Title: Side Effects
Words: 4106
Rating: T for some swearing and violence.
Characters: Sanji, Zoro, Robin
Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Fishman Island arc. There are some discontinuities between what happened during the arc and what's written here.
Summary: Zoro and Robin have their first taste of Sanji's Attack Cuisine. Set post-Fishman Island.

It's over.

Sanji can't help grinning stupidly to himself at the thought.

The war for Neptune's kingdom is over, the nightmare of Kamabakka is over, the crew's long separation is over. He's back on the ship where he belongs, he's back in his galley, his own galley, after those two excruciatingly long years and then two torturous days on the island that should have been paradise.

He feels so utterly content he's almost tempted to follow Brook's lead and break into song, but a glance out of the porthole reveals a gigantic moon hanging gloriously low in the sky, and he restrains himself to preserve the Sunny's rare quiet. The rest of the crew are in bed, recovering from their undersea battle and the gigantic banquet that followed it, and they deserve their rest.

And then there's this.

This is the best part of all, Sanji thinks as he bends down to ease a sachertorte out of the oven – finally trying out the recipes he's suffered countless humiliations to learn, on the people he learned them for. As he breathes the heady aroma of chocolate deep, his sensitive nose detects the hint of apricot, the sweetness – but not too sweet – of the icing, and then of course, recipes 10, 38 and a dash of the all-important 99, just a teensy dash because Robin-chan doesn't really need it after all. Sanji's decided that she should be the first recipient of this particular culinary delight, given that Robin-chan has volunteered to take the first watch tonight.

The proportions were also easy to calculate, for he'd lain awake in bed on Kamabakka many a night, aching too much from the day's battle to sleep, reconstructing Robin-chan's measurements from memory and calibrating the ingredients of each hard-won recipe to her build and body composition. He'd done the same with Nami-san, but now that he's seen her after two years of deprivation, he's come to the conclusion that his calculations definitely need some tweaking. A lot of tweaking.

He feels the all-too-familiar sensation of the blood rushing into his sinuses, and quickly suppresses it. It takes only a couple of deep breaths this time – somehow it's easier for his thoughts to retreat to safe subjects while surrounded by the quiet sanctity of his galley. And it would be too bad to have to wake Chopper up after all his hard work patching up the injured on Fishman Island. He knows, too, that Chopper went around soliciting donors for his ultra-rare blood type before they left the island and froze the supply, and though he knows there's Fishman and merman blood in there, the okamas on the island were also particularly enthusiastic donors. Sanji doesn't particularly want to have even more of their blood coursing through his system.

He bends to the task of decorating the torte with tiny hearts of marzipan and swirls of cream, then steps back and looks proudly upon his creation. He places it on a plate of the finest china, puts that on a tray, and exits the galley with his offering. A quick moment of reflection, and he decides to try the crow's nest, where Robin-chan usually keeps watch, probably while reading one of the books she's been parted from for two years. The boards flex silently under the reinforced heels as he walks across the deck to the mast, almost quivering in anticipation of the moment he's awaited for so long.

It's a moment that should have come two days ago, when the whole crew had gotten together, but since meeting Zoro at Grove 42 his life has been a whirlwind of chaos and fighting and nosebleeds. It could have come four hours ago, too, at dinnertime, but he'd figured he should begin slowly, customising his recipes to one person at a time. If there's one weakness to Attack Cuisine, it's that it doesn't lend itself to large-scale catering, unless said catering is for a hundred identically boorish and burly okama on whom such considerations would be utterly wasted. No, he'll take it slowly, and savour each individual triumph. Robin-chan today, maybe one of the guys tomorrow at lunch, Nami-san in the evening...

The instinct to mellorine is dispelled when a deep voice intrudes on his thoughts as he nears the hatch, so unlike the melodic voice of Robin-chan. What's the marimo doing up here at this hour, anyway? The clank of a several-tonne weight a moment later tells him the answer, and Sanji shakes his head. Whatever Zoro's been learning from Mihawk in the last two years, he certainly hasn't figured out how to sleep when the world is supposed to be asleep, or to be awake when the world is supposed to be awake.

Whatever. Sanji braces a leg against the ladder and taps with a heel at the hatch – not for Zoro, of course, one simply does not intrude on a lady without knocking – so he's annoyed to hear the marimo's gruff voice respond, "Come on up."

