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(10)
Zeff has dealt with a lot of things in his many years.
He’s dealt with strong foes, rough seas, betrayal, defeat— all of the things promised to a man when he becomes a pirate. He’s faced them all, and in the end, overcome.
This… Well, Zeff doesn’t know how to deal with this.
The kid in the bed next to him looks so small. He’s got tubes stuck in him, same as Zeff. If not for the tiny, nearly imperceptible rises and falls of his chest, Zeff could have easily mistaken the sleeping boy for a corpse. That thought stresses him out, and that realization stresses him out even more.
Zeff cares about the kid.
It’s possible that Zeff has cared about the kid since the moment he uttered the words “All Blue”. He can’t think of any other reason why he would have dived into a storm-ravaged ocean after him. When they were on the rock, though, it was easy enough for Zeff to think of the kid as nothing more than a vessel to carry on an old man’s dream— he was someone who believed in the All Blue, and that was enough of a reason to keep him alive.
But they aren’t on the rock anymore. They’re in steel-frame beds three feet apart, being treated in the sick bay of the sizable ship that had rescued them close to a week ago. Though the first few days had been touch-and-go, neither he nor the kid are in immediate danger of dying anymore.
And yet… his stomach still twists in knots every time he turns his head to the left and waits for some sign that the brat is still kicking. It’s agonizing— Zeff had spent eighty-five days with his back to the kid, and now, he can’t take his eyes off him. He has a theory that perhaps Death itself couldn’t find them out on that tiny rock in the ocean, too small for any map; now, he fears that if he looks away for too long, it very well might come to collect what is owed.
So, Zeff watches him. Never has he been one for paying attention to the little things— a big picture sort of guy, that’s who Zeff is. Only, now, his picture’s a bit smaller; no ship, no crew, no treasure, no leg. And… maybe there’s someone else in that picture now, too. Zeff has the feeling that he wouldn’t be able to shake the kid if he tried.
Zeff is pulled from his thoughts as a nurse enters. He’s seen the man a few times, during his brief spells of consciousness amid his many hours of sleeping. The nurse seems surprised to see him awake and begins speaking to him, quietly, so as not to wake the still-sleeping child in the other bed.
“It’s good to see you awake,” the man says, and Zeff has to agree. Time he spends asleep is time wasted, in his book. “You and your son are both recovering well. With any luck, you should be able to depart at the next island we dock at.”
For a moment, Zeff can’t even comprehend the man’s statement. My son? he wonders, brow furrowing. I don’t have a son. As realization begins to seep through him, he glances over to the kid once more. Oh.
“He’s not my son,” Zeff states, and he’s not certain why he feels the pressing need to correct the nurse on this matter. That brat is someone’s son— possibly someone now at the bottom of the ocean with Zeff’s crew and ship— but certainly not Zeff’s. For all that it matters, the two of them are still strangers. “Just two survivors from the same incident. That’s all.”
“Ah, my apologies for the assumption,” the nurse replies, without the decency to look even slightly embarrassed. He continues on past the pleasantries, diving into a few more medical details, but Zeff can’t tear his thoughts away from the word son and the small body lying a few feet away.
Don’t go getting any stupid ideas, Zeff, he chides himself mentally, drawing a deep breath. He’s not your problem anymore.
Something inside him disagrees.
(11)
Zeff wakes up to a thump.
The ex-pirate exhales through his nose, staring up in the darkness of his room. He waits for a few moments, listening for any other noises; none come, just the gentle, ever-present sound of the ocean from outside his window.
Pushing himself up, Zeff grabs his peg leg from the bedside table and straps it on, a bit clumsily on account of his grogginess. Then, he reaches down to the floor and feels around until his hand lands on his cane. He still hates that he needs it, but it hasn’t been long enough for Zeff to fully adjust to using only his prosthetic. Once he is on his feet, he begins the slow journey out of his room and down the hall.
A curse slips past Zeff’s lips as he nearly trips over a loose floorboard. The chef scowls; once his floating restaurant on the sea was built, he’d never trip over this stupid floorboard again, like he had been at least twice a week. He’d make sure everything was level, all the floors perfectly smooth. For now, though, he’s stuck with a tiny, dilapidated house he was renting in the port town.
And for whatever reason, that damn brat is here too.
Zeff gently raps his knuckles against the peeling wood of Sanji’s door before pushing it open. The kid is nowhere in sight, his blanket thrown messily off the bed and his light out. The sight might be alarming if this didn’t happen on an almost weekly basis. With a sigh of relief at being off his feet, Zeff lowers himself to sit on the edge of the abandoned bed.
In the silence of the night, Zeff can clearly hear the sniffling. If he had to guess, Zeff wagers that the kid is jammed in the small space between his bed and the wall, probably curled in on himself so as not to be seen. But Zeff does not check, he does not expose the kid’s hiding place. Instead, he begins to speak.
“You know,” Zeff grunts, his voice made gruffer than usual by the clinging dregs of sleep, “I heard once that in the All Blue, there’re blue-finned elephant tuna the size of island whales.”
There’s no response for a moment, but the sniffling quiets until it stops altogether. “N… no way…” a small, wet voice pipes up from somewhere behind Zeff, confirming his suspicions. “There’s— there’s no way they can get that big. That’s gotta be an exaggeration…”
“I don’t know what’s true and what’s not,” Zeff says, with a shrug that the kid certainly can’t see. “Since I’ve never been, I only know what I’ve heard. But I’ve come a whole lot closer to it than you have, going to the Grand Line and all.”
