A commotion outside drew Sanji’s attention as he finished dressing. In the small bedroom tucked above the Baratie’s upper deck, there was barely room for the narrow bed, washstand, and the scarred wooden dresser shoved against the wall. The ceiling beams curved low overhead with the shape of the ship, and everything carried the faint smell of salt, old wood, and shoe polish. The room was dim with early hour and overcast weather, the plank floor worn smooth from years of use.
He stepped closer to his bedroom window and peered down below. Gray morning light reflected off the water which lapped against the floating docks. A light breeze stirred the flags on the various ships tied up. The ship gave one soft creak beneath his feet. On the deck outside the entrance, he could see one of the Chore Boy’s friends squaring off against someone.
“Holy shit,” Sanji said. That was Dracule Mihawk, one of the seven Warlords of the Sea. The World’s Greatest Swordsman. And the Chore Boy’s crewmate had drawn swords against him. Mihawk barely seemed to move. He stood calm and certain on the deck, dark coat and feather on his hat stirring in the breeze, while the other swordsman faced him with all the seriousness of someone who had chosen this.
Dread coalesced in a ball in Sanji’s stomach, and a tightness squeezed his chest. That guy was going to die, right at Sanji’s front door. And he was young, too, around Sanji’s age. Chore Boy was about to lose his friend.
He remembered talking to the Chore Boy just last night, sharing his dream of finding the All Blue. Chore Boy encouraged Sanji to stand up to Zeff, to go after what he wanted. Even invited him to join the crew. But, as Sanji told him, it was more complicated than that. He stared down at the fight starting below, at the inevitability of death.
The only reason for the swordsman to challenge Mihawk was for his title. Which meant it must be his dream to become the World’s Greatest. It was stupid. He was stupid. He must know he was outclassed. Why the hell would he throw his life away like this?
“Just abandon your dream,” Sanji told the swordsman through the window, seeing Mihawk deftly dodge, knowing what was to come. “It’s easy.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
Zeff’s gruff voice spoke up behind him, and Sanji turned from the window. The old man stood in the bedroom doorway, broad enough to make the space feel smaller, arms folded, a scowl on his face. Morning light from the hall caught along the dirty wood of his pegleg. “Well? Is it?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.” Sanji straightened the knot in his tie, checking his appearance in the mirror hanging on the wall.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Zeff said. “You’re here rotting away instead of going after what you want.”
“What I want is to get to work,” Sanji said shortly.
Zeff leveled him with a look. “No. What you want is to piss everything away, and for what? Because you think I need you here?”
“You do need me here.”
“I need you as much as I need a second leg.”
Sanji winced. And of course, Zeff caught it. His eyes narrowed and his braided mustache twitched. “So that’s it. You think you owe me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sanji tried to push past Zeff, but Zeff wouldn’t budge.
Zeff jabbed a finger into Sanji’s chest. “You don’t owe me shit, little eggplant. So don’t you dare keep up with this self-sacrificial bullshit of yours.”
Sanji glared at him. “I’m not doing anything but going to work.”
Zeff scowled, but stepped aside. “Fine. Lie to yourself. But this isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.” Sanji stormed past Zeff, out his bedroom door, down the hall, and took the stairs to the kitchen.
Zeff didn’t know what he was talking about. Sanji stayed because he needed to stay. No matter what Zeff claimed, he needed the help. Who was he going to rely on? Patty? Between him and Carne, it was a wonder that Baratie made any money at all.
Self-sacrificing. Horseshit. Sanji knew where he belonged and that was here.
Who needed dreams, anyway?
Later that night, he stood at the same bedroom window with a cigarette, looking out at the lights on the Going Merry. The swordsman – Zoro, Sanji learned – lay unconscious on board, cut up badly but not dead yet. The Chore Boy, whose name was Luffy, said Zoro was strong. He’d have to be, if he was going to survive.
