He's mending a shirt when they come back, glaring at it and swearing each time the needle stabs his finger. She fights back a smile, reminding herself that he's a man, after all, and he's wonderful and confident and talented, just not at sewing. He doesn't look up, but she knows he's aware of them; the way his shoulders relaxed when they entered tells her he's been waiting for them, and not just staying up to fix this shirt.

Behind her, Sanji makes a sound that's somewhere between annoyed and amused. He could probably mend a shirt without pricking a finger, or without swearing if he did. But then, Sanji has always been more domestic than Zoro, more refined.

He's sewing with harsh, quick movements of the needle, as though the shirt is an enemy and the needle one of his katana. But while his katana will never cut their master, the needle feels no such reverence, and Nami worries that soon he'll start to bleed on the shirt.

"If Chopper sewed like that, you'd look worse than you do now."

She finds herself wondering who sewed him up the first time after his fight with Mihawk, before the wounds reopened: from the look of it, they were no better with a needle than Zoro. Surely he didn't do it himself. She has never asked, and probably never will. The man is closed-mouthed about the past in general, and even more recalcitrant about this sort of thing.

Sanji has closed the door behind them, and she can hear the whisper of fabric as he hangs up his dinner jacket, takes off his tie. Zoro didn't come with him to the restaurant; he hadn't wanted to, so they hadn't asked. Instead he's here, sprawled on her bed, trying to keep busy to hide how much he worries about them when he can't watch over them. She thinks it's sweet, but she'll never tell him so.

She takes the shirt out of his hands and settles herself in his lap. The warmth of his body, his hard legs on either side of her own, his bare chest against her back, banish the chill that comes from wearing a dress that, while beautiful, is not very practical for an autumn island. She starts to sew, her deft fingers making stitches far finer than his sloppy ones.

"You'll muss your pretty dress sitting like this." She feels the words as a rumble against her back, and smiles to hear Zoro complimenting her dress, even if he's trying to be manly about it.

"The dumbass is right, Nami-san," Sanji says gently. He has removed his elegant silk shirt and is checking the cuffs for stains, as though he doesn't have the most perfect table manners Nami has ever seen.

"As though either of you notice what I wear," she retorts. As if there is ever a day when Sanji doesn't compliment her on her outfit in some way, or Zoro doesn't eye her appreciatively in a way she knows means he thinks she looks fabulous.

"You wound me, Nami-san."

"Just because we prefer it if you aren't wearing anything, doesn't mean we don't notice," Zoro mutters defensively.

"Even the dumbass notices," Sanji adds, as though Zoro hasn't just admitted he does, even if it's disguised as another of his attempts to appear tough.

Strong hands undo the fastenings of her dress, fingers pausing now and again from their work to rest on her back, to brush against her sides. They move slowly, uncertainly, as though unused to the delicacy of their task.

When he's finished, he slides the dress off her, taking care to let his calloused hands run all along her as he does. He folds the garment inelegantly and gives it to Sanji to be put away. She notices how the cook refolds it properly before he puts it in the drawer, notices how he tries to hide the action.

Sanji brings her a t-shirt to replace the dress; one of his that he left in her room so long ago, and which she never gave back. Zoro helps her put it on, and she considers telling him that she's not a child, she can dress herself. His hands lingering about her hips, wanting to touch her and not wanting to give in to even such a simple desire, stops her. He needs the contact right now, and she's not so cruel as to make him ask for it.

When the blond joins them on the bed, he sits next to Zoro with their shoulders not quite touching, distaining to touch despite how his hand twitches towards the pair of them. He's wearing an old pair of Zoro's pants that have been sitting in her drawer since forever, and they hang off his hips in a way that makes him look thinner, and slightly lost. This is a side of him she doesn't see often, when he lets himself go and relaxes, and it's only now she can see how tightly wound he normally is.

"Did you have a good dinner?" Zoro asks when the silence starts to go on too long and they're all aware of the distance, and it's clear that neither of them is willing to back down and close it, even if they both want to.

"It was nice," Sanji tells him. "You found the dinner I left?"

"Yes." He doesn't thank Sanji for hiding a second dinner where Luffy won't be able to find it, so that Zoro doesn't have to fight his gluttonous captain for food.

The silence comes again, and she's starting to think that she'll have to say something, perhaps have to forcefully pull these two together, when Sanji sighs. "Jackass," he says, as his head comes to rest on Zoro's shoulder.

"Stupid dartboard eyebrows," Zoro answers, his arm slipping around Sanji's back. Sanji makes a noise that sounds something like annoyance.

Nami finishes the row of stitches and bites the thread off, then folds the shirt to put aside. Sanji leans forward and gives her a kiss on the cheek. And because Zoro can't say it, he says, "Thanks."

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