"I wasn't asking you, dumbass," Sanji growls, but before Zoro can get a retort in, he twirls around to face Robin. "Robin-chwaaaaaan! I hope I do not disturb you! I have brought you a light dessert to tide you through the watches of the night." To his left, he can see Zoro rolling his eyes – no, eye now, he reminds himself.

"Why, thank you, Sanji-san," Robin says pleasantly, sending a chill up his spine when she utters his name. "It looks delicious," she adds, as Sanji hands her the plate and a dainty little fork besides.

"Thank you, Robin-chwaaaaaan," Sanji croons.

"Oi, curlybrow," Zoro interrupts, putting down his weights.

"What?" Sanji snaps, his eye never leaving Robin-chan's face. He knows he has to watch carefully, with her. She's always so guarded, so reluctant to let her expressions show. So it's a real victory to witness that arch of her eyebrow, and that slight upturn of her lip, that no one would know to look for, save those who know her best.

"Hungry," Zoro says, towelling down his sweat.

"You're what?" Her fork slices through the cake, she spears it...

"I'm hungry," Zoro repeats.

"It's your own fucking fault for missing dinner, bastard," Sanji hisses, but the magic word has already wormed its way into Sanji's brain, demanding his attention as insistently as a stab to the gut...no, Sanji tells himself sternly, if the marimo chooses to sleep through a perfectly-prepared dinner, it's his own damn fault, and besides, one delicate forkful of the torte is reaching Robin-chan's lovely, full lips now, and her reaction will follow in just a second, and this he has to see, he's waited two years and two days for this moment, after all...

But Zoro was injured, another part of his brain whines, injured in the service of the crew, and everyone on the Thousand Sunny knows that Zoro self-medicates with sleep, which is why no one woke him, which is why he's hungry now, which is why Sanji has to...

Then Sanji sees Robin-chan's lips part to admit the delicacy, and he forces himself to forget the marimo, tells himself he can take care of the swordsman later. Ten seconds. Surely Zoro can cooperate for just ten seconds...

"Okay, guess I'll make something myself," Zoro shrugs, slinging the damp towel around his neck, and he moves towards the hatch.

"You'll what!" Sanji whirls around to eye him, incredulous at the thought of the marimo invading his own sacred space.

"What, think you're the only one who knows how to cook around here?" Zoro smirks.

"I'm not letting you touch a thing in my galley, marimo! That's my space, how would you like it if I started touching your weights and things?"

"You should," Zoro retorts. "Those puny muscles of yours need a good workout."

"Why, you..."

Robin interrupts the building quarrel by handing Sanji the plate back, now empty. "That was excellent, Sanji-san," she smiles.

Sanji glances down in disbelief, then back at her, then turns on Zoro, barely resists the urge to break down and howl in front of Robin-chan, and says a tight-lipped "You – come with me."

"What the hell'd I do?" Zoro asks.

Robin laughs softly and says, "You'd better go with him, Zoro-san."

He does.

One short, furious battle later, abbreviated only by the fact that Sanji doesn't want to disturb Nami-san's beauty sleep and Zoro's afraid of alerting Chopper to the fact that he's fighting against doctor's orders, they're back in the galley, Sanji making up a plate for Zoro and Zoro downing a drink a few grades of alcohol better than he deserves. He'll let the marimo have the good stuff for once, because he's not going to allow the meal he's carefully preparing to be marred by the horsepiss Zoro calls liquor.

The atmosphere is...peaceful.

For all of Zoro's all-too-obvious flaws as a companion, in spite of the grievous offence the idiot still doesn't understand he's committed, Sanji feels himself relaxing in the swordsman's presence. It's a nice change to be in the company of a man who wouldn't know his inner maiden if she came up and punched him in the face.

Though if the marimo's telling the truth, there is one thing he now shares with the residents of Okama Island. "So you know how to cook now, huh?"

Zoro shrugs. "Any idiot can cook."

Sanji shoots him a lethal glare, but it goes wasted on Zoro's blind side.

On the other hand, that makes it safe for him to take the time to appreciate the image before him. More than seeing Zoro sitting triumphant atop one thoroughly-wrecked galleon, more than hearing of his feats of underwater sword prowess, exaggerated – or perhaps not – by Usopp, it's seeing him here, leaning casually against the doorframe and swigging a mug of ale without a care in the world, that takes that last, searing memory of Zoro that Sanji's carried around for two years – hand clutching bloodied shoulder, tormented to the point of collapse, broken – and lays it to rest.

