Chapter Text
“The log pose is going to take over two weeks to set,” Nami says, “and I would really love it if we left this place with more money than we have now.”
She doesn't do that cute, coy little thing with her mouth where she sort of pouts but smirks at the same time, so Sanji knows the situation is beyond dire.
“Of course, Nami,” he gushes, “anything you wish.”
“Wonderful,” Nami replies, beaming in that beautiful way of hers. “I need two people to stay on that island and pretend to be travelers waiting for their log pose to set, then figure out exactly where the treasure is and get us a way to steal it. Those two people need to be relatively—relatively—under the radar with a chance of being unmemorable, so it’s going to be Sanji and Zoro.”
Across the table from him, Zoro sits bolt upright.
“Why?”
This is betrayal. This is heartbreak. He’s loved Nami faithfully since the very beginning (of course, he loves all women faithfully, each from the moment he lays eyes on them) and this is how she chooses to use all of that love… so he’ll just have to deal with it. At least Zoro looks as pissed as Sanji feels, though Sanji is, of course, so gentlemanly as to be incapable of feeling anger towards a lady. Actually, now that he thinks about it, this is all clearly Zoro's fault for being so ungentlemanly. Of course lovely Nami isn't at fault.
“Can't be Luffy, obviously,” Nami starts, ticking off a finger, “or Franky, Brook, Jinbei, or Chopper. Usopp would flip out immediately—”
“The Great Captain Usopp does not flip out at the idea of–”
“—and I’ll need him as a lookout when things come down to the wire and it’s time to cut and run before we get killed—”
“Yes, exactly, the Great Lookout Uso– wait, what?”
“—plus I’ll need Robin’s help with a couple of very specific things, so really, the biggest problem is going to be Zoro’s swords.”
“My swords are not a problem,” Zoro snaps. Nami gives him a flat look.
“They’re the most memorable thing about you, Zoro.”
“Well,” Sanji cuts in, leaning back in his chair, “if you don’t count this scar”—he draws a line down his face—“this scar”—he draws a line following the roll of his lapel—“or the moss sprouting out of his thick skull, then sure.”
Sanji’s chair barks against the floor as Zoro kicks it, but it isn’t enough to tip him over. Idiot. He’ll have to try way harder if he wants to start something, and Sanji gives him the kind of smile that all but invites him to try.
“Sanji,” Nami says, eyes wide and sad; he snuffs out his shitty smile immediately. “Please help me out here. This is really serious.”
“Oh, Nami, of course.” He folds his hands over hers. “You know I’ll be first in line to kick his ass for you. Just say the word, my darling.”
“Well, what I really want is for you two to work together on this,” Nami says, still with a sad, distressed pout, and Sanji’s entire chest caves in at the sight.
“For you, my dove, I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sanji swears. Anything to get that look off her face. “Your wish is my command.”
“Loser,” Zoro mutters, and it’s only Nami clearing her throat that lands Sanji’s ass back in his chair.
“As I was saying,” she continues, “since Zoro’s, you know, three big flashy swords are really noticeable when he’s the one holding them, we need to do something about that.”
“Send someone else with the idiot,” Zoro rebuts, “and make all our lives easier. I am not leaving my swords behind.”
“Nah, Zoro and Sanji should go,” Luffy cuts in, not bothering to look up from the complicated stack of silverware he’s arranging on the table. “Zoro, just give Sanji one of your swords.”
“What,” Zoro says.
Luffy shrugs again. “If you don’t have three swords then that fixes the problem.”
“What,” Sanji says.
“And you know Sanji will keep it safe,” Luffy continues, then gives them both the kind of look that means this is final and places a tangle of forks at the top of his structure with exacting focus. (If he's bent the tines, Sanji will kill him, captaincy be damned. That's nice silverware.)
“Well,” Nami says, something dangerously satisfied in her voice, “now that that’s settled, let’s talk more about what you two are gonna do for me.”
