Chapter Text
Sanji first sees her on Tuesday evening.
He had just got off a long shift at Baratie and stopped at his apartment to take a shower – because he’d sooner die than subject any beautiful ladies to what he smells like after a whole day of standing above a stove and surrounded by brutes swinging ladles and whisks. He felt drained and the call of his bed was mighty tempting, but more than sleep, what he needed was his utopia.
Carrot – a little on the nose but aptly named – is the club where all of Sanji’s dreams walk around in beautiful bunny suits, and it’s a place that Sanji religiously visits twice a week. It’s a perfectly legal establishment and – no matter what anyone says – not a strip club. When he, Zeff and the Baratie have only just started getting their feet under them, they used to make charcuterie boards and cupcakes for the Carrot, and Sanji’s been ready to grow up and be allowed in since the very first set of long legs and generous cleavage he glimpsed on one of the delivery runs.
Of course, aside from the upper management, the entirety of the staff had changed by the time Sanji could freely stride inside, but it didn’t matter. Sanji does not discriminate when it comes to women, they’re all goddesses in his eyes, and the ones that work there now are just as beautiful as their predecessors were.
He trots through the front door where Mari greets him with a giggle and a flutter of her thick, long eyelashes, glittery eyeshadow shining in the dark interior. She leads him to his usual booth by the wall with a pep in her step, where he can see the stage and the dancefloor, and he slips into his seat with a smile on his face. The day’s tension bleeds out of him as if wrung out through a kitchen cloth.
“You look absolutely breathtaking tonight,” he tells Mari, indeed breathless.
“Oh, you!” She waves him off, hand propped on one hip in a way that accentuates all of her gorgeous curves. “Always got a compliment to spare!”
“I’m just telling the truth, I can’t bear the thought of a beautiful woman not being told she’s beautiful,” Sanji tells her.
Her eyes flash then – in a way that Sanji should register as danger, but oh , even her dangerous looks are charming – and says, “Oh, actually! We have a new girl, let her serve you tonight.”
“New girl?” Sanji asks, awestruck. It’s like finding out your favorite restaurant has a new meal on the menu – even though everything else is delicious, he can’t help but get excited about trying out a new flavor. So to speak.
“Yep!” Mari says, that twinkle still in her eyes. “Just a moment, I think you’ll get along splendidly!”
And then she’s gone, slipping through the crowd of patrons and other bunny girls with a sway in her hips. Sanji watches the white puffy tail of her costume bob from side to side and sighs dreamily.
New girl.
Sanji wonders what she’s like. If they’ll get along, she must be lovely. A sweet girl to laugh at his jokes and blush at his compliments, turning red all the way down the deep V of her plunging neckline.
Sanji tucks his hands between his thighs as he observes the scene in front of him, reality and daydream mixing, a petite blonde with a big chest– err, smile, walking towards him with her tray held up elegantly.
She poofs out of existence as the crowd parts and Sanji’s eyes get graced with a vision sent to him straight from god. Stalking in the direction of his booth is an angel.
The angel’s chest is squeezed criminally, deliciously tightly in the standard vinyl bunny suit all of the staff wears, pushed up and framed with the dramatic heart-shaped cleavage of the strapless suit. Sanji touches his fingers under his nose just in case, glad to feel them come away clean, and leaves his hands on the table as he stares as the girl approaches.
Her hair is some dark shade of green under the dimmed, blue-red lights of the club, cut in what’s either a very short pixie cut or an outgrown buzzcut, shaved short above the ears – where three golden earrings like long teardrops hang from the left one – but spiky on the top, a few strands falling on her forehead. Her shoulders are wide and her hips a little narrower than Sanji usually likes, but her waist is thin and her legs are long. If not for the heels she’s wearing, Sanji suspects they’d be around the same height. The notion gives him a little, unfamiliar thrill.
“Hi,” she says, and Sanji is almost surprised by the husky, deep voice that comes out of her. She stops herself, coughs into her shoulder to clear her throat, and then asks, “What can I get for you tonight?” Her voice is only slightly higher, and just as husky.