Another moment of silence passes. It stretches for longer than the last, and Zeff wonders if the kid somehow fell back asleep. However, the bed begins to creak as Sanji pulls himself up from the crevice, climbing back to his spot and sitting up. Zeff spares him a single glance out of the corner of his eye; the kid’s eyes are red and puffy, and there’s a clear shine of barely restrained tears, but his full attention is on Zeff now.
“...What else have you heard?” Sanji asks, voice still trembling slightly. “About the All Blue, I mean.”
Zeff wonders about the kid’s nightmares. It’s not something he’d ever ask about— no, that feels like prying, and more than that, prying into something Zeff isn’t supposed to care about. But he can’t help but wonder if they’re dreams of the ocean, swallowing him whole amidst a terrible storm, or of a barren rock in the sun with no food. Zeff often dreams of those. He dreams of the moment he severed his leg, and, disquietingly, of waking up on the rock to find a much-too-small corpse across from him.
Neither of them have been sleeping all that well. It’s still too soon for that.
So Zeff regales him with tales of the All Blue. Most of them he makes up off the top of his head, under the guise of having heard them from other sailors. The truth is, no matter where you are, if you ask other men of the sea about the All Blue, you’re begging to be laughed at. But the All Blue, though certainly real, exists largely in the minds of men; so Zeff sees no issue with inventing his own stories.
He’s not sure how long he sits there on the edge of the bed, speaking of fantastical things he will never see in his own lifetime, but eventually he takes note of the silence from Sanji’s end of the conversation. Turning his head, Zeff sees that the kid had fallen asleep, sliding down from where he sat until he was laying down. His blanket is still missing, though.
It only takes a moment of investigating for Zeff to realize the blanket is still in a pile on the floor where it was thrown off in haste. Leaning down, he gathers it up in his free arm and rises to stand. Zeff glances between the blanket and the kid, then frowns. He can’t believe he’s about to do this.
With a sweeping motion, Zeff unfurls the blanket out into the air, letting it slowly fall down to cover the kid’s body. He tugs the corners up to cover Sanji’s shoulders, relieved when the sleeping boy doesn’t stir once throughout the entire process. This is not something Zeff could do in the presence of another person. The moment is too gentle, too sentimental; Zeff feels as though he’s not meant to be a part of it. He’s not sure he’s meant to be a part of any of this, to be honest.
Nonetheless, he is.
(12)
Zeff knows something is wrong with the kid.
He watches from the doorway as Sanji packs his stuff. He doesn’t have much; just some clothes and a few personal effects. Zeff is much the same; all his belongings are packed into the bag on his back, fitting easily. They’ll get more stuff once they’ve moved on to the ship.
But the kid is moving slowly, stopping often to lose himself in thought. Zeff’s patience finally wears thin, and he clears his throat loudly.
“We don’t have all day, you know,” he grunts, shifting his weight to his other leg. “We’re supposed to sail out before sunset.”
Sanji startles as though he’s forgotten Zeff is in the same room as him. He whips around, glaring at his mentor. “Hold your horses, old man! I’m almost done. I’m just…” He pauses, flicking his eyes away from Zeff’s. “Thinking.”
“Not about my schedule, clearly,” Zeff shoots back, but he sits himself down in a chair in the corner of the room. It’s not the most comfortable— never has been— but it will have to do. “What’s holding you up, Eggplant?”
The boy’s eyebrow twitches at the sound of the nickname; Zeff had come up with it out of the blue one day, and had refused to stop using it since. It annoys Sanji to no end, and that’s why Zeff finds it perfect. He looks like he wants to bite back with an insult, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “Do you ever think about your old life?” The kid still isn’t looking at him, trying to measure how much he should say here. “Like, before— before the shipwreck. Are you ever afraid that stuff from back then is going to, like… find you?”
Zeff gives the question some thought. It’s impossible to live the life of a pirate without making some enemies— however, Zeff had put most of them in their place. He’s spilled the blood of so many men, who, in turn, had spilled his back. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, Zeff can still hear the raucous laughter of his crewmates, or the deafening blow of his ship’s cannons.
But that part of his life is behind him. It was over when he wrecked his ship while launching a dangerous attack. It was over when he severed his leg so that a total stranger could eat. It was over the moment he entertained the thought of opening a restaurant on the sea for more than a few minutes. Without his ship, his crew, his weapon— he is not a pirate. And anyone who would remember him as such is at the bottom of the ocean.
“No,” Zeff answers after a while, leaning back in the chair. He can tell Sanji is looking for guidance, in that stubborn, roundabout way of his. The kid never asks him for anything, and Zeff has an uncomfortable hunch that it has to do with the time they spent together on that shitty rock. He’s done everything in his power to assure the brat that he is not indebted to him, and yet the idiot can’t seem to get it through his thick skull. It’s a matter for another day, Zeff supposes— the one at hand is more pressing.
“Red-Leg Zeff is dead. He died at sea in a terrible storm, along with the rest of his crew. I’m just Zeff, owner of the soon-to-open restaurant on the sea, the Baratie.” Zeff knows that isn’t everything the kid needs to hear, though. It’s not what he was asking.
The little brat hasn’t offered him much information about his past, and Zeff hasn’t pressed him for it. One thing he has mentioned, though, is that his parents weren’t on the ship he nearly went down with. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a ten-year-old working on a luxury ship by himself either has no home, or is trying to get away from a shitty one. The way Sanji acts, Zeff would put money down on it being the latter.
