A/N: I have zero time for writing right now, but this had to get out. I haven't thought about One Piece in ages, but then the Live Action happened and urgh.
It's not necessary to know the OPLA to read this. But there is a scene between Sanji and Zeff. They're repeating the first two lines of dialogue they ever shared, and my heart exploded. So here's my take on what this means, and now I'm ugly crying. Have fun.
It starts as a normal day on the Going Merry. The weather's lovely, the sea calm, and the smell from the kitchen heavenly. Lunch time.
Sanji opens the door to let the idiots and the angels in. They barge in, loud and excited, stepping over Luffy's flat and outstretched hands – he tried to get through the gap between floor and door earlier to steal food, so Sanji had rolled a heavy barrel full of wine over his fingers.
There's the flapping of wings and Sanji finds a big, white bird perched on the Merry's rail, gawking at him. There's a single letter in its beak with the Baratié's seal on it.
Now and then, a postal seagull finds them and brings letters. It doesn't happen too often, not since they entered the Grand Line, and none of them are great writers. Nami and her sister sometimes write each other, and Kaya keeps Usopp updated about life in Syrup Village. Sanji is in loose contact with the Baratié, sending postcards when they're on land and sometimes receiving a few words back in Zeff's horrible scrawl. It's difficult for pirates to stay in contact and the letters, postcards and parcels often reach them weeks or months after they've been sent.
Sanji grabs the letter before hurrying back into the kitchen to make sure the ladies will be served first. The usual chaos ensues and he forgets it for a while.
Later, at dinner, when they are all eating their second servings, Sanji thinks about what to do with the leftovers. Wishing again for a fridge the size they had on the Baratié, he remembers the letter. He fishes it out of his pocket and opens it, distracted because Nami-swan just licked her spoon and gaaah. Perfection is possible.
"What's that?" Luffy asks, though it sounds more like 'Mfssää?' with all the food in his mouth.
Sanji unfolds the letter, leaning back to save the pristine paper from the onslaught of spit and sauce a talking Luffy creates. "Letter from the Baratié."
This one is a month old; Sanji knows because it's dated on the top of the page, although Zeff never bothered to date his letters – that's all the warning he gets. He reads the few, short sentences written in an unfamiliar handwriting, but doesn't understand. He reads it again and this time, he stops at the line 'I'm so sorry, Sanji-kun.'
"Sanji?"
"Zeff died," he reads the next line aloud, and then adds: "Oh."
The words sink in and something in his chest shifts.
There's no outburst. No anger. No violence, just that simple "Oh." He draws in a sharp breath, folds the letter and puts it back into his pocket in precise and decisive movements, and leaves the galley.
The crew stares after him, silent. Only later, when they remember this moment, they'll realize that Sanji left half of his food on his plate. Before, he never left even a single crumb.
It takes them a while to understand how Sanji grieves. The changes are subtle and soft, but their impact leaves them with goosebumps. It's like watching him falling into himself, slowly but steadily.
He politely avoids them, and that is only to be expected, as Chopper says. Totally understandable. But the Merry isn't big enough to get distance for more than a few hours, and even if the crew tries to give him space, they bump into each other, exchange words and sleep in the same room.
He's a loud person, usually. Around crewmates like Luffy, Usopp and even Chopper, that's quickly forgotten because they're so much louder. But Sanji reacts just the same – he rises to Zoro's provocations with yelling, he screams at Luffy and doesn't care whether or not he causes a ruckus on board when he gets in a fight. His flirting is far from subtle, voice two octaves too high when he's floating across the ship, his reactions to praise or gentleness from the girls are just as loud and boisterous as his fighting is.
He never hides his feeling, whether its anger, joy, love, disgust or excitement, even fear. Next to Chopper, he's probably the most expressive about feelings of them all. They've just never experienced sadness before, and it turns out to be a quiet feeling. He's not hiding his grief from them, but the way it affects him is just different from what they all expected from expressive and self-assured Blackleg Sanji.
There are subtle, little differences in his behaviour, in the air around him, that make them realize how grief literally eats away at him.
His posture changes, not as upright anymore, and the range of his motions somehow minimizes. His voice is quieter and there are less modulations in his voice, less expression. He ends conversations quicker, as if running out of words. He doesn't move as much, doesn't listen to Usopp's stories as attentively, doesn't rise to Zoro's taunts. He's smiling at the girls, complimenting them and shields them from his brute nakama, ever the perfect gentlemen, but he's not blushing when Robin addresses him anymore, not even a nosebleed at Nami's low-cut shirt.
