Archive of Our Own

First and foremost, Sanji is a cook. 

He fights, sure. Sanji’s kicks are the stuff of legends—or, well, legends to be. He’s known on islands around the world for his strength. His rivalry with Zoro is one of exchanged blows and sharpened skills. Sanji finds himself an ardent protector of his crew (and most importantly, the ladies) in each ill-advised adventure led by his fool captain, So, it’s not a question. 

Sanji is a fighter. 

But as much as Sanji fights—as much as he finds himself grabbing Usopp by the collar and dragging him out of the way in scraps with enemy crews, or jumping between Chopper and stray cannonballs, or stuck at Zoro’s side, watching the idiot Marimo’s back so he can charge half-cocked at quailing enemy—Sanji is also a gentleman. 

Sanji would pass his coat to an old woman to shield her from biting cold and damp wind. Sanji would, without question, leap into the path of a bullet plunging toward a frozen, fearful damsel. Sanji would challenge swarms of marines to protect and safeguard women from an impartial charge or relentless pursuit alike. 

After all, Nami, Robin, and the countless other beautiful girls and women in the world that he’s met, or will meet later, deserve as much. 

So, Sanji is a gentleman. 

Sanji is a gentleman, and a fighter. 

But also, Sanji is a Straw Hat. Sanji is a North-Blue-born, East-Blue-raised, somebody—plucked from anonymity—by a boy clad in too-wide smiles and a straw hat. Sanji was a sailor on the Going Merry, a surveyor of countries and islands: Whiskey Peak, Little Garden, Drum, Alabasta, Jaya, and more…hell, Sanji’s been to the sky. Sanji is a sailor on Sunny. Sanji bunks with a cyborg and a skeleton. Sanji is a proud member of the future Pirate King’s crew—Sanji is a Straw Hat. 

Sanji is a Straw Hat, a gentleman, and a fighter. 

Sanji is many things. 

He is a crewmate, a friend, a rival, and a well-meaning passerby. To others, Sanji is an enemy, a curse, a mistake. Sanji is many different things to many different people and many different places. Sanji is a person of different traits and skills and positions. 

But above all individual pieces and parts, Sanji’s spent his whole life being something else—something singular, strong, stable that is Sanji as much as he is it.

There was his childhood. Downtrodden by flaws and failings and spent clutching a scoffed-at dream. A childhood endured by small pastries and snacks, made by his eager, unknowing hands. 

Then, an escape, a trial. A stranger turned someone. A new home. Years of honing and learning, cultivating and cherishing skills and aspirations. Years with Zeff just as likely to offer a guiding hand or a kick to the back, but happy years. Plentiful years, with food, kitchens, and customers. Baratie years. 

And next, came his captain and his crew, and a journey beyond anything he would have expected or realized alone—one where Sanji had his role, had his opportunity, to chase his dream. To offer snacks, to plate dinner, to collect recipes. A journey to grow. A journey to stay. A journey to be. 

Sanji is a Straw Hat, a gentleman, and a fighter. 

Sanji is many things. 

But Sanji is one thing, above all else.

1. 

“Cook me some meat, Sanji!”

Sanji scowls, chopping scallions. Chop, chop, chop. He pushes aside a pile of hollow, verdant circles, thinly cut. Next, comes attending to the potatoes. 

“Saaaaaanji!” The voice crows again. Grimacing, Sanji steps to the side, putting his own body between the counter of prep work and the galley door. Just in time. 

The rubber body comes flying through the door, which bursts open and against the wall. Bang! 

Without pausing—rescuing his skinned and cubed potatoes from where they’ve finished boiling—Sanji’s leg snaps up, then just as fast, down. His heel connects with his Captain’s crown. Luffy drops to the floor in a pitiful pile, but Sanji ignores him. His stomach has long stopped turning at the sensation of a rubbery skull left concave against his shoes. 

Luffy groans. 

“Piss off,” Sanji says. “Dinner’s not till five.”

“But, Saaaaanji!” And Luffy’s tone manages to whine and wheedle—lengthening the two syllables of Sanji’s name to an enduring plea. He sits up, leaning against the cabinets, beseeching gaze roving, seemingly starved, along the countertop of food. 

Luckily, Sanji is much immune to his Captain’s begging. He’s only heard it once, twice, or more every day, and night, since he boarded Going Merry all that time ago. 

“No—get out before I kick you.” 

“Meanie!” Luffy says, arms crossed. He pouts, lips twisting, and head thunking against the cabinets as he looks, tortured, skywards. Or—more accurate to where he sits in Sunny’s galley—ceiling-towards. 

Sanji moves aside boards of chopped vegetables and potatoes and meat, fiddles with the stove burner’s heat, and rinses his hands. He’s unmoved by Luffy’s begging, and seemingly unaffected by Luffy’s presence. But, if you looked closely, you could see a slight tenseness to his shoulders. In the back of his mind, Sanji keeps ready to interfere should his Captain make a lunge. The meat set tantalizingly on the counter draws Sanji’s concern and protective hesitance most firmly—a prime, possible victim to Luffy’s scavenging. 

