#dribble

"Huh? Work out? Where did that come from?"

You asked, craning your neck up to look at him with confused brows.

"Like...just, shit, I dont know. Forget i asked."

"No, hey, tell me."

You say, reaching up and turning his face back to as you could feel the turmoil radiating off him.

"You dont ever...get...put off, by all of this, do ya?"

He asked, gesturing to his body as the words sounded strained on his tongue. It didnt take a genius to figure out this all stemmed from some sort of insecurity.

"Of your body?"

"Yea."

"God, no."

You say, letting your hand travel his skin as it comes down to the thicker happy trail, fingers toying with the hem of his pants.

"I like that you're a bit thicker, its honestly such a turn on."

"You're serious?"

"Deadly so."

He laid there, looking down at your hand as he took a breath, letting out a little rumble when he exhaled.

"You're warm, and big, and strong...you toss me around like im nothing and shit, gets me worked up thinking about it."

"You're disgusting, ya little freak."

He says, arm around you sliding lower, hoisting your leg up over him before letting his hand settle on your ass.

"Yea, but you like my little freaky ass."

"Do i? Last time I checked, I hate you."

"Mhm...lemme make it up then?"

You tease, letting your hand slide down into his boxers as he let's out a mix between a chuckle and a groan.

"Insufferable, I swear."

This is genuinely shit reading it back but its already written. Can you tell all I could think about was thick tim and his happy trail?

In the galley, Sanji lounges around, lazily making his way through breakfast. It's really early and not even the earliest riser is set to wake up yet.

Sanji's in his usual getup: button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, tails tucked into his trousers, annoyingly attractive chain hooked through his belt loops, shoes shiny and clean. His hair is still damp and it curls at the ends, yellow like sunshine, bright like something cliche.

He looks up from the dough he's rolling, twitching his head to the side to get his forelocks out of his face. The strands fall back to cover one eye, one ridiculously curly eyebrow.

"Oh," he comments, blinking. Like Zoro's messed something up in the routine. He turns to look at the clock Franky's set up for him: the numbers neon blue, animated fishes of different colors swimming just behind the screen. Furrowed curly brows, strain under his eyes, Sanji turns back to him. "You're up really early, mosshead."

Zoro grunts and slips onto a stool at the breakfast counter. His fingers twitch, tips tapping against the counter's surface.

"...Everything alright?" Sanji asks, tone strained like showing concern for Zoro is weird. Which it is. Even now, it is.

Zoro grunts again, wanting to avoid eye contact but also needing to check. Are his eyes still blue? Is his sclera still white? If he cries, will it be tears or tar or motor grease? Are his veins still visible under his skin, like blue lightning crackling up his forearms, showing he still bleeds, he still has red blood in him?

He clenches his jaw and locks eyes with Sanji.

The cook furrows his brow even further now, lips twitching before they set in a frown. His moustache is filling in more, Zoro notes. It's no longer just a few little wiry hair like when they met up in Sabaody. So he's growing hair still.

Still human.

"Mosshead?"

His cheeks are turning rosy.

Still human, Zoro repeats to himself.

"Oi, idiot, stop acting weird!" Sanji points a flour-coated finger at him. "If you're going to be in here act normally!"

Easily flustered.

Still human.

Zoro exhales long and hard as he lifts a hand up to his eye, rubbing the heel into it. It stings from lack of sleep. He'd had first watch and he should have been asleep from 3 until 7 in the morning. It's a quarter to 6 now and Zoro hasn't slept a single bit.

"M'fine," he finally mumbles, opening his eye just in time to catch Sanji flick some of the flour on the counter at him.

Still a tease.

Still human.

Zoro leans his chin onto his palm and stares at him. Sometimes, the line blurs: when he's vigilantly watching for any anomaly or when he's staring because the cook is a flame and Zoro is a moth.

Sanji settles down, returning to what he's doing, his shoulders showing how comfortable he is. In his element, in the company he's in. He hums something to himself and not for the first time Zoro thinks about commissioning Franky for a tone-dial, if only because he'll be more discreet about it than Usopp.

