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“I’m not really much of a cook,” Usopp stammered, “I mean, in my prime, I was the greatest cook in all of East Blue, but it’s been a few years, and I’m rusty.”
“Are we supposed to just starve then?” Nami glared, “I certainly can’t cook for Luffy. And Luffy can’t cook for Luffy.”
“I’ll do it,” Zoro said.
Usopp and Nami turned to stare at him.
“Do what?” Nami asked.
“Cook,” Zoro replied, “It’s just until curlybrow gets better, right? How hard can it be?”
“Have you ever cooked before?” Usopp asked, edging backwards when Zoro glared at him.
“No, but I know my way around a blade, and I’ve peeled apples before,” Zoro said, crossing his arms, “If the shit cook can do it, so can I.” He moved to the stove and stared at it. “How do I turn this on?” he frowned, trying to make sense of the dials and buttons.
“God save us all,” Nami sighed, “Why don’t you just make a bunch of salad?”
“Our captain isn’t going to survive on rabbit food,” Zoro said, opening the oven and peering inside, “I’ll start with something easy. I can just toss some meat in here, right?”
“We’re getting food poisoning for the next few days. We really need a doctor,” Usopp said.
“Both of you just leave. I got this,” Zoro said, ignoring the grumbling of his crewmates as they left the kitchen. He began opening random cupboards and rifling through drawers to figure out what Sanji used for cooking. He felt slightly guilty as he did so, rooting around the cook’s kingdom like a thief. “It’s just for a few days,” he told himself, “Then I don’t ever have to come back in here again.”
In the furthest drawer from the stove, he found a leather-bound book and opened it, recognizing Sanji’s neat handwriting. There, on the first page, was a list of the Merry’s kitchen equipment and instructions on how to operate each, dated on the first day Sanji joined the crew. Zoro, for the first time in his life, felt grateful for Sanji’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“Press the grey button, hold it down, and turn the dial to the left to start,” he read. He tried it, crowing happily when a burst of flame came from one of the burners. He turned it off and went back to Sanji’s notebook, testing out the other equipment one by one.
Happy with his progress, Zoro turned to the next few pages, which were a record of where Sanji kept various types of ingredients, complete with diagrams. Grains up high away from mice. Spices and room temperature sauces in a pull-out drawer by the stove. Vegetables in the pantry organized by how quickly they would spoil. Even the fridge was divided into sections by type of meat, dairy, and produce. Zoro snorted. The cook likely organized his underwear by color and type.
The thought of Sanji’s underwear made Zoro feel uncomfortably hot, so he quickly closed the book and went to explore what supplies they had available.
---
Halfway through trying to figure out why there were so many different bags of rice that looked mostly the same, Zoro looked up when Nami rapped on the door.
“Sanji wants to see you,” she said tiredly, “He said if you don’t come talk to him before doing anything, he’ll jump off the ship and swim back to the Baratie.”
“Good,” Zoro muttered under his breath, but followed Nami to the sickbay.
When he walked in, Sanji was trying to sit up, a dark expression on his face. He looked terrible.
“You look terrible,” Zoro said.
“Shut up,” Sanji glared, his voice hoarse. He opened his mouth, likely to say more rude things, but devolved into a fit of coughing instead. Zoro waited for him to finish.
“You don’t know how to cook, you’ll get everybody sick,” Sanji managed to say, eyes watery as he wiped his mouth.
“It’s okay, I’m going to use your book,” Zoro replied, offering Sanji a nearby washcloth.
For some odd reason, Sanji’s pale face turned red at this statement.
“Don’t touch that book,” he hissed.
“Too late, I already did. You’re kind of crazy, cook, but I know how to use the oven now and where to find the ladle.”
“Fuck,” Sanji sighed, “Just… there’s a soup recipe on page 34 that should be easy enough for you. Make that and don’t look at anything else.”
“Is it your diary or something too?” Zoro drawled. To his surprise, Sanji looked away, his face now turning a nasty shade of green. Deciding he should stop before Sanji cycled through all the colors of the rainbow, Zoro nodded, “Okay, page 34. I won’t look at anything else, cook. Your darkest secrets are safe from me.”
“Don’t set anything on fire,” Sanji said, glaring at Zoro but there was an underlying pleading tone in his voice.