But Luffy…doesn’t move. 

He stays seated on the wooden boards that make up the galley flooring…a bold choice considering Sanji hasn’t swept since before lunch, where his crew’s eating habits manage to reach all corners and cracks of the room. Though…with the mess being mostly of Luffy’s design, maybe he feels more at home in the food scraps? 

Sanji shakes his head, keeping one scrupulous eye pinned to Luffy’s contrite expression, who sits almost… innocently? on the ground. Sanji’s never seen Luffy so well-behaved while hungry and foraging. It’s out of character and sets his nerves on edge. 

Is Luffy trying to coax him into a false sense of security? That can’t be it. Luffy is dumb as a box of rocks at times, but even he must know that won’t work. 

Sanji starts piling ingredients into a pot, mixing and turning them as needed for his soup to come alive. The redolent vapor curling off of the soup’s bubbling surface mixes in the galley air, joining the prevalent sharpness of sliced scallions. Below, Luffy’s nose starts to twitch. His stomach rumbles and Luffy places a remorseful hand over it, stroking gently as he sets a renewed, imploring gaze in Sanji’s direction. 

For Sanji’s part, he manages to ignore his captain for another few minutes. Besides anticipating a sudden attack at dinner, where it sits simmering on the stove, Sanji is left blessedly alone to continue with cooking. 

Which is maybe why Sanji is suddenly hit with a twist of guilt. It curdles, heavy, thick, within his stomach. His own self’s betrayal. 

Sanji diligently ignores the lingering guilt for a while longer—there’s nothing to be guilty for after all. Here he is, slaving over yet another dinner for the crew and Luffy himself, who undoubtedly will end up eating the largest portion. Never mind Sanji doesn’t mind cooking in the slightest—it’s the principle of the thing. 

When Sanji puts aside his time and effort to make dinner, ensuring his friends (and, ugh, that damn Marimo) are fed, full, and healthy, he usually finds no hesitance in protecting his meals. 

So why is tonight different?

Is it because, in contrast to Luffy’s normal, brash attempts at plundering whatever food he wants, the captain is instead seated at Sanji’s feet like a starved, mournful, stray?

In the end, it doesn’t matter why Sanji starts to feel guilty. Just that he does. 

Sparing intermittent stirs for his pot of dinner, Sanji does something he’ll regret every night following, where Luffy will cry ‘but Saaaaaanji you made me some laaaaast time’ as if it’s key evidence for his argument.

Spoiler, it’s not. 

Sanji steps over the pitiful pile of Captain and, with a put upon sigh, opens the fridge. He feels Luffy’s keen gaze trained to his back all the while. Ever watchful, the weight of his attention stays on Sanji as the cook pillages his own stores. Tomato, meat, cheese, butter, and more. 

Finally, hands full, Sanji places the ingredients on a counter not commandeered by dinner. He opens the pantry next. Grabs bread. Some spices. 

He knows exactly when Luffy realizes what he’s doing, because suddenly his captain wears a bright, painfully large grin—spread ear to ear. Sanji can almost see his wagging tail. No sign of the lamentable dog from before. 

Sanji ignores him, as is custom. He finished making the sandwich. It’s a simple thing. Simple ingredients, simple presentation, simply done. But when he holds out the plate silently, Luffy grabs at it like it’s gold. 

“Thanks, Sanji!” Luffy cries, practically vibrating. 

Sanji rolls his eyes. “Don’t come back till five.”

Luffy nods and Sanji expects him to scurry off, wolfing down his prize as he races away like Sanji will change his mind. Which happens, exactly as Sanji expected. But first. 

A strong, rubbery limb wraps itself tightly around Sanji’s waist, and suddenly Luffy is shoving his face against Sanji’s chest and pulling and tugging and yanking them into a brief, tight hug. 

What the fuck. 

Sanji has time to open his mouth, ready to spew insults and tug away from the grabby, octopus-based hands of his captain, but ends up doing neither. Just as quickly as he managed to latch onto Sanji, Luffy’s flinging himself onto the deck, using the galley door frame as leverage. 

In a flash of bright eyes, a sweet grin, and a sandwich, Luffy is gone. 

Sanji shakes his head, returning to finishing dinner. Outside, he can hear Usopp’s squeal as Luffy apparently collides with something—or someone. He hears a loud moan, a contrastively urgent and laid-back exchange, and then over the top of it, “Chopper! You’re the doctor!”

And if anyone hears Sanji’s huff of laughter from within the galley, they don’t say anything when they pile in at five and take a seat at the table to eat. 

2.

They’re a group of four exploring the island today: Sanji buying groceries to replenish the ship’s stores, Chopper in search of some rare medicinal plant said just to grow on this island, Nami in charge of their spending, and Zoro along as their porter. Not that Sanji needs Zoro along to carry anything—it’s just easier to shove things at the muscly mass of Marimo than to juggle it himself.

It’s the only reason Sanji had allowed him to come along on his and Nami-swan’s date. That, and Chopper was already coming. 

So, a group of four. 

