Archive of Our Own ^beta

Farr off from these a slow and silent stream,
Lethe the River of Oblivion roules
Her watrie Labyrinth, whereof who drinks,
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.

— 'Paradise Lost', John Milton

It's two in the morning and pouring rain when Sanji takes his smoke break. It's not really a smoke break—the Baratie's been closed for hours, but he likes to stay behind in the kitchen and work on his menus. Zeff probably doesn't know about it, but even if he did, he wouldn't care as long as Sanji turned up on time for his shifts. And besides, the old man owns the place.

Water patters unrelentingly on the corrugated metal above him, and though the echo of it is so loud that Sanji can barely hear himself think, he's never been more grateful for the makeshift roof that sticks out a few feet from the top of the kitchen's back door. The staff would start murdering each other if they didn't have a place to smoke. Not that it's been busy recently—so far there hasn't been any flooding yet, but the number of customers is already down. The old man's getting grumpy, and it's only the second week of Aqua Laguna.

Sanji misses the sunshine, but at least it'll give the city a thorough late-summer wash. The back alley where he's standing doesn't consistently smell of hot garbage anymore, and even the rats and raccoons seem to be staying away. And it's good weather for experimenting with soups. The Baratie's always done bisque, bouillabaisse, onion—lately he's been thinking of a tourin, but that will mean doubling the garlic delivery…and the produce purveyor has been late twice in the recent month, which means that Sanji has to make a few angry phone calls tomorrow…

He should really go home soon. Thankfully his place is only a ten-minute walk away, and tomorrow's a weekday so it's only the usual deliveries and not the weekend rush. One more cigarette, then he'll leave.

He's lighting it and thinking of what to do with whole pheasant (perhaps roasted, with a port wine sauce) when there's a loud crash somewhere above his head, followed by a heavy thump on the fire escape.

A half-second later, a person-shaped thing lands on top of the dumpster only a few yards away from him.

Sanji flinches. "What the fuck?!"

There's a soft groan from the dumpster. At least it's not a corpse, Sanji thinks with faint relief. He stares at his freshly lit, freshly dropped cigarette that's rapidly disappearing into a puddle of rainwater.

It's his last one too. Fuck.

He drags his gaze back to the dumpster-person and considers his options, of which there are very few. He can't call the cops, obviously. They'd just moved here a year ago, and the restaurant is barely six months old. He can't afford to get them in shit with the authorities. Calling Zeff means revealing that he's been hanging around in the Baratie after-hours. Calling Gin? Hard maybe—Sanji doesn't even know if he's in town. He doesn't have many friends in the city, and definitely none that are in the category of "you-can-call-me-to-deal-with-a-maybe-dead-body".

Then he realizes what's dripping off the edge of the dumpster is much too dark to be rainwater, despite how dimly lit the alley is. Fuck.

The man (because it is a man, what dumbass would be doing things that involve falling into dumpsters) is heavy, but Sanji manages to slide him onto the ground, probably helped by the wet slipperiness of the trash bags. And all the blood, which Sanji tries not to think about. He's not squeamish by any means, but he really doesn't want someone to die right in front of him. Not to mention how this all might look to an outside observer.

"You're lucky it hadn't been emptied yet," Sanji mutters as he props the man against the dumpster. He doesn't know where the guy fell from, but he's pretty sure it's not fun falling into a dumpster at any height.

The stranger looks young. East Asian, in his twenties, maybe around Sanji's age. The black hood over his head fell when Sanji was moving him, and underneath he's wearing a black bandana. But the most alarming thing about him is that he's covered neck-to-toe in dark body armor, like someone out of a black ops film. He's either a cop…or worse.

But right now he doesn't even seem to be breathing, so Sanji tugs at the black cloth covering the man's neck, intent on finding a pulse. He definitely doesn't expect the man to lash out and grab his wrist, squeezing hard.

"Ow!" His yell is more alarm than pain, but it definitely hurts, and the man is definitely not-dead.

"Who are you?" the man growls.

"Who am I? Who are you!?" Sanji's aware he sounds mildly hysterical, but in his defence, it is two in the morning and some idiot just fell into the dumpster next to him. And he dropped his last cigarette.

"Got lost."

"Off a roof?!"

The man doesn't respond.

"Well, I fucking work here, and you're not dying next to my restaurant!" Technically it's Zeff's, but at this point Sanji doesn't give a fuck.

"I'm not dying."

"Oh yeah? Am I supposed to believe that's all tomato juice then?!" Sanji gestures wildly at his whites. He'd gotten blood all over himself when he was pulling the guy down, and it looked like he had just butchered a pig, badly. It looks even worse now that the rainwater's spread it further into the fabric.

The man doesn't reply again, and to Sanji's alarm, his eyelids are fluttering shut, his grip loosening around his wrist.

"Hey, wake up! You're fucking bleeding out!" Sanji doesn't care that his voice is at a hushed shriek. He really doesn't want to call the authorities about this. That means cops and cops mean trouble. He's panicked enough that he gives the man's face a light slap, and the stranger opens his eyes just enough to glare at him. Sanji ignores it.

"At least come inside and get dried off," he says, a pleading note in his voice now.

"There's…doctor…" The stranger is slurring his words, and his eyes close again.

"Okay. Fuck. Shit. Fuck this shit."

Sanji makes up his mind and hopes he isn't making the wrong choice, though at this point all the choices seem wrong here and he's running out of time.

"Please tell me you can fucking walk." Without waiting for a reply, he pulls the stranger's arm over his shoulder, half-tugging and half-carrying him into the restaurant.

It's far harder than pulling him off the dumpster—at least then he had help from gravity. Sanji's carried his fair number of flour sacks, but the man is heavy and the body armor is stiff, digging into Sanji's shoulder. The two steps up to the back door seem insurmountable, and Sanji has only just enough breath left over to curse as he kicks the door open.

Sanji leans him against the closest countertop that isn't a stove. Up close, the man smells of sweat and metal and blood. In the harsh industrial lighting, the man looks even worse, pale and panting, though he's still lucid enough to press a hand against his stomach. Of course, it's not enough to stem the bleeding; he's left a trail of blood from the door to where he's leaning.

A long black bag slides onto the floor with a soft clatter. Sanji didn't notice it in the darkness, the man must have been carrying it with him. But he doesn't have time to ask—the man is still bleeding freely from the right arm and shoulder.

Sanji grabs some side towels and ties them haphazardly around the wounds before pressing more against his stomach, trying to ignore how the white fabric immediately turns a vivid red. He hasn't seen this much blood since Jamin ran a knife through their hand while trying to hack frozen demi-glace out of a bucket.

"Holy fuck, did you get shot? How are you bleeding so much?"

