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The feeling of captivity aboard the Sea Lion no longer resembles anything Sanji would have recognized at the start.
The meal he prepped is finished, the lunch for Commodore Nelson had gone exactly as it always did now; carefully timed, richly prepared, received with that familiar level of satisfaction that Sanji has come to anticipate more than he should. Plates returned empty. Compliments delivered. The subtle, outspoken approval that lingers longer than the conversation itself.
Then he is dismissed from the kitchen, or from his presence at all, and brought back to his cage. Simply… allowed to leave, not thrown out harshly or dragged away.
Now he sits alone in his private room… Or what passes for one.
The cabin is far too comfortable for a prisoner. That is the first thing Sanji notices every time he returns to it, even now. The bed is very soft, proper bedding, not a something suddenly bolted to a wall. The lighting is warm instead of harsh. The furnishings are clean, intentionally lavish, and inviting in their arrangement, as if the space was designed for a guest expected to stay long enough to unpack.
It is… still not a cell. Not a brig. A room meant for presence, not containment, but maybe entertainment. Outside the door, a guard stands posted. Always present. Always silent, doesn’t harass or disrespect him. It is quiet.
Sanji leans back slightly against the edge of the bed, one hand resting loosely at his side. The absence of noise feels almost louder than the ship itself. No clattering kitchen. No orders. No immediate need to prepare the next dish, just stillness. He closes his eyes, his mind drifts without permission to the kitchen earlier, to the way Nelson had looked at him after the first bite, to the ease that has begun to settle into their rhythm without either of them naming it out loud. Sanji exhales slowly… He knows he should be more aware of how strange this is, that he is still on an enemy ship, especially when he is still under guard, still technically a captive…. and yet, nothing here feels like captivity at all, and for the first time in longer than he wants to admit, Sanji isn’t sure whether he is waiting for something to change. Sleep creeps up on him slowly now, not from any deep exhaustion of battle or endless work like it was aboard the Going Merry, or the Sea Lion but the heavy, drifting kind born from routine and comfort. Warm rooms that weren’t makeshift whatever’s, and quiet afternoons after long hours in the galley bring about a sense of peace quiet enough to take a nap in. He hopes he’s not becoming as lazy as Zoro is; the thought makes him chuckle.
He lies across the bed, one arm draped loosely over his eyes as the ship rocks gently beneath him. Outside the porthole, afternoon light has begun fading toward evening again, the same pale gold stretching across the ocean in long wavering bands, turning to firey oranges and beyond the cabin walls, footsteps pass. Distant voices rise and fall. Then the steps are closer and the guard outside begins talking to someone. A cadet, judging by the voice… Young… Nervous. There’s a particular quality to cadets that Sanji has started recognizing immediately aboard this ship: that fresh, stiff eagerness new Marines carry before experience sands the anxiety off of them. The cadet speaks too quickly, too carefully, his words muffled heavily through the thick wood of the door until they blur together into meaningless sound. The guard answers occasionally in shorter, flatter responses. Sounds like he’s unamused by cadets, too.
Back and forth… Murmuring… Muffled enough that Sanji can’t make out a single sentence. Only cadence, noise that reminds him vaguely of pigeons squabbling outside restaurant windows back at the Baratie; constant, pointless little bursts of chatter that somehow continue forever. His brow twitches faintly beneath his arm… God.
He almost yells at them to shut up.
Then— knock! …knock!
Sanji’s eyes open immediately. He lowers his arm slightly, staring toward the door in tired confusion.
‘…Why even knock? They never wait for permission anyways…’
Then right on cue, the handle turns and the door opens anyway.
Sanji lifts his head slightly from the bed, blond hair falling messily across one eye as the older officer steps inside first. Behind him lingers the same nervous cadet from outside, posture stiff and uncertain in the doorway. The officer is staring down at a folded piece of paper in his hand. Not reading it so much as… examining it. Like he’s trying to make sense of what’s written there and failing… miserably. Or maybe even trying very hard not to comment on it. His expression carries a strange combination of skepticism and weary inevitability, the unmistakable look of someone who privately thinks: ‘Well. Of course this happened.’
Sanji pushes himself upright slowly, “What is it?”
The officer glances up from the paper, then back down again briefly before clearing his throat, “The Commodore would like to have dinner.”
Sanji blinks once… ‘That’s it?’ he thinks, and his confusion shows immediately, because damn, he just finished lunch… An hour ago, two at most. He knows exactly how much Nelson ate too, every course, every refill, every dessert returned absolutely spotless. The man is enormous already, legitimately massive beyond anything Sanji had ever imagined humanly possible before boarding the Sea Lion. Eight hundred pounds, maybe nine. Maybe even more?…
Two hours later and… dinner? Already?
Sanji stares for a beat longer before sighing softly through his nose, swinging his legs toward the edge of the bed, “Alright…” he mutters tiredly, reminds himself he’s still a captive and in no way has room to argue the way he would with Luffy, “I’ll get dinner ready.”
The older officer suddenly makes a strange choking sound. Half laugh… Half cough, like he hadn’t meant to react out loud at all. He turns it quickly into several rough coughs behind one fist, though the cadet beside him looks alarmingly close to doing the same thing.
Sanji narrows his eyes slightly.
The officer recovers after a moment, straightening again with visible effort toward professionalism,“No,” he says carefully. A pause…. Then: “He wants to have dinner with you. Together… sir.”
Silence, complete and immediate.
Sanji just stares at him.
The words don’t fully process at first; not because they’re complicated, but because they make so little sense his brain seems unwilling to accept them immediately, “With me?”
The officer nods once, “Yes, sir,” but it really sounds like ‘well, what the fuck do you think I meant?’
Also there’s ‘Sir.’
That part barely even registers anymore compared to the rest.
Dinner…. Together… Not served…. Not delivered… Shared.
Heat rushes suddenly and violently into Sanji’s face before he can stop it, but shock roots him in place because this is different, but judging by the deeply unsurprised look hidden beneath the officer’s professionalism… everyone aboard this ship seems to understand that except him.
The cadet hesitates for only a moment before stepping fully into the room, “W—we have this for you, sir.”
The word ‘sir’ still lands strangely in the space. It shouldn’t be what shocks Sanji but it is the first time since his capture aboard the Sea Lion that a Marine has addressed him as anything other than ‘prisoner,’ or worse, nothing at all. He’s not even sure Nelson knows his name.
The cadet holds out a long, square box. Carefully wrapped. Not hastily. Not militarily either, with perfect corners, but with the kind of attention that feels almost… civilian? Like it came from a shop rather than a supply depot. Clean paper. Neat folds, but not military ones. A tied ribbon secured just enough to suggest decoration rather than necessity. Sanji blinks once before taking it. He sets it down gently on the bed beside him, fingers lingering for a second on the edges of the wrapping.
The cadet doesn’t leave immediately… He watches, curious like a kid and openly so, like he’s trying to see through the paper without being caught. It makes Sanji chuckle.
Behind him, the older officer steps forward without a word and grips the cadet firmly by the shoulder, “Out,” he mutters.
The cadet makes a small sound of protest, but it’s half-hearted at best, and he’s pulled into the corridor anyway.
The door begins to close, but before it does, the older officer pauses just long enough to glance back at Sanji, “We’ll return in a few hours,” he says evenly.
Then the door shuts. Click!
Silence returns.
Sanji sits still for a moment, staring at the box. The room feels quieter than before, as if the object itself has changed the atmosphere. Not threatening, but it has meaning.
Slowly, he leans forward, his fingers brush the ribbon first, then the wrapping. Careful, uncertain because this doesn’t feel like contraband or orders or even punishment, and hell, who gift wraps punishment? He hasn’t had anything remotely like punishment since he’s got here, except for maybe the chains, but even those are gone now.
This feels like something else entirely. Something that shouldn’t exist on a Marine warship holding a prisoner, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he thinks absurdly of gifts he’s wrapped before, carefully chosen gifts for Nami when they reached port, or small treats he’d once set aside for the rest of the crew after rare good days.
Simple things… Meaningful things.
The thought tightens something faint in his chest, sometimes he forgets how much he misses the Going Merry crew until it’s holding his heart in its fist.