“I won’t,” Zoro said, “How hard can it be to make soup?”
---
It was quite hard.
Zoro, suddenly confronted with a slight burning smell, began to panic and removed the pot from the fire. He inspected the underside of the pot to see if the pot itself was burning. After verifying it was not, he peered into the pot and saw that there were black bits on the bottom underneath the onions he had chopped into smithereens.
“Maybe I should have made them bigger,” he said to himself, “What does dice mean?” He decided that nobody had ever died from eating charcoal and pressed onward with the carrots and what he hoped was celery. Sanji had very clearly listed the ingredients in the recipe, but hadn’t labeled the various drawers in the fridge or the boxes in the pantry.
It was a strange feeling, using Sanji’s knives. The cook had clearly been using them for a long time, the grooves and ridges in them, worn into the handles through time and repetition, were meant for more slender fingers than Zoro’s. But the edges were sharp and true, slicing through everything easily. The cook took good care of his blades, Zoro could appreciate that.
After adding all the vegetables, Zoro turned to the chunks of meat lying on the table. The recipe called for chicken legs, but the various cuts of meat were also not labeled. Separated from fur and hide and from general animal shapes, the slabs of flesh meant nothing to Zoro. So Zoro had taken out everything that looked like it could be a leg. He frowned, trying to imagine a chicken. It was smaller than a pig, right? He chose the smallest leg-looking pieces of meat and dumped them into the pot.
“I should stir everything around,” Zoro said, frowning as he looked at the continued blackening at the bottom of the pot. He pulled out a ladle and began poking at the mass of raw food, some of which appeared to be stuck irretrievably to the pot.
“Use white wine to release browned bits,” Zoro read from the recipe. He went to the one section of the pantry that he knew well and pulled down a bottle of wine. Uncorking it with his teeth, he dumped half of it into the pot and drank the other half. If this was cooking, he could get used to it.
Sanji’s recipe called for adding a certain amount of water and various spices at this stage. Zoro found a few measuring cups, and began painstakingly adding water to the pot. After remembering that he didn’t measure the wine he had just added, he gave up and filled the pot to a level that would be acceptable for feeding Luffy.
The spices were another matter, the recipe filled with words that he couldn’t even begin to pronounce. He looked between the pot and the recipe book a few times, before giving up, turning the fire off, and heading to the sickbay.
---
Zoro peeked through the circular window of the sickbay, trying to see if Sanji was awake.
“What are you doing, Zoro?” Usopp asked, poking his head over Zoro’s shoulder to see what he was looking at.
“Is the cook sleeping?”
“Probably, he had some water and medicine and conked out.”
“How long do you think he’ll sleep?’
“I dunno, but he should probably sleep a lot.”
“Do you know what oregano is?” Zoro asked.
“Sounds like a monster.”
“Do you think the witch knows what oregano is?”
They heard a thump and Zoro peered into the window to see Sanji glaring at him. He opened the door tentatively, picking up the shoe that Sanji had thrown and shuffling to his bedside.
“I’m not dead, I can hear the two of you chattering outside,” Sanji said.
“What’s oregano?”
“It’s an herb. It’s greenish, like you.”
“Hang on, cook, I’ll be right back.” Zoro ran back to the kitchen and gathered every jar that contained anything greenish, bringing them all back to the sickbay. Sanji sighed and peered at the jars, “You’ve completely messed up my organization. You probably won’t put them back in the right spot. All my spices are organized by cuisine.”
“Okay, fine, cook. Which one is oregano?”
Sanji held up one of the jars. Zoro’s hand brushed his when he grabbed it, and winced at how cold Sanji’s hands were.
“Are you sure you’re not dead?” he asked cautiously.
“I feel like I’m about to be,” Sanji sighed, burrowing back under the covers until only his eyes, tired and bleary, were visible.
“I’ll get you some food soon,” Zoro said.
Sanji nodded and closed his eyes. “If you have any other questions, just ask me,” he said, “I’d rather you wake me up now than wake up to all of you being sick from uncooked meat in a few hours.”
“Luffy won’t.”
Somehow, Sanji managed a smile, “No, Luffy won’t. But if Nami gets sick because of you, I’ll never forgive you.”