It’s a damper on romance for sure, which is honestly criminal. But Sanji manages to rally. Anything for his darling Nami, who’s in her element and having a delightful time walking down the island’s main street—haggling with booth tenders and shop owners. 

The island’s a moderately busy place, with enough ports to support a steady influx of visitors from the Grand Line. But even here they stand out some. Zoro with his swords and murderous gaze—the dumbass cabbage, Nami being the distractingly beauty she is, and Sanji’s (if selective) social butterfly tendencies—which have them stopping to share connection after connection with the beauties walking down the street. And, well, Chopper’s a talking reindeer. 

So…yes. They get some looks. 

But they get significantly more looks when Nami suddenly shrieks. 

It has Sanji dropping the watermelon he was in the middle of examining back into its box, uncaring of it incurring damage. Beside him, Zoro’s hand is rested on his sword, tense fingers curling around the hilt. Sanji is just as ready to leap into action, his weight settled on the balls of his feet. Chopper…also shrieks. 

But it all ends up being for naught—at once, Sanji, Chopper, and the dumbass, realize what has caught Nami’s attention. And it’s not Marines. 

“Sanji!” Nami gasps, twisting to face them. In her hands, she clutches the flyer a now-shocked leafleter just handed her. “You’re doing this.” 

It’s not a question. 

Sanji doesn’t care. While he can’t quite see what the flyer is advertising—something about food and beris (probably what has Nami-swan so excited)—he’s immediately game for anything Nami wants him to do, especially when she’s as forceful and sincere as this. 

“~Nami-Swan~” Sanji purrs. “Of course I’ll do whatever you ask of me!” 

But Nami turns back to the leafleter. An older boy around twelve, give or take, wearing jeans and a red uniform shirt that says “Ask me how to get free Beris!” Below, a phone number is printed in bold. The boy’s eyes are still wide with surprise and he regards Nami dubiously as she pins him with a barrage of spit-fire questions. 

“How many beris can you win?”

“What time is the competition?”

“How many people are competing?”

“Where is it.” 

The answers are: A lot, anytime, I don’t know, and right up the street in the City Center. 

Satisfied, Nami steps away from the boy, who looks all too eager to move on to the next group of tourists. She directs her attention to Sanji. 

“This is perfect— Sanji, it’s a cooking competition! This is why we have a cook!”

Sanji notices Chopper frown. “Actually, I think Sanji is supposed to cook food for us—so we don’t…you know…starve.” 

Nami ignores him. “All these beris,” Nami licks her lips, and Sanji thinks he might combust. “Sanji, you need to win.”

“I will,” Sanji swears solemnly. This is a labor of love, he thinks.

“Perfect!” Nami says, her hand suddenly wrapped around his arm, just above his wrist. Where her skin meets his burns with an ardor warmth. She gives him a tug in the direction of the City Center, and Sanji trips over his own feet to follow her down the street. He’s pretty sure his jaw has hit the ground somewhere by the leafleter, abandoned along with his senses to be kicked around by pedestrians, but that’s beside the point. 

Nami’s dragging him! She’s touching him! This is a day to be commemorated. 

Unfortunately, it’s promptly ruined—or it would be ruined, if Sanji wasn’t unfailing in the face of love’s adversaries—by Zoro. 

The brute. 

“Hey!” he says, stalking after them, unfortunately able to find his way down the straight-shot of street. Chopper bounds along at his side. 

Nami pauses reluctantly, turning to face the two of them. “What is it—Zoro, I swear, if you keep us from winning this prize your debt will fucking triple—”

“Would you shut up?” 

Sanji gently tugs his hand from Nami’s grip (regrettably) and rears furiously in Zoro’s direction. “Don’t talk to Nami like that you ingrate—”

And then Sanji and Zoro have to engage in a corresponding tumble, during which Zoro quickly divests himself of groceries and supplies, leaving them in a teetering pile on the street. Chopper and Nami stand beside it, both growing more and more irritated with the impromptu match. 

Finally, Nami claps her hands. “Alright! Break it up!” 

Sanji, leg wrapped firmly around Zoro’s neck, obliged, despite it meaning the sudden slam of Zoro’s sword’s hilt against the back of his skull. Anything for Nami. 

Zoro’s not one to fight once Sanji’s heeded Nami’s beck and call—“Not fun” he’d grunted once, the taciturn barbarian—and he sheaths his swords, returning his attention to Nami. 

“Witch,” he begins, and Sanji almost pummels him, but pauses under Nami’s warning glance. “Did you even think about the cold stuff?”

“The cold—oh,” Nami’s gaze cuts to the bags. She frowns, opens her mouth, closes it, then starts again. “Of course I did!” 

“Of course she did!” Sanji agrees. 

“You’ll bring it back to the ship,” she continues. “It’s two streets over—you can see it from here.”

Sanji frowns. “Nami, dear, those groceries were expensive.” 

Nami also frowns and addresses Zoro. “Chopper will guide you.” 

“But what about the medicine—” Chopper begins. 

Nami waves a hand airily. “You can take the long way back to Merry then,” she decides. “Pick it up on the way—but we need to go!” 

