Son of the Strawhat

Chapter 1

It was the sort of mystery you mulled over in quiet times, when you could pretend you were thinking of nothing at all if anyone caught you with that speculative look in your eye. Truth be told, there wasn't time for that sort of speculation when things weren't quiet, because you were too busy trying to keep yourself and your nakama alive; all of them, even the brat.

Yeah, the brat. The one Sanji found himself wondering about during those quiet times, when there was neither cooking nor ass-kicking to take precedence. Or babysitting to be done. You'd think babysitting was the perfect time to wonder about the kid you're babysitting, but with the brat, there just wasn't time for that sort of thing. The kid had way too much energy.

So it was at those quiet times, when his crewmates were quietly tucked up in bed and it wasn't yet time for the midnight pantry raids, that he found himself wondering about the brat. Or, more specifically, his origins. Well, not his origins, per se, because he (unfortunately) knew where the brat came from. He just didn't know how he… ah… came to be there, as it were.

He didn't wonder about the physical mechanics of the whole thing, which the shithead swordsman had helpfully offered to explain the one time Sanji had mentioned his curiosity to the man. He might blush to even think of them, but that didn't mean he didn't understand how the whole thing worked. It was just that he was wondering…

"You're trying to figure out who knocked her up, aren't you?" He turned to find the swordsman leaning on the rail next to him, the man's face dark with shadows. He was glad the darkness hid his furious blush at Zoro's crude words. "Why don't you just let it go?"

Sanji shifted uncomfortably. "I can't."

"It's not like it makes any difference. You think Nami'll make you take responsibility now, even though the brat's, what, four already?"

"He's two. And he's not mine."

"So you always say."

Zoro never seemed to understand that sometimes, despite what a monster the brat was, Sanji wished he was the kid's father. It would mean he had finally overcome his embarrassment and admitted to the lovely Nami-san that he cared about her, instead of just showering her with the empty, flowery phrases he used on every woman. But he knew he never had, so he knew for sure that the brat most certainly wasn't his.

At least, not any more than he belonged to anyone else on the crew, as far as Sanji could see. In a certain sense, the brat belonged to all of them equally: he was a Strawhat, born and (probably) bred, and certainly raised as one. As such, it shouldn't have come as any surprise that the brat was a complete monster. He had a whole host of talents, variously acquired from among the crew.

The boy was coordinated. It was a trait he had inherited from his mother, whose deft and dexterous fingers drew such beautiful maps. Regrettably, it was a talent displayed more in the vein of their captain. For a two year old, it took immense coordination to clap one's feet and pick one's nose at the same time. Sanji could appreciate that, even as he was repulsed by the enormity of the boogers the boy extricated from his nostrils.

As expected of a Strawhat, the brat had an immense fighting spirit, and never flinched from insurmountable odds. He favored kicking, much as Sanji did, although he was just as likely to bite or strike out with his chubby little fists. The problem was, he didn't seem to have realized that fighting talent wasn't supposed to be utilized against your nakama just because you didn't want to take a bath. Zoro had threatened to drown the brat if it ever tried to bite him again.

Sometimes, when he was in a suspicious mood, Sanji thought the brat's inexhaustible energy must come from the swordsman - the only reasonable suspect as the brat's father among the crew. Certainly the brat, like a certain shithead, never knew when to stop, and would keep running full tilt until he abruptly fell over from exhaustion. Sanji had never met anyone else capable of going from three miles an hour (the tot's top speed) to fast asleep on his face in less than a second. Then he'd be up and running again ten minutes later. The brat was more likely to exhaust whoever had to watch him than himself.

He poured that energy into everything he did, whether it was nearly hanging himself in the rigging or trying to fit himself inside one of the cannons. Recently, that idiot shipwright had declared the boy was musically gifted, so the brat had set about using that gift with all the enthusiasm of one who mistakenly believes themselves to be a prodigy. On the rare occasion Sanji managed to save his pots from being used as drums, the boy would sing loudly in his childishly sweet, but still off-key, voice. He could also, to Franky's delight and Sanji's horror, burp the alphabet (which he thought contained thirty-four letters).