But Zeff does not press him on this either, because to press him on it would be to admit that he cares, and he most certainly does not care — he only suffers from momentary lapses of sense, that’s all. He must be getting old and senile, he figures.
So, he goes on. “And you,” Zeff says, keeping his gaze on the boy watching him, “I don’t know who you might’a been before I met you, but right now, you’re Sanji— my sous-chef, and co-owner of the Baratie. And you better not be in the business of forgetting that, little Eggplant!”
Zeff can’t look at Sanji anymore, not with that look that’s dangerously close to reverence on the brat’s face. For a moment, he’s scared the kid is about to say something sappy, and he has absolutely no patience for that kind of thing— but the moment passes with nothing more than a quietly muttered “thanks,” before Sanji resumes his packing with renewed vigor.
Zeff catches the edge of a smile on Sanji’s face as he turns, and he knows they’re alright, for now.
(13)
Zeff is not in a good mood.
By all means, he should be. The dining room is absolutely packed , customers from all over flooding in for the chance to try even a bite of his cooking. For a fairly recently opened restaurant, this is an achievement worth celebrating. However, in this moment, Zeff feels far from celebratory.
His kitchen is in absolute disarray. They’re still severely understaffed, and the staff he does have is… well, they’re not exactly professionals. They still need his guidance on much more than he hoped they would at this point, so he spends most of his time running around to tell his chefs the same thing he told them five minutes ago. His frustration is reaching dangerous levels.
Zeff glances around for Sanji; the kid knows most of this shit by heart, so he should be able to do this part, and let Zeff cook for a little while. Only, Sanji isn’t in the kitchen. Zeff feels like he could put his leg through the wall right about now.
“Where the hell is the eggplant?” he snaps, any semblance of patience he might have had vanishing.
Patty hears him over the sizzling of several pans. “He ain’t back yet? Squirt left for the walk-in like, ten minutes ago. Said he had to get something.”
Zeff pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You idiots think you can handle things on your own for a few minutes?”
“Sure thing, Head Chef!” Carne shouts back from his station, just as the contents of the pan in his hands burst into flames.
Zeff stares for a moment, before deciding to cut his losses and go get Sanji. He has to make it quick— every moment he’s gone is another moment his kitchen could catch fire, with those dumbasses in charge.
It isn’t long before he reaches the walk-in refrigerator. The door is ajar, which tells Zeff that the kid is still in there; Sanji never forgets to close it behind him. As he pushes his way inside, he readies himself to shout the brat all the way back to the kitchen.
The words die in his mouth, though, as he spots Sanji up against the wall. His head is down and his knees are drawn up, and Zeff could almost mistake the shake of his shoulders for cold if not for the pitiful noises escaping him. Zeff’s mouth presses into a thin line and he walks further inside, seating himself on a crate of fish across from Sanji.
Finally noticing his presence, Sanji’s head jerks up from where it was hidden and he meets Zeff’s gaze. And, shit , the brat is crying. Zeff feels distinctly uncomfortable, because he has no idea how he’s supposed to deal with this. So, he deals with it the way he deals with most things.
“Why the hell are you sniveling in here when the kitchen is backed up so far it might as well be in the South Blue?” he asks, a harsh edge to his tone.
Sanji blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. “Sorry, I’m— sorry,” he croaks, scrubbing his face with his arm. He pushes himself up to stand. “I’ll go back now.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Zeff says with a glare, “You’ll be no good in the kitchen like this. A distracted cook is just a fire hazard.” When Sanji continues staring at him, seemingly at a loss for what the right thing to do is, Zeff sighs in exasperation. “I didn’t tell you to come back, brat. I asked why. ”
The kid stands there, still lost, before he seems to realize what Zeff means. Zeff supposes there are probably easier ways to ask “what’s wrong?”, but he is never one for the easy route. Sanji sits back down, wringing his hands together.
“I, um…” he trails off, clearly unsure of what to say. Zeff considers telling him to spit it out, but he has enough awareness to know it wouldn’t help the situation much. “I feel like I can’t keep up, and I keep making mistakes, and I’m, I’m—” he pauses to take a shuddering breath, trying not to cry again. “I don’t want to mess up, I don’t want to be a— a failure .”
Zeff frowns, his brow furrowing. “Who the hell told you that you’re a failure?”
Sanji opens his mouth to respond, but he quickly shuts it, opting to look at the floor instead. Something in Zeff’s chest twists, but he pushes past it.
“You think you’re the only one in there making mistakes?” Zeff asks gruffly, scowling. “Just yesterday, I caught Patty trying to microwave a whole trout because, as he claimed, the oven took too long. You’d think this is amateur hour, or something,” he grouses, recalling the incident clearly. At least Patty won’t do it again, after the lecture he got from Zeff.
“But,” Zeff continues, “I know none of you are chefs by trade. I’ll push you to improve as fast as possible— and God knows we need that to happen— but I can’t expect any of you to be on my level overnight.”
Sanji nods, but he still looks troubled. “But, even just with the other chefs, I feel— weak. I can’t— I’m not strong enough to carry some of the supplies from the storeroom, and I can’t reach any of the stations without a step stool, and—”
Zeffs cuts him off with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Stop whining, brat!” he snaps, his gaze fiercely focused on his apprentice’s face. “And cut that shit out— there’s nothing gained from comparing yourself to the other chefs!” Sanji continues to stare at him, wide-eyed, and Zeff relaxes his grip slightly.