She asks him if he's okay and he smiles wanly, telling her not to spend her precious time worrying. He doesn't even react to her hand on his arm. Choppers wants to know if he slept well the night after, and he shrugs, grabbing his first cigarette but not savouring the taste as usual. Luffy even tries to give his condolences, and it's exactly as awkward as one would imagine, and Sanji only nods in recognition. He eats without joy, and that's just wrong.
He's still their nakama, still Sanji, but it's like watching him shrink when all they are used to are colourful, exuberant explosions.
The memories are intrusive. Sanji can't do anything to stop them. He thought about Zeff and the Baratié often, but now, he's flooded by memories of voices and faces and arguments and laughter and food and hunger and there's nothing he can do about it.
One word repeats itself over and over in his head. Oregano.
It's so stupid.
This is lacking oregano.
Oregano is for savages.
The first words they had spoken to each other, back on the Orbit. Through the years, they had repeated them time and time again, and they had taken on different meanings. Sometimes a peace offering, sometimes an attempt of comfort. Between Zeff and Sanji, Sanji and Zeff, oregano had become a code only the two of them could read.
And they had been in dire need of one, because Sanji had been but a traumatized kid (doubly traumatized, thank you very much), and Zeff a pirate, far from gentle. There had been no long talks and cuddles, no hugs and kisses.
In fact, Zeff had always yelled and cursed and threw plates and knives. He had called Sanji all shades of stupid, inept and lazy he could think of. Yet, Sanji stayed at his side. Later, when he was older, Sanji had realized how lucky they had been – any other pirate captain would have left him to die on that island or thrown him into the ocean later. Any other nine-year-old boy would have run away from the mean old geezer as soon as his legs worked again.
But Sanji had been used to be called a failure, used to much worse insults and violence. The first time Zeff had hit him had probably been more painful for Zeff than for him.
The hit hadn't even been that bad. Sanji had just realized that he had burned Zeff's dessert, had realized that he was in trouble, when the chef had already knocked his wooden leg across his head and threw him against the cupboard.
"What did you do to my cake, you shitty excuse for a chore boy?!"
Sanji didn't answer, what was there to say? Instead, he closed his eyes when Zeff's hand clutched his arm and pulled him closer, waiting for the rest.
When no pain came, he slowly opened his eyes to find Zeff staring at him, more shocked than angry all of sudden. When he realized that Sanji was looking at him in confusion, his gaze wandered from his face to his wooden leg to the hand that was still wrapped around the kid's upper arm.
He let go abruptly, shoving Sanji away in the same stride. "Get out of my kitchen, you idiot."
Later that day, during break, Sanji was sitting on deck of the half-built Baratié ship, watching over the constructions. With uneven steps, Zeff appeared behind him, walking slowly to where he was sitting.
"You never burned anything before. What happened?"
Sanji growled, angry at himself, afraid of having failed one time too often. "I was distracted." Then he realized that Zeff was balancing a plate in one hand, half empty. "You're eating my lunch now, old geezer?! After you keep telling me my cooking sucks?"
Zeff hummed, ignoring Sanji's anger. "It's lacking oregano, little eggplant."
It was a lie, but a lie Sanji understood. (Forgive me. I'll try harder).
"Oregano is for savages." (Please let me stay.)
And then, after a while: "Hey Sanji, do you want to learn how to fight?"
In the end, Zeff had taught him everything. From cooking to fighting. Trust and integrity. What it means to have a home. He hadn't been part of his daily life for so long now, it's stupid to start missing him now. But Sanji does, with every fibre of his body.
Surprisingly, it feels a lot like hunger, and it's ironic that without Zeff, no one was able to understand.
At the morning after hearing the news, he serves them breakfast, and it's just not as good. Which means it's still unbelievably tasty, but not up to Sanji's standards. He wouldn't know, because he's not eating any, and leaves the kitchen with a cup of coffee after everyone has a full plate.
No one says anything. They eat up in silence.
At lunch, the scene repeats itself and the food looks as if prepared and served in a hurry. That never happened before.
No one says anything. They eat up in silence.
