Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed! tw: self harm, depression, torture.
Okay Sanji had many, many flaws, he's self-aware enough to admit that, but he was not a coward. Except, except maybe he was. Because he'd woken up in the infirmary after that horrible dungeon and he'd been worried about how he was going to be able to cook for his captain, for his nakama, with one hand. But, but he'd been intending to try anyway. Luffy had wanted him to try and he'd been determined to try for his captain's sake.
But as time passed, as he became all too aware of what he was missing, of how difficult simple things he had never thought about before, now were, he'd….he'd been hesitating.
Not that he didn't want to go back to galley, to cook. He did. He did want to. He wanted to so badly it hurt inside his chest, a sharp pain he could only call longing. But he wanted to be able to cook like before. Easy and simple and happy, the only frustration being a shitty rubber captain who couldn't keep his hands to himself and had a stomach to rival the bottom of the ocean.
But he couldn't do that. He might never be able to do that again.
So he'd been hesitating.
Like a coward.
What kind of cook doesn't cook?
What kind of nakama would he be if he let down his captain?
What kind of cook lets his nakama eat unbalanced meals for weeks when he could at least have given them pointers?
What kind of cook let's Robin-chan drink shitty coffee and leaves his spice rack to Usopp's mercy?
A sad pathetic bastard that's what. Zeff would never let him hear the end of it and he'd be right.
So, he waits until it's been an hour or so after his last dose of meds in the evening, because by then Chopper won't be coming in to check on him and sneaks out.
He has to go barefoot because the slippers which are the only footwear he can put on right now, make far too much noise, shuffling over the deck. It takes some luck and a close miss before he can sneak his way up to the galley without being seen.
As he'd hoped, no one else is there, most of the crew getting ready for bed or squirreled away in their favourite parts of the ship. He steps inside, and takes a deep breath almost on instinct.
The scent of baked bread, a flash of spices, the lemony scent of the dish soap, the mouthwatering aroma of cooked meat.
His knees feel weak for a second, as he drowns in the familiar scents of the galley.
Oh he's been away for far too long.
He takes a minute to claw himself back together, before moving inside properly. The dishes are clean, not a surprise since the other's have been on dish duty under his sharp eye. But the counters still have flour at the edges and…is that a dent in his best skillet?
Sanji fumes, walking over to inspect, wishing desperately for a cigarette. But Chopper had put his too sensitive nose to use while he'd been sleeping off his injuries and had sniffed out all of his stashes. Sanji hasn't been able to get the doctor to give them back or get one of the others to give him back at least a pack.
It's the least they could have done after denting his skillet, he thinks sourly. The dent is suspiciously head-shaped.
Which reminds him…Sanji grimaces and heads for his spice rack, dreading what he would find.
It's…. It's worse than he thought. He tries to drop his face into his hands to try to hide from the atrocity that he is bearing witness to but that doesn't work because he only has one fricking hand!!!!!
He tugs at his hair in despair because is that oregano…in his paprika jar? And what happened to the coriander? Where was the thyme? Oh wait, it was mixed into his basil.
Sanji feels like screaming. If he wasn't sneaking around, he actually might have. And what happened to all of the pepper flakes???? Did they put it in something? How had they not died?
Wait. He spins around frantically searching the kitchen. Where the hell is the salt? It was right next to the spice rack. It should have been there, not hard to miss, big bottle of white stuff.
It's not anywhere in sight.
They can't have used out the whole thing, right? It's not physically possible to have been making such terribly bland food and still use out the entire bottle of salt.
He feels a little light-headed. Maybe the blood loss is having a delayed reaction.
He…he needs to fix this. He needs to fix this right now because there's no way he's going to be able to sleep with the nightmare that has become of his bloody galley, hanging over his head.
An hour later finds him grinding his teeth in absolute frustration. He should have been done with the damn spice rack half an hour ago but he, he keeps reaching for things with his left arm, jerking it where it's strapped up to his chest, and causing the still healing stump to spike with pain.
The galley feels weird and hostile, for all it had felt like home when he'd first stepped in. He keeps having to turn his entire body in order to reach for things. His once comfortable set-up now awkward and uncomfortable.
Every time he bends down the stupid stump throbs.
He tries to move quickly but his body still isn't used to his lopsided weight and he knocked twice into counters and once into a cupboard.
He wants to scream.
And to top it off his one actual arm, nearly dropped a pot when he'd tried to move it back to it's designated space. Chopper had yapped about damaged muscles and tendons and the like but he was healing. He'd healed from worse. He should have been fine now. His one remaining arm should at least have the decency to actually work, instead of being a shitty piece of crap.
He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge and takes in a deep, ragged breath. It's fine. It's fine. He can do this. He's cooked one handed before, that one time when he was eleven and had broken his arm when a vicious storm had lashed the Baratie for days. He hadn't been the only one injured then either, at least half the staff coming out with some kind of bruise or the other.
So he can do this. He can. He'll have to be a little creative that's all.
It's late so there's nothing he needs to make pressingly. But with the way things are he should definitely prep for tomorrow. He's going to be slower than usual after all. And who knows how long he'll get to stay in the galley before Chopper decides he's overdoing and bodily evict him.
He taps his lips in thought, wishing once more a freaking cigarette. He doesn't even need to light it, he simply wants something familiar. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair tugging a little.
What should lunch be? Maybe something simple? Stir-fried rice? Maybe some baked chicken?