“Listen,” he begins, a bit softer, “Do you know what a kitchen is ? It operates on the same principle as a ship’s crew. Only a fool would choose a single man to serve as his navigator, and his cook, and his doctor— rather, he finds people to do each job. A kitchen is like that; we have stations because we don’t expect a single man to do every job.”
“As it stands, I’m stuck with a bunch of unpolished amateurs who have no discernable skill sets. But as time goes on, I’m sure each of you will figure out what you do best. Until then— and even then— I want you to rely on your fellow chefs.” He moves his hand to the top of Sanji’s head, a gentle show of affection he rarely demonstrates. “Everyone has something he can and cannot do. Just do what you can, and we’ll deal with the rest.”
Sanji draws in a deep breath and nods, meeting Zeff’s eyes with newfound determination as the man withdraws his hand. He smiles, standing up quickly and straightening his uniform. “Alright, shitty geezer. I’ll get even better than you, just you wait!”
Zeff laughs, smacking the kid’s back so hard he stumbles forward. “In your dreams, runt! Try setting some goals you can actually achieve.” As Sanji sticks out his tongue and runs out of the walk-in, Zeff calls after him. “And that’s “Head Chef” to you, you got that?!”
Left alone, Zeff pushes himself up as well. As he hobbles after the suddenly energetic kid, Zeff shakes his head. He can barely keep up with the kid’s mood swings, and he feels as though he’s just getting lucky with his words. If this is what parenthood is like, he doesn’t get why everyone is so wild for it.
He tells himself that over and over as he fights back the creep of fondness in his chest.
(14)
Zeff is no stranger to shitty days.
As it turns out, cutting off part of your leg made for some problems down the line. In the early days, largely before he had gotten his peg leg, Zeff had experienced something the doctors had called phantom limb syndrome. It hadn’t hurt, per se, but it had certainly been strange to feel sensations in a foot that was no longer there.
The larger problem came in the form of chronic, lingering pains where the flesh of his leg ended. He had been told there wasn’t much to be done for it, sadly— at the time he had just grunted dismissively, claiming it wasn’t even that bad. And most days, Zeff does find it manageable; he’d dealt with much worse at sea.
Today was not one of those days.
Zeff knows it from the moment he wakes up. An uncomfortable, throbbing sensation assaults him from underneath the covers, and it takes him a moment to connect it to the stump of his leg. He shuts his eyes tight and waits for the uncomfortable tightness to pass, but it doesn’t.
Sighing, he forces himself up anyway. He works slowly as he fastens the multiple straps to keep his prosthetic in place— the aching flesh of his stump protests the added pressure, but Zeff ignores it. Pushing off his bed, Zeff moves to stand, to start the day and open his restaurant.
He collapses immediately.
Zeff has to clench his jaw tight to prevent any noises of anguish from slipping out. The pain is so much worse than he imagined; as is, there’s no way his leg will support him being on his feet for the entire day. He supposes he’ll have to use his cane, if can even find that damn thing—
His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at his door. It pushes open a bit before he has the chance to respond. “Geezer? Everything okay?” Sanji’s voice drifts in before he even comes into view. “I heard a thump, so…”
The boy trails off as he searches for Zeff in the room. Zeff considers making a noise, but he’s certain Sanji will spot him soon enough; the room isn’t all that big, after all.
It doesn’t take long for Sanji to notice him. The boy’s eyes go wide and he freezes for a moment before moving towards Zeff, nearly tripping in his haste. “What happened?” Sanji asks, getting down on his knees to assist Zeff.
Zeff just grunts and gestures up towards the bed. Sanji seems to get the message, helping sit Zeff up on the floor. He slings Zeff’s arm around his shoulder and bears as much of his weight as he can, acting as a crutch. There’s a brief moment of intensified pain when they stand, but it passes as quickly as it came, as Sanji lowers Zeff into a sitting position on the edge of his bed.
“Does your leg hurt?” Sanji asks, with a tone of undisguised concern that doesn’t quite sound right on him. Zeff exhales through his nose, not really thrilled about the situation he finds himself in. For one, he’d let the brat see him in a state of vulnerability; from their first day together, that’s something Zeff has always avoided. He doesn’t like for anyone to see him like that, but especially not Sanji.
The other issue is the source of the problem itself— his leg. Sanji never seems willing to admit it, but Zeff knows the shitty brat blames himself for Zeff’s choice. It frustrates him to no end; he made that choice for himself , and he won’t hear it any other way. But Sanji seems to disagree, and it shows in the way he acts around Zeff on days like this.
Sanji takes his extended silence as a sign to keep speaking. “You should probably take that off,” he says, looking down at the straps fastening the peg leg to Zeff’s body. His hands are hovering by his side— he’s ready to help do so, but not without Zeff’s permission.
“Don’t tell me what to do, brat!” Zeff snaps, the throbbing pain making him especially cranky. “How the hell do you expect me to get around the kitchen without my leg?”
Sanji frowns, his brow lined with a determination that wasn’t there a moment ago. Zeff is surprised by how long he seems to mull over his words; the kid usually spouts whatever nonsense comes to his mind first. “Stay the hell in bed, shitty old man. The rest of us can handle the restaurant without you for one day.”
