Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s an uncomfortable crick in the back of Zoro’s neck when he wakes. That’s unusual, as is the heavy, dead feeling in his limbs; it’s not often he sleeps long and badly enough to feel this particular brand of shit. He frowns, trying to piece together his memories as to where he fell asleep. When he can’t piece even that together, he forces himself to blink awake.

Through bleary eyes, he finds himself in the galley kitchen of the Sunny, and suddenly the crick in his neck starts to make sense. He’s never really gotten used to this couch, not like the Merry’s. The smell of coffee wafts through the galley, and the bright-orange glow of sunrise filters through the galley window.

Still, something’s still not right here. His memory’s fuzzy, like the morning of a bad hangover, but he’s missing the cotton mouth and piercing headache. Grasping around blindly to the top of the couch, he finds purchase on a well-worn cushion where the fabric’s fraying at the edges.

Huh. That’s… odd, again. They’d only just got the Sunny, why did the couch feel so worn in?

Zoro wants to so badly excuse this as the side effects of too much booze, but the more he looks through the galley the less sense things make. He only remembers the Sunny’s galley as a pristine little corner of the ship that the cook’d properly punish anyone for damaging, but this galley looks nicked and scraped.

The table’s a practical cutting board, the galley door hangs off broken-looking hinges, the lights above flicker like they need to be replaced. The couch, too, is worn and battered under his fingertips. Alertness hits him, fending off the heavy pull of sleep. Past the galley, and to the kitchen itself–

–well, shit. Sanji’s here. Making coffee, from the smell of it. Of course he is, it’s the galley but– hm.

Sanji’s back is turned to him. For some reason, the Sunny’s galley makes him look taller and broader at the same time. That doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t it, if anything, make him look smaller?

He’s so caught on the breadth of Sanji’s shoulders, it takes him a moment to see what sits on Sanji’s hips. Three very, very familiar swords are tied and his waist, and what the hell.

Okay, he’s had enough of being confused.

Zoro pulls himself up, ignoring the lightheadedness. “The hell are you doing with my swords?!”

There’s a brief moment where Sanji freezes, and there’s a clash of glass as his coffee pot falls from his hands and splinters on the ground. As soon as the pot crashes, Zoro hears a sharp intake of breath.

He doesn’t even turn around. “Oi, curlybrows, I asked you a question,” Zoro tries again, finally sitting upright on the couch with his feet planted firmly on the ground.

Sanji’s head whips around, his eyes impossibly wide, brows furrowed in both pain and surprise. The expression almost shocks Zoro enough he nearly misses the fact that he’s staring at the right side of Sanji’s face, and not the left. What the hell?

“Zoro,” Sanji says in lieu of an answer. The name sounds punched out of him, and he grips the rim of the counter edge like he’s about to fall down. Zoro can see the rapid rise and fall of Sanji’s chest as panic overtakes him.

Zoro takes a look, up and down, and this isn’t Sanji. Not really. He’s taller, and wider, and older, with some new shitty facial hair and deep dark bags under his eyes. The right side of his face, which has always been concealed, is fully unconcealed, revealing another, weirder eyebrow.

Still unsteady on his feet, Zoro instinctively reaches for his side, expecting nothing to be there, but he's surprised when he finds a second set of swords.

Despite whatever panic is taking over Sanji, he follows the movement. “How the hell do you have those?! Why are there–” he cuts himself off, realizing something, grip tight on his own set of swords. “There’s two sets,” he states with growing distress.

That– none of this made any sense. The swords look stupid on him, Zoro thinks petulantly. “I asked you first!”

Sanji laughs. The sound’s watery and wrong, just like this entire conversation. “You bastard, you should know,” he accuses. He tightens his grip around the hilt of Wado, and the action seems familiar to him.

“If I knew why would I ask in the first place?!”

Another miserable laugh. Sanji moves a hand off the handles of his swords, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Shit,” he mutters. “Oh, shit. This is such a shitty– I knew Nami-san said these waters were cursed, but–”

“Cook,” Zoro stops him. Confusion’s slowly turning into concern; he’s missing something important here, but for the life of him he can’t remember what. He opens his mouth to question Sanji, but he’s cut off.

“I have these swords,” Sanji says, his hand back to the swords on his side, “Because you’re dead, asshole.”

Zoro’s mouth snaps shut. What? He doesn’t remember dying– he hardly remembers anything at all, but–

“Yeah, you left the swords for me when you went off and died,” Sanji waves a hand uselessly in the air. “That was what, three years ago?”

“I’m not dead, I’m right here,” Zoro itches for a fight. Maybe he can knock some sense into Sanji and simultaneously stop the dread pooling in his stomach.

Sanji’s shoulders slump forward, hair falling in front of his face. “I can see that,” he says slowly. “But…”

Zoro scoffs. “But what?”

“But the waters we’re in… you’re a ghost, Zoro. Or a fabrication of my shitty subconscious,” Sanji says. Zoro’s ready to bark back, but Sanji cuts in before he can even start, “There’s only one Wado Ichimonji in existence, right? Only one of these is real.”

“Yeah, mine,” Zoro counters, but suddenly he’s feeling like a fish out of water. Three years would explain the state of the Sunny. How everything looked so much older. How Sanji looked so much older, and haggard, and Zoro doesn’t understand what the hell is going on.

“You’re such an annoying ghost,” Sanji mutters. He isn’t bothering to scrub away any of the new tears rolling down his face, and what. “Should’ve known if I ever got to see you again you’d just be a pest– shit–”

Zoro does the only thing he can think of at the moment, pry himself up to his feet and try the knock-sense-into-him plan. He’s doing great with walking, until he’s in the kitchen and suddenly the lightheaded feeling is back.

On instinct, maybe, Sanji reaches out, and they both seem to shock when the contact connects. Sanji’s hand is warm on his arm, almost too warm, and Zoro feels something in the back of his mind urge him to move away.

“Not a ghost,” he says, pulling away on unsteady feet. He’s unbalanced again, elbow hitting the fridge at just the wrong angle to make him wince pitifully.

Sanji reaches forward again, and Zoro steps back. “Just let me help, mosshead,” Sanji says, voice way too gentle.

Stubbornly, Zoro tries to regain his balance on his own. He doesn’t need Sanji’s help, if this even is Sanji, to stand for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t even know what got him in this state, but a bad hangover or whatever this is isn’t enough to knock him over.

Even still, Sanji ignores him. He’s closer, now, close enough that the swords at his side knock into him, and suddenly unbalanced limbs feel the shock of pain.

Whatever’s off kilter turns worse, and worse, and it hits him first in the stomach. There’s no entry wound, but there is a sharp pain reverberating through him, and it’s not from the damn elbow to the fridge. “I– what–” he manages to stutter, before his face contorts in a wince as he tries to hold back pain.

Sanji’s hand is back on his arm, the grasp desperate. “No, no, no not– not this, not again, just open your eyes–”

The desperation in his voice hits like a stab wound, but as much as he tries to open his eyes, he can’t, and he whites out.

“Oh, Zoro, there you are,” Nami says. Zoro blinks, the world only just coming into focus. “Where the hell have you been?!”

Nothing’s in focus, so even if he wanted to, Zoro couldn’t answer. “Dunno, around,” he says a bit helplessly.

“Of course you don’t,” Nami deadpans. Zoro feels a familiar indignation, but Nami continues regardless. “Well, I knew they couldn’t drink you under the table. So at least both of us got away, unlike the rest of those idiots-”

Nami continues on, but Zoro stops paying attention as his eyesight finally focuses. He’s in a town, which doesn’t help much, so he looks at the horizon, which does. Tall hills in the shape of cactuses stretch above the horizon, and it’s familiar but unnerving at the same time. Whiskey Peak? He’s back in time?

He tries to remember what the hell they did at Whiskey Peak. “Have you found Vivi yet?”

Nami stares at him blankly.

“Tch,” Zoro responds. So, they don’t know Vivi yet. He doesn’t remember the timeline of Whiskey Peak as much as he thought he did.

Nami’s muttering something again and pulling him through the streets, always hiding in the dark of alleys and rubble. Zoro’s never been one for stealth, but it does give him the moment to think.