That's good actually, he thinks turning it around in his mind. He can pack a lot more nutrients into those than anyone realises. And with this crew, it's a wonder that no one has started to lose weight yet, what with how active they are, even at sea. Mind made up, Sanji opens the fridge to poke around and see what's left.
It's surprisingly well stocked between the length of time they've been at sea and Luffy's ever-sticky fingers. In fact, it shouldn't be. Sanji had gone onto the island to restock their supplies and he hadn't gotten to do that.
One of the others must have then. Most likely the beautiful Nami-swan. He needs to thank her all over again.
Though…maybe he needs to apologize first, he winces, remembering their recent interactions. Maybe some red velvet cupcakes to go with that apology?
Definitely, he decides upon more thought. And maybe some milkshakes for the rest of the crew.
But first, first he needs to prep for tomorrow. He finds most of the vegetables for the stir fry fairly easily. It's still a pain to have to do everything one handed. He has to make more trips between the fridge and the counters than before, gritting his teeth against the pain that is starting up in the still healing wounds of his right hand.
He finally, gets all of the vegetables out, spends an extra five minutes trying to relocate his chopping board. Then spends the next minute cussing out whoever had moved it in the first place, before setting it up. He procures his favourite knife for the task, relieved at least, to see that it was still as sharp as he'd left it.
He sighs and sets to work, convinced that everything should at least be fairly routine from here.
It…It is not.
The going is slow, the cuts bad. He can't steady the bell peppers with one hand. Even when he'd broken his hand, his fingers had been left out of the cast and he'd used those to brace whatever he was cutting.
But he doesn't have any damn fingers on his stupid hand. And honesty how could he have been so stupid? So careless? Why didn't he notice that things were going wrong earlier? Why had he been so foolishly confident, when he'd released that something was up. Why hadn't he dodged the stupid dart? And why couldn't he have simply kept his mouth shut? Kept quiet instead of taunting them when they hurt him, laughing when they'd burned him with his cigarettes as if he hadn't done worse to himself by accident when he'd now started?
Maybe if he hadn't been so epically stupid, he wouldn't be standing in his own galley, feeling like an imposter and being defeated by bell peppers.
He wipes at his eyes and angrily chops at the bell peppers, hoping he can at least get them into small enough pieces. One flies off the chopping board from the force of his rage-filled chopping and soars through the air before flopping to the ground like a monument to his absolute pathetic-ness.
How pitiful, some part of his mind sneers.
How pathetic.
A cook who can't even slice a vegetable.
And he thinks he has the right to cook for the future king of the pirates?
He thinks he should be the one to find All Blue?
What's he going to do if he ever does? Wave at it with his one good hand? Because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to cook anything from that legendary ocean.
What was the use of him? Why the hell is he even here? On this ship?
What is he even doing?
He should leave. Let the others find another cook. One that can actually feed them.
One with two fricking hands. Not some cripple wanna-be.
The cutting board wavers in his vision, mutilated bell peppers filling his sight, the hand holding the knife trembling with fatigue…and he…. he is so mad.
He is so furious.
He hates this!
HE HATES THIS!!
HE HATES THIS!!!
He doesn't realise that he is screaming, hoarsely, wordlessly until the chopping board flies across the room and hits the opposite wall, sending bell peppers spraying everywhere, the knife flying after it in a sharp glint of silver.
He stares at the mess and then screams again, and kicks.
He kicks the cupboards, the walls, the counters, the chairs, cracks the dining table in half. He kicks his plates off the racks and sends his pots flying across the room in a loud cacophony of noise that is the perfect counter point for his screaming.
He smashes through the wine rack, uncaring of the wounds opening up on his legs, and stomps on the stupid dented skillet until it is no longer recognizable.
He flings the rest of his knives across the room, uncaring of how he grabs them, uncaring of the red trails they leave behind. He's already lost one hand. Having the other doesn't exactly mean anything when they come in pairs for a reason.
The last few knives slip from his fingers, still-healing muscles too exhausted and overworked to be able to keep a grip and Sanji is so furious.
He smacks his hand repeatedly, viciously,against the countertops blind with fury that it would desert him so.
A ladle falls from one of his abused cupboards and he whirls angrily and sends it flying across the room, but the kick and his still unbalanced self, sends him flying too.
He crashes to the ground right on top of his stump and screams as pain jolts it way through him. Then screams again as he pushes himself up half and slams back onto it again and again and again. As if he could beat it out of existence. Make it so it goes away and he never ever has to deal with the stupid stump again.
Rubber arms wrap around and around him and he drops his head into Luffy's shoulder and simply screams out all his frustration and fear and anger and loss and hopelessness.
Luffy holds him. Rocking them both back and forth while his screams dissolve into tears and sobs and finally to silence.
He comes back to himself, sniffling in Luffy's arms, head buried in his captain's neck, the comforting feeling of a straw hat perched on his head.
Luffy somehow senses that he is back, and leans away a little so he can look into his cook's eyes. Sanji drops them, ashamed and vulnerable, but Luffy cups his chin, tilts his head until Sanji looks at him.
Once he is sure he has his undivided attention he says assuredly, "Sanji is mine. And he is worth more to me than the whole world."
And he waits.
Sanji swallows, eyes brimming with moisture and he whispers, "Okay." And buries his head back in Luffy's neck before swallowing hard and saying,
"Hey Luffy?"
"Mmm?"
"Help me?"
He feels the brightness flowing through him, even before his captain answers.
"Of course!"
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