Usopp had squawked when Nami swiped the canvas bucket hat off of his head and smacked it down unceremoniously over Zoro's instead, but it does the job and covers Zoro’s grassy mop. He’s wearing one of Brook’s jackets in lieu of his coat; it’s chic and glamorously oversized on Brook’s rail-thin frame, but Sanji is capable of being objective for just long enough to admit that Zoro fills it out nicely. Sanji himself is in a nice gray-brown tweed suit he rarely reaches for—one of the vintage West Blue pieces he’d excavated and promptly liberated from someone’s overflowing closet on Momoiro—with a cream shirt in a simple two-tone check, a navy wool tie, a blood-red silk pocket square, and a pair of brogues he also rarely wears.
And Kitetsu. The sword. At his waist.
Sandai shitty Kitetsu is shoved through Sanji’s belt because Luffy’s tone had brooked no argument, and Zoro had wrapped Kitetsu’s and Enma’s scabbards and hilts in boring black fabric but he’d looked like he was marching to the gallows at the thought of doing the same to Wadō, so Sanji had just grabbed one of the stupid cursed swords out of his hands and shoved it through his own belt, and Nami had okayed Zoro to move on with one black scabbard and one white one. Franky had plopped them into an upgraded Mini Merry, Nami had counted out a very precise amount of Berry into their hands, and that had been that.
Their destination is an autumn-season island, early into its own brilliant autumn; the sun is bright but distant, the wind bitingly cold, the trees strikingly dressed in reds and yellows, and all the fog that had so beautifully covered the Sunny’s initial approach doesn’t burn off until they dock at noon. Sanji knows his face is already pink with cold once they step off the Mini Merry and onto the docks, and he can see a chilled flush sprayed across Zoro’s cheeks and nose by the time they reach the edge of a market, tucked under a looming cliff with an oversized mansion perched precariously atop it. The market makes Sanji itch; he wants to buy their strange, fresh tomatoes in bulk, wants to serve those beautifully peeling young autumn-potatoes with butter and dill and a rich gravy over medallions of tender veal. But not yet. First he has to survive… this. For two weeks. With Zoro.
Wandering through the market is mostly fine until both he and Zoro reach the breaking point of trying to behave, and even the very recent threat of Nami’s displeasure isn't enough to keep them from a scuffle: Zoro points at a gnarled bunch of bright blue carrots and compares them to Sanji's eyebrows, Sanji grinds his heel down on top of Zoro’s shoe, and the ensuing shoving match ends abruptly when the stupid yardstick stuck through Sanji's belt whacks into something behind him.
“Draw,” the swordsman glaring poisonously at them both barks again when Sanji continues to just stare at him. One hand is gripping the scabbard of his sword, the other white-knuckling the hilt. “Your sheath hit mine, stranger. Draw your sword, and give me the fight you started.”
“Who does this,” Zoro mutters under his breath. “Nobody does this. Nobody’s this stupid.”
“I can handle you without using a sword,” Sanji replies, and slides his hands into his pockets, forearm tucked against Kitetsu’s solid scabbard. He can feel the simultaneous affront and smugness radiating off of Zoro; this guy is clearly a nobody. Zoro would never take such a slight against his precious swordsmanship lying down. (Not that Sanji can fault him, really; it's just in his nature to be inflammatory. Also not Sanji's fault that Zoro is so flammable.)
The swordsman draws. Sanji can hear a faint rasp as the tip of his sword scrapes against the mouth of the scabbard, an amateur howl compared to the predator’s silence with which Zoro draws. Maybe they're all flammable, Sanji thinks, and lets his shitty smile grow as the swordsman’s scowl deepens. The market crowd around them starts to murmur and disperse.
”By the Line, what’s going on here?” The nasally voice belongs to a rail-thin man who totters towards the swordsman, clearly aflutter; he flusters with a half-eaten, sticky-looking pastry clutched in his hand. “Disturbances at the market on a day like this? We can’t have that,” he says sternly, “we can’t have that at all.”
“We swordsmen have customs, sir,” the swordsman says, with triple the venom in the snarl twisting his face. That’s interesting; that glare looks personal. Now that Sanji’s paying attention, nobody is looking this newcomer in the eye. The thinning crowd thins itself even faster. “This man knows what he’s done. Draw against me, or turn your sword against yourself.”