Sanji exhaled his smoke and watched it catch in the breeze from the cracked open window. Night air carried in the smell of salt, tar, and the faint lingering grease of the kitchens below. Beyond the glass, harbor water knocked softly against pilings and hulls, and somewhere out on the restaurant ship a line tapped an uneven rhythm against a mast.
He’d had another dust up with Zeff earlier, where he may or may not have quit. He hadn’t decided. Zeff seemed eager to kick him out. They’d always had a fractious relationship. Came with being raised by an ex-pirate. Zeff treated Sanji like he’d treated his crew, and Sanji’d learned to stand up for himself against it, to give as good as he got. Not like in his prior life.
He took another drag on his cigarette. His tie hung loose around his collar, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The ember lit his fingers for a second before dimming again. Luffy wanted Sanji to join them when they left. Zeff “gave him permission.” But could Sanji really leave? Could he let Zeff be unprotected? Arlong was still out there, and the destruction in the Baratie’s dining room wasn’t a joke.
“Are you still here?” Zeff grumped from behind him.
Sanji turned. Like this morning – had it really only been less than a day? – Zeff stood in his bedroom doorway, arms folded, looking annoyed. The hall lantern behind him threw a weak strip of light across the floorboards and caught on the brass buttons of his chef’s coat. “Piss off, old man.”
“Pack your shit and get off my ship,” Zeff told him. “I’m not gonna say it again.”
Sanji scowled. “You don’t get to choose for me.”
“Well, you certainly aren’t choosing for yourself,” Zeff said.
“It’s not that easy–”
“It is that easy,” Zeff cut him off. “Whatever sob story you have going in that head of yours that I need help, or protecting, knock it off. I don’t need either. What I need is for you to get on that ship out there and live your life.”
“So you’d rather I’d go off with the chore boy who broke half your dishes, an idiot swordsman who challenged fucking Mihawk to a duel, and a guy who’s greatest skill seems to be lying,” Sanji said sarcastically. “I’ll be dead within a week.”
“When you really commit yourself, you don’t worry about an enemy or even your own life,” Zeff said. “Chore Boy seems to know that. Same with the sliced up swordsman. You, on the other hand, are acting like a coward – and I didn’t raise you to be a coward.”
Sanji turned half-away from Zeff and took a tense drag on his cigarette. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling and flattened there in the stillness before the draft pulled it out the window. His chest was tight from doubt, one more thought plaguing his mind. The one that lived under everything he did. “What if I fail?”
“Then you fail. So the fuck what?” Zeff clomped into the room and stopped beside Sanji near the window. The floor gave a small creak under his weight. “At least you went for it. That’s better than most of the men in this world can say.”
“So you don’t care if I die?”
“I’ll hold a fucking party if you do.”
Sanji glared at Zeff. Zeff glared back.
Part of him wanted to say fuck it, and just go. The other part of him, the sensible part, the part that called Zeff his true father and meant it, wanted to stay and ensure that Zeff never had to sacrifice again. Sanji’s gaze dropped to Zeff’s pegleg, which earned him a swift kick with it to his shin. “Ow! Fucking old man!”
“Stop looking for excuses,” Zeff snarled at him. “It was my choice to save you, and it’s by the Seas’ grace that I got the chance to raise you. I’d give my leg a thousand times over for that privilege. So you get out there and find the fucking All Blue, you hear me?”
The rough sincerity of it caught Sanji off guard and tightened his throat. “I heard you, you shitty bastard.”
“Good.” Zeff turned to go. “And if you’re not off this ship come morning, I’m going to chop you up and serve you as a main course.”
Sanji huffed, taking another pull on his cigarette. “You’d probably add too much oregano.”
Zeff’s response was to slam the door shut behind him. The sound rattled the washstand pitcher and sent a brief shiver through the wall. His distinct footsteps sounded in the hall as he went to his room.
Sanji turned back to the window, gaze alighting once again on the Merry. The ship bobbed in its mooring. Its furled sails and rigging lines moved faintly in the wind. Harbor lights broke into wavering gold across the black water. He stood there until he finished his cigarette.
Then, he started packing.
End