Chapter Text
“I heard you the first time, dammit!”
The blonde sous chef hollered over his shoulder at his colleagues still barking orders in the bustling kitchen. It didn’t matter how many times they told him to get his ass out of their way, he was going to point out their mistakes if it killed him. They had a reputation to uphold, after all.
Sanji finally took the hint and made his way to the back of the kitchens.
“Hey, geezer,” he shouted at his adoptive father and head chef of the restaurant, “I’m steppin’ out for a smoke. Come grab me if it gets crazy out in the dining room again.” The older man only waved him off, not bothering to turn around from the inventory he was checking.
“You think I’m too old to handle a rowdy customer or two? Go, Eggplant, get out of my kitchen,” he dismissed his son without another word.
Sanji turned on his heel towards the staff entrance, patting his person to check for his lighter. The weight of his tiny metal companion was far more reassuring than he was willing to admit; he fiddled with the hinged lid in his dress pants pocket. Anxiety levels were already high after a tense first half of the dinner rush, and constantly correcting the absolutely amateur mistakes of the commis chefs. Such was the nature of the most junior members of the staff; Sanji huffed a reminiscent sigh as he approached the back entrance.
The heavy back door creaked as it swung open to the damp alley. Long legs stepped into the rainy evening air, letting the door slam shut behind them. Sanji took quick strides farther into the alleyway, desperate to get a moment to himself on his first smoke break of the evening. Over the years, he had carved out a particular routine for his coveted breaks–especially with how infrequent they seem to be these days: make one last round through the kitchens, check for his pack and lighter, and make his way into the alley to sit his happy ass down for at least fifteen minutes of solitude.
His usual makeshift throne of wooden pallets, however, was occupied.
This had… never happened before. His brows rose in surprise at first, slowly furrowing as the one saving grace of this shitshow of a Friday night was immediately ripped from his grasp by some random asshole.
Patience thinning, Sanji approached the figure currently hunched over against the pallets, taking a deep breath as he stopped just feet away from the stranger.
“It’s rude to take other people’s spots, ya know,” he drawled. The figure stiffened, but didn’t move to stand; it only maintained the crooked, protective posture in which Sanji had found it—hunched forward like a wounded animal. Slowly, it turned to face the blonde, still mostly cloaked in shadow.
“Didn’t realize you’d reserved this sad excuse for a seat,” a gruff, strained voice replied. The stranger sat up slightly—just enough for Sanji to get a glimpse of a head of bright green hair. He couldn’t stop himself from letting out a snort at the sight. The stranger instantly rounded on him at the sound, glaring daggers at the blonde from the shadows. The sudden movement caught Sanji’s attention, but he was drawn in by the curious—and suspicious—way the green-haired stranger was cradling their right hand in their left.
His gaze must have lingered too long, as said hand was jerked out of his sight, but not before a deep, blooming crimson caught his eye. Sanji furrowed his brow, deciding it was none of his business.
“You know this is technically private property, right?” he asked as he pulled his pack from his breast pocket, smacking it against his palm twice. Silence. The thin cardboard lid was flicked open to reveal the freshly packed cigarettes Sanji had been daydreaming of for the last half-hour, but the lack of response pulled his attention away with all the nagging tension of a bloodhound on a leash.
“You okay over there, seat thief?” Sanji turned to face the figure still hunched against the pallets. No answer, not even a twitch. He took a cautious step closer, the click of his wingtips echoing off the damp brick.
The stranger—a man, he could now tell—narrowed his eyes at the approach. His hands fumbled with what looked to be some nondescript cloth, quickly working to hide it and his opposite hand from view.
“Why don’t you worry about yourself, blondie?” he barked, straining through gritted teeth. Sanji bristled at the response but maintained his position. He took the stranger’s advice, plucking a cigarette from the pack to place between his lips. He fished out the lighter from his dress pants pocket, the metal cool against his palms, and brought it to kiss the unlit stick.
Sanji let the ritual fill his senses; thumb pad rolling over the ridge of the flint wheel, ears ringing with the familiar click of ignition, lungs tensing as heated smoke billowed into his body.
The blonde took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the first hit of nicotine in hours course through his veins. He sighed in relief at the feeling.