Without further ado, Nami’s hand is once again clasped around Sanji—this time curled around his hand. Blood rushes to Sanji’s cheeks. Stay strong! he commands his nose. 

And then they’re running down the street, leaving Chopper and Zoro in the dust, on their way to the cooking competition Nami wants him to participate in. Sanji feels like his heart might burst out of his chest, or like his legs might turn to jelly beneath him, the whole way there. 

They reach the City Center, wait in a brief line, and sign up at a table where a kind-hearted woman records their information, biting on the edge of her pen with lipstick-stained teeth. Sanji feels like a vice is crunching away at his sensibilities as she smiles, grabs his hand, and stamps the back of it with a cheery “All set!” 

But Nami is there, and keeps him upright and moving away through a series of hallways and stairs to where the competition will take place. 

In the doorway to the room, some kind of gym, rigged with portable kitchenettes and a somewhat concerning number of wires to support the plentiful appliances, Nami turns to him, and they pause. 

She lets go, sadly, and steps back. 

“Okay Sanji, three courses. Two of the judges have sweet tooths, so remember that.” 

Sanji frowns. “Where did you—”

“Intel,” Nami says, and that’s all on that matter.

She sends him into the room with a smile and a wave and Sanji starts the competition and honestly, it’s fun. He gets to cook using a new type of fish, and the cook beside him shares a recipe for it that includes pineapple—something Sanji plans to try back on the Going Merry. 

In the end, he wins, of course he wins, and Nami gets the winnings. But Sanji doesn’t care about that. He cares about the grin they shared when he looked up while making the second course, happily wrist-deep in fish scales. He cares about the crinkles around her eyes as she watches him stifle a soft smile, enthused with the opportunity to learn more about the fish and how it’s cooked, to exchange recipes and tips with other sea chefs. 

Sanji cares that they’re both happy. 

3.

The Straw Hats are having an uncharacteristically gentle afternoon. Robin, Brook, Nami, and Jinbei sit reading. Usopp is on Luffy duty, and for once, the two are quietly fishing—not causing a racket, running around breaking things, and making noise. Franky is in his workshop doing…who knows what actually. But whatever crashes come from him are muffled and therefore none of Sanji’s concern, he decides. Zoro is napping. What’s new. And Sanji is just sitting in a deck chair, basking in the pause, soaking in the break before he has to go put something together for lunch. 

Altogether, the Straw Hats are quiet. They’re peaceful. It’s a blue moon kind of thing, and it’s why they all pause, turning towards the final member of the Straw Hat crew when a sudden sneeze splits the near-silent calm. 

Then comes another. And one more. 

Sanji’s not quite sure of the logistics for reindeers and sneezing and colds and what not—but Chopper did eat the Hito Hito no Mi. Which makes him…part human? And well, sneezing is bad. Sickness is bad. Especially on the sea. 

“Chopper?” Robin says, concerned. “Are you okay?”

The little brain-point furball blinks up at her. He’s sitting curled in Robin’s lap, where he’d deposited himself a half an hour or so ago. Something no one blinked at—Chopper was always cuddling with crewmembers, Zoro and Robin his favorite to rest with. But something about now is different…the lax way his body lays, the number of sniffs he’d given throughout the day, the way his ears seem to droop….

“‘M fine,” Chopper mumbles. 

Which has most of the crew sitting upright. 

“You don’t sound alright,” Luffy says bluntly. Zoro has an eye cracked open. Nami’s closed her book. Jinbei is frowning. 

“I am,” Chopper insists, but then turns away to sneeze, ruining his conviction entirely. 

“You’re sick?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Are you going to be alright?” 

The door to the below deck bursts open. Franky stands there in all his scorch-mark glory. “Chopper’s sick?”

The Chopper in question glares out at all of them. But his fury is dimmed by his natural fury disposition and half-lidded eyes. “Stob it you guys!” he cries. “I’b okay.” 

Maybe, Sanji thinks, he should stop trying to defend himself, because all Chopper’s words seem to do is motivate Robin. She stands, clutching the youngest crewmember to her torso. He cuddles against her, leaning a tired head against her collarbone. 

Wow, Sanji thinks dreamily. What a caring woman.

“I’ll take him to rest,” Robin tells the crew at large, shushing Chopper’s protests—for all the little doctor gets mad at the rest of them for hiding injuries or sickness, he’s notorious for trying to juggle his health by himself. And failing. 

“I’ll grab water,” Zoro says, sitting up. 

“Tissues,” Usopp offers, leaving his pole with Luffy and heading to the supply closet. 

“Pills,” Nami mumbles, heading towards the infirmary to grab some OTC pills for Chopper to trawl through. Nami and Robin tend to be the only ones Chopper feels comfortable accessing his stores—and even that is heavily restricted. 

As the others set to work, Sanji stands, stretching out the cricks any lasting time in the deck chair brings. “Soup for lunch,” he announces and heads towards the galley to start on the food.

He rummages around, putting together the meal. It doesn’t take long. Once finished, he sticks his head out the galley door. 