Poor girl, her throat must be hurting. Is this what Mari meant? She needs caretaking and Sanji will always leap at the chance to nurse a sweet, hardworking girl like that.
“Oh, darling,” Sanji bursts. “Are you working sick? Please, do take a seat, I’ll go order a cup of nice ginger tea for you!”
Her eyes – framed with dark, smokey eyeshadow – widen, and she blinks. Left speechless by his gentlemanly manners, surely.
“No,” she says slowly, and tacks on, “thanks,” as an afterthought.
“Are you sure? I’m certain no one would mind if you took a moment to sit with me,” Sanji tells her, already scooting to give her some space. But…not too much.
“...I’m sure.”
Oh well.
She untucks the tray she had under her arm that Sanji didn’t even notice until now and props it against her stomach, hands crossed at wrists over it. The muscles in her forearms shift. She’s muscled all over, like an athlete, but Sanji doesn’t mind that.
“What’ll it be, lover boy?” She asks.
The nickname doesn’t sound like a compliment but Sanji beams anyway. “Just a glass of Merlot for me, lovely.”
She gives him another slow, bewildered look, says, “Alright,” and disappears back into the crowd.
Sanji stares after her like a puppy at the door waiting for his owner’s return until she appears again, carefully stomping towards him in a way that shows she doesn’t usually wear heels but has excellent balance, a tray with his glass of red wine carried by her side.
She plonks it down on the coaster in front of him, but doesn’t spill a drop. “Enjoy,” she tells him.
She’s gone before he can respond.
Huh. Must be a busy night.
Sanji nurses his red wine for another hour or so, calling it a night when the sleep starts weighing on his bones.
The new girl steps into his line of sight every so often, bustling between the tables and venturing out on the dancefloor to take orders with a flat, unamused expression. She doesn’t smile and bat her lashes like other girls, and Sanji finds it refreshing.
He knows other girls don’t always mean it. They’re not always happy to see him and flirt with him. Even if he is much more of a gentleman than the rest of the men here.
The new girl seems to be having a bad day and it shows. Or maybe she’s just nervous. A new workplace and all that.
Sanji sets his glass carefully on the coaster – he doesn’t want the girls to scrub water rings off the table later – and lifts his hand when the new girl looks his way.
She adjusts her course to the bar and walks to his table.
“Could I pay?” He asks. “I’m afraid the day’s work is catching up to me,” he jokes lightly, already thumbing the money to cover the drink and her – generous – tip out of his wallet.
Her eyes dart to the glass, then to him, and she shrugs, saying, “Sure.”
“Here you go, darling,” Sanji says, handing her the bills. “Your tip too.”
She arches an eyebrow at her hand, leafing through the money, and then looks at him suspiciously.
“The tip. For bringing you a glass of wine?”
Sanji smiles. “Yes, of course.”
Both of her eyebrows lift and her forehead wrinkles adorably. She tucks the money into her cleavage and Sanji has never envied paper more in his life.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”
And then she turns and walks away. Sanji waits for her to disappear and then leaves, dreamily boarding a bus towards his apartment.
✻✻✻
Sanji spent the days between that Tuesday night and Friday – when he came by again – counting down the seconds and hoping to see the green-haired beauty once more. And the gods smiled upon him, for their paths crossed again.
“Ah,” she says, strutting up to his table. “It’s you again.”
“You remember me,” Sanji says, delighted. “What an honor to be noticed by such a beauty!”
She stares at him and shifts on her feet. “...Right. What’s your poison of choice tonight?”
“A glass of Merlot, if you would be so kind,” Sanji coos.
She grimaces – perhaps not a fan of red wine – and nods. Her earrings sway and gleam with the movement, and then she’s gone.
Sanji daydreams about the way her eyelashes throw shadows over her cheekbones until she returns, leaning over the table to set his glass in front of him. As she bends down, Sanji allows himself an inconspicuous glance at her cleavage. Her breasts look firm and supple, but Sanji’s expert eyes proclaim them to be natural.
He blinks, pulling back just in time to avoid the tray to his face.
“Whoops,” the new girl rasps. “Better watch where you’re looking, you might get concussed.”
