Chapter Text
The squall was nostalgic for Red Leg Zeff.
As a young pirate, Zeff had sometimes walked out on deck just to behold the symphony of nature’s fury. To feel so small under the roaring thunder and lightning that flashed like the cymbals of God. The roll of thunder would growl in his marrow, the pressure in the air alone enough to make him tremble. As a pirate captain, the effect had lessened, giving way for the muffled, soothing rattle of timbers – a reassuring reminder that the storm was outside and not inside – and the importance of nailing a cooktop to the deck more securely than any other piece of furniture. As a seafaring cook his entire life, Zeff had learned his lessons quickly. He imparted them even quicker onto any chef that dared to set foot in his kitchen, under pain of a swift kick in the head to make the lesson stick.
Lesson One: Always make sure that your station is securely fixed to the deck.
Lesson Two: Never walk away from your station unless you bring your pot or pan with you.
Lesson Three: When in the middle of a storm, always switch to wooden plates and utensils.
Lesson Four: If someone tells you to brace, you’d better fucking brace.
—
Outside, a black swell of frothing seawater rolled towards the floating restaurant Baratie. The giant fish-shaped restaurant was a hazy beacon of pink and orange neon light; its name glowed against sheets of cold, pouring rain, like a beacon in the storm. Beyond the ring of ships – both large and small – that surrounded it like an elegant skirt rippling on the sea, a buoy was lifted up and over the wave.
A yellow light glowed at the top, set off by sensors.
—
Inside the kitchen, a yellow light – the leftmost of three – pulsed to life on the wall.
“Brace!” Zeff barked, distracted. “Yellow!”
The chefs on the line planted their feet instinctively, barely even pausing their work. “HEARD!” they all called back at once.
Zeff sighed grouchily and continued to sort through dish after dish waiting to be sent out. “Sloppy,” he muttered. “Overdone. Underdone. Sloppy– WHO COOKED THIS ONE?!”
The deck shifted and bobbed under their feet. The yellow light on the wall turned off as the buoy returned to normal elevation.
“I MEAN IT!” Zeff roared, lifting the dish up. “Who cooked this?! Whoever turned this prime rib into a charcoal briquette is OFF THE LINE!”
“M-Me, chef!”
“OFF THE LINE! Goddammit… Patty, take over his station!” the head chef growled. He glared at the sweating young line cook as he rushed to take off his apron and get a jacket on. “Don’t send me that shit! Go wait tables! Next time I’ll– ARE YOU CRYIN’?! Get your shit together! If my old sous chef were here he’d have your goddamn head!!”
Zeff grabbed a steak dinner that actually looked passable and handed it aggressively to him. “Table Five! MOVE!”
The sniffling line cook accepted the plate – bedraggled, red, sweating, nearly in tears – and fled from the kitchen.
Patty eyed him silently, brow raised, and moved over to the meat station. “‘My old sous chef,’ huh?”
“If you got time to needle me ‘bout the little eggplant, then you got time to finish that–”
The yellow light and the orange light pulsed to life on the wall.
Zeff swore. “BRACE!” he yelled. “ORANGE!”
The staff raised their various pots and pans inches off their burners and planted their feet more securely. A few moments later, the deck rolled under their feet hard enough to jolt bubbling liquids. Thankfully, only a few drops were spilled.
Outside, Zeff heard the line cook yelp, and something that sounded suspiciously like a dropped wooden plate hitting the dining room floor. If it had been ceramic or porcelain, it would have shattered.
The buoy lights turned off again.
“Useless fuckin’–” Zeff hissed under his breath, continuing to sort the passing and failing dishes. He would rather eat his other leg than admit it out loud, but Sanji leaving had meant hiring new people. The little blonde bastard might have been snarky and disobedient, but he had done the work of five shitty apprentices and he had done it with no mistakes. On nights like this, in a squall, it was more apparent than he would’ve liked to admit that he was falling behind on the orders. “Patty, when you get a chance, go tell that shithead that he has to eat that off the floor if he wants to keep his job.”
“Don’t you think you’re bein’ a little hard on the guy?” Patty asked dubiously. “He’s not a day older than sixteen.”
“The eggplant knew better than to drop a dish by the time he was ten! Crawl down out of my arse and do as you’re told!” Zeff snapped.
Thunder crashed overhead.