He really doesn’t remember the order of events at Whiskey Peak, or even what Nami was doing in the first place. He’d fought bounty hunters, and Luffy for some reason, and then they’d left. This whole experience is bizarre. Still, he does remember his fight on Whiskey Peak fondly; he’d always wanted to face off against Baroque Works, ever since their stupid invitation.

As they get closer and closer to the center square, smugly, Zoro sees the evidence of the battle. Countless bounty hunters knocked cold, like they could stand a chance against him.

“Jeez, you could at least try to be subtle,” Nami mutters, and Zoro laughs.

The road continues, as does the row of defeated bounty hunters, and Zoro resists the urge to gloat at his success a second time around. He’d really done a number on them, stupid bastards. It’s a good thing he doesn’t gloat, though, because in the middle of the carnage is what looks like a very familiar corpse, clad in green, Wado’s blade straight through the chest.

Is that– no way. No way.

Zoro blinks dumbly, and stops dead in his tracks. He should expect to see his own damn swords again, but not– not like this. He’s staring at his own dead body in the middle of the road, his own sword running straight through it. He swallows thickly, the weight of dread drowning out his earlier glee.

He took out everyone at Whiskey Peak before, what the hell happened this time?

It takes Nami a second longer to notice, and when she does she grabs his sleeve and points wordlessly, as if he hadn’t seen it first. He wants to shake her off at first, but when he turns he sees her shake like a leaf. Her eyes are wide in shock, pupils small as she takes in the carnage in front of her.

“That’s– Zoro, he looks– is that you?”

They both stare at his corpse.

“Zoro,” panic edges into Nami’s voice.

Oh, shit. It really is his own corpse. He taps himself with the toe of his boot, then lifts his arm up and watches as it falls back down to the ground with a disgusting wet thud. Blood pools under his boots, his own damn blood, and he can’t help but avoid looking at his own dead face.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, his voice distant.

So, back in time and dead. There’s one constant, and it’s the fact that he’s dead. That’s fucking ominous, but he can’t just let this happen. If he’s defeated here, that’s sad, but that also means there’s still the mess of however the hell many bounty hunters he didn’t manage to kill.

“You’re not– but you’re not dead, right? This is just some– some devil fruit power,” Nami pulls at his arm.

If Baroque Works managed to defeat him this time, there’s no help for his damn crew. Especially since half of them are unconscious, and even when they wake up they won’t believe the threat they’re up against until their backs are against the wall. He has a job to do on this shitty island, and it’s not going to be laying dead in the street.

“Look, I’ll– I’ll fix this,” he says, unclenching his hand from his side, eyeing his own corpse again.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nami pulls him back again, but Zoro shakes her loose easily. “We should get out of here, I can– Zoro?!”

Undeterred, Zoro grabs the handle of Wado from his corpse. As soon as he touches the hilt, his hand constricts around it as he’s hit with a wave of pain, stretching from his hand up to his arm and soon enough there’s a blood-curdling yell he vaguely recognizes as his own.

At first, Zoro thinks he’s back in the Sunny’s galley. It smells like a kitchen, at least, the smells of fresh seafood and seared spices overpowering everything else. But when Zoro pries his eyes open, he’s definitely not on the Sunny.

It’s familiar, but not familiar enough for him to immediately place where they are. The kitchen he’s in is large, and professional, and outside the smell of food he finally places something distinctly familiar; cigarette smoke. Putting two and two together, he has to be back on that floating restaurant, where they picked up Sanji.

Sure enough, the cook’s here; his back’s to Zoro again. He’s hunched over, looking out a little porthole in the kitchen, holding something in his hands. Blinking away any residual bleariness, Zoro’s able to make out his swords, yet again. Damn it.

“Oi, those are mine,” Zoro interrupts.

He watches as Sanji turns around, eyes widening and grip on his swords faltering. Luckily, he’s at least not met with tears. “You’re not dead?!” Sanji drops the sword in his hand, and it clatters onto the counter. “Your crew’s out there giving you a damn funeral, what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

Shit, he does not want to see his own damn funeral. He doesn’t even want to think about the idea of Luffy giving him a funeral. Had Mihawk killed him? Is he out there, dead by fucking Mihawk’s hands?

Zoro doesn’t actually have an answer for Sanji, though, since he’s pretty sure he’s actually dead. “Got lost,” he says. “Can I have my swords back?”

“Absolutely not,” Sanji backs into the counter. “You don’t deserve these shitty swords.”

Oh, well, even if Sanji doesn’t know him yet, he sure knows how to piss him the fuck off. “Hah?!” he says, marching toward Sanji on uneven footing, “They’re my swords!”

“Not if you’re pretending to be dead,” Sanji spits. Damn it, Zoro thought he could avoid the waterworks this time but Sanji’s mad enough to tear up. “Your crew’s mourning you and you’re just hiding back here?!”

Sanji makes a quick crouching motion, and Zoro’s fought with Sanji enough times by now to recognize the move so he’s ready for it. The cook approaches with one knee bent low to the ground and the other tearing up for a kick to the face, and it’s a move Zoro’s way too familiar with.

While Zoro’s ready for Sanji’s move, Sanji is not prepared for Zoro’s easy counter attack. With one sweeping motion, Zoro unsheaths Wado and blocks the kick with the back of the blade, and Sanii falters. Leaning back, Zoro dodges out of the way for what he’s sure is another round-house kick to the face, but nothing comes.

Instead, Sanji sucks in a sharp intake of breath. His eyes glaze over, then he shuts them tight, and he falls to the floor with a loud thud. He makes absolutely no effort to right his fall, his shoulder taking the brunt of the damage, instead clenching the ankle like he’d been stabbed.

Zoro pauses, waiting for the cook to get up. Instead, he flinches on the floor, hand still caught on his ankle.

“Shouldn’t hurt that bad,” Zoro says slowly. Sanji rolls over on the floor, and guilt is starting to override confusion.

“-the hell do you mean it shouldn’t hurt,” Sanji hisses. He definitely looks way more hurt than Zoro expected. “How the hell did you lose when– shit– fuck–”

Something’s not right here. He’s acting like he’s just been stabbed several times over, not just hit in the shin. Sanji folds into himself, breath coming out in short bursts, and yeah no this definitely is not right.

Still, it’d be a shame to waste the opportunity. He looks past Sanji, to the counter, and it’s an easy two steps until he has Wado in his hands. Pain hits him up his arm, and he hunches into himself over the counter. It’s overwhelming, and distantly he thinks oh, shit, that’s what his sword did to Sanji, too.

“Oh, Zoro!” Chopper exclaims; when Zoro’s vision focuses, he notices with relief that Chopper looks normal. Same hat, same tiny antlers, everything’s the same as normal. “Sanji’s been looking for you,” he says, and suddenly that relief is gone.

“Right,” he says evenly. Of course Sanji’s looking for him, just his luck. Is Zoro dead here, too? Chopper’s not acting like he is, but…

Chopper taps at a chart in front of him, the thing looking huge compared to the rest of him. “He was pretty worried about you,” he tuts, looking out the open door of the infirmary. “I haven’t gotten him to sit still at all, and knowing him he’s probably more injured than anyone.”

With a quick once over to Zoro, he says, “You seem fine, though.” Then, the bastard looks at him with wide, innocent puppy dog eyes. “I know you and Sanji are always fighting, but do you think you could keep him here until I check over the rest of the crew? He was really worried, but he’s also hurt, and…”

No, he will fucking not. But, before he can protest, a realization catches in Zoro’s throat; he’s probably dead, and Chopper just doesn’t know it yet. Chopper continues his babbling, something about how he’s sure Sanji’s broken at least two bones and he shouldn’t be so reckless or whatever the hell.

He’s dead. Zoro’s already dead, and Chopper has no idea.

“Zoro?”

“Uh, sure,” Zoro says through gritted teeth. “Can’t guarantee we’re not gonna fight, though.”

An admonishing gasp. “Zoro, he’s injured,” Chopper pleads.

“Whatever, I agreed, right?” He suddenly wants to look anywhere but Chopper. Shit. “Send curlybrows here.”

While Chopper doesn’t look pleased, he still leaves the infirmary, little hooves clicking on the floor. He closes the door behind him, and when he does, Zoro notices three swords sitting upright behind the door.

He closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. He grips the fabric of the infirmary sheets beneath him with his fists. He’s definitely dead– and, it’s a coward’s way out, but he’s absolutely not telling Chopper himself.