He hesitates one more second then carefully lifts the lid to understand exactly what kind of “dinner invitation” this really is. Inside the box is not food. Not tools to cook with… It is clothing.
Sanji freezes for a moment, hands hovering just above the contents as if touching it directly might change what it is: a suit, deep black, sharply cut, clean, pressed and starched. Beneath it, a red dress shirt folded inside with careful hands, fabric smooth enough to catch the cabin light in a soft sheen.
A black tie rests beside it like a finishing brush stroke, and at the top, resting in a small cushioned compartment, a pair of emerald cuff links that glint faintly even in the dimness.
For a few seconds, he doesn’t move at all.
It looks… tailored… Personally. Sanji slowly reaches in, lifting the jacket first. The weight of it is perfect in his hands, not stiff, definitely not cheap, not rushed or off the rack. The lining is smooth against his fingers. The stitching is precise enough that he can tell immediately: this wasn’t guessed. This wasn’t approximate. Someone ….measured him, and correctly, too. Somewhere aboard the Sea Lion, while he was having his laundry taken, and simply existing under guard, someone had taken enough care to ensure this would fit him exactly.
That realization lands strangely, not threatening, but… intimate in a way that makes his thoughts briefly stall.
Sanji exhales slowly through his nose, setting the jacket across his lap before lifting the shirt next. The red fabric is richer than he expected, deep, luxurious, almost impossible to ignore. Not uniform. Not Marine standard… Chosen.
He swallows slightly; this isn’t clothing for duty, it’s clothing for a date.
His fingers pause at the cuff links last. Emerald. Clean-cut. Elegant in a way that feels almost excessive for a man who is supposed to be a prisoner on a warship…. almost indulgent. A small, disbelieving breath leaves him before he can stop it.
He can’t help it, he’s impressed because it means someone thought about him and dressed him in their mind before he ever stood here. His heart soars as he looks down at the suit again, the absurd thought forming before he can properly reject it: This is not how prisoners are treated. This is how someone is loved.
That thought arrives too cleanly.
Sanji sits very still for a moment, the black suit draped across his lap, the red shirt spilling like something alive over the bed beside him.
‘This is not how prisoners are treated. This is how someone is loved.’
The idea should feel absurd.
‘This is not how prisoners are treated….’ he tells himself again.
‘Love,’ the word grows and expands in his chest, soft, intoxicating, exhilarating and easy to accept after weeks of careful comfort aboard the Sea Lion.
His fingers tighten slightly on the fabric of the jacket… If this is love, or something like it, then of course there’s a response to it. His response… He exhales, already moving. Not hurried. Not panicked. Purposeful, because if he is to be seen like this, dressed like this, chosen like this, then he cannot arrive as anything less than what that attention deserves.
A chef.
A proper one.
The best.
Sanji rises from the bed, suit carefully gathered over his arm, already mentally shifting into preparation mode. Dinner is not something separate from him now; it is part of the presentation. Part of the exchange. Part of proving what he is worth in this strange, gilded structure he’s been placed inside. He glances toward the door briefly, as if expecting the guard to appear and tell him he’s late.
Nothing.
Just silence outside, ‘Good,’ he tells himself and he moves into the small adjoining wash area first, turning the tap with practiced ease. Warm water. Clean towel. The basics are already there waiting, of course they are, everything here always is.
He starts by cleaning up properly.
Washing off old kitchen heat from lunch, sweat, the lingering smell of food and salt and metal. Taking his time. Not because he has to, but because he wants to be correct. He has to take a real bath after he finishes dinner, but washing up to cook comes first. By the time he finishes washing his face and his arms up to the elbows, he feels more aware of himself than he has in days… Then he pauses, his eyes flicking back to the suit laid neatly on the bed.
Dinner. Right.
He almost laughs at himself softly, of course he can’t just dress.
If this is dinner with Commodore Nelson, if this is what it seems to be, whatever it is becoming, then it must be worthy. The thought doesn’t feel like pressure, it feels like opportunity. Sanji rolls his shoulders once, already mentally shifting into recipes, timing, ingredients, plating; thinking ahead in layers the way he always does when something important is at stake.
A proper meal.
A meal that matches the suit.
A meal that matches himself, because if he is going to sit across from Nelson like this, then he cannot arrive as anything less than unforgettable. He steps out of his cabin and into the corridor of the Sea Lion with the suit still carefully folded in his thoughts rather than on his body.
For now, he wears what the Marines gave him when he wasn’t in the suit he arrived in; plain, functional clothing. A simple Marine-issued shirt, that feels like he’s wearing the enemy, and trousers that don’t fit his identity so much as they fit the ship: neutral, utilitarian, unremarkable…. A little too starchy in the rear and calves, but it doesn’t matte, especially not tonight, because tonight feels different in a way he can’t fully name. When was the last time someone asked him on a date?… or accepted one of his offers, even? He truly doesn’t know.
Ahead of him, the corridors are alive with movement, boots passing, distant orders, the low bustle of a warship at rest between its worst moments. Yet as he walks, something subtle happens.
…People look at him, not with confusion and not with suspicion… maybe… what?? Recognition? He’s not sure.
A few Marines pause mid-step when he passes. One lowers his voice as he speaks to another, and Sanji catches only fragments; tone more than words. A glance follows him, then another, then a quickly hidden smile that doesn’t feel at all like mockery, but definitely not envy either… It feels like they already know something he hasn’t been told.
That sensation should unsettle him, and maybe it does, faintly, though it doesn’t overpower what sits beneath it, because underneath the uncertainty is something else; something lighter, almost buoyant. The anticipation of cooking. Of preparing something worthy. Of being seen again in that particular way of useful and attractive by Commodore Nelson. So Sanji keeps walking.
He stretches his arms once as he moves through the corridor, shaking off the attention as best he can, though it lingers at the edges of his awareness like fuzzy bits of static.
‘What is happening tonight?’ he hears someone ask another officer, whatever it is, it’s clearly already in motion without him needing to understand it fully, and for reasons he refuses to interrogate too deeply right now it doesn’t feel like danger, but the officers are all making it feel like expectation, like something has been prepared in advance, and all that’s left is for him to arrive and complete it.
By the time the galley doors come into view, Sanji’s steps have already settled into focus. His thoughts shift cleanly into place; Ingredients. Timing. Balance. Presentation.
Whatever is waiting tonight, he will meet it properly, and if the ship already knows something he doesn’t, then he’ll simply make sure what they’re expecting is worth it. Not that he feels he owes these officers anything at all.
The galley aboard the Sea Lion feels different when Sanji decides to enter it with a drive instead of wanting to simply cook. Nothing rushed, certainly no experimental dishes for the sake of novelty. Something more… Intentional. Like a statement.
He moves through the food storages with more focus than usual, the kind that turns a kitchen into a battlefield of precision. Doors open and close in rhythm. Drawers slide out, ingredients assessed in seconds and either claimed or dismissed without hesitation, like the idea of using them for that particular thing was offensive.
Tonight, he wants something unforgettable, not just for showing off his skills, like the first night, and not just for praise like every time after it, but for him.
He selects the steaks first; thick cuts, marbled just enough to matter, the kind that hold heat and flavour without losing integrity. His fingers linger only briefly before placing them into his basket.
Several for Commodore Nelson.
One very small cut for himself.
The thought of sharing even that simple asymmetry makes something in his heart flutter, but he moves on, there’s no time to waste. Rare cooking oil next; carefully chosen, golden and clean, the kind that doesn’t overpower but elevates everything it touches. Then vegetables: vibrant, fresh, selected in two deliberate trips because the first basket simply isn’t enough for a man that size. Butter follows… the commodore loves butter. Then spices; measured, selected, refined like instruments perfectly tuned. Each step builds something in him that feels less like preparation and more like anticipation; he’s never been this nervous for a meal.
The final trip brings shrimp. Fresh. Firm. Perfect for what he’s already constructing in his mind and by the time he returns to the station, the idea has fully formed.
Steaks. Shrimp. Creamy garlic sauce. A dish built on richness; succulent meat, tender seafood, and a sauce that ties everything together without weighing it down. Comfort and even indulgence refined into something he can call elegance.
He sets everything down in organized sequence and he can already see it, the reaction, Nelson’s expression when he tastes it. That loud, unmistakable satisfaction that always follows when something lands exactly right.