Sanji—very valiantly—suppresses an eyeroll, if only because it might set this guy off even more. He usually has no problem stirring someone up till they’re apoplectic, but the newcomer’s presence is interesting and he wants to keep it focused here. People don’t scatter from someone who doesn’t hold any power. Power equals money, money equals treasure, treasure equals a lovely, beautiful, radiantly happy Nami. Simple recipe.
“I’ll fight you instead,” Zoro says, jerking his chin up towards the other swordsman. His earrings click quietly against each other.
“You’re willing to take on your companion’s dishonor?” the swordsman sneers. Behind him, the gaunt man stuffs half the remainder of his pastry into his mouth, and then tosses the rest into a nearby bush and fishes out a handkerchief to start wringing his hands in it. Sanji jerks forward and immediately hits the arm that Zoro’s flung out to stop him; Sanji meets his eyes, thinks of Nami’s lovely sweet face asking them to please do their best, grinds his teeth together, and relents. “You must not be much of a swordsman, either.”
Oh, now he’s fucking done it. This time Sanji doesn’t even bother trying to restrain how hard he rolls his eyes. The longer this guy talks, the clearer it becomes that under all that ferocity he’s just young and willing to fight anything that moves. Zoro’s hand falls to Kitetsu, like it doesn’t even matter that the sword is attached to Sanji’s hip right now.
“If you want a fight, I’ll give it to you.”
“If you must finish this barbaric ritual,” the gaunt man warbles, finally wadding up his handkerchief, “then finish it at once and be on your way! You should know better, young man. A day like today!”
Zoro scoffs and moves his hand to Enma’s scabbard instead, primed to draw.
“If you don’t move, I’ll cut you too,” the swordsman tells Sanji, deadly serious, and then his eyes dart to the gangly newcomer.
“If you can manage to get that close, I won’t get in your way,” Sanji promises him, and drops his cigarette to the ground so he can grind it out. The swordsman’s eyes flick back to Zoro, and then he moves.
The swordsman is clearly more than just a novice, but Sanji knows the second he starts moving that this is laughably in Zoro’s favor. He starts with a high cleaving strike, sword pulled above his head, and Zoro closes the distance sublethally: he draws and rakes a perfect horizontal line across his shirt in one movement, splitting worn basketweave cotton and one button perfectly in half in a path from armpit to armpit, sketching a shallow line of red into his skin, and the swordsman looks like he doesn’t even know what happened. The rest doesn’t last long. Zoro bats away each of the swordsman’s attacks with ease; Sanji feels a strange sort of déjà vu. The swordsman sinks into desperation fast and even tries to go for their bystander, but Zoro intercepts before it goes much further than the obvious start to a lunge. When the other swordsman’s blade clatters to the cobblestone with Enma’s tip at his throat, their bystander applauds like he’s just watched a performance.
“Oh, well done,” he trills, pattering forward like he’s completely unaware the other swordsman tried to take a literal stab at him, “very well done, my dear fellow! Those gangs of youngsters have been terrorizing us for quite some time and you mopped him right up. Now”—he leans forward—“if I might invite you and your…?”
“Traveling companion,” Sanji supplies. The young swordsman is panting, staring up at Zoro like he’s just seen into the center of the universe, red starting to stain the perfectly cut edges of his shirt.
“Yes, of course,” the man agrees, positively beaming, “well, it’s quite the momentous day here on our fine island.” He straightens out his jacket, then his hat. “You see, we've recently entrusted our lovely city of Castlerock to a new City Manager, and we're finally hosting a fête in commemoration up at the manor house.” Zoro looks like he’s about to say something to kill the opportunity, and that would make Nami kill them both, so Sanji moves to rest his hand companionably on Zoro’s back and pinches him sharply through his jacket. “We would be so very pleased by your presence at this event!”
He holds out a card with a flourish: heavy cream cardstock embossed in letters so thin and loopy it’s impossible to read beyond City-something-or-other-member.
“Thank you for the invitation,” Sanji says, tucking the card into his jacket. “We arrived not too long ago, so we’ll be here–”
“Ah, yes, until your log pose sets,” the man replies, nodding. “Well, I hope you don’t run into any more of those backwards ruffians again during your stay here, but I must confess–” He leans forward conspiratorially, rheumy eyes darting between him and Zoro. “If you dispatch more of them like this, I certainly wouldn’t say a word against it!” He sweeps his hat off his head and then replaces it. “I do hope to see you tonight, gentlemen,” he says, and prances off cheerfully.
