Sanji minces a clove of garlic with vehemence, sprinkling the diced vegetable into a shallow pot of oil. He gratifies in its sizzle, the soft hiss of the saute assuaging his frazzled nerves. He sets a stalk of celery onto the cutting board next, the soft greens of the vegetable sparking an indignance that could counter a god's wrath. All green produce are handled with callous fingers, his eyes drowning in the colour, thoughts swerving towards a certain marimo.
He's livid.
Of his crew, of course, Zoro would be first to go. The reckless, self-sacrificing idiot. His anger boils, it seethes hotter than the sharp pop of oil, at the remembrance of the swordsman's vow. To never lose when faced with the enemy. Bullshit, Sanji thinks. There no way Zoro could follow up on such a promise. He could never foresee the dangers brought on by the pirate life. Not like Sanji.
The door of the galley creaks to an open. Zoro walks in, hair mussed from sleep. He bites back a yawn. His eyes are bleary from his recent wake. He steps for the fridge and kneels to open the door. Cool air fogs the floor. It condenses at the heat of the kitchen. He takes his pick at a bottle of rum and Sanji very nearly snaps, but at the scent of death's odor, the cook innately opens a drawer for a cap opener.
Zoro gnaws the cap off with his teeth.
Sanji closes the drawer.
"Hey, Marimo."
He takes a swig. "What do you want, Barf-cook?"
Sanji ignores the insult in favour of his concerns.
"Why don't you consider. . ." he starts, and awkwardly trails into silence, very narrowly escaping the utterance of a very stupid, naive inquiry.
'Why don't you consider taking it easy for a while?'
He scoffs to himself. Such questions would raise arguments, enmity, and worst of all, suspicion. And Sanji is never one to enhance suspicion, especially in regards to the oddities, otherwise viewed as his supernatural skill. With such morbid abilities, Sanji fears his existence as an irregular. He would rather pull the wool over the eyes of his crew-mates than let them know of his abnormalities. No doubt would he be seen as a sort of foreboding image, a messenger of death.
And to pull the danger out of the swordsman's life, he supposed, was quite aberrant. It would be like refusing a bird's right to fly. Or a trapping the muzzle of a dog so it could not bark.
"Uh. . .never mind," he says instead.
Zoro raises a brow. "Huh? Now I'm curious."
"It's nothing, shitty-swordsman. Stop drinking all the alcohol we've got, and get out of my kitchen!"
He kicks Zoro out of the galley. The door is slammed in his face (he receives a string of curses for that), it's rude, he admits, but he does whatever he can to single himself with his thoughts.
Once again it is left up to Sanji to protect his nakama―or Zoro in this case. It is obvious the swordsman will be of little use to him. Sanji couldn't rely on an idiot who weighs their ambitions as a paramount importance rather than their life.
The scent of death hangs heavy on the swordsman. Sanji has three weeks at best.
Three weeks to cheat death.
Sanji is at the ripe age of twelve when he meets her.
She gorgeous. A girl not much older than he. Soft and cute with hair that smells sweetly of cotton candy.
Sanji's first love.
Her features are fuzzy in his memories, her name forgotten on his tongue, yet she remains stagnant in his mind as a pillar of his abilities.
She's the only person in which death is deterred by Sanji.
She walks through the doors of the Baratie accompanied by her mother and father. The family dresses humbly in semi-formal attire (it's slightly below Baratie dress code requirements, but they are not reprimanded for their wear). They hold a four-day reservation, Sanji learns, leading the family of three to their table. Zeff's eyes burn through his skull, and so, with a rehearsed, childish cheer, Sanji records their order, emulating specials and chef recommendations.
He finds the task tedious. He doesn't understand why he's forced to socialize with the customers. He words are spieled right from the menu. Really, all he adds is a youthful persuasion.
He's in the middle of suggesting desserts, lemon creme brulee, when, like a gentle gust of wind, death's stench wafts under his nose. Sanji chokes on his words, nausea churning the bile in his stomach. He attempts for composure, but his rapidly paling skin betrays him. His voice shakes, his eyes reluctantly peer at the youngest member at the table.
That girl will die.
"Excuse me," he chokes.
He dashes for the kitchen, order clenched between his fists
Zeff reaches for the paper, but Sanji pulls away.
"Let me cook."
He frowns.
"Please."
At the look of his eyes, red-rimmed from an on flow of tears, the elder man sighs. "Fine, kid."
A knife is held in his hands, various ingredients set before him.
He gets to work.
There is a level of concentration distinguished through his culinary process. It reaches new heights, embellishing his skills as a chef.
Zeff watches over with a look of interest.
Thirty minutes later, an exquisite meal lays before the eyes of his guests.
Creamy mushroom soup is brought forth as an appetizer. The viscosity softens the taste buds, each spoonful warming the core. It satisfies yet teases the appetite, leaving customers wanting more. The main course is set aesthetically in platters, crab alfredo for the lady, herb roasted lamb chops for the man, and garlic shrimp spaghetti for the girl. Yet the savory dishes are shared between members of the table, an elementary show of their linked bond.
Sanji returns, setting bowls of decadent creme brulee to gorge in on their already filled bellies. From the corner of his eye, he watches the exchange of warm smiles and suppressed gluttony. It brings a warm feeling to his chest.
