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“Open,” Zeff commands. “Now.”
He is about to say something cheeky in retaliation, but thinks better of it, clamps his hands over his mouth, glares Zeff down the best he can when he is barely up to Zeff’s elbow.
“I said, open.” The tone of Zeff’s voice means that he is not kidding around. It’s the same tone he uses when he tells Carne to peel the potatoes properly for the sixth time, while nonchalantly examining a cleaver in his hand.
His eyes dart to the door. Zeff is faster than him, even on his new wooden leg, and Sanji would never make it past him and to the exit. He glances back up at Zeff, who is standing before him with arms crossed. He decides to make a break for it anyway—at least he’ll go down swinging, salvaging whatever shreds of dignity he had left.
Zeff catches him before he even takes two steps, lifts him up with an ease that is almost insulting. He holds him at arm’s length, carries him over to the counter, and unceremoniously plops him down next to the sink.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Sanji gulps, but keeps his mouth stubbornly shut.
“Why do you always have to be so difficult.” Zeff sighs a long-suffering sigh. He pinches Sanji’s nose and gives him a look that says, what now, punk?
Within seconds, he is turning red and his heart is hammering painfully in his chest, roar of his pulse in his ears. He clenches his jaw tight, feels like he’s going to explode. He would have held on until he blacked out—or died, that would show Zeff—but his body refuses to cooperate and he is suddenly and traitorously gasping for air despite concentrated efforts to convince himself that oxygen is for losers.
Then Zeff is scrubbing at his mouth with a new bar of soap, the lather building up so that it looks like a bubble demon is trying to crawl up out of his throat. The look on Zeff’s face as he inflicts this punishment is one of mild disinterest.
“Agahmmphpahsah!” he gargles. “Eguhwarglepah!”
Zeff ignores his screeching, ignores his tiny feet drumming against the counter, his tiny fists pummeling Zeff futilely.
Next, Zeff turns on the sink faucet and thrusts his head under it so that he can sputter indignantly and rinse his mouth. Bubbles had gotten up his nose, making him sneeze fitfully. The water is ice cold.
Finally, Zeff lets him go, watches calmly as he sits up with his hair dripping all over the place, the taste of lavender-scented soap on his tongue. He feels wretched and he is freezing.
“Gonna watch your language now, little eggplant? Or will we have to wash your mouth out another time?”
He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Fuck you, shitty old man!” he quips.
Then he runs for his life.