Sanji stares. “Did you just try to take my head off with a serving tray?”
“Did you just check me out?”
“Yeah,” Sanji admits because he could never lie to a girl. “A few times.”
She looks at him incredulously, the flush on her skin noticeable even under the dim, colored lights, and hisses, “Well, quit it!”
She turns and stomps away before Sanji can say another word, shoulders drawn up to her ears, arms at her sides like she’s a quarterback entering the field.
Ah, shit. Sanji might have overdone it.
He nurses his wine with growing guilt. He knows he can come on a bit too strongly sometimes, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Mostly.
It’s definitely not in his interest to offend or make anyone feel uncomfortable.
Mari is expecting the patrons at the door again, and on his way out, Sanji stops and tells her, “Um. Terribly sorry to bother you, but what did you mean about me and the new girl getting along?”
Seemingly taken aback, Mari asks, “Why? Did something happen?”
“I will apologize the next time,” Sanji tells her with a tight smile. “I just fear I put my foot in my mouth and made her uncomfortable.”
He feels ashamed for admitting it – and briefly worries about getting banned from coming here – but a man has to own up to his mistakes. And work on righting them.
Mari frowns, looking troubled and sighs. “Oh, but you’re always so respectful,” she laments and Sanji keeps his mouth shut.
“I suppose I hoped your compliments might help her relax a little bit, but it seems she’s just more insecure than I first thought.”
The thing about Mari is – she likes to make everything her business.
Sanji winces, realizing what has happened. “I went overboard,” he says. “I will apologize, I promise.”
It’s not a promise to Mari, but to himself, because he can’t let this lapse in his judgment stand.
✻✻✻
The next time they see each other, Sanji feels like he did before his driver’s test. His hands are hot and clammy, and his throat is dry.
The green-haired girl sees him through the mass of people from the bar and frowns. Sanji watches her snatch a tray from the bartop, the rounded edge clenched between her fingers, and make her way for his table.
“What can I serve you tonight?” She asks and it sounds like it pains her to say.
“I’m sorry,” Sanji tells her.
Her eyebrows twitch but her expression stays the same and she responds coldly, “We don’t serve that here.”
Sanji swallows and barrels on. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I went overboard and my behavior was unacceptable. I apologize. Is there anything in particular that bothers you?”
She stares at him for a moment, her jaw working. And then she says, “Well, I guess you can’t help being a pervert.”
Sanji freezes. A wave of cold washes over him, and then heat slams into him, burning him from the inside. He’s not sure if he even takes in a breath. Somehow, he still has enough air to squawk, “A pervert?! Who– I’m– Me – Who are you calling a pervert, you algae-brained– ”
He swallows down the rest of his words, mortified.
The girl looks at him with wide eyes, her expression like she’s a kid on a Christmas morning. “No, no, finish that sentence,” she says gleefully.
Sanji sucks in his lips and shakes his head no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
She scoffs, something like amusement and disbelief, and throws her tray on the table with a clang. Sanji jumps and sees a few eyes turn their way before minding their own business.
“Listen up,” she tells him harshly, hunching down to glare at him. “Drop the sweet-talking, I’m not a kid or a doll, and work on your ogling, you’re so fucking obvious it hurts. If you wanna strip someone down, take your wallet to a different kind of establishment. And I’m not your darling, lovely, or sweetheart, you get that?”
“Ouch,” Sanji croaks and realizes that both he and Mari had it wrong.
She’s not insecure. She’s just fucking fed up.
“If the truth burns, I’m sure you’ve got some Neosporin or whatever the fuck in your kitchen.”
“You know I work in a kitchen?” Sanji asks, surprised.
She scowls. “Don’t get a big head. You’re the Regular here. It’s kinda sad actually.”
“I bring you money?” Sanji responds incredulously. God, she’s rude.
It’s kind of fun.
She shrugs and something like a smirk ghosts over her lips. “That’s why I only almost took your head off the last time.”
Sanji lets out a laugh. “As if you could’ve done it anyway.”
Her eyes flash. “Because I’m a girl ?” She spits.