The stranger shoots him a look Sanji can only describe as dirty before he reaches down with his unoccupied hand to fumble with something in his boot, and Sanji glimpses a tiny syringe a second before the stranger is inserting it into a gap of skin at his wrist. What the fuck.

"Are you shooting up in my kitchen?!"

The stranger blinks at him. "Stimulant."

Sanji doesn't know how to reply to that. Maybe it's true, because the man does seem to be more alert in spite of the blood loss. But he's still dripping blood and rainwater all over the previously spotless kitchen floor, and when Sanji's sure he won't slide down the countertop onto the floor, he steps away to grab the first aid kit.

"You said you had a doctor, right? Is he on his way?"

A phone appears in the stranger's hand, and he taps at it before turning the screen to Sanji. It's open to a messenger app, with a single "Doctor" at the top. Completely not suspicious, really.

"Address," the man says.

"What—I'm not giving a stranger the address to here!"

The stranger looks pointedly at himself, then back at Sanji.

"Shit—fuck—fine!"

He taps it in, and immediately there's two checkmarks but no reply.

"How far away is the doctor?"

"Don't know."

Fuck. It's not really a decision then. Sanji starts to cut away the man's clothing. It's slow work as he has to find the gaps between the body armor—only a step above deboning pigs' feet. Thankfully, Sanji is very good at deboning pigs' feet.

There's an awkward moment where Sanji struggles to cut through a section of fabric. At first he thinks it's only tacky with half-dried blood, then the man guides him through unbuckling something on his forearm that reveals itself as a sheath for several short black blades.

Throwing knives. He only recognizes them because the store he gets his kitchen knives from replaced all the website photos with them for April Fools'.

He can feel his heartbeat quicken and sweat break out on his back. He knows they're just knives like any other, just metal of a particular shape, but that's not why he's so affected. It's about what they represent—who the man is. What he does. What he's a part of.

But the man is also half-conscious and bleeding out in his kitchen, so the possibility that he's here for Sanji is pretty low. But not zero, little eggplant.

Another wave of fresh blood pulses out over the hand that's pressed over the man's stomach, gleaming red under the stark light.

Fuck. Sanji grabs another towel and presses it to the wound, making sure the man's putting pressure on it before he lets go. Then he takes a deep breath and wills his hands not to shake as he unwraps the sheathed knives from the man's arm and sets them on the table.

He tries to avoid the stranger's eyes, but a quick glance up reveals that the man is staring at a fixed point somewhere behind Sanji and putting all his effort into trying not to pass out. Somehow it's relieving to him that the stimulant isn't a silver bullet that just erases the effects of getting shot, and he quickly resumes the work of peeling off the man's bloodied clothing.

At some point, the man's breathing smooths out, too even to be anything but controlled, and he isn't trembling as badly. He remains quiet and passive, watching his phone and ignoring how Sanji's gaze flicks back to his face every so often. Sanji doesn't want him passing out again, but whatever the man shot himself up with seems to be working now.

And—the man isn't bad-looking. Whatever. He can admit to himself it's been a while, so he can't be blamed for checking out a hot guy, even if the guy landed in his dumpster and is probably from a world that Sanji needs to stay a million miles away from. There's not really any other explanation for the body armor and the blood.

As he moves around him, working from back to front, Sanji catches a glimpse of the man's hair from under the bandana. It's short and dark green. Like moss, his mind supplies. Perhaps it's a testament to the fact he needs to get out more, but it's strangely charming. Probably why the stranger hides it.

Unfortunately, the more fabric he cuts away, the more of the stranger's (undeniably fit, undeniably attractive) body is revealed. Thin, silvery scars mark his skin, like from some kind of blade. Don't ask questions, he reminds himself. You don't need to know more than you already do about this person. You know where he's from. Where he'll go back to.

And yet the voice in his mind seems to dim, especially when Sanji peels off the last scrap of body armor from his chest to reveal the longest scar, a pale trout-bone that begins from his left shoulder down to his right hip and disappearing under the striped green fabric that wraps around his waist. Sanji has to bite his tongue before a question about it slips out, and from the way the stranger is watching him, he knows it.

"Bullets went through," the stranger says. "So you don't need to pull them."

"Oh, that's great."

To his disappointment, the sarcasm seems to go over the man's head. Perhaps Sanji should feel more relieved that he doesn't need to pull bullets out of someone, but at this point the night feels half a dream.

The stranger is swaying a little against the counter—how long does that stimulant last? There's a bar stool that Zeff sometimes uses in the kitchen, but Sanji can't see it anywhere. Someone's probably moved it into the office so they could clean before closing, but Sanji doesn't want to risk running downstairs. He does wants to change out of his bloodied clothes, but he's worried that the stranger will pass out again when he isn't there.

He also wants a fucking smoke. Carne once mentioned something about keeping his backup cigarettes in the walk-in because it kept the tobacco from getting stale. Sanji should really look into that.

To his credit, the doctor does come pretty quickly, specifically in eight minutes. The stranger catches Sanji's eye and nods at the back door just as he's beginning to unscrew the bottle of disinfectant.

"Doctor is here."

Sanji doesn't know what he expects when he opens the door, but it's definitely not a man that's also around his age, a black hood pulled over his hair and dark circles under his eyes. He's taller than Sanji, and dressed in a long, black (why does everyone in that world wear so much black?) wool coat that's glittering with raindrops.

"You're the doctor?" Perhaps it's rude of him, but Sanji can't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

The man shoots him a withering look. "I'm a surgeon."

"You're too young to be a surgeon."

"I took accelerated courses." The doctor doesn't bother to keep the irritation out of his voice.

He steps around Sanji with a sharp huff, sparing the kitchen a few brief glances before he sets down the large duffel bag on his shoulder. It unzips with a whisper, and the doctor quickly lays out a sterile mat on the countertop before removing a few vials and syringes. Sanji stays by the door, watching carefully.

The doctor's movements are assured as he washes his hands in a nearby sink and tugs on a black medical mask. At least he keeps to the aesthetic, Sanji thinks.

The stranger and the doctor mutter to each other quietly, and even though it's his kitchen, he feels like he's intruding.

"Stab in stomach and two shots," the stranger grunts. "Left arm, shoulder. Both straight through."

"Your luck's going to run out one day." The doctor makes a scoffing noise and snaps on his gloves. "Though I can't believe it went through the body armor."

"Different rounds," says the stranger. "Special."

The doctor hums in response.

"I didn't bring the good stuff, so it's going to hurt."

He leans in to remove the blood-sodden gauze and prod at the wounds, and the stranger lets out a soft hah immediately before a bitten-off moan. His knuckles are stark white as they grip on the counter, and Sanji can't help wincing a little in sympathy.

"That's not even the worst part," the doctor says grimly.