Brushing off the threat, Zoro looked at the recipe book, “Actually, now that I have you, what is cumin?”
Moaning, Sanji began sitting up, pushing off the layers of blankets wrapped around his thin body, “I can’t deal with this, I’d rather just cook my last meal than answer all your questions. And you’re pronouncing it wrong. It’s ‘cumin.’”
“No way, cook,” Zoro said, pushing him back down, “You’re supposed to be resting.” He glared down at Sanji, who rolled his eyes and sighed.
“I’m not going to be able to rest worrying about you blowing up my kitchen and getting all the ingredients wrong,” Sanji said.
“Okay,” Zoro replied, suddenly wrapping his arms around Sanji’s torso and hefting him up, “Then you can rest in the kitchen while I take care of everything.” He bundled Sanji up in blankets, covering even his face to avoid the cook’s spluttering and carried him to the kitchen.
“Wait here for just a second,” he said, carefully laying him on the dining table, before returning to the sickbay and picking up the cot, forcing it through two doors and spreading it out on the ground of the kitchen.
“I can get there myself if you just unwrap me,” Sanji began, but Zoro was already carrying him to the cot. He removed the blanket covering Sanji’s head, but otherwise tucked him in tightly until he resembled a disgruntled mummy.
“You should get sick more often,” Zoro grinned, trying to fix Sanji’s disheveled hair, “It’s much easier to deal with you this way.” He quickly moved back to the stove, laughing as a string of expletives and insults were thrown his way.
---
“You should make some kind of starch to go along with the soup,” Sanji said. He had fallen asleep while the soup simmered, tired out after ten minutes of criticizing every movement that Zoro made.
“I can make rice,” Zoro said, “Do I just dump it in the pot?”
“Are you crazy?” Sanji said, “The starch content will make the soup all gloopy and by the time the rice cooks, the rest of the ingredients will have boiled to smithereens.”
“Has anybody ever told you that cooking is annoying as fuck?” Zoro asked.
“Go to the pantry and get some orzo. That cooks fast,” Sanji said imperiously.
“I have no idea what orzo looks like.”
“It looks like rice,” Sanji hissed, “But it’s yellow and flat.”
Mumbling about why there couldn’t just be one type of rice and one type of noodles, Zoro followed Sanji’s instructions, boiling the Not Rice for ten minutes in a separate pot of water.
“Okay, now drain it, wash it off, and add it to the soup,” Sanji said. Zoro stared at him like he’d grown another head, “You just told me I couldn’t add it to the soup.”
“No, I said you couldn’t cook it in the soup. It’s cooked now, so you can add it. Let it boil for a bit, and then let me try it to see if it needs any changes.”
Annoyed that Sanji was making up rules just to make him wash an additional pot, Zoro nevertheless did as he was told, ladling some soup into a bowl and bringing it to Sanji. When Sanji started hacking up a lung after blowing on a spoonful, Zoro took the spoon himself and began cooling it down before offering it to Sanji.
Tentatively, Sanji accepted the bite, chewing slowly before swallowing. He was silent, face impassive. Zoro found himself growing nervous. It was the first meal he had ever cooked. It probably wasn’t five-star cuisine, but Zoro had snuck a few bites himself and thought it tasted fine.
“It’s serviceable,” Sanji said finally, “Needs a little more salt and then you can call the rest of the crew to eat.”
Zoro leapt up to add more salt, feeling strangely elated at the acknowledgement from Sanji that his food was “serviceable.” Cooking wasn’t all that bad, he decided. Maybe he’d try a more complicated recipe for the next meal.
“Zoro.”
He turned to see Sanji looking at him, face the reddest it had been all day.
“Thanks. For cooking,” Sanji said.
“Yeah, curly,” Zoro replied. Before-Cooking Zoro would have scoffed at Sanji’s words, but After-Cooking Zoro only felt a swelling of his heart as a grin spread across his face. “Lemme get you a bowl first before Luffy gets here.”
---
“You know, this really isn’t that bad,” Nami said, “If I had this at a restaurant, I would only ask for a bit of my money back, not the whole bill.”
