Chapter Text
Zoro scowled into his drink, dragging a hand over his face before scrubbing it through the shaggy hair brushing his shoulders.
Kuina would have teased him for how long it was, made fun of the scruffy stubble on his cheeks and chin, but given the raging motherfuck of a headache radiating through his skull, he couldn't find it within himself to care. He’d tucked himself back into the deepest, darkest corner the tavern had to offer and it was still overwhelming.
He couldn’t understand. He didn’t get sick, didn’t get hungover, hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten his bell rung in a fight, and yet, this bitch of a headache had him seeing stars in the nastiest way.
Perhaps exhaustion was the trigger—he'd trekked halfway across the country to find his way back to this hellhole of a town. But no, he'd stopped for a catnap just outside the city walls, unable to resist the sun-dappled allure of a giant oak just far enough off the beaten path for safety.
He usually felt fantastic after a doze, typically got his sleep that way instead of spending the night somewhere more formal, but this time, for the first time he could even recall, he’d woken up to a sharp, searing pain in his skull.
Assuming a drink would set him right, he'd dragged himself into the first tavern he'd spotted, so unaccountably miserable that it had taken him about three tries circling the building to even find the door before stumbling over the threshold. He'd growled his order at the old man behind the bar before slinking into a seat in the corner.
Away from rowdy drinkers and light-fingered thieves, prying eyes not to be trusted—the calculating ones who watched him while weighing the risks of trying.
Zoro gagged on his next swig of ale, his tongue thick on the roof of his mouth when he swallowed. Shuddering through another tentative sip, he forced it down just to prove he could. If there was a chance he was getting sick, his next order of business needed to be finding somewhere secure to spend the night, and fast.
“Oi, you ok, big boy?”
A well-balanced sneer, teetering between helpful and insulting. Directed at him? Yes, directed at him. Focus. Can’t fall apart here.
Zoro squinted, scrunching his face as tightly as possible to limit the ambient lighting when he peeled his gaze up from his drink.
Golden hair swam in and out of sickening blurriness. Blinking once, twice, he peered closer to zero in on a crystal blue eye with an eyebrow cocked disparagingly at him. Eyebrow. What the hell was up with the eyebrow. He traced the line of it, his head following the swoop into a curl that went around and around and arou—oh, fuck.
He retched, stopping just short of embarrassing himself completely by clamping his mouth shut, recovering with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“Yep. Good,” he grunted, not trusting his traitorous body to communicate anything more complicated.
“You better not do what I think you’re about to do,” the snide voice warned. “I’ll toss you out of here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“Not gonna,” Zoro rasped out. A prickle of sweat tickled as it beaded on his forehead. Why was it so freaking hot in here? Was his mouth always this wet? “Like to see you,” he swallowed hard when his stomach rolled again. “Try.”
He managed a grin that read more like a grimace, barely clutching at consciousness when the blue eye widened from disdain into alarm.
Deeper than the ocean, Zoro decided absently, watching them fade as his world sank into darkness.
He reached for her, like he always did. Straining, desperate, he watched in horror as she slipped beyond his reach, like she always did. Panic rose, slamming him awake.
A familiar dream in an unfamiliar place.
Zoro froze, holding his breath. His heart still rabbit-quick from the dream, he listened, ears pricked for any sound in the room. Detecting none, he cautiously lifted his head.
He was somewhere soft and plush. A bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent the night in a bed, or even inside for that matter.
The afternoon sun shone through the panes of a large window next to him, illuminating a patch of light on the bed and warming his legs. Leafy branches were partially visible through the glass. He looked up, taking in the smooth wooden planking lifting into a peak above him. A second floor, or an attic—somewhere that looked like a home.
Better than waking up in the dismal chill of a cell.
Maybe.