Something in Zeff’s chest burns with anger, indignation— he doesn’t hesitate to raise his voice as he retorts. “You’re getting too big for your britches, Eggplant! You really think you can do what I do? You have no idea— ”
“Maybe I don’t!” Sanji interrupts, leaning forward. “But we’ve all been learning from you, and— we’re not the same shitty chefs we were a year ago! So, just… let us handle it today, geezer.”
Zeff inhales, exhales— he knows it’s a losing battle. His chefs outnumber him, and he has the idea that they’re very much of the same mindset as Sanji on this matter. Resigned to his fate, Zeff slumps back down into bed.
“Fine,” he mutters, clearly displeased. Sanji, on the other hand, seems to perk up at the affirmation. With Zeff’s permission, he helps to undo the straps holding his leg in place. It’s placed within reach of the bed, in case Zeff needs to go somewhere.
“I’ll go get your pain medicine and some breakfast,” Sanji says when Zeff is comfortable, heading for the door.
“Don’t undercook the toast,” Zeff warns. “Won’t eat it unless it’s black.”
Sanji gags before disappearing. Zeff figures that by the end of the day, he’ll either have newfound trust in the competence of his cooks, or a burned-down kitchen and a slew of one-star reviews. He can deal with either.
(15)
Zeff can’t take it any longer.
“Let me cut your hair, Eggplant.”
The change in Sanji’s demeanor is instant. His shoulders jerk, his muscles tightening with sudden tension. His body language screams discomfort, refusal— maybe even a hint of fear. Frowning, he sets the dishes he’s holding down on a nearby counter and turns to fully face Zeff.
“I can handle it just fine, shitty geezer,” Sanji snaps, hands on his hips. “I’ve been doing it myself for years.”
Zeff rolls his eyes, taking a clunking step closer. “Yeah, and it’s looked like absolute shit every single time,” he scoffs, matching Sanji’s scowl. “Look, you can get away with having a shitty haircut when you’re a little kid— people will probably think it’s cute, or something stupid like that. But you’re one of our primary waiters, and I want you to look presentable for the customers.”
Sanji huffs, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “So what, you’re some kind of professional hair-cutter now?”
Unable to contain his frustration, Zeff slaps a wooden spoon on the top of the brat’s mop of blond hair— not hard enough to hurt, but Sanji still moves his hands to his head anyway.
“No, but I can do much better than whatever the hell you’ve been doing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you cut your hair in a dark room with a machete.” Zeff tosses the spoon in the sink with an exhale. “If you want to keep working the dining room, let me give you a trim. And if you don’t want to work the dining room, well— you’re not needed here.”
Zeff knows it’s a bit of a low blow. It’s an empty threat, of course— Sanji co-owns the Baratie with him, and he would never actually stop doing the jobs that need to be done. But Zeff could never forget the months Sanji spent trying to feel like he was good enough, and those few terrible moments when Sanji seemed to genuinely fear that Zeff would kick him out. However, Zeff has never been one to pull his punches. If anything, he’ll just regret it later.
The hurt is there, clear as rainwater on Sanji’s face. It passes after only a few moments, shifting into a sort of grim acceptance that, in Zeff’s opinion, is a bit of an overreaction. The boy follows him wordlessly as Zeff leads him to the bathroom. He sits uncharacteristically quietly on the chair Zeff drags in, facing the mirror, holding still as a sheet is tied around his neck. Finally, Zeff grabs a pair of scissors and positions himself behind Sanji, ready to begin.
“Now, don’t be a wimp about this,” Zeff starts, aiming for a slightly less gruff tone than before, “but if I hurt you or anything, let me know. I don’t have all that much experience with this, but if it’s anything like gutting a fish, I’m sure I’ll do fine.”
“It’s nothing like gutting a fish,” Sanji answers, visibly paling. He twists his head around to look back at Zeff. “Is it too late to change my mind?”
“Yep. Now face forward and sit still.”
Sanji does so— not without a bit of grousing— and Zeff begins his work. Zeff notices the way the kid flinches back when the scissors come close to his face. He screws his eyes shut, so tight it looks like it might hurt, and awaits some kind of inevitable nick that never comes. Though he can’t say for sure, Zeff is pretty certain there’s a bit more to this behavior than Sanji simply not trusting him to hold a pair of scissors steady. It makes Zeff’s stomach turn, and he figures that the best thing he can do is to do the job with the care Sanji doesn’t seem to expect of him, or anyone.
And so, he does his best to work efficiently and carefully; though Zeff may handle most things in life somewhat harshly, he treats the task at hand with the same precision and care he would any job in the kitchen. Sanji seems surprised by this too, though he says little beyond the occasional rude mumble when Zeff accidentally yanks something. But he keeps his eyes open more, flinches less— the tension leaks out of his shoulders and Zeff feels like a weight he didn’t even know was there is lifted.
“Done,” Zeff says when he finds Sanji to be presentable, untying the sheet and shaking it out over the small garbage can in the corner of the room. He’ll have to grab a broom for the kid to sweep up the floor later— it’s his hair, after all. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, brat?”
Sanji doesn’t answer him right away. He’s too busy staring into the mirror, one hand on the edge of the sink while the other runs through his hair. Zeff walks up beside him, grunting as he crosses his arms and leans into view of the mirror.
“Does it meet your standards, Eggplant?” Zeff asks, a smug smile on his face. Sanji goes red quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, stealing a quick glance at the mirror again. Zeff doesn’t expect a thanks, nor does he all that much want one— he’s glad Sanji is to the point where he doesn’t feel guilty after Zeff does anything for him. But Zeff still has to wonder how he ended up with such a rude kid.