“Food’s up!” he calls. The Straw Hats tramp in, Luffy leading the charge, sans two. 

“They’re in the girl’s room,” Usopp says, answering his unvoiced question. 

Sanji nods, plucks two servings of the soup, and heads towards the girl’s room—also a place he has restricted access to. He opens the door with his foot—balancing two trays topped with soup bowls, silverware, napkins, a beverage for Robin, and a water for Chopper—and steps inside. 

It’s darker in the room. The light is on, but dimmed. Sanji sees why immediately. 

Robin is awake in bed and pressing a finger to her curved lips. Sanji feels a smile tug at his own as he nods, glancing down at the bed’s other occupant. 

Chopper is in a dead sleep. He’s curled, pressed against Robin’s side, head tucked and rested on her arm and shoulder. As with most small, sleeping animals, his naturally adorable state is amplified by his being asleep. Sanji feels something twist in his chest as he lets the door close slowly with an almost unnoticed click. Chopper’s nose twitches, but otherwise he goes on sleeping unaffected. 

“He’s only been down for a few minutes,” Robin whispers in explanation. Sanji nods. Chopper’s a restless sleeper at the beginning of the night, needing some time to lull himself to deep sleep. 

“Then I’ll leave these—if they get cold you can send them with whoever comes by to check on you two next and I’ll reheat them.”

Sanji sets the two trays on the bedside table.

Robin nods, corners of her eyes crinkling. “Thank you, Sanji.” 

Sanji feels his heart flutter. Barely remembering to keep his voice down he whisper-shouts, “Anything for you Robin-chan!” 

Robin giggles lighting, trying not to move her torso too much. But Chopper goes on snoozing. Robin runs a gentle hand over his fur, scratching idly behind his ear. Chopper sighs in his sleep, but it turns into a kind of snuffle and unconscious wince. Poor kid. 

Sanji decides to leave him to rest with Robin-chan—anyone would feel better with her around to nurse them!

He shares a small wave with Robin and slips out into the corridor, returning to the galley, where the returning rambunctiousness of his crew meets him like a slap to the face…but oddly, a welcomed one. Like a slap from Nami-Swan. 

He spoons out his own serving and joins the crew, sharing an update on Chopper’s condition and learning Brook will be the next one to stop by.

“This is really good, Sanji!” Usopp says at one point, and Sanji can forgive him for speaking between obscene slurps of soup. 

“Yeah, Sanji!” Luffy agrees. “It’s not meat but you made it so it’s good!” 

“Idiot,” Nami sighs. “It’s chicken noodle—there is meat in your serving.” 

Luffy frowns. “But it’s not my meat.” 

“Luffy,” Jinbei rumbles. “White meat is meat—though I don’t know where Sanji got it from…” 

“Who cares!” Franky says. “This is suuuuper!” And Franky’s palate may be permanently stained by cola, which has to clash horribly with most of Sanji’s food, but Sanji appreciates the sentiment.

“S’okay,” Zoro mumbles into his food. 

“It’s also very thoughtful of you to make this for Chopper,” Brook says. “So sweet…it almost breaks my heart…though I have none! Yohohoho! Skull joke!”

Sanji looks around at his table of crewmates. He takes a sip of the broth, and then says, “Thanks, guys.” 

Later, when the meal is packed away and the rest of the crew is off getting into their regularly scheduled chaos, Sanji finishing p with doing the dishes. It’s then that Usopp comes bursting through the galley door with two trays of dishes and set them on the counter apologetically. 

“Here’s more,” he says, and spares the time to say, “Chopper’s awake, he wanted me to tell you thanks,” before sprinting back out the door. If the distant yelling and crashing sounds are indicative of anything, he’s found his way to Franky’s side. 

Sanji starts on the first tray. It sucks that’s Chopper’s sick, and Sanji’s no doctor, but he’s glad that he’s able to help his friend in some way—glad that he was able to make something for the little reindeer to enjoy. 

Sanji towels off the tray and tucks it away. “Get well soon,” he says in its general direction, but he isn’t talking to the tray. 

Thankfully. That would be concerning. 

4.

Sanji is on watch, curled up in the crow’s nest with a nest of his own ineffective blankets. Zoro is asleep across from him, even though it’s freezing as fuck up in the nest, like always, and there’s a perfectly comfortable cabin below deck. Asshole. If Zoro is choosing to suffer up here, why can’t Sanji stow away inside?

But Sanji knows it’s not that simple. Zoro takes the most night watches as it is, sleeping days away to make up for it. He needs the rest. Besides, it’s not like he could say ‘hey guys, it’s a little chilly, and I don’t want to watch out for any potentially deadly attacks or enemy ships, so I’m going to go to bed downstairs and we should just pray no one slits our throats while we sleep. Cool?’

Sanji sighs. 

He hates watch nights. 

Beneath the blanket, he rubs his hands together, trying to kindle some body heat. His frozen fingers tell him he is not succeeding. Unfortunately. He pulls out his lighter, sticks a cigarette between his teeth, and lights it. His hands go back into the folds of blankets, icier than ever. 