Maybe he would let the marimo cook sometime. Only under the strictest supervision, of course, and only because he's curious what kind of cook Zoro'll make. He wouldn't be surprised if Zoro's idea of haute cuisine is to impale a potato with a stick and roast it over an open flame.

"Sit," he finally orders, turning his attention back to the sea king he's grilling. He tops it with chorizo sauce – its richness will mask the strong flavour of Recipes 11 and 23, the ones he's earmarked for Zoro's use ever since he first learned their functions – and heaps on a generous serving of vegetables and white rice.

Zoro takes his usual place at the table – it's funny how the whole crew gravitated back to their old seats, after two years – and Sanji sets down the meal in front of him and takes the opposite seat. The idiot marimo is no compensation for Robin-chan, but he might as well salvage what professional satisfaction he can from the situation.

"Itadakimasu," Zoro chants, clapping his hands together for a brief moment, displaying the only table manners he seems to know. And he'd better be grateful, Sanji thinks grimly, remembering the hellish days he went through to get hold of Recipe 11 in particular. Zoro spears a piece of sea king and chomps down on it, and Sanji leans forward hungrily to see the swordsman's reaction.

He's rewarded with a bug-eyed look of surprise as Zoro chews, and he knows exactly why it's there. Those two recipes are some of the fastest-acting in the Attack Cuisine repertoire, designed to be consumed just before combat. Already tired muscles are being rejuvenated and rebuilt, aches and pains are dissolving away, energy flooding in in their place. Zoro's probably feeling better than he has for – well, fuck, years.

Zoro's throat moves as he swallows, and he opens his mouth as if to speak. Sanji leans back and awaits an awkward expression of reluctant gratitude.

Instead Zoro pushes back from the table and stands up, swords clanking angrily, his mouth curling down in a disgusted frown.

Sanji's jaw drops. "What the hell? Where d'you think you're going?"

"I can't eat this shit," Zoro rumbles, and stalks towards the door.

For the briefest of instants, Sanji thinks he must have made a mistake. Then he realises he doesn't make mistakes when it comes to cooking, but he checks anyway, snatching the plate and taking a sniff. No, even under the delicious-smelling sauce his trained nose can detect the ingredients, all present in perfect proportions carefully tailored to his nakama's nutritional needs.

Zoro reaches for the doorknob, but Sanji's there first, foot jammed firmly against the exit. "You're not leaving until you finish your meal," he warns. "I don't care what the hell's wrong with your tastebuds after two years of your own shitty cooking, I'm not having food wasted in my galley."

"You eat it, then," Zoro growls.

"I can't. It was made for you," Sanji snarls back.

"Then what the hell are you playing at?" Zoro's anger is somehow different now, after two years – a cold burn that seems to chill the room down to zero.

But Sanji's spent the last two years being pissed off at his okama companions, at Bartholomew Kuma and at life in general, and his wrath is easily equal to the marimo's. More than equal, since his pride as a cook is at stake, and if Zoro thinks Sanji's spent two years in hell playing, he has another think coming.

"Explain to me," he manages to grind out without kicking Zoro's head in, "how this delicious, nutritious meal counts as shit?"

Zoro's eye still retains its air of suspicion, but he does look a little sheepish as he answers, "It doesn't hurt anymore."

That's not the answer Sanji thought was coming. "What? What doesn't hurt anymore?"

Zoro spreads his hands. "Me. I don't hurt anymore."

Sanji can barely believe his ears. "The food made you feel better, and that makes it shit? What the fuck are you, some kind of masochist?" Actually, he already knows the answer to that one. "Here, I'll put it in terms you understand. Pain, bad. No pain, good. You savvy, you fucking idiot marimo?"

Zoro crosses his arms stubbornly. "It's supposed to hurt! If it doesn't hurt, that means I'm not getting stronger."

Sanji stops, and he stares, because he sort of gets it. Zoro's been in non-stop training to be the greatest swordsman in the world since he was, what, seven? He knows the kind of training Zoro inflicts on himself, and though getting swatted around with the shit geezer's peg-leg wasn't exactly a picnic either, it's not the same kind of punishment. What Zoro puts himself through is dull, deadening, pain upon pain, and he puts up with it because he knows it means he's growing, because it takes him one step closer to his goal.