"I think some breakfast sandwiches will be good today," Sanji says, looking down at his work. Ah, he's making bread from scratch, then. "I can make you the one you enjoyed last time. With the spinach and egg whites? Oh, I can add some---"

Zoro tunes him out for a brief second. He'll eat anything Sanji puts in front of him.

Still passionate about food.

Still human.

"Zoro?"

Zoro blinks and looks at him again.

Sanji's staring at him expectantly, a ridiculous curly eyebrow raised. "Well?"

"Huh?"

"What do you say to that?"

Zoro didn't hear the last half of his ingredient rant. Usually, Zoro listens to him go on about combinations and what goes good with what, genuinely interested but also just feeling warmth and softness at seeing the cook be so passionate.

"Yeah," he croaks. He clears his throat. "Sounds good, cook."

Sanji looks both satisfied and quizzical to Zoro's strangeness. He opens and closes his mouth, thin lips curving around words he doesn't voice. He settles for quiet for now, putting the individual sized dough on two trays and moving to put them in one of the ovens.

The chain at his hip jingles with his movements, lightly bumping against his side with each of Sanji's steps. After putting the bread in the oven, he moves to pull various bowls from one of the cupboards and starts to fill them up with different ingredients. Shredded cheese, spinach leaves, diced tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, bacon bits, bacon slices, cubed bell peppers.

"I'm okay, you know," Sanji finally says, voice soft and low. It's so very unlike him. But he only shows this side of him during witching hours, in the dusk and the dawn, when it's just Zoro with him, when he can show he can be weary and vulnerable under his many, many facades. "I was being honest. I'm... being more honest now. I promise."

Zoro's jaw clenches again.

He'll never keep anything from Sanji, he's been straightforward from the jump: he's going to be watching. It'd pissed Sanji off at the start, aiming kicks at him to send him flying. But then Zoro told him he needed to do this. For the safety of the crew, sure. But because he's Sanji and... Zoro doesn't play, when it concerns his cook, after all.

"Yeah," Zoro mumbles, rubbing a hand down the length of his face. His skin feels heavy. It's an uncomfortable feeling.

Sanji walks around the counter and doesn't move until his front is pressed to Zoro's side. He smells like cigarettes and the faint grainy aroma of the flour he'd been working with.

He's warm.

Still human.

Sanji sighs, leaning forward, his lips ghosting against the skin of Zoro's temple. A hand comes up next, fingertips touching his earrings. "Still me."

"Yeah," Zoro mumbles again, fingers gripping the chain on Sanji's hip.

Still human.

