Chapter Text
DAY 1
The yard is a sizzling skillet. The harsh mid-afternoon sun bounces off the stone and stucco of the fortress around him. Zoro is one hour into this ridiculous punishment and already sweating. He licks the salt from his lips with a smug, satisfied grin.
Helmeppo’s henchmen left him with a parting hook to the jaw that still smarts. Zoro could almost pity the puffed-up, bow-legged, obnoxious little bastard. He cannot imagine being so spineless that he would get another man to strike someone who’s bound and unarmed. Helmeppo probably makes the new recruits punch his prisoners for him so he won’t be humiliated when he reveals that he can’t even hit right. His striking arm a reflection of his mediocre swordsmanship: Faltering and limp. Crippled by his desperation to project some illusion of power. Pathetic.
Still, Zoro can be smug all he wants. The situation will remain what it is. The situation being this: The slow-building strain in his shoulders, bent too far back for comfort. The roughness of the rope around his biceps and wrists. And that damp, hideous heat. Whatever faint breeze there is does little to dispel the scent of baked seaweed and seagull shit wafting all the way up from the docks.
Unpleasant. But nothing he can’t endure. He shifts his weight, trying to find a moderately comfortable middle ground between hanging from his shoulders and being propped up against the pole. He might doze off if he can.
A door opens behind him. It’s further off than the main entrance to the massive, chimney-like structure. Must be a side door. What little foot traffic passes through have all been busy marines taking a shortcut. They snuck a few glances at the spectacle he’s become: Some curious or pitying, others awed, or aggrieved. But none have approached him.
Now the slight crunch of footsteps, boots on gritty dirt, lead unerringly in his direction. Zoro’s not anywhere near tired enough that he can’t stand on his own feet, awkward though it may be. So he does. And when the man crossing the yard steps into his line of sight, Zoro stares in a way he knows unnerves people.
The young marine is tall. Maybe an inch or so taller than himself, although it’s hard to tell when Zoro’s tied just low enough for his ankles to drag in the dirt. Lanky build, painstakingly pressed uniform topped with that stupid billed cap. Neatly combed blond hair covering the left side of his face. The eyebrow Zoro can see curls like a nautilus shell at the outer edge. It’s not the craziest feature he’s encountered in his travels. But it’s up there.
He stops a few paces away from the post, head bent to his cupped hand as he lights a cigarette. He savors that first drag with apparent disregard for the prisoner before him. Zoro’s eyes narrow in flinty displeasure. If this guy’s out here to take a smoke break, why’s he gotta come bother him?
Then the marine deftly swaps out his lighter for the small, worn notebook in his pocket. He flips it open, prepared to write with an expectant click of his pen.
“Afternoon.” He says blandly. “I’m here to take your order.” Zoro only just refrains from scoffing. What is this shit? A hotel? Is he supposed to get room service? He didn’t realize he was checking into a five-star resort when he walked in here.
“For what?” he asks.
“Your last meal.” This time, Zoro doesn’t bother holding back his reaction. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
“I’m not gonna die,” he sneers. The idea that this could be enough to kill him is insulting.
“Every prisoner gets a chance to eat whatever they want before they’re executed. Which, in case you hadn’t gathered, is what’s happening here.” The marine gestures to the crucifixion post. And yeah, sure, some weaker men might not last a month tied up and exposed to the elements. Those men aren’t Roronoa Zoro.
“I won’t die,” Zoro stubbornly insists.
The marine shrugs. “Guess we’ll see. Just tell me what I’m making you for dinner.”
“You a cook or something?”
“I’m the Head Chef of the 153rd Branch,” he says, with no small amount of pride.
Zoro rolls his eyes. “Like I give a shit.” Swirlybrow’s pleasantly neutral mask, the one anyone who's dealt with annoying customers learns to don, intensifies.
“Go on. Name anything you want. I’ll make it the best meal you’ve ever had.”
“Saké.”
The pen pauses after a single stroke. “That’s not food.”
“Then make me something that goes with it.” That smooth customer service mask scrunches with annoyance. Zoro finds the upward tick of the marine’s lower lid and the expressive slant of that eyebrow endlessly amusing.
“Could you give me some idea of what you want for a main course?” Zoro thinks it over before settling on sushi and rice.
The food comes with a cold glass of water right as the heat starts to wane. Zoro is more grateful for that than anything on the tray Swirlybrow carries out as he gulps it down.
That’s before he tastes the food.
They untie one of his forearms so he can feed himself. It comes at the cost of a small squadron holding him at gunpoint the entire meal, but he forgets about that just as quickly as he forgets about the water. The cook didn’t just make him sushi and rice—and it’s damn good sushi and perfect rice. Zoro finds himself noticing things he never bothered to notice about food before, beyond whether he likes the taste. Like the presentation and the texture.
That’s not all. He gets grilled chicken and vegetable skewers, and a side of the best tempura he’s ever tasted. All that plus a free bottle of fancy saké.
“Satisfied?” the cook asks, gathering the dishes onto the little serving cart he rolled out. There are no leftovers. Honestly, Zoro could go for seconds.
“Wasn’t half bad,” he grunts, digging a grain of rice out between his teeth with his tongue. The cook makes a noise of disgust, like he’s been insulted by Zoro’s lack of manners or lack of enthusiasm. But there’s a proud gleam in his eye and a twist to the corners of his mouth that shows he’s pleased regardless.
This won’t be Zoro’s last meal. He’s certain of that. But he finds himself wistfully wondering if he’ll ever eat so good again.