Sanji is cold and miserable. But he’s on watch. So when the sound of footsteps rings out in the otherwise quiet night, cutting across the gentle sounds of lapping waves, Sanji is upright and extracting himself from the mound of blankets quickly. He almost wakes Zoro, but pauses. It’s probably just Chopper searching out Robin after a nightmare. Sanji will wait on waking him up.

He sucks in a breath of nicotine that settles, searing, within his chest. Alone, Sanji climbs down from the crow’s next, silently bemoaning his icy fingers and the icier still rungs of the ladder. But he reaches the deck unaccosted and alive. Which, you know, is setting the bar pretty low in his opinion. 

The deck is devoid of all human life—excluding himself, of course—so Sanji heads for below deck. 

He certainly hopes it’s one of his crewmates. 

It would be kind of awkward to explain why he didn’t wake Zoro if this ends up being an enemy attack. 

Sanji passes the crew rooms, peaking in to find any occupants fast asleep. Well, Luffy is bouncing against a wall, but he is unconscious. Sanji counts that a definite win, and continues on to the bathroom, also empty. At his next stop, the galley door— his galley door—he pauses, because light is seeping free beneath it. 

Sanji takes another drag of his cigarette, rolls up his suit’s cuffs, and kicks the door open—gently. It’s his door after all. The crash it makes against the wall isn’t very loud, but in the dead of night, it’s a thundercrack that rings out. 

The person in the galley drops something, spinning to face him with wide eyes and a mouth stretched into a silent scream. 

“What the fuck, Sanji!?” 

Oh. It’s Usopp. 

Sanji steps inside and closes the galley door behind him, taking another puff of his cigarette. “Sorry,” he says mildly. “Thought you were an intruder.”

“In the kitchen?” Usopp asks incredulously. 

Sanji shrugs. “I have good recipes.” 

“You almost killed me,” Usopp says quietly. “Over recipes.” 

Sanji thinks on that, and winces. “Let’s not get caught up on the specifics,” he advises, and reaches down to pick up what Usopp dropped. A spoon. He holds it up questioningly. 

Usopp flushes, reaching out to snag it back, but Sanji holds it out of reach. 

“Nu-uh,” Sanji says. “No cooking in my kitchen without supervision.” 

“I’m not five Sanji.” 

“No,” Sanji agrees. “But you are a destructive menace. Now tell me what you’re trying to make.” 

Usopp grimaces, but stops making grabs at the spoon. Which is good, because Sanji had started to get embarrassed for him after the third miss. “I just wanted some coco,” Usopp shares glumly. 

“...Hot chocolate?” Sanji asks. “In the middle of the night?”

Usopp shrugs. “My mom used to make it for me when…” 

Sanji pauses, and gives Usopp a good look over. There are shadows beneath his eyes and his hands shake where they rest against his sides. He’s not wearing a shirt, but his pants sit crookedly on his hips, like he’d tossed and turned. 

Sanji glances at his stolen spoon. He hands it back. 

“I’ll help,” he says simply. 

“You don’t need to,” Usopp says. “Aren’t you supposed to be on watch?” 

“Mosshead is up there,” Sanji says. “He’ll wake up.”

“...You seem way too lax about our safety for guard duty.” 

Sanji rolls his eyes. “Would you rather pull a double?”

“Good point.”

Sanji snags a saucepan and some milk from the fridge and then gets started with the chocolate. 

“Seriously Sanji,” Usopp says behind him. “I can take it from here, you don’t need to…you don’t…”

Sanji glances over at him. “Shut up, I’m supervising.” 

Usopp looks conflicted but ultimately nods. Rolling his eyes he rests against the counter. “More like stealing my job.”

“It’ll be better when I make it anyway,” Sanji tells him. 

“It would be sad if it wasn’t.” 

Sanji kicks him lightly and Usopp shuffles out of range. He waits quietly for Sanji to finish and pour two mugs of cocoa, complete with cream and cinnamon. Usopp grabs one. 

“Thanks,” he says, and takes a sip, eyes closed, face growing slack as drinks contentedly. 

Sanji waits for a moment but Usopp shows no signs of stopping. He smirks. “Good?”

“The best,” Usopp gushes. 

They drink their cocoa, and then Sanji starts in on the dishes. He waits, but Usopp doesn’t leave. Just stays, watching as Sanji finishes up, drying the pan and mugs and spoons and putting them away. 

Finally, Sanji turns to Usopp. “Okay,” he says. “What’s up?”

Usopp startles, doing that shifty eye thing he does where he dodges eye contact. It’s not lying, it’s avoiding. “Nothing,” he says stiffly, and turns as if to leave. “Thanks for the cocoa.” 

Sanji frowns. Reaching out, he snags Usopp’s shoulder and pulls him back. “Hey wait.” 

“What?”

“Next time you’re up in the middle of the night and feeling nostalgic…you can wake me up.” 

Usopp huffs. “I can make passable cocoa alone Sanji—I know how. And I promise I won’t trash your kitchen.” 