It was a quiet morning as always. The sun crested the horizon, it cast a radiant glow over the landscape, painting the land in hues of amber and gold. The early rays of sunshines caressed your face, like soft warm hands, as you turned your face towards the wide open window of the bedroom, near your shared bed. It was one of the little perks of Jack you had gotten used to under the years. In the late nights of summer and warm spring, when he stumbled home from a long night-shift, he methodically opened the window each night before lying besides you, nuzzling his face aganist the crook of your neck, to hold you close without waking you. 

~~~~

Jack moved through the livingroom with practiced ease, regardless of the pitch black in there. Yet his confident steps slowed, and the noise of his tapping foot was reduced when he walked into his bedroom... Well at this point your bedroom too. Since you two started dating, he noticed the changes. First just in his schedule, then his room too, when you started bringing him presents to which he just rolled his eyes. "If you wanted a new pillow sheet, you could have just told me, hm?" But regarless of the act he put up, the way he tried to keep his serious façade up, it crumbled with each little smile, laugh or simple head tilt you offered as an answer. He scoffed quietly at the memory, before walking to the window to open it. His mouth parting with the way air pours in through the window, and his chest aches with the air that swells in his lungs, to make himself feel less like drowning after today in the ER.

"What's with you and that window?"

You would scoff, face half smushed in the pillows, your pyjama shirt bunched up around the small of your back, where the blanket laid. He just smiled softly, silently walking to the bed, and sitting down on his side, to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead.

"Sorry I woke you." He offered an apology first to which you just muttered an I was awake to.

"I just sweat a lot in my sleep." He lied. You raised an eyebrow, and he knew you were aware, but you didn't push. You just nodded, lifting your blanket, waiting for him to join you. He smiled softly, the tenseness in his shoulders slowly lifting as he takes off his prosthetic leg, it clicks as he places it aganist the night stand, and lies down besides you with an open mouthed kiss to your neck.

"You, today. When I went to pick up my morning shift..." You started, mumbling, soft. He hums in response, as if to say, continue. You sigh as the vision comes back to you. Tired legs you drag into the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, to work yet another draining shift as a nurse. You don't even reach the front desk when you first heard his voice. The soft sushes, the way he talks, low and quiet. It comes from Trauma 2, on the left side of the bay. It makes you furrow your eyebrow in interest, abandoning your want of placing down your bag by your chair at the front desk, you walk to the door. There you see him, Dr. Jack Abbot, your husband in his true self. He holds a tiny baby, barely two months you'd think. The mother sits on the bed, her head in her hands as she cries, while Dr. Heather Collins tries her very best to offer soothing words. She either got bad news about her baby, or she's deep in depression, either is horrible, so you frown lightly, eyes wanting to look away but... You want to kick yourself, honestly, it's horrible from you, but you cannot bear to tear your eyes from the way Jack sways a little, back-and-forth, rocking the baby, trying to soothe his little soul to sleep. His arm is half-flexed aganist the baby's back, holding him safely, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing calming circles, as he turns his head a little to speak to the mother as well. It makes this small urge you've had for years amplify in you.

"You know, with the baby?" Your mind arrives back to the present as you look at him, watching his eyelids flutter open and close as he breathes softly.

"Yeah. He has been crying for hours at that point, the mother was understandably under the weather. We found out it was only a hair torniquet on his toe, nothing serious."

He explains, to which you can only smile, a relieved sigh leaving your chest. It was always good news to hear something wasn't serious enough to end in the NICU.

"What about it?" He asks as he puts his arms behind his head, getting more comfortable in bed as he yawns.

"Do you want kids?" The words roll off of your tounge without meaning to, without filter. It seemingly surprises him just as much as it does you. He blinks a few times, before that well known deep line returns between his eyebrows.

"Do you?" He asks softly, caring, as if to him the only thing that mattered in the whole world was your view, your comfort, your needs. And it was probably true.

You just nod, not daring to speak, as you watch his eyes, being scared it'd come out chocked up, all weird and emotional, when all you wanted is to just talk over the topic.

"...I want kids too, yeah."

~~~

The air pouring in through the window was filled with the sweet scent of petrichor, mixed with the familiar fragrance of soil and the small poppies you had growing under the window.

"In one word, I'd call this serenity."  You'd tell him thousands of times since you moved in, while staring out watching the red petals of the poppys dance in the wind, and to this day, each time it made him smile to hear that, the same loopsided, warm smile which squeezed your heart so much.

When you shift a little to sit up, start your day with a coffee perhaps, his arm slips from your waist, and he lightly grumbles in his sleep. It always serves as a reminder of how lightly he sleeps. A bad habit of his, one that stayed, ate itself trough the rational parts of his mind, spirling him back to the field, the days of constant life of high-alert, and adrenaline. But today (to your joy) he doesn't wake, he merely nuzzles his face more into the red silk cover that you bought for his pillows when you first started sleeping around. He lies there, his chest rising and falling gently with each slumbering breath. The soft, golden sunlight casts a warm glow upon his weary face, making his closed eyelids flutter ever so lightly. His salt and pepper hair, shining with white flecks formed by the sunlight, is tousled and disheveled. A few freckles dot his cheeks, like tiny constellations against his fair skin of which you were an astrologer of at this point. His face is relaxed, the lines of stress and worry that normally mar his features softened in peaceful doze. In his sleep, he looks weightless, the hard lines between his eyebrows, or on his forehead non-existent. It was rare to ever see him so vulnerable, with his guard let down, and so you relished in the sight each moment you could.