“Well, get a move on, then!” Zeff snaps, pushing him towards the door. “You’ve got to sweep this mess up and get ready for opening! No time to dawdle!” Sanji squawks indignantly as Zeff shoves him out into the hall, shooting him a pissy glare before he runs off towards the broom closet.
Zeff waits until he’s well out of sight to let a genuine smile find its way onto his face. He doesn’t need anyone thinking he’s gone soft.
(16)
Zeff can’t sleep.
It’s not a particularly uncommon occurrence; there are many things that can keep a man like him up. Typically, Zeff will settle for simply lying in bed until either sleep takes him, or the sun rises— whichever comes first. Tonight, though, he is restless. He sighs as he pushes himself out of bed, heading for one of the upper decks to get some air.
When he steps out, Zeff finds that the night is comfortably cold. He has never been one to mind the cold all that much. He also finds that he is not alone. Pressed against the railing and facing out towards the sea is a familiar figure, though it’s strange to see him out of the sharp suit he insists on wearing all the time nowadays.
Zeff is about to call out to Sanji when he sees the unmistakable quick flash of a lighter. He stops where he is. Even from where he stands, with Sanji’s back mostly to him, Zeff can tell what he’s doing. Wordlessly, he walks over and leans against the railing beside Sanji.
The brat is made aware of his presence long before he reaches the railing, his heavy steps echoing across the otherwise empty and silent deck. Sanji turns to him with a start, watching Zeff cautiously as he makes his way next to him. He has the weird posture, braced, like he’s waiting for Zeff to slap the lighter and cigarette pack out of his hands.
“How long?” Zeff asks, staring out at the ocean. He’d seen Sanji raise the cigarette to his lips without breaking into a coughing fit, so he guesses it’s not his first one.
“Two weeks,” Sanji mumbles, stuffing the lighter and pack into his pockets. He won’t look at Zeff, seemingly torn between staying and going. Zeff sighs, drumming his fingers on the railing.
“What’s your problem, Eggplant?” he asks, flicking his gaze over to Sanji without turning his head away from the sea. “I don’t care what you do in your free time, as long as you show up in the kitchen tomorrow.”
Sanji’s still watching him strangely, like he expects this all to be part of a test. He hesitantly reaches into his pockets and begins to draw the lighter and box back out; when Zeff makes no move to punish him, he pulls them all the way out. “You said smoking was bad, when I was a kid. So, I thought…”
Zeff snorts. “It is bad, kid— tears up your lungs and drains your wallet. But you really think I’m the person to stop others from doing bad shit? I’m an ex-pirate, brat.”
Sanji considers that for a moment. “You mind?” he asks, flicking open the pack.
“Doesn’t bother me,” Zeff replies.
Pulling out a cigarette, Sanji seems a bit more relaxed as he lights it. “Thanks,” he says, slipping it between his lips.
There’s a comfortable silence that lingers between them as they both stare out at the waves. The wind carries the smoke from Sanji’s cigarette forward, spreading it over their view of the water like fog. Zeff debates saying what he wants to, as he finds it a bit too sappy for his tastes, until he finds what he hopes are the right words.
“You know,” he starts, hoping Sanji does know, “it’s your life. I’m not going to try to stop you from doing shit you want to do. You’re my responsibility, but that doesn’t mean I want to control every decision you make. So, you—“ Zeff stops, thinking of the best way to phrase his next sentiment. He can feel Sanji’s eyes on him, hanging on to every word intently.
“You don’t have to hide anything from me, alright, Eggplant?”
For a moment, silence takes over again. Sanji says nothing, just swallowing a few times like there’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to clear. After a while, he simply says “yeah,” quite wetly. It’s somewhat choked, like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Zeff pretends not to hear the other little sounds he makes as he tries to make his tears less obvious.
Deciding that it’s probably best to give Sanji some privacy, Zeff waves as he turns and heads back the way he came. “You better not smell like smoke tomorrow, brat! If I get even one complaint from a customer about it, I’ll kick your ass!”
There’s a sniffle from behind him, and then a “shut the hell up, you shitty geezer.” It’s a bit pathetic when said in such a warbling tone, but Zeff lets it go.
(17)
Zeff isn’t sure how to start this conversation.
To be completely honest, he had been hoping he wouldn’t even need to have it. As the years passed and Sanji got older, Zeff had anticipated him just announcing his leave one day, telling Zeff not to try to stop him. Maybe he would just take off in his boat Zeff gifted him, perhaps in the middle of the night, so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye.
What he hadn’t anticipated, though, was Sanji’s absolute refusal to even consider a life spent anywhere other than this ship. The brat seemed dead set on growing old on the Baratie, and Zeff won’t have it.
He wishes it was as simple as just telling Sanji to go and locking the door behind him, but he knows it isn’t. Sanji has to want to go, and Zeff— well, he knows it’s a bit selfish, but Zeff doesn’t want his so— ah, his sous chef— to leave home hating him. It doesn’t stop him from feeling like some sort of chain, though, shackling Sanji in place when he should be seeing the world.
And so, they need to have this talk. Zeff can’t imagine it going all that well, but he has to try anyway.
It isn’t hard to find Sanji. He’s an early riser, so at this time of morning, Zeff can usually find him either prepping the kitchen for the day to come or smoking out on the deck. Today it’s the former; Zeff is clued into this before he even reaches the kitchen by the sound of running water.