“It’s so yummy, Zoro,” Luffy said, sitting at the dining table with the pot in front of him. Zoro had been too lazy to keep spooning out bowls for him, and had plopped down the pot unceremoniously after warning Luffy not to burn his fingers.
“I had my doubts—” Usopp began, then backtracked, “I never had any doubts that Zoro could cook.”
“Surprisingly, the mosshead can follow orders at least,” Sanji said, lying back down on the cot. His bowl of soup was still half-full. “I’ll eat the rest after a nap,” he murmured, closing his eyes, “Don’t you dare throw it away.”
“Is something wrong with it?” Zoro frowned.
“I’m just not that hungry, and you gave me a huge bowl,” Sanji said, “It’s good, mosshead. Don’t worry.”
“Should I bring you back to the sickbay?” Zoro asked.
“No, I like it here. It’s warm,” Sanji said, his voice trailing off as he drifted asleep.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Usopp said, standing up, “I can take the afternoon shift of watching Sanji.”
“No,” Zoro said, “I’ll do them. The cook always does the dishes when he cooks. And I’m going to make something for dinner too, so I should get started. I can watch curly while I cook.”
“How reliable,” Nami said, watching him closely and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, “You’re a good crewmate, Zoro.”
Zoro grunted, finishing the rest of his own bowl quickly and moving to the sink.
It really wasn’t bad, his soup.
---
Zoro stared at the notebook on the table. It was still turned to page 34, Chicken Vegetable Soup written on the top margin. But if he was going to cook something else, he would need to turn to a different page. But Sanji had told him not to look through his book. But the crew needed to eat, and Sanji had fallen into the first restful sleep he had since getting sick overnight.
Deciding to risk it, Zoro stuck his finger into a random page of the book and flipped to it quickly.
The page was worn and slightly wrinkled, as if Sanji had spilled water on it at some point. Unlike the neat handwriting on the first page and on the recipe Zoro had used, this page was covered in hurried scrawl. Zoro peered at the page, trying to read the words on it.
Doesn’t like cucumbers, unless julienned in a cold veggie dish
Can’t handle anything spicier than ancho chile on the scoville scale
Dislikes sweets (but will eat mochi with green tea paste, skip dusting of powdered sugar)
Seems to prefer shoyu tare to miso or shio, but should verify
Allergic to pineapple (?)
Pasta al dente, rice overcooked
Chicken > pork > beef > lamb
Doesn’t seem to like shellfish
Loves unagi
Loves onigiri, but strangely not unagi onigiri? Strange mosshead
Zoro stared at the page, full of meticulous notes about what Zoro liked and disliked, ranging from temperature to salt level to style to time of day to alcohol pairings. His chest felt strange as he pored over the page. Different lines were written with different color pens, some neatly, some more hastily as if Sanji had quickly jotted his thoughts down even when he was busy so he wouldn’t forget. Some words were underlined multiple times for emphasis, some crossed out or corrected. Other pages included recipes snipped from newspapers, with crew member's names scrawled across the side and Sanji's corrections to taste. Here, in his curly, loopy handwriting, was a record of how much Sanji cared about the crew, about Zoro. He turned the page, hands shaky, and found another set of writings, these slightly more organized, each dated, beginning from when Sanji and Zoro had first met to an entry from a week ago.
Onigiri Diaries
Found out mosshead’s favorite food
Talked to an onigiri food stall chef and got some good tips on how to fold vinegar mixture into rice
Wait till the last minute to add nori or it will get soggy
He picks off sesame if too much, just a dash is good
Experimented with different onigiri shapes and to be honest, he doesn’t seem to care if it’s triangle or ball or anything
Likes the mayo-heavy fillings
Huge success with adding sake to vinegar mixture, keep doing so in the future
Getting close to the perfect onigiri with the flaky steelhead, remember to pick some up in the market next time. Or salmon if in a pinch but a little too fishy for him so remove skin
Nailed it today, he looked really happy! :)
Zoro slumped down in the chair, turning his gaze to Sanji’s peaceful face. He remembered the onigiri Sanji made for him last week. He had been training in the crow’s nest, annoyed after a battle with a lowly pirate crew during which he hadn’t managed to cut their ship in half as cleanly as he would have liked. Sanji had poked his head in and put down a plate of onigiri before attempting to retreat. Zoro had insulted the angle of his eyebrow to get him to spar, and they had sat down afterwards to eat the onigiri together.