Eyeing Wado behind the door, he thinks he might have an easy out to avoid this conversation. Last three times he’s touched Wado, he’s been put somewhere else entirely. It hurt like hell, sure, but he could deal with hurts like hell.

Resolute, Zoro pries himself off the infirmary bed, just as the door opens with a resounding smack. The swords clatter behind the door, and Zoro wants to yell at the obvious abuse of them, but he looks up and he’s yet again at a loss for words.

Sanji’s in the doorway, hair fussed and eyes red, looking at him with unfiltered hope in his eyes. Fuck. Maybe this is worse than telling Chopper. “Zoro?”

Zoro opens his mouth then closes it. He makes a truly pitiful noise and motions his chin behind the door, watching as Sanji’s shoulders start to tense.

“How are there so many swords,” he says evenly, and Zoro can feel the dread of his words.

“I’m a ghost,” Zoro explains quickly. It still doesn’t feel right, but that’s what the previous Sanji said. He has to get this over with as fast as possible, so might as well use Sanji’s own words against him. “Just give me Wado and I’ll, uh…”

“A ghost,” Sanji’s voice sounds terrible. Shit, he should’ve been quicker to just grab Wado.

“-yeah, a ghost, quit being so slow on the uptake, cook,” Zoro taunts. “Give me the sword and I’ll be out of here.”

The comment leaves Sanji stricken. “What, after I carried them all the way back here, you’re just going to leave?!” The anger’s familiar, but the devastated tone he’s yelling with is gut-droppingly new. “Stupid bastard mosshead, I’ve been looking for your… for you for ages, and the thanks I get is you telling me you’re a ghost–”

“Yeah, because I am a ghost!”

Then, there’s a shoe in his face, and he’s met with the weakest ass kick Sanji’s ever given him. It’s hesitant, and he only really leans into it after he connects foot to flesh. It’s like he’s testing the waters.

“Well, you’re clearly corporal,” Sanji says when he pulls his foot away. “So you’re not a ghost.”

Zoro groans, of course this would be a fight. “What? What do you know about ghosts? I could be a ghost, you’ve never seen a ghost-”

“What, like we didn’t just fight a lovely ghost girl,” Sanji says, and Zoro pauses. Something buzzes in the back of his head, a lazy memory of a pink-haired menace filtering in, then it’s gone again. “And all her ghosts were definitely non-corporeal, so, no, you’re not a ghost.”

Fine. Whatever. Clearly this Sanji has more experience with ghosts than he does, but… “Then why are there six swords?”

Finally, that shuts Sanji up. He looks between the swords on Zoro’s hips, and the three that have clattered to the ground right on top of Sanji’s feet. It is, again, an argument the last Sanji made.

“Um,” Sanji states. Runs a hand through his hair, fingernails catching when he gets to the top of his head. “Hm,” he concludes.

“I’m dead.” As much as Zoro tries, the words still come out shaky. “Just give me the sword and let me move on.”

He’ll just be moving on to the next shitty reality, probably. But it’s better than watching either Chopper or Sanji unravel.

The air sits uncomfortably between them, and neither of them move to the swords.

Zoro could pounce now. From the looks of it, Chopper’s right about the state of Sanji’s injuries; he’s favoring his left side, right foot not quite touching the ground, and every now and then he’ll breath too hard and wince. Broken ankle and ribs, then.

He’s clearly been eyeing the swords for too long, because before he can take them Sanji has his broken foot in the way. “Move and I yell for Chopper,” he threatens.

“That’s a stupid threat,” Zoro bites back, hoping it doesn’t come off as defensive.

Sanji smirks. “Oh? Do you want to let Chopper know you’re a ghost?” Shit, it came off defensive.

Reluctantly, Zoro sits back down on the bed. “No,” he says honestly.

“Whatever,” Sanji’s smirk fades as fast as it comes. “You’re just going to have to sit there then.”

Minutes pass and they feel like molasses. Sanji’s not budging, standing between him and Zoro’s escape out of here like a man possessed. It’s a complete standstill, and Zoro’s left with little else to do but wait and observe.

Unlike the last time he’d seen Sanji, this Sanji is at least familiar. He looks like a right fucking mess, sure, but a familiar mess. Zoro even recognizes the blue jacket he’s wearing from their last shopping island, mostly because it felt like an odd choice for someone who dresses so prim and proper all the time.

Still, he looks similarly devastated as the first Sanji. That– well, Zoro could write that off as his death being fresher here, at least. Chopper still has no idea he’s dead, after all, so he can’t have been dead for long. It’s still… uncomfortable to see Sanji this affected, and to know even three years later he’s still carrying that same weight.

Before long, though, from the tips of his fingers, there’s a prickle of pain. It starts small, but it grows into the familiar white-hot stab of before, stretching up his arm.

“Zoro?”

Zoro starts forward, wincing as he does, and hits the ground hard on his shoulder. “Give me the sword,” he says desperately, grabbing at his arm.

“Wh– Chopper said you weren’t injured,” Sanji moves between him and the swords, bastard.

“Ghost thing,” Zoro grits out. “Sword, now, I–”

Then, after ten minutes, even without Wado with him, the pain finds him, and Zoro’s out like a light, no matter Sanji’s vain attempts to keep the sword away from him.

Zoro wakes up somewhere entirely unfamiliar. It’s green and lush, with tall trees stretching up far into the sky. Gentle bubbles drift around, and it’s so damn peaceful, the setting feels like it’s making a mockery of him.

He’d thought, maybe, Sanji was on to something last time. If he never touched Wado, he’d never be hit by whatever pain is forcing him to visit every universe where he’d ever died. Instead, the pain was just worse, and he’s left on the forest floor of who-knows-where feeling like death warmed over.

With a shuddering breath, Zoro picks himself up off the ground. The grass is too soft and inviting, and he pulls it out of the ground in angry strands. How long had he spent with Chopper and Sanji last time? It couldn’t be more than ten minutes. Shit, he has a time limit? Maybe he has a limit on how many times he dies, too.

Three times he’s died so far, and he still doesn’t know how the hell he got into this mess. He’s confident in the rules to how he gets jettisoned to a new reality– touch the sword or wait out the ten minutes– but he doesn’t know how he got here in the first place.

Maybe he really is dead, and this is some horrible penance. Or hell’s fucking weird. He can’t make heads or tails of it, and Zoro’s so caught up trying to remember absolutely anything he doesn’t even notice he’s not alone until they speak.

“Why, you’re lost, aren’t you?”

The voice is familiar, and he has never been more relieved to see Robin before. He can’t make out much of her expression with the light from above, but even still he can tell she looks different. She’s wearing a brighter outfit than he’s ever seen her in, the pink skirt practically blinding, but it’s still Robin.

He blinks again, and notices that, along with the pink skirt, she’s wearing his three swords on her hip. Shit.

“Uh,” Maybe Sanji’s explanation won’t work as easily on Robin as it did on him. “How long have you been there? And where the hell are we?”

Robin sits down next to him in the grass, close but not touching, and he’s finally able to see her expression. It’s pulled tight, her typical even and occasionally unnerving smile a taut line. She’s watching him carefully, like she’s not quite sure he’s real. At least he won’t have to break the news to her.

“Oh, I’ve been here since you showed up,” she says evenly. “And we’re on Sabaody Archipelago– you haven’t been?”

Nothing about this rings a bell. “Don’t think so.” Robin frowns, disappointed, and Zoro can’t help but bristle. The last place he remembers is– what? The zombie place, probably. “Look, before you ask, I think I’m–”

“You’re dead,” she confirms. “At least, a version of you is. Our version of you.”

Of course she’d beat him to the punch on that one. Morbid woman. “Right,” he says. He buries his fist in the grass again, looking back at the stupidly serene bubbles drifting around.

Robin, gracefully, gives him the moment to pause. He has about a million questions on his mind, nothing that will be answered in the shitty ten minutes he’s been given.

He starts with the obvious. “What do you mean by a version of me?” He’s seen his own corpse, but he’s never actually met himself in any of these shitty lifetimes, only other members of his crew. Bitterly, mostly Sanji.

“Oh, I don’t think you’re the Zoro I know,” she muses. “And you look much too young, almost like when we were first here.” Zoro’s never been wherever the hell here is. “You’d been with Mihawk at least a year before…”

Zoro groans into his hands. “Mihawk killed me again,” he whines before he can stop himself.