—
Outside, lightning flashed over the curve of Baratie’s hull and – three hundred yards off its starboard bow – a mid-sized passenger ship, with her sails pulled tight against the perilous winds. A tall man stood on the deck, wearing only a travel kimono, sandals, and a wide sandogasa hat in defense against the elements. Gazing stoically out at the hazy beacon of the restaurant, analyzing every line of the vessel, he seemed unaffected by the pouring rain.
A single katana hung at his hip.
“This is as close as we can get ye in this storm, sir!” the captain yelled over the deluge. “Any closer and we risk runnin’ her into the big fish! We won’t charge ye any extra for the additional night! It just ain’t safe!”
Shimotsuki Koshiro turned his head calmly to regard the grizzled old sailor.
“...No,” he murmured. “This is fine.”
“What?!”
In a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, the captain blinked.
And the old swordsman was gone.
“Wha–!!” he started to sputter, but he didn’t have time to exclaim as the deck jolted under his feet. An enormous swell, over twenty feet high, sent the ship nearly tipping onto her side. Thunder boomed deafeningly, like two giants clashing in the skies, and the night turned to false daylight for an instant as the rolling wave began to overtake the ships surrounding Baratie. One by one, the smaller ships jerked against their moorings. A smaller pleasure vessel creaked threateningly, several timbers in her hull snapping like toothpicks as her anchor failed; the screech of wood and breaking planks sounded over the roar of the storm as the ship skidded across a walkway and promptly broke through.
Over it all – silhouetted against the flash of lightning, nearly fifty feet in the air – a sword unsheathed.
Lightning danced along Koshiro’s rippling steel blade. As he came down, falling through the wind and rain, so did the edge of his katana.
—
The yellow, orange, and red lights went off.
Zeff swore. “FUCKIN’ BRACE! RED!”
—
The great mass of Baratie tipped forty-five degrees back in the massive wave. Angling her mouth perfectly to intercept Koshiro’s fall. The bolt of lightning that would have hit the restaurant blasted into the ocean, redirected by the curve of a sword and leaving the sea’s surface glowing with energy… and Koshiro followed through on his arc.
—
Inside the bar, it was warm and calm.
Only the bartender was there, trapped by his position and paralyzingly bored by the lack of customers. He glanced back at the shelves, visibly annoyed by the perilous slide of glass and steel, but everything was strapped down from experience of nearly a decade at sea. The Baratie’s fish mouth was closed like a blast door, keeping the bar in a sheltered bubble of warm, fragrant air…
The curved wall – made completely out of metal slats – rattled violently against the storm, and suddenly a wall of wind and rain blasted over the poor unsuspecting man. He yelped and ducked behind the bar, fumbling for the snail line to the front wait staff, unable to even register what had allowed the storm inside. He coughed and wiped at his face. “H-Hey! Storm door just gave!” he barked. “Somebody get down here to patch it!”
“Excuse me.”
The bartender blinked and looked up, staring.
Koshiro sat down at the bar. He sheathed his sword with an elegant, metallic clink. He couldn’t be more wet if he had jumped into the sea with all of his clothes on. “Do you have matcha?” he asked calmly.
The bartender stared at him.
And looked behind him.
At the perfectly rectangular opening that Koshiro had cut into the steel blast door. The storm continued to spray sheets of rain in through the gap.
The bartender gaped like a fish. “Um–”
“No matcha?” Koshiro asked quietly, removing his wide-brimmed hat.
“N-No, but we have… We can get you green tea…”
“Not the same thing, but very well. Thank you.”
“Just…” The bartender got up on slightly wobbly knees and backed up. He hit the bar flap a little harder than he meant to, scrambled to quickly duck under the heavy wooden bridge, and kept backing up, keeping a death grip on his tiny transponder snail. He finally – carefully – backed through the main doors, never taking his eyes off the strange swordsman.
A tiny, muffled, indignant meow emerged from inside Koshiro’s robes.
“Ah, yes,” Koshiro murmured. He reached into his kimono, fishing out the soaked, wiggling forms of a fat grey cat and a small calico kitten. He set Dango and Mochi on the bartop. “Go find somewhere to dry off, little ones.”
Dango yowled like his life was ending and jumped down from the counter, racing into a warm corner of the bar. The old grey cat glared thunderously at Koshiro. Mochi – who had grown a few inches on the voyage to Baratie – was less dramatic but no less miserable; she hopped down, waddled over to a fallen bar towel, and curled up on the dry surface.