Sanji takes the opportunity to duck downstairs and change out of his bloodied whites. When he brings up the bar stool from the office, the doctor gives him an approving nod. "I was going to tell him to sit on the counter, but it'll hurt as much getting on as it will getting off."

The doctor injects the stranger with something before he starts sewing him up, but from the sounds the stranger is making, it seems like it's taking a while to kick in. Sanji hates it.

And fuck it, maybe he shouldn't be cooking with a surgery happening in the same kitchen, but he finds the furthest counter from them and starts to prepare a veal stock, hoping the clatter of chopping vegetables will mask the worst of the moans. But the kitchen is only so big, and the exhaust vent can only go so high.

At some point, the noises die down, or perhaps it's the low roar of the stovetop flame. Then there's a soft ping of a phone—not Sanji's—and the stranger glances down before looking up at the doctor. "Someone calling you."

The doctor sucks in a breath between his teeth. "Fuck. I have to take this." He turns around to look at Sanji, clearly on edge. "You, stay quiet."

Sanji turns down the fire and flicks off the exhaust vent before he steps back from the counter, his hands raised. Whatever happens tonight, he doesn't want to get on some black market doctor's bad side.

The doctor tugs his mask off with his bloodied gloves, and even from their distance, Sanji can see him visibly breathing as if to calm himself. After a few seconds, he shuts his eyes briefly, before he taps at the phone with his pinky—the only clean part of his glove.

"Yes, young master?" His voice is softer, more accommodating.

Sanji can't help but watch, his breath frozen in his chest. He feels like he's seeing something awful, even though he doesn't actually know what's happening.

"Law…where are you?" The voice is deep and male, and clearly languorous. There's a rustle of fabric, like the caller is in bed.

"I—I had to go back to my place, I forgot something for work," the doctor replies, half-coaxing, half-flippant.

"Be careful, you're going to make me think I'm not treating you right," the caller says teasingly.

"Understood, young master. I'm sorry."

The doctor sounds young and contrite, a far cry from the curt, clinical tone he had adopted with Sanji and the stranger. Sanji doesn’t know the guy, but he finds his stomach turning as he wonders who’s on the other end.

"Don't worry, little one." There's a low chuckle before the voice purrs a reply. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."

There's a meaningful pause, then his phone beeps. Sanji really hopes that it indicates the caller's hung up.

Before Sanji can say anything, Law's head whips around to look at him.

"You never heard anything." There's a low warning in his voice.

"Yeah," Sanji says. "I—I got it."

The stranger says something to the doctor, too soft for Sanji to hear, and the doctor replies in—was that German? But that's the end of their exchange, and the doctor is moving a little faster with his stitches. The stranger winces with sharp little huffs, but otherwise they're both silent for the rest of it.

In the meantime, Sanji unearths Carne's secret stash of cigarettes. It's a shitty brand, but it'll do for now. After hearing that conversation, he needs the nicotine more than a fish soup needs wine.

He stands under the metal overhang and leaves the door open a crack as he smokes the cigarette. One, then another. The rain's still coming down steadily, and Sanji wishes it could wash away what he'd just heard as easily as it's washed away the stranger's blood from the dumpster.

When he comes back inside, the doctor raises his head just long enough to wrinkle his nose at him, obvious even through his mask. "You should quit, those are bad for you." His voice is deadpan, but Sanji still rolls his eyes at him.

When he's finished, the doctor sits back, stripping off his gloves and bagging them in dark plastic before he drops it in his duffel. "I've done all that I can. I need to get back now."

He sets down a bottle of pills on the countertop with a sharp click. "Two of these a day unless you want infection to set in." His tone is firm, and the stranger grunts an acknowledgement at him.

Sanji moves towards the doctor, and something stupid and soft in him makes him open his mouth. "You sure you're going back? That guy sounds like bad news—"

The doctor rounds on him, glaring. "What did I fucking tell you?"

He's taller than Sanji expected, and his eyes are a deeper shade of grey than the stranger's. The pure, sneering contempt on his face makes Sanji lean back a little.

"I—I didn't hear anything."

"That's right," the doctor snaps. He gathers his things without another word or look at either of them, and the door shuts firmly behind him.

"Sorry." The stranger looks a little awkward, the most human expression Sanji has seen on him all night. "He is…in a difficult position."

Sanji doesn't comment on the surely unintended double entendre of it. By now, he's figured out English probably isn't the stranger's first language.

Maybe he was a little spooked by the doctor, which is probably why he steps closer to the stranger.

"He didn't do this one," Sanji observes. There's a bloody scrape on the back of the man's left hand.

The stranger gives it a brief look. "Not deep, it will heal."

Since the first aid kit is out and there's still more than enough gauze, Sanji cleans it as well. It looks pretty bad to him, but the stranger doesn't even hiss when he pours the disinfectant over it. He wraps the bandage around his hand and ties it tightly. It isn't as neat as the doctor's work and it spots with fresh crimson immediately, but when the stranger examines it, he doesn't seem displeased.

After Sanji washes his hands, he fills a glass from the tap and sets it next to the stranger. "Here, for the pills."

The stranger mutters a quick thanks, but doesn't move to take the medicine. He doesn’t seem in a rush to leave yet, which makes sense considering the man did get shot twice. And what was the other injury, a stab wound to the stomach? Maybe he’s waiting for a ride.

Sanji leans against the countertop, stifling a yawn. He was supposed to be in bed an hour ago—perhaps that's why his brain stops working and the question slips out of him.

"What's your name?"

He realizes what a stupid question this is almost immediately after he asks it. Either the man will lie, or he won't reply at all. The stranger opts for the latter, giving him a look of annoyance that's edged with warning. Despite himself, Sanji's a little offended that he's not even granted a fake name.

"Ask something else," the man grunts. Sanji supposes he should be pleased that the stranger is willing to talk at all. He isn't terribly experienced with men, but this guy doesn't exactly seem the social type.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and from the odd hour Sanji knows it can only be one person. And he's right, it's Gin asking him if he's free tomorrow night. He doesn't reply, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He has to stay focused on the second random man who's landed on his doorstep. How does the saying go? Once is a coincidence, twice is a pattern? Which reminds him—

"When's the last time you've eaten?"

The man's eyes narrow warily at him, but Sanji's prepared for it. He nods at the pills. "Antibiotics, right? You should probably eat something with that."

The suspicion melts away, replaced by a little furrow between his brows, clearly thinking. Finally he shrugs with his good shoulder. "Don't remember."

Sanji eyes him while trying not to let his gaze linger too long. The stranger is broad with muscle and doesn't look like someone who's accustomed to missing meals. But he did spend an oddly long amount of time thinking about how to answer a simple question.

Funnily enough, there's leftover paella in the reach-in. It'll take only minutes to heat up on the burner. Faster if he uses the microwave, but he's absolutely not doing that.