You eventually do get up, because even thought you adore to watch over him while he sleeps so soundly, you do have things to do. Such as that appointment your phone harshly reminds you of with a notification the moment you unlock it.

With a sigh, you get up from the bed, one hand rushedly smoothing the blanket, before you walk around the nightstand and towards the bedroom door, from where you walk into the kitchen.

Your eyebrows slightly furrow as you see the aftermath of Jack's arrival from yesterday. You bet he was hungry, from how long his shift was, but also from the way he left the butter and knife sitting on the kitchen counter. You sigh, shaking your head lightly, as you pick them up, tossing the knife into the sink, and opening the fridge to place the butter back inside, hoping it's still salvagable.

You end up only managing to stomach a coffee from the excitement that gnaws at you. From the way you could hear your own heart throb aganist your chest though, you could even call this anxiety, it was hard to tell the difference in certain scenarios.

~~~

"Are you okay?" You heard his voice before you saw him, his touch on your shoulders came a beat later, ever so softly turning you around to make sure he can look you in the eyes. It was early in the morning, you barely awake, and him? He spent another night barely even sleeping, just sitting by the open window reading whatever medical book he could get his hand to, or listening to the police scanner in his work room.

"Hmm? Oh yeah. Everything is dandy." You say, your words full of that sarcasm Jack also loved to use. He just blinks, his eyes soften a little as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

"You'll be okay. Just a routine check."  He reassures you, hands back to your shoulders squeezing them lightly.

"I'll take you." He offers, but you shake your head, he's already done enough, making sure you'd have this meeting with this gynecologist as soon as it was possible. He just needed to make a few phonecalls, and you were scheduled by the next day.

"I'll be fine. I want to do this alone." You sigh, your gaze returning to his. He doesn't answer first, his hazel eyes just bore into yours, searching for any indication of you being angry at him, when he finds none, he just leans back and nods curtly.

"You'd prefer it that way, or you're angry?" He manages to make himself ask after a few beats of radio silence. He'd promised to try and communicate his feelings, so damn right he will try his best.

"Just... Prefer, yeah." You nod. You yourself don't even know why there's this sudden urge of going alone, of being through this without him, but he understands. He nods, and supports your decidion. As always. You lean your head aganist him.

~~~~

You sit there in the kitchen for a little while longer, before he appears. Hair all scruffy, his stubble more visible from not shaving it this weekend as he usually does. He walks up to you, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he grunts a tired 'good morning' and fetches himself a cup of coffee too. He sits across from you at the breakfast table, thighs apart, in a comfortable menspread.

"Did you sleep well?" You ask, your eyes watching as he sips his coffee, half-asleep. You rarely ever think such, but damn.. He was adorable.

"Too well, even. Haven't slept this good in years." He nods, as he looks at you, an eyebrow raised in a challenging way, wanting you to join the play, which you gladly do.

"A good orgasm does that." You shrug, as he scoffs, shaking his head as he tries to supress a smirk.

This was what made you want to start all of this, this is why it was worth it. The feeling of domesticity. The way warm sunlight filled the kitchen, the way his hand now envelops yours, squeezing lightly as he notices your lack of attention to the topic.

"You're okay?" He offers the question. It's not pushing, he just wonders, but gives you the chance to decide whether you want to talk about it or not. You just nod, and smile softly.

"I just thought about how much I love this. Love us. How comfortable this feels. How before you I wasn't sure what I wanted with my life, I feared decidions, or intimacy, and then you came along." You say softly, and he smiles, a genuine one that shows even in the small crinckles of his eyes, the one that's so warm it almost burns so sweetly like caramel.