"This is the best food I've ever had!" exclaims the girl.
Sanji's heart wrenches at the complement, and with an unexpected surge of will thinks:
'I can't let her die.'
Repercussions.
There were many repercussions that came from his saving her.
Regrets and errors stir his conscience in the late nights where Sanji has only his thought to accompany him through darkness and rough waves.
He would not make the same mistake with Zoro. He couldn't make the same mistake with Zoro.
To deter death, he would have to know the method in which death takes him. It's of the utmost importance, if, of course, he truly wants to save Zoro. And he wants to. Really. However. . .there are unpleasant arrangements that come with the forestalling of death. There is no dancing around it. Circumstances holds him in a tight grip.
Sickness or Injury.
Which of the two is it?
He hopes for the latter.
Luffy lingers by the door. He eyes the thick cuts of meat, fingers gripping the casing of the door. Sanji pays his captain no heed, garnishing the seared juicy reds with a sprinkle of herbs. He admires Luffy's constraint. Sanji thinks he'll be less adamant in his refusing tenth servings of meat. But the thought quickly dissipates as a stretch of fingers reach for a plate.
That little―
A knife embeds into the table, Luffy's fingers pull back like the snap of elastic.
"Wah!"
Sanji pretends to have committed no ill with against his captain. "Oi, Luffy. Call up the others. Dinner's on the table."
The galley soon seeps with life. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper are first to seat themselves. They smell heavily of sweat with the added stink of adrenaline ranking the room. Grass is woven into their hair―or fur in Chopper's case―hinting Sanji towards an eventful day thankfully missed by his cooping of the kitchen. Usopp's fingers taps impatiently against the table; Luffy shows visible restraint. They know better than to dig in before the others arrive, a rule implemented by Sanji. It isn't a draconian rule, but breaking it holds a draconian consequence (Usopp accuses Sanji's kicks for permanently numbing his face―an obvious lie)
Nami and Robin walk leisurely through the upper decks. They stroll through the doors, engaged in conversation with the other. As always, Sanji moves fluidly at their side, eyes forming hearts. The orange haired goddess disregards his advances, but Robin, the cool beauty that she is, momentarily breaks from conversation, offering him one of her cryptic smiles.
The acknowledgement alone is enough to set his heart aflame.
Franky's is second last to enter. He settles inbetween Usopp and Robin.
"Where's the marimo?"
A yawn answers for him. "I'm here."
"Another nap, swordsman-san?"
"Yeah. I'm feeling really tired these days." He shoots Luffy a glare. "I can't sleep listening to your obnoxious snoring."
With the crew seated, dinner is served.
Chaos ensues.
It's really no different than any other dinner. As per usual, Sanji is worked over the stove, even with dinner set. It's near next to impossible satisfying the gluttonous elasticity of Luffy's stomach. He can pick up on arguments surrounding Luffy's thieving fingers, often pausing in his grilling meat to chide the voracious captain. Nami and Robin speak animatedly, dips in mood often surfacing in their conversation. With the addition of Franky to their crew, Usopp finally has someone to bicker with over the intricacies of mechanics.
Zoro attempts to assuage Chopper's tears, offering his leftovers when Sanji steps in, plating all three dishes with meat.
"Luffy, I won't repeat myself. Steal again and you get no more meat."
He treads back to the counter, sampling his own dish. It could use a little more seasoning, he thinks chopping a clove of garlic.
"Did you hear of those poor children at Namba Island?"
His knife slows.
"Yes, it's quite unfortunate."
Nami stirs her drink. "They were orphans."
"It seemed the matron rebelled against the fascist rule, ergo the results."
She shakes her head, melancholic. "Fifty-six lives that will never see another sunrise."
She places a hand on her shoulder. "It's saddening, isn't it, knowing they were so young?"
"Of course. I guess I'm. . ."
He tunes out the ladies conversation. He returns to slicing the clove with a Sanji-like zeal.
"Quit your bluffin', Usopp-bro."
"It's true."
He waves a dismissive hand. "There's no way. Tell any more lies and that nose of yours will grow."
"What nonsense are talking about―The sniper king tells no lies! Believe me when I say the Diablo pepper is hot enough to kill the strongest of men!"
Sanji frowns.
"Meat!" Luffy yells.
"Luffy, no!" Chopper cries.
The clatter of plates and sound of chomps follow.
"Luffy," Zoro growls. "I swear to god, I will kill―"
Sanji's knife slams into the cutting board, silencing all conversation.
He stalks his way over a full-mouthed Luffy, a bawling Chopper, and a worn looking Zoro.
"Sawnji, I'm sworrwy. It wuw wight theugh. I caudn't helph myselfw."
Sanji ignores Luffy's incoherent attempt at an apology. He instead glares at the marimo, who, in return, spikes a brow in confusion. Regret stiffens his limbs, but it's too late to back out now; he's already made it this far, who knows if he'll be so willing the next time. For that reason, using his swift fingers, Sanji grabs Zoro, the yoke of his shirt bunched in his fist. His palms slick with sweat. Now, he thinks
He hauls him across the table, earning a grunt of surprise from the swordsman.
Sanji kisses him.