Sanji exhales softly through his nose, a faint blush rising despite himself, “This one,” he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself, “has to be perfect,” he pokes at a piece of shrimp with his knife, “you hear me? Perfect!” Then he starts cooking.
As the kitchen aboard the Sea Lion fills with heat and rising aroma, Sanji doesn’t slow down. The first course is already underway; steaks searing, shrimp beginning to curl at the edges, the creamy garlic sauce reducing into something rich and glossy in a pan that demands constant attention, but even while one hand tends the flame, the other is already moving. Thinking ahead and planning forward, because tonight is not a single dish… It’s a progression. A statement built in layers.
He turns toward the storage again, moving with a confidence that has become almost automatic aboard the Sea Lion. Drawers open, ingredients assessed with quick precision. His mind maps everything before his hands fully commit.
Pan-seared duck breast. Crisp skin. Rendered fat controlled perfectly, not rushed, not scorched.
Cherry reduction; dark, glossy, slightly tart to cut through the richness, and a risotto; slow, very patiently tended to, creamy, velvety enough to hold everything together without overwhelming the palate.
He gathers the duck first, more than one, because in his mind, there is no version of this dinner where Commodore Nelson eats lightly. Not anymore. Not after everything Sanji has learned about his appetite, his presence, the way satisfaction seems to consume him.
Sanji assumes three ducks at minimum… Maybe one more.
The thought barely even feels excessive now. It feels expected… Normal, even. He sets them carefully aside, already imagining the crisping skin, the timing of the sear, the balance of fat and fruit in the reduction. His fingers move next to the rice, stock, cream, ingredients for the risotto, each one chosen with loving care.
The kitchen begins to buzz around him again as he returns briefly to the first course, adjusting heat, stirring sauce, watching textures under controlled flame.
Still his mind doesn’t stop, more courses forming behind the ones already in motion. More possibilities stacking neatly into place, because tonight isn’t just about cooking anymore, but about building something that doesn’t end at satisfaction, but keeps unfolding as long as Nelson wants it to.
Sanji exhales once, steadying himself, eyes hard with focus as he drifts fully into the rhythm of it all as the hours in the Sea Lion galley slip away in a blur of heat and motion.
For Sanji, time stops feeling like something measured and starts feeling like something consumed.
The first courses evolve into the next without fanfare. Steaks give way to duck preparations. Shrimp becomes garnish, then old memory. The pan-seared duck breast with its crisp skin and glossy cherry reduction develops exactly as planned, with heat control, with rendered fat carefully managed, with sweetness and acidity balanced until the sauce reaches that perfect lacquered sheen.
Beside it, the risotto becomes its own slow creation, stirred patiently, cream folded in stages, texture watched more closely than anything else in the room, and he keeps going. Side dishes appear without hesitation. Vegetables roasted, glazed, grilled, reimagined in ways that make them feel less like accompaniment and more like necessary structure. Desserts follow, layered and rich, each one carefully spaced in his mind, and at
some point, even Sanji loses track of how many plates exist, and absolutely not because he is careless, but because he has one hell of a man to feed.
By the time he finally pauses, the galley looks like a battlefield of completion; everything finished, everything ready, everything waiting, but he feels like he hasn’t done enough.
The thought passes through him briefly, irrational and immediate, as if satisfaction itself has been postponed until approval is given.
Then… footsteps. The door opens.
The same officer from earlier steps inside, expression blank but pulling at the sides, like he’s balancing professionalism against something he doesn’t fully want to acknowledge.
He doesn’t enter far, just enough to be seen, “It’s time,” he says. A pause. Then, carefully, almost diplomatically, he adds: “Prepare yourself for tonight,” his gaze flicks briefly to the spread of food, then away again, as if looking too long would make it real in a way he’s not prepared for, “you’ll be escorted upstairs when you’re finished getting ready. The usual team from the officer’s kitchen will handle the meal,” he hesitates for a fraction of a second, like there’s something else he could say but something he won’t.
Sanji straightens slightly, wiping his hands on a cloth without thinking, already shifting out of cooking mode and into something more civilian, more composed,“Understood,” he replies.
The officer nods once and steps back, but before he leaves, his expression flickers again, uncomfortable, yes, but also resigned. Like everyone aboard the ship already knows tonight is not just another dinner… The door closes.
Sanji stands alone for a moment in the aftermath of everything he has made, surrounded by dishes meant to impress a man who has slowly become the center of every decision he makes without him ever fully noticing when that happened.
He leaves the galley only once everything is properly arranged, final instructions given, plating sequence explained, timing coordinated down to the minute.
That part of him never relaxes, not even here aboard the Sea Lion. Even now, even with how much the ship has changed around him, or he around it, cooking always remains something precise. Controllable, from his end.
Then again, the corridors outside the galley are anything but neutral tonight. As Sanji walks back toward his cabin, he starts noticing it almost immediately… The Marines, not all of them and not openly, but enough; it starts with a pair of officers standing near a junction that glance his way and then quickly look away… too quickly. One of them fails to hide a smile. Not mocking. Not hostile. Something closer to anticipation. Further down the corridor, a small group of cadets pretend to be focused on equipment checks. One of them whispers something under his breath, and the others react with stifled, excited laughter that dies the moment Sanji gets closer. It isn’t fear. It’s energy… Like something everyone has agreed not to say aloud, but absolutely knows is happening.
Sanji slows slightly as he passes them, he catches fragments, half words, still it’s all tone more than meaning, “—tonight—” “—finally—“ and “—the Commodore actually—”
He doesn’t stop walking, whatever is happening, it isn’t being treated like an interrogation or a command performance…. It’s being treated like… an event.
He turns a corner and spots another pair of Marines leaning against the wall outside a storage corridor. One nudges the other as Sanji passes, and they both straighten immediately, too polite, too bright-eyed. The second one can’t quite hide it: a grin. Quick. Involuntary.
Sanji’s brow furrows faintly, “…What is going on?” he mutters under his breath, though no one answers him, the atmosphere feels subtly altered, like the entire vessel has shifted into expectation mode around him.
He finally reaches the corridor leading to his cabin. A cadet nearly drops a clipboard when he sees him, then recovers too quickly, standing straighter than necessary. Another Marine coughs like he’s trying to disguise a laugh.
They’re …excited.
Not about him in a way that feels dangerous, about something involving him and Commodore Nelson. That thought follows Sanji all the way to his door and he pauses briefly outside it. The guard stationed nearby doesn’t say anything, but even he looks… different. Alert, yes, but not tense. Almost expectant.
Sanji exhales softly through his nose, trying to settle the uneasy flutter forming beneath his ribs as he steps inside his cabin and he’s alone again, surrounded by marine luxury, a waiting suit, and the strange realization that the entire ship seems to be holding its breath for whatever happens next, he sighs, letting the door of his cabin close behind him with a soft, final click.
For a moment, he just stands there… The quiet feels different now, like everything is waiting. He exhales slowly through his nose once, then twice after a big breath and wipes the back of his hand across his brow, finally allowing some of the tension from the galley to loosen its grip. He moves into the washroom. It’s small, but still far too comfortable for what should technically be confinement; clean basin, warm water already available. Everything prepared in advance, as if the idea of him needing anything at all has already been accounted for.
Sanji pauses for half a second at that thought…. Then pushes it aside. For the first time in hours, he allows himself to slow down, to not think would be a gift it’s self right now.
He washes his hands first. Methodical. The residue of cooking, oil, spice, heat, all of it rinsed away in clean, circular motions. Then his face, water running warm over tired skin, easing the strain between his eyes. The bath is ready by the time he arrived. He doesn’t think about that either.
He steps in carefully, sinking into the heat with a quiet sigh that he doesn’t bother to suppress. Muscles he hadn’t realized were tight begin to loosen. The day’s intensity; every dish, every expectation, every glance from the Marines, dulls just slightly at the edges but it doesn’t disappear, it recedes, which is just as good, really.
Sanji leans back, one arm resting along the edge of the basin, letting the warmth settle into him and for a few minutes, there’s nothing to think about. No galley. No officers. No kitchen staff. No anticipation building somewhere above deck for reasons he still doesn’t fully understand. Just water. Steam. Silence.