He did a mental scan starting at his feet. Bare, no boots. The linens were soft under his heels, the weight of the blankets gently tented over his toes. Pants… suspiciously absent. An ugly twist in his gut, he tracked his way higher, relieved to find his bottom half still somewhat clothed. His undershirt was still in place, but his cloak was missing. His swords were obviously gone, though he could sense them nearby. All the knives he’d secreted away had been meticulously located and removed.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, gazing around the room. Clearly someone's private quarters. Clean and tidy, minimally decorated, but with a lived-in feel distinguishable from the meaningless décor of any other room in an inn. His eye flicked towards the small wooden dresser tucked up against the wall, roving over the stylish mirror mounted above it. A few scattered possessions lay on top, their haphazard array more indicative of daily use than mindless clutter. An overturned book lay on the chair next to the bed, its reader called away to some more meaningful task than watching him.
So, not under guard, per se...
He moved to sit up and felt a ring of heat flare around his wrist, the sudden sting of it halting his motion. Curious, he looked down, upturning his palm to find a length of fine cording knotted loosely around his wrist and attached to the head of the bed behind him.
He frowned, interpreting now that he was less free to leave than the cozy setting had initially implied. He tugged, another warning zinging up his arm when the tether constricted, reducing the slack.
An intriguing deception. The simple knot was a misleading enchantment if it was charmed to react to tension on the fibers. Whoever had rigged the damn thing was clever, he'd give them that.
Careful not to disturb the cording around his wrist any further, he scooted himself fully upright in the bed. A simple wooden table sat across the room, his knives arranged in tidy rows on top, tantalizingly out of reach. His swords were leaned against an elegant wardrobe just behind it.
With a heavy sigh, he sagged against the headboard, racking his brain for his last memory of reality. A splitting headache, a dark corner. Blond hair and a striking blue eye. Dizzy.
Shit. Had he passed out in the tavern? He raked a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck while he thought.
Embarrassing. Dangerous.
Carelessly amateur, Kuina would have clarified, scathing in her assessment of his actions.
He had to get out of here before whoever put him in this bed returned, absolutely uninterested in playing any more of whatever this game was. Casting a more deliberate glance around the room, he spotted his cloak hanging over the back of a chair by the table. His boots had been placed next to it, all his other clothing folded on the seat with his belt coiled neatly on top.
Zoro drummed his fingers on his leg, careful not to disturb the cording around his wrist. Think.
His eye fell on the pillow lying next to his hips, snug inside its cover. Grabbing at the edge of the fabric, he shook the pillow out one-handed, letting it fall onto the bed beside him. Folding it into a flat strip over his lap, he threaded the cloth between the loop of cord and his wrist, keeping his pace painstakingly slow to conserve the remaining slack. Fumbling with the fabric a moment, he wove it into a tidy knot and pulled it tight with his free hand and teeth, grimacing when the enchanted cord cinched around his wrist.
Holding his ensnared arm in front of him, he worked the top corner of the sheets through the loop, finagling it between every place the cord brushed his skin. Barrier complete, he wiggled a leg out from under the blankets and tucked his foot into the looped pillowcase.
Clutching his wrist to his chest, he pushed with his leg, straining against the knotted fabric. Heat flared against his skin despite his attempted layer of protection, the pillowcase fibers creaking in protest. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his leg harder, forcing his knee all the way straight until the cord broke, the sharp snap of its release abrupt in the quiet room.
He cringed at the noise, holding his breath until he was certain it hadn't elicited a reaction from anywhere beyond the bedroom. Scowling, he examined the reddening burn encircling his wrist, shooting the broken cord a baleful glare. Under different circumstances, he would have been impressed with the enchantment, though he certainly didn’t appreciate it being directed at him. Shaking the rest of the pain away, he examined the mangled pillowcase, noting that it now boasted a blackened scorch mark, a series of small tears, and a knot so tightly cinched it would require an unreasonable amount of determination to release.
An unfortunate casualty. He tucked the ruined cloth under the bare pillow in apology. Magical bindings aside, his host had been mostly hospitable. He hadn't intended to leave the room worse than he'd found it.
On guard, he slid out of the bed, gingerly spreading his weight as he slunk across the floorboards. He reached the chair with his clothes, wriggling into his pants and tossing on his overshirt. They smelled noticeably fresher than he remembered, the pleasant scent of something citrusy and herbal wafting up to his nose. He threaded his belt back through its loops before beginning the process of buckling and tucking his knives away in their various hiding places, sighing at the cool comfort of steel next to his skin. Safe. He reached for his swords, gathering them into his arms with his boots and cloak.