“Because I’ve got excellent reflexes,” Sanji tells her, his heart thumping harder at the wide, mean grin she gives him.
“We’ll see about that,” She tells him, full of promise, and brings him his wine without him asking for it.
He doesn’t manage to take a single sip, though, before she dumps ice in it.
✻✻✻
“Nami-san, my dear angel,” Sanji starts as soon as they sit down for their coffee. “I’ve fallen in love.”
It says something about him – that he will not examine closely – that Nami doesn’t even pause in taking the first sip from her cup before saying, “Oh, have you now?”
“I have,” he nods solemnly, hands clasped around his own cup. “And she is perfect. Beautiful.”
“Uh-huh,” Nami says. “Let me hear more about her. What’s her name?” Her tone suggests that she just herded Sanji into a trap of his own making.
He blinks. Thinks. Says, “Well. We haven’t gotten that far yet.”
Nami sighs and asks, “Okay. What street corner did you see her on?”
Sanji drums his fingers against his cup, and reluctantly says, “In the Carrot.”
This time, Nami pauses. She gives him a look across their table, and then says, “Sanji-kun.”
“Now, see–” he starts and shuts his mouth so fast his teeth clack together when Nami speaks over him.
“You are not saying you’ve been harassing some girl at her workplace, right?”
Sanji gulps, frantically shaking his head. “No, no, I would never! Nami-san, it’s not like that.”
Nami arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow at him and Sanji scrambles to explain himself.
“She’s a new girl there,” he says. It’s been a few weeks since their fateful meeting, since Sanji’s horrible fumble, and since she stopped looking at him like he’s dirt under her heels.
Mossy – for the current lack of name – is blunt and honest, and beautiful in her rudeness. When Sanji throws in a pet name in their conversations, her eyebrows adorably furrow in disgust and it just makes him want to do it more, but he knows his limits now, knows when to drop the sugary words and trade her barb for barb. She’s not impressed with his – light, not serious – flirting, but her eyes flash at the suggestion of a challenge, and she only smiles when she raises an uncouth comment out of him.
Nami clears her throat. “You were saying?”
“Right,” Sanji says. “My apologies. Uh. We’re talking. I suppose. She…has a big personality.”
“As in–” Nami says, and lifts her hands in front of her chest as if she’s holding two melons.
Sanji blushes furiously. “Not what I meant.”
“But I’m right,” Nami says with a smirk and Sanji nods. Credit given where credit is due.
He clears his throat and says, “Ah, but I’m not harassing her! I swear! She doesn’t give me the time of day, we only talk a little, and she’s never nice.”
“Never?”
Sanji shakes his head, wonderment sparkling like stars in his eyes. Every conversation with her makes him feel like he’s playing chess, his brain working to find that perfect balance of clever and rude and funny.
Nami sighs. “You do like them mean.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nami reaches across the table to clasp his hand and Sanji’s insides wiggle happily.
“Sanji-kun, you’ve fallen into a trap that every guy– every straight guy falls into. You got enamored with a stripper.”
“She’s not a stripper,” Sanji corrects her. “She’s a waitress.”
“In a skin-tight playboy bunny suit,” Nami says. “Not that I’m judging. I’m just not sure what head you’re thinking with here.”
Sanji squirms.
Nami looks at him pitifully, the way she looks at Luffy and Usopp when they’re being dumb, and pats his hand. “Just think about this.”
✻✻✻
Sanji is having a not-good, bad, horrible day.
He loves Zeff. For a man with no blood relations to him, he took Sanji in and cared for him like his own son. Sanji will never manage to climb out of the depths of the life debt he owes him.
But sometimes, he wants to strangle the man with his bare hands.
“Wine for the distinguished gentleman,” Mossy says flatly, flicking the coaster on Sanji’s table and setting his usual glass of Merlot on it.
Ugh. Merlot.
By now, Mossy and he have developed a repertoire. A routine, so to speak. She knows Sanji always drinks Merlot, and she always brings the glass of it with her when she comes to tend to his table. It’s a small thing that makes him think she doesn’t really have entirely bad feelings towards him. He appreciates it, even.
