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"Hey Marimo, how 'bout-"
"A drink?"
She's gorgeous, and even though he doesn't swing that way, he can appreciate the drinks in her hands - garishly pink, but more importantly, alcoholic. The bartender had taken one look at him and snorted, saying he doesn't serve kids and to come back when Zoro had some hair on his chest. That was equal parts funny and annoying for a couple of reasons, but the bar was the only place open this late at night and they had food available, so he wasn't going to complain about the lack of booze.
He wondered if she'd overheard his conversation with the bartender. She'd been watching him earlier, eyeing the three swords stuffed into his belt and the burlap sack turning steadily red at the bottom. Though he's never been this far south before, the whispers have been following him - she wasn't the first to stare at him today, a hint of recognition in her eyes.
The drink isn't his preferred type - cloyingly sweet like overripe fruit and barely alcoholic - but again, free. Even if it doesn't get him drunk, he'll sleep easier tonight with it keeping the fear at bay. He's been jumped a few times now - either pirates trying to test their mettle or thieves looking for an easy Berri, he didn't ask. But he's starting to gain the kind of attention he doesn't like.
Maybe it's the swords.
"I have a job for you." Her voice breaks the quiet reverie of his thoughts, his drink sloshing as Zoro startles himself back into paying attention. She carefully unfolds a thick sheet of paper and slides it his way. It's a bounty poster, slightly worn. "Do you know him?" she says softly. Zoro glances back down at the mugshot of a snarling man, but neither name nor image ring a bell. He shakes his head.
"My husband and I, we were happy together. Not well off, but–" Zoro's eyes go slightly crossed, vision blurring as she begins what is surely a sad story, but he already knows how this one ends, and the middle's not important. He stares down at his quickly emptying glass and debates what his answer will be. With the bounty he'll collect tomorrow, he'll be fairly well off for a while. Whatever change she's scrounged up won't compare to what's on the poster anyway - should he tell her not to bother?
"Dear?"
Zoro's eyes fly open when she gently touches his arm, and he twitches instinctively away. Had he fallen asleep? It certainly felt like he was dreaming, his body slow to react, vision unfocused - something was wrong, but he couldn't quite place what.
"Aw, hun," the woman coos. "Should've told me you were a lightweight. Lemme talk to the innkeep, see if they've got a room for you tonight. If not, you can stay with me. My place is too quiet since..." She trails off, working one of Zoro's arms over her shoulders. "Up you get, dearie."
He tries to protest, but the world is spinning and his footing is less than stable, and it's all he can do to keep himself upright as she ferries him off. "My husband was like this, too," she rambles, turning so quickly out the door it makes his stomach lurch. "Couldn't hold his liquor for the life of him. Even the day he died."
She walks faster now, all but dragging him along until she stops so suddenly he stumbles and collapses to the ground. This time she isn't there to hold him up. His stomach burns, and as he opens his mouth to ask what happened, he coughs up his dinner instead, mixed with the cloyingly sweet drink she had...
Oh.
He tries to roll onto his back, numb fingers fumbling for his swords, but she's there, stepping on his hand and pinning it to the ground. He's too weak to push her away.
"Did you smell it when you stabbed him, hun?" There's a blinding pain in his face. Distantly he can hear something crack, but all he manages is a pained gurgle. "Or is he still not special enough to be worth remembering?"
If she's expecting an answer, she'll be sorely disappointed, he thinks dazedly. But she isn't pausing for an answer in between multiple kicks to the gut, so it can't be a very important question. He coughs again, and this time the sweetness is stronger, tinged with the tang of iron. The froth that he spits up is pink, deeper than his drink but far more nauseating. It burns his throat.
He's going to die, he realizes. If he doesn't do anything, she's going to kill him in some back alley in the middle of nowhere over a forgettable man.
Unacceptable.
He doesn't remember much after that, only his racing heart and torn up throat, that damnable sweetness still persistent even over the blood. He wonders if he'll ever be rid of it.
It was poison, the doctor explained once Zoro's throat has healed enough to ask. Odorless, colorless. The only way to tell was its flavor. He's more than familiar with that now, can taste it on his tongue as the doctor continues to speak. He forces down the urge to choke and asks if he's well enough to travel.
He leaves two swords behind in that village: one covered in the blood of a woman he'll never forget, the other impaling a poster of a man he still can't remember.
Zoro looks up at the cook, then back down to the drink. It would be fine. Hell, it was probably delicious, but–
"I don't like sweets."
In the end they always taste like blood.