Much more optimistic now that he was dressed and armed, he crept to the window and peered out, delighted to find himself on the second floor with a first story awning easily jumpable from his position. The fates must be in his favor today. He wrapped his cloak around his swords, bundling them against the wall before slipping into his boots.
Willing the window and its decorative latches into silence, he flicked the clasps open and lifted, both pleased and amused when it slid open without a hitch. Apparently he and his clever captor were in agreement regarding the importance of a stealthy exit. Grabbing his swaddled blades and tucking them under his arm, he threw a leg over the sill when the bedroom door swung open.
He ducked on instinct, gripping into the windowsill with his free hand and clutching his swords with the other, his eye darting towards the entrance of the room. He hadn’t heard any movement on the stairs, hadn’t felt anyone approaching.
A lithe figure carrying a tray stepped into view, his long, golden hair swept back from his face by delicate braids, his bangs falling to cover one of his eyes. He moved with the practiced ease of a fighter when he crossed to the table, his grace unmistakably Elven.
Zoro watched him assess the rumpled sheets on the bed and then track straight towards the window, evaluating his awkward straddle halfway over the sill. He shifted, ready to slide out the rest of the way when the elf spoke.
“Wait.” Spoken as neither command nor plea, a request indicating more needed to be said.
Zoro stilled, pinned in place despite the risk of lingering.
“I know you’re hungry. It’s been at least three days—that’s how long you’ve been out.” The elf set the tray down, transferring a steaming bowl and a glass of water to the table.
Zoro weighed the information. Three days was a modest estimate; the truth was longer than that, if he cared to admit it. He’d traveled light and fast, intending to address his hunger once he’d reached the town before falling ill. The scent of something savory, seasoned and roasted, wafted towards the open window and his mouth watered at the delicious promise of the bowl’s contents. Hell-bent on betraying his thoughts, his stomach growled, the traitorous grumble too loud to ignore.
“You better not waste this.” The deliberate, authoritative chink of a metal spoon on the wooden table accentuated his warning. He slid one of the chairs at the table back with his foot, indicating for Zoro to come and sit. “If you’re wondering, I didn’t do anything to it,” he remarked casually, striking a match and lighting a long-stemmed pipe. He leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his legs at the ankles while he took a satisfied drag, blowing smoke into the air. “Quit stalling and come eat.”
Zoro swallowed, watching the elf's perfect lips shape the exhale, transfixed by the effortless elegance of his fingers where they balanced his pipe. The scruffy hint of a beard clung to the elf’s chin, an unusual choice, but oddly suitable for the figure in front of him.
Spellbound, he drew his leg back inside, unfurling his cloak to settle his swords at his hip in a last-ditch effort to steel himself against complete beguilement. The elf snorted, arching his curled brow at the unintentional theatrics.
Crossing the room to slide into the chair, Zoro tossed his cloak over the back, automatically reaching to adjust the three scabbards at his side The elf watched him closely as he picked up the spoon and dipped it into the bowl. The pale-yellow broth was thick with vegetables and slivers of roasted chicken, a curl of thick, eggy noodles languorously looped below the steaming surface. Zoro looked up, meeting the blue-eyed gaze assessing his reaction to the food.
“Uh, thanks." He cleared his throat, awkward in the face of unexpected hospitality. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly aware,” the elf assured him, “but this tavern doesn’t need the hassle your lifeless body outside would have given it. I’m merely protecting my best interests.”
Zoro choked on his first spoonful of soup. “What?”
“Pretty careless to get so drunk that you passed out in a tavern full of criminals and lowlifes.” The elf inspected the back of his hand, flipping it to scrutinize perfect cuticles. “Honestly, I’d expected more from you, based on all this,” he gestured at Zoro’s clothing and weapons. “Unless you just look the part... You compensating for something with all these knives?”
“I—what?” Zoro blinked, taken aback. “I wasn’t drunk. Your damn ale made me sick.” Probably a slight bend to the truth there, but he wasn’t a doctor and the drink definitely hadn’t helped.
