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Some might consider it being spoiled to need a warm body beside you each night to fall asleep. You’d certainly grown accustomed to the slender, yet muscled arms that found their way around your waist in a protective and sleepy hold. It wasn’t your fault, though. Blame the man who insisted in the first place. If anything, you were spoiled by his doing.
Which is why it was such a rude awakening to find that, when you extended a hand, you couldn’t feel him beside you in bed. Thinking you must’ve been mistaken, you pawed around the mattress a moment more before popping an eye open. Gone. His place was still warm, pillow still scented with his shampoo.
You sighed, flopping back against the mattress. “Sanji…”
There was only one place he would be this late in the night. The place he spent many evenings fidgeting and calculating and measuring and timing and flipping and stirring. The ship galley.
With great effort, you unfurled from the blanket cocoon and wrapped his (too long, smoke-scented) house coat tightly around you, padding out of his room and up the stairs. As expected, a warm light emanated from the porthole windows as you ascended to the deck.
But, unexpectedly, he wasn’t cooking. No, by now, there would be a whole array of meats, stews, cakes — any number of delicacies plated and cooling on the counters. He would be scribbling furiously into his thick, dog-eared recipe book, pencil tucked tightly behind an ear, a pair of reading glasses pushing up the blonde curtain of hair. A flow state. Instead, Sanji sat solemnly on a barstool, a steaming mug in his hand.
You tiptoed quietly in. Even though he was facing the door already, it felt wrong to disturb him.
His head perked up. His eyes were glazed over with a faraway look, one that you had seen before. Sleepless nights weren’t so strange for the blonde. Sometimes he would shoot up out of bed, clutching his stomach, starved. He usually quelled the hunger pangs with a cigarette or two and pushed away thoughts like wiping dust from a shelf. It was his superpower. Or his crux, whichever way you looked at it.
You asked him once if he felt so hungry, why didn’t he just eat? He replied that if he started, he wouldn’t stop until he threw up. He was never really hungry. It was all mental. All from the years growing up when food was a luxury, not a necessity.
Many times he came back to bed, smelling of smoke and wine, finally exhausted enough to sleep. It wasn’t typical for him to drink in excess except on nights like these. He’d come back to his room, trying and failing to be quiet, and sloppily kiss your neck with a whisper of sans toi, je ne suis rien and fade into oblivion.
You loved him still.
You loved him despite it. Maybe even because of it. You loved the bitter parts of him, the ones he cut off from the rest of the world, only for you to see. He did similar things to leafy vegetables: presented the leaves, chucked the tart stalks in a dense stew, hidden, unless you knew what to look for. You gratefully accepted whatever he would give you.
Sanji set down the mug as you approached, standing up to meet you.
“Can’t sleep?” You asked him, tangling arms around arms. He hoisted you up, slotting his chin against your chest like a forlorn puppy. Strong biceps trapped you against him as he huffed a breath.
“I tried this time,” he said, face blooming with color again. "I really did.”
“Where’s the buffet?” You teased, stroking a lock away from his forehead to expose both eyes. With the freed surface area, you planted a row of sweet kisses.
He closed his eyes, humming contentedly. Then, his face dropped. “I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything.”
“Couldn’t think of anything?” You frowned, continuing a line of kisses along his hairline. “You put too much pressure on yourself, Sanji. You couldn’t sleep. No one’s expecting you to cook a full-course meal at one AM.”
His eyes blinked open with great effort. “Well, maybe someone is…” He muttered, chewing on his lip as he thought.
Sanji had it in his head that he shouldn’t disturb you, that his wants were just inconveniences. No matter how many times you explained it to him, he stubbornly refused to ask for help. It ached to know that there was nothing you could do. Nothing to satiate that invisible hunger, nothing to assure him that he was safe. Loved. At least not yet.
It took strength to mask the hurt in your expression. Taking a deep breath, you willed your eyebrows to stop pinching together. “You can wake me up, you know. You can talk to me.” A hand slid down to cup his scruffy cheek. He hadn't shaved in a while. Somehow, it still looked elegant.
He sighed, settling his hand over yours, the one holding his face. It was trembling. “I know, but… Sometimes it’s for the best if I don’t.” His pain was palpable, just from a glimpse of the purple under his eyes. From the nicotine stains between his fingers. From the smell of alcohol on his breath. You had to wonder how long it had been since he'd slept through the night.
