cw hallucinations, brief description of violent imagery (torture)
They’re investigating a ruined dungeon when it happens.
The crew was separated after they came across some lone pirate who claimed to be an archaeologist, much to Robin’s amusement. He was trying to dig up some sort of relic that makes everyone who disturbed it “go mad,” supposedly. Though, the more they talked to him, it was clear that he was messing with things out of his depth, the surrounding ruins leaking with something sinister. And as the crazed man struck the wall with his pickaxe, the ground crumbled beneath them and swallowed them whole.
Which is how every Straw Hat found themselves stranded in a labyrinthian ruin.
Zoro’s not afraid, because he knows he can keep his senses about him.
More so than usual, the place is a goddamn maze and Zoro keeps hearing little sounds like the shift of blowing sand and water dripping somewhere that he can’t pinpoint. But no matter how loud he yells, he doesn’t hear a single one of his crewmates call back. He considered just smashing through the walls, but he recalls Robin emphasizing the flimsy structural integrity; one load-bearing wall could bury everyone, and Zoro doesn’t feel like digging that much.
So he stomps aimlessly through the quiet rubble, ducking through worn stone arches, listening for anything, any familiar voice that could lead him out.
“Help…”
Zoro freezes in his tracks. That was. A voice.
“H-Help…!”
Zoro clenches his jaw. He knew that voice. But at the same time he didn’t. That was the stupid cook’s voice. But it didn’t sound right.
It wasn’t right.
“S-somebody… please… I ca-can’t—”
Zoro starts to walk again. That couldn’t be the cook. It sounded exactly like him. No way was he mistaking that grating voice for someone else, it could only be him. But it didn’t sound any way the cook sounded like before. It must be a trick.
“An-Anyone… I’ll even take… th-the moss head at this point, haha…”
A pained gasp reverberates against the pathways, choking on something, and Zoro realizes he’s been holding his breath. It was a trap, that sounded like Curly, but it wasn’t. When the cook was down in a fight, he was either gritting his teeth to get back up, or he was out cold. He might yell out for backup if he was still standing and conscious, or grumble towards some unspoken agreement if he was back-to-back against Zoro. If he were really backed into a corner, maybe he’d scream angrily.
“Stupid… marimo…”
Zoro steps on something. A cigarette butt, he thinks. He doesn’t pause to check.
But the cook never begged for help. Never sounded so defeated and helpless, the calls Zoro heard just faint whispers against stone. This had to be an illusion, concocted by that sick bastard cloying through his mind for something that would distract him. An odd choice, surely one he’ll laugh about later to his crew once they find each other. He’ll laugh and tease the cook about begging him for help, another point for Zoro in their never-ending games.
“Z-Zoro…”
Except that Zoro can’t laugh right now. He has felt terrible agony. Imagined terrible scenarios. Yet he couldn’t fathom how a sound could fill him with such despair until right this very moment.
“Zoro..! Help, Zoro…!!”
A sob echoes through the halls and Zoro is running.
Something pulls at him, leading him where he needs to be, his feet carrying him so fast that his shoulders are checking chunks of stone out of entryways, and he can’t remember what Robin said about the structure of this place because his voice is calling to Zoro for help and Zoro needs it to stop.
In his mind flashes the scene of a bloodied cook being tortured, with blades stuck through his hands to keep him against the floor, with his legs snapped and sprawled beneath him, his spirit broken and begging for it to end, and Zoro knows this can’t be true, it’s all made up because Sanji is razor-sharp steel just like him, and there’s no way that could happen to him, he couldn’t let that happen to him, and as Zoro climbs steps towards a room with a light, he’s still holding his breath—
“MOSSHEAD, STOP!!!”
Fingernails dig into his arm as he’s pulled back, his leg hovering just shy of the last step.
He breathes. The fog clears. He stares at the ground in front of him. The stairwell he climbed dropped off into a deep, dark pit, several stories of floor collapsed a long time ago. The light he saw earlier was gone, the echoing voice quieted, and Zoro blinks away the memories as best he can. It takes a few moments to will himself to turn back to the hand on his bicep.
It’s Sanji.
It’s the cook. A little banged up, but no more than usual. He’s alive. He’s fine. And he’s staring at Zoro like he does when he’s half-dead in the infirmary.
“Idiot, you nearly fell to your early demise!!” He yells, finally releasing his grip on Zoro’s arm. He doesn’t mention how the cook was holding it so hard, there were red indents. “Even you couldn’t survive that fall, and I’m sure there are spikes at the bottom of that chasm! There’s some freaky shit going on in this place but I’ve found Chopper and—“
Zoro’s only half listening. It wasn’t real. He knows it wasn’t real. Knew it wasn’t. He was hearing things. He was right, it was a trick. He’s still gasping for air. And as Sanji opens his mouth to shoot a jab at him, he stops.
Zoro belatedly realizes that he grabbed Sanji’s hand at some point, thumb pressed into the palm like he’s searching for some give in his skin. A scar or wound that should be there, but isn’t. He waits for a kick that doesn’t come, his breath still uneven, and oh how he hates that. Hates his body losing control. He tries to take deep breaths, Sanji’s hand an anchor. And when he refocuses on Sanji’s face, it’s softened, brow furrowed in concern, not confusion.
He understood, somehow.
Zoro doesn’t let his grip up. Sanji doesn’t make him let go.
They don’t say anything as they start walking back together, their crewmates clearly unnerved by the sight when they reunite without a fight.
It’s only when they’re back on the Sunny, smoking and drinking by the railing under nightfall, that either of them speaks.
“What did you hear?” Sanji whispers, so quiet that Zoro nearly missed it. He could ignore it if he so chose, and the cook is fully aware.
Instead, he looks ahead, biting the inside of his cheek before replying. “What did you?”
He’s ready to be hit with a retort about dodging the question, but that doesn’t come either. The tension makes Zoro wish that Sanji would just hit him with a kick or a verbal jab. But instead, a sidelong glance spots Sanji twisting his cigarette in his mouth, thinking. Slowly, like trying not to spook a wild animal, he reached out to grab Zoro’s bicep, in nearly the exact same place he grabbed last time.
“Help.“
Zoro’s eye widens, Sanji slowly turning to meet his gaze.
“You were calling… for help.” He says, trying to keep his face level even as his voice cracks.
And Zoro wants to look away, to make a joke, throw a tease, say something, ANYTHING, to make the memories go away, to force himself to forget knowing exactly what Sanji heard, to chuck them out like a bottle to sea, to be found any other day than today.
But instead he nods, a mournful grimace creeping on his face.
“Yeah,” Zoro whispers, the quiet night stretching between them. The only sounds to be heard are the gentle shifts of Zoro’s hand over the cook’s, and the drip of Sanji’s tears against the Sunny railing.
