Chapter Text
Maybe the centipede in the cellar knows, with its many disgusting legs, why I am sad.
—Chen Chen, from Elegy for My Sadness
For all its nooks and crannies, there are not many places one can disappear to on the Thousand Sunny. Especially not with the sheer number of people on the ship, guests and hosts alike.
During the day, Law has made a point to avoid the lower deck where Luffy holds court amongst the other members of the crew. Law had soon discovered that the chaos of Punk Hazard—heckling marine officers, children the size of two-story buildings, animal-human hybrids, and samurai—was merely the tip of the iceberg: the famed Strawhat pirates are always like this. Which, of course, is to say that Strawhat himself doesn’t act like any captain Law has ever known. He is trouble incarnate, a master of disorder.
The day before, Strawhat had tackled the long-nosed sniper and Wano’s young prince to the ground, wrapped them up in his spindly, rubber arms, and rolled about like a giant mass of conjoined flesh, whooping and laughing, until they all quite literally knocked Law onto his ass. Today, they are on the lawn again, fishing off the ship’s edge, but Law would rather throw himself off said ship than join everyone below.
His tell-tale signs of unease must show clearly on his face. Robin offers a consoling half smile from where she is tending to her flower garden. Zoro shoots him an appraising, one-eyed look from the lawn across from where Nami is checking and rechecking the log pose; a vein thrums at her forehead every time her captain lets out a deafening shriek. Brook also bursts out into hearty laughter and song, and Law thinks that maybe it’s at all of their expense.
Watching Luffy chase the others around with an eel-species sea king attached to his fishing rod makes Law physically exhausted by proxy.
It is no surprise to anyone when Law glares at Caesar to behave, then turns right-round, plucks Kikoku from where he’s left it against the wall, and heads into the nearest door. Whichever one takes him farthest from all the madness.
Around this time of day, the galley is much quieter than the rest of the ship.
Sanji stands at the stove with his back turned, swaying and humming a tune that Law is minutely surprised he recognizes. Not many songs make it out of the North Blue and the one the cook is singing is not so common. The words come to Law's mind in scant, broken pieces he can barely string together.
He clears his throat, “Do you mind if I sit in here?”
“Hm?” Sanji looks up. “Uh, not at all. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll whip up a snack.”
Law shakes his head, adjusting his sword against his shoulder, “Don’t bother, Blackleg-ya.”
But Sanji ignores him entirely.
Per Strawhat custom, Law has little choice but to go along with the tide of hospitality pushing against his back, lest it cleave him in half. Considering the force of nature Sanji and the rest call captain, Law is certain it just might.
When Sanji places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, it’s with sugar cubes, a tiny pitcher of cream, and a slice of raspberry tart sitting perfectly on a tray.
“I’ve noticed you tend to avoid bread. Is it an allergy sort of thing or…?”
Law shakes his head. “Just not a fan…”
The cook makes a noncommittal sound, but Law can tell Sanji is storing that new bit of information in his mind for later, probably with the intention of rearranging his entire menu to suit his and everyone else’s specific tastes for the duration of the trip. Law can sort of respect the dedication.
Sanji picks back up humming again, a different song this time, as he maneuvers around the stove with a dish rag, wiping down the counters and stacking clean dishes into the cabinets.
Law removes his cap, sets it on the table delicately. Then, with very little care, he says, “You’re from the North Blue, right?” His question comes off more like a statement, and as harmless as it may seem on the surface, for some reason, it drains the color from Sanji’s face.
The cook wheels around on his heels for something to do or perhaps something to occupy his hands. Predictably, he comes up short. The kitchen is spotless, as always.
Sanji wipes his hands on the apron around his hips and reaches for his cigarette, “Yeah, and?”
Law purses his lips. Somehow, he’s stumbled onto what he now recognizes as a personal landmine. There is a tightness in Sanji’s eyes, a budding frown on his lips, but before Law can form some semblance of an apology, the cook just shakes his head, smiling softly.
“Okay, yeah. Yeah, I’m from the North,” he says it like he’s working himself up to admit it. “But I’ve spent almost my entire life in the East and that’s all I know…” he trails off, “… you’ve gotta good ear.”
Despite Sanji’s words, Law doesn’t take the compliment. In fact, he gets a bitter, ashen taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the coffee. He’s intrigued but he doesn’t push. And Sanji doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t quite act any differently either, but even that somehow sets Law on edge.
Though in the end, Sanji hasn’t dismissed him, and he isn’t asked to leave the galley, so he remains.
After dinner, Sanji finds him near the back deck. Which, in hindsight, Law should’ve expected.
The sky is awash in deep purples and blues, casting dark shadows onto Sanji’s hair. The weather had become unpredictable, a consequence of being in the New World, but Law was fairing better against the evening chill than everyone else. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Sanji, whose sleeves were still rolled up from washing dinner dishes, his blond arm hairs sticking up on end.