But.
“Ah, sorry, darling,” he says, giving her an apologetic look and swirling the glass. “I’m going to need something a bit stronger than this tonight.”
Mossy ignores the pet name – as she always does – and arches an eyebrow at him. “Like what?”
“Whiskey,” Sanji says, mournful to have stooped to this. “I don’t care which brand.”
“Uh-huh,” Mossy says and points at his glass. “You’re gonna still drink that?”
Sanji nods and says dramatically, “I don’t want to bother you with carrying it back.”
Mossy shrugs with an eyeroll and leaves.
Sanji swirls the wine in his glass, watching the whirlpool form and disintegrate, and downs it in a single gulp. He blinks the warmth behind his eyes from the alcohol and sighs.
Mossy comes back with a new coaster but just swaps Sanji’s empty glass with a glass of whiskey. She tilts the empty wine glass side to side, mouth pulling into a downturned smile of approval. At least someone’s happy with him.
“Have fun with that,” she rasps in that husky voice of hers.
“I’ll give it my best,” Sanji sighs and gives her a smile with his cheers. For once, he’s glad for her abrupt departures – because as soon as the liquid hits his throat, he sputters, coughing and blinking tears from his eyes.
Fucking hell. This shit is strong. Sanji takes it back – she might be trying to kill him.
He adjusts to the burn by the time Mossy cruises by his table again. He asks for a refill and gets it, along with another arched eyebrow.
Mossy’s eyebrows are thin and dark. Her makeup is not as heavy as it was at the start of her working here, and Sanji wonders if she’s the type not to wear it often – what was smokey eyeshadow before, now turned into sharp eyeliner, kohl artfully smudged on her bottom and upper lashline, a little bit of light eyeshadow on her lids. He wonders what she looks like without any makeup on. Her skin is all tan where she’s exposed, and Sanji wants to see her in daylight, sun-kissed and giving him that sharp look of challenge as they both squint in the brightness.
Sanji watches the shift of muscles in her legs and back – and rear – as she walks, and sighs. She’s out of his league.
Everything’s out of his fucking league.
He drinks more, sometimes delivered by Mossy, sometimes by some of the other girls.
At one point, Mossy slips into the booth next to him and Sanji is drunk enough that he can’t appreciate their thighs touching. He can only stare at the glass she sets in front of him and swallow to make his tongue work again.
“That’s a lot of vodka,” he says, blinking at the tall glass full of clear alcohol.
“Sure is,” Mossy agrees easily and extracts his glass of whiskey from his hand. “You should drink it,” she tells him. Then she throws back his whiskey, throat bobbing, and damn. She doesn’t even flinch.
“Huh,” Sanji says and does as told.
The glass is cold, sweating, and Sanji carefully brings it to his lips and braces himself before quickly drinking half of it. When he’s done, he sets it back on the table – partially missing the coaster, oh no – and looks at Mossy in betrayal.
“This is water,” he says. “You tricked me.”
Mossy grins at him, her arms thrown over the backrest, the muscles in her shoulders bulging, and rolls the empty whiskey glass in her hand. “Yep,” she says. “I’m cutting you off.”
“You’re–you’re not supposed to mess with people’s food and drinks,” Sanji tells her. And then heaves.
“Come on, lover cook,” Mossy tells him. “Before you hurl all over the table.”
“Oh no,” Sanji says and stumbles out of the booth after her. She is taller than him in these heels.
She leads them through the sea of sweaty people and past the bar where she snatches a liter bottle of water from underneath the counter. When they stumble through the door she lead them to, they find themselves in the alley next to the street the Carrot is on.
“Damn,” Mossy says. “This was supposed to be the restroom.” She turns to him and asks, “You gonna hurl?”
In the white lamp light, her hair is brighter than Sanji expected it to be. Lime green, matching well with the sharp grey of her eyes. Her lips are dark pink, and the light casts shadows over her strong features. She looks more androgynous than she does in the dark. Sanji wants to tell her she looks handsome.
He has to turn and throw up in a conveniently open dumpster.