Sanji looks at Zoro, eyebrows raised. Zoro’s returning look is unhappy but ultimately acquiescent, and Sanji knows he’s picturing poor Nami’s disappointed face if they blow this opportunity.
Sanji manages to threaten Zoro into wearing another of Brook’s nicer jackets and a felted wool hat that Luffy must've taken from Capone Bege by swearing to snitch to Nami that he's compromising their efforts, and consequently Zoro has been scowling for the entire stroll up to the manor house.
“Stop sulking,” Sanji hisses as they approach the gates.
“I'm not sulking,” Zoro hisses back, “I'm mad because this is stupid as hell.” Sanji would rather bite through his tongue than agree verbally, so he doesn't. Instead he crooks out his elbow as they cross onto the grounds, and then elbows Zoro in the side when he doesn’t do anything. “Oi, you shitty—”
“Take it,” Sanji hisses yet again, much quieter now that the murmur of people is within earshot now and figures are visible approaching from across the lawn. “Take my arm, mosshead.”
Zoro stares at him like he's just been asked to swallow his swords. Sanji reaches over, yanks on Zoro's hand, and wrestles with him as subtly as possible until Zoro's palm is settled crankily around Sanji's bicep. Kitetsu ripples where it's trapped between them on Sanji's hip, reflecting Zoro's sour mood in a petulant puddle of Haki.
“This is so stupid,” Zoro mutters.
“It's what Nami wants,” Sanji sniffs.
“Your invitation, gentlemen,” the butler interjects with a politely skeptical look at both of them once they’ve waited their turn, and he holds out a literal silver platter that would make Nami's eyes shine. Sanji subtly shakes off Zoro's arm to pull out the city-whatever-guy’s card and place it onto the platter, and the butler's eyes snap up to the card immediately before he bows deeply. “Oh, esteemed guests! Please, welcome,” he says, and sweeps a hand into the doorway.
Zoro beats Sanji to it: he holds out his palm, polite as you please, and it's only the butler's eyes burning a hole in his back that keeps Sanji from gaping at the sight. He puts his hand in Zoro's and lets himself get led towards the short set of sweeping stairs, dazed.
“Hey, mosshead,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to see if it's really you, or if Traffy’s here and he switched someone else into your body.”
He's able to play off the ensuing scuffle as a simple stumble, as evidenced by the somber footman at the head of the stairs darting forwards in a bid to help, but Sanji just aims a deeply insincere smile at Zoro, squeezes his fingers till Zoro’s knuckles grind together, and moves through the doorway.
(Notably—Sanji files this information away very, very carefully, and he knows Zoro does as well—nobody asks them to remove the swords.)
The foyer is positively cavernous and Sanji feels like he’s being swallowed. His Haki doesn’t sense anything immediately threatening; people ripple within the massive hall as they move, but nothing stands out as particularly dangerous. Not physically, anyways; Zoro is radiating murder, but that's not worth his attention.
People wend through the halls sedately, mostly ignoring him and Zoro, which suits Sanji just fine. They aren’t here to be noticed. The dining hall is grand, airy, covered in dark wainscoting and draped in rich gossamer curtains once they’re eventually funnelled to where the smell of food is wafting from. The lighting is far warmer and far dimmer than the last castle Sanji had the exceptional displeasure of visiting, and a fire bellows warmth out at each end of the long hall. The room is filled with small tables meant for polite grazing, doors are opened to draw guests into other rooms, and Sanji lets Zoro lead him to an unoccupied corner. When Zoro drops his hand, it feels oddly cool.
From here, at least, they can start to feel out the manor house. Sanji smokes; Zoro systematically mows down the finger food at their table. A caterer slips past silently to drop off two glasses of a particularly delicious white wine. It’s almost—almost—like being on any other island, sitting in a bar together, people-watching and killing time onshore between resupply and dinner prep, except for the oddly poisonous glares that Zoro keeps shooting towards where Kitetsu still sits at Sanji’s waist.