It's Robin, who else, who notices that the sink is full of dirty dishes from yesterday and today's breakfast. The rest of the crew notices when there are no afternoon snacks. They catch themselves looking at the kitchen door, but he's not emerging from it. He can't because he's not in it.
It takes a while because the thought is so absurd – Sanji's avoiding the kitchen.
When it's time to prepare dinner and Sanji silently makes his way across deck, even his steps subdued, Robin calls him. She doesn't sugarcoat when she asks if being in the kitchen is too difficult right now. Her voice is quiet and gentle, but everyone is listening when she asks if maybe, Cook-san would like a break? The rest of them would surely manage cooking for a few days.
Sanji lights a cigarette and smiles half a smile. "That would be most kind, Robin-chan."
That definitely never happened before.
Sanji can't remember how often Zeff had fired him, lost count how often he himself quit. He never left, anyway, and Zeff never commented when he appeared back on the line.
They always managed to rile each other up, temper against temper, kick against kick. After a rocky first year, there was some kind of understanding between them that never had been verbalized.
There had been plenty rumours among the crew, of course. They were both blond, both spoke with a similar accent, both shared this weird passion for food. Sanji never fought against the rumours – he was just fine with them, actually. If everyone thought Zeff was his father, no one would ask about his real family. Zeff never stopped the rumours, because … well. Sanji never asked. It keeps him up now.
As often as they argued, they cooked. Sanji's happiest childhood memories revolve around Zeff's kitchen station, after the restaurant closed for the day, and Zeff tried some new recipes. They shared this excitement about tastes, could discuss textures for days, argued about combinations and temperatures. The Baratié drew in a lot of talented cooks over the years, but no one's love for food ever matched Zeff and Sanji's.
Well, most people didn't starve for 85 days. No surprise there.
Sanji and Zeff's appreciation for food was a bond they didn't have much say in. Their love for cooking was what bound them together over time. It's what allowed them to be loud and rude to each other, because they just didn't know how else to be.
They had been arguing again. Zeff, tired after a double shift. Sanji, in all teenager-glory, angry. They had been screaming at each other all across the restaurant, guests had left. A waiter had quit after they begun to trade blows.
He had been fired again. This time, accompanied by a lot of colourful curses, Zeff had thrown him out and asked him to destroy someone else's life for a change. Sanji had hurled a punchbowl at him and yelled that starving would have been a better fate than living under his roof.
After shifts, Sanji stood in the abandoned kitchen and prepared brunch. Zeff walked up to him and leaned heavily against the counter. They couldn't look at each other.
"Sanji –"
"Don't."
He remembers feeling like the biggest failure on earth, not even able to appreciate what this man had done to him. He didn't know how to apologize, didn't know what he'd do if Zeff wouldn't forgive him.
"I know what you want to say," he tried, because Sanji always kept trying, and there's only one thing he could think of to say. "It's lacking o—"
Zeff interrupted him, grabbing a knife and joining Sanji at the station. "No, I think it's just fine."
(I'm so sorry. Please let me stay.)
(I'm sorry. Don't leave.)
And, after a while: "It's for savages anyway."
(It's okay.)
There's a reason why food is called comforting, and the crew begins to realize that.
As Sanji quiets down, the silence engulfs the whole ship, no matter how loud they are. They never noticed, before. How they always ended up in the kitchen when they were sad or angry or felt lonely, how often they accompanied Sanji in the kitchen when they needed to vent.
There's this specific mixture between Sanji's presence, the smell of the food he's preparing, the soft level of noise the preparations make and the warmth from the stove, that spells out comfort. The smells are always just as good as the tastes, and entering the kitchen has begun to feel like coming home, the warmth soothing and welcoming. When Sanji cooks, he concentrates on cooking. The nakama talk, share, and he hums answers, asks questions and sometimes even comments, but his focus is on the food and that makes opening up so much easier. With the soup simmering lowly, the meat sizzling and Sanji continuously chop-chop-chopping vegetables or fruit beneath his hands, there's always this level of background noise that's just so perfect. Not too quiet and not too loud.
They thought it was the kitchen, but indeed, it's the cook.
They take turns cooking and since each crew member is trying very hard not to make things harder on Sanji by breaking his kitchen, the food turns out okay. In other words: It's either boring (Nami's salads, Chopper's Club Sandwiches) or edible (Usopp's Risotto, Robin's steamed vegetables). Zoro makes up excuses to cook later, to keep Luffy away from the stove is a given. He doesn't argue but takes it upon himself to bring a plate to Sanji.