But what goodwill and understanding he feels for the marimo instantly dissolves when Zoro continues, "It reminds me of those damn Energy Steroids that fish guy was popping."

A pained silence falls, as Sanji recalls what those pills did to that shitty fish-bastard – what was his name, anyway – oh yeah, Hody. How his hair had turned bleach-white, and how he'd become even more of a raving berserker than he'd started off. And for what? It hadn't even made him strong enough to defeat Luffy.

And Zoro thought that was what Sanji had just done to him?

"You're accusing me of doping your food?" Sanji measures out each word slowly.

"Er..." Even Zoro seems to notice he's on dangerous ground now. Maybe the leg catching fire gives it away. He just manages to dodge when Sanji's foot goes through the door, and Sanji's sure that it's only because of Recipe 23.

"I'm a cook!" Sanji roars. "I don't put anything into my food that's going to hurt the people who eat it, in the short or long run!"

"There's gotta be a catch. You don't just get stronger without having to sacrifice something in exchange," Zoro protests. Sanji's glance flickers up to Zoro's eye, the one that no longer functions, and wonders what that bought.

"There is no catch," he says testily. If there is, he's already paid for it, with two years of his life. "The ingredients are natural, just hard to find. And most of them aren't even that special – it's as much about how they're put together as the individual ingredients themselves. It's perfectly safe."

"I'm not so sure about that, Sanji-san," Robin's voice comes through the hole in the door, instantly dispelling his rage, and a moment later she steps into his galley.

"Robin-chan! Did you come for sec..." Sanji chokes on his sentence when his entire field of vision is suddenly filled with beautiful, bountiful, womanly assets.

"I assume this is a side effect of one of your recipes? Or perhaps your hand slipped a little when you were adding one of the ingredients?" she asks.

He tries to reply, but the pressure building up in his head is overwhelming. No, he can't react like this, because, okama blood. But, Robin-chwaaaaaaaaan...

Through the blood pounding in his head, he distantly hears Zoro yell something that sounds like a warning, and Robin's cool response of "I'm on it, Zoro-san."

And then comes the cracking agony.

When the pain ebbs enough for him to become aware of his surroundings once more, Robin-chan's glories are gone. The marimo's still there, though, looking a little pale under his tan. "Robin says she hopes for your sake the effects wear off soon, and that you forget that recipe ever existed," Zoro informs him.

Sanji gingerly checks that everything's intact, then puts a hand to his face. The nosebleed never materialised, presumably because the blood was urgently required elsewhere.

"So, perfectly safe, huh?" Zoro asks, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. "And you were lucky, too. I hear when she did that to Franky it went on for freaking ages."

"Maybe I did go a little overboard with the breast enhancement recipe," Sanji wheezes, getting to his feet. He should have known better, he realises now: the recipes have been tested almost exclusively on men, and the recommended serving sizes are probably woefully inaccurate for ladies, especially in an area where men and women start off at very different baselines. He'll have to tender his most abject apologies to Robin-chan later. Perhaps, for his own sake, when the effects have indeed worn off, he regretfully decides. For now, he has a more urgent task at hand.

And it's not going to be an easy one. Zoro's looking at the plate like it's going to give him rabies. "Did you say 'breast enhancement recipe'?"

"I didn't put it in yours, bastard. Why would I want to see you walking around with..." Sanji stops, because the mental image is too horrific to put into words, and he wants that memory of Robin-chan to linger forever.

"What kind of cook even comes up with a breast enhancement recipe?"

"If I ever tell you, I'll have to kill you," Sanji says, wearily lighting a cigarette to banish the memories of the chefs of Okama Island. "Next question."

"Can I go now? Without you making another hole in the Sunny?"

"Not till you've eaten, marimo. Look," he says suddenly, the sight of Zoro's katana giving him an idea, "Those swords of yours – they're pretty good, right?"

Zoro gives him a look of righteous indignation. "They're more than good, they're some of the best katana in the world," he says, with more than a hint of pride. Dollops, actually.

"D'you know how a sword is made?"

"Yeah. You take high-carbon steel and low-carbon steel and weld 'em to get rid of the impurities, and then you..." Zoro begins to recite, like he's a kid back from a field-trip.