"My therapist said I find solace in the darkness. That's why I work night-shifts. But since you came along. I suppose I find that comfort I long for in you." He says softly, making you smile as well, your chest aching with love for him.

~~~

It all feels like darkness. As If this is a huge ocean of dark water, and you're merely a pearl, trying to clung above the sea level, but as tidal waves crash over your head, you get sucked under, and as the minutes pass, as the suffering continues your lungs start to ache for just a gasp of fresh air.

"Mrs. Abbot?" The gynecologist's voice is clear again, in your mind. It's no longer a blurred out background noise. You blink upon her, eyebrows lightly furrowed, skin pale. Her expressions shifts to a softer one, from what you can remember of the shaky and blurry moments she must have apologised. Said she was sorry for being the bearer of such bad news, but you didn't respond, just nodded, trying desparately to keep your head above the water.

Eventually you decided to call Jack. To ask him to pick you up, because your legs didn't feel like moving anymore. Your mind was paralysed in a moment, your chest aching with a truth it didn't dare to accept, one that plauged your thoughts like a prion, misfolding in normal variants of the same protein, leading to cellular death.

He came, and he picked you up, you scared the living shit out of him with how you looked if he was trying to he honest. He never saw you so distraught, so dissassociated from reality.

"Can you tell me what happened, baby?" He asks after your name rolls off of his tounge so softly, so lightly. His eyes are glued to the road, he's seen enough horrible aftermaths of accidents to not even try doing anything else, but his hand rested on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly drawing circles into the soft skin.

"I'm infertile."  He almost stirs the car into a ditch from the sudden bomb you drop, but he only ends up pulling over at a patrol station a few minutes later, before looking at you fully.

"What? What did the gynecologist say?" He asks softly, but he can see the distant look in your eyes, he knows that look far too well. The one you only give him when you know you cannot fix a situation you ought to.

"Apparently. Unbeknownst to me, I only have one ovary. And even that one... That one is poly-cystic. The gynecologist said she wants to test me for endometriosis. She talked about some tumour markers." You say, as you rest your head back aganist the headrest, your voice is so little, each word is squeezed through your thigh throat feels like you might die from the weight of them. He takes you into his arms without hesitation, holding you tight, his grip bordering on too tight but he’s trying too hard to be gentle. His hand moves up to thread in your hair, stroking it softly, he feels your pain oh so deeply, he shares it.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” His voice is rough with suppressed emotion, the vulnerable situation instantly making his mind spiral back to his training, his defense mechanism of shutting off. As if his hold sets off the feelings stuck in your throat, the tears slip from your eyes, down your cheeks, as you sob, letting his hold be your only anchor in this wild storming ocean that was burying you. Jack holds you against his chest, feeling your body tremble as you cry, his fingers still carding through your hair. He doesn’t say anything, just holds you, knowing there aren’t any words that will make this better, he doesn't try honeyed sentences or medical half-thruths neither of them can trust from lack of evidence, and he doesn't even try suggesting any solvage to her problem, knowing all she needs right now is to cry. To let it out. He’s trying hard to keep a tight lid on the emotions inside him—the hurt, the anger, the guilt at this whole situation—because he feels this overwhelming need, almost like responsibility to be strong for you, regardless of how many times you've told him, he doesn't have to. You pull back wordlessly, wiping away your tears before you try to take a deep breath but both your throat and chest feels like it's on fire.

"I know it won't change us. I-I just.." You choke up on your own words, feelings all too much, too hurtful, too big. You shake your head lightly as you licks your lips, which dried out from crying.

"I really wanted to have a family with you." You manage to mutter it out, the sentence that has been sitting on your chest. The reason behind the fertility clinics, the gynecologists, the lack of used rubbers in the bedroom lately, only for it to come crashing down on you, before you could ever let yourself really dream. His grip tightens on you, the words like a punch to the gut —because he’s never wanted anything more than that, all he’s been able to think about lately is coming home to you every night and maybe a little baby with your eyes or his stupid freckles and seeing you with a bump in your stomach, the familiar picture of domesticity in his mind, the images of you standing there, a tiny bundle of joy in your arms, cooing, reaching for it's mother, fingers reflexsively closing around her mother's, as she'd caress it's palm. He kisses your hair, his breath unsteady, as if the kiss would soothe his pain just as much as yours.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

He shuts his eyes against a sudden swell of tears at the images in his mind still fresh, so painful—he’s thought about it so many times, he can’t imagine not having that in his future, but he pushes all that down, pushes it all away, because you need him right now.

“Hey,” he whispers, gently lifting your chin to meet his eyes, his thumb brushing away stray tears.

“Look at me.” As you do so, your tear filled eyes wandering up to find his, he cups your face in his hands, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, his eyes fixed on yours. He's silent, drinking in every detail of your face as if he's trying to memorize it. He takes a deep breath, his voice rough with emotions. This is important to him, he needs you to hear this, and more than that he needs you to know he means it.

“You are everything to me. Not the kids or the house or any of that. You. You are everything.”