It was the nightmares. Even if he wouldn’t say it, that’s what it was. Of his childhood with his family, his time stranded at sea. That's why he woke up screaming with a rumbling stomach, or clawing at his head, or with cheeks damp from tears. It was rare that he truly opened up. Once, and only once, had he disclosed the nature of these nightmares. He then refused to ever speak of it again, determined that he would deal with it alone. The way he knew how. Vices.
You hummed, continuing to stroke his hair and cradle his face. “Would you like to hear a story?”
He nodded, leaning further against your chest, something akin to a rumble escaping his throat. With great protest, you managed to get him to set you down so you both could settle into the curved breakfast nook seat. He only allowed it when you brought his head into your lap and resumed playing with his hair.
"Close your eyes," you instructed. He was way ahead of you. He practically smashed his face against your stomach, arms snaking around your torso, eyes contentedly closed. You couldn't help but giggle as a satisfied grin grew on his lips.
"Okay," you began gently, clearing your throat. "There exists a secret paradise of the water, a place where fish from the four seas converge... "
You told his favorite story to him in a hushed tone, but there was still reverence and wonder in your voice as you described the utopia. A few miles of ocean uninhabited by humans, water as clear as crystal. Schools of fish and underwater gardens ripe with life. Familiar creatures, but undiscovered species, too, in colors the mind could barely comprehend.
Sanji's grip on you was slowly starting to relax, but you persisted, petting his hair all the while. "And if you swim deep enough in the waters, you'll find a musical land," you continue, adding embellishments to the story. Of course, you had no way of knowing the tales you told were true, but Sanji liked the things you came up with. "Since the seas collide in the All Blue, hot and cold, there's a strong underwater current there... and it's powerful enough to drag you in. The music comes from the rushing of the water over coral reefs and anemones, like fingers on a harp."
A small hum passed his lips, air brushing your skin from how tightly he pressed against you. It took a lot of willpower not to laugh at how adorable it was. You traced a finger lightly over one of his swirly brows, amused.
"Some pirates have said they've heard singing, too... a woman's voice." Your tone was now just a whisper as your finger trailed down over his long lashes. "The Mother Sea. The life bringer. The All Blue is said to be her womb, where all creatures of the sea spring from."
Sanji's breathing had evened, completely and totally relaxed in your lap. You bent down a little to press a kiss to his ear. As your lips still brushed the lobe, you finished the story. "And if you give her an offering, she will make your greatest wish come true..."
Your voice was barely audible as you pulled back to admire the blonde's sleeping form. Soft breaths escaped him in light hums. "Goodnight, my prince..."
With Sanji asleep in your lap, you rested your head against the breakfast nook cushion, looking out the window. The stars were clear and bright, illuminating the still ocean like millions of fireflies. Looking down again, you saw the smile still present on your chef's lips. Safe. You would teach him what that meant.
Just as soon as peace had wrapped its blanket around you, the galley's door slammed open, revealing your captain standing there, hair a puffball, pajamas askew. He rubbed his eyes, yawning. “Man, I’m hungry. Where’s the meat? Sanji? " He stepped into the kitchen, flip flops clapping noisily. "Sanji? I'm hungry."
The blonde in your lap grumbled, stirring immediately. Seems there was a reason for his midnight potlucks, after all.
Your face went bright red with anger. “Luffy! Shut up! He's sleeping!"
"Mmmnot anymore," Sanji sat up, palms pressing into his eye sockets.
Luffy tilted his head. "Sleeping? In the kitchen?"
I groaned. "Get out, Luffy."
Luffy's face dropped, but Sanji waved you off. "No, no. Don't worry. I always have emergency meat for this kind of thing. Luffy, give me three minutes." Sanji climbed out of the booth, rolling up his sleeves.
You sighed, getting up as well. So much for that.
"Three minutes? But I'm hungry now!" The captain protested, trailing behind Sanji as he made his way to the refrigerator. "Sanjiii. Hungry." He pointed to his stomach.
You couldn't help but laugh. Because, even though it was completely and utterly ridiculous, and inconvenient, of course Sanji would go out of his way to help. That was just the kind of person he was. He always put the needs of others before himself. You silently admired his tall frame as he made the whining Luffy a sandwich. He was incredible. Perfect.
You weren't going to give up until he believed it, too.