Eventually, he tilts his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, then falling closed.
The suit waits in the other room. So does dinner… so does Commodore Nelson.
Sanji stays in the bath as long as he possibly can… Which, he realizes eventually, defeats the entire point of trying to relax, because the longer he sits there, the more aware he becomes of his own thoughts.
The warm water eases the ache in his muscles, steam softens the room into something hazy and humid, and still his mind refuses to settle. Every time he closes his eyes for more than a few seconds, anticipation flares right back up beneath his ribs… Nervous energy…Intense and restless.
‘God. Is this what Usopp feels like all the time?’ The thought almost makes him laugh because it’s unbearable. Hope mixed with uncertainty, tangled so tightly together he can’t separate one from the other anymore.
Eventually, he gives up pretending he’s relaxing, exhales softly and rises from the bath, water sliding down warm, soft skin as he reaches automatically for a towel. He dries himself slowly, methodically, more to steady his thoughts than because he needs to take his time.
Tonight matters. The realization hangs over everything now. He moves to the mirror next, pushing damp blond hair back from his face before beginning the familiar ritual of styling it properly. The motions come naturally; precise adjustments, practiced smoothing, fingers combing through soft strands until they fall exactly where he wants them.
Presentable, but he wants to be beautiful, if he’s being honest. He wants someone to see him the way he sees people like Nami, tonight, he wants to be everything she embodies to him.
By the time he steps back out into the main cabin space, the room feels transformed by the simple presence of the suit waiting for him. The black fabric rests across the bed exactly where he left it earlier. The red shirt beneath it catches the low golden light warmly now, rich and decadent against the dark cloth. The emerald cuff links glint faintly beside the tie like tiny points of green fire.
Sanji stops walking, stares at it for a moment, and suddenly it feels real again. It’s not the cooking, the dinner, or anything else… it’s just him.!Being dressed for this. Prepared for this. Chosen for this.
His pulse flutters hard enough to annoy him, ‘How does Usopp deal with this?’ he sighs.
Slowly, he reaches for the jacket first, fingers brushing across the immaculate tailoring. The material feels expensive beneath his hands, stitched perfectly, measured perfectly for him.
Sanji swallows lightly and looks at the full ensemble laid out before him, then down at himself, then back again. For one strange, suspended moment, standing alone in the softly lit cabin aboard an enemy warship somewhere deep in the East Blue, he feels less like a prisoner preparing for dinner, and more like someone about to be courted.
Sanji dresses slowly, not because he’s uncertain, but because he wants to experience it. The red dress shirt slides smoothly over still-warm and perfumed skin, rich fabric settling against him like something tailored not just to his body, but to the exact mood of the evening itself. He fastens the black buttons carefully, fingers steadier now than they had been earlier in the bath, less anxious.
The black trousers fit perfectly, but the realization no longer startles him the way it did when he first opened the box. Instead, it settles deeper into him each time another piece fits exactly right, as somewhere along the way, someone had paid attention to every detail necessary to make tonight happen properly.
He ties the black tie next, adjusts it once…. Twice. Then smooths the collar down with crisp lines, and somewhere in the middle of dressing, a strange thought slips quietly into his mind again: Really, truly, when was the last time someone asked him on a date?
Sanji pauses, actually pauses when he thinks about it this time, one hand still lightly touching the knot of the tie as he stares at his own reflection. The answer should come easily…. It doesn’t.
Flirting? Constantly.
Attention? Everywhere.
Women smiling at him across restaurants and ports and crowded streets? Of course…. But an actual date? A deliberate invitation Someone preparing for him specifically? Someone choosing him carefully enough to arrange clothing, dinner, atmosphere… Never. The realization lands softer than expected, not sad exactly, because it’s happening right now and standing here now, dressing now, piece by piece in a luxurious guest cabin aboard an enemy Marine warship, he feels more intentionally desired than he has in a very long time… Possibly ever.
The thought sends happiness spiraling through him so quickly he has to look away from the mirror for a moment, he feels ridiculous for it, but every new layer shifts the feeling further from away from nervousness and closer to excitement.
The jacket settles across his shoulders perfectly, sharp black lines against the deep red beneath. Elegant. Dramatic without being excessive. The emerald cuff links fasten neatly at his wrists, tiny flashes of color catching the low light when he moves.
Sanji exhales softly and his heartbeat no longer feels frantic… It feels anticipatory. Like standing just before the first course of a perfect meal arrives.
He steps closer to the mirror one final time, adjusting his hair slightly, gaze lingering on himself for longer than usual; he doesn’t see a prisoner.
The knock comes softly… Not the usual Marine habit of announcing themselves while already halfway inside. Just a knock, then, silence??…
‘Silence? What?’ Sanji pauses mid-adjustment of his cuff, eyes flicking toward the door with faint surprise.
…Nothing follows. …No immediate entry. No barked command... No movement from the guard stationed nearby…. Just waiting. That alone is enough to make him confused. Another second passes… Then another. It’s almost… respectful?
Finally, Sanji exhales and crosses the cabin in steady steps, the black suit moving cleanly with him, red shirt catching the light as he reaches for the handle.
He opens the door. The cadet is there… The same one from earlier. He wasn’t even expecting anyone to be standing there, like maybe he imagined the knocking.
The cadet is standing in a way that looks practiced for formal discipline, but not yet natural. Hands clasped behind his back too tightly, posture held like he’s been told this moment matters more than anything. He looks up the moment the door opens, and visibly forgets what he was about to say. For a fraction of a second, there’s only silence.
Sanji notices it immediately: the way the cadet’s eyes widen slightly, the way his expression shifts from nervous duty to something closer to awe before he catches himself and straightens even more.
“Sir!” the cadet says quickly, then hesitates as if realizing he’s said it too formally, too sincerely, “I’m here to escort you to dinner.”
A beat….
He swallows, “Commodore Nelson is ready and the food has been prepared for your instructions.” The words land differently than anything else today. Not orders, he isn’t even sure if the kid could give an order at his rank, or even age.
Sanji steps slightly into the doorway, adjusting the cuff of his jacket without thinking, the motion smoother now that he’s fully dressed. The suit fits like it was made for this exact moment, like it was waiting for him to stop being in transition and be presented.
He looks past the cadet down the corridor. The Sea Lion feels different again tonight, and people are still looking. There’s a sense of direction to it now, like the entire ship is aligned toward a single point somewhere ahead and everyone along the way is just waiting.
Sanji’s fingers tighten slightly at his side before relaxing again, “…Lead the way,” he says calmly.
The cadet visibly relaxes by a fraction, then quickly turns and begins walking. Sanji follows, and it’s like something is finally about to happen that the entire ship has been waiting for.
The corridor of the Sea Lion feels louder than it should. Not because anything has changed in it, but because everyone in it seems to be trying not to be obvious about noticing him. Sanji walks just behind the cadet, hands relaxed at his sides, suit moving with each step. He can feel eyes on him from every direction now, subtle turns of heads, half-finished conversations dying mid-sentence, the kind of attention that isn’t hiding anymore, just pretending to. It’s almost… eager.
The cadet in front of him is practically vibrating with it. Sanji watches him for a moment before speaking, voice light, “So,” he says, glancing sideways, “does everyone know I have a date tonight?”
The effect is immediate, the cadet nearly trips over his own feet, “Yes!” he blurts, far too fast.
Sanji lets out a short laugh before he can stop himself.
That makes the cadet freeze mid-step, eyes widening like he’s just realized he’s committed a serious tactical error. He clears his throat quickly, forcing himself back into composure, “I mean—yes, sir,” he corrects, quieter now, but no less excited. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he adds, “Everyone knows. We’re… all very excited for tonight.”
Sanji raises a brow slightly, “…Why?”
The cadet hesitates for half a beat, as if the answer is obvious but he’s still been trained to phrase it carefully… Then he says it anyway, “The Commodore likes you…” A pause, then, softer, like it’s the simplest truth in the world: “And we think you like him, too.”
Sanji doesn’t respond immediately. The words settle into him differently than expected, not like accusation, not like observation, but like shared assumption. Something already decided elsewhere and simply being acknowledged here. He glances briefly down the corridor again.
More Marines watching.
Some pretending not to.