Sanji knows he’s coming as well— Zeff has found it hard to move quietly with a peg leg, so he gave up on that a long time ago. He greets him with a quiet “morning” as Zeff enters the room, and Zeff returns it. Leaning against the middle island, he wills all his patience to stay with him for the coming conversation.
“Sanji,” Zeff starts, a little loudly to be heard over the sink. Sanji shuts it off before he can continue, setting the bowl he’s cleaning down before looking back at Zeff quizzically. “We need to talk.”
Sanji frowns, drying his hands with the dish towel nearby. “What about?” he asks, a slight edge of nervousness to his voice.
Zeff wishes he knew the right way to start this. He wishes he knew what he could say that would make Sanji understand, rather than get pissed off. But Zeff is not a wordsmith— he’s just a man who is trying to navigate fatherhood to the best of his abilities.
“I don’t want you to stay on this ship forever, Sanji,” he starts with a sigh, taking his oversized hat off. “You’re a young man in an age of adventure; you should be off seeing the world, not peeling potatoes for the rest of your days.”
Predictably, Sanji stiffens, the way he has every other time Zeff has tried to broach this particular subject. He swallows, an uncharacteristic timidness creeping into his every movement. “I— you don’t… want me here?”
Zeff wants to kick him, but he doesn’t have the energy right now. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Eggplant!” he snaps, frustration taking hold over him. He takes a breath to calm himself, knowing they won’t get anywhere if they devolve into fighting. “You’re always welcome here, this is your home. Just… shut your trap for a second and let me say my piece.”
Sanji nods hesitantly, and Zeff huffs, glad that the brat is being agreeable for once. “You know why I had this ship built, little Eggplant? It’s because it was a dream of mine. It’s something I wanted to do for a long, long time, and now that I’ve done it, I’ve made my peace.” He pauses, leaning further forward against the island. “But it’s not your dream, is it? You better not tell me you’ve given up on the All Blue; it’s out there, waiting for you to find it. The Baratie may be your home, but— I don’t want it to be your damn prison , brat.”
Zeff has more to say, but Sanji can’t hold back any longer after that last comment. “No!” Sanji nearly shouts, with a surprising amount of desperation. Zeff shoots him a look and Sanji seems to realize what it means, lowering his voice a bit before he speaks again. “It’s— it’s not. A prison, I mean. I really— I do want to find the All Blue, of course I do. Of course! But I don’t want to leave the Baratie, either; and not because I’m trapped.” Sanji struggles to find the exact words, eventually giving a shaky sigh. “Just— please. I don’t want to leave. Please.”
Sanji’s head is turned down, and Zeff is afraid that if they lock eyes he’ll see the gleam of unshed tears in the brat’s eyes. So he sighs, pushes himself back to full standing height, and turns his back to Sanji as he heads towards the door, his peg leg creating a steady rhythm as he moves.
“I’m not gonna make you leave, Eggplant. But a time will come when the opportunity presents itself, and when it does, I want you to remember what I said today. Don’t let this ship, or any of the people on it, hold you back.” He pauses in the doorway, not turning back to look. He doesn’t need to; he can feel Sanji’s eyes on his back.
“I chose this place to be my grave. Don’t let it be yours, Sanji.”
With that, he lumbers off, hoping at least a little bit of what he said penetrates the brat’s thick skull. That’s all he can ask for.
(18)
Zeff has never felt this particular feeling before.
He would not call himself a sentimental person, by any means. The town where Zeff was born many years ago is nothing more than a faded memory in the back of his mind, edges ebbing away more and more with time. His parents, too— Zeff can’t remember their faces. Or their names, for that matter.
When he left for his first voyage, Zeff brought nothing from his home with him. His home town , sure— his supplies and crew members had all been rounded up from around the town. But Zeff was a man of few personal possessions, so he took nothing with him besides a few sets of clothes.
Zeff is familiar with the concept of an heirloom, of course. Something to be passed from one generation of a family to the next, something of great significance. It could be anything, really.
But, of course, Zeff has nothing.
He and Sanji arrived at the Baratie the same: owning nothing but the few possessions they had accumulated during their stay in the port town. Nothing of Zeff’s predates his meeting with Sanji. Their tools are already shared, mainly for cost efficiency.
And so, despite his lack of materialism, Zeff feels a strange sadness upon realizing that he has nothing of his own to give to Sanji. As the weeks and months roll by, Zeff can feel that the day in which Sanji will begin his own adventure draws ever closer. The brat’s nearly nineteen— the age Zeff was when he set off. There’s no way the romantic spirit of adventure isn’t stirring within him at this point.
It’s not too long, though, before Zeff realizes he does have something he can give Sanji.
Since Sanji was young, Zeff has been training him to fight in their free time. When Sanji was still small, it was comical to watch; the boy had a tendency to put too much force into his kicks, which usually resulted in the momentum knocking his entire body off balance. Zeff recalls helping him off the floor frequently in those days.
Now, though, Sanji is much more skilled and competent. They train together less, as Sanji needs far less guidance than he used to; but on the occasions that they do spar, Zeff can’t help but feel nostalgic. Watching Sanji move is like watching himself in his prime— graceful and deadly. In the moments following a sparring session, Zeff understands what he’s already given Sanji, and what he can still give.
“Kid,” Zeff says, approaching Sanji slowly.
