a couple millimeters of flesh, though. I’d say the lid’s only still attached by mere shreds.”

“How many more of them are left…?”

“Don’t know.” Zoro assumed he meant their enemies. “I took down about six, and the one that shot you.” Zoro’s hand went for the fringe-covered side of Sanji’s face, but the blond slapped it away as fingers brushed flesh. “I need to check the other side too, moron.”

“Don’t bother.” Sanji had moved his hands over his eyes again, holding the injured eyelid shut as he sat up, panting slightly. “Never… never saw out of that one. S’why I was so…” He clenched his teeth, and dipped his head to his right as an indicative. “Either way, I’m pretty damn glad the fucker didn’t take this one.”

Zoro snorted. “Not much use saving your hands if you can’t see the crap you’re making.”

“Yeah. Shit. Think they’re gone?” He bent further forward, rested his bloody forehead and matted hair against the knees of his wet, grass-stained pant legs. “How close is the fire?”

“Doesn’t look good. I can still see a couple openings, but we’ll be surrounded in a few more minutes if we don’t move.” Zoro slumped suddenly, collapsing onto his side by the cook and groaning into the dirt. “Fuck. Well, at least they’re either all dead, or ran away. Weaklings.”

Sanji snorted. “Never did think that lumberjacks could cause so many problems. So maybe they panicked because they were doing this illegally and they thought we were after them, but seriously. Do we even look like law enforcers?”

Zoro laughed, stopping abruptly at the ache in his lungs. “We’re fucking pirates. Pirates.”

“Dumbasses torched their own forest.”

“Accidentally. I think. Started panicking when three of their members suddenly became twelve pieces. Probably upset a lamp somewhere.”

“Shouldn’t we like, you know, be moving or something. S’getting too damn hot.” Sanji turned his head towards Zoro, palms still covering his eyes. “Not that I want your pathetic help, but I think you’ll need to guide me back. Even if we get lost five times along the way.”

No response from the swordsman. Sanji frowned. “Oi. Did you pass out or something, shithead?”

There was no comeback to that, surprisingly, but Zoro grunted and pushed himself to his feet after a couple seconds of contemplative silence. “…I’ll try,” he muttered.

“Zoro.” Sanji tried to open his injured eye - something was obviously wrong with the idiot - only to feel the weight of dirt-encrusted, bloodied hands against the back of his own, pressing back firmly but gently against the wound.

“Don’t,” Zoro growled. He removed his hands. There was a loud rustle of cloth being pulled forcibly from skin, and then Zoro’s hands were over his once again, this time coaxing the cook’s away.

“Just need to bandage this,” the swordsman muttered, slipping the black cloth of his bandana beneath the fringe of bloodied gold, carefully laying the strip over the cook’s eyes and applying just enough force to keep the injured lid shut without jarring it. Sanji held still for the few seconds the swordsman’s chest was pressed against his, breathing shallowly, as the other leaned in with a grunt to secure the knot at the back of his head before he withdrew his arms. “Now we can go.”

The cook scoffed softly, allowing the other to help him to his feet, slinging one arm over the swordsman’s broad shoulders while a muscular arm wrapped around his slim waist. The scabbards of Zoro’s swords clacked loudly against each other as they began moving swiftly, almost jogging through the brilliant inferno around them.

“Keep going north-west,” Sanji instructed as they ran, one hand still pressed over his face for fear that the makeshift blindfold would snag on some twig and rip off what was left of his eyelid. “We docked somewhere that way.” He was sort of leading the swordsman, tugging him towards the direction he’d specified. He’d gotten a brief glimpse of his surroundings earlier, and while it might not have been enough to guide them, he trusted his instincts. “We shouldn’t be too far from the ship - a couple kilometers, maybe - and the fire probably alerted Nami-san and the others. They might be looking out for us as well.”

“Trees all look the same,” Zoro grunted. They’d been moving for about five minutes, but now he was starting to stumble heavily, almost leaning on Sanji now rather than the other way round. He was panting, taking deep ragged breaths. “So much goddamned fire everyfuckingwhere. I don’t even… know how the hell you can diff… erentiate…”

His steps were definitely getting heavier now, plodding, almost dragging through the crunching leaves and dirt, moving like lead. Sanji stumbled, pulled down through Zoro’s actions as the other staggered. “Oi! The hell’s the matter with you?”

There was a cold, sinking feeling, like a punch to his gut, as Zoro began to pitch sideways. “Did you get hurt too, you idiot?!”

The swordsman went down with a hissed curse and a explosion of dried leaves, pulling the cook after him. Sanji had enough sense to spin himself around in midair, landing hard on his back atop the other, and bit back a groan as the jolt jarred already fractured ribs and his throbbing eye. But he quickly rolled off the swordsman, hands anxiously searching the broad expanse of Zoro’s chest for injury.

