It was dark when Sanji came to and unfurled himself from under his covers. The air was cold, and the fading sunlight gave his room an azure glow that made it feel colder.
He heard cluttering coming from the kitchen and remembered that the sound of the front door was what woke him up. Yawning and stretching out of bed, Sanji stripped out of his work uniform and changed into loose and baggy pyjamas. He paused at the mirror, half way through pulling his top on, catching the sight of the pristine white bandage wrapped around his chest. Absently, he ran a hand over the stitches on his wound, feeling the bumps on his skin where the thread pulled. Sanji wondered if it would leave a scar, mulling over whether or not he liked the idea of a scar on his milky skin that had been practically unscathed up until now.
The dull clang of a pot on the stove snapped Sanji's thoughts back to the present, and he pulled on his top before ambling to the living room. He blinked at the kitchen lights that stung his eyes, yawning loudly to announce his presence and making his way to Zeff, who meandered about in their tiny kitchen.
"See? Fine my ass, you've slept through the whole day, didn't you?" Zeff grumbled.
Sanji scowled. "I just got tired."
"You better not be up all night now. And you skipped lunch! I bet you didn't have any breakfast either, did you?"
"I ate while I worked downstairs earlier," said Sanji, but at the mention of food, his stomach grumbled in response.
Zeff rolled his eyes. "Sit down."
Sanji's brows knotted as he watched Zeff turn to a steaming pot on the stove that smelt of something tangy and spicy.
"I can cook for myself you know," said Sanji. "You didn't have to make something."
"As if I'd waste my time cooking for you. We made extra downstairs so I just brought some up."
Sanji watched him ladle long strings of spaghetti into a bowl. When Sanji received the bowl in his hands, he blinked at the contents. Spicy seafood pasta, his ultimate comfort food.
"This wasn't on the menu today," said Sanji, eyeing the old man suspiciously.
"It's in the evening menu, genius," replied Zeff, taking a seat at their small dinning table in the corner. "Now are you gonna eat it, or let it go to waste getting cold in your hands?"
Sanji took a seat opposite him and started to eat. He knew this wasn't in the evening menu either. Zeff, no doubt, cooked it downstairs for him. But Sanji decided not to press any further. The old man was prideful and would never admit to caring about his son so openly. Also, Sanji never turned his nose up at the chance to taste Zeff's cooking.
He was a master, everything Sanji aspired to be, and he always had a 'teach-by-experience' method of training Sanji. So Sanji ate, savouring the taste of his favourite meal in his tongue, letting the spices and the warmth soothe the dull ache in his muscles. Sanji tried to replicate this dish several times before. Although he had gotten close, and everyone always said everything he churned out was brilliant, Sanji knew he was off by a little bit. It wasn't enough.
He watched as Zeff quietly filled up his pipe and lit up. Sanji recalled finding old photographs as a child of his father smoking cigarettes the way he himself did now. But somewhere along the line, the old man had swapped the sticks for a sailor's wooden pipe and Sanji never really knew why.
As Zeff puffed out a stream of smoke Sanji chuckled. The old chef gave him a look that challenged 'what's so funny?'
"You really do look like an old man, smoking that fucking pipe," said Sanji.
Zeff huffed. "You know the only reason I let you get away with calling me 'old man', is that one day you'll have a little runt of your own who does exactly the same thing. Then you'll know what it's like."
Sanji shook his head and returned to rolling up spaghetti and prawns in his fork.
"What's it like downstairs?" he asked. "I bet you wish I was working now."
"It's none of your business. I'm being serious about that kitchen ban, little eggplant."
Sanji snorted. "You can't keep me out of the kitchen forever."
"Ha! I'd like to see you try and get in. You wanna end up with a prosthetic leg lodged in your skull? Go ahead, be my guest."
"Come on, you old fart. I like working in the Baratie, and you can't deny that I do a pretty damn good job! Besides it keeps me… occupied."
"Yeah? Well find something else to 'occupy' yourself with. Summer'll be over in a few weeks anyway, and then you'll have all the occupation you need. Thank god."
"School doesn't start for another three weeks. Surely you don't intend to keep me out of work for that long. I thought you said I could go back to work once I'm better?"
"That'll be for me to decide," said Zeff gruffly, pushing himself out of his chair and tapping out the ash in his pipe.
"You better not waste a single prawn in there," he added. "I'm heading back down. God knows I've left them all down there for too long."
Sanji opened his mouth and began to protest, but Zeff had already shut the door behind him and trundled downstairs. Sanji groaned and turned to finish off the last of his dinner with aggression. Great. What was he supposed to do for three weeks if he couldn't work?