~~~~

"I'll close the window, wait up." Jack hums, walking back into their bedroom to close the open window, sealing it shut before returning by your side, caressing your hair.

"I'm so damn scared." You admit, as you laugh shakily, a breathy one. It's been two years since you found out you're infertile. It's been two years you sat before your laptop together, shaking hands as you applied with that one button. One year since the first evaluators came to see your house, if it was good enough, since you both took the psychological tests, since they checked your finances throughouly, and even the clearance stages were over too, you were moved ahead in the adoption. Yet it's only been two months since you got the call, the call that made both of you finally feel like there's air to breathe, the call where you were informed that there was a lady who wanted to go ahead with closed-adoptation after choosing them. Them, to have her newborn.

"Me too." Jack admits with his signiture curt nod, as he collects their cups, and puts them in the sink, before fetching his coat, and finding yours too, helping you put it on, mostly to ease his own nerves. As the two of you walk out, and sit into Jack's car, his nerves only amplify.

The car hums quietly as it glides along the winding road, the engine providing a steady, rhythmic soundtrack to their journey. As Jack drives, the landscape passes you by in a blur of color and shape. Tall trees, their foliage a kaleidoscope of greens, yellows and slowly appearing shades of red even now, in such early fall, the lines of the road, the shadows they cast dancing across the pavement. The sun is high in the sky, shining with just as much joy as you both share in your hearts. The drive is quiet. The radio plays some no-name music, but it only serves as background noise as the roadtrip stretches on for an hour, before Abbot can park his car before a huge brick built house. It's earily white, with a set of letters shining above the front door. Pittsburgh's Children Adoption Center.

You can barely remember what Jack tells you, how he gets out of the car and squeezes his hand, how you both walk in and a lovely lady starts talking, and how you're lead to a quiet, hospital like room where's a small bassinet. You cautiously approach the small bassinet with Jack alongside you, anchoring you as always, your hearts swelling with anticipation and trepidation. Your eyes are drawn to the tiny bundle of life, swaddled in soft blankets. The tiny boy has reddened cheeks, and a grimace, as if he was mad at the world for not letting him sleep in peace. You can not rationally answer why, but you feel an instant connection, love and awe washing over you in waves, a soft wind of relief joining as you're allowed to take him into your arms. To reach out and gently touch the baby’s cheek, to watch him confusedly open his tiny blue eyes, and look around before grumpily closing his eyes again. It makes you laugh softly, but the sound is slightly wet, from the tears slipping down your cheek.

"See? He's exactly like you." You say as you look over at Jack. His expression is shut off, and you realise he's borderline terrified, and in complete awe. You move closer to him, positioning his arms as he shoots you a scared looks, as if he'd never forgive himself if he held the baby wrong, if he didn't support his head enough. He learnt this for years, yet this? This certain case was different. Because this was your baby, not just any baby.

When the little boy is placed into his arms though, he breaks. He huffs a breath as he lets exactly one tear roll down his cheek before he composes himself again, and clears his throat.

"He's adorable, he's so damn cute." Jack hums in admiration as he takes in the sight of his son. His very own son.

"We have been waiting for you, so eagerly baby. We made sure you have everything at home, you were so so wanted." You say, as you watch him together, enjoying the moment of peace and serenity, as the nurse opens one of the windows in the room, letting the warm early fall air pour into the room.