Some definitely failing.
Then he looks back to the cadet.
“And that’s cause for excitement?” he asks, tone almost amused.
The cadet lights up instantly, “Yes!” No hesitation… No doubt, all certainty.
Sanji huffs a quiet breath through his nose, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, “…You people are strange,” he mutters, but he keeps walking.
“My name is Amico.”
Sanji nods and continues walking, but the cadence of it shifts slightly, less formal now, more casual. The cadet beside him, Amico, seems to gather himself as if he’s stepping over a line he’s never been allowed to cross before.
“You have to understand…” Amico starts, his voice wavers, then steadies, he looks up, and for the first time his nervous energy moves into something more honest. His eyes, wide, green, unguarded and doeful, hold Sanji’s attention in a way that feels more honest than anything else said on this ship so far, “The Commodore treats the officers terribly, he’s cruel,” he says quietly, “Not just strict and disciplined. It’s… it’s awful...” A beat, “He yells at us. All the time. When things go wrong. When things don’t meet his expectations. When anything threatens what he wants...”
Sanji doesn’t interrupt.
Amico continues, words coming faster now that they’ve started, “It’s not like working under a superior. It’s like… like trying not to be noticed at all. Everyone’s always careful. Scared. Watching him. Waiting to see who gets blamed next.”
They pass another pair of Marines down the corridor. Both straighten instantly as Sanji walks by, then relax only when he’s out of earshot again.
Amico glances at them briefly, then lowers his voice even further.
Sanji’s expression shifts slightly, subtle, but changed. He looks ahead for a moment, jaw set in thought rather than reaction.
Amico swallows, “And then you arrived,” he hesitates, as if suddenly aware of how it sounds, “It changed things,” he admits, “We’re proud to be on the Sea Lion, really, but now…”
Sanji slows just a pace behind, then stops, “…Changed how?” he asks.
Amico fidgets with his hands behind his back, “The Commodore still… does what he does,” he says carefully, “But around you, it’s different…” another pause. He searches for the right words, then gives up on perfect phrasing, “It’s like he’s… his attention is put in a different direction now.”
Sanji exhales softly through his nose, “And that’s good?” he asks, not unkindly.
Amico nods immediately, “Yes!” Too quickly again, then, quieter, “For us, it is.”
They walk a few steps in silence.
Sanji glances sideways at Amico, “So,” he says after a moment, tone lighter again but not dismissive, “you’re saying I’m a distraction.”
Amico flinches slightly, “I—I didn’t mean it like that, sir—”
“Sanji,” he corrects automatically.
Amico nods quickly, “Sanji,” he repeats, then exhales like he’s relieved to be allowed to say it at all.
Sanji lets the silence sit for a beat longer, then adds, almost conversationally, “…And you think that’s a good thing.”
Amico hesitates, then, honestly, “Yes.”
Ahead of them, the corridor opens slightly toward a more formal section of the ship. The route to dinner.
Sanji adjusts his jacket sleeve once, thoughtful now rather than tense.
The corridor opens wider ahead of them, walls giving way to a more formal passage leading toward the upper chambers of the Sea Lion.
After a moment, the cadet speaks again, “Almost every officer who reports directly to the Commodore has noticed it,” he says carefully.
Sanji glances at him, “Noticed what?” That they’re flirty over food? He’s not very sure, but he didn’t think it was that obvious either…
Amico hesitates, then pushes through it, “Well… t-the …Change,” another pause. He looks forward as they walk, as if the words are easier when not aimed directly at Sanji, “He’s still strict,” Amico continues, “Still demanding. That hasn’t gone away. But… it’s different now.”
Sanji raises a brow slightly but doesn’t interrupt.
Amico continues, “…When you’re around, he doesn’t shout as much. He listens more. Sometimes he even… stops himself…” A beat, “That’s new.”
They pass a polished section of corridor where brass fittings reflect distorted versions of themselves. A Marine officer steps aside quickly as they approach, posture stiffening out of instinct more than fear now.
Amico watches him pass, then lowers his voice further, “He’s kinder, sort of,” he says, almost like he doesn’t fully trust the word, “Not soft. Not weak. Just… less cruel than he used to be.”
Sanji’s expression flickers; subtle, unreadable for a moment.
Amico continues, a little faster now that he’s started, “It’s not just the officers either! Even us cadets, everyone notices it. The way people aren’t shaking as much when he’s brought into a room. The way punishments aren’t… immediate anymore. Especially in front of you,” he hesitates, “s-Some of them say it feels like the Commodore is being watched by something he doesn’t want to disappoint.”
That lands differently.
Sanji looks ahead, silent for a few steps. The idea sits in the air between them. A harsh man becoming… tempered. Not fully erased. Not changed into nothing, but changed at the violent side by proximity to something he … maybe, values?
Amico glances at him again, green eyes still wide, “And that something,” he says carefully, “is you.”
Sanji doesn’t respond right away.
They walk in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the ship fading behind them as they near the upper level.
“It’s like… before you arrived, everything was horrible. And now some of it, it’s just… not as bad.”
They turn another corner.
For the first time that night, Sanji realizes that what he’s walking toward isn’t just dinner. It’s something the entire ship has already decided is their salvation.
“He’s changing because of you.”
Sanji listens without interrupting as Cadet Amico’s words settle into place, each one reshaping the outline of what this ship actually is beneath its polished surfaces and formal ranks… Fear. …Exhaustion. Obedience maintained through pressure rather than respect.
A command structure built less like a Marine unit and more like a service to one man, everything circling one central force: Commodore Nelson at the center; and everyone else adjusting themselves accordingly.
Sanji exhales quietly through his nose as they walk. On paper, it is exactly the kind of thing he would normally reject without hesitation. A man surrounded by subordinates who exist to maintain his comfort rather than act as equals. A system where people flinch instead of speak freely. Where authority is maintained through intimidation rather than trust.
It should be simple. It should be wrong, but nothing about his personal experience aboard the ship has been simple in the way he expected. He thinks back, unwanted, but unavoidable, to how Nelson looks when he eats. How he went from slovenly on the first night to something with a little more class, the way he listens. How his attention toward him is not with cruelty, but with interested focus. The way he reacts to Sanji’s cooking like it is the only moment the world narrows into something singular and loved. Like only his cooking matters. None of that aligns neatly with what Amico is describing… yet Amico isn’t lying. Sanji can see that much.
The cadet walks slightly ahead, still speaking, quieter now, whispering when they pass by other officers, “We don’t… usually see him like this,” Amico admits, “Not like when you’re around.”
Sanji glances at him, “Like what?” he asks.
Amico hesitates again, searching for words that don’t feel like they belong to a report, “Less…” He pauses, “Less hard on us.”
A faint, uncertain smile flickers at the edge of his expression, “People say it’s like he forgets to be angry for a while.”
That shouldn’t make sense… And yet Sanji doesn’t dismiss it immediately, because what he has seen isn’t the version of Nelson that Amico is describing in full.
He’s seen control. A respectable presence… Expectations of a commander, and also moments of quiet satisfaction. Of listening instead of shouting. Of attention that feels less like domination and more like fixation.
It complicates things.
Sanji adjusts the cuff of his sleeve as they walk, gaze forward now, thoughtful in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be since arriving on this ship, “So what you’re saying,” he says after a moment, voice even, “is that I’m seeing a different side of him than you are.”
Amico nods quickly, “Yes.”
“And that side is… better,” Sanji adds, though it sounds more like him testing the idea than agreeing with it. His fingers keep adjusting when they have nothing else to hold onto.
Amico hesitates, then nods again, “Yes,” he says, more like a cadet this time, “Better.”
The corridor ahead begins to brighten as they near the upper level. Sanji slows slightly, just enough for the thought to fully form. Normally, this kind of system, this kind of man, would be everything he rejects instinctively. Cruel hierarchy. Controlled subordinates. Fear-based loyalty, even if what he’s actually experienced has never quite matched the story being told about it. Not entirely, not in the way it should, and that dissonance lingers as they continue forward; toward dinner, toward Nelson, toward whatever version of him exists when Sanji is in the room.