Nights out were definitely a no go, at least until he was completely recovered. It would be stupid to get stabbed on a night out twice in one week. With an empty bowl, Sanji leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as the sad realization that he didn't have many other hobbies apart from cooking sunk in.
Sanji chuckled. Not that that was a bad thing. From what Sanji gathered, as soon as he signs up to be a full-time chef, he wouldn't have much time for anything else anyway. He glanced up at the clock in the living room. It was only seven thirty.
He began to fill out the time washing up, packing up the left over pasta, and tidying the kitchen a little. After skimming through channels and finding nothing interesting on T.V, he switched it off and checked his phone. His eyes widened at the long list of notifications and various messages from his friends.
Luffy sent him two texts expressing his awe at Sanji's fighting ability. The girls sent him a message each, wishing him well asking how he was doing, and Robin sent him an extra message saying that Chopper was very upset he'd left the hospital without being properly discharged. After that, Sanji grimaced at a long string of texts from Chopper, including miss calls, e-mails and Facebook messages, all asking where he was.
Usopp sent him an on-going commentary, via text, of how he apparently bravely escorted all of the ladies back to their individual homes and had to battle through hoards of thugs and mafia bosses in order to do so. He then sent Sanji several snapchats of his face expressing worry at Sanji's condition, each one captioned with well wishes.
Sanji laughed to himself, wasting no time in replying to everyone, letting them know he was safe and at home now. After all that, Sanji checked the time again, only to be hit by a wall of disappointment to find that he only managed to kill an hour or so. With a breath of exasperation, Sanji retreated to his bedroom and tried to loose himself in a book.
It was difficult when others had a different idea. A few chapters in to his book, Sanji's bedroom door swung from slightly ajar to fully open. He stared at the empty hallway, feeling an unearthly chill render shivers down his spine and prickle his skin into goose bumps. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his can of deodorant toppled from his drawer again and rolled along the floor.
Sanji took a deep breath, closing his book and getting out of bed. Picking up his deodorant, he replaced it back on top of the drawer. The temperature dropped around him. Moisture appeared on the surface of the can, and his breath streamed out of his lips.
Sanji shuddered, crossing his arms and tucking his hands away from the cold. He checked the time on his alarm clock. 9:18.
"Mum," Sanji spoke in a low voice. "It's late. You should go to bed."
For a moment, there was nothing, just the stillness and solitude of his room. Then, with a creak of hinges, his door swung and slammed shut. The temperature evened out, but the cold still clung to Sanji's skin. Rubbing his arms, he moved to shut the window before climbing under the covers in his bed.
Tiredness creeped into his bones, so he decided to put away his book and switched off the lamp he was reading by. The streetlights outside painted his blue walls with an unhealthy yellow glow. He could still hear the distant clattering and yelling of the chefs in the Baratie below. Normally, it soothed him. But tonight, sleep did not come easy, as Sanji lay in bed and continued to stare at his white bedroom door.
It had been like this since his mother died. Everyone worried about him, because he showed no remorse for her during her funeral. While the old man wept for as long as Sanji could remember, he lived on as though she was never gone. That was because it was true, at least for him.
When they returned home from her funeral, he found her there, roaming aimlessly between the bedrooms and the kitchen. She made her presence known often, toppling items to the floor, opening doors and windows. When the air grew cold, she was near. Sometimes, she even dared to touch Sanji. But she didn't do it often, after giving him a fever when he was younger.
Sanji thought he would be happy at first. But as he got older and learned more about the spectres, he knew she was still here because she was unhappy. Unhappy and unwilling to leave this world. It caused an ache in him that surged through his chest and down to his gut. He didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to make things better.
Curling up under the covers, Sanji shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep, despite the tears that escaped through his eyelids.
The bloodied man lingered in Sanji's dreams. He was less intrusive, less central. But every time Sanji caught even so much as a glimpse of him, his heart began to race, his skin grew clammy and his breathing thinned out until he felt dizzy.
Sanji woke up panting for breath. He threw the covers off him, all of a sudden feeling warm and stifled under them. His room was dark, and everything was quiet now, even the Baratie downstairs. Taking a deep breath, Sanji glanced at the glowing numbers of his alarm clock.
3:48
Laying back in his bed, Sanji tried to recover the sleep he'd lost. He tried not to let his mind wander over his dreams, or any other thoughts. All he wanted was to be back in the folds of sleep.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Sanji's eyes fluttered open, focusing on the white paint of his ceiling, bathed in gold by the streetlight.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Turning in bed, Sanji shut his eyes again. In his mind, he chanted the mantra of sleep, sleep, sleep, again and again, over and over. Until his mantra joined with the rhythmic drip, drip, drip.