Nami had picked up rumors about this place at the last nearby island they’d paused at for a brief resupply, the log pose only needing two and a half hours to set. Thistle Island had been known for its wool for generations, but with the upheaval following Roger’s death, some self-styled “nobles” from Esorrodut Island had moved their families, money, and mercenaries to Thistle and overrun the island without any regard for the Thistleans, occupying their castle to turn it into a manor house with a vault for all their riches, both inherited and ill-acquired. Think of it as charity, Nami had said with that nasty glint to her eye, and Luffy had just shrugged and said, whatever, as long as it’s fun.
Sure hope it’s fucking fun for you now, Sanji thinks peevishly, and stubs out the remains of his cigarette.
“Oi,” Zoro says quietly, his eye locked somewhere over Sanji’s shoulder, “that guy who gave us the card spotted us.”
“Great,” Sanji mutters, and puts his cigarette case back into his breast pocket.
“Gentlemen!” cries that nasally voice, and Sanji plasters on a neutral face as he turns. The city-whatever guy is now in a handsome dinner jacket (complete with cummerbund) that’s well-fitted and clearly of fine make, but makes him look rather like a malnourished penguin. Sanji feels much better-dressed in deep hunter-green flannel. “Oh, lovely to see you, quite lovely—may I have the pleasure of introducing you to our new City Manager?”
“Sure,” Zoro replies unenthusiastically, and picks up his wine glass.
Sure, Sanji agrees internally, whatever. As long as they get an excuse to wander around more of this house.
The City Not-Manager chatters excitedly as he leads them through the dining hall, parting the crowd easily as he goes, and Sanji’s stomach starts to sink.
“Cook,” Zoro murmurs warningly, and grabs his arm.
“Shut up,” Sanji murmurs back, and crooks his elbow so that it looks like he’s leading Zoro. “Keep going.”
“I am so honored to present,” the man announces with a flourish, “our newly appointed City Manager, the Right Honorable Lord Castlerock.”
The newly appointed City Manager, the Right Honorable Lord Castlerock, stares at them.
“Hrngk,” says Buggy the fucking Clown.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Sanji prompts pointedly when it becomes clear that neither the literal clown nor the green-haired one are going to contribute anything. Zoro’s hand tightens painfully around his arm.
“Ah, yes! Distinguished guests!” Buggy wheezes. He looks like he’s just broken out into a sweat. He looks miserable. He looks nervous. He can’t decide where to keep his eyes: on their faces, or the three swords between their hips. “So very pleased! To meet you!”
“These are the two I told you about, my good sir,” the malnourished penguin says, beaming, and then he bows. “I’ll excuse myself now. Thank you, gentlemen!”
“What are you two doing here?” Buggy hisses the second the other guy’s out of earshot. He’s stuffed into a grayish tweed suit that clashes horrendously with his bright red nose and brighter blue hair, entirely out of place in this fucking mansion, and yet out of the corner of his eye, Sanji can see people bowing their heads to him with genuine, polite enthusiasm as they pass by.
“Us?” Zoro hisses right back. “What are you doing here?”
“No, shut up”—Buggy’s eyes scan the crowd, flit down to Sanji’s hip, to Zoro, back to the crowd—“this can’t be happening, you Straw Hats can’t be ruining this for me, why are you here and where’s your damn captain?” A crazed sheen enters his eye. “If you tell me something I don’t want to hear, you’re done for.”
Telling Buggy—an Emperor, no matter how simple Nami’s stories seem now—that they're separated from their crew feels like a gamble, but keeping the Sunny’s proximity a secret is worth the risk. As for a reason…
“We’re on our honeymoon,” Sanji says, tasting death on his tongue. Zoro swallows his wine in an inelegant gulp and Sanji wants to stomp on his foot and grind it all the way through to the foundations.
Buggy’s eyes snap right back to Kitetsu’s hilt. Zoro deposits the now-empty glass on the nearest table and shifts his weight. His hand is still damningly tight around Sanji’s arm, like he’s forgotten he isn’t holding onto one of his shitty swords.
“You,” Buggy starts, eyes darting to Zoro, then Sanji, then Kitetsu, “honeymoon?” He lets out a strangled, high-pitched laugh that borders on hysterical, and then like a bolt of lighting the look on his face turns calculating. “So Straw Hat Luffy is without his two strongest fighters.”