To be honest, Zoro couldn’t recall that the onigiri was any different from any previous ones the cook had made. They were all delicious, and Zoro was certain he couldn’t pick out a steelhead from a salmon if he were slapped across the face with either. But he had enjoyed eating with Sanji, the cook’s biting words about how to improve his fighting style somehow made him feel better.
Ah, what to do, he mused, looking between the book and Sanji’s sleeping form. For a while now, ever since he had met the annoying cook, he had known that the way he felt for Sanji wasn’t the same as how he felt for the other crewmembers. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to name what he felt when he saw Sanji. If he had to assign a word to his relationship with the feisty man, he would simply say “special.”
He flipped through the book and found similar pages dedicated to the other crewmembers, but none maintained as fervently as his. For the first time, he was confronted with evidence that, to Sanji, maybe Zoro was special as well.
Not one for dwelling or wavering, Zoro took out the pot he had used for lunch and flipped the recipe book back to page 34. He would do better this time on the soup. The crew, except Luffy, would complain about eating the same meal twice, but Zoro wanted to perfect Sanji’s recipe, wanted to show him that Zoro also had dedication in spades. He went to retrieve the vegetables, and then glared at the various jars on the counter, trying to remember which one of them was cumin.
---
Sanji woke up halfway through the orzo cooking (in a separate pot, as per Sanji’s strange requirement).
“What are you making?” he croaked. Zoro hurried over with a glass of water, helping Sanji sit up.
“Chicken Vegetable Soup,” he said.
“Again?” Sanji sighed.
“It’s going to be better this time, curly,” Zoro said.
“What happened to my leftovers?” Sanji asked.
“I finished it,” Zoro shrugged.
“You’re going to get sick too.”
“I’m made of stronger stuff than you,” Zoro retorted, helping Sanji lie back down. Sanji halfheartedly punched at his chest before his hand fell weakly back onto the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Not so ache-y, but still cold,” Sanji muttered. Zoro tucked the sheets tighter over his body.
“Cook,” Zoro said, turning over how he could tell Sanji that he had seen more of his book, “I… I like any onigiri you make for me.”
Sanji cracked an eye open, “Um. Okay.”
“It doesn’t have to be very particular,” Zoro said, “Like any kind of fish or filling. It’s all good.”
“You read my book,” Sanji said, voice icy.
“On accident. I wanted to find another recipe to make tonight, and you were sleeping really well.”
“Don’t get a fucking big head, it’s a cook’s job to make sure the crewmembers get the food they like—” Sanji began, and Zoro could see his body tensing up.
“I liked the onigiri from last week because you ate it with me,” Zoro interrupted, “Not because it had sake in it or because there was an ironface.”
“Steelhead.”
“Whatever,” Zoro said, “I looked happy because you were there.” Having said his piece, he folded his arms across his chest and waited for Sanji’s answer.
Sanji’s eyes were closed again, but his cheeks and the tips of his ears were red. The silence between them stretched longer and longer until it was broken by a beeping sound. The timer for the orzo. Zoro stood and went to turn the fire off, wondering if he had ruined the fragile peace he had managed to achieve in the past day with Sanji. After he rinsed the orzo off and added it back to the soup, he returned to stand by Sanji.
“I’ll call in the crew for dinner,” he said quietly.
“Mosshead,” Sanji said, raising a hand to grab Zoro’s wrist, “I spent the most time trying to learn what you like and don’t like. Mostly because you’re so hard to figure out. You don’t tell me like Nami does or love everything like Luffy does or answer my questions like Usopp does. Everything is just good or fine. I want to cook for you and make something so delicious you can’t help but light up, and I’ve been almost obsessive trying to find that one dish. And now you’re telling me that when I finally thought I found it, you were happy not necessarily because it was tasty, so what the fuck am I supposed to do now—”
“I’ll answer your questions, cook,” Zoro said, plopping down on the chair, “I do like shoyu tare the best. I don’t like cucumbers, but I tolerate them in the cold vegetables dish because I like enoki mushrooms. I didn’t know I was allergic to pineapple, but if you say so, I probably am. I like mochi with green tea paste because it was my best friend’s favorite sweet and we used to have it on her birthday. I do like unagi onigiri, but the one time you made it, you said you made it because it was Nami’s favorite so I was annoyed.”