With a defeated sigh, Sanji pushed himself off the bed and left his bedroom to investigate. He navigated the living room, somewhat illuminated by that single streetlamp outside, and made it to the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, Sanji peered at the tap. The dripping persisted, but further away, and no water came from the kitchen tap either.
Just for good measure, Sanji twisted the tap tighter, before making his way to the bathroom. He blinked under the bright lights as he flicked the switch on, before continuing to inspect all the taps. Nothing from the sink. Sanji leaned over the tub, squinting at the tap, but couldn't see anything. He turned the tap, squeezing it shut, and waited.
Silence.
Sanji breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up and made his way out of the bathroom, flicking off the lights as he went. His eyes didn't adjust to the darkness in time, but he felt the cold steel of the door handle to his bedroom.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Sanji paused, his head turning back towards the kitchen.
"You're fucking kidding me," he muttered under his breath, as he strode towards the kitchen.
Tiny droplets of water leaked from the edge of the tap, splattering a miniature puddle at the base of the sink. Grumbling, Sanji screwed the tap as tight as he could get it. Fuck the old man if he complained about it in the morning. Finally, the dripping stopped.
A chill trembled across Sanji's skin.
"Mum, quit it-"
He turned and stood face to face with the bloodied man. Sanji screamed, staggering backwards and slipping to the floor. Blood tainted his bare feet and smeared across the kitchen tiles. The man watched him, thick crimson sludge dripping down defined jawline and pooling at the floor. The smell of steel pierced the air.
"Fuckshitfuck," Sanji muttered curses and scrambled away. Clumsily finding his bearings, he ran for his bedroom. He twisted the handle. The door shuddered but didn't open.
"No, no," Sanji's voice came out as a whine. He looked back at the kitchen. The bloodied man stared back, the void of his eyes piercing right at Sanji. He moved. Wet footsteps slapped against tiles, then wooden floors. Sanji kicked at his door. It shuddered on its hinges, but didn't budge. The man was halfway across the living room, getting closer and agonizingly closer in his slow, ambling pace.
Fuck this.
Sanji fled into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He moved the tall bathroom cabinet before the door and stood back. Sweat ran down his face, the cold liquid contrasting the hot, panicked flush of his skin. His heart hammered away at his chest, and his mouth felt as dry as sand.
He waited, staring at the still door. Was he really going to have to wait here all night? Pacing the floor, Sanji counted the seconds. Each still second that passed only heightened his anxiety.
But what else could he do?
He waited. Nothing. How long had he been waiting for now? Swallowing a lump in his throat, Sanji moved the cabinet back to the wall, and opened the door. The dark and quiet hallway greeted him. He peered around the doorway. Nothing. Just the empty living room and the kitchen. No blood on the floors. Sanji looked down at his feet. They were clean.
Great. Now he was hallucinating.
He strode to his bedroom, flinging the door open. It was just as he'd left it. Confused, but with relief starting to settle in his chest, Sanji turned around and closed the door.
A hand grabbed the edge of the white door, painting bloody fingerprints on the wood. Sanji gasped, and was pushed backwards as the door flung open and the bloodied man entered Sanji's room.
"Go away!" Sanji yelled, as the man ambled closer to him. "Fucking, go away!"
Sanji lashed out. A cold, wet hand gripped his wrist, another dug crimson fingers on his shoulder. Sanji wriggled to get free, grunting and whimpering, but his muscles were frozen in terror. The soulless eyes of the spectre loomed closer. With a sound like brittle, snapping twigs, the bloodied man's jaws opened. Wider. Wider. His teeth grew out, growing long and thin until they were swords, and with a gurgling cry that drowned out Sanji's frantic screaming, he lunged forward and devoured him.
Stern hands held his shoulder, shaking him vigourously.
"Sanji? Sanji!"
He felt something hard strike him across his face. Sanji's eyes flickered open. With his vision blurred at the edges, and confusion causing an ache in his head, Sanji cast his eyes around the darkness of his bedroom. He glanced up to see Zeff looming over him, one hand gripping his wrist, the other settling down from being held in the air to hold him up by his shoulder.
Sanji panted, the air struggling to squeeze through a tight space in his throat. Zeff's wrinkles creased deeper with a frown, as he stared at his son with grey eyes that glinted with worry.
"What happened?"
Sanji glanced at his unmade bed, then out of the open doorway to the bathroom across the hall. The lights were still on. What the hell had happened? Was that all a dream?
"Shit, Sanji," Zeff leaned back, his eyes focused on Sanji's stomach.
Sanji sat up and looked down. A red blotch stained the front of his blue pyjama top. When he lifted it, the bandage underneath was drenched in blood. The scent stung his nostrils. Sanji doubled over and threw up on the floor.