Sanji appreciates food. He thanks Luffy and doesn't comment on the fact that his Captain always stays to make sure he eats. Maybe because he worries, maybe because these moments are a few of the rare interactions during which Sanji reminds him of Sanji.
He takes a bite, and his forlorn gaze across the sea turns into one of indignation. "For the love of the ocean, what's in there? It's bell pepper, how can you turn bell pepper –"
"Robin made it," Luffy interjects and watches how immediately, Sanji swallows and takes another bite.
"— into such a delightful meal."
Of course, Sanji eats everything they bring him to the last crumb, no matter how bad it is. He doesn't waste food, and so the others eat up as well. He also makes sure to politely thank each cook for the respective meal, because Sanji knows how nice it feels to be acknowledged for cooking. He just doesn't stay around to chatter afterwards.
But there's not much chatter after a few days anyway. Without Sanji, eating in the kitchen just doesn't has the same appeal, and the crewmates rather take their plates and walk off with them to wherever they have taken residence on the ship on that specific day.
Mealtimes used to be the highlights of the day, with everyone waltzing into the kitchen, talking and laughing while eating. A social event really. Now, mealtimes are depressing.
It's gotten quiet on the Merry, with their chef hurting. They don't know what to say except for condolences, which are done quickly. After all, Sanji had been the lucky one to even still have a Dad out there. Between Zeff, Nojiko and Yasopp, who didn't really count because Usopp isn't in contact with him, family is scarce among the Straw hat pirates. It's difficult to talk about something no one understands.
So they don't, Sanji keeps looking at the ocean, and the others keep looking at Sanji.
After a week, it's actually Zoro and his terrible food that breaks through.
He made a brothy soup.
How difficult could that be? What could go wrong? It's mostly water, for God's sake. He threw in some leftover food, vegetables, and meat, and let it simmer. A few spices and booze, and voilà.
Zoro never claimed to be a good cook. Hell, he'd admit on the spot that he's bad at it, but when he tries his soup and it tastes like dying from a long, agonizing illness with regrets, he is shocked.
For once, they gathered again to share a meal because it's too much of a bother to carry around bowls of soup on a ship. Usopp and Luffy carried the table and chairs on deck. It's a nice idea, eating outside in the sun, and Luffy doesn't break much. If only the food were edible. Or boring.
While Zoro has the decency to look at the bowl of pestilence flabbergasted, his crewmates are far from speechless.
"Oh my God, did you confuse the pots for the toilets!?"
"It smells like putrid flesh. Actually, like gangrene from the inner organs, I think, how would you –."
"This is a bioweapon, Zoro, I've heard of it on my travels to Chemistry island, where they did tests on innocent nakama –"
Sanji takes a seat, and Usopp begins talking twice as fast, trying not to make the situation awkward but failing miserably. Sanji doesn't look good – he's pale and subdued, and when he's reaching for a bowl, he doesn't seem to listen to Usopp's story at all.
His thoughts are with the Baratié, of course. He remembers the first time Zeff taught him how to season soup. It's not that easy in a restaurant kitchen, because the soup has to be prepared an evening before serving. The spices and tastes evolve the longer the soup rests, some ingredients sinking to the bottom of the pot, some staying at the surface.
Man, they had been arguing and yelling about the spices for ages.
Zoro has half a mind to tell the cook not to bother, the soup's terrible, but there's literally nothing else to eat and when has Sanji ever listened to him? They all watch in silent horror how he sinks in the spoon, looking at the ocean.
In a restaurant, soup is served in small portions but prepared in large quantities. As a result, a ladle of soup taken for lunch will taste different from a ladle taken for dinner. There's a huge difference whether or not a chef stirs before taking out a portion or not. In the chaos of a busy kitchen, there's not time to keep stirring the soup or tasting each and every time.
Zeff told him to always mind the soup – it's the first impression of the chef's abilities and sets the perimeters for the rest of the meal.
He also thinks about how Zeff's beard twitched when he liked Sanji's food but wouldn't fess up, and he thinks about hundreds of other moments. Then, suddenly, his thoughts are hammered back onto the Merry and the here and now, with the force of a sledgehammer.
He tasted the soup.
