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It was silent sans the sound of rustling cloth and the occasional hiss of pain.
The wet cloth Zoro pressed against his shoulder with surprising care caused water to slide down his pale skin, cooling his warm body and washing away the blood that was beginning to slow in its flow.
“Couldn’t have dodged?” Zoro’s low baritone hummed. He spoke with a smirk, Sanji knew. He felt the urge to scoff. The swordsman had no right to speak. They both knew this. Usually, it was Sanji helping with Zoro’s lesser injuries after a battle, but this time the roles had shifted.
“If I had dodged, Nami-san would have gotten injured,” Sanji went through with his scoff. Zoro made a noise of amusement and pulled the cloth away. He used a dry cloth to soak away the moisture. When he removed that piece of fabric, Sanji moved his arm, lifting it for what came next.
“She could have handled herself,” Zoro murmured. Sanji did not disagree. He was attempting to lessen his passion and overbearing nature, but it occasionally was something he did not think about. He just…did it.
Bandages were being wrapped around the wound, large tan callused hands gentle against his appendage.
“How’s your leg?” Zoro asked.
“My leg?”
“I saw a bullet graze it, is it alright?”
Sanji looked down before rolling up his pant leg. Sure enough, a long gash slid against his calf. Blood was congealing already, but the red streaks of blood were spread around against the cloth and flesh.
“Ah. I guess I didn’t notice,” Sanji tsked. Zoro just rolled his eyes and grabbed the wet cloth again.
It was a soft moment between the two. All soft banter and no violence, quiet and sweet. Moments like these were rare, but that just made them all the more special.
Moments where Sanji would run his oh-so-well-cared-for hands over Zoro’s scarred and tough hands. Moments where Zoro ran imperfect and roughened fingers over Sanji’s deadly legs. Moments where everything was quiet in the world and the two men simply were .
Times like these weren’t often, Sanji thought while taking a drag on his cigarette. He let Zoro prop his leg over his lap while he leaned against the wood wall behind himself. Zoro placed a firm hand just above Sanji’s knee, the tones of their skin contrasting against each other in the warm glow of the light above them. Despite the fact that his hands were laying on a weapon, Sanji’s weapons, the brute did not instinctually grab as one might inspect. Instead, his touch was gentle. Much like how Sanji saw him touching his white katana, he realized.
The washcloth was pressed against the graze and the blond watched as the swordsman set to carefully wiping away red smears without agitating the scabbing wound. Sanji could almost picture one of his swords in the place of his leg, the expression Zoro wore was strikingly similar to those times.
Sanji could feel the rough calluses on his crewmate's palms. On nights like these, when they would silently look over each other, he would often run his own hands over his and wordlessly ask if he could feel anything. The answer was always the same, the rough hand gently squeezing Sanji’s own.
Zoro finished wrapping the wound and pulled Sanji’s pant leg down over the bandage until it was straightened over his dress shoe again. Sanji pulled his leg away and set it back down. Zoro sighed and moved next to him, leaning against the wall in a similar way to Sanji. The swordsman let out a bone-deep sigh of sheer exhaustion and Sanji could see the tension leak from his figure.
In sync, they both tilted to the side and met each other's shoulders.
The wings of the Strawhat captain closed around each other and decidedly existed as just that, while they could. Men built of corded muscle and nerves of steel lay against each other in equilibrium, holding each other up as they often did on the battlefield. It was a silent appreciation of each other, something they never could quite express in words. A thank you, for the other always being at their side.
It was nice.