“If you try to make a move on Luffy,” Zoro says quietly, “I'll drown you like the rat you are.” His knuckles brush against Sanji's hand as he fits his palm to Kitetsu's hilt. Static licks up Sanji's spine; the sixth sense of his Haki frays into overlapping echoes at the edges, humming in tune with the overwhelming presence of Zoro’s cool fury. Sweat beads at Buggy's hairline. Sanji’s pulse picks up. Heat pools in his stomach. Getting into a fight right now would be the worst possible move, but he’s hungry for it anyways. Behind them, someone murmurs faintly that they feel unwell.
“Of course, I’d be happy to continue if you join me in my office,” Buggy bellows, far too loud, and leaps out of his chair with such explosive energy that he nearly sends it flying. The press of Zoro’s Haki fizzles away, leaving a cool, slow trail down Sanji’s spine. “Please, this way!”
Sanji throws Zoro a warning look and follows.
Buggy’s “office” is clearly as hastily inherited as everything else about his obvious sham of a title; the walls are paneled in handsome, dark bookshelves full of thick tomes labeled meticulously with things like Library Accessions and Annual Property Tax Evaluations in huge swaths of years. A handful of throwing knives scattered along the bench beneath one of the behemoth windows seems to be the only personal touch in here. Buggy kicks the door shut behind them all and then whirls.
“Do not fuck this up for me,” he hisses. “I will make you disappear, you and your stupid, rubber captain–”
“Oi,” Zoro snaps, hand inching towards one of the hilts at his hip.
“Don’t you threaten me!” Buggy jabs a finger at Zoro, voice growing strangled as it snaps in pitch and he audibly wrangles down his volume. “Leave me the fuck alone! Both of you!”
“What’s an Emperor doing on a tiny island, pretending to be…” Sanji hums, finally pulling out his cigarette case again. “City Clerk?”
“City Manager,” Buggy seethes. “And I have my reasons, Straw Hats. Leave me be, or you’ll regret this.”
“And what do we get out of not kicking you over that cliff?” Zoro asks, folding his arms across his chest.
“Ha! Like you two little wimps could even manage.” Buggy leers at them, his fingers twitching towards the knives, and with that the air in the “office” grows thick. “Gonna chop me into pieces again, sword boy? And what are you gonna do, Straw Hat cook? Marinate me? Sauté me?”
“Flambé,” Sanji corrects, and lights his cigarette. Zoro’s fingers curl around Wadō’s scabbard. “I dunno, mosshead, I think it’s about time you and I knocked an Emperor down. Can’t be too hard if Traffy managed it.”
“No no no”—Buggy nearly trips over the desk in his rush to… to what, defuse?—“no, listen to me, you idiots. You stay out of my business here. You leave me alone, and I leave you alone.”
“And what exactly do we get out of this?” Zoro asks again, all patience absent from his voice.
“You get,” Buggy starts, his eyes darting around the room, searching with desperation, “you get a gorgeous honeymoon on– oh, seriously? You little twerps really tied the knot?” Before Sanji can open his mouth, Buggy gestures dramatically between them and mutters, “Damn swordsmen. ‘Course you did.”
Oh shit, Sanji thinks, it worked.
Then: oh, shit, it worked.
And then: what.
When Sanji sneaks a glance at Zoro, his eye is flicking between the two of them and Buggy, a wary frown creasing his brows.
“Whatever,” Buggy snaps. “As long as you stay outta my way and you do not ever breathe a word to anyone that I’m here, I’ll let you stay in this awful mansion while your log pose sets.”
“So you can kill us in our sleep?” Sanji blows a stream of smoke into Buggy’s face; Buggy sputters and waves a hand between them. “Yeah, right.”
“Yeah,” Buggy says, eyes watering, “right, because the idiots who built this place were completely insane and lined half the guest suites with sea-prism stone. We got a deal?”
“We don’t tell anyone that you’re here,” Sanji summarizes, “and in exchange, you let us stay here instead of roughing it out in that harbor till our log pose sets. Am I getting that right?”
“I know you wouldn’t sell a fellow pirate out to the Marines,” Buggy says shrewdly after a cough, “but word that I’m here does not leave this island’s waters.”