It's like a dirty, sick and drunk ferret vomiting on his tongue.
He's polite when it comes to food. He appreciates the effort Zoro put into it and really, his crewmates never learned to cook, it's unfair to expect too much. He never wastes food. Ever since he survived starvation, he can't not finish a plate.
His wonders if this is what murder tastes and chokes. "How did that happen?"
His looks at his stricken, tentative crewmembers and then at their half-empty bowls. He knows that they forced down this natural catastrophe because they don't want to upset him.
Zoro has tried to be a decent human being around him lately and doesn't resort to insults and death threats. "Maybe I boiled it too much?" he wonders, shrugging helplessly.
It's kind of endearing, so Sanji takes a deep breath, tries another spoonful of soup, has a brief out-of-body-experience, and his lips twitch.
Boiled it too much, seriously.
It's light chuckle first, and his crewmembers look at him as if he snapped. Maybe he did, because he knows exactly what Zeff would have said to Zoro right now. His voice is crispy-clear in his ears, and suddenly, he starts to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Maybe the soup made his last remaining brain cells commit suicide.
One by one, the rest of the crew put down their bowls and join him, laughing lightly at this situation they found themselves in.
Sanji hears Zeff's voice and can't fucking believe it, because when he tasted the "soup" again, he found that it would actually benefit from fucking oregano.
"This is lacking oregano," he says at last, and cracks up.
(I miss you.)
There's only a fine line between laughing and crying, and suddenly it's the latter. He's laughing at the soup and crying because inside jokes need at least two parties. Maybe he's also crying because of the soup and laughing at the joke.
Oregano is for savages.
(Please don't leave me.)
The others had been laughing, but with the tears streaming down his face, they don't know what to do. Chopper puts an awkward hoof on his arm and Usopp starts looking for a tissue in panic, but it's okay – for the first time in a week, Sanji knows what to do. He shakes his head, stands up and grabs the pot of doom. The marimo idiot cooked enough to last them for a week. He can't have them eat this again, but he won't let them throw it into the ocean.
There are slight protests, but Sanji ignores them and hauls the pot through the kitchen door. "Marimo," he calls, "Tell me exactly what you put into that." He puts the pot back on the stove and looks at the state of his kitchen. "Luffy, Usopp, clean this up."
They do so, without complaining. Zoro starts listing ingredients while Sanji rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. When he lists vinegar solution and 'pink salad dressing he found next to the sink', Sanji nods at Chopper, who hurries off to fetch some medicine. Safety first.
He dimly registers the girls in the background. He didn't give them any chores, of course not, but they decided to stay anyway. There is beauty and grace in the world if these two sublime women are staying in his worthless kitchen, among these sweaty, impolite gorillas, just to make sure he's okay.
He's not sure if he is, to be honest, but he thinks that maybe he can turn Zoro's roadkill-juice into a hearty, bitter sauce reduction and serve it with red meat and green vegetables. After he cooked out the poison. Maybe some caramelized onions on top?
"If you want to make soup," he starts lecturing. He never lectured them about cooking before, but somehow it feels right, "you need time. The texture is just as important as the taste, and texture needs time." He starts working. "Zeff loved soup, but never had time to prepare it as head chef."
There's a lot to do. Zoro stays, probably feeling responsible, and listens as he talks about Zeff and the Baratié. He's crying, sometimes, because it's sad to think about the old geezer. It also feels good to tell them about him, and the food's coming along well.
He doesn't leave the kitchen for hours, trusting Zoro's creation to crawl away from the stove if he so much as turns his back on it. Luffy and Usopp did a half decent job of cleaning up, but it's nowhere up to Sanji's (Zeff's) standards. So he gets to work, with the soup simmering on the stove, dinner's meat sizzling, the faucet whooshing, and tells random stories about the Baratié and Zeff to whomever joins him in the kitchen to listen. The chop-chop-chopping of vegetable cutting beneath his hands creates just the right volume of noise to make it comfortable.
Oregano is one of the spices that needs to be added at last. Sanji needs a few minutes to find it in the very back of his spice board.
He managed to turn Zoro's cancer-soup into a thick, blubbery sauce, added splashes of whiskey and orange juice, and it's actually good. Now, the only thing that's lacking is oregano.
He's decided to give it another try, even if it's for savages.
(Thank you. I love you.)
r&r!