"Drink your water, I'll make something."

The man nudges the water with the back of his knuckles. "Do you have alcohol?"

"I am not giving you alcohol right after you got shot!"

"Bleeding's stopped," the man replies mulishly.

"Shut up and drink your water, mosshead." The nickname slips out of him accidentally.

"Mosshead?" The man looks confused.

Fuck, why did you say that aloud. Sanji can feel his face redden. "I saw your hair," he says. "It's…y'know. Green. Like moss."

The stranger is still looking at him like Sanji's spouting nonsense, and maybe he is but maybe English isn't the man's first language, so Sanji continues, "You know, like the plant. The green stuff that grows on statues when they aren't cleaned?"

"Oh." The stranger tilts his head, considering, then pulls off the bandana entirely before running a hand through his damp hair. It's spiked up and probably darker than its usual shade from the rain, but it really does look like moss. Unfortunately for Sanji, he looks even more handsome.

"You smell like wet dog," Sanji blurts out before he goes to the walk-in to pull out the food. He stands inside for a little longer than necessary, hoping it's enough to get rid of his flush—he must be redder than wine right now. He doesn't know what possessed him to call him that.

The paella heats up nicely on the stove, and he adds some parsley and a lemon wedge before plating it. He sets it down before the stranger, determined to put their previous interaction behind him. A flash of alarm goes through him when he realizes he'd forgotten to ask if the man had any allergies, but before he can open his mouth, the man's already dug into the food. He eats steadily, if a little awkwardly, clearly trying not to agitate his wounds.

Sanji leans against the countertop and sips from his own water as he watches the man eat, and reminds himself to reply to Gin later. It'll be good to see him—it's been a while, and Gin's always bringing back some odd ingredient or other for Sanji. In the meantime, he's pleased to see that the stranger cleans his plate, even scooping up the last grain of rice with the edge of his spoon.

"Good food," the stranger says gruffly. "Thanks."

Sanji accepts it with a nod, and drops his plate in the sink before checking on his soon-to-be-veal-stock. Low on dry red, have to add that to the order tomorrow. He shakes out the last drops of the wine into the pan as he scrapes the bottom to deglaze.

When he's poured the mixture into the stock pot and turned back around, the stranger has somehow found the cleaning supplies and is spraying and wiping the countertop down. The scraps of body armor littering the floor are gone and the previously-bloodstained floor is already back to sparkling clean, the way the night porter had left it.

"Thanks," Sanji says, faintly baffled.

The stranger drops a wad of paper towel into his bag and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Don't want to leave traces."

A soft watery patter echoes in the kitchen as the stranger wets a towel under a sink tap before running it along his arms and shoulders and stomach and chest, his movements quick and efficient. A sailor called it a cat-clean once, and maybe Sanji's thinking too much of it but there's a rough grace in the way the man moves, his muscles shifting under the bandages as he swipes the towel under his arms and across the back of his neck. Sanji looks away before he's caught staring.

The stranger crouches down with a slight wince to pick through his bag. Then he tenses, before drawing out a phone that's clearly lit-up. Most likely a call, and Sanji turns down the fire and flicks off the exhaust accordingly. He's a fast learner.

The man glances at Sanji before drawing himself to his full height, his posture stiff and proper. He's staring at his phone warily; and for the second time that night, Sanji wonders just who's on the other end of the line.

The stranger gives one last wordless look at Sanji before he lifts the phone to his ear. "Hai. Yes."

The caller must be reprimanding him, because he looks briefly like a kicked puppy.

There's another silence, then the stranger swallows. "Yes, sir."

Sanji turns his attention back to the simmering stock. The exhaust is off, and he watches the condensation form rapidly on the steel backsplash before the droplets gather together and trickle down.

There's a sigh, so soft it's almost imperceptible, before the stranger drops his phone in his bag with a thump. Sanji takes his cue to flip the exhaust back on, and it hums at him reassuringly.

"Everything okay?"

The stranger eyes him. "Turn around." His voice is firm and expectant.

Oh fuck. Sanji's breath catches in his throat, and fear surges through him like the sudden shock of seawater in his lungs, colder than ice. Obviously the man's going to kill him. He'd been an idiot. He'd let his guard down. What would Zeff say? Sanji licks his lips.

"What are you going to do?—Please don't kill me."

He's not too proud to beg for his life. It had been earned at an exorbitant price, one that he could never hope to pay back. The tap of Zeff's prosthetic on the floor reminded him of that fact every day. His heart is pounding. Fuck, he hopes the man at least puts his body in the walk-in freezer, maybe that way it'll be easier for the restaurant to avoid a health code violation.

The man makes a confused, questioning noise. "What? I need to change."

He holds up a shirt. (It's black, of course.)

Relief rushes through Sanji so quickly it's almost dizzying. A shiver goes through his body; he hopes it isn't obvious. He sets a hand on the edge of the burner, the metal warm from the flame.

"Oh…well then, forget I said anything."

The man eyes him critically. "I only kill important people."

He says it so seriously and so haughtily that Sanji almost wants to laugh. He should be allowed to, after everything that's happened tonight. But he manages to swallows the urge and turns to face away from the stranger.

Idly, he wonders if the man's actually shy about changing in front of him, which would be pretty funny considering Sanji had to literally cut half his clothing off. To be fair, Sanji's spent years changing in front of the other staff in the restaurant locker room, so his sense of privacy is probably a little different. But the stranger is in the business of killing, which makes his modesty even more amusing.

There's more shuffling and the sound of a bag being rummaged before the man speaks again. "Finished now."

When Sanji turns back around, the man is zipping up a dark grey hoodie before he tugs on a leather jacket. It's mustard yellow, but somehow he makes it work. It's a bold colour for someone in his line of work, but if Sanji didn't know, he'd look like any regular young guy.

Sanji drums his fingers against the stovetop, trying to will away the rest of his adrenaline. It's really been too many times tonight, and he works in a kitchen so that's saying something. The stock's simmering and will be doing so for the next ten hours. He needs to do something to get rid of the rest of energy, and going out for a smoke means leaving the man alone in his kitchen.

"Tea or coffee?"

The stranger blinks, but doesn't question him. "Tea."

Sanji finds the cambro in the reach-in. It's not labelled, he'll have to talk to Isa about it for the second time—someone's going to think it's furikake again. There's no fucking date written on it either; he hopes it's fresh enough. If he remembers correctly, pot de crème au thé genmaicha was on the menu just last week.

It only takes a minute to steep, and when he pours out the pale yellow tea into the two cups, the smell of roasted rice fills the air, faintly sweet.

The stranger takes a sip and looks surprised. "You brew it well."

Somehow the compliment brings a flush to Sanji's face. He mutters his thanks, and they drink the rest of the pot in silence, side by side.