“Excuse me?” the elf snorted, dubious.
“Yeah, that and your stupid curlybrow.” Zoro shoved the chair back from the table, suddenly remembering the dizzying loops and gesturing at the swoop with his spoon.
It was the elf’s turn to splutter. He clapped a hand over the eyebrow in question, the blue eye beneath narrowing in anger.
“My eyebrow isn’t curly."
“No?” Zoro challenged, riding the escalation as he pushed to stand, leveling his spoon like a blade. “Why’re you covering it then.”
The elf glared at him, shifting out his jaunty lean against the table when he lowered his hand. His gaze flicked towards the bed, finally spotting the discarded cording.
“How’d you get out of that,” he demanded, his voice dipping low and wary.
“Took it off,” Zoro stated evenly. He cracked his neck, taking the opportunity to evaluate the situation. For fuck’s sake, he probably looked ridiculous brandishing a spoon.
The elf was confident, he’d give him that. Whatever was happening here would undoubtedly escalate if he went for a blade. Tempting. He hadn’t had an interesting fight in ages and this looked promising. If this cocky shit wanted to trash a room, he could happily comply. Pity about the nice bed, though.
He paused on the brink of pressing forward. A scuffle would also draw unwanted attention from downstairs. No telling how many of the elf's colleagues were waiting below.
“Who sent you here,” the elf growled. “Choose your words carefully. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“There’s no point to deception,” Zoro retorted. “And no one. I make my own way.”
He watched the elf evaluate the truth of the statement, congratulating himself for a rare de-escalation.
“But you can see my… this?” The elf swirled his hand above his eye, mimicking the spiral.
Zoro nodded.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I’m Zoro.” The telltale flicker of recognition he was usually able to spot was refreshingly absent. “I’m assuming you’re the one who dragged me up here,” he continued, tilting his head as he ticked down the list. “Took my clothes, ransacked through everything I own, tied me to a bed. Your bed,” he realized, brandishing the spoon again. “Am I missing anything?”
The elf’s cheeks pinked. “I can explain all that,” he muttered, defensive. “You’re making it sound different than how it was.”
Zoro crossed his arms, pleased to regain the upper hand. “And how was it, since apparently I slept through the whole thing. Terrific acquisition of consent, by the way.”
“I would never do anything untoward,” the elf protested, visibly horrified. “You’re the one that passed out. Knocked over your drink, by the way, spilled it all over your asinine hair and your clothes, which, may I add, were filthy before the addition of a pint of ale. You were too far gone to even realize all the attention you drew with your moronic little stunt. I can’t imagine what you did to the next table over, but they were all extremely interested in you.”
Zoro shifted, losing some of his moral high ground. He’d been so preoccupied with his headache that he hadn’t even noticed the table next to him. On a regular day, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but given the strangeness of this situation, he doubted the evening would have ended in his favor had the elf not intervened.
Kuina would have been livid at how he'd dropped his guard.
“And, yes, this is my room,” the elf continued, indignant. “There weren’t any others open, and I was absolutely not about to get your disgusting mess on my clean sheets. I removed your clothes to wash them—a courtesy you're clearly not capable of appreciating—which was when I discovered you had no fewer than,” he paused for effect, “sixteen knives hidden on you, including three full-length swords." He glared at Zoro, daring him to contradict. "Sound about right?”
Sheepish, Zoro shrugged. He honestly wasn’t sure how many knives he had on any given day. The number tended to fluctuate wildly based on any variety of circumstances. Sixteen sounded like a pretty solid estimate.
“I was really pretty nice about tying a heavily armed stranger to my bed considering I didn’t know if you were going to murder us all in our sleep,” the elf reflected. “I could have made it so you couldn’t move at all.” The thinly veiled threat snuck into his conversational tone. “Besides, I really am curious how you got loose. I wasn’t aware there was a counter.”
“Tch,” Zoro snorted. "Pretty cowardly to murder someone in their sleep. And a charm, or whatever that was, is only as strong as the physical limitations of the object you choose."
The elf gave him a skeptical look, noting the inflamed ring around Zoro’s wrist. “Shouldn’t be too hard to make it stronger than your limited self-preservation and stupid brute strength.”