“Oh, no, something else did, Mihawk just delivered the news,” she says. “And your swords.”

At least that explains why she had his swords. He’s been confused by Sanji dragging them around enough as is.

“I found out from some connections of mine. The crew hasn’t had much contact in the last few years,” she says, a sadness to her voice he doesn’t want to listen to. “They don’t know yet. I’m here to tell them.”

“I can tell them,” Zoro offers before he can stop himself. He doesn’t want to, but this feels like it’s his burden to bear, considering the fact he’s the one who went off and fucking died. He’d already avoided telling Chopper, he’s not going to avoid it again.

Robin gives him a sharp look. “No, you don’t have to do everything yourself, Swordsman-san.”

Gripping his hands tight into the grass, no, he has to do this himself. Just like he has to protect the crew, and just like he has to do his damn job. “I can tell them,” Zoro repeats, glaring up at Robin.

She smiles at him, and this time it’s both threatening and genuine. “How about you tell me how you got here first,” she says.

Reluctantly, Zoro explains as much as he knows, which amounts to fuck-all really; he keeps seeing places he’s never been and meeting his crew that thinks he’s dead. Robin doesn’t have much to say in terms of what’s happening, which is frustrating, because of all the people he figured Robin would figure this one out for him.

He’s only gotten to explaining the swords, when Robin cuts him off.

“Six of swords,” Robin says cryptically. “That’s an ominous fate.”

Zoro lets his head hit the grass below him. He doesn’t believe in fate. But he also didn’t believe in ghosts, and here he is.

“It’s a Tarot card often associated with both loss and moving on,” she continues regardless. “Upright the card is about accepting your fate, and reversed you’re simply trapped within the past. Fitting, given your current predicament.”

He doesn’t know if Robin’s making shit up, or if the six of swords or whatever actually spells his doom. Either way, it’s unpleasant, a reminder of this stupid situation. Maybe finding Robin wouldn’t be helpful after all.

“Bad fucking luck then.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But I’ve never known you to believe in fate.”

He doesn’t. “So why are you telling me,” he growls, but Robin looks undeterred.

Robin finally touches him, a light squeeze on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’re still alive, Swordsman-san. Unlike my version of you, that is.”

Zoro’s eyes widen, and he cranes his head to look up at Robin. It’s the first time anyone’s said he’s alive. It’s the first time, since telling everyone he sees he’s a ghost actually, he’s started to believe it. He can stubbornly cling to that fact, a stronger motivation than anything so far.

It still doesn’t explain her story in the first place, but…

Then, Robin looks away, up to the treeline above. “How long has it been?” she asks, “About ten minutes?”

Oh, shit. Had she been stalling him?

“Looks like you won’t be telling the crew after all.”

The grass sways beneath him in the light breeze, and he grips it tight when his ten minutes are over, and pain washes over him.

The first thing Zoro sees is the bright white sail of a Marine ship, which is new. He is, apparently, on a G-5 ship, its bright white sails a stark contrast to the grayed, stormy sky above. Water pelts his face, but from the looks of it, a worse storm is still yet on the horizon.

“Come on, you bastards, sail won’t furl itself,” someone orders, a group of Marines scuttle across the deck. “What are you layabouts doing? Sleeping on deck? Get a move on!”

“Yes, Captain Sanji, sir!” one of the Marines replies, sounding way too enthusiastic.

He resists the urge to groan. Of course. The first thing Zoro hears is Sanji, which is not new.

“Oi, and you, you’re not even in uniform-” says Captain Sanji, and Zoro resists the urge to kick his ankles.

Zoro blinks awake. Sure enough, an older Sanji stands above him, three swords yet again hanging off his waist. What the hell. What did he do to deserve this?

“Cook,” Zoro grumbles. He doesn’t bother getting up.

Sanji stares wide-eyed, the look boyish on his much older face. “You– you’re–” he stutters, looking for words. “Didn’t you die?”

At least he’s not crying this time, fuck Zoro couldn’t take a round four of that. “Probably,” he admits. “Don’t remember where, but–”

“-at the Baratie,” Sanji interrupts. He kneels down, and Zoro can finally get a good look at him; he’s remarkably put-together, and as much as he hates to admit it, the stark Marine whites look good on him. “You got bisected by Mihawk.”

Shit, now that’s a sad way to go twice. “Really,” Zoro deadpans.

“Mhm,” Sanji agrees. He turns away, looking to the Marines behind him. “You lot better get those sails up, I have some other bastard to deal with,” he barks, and is met with an all-too enthusiastic chorus of yes-sirs.

Sanji turns to Zoro, extending a hand. “Dunno why you’re here, but…” he motions to the Marines running around the deck like headless chickens. “Can’t have you in the way of my crew, can I?”

Maybe he can grab at Wado and get this over with. Instead, Zoro grips Sanji’s palm, letting the other man pull him up.

Then, he follows Marine Captain Sanji into what looks like the most horribly decorated Captain’s quarters he’s ever seen. Posters align the wall, a mix of bounty posters and girls. It’s a pain on the eyes, an assault on the senses. He recognizes a couple of the bounties on the walls, mostly pirates he’d known the names of from his pirate hunter days, but there’s a notable lack of any Strawhats.

Sanji motions to a set of chairs in the middle of the room, and reluctantly, Zoro sits down. He’s about to start saying something, but Zoro irritably cuts him off.

“I’m a ghost,” Zoro starts, trying to get the obvious questions out of the way. “Probably,” he adds. He still doesn’t really believe it, but it’s the easiest explanation.

There’s a noticeable annoyed huff from the cook, and it’s familiar enough to calm Zoro down. “Obviously,” Sanji says. “I mean, I saw you die, years ago. I’m positive I raided a corpse for these swords, you definitely didn’t survive Mihawk.” Way to rub salt in the wound. “But why the hell are you here?”

Isn’t that the question. “If you have any theories, be my fucking guest,” Zoro mutters.

Annoyingly, Sanji simply tuts, and leans back in his chair. Now that Zoro’s awake, and not being rained on, he finally takes a good look at the man in front of him. Unlike the last Sanji he’s seen, this Sanji’s noticeably more put together. He’s dressed in the typical Marine whites, but the suit’s more noticeably fitted and ironed, like he’s put care into it. It’s disorienting, and wrong.

“It’s the swords, right?” Sanji points to the swords on Zoro’s waist. “You’re haunting them, or some shit.”

Reluctantly, Zoro has to admit that checks out. He’s found Wado every time so far, and here it is again. Plus, the last time he touched Wado, he’d been sent somewhere else. Maybe the first times, too, he sure as hell doesn’t know.

“Maybe I’m just haunting you, cook,” Zoro accuses, unwilling to give Sanji the win. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Knock you down a peg, especially if you’re a Captain now.” Zoro meets Sanji’s eyes, expecting familiar indignation, but they’re colder than he expects.

Sanji follows his movements like he’s a threat.

Zoro laughs, suddenly nervous. “What? Cat got your tongue? You’ve never been slow, curlybrow–”

“Quit talking like you know me,” Sanji spits back. “I don’t know why the hell you’re back. But you’re just an idiot I watched die, don’t act overly familiar–”

“Overly familiar?!” Zoro points at the swords on Sanji’s waist. “You’re the one running around with my swords! Why do you even have them in the first place?”

Sanji pauses. The bastard that he is, he puts one gloved hand on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji. “I don’t need to tell you that,” he says. He leans back in his chair, letting the front legs pull off the ground.

“Shit cook, you at least owe me that–”

“But if I do tell you, will you fuck off my ship?” Sanji taps his foot on the ground lazily. “My crew’s a bunch of idiots who can’t handle this kind of distraction on a good day. Much less one like this. As much as I hate to admit it, I have a responsibility to them, and like hell you’ll get in the way of it.”

Zoro leans forward in his own chair, waiting with too much patience. “Sure, I’ll go away,” he says. He wishes he could fuck off now. “Tell me and I’ll pass to the next one, or whatever.”

Scoffing, Sanji looks to the tiny little window in his captain’s quarters. It’s the one little spot undisturbed by stupid posters, the view of the ocean storming beyond it. “I thought you were stupid. You threw your life away fighting Mihawk, and died, and I…”

Sanji frowns, chewing on the cigarette between his teeth. “Your Captain wasn’t going to take them,” he continues. “And after all your stupid talk about being the greatest swordsman, it seemed like a waste to just… leave them with the man who killed you.”