Cadet Amico suddenly looks horrified with himself…. Like he’s only just realized the full picture of what he’s been saying out loud. He straightens quickly beside Sanji, reaching out for him to stop, his words rushing out before the silence can settle too heavily between them, “N-none of that is to say how the Commodore would treat you,” he says quickly, “I mean—like I said, he’s changed because of you.”
Sanji glances sideways at him, amused despite himself at the cadet’s panic. Amico continues anyway, determined now, “We’ve never seen him treat anyone the way he treats you,” he says, “Never!” That certainty lands with uncomfortable weight, “He gives orders about you,” Amico explains further, trying to lower his panicked voice, but still so flustered, “not just about your safety. About how people are supposed to behave around you. How you’re spoken to. What you’re given…” A faint flush creeps into the cadet’s ears, embarrassment overtaking his nerves, “He tells everyone to treat you, w-well, kindly, basically. Or he’ll throw us overboard personally.”
Sanji blinks once. The image feels strangely impossible against the harsher version of Commodore Nelson that’s just been described to him… And yet, thinking back, he realizes it’s true. No one shouts at him. No one handles him roughly anymore, even the guards outside his room speak carefully now. The realization settles slowly into place. He has never been treated like a prisoner should.
Amico rubs the back of his neck awkwardly before adding, almost sheepishly, “And… we actually do kind of like you.”
That one catches Sanji genuinely off guard, “…Me?”
The cadet nods immediately, “Yes!” he says it with a smile taking over his whole face, crinkling his eyes a little at the corners, “Even when people were rude to you at first, you never really stopped being nice to anyone,” Amico says, “You talk to us. You remember names even when we didn’t know yours. You make food for everyone even though you don’t have to.”
They pass another small cluster of officers, and several glance toward Sanji with expressions that are almost embarrassingly fond now that he’s paying attention properly.
“They say the Commodore had that suit tailored in a single afternoon.”
“No way.”
“I heard he had the jewelers onboard reset the cufflinks twice because the first emeralds weren’t bright enough.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s courting.”
Sanji slowed slightly… Courting.
He kept walking.
Amico notices too, “You make extra portions of food,” he says, “Real portions. Not scraps…” There’s genuine disbelief in his voice, like he still can’t fully understand why Sanji does it, “and… The food meant for the Commodore is… incredible,” he continues carefully, “But you always make enough for the officers nearby too. And us chore-boys. Even the lower-ranking deckhands...”
Sanji shrugs slightly, like the answer is obvious, “People should eat well,” he says simply.
Amico looks at him for a second like that statement alone explains everything, “You’d be surprised how many people don’t think that way,” he says softly.
The corridor grows quieter around them as they near the upper chambers. Sanji begins noticing something he hadn’t fully allowed himself to see before: The Marines watching him aren’t looking at him with resentment. Not even the ones who should, because somewhere along the line, without trying to, he became something unusual aboard this ship; a presence associated with kindness instead of fear. Good meals instead of tension. Small acts of consideration in a place where consideration had apparently been rare for a long time. Even envy lost ground against that eventually.
Amico smiles faintly now, nerves finally easing into sincerity, “You make people feel human again,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than Sanji expects, just as the doors leading toward Nelson’s private chambers come into view ahead of them, Sanji realizes the ship’s excitement may not only be about romance. It may also be about …hope? Or something like that.
Cadet Amico slows as they reach the final stretch of corridor leading toward Commodore Nelson’s private chambers. Brass fixtures gleam softly in the warm light, polished so thoroughly Sanji can see blurred reflections passing across them as they walk.
Amico hesitates beside him, then, carefully he tries to push his luck a little more, “He’s flirted with you since day one, I’ve heard.”
Sanji lets out a faint breath through his nose, halfway to a laugh already, “That obvious?”
The cadet flushes slightly, “Yes, sir— I mean, Sanji.”
A pause… Then Amico straightens a little, visibly gathering courage, “Can I be frank with you?”
Sanji glances sideways at him, amused again despite himself, he thought he already was, “Yeah.. Go ahead, get on with it.”
The cadet nods quickly, then immediately looks nervous about actually following through, “We know,” he begins carefully, “that someone like you might not… want someone that uh… l-loo-looks like the Commodore,” his voice lowers instinctively at the last part, “I mean his weight,” he says awkwardly, visibly embarrassed to even say it aloud, “His size and all,” he gestures vaguely, like there’s no graceful way to describe a man as enormously massive as Nelson without sounding cruel or mocking, but Sanji doesn’t interrupt him. Amico presses on, “But you flirted back with him too,” he says, “Since the beginning.”
A beat… a moment where his eyes tremble with hope, “You like him. Despite everything… right?” The question hangs there, unexpectedly vulnerable. Not gossip anymore. A genuine attempt to understand something none of them expected to witness aboard this ship.
Sanji goes quiet…. Really quiet. Not defensive. Not embarrassed, but thoughtful, because the truth is, he does think about it sometimes, the contradiction of it. Nothing about Nelson should fit the shape of the person Sanji imagined himself falling for. Not the authority. Not the cruelty Amico described. Not the overwhelming size of him, the excess of him, the sheer intimidating presence he carries into every room… and yet, their actual moments together never feel like that.
Sanji thinks of the way Nelson tastes his food with genuine pleasure. The way his crudeness dulls around him. The way attention settles fully, intensely, when Sanji speaks. The way he was dressed for tonight with care so intense it resembled love.
He thinks about how happy it makes him to please him… How natural it’s become. A soft chuckle escapes him before he can stop it, he shakes his head slightly, almost at himself, then finally looks up toward the enormous double doors ahead; the entrance to Nelson’s chambers glowing warmly beneath low golden light, and after genuinely considering it, really letting himself answer honestly for the first time, he nods, firm and resolute, “Yeah,” he says softly. Then, with surprising certainty, “I do.”
Amico’s entire face lights up, like something hopeful has just become real.
The double doors tower at the end of the corridor look like the entrance to a royal court rather than the private chambers of a Marine commander aboard the a warship.
Warm golden light spills faintly beneath them.
Cadet Amico straightens immediately beside Sanji, all his earlier nervous excitement snapping back into proper military posture. He lifts a hand and knocks carefully, three measured raps against the heavy wood. The sound disappears into the chamber beyond.
A moment later, a muffled voice answers from inside, “Enter, chore-boy.”
Amico swallows visibly before pushing one of the massive doors inward with both hands. It opens slowly, revealing a glimpse of rich lighting, polished floors, and movement deeper inside the enormous chamber. The cadet steps just inside the threshold, “I have the Commodore’s guest with me, sir,” he announces formally.
‘Guest…. Not prisoner,’ Sanji wonders if they’ve been referring to him this way the whole time. Not ‘chef’ either, and not ‘captive.’ The word hangs in the air long enough for Sanji to mull it over. He remains near the doorway while Amico speaks, hands relaxed at his sides despite the strange tightness building in his chest. The suit suddenly feels very real again; every fitted seam, every polished detail. Somehow he hopes it’s enough even when it wasn’t his own choice, and standing there waiting while the cadet dutifully announces him, Sanji can’t help the small flicker of amusement that slips through his nerves… Of course the cadet handles every part of this.
Knocking… Announcing… Escorting. He’s kind of glad he had a friendly face to calm his nerves.
Probably if Nelson requested tea at midnight, Amico would personally sprint across the entire ship to fetch it while apologizing for the temperature. Tea sounds nice right now…
The realization softens something in Sanji unexpectedly, because for all the grandeur of the room ahead and all the anticipation wrapped around tonight, there’s still something oddly normal buried underneath the absurdity of it all.
A nervous cadet playing messenger for what increasingly resembles a warship-wide royal courtship. A friend in a chore boy. Sanji exhales softly through his nose, trying not to laugh at the thought.
Then his attention lifts fully toward the chamber ahead, toward whatever expression Commodore Nelson will have when he finally sees him tonight. The Sea Lion was massive enough that its upper officer decks resembled a floating palace more than a warship.
The double doors at the end of the corridor didn’t open so much as yield; two Marine officers pulling them apart with ceremonial grandeur, as though even the hinges had been trained to behave properly in the Commodore’s presence.
Warm candlelight spilled out…
Not the harsh, functional glow of a ship at war, but something curated. Intentionally perfect. Almost theatrical in its way.
Sanji stopped at the threshold. Inside, the chamber was impossible for him to fully describe.