“I made it because you like unagi,” Sanji moaned, “You dumbass.”
“Then why didn’t you say so, idiot?”
“Why didn’t you just tell me you liked it, stupid mosshead?”
“I will. From now on. I’ll tell you,” Zoro said.
“Okay, good,” Sanji replied, deflating.
“Tell me what you like too,” Zoro said, “I can cook for you too.”
“I like everything.”
Zoro rolled his eyes and stood, grabbing Sanji’s book and opening it to a new page. He wrote “Cook” on the top and looked pointedly at Sanji.
“Are we really doing this?” Sanji asked.
“Yes, tell me what you like. What’s your favorite food? I’ll make it tomorrow.”
“Spicy seafood pasta,” he glared.
Zoro frowned. That sounded complicated.
Sanji’s face softened, “But I also like lasagna, which shouldn’t be too hard for you to make. It goes well with black tea, which is my favorite tea.”
“I like green tea better.”
“I gathered as much,” Sanji said dryly.
“What else?” Zoro asked.
He sat there with Sanji until the sky darkened, until the cook had exhausted his list of likes and dislikes. Zoro nodded, content, and ripped the page out of the book.
“Oi,” Sanji squawked, “Why the fuck did you do that? That’s a Doskoi notebook.”
“I need it,” Zoro said simply, tucking it into his haramaki, “Why would you need a list of your own likes and dislikes in your own notebook? I’ll try my best tomorrow with the lasagna business.”
“Zoro,” Sanji said, averting his eyes, “Whatever you cook for me, I’ll like it. Don’t stress about it. Nobody ever really makes me— well, never mind.”
“You’ll like whatever I make?” Zoro asked.
“I mean, it has to be a base level of edible,” Sanji said.
“Too late, you already said whatever I cook, you’ll like it,” Zoro said smugly.
“Go call the crew for dinner before Luffy eats the anchor,” Sanji glared.
---
One week later
“That apron clashes horribly with your hair,” Sanji said. Zoro looked down at the apron that Nami had gotten for him. It was a bright red with the words “Kiss the Cook” written on the front. He shrugged, turning back to the stove.
“It’s better than yours,” he said, before going back to the recipe for spicy seafood pasta. He had already splashed pasta sauce everywhere, but luckily the color of his apron hid the stains.
“What the fuck is a fennel frond?” he glared.
“I got it,” Sanji said, going to the fridge and returning with spiky plant leaves.
“Don’t put it on yet,” Sanji warned, “It’s a garnish to add just before serving.”
“Are you supposed to eat it?” Zoro asked skeptically, “It looks like a tiny pine tree.”
“Yes, you eat it,” Sanji sighed, “Would I put something on food that you’re not supposed to eat?”
“You put those edible flower petals on.”
“Because they’re edible,” Sanji said, flicking Zoro on the forehead. He stood next to Zoro for a moment, watching as Zoro pushed around the pasta a bit before turning off the stove.
“It’s done,” Zoro said happily, “Just wait, cook, it’s going to be the best fucking meal you’ve ever had—"
Then, Zoro felt a quick warm press against his cheek and turned to stare at Sanji who had backed away to the kitchen door.
“Did you just… kiss me?” Zoro asked, feet cemented to the spot.
“The stupid apron. Distracting. Ignore me, going crazy,” Sanji managed to say, beckoning in the air as he looked like he was suffering from a stroke. Zoro decided then and there that he would never take the apron off again. It would be easy enough to fight in. The sight of Sanji scrabbling desperately for the door handle to escape made Zoro’s feet lurch forward until he was able to grab Sanji and touch their lips together himself.
When they finally separated, Zoro brought his forehead to Sanji’s. “Do I only get a kiss if I cook for you?” he asked hoarsely.
“For now,” Sanji replied just as shakily.
“I’ll be in charge of breakfast, lunch, and dinner then,” Zoro said, “Sorry, I’m Merry’s new cook.”
“Chef,” Sanji corrected.
“Same thing,” Zoro replied, kissing him again.