“What? You fought Mihawk for them?”

“I yelled at him a bit, sure,” Sanji mutters. “It wasn’t much of a fight.”

Then, a familiar look passes over Sanji’s face, and for the first time it’s recognizable. He’s embarrassed, eye flitting back to the little window to the storm outside. The look passes, and an easy smirk covers up any weakness.

“Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I got the swords, and soon enough a pretty Marine told me she wouldn’t stand for a pirate to have such a legendary blade, and who was I to deny her plea to join the Marines?”

Oh, the sword geek. What a stupid fucking pair. That at least explains how he joined the Marines, but outside of his typical skirt-chasing, why is a different question entirely.

“You took my swords for years because you didn’t want Mihawk to have them, and kept them because of a stupid girl?”

“Don’t call her stupid, you don’t even know her–”

“Don’t assume what I know!” Zoro growls, leaning forward. His arms rest on the table in front of them, hands clenched in fists. “You’re a girl-crazy idiot, but you wouldn’t carry swords around for that.”

Sanji tilts back in his chair, carefully considering Zoro. He clenches at the swords on his side, and Zoro wants nothing more than to hit his hand away. “It’s a good cautionary tale not to have stupid dreams,” Sanji says. He meets Zoro’s eyes for a moment, and he looks both cold and unfamiliar. “Like the one you died for.”

Zoro taps his boot on the ground, the noise an angry staccato, glaring up at Sanji. He’s changed his mind, actually. Marine whites look fucking stupid on him. His pale skin and blonde hair on the stark whites make him look washed out, like he’s been left to dry in the sun for too long.

“You’re an idiot,” Zoro growls, and eyes Sanji’s hand on Wado. He’s had enough of this Sanji, he thinks. “Give me that.”

Sanji jolts back, nearly falling out of his chair. The front legs hit the floor, and he hovers protectively around the swords on his side. “Wh– hey! I’ve been taking good care of them, don’t–”

Well, too fucking late. With a quick jolt forward, Zoro grabs Wado’s hilt, and tries not to flinch when the familiar white-hot pain hits.

Next thing he knows, something knocks Zoro in the back of the head. He clenches the back of his skull, something sticky on the back. Quickly, he checks his hand, and it’s not blood, but it is red, almost like the weird hot sauce shells Usopp always–

“Zoro!?” Usopp yells, and shit, speak of the devil. “Zoro, is that really you?!”

Startlingly, before he can even get his bearings, Zoro’s pulled into a tighter hug than he can ever imagine from Usopp, of all people. His arms are pressed tight to his torso as he’s tossed around, and okay what.

Finally, Usopp sets him down. His grip on Zoro’s arms is surprisingly tight. “Zoro, you look–” Usopp pauses. “You look… young,” he stutters.

With Usopp letting him go, Zoro gets a good look at him. Usopp’s definitely older, and stronger, and Zoro has no idea what to make of it. He does, also, look impossibly relieved, and shit is he going to have to burst that bubble?

He should rip that bandaid off immediately.

“Ten minutes,” Zoro states.

“What?”

“I have ten minutes max until, uh, I… leave,” Zoro explains. That sounds about right. He hasn’t actually thought about that aspect of this, but he does leave them all in the end. “So get your final wishes or whatever out of the way.”

“So, what? You’re just here for ten minutes and then you’re–” Usopp’s voice cracks. Oh, this is terrible. “-you’re gone again?”

Zoro tries to pull himself away from the man as much as possible, and backs into something solid behind him. “Well it hurts like hell, but yeah,” Zoro mutters. “I just get put somewhere else.”

There’s a long pause, and Usopp frowns at him with a stare that pierces right through him.

Then, the ground shakes under him, and Zoro’s realizing he has no fucking idea what’s going on around them. They’re somewhere, somewhere with tall, metal walls, and a corridor leading to what’s sure to be a fight. The shaking continues, and Zoro’s shoulder smacks into the wall.

Holding onto his swords, Zoro eyes the door, and just as he’s about to find the fight Usopp grabs him by the arm.

“Uh, nope, you’re not heading out there,” Usopp states.

Zoro growls. “What, like you’re gonna stop me?”

“Uh huh, yeah I am, buddy.” Then, with the strength of a man possessed, he tosses Zoro over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

What.

“What?!”

Usopp’s carrying him down the damn hallway like he weighs nothing. There’s something about it that refuses to compute in Zoro’s brain, and he’s shocked enough he lets Usopp– Usopp– manhandle him down the hallway.

When Usopp sets him down, Zoro’s still in some stupid state of shock. Usopp tosses something lazily behind him, and the hallway explodes in something green– vines?!-- and all Zoro can do is gape.

“Wow, don’t look so surprised,” Usopp says.

“What are you– hey, I–” Zoro takes a deep breath. “I can fight.”

“Uh, no–”

“-yes, don’t just toss me around, let me fight.”

Usopp scoffs. “What, and have everyone else see you?”

Oh, shit. Right, no, he’d like to avoid seeing anyone else. He should minimize contact with the rest of the crew, as much as possible. He’s had enough of their sad eyes and pitiful looks. It’s not like he can do shit for them, not with his stupid ten minute time limit.

Still, even if he’s not going to see the rest of the crew, he needs to know.

“Who has my swords, Usopp?”

Usopp wilts. “Uh, I’ve been carrying them around! You entrusted them to the Great Captain Usopp before you died,” Usopp lies, obviously, avoiding eye contact. Why the hell would he lie about this? “They’re with the uh– they’re at the ship right now, couldn’t bring them here, but…”

Not unless, shit. Not again. Why is it always him.

“It’s the cook, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, so you really shouldn’t go try and see it for yourself,” Usopp mutters. “I don’t want to explain this to him, he…”

Zoro tries his best not to read into Usopp’s hesitancy and implications. It’s difficult, though, because with the bizarre plant barrier Usopp’s somehow conjured out of nothing, Zoro finally has the chance to sit still. Sit still, and wallow in misery.

“Uh, don’t get me wrong, he’d want to see you,” Usopp hurries, somehow misinterpreting Zoro’s silence. “It’s just that– um– he took your death pretty badly is all. We all did, but…”

“But he’s carrying the swords.”

“Yeah,” Usopp confirms, “He is.”

Stupid cook. He didn’t have to carry around his swords, but here he fucking is, doing it again. Maybe if Zoro’s angry enough, he can ignore the burgeoning guilt he feels at the thought.

The guilt doesn’t leave him, though, not for the full conversation. Usopp’s prying for information in both a very Usopp way and not very Usopp way; he’s unperturbed by Zoro’s constant glares but delicate in his stupid line of questioning. It’s not long until Zoro’s sure his minutes are passing him by, like sand in an hourglass.

Usopp taps his foot on the ground. “So, what? Two minutes left?”

“Just about,” Zoro grits.

He’s expecting some big question; Usopp’s been pelting him with annoying little questions that all seem to lead up to some bigger query. But, instead, Usopp pulls him forward, and suddenly Zoro’s pressed to the front of Usopp’s chest with his chin on Usopp’s shockingly muscular shoulder.

“You already got this out of the way,” Zoro whines, not knowing what to do with his hands. They clench at his sides, and he tries to squirm out of Usopp’s tight grip.

Usopp scoffs, sounding way too fucking confident. “Idiot,” he says, “This is for you.”

“Eh?!” Zoro sputters, and again he can’t get out of Usopp’s vice grip. “I didn’t– I don’t– get off me.”

“You said it hurt when you left,” Usopp says. He clenches the back of Zoro’s shirt tight, and Zoro knows it’s a futile effort to try and escape. “So, just, accept the hug, yeah?”

Something stutters in Zoro’s throat. He’s not sure what to make of this. He doesn’t want to accept whatever help Usopp’s giving him here, this is stupid, but Usopp tugs him tighter and he can’t help himself.

“Uh,” Zoro tries to protest. It comes out as a wet choke. What the hell.

“There, there,” Usopp says, and Zoro wants to take it as a taunt, but…

Despite himself, Zoro clutches the back of Usopp’s shirt between his hands. He holds the fabric tight between his fists as the familiar pain of this stupid loop washes over him.