The swinging doors opened again.
Koshiro glanced up from wringing out his long black hair.
The maître d’ – a middle-aged goldfish fishman in a neat white suit – stepped inside. The bartender did his best not to hide behind him. “Hello, sir,” he greeted the swordsman, as politely as he could with a door cut into the open elements.
“Hello,” Koshiro replied politely, draping his ponytail over his shoulder to dry.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“I would hope so. I sent a letter several days ago to Head Chef Zeff to expect me on this date. Forgive the violent entrance. The storm made it inconvenient to enter by traditional means. I will gladly pay for the damages.”
The maître d’s face was fixed in a forced smile, sculpted for customer service. “Very good, sir. Are you here for dinner, then?”
“No, I am here to speak to the head chef. He should know that I’m coming. However, a cup of hot green tea would be restorative,” Koshiro stated.
He looked at the bartender calmly, who caught himself staring and beat a hasty retreat.
The maître d’ nodded and bowed himself out. “Very good. One cup of hot green tea, coming up.”
The doors closed.
The goldfish fishman flipped a sign on the door to read Bar Closed for Maintenance. The bartender leaned in, whispering hotly. “What do we do, Sapi?” he hissed. “I’ve never seen somebody cut through steel before! Should we call the marines?”
Sapi huffed, brushing off his white suit nervously. “No, Rowan. We’ll handle this ourselves.”
“We will?”
“You get him his green tea, and I’ll go speak to the head chef.”
Rowan eyed him grimly. “Alright, but be careful. Zeff’s in a mood.”
“Oh please… He’s been in a mood for nearly two months now, ever since–” Sapi gave a long-suffering sigh and raised his hands in frustration, stopping himself. That was a conversation the entire staff had been having on repeat for weeks on end. “Just bring our guest his tea. I’ll handle the rest.”
He straightened his jacket, cleared his throat, and put on a polite, professional smile.
The goldfish fishman walked back into the dining room, giving soft, ardent apologies and helping people up as he went. The main dining room of Baratie was in disarray after what Zeff called a “red light brace,” guests groaning and complaining; those that still had intact dinners set their plates back down on bolted-down tables, and those that had refused to listen to the waiters’ instructions peeled themselves off the floor. The casualties were minimal, thankfully. Only a few bruises and fallen filets of cod. “Tragically, these are the dangers of dining at sea, my friends! Please, be sure to pay attention to the staff next time!” Sapi announced sweetly, helping up an older woman and making sure she got back in her seat. “Please collect your fallen meals and dishes! Send it back to the kitchen and you shall receive a fresh plate!”
Sapi ducked into the kitchen and sighed in relief, dropping his smile. “Head Chef?”
“What now?” Zeff snapped, picking a shattered bowl and scattered greens off the floor. He raised a shard up over his head. “WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT ALL WOODEN DISHES DURING A STORM?! WHO USED A GLASS BOWL?! I’M GOING TO SHOVE THIS UP YOUR ARSE!”
“Head Chef!”
“WHAT?!” the old pirate barked, dropping his arm.
The maître d’ gave him a firm look. “You have a guest.”
Zeff squinted incredulously, holding the broken glass like a dagger. “Who?”
— ⚔ —
Mochi meowed imploringly, rubbing her body along Rowan’s pant leg as the bartender carefully set a steaming cup in front of Koshiro. “There you are, sir…” he mumbled, awkwardly trying to shake the kitten off his gleaming shoe.
“If you have any fish carcasses, I would be happy to purchase them,” the swordsman informed him, taking the cup in both hands. “My little friends are very hungry after their long journey.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if they do that… b-but I suppose I can ask–”
The swinging door slammed open. Rowan barely managed to not sigh in relief as Zeff stormed into the bar. “Who the fuck is this?!” Zeff snapped, pointing the piece of salad bowl at Koshiro.
“Ah.”
Koshiro smiled courteously and set down his cup of tea. “You must be Head Chef Zeff,” he murmured, giving a shallow bow. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
“Not sure who you’ve been talkin’ to to hear ‘wonderful things’ about me,” Zeff growled.
Then he noticed the perfect rectangle in the steel storm shutters. “What the hell…?” he hissed, eyes flickering over it, dumbfounded. The old chef turned to the swordsman. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“I am Shimotsuki Koshiro.”
Zeff stared at him.