When he's finished, the stranger sets down the cup and looks at Sanji. His eyes are very gray. "I need to leave now."

Sanji walks him to the door. The rain's stopped, and the sky has only the faintest shade of dark blue. There's no horizon, only the square of sky amidst the dense buildings, but he knows there's still at least thirty minutes till sunrise.

The breeze ruffles his hair and cools his sweat. The stranger tugs his hood up to cover his distinctive hair.

Before he turns to go, the man holds out a gold coin expectantly. Sanji has no choice but to reach out to take it, and the stranger presses it into his palm but doesn't let go. Keeps a hold of him, like they're giving each other a handshake. The stranger's hand is very warm; Sanji can feel his calluses.

"Thank you for your help." His voice is solemn, his gaze serious.

Then the stranger lets go of his hand before stepping back and giving a quick bow. He's probably Japanese, Sanji thinks helplessly. The one thing he knows about the stranger, and even then it might not even be true. He has green hair, but that could easily change. He doesn't even know if the stranger actually has grey eyes, or if he's just wearing contacts. The gold coin rests heavy in his palm.

Will I see you again? Sanji wants to ask. He isn't stupid enough to ask it.

"Take care," he says. 

The stranger nods at him, meeting his gaze one last time before he walks towards the street. A slow drizzling rain begins. Before long, the man's disappeared into the damp morning crowd, leaving Sanji standing in the doorway, his hand clenched around the coin.

He cleans the kitchen and returns everything to where it was. He bags his bloody whites and checks with a reminder to burn them when he's home, and gets a new set from the office. After he's done, the coin is the only reminder that that night ever happened.

The rest of the day passes in a daze. He sleepwalks through kitchen prep, which is occasionally interrupted by requests for him to sign off on the usual deliveries. Distantly, he's glad it's a weekday and he doesn't need to deal with the weekend rush, inventory, and payroll. He does forget to call the produce purveyor, and gets reprimanded by Zeff—pretty lightly, considering he burned the lamb navarin as well.

Sanji tries not to think of the stranger. He fails.

He knows that some staff in the front are paid handsomely for their discretion, and he can't help asking if they know anything about an East Asian man with moss-green hair, but no one seems to know anything about him. A wiser part of his mind reminds him that he's lucky nothing ever comes of his questions.

He keeps the coin.

There are places where it can be traded, but he doesn't want to know how much that night is worth. Perhaps a normal person would change it for money and let the memory fade away, but to him it is the only proof of his brush with the underworld. Once in a while, he wonders if there's something wrong with him, to hold so tightly something that he had always tried to escape.

It's a brisk spring day, the sky a cloudless blue. It’s been a year and a half since that night, and months since he’s given up on asking about the man. Sanji sits on a milk crate at the back door, lighting up a cigarette at the tail end of the Sunday brunch rush that he only feels slightly guilty about it. Patty took a five-minute bathroom break right in the middle of brunch, and Sanji didn't say anything, so.

He exhales, and the cloud of smoke is still sharp white in the cool weather. Leaning back against the wall, he lets his eyes slip shut with a sigh, the nicotine already soothing away the tedium of making incalculable amounts of hollandaise sauce and poached eggs.

Brunch isn't as terrible as some of the other staff make it out to be, but Sanji would still rather be working weekdays. Still, he'd offered to take Chabo's brunch shifts for the next three weeks while he went back to visit Nojiko. And in return, Chabo had promised to bring back thirty pounds of Nojiko's best fruit, picked right at the peak of tangerine season. In Sanji's eyes, it's more than a fair trade. Sanji's notebook is already littered with ideas for new recipes: bigarade sauce, spiced marmalade, salsa, tarts, chocolate-tangerine curd, a liver pâté with brandy and tangerine and thyme.

He's contemplating a tangerine hollandaise when a loud scraping noise on the fire escape makes him look up.

"The fuck?"

He doesn't bother getting up from the milk crate—he's too relaxed right now, or at least he's attempting to be. The raccoon or whatever it is can come down to him.

Except it's not a fucking raccoon, but a man who leaps down from the fire escape, landing almost silently. The green fabric of his long jacket flutters down around him, almost elegant. He's wearing a white, half-open shirt and leather boots, and looks like some arrogant young rich kid.

But there's something about the way he's looking down on Sanji with a casual familiarity…

Sanji stares up at him for a few seconds, before he understands he isn't just any stranger. He's far less bulky without the body armor, but the clothes he's wearing now seem to work in the other direction, hiding his broad shoulders under a svelte silhouette.

"You again," Sanji says.

The stranger moves closer, enough for Sanji to see that his hair is shaggier. But it's the same shade of moss green, and his eyes are the same gunmetal grey.

"Nice earrings," Sanji adds.

There's three of them, dangling long and golden from his left ear. The stranger turns his head so they catch the sunlight, and the movement is so slight and casual that Sanji wonders if it was even deliberate.

But the stranger still doesn't reply, only takes another step towards Sanji, then another, until he's standing on the concrete stoop and Sanji has to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. He doesn't mind—it's a small stoop, the wall's right behind him and perfect for leaning against, and Sanji's not getting up from the milk crate until he's finished his cigarette unless it's for a very good reason.

This close, the stranger smells of some fancy cologne, something he guesses would cost at least a few months of his chef's salary. Sanji takes another drag, blows it out away from the man. Wouldn't want to tinge whatever he's wearing with cigarette smoke. It looks expensive, and Sanji has manners.

He ashes his cigarette on the corner of his milk crate. The stranger still doesn't speak, only leans back against the stoop railing.

"It's new," Sanji motions at it with his cigarette. "Wouldn't lean on it too hard though, don't know how sound the wood is."

Gin's alleged carpenter friend Kaku built it from some old pallets a few months ago. It's been sturdy so far, but Sanji isn't sure the guy is a real carpenter. It's set up just close enough that it's protected under the corrugated metal roof, as long as you didn't lean out too much. Sanji wonders why they didn't just make the roof bigger. But he was off that week, and he wasn't going to complain about free labor.

The man finally speaks. "I heard you've been asking around about me."

The stranger's English has gotten better, just a hint of an accent peeking through now. Of course, Sanji doesn't say that aloud. 

"Hm," Sanji replies, meeting his gaze before he takes another drag. He can make him wait too.

They look at each other, even though Sanji's not much to look at. Today was the one day he hadn't switched out his whites even though he's usually diligent about it, so he's still wearing all the grease and stains and exertion from yesterday in addition to everything collected today. He smells like deboned fish and Pernod and garlic confit. There's a smear of blood on his apron from the tartare he was chopping up, stray pieces of dill on him that he was planning to brush off during his break, and a fresh pink burn on his forearm he'd gotten while pulling tarte alsacienne out of the oven two days ago. His fingers are stained red from beet juice from the borscht last night, his collar's damp with a full brunch shift's worth of sweat, and he's in desperate need of lip balm.