The smell of coffee hits him before anything else. Then, the pain in his elbow against something cold, and the light warmth of sunlight on his face. He wishes he were in the middle of a fight again, but this is better than some of the alternatives.

Zoro blinks awake, and he’s back in the Sunny’s galley. Light hits the countertops and reflects off the broken coffee pot on the floor, and he finds himself looking straight at an absolutely devastated Sanji.

“You’re back,” Sanji says. He’s as shocked as Zoro is. “You– you– you’re back.”

Is this the first Sanji? He’s never been back before. Zoro doesn’t know if this is a good thing or not. “Guess so,” he confirms uselessly.

As it is, he’s leaning against the galley fridge with his swords poking into his sides. Wado– Sanji’s Wado, that is— is still sitting on Sanji’s waist. It’s like he’s only been gone for minutes, and he has to wonder what the hell Sanji saw. He’s never been back.

Grabbing the handle of the fridge, Zoro pulls himself up on shaky feet. Sanji, quiet for once in his life, watches him with wide eyes.

“I can’t believe you came back,” Sanji says, finally. “What the hell? Shitty haunted ocean, after you just– died again–”

“It’s not the ocean,” Zoro interrupts. “I’m haunting the swords. That’s what you…” he pauses. Did everyone really think he died the second he disappeared?

Sanji considers the words, then tosses his set of swords across the kitchen with absolute reckless abandon.

“Hey! Don’t damage those–”

“You just said it’s the swords’ fault!” he eyes Zoro, settling on his waist. “If you’re not going to do it yourself,” Sanji starts, reaching toward Zoro’s swords.

With a sudden jerk, Zoro remembers the last time Sanji touched his version of Wado. It left him on the floor, withering in pain, and absolutely not. He’s not going to see that again.

“No,” Zoro shuffles back, reaching for his own belt, and tosses his own swords across the room. They clatter loudly on the floor. “Solved that.”

Sanji groans, and it for once sounds normal. “Oh, so you’re allowed to toss your swords around, but I’m not?!”

“Yes,” Zoro says. “They’re my swords, cook.”

“They’ve been mine for…” Sanji’s face pulls tight, then he pulls his face in his hands. “Shit,” he mumbles.

This is harder the second time around. “Look, I have ten minutes,” Zoro explains roughly. “And then I’ll…” He’ll die again. Maybe he should just lock himself in the pantry and die alone. “It’ll be the same as last time.”

He doesn’t actually know if it’ll be the same as last time, he’s never been back before. Maybe it’s the haunted ocean Sanji keeps mentioning that pulls him here, but whatever the hell it is Zoro’s not going to bet on it happening a third time.

“So if you have any last arguments to settle–” Zoro starts, and suddenly he’s being pulled forward straight into Sanji.

As quickly as Sanji’s grabbed Zoro, he tucks him into his chest. Zoro blinks stupidly, heart hammering in his throat, and he has no idea what to do with the hands at his sides.

Sanji’s hugging him, tight and desperate, one hand on Zoro’s back and the other tangled in his hair. His thumb presses into the base of Zoro’s neck, running up and down in an impossibly delicate motion.

Zoro’s breath catches, and whatever argument suggestions rattling in his head leave him.

“Cook,” Zoro manages. He wraps one arm around Sanji’s back, and the man responds by somehow pulling Zoro tighter to him still. “I…”

“Shut up,” Sanji mutters into Zoro’s shoulder. “Just, shut the fuck up. You could’ve found another cook,” he says. “It would’ve been– shit–”

The words sting in the back of Zoro’s head. He feels a familiar anger and desperation, but he can’t remember the source.

“Curly, I…” Zoro starts, but snaps his mouth shut quickly. The pain starts in his fingertips, and Zoro holds the back of Sanji’s shirt tight. He closes his eyes, trying to concentrate on Sanji’s breath hot on his neck, and then he’s out again.

The doom and gloom of Zoro’s next location is, simultaneously, the most familiar and unfamiliar place Zoro has been.

Sun filters down on pure wreckage, dark dust coating what’s likely an island post-Strawhat fight. The wreckage itself is unrecognizable, all gray bricks and smashed greenery. There’s some chattering in the distance, the only sign of life, but otherwise the place is a wreck.

Zoro thinks he should be able to place it, but the fuzziness in his head is back and he, infuriatingly, can’t.

“Oh, Zoro, bro,” Franky says this time, looking welcomely familiar. “Sanji was looking for you.”

He’s so lost he can’t even be annoyed.

“Whatever, cook can deal,” Zoro says. He looks at the wreckage around them, and he knows there’s a clue somewhere. “This island looks like shit.”

Franky laughs, loud and boisterous. “Yeah, well, it looked fine before that big guy showed up and wrecked the place,” he says.

“What big guy?” Zoro has some memories of… wherever they are. Big guy, big guy, big guy… “Zombie Luffy?”

A small frown appears on Franky’s face. Ah, not that. “What, you don’t remember? The Paw-paw fruit dude?”

The what-what fruit? “Uh, no.”

“Maybe you should get yourself checked out by Chopper for a concussion,” Franky’s frown grows. “Yeah, he said his name was Kuma, he–”

Kuma.

Zoro sucks in a breath, and looks out at the wreckage in front of him. Shit, he knew that name. Panic wells at the thought, which is annoying, he needs to figure this out first. This is the closest he’s been to remembering fuck-all, he’s not going to waste it.

“Oh, shit,” Zoro says. “Kuma?”

He recognizes everything here– Kuma made a real mess of things. He’d done– something. Paw-paw fruit? He’d used his devil fruit powers to wreck the place. The rubble is everywhere, and everyone who’s still knocked cold is left in a fine layer of dust. Sun shines bright from above, making a mockery of the wreckage.

“You know anything else about him? He just kinda left after he did this,” Franky says. That’s not right. He didn’t leave. “Man, what a waste,” Franky continues on, rambling on about buildings or something.

It’s a buzz in Zoro’s ears.

No, Kuma hadn’t left afterwards. He’d continued to be a threat, even after wrecking the entire island, and he’d made a deal with Kuma, hadn’t he? He’d made some kind of deal, and Sanji was there, and–

Something knocks into his side, shocking Zoro out of his thoughts.

“Anyway, Sanji found these and told me to hold on to them until he got back,” Franky holds out his swords. “I thought you– wait, you got more swords already? Bro, you move on fast, I didn’t think–”

A deal. This is his deal.

This shitty loop is his deal, he’s done this to himself on purpose, for his crew. For Luffy. As relieved as he is about everything turning out right, he’s now at a loss as to if he’s holding up his side of the bargain. Does he just– continue? Does he just accept as much pain as these loops want to throw at him?

Does he just do this forever?

Franky holds out Wado, none-the-wiser. Zoro clenches the hilt until his knuckles turn white.

Pain, he thinks weakly as he holds Wado’s hilt between his fingers. He made a deal about pain. This whole, shitty loop, this is– this is the deal. Franky’s yelling something at him, but it’s taking all Zoro’s energy not to white out as-is. He thought he could handle whatever Kuma threw his way.

He knows how to stand after pain, but this?

What a shitty deal, he thinks, as he grinds his teeth into dust.

It’s cold. Wherever he is, it’s fucking cold. It’s quiet, too. Zoro keeps his eyes closed, just for the first ten minutes or so, so he can try to figure out what the hell to do next.

Now that he’s not at Thriller Bark itself, he tries to quell his own panic. He knows why he’s in this mess in the first place, now he just has to figure out how the hell to get out of it. So, he knew he made a deal with Kuma to take Luffy’s pain. He thought Kuma meant physical pain, which he would live or die with, and not whatever the hell this is.

What, he doesn’t just get to hurt, he has to survive an infinite loop of his own potential failures? That’s ridiculous. And unlike pain, he doesn’t even know when this eternity ends. What does Kuma want? For him to just die, repeatedly, for eternity?

No, this has to be finite. It’s not like Luffy took an infinite amount of pain at Thriller Bark. Shit, he took a lot, but it can’t go on for eternity. This is so damn stupid, he wants out of this, he wants to get back to his crew, or at least have an idea of how long it’ll take before he’s actually dead.