“I… wrote you a letter,” Koshiro continued, looking a bit confused. “Even accounting for slow postage, it should have arrived yesterday.”
“I have no fuckin’ clue who you are,” Zeff snapped. “I don’t make a habit of openin’ mail from people I don’t know. Your letter probably ended up in the garbage. You better be payin’ for those shutters, swordsman!”
Koshiro gazed at him flatly, collecting himself… then he gave the old pirate a tiny smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, since I am already here, is there any way that I can request a few minutes of your time? There is something that I wanted to discuss with you–”
“No! No, you may not ‘request a few minutes of my time!’” Zeff shouted, brandishing his piece of glass like a knife. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a full dinin’ room with five new line cooks that are fuckin’ useless! You wanna talk to me?! You wait until the end of service, and then some!”
Koshiro paused, black eyes glimmering dangerously.
Then he gave the chef a gentle bow and straightened his spine. “Very well. I will wait as long as I must for you.”
Zeff squinted at him. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Well… good. Now drink your tea and quit botherin’ my staff,” he grumbled, and stalked back into the dining room.
Koshiro’s dark eyes tracked him, watching him go…
He settled back into his seat at the bar. “Not very polite, is he?” he murmured to Rowan.
“There’s a reason he likes to stay in the kitchen…” the bartender admitted, finally relenting and picking Mochi up. He gave the meowing kitten scratches under her chin. “Not to mention that his sous chef – the guy that he basically opened this restaurant with – left a while back to join up with a pirate crew. He’s been in an especially foul mood ever since. Even though he’s the one that encouraged him to go in the first place.”
Koshiro tilted his head curiously. “This sous chef… His name wouldn’t happen to be Sanji, would it?”
Rowan perked up. “Wait, you know him? Have you heard from him? How is the kid?”
The swordsman smiled courteously and sipped his tea, feeling the wax paper-protected letter a bit more keenly in his breast pocket. “He’s fine. He’s just fine...”
— ⚜ —
As the night went on, the squall finally settled. Zeff’s roaring of “brace” from the kitchen grew less and less frequent, going from orange, to yellow, to nothing. The buoy outside bobbed within its safe zone beyond the ring of ships, a silent, blinking witness as the customers of Baratie exclaimed in distress as they returned to find their ships in various states of disrepair. Many of them would return inside and pay an exorbitant fee to stay in one of the guest rooms above the restaurant, normally reserved for the staff. The downpour never stopped… but it did soften, into endless, warm silver ripples that drifted on the wind. Little more than a dark summer rain.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, muffled by Baratie’s hull, as Zeff sat downstairs in the kitchen, at the same worn table that Sanji had always taken his smoke breaks at. He knocked the spent tobacco out of his pipe and into the dish, looking over the receipts for the night with a sigh. If there was one bad habit Sanji had picked up from him, it was smoking.
He continued to mark off all the meals they’d been forced to refund.
“Hey, Owner.”
Zeff glared flatly up at the swinging doors. Rowan – their newest bartender – peered in with a casual, not-quite-there smile. “What’s the damage?” he asked, nudging open the door all the way and carrying a tray of cups to the sink.
“Nothin’ we can’t make up with a couple nights of good weather,” Zeff muttered. He set down his red marker, rubbing at his wrist, and jerked his head at the tray. “Get any customers?”
“Just the one,” Rowan replied, eyeing him pointedly.
Zeff squinted at him in disbelief. “He’s still there? It’s midnight!”
“I know.”
The old pirate groaned and started to stuff his pipe with fresh tobacco. “You know what… Fine,” he grumbled, pressing it down with his thumb. “If he wants to talk to me that bad, send him in. Let’s get this over with.”
The bartender smiled with genuine relief and gave him a nod. “Yes, sir.”
He jogged off.
Zeff sighed, made sure to tamp down the mix, and struck a match along the length of his boot. He took his time in lighting it – savoring the warm orange glow against the bottom of his face and the first earthy, acrid breath of his second-favorite pipe tobacco – and remembered teaching his stupid little eggplant to roll his own cigarettes. None of that store-bought shit. Along with the four lessons of cooking at sea, Zeff had beat into him to never buy box cigarettes. No matter how much stronger the taste was.