Sufficiently embarrassed, he groans, swiping a hand under his chin. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Here, drink.” A bottle is thrust into his line of sight.
Sanji takes it, splashing some on his hand and taking a mouthful to swish around before spitting in the dumpster.
“Sorry,” he apologizes again.
Mossy groans, deep and long. Then clears her throat, and says, “Quit apologizing.”
“This is not very gentlemanly of me,” Sanji says, self-deprecating, and plops down on one of the steps in front of the utility door they came out through. The ground around him tilts with his sluggish heartbeat.
“Well, you can’t really handle your alcohol, that’s true,” Mossy says.
“Sorry for not being an alcoholic,” Sanji snaps and then freezes. “Sorry, that was–”
Mossy snorts. “I just thought you have a spine after all.” She looks him over, then amends. “Well. There’s a vertebrae somewhere in you at least. Better than nothing, I guess.”
Sanji laughs. He still feels somewhat nauseous, but marginally more clear-headed than before and pats himself down for his cigarettes.
“Do you mind?” He asks, brandishing his pack and lighter.
“Go on,” Mossy tells him and makes to sit next to him.
Sanji scrambles to take off his blazer and folds it over the step. Mossy gives him a look, like when they just met and she didn’t know what to make of him, and then sits down.
Sanji fiddles with his lighter for a moment, then says, “This is presenting me in a bad light.”
Mossy’s lips turn up in corners. “A lot of people go to drown their woes in clubs.”
Sanji blinks at the wall in front of them. “Is this the part where you ask me about it and I spill my guts to you?”
“I’m not a bartender,” Mossy responds. “Why? You wanna talk about it?”
Sanji laughs. “God, no.”
He and Zeff always argue. It’s the nature of their relationship. Sanji is hot-tempered and everything running as hot as he does easily gets bent out of shape. He’ll straighten himself up in no time.
She hums and kicks out with her feet until her heels go flying.
“These fucking things,” she says and wiggles her toes as they land with a clatter on the ground. She sprawls, leaning back on her elbows.
“You’re something of a tomboy, huh?” Sanji asks, lighting up. Then he exhales, scandalized. He got too relaxed, fuck . “That was rude of me.”
But Mossy grins and spreads her legs like some asshole on public transit. “You calling me a guy?”
Sanji’s eyes follow the strong, sculpted lines of her legs, the firm stomach under her vinyl bunnysuit, the broad, strong lines of her shoulders and arms and figures it’s not that much of an insult to admit it.
“Well, you’re a little like a guy.”
“Yeah,” Mossy scoffs, looking away, but it’s not mean. “ Like a guy. ”
Sanji runs his tongue along the filter and says, “It’s not a bad thing.”
Mossy turns to look at him again, for once looking surprised. Her expression is open and curious, and then her cheeks darken with a blush and she looks away again.
“Drink your water,” she says.
Sanji drinks. He drinks and drinks and impulsively thunks the empty bottle against his forehead when he’s done. He didn’t notice he always does that until Nami told him.
Mossy takes the bottle from him and bumps the plastic against her own forehead before throwing it in the dumpster.
They share a chuckle and then she rises up.
Sanji rushes to retrieve her heels for her and crouches in front of her, ready to slip them on in her stead.
“Quit it while you’re ahead,” Mossy tells him with an amused eyeroll and snatches them from him. But she puts a hand on his shoulder to brace against while she puts them on. Her hand’s square but smaller than his, her fingers long and strong. Her nails are short – and without nail polish – and it cements Sanji’s assumption that she does some kind of sport in her free time.
Her fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, squeezing. “Dunno what you’re in a slump over, but it’s gonna be fine,” she says gruffly, obviously uncomfortable but putting in the effort. She claps his shoulder like they’re two guys on the same sports team and adds, “So, chin up.”
She steps back while Sanji clambers to his feet, bewildered.
“I gotta go back to work now. Before they dock my pay,” she explains, jutting her thumb over her shoulder at the door and slips inside.
Sanji stands there for a long moment, trying to make sense of what just happened. And then he laughs.