Zoro sucks in a breath, a cool breeze passing over him. Shit, it’s been a while since he’s been awake. He thought he was alone, but every now and then he can hear a soft melody from somewhere, one that starts and stops in short bursts.

Finally, Zoro pulls himself awake, and wishes he hadn’t.

He’s on the deck of the Sunny, that’s for sure, but like his first wake-up call, the ship looks older. Way older. The familiar grass of the deck is long-since dead, only a layer of dirt and dust remaining. Battle scars claw up the ship’s mast, all the way up to the crow’s nest. The doors of the bunkrooms and the galley are filled with holes and off their hinges, wood creaking and broken.

The Sunny creaks under him as he gets up. The deck that’s not covered in dead dirt is scarred with holes and dinges, years-old mold gnawing at the wood.

Then, the same few notes play again from the crow’s nest. It’s half a melody, never quite finishing its final notes. It’s achingly sad, too, in a minor key, but only lasting for a moment.

The ship creaks again, old and aching like a casket, and Zoro feels a chill up and down his spine. He has to get out of here– Wado has to be somewhere.

Pulling himself up off the deck, Zoro looks in the galley first. He’s been so haunted by the fucking cook at this point, he’s sure that’s where the swords are.

He tears off the galley door, with little care for the noise it makes. The kitchen’s as desolate as the rest of the deck. Drawers hang open with silverware knocked to the floor, Sanji’s knife block is forlorn on the floor with knives stuck in cabinet doors, jars lay broken on the counter with contents long-since dissipated. No one’s been there for years, the place left to the shaking of the ocean’s waves.

Frustratingly, there’s no swords either. Zoro’s hands shake as he throws the galley door back open, not wanting to be there any longer than he needs to.

As he storms out of the galley, he realizes with a start that the music’s stopped, and someone’s back on deck. In the moonlight, he can see for certain that it’s that skeleton they’d met back on Thriller Bark, right before everything went to shit.

“Zoro-san?” says the skeleton. Brook, wasn’t it? “What are you doing here?”

Zoro freezes. He has Zoro’s swords, because of course he does. “I’m… dead?” he offers.

“Oh ho ho ho, I know.” That feels worse than it should. Brook tilts his head, empty eye sockets seemingly staring straight through him. “But why are you back this time?”

This time? Zoro doesn’t want to think through the implications there. He sees enough of the implications around him, and he doesn’t need to dwell on the fact that everyone’s dead.

“I need,” Zoro swallows. It’s suddenly hard to speak, and he pushes through it. “I need my swords.”

“Is that so?” It sounds too much like a question for his liking. Too much doubt and understanding, especially from someone he doesn’t know.

What does Brook know, anyway? He has to take Luffy’s pain, he thinks. If that’s the case, he’s only getting that pain bit by bit over every damn loop. Maybe he just needs to speed up the process. If this is a matter of taking pain, he only gets bits and pieces of it every loop.

He’ll just need to hurry it up.

“That’s right,” Zoro confirms. Before Brook can react, he lurches forward to the swords on his side. Resolute, he grabs Wado’s hilt. Pain hits him, just as hard as ever, and he chokes on his own spit as he’s pulled somewhere new.

Zoro wakes up in Alabasta, the hot heat of the desert sun recognizable before he even opens his eyes. He sucks in a breath; he needs to be quick about this. He needs to stop talking, and just get a move on.

It sucks that he’s so off kilter every time he wakes up, like the after-effects of the pain from before. He blinks, and he’s met with the sight of Vivi standing over him. His swords are clutched tight to her chest.

“Mister Bushido?” Vivi says, her eyes filled with hot tears. “You’re alright? We found your swords, and everyone thought…”

Ignoring whatever instinct he has to pry, Zoro surges forward. Vivi’s starting to say something, to protest, but it doesn’t matter, because Zoro’s hand is around Wado, and soon enough he’s falling forward, pain whiting him out before he hits the ground.

The next time he runs into Sanji, he’s carrying Zoro’s swords and wearing a stupid black mask on his face. It takes Zoro a moment to recognize it, but when he does, he freezes.

“Holy shit,” Zoro says, stopping despite himself. “You’re a Foxy Pirate?”

Sanji’s leg hangs in the air, his attack paused. “You’re alive?!” he hisses. “You’re alive and you left me with fucking Foxy you shitty algae-brained bastard, you–”

Sanji’s kick cuts too high, and Zoro ducks low enough to grab Wado’s hilt with ease.

Whatever island he’s on is an absolute nightmare. The walls of this room are made of sweets, and Zoro’s sure chocolate is melting under his boot the longer he stands. What an absolute shithole of a place. He wants to kick in the stupid chocolate chair.

“Oh? I don’t believe you’re with Big Mom’s crew,” says a woman Zoro doesn’t recognize. She has bright pink hair, and shockingly a curly eyebrow, almost like the cook’s.

He eyes the room for a sign of Wado. “I’m here for an errand,” he says. “Big Mama or whoever wants this sword.”

“That’s quite the lie,” she says. “You look like the Pirate Hunter, but he should be…”

Peering around her, he can see she’s put herself between him and someone unconscious on the floor. He can make out a hand with a golden bangle, and then a shock of blonde hair. That’ll be why he’s here.

“Look, woman, I don’t care,” Zoro interrupts. “Cook has my swords, I’ll leave this loop if I take them from him.”

“Cook? You’re looking for… and loop, what do you mean by loop?” Her voice is suddenly pinched, and Zoro can’t bring it to himself to care.

Whatever her problem is, it doesn’t matter; it’s enough of a distraction for her that he sees Wado hidden behind her, and lunges toward it.

He goes through the same damn process, again and again and again. Kuma’s power sends him somewhere else, he finds some awful devastated crewmate, touches Wado, and feels like absolute hell. Rinse and repeat, again and again and a-fucking-gain.

No matter how many shitty realities he sees, he’s always dead, and Wado’s always waiting for him, and as stubbornly as he’s clinging to his own life he’s wondering what the hell the point of it is.

Zoro should’ve known he’d have to face Luffy in one of these loops.

He’s seen every other Strawhat time and time again, but he’s somehow blissfully avoided running into Luffy. He hoped, maybe, because this whole shitshow started from him taking Luffy’s pain, he’d be spared from seeing his Captain.

“ZORO!” Luffy yells from across what feels like a whole island. Zoro freezes in his tracks, and watches one rubbery arm stretch to reach the tree next to him. He’s expecting Luffy to bound into him, so he closes his eyes in a wince, but the full-barreled tackle never happens.

Zoro glances up, and yup, yeah, he wants to avoid this confrontation.

Luffy stopped just ahead of him, his eyes wide and watery. He looks older, a huge scar ripping across his chest. Zoro doesn’t recognize it. He looks from the scar, back up to Luffy’s eyes, and back down to the scar.

“Luffy,” Zoro starts, but can’t finish his sentence.

There’s a wet sniff, and Luffy rubs at his nose. There’s a trail of ugly snot down his face, and tears down his cheeks. He stares at Zoro with wide eyes, watery with tears.

He should explain this whole thing. “Luffy, I’m…” Zoro pauses. The ghost thing worked before, it should work again. “I’m dead,” he says.

Zoro clenches his hands at his side, trying to look past Luffy to anything else. His vision’s watery, and he can’t make out much of their surroundings, until he’s pulled back to Luffy’s taut expression again. Shit.

“Zoro,” Luffy pauses. He tilts his head to the side, tears momentarily clearing as he sees straight through Zoro. “You’re not my Zoro,” he says.

Zoro can’t look at him. He doesn’t want to listen to his Captain’s voice sound punched-out like that. He eyes Wado’s hilt, but before he can grab for it Luffy’s hand stops him.

“Not-Zoro, why are you here?” Luffy asks. “Shouldn’t you be with your crew?”

And, shit.

“I’m trying,” Zoro sputters. His hand shakes, and he tries to grab for his sword again, but Luffy holds his wrist tight. Zoro closes his eyes tight, wondering if he can will time to pass faster.

His breath catches as there’s a sudden weight on the top of his head, and he doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know it’s Luffy’s hat.

“You’ll make it back to them,” Luffy says, and suddenly the grip on his wrist is gone. Zoro stumbles forward, finally grabbing Wado. His eyes are still closed tight when he collapses forward.