“ Store-bought cigarettes will kill your taste buds over time, you little brat,” Zeff grumbled. He slid some rolling papers and filters over to Sanji – who was wide-eyed and still struggling with acne – and sprinkled his own mix into a paper. “Make sure you roll it nice and tight. Always use a filter.”
Sanji eyed him suspiciously… but he dragged the rolling papers over and tried to duplicate his motions.
Zeff smacked him upside the head. He didn’t do it hard. “You’re gettin’ it everywhere!”
The teenager slapped his hand away. “‘Scuse me for breathin’!” he barked back, his young voice breaking halfway through. He blushed in embarrassment, furiously tightening the paper, double checking his work.
The old chef smirked and went back to work. “Don’t forget the filter.”
“Shut up… old shitbag…”
Zeff smiled to himself, nostalgia warming his lungs just as much as the smoke. He pulled in a long drag… and let it go, exhaling a plume of white into the air. It caught the warm light of the slowly swinging lamp overhead, and the old pirate just listened to it squeak for a while, in time with the rain and muffled footsteps overhead. Just like he had for the past nine years.
“Your mind is far from here,” a cool, level male voice observed.
The chef jumped, glaring into the shadows. He squinted to see none other than Shimotsuki Koshiro standing there. The swinging door wasn’t even swinging anymore. How long had he been standing there? “Xebec Rock’s left nutsack, man. Announce when you’re comin’ in,” Zeff muttered crossly. “It’s common courtesy.”
“Considering that you offered me little common courtesy when I entered, I would label it a small, harmless vengeance,” Koshiro replied calmly. “Shall we call it even?”
Zeff glared at him flatly.
He puffed and waved at the chair across from him. “Fine. Don’t got the energy to call it anythin’ different.”
Koshiro gave him a gentle nod, accepting the wordless invitation and sitting down with barely a sound. “Mr. Rowan offered me a room upstairs,” he informed his host. “I’ve brought two cats with me. One older, one younger.”
“Are they any good at catching mice?”
“The kitten is quite proficient. She should earn both their keep, as long as they’re here.”
Zeff rolled his eyes. “Fine. Nothin’ wrong with ship cats, as long as they don’t get into the food,” he muttered, puffing on his pipe. “Just know that as soon as that fat one breaks into the cooler and starts eatin’ our fish, I’m skinnin’ it alive.”
“You will do no such thing. But I understand your concern.”
Zeff narrowed his eyes at the stranger. “Far as I know, the only swordsmen capable of cutting steel frequent the Grand Line and beyond. So, who are you? What’re you doin’ in East Blue?” he asked, quiet and gravely serious. “And how do you know me?”
Koshiro fixed him with a silent look, dark eyes somber behind his round glasses.
Zeff didn’t break eye contact, refusing to back down.
Thunder rolled softly overhead.
The swordsman reached into his kimono and pulled out a wax paper envelope.
He placed it lightly on the table, sliding it over to Zeff. “Your son wrote to me,” he stated calmly.
Zeff snorted in disbelief. He grabbed it and opened it unceremoniously. “Yeah right,” the chef muttered, disentangling the paper inside from the protective envelope and unfolding it. He took his reading glasses off his collar and put them on. “Two months and he writes a complete stranger and not me? Sounds like a steamin’ load of bullshit to me. ‘Mr. Roronoa Koshiro-san, my name is Sanji. I am the cook on the pirate ship Going Merry! I understand that it must be strange to receive a letter from a complete stranger, but be assured that while you do not know me, I know of you. Our first mate and–’ blah blah blah… ‘Forgive me for not…’ Blah blah blah…”
Koshiro folded his arms – tucking his hands into his sleeves – watching Zeff go quiet as he read the rest of the letter. The old pirate’s expression went from exasperated, to suspicious, to concerned as the minutes went by.
Finally, Zeff took off his glasses and glared at the stoic swordsman. “What’s this about?” he demanded.
“I was hoping that you could help me understand what is going through your son’s head,” Koshiro told him.
“What’s that supposed to mean? What do you think is goin’ through his head?”
“I cannot tell,” the dark-haired man replied honestly. “I do not know your son like you do. The letter reads with passion and conviction, as it does when a man is in love… but I still cannot be sure. Does Sanji fall in love easily?”
“Faster than madeleines catch,” Zeff muttered crossly.
“No, not–”
Koshiro waved a hand gently, fixing the old chef with a mildly exasperated look. “Not infatuation. Love. Does your boy fall in love easily?”