Those problems with the alphabet could probably be laid at Robin's door. She was the one who had taught the brat to read and write. Forgetting, or perhaps choosing to ignore, that not everyone had her natural gift for archeology, she had tried to teach the boy three different languages from the start. Really, it wasn't any surprise he got confused. Annoying as it was, it also shouldn't have come as any surprise that, having learned about cave drawings and poneglyphs, he should decide to use his crayons to decorate the ship with archeological wonders of his own.

Chopper had decided to help with the brat's education too, and had introduced the boy to natural history. Sanji had overheard their lessons from time to time: this is a bird, this is a bear, this is a hito-hito blue-nosed reindeer, this is a butterfly… Then the brat had discovered the existence of devil's fruits and medicines, and come to the conclusion that eating weird shit was good for you. Sanji was sometimes tempted just to let him get on with it and find out the hard way, but Nami would not appreciate that.

To it all was added Usopp's influence on the child. Growing up with a fertile imagination was good: it helped you survive on the Grand Line. What wasn't so good was the compulsive need to apply that imagination to everything, including the answer to questions like "Who stole all the cookies right before dinner?" Usopp, at least, came back to reality long enough not to get himself killed.

And yet, even though the brat was a little monster, and snored more loudly than Luffy and Zoro combined, Sanji couldn't really dislike him. No one could dislike that brat once he had it in his head to be charming (even when he thought 'charming' meant instigating a spitting contest). He was a bit like Luffy in that sense, although he remained hopeful that the brat would grow to be more mature than the captain.

That consideration brought him, indirectly, back to his original question. Who's the brat's father? There were no real visual clues: the brat looked too much like his mother, from his flaming orange hair to his dark eyes. Sanji knew for certain it wasn't him. The boy might act a lot like Luffy, but then again Luffy acted a lot like a two year old. Not Chopper: the brat didn't have fur. His gut told him it wasn't Usopp (and wasn't nose length hereditary? The brat's was normal length.) That left Franky, or…

"I know that look. He's not mine."

Sanji didn't want to think it was. It crushed his heart to think of this oaf having any sort of relationship with the lovely Nami-san. But if he had to think of likely suspects, Sanji would have put the swordsman right up near the top with himself.

"You don't believe me."

The cook hesitated. "I want to," he muttered bitterly. "But, well…"

He could almost hear the swordsman roll his eyes. "Yeah, fine. We had our flings. Mostly when we were both piss drunk. It never meant anything, and it sure as hell never produced that." A jerk of his head indicated the cabin the brat shared with his mother.

"But how do you know?" Sanji didn't want to sound whiny or, worse, jealous, but he could never sound so coolly unaffected as he wanted where Nami was concerned.

Zoro shifted uncomfortably, but when he answered there was no crack in his composure. "Unless she got at me without my knowing, I hadn't touched her for a year before that brat showed up. It's not mine."

"Oh."

There was silence for a minute, then Zoro said, "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I don't think I could stand to face a kid and tell them I'm the reason they're so messed up."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Zoro sighed quietly. "I left home young, and after that there was nothing but fighting and my swords. I wasn't a very good son, and I'd sure as shit make a worse father." The swordsman's teeth flashed in the moonlight when he grinned at Sanji. "Should have been you. The kid would've turned into a pansy, but he'd be okay. He'd have a good father." The last part sounded grudging.

"Maybe. I can't say what I would have done." He met Zoro's eyes in the dark. "I'm not sure whether it was easier not to hate him when I thought he was yours."

"You'd care about my messed up whelps? I'm touched."

"Maybe I'll just castrate you to make sure you never have any," Sanji snapped back.

Zoro held up a placating hand. "Even if he's not ours, we're doing an okay job, don't you think?" he said gently. He so rarely turned away from a fight that Sanji let it go, as unwilling to dissolve the easy conversation as to risk waking the brat.

"Yeah, I guess. He's still a handful."

The swordsman snorted. "Luffy wants to get him a devil's fruit. Imagine him after that."

"Sweet seas, anything but that."