Zoro wakes to an easy seabreeze and bright weather. It’s refreshing after his last, desolate death, and he still aches from the overwhelming pain. Even still, he needs to pick himself right back up again and find Wado.

Still, this place is nice. Calming, enticingly so, with its warm breezes, familiar comforting smells, and sunny weather.

When Zoro has his bearings, he peers around for any evidence of his sword. He’s met with a bright, sunlight-filled view of the ocean, one man silhouetted against the backdrop. He’s older, by the looks of it, with long blond hair and a relaxed pose.

He doesn’t recognize him at first. Then, the man turns around, and his eyes widen. Well, the one eye Zoro can see, and the one familiar, curled eyebrow shoots up.

Of course. What the hell.

Sanji looks better than any of the other loops, despite his age. He’s wearing some frilly, low-cut white button up with the top few buttons undone, and it’s shocking how damn relaxed he is in it. Scars cross over his chest, and Zoro makes careful note that his hands are relatively unscathed.

“Cook,” Zoro starts, trying to find his footing. “I’m looking for my swords.”

The surprise on Sanji’s face vanishes, replaced with a smirk. “Well, too bad, you shitty swordsman,” Sanji knocks ash from his cigarette onto the railing behind him. “They’re at the bottom of the ocean.”

Zoro looks down off the deck; that’s technically right, but it’s not going to stop him. The water’s both bright blue and impossibly clear, so he can see straight down to Wado buried in the sea floor. It’s not that deep, if he can still see the sword.

Gripping the railing of the boat, Zoro’s just about to pull himself up and over when a familiar but much-too-fast leg to the gut stops him, sending his ass to the floor of the deck.

“H-hey! I just need the sword, old man,” Zoro growls. He tries to pick himself up, but he’s met with another foot to the chest.

Sanji has the audacity to laugh. “Old man, huh? That’s a trip,” he says. “As I was saying, it’s at the bottom of the ocean. Don’t let the All Blue fool you, it’s deeper than it looks.”

There’s a clever retort on his tongue, Zoro’s sure, but it dies as he tries to figure out what the hell Sanji just said. “The All Blue,” Zoro repeats numbly.

“Mhm, we found it,” he says a bit wistfully. Sunlight filters through his hair, bright and warm. “With the help of the whole crew, of course.”

Zoro pitifully tries to pull himself off the deck again, but Sanji remains unbothered by his attempts. Instead, he’s looking back out to the sea again, staring down at Wado’s hilt buried in the ocean floor.

He’s not an idiot. Zoro can understand the implications of his loop, and he knows if he’s here that means his other self is dead. And if he’s dead, and Wado’s there on the ocean floor, that can only mean for some reason he’s buried at the All Blue itself.

Something pulls in his stomach at the thought. He looks up at Sanji, and he’s caught on the chain hanging loose around his neck. On it are two rings, one inset with a simple, rounded blue stone, the other green.

His heart stutters in his throat.

“Uh,” Zoro says. “I’m…”

Sanji huffs, then laughs outright. “Oh, yeah, how old are you right now? You can’t be older than twenty,” he says. He dangles the necklace in front of his chest, tauntingly. “Just play the long game, it’ll work.”

Then, he leans down, hand outstretched. “Come on then,” Sanji says. “Get up now.”

Zoro continues to stare up dumbly at him, then he swats away his hand, because what the hell.

All-too-fast, Sanji grabs Zoro’s wrist. “You never were good at accepting help,” he says.

Familiar annoyance overtakes him. “I don’t need help.” He can’t manage to pull himself from Sanji’s grasp.

Sanji gives him a flat look. “What, so you’ve been going through this thing alone?”

“I’m not with anyone–” Why’s he talking about this like he knows what’s going on, anyway?

“Am I the first member of the crew you’ve seen this whole time?”

Zoro stalls. No, he’s not. Obviously not, he’s gone through this shitty process enough times that he’s seen the entire Strawhat crew twice over at least. Sanji especially, annoyingly, but it’s not like they’ve… he pauses.

Sanji sighs, kneeling down on the deck. He gives Zoro another, unreadable, long look, then flicks him in the forehead.

“Oi, shithead,” Zoro threatens, but Sanji looks completely unbothered.

“There’s a reason Kuma didn’t just give you the pain outright, you know,” Sanji says, and how the hell does he know about that detail? “Let someone else help you out, yeah?”

“I don’t– you– how do you–”

“Ten minutes, right? You don’t have much time left,” Sanji must see the abject confusion on his face, because he laughs annoyingly. “You told me about it before your last duel,” he says.

His last–?

“So if you found the All Blue, does that mean I’ve…” Zoro trails off. He doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Sanji knows him well enough. He knows him too well. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sanji grins. Then, the grin falters, if only for a moment, and his eyes soften into something sad. “Good to see you again, marimo.”

With one last grip of the shoulder, his time’s done. Zoro clamps his eyes shut as pain overtakes him, this time slightly dulled.

The smell of coffee hits him first.

“This is just cruel,” says Sanji.

Zoro’s back in the galley kitchen, with Sanji and the broken coffee pot in the minutes before morning arrives. They’re both still kneeling on the floor, but Zoro’s swords are back at his side. It takes some shuffling to make sure they don’t knock into Sanji.

“Third time’s the charm,” Zoro says.

Sanji’s distracted, and it lets Zoro take a moment to think. Everyone’s been helping him, this whole time. He didn’t even ask for it, he didn’t even want to ask for it, but…

Maybe he has to ask.

He opens his eyes, and Sanji’s watching him, hand hovering over Zoro’s knee. His eyes are still watery from last time, expression pinched.

Zoro takes a long breath. This sucks. “I need you to do something for me,” Zoro says carefully.

Sanji blinks at him, raw shock hitting his face. “Oh, asking for help, are you?” he taunts, but his hand finally hits Zoro’s knee. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Zoro looks out the window of the galley, then shuffles backward. Sanji practically whines when he moves away, but Zoro can’t think about that for now. He wrestles with the swords at his sides until he’s pulled out Wado.

“It’s going to hurt like hell, but…” Zoro holds out Wado’s hilt. “I need you to take this,” Zoro says.

Not even questioning it, Sanji moves forward, only pausing when his hand hovers just over the blade.

“Then you’ll be gone,” Sanji’s hand shakes slightly. “Right? You’re not coming back a fourth time.”

“I…” Zoro pauses. “I’ll go back to my reality. Where I’m not dead.”

It’s the most confident he’s been about anything this experience. This is it, he thinks.

“Figured it was something like that,” Sanji huffs. It’s a sad attempt at a laugh. “Well, I’d better be fucking grateful you’re back.”

Zoro snorts. “As if you’ve ever been grateful for me in your life,” he says.

Then, there’s a hand on the side of his face, and Zoro doesn’t look up. “Just read between the lines, marimo,” Sanji mutters.

Zoro swallows thickly. “Right,” he says, voice wet. “Thanks for the help.”

As soon as Sanji grabs the blade, Zoro pulls his head into his shoulder. Even if he could do this, he can’t watch. It’s the right move, either way, as Sanji desperately grabs Zoro’s arm in a vice grip.

Zoro watches past the galley window as the orange glow of sunrise finally gives way to morning itself. He holds Sanji tight to his shoulder as the man shudders, and this time the energy sapped out of him is more like falling asleep.

The first thing Zoro feels are the aftershocks of pain. He’s upright this time, that much he’s sure of. Something drips down his arms, something warm and tacky, and it takes him a moment to parse the fact that he’s feeling the pain of the loop first.

“-all this blood?!”

He can’t keep his eyes open, not fully.

“Hey, are you alive?!” Is that the cook? “Where’d he go–”

Sanji’s voice is too loud. Of course it’s Sanji, it’s always Sanji, but this time…

“What happened here?!”

Zoro blinks awake. Blood coats everything around him, from the rocks around him, and it drips into his eyes too. This isn’t like any other lifetime he’s been forced to witness; in fact, he’s absolutely positive he’s not a corpse in this one.

He’s alive.

He wants to laugh, but that’d require moving way more than he wants to. Instead, he forces his eyes open, and stares straight at Sanji. “Nothing happened,” he says.

Sanji makes a noise of protest, because of course he does. He grips Zoro's arm, his hand sturdy and warm, and Zoro lets himself fall forward. As soon as he hits Sanji’s shoulder, he lets painless unconsciousness take him.