Zoro was quickly finding that fighting with a sharp tongue was almost as good as using a sharp blade. Unable to resist one last cheeky riposte, he flexed, making the muscles under his shirt dance when he winked, full of suggestion.
“Like to see you try.” He chalked up a mental win when a rosy flush crept across the elf's pale cheeks.
Kuina would have scolded him for flirting. Or maybe she would have been pleased. He wasn't actually sure.
The threat of an altercation dulled to a tenuous truce as they eyed each other. The elf moved first.
“Come finish your lunch. It’s probably cold by now anyway. I’m Sanji,” he added as an afterthought.
Zoro complied, returning to his seat and dipping the spoon into the broth for a second taste. It still held some of the warmth from earlier, the hearty flavor inviting on his tongue. He forced himself to keep a slow pace. Better to not seem too eager.
“I can pay you,” he offered, fumbling through a rare attempt at social niceties.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sanji declined absentmindedly. He’d crossed to the bed, fishing through the linens to find the cording. “You really did snap this,” he observed, examining the raw edges in the light.
“Don’t like to be tied down,” Zoro grunted around the mouthful of roasted chicken and vegetables, intending every meaning of the phrase. “Clever, though,” he added, giving credit where credit was due. Cunning, manipulative even, to force a prisoner into passivity to avoid self-inflicted harm. “How’d you do it?”
Sanji's gaze flicked away. “I soaked the fibers in a potion I made."
Zoro’s brows arched in surprise. A potion-brewing elf working in a small town tavern? A bit outlandish, perhaps, but who was he to judge.
“Could it work with other stuff?” He wasn’t particularly interested in participating in any further experiments, but this would be a handy item to keep on-hand, especially if it was more potent.
“Like thicker rope?” Sanji considered, his fingers gliding over the length of cord. “Probably.” He glanced over at Zoro, a glimmer of shyness flitting over his face. “This was the first time I’ve actually tried it.” The admission was quiet, different from the confidence he’d been sporting earlier.
Zoro tossed back the remainder of his water, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve when he pushed to stand from the table. For a first attempt, it had been an impressive effort. Gaging by the residual heat still lingering around his wrist, the burn would last a few days before fading. The elf either had a natural aptitude for potions, an excellent teacher, or some combination of both. Sanji would be a force to be reckoned with, if he so chose.
“You have my sincere thanks for the meal and your hospitality,” he stated, slipping into the formal wording drilled into him while he tried to formulate his exit.
He reached for his cloak. Based on Sanji’s retelling, he’d been extraordinarily lucky. Requiring any kind of assistance was an infrequent occurrence—his preference, if he had any say in the matter. He would repay this favor, refuse any indebtedness.
Sanji's brow wrinkled at the ceremonial pleasantry. “Enjoy them with my compliments,” he replied, using the proper response necessitated by Zoro’s bumbling foray into etiquette.
Zoro gestured to the open window and the bedroom door in silent inquiry, receiving an amused snort in response.
Window, then. More fun, less attention. He crossed the room, ducking to slide through the opening. Controlling the drop, he clung to the outer lip of the windowsill. Hesitating, he debated his descent to the awning below before pulling himself back up, high enough to see into the sunny bedroom. Sanji still stood by the bed, gazing thoughtfully outside with his arms folded over his chest. His curled brows rose at Zoro's sudden reappearance.
“Bye,” Zoro blurted, flashing him a wolfish grin.
A smile warmed Sanji’s face, and Zoro gripped the sill harder before he fell. Shit, was this why elves never smiled? Or was it just this particular smile on this particular elf? Dazed, he let himself drop to the awning of the first floor, checking for observers before he slipped off the edge to the footpath curved around the building.
He straightened his clothes, readjusting his scabbards, the light, citrusy scent of the elf’s soap floating towards his nose when the fabric shifted. He’d have to remember this tavern, maybe stop by again before continuing his journey. If nothing else, the elf was certainly intriguing enough to warrant a second visit.
He could almost see Kuina’s eyes rolling at his antics. Get it together. Zoro shook his head to clear it, intent on finding the blacksmith as he set out along the road.