The blond’s hair clings to his face, damp with sweat. He watches Zeff with his visible eye, eyebrow twitching slightly in premature annoyance. “What? If you’re gonna tell me I screwed something up—“
“Put a cork in it, will ya!” Zeff interrupts, putting his hands on his hips. “Let me say my piece before you start bellyaching.”
Sanji just rolls his eyes and nods, mercifully letting Zeff continue.
“Well, I hate to say it, but I think you’ve mastered everything I can teach you— when it comes to fighting, at least. That’s why, from this day forward, your name ain’t just Sanji anymore; you’re Black Leg Sanji, y’hear?”
Sanji’s eye widens, and he takes a step back in surprise. “Black Leg— what, like Red Leg Zeff? Why the hell are you giving me a pirate name, old fart?! I’m not a damn pirate!”
Zeff shrugs. “I have the feeling you’ll take those fighting skills beyond the confines of the Baratie one day, that’s all. And when you do, I want everyone to know where you came from.” Zeff glances briefly to the sky, watching a cloud roll by. “Wish I had more to give you, but that’s it. You better appreciate it, little Eggplant.”
There’s a moment of silence from Sanji, and Zeff hopes he understands the meaning behind Zeff’s words. The gesture— the passing of his title, what once was his title, in another life— is woven with the feelings of hundreds of words Zeff could never actually say to him.
Sanji huffs, looking away. “Fine, I’ll keep the damn name— but I’m not gonna need it! Chefs don’t need pirate titles.”
Zeff laughs, clapping Sanji on the shoulder. “You’ll see. Now let’s get back to the kitchen.”
(19)
Zeff knew this day would come.
Or, well, he had hoped— Sanji made it hard to keep the faith sometimes. But, just as Zeff had predicted, an opportunity had come in the form of a rubber boy who busted a hole in his roof and swept Sanji off his feet. It’s as promising a start to an adventure as any.
Sanji and Zeff have not spoken much since Sanji had made his decision to go. There’s some lingering guilt on Zeff’s part for having lied to push Sanji out to sea; but in the end, it wasn’t needed. The rubber kid has a magnetism of his own, and even the little Eggplant couldn’t pry himself away from it.
Instead, Zeff visits his guardian angel, who is currently attempting to shove an entire loaf of bread down his throat. Leaning against the doorframe, he watches Luffy silently until the boy acknowledges him.
“Hey, old man! Thanks for the food!” Luffy manages to choke out between bites. He swallows and pauses in his feasting for a moment. “Sorry again about the damage.”
Zeff waves it off, closing his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Most of it wasn’t you, anyway. And,” he says, a smile sneaking onto his face, “I’ll forgive you for the roof as long as you take good care of my sous chef.”
Luffy stares at him for a long moment, and Zeff realizes he probably doesn’t know what a sous chef is, so he elaborates. “He’s a handful, and a rude, disrespectful, amorous brat— but he’s the best damn chef you’ll ever find. I guarantee that.”
With a smile bright enough to light up a room, Luffy nods. “Mhm! Sanji’s food is the best! He’s a nice person, too.”
Unable to hold in a snort, Zeff grins wider. “You might change your mind on that one after a week with him.” Some of his amusement fades, and a more serious tone works its way into Zeff’s words. “He can be prickly, but he’s really a good kid. Don’t tell him I said that, though— it’ll go to his head.”
Luffy watches him carefully as he finishes a bowl of soup, his piercing eyes tracking Zeff’s expressions. He laughs, setting the bowl down. “You’re a nice person too, old man!”
Zeff nearly goes red in the face, and he clenches his jaw and scowls. “Just finish your food and get out of here, brat. And take that stupid Eggplant with you.” He turns to leave, maybe to seek out Sanji, maybe just to sit in his room and think. Speaking over his shoulder, Zeff calls out, “I expect you to pay me back for the food and repairs when you’re Pirate King, kid!”
Luffy laughs and agrees, nearly choking on something he’s eating as he does so.
For whatever reason, Zeff is pretty sure Sanji will be in good hands.
There’s a new cook at the Baratie.
He seems like a decent guy, Zeff thinks. Surprisingly good at taking orders— that’s very important to Zeff. He has the feeling the guy will be a good worker, but he might be a bit too nice for this crowd. Well, he’ll either adapt or leave; they always do.
Patty is showing the guy around the kitchen, pointing out stations and tools and everything that would be necessary knowledge for a chef of the Baratie. Zeff watches; he always watches new recruits. He can usually guess if they’ll stay or leave after three days, just by watching their first tour.
Near the end of his tour, the man stops, attention captured by something on the wall. Zeff realizes it’s the posters. They keep all of Sanji’s wanted posters up on the wall, tacking on another every time his bounty goes up. It’s a flimsy replacement for Sanji actually being in the kitchen with them, snapping and shouting and cooking in the way only he can, but it’s something.
“Oh, I wanted to ask,” the new recruit says, turning to Zeff. “Is that guy like, your kid or something? I’ve been wondering since I got here. You’ve got the same kind of nickname and everything, plus I heard he used to work here. That rumor has been going around.”
Zeff frowns, crossing his arms. “Don’t ask stupid questions!” he barks commandingly, making the other man visibly shrink back. His peg leg clicks against the floor as he makes his way over to the posters. Sanji’s idiotic face stares back at him, and Zeff feels a subtle smile creep onto his face.
“Of course he’s my son!”