Suffice to say, he's feeling a little self-conscious. Thankfully he has his cigarette.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead."

Sanji tries his best to make this sound casual. He thinks he does a passable job.

The stranger makes a "hm" noise in return. "Well, I'm not."

"Right." Sanji takes a drag. "Well, that's good." 

It's interesting to see the stranger in daylight. He just looks so…normal, which is not something Sanji thought you could be, at least not if you came from that world. Perhaps it's not so embarrassing that it took Sanji a moment to recognize him. It's a general rule that the industrial kitchen lighting washes people out (women seem to be spared from this affliction), and Sanji saw him only under said unflattering lighting and in an alley at two in the morning. 

The restaurant back alley is also much more pleasant in the daytime. Colorful pennants from the recent spring festival fly between the buildings across a clear blue sky. The dumpsters are recently emptied; the concrete is clean of blood. All contributory factors to making someone look good.

And the clothing certainly helps. Sanji wonders if the man's leather pants are lamb or calf, and if he polished his boots himself. The lustrous sheen of the kimono jacket that drapes so elegantly on him means it can only be silk. Up close, he can see that the stranger's still broad in the shoulders, maybe even broader than before. The cut of clothing can only do so much.

He's got about three more drags of his cigarette, then he'll have to go inside. Patty hasn't come looking for him yet because the customers are finally drifting out, or because he's buried in orders. Either way, Sanji's feeling a curious sense of disinterest about what's happening in the restaurant, even though he knows Patty will ream him out for it later.

For now, he's content to linger on the stoop for his far-too-long smoke break. He’s feeling a little heady, and isn’t sure it’s entirely the nicotine. The stranger seems happy enough to study him back. Sanji wonders what he's thinking, and watches the smoke trail delicately from the end of his cigarette.

The silence begins to stretch. He digs around in his mind for something to say, then remembers it's right in his pocket. He's been carrying it for a year and a bit, for—what? A reminder not to rescue any more strays? That the underworld still exists regardless of his attempt to escape it?

Sanji draws the coin out. The edge of it gleams in the sunlight, as bright as the golden cuff on the stranger's wrist.

"Here, have your coin back." He holds it out, but the stranger doesn't take it.

"You—don't know what to do with it?"

"...I do." Sanji says.

He takes a breath, then a drag, then exhales.

"I just—I don't want it." He lets insistence bleed into his voice.

The stranger regards him calmly. "Okay."

He takes the coin back without saying anything else, to Sanji's relief. But then he pulls out another coin, and this time it's made of silver.

Then the man snaps it open, and at first Sanji thinks it's a small mirror—until he sees the spike, then the firm prick of his thumb, the bloom of crimson welling up on the pad. It happens too fast for Sanji to say no, to say stop, to say what the fuck are you doing.

The stranger presses his thumb firmly to the base before turning it to show him, the crimson gleaming fresh and bright in the sun.

Fuck his cigarette. Sanji wants a drink.

"Know what this is?"

Sanji shakes his head. But he knows the visuals well enough, and the stranger's gaze is expectant. "Blood pact."

The stranger tilts his head. He doesn't understand.

"Like a deal with the devil?" says Sanji, turning his statement into a question. He doesn't actually know what it is.

"I'm no demon." There's a slight smile at the corner of the stranger's mouth now; almost mocking, like he knows something Sanji doesn't. Sanji tries not to take offense.

"It's a marker," the man says. He points at himself with two fingers, then at Sanji. "I owe you."

Sanji's mouth is dry. "You could have just bought me a drink. Or something."

The stranger's brows furrow. "You thirsty?"

Sanji can't tell if this is a language barrier problem or the man is just fucking with him. But before he can open his mouth, the door slams open and Patty sticks his head out, his hand on the doorknob dusted with flour.

"Fuck do you think you're doing, Sanji?!" he screeches. "You know it's fucken' brunch! BRUNCH!"

"I—"

He looks around, but the stranger is gone. As if he'd never been there.

"You good?" Patty's voice drops a few decibels. "You look like you just got clobbered with a frying pan. Didn't get enough sleep?"

Sanji blinks wordlessly at him like an idiot, and Patty clicks his tongue, already slightly more sympathetic. "Blue made more coffee, with the good beans this time. Come on!"

Still dazed, Sanji follows him inside. He reaches into his pocket for his lighter, wanting to soothe himself with the familiar edges of it.

Instead, his fingers curl around the marker. The metal is still warm.

*

Zeff arrives in the afternoon for the dinner shift, and Sanji tells him he needs to talk to him—alone, after closing. The old man gives him a wary look before shoving a clipboard of inventory sheets and order forms at him with his "get this done asap" grunt.

After Sanji assembles the orders for Monday (meat, produce, seafood, dry goods, specialties, dairy), he forgoes his smoke break and ducks into the stairwell for a few minutes to examine the marker.

It's slightly bigger than the coin, and on both sides there's a raised design of plants weaving intricately around the skull in the centre. He looks up the words stamped on it—Quod Debitum Sanguine.

Blood debt. The stranger wasn't lying. But why would he be?

Brunch is bad, but dinner is worse. Somehow it's one of the busiest Sunday nights they've had in months. They're completely slammed—the board never stops fluttering with dupes, and as the orders pile up, Sanji's stomach roils with dread, suppressed frustration and caffeine.

Highlights include: running out of mesclun despite Sanji putting in the order, so one of the staff has to run across the street to Gérard's to ask if they can borrow a case. A whole roasted sea bass coming back even though it says it comes on the bone right on the shitty menu. Sanji curses the whole time he's slipping off the fillets and replating it, and all the while the printer mercilessly whirs out new tickets across from him. And of course there's the usual mess of perfectly-cooked orders coming back for refire (if he cooks that steak any longer he might as well serve shoe leather).

Overall, it's a pretty good night, and he's still thrumming with adrenaline when he does his final walk-through. The tarbais beans are already soaking so they can be blanched for tomorrow's cassoulet, there's enough salt-rubbed duck legs ready for confit, he needs to order more peppercorns, kokuto sugar, and sel de Bretagne. And more Provence honey, they're going through it fast for the duck sauce.

After the last of the staff have left and the various stocks are cooling in the buckets outside the walk-in, Sanji goes behind the restaurant bar and retrieves a bottle of Oykot Rye and a whiskey glass. Zeff's already seated on a bar stool, his prosthetic propped up on the footrest.

Zeff frowns when he sees the bottle. "You know I prefer the Micqueot vintage."

"Wine isn't going to be enough," he replies.

Zeff watches him pour, his eyes narrowed. Sanji doesn't spill a drop.

"This better not be bad news, little eggplant."

"Depends what you mean by bad." He tries to keep his voice light.