A single long table dominated the room, polished so finely it mirrored the flicker of every flame. White linen draped in cascading layers, edged in gold embroidery. Crystal glassware aligned with obsessive symmetry. Plates already set, far too many for a normal dinner, even for a warship’s officer banquet, and at the center of it all sat Commodore Nelson Royal.
He didn’t rise, not that he could; Sanji has never seen him walk before.
The chair beneath him looked more like a throne adapted from naval engineering than anything meant for a regular man. His immense frame filled it completely, spilling outward in a way that made the furniture seem like it had been built around him rather than for him. His ever present Marine branded paper fan, too small to be practical, moved lazily in one of his hands, stirring the air with slow, indulgent patience.
Every inch of the chamber reflected expectation.
The Commodore was dressed as formally as his body would allow.
His Marine coat strained across his incredible frame, buttons way past their absolute limit. Beneath it, newly pressed black trousers had been tailored with obvious desperation and ingenuity, stretching into white boots polished until they shone like ivory beneath the candlelight. The uniform wasn’t quite complete in a traditional sense; but it was unmistakably ceremonial, as if he had decided this moment required the version of himself that still believed in appearances.
He sat waiting at the head of the grand table like a monarch receiving tribute. The entire room held its breath with him, not a single officer moving.
Then the doors opened, and everything changed as Sanji stepped into the candlelight.
For a moment, Nelson forgot to breathe. It wasn’t the way he had expected to feel. Not the usual satisfaction of command, not the indulgent amusement he took in control. This was something unknown and much more immediate. It caught him off guard in a way no battlefield report or naval crisis ever had, because Sanji was… perfect. Not in theory. Not as an idea spoken about by subordinates who had failed to bring him in properly… just, in person.
He stood there in the tailored suit they had made for him, black fabric sculpted to his long, lean frame as though it had always known where it belonged. The red shirt beneath it deepened the warmth of his complexion, and the emerald cufflinks caught the candlelight every time he moved, small flashes of color like restrained, burning fire.
His blond hair fell slightly loose from earlier movement in the kitchen, not styled out of hurry, not forced either, just brushed in effortless defiance of order where a man wasn’t meant to hide behind hair.
Nelson’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the arm of his chair. He had expected… something like a man who looked like he belonged in this room. Not as a prisoner. Not as cargo to lure the Straw Hats across the East Blue, but as the centerpiece.
Nelson’s gaze moved over him slowly, taking in every detail with a kind of stunned disbelief he would never admit aloud. The suit didn’t just fit Sanji, it crowned him, framed him like something perfectly composed, like music, rather than simply dressed. Even the way he stood, composed and alert despite the situation, felt wrong for someone taken by force. Nelson exhaled slowly through his nose, as though trying to recover his composure through sheer will.
He had thought, not so vaguely, and not in any private manner, that Sanji looked good when he was exhausted; hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled, hands busy with food and fire, cuffs dusted with sugar and powder on his apron… That had been a pleasant thought; Sanji covered in sugar… A passing indulgence.
However, this was something else entirely. This was not attractiveness softened by familiarity of seeing his personal chef disheveled. This was beauty. Unyielding perfection. Alive in a way that made the entire room feel suddenly less substantial by comparison.
Nelson leaned back slightly in his throne-like chair, the movement causing the crystal glasses on the table to tremble faintly, “…Extraordinary,” he spoke at last, his voice a whisper, he himself almost unaware he had spoken aloud, and for the first time since Sanji had stepped aboard the Sea Lion, Commodore Nelson Royale looked less like a man in command of a warship… and more like a man who had just realized he might not be the only one in control of this room anymore.
Sanji froze for half a second, it wasn’t fear that did it, it was the way that word had landed, soft, unguarded, maybe enthralled.
‘Extraordinary.’
The word didn’t feel like an evaluation, it felt like a hand reaching out to a selection of limitless potential, diamonds and gold, power and status, and gently, impossibly, choosing him amongst it all. Sanji’s breath caught in his throat.
For a man who had been shouted at, kicked, starved, dismissed, and dragged through too many kitchens and too many battles to count, it should have meant nothing. A Marine Commodore praising him should have meant, well, less than nothing… And yet…. Something in it hit differently.
The candlelight, the grand room, the crystal glassware, the polished table, the watching Marines, it all softened, as though the world had decided to just go out of focus and morph into his lovesick pink little haze so that only one thing remained: the Commodore’s gaze on him.
Sanji felt his ears warm first. Then his cheeks. Then, annoyingly, everywhere else followed. Stars, ridiculous, impossible little stars, seemed to flicker in his vision, not from dizziness, but from sheer emotional overload, and pink hearts started to crowd the matching pink fuzzy haze of his thoughts, like his brain had decided to stop behaving like a rational organ and start acting like a badly written romance novel.
‘He’s… looking at me like that?’
No one looked at him like that. Not like he was something worth arranging a whole room around…. Certainly not like he was something worth waiting for.
Sanji swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, his posture, his entire existence. He had been brought here as a prisoner, he remembered that, faintly… sort of… but when no room ever felt like a cell, this room felt like a stage carefully set for him alone. A part of him, deeply inconvenient and far too sincere, but rational one, whispered, ‘This is too much effort for a lie,’ and what did the commodore have to gain from a lie, anyways? He had no script for this. No sarcastic reply. No sarcastic anything, zero deflection. Just…
“…Thank you,” he managed quietly, bowing at the waist, and the words came out smaller and softer than he intended.
The effect was immediate.
Nelson’s expression changed, just slightly, his plush pink lips curling as a low chuckle rumbled through him, like the sound of a ship settling into deeper water. The Commodore lifted a hand lazily, not commanding so much as directing, “Sit,” he said simply.
The room obeyed with the command as an officer stepped forward instantly, pulling out Sanji’s chair with acute precision, as though this moment had been rehearsed long before Sanji ever considered sitting. The gesture was careful. Respectful. Almost ceremonial.
Sanji hesitated for only a fraction of a second before lowering himself into it, the chair was comfortable, not that he expected less.
Across the table, Nelson watched him like a man studying a rare dish he had no intention of letting cool.
Sanji, despite everything he knew about Marines, pirates, and warships, couldn’t shake the feeling that if the Commodore had been physically capable of rising from his seat… he absolutely would have come around the table himself just to push the chair in for him.
Sanji settled into the chair as though he were stepping into a dream that had been prepared too carefully to be anything but real, and an officer came up behind him and adjusted the chair with gentle hands, not pressing too close, not lingering; just enough to make the gesture feel kind rather than mechanical. The table welcomed him immediately after, the polished wood now reflecting the flicker of candlelight across his hands as he placed them, uncertain, on the edge of the linen. A moment later, movement rippled through the room.
Sanji recognized it not as urgency or a ship’s chaos, but… Service.
Kitchen staff from the Sea Lion’s officer’s galley appeared as if summoned by thought alone, each step quiet against the temporary plush carpet that ran beneath the grand table. One filled his wine glass with steady hands, another placed a folded napkin beside his plate, and a third placed, then adjusted the placement of the a dish as though even its angle mattered in the presence of their guest.
Sanji blinked at the glass as it was filled. Red wine caught the candlelight and the blues of his eyes and turned it into something almost molten.
“This is all too much,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them, it wasn’t discomfort, not exactly… It was more like disorientation. A man like him was used to feeding others. Used to standing, serving, moving, correcting, tasting, perfecting. Not sitting in the center of a table like some kind of honoured relic while others arranged the world around him.
Across from him, Commodore Nelson Royal let out a low, unrestrained laugh. The sound filled the chamber in a way that felt almost physical, his massive frame shaking, shoulders rising and falling as his belly shook with the motion. It was not a mocking laugh. If anything, it carried a kind of indulgent amusement, like a man thoroughly pleased with the idea of his own generosity, “Nothing but the best for us…” Nelson said, as though the phrase were obvious, inevitable.
Sanji glanced up at that… ‘Us.’ The word lingered longer than it would have for anyone else, he had known, of course, what Nelson was; what his rank meant, what his influence meant. He had heard the whispers even before stepping onto this ship. Noble lineage, privileged command, the kind of Marine officer who did not simply take what he wanted, but had entire systems built around ensuring he never had to ask, or make a demand, twice, but knowing something in theory was not the same as sitting inside it. Not the same as being placed in it.