✻✻✻
“Nami-san, I’m in loveeee~” Sanji sings through the speaker, a skip to his step as he walks home. He’d get there faster on the bus, but he’s so wonderfully confused and delighted and charmed. “Oh, she’s really like no other girl!”
Nami’s sigh is loud and sleep-muddled. “ Sanji-kun… ”
Sanji giggles.
✻✻✻
During his next day shift, Sanji struts into Zeff’s office with a cigarette in hand.
Zeff takes one look at him from behind his desk, narrows his eyes at him, and says, “Put that out before I punt you through the window.”
“Old man,” Sanji says, exhaling smoke. “I’m getting married.”
Zeff stares at him. “Is this about our argument the other day? You can’t marry out of your family just because you’re marrying into another, you know that?”
Sanji waves him off. “That’s the thing of the past,” he says. “I’m marrying for love.”
“Yeah?” Zeff asks. “What street corner did you see her on?”
Sanji frowns. “Why is everyone asking me that? It wasn’t a street corner, we met in the Carrot.”
Zeff puts his pen down and asks, “You’re marrying a stripper?”
✻✻✻
Sanji’s barely through the door when Selma spots him, frantic worry pinching her eyes.
“Sanji!” She exclaims. “You’re here! Quick!”
“What happened?” He asks, following after her. Above the music, shouting can be heard.
In the dark but standing alone in a wide circle of people keeping their distance, Mossy stands by an empty table, two men in front of her and shouting.
“A man can’t have any fun anymore! Fucking bitch!” One of them screams, getting in her face.
Sanji pushes through the crowd, struggling to reach them without hurting someone else when everyone is so tightly packed against each other.
Mossy says something in response, her arms crossed, and the guy sneers, waving his arms.
“You want me to back the fuck up?! Stuck up slut, acting like you wouldn’t enjoy it–” when his hand makes a grab for Mossy’s rear, Sanji’s vision turns red.
“Hey!” He starts – and then chokes on his spit when Mossy swings a bottle of beer from the table and pops the asshole across the temple.
He goes down like a sack of potatoes and Mossy glances at the intact bottle with a frown. It soon turns into an expression of glee when the other guy decides to take offense to his buddy’s humiliation and lunges and the bottle bursts on impact in contact with his jaw. His head snaps up and he falls backward, sprawling across the floor.
Mossy whoops at first, and then – when the motion of that last swing throws her out of balance and she tips backward on her heels – bellows a very unladylike, “ Motherfucker! ”
Sanji swoops in at the last moment, catching her around the waist in a dip as if they were dancing. Perhaps at their wedding.
Her look of alarm morphs, and she squints at him just to ask, “Are your eyebrows curled in the same direction?”
Sanji is not proud to admit it, but he drops her. Seeing both of his eyebrows is usually a third-base action.
“Ah,” he says, hands clenching around the thin air, staring down at her.
She stares back, open-mouthed. “You dropped me,” she says and then quickly clamps her mouth shut, lips pressed in a tight line. Her cheeks puff up like a chipmunk’s.
And then she starts howling with laughter.
“Oh, my god,” Sanji says, bending down to quickly help her up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Are you hurt?”
Mossy is wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, her makeup smudging. “Ugh, just my ego,” she says, her voice deep and wobbly with laughter. She clears her throat and throws a glare at her heels. “It’s all because of these stupid things.”
Much like that time on the stairs outside, she kicks them off.
Sanji is charmed – and a little happy – to note she’s barely an inch shorter than him.
He kicks the guy that has started stirring on the ground and around them, the crowd suddenly bursts into applause.
Mossy jerks and turns red even in the dark, awkwardly nodding at no one in particular, aware that the applause is meant for her.
The words are out of Sanji’s mouth before he can think them through.
“Do you want to go on a date with me?”
Mossy stares at him slack-jawed.
“Hah?”
Sanji smooths his hair down. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”
“I heard you,” Mossy says, still staring. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, her face contorting in expressions that indicate she’s doing some heavy kind of thinking. And that she’s not happy about it.
Suddenly, she grabs his wrist and pulls him through the throng of people towards the bar and through the door labeled staff only.
“Um–uh, I didn’t mean right now!” Sanji sputters.