“Fucking hell, you idiot! What happened to you? Did you get shot?! You moron! Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“No,” Zoro panted. “Not shot. Thought… Thought I could handle it…” It was his turn to slap Sanji’s hands away from him, only faintly amused at the irritable feeling the blond’s worried prodding had aroused. “Stop molesting me, you blind ass. My torso’s fine. Shit…”

“What happened?!”

“Stupid loggers backed me into traps.” Zoro raised his head high enough to glance at the twin iron jaws locked around both his ankles, and dropped it with a groan. “Foot traps … the kind used to catch bears? They weigh a ton, but that might be the blood loss speaking. Pretty damn huge traps though. Sharp, too. Can feel the blades scraping against my bones.”

“Oh, shit...” Sanji began laughing unsteadily and shook his head. “How the hell did you even make it to me just now?”

“Heard your girly scream echoing through the forest and thought your curly ass might appreciate a little saving.” Zoro closed his eyes, weary, exhausted - his head was spinning and the receding adrenaline made him acutely aware of the constant sharp, piercing agony in his ankles. He’d probably torn the wounds worse, what with all that running from earlier. “And all you got was what? A fucking skim across the eyes.”

“Shut up.” Sanji kicked him, somewhat relieved - if the idiot could afford to be sarcastic, he probably wasn’t dying. Yet. “I think a few of my ribs are broken. Some jackass with muscles, trying to show off. Uprooted a tree and swung it at me. ”

“I think,” Zoro said, calmly observing the flicker of orange from behind his eyelids, “we can continue this conversation when we’re back on Merry.”

“Oh, yes, the fire. It completely slipped my mind.” Zoro could almost hear the sarcasm dripping off the cook’s words. “But I can’t see, and you can’t walk.”

Zoro reached down, tried to pull apart the contraption, but only succeeded in slicing his fingers and getting more blood on himself. He hissed angrily. “I’d keep running if these damn things weren’t going to take my legs off.”

“Says the person who tried to slice them off himself, once…”

“Shut up and think!” Zoro snapped. He twisted around; the blaze was getting closer, billowing thousands of embers towards them like so many voracious fireflies, eagerly devouring the dried grass and twigs and leaves. “How are we supposed to get back to Merry now?!”

“No one asked you to start acting macho and try running around with guillotines around your ankles! You stupid fuck!” Sanji raked a hand through his hair in frustration and winced as his fingers snagged in the matted clumps. “I - I’ll - I’ll c-carry you, or something.”

Zoro shot him a look, feeling stupid when he remembered that Sanji couldn’t see it. He loaded his voice with the highest levels of skepticism he could muster instead. “No way.”

“Roast to death then, see if I care.”

“You can’t even lift one of my weights, don’t even talk about trying to carry me - ”

“I am not for dying in some stupid forest blaze!” The cook looked absolutely livid, which was saying something considering the top half of his head was obscured. “And neither are you! We don’t have fucking time for this - “

There was a sudden deafening crack, and Sanji felt the tree above them give way, heard the symphony of snapping twigs and the rush of molten air and the oppressive heat of being seconds away from being crushed -

- then he was gasping for breath as he landed on his back again, Zoro’s body shielding his as the tree exploded somewhere to their left and flaming shrapnel rained down around them. Sanji was vaguely aware of the large hands pressed over his eyes, keeping the wound from jarring, and the sickeningly colossal weights around the other man’s ankles, bumping up against his own calves.

“Right.” The swordsman’s voice was too close to his ear for comfort, and he suppressed a shudder. “Fine. Carry me.” The pressure on his cracked ribs eased a little, and he found himself free to breathe again. “But don’t think I’ll let you get away with this, stupid cook.”

Zoro was getting up, pushing himself painfully off the ground where he’d thrown them out of harm’s way. “I’ll be your eyes. I’ll tell you what I can see. You’ll have to bring us back.”

“I know that,” Sanji snapped.

He sat up, kneeling forward, fumbling for the other’s body. His hands located what felt like a knee and the blond smirked suddenly, before shifting in to place an arm under the swordsman’s knees and the other beneath his armpits.

“You carry me off like I’m some damsel in distress, and I’ll fucking kill you,” Zoro growled. But the effect was ruined by the fact that his voice was tinged with more panic than hostility.

“Joking, shithead.” He transferred the man to his back, arms locked piggy-back style below the swordsman’s rump, as the other’s arms circled loosely around his neck. “You’d be too ugly of a woman to carry off into the sunset, anyway.”

Zoro’s arms tightened then, enough to choke off his air supply. “Move,” was growled against his neck.