But Sanji is already shaking his head before Usopp can finish. “No it’s not about the damn kitchen,” he says. And maybe it’s because it’s dark outside and most everyone is asleep but Sanji manages to force out what he says next with minimal amounts of embarrassment and a light dusting of pink on both cheeks. “I just don’t want you to be alone—I want to help.” 

Usopp stares at him for a long second. “...Okay Sanji,” he says. “Okay, I’ll come get you and your masterful hot cocoa.”

Sanji’s lip quirks around his cigarette. “You better. Now get out of my kitchen.”

Usopp scampers off back to sleep, and Sanji heads back to the crow nests. He burrows back into the blankets, finding that unfortunately most of his heat has seeped away in his absence. Damn it. Sanji’s head thunks lamentably against the wooden wall of the crow’s nest—only to spring forward as Sanji jumps at a sudden voice in the otherly quiet night. 

“Usopp okay?”

Sanji tries to swallow his heart back into his chest, but it gets stuck somewhere in his esophagus. “Fucking seas Marimo.” 

It must be his imagination, but Sanji thinks he sees the flashing of teeth in the darkness. “That a yes?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” Sanji admits grudgingly. 

“...What was it?” Zoro asks. 

Sanji hesitates. “Nothing.” 

Zoro nods as if he’s confirmed something—which Sanji knows for a fact is false. “Nightmare again?”

Well, so much for keeping Usopp’s apparently shitty secret. “Yeah.” 

Zoro doesn’t speak again, and neither does Sanji. The sound of lolling ocean slapping against the hull reclaims the night. A chill settles, deepens, then abates as the night slips along, and they reach the morning unscathed and in one piece. 

Which is why when Usopp acts surprised to have made it to the next day under Sanji’s watch, he earns a swift kick to the back of his knees and tumble across the deck. Then, another hit when he still can’t keep his mouth under wraps. 

“Shut up,” Sanji says. 

Nami sighs, turning to Zoro. “You’re not going to interfere here?”

Zoro shrugs at her, but Sanji sees his lip twitch. “I’m supervising.” 

5.

Sanji went to bed with vertigo and an already pounding headache just an hour or two ago, so when he wakes with roiling in his stomach that has nothing to with the waves beneath the ship, he lunges for a bucket situated to the left of his hammock. 

“Ugh,” he moans, hurling into the wooden pale with a kind of burning vengeance that has tears in the corners of his eyes. As soon as he can stand, Sanji stumbles free of the men’s quarters, not keen on waking any of its other occupants—though Zoro, the other half of last night’s drinking contest and the cause of his current plight—seems to be missing. Too bad. Sanji wouldn’t mind waking him up. After all, the swordsman has to be as off as Sanji feels, and he’d prefer they suffered together. 

Sanji shuts the door to the men’s cabin behind him and makes stealthily for the bathroom—well, as stealthily as you can be when clutching a sick bucket and stopping to vomit into it periodically. But he makes it. Without alerting anyone, thank the seas. 

Sanji locks the door behind him. 

For a few minutes, Sanji sits, alternating between vomiting, wincing away from any and all visible light, and pressing the heels of his palms against his forhead, tryin to knead away the sticky, piercing, heaviness within. He’s thoroughly miserable and cursing the Shitty Swordsman by the time he fully empties his stomach and feeling less likely to vomit with every move. Though, a splitting headache and persistent shroud of dizziness remain. Well, you can’t have it all. Expect, apparently, a bountiful number of hangover symptoms. 

But Sanji grits his teeth and teeters upright, using the wall to regain some semblance of balance. He brushes his teeth vigorously, jumps into a chilled shower, cacoons himself in an oversized towel, and reluctantly returns to the boy’s cabin to slip into a suit—his three pieces are much less comfortable than his towel.

At least showered and dressed, Sanji feels ready to face the day. 

A bout of dizziness has him doubled over, hand pressed over his mouth. 

… sort of ready to face the day. 

Ugh. 

But Sanji needs to start on breakfast, so he staggers to the galley and goes through the motions. The bacon’s a little crisp, but still edible and tasty, and Sanji cannot bring himself to feel any remorse over it. 

He plates breakfast and all but collapses into his seat at the table, ignoring all decorum rules to rest his head on his crossed arms as the world dips. He can’t tell if the ship is rocking or not but decides it doesn’t matter as long as it feels like it is. He nestles his nose against the crook of his elbow and attempts to hide there. 

A moment later, the door opens. 

“Sanji-bro!” 

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Sanji needs to find Zoro right fucking now so the Marimo can stick a sword through his heart and put him out of his misery. Immediately. No, yesterday—because Sanji just does not have suuuuuper energy right now. 

“Fr’nky,” Sanji says, pushing himself upright and clamping his teeth together with a painful click! to keep from moaning. “You c’n help y‘self.” 

Sanji is deliberately keeping his gaze pinned to the tabletop and avoiding eye contact with the frankly ridiculous number of windows. Really, why do they need so many windows? Screw natural light Sanji—wants curtains and lamps. But it’s because Sanji is doing his best at refusing to look towards the windows, that he doesn’t notice anything is off until the pause between Sanji’s invitation and Franky’s expected response lengthens beyond the moment or so it usually takes.