“Usually do,” Sanji replied. The two sat in an uneasy silence as Sanji worked his cigarette down to the filter. He stubbed it out on the sole of his wingtip before tossing it into the small bucket his old man had set near the back door. “Just making sure you didn’t make a mess in my alley.”
The blonde pretended not to notice the speed at which the stranger’s eyes searched his lithe form. He let the man size him up; he was used to this kind of appraisal from others. He knew he could hold his own if needed. And it was no skin off his nose if this seat-thief brushed him off.
Unfortunately for Sanji, he could practically hear the cogs turning in the stranger’s brain disrupting the remainder of his break. A vein in his temple twitched. He dug another cigarette out of his pack, moving fluidly through practiced motions of bringing the cherry to life. Another strong wash of nicotine calmed the encroaching annoyance that this stranger was quickly becoming.
As the blonde finished his second smoke, he stubbed out the cherry and tossed the butt to join the other in the bucket. He offered one final glance at the green-haired man, still sitting on his stack of pallets, eyes seemingly unblinking from Sanji’s form. A few raindrops dotted the asphalt, the storm seeming to gain a second wind.
“Whatever you’re hiding back there, don’t make it my problem, got it?” he called into the darkness of the alley. The rolling thunder sounded in the distance in time with his steps towards the back door. Lighter and pack stowed away, he climbed the trio of concrete steps leading up to the entrance. Warm light and unintelligible shouts spilled out into the rain-damp alley as Sanji stepped back inside.
The stranger’s eyes never left him.
______
The evening wrapped up without much more of a fuss, the worst of the customers thankfully having cleared out during Sanji’s break. He had fallen back into step with the other chefs in the kitchens, offering direction and critique rather than harsh judgment, placated by the comforting buzz of his chosen vice still settling in his system. The commis chefs offered silent prayers of thanks for the reprieve.
Now only Sanji and the head chef remained in the restaurant, the front doors locked an hour or so prior, and the last of the staff trickling out the back door and into the rain.
The blonde had just finished scrubbing down the prep tables and workstations as his old man double checked every burner and oven.
“Don’t forget to take out the trash, Eggplant,” the older man grunted.
Sanji tossed his dirty linens into their laundry bin and stalked over to the large bags already lined up near the back door. He wasn’t keen on going back into the rain, but he sure wasn’t going to let his old man hobble out there and risk slipping from his prosthetic leg. Not that he’d ever say it outloud, but he rather liked the geezer and preferred him in one piece–well, as many pieces as he was in currently. Sanji would sooner cut off his own hands than let the old man lose another limb for him.
“I know, you old coot,” he chirped in response, gathering the bags and kicking open the back door in one practiced motion.
The rain was coming down with a vengeance now, pooling in the divots of the asphalt and spilling from the alley’s gutters. He hurried down the concrete steps and jogged to the dumpsters, suit now soaking wet; he silently lamented how high his dry cleaning bill would be this week.
Tossing the bags in, he let the dumpster lid close with a loud clatter. Wingtips splashed through the dark puddles of the alley as he jogged back to the safety of the restaurant. On the steps, he glanced back to the stack of pallets–now missing one brooding shadowy figure. Sanji released a sharp exhale through his nose; at least the asshole wouldn’t die of hypothermia on his property. He definitely didn’t want to start the breakfast shift with a body disposal.
Back in the safety and warmth of the restaurant, Sanji shrugged off his drenched suit jacket and slipped off his dress shoes. No sense dripping rainwater through the freshly scrubbed kitchens. He flicked the lock on the back door, tugging once to make sure it was secure in its frame, then made his way towards the small wooden staircase hidden near the office.
Damp socks padded along the old stairs as he climbed; scuffs and scratches echoing his childhood years of running and roughhousing through the restaurant, always finding a way to be underfoot in the kitchens before hastily retreating to the safety of his room. A tired smile creased his lips as he reached the second floor.
“G’Night, geezer!” he called down the hallway. A gruff reply came from behind the closed door of his father’s bedroom.
Sanji shed his rain damp slacks and dress shirt, quickly slipping into a worn hand-me-down tee shirt and sweats, and all but collapsed into his bed. The rain pattering on his window gently coaxed him to sleep, offering hazy images of piercing eyes and green hair still shrouded in shadow. His sleep-laden brain idly wondered if he would feel those eyes on him again.