Chapter Text
He watches the boy descend the rock unconscious, take him first, he’d insisted to their rescuers, he would beg if he had to, give up all his pride. What pride left did he have anyways, withered down and storm blown as he was? So, he curls his hands and repeats the words like a thousand solaces, like an old sailor's song long borne in him: take him first, take him first, take him first.
He goes next into the dinghy in undefinable movement, sludge, both his body and the world. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the boy, keeps him tucked under his eyelids even when the waves gentle lullaby rocks them to sleep.
#
He can’t see the boy past the blue curtain separating their hospital beds, which divides them as solemnly as the rock did. The storm outside keeps Zeff moving far from his new companion, a little white bed on squeaky wheels, and when he does move, the phantom of an ache settles in his cannibalized limb. In the end it’s easier not to move at all, and to save the pain for bathroom trips and mealtimes, when he has to sit upright in bed.
He hopes to see that blonde head of hair soon, in a brighter context, maybe the warm hospital lamps will make him look rounder, his face younger, his hair thicker. Maybe the blue eye that trembled in its socket as it stared up at him, voice a rattle in his thin throat, his body, bestial, and ready to fight, will settle. Maybe the frail image of a dying boy will ease from his mind, no longer clinging to him as he had clung to the Orbit's entrails, because he’d rather go down fighting than go down hungry. They were the same in that sense.
#
He asked the nurse, he hasn’t woken since that first night they’d been rescued. He’d assumed as much, after hearing nothing on the other side except tight breathing. Zeff knows that he will wake, if he still had his crew they would be betting on it, and Zeff would win. He’s never lost a bet.
#
The sea eats her children, but for everything she takes she gives back in abundance. She gave this child to Zeff, after all.
#
Finally, at the end of the week, the boy wakes. He doesn’t say much, mostly grunts, mostly scared, not of Zeff but the doctors. He’s as skinny as Zeff had assumed, the lamplight does little to dissuade this. They eat in silence, drawn out breakfasts stretching into the next, stomachs still shrunken. The curtain remains drawn back. The rest of their time is spent sleeping and, when they have the energy, they play games: cards, dice, and the like. The nurses even bring them a word game with letters etched onto small square tiles.
“You ever played this before?”
The boy nods his head yes and watches Zeff move his tiles to the first spot. He hears a little scoff from his playing partner.
He’s a little taken aback, but then he grins. It's the first reaction the boy has given him that reminds him of the child on the Orbit. "What's that about?”
The boy is pointing at the tiles, he’s clearly annoyed, “That’s not a word.”
Zeff fights his eye roll, if he doesn’t, they’ll get stuck in the back of his head, “I’ll be damned if it isn’t ‘cause that’s my name.”
“That’s a silly name, also, you aren’t supposed to use proper nouns!” silly name? That was a silly rule, he thinks. Before Zeff could get a word in, the boy follows his statement up with, “Just Zeff?”
“Red-Leg, if you want to get specific about it.”
Neither says anything more, so Zeff claims the opportunity and grabs four more tiles, arranging them on the board. The boy watches intently.
BRAT
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he narrows his eyes. It looks ridiculous since only one of them is visible.
“Well, it’s your name, clearly, because that’s what you are.”
“What? That isn’t my name!”
Then, instead of continuing his verbal assault, the boy angrily drags the bag of tiles toward himself, pulls out five of them, and places them on the board.
SANJI
“That’s my name. Don’t forget it,” his face does a lot of things after he says it, but it finally settles into defiance.
“Just Sanji?”
“Just Sanji.”
“Hm. Fine.”
Zeff feels an inkling of curiosity but chooses to keep it to himself, he’s never been the meddling type, never seen the point. Sanji lifts his gaze, withered, exhausted, but aware and alive. Then, he uncoils his body almost entirely, clearly not receiving whatever transgression he was expecting from the old pirate.
#
“This is the worst food I've ever eaten.”
Zeff grunts. “That’s because not even babies eat this shit, not that you’re much older than one,” then, because of the look on Sanji’s face, he adds, “won’t be forever, ‘sides, we’d end up dead if you were the one cooking the food.”
Sanji looks like a prickly kitten with its hackles raised, “As if you could do any better!”
“I damn well could, I was the infamous pirate cook, not you.”
“Infamous because I bet all you did was put oregano in everything!”
They go back and forth, like it’s natural, like they’ve done this forever. Sanji’s laugh is bright and chirping, Zeff’s is ugly, coming from his chest.
Finally, they return to their meal. Sanji attacks it like a dog, like he seems to do with everything—words, games, curiosity.
“Eat slow,” Zeff says.
“Why’s that?” Sanji says through a mush of eggs.
“Because you’ll choke, and then I’ll get blamed for it.”
“As if you’d care.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re a pirate.”
Zeff laughs, “Not much of one now, am I?”
Sanji slows his chewing and tips his head, “No, I guess not.”