Sanji leaves the bottle on the counter before taking a seat at the bar next to Zeff. He watches the old man examine the amber liquid critically before taking a sip. He waits until he's swallowed before he places the marker on the table.

A simultaneous cocktail of emotions plays across Zeff's face: shock, disbelief, dismay. Anger.

There's a long silence. Sanji wishes he'd poured himself a drink as well, just so he'd have something to do. He rubs a thumb over his ring, then over a new callus at the base of his pinky. He briefly contemplates asking Are you mad at me? before he immediately discards the thought.

When he looks at Zeff again, the man's expression has settled into solid disgruntlement. Still, the tension remains in Sanji's shoulders.

Zeff takes another swallow of the whiskey, this time a noticeably larger one. Then he picks up the marker and opens it to reveal the thumbprint pressed neatly to one side, the blood dried to fine lines of burnt umber. The other side is blank; waiting.

"This isn't yours." It's a statement, but Sanji can hear the question in it.

"Fuck no, it's not my blood!"

Zeff's expression doesn't improve, and he growls, "Well, what the fuck did you do?"

Fuck it. He owes everything to Zeff. Ignoring the heat creeping up his neck, Sanji tells him what happened, beginning from a year and a half ago.

There's another long silence he's finished. Zeff picks up the whiskey again, swallows again. Same size as the last one. Sanji's not sure if this is good or bad.

Just for something to do, he gets up and pours a glass of water for himself, and a second water for Zeff. He wonders how furious the old man will be for not telling him until now, when Sanji's really fucked up. Maybe he'll be mad enough that he'll forget the part where Sanji was using the kitchen after-hours.

Zeff waits for him to sit back down before he speaks. "Either that guy is an idiot or you really did save his life." His voice is measured; calm.

"Little eggplant, listen to me."

Zeff snaps the marker shut and holds it up. In the dim bar lighting, it looks more pale bronze than silver.

"This is infinitely more valuable than a coin. Shit, maybe even a whole vault of coins, depending on who this guy is." Zeff leans forward, eyes somber and intent. "But you should know, they don't let second-rate contractors get their hands on these."

He sets the marker down on the mahogany bar top. "This," he taps it, "is from a professional."

I only kill important people. Sanji stares at the skull at the centre of the marker.

There's a grunt and a shift, and he looks up to see Zeff refilling the whiskey before he wordlessly pushes the glass towards him. Sanji takes a sip, then another; it burns going down, smooth and peppery-sweet.

"Look, I know you don't like me talking about this shit, but you need to understand." They're alone, but Zeff's voice is hushed urgency. "A marker is no small thing, little eggplant. For a man to grant a marker to another is to bind a soul to a blood oath."

"You can ask him to do anything. If he does not fulfill it, there are consequences."

Sanji twists the ring around his finger. He doesn't ask what kind of consequences. "Anything?"

Zeff stares at him, and for a moment Sanji thinks he's going to ask if he has cheese for ears, but his frown only deepens before he replies gravely.

"Anything. It is his blood, his bond."

His head spins, and he knows it isn't the alcohol. It's a strange, heady knowledge that he has this…power. All he knows right now is that he doesn't want it. It's like carrying a weapon, a grenade—but also something precious; Sanji knows that well enough. He hopes he never has to use it.

He must look pretty bad, because Zeff's face softens slightly. "Look," he sighs. "Just consider it a final form of protection."

Their eyes meet, and it's clear neither of them want to discuss the details of what that would entail.

"But I don't know how to use it. To…call it in."

"When you need it, you'll know." Zeff says grimly. "Just keep it safe for now."

The last two words linger in the air, and the old man clears his throat. "Just keep it safe," he corrects.

Sanji fucking hates the shadowy, vague meanings, the way everything is implied and unstated—shitty scraps of meaning left for him to worry over like a dog with a bone, even though he knows this is fundamental to how the other world operates. A small part of him whispers that he would know their language by heart if he hadn't turned away from it all, but he strangles it easily and swiftly. He can't regret it, he won't regret it. He had been eight, only a child. His mother had died to get him away from that world, and Zeff had lost his leg—all so Sanji could live normally, could exist in the world above, could live in the light.

And this could have continued, if he had traded in the coin. He had had a year, five months, and twenty-eight days to do so. However much the coin had been worth in cash, it would have been readily subsumed by the restaurant's expenses, eaten and digested forever, never to be thought of again. The stranger would never have returned; and even if he did, Sanji would have had nothing for him.

But instead he asked the stranger to take the coin back, and the stranger smiled at him and agreed, then he took his hand and led him down to the underworld, and Sanji's read the myths. He knows how it ends. He's irrevocably tied himself to the underworld; maybe he's not there yet, but he can't come back.

For a man to grant a marker to another is to bind a soul to a blood oath. Does it matter who's granting it; whose soul is bound? Doesn't binding go both ways?

He knows marker is a promise: I will come back; or, you can't escape. It only depends which side of the mirror you're looking from.

If the oath is sealed by blood, it could only be dissolved by blood. Isn't this how these things work?

And the funniest thing of all, the bloodied cherry on top of the shit-gâteau, was that Sanji sealed it all with a kiss.

To drown the laughter bubbling in his chest, he picks up the glass of whiskey to take another swallow. It's not enough, so he drains it. It goes down smoother now, though almost immediately he regrets the waste of good alcohol. He should have left that glass to Zeff and poured himself a glass of rail whiskey instead.

He also hasn't eaten over the dinner rush. Maybe he says that out loud, because distantly he hears Zeff says he'll make him something. Thankfully the old man doesn't get up immediately. Sanji still needs a moment, and would rather spend it with someone next to him. If he stands up right now he might throw up, and that would be a real waste of…whatever he'd eaten in the afternoon. He doesn't remember what, which is probably a sign of how fucked up he is right now.

The marker stares at him from the bar top, silver and accusing. The skull grins at him from its side profile. He wonders what the plants encircling it are, if knowing would help him at all. Sanji thinks if he picked the marker up right now, he'd drop it. For one insane moment, he imagines rubbing out the thumbprint, watch the blood crumble and flake and disappear.

He looks at the empty glass and wishes Zeff would refill it. But he won't, not after Sanji opened his mouth. He shouldn't have said anything about not eating.

"Spit it out, boy. 'Else it'll swallow you up."

Zeff's watching him closely, and Sanji realizes he's probably not as good at hiding his feelings as he imagines; or maybe the old man just knows him too well. Then he realizes his eyes are damp. He runs his thumb along his lashes to catch the tears that have gathered there. Nothing has run down his face yet, which is what really counts.

"I just—I should have told you. Earlier."

The old man snorts. "Is that what's making you mope?"

Sanji doesn't answer except with a wet inhale, and Zeff sighs.