Sanji hoisted himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to Zoro’s weight. The bastard was heavy, all solid muscle and dense bone, and those stupid swords of his weren’t helping. The iron traps thudded heavily against his thighs, and Sanji tried to keep from staggering. Shit. This was a very, very bad idea. Already his ribs were protesting.

But his legs - Sanji’s legs were his pride, second only to his hands - he’d spent longer running to and fro with heavier groceries. Zoro was just a larger, heavier sack of flour, that was all. The muscles in his legs were strong; he could count on those. That, and the fact that it was either do or die. He’d probably sprain his back lugging the big idiot around like that, but at least that was preferable to turning into a live flambé. And he could jibe at Zoro needing to be carried when they were stuck immobile together, recovering.

“Where?” Sanji gasped, and took off in the direction Zoro’s hands pointed his head to.

Blood-soaked shoes threw up little whirls of leaves, scuffing up dirt. The roar of the terrible burning hell behind them, all around them, blinding molten glory in every which direction that he could sense even behind the black cloth. The inferno slicked his clothes and limbs with sweat, plastering the material to his skin, mingling with blood that still flowed freely from the previous battles. Zoro’s dead weight on his back, limp body jostling with every burdened step he took; iron traps rattling and drawing more blood. Already he could feel the hot liquid seeping through his pant legs, and his stomach jolted to think of how much blood the other man was losing. Wondered whether all the shaking and running and stumbling were enough to severe his feet from his legs through mere gravity.

The swordsman’s voice was growing fainter every time he rasped out a landmark, the force behind his fingers ebbing as he nudged at the cook’s head to send him in another direction. The deep baritone grew softer and weaker with every consecutive question despite Zoro’s obvious effort to keep conscious, words slurring together so badly the cook had to make him repeat himself.

Sanji stopped again a few minutes later, breath coming heavy and labored as he once again asked for directions. “Marimo. Which way?”

There was no reply.

“Mosshead.” Then louder, alarmed, “Zoro. Oi! Answer me, shithead!”

The fingers that had been resting in Sanji’s hair slipped off, catching slightly on the knot of the bandana before falling forward to dangle limply in front of the cook’s chest. Still no response.

“Zoro!” Sanji cursed, taking a few stuttering steps forward before jerking back - he couldn’t see, he had no idea where they were, he’d depended on Zoro’s eyesight and trusted him to know what he was seeing. He could run straight into the fire without knowing, or into a tree, or fall down a hole - Zoro said there had been traps, hadn’t there? What if they got caught in one? There wouldn’t be backup this time, and Sanji sure as hell didn’t have enough strength or blood in his limbs to be able to extricate himself and keep on going.

He wasn’t the battle machine. Zoro was.

And Zoro wasn’t answering - probably passed out (not dead, he couldn’t be dead), probably just sleeping like the great big stupid asshole he usually was…

There was another violent crash somewhere to his right and the ground quaked beneath his feet - Sanji toppled over, weighed down by the swordsman, and landed heavily with a cry. A smaller cracking sound accompanied his fall before he curled around himself, pressing a hand to the snapped rib; the other hand fisted in Zoro’s haramaki, the uneven, textured weave comforting against his fingers.

The forest was going to collapse. Wildfire all around them, too much pressure and heat everywhere - and it was going to bury them alive if they didn’t get out fast.

“Fuck,” Sanji snarled, staggering upright again with the swordsman’s arm over his shoulder, and he almost screamed as he pulled the bandana up and over his eyes, blinking rapidly as white hot pain engulfed his face and the sting of sweat against raw skin grew even sharper. He could still blink. That was good. He peered out before them, eyes watering - or was he bleeding, he couldn’t tell - the landscape hazing in and out of focus.

Fire. So much fire, burning white as the clouds on a clear summer’s day; yellow like the morning sun; rose-red like the blood that dripped freely down his face. Burning a brilliant orange like the ripest, sweetest tangerines in Nami-san’s groves.

Going Merry. Sanji staggered forward, lurching jerkily as Zoro’s legs dragged in the dirt behind him, tripping over his own pant legs, lungs and chest and legs protesting as the blond strained forward. Gasping, air wheezing from bruised lungs, choking on smoke, tasting blood, too much blood, fingers slipping where they held fast to the unconscious swordsman.

Blundering through the miasma of hell. Muscles screaming, mouth working, gasping, taking labored steps that never brought them anywhere. Flames inching closer, heat and smoke and glowing embers everywhere. Ash. Crackling. Snapping. Dying.

And then, in the midst of all that warmth, peeking through the burnt silhouettes of twin trees, a patch of clear, calm ocean blue.

A small caravel anchored a little way offshore.

A straw hat Jolly Roger.

Going Merry.

Zoro was really heavy.