“Hey, uh, about earlier today,” he says, “Don’t tell the rest of the crew I’m from the North Blue. It’s not anyone’s business, so it’d be great if you could just keep it to yourself, at least… at least for now.”
Sanji doesn’t make it sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t give Law any real choice. They don’t know each other all that well. In fact, Law would argue that they were just a bunch of strangers with the same short-term goal if that at all. But it isn’t in his nature to gossip; frankly, what does he care if the cook has his secrets? So long as they didn’t affect his plans or the alliance, he was willing to keep his lips sealed on the matter.
Law had bigger fish to fry.
He only nods, “Sure, whatever.” And after a beat of silence, Law pulls something from behind his ear. “Got a light?”
Sanji blinks hard at the cigarette now dangling from Law’s mouth; he knows it’s from Sanji’s personal stash because they’ve been hand-rolled with great care. The rolling paper from Sabaody, the tobacco home grown.
“Jeez Torao…” the cook mumbles. He pulls a shiny, gold zippo from his trouser pockets with a flick of his wrist. He’s done it so often that he barely even thinks about it. “You could’ve just asked, I mean, I’m not so heartless to deny a man a smoke.”
His thumb strikes at the trigger until the lighter finally sparks.
Law leans in, wordlessly letting the flame burn at the end of his stolen cigarette, accepting the brief flash of heat against his chin. When he doesn’t give Sanji an explanation for why he had deliberately stolen from him, Sanji shifts gears and tries a different tactic.
“If you ever need another one, I wouldn’t mind parting with a few. I just didn’t realize you smoked at all, though, so color me surprised.”
“That’s because I don’t.”
Law does not habitually fill his lungs with nicotine and tar, devil fruit powers aside. This is not normal for him, but he doesn’t suppose Sanji could see that he’s been off-kilter since leaving Punk Hazard.
The island was several hundred kilometers in their rearview, yet it made no difference in the way Law felt. There was an even greater problem ahead of him, and the ramifications of his actions weighed heavy, despite the burden being shared between himself and Strawhat. It was Law who’d set a precedent in motion, and there was no turning back now.
Provoking Doflamingo and twisting his arm into resigning from his position as a warlord was a bold move. His plan to take him down and rectify a decade-long mistake was even bolder, but it too would soon be realized.
The tension rolls off Law in undulated waves. If the cook thinks poorly of him, he refrains from saying it outright.
Instead, Sanji puts his weight against the gunwale with both elbows, hints of exhaustion written in nearly every move he makes. Law can see it just by how he stands, sort of limp as if wanting to keep all his weight off the balls of his feet. And in doing so, Sanji’s arm brushes against Law’s, once, then twice, as if the most natural thing in the world. And maybe that’s true for Sanji or for all of the Strawhat crew.
Perhaps, this physical closeness they’ve all but foisted upon him (with hot food, a decent bed, lots of laughs, ale, and singing) is merely the norm around here, and it was better to get used to it than fight it off. Law is once again reminded of the unrelenting tide at his back.
“Blackleg-ya,” he murmurs around a plume of smoke. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
To that, Sanji shrugs. “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m on first watch tonight, and besides, the same could be said about you too,” he grins. “What, are you having second thoughts?”
“I’m having a few, actually.” Law holds his cigarette gingerly between two fingers.
“Well, I did warn you. Your definition of an alliance probably doesn’t align with Luffy’s. But if it’s any consolation, I think things will turn out fine anyway.”
Law frowns. “I highly doubt it,” he grumbles, to which Sanji snorts.
“I guess I can afford to be optimistic. Though, to be honest, I’m not exactly placing any of my bets on you.”
“Must really trust your captain then.”
Law can understand that, even if Strawhat was as eccentric as they come.
He’s familiar with placing implicit trust and an exorbitant amount of faith in the most unconventional people, even if it isn’t something he gets an opportunity to practice a lot these days.
Sanji hums like he hears Law’s thoughts and gets it, adopting a pensive, faraway look in his eyes. He’s pulled by something Law can’t see. He stares at the ocean, and Law has half a mind to follow his gaze out into the abyss. He wonders what he’s seeing out there.
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust Luffy completely, that’s for sure,” is Sanji’s belated reply.
In any case, Law’s thoughts (fears, worries, doubts) aren’t something he’s particularly eager to share. He’s not going to spill his guts to a stranger just because they’re amiable, and it’s late enough that it feels like they’re the only two people in the entire world. So Law decidedly keeps his mouth shut around his cigarette, puffing smoke from his nostrils.
He doesn’t want to talk about Doflamingo or Corazon or the fact that leaving Dressrosa alive has not made its way into his meticulously worked-out plan.