“Is there a difference?” Zeff demanded, dry as a bone.
The swordsman squinted at him, head tilting dubiously at such a blunt, hasty answer. “You have never been in love, have you?”
Zeff shrugged and settled back in his chair. “Love’s for stress relief, Glasses. You learn how to deal with it in other ways as you get older. Sanji’s always been stressed out, so he’s always been lookin’ for love. If you’re here to ask me if I think Sanji’s feelings for your kid are genuine, then I’m sure they are. As long as I’ve known him, the little eggplant’s dove into every relationship he’s ever had either heart-first or cock-first. But whichever one did go first, the second one followed not too far behind at all.”
Koshiro blinked slowly in disbelief at his phrasing. “So… you are saying that Sanji has sent many of these types of letters in the past.”
“Wouldn’t know. Not that it’s any of your business.”
The swordsman resisted the urge to clench his jaw, irritation rising in his chest. He had always prided himself on having a long fuse, but somehow everything that this old chef said just made that fuse burn faster. “I assure you that it is my business,” he told Zeff calmly.
Zeff puffed on his pipe, raising both eyebrows. “Is it?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Well, why don’t you enlighten me on how exactly it’s your business?”
Koshiro took a deep, slow breath in. And a deep, slow breath out. Then, he trusted himself to speak. “Your son,” he murmured, touching the edge of the letter that Zeff had laid out on the table, trying to bring the blonde brute’s attention to it, “and my son have begun a turbulent romantic relationship. It troubled your son – a boy who falls in love terribly easily, by your account – enough to write to me about it. Not you. Me.”
Zeff gave him a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean? That he trusts you more than he does me?”
Koshiro returned the sharp look twofold. “It means that he does not want to call attention to himself. It means that he is more concerned for my son’s heart than he is for his own. It means, Owner Zeff, that my Zoro showed your Sanji his heart. This is uncharacteristic of him. Your son seems to wear his heart selflessly on his sleeve, while mine manages his emotions and often buries them deep as a result. They have been through something that has tested them both, and found their relationship wanting. This letter has far more subtext than you are willing or capable of seeing.”
“Speak the common tongue, swordsman! I don’t got time for poetry!”
“Our boys have been through something terrible and they need support,” Koshiro snapped quietly, reaching into his kimono. “If you are capable of such a thing–”
Zeff’s eyes tracked his hand, body tensing.
The dark-haired man pulled out a surprisingly large transponder snail and set it on the table with a dull thump. It was sleeping – striped ivory flesh offset by a dark blue-green shell – painted on the side with the words East Blue in white.
Zeff squinted at it. Then back at Koshiro.
Koshiro gave him a quiet, exasperated look. “I sent this snail’s partner in the mail at the same time as I sent you your letter,” he informed him. “If you had bothered to read it, you would know that I wished to give you the opportunity to use this line of communication. To speak to Sanji.”
The old pirate’s expression changed. He was silent for a long time – nearly thirty seconds – as he looked down. Regarding the snail. It had been weeks since he’d heard Sanji’s voice. Nearly two months since he’d stopped hearing the accent that Sanji had picked up from him. Since he’d argued with the kid, since he’d fed him… Years since he’d comforted him after a particularly nasty heartbreak. As long as Sanji had been here, in proximity with him, Zeff hadn’t worried about the countless men and women that he’d jumped into bed with. If it got too bad, Zeff would be there to protect him…
But now, Sanji was out there in the world, on the dark, wide, dangerous blue. Surrounded by beautiful and dangerous people. With no one to kick the ass of somebody who’d broken his little eggplant’s heart.
“We don’t really… do that,” Zeff mumbled around the stem of his pipe. “Talk.”
Koshiro considered him quietly. That long silence had spoken louder than any of the words that Zeff had offered him in their entire conversation. He was also silent for a handful of seconds, feeling the barely perceptible sway of Baratie under their chairs, listening to the soft summer rain overhead.
“...Well.”
He stood up. He left the transponder snail where it was. “The offer still stands,” he murmured. “I am going to bed. Good night, Owner Zeff.”
Zeff didn’t acknowledge him. He just silently chewed on his pipe, looking at the letter and the snail as Koshiro left without a word. He’d left him alone with it on purpose. He knew that he had. “Ah, lil' eggplant…” the old chef mumbled, in a cloud of his own smoke. “What did you get yourself tangled up in now…”