Shit. 

Sanji looks up. 

Franky is staring at him, half in the doorway. And a metal face should in no way be able to make an expression that looks that suspicious. 

“...Sanji-bro?” 

Sanji swallows down nausea and raises an eyebrow. Making an effort to speak clearly, he nods in the direction of the spread. “Well? ‘M not going to feed you.”

But Franky isn’t looking at the food. He lets the door close behind him. “You’re sick,” he states bluntly. 

Sanji scowls. “I’m not.” 

“Hungover,” Franky amends. “Whatever. It’s pretty clear you’re feeling rough right now bro.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Franky shakes his head. “I’m not even surprised—with what you and Zoro were putting back.”

“Nami-swan beat us in the end,” Sanji points out defensively. 

Franky waves a hand airily. “That chick is crazy. I wouldn’t expect anything else. Now stop trying to distract me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Go back to bed,” Franky orders. “You shouldn’t even be up making breakfast like this—no offense, but you look like you’re about to throw up on the food.” 

Sanji wrinkles his nose. “Th’s disgusting.” 

He is then promptly hit by a flood of vertigo and nausea in tandem, and doubles over, gasping for breath. 

“Ooooh,” Franky sighs between his teeth in sympathy. He walks over and starts to rub circles on Sanji’s back—who is torn between relaxing and snapping at the cyborg to leave him alone. 

He does neither. Just sits there tensely, rides out the wave, and then brushed Franky away as he stands. 

“M’ybe I’ll go sl’p…for a bit,” Sanji says. 

Franky nods. “Take a while, bro.” 

“I’ll be back for l’nch,” Sanji promises, on his way out the door. 

But he stops as Franky shakes his head. “No need—today’s a suuuuuper day for a barbecue.” 

Sanji hesitates.

“Take a day,” Franky insists. “It’s not like you have many.” 

“B’t—”

“Take a day. Or I’ll sick Chopper on you.” 

Sanji shakes his head and immediately regrets it. Dizzy and suffering, he curses himself and the Marimo. Mostly the Marimo. “Don’t…don’t do th’t,” he says. “I’m going.” 

Franky makes a shooing motion. 

Ugh, he’s irritating. Sanji leaves the galley. He makes to lurch back towards the boy’s cabin, but ends up pausing, able to see the deck from the window. A flash of green is outside. 

Sanji sighs and returns to the galley, waving off Franky’s complaints, and fills two glasses of water. Water sloshes over the brim of both as he walks to the deck and to where the Marimo sits, snoring, leaning against the railing. Bending, Sanji places one of the glasses on the deck beside him. 

“Dumbass,” Sanji grouches, and turns away. But just then the ship goes lurching over a wave and Sanji’s balance is completely shot. He goes tumbling, the glass dropping from his grasp to land on the deck boards but not breaking, just rolling away to hide beneath a chair. 

Sanji wishes he had rolled beneath his chair—because Sanji ends up falling on literally the only thing in the vicinity that isn’t wood. Or inanimate. 

And of course, Mr. Future-World’s-Best-Swordsman wakes up when he crashes onto him. Unfortunately, it is immediately clear Zoro’s senses are also shot when he utterly fails to catch Sanji.

“What the fuck, cook?” Zoro asks, glaring down at where Sanji is sprawled in his lap. 

Sanji is busy simultaneously trying not to retch and escape from the hellscape that is Zoro’s personal space, but he manages to respond. “Accident,” he mumbles. 

Zoro peers at him with his one eye, and Sanji gears himself up for a verbal fight at the least. But Zoro is a damn idiot and instead of doing what is expected, just shrugs, and closes his eye. 

Sanji rolls off of him, lying sprawled on the deck boards at his side. He can’t quite muffle a groan at the movement and notices Zoro’s smirk. 

“Shut ‘p,” Sanji mumbles.

Zoro’s eyebrows pinch. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You thought it.” 

“Now you shut up,” Zoro orders. “And sleep.” 

Sanji considers for a moment, and promptly decides he’s not in the mood to walk all the way to the boy’s cabin. He rolls so he’s comfortable, head resting on Zoro’s thigh. Zoro’s eye cracks open to peer at him, but then closes so Sanji supposes it’s alright. 

Under the warmth of the gentle, morning sun, Sanji begins to doze. Maybe Franky’s right, Sanji thinks. He’s far from comfortable, with a headache, vertigo, and a tossing stomach. But curled up with Zoro for a nap is far preferable when compared to attempting to struggle through making lunch. He can let Franky handle food, just this once. 

Sanji allows his eyes to close. He allows himself to slip. 

It’ll be fine. 

He can be the cook tomorrow. 

First and foremost, Sanji is a cook. 

But Sanji is many things. 

A disowned prince, a castaway, an adoptive son. Sanji can be bright-eyed and soft, or hard steel gaze and harder still kicks. Sanji is an ally, a friend, and a rival. Sanji is family. 

So Sanji is a cook. But he’s more than that. 

Sanji is a fighter, and a gentleman. 

Sanji is a Strawhat pirate.