Here, it was not abstract. It was wine poured without hesitation. Silverware aligned like ceremony. Food prepared not as sustenance, but as presentation. Even the air itself felt curated, warm, scented faintly with spice and rose petals.
Sanji’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his napkin, slipping through his fingers where a cigarette would go. He had spent his life in kitchens where desire meant hunger, where praise came in empty plates and satisfied silence. Where love, if it appeared at all, arrived disguised as appetite.
This was something else. This was excess with intention behind it.
Nelson leaned back slightly, watching him over the rim of his own glass as if amused by Sanji’s uncertainty, as if it were part of the experience. Sanji, still adjusting to the strange softness of being placed here rather than ordered from, or ordered to, being offered rather than demanded, found himself caught in a thought he didn’t quite have the language for yet.
An officer straightened a silver fork by the commodore by a fraction of an inch, it brings Sanji’s attention back. Another smoothed a wrinkle from the linen that no one else would have noticed. A third checked the spacing between wine glasses with the kind of devotion normally reserved for battlefield formations.
Everything had been arranged with such overwhelming care that it no longer resembled military hospitality, and it only resembled devotion.
The Commodore watched it all without speaking, his massive frame settled into his chair like a throne carved from expectation itself. He did not correct them because he did not need to. Everything in this chamber had already been corrected the moment he decided it should be so. When at last the officers were satisfied, they stepped back in unison.
A quiet pause followed. Then, as if on an unspoken command, they retreated, all but the servers. The doors did not slam. They never did. They closed with a slowness that suggested they might be open just a hair to peek through, but it still made the room feel even larger in their absence. Sanji noticed it immediately. He sort of wishes he could have kept the cadet close by, wasn’t that what chore-boys were for? He must have been amongst the rest, repositioned into something like audience members secretly watching a performance they of course had already decided was important and had no intention of missing. Then he felt it, as much as he was thinking it. Eyes. Not hostile. Not intrusive… maybe… Curious? Excited, for sure. Whispered energy rippling through the periphery beyond the room, where kitchen staff and officers and cadets lingered just beyond the formal dining space, pretending to busy themselves with duties that no longer required attention. A glass polished twice. A tray adjusted unnecessarily.
Sanji caught a faint whisper as one of the kitchen staff leaned toward another: “That’s him.”
“The one from the Straw Hats incident?”
“Look at the suit…”
“Do you think he knows—?”
The sentence dissolved into a hushed laugh, quickly smothered by a hand, but it wasn’t ridicule… It was fascination. The kind of fascinated disbelief people had when something rare enough to become rumour suddenly walked past them in the flesh.
Sanji shifted slightly in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way he occupied everyone’s thoughts.
Across the table, Nelson remained completely at ease... Unbothered.
His gaze never left Sanji for long, and when it did, it drifted not out of disinterest, but out of patience, like a man who already understood that time belonged to him, and anything worth having would eventually settle into its proper place.
The staff, meanwhile, continued their quiet buzzing at the edges of the room.
An older cook clasped her hands briefly, as if trying not to smile too openly, “He’s even more beautiful than they said…”
Another elbowed her gently.
“Shh. The Commodore will hear you.”
A pause…
Then, softer, “…He already knows.”
At the table, Sanji stared down at the immaculate arrangement before him; the wine, the polished silver, the perfectly plated food he’d prepared waiting under its cloche like a promise that he’d felt the same way, and could only express that through cooking.
“It all looks lovely,” Sanji said softly, sincerity slipping into every syllable before he could charge it with coolness or charm, “Really… I’m very happy to be here.”
Across the table, the commodore
smiled in a way Sanji was beginning to recognize; subtle at first, then spreading slowly with unmistakable satisfaction.
“Good,” Nelson said simply, then he lifted two fingers slightly.
An officer appeared almost immediately from the sidelines, carrying a small black box in both hands with ceremonial care. It was wrapped elegantly, the same dark wrapping and gold cord that had encased Sanji’s suit earlier that evening. Even from a distance it looked expensive in the small and understated way noble things often did; not flashy, but elegant.
The officer approached the table and placed the box gently in front of Sanji, then retreated again with a respectful bow, disappearing back toward the perimeter of the room as though careful not to intrude on something private.
Sanji blinked down at the gift, for a moment, he simply stared, “…What’s this?”
Nelson adjusted his fat body lazily in his chair, fan drifting once through the air, “A simple gift,” he replied, “A gesture.”
Simple… Sanji nearly laughed at the absurdity of the word. Nothing aboard this ship had been simple since the moment he arrived, not the room prepared for him, not the tailored suit, and not the way Nelson looked at him, like every expression Sanji made was worth catalouging carefully for later.
His fingers moved hesitantly toward the ribbon… The room seemed to lean inward.
Even the staff lingering discreetly at the edges of the chamber had gone quieter now, their excitement compressing into near-silence as they watched him begin to open the box.
Sanji smiled despite himself… the kind of smile that escaped him only when he forgot to guard it, “Commodore,” he bowed his head respectfully, glancing up briefly through pale blond bangs, “you really didn’t have to keep spoiling me like this…” but he was already loosening the ribbon as he spoke, careful with it instinctively, as though anything given to him with this much attention deserved gentleness in return.
The gold cord slipped free easily.
The lid lifted slowly beneath his fingertips as across the table, Nelson watched him with the quiet anticipation of a man who had already imagined this moment several times before it happened.
A small cream-colored card rested on top, thick expensive paper edged faintly in gold script. His name was written across it in elegant handwriting: Sanji.
No mocking title. No prisoner designation… Just his name.
Something about that alone made his stomach flutter embarrassingly hard. He slid the card aside with deliberate care, fingertips brushing over the lettering once before setting it neatly beside his plate.
Then he looked inside the box, and immediately burst into laughter. Bright, genuine laughter that cracked through the formal atmosphere of the chamber like warm sunlight through glass, “Oh my god—”he looked up in disbelief, blue eyes wide and shining, “You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting these!”
Inside the box sat a pristine box of cigarettes. Not the cheap harsh kind Marines traded in gambling halls and dockside taverns, but expensive ones; carefully selected, imported, wrapped in dark paper with elegant gold detailing. The sort sold in wealthy ports to noblemen and ship captains with too much money and refined habits they insisted on maintaining at sea.
Even unopened, they smelled faintly rich and smooth.
Sanji stared at them like someone had handed him treasure… Which, in a way, someone had, because it wasn’t the cigarettes themselves that struck him hardest, it was the fact that Nelson had noticed. Somewhere between the chaos of capture and kitchens and candlelit dinners, the Commodore had paid enough attention to realize Sanji was dying for a smoke.
“How did you?..”
The expression that fell over the commodore settled naturally onto his face now when looking at Sanji, less like a ruler presenting gifts and more like a man genuinely pleased to have chosen correctly.
“I listen,” he said simply.
That was all. No grand speech about generosity. No demand for gratitude.
Sanji’s laughter faded into something softer as he looked back down at the carton in his hands. No one ever listened, not really, people wanted things from him constantly; food, service, attention, loyalty, but listening was different. Listening meant noticing the small discomforts. The passing remarks. The habits someone revealed when they thought nobody cared enough to remember them later.
Nelson had remembered. Of all the overwhelming gestures aboard this ship, the suit, the dinner, the room prepared like a royal reception, this somehow felt the most intimate and personal.
Sanji swallowed lightly, his smile turning helpless despite himself, “You’re…” he stopped, suddenly flustered by the sheer sincerity in his voice, “This… That’s really thoughtful.”
Nelson’s eyes lingered on him over the candlelight, “…You deserve thoughtful things.”
Sanji looked away immediately, cheeks warming all over again as his fingers curled protectively around the carton of cigarettes like something precious.
At the sides of the room, several staff members exchanged barely concealed looks of delight. One young officer actually had to turn away to hide a grin because everyone aboard the Sea Lion could see it now. Their Commodore, the terrifying commander of the 8th Branch fleet of the East Blue, architect of naval traps and artillery formations, was courting the captured pirate chef with the slow patience of a man laying jewels at the feet of something he already adored.