She spins, puts her hands out, and says, “You don’t wanna go on a date with me.”
Sanji’s not very musical, but he’s sure her voice drops at least a few octaves.
So naturally, he asks, “What the fuck?”
Mossy grimaces. “Look, I didn’t mean to, erm, lead you on. But I’m a guy.”
Sanji’s brain clatters to a halt like the old VW Zeff used to drive until its engine literally fell through the bottom of it, and his eyes fall to Mossy’s chest, and then travel even lower.
He has to look away and duck when Mossy throws a sneaker at him. It bangs against the door behind him and only partially silences the, “I’m trans!” Mossy hisses at him.
“You–huh?”
Mossy scowls at him, her – his? – face turning red as a tomato. “Do I have to repeat myself?”
“I’m– No. You’re a guy?” Sanji asks, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” Mossy says, arms crossed protectively. And Sanji can see it now. The way he holds himself and the way he stands away from the eyes of the public.
Sanji’s head over heels in love with a guy.
“I didn’t think you’d be…this into me,” Mossy confesses. He looks to the side, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.
Sanji wants to hold his hand, and kiss him. He wants to bicker with him until the sun rises. And he still wants to go on a date.
“Uh, yeah.” Sanji says. “I am, though.”
All of his unnecessary, loud thoughts get pushed to the side and he asks, once more, “Can we go on a date? Ah, or do you just like girls?”
Mossy wrinkles his nose, says, “I’m gay, so no.” And then he shakes his head and says, “You still want to go on a date with me? I’m not gonna look like this anywhere but here, you know. And I’m not having a date here.”
“Yeah, no, I get that,” Sanji says, bobbing his head in a nod. “Date?”
“You’re fucking annoying,” Mossy tells him, but there’s no heat behind his words. Something open and warm colors his expression, the embarrassed flush turning into a blush that reaches his ears.
“I like to call it persistent,” Sanji responds. “So–”
“Jesus Christ, okay,” Mossy tells him, biting down on his lip to hide a grin. “Don’t say the word date again.”
“Okay,” Sanji agrees, giddy and nauseous with butterflies. Sanji likes girls – but he likes this guy more. “When do you get off work?”
Mossy arches an eyebrow at him. “2 am.”
Christ, that’s a long time. Sanji is already so tired. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna wait.”
Mossy stares at him in wonder, then shakes himself. “I’m fucking with you. I get off in two hours. Why the fuck would you wait until 2 am?”
Sanji shrugs and smiles.
Mossy frowns. “Don’t– don’t do that,” he grumbles, looking away and putting a hand over his mouth.
“What?”
“You know what, asshole,” Mossy tells him, sneaking a quick glance at Sanji.
Sanji grins wide and says, “I’m gonna drink my wine, and then I’m gonna take you out for a really late dinner. Does that sound good to you?”
Mossy laughs in his hands and then spares Sanji a bright look that crinkles in the corners. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”
One of the girls brings Mossy his heels and then they get back into the fray.
Sanji drinks his Merlot, kicking his feet beneath the table and smiling into his glass when he thinks no one is looking. He feels like a kid with his first crush, like the world is vast and open and ready for him.
Two hours pass in a heartbeat. Mossy comes by his table to tell Sanji he’s going to get changed and Sanji pays for his drink, his heart in his throat as he leaves the club.
Outside, the air is crisp and damp, and Sanji smokes a cigarette while he waits, laughing a little at the realization that he’ll have to set the record straight with Nami and his old man.
“Let me in on the joke?” A voice from behind startles him. “Or am I gonna regret agreeing to this? Be honest, what’s your diagnosis?”
Mossy grins at him, all pleased with himself. His makeup is gone, and he’s wearing black cargo pants tucked into a pair of Doc Martens boots and a grey hoodie. He looks like a guy.
Sanji offers him a hand, saying, “I don’t think we introduced ourselves properly. I’m Sanji.”
Mossy takes his hand in a firm grip. “Zoro,” he says. “And no, I’m never gonna wear the bunny suit in the bedroom.”
Sanji laughs and they set off into the night.