Zoro sticks his hand out.
“Deal,” he says.
“A swordsman and a chain-smoker,” Buggy mutters to himself, hacking out one more cough. Eyes still watering, he detaches a hand that swoops over to shake Zoro’s. “Unbelievable. Deal.”
“Buggy’s here,” Zoro tells the transponder snail.
“What?” Nami replies, and Zoro shushes her immediately. Sanji kicks him in the shin.
“Yeah,” Zoro repeats, scowling at Sanji. “Buggy the fucking Clown. Here on this island in the middle of nowhere.”
Peals of Luffy’s laughter ring out through the receiver, distant like he’s across the deck, and Sanji’s heart twists. That’s where he should be. That’s where they both should be. But no—Nami asked them to do this, so they will.
“Did he recognize you?” she asks, a strange touch of nerves to the curiosity in her voice. “Fuck, I bet he did.”
“He did,” Zoro says sourly.
“Don’t worry, my lovely Nami,” Sanji cuts in as Nami huffs out a quiet breath over the line, “your plan is still primed to go off without a hitch. We’ve been invited to stay in the manor house till our log pose sets.”
“You did? How? Why?”
“Buggy thinks…” The words die in Sanji’s mouth. Four fucking Blues. Buggy thinks—
“He thinks we’re on our honeymoon,” Zoro mumbles.
Silence. The snail blinks big, brown eyes up at Sanji.
“Sorry,” Nami says sweetly, “Zoro, can you repeat that? I didn’t quite catch it.”
Zoro opens his mouth; Sanji throws him a warning look, heel pulled back and primed to land another bruise on his shin.
“He thinks,” Zoro grinds out, “we’re on our honeymoon.”
“Fascinating.” There’s a pause; Sanji feels that same sinking dread fill his chest. “Well, it’s a good thing that you two have found something that works, isn’t it? Even if it’s a little… unorthodox. Very creative.”
“Whatever,” Zoro mutters. “We got your way in.”
Nami hums thoughtfully. “Tell me where your room is in that mansion. Sanji, not Zoro. I’ll see what we can do.”
“Sanji, Zoro–” There’s a brief scuffle, and then the snail blinks up at them with Luffy’s bright, round eyes. “Guess what! We found a place to anchor behind this big huge rock that’s kind of a small island, and it’s got all these awesome bugs on it. Chopper says the eco-thing is really full of divers.”
“The ecosystem is diverse,” Robin corrects from a distance, and Sanji laughs.
“Yeah, that,” Luffy agrees, “and Robin and Usopp and Chopper are helping me find all the different kinds of bugs so waiting for you guys isn’t gonna be boring at all. Don’t worry! Just have fun and do what Nami told you to do.” There’s a clatter followed by a departing cheer.
“Thank god for bugs,” Nami mutters quietly into the receiver. “Four Blues, I’ll take bugs over a bored Luffy.” Sanji snorts. “What’s the deal with Buggy? What’s going on? Is he after the treasure? What about the rest of his pirates? Cross Guild?”
“I don’t know,” Zoro says impatiently. “He didn’t say anything about Cross Guild or other pirates.”
“He’s probably alone,” Sanji adds, “which is strange. He kept saying ‘me,’ not ‘us.’”
“Well, it’s equally as strange that two well-known pirates are off without their crew.” Nami’s voice turns syrupy sweet. “Zoro, was the honeymoon your idea? Such quick thinking.”
Whatever look is on Sanji’s face, it’s enough to make Zoro laugh at him.
“That was all shittybrows,” Zoro tells her gleefully.
“Oh yeah? And you just went with it?” It’s Sanji’s turn to bark out a laugh at how fast the glee disappears from Zoro’s face. “Good going, both of you.” Her voice gets even sweeter, and Sanji feels himself turning into goo. “Sanji, that was so clever. What a perfect excuse for you two to be alone together.”
“Thank you, darling Nami,” he says miserably, “but this ordeal would instead be the most joyous days of my life if only it were you at my side.”
“We’ll see about that,” Nami replies, and in retrospect, Sanji will realize he should have paid much closer attention to the sinking feeling in his chest.