"Okay, okay, I'm not here for a lecture on sword-making. But d'you think the steel that went into those katana was shitty steel?"

Zoro looks scandalised at the suggestion. "'Course not, they're made from the very best materials by the very best swordsmiths."

"And could those swordsmiths just throw those materials together to get a good sword?"

"No! You've gotta use the different kinds of steel in the right proportion – if the ratio's out of whack, the katana won't be strong and supple."

"Exactly," Sanji says triumphantly. "It's the same with you. You can train all you want but if you put shitty ingredients into your body, or if they're in the wrong proportions, your body's not gonna be as strong as it could've been."

Zoro looks down at the plate. "So you're saying that I'm the katana...and you're forging my body?"

"You could've made it sound a little less suggestive, shitty marimo, but sure."

Zoro flexes an arm experimentally. "This means I can train even longer than I could before," he says in sudden realisation.

"Yeah, or you can actually give your body a break sometimes." Like that's gonna happen, Sanji knows.

Zoro looks contemplative. "I dunno if that's fair."

This coming from the guy who fights with three swords. "Attack Cuisine's not fucking fairy dust, dumbass. It's not like you're suddenly gonna be strong enough to beat Mihawk just because of what you had for lunch. It's not a Devil's Fruit. All it does is let you use your abilities to the max."

"Hm," Zoro says noncommittally, but he looks a little happier for the reassurance. He sits down, and pulls the plate towards himself.

Sanji's an inch away from winning, he knows it. But still Zoro stares down at the food, and doesn't eat.

"What's the matter now?" Sanji snaps, his patience wearing thin.

"You said you couldn't eat this," Zoro points, "'cause it was made for me."

"Yeah, the proportions would be totally wrong. So?"

"That means you need to make something different for each of us. You already spend most of your day cooking, and now you have to cater to each person?"

Sanji's a little taken aback that the marimo would actually consider something like that. But he shrugs. "It's okay. I'm starting slow and trying them out one by one. Once I have the hang of your individual physiologies, I can adapt the recipes and get faster. It's no big deal," he adds, seeing Zoro open his mouth to make an objection. "I'm Luffy's cook, right? It's my job to help the crew get stronger."

Zoro still looks a little discomfited, and Sanji thinks he knows why. "None of us got stronger for ourselves, idiot. You said you studied with Mihawk, right? Don't tell me he agreed to teach you without making you grovel for it first." And Sanji knew there was only one thing – or rather one person – in the world who could induce Roronoa Zoro to beg. "We got stronger for Luffy. That's why we were all sent where we were." It pains him to admit it, but since hearing about the others' experiences in the past two years, he's finally realised that Bartholomew Kuma knew what he was doing, even with him. He'd asked each of them what they'd wanted, and they'd each answered the same thing.

I want to get stronger, for the sake of my crew.

Zoro picks up his spoon, and shovels in a tentative mouthful. Sanji quickly stubs out his cigarette, and sits down to bask in his victory.

"It's better than anything I've eaten in the past two years," Zoro grudgingly delivers his assessment, "but I still think your old cooking was better."

Yeah, right. Sanji knows what people look like when they're genuinely enjoying their food, and even Zoro can't completely suppress that look of sated bliss. But he just says, "Suck it up, marimo. It's training."

Zoro obediently gulps down the rest, then picks up the empty plate and hands it over to Sanji. "Seconds," he demands.

Sanji quirks an eyebrow, then takes the plate and goes back to the stove. He decides to whip up a little something for himself too, in celebration. He contemplates adding a bit of Recipe 11 to ease the soreness he's still feeling from his completely-justified punishment at Robin-chan's hands, then decides to take a leaf from Zoro's book and forgo it.

The ache in his jaw, from the ear-to-ear grin he's wearing? He wants to savour that for a very, very long time.

A/N: Phew! It took a long while (delayed by writer's block) to finish this, but I really wanted to get this out before its contents get even more invalidated by the current arc, so I'm glad this is here.

To everyone who's still willing to read my fics after my being gone so long, thanks for your patience and no, I haven't forgotten my unfinished fics like Thirty Sword Katas. They'll be finished at some point, especially that one.

As always, any feedback, including concrit, is very welcome! Thanks for reading.