Sanji surged forwards with a desperation he hadn’t felt since the day he thought he’d been left to die with that shitty old man on that obscure crumb of a rock, and screamed his crewmates’ names, Zoro clutched to him. Seconds later, the flames exploded from behind and enveloped them whole.

x x x x x x x x x

Chopper had bitched. A lot. For more than two hours. Through dinner, over it, after it; never stopping until it was his turn for watch, which was thankfully not that long after the evening meal. Usopp had shooed the little reindeer out of the men’s quarters with an amused/sympathetic glance at the two heavily-bandaged men lying on the rug next to the couch, before clambering out after the Zoan and making sure he wouldn’t be returning for a long while.

The doctor had ordered them to a minimum of a month’s rest each. They’d both taken in too much smoke, lost too much blood, covered all over in slight burns; the toxins they’d inhaled would take a while to completely clear from their bodies. Zoro was barred from training, Sanji from smoking, and both men, exhausted and in too much agony then to have created much of a fuss, unhappily agreed to the reindeer’s terms.

Zoro had received twenty-two stitches in total for the wounds to his legs, the new bracelets of scars running alongside his older ones, miniature train tracks circling his ankles. He would be dependant on crutches for the next few days, if not weeks - the iron teeth had very nearly severed his Achilles tendon.

Chopper had specifically warned the swordsman that “I’d better not see you doing any sort of strenuous activity for the next fourteen days, and if I do, as this ship’s doctor, I swear, I. Will. Give. You. Hell.”

Zoro had quailed and nodded.

Sanji’s eyelid had been dangerously close to dropping off when the crew came to rescue them, almost dangling down to below his cheekbone, hanging by a bloody shred. Chopper had spent a good five hours after their return to literally sew the cook’s eyelid back on, making sure it still worked (and that it wasn’t infected and that the flesh wasn’t dead and that he hadn’t burnt a hole in his cornea, and how come you never told us about your left eye before, Sanji?), before taking another two hours to set his broken ribs and bandage his chest thoroughly. Sanji was not to cook or move around too much (read: fighting with Zoro or fawning over the girls) until he had more or less healed.

As such, the cook was rendered sightless and the swordsman inert for a good month or so. The rest of the crew had unanimously offered to cover both their duties of night watch, and in Sanji’s case, cooking the meals. Currently, Luffy was helping Nami wash the dishes. At least, that was what Sanji hoped he was doing; it was his lovely goddess who had cooked dinner that night, and she was supervising the rubber monkey, so, he reasoned, it should have been alright. Still, the sounds of china smashing and Nami-san’s lovely voice shrilling through the wooden boards weren’t placating his feelings much.

There was a rustle of blankets as Zoro stretched beside him, then an odd, meditative silence. Sanji couldn’t see through the thick swath of bandages Chopper had put around his head, but he knew the other man was studying him.

“Quit staring, asshole, unless you want me to kick out your shitty eyeballs.”

“Yeah, do that when you’re blinded and immobile. You rupture the stitches he put in your eye, and unset your ribs, and that’s another day and a half of Chopper harassment we have to put up with.”

“You better not strain those brain muscles thinking too much, then, worrying like that - “

“Who said I was worrying?” Zoro sneered.

“Sure felt like it, when you were fingering my face earlier,” Sanji snapped back.

“Luffy said you were practically hugging me, when he got us out from the fire. Didn’t know you cared, love cook.”

Sanji whirled to face him, mouth twisted in a snarl. “Don’t ever fucking pull shit like that again, asshole. You almost died.”

“We,” Zoro said, and his voice had softened very suddenly, back to that quiet, contemplative tone he rarely used. “We almost died.”

“Thanks to you and your non-existent gray matter. Fucking hell.” Sanji turned back with an annoyed huff. “The next time you’re hurt, just say so. I’m not ready to go through shit like that again.”

Zoro chuckled lowly. “…Sorry, then.”

Sanji’s cheeks warmed. “Shut up, asshole. I’m tired.”

The ruckus in the galley was finally dying down. There was the faintest shuffle of sandaled feet clapping away to the figurehead, the click of Nami’s heels to her bedroom where Robin had already turned in. Usopp and Chopper were probably taking watch together, which left them with only the sounds of sea waves lapping gently against the hull and the slight groan of wood as the ocean rocked the ship to sleep.

“Cook?”

“Yeah?”

And then Zoro’s breath was in his ear again, startlingly close, warm, familiar, comforting, lips brushing the outer whorl of Sanji’s earlobe, whispering.

“Thanks.”

Sanji, not sure whether to be startled or pleased, and feeling too flustered to make a clear decision, kicked him in the head.

Chopper bitched at them and their new wounds for the next day and a half.

fin

A/n: The term “curly ass” was borrowed from one of kotszok’s [gross ZoroSanji limericks]. XD



Also, a bonus doodle! :D