"You're grown, little eggplant." Zeff shrugs and resettles on his stool, and his prosthetic raps against the leg. "You can figure out when you don't need help and when you do. That's what happened tonight, eh?"

Sanji brushes at his eyes again and makes a noise that he hopes Zeff will understand as agreement. But he hasn't said everything he wanted to say yet, and he hopes the old man knows it too and will wait.

His fingers are wet, and he wipes them on his checks alongside a smear of livornaise. The red sauce on his pants has dried and darkened, and he picks at it uselessly until something lemon-bitter rises in his throat and he has to look away. Too much alcohol, too fast.

So he looks at his calluses, rubs at them with a finger, tries to keep the bile down, attempts to rearrange his thoughts. He doesn't know how much time passes. It could be five minutes, it could be fifteen. Zeff is patient with him; Sanji doesn't know why he's still surprised at this, even after so many years. At some point, the words manage to gather on his tongue, in about the right sequence.

"I didn't know I would—that this would happen. Saving that guy. Maybe I shouldn't have done it."

He glances up at Zeff. His neck and ears are flushed, which always happens when he's upset. Sanji must look pathetic, but his vision is blurred enough that he can't make out the old man's expression. A small part of him is glad for that; he doesn't know if he could bear it.

He sniffs, or maybe it's a sob; he can't tell with the light ringing in his ears. "Maybe…it's like a curse."

The word hangs ugly and threatening in the air, and the silence lasts so long that Sanji's afraid it's become real.

"Oy, little eggplant," Zeff says, so fiercely it jerks Sanji's head up to look at him. "That's shit and you know it, keep that crap out of your mouth. You dragged that kid out of the dumpster because you're you. A little fucking eggplant, soft inside. That's a good fucking thing. Don't forget it, 'else I'll near kill you. Got it?"

True anger blazes through his face, through his voice, furious and menacing. But it's the good kind of anger, hot enough that Sanji's tears evaporate; so intense that he can't do anything but look away and nod.

Zeff puts a hand on his shoulder to heave himself off the bar stool, and he gives him a gruff, reassuring squeeze. It makes Sanji feel like a real person again. He knows those hands, has seen them bake bread and salt meat and carve roses out of any fruit. He's seen them turn raw things into something beautiful. Maybe Sanji will be as lucky.

"Never say that curse crap again. Think of the marker like…"

Sanji waits. He doesn't care, he's still taking in the warmth of the old man's touch, all five fingers digging firm into his muscle.

Then Zeff sighs and steadies himself, and lets go.

"Like a blessing," he says heavily. Sanji wishes he could sound more like he believed it.

But he feels a little better. He picks up the marker; it's not as cold as he expected. He knows it'll warm to his body once he slips it in his pocket, which he does.

"Still a snotty-nosed little brat," Zeff sighs. "Now, about that dinner…."

Sanji sniffs one last time and wipes his face, then he follows his old man into the kitchen.

He doesn't tell Zeff the whole story; he leaves out the very last part:

The stranger's brows furrow. "You thirsty?"

Sanji can't tell if this is a language barrier problem or the man is just fucking with him. But before he can ask, the stranger is in front of him. He's very close, and when had Sanji stood up?

His almost-finished cigarette lies forgotten at his feet. At this distance, they're almost of a height, except Sanji is just a little taller. His eyebrows are almost the same shade of green as his hair, and his eyelashes are a darker shade than both.

There's a warm hand sliding up the back of his neck, and then the stranger is kissing him. His mouth is soft, his tongue polite. Time seems to slow and thicken, like honey but even sweeter, Sanji thinks as he kisses back, parts his lips to let him in. The stranger's shoulders are firm under his hands, his hair silky between his fingers, his mouth full of mint.

A giggle threatens to bubble up—the knowledge that the stranger had prepared for this scenario fizzing in him like a carbonated drink, that he knew Sanji was probably going to taste like an ashtray. But the hilarity of it quickly evaporates into want; at some point he's pressed his hips and chest up to the stranger, and they're so close together that Sanji can feel the heat of him, and Sanji's heart (or is it the stranger's?) is thudding so quickly as Sanji licks his way into his mouth, bolder than he ever thought he could be. The stranger bites at his lower lip, almost tender before their mouths slide to fit together again and Sanji makes some kind of embarrassing moan. But just when his back hits the door, the stranger pulls away.

If Sanji weren't so flustered himself, he'd be flattered at how surprised the stranger looks, as if slightly confused at what had just happened. Sanji wonders idly if the sentiment is directed at Sanji or himself, then he realizes he doesn't really care. The urge to reach out and touch the stranger's kiss-reddened mouth is almost irresistible. Instead, his hands drop away from the man's shoulders, only pausing briefly to pluck away a dill leaf from a fold of his collar before resting limply at his sides.

The stranger watches him, still breathing a little faster than normal, his eyes just a little glazed. "I never asked you your name." His voice is husky, his cheeks slightly flushed.

"Sanji." He gives it without a thought; the stranger could ask anything of him in that moment and Sanji isn't sure he could say no.

The man nods but doesn't offer his own, and Sanji doesn't ask.

Later, he will be surprised at his lack of resentment that the man had not reciprocated. Then he will realize the man has settled firmly into the Stranger, and any other name would seem lacking.

But for now, the door slams open and Patty's yelling for him and the Stranger is gone.

Maybe there is a period immediately afterwards where Sanji can't get the thought of him out of his mind. It's possible that he thinks of him so often that every recollection of the memory warps it just a little more, and over the years, the Stranger seems to acquire the trait of every attractive person Sanji's ever laid eyes on (and there are many), and time smooths them all out like a river to a stone, until the memory of him all seems like a fever dream.

There is the marker, of course. Sanji always keeps it on him like he did the coin. For a while, he runs his fingers over the intricate design, until the raised metal is polished bright on both sides. Later, he keeps it wrapped in a soft cloth so it doesn't wear against his lighter. But he does not open it after the first two times; seeing the dried copper had made dread pool in his stomach and bile rise to his throat. He's not a religious man, but he prays he will never need it, and for a time it seems that his prayers are answered.

One day, he sees a man with green hair and three earrings settle next to a boisterous, smiling young man in a corner of the Baratie. But there's no hint of recognition in those narrowed, suspicious grey eyes when Sanji leans down to pour his wine. Even when Sanji forgets himself and insults him when he's rude to the beautiful redhead lady sitting on the cheerful man's other side, mosshead doesn't elicit a reaction beyond a confused scowl.

He's forgotten me, Sanji thinks, and the realization is bittersweet. Afterwards, it's easy to shelve away the memory entirely.

It's not until years later, when he's on his knees and at his most desperate, that the stranger tells him to take out the marker. But until then, Sanji remembers him only as a wistful half-dream, and moves on.